#They knew what they were doing with that casting | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nemesyaaa · 21 hours ago

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this man is such a walking massive red flag but this is me ngl

wkzkdkzlsks I'm such a sucker for toxic!enzo !!! hes so sick and manipulative to the point its just driving me insane. he's playing too much, too far, too hard but I'm still so addicted to him ! again, your writing is still so incredible, i cant get tired of it. how can it be 5k of words ?? i didn't feel it at all, i just binge reading the whole one-shot but goddamn, i loved every lines of this !

also i love the fact that reader is SICK OF ENZO'S GAMES and not bitchin on the poor girl who just get dragged into it 😫 like yes dont forget who's the real menace here ! TOXIC ENZO SO GOOD, BUT TOXIC BOYFRIEND ENZO ?? BETTER 🙂‍↕️‼️

“Heart, body, and soul,” he whispered, his voice steady but low, his breathing growing heavier with each word. “You can have me anytime. I’m yours to ruin.”

i forgive him <3333333 (im just a girl)

Loving Lorenzo was intoxicating, but nothing made you feel more alive than he did.

this is so real

Enzo always loved doing that. He always loved drawing attention, but it wasn’t just for fun—it was almost like a weapon. Every gesture, every smile, every word, every step, it was all calculated, all part of his game. Nothing was spontaneous. He knew exactly what he was doing, how to manipulate the atmosphere, twisting every ounce of his charm to ensure all eyes were on him.

i swear I'm blind 🤓🤓🤓

Enzo’s smile widened slightly when he noticed the frustrated look you cast in his direction, watching him intently. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes told you everything, he loved the power he had over you. The way your frustration was slowly eating away at you was exactly what he wanted.

i dont know if i want to fuck him, slap him, or kill him

“Maybe I wanted to see if you’d fight for me. If you'd... show me that I mean enough to you to get that reaction, like you always do.” Enzo continued, and you furrowed your brows.

i cant do this anymore. not with him 😫😫😫

also dont get me starting about the moodboard

𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐔𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐄

lorenzo berkshire x fem reader

SUMMARY. enzo knows how to push buttons, and what better way to get under his girlfriend’s skin than by flirting with someone else? WORDS.+5.8K. english it’s not my first language.

WARNINGS. smut, +18 mdni, porn w//plot, reader and enzo are 18, sub!enzo, oral! f receiving, pnv, dick riding, lick kink (?), unprotected sex, making out, established relationship, whipped enzo (kinda), flirting, jealous reader, pussy drunk enzo, finger sucking.

A chilling fog hovered over the vast castle of Hogwarts. The dense, almost spectral mist curled around the school’s tall towers and spiraled down to cover the surface of the Black Lake, spreading like a curtain across the landscape and blurring the boundaries between sky and earth, creating an endless sea of gray that made it nearly impossible to discern the horizon.

Outside was eerily silent, and the usual sounds of bustling students seemed muffled. The hurried footsteps, the distant laughter—everything seemed softened, silenced by the thick, damp air. Even the castle’s imposing stone walls, usually so solid yet welcoming, felt colder, more rigid than usual, enveloped by the heavy, damp fog that crept into every corner and corridor.

Within the castle, the torches flickered faintly, casting long shadows across the stone corridors. The few students who remained moved swiftly, their voices hushed, as if they didn’t want to disturb the heavy silence that had settled with the fog and cold, which seemed to cling to the walls, making them wrap themselves in cloaks and scarves in a nearly futile attempt to escape the biting chill.

In contrast to the school’s corridors, the Slytherin common room filled the air with an almost eerie yet comforting calm. The soft glow of green-tinged torches reflected gently off the leather and velvet armchairs, and the fire crackled in the large fireplace, though its warmth was still a bit weak, barely enough to drive the lingering chill from the stone walls. Not that it mattered much; most of the students had already gone to bed, leaving only a few by the fire, chatting quietly among themselves.

Lorenzo Berkshire was one of them.

Enzo was lounging by the fireplace in an old velvet armchair, the soft firelight casting shadows over his handsome features, highlighting the lines of his face and the playful glint in his gaze. He held his usual casual, almost lazy posture, yet there was a subtle mischief in his expression that contrasted with his apparent relaxation. A faint smirk played at the corner of his mouth as he watched his friends, Mattheo and Theodore, who were seated a little further in front of him.

Beside them, a small group of girls giggled at their conversation, though they seemed more interested in everything except the words being said, eyeing the slytherin trio with an almost obscene manner.

On the other side of the common room, you stood, almost concealed in the shadows, the soft glow of the fire casting a faint light on the pages of the small book resting in your lap. Yet, the book had long been forgotten, with only your fingers tightly gripping the pages as a reminder of its presence. Your attention, however, was completely focused on your boyfriend, Enzo, who was now dangerously close to a girl, her smile too provocative and wide, her laughter too loud for your taste.

It was torture.

You kept a distance, your heart skipped a beat as you watched them, and you could feel your body growing sick. The girl leaned in slightly, her hand brushing against the armrest of Enzo’s chair, and her laughter sounded too sweet in a way that made you want to tear your ears off and her tongue out. She was enjoying flirting with him far too much, way too much. Her eyes sparkled with the attention she thought Enzo was giving her, and it made your blood boil, almost as if your veins were about to melt.

Still, you tried to keep your composure.

You could see the way his lips curled into another smirk, this time a more confident one—the kind that always made you want to reach out and wipe that annoyingly perfect face off. He was clearly toying with her, and while you knew you were the one who truly held his heart, that didn’t change the fact that you could feel your veins burning with anger. And what made it worse was that it was happening right in front of you, with him fully aware you were watching.

Every fake laugh he let slip with her made your ears ache, and every fake flirtatious glance he shot her way made your almost eyes bleed. But what twisted the knife was how everything he did felt intentionally exaggerated, as though he was either sending a message—or even worse, provoking you until you cracked.

And the worst part? It was almost working.

And it wasn’t just about being seen, it was about controlling how others saw him. Enzo was always one step ahead, and he knew exactly how to make everything he wanted fall right into his hands. Sometimes he just seemed to forget how that game didn't work with you most of the time.

You sighed sharply, flipping open the book again and trying to read, but the words blurred under your gaze. Your fingers dug into the pages, pressing harder before you could realize it, too furious at the scene playing out in front of you. Every muscle in your body tensed as you held yourself back from doing something reckless, forcing yourself to keep control so he wouldn’t feel like he’d won.

You wanted to scream in frustration.

The girl seemed to be enjoying herself even more, too oblivious to sense the insincerity in his actions, too thrilled with the attention she was getting. She leaned in closer, her hand settling on his arm with an irritating confidence, her fingers now tracing along his sleeve. At her touch, Enzo shifted slightly, moving a few millimeters away, offering her a lazy grin, though you could detect a flicker of irritation behind it as he murmured something low, meant only for her ears.

“No touching, yet.” You read his lips, aware that Enzo was always the one to initiate contact but never the one to welcome it; you were the only one who held that privilege. ‘Yet’ felt like a hollow promise, one she’d never be able to do.

Unfortunately for you, she was too clueless to notice, and her irritating giggles grew louder as she pushed her hand on herself, convinced that he would give her what she wanted at any moment.

He wouldn’t, yet you still wanted to rip your eyes from your face, or perhaps tear out theirs.

Your grip tightened around the pages as her loud giggles echoed in your ears, the edges of the pages biting into your skin, leaving red marks behind. The temptation to march over there, to yank Enzo away by his hair and remind him that you were the only one allowed to touch him, was overwhelming.

You wanted to remind him that you, his girlfriend, were right there. But when his eyes finally met yours, that flicker of amusement in his gaze froze you in place. He knew. You knew he knew. And worse, you knew he was doing it on purpose.

Your relationship was always this way—small, calculated moves to unsettle each other, to test who loved the other more, who could push the other further, who felt more. Little games meant to sting, to spark jealousy, all leading to the same end: you finally giving in, begging him to be inside of you. But this time, you told yourself, would be different. This time, you wouldn’t beg.

No matter how much you loved him or how deeply you craved him, this time you wouldn’t give in. Still, the urge simmered within you, a desire to remind Enzo that he was yours just as much as you were his. The thought alone made you bite your lip in frustration, struggling to keep yourself from getting up and putting an end to this nonsense.

As you refused to give in, he almost let out a tired sigh, bored by your resistance, until a wicked little idea flickered in his mind, making him drape his arm over the top of the sofa, and the girl's giggles grew louder as she stepped closer, gazing up at him like he was her next prize. She was practically begging for his attention, and though Enzo only offered her a fake smirk, you felt your blood boil once more.

You took a sharp breath, pulling your gaze away from the scene in front of you. You did your best to control the jealousy and possessiveness rising inside you, struggling to keep your anger from spilling over. But there was something about his nonchalance that made your resolve begin to crumble, the way he seemed perfectly at ease with what he was doing to you and your jealousy, making you feel like you were overreacting.

That was maddening.

But still, you stayed where you were, with an almost unreadable expression. You were no stranger to the games Enzo liked to play and the way he loved getting a reaction out of you, as if he was proving to himself that you cared.

The girl, too distracted to notice the tension between the two of you, leaned in even closer to Enzo. Her fingers lightly brushed against his arm again, a gesture that would have meant nothing to anyone else. But to you, it felt like a physical blow, and you couldn't help but clench your jaw, your fingers digging into the pages of the book again as you fought to maintain your self-control.

This time, he couldn’t win. You wouldn’t let him win again.

Enzo noticed your reaction—he always did. His smirk deepened, filled with satisfaction at seeing your discomfort mirrored by the irritation simmering within him.

He let the moment drag on just a bit longer, holding your gaze just long enough to make it clear he was fully aware of how you were reacting, before finally turning to the girl. An irritated smirk played on his lips as he leaned toward her. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” he murmured, his tone teasing but laced with acidity.

You recognized his behavior instantly. He’d never liked it when anyone besides you tried to touch him; he didn’t care for anyone’s attention as much as he cared for yours. You knew he was drawing a line, not because of her, but for of you, because no matter how far he went, his love, however twisted it was, was yours.

Only yours.

The girl, however, didn’t seem to take the hint, and you couldn’t help but wonder how anyone could be so stupid. Even Mattheo and Theodore exchanged looks, cringing at her annoying persistence.

But she only smiled wider, clearly convinced his words were part of some flirtatious game, part of the charm he was known for. She leaned in closer, determined to close the distance between them, as if she could break through the invisible wall Enzo had put up around himself, a wall that only you were allowed to pass.

Still, you were on the edge, feeling the rational part of you slip through your fingers, but you forced yourself to stay seated. Your nails dug into the fabric of your pants, the book now discarded on the floor as you kept watching them, the jealousy eating you alive.

You tore your gaze away from him for a moment, focusing on the cover of the book, desperately trying to calm the storm raging inside you. But then you felt it—his deep chocolate eyes on you again, the weight of his gaze pulling you back to him.

He was staring at your face, a frown tugging at his brows, but it was the fucking smirk that made your blood boil. It was as if he could sense every reaction you had and could read every thought that flickered through your mind. And the worst part? Enzo could.

And now, every time the girl giggled even louder in an exaggerated manner and grabbed your boyfriend’s arm with even more confidence, it wasn’t just jealousy anymore, it was something more insistent, something sharper. Your blood wasn’t just boiling anymore; it was exploding, almost tearing through your veins.

Enzo was pushing you, testing your limits to see how much you could handle before all hell broke loose. He knew exactly how to make you squirm, how to make you feel small or powerful, even without trying. And yet, somehow, you were still clinging to your composure, even though the final straw was closer than you realized. You were going to lose it, you were definitely going to lose it.

Then, just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, Enzo’s gaze sliced through the air like a blade. His lips moved lazily. “She’s just playing,” you read his lips, the words meant only for you, his posture softer than you had ever seen, his eyes never leaving yours. “Nothing serious, princess.” You read his lips again, your hands gripping your pants harder. But deep down, you knew if he had said it aloud, his voice would be dripping with mockery.

You inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to stay still and cling to the little dignity you had left, refusing to let him get under your skin any further. You had been holding your ground, resisting his game—until now.

But then, as if sensing your resolve cracking, Enzo shifted slightly, discomfort flickering across his face at her touch, but the smug relaxation in his posture betrayed the satisfaction beneath. He knew exactly what he was doing, pulling you back in.

His arm still draped over the back of the green sofa, casually claiming the space, as if he had all the time in the world. The girl, still completely unaware of her role in his twisted game to have you, leaned in even closer, her lips inches from his ear.

That's when it happened. The final push.

You couldn’t take it anymore. Without a word, you stood up abruptly, your steps heavy on the floor, the sharp echo reverberating through the communal room, drawing the attention of the few students still lingering. Their eyes followed you, tracking every swift, angry movement.

You ignored the shifting shadows behind you, finally accepting that you’d lost and making your way toward your boyfriend.

Enzo’s eyes followed your every step, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips as you reached his chair. Without giving him a chance to say a word, you grabbed his tie, not gently, but with a force that made him falter for a second. You drove him to his feet, dragging him away from the girl in one fast gesture.

His friends exchanged knowing glances, amusement dancing in their eyes, but none of them dared to interfere, too entertained by whatever was happening. The girl blinked, her flirtatious smile quickly fading as she watched you drag Enzo toward the dorm stairs. The way he didn’t resist.

He never did when it came to you.

Your hand stayed clenched around Enzo’s tie, gripping it with a possessiveness that radiated a silent claim as you reached the stairs, your eyes scanning the path ahead, oblivious to the satisfied gaze he kept locked on you. His smile widened when you gave his tie another firm tug, his eyes gleaming with a dark, consuming hunger, pleased that you’d put an end to the scene, pleased that you’d proven exactly what he wished.

As you reached your dorm door, you spun to face him, frustration and anger simmering in your gaze, your breaths shallow and unsteady. Your hold on his tie tightened, possessive and unyielding, as you pushed him inside, disregarding the smug smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. The dark glint in his eyes only made your blood burn hotter; he’d been waiting for this, savoring every second, but you would not give him what he wanted, not yet.

Once you were both inside the room, you released your grip on Enzo’s tie, shoving him into the chair with an intensity that matched your boiling anger. You could still feel the heat of jealousy coursing through you as you moved, your steps quick and agitated. Enzo, though taken aback for a brief moment, quickly regained his composure, his smirk transforming into a playful, charming smile.

He watched you pace the room, his eyes gleaming with amusement, as you pressed your hand to your forehead, trying to control the anger you felt.

“You seemed a bit... tense back there, princess.” Enzo’s voice was smooth, teasing, as he settled into the chair, his gaze dark and unwavering on you. “Need any help?” he continued, his tone still playful, but the edge in his smile faltered when you shot him a sharp, cutting glare. He knew you were angry. He could feel it.

“Don’t even try, Enzo!” you snapped, your voice laced with frustration. Normally, you would have played along with his games, but tonight, you were beyond furious. Maybe it was the stress of the day or just the suffocating weight of everything, but this time, he’d gone too far.

Enzo’s smirk faltered for a brief second, but it was enough for you to catch it—the flicker of regret that crossed his face before he masked it. He was trying to read you, testing the waters, but something seemed to shifted.

“That girl… What the fuck were you trying to prove?” you demanded, stepping closer, your hands balling into fists at your sides as your frustration flared.

He didn’t want to upset you like this; you knew that. He loved you too much for that. He always showed it with sweet words, declarations, and little gestures that made you feel like you were everything to him.

But underneath it all, there was that part of him, the part that couldn’t stop playing his games. He had always been the center of attention, drawing people in with ease, but when it came to you, it was different. You were the only one who held his heart, and yet, in his own way, he still craved the control.

Pushing boundaries, testing limits, he couldn’t help it. Not because he didn’t care for you, but because, in some twisted way, he needed to know just how far you would go for him.

Yet, Enzo sometimes seemed clueless to the fact that he already held your attention completely and that was his mistake. He always thought that his way of loving was the only right way, always wanting you to meet his standards.

“I wasn’t trying to prove anything!” he defended himself, though his voice faltered slightly, a crack betraying him as he watched you intently, that was not the reaction he wanted.

“Oh, right, of course you weren’t!” You rolled your eyes, noticing how Enzo flinched just slightly at your reaction, his gaze fixed on the way your fists clenched as you tried to hold yourself back. “Is that why you let that fucking girl throw herself at you?” You shot back, not really waiting for a response, as you took a step closer.

Enzo held your gaze, and for a moment, his usual charming smile faltered, replaced by something more vulnerable. But he quickly masked it with his familiar defiance, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes met yours with that challenge you knew all too well.

“Oh, come on!” He said, standing up from the chair with a bit of awkwardness, his eyes following you as you got closer, his throat tightening as he swallowed. For a moment, it was hard to tell if it was vulnerability or eagerness in his gaze, or maybe both. “She didn’t mean anything, and you know that,” he muttered, his voice dropping as he watched as you moved closer, his usual confidence flattering.

“That’s not the damn point, Lorenzo!” you snapped again, your frustration building as you stepped even closer, refusing to acknowledge the way his gaze lingered on you.

“It’s the fact that you let it happen, knowing damn well I was right there. You wanted me to get angry, just to see if I’d snap.” You stood before him now, your eyes burning into his, not ready to lose once again.

Enzo was beginning to get frustrated, hating how his mistakes and sick games were coming back to bite him, but that wasn’t what upset him the most. Under the surface, there was a part of him that wanted you to react like you always did—letting him take control of the situation, giving him the pleasure he craved. But another part of him couldn’t help but enjoy this side of you—the bitter, sour side.

It made him wonder how far you would go before it broke you or what you would do before that happened.

He continued to watch you carefully, his eyes flicking over your face as if searching for the reaction he so desperately craved. A hint of hesitation lingered in his posture. “Maybe I want that,” he admitted, barely above a whisper, his voice uncharacteristically vulnerable. “Maybe I wanted to see if you’d fight for me. If you'd... show me that I mean enough to you to get that reaction, like you always do.” Enzo continued, and you furrowed your brows.

You took another step closer, closing the distance between you, feeling your anger morph into something darker—something raw and almost intense, your heart racing. “You think I wouldn’t care?” you said, your voice low, but with a sharpness that even surprised you. “I’m your fucking girlfriend! You really think I’d just stand back and let you play your games without reminding you who you belong to?” You snapped, your words barely a whisper, fighting to keep control, but the edge in your voice betraying you.

A flash of surprise and excitement crossed Enzo’s face, and for a moment, it seemed like he was about to say something, to defend himself. But instead, he bit his lip, clearly satisfied with your response. His eyes darkened as he looked down at you, his hands gripping each other, as if holding himself back.

He wanted you so much in that moment that it made him feel sick with need.

You took another step, your chest now pressed against his, feeling his warm breath against your skin. “I don’t want to play games every day, Enzo,” you admitted softly, but your eyes mirrored the hunger and craving in his. As much as you loved the games, they were starting to tire you out. “I want you. All of you. Without having to fight for it every time.” You watched as he swallowed at your words.

He was starting to get heavier, his rational instincts slipping away, as if his brain was losing control. His hands were sweating, gripping each other tightly, his neck and body trembling, and his throat went dry as he fought to keep himself together.

Enzo didn’t know how much power words could have over him, how they could excite him to the core and strip away his rational thoughts. A part of him hated himself for how he used to take action instead of simply listening to what you had to say. He was sure his heart and veins might explode at any moment.

“Fuck, princess,” he muttered, his thumb brushing gently across your cheek, his touch almost tender. “You already have all of me.” He admitted, his breath ragged.

“I do?” you asked, your eyes lingering on his lips, the moment feeling almost obscene. But Enzo seemed too distracted.

“Heart, body, and soul,” he whispered, his voice steady but low, his breathing growing heavier with each word. “You can have me anytime. I’m yours to ruin.”

With that, you couldn’t take it anymore. Before he could say another word, you gripped his neck, pulling him toward you and kissing him with such intensity and dominance that he was sure he was losing himself in it.

The kiss was rough and erotic, like an inferno consuming you both from the inside out. Your boyfriend couldn’t help but gasp as he felt your nails scratching down the back of his neck, pulling him even closer against your body. You could feel his hard length pressing against you, but you didn’t care.

You continued to kiss Lorenzo, tongues tangling and teeth grazing each other as any hint of restraint vanished moments ago. Your bodies pressed together, harder with every second, until he could feel his pants growing painfully tight around him. You both savored the familiar flavor of each other, but there was a nostalgic hunger in this kiss, one that left you both drunk with need, as if it were the first time all over again.

You dragged your nails down his neck, marking his skin with fierce intent, and he felt himself surrendering further to your control, a thrill he hadn’t expected but now craved. It was as if he were letting your pent-up anger devour him, wild and unrestrained, leaving him utterly at your mercy.

And God knows he was loving every second of it.

The way you were consuming him felt maddening, and he clung to you desperately, as if you were the only thing keeping him alive. He’d forgotten how your tongue was the one that stole the air from his lungs, how your hands gripped and scratched at his neck. He was so lost in the sensation of your body against his that he didn’t even realize when you were both completely bare.

It wasn’t until your hard nipples brushed against his skin that he froze, a deep groan escaping him as he pulled away from the kiss, his tongue slipping from his mouth as he gasped for air.

Enzo looked at you, ignoring the pain in his neck as his eyes devoured your body with a familiar hunger. His tongue still hung from his mouth, and another moan slipped from his lips. Without warning, you moved closer, your tongue flicking out to tease his, dragging a slow, deliberate lick across it, making him groan again, unable to hold back.

He couldn’t help but feel his cock throbbing harder, knowing that if he looked down, he’d see it straining, bigger than it had ever been before.

But Enzo couldn’t help it. You’d never done that before. He’d never felt your tongue lick his, at least not when you weren’t kissing or tangled in one of your make-out sessions. This was different. You’d only given him a taste, and Lord knows how much he craved another. It was like you’d woken something deep hidden inside him.

“Again,” he almost begged, his voice thick with need. You looked at him, watching as he pushed his tongue out again, desperate. “Again, please,” he begged, his voice barely a whisper. You couldn’t help but smirk, grabbing his neck and pulling him closer, your tongue meeting his in a slow, teasing lick. You devoured his tongue, feeling the slickness of his muscle against yours, swallowing his moans as your tongue dominated his.

His hand gripped your ass, holding you against him as if he were trying to keep himself from collapsing. He let out a breath against your tongue when he felt your nails dragging over his skin, a sharp reminder that no matter how much he touched you, tonight he had no control over you.

And you couldn’t help but feel a surge of satisfaction.

You kept licking his tongue with yours, savoring every bit of his taste, staying just far enough to keep from kissing him but close enough to feel the heat of his tongue. But now, it wasn’t just your tongues that were rubbing together. A moan escaped you, just like Enzo’s, as you felt his cock sliding against your bare pussy, his hips grinding, desperate to press himself deeper into you.

“Enzo,” you moaned, pulling your tongue from his and ignoring his desperate protest, too consumed by the way his cock pressed against you, even though he wasn’t inside yet. “Shit, Enzo, I need to ride you, fuck.” You moaned again, grinding your hips against his, your rhythm rougher, more demanding than his, taking control.

He moaned at your words, “Do it, oh please, do it.” Enzo gasped, letting himself be guided toward your bed, sitting at the edge as he gazed at your body, his legs growing weak from the soft blankets beneath him. But the softness of the sheets did nothing to ease his anxiety when his eyes locked on your glistening, bare pussy, soaked with desire. “Sit on me, please... Just let me be inside you,” he begged, his voice trembling, almost pathetic in its desperation.

You sat on his lap, both of you moaning as you felt his cock teasing your entrance, yet you didn’t let him inside—at least not yet. You let yourself play with him, grinding your hips against him, listening to his moans as his cock slid through your wet folds.

When he was on the edge of begging again, you finally gave him what he wanted, moaning as you sank down, feeling him stretch your walls, filling you completely.

“Fuck!” He screamed in a moan, his hands gripping your thighs as he felt you riding him, your hips moving back and forth, squeezing his cock in a way that made him gasp. “Your pussy feels so fucking good, princess,” he groaned, his voice broken. “So fucking tight… so good.”

You could see the tears in Enzo’s eyes, and it only made you ride him harder, faster, your hips grinding down on him with more force. You arched your back, feeling him get impossibly tighter inside you, your walls clenching around him as you moved.

You could feel him trembling beneath you, his body shaking as you rode him.

He was moaning loudly, unable to remember the last time you two had such passionate sex, but he was loving every fucking second of it. He didn’t care that he’d begged for you to ride his dick like this—what mattered was the way your cunt squeezed him, how your thighs wrapped tightly around his torso, the way your back arched as you moaned, and how close he was to fucking cumming.

It was too much; he needed to let go, to cum inside you.

“Princess, fuck… I need to cum, please, let me. He begged, tears slipping from his eyes as he spoke. But you pulled him closer, your arms tight around his neck, bringing his face to your hard nipples, letting him kiss and suck on them.

“Me too, me too,” you moaned, breath hot against his ear as you felt his mouth teasing your nipples, the sweet contrast to the filthy act you were both caught in. With each moan, his cock slid deeper, pressing harder into you. “Let’s cum together, okay?” you asked, and Enzo nodded eagerly, pulling you tighter against him as his hips ground against yours.

The pace quickened, rougher now, and soon you both came together, your bodies shaking as you reached your release. Breathing heavily.

Enzo looked up at you, breathing heavily, his eyes filled with tears. You had to fight the urge to come again from the sight of him, so you stayed silent, watching his desperate gaze. You could feel the aftershocks of pleasure still coursing through both your bodies as his hands roamed your back, his eyes still full of hunger, the desire never fading. But you didn’t speak, letting him take the first step.

“I...” he began, his breath ragged as he struggled to speak. “Princess, let me clean you up, please,” he asked, almost whining. You blink softly, trying to process his request. “Let me eat your pussy; I’ll be quick, I promise,” he pleaded, his desperate chocolate eyes locking with yours. Seeing the need in his gaze, you couldn’t help but nod, giving in to his request.

Enzo let out a relieved sigh when you nodded, lifting you carefully off the bed and sitting you back where he had been. You felt his cum from the sheets smear against your thighs, a shiver running through your body as the sticky liquid made contact with your skin, making you gasp with the sensation.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you look so fucking good from here,” Enzo whispered, his eyes locked on you as he knelt between your legs. “Your pussy’s so damn pretty,” he murmured to himself, his hands slowly spreading your legs apart, making a shiver run through your body.

“Enzo,” you murmured in anticipation, feeling your throat salivate with need.

“Just a moment, I just need to look a little more,” he said, his eyes fixed on your pussy with pure craving, his chest rising and falling with each breath. “So fucking pretty,” he muttered, leaning in closer to your folds, his pupils dilating as he took in how wet you were. He couldn’t help but let out a groan, his fingers moving to touch you.

With his touch, you moaned, his fingers moving slowly from top to bottom as he felt your arousal from your first orgasm coating his fingers. You could feel his other hand on your thighs, his fingers teasing, almost reaching your ass.

Enzo brought one of his fingers to his mouth, sucking your release off with obscene eagerness, and you couldn’t help but grip the sheets tightly as you watched his tongue circle around his finger, savoring every drop. The other hand grabbing your tight again.

“Oh, princess, you’re so sweet,” he groaned, his face inching closer to your cunt. But before he could take his first lick, he paused, extending his arm and placing his fingers, still coated in your wetness, in front of your mouth. “Can you suck them for me, sweetheart? Please?” You nodded eagerly, sucking his fingers clean, and once they were coated with your saliva, he buried his face between your legs, the first lick merging with the next as he devoured you hungry.

That was heaven.

“Enzo!” you almost screamed as he licked and sucked your folds with feverish intensity, his nose pressing against your folds as his tongue plunged into your wet core. It was messy—so fucking messy—that he seemed lost between your legs, as if he wasn’t trying to escape, he wanted to stay there, devouring you, tasting you, being dragged into madness.

And you didn’t mind; your fingers tangling in his sweaty hair, pushing his face harder against your pussy as you screamed his name. You didn’t want him to stop, and even if you did, he wouldn’t. Not with the way his tongue was relentlessly devouring and penetrating your cunt with perfect precision. It was messy—wild—but he didn’t care, and you even less. He was lost in the sensation, giving everything he had to please you, and he loved every second of it.

Your taste was making Enzo moan, making him drunk with the flavor. He couldn’t help but moan against your pussy, the vibrations sending shivers through your body, causing you to moan uncontrollably. “Oh, princess, you have such a pretty moans,” he murmured against your pussy, savoring every drop of your previous release.

Without warning, you came hard against his mouth, screaming his name with fervor, and he swallowed everything he could, savoring all the screams, while the rest of your cum mixed with his own release, soaking the sheets beneath you both.

You could had cum again with the sight.

Enzo pulled away from you, your arousal still on his chin, breathing heavily as he stared up at you with his usual mischievous grin, all his begging going away. “You know, I think I should flirt with other girls more often,” he teased, his voice warm as he sat on the floor, his eyes locked on you still perched on the bed.

“Shut up!” You playfully kicked him, causing him to laugh. “You’re insufferable,” you muttered, but there was no real bite behind your words.

He laughed again, his gaze softening as he looked at you with love. And for the first time, you seemed to be looking forward for his next mistake.

Loving Lorenzo was intoxicating, but nothing made you feel more alive than he did.

likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated.

this is my first lorenzo berkshire one-shot, so please be kind and respectful! also it’s 4 am so might have grammar mistakes.

thanks for being my fav beta readers: @bucksplum & @earth4angels love you both (a little) 🐣 < 3

#enzo berkshire x reader #enzo berkshire #hp fanfiction #harry potter one shot #slytherin boys #toxic!enzo berkshire

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blood-smiles · 2 days ago

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𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 ! 𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐃 (??)

❝ DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT! ♡ This is yandere content, suggestive content ahead, you have been warned ! ♡ ❞

࣪ ִֶָ☾. What to do? You had to go back to schooling, even as much as you hated it.. You needed that god for saken diploma.

ִֶָ☾. This is how you ended up alone on your first day, you had hoped that a brave soul at campus would approach you. Like one of those super popular nice people approaching you and then boom! You became the next sensation at your college!

ִֶָ☾. You would be delusional if you thought a silly thing like that would happen.

ִֶָ☾. You wandered around campus aimlessly, in look for a new friend. You searched the crowd, looking for anyone as lonely as you were.

ִֶָ☾. Your eyes met a males' own sparkling indigo hues. Bingo.

ִֶָ☾. He returned your stare, his ears and face glowing in a subtle tone of red. You reminded yourself: Some people get nervous about eye contact! Yeah.. haha.. Totally!

ִֶָ☾. You smiled at him, asking nicely if you could have a seat at the table where he was, to which he eagerly nodded, scooting away the stacks and stacks of books he had.

ִֶָ☾. Math? Dude, really? So he's a mathematics major..? He chuckled nervously as he adjusted his thick rimmed glasses, noticing your eyes on the number filled textbooks.

"I'm Elio.. Is it your first day here?" The soft sound of his voice snapped you out of trying to decipher whatever hieroglyphics were printed on the paper.

ִֶָ☾. He lit up in happiness when you spoke your name. Okay.. Unique reaction to a normal piece of information.

ִֶָ☾. You took a closer look at his face, it seemed refined, like a dude who hit the books for fun. But you couldn't help but let your gaze drift to the piercing holes in his ears, no jewelry present but so so many piercings..

ִֶָ☾. His almost black hair gleamed in the light, an unmistakable dark blue undertone present in the silky strands. The bottom portion of his hair around his neck dyed a very light sky blue.

ִֶָ☾. These were small, extremely minimal details you wouldn't have picked up if it wasn't for your super duper brave choice of coming up to him and sitting down with him.

”Who is that talking to that prick over there..? By now he would have dumped soup on anyone..”

“I know, always so hostile for no reason! I wonder who pissed in his coffee..”

ִֶָ☾. Your ears pricked at the comments from the other table not too far away from you, Elio seemed nice though..? He didn’t toss food on you or even seem annoyed.

ִֶָ☾. He had noticed too, glaring out of the corner of his eyes, pitch black eyes narrowing in a malicious stare.

ִֶָ☾. These nobodies were soiling his chances with you already.. Not even an hour in and they were already gossiping and honking like a gaggle of geese.

ִֶָ☾. You cast your attention upon him again, taken aback by the soulless stare he directed at the small group of people next to you.

ִֶָ☾. Whoops. He hoped you didn’t see him like that for too long. He smiled nervously, his more timid persona coming back just like before.

“Your lesson is starting soon, I have a free period! I’ll go with you!” He sprung up from his seat, wrapping his arm around your own.

ִֶָ☾. You had so many questions.

ִֶָ☾. How did he know that? And why was he getting so touchy already? You had barely been with him for an hour, yet he acted like he knew you since childhood..

ִֶָ☾. As the both of you passed by the shit-talking table, Elio ever so slightly turned his head, his arms hugging your bicep closer to his chest as he shot them the dirtiest look he could muster.

“Cmon, silly. We don’t want to be late.” Elio giggled as he dragged you away.

ִֶָ☾. Elio wasn’t normal, you had noticed. He wasn’t a bad guy, he just was quite… unique in his mannerisms. Quite the specimen!

Okay he is nerdy.. but why he kinda..

ִֶָ☾. Your suspicion of him not being what he appeared as at first was correct however. He really had more than what met the eye, you would have been a fool if you only thought that the ugly red and black flannel shirt he wore was all there was to him.

ִֶָ☾. You had stumbled upon him one day, lukewarm coffee in hand, some rushing scholar ran past you, like a cartoon character leaving fire tracks while speeding. They bumped harshly into your shoulder, knocking off your balance and uncapping your coffee, spilling all over your friend..

ִֶָ☾. You panicked, grabbing tissues in your hand and helping in patting down the ugly flannel in hopes of soaking up the drying coffee, you missed the way he gasped softly in surprise and a little of excitement. If you could touch him like that again he would’ve let himself get soaked time and time again.

ִֶָ☾. He flushed at the nimbe touch of your hand on his body, you mistook the embarrassment on his face for irritation and shrunk back in fear of the so called “mean” attitude many students muttered about.

ִֶָ☾. You had witnessed it, once you were running late and noticed a girl walking towards him, shifting her weight from one foot to another as she opened her mouth to talk.

ִֶָ☾. “ Don’t you understand? I don’t fucking care, I already have a lover. Stop looking at me like a kicked puppy, or are you deaf too? Well? Scram.” He rudely interrupted her speech, irritation radiating from him. And jeez. Was he scary, a dark shadow cast over his face, giving him even more of a menacing look. This was him? Was he really like this when you weren’t around?

ִֶָ☾. The girl gasped, shoulders tensing as she began to cry while running away, head buried between hands. You stared at her as she dashed past you, mascara dripping down her blushed cheeks. Elio waved at you, as if nothing had happened.

ִֶָ☾. You grimaced at the memory and how horrible it would feel if you were in that girls’ shoes. Being publicly humiliated is one of the worst kinds of humiliation.

ִֶָ☾. You apologized a million times, he shook his head, offering a pretty smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Was he laughing at you..? He let out a little happy sigh, peeling the coffee drenched shirt from his torso.

ִֶָ☾. “Don’t worry, it’s alright. I have an extra shirt in my bag just in case.” He waved his hand dismissively, it’s no biggie for him. He almost thanked you for touching him, he might have gotten a nosebleed but by some unknown miracle he didn’t start bleeding on you.

ִֶָ☾. He dragged you into a classroom, unbuttoning his long sleeve and slowly slipping it off his shoulders. You were trying to NOT look but gods. Lord. Was it hard.

ִֶָ☾. It was like he was teasing you, wanting you to look and give into your perverted ways.

ִֶָ☾. You couldn’t stop yourself as you peeked at him, his back wasn’t turned as he focused on folding the dirtied shirt, but that didn’t stop you from looking.

ִֶָ☾. He had so many piercings. How? How would anyone guess he was so.. yum.

ִֶָ☾. His body was a perfect mix of slim and just the slightest bit of muscle, the dark metal balls surfacing from his skin and gleaming in the dim lighting.

ִֶָ☾. His soft chest rose and fell gently, his nipples decorated by dangling circular metal jewelry. His smooth navel adorned with another piece of black metal. the taut skin of his hips pierced with three little beads on each hip.

ִֶָ☾. Okay! Enough staring. Don’t look, don’t look, don’tlookdon’tlookdon’tlookdon’tlook don’tlookdon’tlookdon’tlookdon’tlook!

ִֶָ☾. “(Y/N)? Can you pass me the shirt?” Right. Right! The black band t-shirt in your hands, you nodded wordlessly, fumbling with the fabric and gently passing it to him.

ִֶָ☾. “What’s wrong? You aren’t looking me in the eye.” He asked you, his voice holding an edge of teasing. You could hear the smile in his voice.

ִֶָ☾. He knew why.

“We..Well, I didn’t know you were the type of guy to have so many piercings..” you answered only one of his questions, you couldn’t let him know that now you perhaps had a puppy crush on him.

“Awh.. You’re so cute.. Never did I think I would be able to fluster you in such a way..” he cooed out of nowhere, moving to get closer to you.

“You can touch too you know..” Elio shyly added, grabbing you by the wrists and gently placing them over his waist.

“If it’s you, then I don’t mind at all. ♡”

#yandere x reader #smilesyanderes #yandere #male yandere #male yandere x reader #fem reader #gn reader #gender neutral reader #yandere male #Elioposting #yancore #yanblr #yan blog #yandere tendencies #This was so short I don’t like it at all ITS SO HALF ASSED IM SORRY

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vampirq · 19 hours ago

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ok sub!abby but her hands are tied behind her back and reader is absolutely teasing the fuck outta her and shes getting so desperate but the reader is just so so mean

a lottt teasing . stubborn abby . bondage (a) . oral (a) . fingering (a) . sub ! abby . dom ! reader . abby’s veryyy embarrassed . praise . word count: a thousand

“patience, baby, almosttttt, done.” you step back to take a look at your work, and it’s jaw dropping. abby was completely tied up. her lower legs were taut against her thigh while her wrists were strung together above her head. you give everything one last pull to confirm it’s secure, resulting in a complaint from abby.

“this is so embarrassing. you’re not gonna ‘tame’ me or some shit.” she huffs, suddenly finding the paint on the wall very interesting.

“i’d watch your words if i were you, abigail.” your voice drops, still keeping a seductive lit. your thumb traces light circles around the globes of her ass, trailing up to her slit. you take her chin in hand and make her eyes meet yours, “y’know, since you’re tied up and all.”

her face heats up, your erotic words casting an effect on her. she attempts to brush it off with a stuttered “whatever,” but you notice how she clenched around nothing, more of her arousal leaking onto the sheets. you smirk at it, realizing her whole ‘tough’ persona is really just an act, and you know she’ll be pleading for you within minutes.

that’s exactly what happened.

you start by pressing soft kisses along her inner thigh, watching how she reacts to it. her breathing picks up pace and her eyelids flutter, it’s close but not quite. you go further up, right where her upper-inner thigh meets her core. your kisses are more hungry now, feverish almost. small nips and sucks meet the skin, leaving purple marks as a reminder.

now, she reacts how you want her to. hips slightly jerking up, small gasps filling the air. you can tell this is where she’s the most sensitive. you put more effort in, turning the nips into bites and the sucks into long licks. “shit, you, you’re really committed to this, huh?” she breathes, a whiny undertone breaking through.

you hum in response, the vibration shooting straight to her cunt. if you focus hard enough, you could feel the thump of her heartbeat next to your face. your head lifts to mark the other side, but firstly, you lightly graze your tongue over her clit. it takes everything in you to not dive in right then and there, but you had to hold back, you were teaching her a lesson after all.

the feeling makes abby whimper, a small short one before she catches herself. she thought you were gonna brag about it, make her feel dumb for it, but you didn’t. instead, you just respond with, “oh, i know, baby.” dragging out the last bit of the word before leaving more marks on her.

she starts to break, more whines and whimpers escape her lips as you tarnish the sensitive skin. she knew you would give it to her if you asked, but it wouldn’t be in the way she wanted. “fuck, can you, uh, use your mouth?” her words come out muffled and soft, embarrassment clouding her mind.

“i am using my mouth, sweetheart.”

“no, i want it in a .. in a different place.”

“where do you want it?” you question, lifting your head up to look at her. you notice that her lips are slightly parted, a dazed expression plastered on her face.

she doesn’t answer, looking towards the wall with closed eyes. you wanted her to say where, but you knew she wouldn’t, she’s abby anderson, stubborn and cold. you give her some help, moving over towards her cunt, your lips ghosting over it. “you want it here?”

her eyes fall back on you and her mouth goes dry, wrecking her mind to speak because she knew if she didn’t, you wouldn’t give her what she needed. “yes, yes right there.”

“beg.”

“what? no, no i don’t beg.”

“abigail.”

her name rolls off your tongue so effortlessly, like it was meant for you to say. it makes her breath hitch and her heart rate pick up. she searches your eyes for any trace of mercy but there isn’t any, giving her no choice but to follow through. “i need your mouth right there .. please.”

she could do better, and you knew that, but you got what you wanted. besides, you’ll get more out of her later.

your tongue presses against her clit, keeping still to see her reaction. her head falls back against the pillow and you could see her chest rise and fall with each breath. you continue, starting off with small kitten licks and swirling around the glistening nub. you bob your head up and down to exaggerate and let her know who’s making her feel like this.

“oh my— fucking, you feel so good.” abby moans, finally giving in and letting all of her noises out. her hips grind into your face, nearly using you just to get off. “need, need more.”

your bring two fingers and scissor them into her, replacing them with your mouth. if there was a time to get her to break, now would be as good as any.

“tell me how good i’m making you feel, c’mon baby.” your lips graze her ear, sending a shiver down her spine.

“feels really good, i love your fingers.” her words are jumbled and stuttered, her mind clearly going way faster than her mouth.

“yeah? say you’re gonna be a good girl for me.” her walls clench down around your fingers at that, another moan coming from her. “wanna hear it, baby. tired of your fuckin’ attitude.”

using the bit of strength she has, she shakes her head no. “that’s humiliating, baby, i, i can’t do that.”

you pull your fingers out til it’s just the tips inside of her, then plunge them back in, curling them just right to hit that spot inside of her. a guttural moan leaves her lips, tears threatening to spill out.

“i’m so close, please keep going, please. need you so bad,” abby pants, looking at you with her round blue doe eyes and her pink pouty lips. her legs started to shake in their hold, but thankfully, they’re unable to close due to the restraints.

“say it, abby. say you’re my good girl.” your fingers speed up, keeping eye contact while you pound in her at a steady pace. her walls were sucking you in completely, you couldn’t pull out if you wanted to.

she can’t think, not when her entire head is being captivated by you. your words pulling her in, your fingers bringing her closer to release, it’s all so intoxicating. “oh fuck, i’m yours, i’m your good girl, baby— shit,” her voice becoming raw as her orgasm washed over her. it was unlike anything you seen before. a stream of juices squirting out onto the bed, tears gliding down her face, and the uncontrollable shake of her legs.

your fingers come to a stop, pulling out of her with a loud squelch. “that was so hot, oh my god.”

realization of what just happened clouds her mind followed by embarrassment. you kiss at her flushed face, whispering praises and reminding her that it’s normal.

“can you do that again for me, pretty girl?”

#abby anderson #lesbian #abby anderson x reader #abby tlou #abby anderson smut #abby the last of us #tlou smut #abby smut

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comflexxed · 2 days ago

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june leaned back against the couch, stretching his arms over his head with an exaggerated sigh, like playing round after round of uno had physically exhausted him. “ahhh, victory tastes so sweet, doesn’t it, sunny?” he mused, casting a glance in sunny’s direction before dropping his arms dramatically. sunny giggled beside him, clearly proud of her own wins.

he ruffled her hair lightly before crossing his arms over his chest, shifting just enough to meet hans’ gaze — the same teasing, familiar look hans had given him moments ago. “and here i thought you’d never ask,” he said smoothly, tilting his head slightly. “i believe your little assistant is ready.”

june wasn’t blind to the way hans looked at him, to the way that playful challenge in his eyes softened just a little, something warm flickering underneath. it was in the way hans had checked on him earlier, in the way he made sure neither of them were hungry or tired, in the way his first instinct was to look at june like he belonged here. as if this was natural. like he was already a part of this little family.

june rolled his shoulders, pretending to shake off the weight of his ‘many victories’ before pushing himself up to his feet and helping sunny up as all. “alright, chef,” he said, stepping toward the kitchen, throwing a glance over his shoulder. “let’s see what you can do.” he didn’t need to turn around to know hans would follow.

but he also didn’t need to look to know that something in the air between them had shifted. that this wasn’t just a game, nor just a meal. that the warmth in hans’ eyes, the way he so easily pulled june into this space was something real between them. he still wasn’t sure what it was, but he knew he’d stay anyway.

as if june had spoken it into existence, rounds upon rounds of the game occupied their time, a complicated lunch forgotten in favor of snacks and their competitive spirit fueling them on. hans knew how this game would go, how each one would get competitive, with sunny surprisingly ending up being the most competitive, and so it was impossible to stop at just one game.

it was so easy to forget time passing when they were all laughing and taking turns enjoying little wins, each one grinning from ear to ear when their cards looked especially good. hans found himself wanting the game to continue longer the more he saw sunny’s and june’s smiles in response to his. it was a simple game, a simple day, but hans couldn’t find any comparison to any other moment. this was simply one of the best he’s had in a while.

it was only after they had played several rounds that hans looked up from the pile of cards between the three of them, announcing a break as he stretched his arms. “i’ve forgotten the score already, but it’s time to eat,” he said, slipping back reluctantly to his role as a parent. sunny had been munching on too many snacks, it was time for her to have a proper meal.

he looked in june’s direction too, in that way someone checks up on their family to make sure they were all okay. not yet cranky from hunger or sleepiness, or too many rounds of losing. “i don’t think i’ve had this much fun playing uno in a while,” hans admitted carefully, starting to clean up the cards as he spoke. “don’t think i’ve lost so much either!”

sunny giggled in response, her own face showing how proud she was of having won a few rounds under her belt. she had that determination that made hans feel like he won anyway, and he didn’t mind losing to june anyway. “time for me to show off my cooking skills and make something that isn’t just pancakes. is my assistant ready, though?” he knew he should be looking at sunny as they had agreed on this morning, but his eyes were on june in that challenging, teasing glance.

#[ 04 ] ─ * teacher verse { you light my way }

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heart2sea · 15 hours ago

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࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ do you see (him) in the back of your mind? (read on ao3)

word count: 2k

tags: fluff, angst if you squint, mentions of his myth, dragon!sylus mentions

summary: on a particular day, you kept dreaming of him. One of those dreams catches your attention—horns, tails and all, and you decide to tell him.

a/n: some practice sylus writing because he's my second fav 🖤

You kept staring at him unabashedly, entranced.

He found that behavior amusing, finding and matching your gaze with an insufferable amount of mirth in his eyes. A teasing remark, a half grin on his lips—anything to get a blush out of you. That time, however, his words turned to mist on your brain as you took him in. You knew him well; the way his eyes glimmered under the moonlight, how his lips savoured every drop of his drink, as if trying to classify each note of flavor of it, and even the way his hair moved with the cold breeze. Sometimes you’d run a gentle finger, making way through the handsome shape of his nose, only stopping when he’d let out a scoff and grab your wrist, playfully.

“What are you doing, sweetie?” He stared back, a smirk gracing his sharp features.

You blinked, resting your head on your hand. You had agreed to have dinner (breakfast, for him) on his base before heading out for one of your assignments. This particular mission required pulling an all-nighter onto the outskirts of the N109 Zone. You didn’t particularly need to convince him, he just shrugged and nodded as if you’d asked him to go get something for you at the corner store, a small, non-inconvenient errand on his criminal routine.

So you spent the entire daylight sleeping, trying to catch up on some required rest before going into battle. Sleeping during daytime usually meant naps, which is why you had a hard time staying asleep, waking up between forty minute intervals.

Each time, a stranger dream.

It had started with a regular one, just you and Sylus going auctioning. Then, fleeting dreams that resembled your first meetings, the oppressive force of the gunshot piercing his heart, his rough hand grasping your wrist like his life depended on it, forceful mannerisms that had quite actually scared you away from him, enticing you into running away and never looking back.

And finally, a dream so foreign and out of place it took you a minute to break the barrier between dreams and reality upon waking up. How imposing, how impossibly handsome; your Sylus, tall and intimidating, sporting two wonderful spires on his head, and a long, thick, slithering barbed tail from his lower back. Scales had adorned his entire body, ebony and rough, and a single ruby emanated glow and warmth from his sternum, at the rhythm of a living heartbeat. His face was covered in blood—not yours, not his—as he stared at the glowing moon in longing and awe.

And still, in this dream, his eyes turned soft at the sight of you.

You gave him a warm smile, now back to reality to the real Sylus in front of you. “I dreamed about you earlier.”

He returned the smile, a glint of something playful and kind in his crimson eyes. “Was it a good dream?”

“Mhm.” You nodded, pondering. “It was quite the sight.”

“Tell me.”

“You’d laugh.”

He shifted on his seat, putting the fork down as he took a breath. Sylus tilted his head, the smile never wiping off his face, the now dying candlelight casting a warm, soft glow around you. “Oh?”

You immediately shook your head, a slight blush adorning your cheeks, frowning. “Not like that. Ugh.” At least not this time.

The gentle sound of one of his classical vinyls cocooned the warm atmosphere of his dinner table, the melody one you had picked out a few weeks before, shopping with him. It was so effortlessly romantic, soft and tender—truth be told, so many dinners with Sylus were like that, and you started wondering how truly effortless or accidental it all was. It seemed so specifically tailored for you; the music, the special serving of food just for you, the way the moonlight would hit the table just right, the smooth silk tablecloths, the comfy cushions on the seats; it all screamed soft, soft, soft , as if he was self conscious you'd walk away again the moment you cut yourself on his edges. You'd grown to love him, gunshot powder and all, but something laid unspoken between you two. Something both of you should be aware of, but only him seemed to carry the weight of.

It stumped you.

Sylus let out a chuckle. “Well, then. I promise to be as straight faced as possible, kitten.”

“Not very comforting.”

He shrugged. “I'm simply doing my best.”

You inhaled, trying to recall more details about the dream. You grabbed a grape, placing it on your lips, letting it linger there for a moment before slowly biting down on it, staring into space. As you swallowed, you looked up briefly at the ceiling and finally spoke.

“ If you randomly woke up as an animal, real or fantastic—and don't say a crow—what animal do you think it would most likely be?”

One of his eyebrows raised in amusement, his smirk deepening. The candle was holding onto the last thread of light, the amber light surrounding the room slowly giving out. It gave the atmosphere an enigmatic mood, making the situation seem so serious it was silly. “Does that have to do with your dream?"

You rolled your eyes. “Just follow along.”

His gaze never left yours, carefully studying your expectant expression. He took out a casino chip out of his slacks and started playing with it, a fidgeting you immediately recognized as calculating and weighting every option on his mind, you realized he was holding back on answering what was truly on his head.

You looked around the room, almost awkwardly, as the silence stretched on. “Hello?”

Sylus finally let out a scoff. “I'm more interested in what you thi—”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“What? I'm telling the truth. Besides,” he leaned towards you ever-so-slightly. “I'm curious what brought this on.”

The candlelight went off completely, the only source of light being the moon gently cascading its glow on the room. You went to grab another grape, but stopped halfway through. Despite his aloof and seemingly playful behavior, you couldn't help but feel as if that question had held some unspoken weight on him.

You laid back completely on the chair, staring out at the moon. “I had a dream you were some kind of creature. Horns, tail, scales—no wings that I remember, though. It was incredibly detailed. You looked like a dragon.” You took a deep breath, and almost whispering, still daydreaming about the mental image, you spoke: “It suit you.”

He didn't reply, not immediately, the chip on his hand ceasing its movements for a moment. A brief hesitation, a glimmer of something in his eyes (melancholy? Nostalgia?) flashed, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by a half smile. He put the chip down and slid it towards you, taking a deep breath, beckoning you to keep going.

“We rested in a cave. Just like now, we were staring at the moon, and your tail—” You giggled fondly. “It was wrapped around me. Not asphyxiating me, mind you, but gently. And warm. It felt so real.”

You paused, and then continued.

“I wonder if that was some sort of…past life, or something.”

The room was completely darkened, and he had moved away from the glow of the moonlight, making it difficult to figure out what he was thinking. As the silence stretched on, you couldn't help but feel self-conscious — you'd half expected him to let out one of his earthy laughs upon hearing it. How cliché, how passè, the classical bedtime story of the beauty and her beast, deeply in love in his lair, a wonderful ever after following trials of blood and fire to be together. You've been watching too many romantic movies lately, sweetie , was the reply you expected him to blurt out, and then you'd pout, and finally go out to your mission and fight wanderers until the sun rose.

But he seemed to savor the recounting of your dream, as if taking apart thread by thread the tapestry of your words. You wondered what expression he had at that moment. Maybe he was coming out with a witty retort, something you've never heard before, or maybe he was annoyed at the prospect of him being a beast in the dream (when he'd been nothing but gentle with you lately), or maybe—

He let out a gentle chuckle, forcing you out of your thoughts. You stared at him, trying to find his eyes, until you met with a slightly glowing crimson gaze in the dark. A sign of danger, a pair of red eyes in the abyss—but they held none of the teeth that would swallow you whole. Instead, it enveloped you in a warmth that reminded you of cozy winter dawns, of summer nights, of a hot cup of tea after a draining day.

How wonderful.

Sylus shifted on his seat. “Did something else happen in that dream?”

“Such as…?”

“We’ve watched one too many dramatic movies lately. Surely this one dream doesn't end in tragedy, likewise?”

You tutted, blushing, muttering. “Isn't the prospect of us cuddling under the moonlight enough for you?”

“With a monster —”

“A very handsome one.” You interjected. “And he is nothing but gentle with me.”

A pause of silence. Then, after staring deep into your eyes, as if attempting to break open your mind and peer into your jumbled thoughts, he let out a warm, almost elated laugh.

“You do…have a fascinating way to look at things.” He spoke.

As if wanting to emphasize your earlier point, you stood up from the table and carefully walked towards him, two dinner knives in hand, and positioned yourself behind him. On the other side of the room, a body length mirror stood guard to the dark outlines of your bodies contrasting in the gentle glow of the moon.

The knives reflected the silvery light almost magically as you held them up the sides of his head in a horned fashion, a playful yet tender smile adorning your lips.

“You looked something like this.” You whispered, staring into the mirror. If you squinted hard enough, his silhouette looked very similar to the Sylus that had graced your dreams. “See? It looks good. It does suit you.”

He chuckled, his voice laced with something raw and unspoken. He gently grabbed your wrist, enveloping his calloused fingers around your soft flesh, as if counting every pulse under it. His digits interlaced with yours and he maneuvered you until you were at his side—then, he slid an arm around your waist and pressed you closer to him, his face burying on your sternum, something resembling a purr coming out of his throat. It made you freeze for a single second, the movement and the warmth so eerily similar to the one provided by his tail in your dream you wondered if you'd truly been the only one to dream about it.

“No tail. Is that alright?” He muttered, his voice muffled by your shirt.

You shrugged. “Warm all the same.”

Something inside him opened at the sound of your words, and he let out a content, satisfied sigh. You could feel him smile against the fabric of your clothes, and under normal circumstances you'd tease him about it. Yet this time, he felt oddly vulnerable—like a cat bunting a beloved; it was not the time. You couldn't rob him of that.

“Let's go.” He broke the moment, pulling away. “It's getting late.”

He stood up, his arm leaving your waist—lingering for a fraction of a second, not truly wanting to pull away—and walked to the doorway with languid steps, taking his coat from the hanger.

“Does that mean I can call you that now?” You asked grabbing a last grape out of the fruitbowl.

“What was that now, kitten?”

“Dragon.” You smiled mischievously. “My dragon.”

He turned around, briefly speechless, and for a moment you feared you'd said something wrong—maybe he hated the nickname, or thought it was too silly, or preferred something else. But then his lips curved upwards, his gaze impossibly soft and cozy.

“If it's from you,” he reached for the motorcycle helmet and tossed it at you. “Any time.”

#my writing #love and deepspace #sylus #qin che #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lnds sylus #sylus fluff #i SWEAR im cooking up something for my fishys bday but i woke up in a cold sweat thinking of my beautiful dragon i couldnt help myself.

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emmiesoverthemoon · 1 day ago

Text

⭑ come back to me

Pairing: g-dragon/ kwon jiyong x reader

Word Count: 4,550

Summary: Three years after you left your ex-boyfriend after he insulted your small modelling career, you reunite at a prestigious annual fashion gala.

Tags: second chance, hurt/comfort, slight angst, happy ending, exes-to-soon-to-be-lovers

cross posted on ao3 here

Today, you are one of the biggest names in the fashion industry, known for your beautifully authentic and original image that deserves the largest frame in an art gallery, the centre point on a stage, the brightest on a runway. Your confidence is effortless, your alluring demeanour sparked inspiration in many brands, designers, and agencies. You are the world’s muse, and clothing garments are their medium, created perfectly for you with intentions of highlighting and enhancing your natural elegance and grace.

No matter how dim a room’s lighting scheme could be, Jiyong could always spot you in a crowd. To him, your spectacular warm, inviting glow reflected upon any surroundings and ensured that any space you were to enter became infinitely more beautiful. Selfishly, all he wanted to do was bask in your luminescence and indulge himself into you, worshipping you as if you were a deity, deeming him fortunate enough for you to call his very name. He once did indulge himself, and held this to be his most favoured hobby, but he had ripped himself away from participating. He had some regrets, but some much, much larger than others.

The one that lay the heaviest on his conscious was you.

You, the one he once had the honour of calling his, and if he didn’t screw it up, he still would hold it close. You both had been an item for three years, the public being blissfully unaware of your relationship, as Jiyong knew how ruthlessly critical a portion the internet could be toward his potential suitors. He strove to keep you to himself; his sweet sweet little secret.

Of course, knowing the circumstances of his fame and career, you were okay with this. Naturally, however, you did yearn to be able to be a ‘normal’ couple; to be able to go out to dates, to hold hands in public, hell, even to just be able to leave the house together. But you never held him as responsible for your animosity towards the prying eyes of the media. You knew it was not his choice.

What was his choice, on the other hand, was how tightly he held the reins of his pride. Jiyong was a prideful man, he had every right to be, considering his achievements and successes. When you both were together, you were building yourself into the famous model you are today—attending as many castings as your manager could book you, walking as many shows varying in size as your heels could carry you, etc.—and obviously you were not as globally recognised as Jiyong. And on one evening, he made it apparent that he knew it well.

“Because you aren’t enough out there, unlike me. To them, I am leagues beyond you. I can’t have my image tainted with that."

The words sliced through your mind, each syllable lingering, replaying over and over. The weight of them felt suffocating, a stark contrast to the pleasant evening you had just shared moments ago. Not long ago, the two of you were laughing over dinner in his expansive, dimly lit home, talking about an upcoming gala. Jiyong had been invited for yet another year to one of the most exclusive fashion industry events, a cocktail affair where the names everyone recognizes congregate like icons in their own right. Your manager had miraculously secured you an invite—your first time attending. Your excitement was palpable, but so were your nerves.

This wasn’t just another party. This was your debut among the greats—the designers, the supermodels, the editors, all the ones whose names spark a fire in every aspirant’s chest. Your chance to cement yourself amongst your idols as someone who deserves their place alongside them. You were already second-guessing your wardrobe choice, wondering if your impression would hold up among legends. And the thought of possibly being seen with him, Jiyong, the elusive industry titan who you had been quietly involved with, made the evening feel like a balancing act. A part of you wanted to break the silence, make things public, even if just with a casual greeting, so that you could stop pretending in front of the world. But when you brought it up, Jiyong immediately dismissed the idea, his tone heavy with disdain.

A simple suggestion from you, one that felt innocent enough—a “meeting for the first time” in front of the cameras—was met with cold, condescending logic. “It would raise suspicions,” he had said dismissively. You tried to explain, to assure him that it would be harmless, a natural first step toward unveiling your relationship. But he wouldn’t hear it. “You” weren’t ready, “he” wasn’t ready—“the world” wasn’t ready, according to him.

And then, the words tumbled out of his mouth like a heavy, painful truth: “Because you aren’t enough out there unlike me. To them, I am leagues beyond you. I can’t have my image tainted with that."

The sting of his declaration hit you like a physical blow. You could feel your chest tighten, the air in your lungs suddenly too thick to inhale. In an instant, you stood up from the table, your chair scraping loudly against the floor, the echoes of the sudden movement cutting through the thick, glossy silence of the room. You didn’t look back. You grabbed your purse, hands trembling slightly as you made for the door. Every step you took toward the exit was a battle against the burning, threatening tears that hovered just behind your eyes. But you would not let him see you break—not now, not ever. His words had revealed something you couldn’t ignore: he had made his opinion clear, and it wasn’t one you could reconcile. You were beneath him. And you refused to let that stand.

Jiyong called after you, his voice rising, a mixture of immediate regret and desperation. "I didn’t mean it that way," he tried, but the excuses came too late. "I didn’t word it right." He sounded pitiful, but you weren’t interested in his explanation. You had heard everything you needed to.

The door slammed behind you, cutting off his voice.

You didn’t hesitate. The last words you spoke to him echoed in the cool night air: “I’m sorry that I’m not good enough for your pathetic ego. Go find someone more famous than me who can knock you down a peg.”

That was the last time you saw or heard Jiyong. And for three years, you pushed the memory of him away. But tonight, as the gala approaches again, you find yourself standing on the cusp of another year, another invitation, another flight from Korea to Paris in anticipation. The past feels so distant now, but the thoughts of him, of that night, have a strange way of creeping back into your mind.

The gala is everything you’ve come to expect from a night like this—elegance woven into every moment, a sense of timeless luxury that settles over the room like a soft velvet curtain. The ballroom is vast, the ceiling high, adorned with grand crystal chandeliers that catch the light and scatter it in soft, sparkling patterns across the polished marble floors. There’s a gentle hum of conversations, laced with laughter, punctuated by the clink of champagne glasses. The air is fragrant with an intoxicating mix of expensive perfumes, floral arrangements, and the ever-present scent of Parisian sophistication. Soft jazz plays in the background, its notes curling through the air, blending perfectly with the low murmur of voices. The walls are draped in opulent fabric, gold accents framing the large windows that offer a glimpse of the twinkling stars against the night sky draped as a veil, casting cool night air over the city.

As you glide through the room, it’s as though the very space parts for you. Your presence is magnetic, not because of a need for attention but because it’s undeniable. You've been here before, after all—many times now. You’ve grown accustomed to this world, not as an outsider, but as one of its beloved stars. Fashion knows you well, adores you, and respects you. You are a staple at these events, not just because of your work but because of the way you carry yourself: effortlessly divine and poised. There's a sense of ease about you tonight, a calm under the bright lights and all the eyes that flicker toward you as you pass. Your gown, a delicate yet striking creation of silk, catching the light with every step. It moves with you, flowing like liquid metal, the intricate beading of the fabric shimmering like constellations scattered across the dress. You look flawless—radiant, understated, yet undeniably captivating.

The whispers of admiration follow you as you walk, but there’s no need for words to validate your presence; your confidence speaks volumes. Designers, photographers, models, and influencers all acknowledge you, whether with a simple nod or a quiet compliment. To them, you are more than just a face—they know the hard work, the hours of preparation, the dedication you pour into your craft. You’ve earned your place here, not by chance, but by sheer, unmatched talent and authenticity. And as you move further into the crowd, you are greeted by those who have become familiar faces—the editors, the stylists, the creatives who have watched your journey unfold and who continue to champion you. Tonight, as always, you are the epitome of elegance, the pulse of this glamorous world that thrives on beauty, ambition, and artistry. There’s a quiet power that radiates from you, a reminder that in a room full of luminaries, it is your presence that lingers longest in their minds.

Your heart skips a moment when you catch the sound of a strikingly familiar laugh from across the room. A sweet jingle the back of your mind yearned to hear over and over again, despite the hurt. Although it had been approximately three years since you left Jiyong’s home that night, a small part of you still missed him. You were unsure if you truly missed him, or if it was the idea of what your relationship was; his effect on you, the way he spoke to you, the way he knew exactly where to touch to have your eyes widening and your heart racing. You often wondered if your mind was trapped in a prison cell of nostalgic wonder, constantly torturing you with flashbacks to moments you once held dear.

You let your eyes gracefully and subtly wander across the room, trying to spot the source of the laugh. Once you spotted him, you subconsciously let out a small flinch; you caught him staring back at you. An unreadable expression was scrawled across his smooth complexion, trailing across your face, your neck, and down your figure as he soaked in the view he yearned to see the moment you left that night.

Your heart began to race—not pleasantly, no, alarmingly, the heightened walls of the ballroom begun to constrict around you, suddenly envisioning everything becoming a whole lot warmer, tighter. Once over yonder you would dream for this warm, cozy feeling, for caterpillars to deem your stomach a safe haven for them to cocoon into beautiful butterflies, fluttering and fuelling the blood to rush to your cheeks, creating a beautiful crimson hue that he adored seeing you clad in, knowing he was the reason for its existence in the first place. But now, the warmth was smothering, asphyxiating.

You were the first to break eye contact, your eyes nervous—no; anxious and stressed. The weight of his focus on you was too suffocating, too overwhelming, just too much to handle for even a second longer. You needed an escape, a sanctuary where you can breathe freely for god’s sake. The lurching of your heart into your trachea, the trembling travelling from inside your bones through to your intrinsic muscles of the hand, which expressed exteriorly through the rattle of your fingertips, were symptoms of him—his charisma and magnetism, ones that you needed to experience not a single moment more.

You huffed, a futile attempt to alleviate some of the discomfort in your chest and lungs. You needed to get out of this room before it closed in and swallowed you whole.

You found yourself drawn to the balcony which was situated across a restaurant, playing melodic jazz music, as you gaze to the stars, a melodic saxophone is there to provide a tune rich with passion and humanity to sway along to. You had expected Jiyong to be present once again, he was the G-Dragon, you were just foolish in assuming that the ballroom would be full enough to avoid his attention.

Unfortunately, this balcony-made-haven was not as safe as you might have assumed. Your trance of relaxation with the woodwind instrument snapped, your bubble burst by the sound of a door sliding open and closed. Damn you for assuming you’d be safe.

Jiyong steps out onto the balcony, his presence immediate, like a gust of wind before the storm. You decide to give him a glance over your shoulder, and suddenly you can’t help but feel the familiar heat return, the way his eyes have a way of pulling you in despite your best efforts. Jiyong’s small grin is knowing, enticing, a familiar curve of his lips that used to be your favorite sight in the world, and your favourite place to touch with your own cheesy smile. Used to be.

“I knew you’d love the view from here,” he says, his voice like a silk thread that winds around you, pulling tighter with every word. “You would always tell me that a clear view of the night’s sky could draw you out of anywhere.”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you turn to gaze at the bustling townspeople below, feeling the weight of the moment. Your chest tightens. You want to breathe in the night air, let it fill you and wash away the old memories, the ones of warmth and tenderness that feel so distant now. But he won’t let you have that peace.

“Still alive up there?” Although his words are light and hold no room for depth, his words drift toward you like his old cigarette smoke, curling, adhesive, and insistent. An invitation for conversation you did not want to open.

You force yourself to focus on the glow of the Eiffel Tower, the steady pulse of the lights from across the Seine. It’s easier than meeting his gaze, easier than acknowledging the quiet storm stirring between the two of you. You couldn’t believe your ears; after all this time with no attempt to contact you with an apology, he opened your first conversation with him with fallacious teasing.

“I’m silent for a reason, take a hint,” you say, intending to remain sharp, but the words are too soft, too hesitant. You don’t want to give him that satisfaction, but your heart betrays you in the quietest of ways.

Jiyong steps closer, the heat of his body seeping into the cool night, his scent—familiar and dangerous—wrapping itself around you. The tension crackles in the air like static before a lightning strike.

“Don’t do that,” he murmurs, his voice lowering to a dangerous level, the kind that still sends a shiver down your spine. “Don’t pretend you’re unaffected by me.”

His fingers brush against your arm, just enough to remind you of how well he knows the geography of your body. You swallow, biting your lip to keep the words in check. You feel your heart beating, begging you to fall back into him, but you know better. You cannot betray yourself like this.

“I’m not pretending,” you say again, but this time the words are hollow, thin, as if the very act of saying them is a lie.

He moves closer still, the space between you shrinking until you can feel the warmth of his breath on your neck, stirring the tendrils of your hair you spent so long to perfect. You can almost hear the beat of your pulse in your ears, the thrum of your blood, and you hate how it betrays you.

“I don’t want this,” you say, the words carrying edge now, cutting through the fog of memories that cloud your thoughts. “I don’t want that... pain from us.”

The words hang in the air, heavy, like the scent of rain before the downpour. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink, his eyes fixed on you as though he’s searching for something. A crack. A softening. A moment when he can slip back in.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, and it’s not a question. It’s a statement, as if he knows you better than you know yourself.

You turn away, arms folding across your chest as though that could shield you from him. But it doesn’t. It never has. The tightness in your throat threatens to spill over, but you won’t let him see. You won’t let him win.

The balcony creaks underfoot as he steps closer again, his hand brushing against the railing as if searching for something solid to hold onto. You know the feeling. You’re both teetering on the edge, balanced precariously between what was and what will never be again.

“You’re still angry,” he says, his voice a low hum now, vibrating in the space between you. “You’re still upset that I... said that to you. That I caused us to fall apart.”

You choose not to indulge him with your gaze, but you can feel his gaze like a weight on your back, pulling you toward him. You don’t want to talk about it. Not now, not here, not with him. But you can’t ignore the truth in his words.

“I’m angry because you didn’t care,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper, as though the confession would break you if it were louder. “You didn’t bother to try to reach out to me; I would’ve answered my phone, you should’ve known be better than that. You let me go without a fight.”

His breath hitches, a moment of surprise before he steps even closer, too close now, his body pressing into yours like an immovable force.

“I’m still fighting,” he murmurs, the words brushing the shell of your ear, trying to engrave a promise in your eardrum.

You shake your head, pulling away, forcing space between you. But the crack in your voice betrays you. “It’s too late for that.”

And for a moment, the world seems to still. The city below, the hum of voices inside, the thrum of the night—it all fades into the distance. All that’s left is you and him, tangled in the past, standing on a precipice, neither one of you willing to take the step toward what might come next.

He watches you closely, his eyes darkened by something unspoken, a regret buried beneath the surface, and for a split second, you almost think he’s not the man you left behind. But then he smiles, a slow, arc of his lips that makes your stomach twist.

He says nothing, but slowly raises his arm to brush against your waist. Slowly enough so that if you so pleased, you could move away, move him away. He would respect that.

But you let it happen.

“Tell me to stop, and I will.” He whispered, he’s close enough that you can feel the teasing, sensual tone licking against the slope of your neck where it meets with the base of your ear, reverberating through your head. He chuckles, his voice lowering, dripping with seductive teasing, forming a warm pit form in your stomach, “That is, if you want me to.”

You want to, oh god, you want to give in. You know he’s right, you were always one to give in to him; you were melting to fall right back into in his hands, and you knew it, he knew it. But instead, you don’t respond. You look out over the city once more, the lights shimmering beneath the weight of your silence. You wonder how much longer you can pretend that you’re not still tangled in the wreckage of everything you once had.

Juxtaposing your desires, you are a stubborn woman, and you need him to be aware of the pain he inflicted before he can be let in so easily. You suck in a deep breath, and your heels take one small, rushed step away.

“You know what?” you say, your voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “I’m tired of you pretending like you didn’t hurt me. You really think you can just waltz back into my life because you flash that damn grin and speak like that to me in that damn voice? Well, guess what, it’s not working anymore.”

He opens his mouth, but you don’t let him get a word in. You’re not finished.

“You said I wasn’t enough for you. And you didn’t just insult me verbally—you destroyed everything I thought we had. You invalidated and belittled everything I had worked toward at that point. Every single thing you said, every promise you made? It faded to nothing. You think you can apologize your way back in with some pitiful little look in your eyes? I’m not buying it.”

The words pour out of you, each one drenched in the venom of old wounds. You can feel the heat in your chest, the fire that’s been simmering for so long now rising to your throat. It’s so much easier to be angry than to be hurt, so much easier to tear him down than let him see how much he’s broken you.

“You don’t get to walk in here, after how high I have built myself, acting like I’m just supposed to forgive you, to fall for your charm. Do you think I’m naïve?”

There’s a moment of silence, and you take a second step back, finally meeting his eyes. But you see something you didn’t expect—something like regret, something deeper than just his usual smugness. And it stops you in your tracks.

“I’m not done,” you say, more quietly now, the edge of your anger still sharp but softer. “But I’ll tell you one thing—you don’t get me back with your words. Not with any of…” You wave your arms around, gesturing to the air between you. “This. You have to earn me back. You have to earn my trust again. And I don’t even know if I’ll let you. So, no, you don’t get to come back into my life that easily.”

You’re not prepared for the way your voice falters then, how it cracks and slips as you finish the last sentence. You hadn’t meant to break, not like this, but now that the anger is gone, the sadness rushes in. You don’t even try to hide it as the tears start to fall, hot and furious, blurring your vision. Your chest tightens, the lump in your throat suffocating you.

And there he is, standing in front of you—his eyes no longer filled with that arrogant glint, but something more raw, something that makes your heart stutter in a way you haven’t felt in months. Small tears brimming his eyes as well, he reaches out, his hand tentative at first, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away.

You don’t.

Jiyong’s hand lands on your arm, and the sensation of it feels like a remedy on a burn. He offers an embrace to soothe you, and you impulsively fall into him, not allowing your mind a chance take the wheel. You despise yourself for needing him like this.

“I was an idiot,” he says, his voice low, not the usual playful tone but something real, something genuine. “I know I hurt you. I know I hurt us. I wasn’t fair to you, and I can’t change that. I can’t take back the things I did, the things I said, but I am sorry. More than I could ever say. And I’ll keep saying it until you believe me, if that’s what it takes.”

You blink, a part of you wanting to reject it, to slap away the apology and keep holding onto your anger. But another part of you—the part that’s still so so tired—wants to believe him.

“You broke me. I trusted you, and you just let me leave. A single call would have been better than silence. I felt like you quickly moved on without even caring what your words did to me,” you softly cried, the words tasting bitter on your tongue.

He steps closer, his hand still warm on your arm, and you don’t pull away, “I know. And I’m so, so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I was a coward. I was selfish. And I hurt the one person I never should’ve hurt.”

You swallow, another sob catching in your throat. You didn’t expect this. You didn’t expect him to apologise like this, so carefully, so thoughtfully. You didn’t expect him to look at you like he was the one who needed to heal. It does something to you, something you don’t know how to handle.

“I don’t know if I can ever trust you again,” you whisper, shaking your head. “I don’t know if I can forget how easily you let me go, after such a long time.”

He nods, his gaze unwavering. “I don’t deserve that trust, not yet. But I will work every single day to earn it. I’ll show you, if you’ll let me. I’ll earn your heart again. Not because I think I deserve it, but because I want to. Because I’m sorry—and I’ll show you that I can be the man you deserve.”

You sniff, gently wiling at your face, angry at yourself for letting your guard down, for feeling even the smallest glimmer of hope. But that’s the thing with him—he has a way of making you believe in something, even when you were sure you’ve shut that door and thrown away the key.

“You’ve got a long way to go,” you say, voice hoarse, but there’s something in it that feels like forgiveness. Not full forgiveness, not yet. But maybe—just maybe maybe it’s a start.

“I know, my love. I know,” his voice was no louder than a whisper, allowing you to fill space with your thoughts over his. He presses his lips against your forehead, which sends nostalgic sparks from the crown of your head, all the way through your torso and limbs, then inside your chest, electrifying your heart.

You remain in his arms for a moment longer, the weight of it all pressing in. You don’t say anything more. You don’t have to. The words, the apology, the admission—they hang between you like a fragile thread, and for the first time in a long time, you feel a sliver of something you thought was long gone.

Maybe you can forgive him. Maybe you can let him back in. But not now. Not yet. That is not something that can happen in just one night.

And for the first time in three years, you feel something more than anger. You feel hope—faint, fragile, but still there.

hey everyone! this is my first fic here! so i hope you like it! i was a bit nervous to post this :)

if there is anything specific youd like from me please don’t hesitate to let me know and i’ll do my best! :3

#gdragon x reader #bigbang x reader #kwon jiyong #gdragon #kwon jiyong x reader #bigbang #x reader #fanfic #fanfiction

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issues4him · 18 hours ago

Text

3 - FIRST TOUCH ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

ghost!rafe x shy!reader series

summary: rafe sneaks into your room late at night. he decides to answer the question that’s been brewing in the back of his mind.

cw: none, flirting, lowkey angst if u squint

the soft glow of the morning sun filtered through the grand windows, casting warm golden light across the lavish sitting room. you stirred, shifting slightly on the plush couch, the weight of sleep still pulling at your limbs.

a second later, the distant sound of clinking cutlery and muffled voices from the kitchen reached your ears. your brows furrowed as your mind sluggishly caught up with reality.

why were you on the couch?

the events of the night before rushed back all at once. the midnight glass of water. the painting. him.

your eyes fluttered open fully, scanning the room as if expecting rafe to still be there, but of course—he wasn’t.

just a dream, you tried to convince yourself.

“oh, dear, what on earth are you doing sleeping out here?”

you jolted upright, your heart leaping to your throat as your grandmother’s voice rang through the air. she stood at the edge of the sitting room, arms crossed, a concerned look on her face.

“i—i must’ve—” you cleared your throat, smoothing your dress as if that would make you look any less ridiculous. “i couldn’t sleep, so i came down here, and i guess i—”

“fell asleep in the draftiest part of the house?” your grandmother shook her head, though her voice was full of amusement. “honestly, dear, you’ll catch a cold.”

you scrambled to your feet, cheeks warm with embarrassment. “it was just an accident...”

your grandmother hummed knowingly, but she didn’t press. “well, come along, breakfast is ready.”

as you followed your grandmother toward the dining room, something made you hesitate. a prickling awareness ran down your spine, and without thinking, your gaze flickered toward the grand staircase—toward his painting.

your breath caught.

rafe was back.

frozen in oil and canvas, just as he always had been. his blue eyes bore into you with that same unreadable intensity, his posture upright, his uniform pristine. the golden frame around him seemed almost too perfect, too undisturbed, as if last night had never happened.

had it?

your fingers curled into the fabric of your robe as you stood there, unmoving. he looked exactly the same, and yet you could swear there was something new in his expression. something smug.

almost like he knew something you didn’t.

“are you coming, sweetheart?” your grandmother’s sweet voice snapped you out of your daze.

you swallowed hard, stealing one last glance at him. rafe remained perfectly still, the portrait of a long-dead soldier.

you tore your gaze away and hurried after your grandmother.

but as you walked away, it felt like he was burning holes in the back of your head.

——————

it’s late—later than you meant to stay up. you sit at your vanity, brushing through your hair, your eyelids heavy with sleep. the room is quiet, save for the occasional creak of the old house settling around you.

then, you feel it.

a soft little tug at the end of your hair.

your brush stills in your hand.

slowly, you raise your eyes to the mirror, your pulse quickening. at first, there’s nothing—just your own wide-eyed reflection staring back at you. but then, behind you, a shape flickers into view, leaning down close.

“miss me?”

your heart jumps as rafe’s face appears right beside yours, his lips curved into that lazy, smug grin.

you whip around so fast that you nearly topple off the stool, one hand gripping your vanity for balance. “oh my—”

“careful now,” he chuckles, straightening. “wouldn’t want you to get hurt on my account, darlin’.”

your pulse pounds in your ears, hands clenching at your the vanity’s edge. “you—you can’t just do that!” you whisper-shout, cheeks burning.

rafe tilts his head, feigning innocence. “do what?”

“you know what!”

he chuckles, arms crossing over his broad chest. “you should’ve seen your face.” his voice drops, teasing. “cute.”

your stomach flips at the word, but you scowl, refusing to let him see how flustered you are. “i thought ghosts were supposed to be all ominous and brooding.”

he steps closer, his translucent form passing right through the edge of your vanity. “maybe,” he muses, “but where’s the fun in that?”

you grip the edge of the white vanity as you’re still seated on the stool.

rafe is way too amused. his arms are crossed, his blue eyes glinting in the dim candlelight, looking like he just won some kind of game you didn’t even know you were playing.

“you look like you’ve seen a ghost, hun.”

you glare at him, heart still racing. “you are a ghost!”

he shrugs, completely unbothered. “and?”

your mouth opens, then closes, because—yeah. and? what exactly is the proper reaction when a ghost just appears in your room at midnight, smirking like he owns the place?

your stomach is still in knots from the initial shock, but rafe just tilts his head, watching you, looking far too entertained. his gaze flickers over your body, your gaze following his.

you then notice where his eyes have drifted—

oh. oh no.

you’re wearing nothing but a tiny, lace bralette and matching sleep shorts. barely-there cotton that clings to your skin. clearly, you had not expected company.

heat rushes to your face. you fight the urge to cover yourself, but it’s impossible to ignore the way rafe’s gaze flickers over you, slow and deliberate.

his smirk deepens. “cute outfit.”

your whole body burns. “get out.”

he ignores that completely, stepping closer instead, his voice dropping to something lower, something teasing. “you’re mean tonight.”

“because you broke into my room!”

“broke in?” he chuckles, shifting his weight onto one hip, all effortless confidence. “sweetheart, i don’t need doors. you should know that by now.”

your fingers tighten around the vanity. “why are you even here?”

he sighs dramatically, like the answer is obvious. “i can’t just check in on my girl?”

your face flushed with color. “wha—i’m not your—”

“oh, please.” he tilts his head, eyes dragging down way too slowly before flicking back up. “you picked that outfit for me, didn’t you?”

your skin burns. “NO—i did not—”

he just looks at you. that same cocky, knowing look.

you visibly deflate.

rafe grins. “that’s what i thought.”

your stomach churned at the certainty in his voice. the nickname, the way he spoke to you like he knew you better than you knew yourself—it was infuriating. and maybe a little bit true.

groaning, you stood from your vanity chair, and dove under the floarak-patterned duvet on your bed, desperate to create some distance from his stare.

you peeked over the top of your blanket, heart thudding. rafe stood at the foot of your bed, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who had just appeared in your room.

your breathing quickened when he stopped right beside your bed. he tilted his head, studying you. “so… tell me, honey… if you’re so scared of me,” he murmured, “why aren’t you running? screaming? calling for help?” his voice was teasing, but his expression was softer now, curious. “or is it because deep down, you don’t want me to leave?”

“shut up.” your throat tightened. he was too close. too solid-looking for a ghost, despite the way the room’s dim light passed through the edges of his form.

rafe exhaled through his nose, almost like a sigh. then, slowly, he lowered himself onto the edge of your bed. the mattress didn’t dip. he didn’t move the blankets. he just sat.

he hesitated. then, after a second, he reached out.

you flinched instinctively, expecting the touch of nothing, of cold air. but then, warmth. a whisper of pressure against your wrist. faint. barely there.

rafe froze. his hand still hovered over yours, his eyes locked onto where his fingers had made the softest contact with your skin.

neither of you spoke.

then, carefully, like he was afraid you might disappear, rafe flattened his palm over the back of your hand. the pressure didn’t change much, but the warmth was stronger now. he wasn’t just there. he was real.

his voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet. “you can feel me?”

you swallowed, nodding. “yeah,” you whispered. “i can.”

for a long moment, he just stared. then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted—not in a smirk, not in teasing. just relief.

you barely noticed when your own fingers moved, barely registered the way you turned your hand palm-up beneath his. his fingers curled hesitantly over yours, still light, still not all the way there.

his voice was barely above a breath. “guess that means i’m not just a memory, huh?”

you shook your head. “no,” you murmured. “you’re real.”

rafe swallowed, gaze still fixed on where his hand held yours. and for the first time since you’d met him, he looked almost human.

rafe didn’t let go. he didn’t move, didn’t shift away, didn’t tease you like he normally would. he just held your hand—light, but warm. real.

you felt like you couldn’t breathe. like if you spoke too loud, moved too fast, the moment might shatter, and he’d be gone.

his thumb brushed over your knuckles. it was the softest touch, just a whisper of pressure, but it sent a shiver up your spine.

rafe must’ve noticed, because his lips quirked up the tiniest bit. “didn’t mean to make you so nervous, sweetheart.”

“i’m not nervous,” you whispered back, even though the way your pulse raced in your ears completely betrayed you.

his grin deepened. “liar.”

you huffed, looking away, but he squeezed your fingers—barely, like he was testing how much he could actually touch you. the warmth was steadier now, stronger. his grip wasn’t solid, not quite, but it wasn’t slipping through you completely anymore, either.

it made your head spin.

“how is this happening?” you murmured. “you’ve never been able to touch anything before, right?”

rafe was still watching your joined hands like he couldn’t quite believe it himself. “no,” he admitted. “not in two hundred and fifty years.”

that made your stomach dip. two hundred and fifty years. that was impossible. that was tragic.

you hesitated, then, before you could second-guess yourself, gave his hand a gentle squeeze. his head snapped up, eyes sharp with surprise.

you swallowed, shy all over again. “does it—does it feel the same for you?”

rafe exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what was happening. “not exactly,” he said. “it’s like…” he frowned slightly, searching for the words. “like holding onto a ball of warmth. like grabbing at hot air.”

your brows pulled together. “so it doesn’t feel like real skin?”

he huffed another laugh, lifting his gaze back to yours. “no, princess,” he murmured. “but,” his face softened slightly, “it’s the closest i’ve gotten.”

something about that made your heart ache. his lips parted, just slightly.

“you’re the difference,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter, more thoughtful.

you blinked. “what?”

“you,” he repeated, brow furrowing. “i’ve never been able to touch anything. but you… you can feel me.”

your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “why me?”

rafe tilted his head, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face. “c’mon, sweetheart,” he said, voice warm as honey. “i think you already know why.”

your throat tightened. he wasn’t teasing. not really. he was right.

you’d spent your whole life loving the boy in the painting.

maybe that was all it took.

maybe love was enough to bring a ghost back to life.

a/n: i’m so sorry this took so long

#ghost!rafe x shy!reader #outerbanks rafe #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron #rafe x you #rafe fanfiction #rafe smut #rafe x reader #rafe imagine #rafe fic #rafe obx

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shanastoryteller · 2 days ago

Text

Tracking down a prince of hell is surprisingly easy. The other demons can’t avoid them if they don’t know where they are, after all.

Castiel gives up arguing against it, but instead he’s taken to brooding in the corner, arms crossed, and glaring at him. As his main source of human bodily expression, Sam wishes he wasn’t so good at it. He doesn’t look like that, does he? Jesus.

Sam knocks on Ramiel’s door. There’s no reason to be impolite.

“Huh,” Ramiel answers, wearing the face of a weathered old fisherman. Which, from all accounts, is exactly how he’s been spending his infinite life. Sam learned how to fish like he learned all of his father’s lessons, grudgingly, but compared to how he’s living now, he has to admit it sounds peaceful. “You’re the kid that killed my brother.”

“What,” he says, raising an eyebrow, “were you close?”

Castiel makes some sort of choking sound that Sam knows he didn’t learn from him. Maybe he should be monitoring his television usage.

Ramiel cracks a grin. “You here to kill me, boy?”

“Do you want to be killed?” he asks.

“Not especially,” he says. “But if you killed Azazel, then you can kill me. We going to fight about it?”

“You’re not hurting anyone,” Sam says. He’d checked. “I don’t think you’re especially loyal to Lucifer.” If he was, he would have made an appearance during the apocalypse, would have been helping Azazel find Lucifer’s vessel, not hiding out in the middle of nowhere fishing and drinking. “If he comes back, that’ll be a problem for you, I think. So helping me is in your best interest.”

“Well, if it’s in my best interest.” He steps back, nudging the door open a little wider. “Come on in.”

Ramiel is surprisingly open giving Sam his blood. He looks fascinated and doesn’t question what Sam wants it for, apparently already well aware that Sam and Castiel are in the process of destroying the remaining seals.

“He wants to destroy Lilith,” Castiel says, the first thing he’s said since Ramiel opened the door. Sam wishes he was close enough to hit, which is probably one of the reasons Castiel is staying propped against the wall rather than sitting down with them. His vessel doesn’t feel tiredness, so Sam’s impressed he’s leaning at all.

“You don’t think he can?” Ramiel asks. “Sure, not now, but at all?”

“You think I can?” Sam interrupts, hope causing his stomach to flip over. This whole thing is his idea, he remembers killing Lilith before, but Castiel has been so sure it wouldn’t work.

Ramiel looks him over, something in his eyes that he can’t quite place. “You remind me of him.”

Sam tenses.

“You must see it more clearly than I do,” Ramiel says to Castiel. “You knew him before the fall. I only met him after, obviously.”

“Lucifer and I were not well acquainted,” Castiel says stiffly.

“I’m nothing like him,” Sam snaps. He can’t be. He won’t be. Even in the memories from the future, when he’s drinking demon blood, he’s not the damn devil.

“That’s a shame,” Ramiel says. Sam stares. “He was the strongest angel in heaven, a general among kings, God’s most beloved son.”

Sam swallows. “Propaganda.”

Ramiel raises an eyebrow and looks over at the angel in the corner.

Castiel holds out for several long moments before saying, “No. Lucifer was that. Once.”

“God asked of Abraham to do to Isaac what he could not do to Lucifer,” Ramiel says. “He had no deity of his own to appease and so Lucifer was cast out rather than eliminated. He was brilliant, in the beginning, of course we followed him. He shone so brightly, so righteous in his certainty, so compelling in his grief.” His hand falls heavily on Sam’s shoulder. “I see him in you so clearly. It’s not a damnation. Until the moment he fell, Lucifer was the brightest star in the sky.”

He's silent for probably too long, trying to find some way to respond to that. Finally he says, “I won’t fall then.”

He can’t.

He won’t.

He’s going to ensure Lucifer stays in the cage forever and whatever it costs him will be worth it. But he won’t fall.

Sam is startled out of a dead sleep by his name.

SAM! Echoes through his head and he’s rolling out of bed, rolling upright and still half asleep when he shifts from one place to the other. The urgency in the call has him standing there still half asleep, barefoot in sweatpants and a grey t shirt just tight enough in the shoulders that he thinks it’s his brother’s.

He runs a hair through his hair, smoothing it back from standing every which way, and blinks at the crowd of people in front of him. “Uh. Hi?”

He’s in the Roadhouse in the middle of standoff, a couple dozen people blocking off the door while pretty much everyone else in the bar has their guns drawn and pointed. He notices his father among them and refuses to react, not daring to look at his dad’s face for long enough to read anything there besides shock.

Ellen has her rifle aimed, but Jo’s slumped against the bar, her arm around – “Dean!”

He’s out of it, eyes squeezed shut and curled half over. It’s only Jo that’s keeping him partially upright. He sees the blood dripping on the ground and is already moving towards them, grabbing Dean’s shoulders and pushing him upright enough to see the blood soaked across his torso, his stomach split open just like Jessica’s had been, just like their mother.

Sam sees red.

“Sam,” Jo says in relief.

“Sammy,” says someone else, and this time when he looks over, those people in front of the door all have black eyes. “Samuel. You killed Azazel.”

“Loyalists?” he snarks, shifting to stand in front of Dean and Jo. He’s going to fix his brother, but he has to take care of this first. Dean’s not dead, and he’s stronger than he was when he brought Jo back, but he doesn’t know what kind of shape healing him is going to leave him in. Better not to risk it.

“Yes,” says the man, eyes still black. “You have earned the throne, Samuel, but it remains not empty. You’re meant to lead us, Samuel, but you’ve been missing. We’ve been forced to go to extreme measure to get your attention.”

“I’m not mean to do shit,” he snarls. He’s so tired of this crap. His future self had that part right – taking the destiny Lucifer had wanted for him and making him choke on it, using that infinite power to send his memories to his younger self so Lucifer wouldn’t ever get a chance to taste fresh air this time around – good. He didn’t like it when it was his dad trying to dictate how he lived his life, and he has even less tolerance for it from Lucifer. These ass clowns? It should be a joke, would be, even, if he didn’t have his brother’s blood on him.

He raises a hand and all the demons choke on air, eyes going wide and feet glued in place. He doesn’t pay any attention to the hunters at his back, hoping that they won’t be stupid enough to try and kill him while he’s saving their asses. Even if they succeed, Castiel will bring him back.

He walks forward, eyes narrowed, wondering if they’re flashing gold and not caring. “Well, good job, hurting my brother does get my attention.” He leans in close to the man who had spoken, voice whisper soft and yet carrying easily in the near silent bar. “You don’t want my attention.”

Pulling the demons from their hosts is easy. Smothering them into nothing, turning black smoke into black dust as he kills them permanently isn’t much harder than that. The people start coughing and groaning, others limp and likely in need of a hospital if they’re still alive, but Sam ignores them to focus on one woman who’s still trembling and terrified, the one demon he’d left behind.

He moves her hair away from her face, hoping the woman inside of her isn’t aware of what’s happened to her. The demon looks at him in terror. “You tell everyone. You tell them what happens when they spill my brother’s blood.”

“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes, I will, please. Please. I’ll tell everyone. I will.”

Her fear isn’t satisfying. He has to remind himself that it’s not this girl looking at him like this, but the demon inside of her. It doesn’t help much. He’d never wanted to be anyone’s nightmare. “Go.” Her head snaps back and he adds, “Gently.”

She hesitates then her head drops forward, black smoke oozing out her mouth, nothing quick or violent about it as the demon does it’s best to leave without doing any damage. As soon as it’s out, it disappears, running form him as quickly as it can.

The woman sways in front of him and he grabs her elbow to steady her. She blinks at him, dazed. “What happened?”

“You’re okay,” he says, patting her shoulder and letting go. She stays on her feet, although she still looks confused, but Sam turns away from them.

The hunters are still all silent, all still watching him. Most haven’t lowered their weapons, although some have. Ellen’s gun is still raised, but it’s not towards him, which is both comforting and not. He wonders who she thinks is most likely to try and kill him.

Dean’s passed out, out cold on the ground with Jo holding him up and pressing a hand towel from the bar against his stomach. “Sam,” she says again, eyes huge, but she doesn’t look afraid of him. That’s good.

“Thanks for calling me, Jo,” he says. “I’ve got him.”

He pulls Dean back against him, his brother’s chest rising and falling too quickly. He’s gone cold with blood loss and this wound might have even been the thing that killed him if Sam wasn’t here.

That’s never going to happen. Dean isn’t going to die. Dean isn’t going to go to hell. Sam is doing all this for his brother and just because he won’t be able to keep him doesn’t mean he’s willing to lose him.

He hooks his chin over Dean’s shoulder and presses is hands against the wound on his stomach, feeling fresh hot blood spill over his fingers. He tilts his head just enough to graze his lips against Dean’s cheek, holding him steady as his body seizes under him.

Castiel heals with a touch, all if it happening too quickly for it to hurt. Sam’s not that good at it yet.

“Sorry,” he whispers, feeling Dean’s skin knit back together and his body go warm with new blood. Dean groans and coughs, body rebelling against being healed but not having much choice.

“John,” Ellen barks. “Don’t do anything stupid now.”

Sam looks over his shoulder to see that his father has stepped forward, the Colt directed at him. Dean got hurt by demons and Dad had the Colt and didn’t use it. Only two bullets left and more than two demons, sure, he gets it. But still.

“Don’t waste a bullet, Dad,” he says. He's still refusing to look at his father's face. He doesn't need to know.

Any gun will do. Although he wonders if being killed by the Colt would prevent Castiel from bringing him back. He’s not much interested in testing it.

He tips Dean back towards Jo, who braces him with an arm around his waist. “Take care of him for me.”

“I’m trying,” she says, honesty and dry and exasperated, which is how he knows she means it. He smiles, might have even laughed if things were different. He likes Jo. He’d thought he did, from his memories, but he hadn’t felt it. He feels it now.

“Sammy,” Dean says, eyes glassy and movements still weak as he reaches out to him. “Sam.”

He grabs Dean’s reaching hand, gives it a quick squeeze, and is gone as soon as he hears the sound of a gun being cocked.

Apocalypse Never

They help Dad into the cabin, more coherent than he was when they first broke him out, and Sam heads back to the car for their bags, for the Colt, and tries not to think about how everything has gone so quickly to shit. Mom and Jessica’s killer got away, again, but they’re all alive. That’s not nothing, that’s –

The pain hits him so completely and suddenly that he has no chance to brace himself for it. Usually it builds, first prickling pain then greater, but this is something else. It feels like nails are being shoved into his skull, images coming almost too fast for him to follow. He doesn’t realize he’s screaming until it stops, until he comes to with his head in his brother’s lap, Dean’s arms pinning him down and his face white and terrified above him. “Sammy? Sammy, you’re bleeding. What’s wrong?”

His throat is too raw and tight to speak even if he wanted to. He does want to, but he can’t, he can’t say a goddamn thing.

I saved the world for you, he thinks wildly, and I didn’t even get to keep you. How fucked up is that?

He doesn’t know if his future self couldn’t send it all back any further, or if he thought that this would give Sam less time to fuck things up.

For a couple terrifying minutes, Sam had taken control of Lucifer. For a couple exhilarating minutes, Sam had the power of an archangel.

That sending the knowledge of the future back four years in the past was the best thing he could think to do with it leaves Sam with a poor opinion of the man he became. Then again, he had saved the world, so. There’s that.

He doesn’t want to think of the him that had fallen into the pit with Lucifer and Michael. He hopes he can save him by making different choices, but maybe he can’t. Alternate universes, or parallel ones, or whatever. Maybe that Sam is damned for good and the best he could do was save a different version of himself, a different version of his brother.

There’s not much point in wondering about it. He’ll never know either way.

It’s memories with no emotions, thank fuck, because just the knowledge of it all is enough to drive him to his knees, to edge him to weeping and whimpering and slitting his wrists if he lets it.

He’s not going to. He has work to do. There will be time to fall apart after, when the world is safe. When Dean is safe.

Dean after Dad had died and given him that ultimatum had been bad enough. Dean after forty years in hell had been nearly unrecognizable.

He wipes the blood from his face, ushers Dean back inside, and tries not to think too hard about what he’s about to do.

Dean figures out it’s Azazel in Dad’s body and they’re pinned to the wall and Sam waits until Azazel is hovering over him, hand next to his head as he tilts his head back and breathes over Sam’s lips. It’s a torture and a powerplay, to let the want in his eyes come out in his father’s face, to make it John’s body that’s pressed so nauseatingly close to his own.

Sam isn’t the same person he was four years ago, ten minutes ago.

Breaking out of Azazel’s hold is easy. He’s using the equivalent of a single finger to keep them down, like pinning down a butterfly, and it's only enough until it isn’t.

He grabs Azazel’s face and pulls him close, hears the beginning of his laughter before Sam seals their mouths together. He’s making a deal here, selling his soul sure as anything, just not with Azazel.

Azazel leans into it, just like Sam knew he would, shoving his tongue in Sam’s mouth and getting off at his instinctive flinch of disgust, of the way Dean’s screaming bloody murder behind him. Azazel hasn’t hurt Dean yet. Sam’s going to make sure he never will.

He bites down hard. Blood fills his mouth and he sucks on his tongue, drinking as much as he can. It doesn't tase like iron, not like it should, instead it's sweet and thick like honey. He thought Azazel would pull back now, but he’s still laughing into Sam’s mouth, even bites the inside of his cheek to add to the blood from his tongue, and he just lets Sam drink his fill. Of course, he doesn’t know what Sam knows. If Sam had done this the first time, the only thing the blood would have done would be to get him high and useless.

It means he gets more than a mouthful, that it’s long minutes of keeping his eyes closed and swallowing and trying not to think too hard about how it’s Dad’s hands on him and Dad’s hard on at his thigh and Dad’s tongue he’s sucking on. He’s already got four years’ worth of nightmares in his head. No need to add more than necessary.

His skin is buzzing, feeling stretched out over him like his body is too big for it suddenly, almost like the aches of growing pains but more electric. Azazel pulls back and licks up the side of his face, leaving blood and spit behind, and breathes into his ear, “If you missed me feeding you, boy, all you had to do was ask.”

Yeah, that’s enough of that.

He shoves Azazel back without moving his hands, hard enough that he stumbles, and he has to move fast, before he gets a smart idea like snapping Dad’s neck or bursting his heart. He raises his hand and he’d settle for an exorcism, but power is lying heavy and thick in his veins. Destroying Lilith nearly killed him and Azazel is more powerful than Lilith and the blood he drank shouldn’t be nearly enough.

But fear sparks in Azazel’s yellow eyes and he starts choking, black smoke leaking from his ears and out his mouth. “How-”

Sam doesn’t let him finish. He remembers killing Samhain, killing Alastair, killing Lilith. He knows what to do.

Azazel dies screaming. Mom and Jessica are avenged. It’s not as satisfying as he thought it’d be.

Dad is on his hands and knees, taking in deep lungfuls of air. Sam knows from experience that being possessed isn’t pleasant.

“Sammy?”

He forces himself to look over, sees his brother approaching him with hands outstretched. The fear hasn’t gone anywhere even with Azazel dead, even with Dad alive, even though he doesn’t have any of the devastating injuries he sustained last time.

He doesn’t have the emotions to go along with the memory of the first time Dean saw him drinking demon blood, but he imagines it was something like this. “I’m sorry.”

“Sammy,” Dean says again, but Dad’s getting to his feet, Dad’s looking at the Colt, and Sam can’t die yet. He still has work to do.

It’s not a conscious thought, not something he actively tries to do, it’s just one minute he’s there in a cabin with his father and brother and the next he’s in the middle of a field, the night air crisp and clear and a million stars shining above him.

He couldn’t do that before.

There’s something wrong, he thinks, because he doesn’t remember what drinking demon blood felt like, but he remembers describing it, and this isn’t right. He should be drained after that, should feel almost normal again, but instead it’s like there are bees pinging around inside him, like there’s molten lava in his veins, like he’s dying.

He’s dying, he realizes suddenly, the power threatening to eat him alive. He looks down at his arms, like he’s expecting to see them crisping up beneath moonlight, but they look normal, like skin. Of course it’s not killing him, no matter what it feels like. He’s Lucifer’s perfect vessel. There’s no power his body can’t contain, none except God’s, maybe, and it looks like he’s long past making house calls.

It won’t kill him, but it hurts like hell, and he can’t think, he needs to burn it off somehow. He’s never had this problem before, not even when he drank all that blood for Lucifer.

He’s standing in Bobby’s living room and he doesn’t understand why until he sees the body on his kitchen table wrapped in a white sheet. He doesn’t know how Bobby got rid of the paramedics, if he’s maybe holding the body for her family, but Sam thinks he knows how to get rid of some of the itching along his skin.

Sam died a lot, in those weeks he and Dean were apart. Lucifer was true to his word. Sam came back every time.

He pulls down the sheet, sees the ways Meg’s face has settled into death in the past day, how decay has started to take hold and left her blue and cold and her skin slack. He leans down, presses a kiss to her cheek, and thinks that this is the least he owes her, for what she endured because of him, for trying to help him even at the bitter end.

She gasps to life beneath him, warmth flooding her skin and air stuttering into her lungs. “Sam?” she asks, fear and confusion and a pain that’s not physical.

Maybe she won’t want to live, considering everything she’s been through, but at least now the choice is hers and not a demon’s. There are footsteps and he turns to see Bobby standing in the doorway, gun pointed to the ground and mouth open in shock. Sam doesn’t have time to worry about it, instead he’s gone, the same burning still clawing its way out of his bones.

Caleb lies slumped in the chair Meg had tied him to, throat slit and eyes empty. Sam puts his hands on his shoulders, presses his lips to his bald head, and feels the moment his heart starts beating again. He sends the ropes falling with barely a thought and he’s gone the moment he hears his first confused groan.

Pastor Jim is laid out in his home, church workers Sam vaguely recognize huddled around him in prayer, his final send off. He’s just glad he got here before they burned him. They start screaming when they see him but he leans down, internally wincing at how Jim’s going to explain his way out of this one, and kisses his forehead, a reversal of the paternal tenderness Jim had shown him as a child.

His chest rises and his eyes open and his eyebrows push together. “Sam, what-“

He doesn’t stick around to hear the end of that question, figures it’s not anything he can answer anyway.

It takes him a long moment of staring out at the snow covered peaks and too close sky and the brilliant sun hitting his face even though it was just the middle of the night for him to place himself, even though it shouldn’t be enough, but he knows where he is even though he shouldn’t.

The air’s too thin and he’s going to give himself altitude sickness if he lingers and he should probably be freezing to death but his blood is still running too hot. Not burning, not like it was before he brought three people back from the dead, but still far from comfortable.

Still. He can’t say he ever thought he’d ever get to see the view from Mt. Everest.

“Castiel,” he says. “It’s Sam Winchester. We need to talk.”

Nothing. Typical.

“I know about God’s plan, about Lucifer and Michael, about my role as his vessel. I know about you, Cas. You’re going to want to hear me out.”

There’s the rustle of wings behind him and he turns to see Cas, younger than he looked before. Jimmy Novak younger than he’d been before. He wonders about that for a moment. He’d half expected Cas to show up as a sherpa rather than nip to America for a vessel, but Cas had kept the shape of Jimmy Novak even after his physical body perished, so maybe there’s a deeper preference there than just convenience.

His face is as cold as their surroundings. “You have strayed from God’s light.”

“Yeah, well, what good has he ever done me?” he asks tiredly. He used to believe. He believed yesterday. He prayed this morning. Even when he met Cas the first time, he believed. “I can’t explain. Can you just read my mind? We don’t have time.”

His eyebrows push together, but Cas has to be curious, otherwise he wouldn’t have said anything. He steps forward and presses two fingers against Sam’s forehead. He doesn’t feel any different, but when Cas lowers his hand, he’s lost his stoicism. Shock, despair, and anger chase themselves across his feature and Sam can’t blame him.

He’s not the only who lost his faith in the future.

“You said there were thousands of seals,” he says. “How many exactly?”

His eyes snap to Sam’s. “What?”

“God loved Lucifer,” he says. “It’s why he imprisoned him rather than destroying him. It’s why he left him a way out. Maybe it’s why he set up the apocalypse in the first place. I don’t know, I don’t care. All I know is that I’m not letting him out, ever. So we’re going to destroy every seal we can.”

Some can’t be undone, like the first one, a righteous man torturing an innocent soul in hell. But there are plenty that can, hopefully enough, hopefully most. If there are less than sixty six seals available, then Lucifer is never getting out of his cage.

“There were originally ten thousand seals,” Cas answers and Sam gets lightheaded for reasons that have nothing to do with thin air. “Only two thousand and thirty four seals are still viable.”

Okay, that’s better. Not great, but better. “Let’s get that number down to sixty five.”

“You are different,” Cas says.

Of course he’s different. His father’s alive. His brother never went to hell. Sam has never known the utter desolation of being completely alone, of grief and guilt so heavy he’s surprised it didn’t break his spine as surely as Jake’s knife in his back. He doesn’t actually remember feeling it, which is no small mercy, but he saw the effects of living with it, which is almost as bed. He'd thought what he’s feeling because of Jessica is as low as he could get. It’s not even close.

He wants to dig up her bones and breathe life into them, but at almost a year dead he thinks that’s beyond even this strange new power. Even like this, he’s failing Jessica one more time.

“Got any ideas?” he asks. “It wasn’t like this before. With the blood.”

He’d drank Ruby nearly dry more than once. It had been a high and then a crash and never did it give him access to this type of power.

“Azazel is – was a prince of hell,” Cas answers.

Sam frowns. “I thought he was king?”

“He was regent,” he corrects, “but to be a prince is separate from being ruler of hell. Lucifer created Lilith from bone, as Adam and Eve were made. The princes were created from his blood. Azazel’s blood is, in a way, Lucifer’s.”

Lucifer’s blood. Sam, his vessel, drinking down Lucifer’s blood, as a baby and now. Except as a baby he’d only had a few drops. He’d consumed a lot more than that back at the cabin.

Demon blood always wore off. The few drops of Azazel’s blood he’d gotten as a baby never had. He probably should have taken that into consideration, but there hadn’t been any time.

“Lucifer is evil but he is not a demon,” Cas continues.

Sam realizes suddenly that he did have power like this once. When he locked away Lucifer inside of him and took his power for his own. It’s not the same, not even close, but it’s similar. “This is what angel blood does?”

“No,” he says. “This is what Archangel Lucifer’s blood does to his perfect vessel. I believe. This has never happened before, so I cannot be certain. You are, as always, one of kind, Sam Winchester.”

It’s not quite a compliment, but it’s not as combative as he remembers Castiel being in the beginning. He’ll take it. “Guess we’ll figure it out together, then. If you’re sticking around to help prevent the apocalypse.”

If he’s not, this is going to be more than difficult. Tracking down all the seals without an angel on his side isn’t going to be impossible, but pretty damn close. And he doesn’t know how much time he has. Hell is going to be pissed about him killing Azazel. Heaven is probably going to take notice once he starts destroying seals so they can never be opened. Not to mention, he’s definitely going to be on hunters’ radar. Even if Dad can keep his mouth shut about him drinking demon blood, which he knows better than to rely on, him bringing back people from the dead is going to spread quickly. He’s going to be hunted at all sides, just like last time.

At least last time he had Dean, even broken, even when he was broken himself. He still had his brother.

But this is the price for saving him. For making sure that Dean is never in the position to kick off the apocalypse in the first place, to make it so Lucifer never again walks the earth even if heaven and hell reincarnate him and Dean and try and start this all over again.

He’s going to be killed for it, he knows, by demons or angels or hunters. But that doesn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things.

“Yes,” Cas says. “It is better for us all if the future you saw never comes to pass. I will help you.”

He grins, clapping Cas on the shoulder, and only laughs at the glare he receives in return. They have to get out of here before the altitude makes him loopy. Maybe it already has.

He’s going to save the world for his brother and he’s not even going to get to keep him.

How fucked up is that?

#i've done sam pov this whole time but also #what's going on in the hunter community is so fun #human meg is staying with bobby #jim's parish convinced sam is an angel #caleb having been the one to tell ellen exactly what happened #ellen and jo being staunchly pro sam for obvious reasons #jo having to use the 'i saw your brother and he told you to help me' to get dean to hunt with her #sam showing up in front of a roomful of hunters who've all heard the rumors in sweats and bed head #at once confirming and dispelling dozens of rumors at once #sam being oblivious like my actions can't possibly be having any long reaching consequences #no reason to look into that at all #meanwhile #supernatural

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purplxbuttxrfly · 2 days ago

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Isagi Yoichi: Idiot in Love♡

°•°•Synopsis. Isagi Yoichi is so in love with you

°•°•Note.This is my first story on this site and English is definitely not my first language, so sorry for any mistakes.

°•°•cw. established relationship

Isagi Yoichi is the epitome of what is called "A fool in love". You only have to observe the way he looks at you to be convinced. He practically has hearts in his eyes whenever it comes to you. This is even more obvious when he is on the field, his face is focused on the ball and his teammates and the opposing team, then his aggressive gaze falls on you. And as if you have cast a spell on him, his gaze instantly softens and the hearts return to his eyes.

Isagi LOVES your thighs. He likes to rest his head on them to take a nap while you read a book or watch television. Once, while he was lying down with his head on them while you were reading your novel of the week, he was watching you. He thought you were so beautiful with those reading glasses on the tip of your nose, your gaze focused on the book. He loved watching your reactions when you read certain passages. He stared at you for so long with those eternal hearts in his eyes, that you ended up noticing.

"You look at me like I'm the eighth wonder of the world"

you said jokingly. But only god knows how right you were at that moment. For Isagi, you are literally the only wonder of the world. Not to mention the fact that you are literally the goddess of his.

Know that each of his "I love you" and compliments he gives you are sincere, never ever did he think otherwise.

Also, since you've been in his life, there's one thing he's discovered about himself: he's a bit of a masochist. He even blames you for it

"Ah but it's your fault, you're the one who made me like this. I can't help it if you're too sexy when you're angry."

Oh, he tells you that often. He doesn't tell you but he loves it when you lecture him or make him angry. Once he didn't do the dishes even though you kindly asked him to. He preferred to sit in front of the television to watch a match. So you got angry with him and after 10 minutes of lecturing, he said

"Do you know that you're terribly and divinely beautiful when you're angry?" With a smile plastered on your lips.

You rolled your eyes before heading to the kitchen to do the task he hadn't done.

"Wait, but you're leaving like that? Without giving me a little blow to the back of the head or anything else?!"

He let slip this sentence, implying that he had done it on purpose to make you angry.

You made him seem extraordinarily naive. He drinks all your words like water, whether they are true or false.

"Yoichi, did you know that it is impossible to touch your elbow with your tongue?"

You told him once.

"Oh really? If you say so, it must surely be true."

That's all!!!?? He didn't even try like 99% of people to check. The fact that he didn't ask any questions alarmed you.... and if you...

"Oh my god!!! Yoichi!!!"

"What the hell!?"

He watched you panic.

"We saw a unicorn walking around attacking people in Shibuya!!"

No, that's too big of a lie, he'll never believe that...

"SERIOUSLY!!!!??? WHAT ARE THEY WAITING FOR TO CATCH HIM?!"

At that moment, you were convinced that he was making fun of you, but his gaze was exactly the same as the one he had when you got sick. His gaze showed worry. No, it's not possible that he believed your lie. This idiot is not that naive.

"Yoichi...you know that's not true, right?"

"Huh?! Uh, I mean, of course I knew it...a unicorn, honestly. Do you take me for a 5-year-old girl??"

He says that but his trembling voice and the drops of sweat on his face lead you to have doubts about his honesty on this one.

Like any human being, Isagi can be in a bad mood, frustrated or angry. But you have found a solution to this problem. Feeling your soft lips on his calms him down and instantly puts him in a good mood. He melts with happiness, sweetness, love and satisfaction every time you kiss him.

You transform him so much by your simple presence that his teammates call you "The magician."

Isagi Yoichi tells you "I love you" Countless times a day.

You are someone warm, caring and smiling. You like to help people, but you don't always dare, because you are someone shy. And it is your smile that Isagi fell in love with first. But sometimes, even you who are so perfect in his eyes, you become a bitch. Despite the fact that he is very much in love with your kindness and caring, when he discovers this side of you, he can only love you even more .

Isagi Yoichi literally loves everything about you.♡♡

do not copy. do not translate.

#blue lock #Bllk x you #Bllk x reader #Blue lock x you #Blue lock x reader #Bllk #Isagi Yoichi #Isagi Yoichi x you #Isagi Yoichi x reader #Isagi x you #Isagi x reader #Yoichi x you #Yoichi x reader

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satocidal · 3 days ago

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𓂂 ˚ ☆ ꙳ * ࣭ 𓂂 ˚ ☆"Foreigner's God" - Geto Suguru

Synopsis: For money and power, Suguru would do a lot, but for a love he didn’t want? Somehow, he finds himself bending even the strongest of ideals. Five years ago he’d saved a monkey—not actually processing the estranged entanglement that would lead him to.

— word count: 10k 💀

— A/n: so i slightly re-did my old fic - "angel of small death and codeine scene", because it felt horrendous lol. the reader might a little ...ooc? if that is a thing? also, it may seem confusing so - the reader is daughter of suguru's loyal hitsman but that man is a horrendous father so...yes. it might be unclear so reader is 22+ and suguru is around 28-29.

— Warnings: smut!!MDNI!!Afab! Reader x Suguru; use of religious themes; minor death(S); power play; gore(straight up murder); sub-dom dynamics; degradation; humiliation; impact play (fem receiving); oral (m! And f! Receiving); reader is mostly referred to as a female; complicated storyline; mentions of blood; emotionally abusive father+family; reader is a hitsman; traditional marriage roles ig

The first bell.

The second bell.

Then the third.

Married.

~5 years ago~

The words echoed in your head, over and over and over and over—it hurt.

His hands were soft as they held yours, he led you slow, your father’s did.

The white veil that you’d spent hours to decide upon, the one you would never care about—it swept beside you, gasps escaping the lips of many as you walked out. And there, there your eyes met his.

Poised he stood, white hair slicked back—nothing like those superficial memories his Servants had sung to you about, nothing like the glimpses you’d caught of him. This man, the one on your altar—that was Suguru Geto.

Not the Geto-Sama you’d heard of, the ones who was a deity to all- a pretty hand fared upon those who sought him blindly; not the Curse user Geto, the fugitive you recognised him to be, the one you hated—no.

None of that.

This was Suguru Geto—your husband to be.

You hadn’t assumed your wedding to be a fairytale—in all honesty, you hadn’t assumed anything at all. But the heart of the little girl in you wept, openly so, when the worn upon thin line of a supposed smile didn’t do so much as even cast a shadow upon you. Not to be perceived wrong, however—Suguru certainly had grinned and smirked, laughed and tickled himself senseless—perhaps so to forget this ordeal—to forget you.

Eyes moist, a tear he did let go off—superficial it was, you knew it, but a saint Suguru Geto would be deemed the next day in the whispers of his followers, especially the ones who envied to be you.

Don’t get me wrong, congratulated by everyone—he did show joy, in some meaning of the word, just not the way you hoped—or even supposed for that matter.

Yours was never meant to be that perfect wedding, not at the core of it—you knew that from day one of the sequenced wedding but then—just something, a little dream and heart crushed grudgingly when you realized it wouldn’t be your husband who cried the moment he set his eyes on his bride—it wouldn’t be you telling those cute stories about your wedding day.

It wouldn’t be you—it was normal you’d heard, for grooms to be overwhelmed in their weddings- the thought of spending a forever with his bride, the supposed memories flooding their mind—but it wouldn’t be for you. He stood there with hands behind him, eyes awaiting your presence still.

A smile he held—empty as you joined him—eyes were very telling your father had preached, never once had you found him to be wrong.

His hands felt cold as you held them—cold like the storm his warm hands had saved your family from, colder still somehow was his presence, then and now. And you realized, your heart — to what you had thought to be a void, trained so — breaking as you realized that the marriage was a cage to him as much as you. Neither happy—he wasn’t happy within your presence, or anyone else’s.

Pathetic. But again, did it truly matter?

The wedding had begun— officiated, soon your “I do”s would slip, the wedding couldn’t be stopped now, not ever.

And in that moment your eyes flickered to your own mother—she stood regal.

Embroidery she’d fought into you, cooking and baking, sewing a skill she’d made you own too—pity she couldn’t teach you controlling your emotions—pity you despised all that was your influence.

Your eyes managed to flicker onto him—saintly, your brain

mused—your heart couldn’t help but agree. And those saintly

features held an ugly heart you told yourself, solace to a lonesome mind.

“Suguru, do you promise to love, honor, cherish, and protect Y/N, forsaking all others, and holding only unto her forevermore?”

When he took a moment to answer with a blank gaze, you could feel tiny pricks being sent straight to your heart. Just a mere glance at his stolid mien was enough for you to believe that he was going to call off the wedding and run away—mayhaps you wanted that, mayhaps, you didn’t.

What else could you expect?

He clearly didn’t want this, understandable was the fact. It wouldn’t surprise you if he took a step back and announced that he couldn’t go on in making an oath to offer the rest of his life with you. That he would rather get out of this hell hole and be somewhere else than to proclaim a love that was being forced out of him.

But it was his choosing, was it not? And mayhaps, yours.

The cult leader had chosen you, and in the process, you—him.

He’d watched you a while, days, you knew of his lingering gaze—respectful then, disgusting now.

“I do,” he professed, despite the inner turmoil that plagued his head.

You sighed—soft.

“Y/n, do you promise to love, honor and cherish and protect Suguru, forsaking all others, and holding only unto him forevermore?”

You remembered the day clearly—father had knocked once on your once—a new found privacy in your sheltered house was the first sign.

A wide smile—“He’s chosen you.”

Your heart sank.

He’d chosen you.

Your eyes were quick—a glance here and there and everywhere—the pause was heavy; you watched your father’s nod of encouragement—your mother’s sharp eyes—his daughters’ smile, innocent - his followers’ sip of champagne—your sister’s eyes were hazy; his best man’s tipsy.

You couldn’t say no—“I do,”

“Bride and Groom, you have heard the words of love and marriage, have exchanged your vows and made your promises, and celebrated your union with the giving and receiving of rings. It is at this time that I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the officiant declared, “you may now kiss the bride.”

Your eyes widened behind your veil- not your first- the breath hitched as Suguru removed your veil—crystal seemed his eyes, crystal clear was his distaste. He was tall—comical in fact—you tip toed slight, he leaned in a bit—the kiss was warm, chill, foreign. His hand rested upon your cheek, a stroke—a pull, brief.

Your eyes watched as he pulled away, a new smile on his lips—an actor he would have proven to be—or, as you knew, he was.

A million thoughts clouded you and him—known to only the two of you—marriage worked quick in that sense you supposed, your mother and sister were perhaps right. But when all was said and done—the marriage was officiated.

And your eyes met then—a thought passed between you and your husband—stuck together—sincerely, fuck you.

The ride back ‘home’ was tedious, it burnt, it burnt all too much.

“Geto-Sama will prove to be amazing,” the driver spoke alone, yet, all too soon—as he had been for the past anxious hours—time moved slow, slower than the gaze you didn’t dare hold against him.

A soft smile he held, serene as if - “I’m sure he will be,”you mumbled back, just as fake a smile you held too—husband and wife—equal footing, equal qualms at the truth you didn’t accept and lies you foretold.

‘Geto-sama’ this and a ‘Geto-sama’ that— the entire reception had been torturous, you hated it—hated the man they chose not to acknowledge—hated the murderer, hated him, your husband.

All to your liking though, the car finally came to a stop, at your residence—your new home.

“You may sleep here,” soft a voice, too cold a tone – however, compared to the gaze he held—it felt welcoming.

You nodded just as quietly, a good wife would never fight, they’d taught you—more important than ever for your life now depended upon so.

“Geto-Sama,” you hated the way it rolled off your tongue so smooth—meant to be, “where will you sleep?” Innocent enough a question and yet the scoff he passed under his breath was all well noticed by you.

“Not to worry you darling,” he smiled softly still, “I wouldn’t ever imagine sleeping with you,” and wrapped in his words lay the tone of condescension—hidden all so beautifully, a small round of hide-and-seek in itself.

Lips pursed, you stared at him—“you can… drop the act, we’re alone,” the tone itself surprised you—the confidence all the more so, as you bore deep into his eyes, unwavering.

A brow cocked, he passed a smirk well of his own, “So the monkey is capable of thinking, hm? Where was this tongue all this while?”

“To call the future bearer of your children a monkey, your own wife - you should remember you are also a part of me now,” it was desperate really, bringing in the prospect of a future you never wanted for the sake of some respect.

A deep rumble emerged within his chest—chaos, “You think you’ll have such rights? What are you if not worth less than your father’s money?” Your face burnt at his words—hot, embarrassed, it was true.

“A reminder perhaps,” you spoke through clenched teeth—“you were the man who came begging to my father for-”

“-for money, not a whore to be passed around,” his words lay sharp, all so much so that the hilt of his words was enough to penetrate too mayhaps.

“Could have called yourself a celibate, Geto-Sama,”

his words sharp- yours blunt, impact lay the same with both—regret caused to the other.

“Are you so desperate that you are willing to fight to sleep with a strange man, all so alien to you?” There it lay, that constant lazy smile—the one he never shied to portray to his desperate followers—now, to you.

“A husband,” gritted teeth, you bared, “you are a husband now, my husband, accept the fate,” sharp inhale—sharper exhale, you simply despised him.

Annoyance hung loose in the air, an open wound to you both.

“The only fate,” he paused—ears ringing unto the sound of footsteps—his daughters’, “is the one where you’re no more but a mere shadow in my life, monkey,” disgust all so prevalent on a pretty face as his—pity, really.

“So be it,” you nodded, a lick of your lips and a deal on the tongue, “no more a legal wife am i to you,”

“Be glad you could achieve that at all,” and just as quickly the somber mood had shifted to annoyance, it was back too—as the door clasped open, the twins rushing in to meet their new found mother.

Mother—oh just how hilarious the fate’s jokes lay.

A mother—a wife—a woman for his needs.

A week.

A week spent in solitude, the white ceiling, a new friendship you’d found, the dark wood flooring your vice as you suffered.

Day in and day out—seconds ticked by, slowly churning out the hours and eyes that lay moist

forever remained so.

You despised it all.

His expanse and his family, his charm and his style, his maids and his followers — his daughters, ah.

Something, perhaps you didn’t hate, that belonged to Geto, did exist.

Innocent smiles, the kind you’d never worn—hefty laughter he provided them with, his pride and his joy—now yours too, mutual a partnership the marriage was.

“Y/n,” they’d murmured excitedly, Nanako had— Mimiko's shy glances and little smiles, just as endearing.

A mother you’d become, how complicated.

But fickle was your happiness, just there and often never at all.

Your heart raced, ears perked up at the voice of approaching footsteps—the daughter of Suguru Geto’s best hitman, a little too many tricks lay up your sleeves themselves.

Quick, soft, padded—your servants.

Loud, racy and sudden? His daughters.

Soundless? Suguru.

Thoughts proven none but correct, Suguru did stand bearer of your observation—a frown as always on the beautiful face.

And you wondered just how prettier it could be, if only he were gagged and stuffed aside.

“Get up, you have to move” words shuffled fast—frenzied, a thin layer of sweat on his forehead.

“Why?” Defiance, slight defiance in the form of annoyance presented to him you displayed, little impact but just enough—especially when he would let out a ragged sigh, holding himself back.

“Don't question me, now is not the time.”

Your heart soared giddily at that too—“What? Your blind followers realized your reality?”

Your words were sarcastic, the situation? Not so much.

A sharp gaze, piercing, bore into you.

Dead, at a finger’s flick if he wanted—but then again, he didn’t, he couldn’t.

So he did the next best thing that he’d realized in a week’s worth of time- the little smirk was wiped off quick as he kneeled close to you, so close.

“It is for your protection,” a whisper, all too serious, curious, you looked down at him - he was playing his cards right, giving you leverage.

You breathed in a sharp intake, protection? Whatever for?

Suguru Geto - a special grade, you stood as one of the finest hitmen too - what protection?

And then in the flicker of a gaze you’d think and consider it all, his lies, his treachery - moving you was new, different. It meant shift of powers - it meant he held the course of action - you simply couldn’t digest that, right?

“Get up,” he repeated.

“No.”

Your head turned to the right sharp, a swift slap he’d landed on your cheek—it didn’t hurt,

you’d faced worse after all—but oh how it hurt you.

Apathetic, he stared.

Blankly, you stared back.

A moment of silence, heavy.

“Are you really so imbecilic?”

Silence again—you wanted to rip his hair out—“Get up,”

“Why?”

His voice, almost panicked now, it was uncanny.

You had seen, known Suguru Geto, even if from the periphery of your father’s existence, for at least a decade now.

All smiles and polite words he’d been, all calculated and stiff - never….this.

A clench of his jaw and a brush of fingers through the hair—“Monkeys like you aren’t safe here, you do not understand the gravity of this.”

And somehow, it warmed your heart.

“I can fight-”

“-yes and I am well aware of that, as well the skill passed down your lineage but now is the not the time to be difficult,”

Dumbly, you looked—“what is it? Some…” your mouth ran dry, “some attack?”

An unamused chuckle he was quick to let go—“something of the sort,” he paused, face reigning back to all his seriousness—“the marriage was sure to develop tension, me and you…” a frown etched on his face, the way his face shifted through emotions at the reminder of his new life, “i am surprised it took an entire week for the disturbance,”

You sat there still, disturbance?

Many thoughts ran wild, his and yours.

You wanted to ask a many hundred questions - who, why, was it all so revolting to have an uprise against you?

“Don’t worry then-” he scoffed, still in front of you, on his knees, “wouldn’t want my pretty little wife to suffer,” his words felt fake, maybe they were.

You swallowed hard—“where to?”

“My chambers,”

Your heart sunk and yet you felt a rush of serotonin.

~3 years ago~

“Y/n,” Nanako’s voice dragged, “c’mon we’ll be late!” The constant sound of typing annoyed you—squinting eyes stared at her from a distance.

“Remind me why such enthusiasm again?”

“Papa’s dealing with non-sorcerers today,”

Again-as he had been, always.

“Mama,” the word rang in your mind—Mimiko’s voice was soft in contrast — Mama, a certain ring to it, familiarized and yet so antagonized in your head.

You hummed in response simply—“Papa requests you to be there tonight…” her words trailed away, the convocation all too loud, the impact all so evident.

“Right…” you let your words hang open as well—he wanted you present, in day and light, flesh and sight—his wife to be shown off.

Every once a while, you were his proven lucky charm after all, his priestess.

Crowded, nauseating, full of idiots.

You sat right beside your husband, high and aloft - dressed in a kimono, perhaps more dramatic than his clothes in such ceremonies - after all, you were the head-priestess.

You remembered the day well, when he’d announced you so.

A month within the marriage, the night after a group of rogues had attacked your car.

He wasn't afraid - but infuriated, yes.

For you? You’d wondered, when he slept that night beside you - anger blanketed him, his form, and then you’d scoffed to yourself.

Of course, not.

It was all for the fact that they dared to attack what was his - dared to question him, his decisions.

A dagger rested at your side now, gift from no other than your Geto-Sama, two years ago—a

wedding gift.

You hated the fact that it was the best you could’ve managed to find.

Slow, the proceedings were, lazy his smirks as the likes of you begged.

As the monkeys begged to him.

“Headaches, nauseating? Hmm,” he smiled, pensive, reflective—“sounds to me like you’re troubled,” and just so, it amused you—to how dumb non-sorcerers truly were.

Fickle-minded.

“Geto-Sama,” eyes squinted at the tone of the woman, a whimper—a common whore—begging for his touch in broad sunlight, for your husband’s touch.

Sure, you hated him—but oh how you hated the fact that he touched so many other women whilst being married to you.

And somehow, you always became the other woman.

“Yes darling?” He called back coolly, your blood boiled, he’d never called you that.

Only insults.

“I think…think you need to…” her words trailed away, a satisfied murmur erupting through the crowd—they remembered, remembered it well.

Engraved in the memory of most what you’d only caught the gist if, even as a rumour.

Suguru had fucked her—in front of them all.

As treatment, as help.

In the name of all that was holy, all that was religious—he’d sworn it would help her—it made her addicted. One drug to another, Suguru did nothing, he would do nothing today

either perhaps.

Was this why he called you?

To humiliate you such?

“Ah ah ah,” click on of his tongue, sharp—“hold yourself - is your goddess not present here for you to spout such non-sense?,”

Your heart burned.

Goddess, their goddess—you were their goddess—his goddess.

Jaw clenched, you stared from the side, distaste evident upon you and her—adorable, he deemed it.

“She’s nothing-”

-silence, as quick as she’d begun to stare at you in disgust, just as quickly she retreated.

Beyond livid he seemed, an amazing actor surely, never one to hear words against his precious wife, only he could dole it out - in his chambers.

An actor you hated before the marriage, an actor you continued to hate now.

A chuckle interrupted his thoughts and yours—“Geto…,” the investor—the one Suguru’d been trying to impress.

So was the reason you’d been called, ever since you’d been named his head-priestess, the devotee’s goddess, you served one faction. To bring in those who Suguru couldn’t buy with money.

A continuity of a deep rumble lay bared throughout the assembly — relevance all so long as Geto would decide.

“You act like she matters at all,” your stomachs dropped, he was right, was he not?

But how dare he spoke of you - your blood boiled as your eyes fixated upon him.

“What is she? A hunter?” Another prolonged chuckle—electing those from beside you as well, your ears hurt from how hot they were.

Hunter? You had been your father’s greatest possession, with skills that surpassed his own - you had trained all your life as a hitsman, and now brought down to what?

A laughing stock in your husband’s cult, in his sphere of lies.

“Just a trophy wife for you, isn’t she?” Unwantedly, even in moments such—of your disrespect, your eyes gazed onto him -at suguru, you hated yourself for these moments.

You hated the helplessness - you hated the need for him to take a stand for you.

And yet, Something about the thin smile he held every time you were disrespected reassured you, it wasn’t much—not an ounce of anger reflected upon his face, if he felt any, that is.

You could feel the eyes of all, not the first time you’d been presented to the assembly, the first time the ruse you played was out.

“She’s my wife,” his voice was calm, “trophy or no is none of your business—she’s priced if anything—far more than you could ever afford, so think with that thick head of yours, at least once if you can manage, before you dare to look at her.”

Definite—his words were fast, surprising all the more.

The laughter halted, silence was all so deafening, “You’re defending that slut before me Geto?” Shaky, the man’s voice was held, anger evident—your grip tightened on your dagger.

Suguru’s smile only ever grew right beside you, “Do you want the honors darling?” You froze on the spot.

You carried that dagger everyday, you hadn’t killed a soul since the marriage three years ago, he’d demanded you stop this practice.

Face whipped to face him, he could see the way your face shone, your eyes hesitant—

“Talk to me you fucker! That bloody bitch and your cult won’t manage without me,” His words rang through the hall as he did so—your feet worked upon its own, you stood on your feet, crisp steps taken towards him.

“Just give me those whores beside you then, this one seems a bit used” he grinned further, directing his gaze onto Nanako and Mimiko and then back at you as you walked to him.

A nodding smile from your husband being all that you need—swift you came, swift the man fell, mere seconds.

Bloods oozed, some rested upon your cheek just as much, three stab wounds—a drowning business deal of Geto—a sailing heart of yours and his smile.

The body twitched in dismay, adrenaline coursed through you—three years since you’d last killed something living, you couldn’t feel it.

“Dismissed,” Suguru spoke aloud, basking in the shock of his followers and alike—however, yours too.

A hitman you were, sure, but so far you’d only done what your father directed.

Not Suguru, not up till now.

A sinner—his sinner.

Your body shook, the dagger fell quick, the moment the Hall was empty, just you and Suguru inside.

“What did you have them prepare for lunch today?” Domestic as if, normal, if he’d name it—acting as if a murder did not just happen—the man’s body was still warm.

You’d done this plenty of times and yet this felt new, this felt like a shift.

And then, you were afraid he’d make this your purpose.

You offered none but a soft silence—“y/n?”

You hated him.

You hated everything.

You hated how he pretended to be confused by your dilemma.

“Can you stop?” A hiss of a voice—“you just- I- stop!”

Small an outburst, tears trickled the verge of falling apart.

“It’s fine,” he mused, “you can let go,”

“shut up,” you whispered fast- “don’t talk to me like that- like- like you’re superior. You just usedme- fuck- I- your cult…”

A step all too close he took, “come here,” softly he spoke—uncharacteristic, why now?

After three years of an empty marriage—had he found your use? A skill he’d thrown away when undesired and now back to square 1?

Not the first time you’d cried in front of him, many a confrontations had come and gone—many a times you’d thrown empty insults at him—many times he’d threatened you, all in vain.

So why now?

Empathetic all over a night? Couldn’t be.

Empathetic over your transition? Shouldn’t be.

Your heart paced, mind hurdled- hands held onto his form tightly as he did yours, body convulsing in his embrace, your kill lay astray, forgotten.

“You’re fine,” he murmured against your head—all so close, first time.

And a thought you couldn’t help but withdraw—is this how those women felt? When he held them so close to where you’d never been?

“You did as you should’ve, a great priest - hitsman,”

Sheer shambles your heart lay in—you wanted to hate him, perhaps you did—most probably, not.

“Why?” You whispered, pressed deep into his chest—an almost soothing hand upon your back rubbed, all so confused—both him and you.

“Figured you’d like it, but you seem confused now” he smiled, “you’re not a pawn y/n,” a fumbling kiss pressed on your forehead, the spot was now sacred.

This, you reminded yourself, is how he manipulated his followers.

You let it happen just as easily.

“I realise you feel used,” he muttered, “don’t. You have served me, my purpose.”

“Why all this? Why now?” you spoke against his form - “how long had you planned that man’s death?”

He looked down at you now, his eyes in yours, “ever since the first meeting he saw you in and asked of you,” you tried your best to figure how much of a lie lay in that statement, you weren’t sure.

An urge to pull away, an urge to ingrain yourself in him.

An empty marriage—all too loud your desires.

“You’re their goddess aren’t you? They needed all but a reminder,” He didn’t sound sweet anymore, it was all real—you knew so.

Two months since your outburst, two months since he’d held you for the first time—two weeks, you’d suffered all so much.

Mentally, emotionally—physically.

It was absurd, you’d spent three years still, yearning just some touch—but now more so than ever, you would perhaps beg for him.

A shared bed you lay in, the heat in your heart was scorching—nothing close however to the desire between your legs.

You craved him.

“You’ll accompany me tomorrow?” fingers clasped right around the book he was reading, he didn’t do so much as glance at you—yet, it was somehow endearing.

Gradual was the display from being ordered by his servants to show up when he pleases you to, to his daughters requesting you—to him, personally asking for it, it was bitter-sweet.

There were other small changes, changes he hadn’t bothered with for the first 2 years of your marriage - slided in now so easily - it hurt.

It was so easy for him to accept you, he chose not to.

But now that he did, it felt - you felt, just something.

You knew you were grasping on broken ends—but just something to the fallen was miraculous enough.

You poised to think, “WAR AND PEACE”- Leo Tolstoy, hefty the handler, heftier its state, creased in the middle—whitening, pages browned years ago and a certain scent you couldn’t place.

Golden were the words still, it shone.

A simple “well?” From him broke your trance, a nod you passed.

Second time in the past fortnight, perplexed you lay by, watching moments tick by, unsure.

“Should I carry the dagger?” Same question as you’d asked last week—same reply awaited you, the same cunning smile, “Just your presence is enough,”

“23, 594 of you, you pay handsome sums all for this movement - for those in need…last week we were obliged with 3 million yen for our services and then 7 million, all by our business partners,” Suguru spoke in the same sweet tone of his—a mistake his words held.

A tilt to the right, to correct him or no—you sucked in any air, perhaps your last.

“Not a simple feat it-”

“-25, 394 are present, and we didn’t get 10 million…it was 8- they didn’t pay all of it…” your voice was low, had the crowd been that of a murmuring one, it would have gone unheard—not from him perhaps, but in general.

Not a glance spared, just a single smirk, “Ah, of course.” A lick of his lips and a look downturned, “I apologise—how sweet of my wife to remind me and correct me,”

My wife - not priestess suddenly, no.

A reminder, not to anyone else but you.

Amusing how you still shivered at the thought of it.

The rest of his words were a blur, his tone was hollow right after the apology—the same as you’d heard when he was upset— not mad.

Because you remembered well how Suguru was when he was mad - you’d seen it once and the consequences of that, you repented stil.

“Leave,” the words seemed final, a tear rolled down your eyes.

“Geto-Sama,” your father panted, pathetic—simply so, no denial to it.

“Please,” three days you’d been begging, three days that Geto Suguru had stripped you all of any and every sense of dignity, of some thought of self preservation.

A scoff you heard, heart shattering—as eyes gazed onto the sight of your crawling father- a hitched breath, Suguru’s eyes lay stuck on you.

“The debt,” Suguru mused quietly, “you want it forgiven?”

Your father nodded at his feet—broken sobs your mother flushed, sister’s nimble fingers upon yours—you hated Geto Suguru.

Perhaps that was exactly why you found yourself such.

Hating his woes, his breaths and his ideology—perhaps because you say it all lay a lie - the man was not forgiving, no, quite the opposite.

Perhaps you hated him for the humiliation he granted that day, 6 years ago.

“You’re nothing but a monkey, you know that,” Suguru mused simply, “But you are one of my best,” a hum he passed to second himself.

Which was why this treatment seemed worse than it would have. Your father had served him so long, always there, everyday - by his side - the dirty work all carried out.

So what if a small debt remained unpaid? It could be forgotten - but no, Suguru Geto, as you stared at him while your father was stripped of his respect in that assembly hall, was no less a beast and beasts barely showed mercy.

Eyes, purple - sharp - as they bore into yours—“What’s your name?”

Quick, you almost didn’t catch his words, “y/n,” your father weakly muttered before letting out a pained cry—result of none but a kick from Suguru.

“I was talking to her,” a lazy smirk he adorned, “you’ve trained?” He inquired, a nod you passed.

“Skilled?” And that you were, having served so many over the years—skilled you simply were.

“You can have her,” your father’s words lay rushed—heart seizing up deep.

He couldn’t- wouldn’t- your mother wouldn’t.

You eyes suddenly dropped to his form - somehow now, it didn’t feel so bad that he lay there.

“Virgin?”

“We can offer a fine dowry lord, for that issue,” groans, his—gasps, yours—“You'll be doing us a favour, in fact two.”

The man’s face flits curiously between the two of you. You wonder if he can see the embarrassed tears threatening the corners of your eyes, the set of your lips, the way your fingers are clenching and shaking.

Your heart raced, face flushed—your parents eyes’, your sister’s, all trained upon you.

What a pity—a shake of your head, Suguru’s smirk widened as he knelt onto your level.

“Whoever would marry a used whore hm?” It was the exact smooth voice that you hated—the exact low grumble you feared.

“Fuck off,” the words were quick to slip out—perhaps, not appropriate but you regretted not a single moment.

Not your mother’s gasps or your father’s tremble or Suguru and his furrowed brows.

“You’re talking to a god,” he whispered—

“I won’t worship a fraud.”

Your reply was defiant—the situation was bared.

A made up god among men and a woman who would never worship him—and hence came about the dilemma when the god simply found his religion in the woman.

“Interesting,” he’d hummed then, the same smile that he wore then in the assembly, three years after your marriage.

A padded thumb reached into your cheek—wiping your tears away roughly—“I think you’ll be just as useful as your father,” he grinned, and something told you he’d use you in ways more than just a hitsman.

“You’ll be a better pet, right?”

Before you could gasp, before you could cry—before any sense of grief had caught you, fate had tied its strings with a man you deemed a monster—and the monster to his angel.

The assembly took a good while to finish, 2 hours you sat, anticipating everything.

It clicked very quickly that you’d upset him by speaking over - by trying to correct him - something he never appreciated.

Something told you Suguru wouldn’t go tough on you—usually, he’d have someone humiliated to no extent but…you were his better half—not you, right?

“Dismissed,” he muttered as always, you couldn’t help the squirming anymore.

The last two hours you’d suffered, the wetness in you edging onto itself at the worst time possible—every time he’d make eye contact, every time he’d glare.

“Not you,” your heart dropped, you stood as a deer in headlight then — just about to step out of the room as everyone else had.

“Come here,”

You swallowed hard—“I- I am sorry my lord I didn’t-”

“I didn’t ask you to talk monkey,” a slight pang to the heart—two months of overthinking was all down the drain, it didn’t mean anything perhaps.

Slowly, you trudged over, near to his feet—as close as he’d let you for the last time.

Cold eyes met you, blank a face and hair brushed open—“kneel,” he simply commanded, most days you’d have fought back- earned yourself a reprimand but not that day.

What you had was enough already.

From your position, you stared up at him—lips parted as small breaths you let out.

A moment of silence while you watched him take off the yukata robes, slender a form inside—the one you’d watched simply all too many times.

“You think you’re smart hm?” Your body shook, blame put on the coldness, you let yourself shiver—passing him a shake of the head.

“Geto-Sama I-”

“-is it that difficult an instruction?” Sharp a voice, it pierced through you, “don’t talk unless I fucking tell you to.”

A frenzied nod, any denial to be passed onto him leaving your body as you gazed upon him, ethereal—and maybe, just maybe, the fraud of a god you hated was not all so bad to adore.

“Thought you looked cute correcting me, hm?” Ever so serene a voice, one couldn’t almost differentiate whether he truly was upset or not.

Another shake of your head, another tug at his lips.

“No?” Squinted eyes stared at you, “then attention? You wanted attention?” Your ears felt hot, maybe you did.

“I wouldn’t be shocked honestly,” he paused, squatting down to your level, “your father did offer me a whore,” bottom lip clasped between your teeth, you dared not to look up at him—afraid simply of the hot tears spilling.

“What is it, hm?” A large hand raised to flick the hair of your forehead—“Jealous, are we?”

Clenched jaw, you stared at the ground—audacious he was to even question it—“but that shouldn’t be it right? A legal marriage is what you promised eh?”

Too smug his voice lay, you hated him.

He used all your cards against you so easily.

His hand rested at your cheek, hot to the touch—searing cold to the testament—“what was it then? An attention seeker? Or a whore?”

A ragged breath you let out—“You think it’s hilarious?” Your eyes stared down into his, “to make a fool out of me?”

The hurt in your voice was no less than prevalent, it echoed still.

“I - would never…” you couldn’t understand where or how this sheepish nature struck you, you clenched your jaw at the mere realisation, “but talking of making fools…You fuck women left and right like it’s nobody’s business-”

“-oh it is about that hm?” A short chuckle he passed, euphoric to the ear, “you are a jealous bitch after all,”

“Cut it out Suguru,”

His brows raised too, and internally—yours, at the courage of calling him such, “You don’t respect me but at least respect the marriage,”

“With a monkey?”

It angered you as to how deep just a couple of his words could cut—‘a monkey’ you’d never be his equal.

“Yes, with a monkey—with your wife—with the woman your daughters seek a mother in,” quick you spoke—desperate to get it all out—“The woman you’ve simply used for business and now, a murder,”

Another short laugh.

“And now it’s about that is it?”

Your blood boiled—to see him treating it all so insignificantly, “you made me-”

“-made you kill him? You killed a monkey darling, an animal of incoherent thinking. You should be glad. If anything I did you favors by granting you the opportunity to regain your skills, which are impeccable if I may - as is, it really isn’t the first time is it? You’ve killed before - this time, just an animal,”

A tug here, a tug there— your heart was torn at his words.

“Further, you liked it—you like everything I do,”

A desperate ‘no’ spilled off your lips—meaningless.

Maybe you did like it—maybe you did like the way he took you away from that monster of a father, maybe you did like the way he isolated you, gave you all to hone your skills and what not, maybe you did like the little shows of affection because you were starved.

Maybe you were simply naive.

A series of clicking sounds of his tongue entered your ears—“you create ruckus over such thing, hm, darling?” He got up again, “calls for a punishment doesn’t it?”

A final plea you passed—broken.

“Suguru please,” shaky, “I just- you can’t fuck women like that, the servants spread rumours and- and- its all so-”

“Strip and get on all fours,” lower an octave, his voice was serious, you bit your lips and complied, whatever else was there to do.

No other choice- you wanted it maybe.

His touch, even if punishing, he would embrace right after, right?

Slow, your fingers moved to take off all that was left of your decency—not the first time that you’d stripped for a man, hell, even geto had in these two and a half years of marriage seen you naked– but the first time you felt the lingering gaze.

All down to the matching set of lingerie that he’d gifted you—every once in a while as he did, a sought compensation for his actions mayhaps, it did make you daydream anyways.

“Faster lest you wish to lengthen your punishment?” A quick shake of your head, your face felt hot, fingers twisted into the waistband of your panties —silk and lacy, almost As if innocent—as you slowly pulled them your lower half, feet tugging them off.

Your bra was forced away the same, shame enveloped you—not strong enough for all of you stood exposed, a cry of mercy to the god all in vain—for all too apparent,since your supposed god was a fraud.

A step taken slow towards Suguru, you were interrupted with a cough—“You’re a what, y/n?”

Mind blank, you stared dumbly—and exasperated sigh he let out until you finally responded, “A monkey,”

A nod of encouragement, he smirked, “and monkeys don’t walk right?”

Heights of your shame were peaking with every second passed, no other option to substitute, you nodded back—down on all fours as you crawled over to him.

The carpet was coarse underneath your knees, it hurt—not more so than your mind.

“Already so pliant sweetheart,” too giddy a voice, you wanted to punch him—but perhaps this was far better than what that would entail.

You reached over to him shortly, “only had you been all so quiet from the very beginning…but oh how does it matter now,” a grin sounded to your ears—you wanted to cry.

“All so naked,” he was walking about you now—all so exposed you stood, “so vulnerable—is this what you wanted?”

Your ears burned.

“Jealous of the women I fuck in front of my followers, right? Would you want to be fucked the same? I could summon them now—” another short chuckle, “their god with their goddess.”

You swallowed hard, lips licked as you awaited—unsure of what he could do.

“Tell me, does the thought make you wet?”

“No,” lies—you knew it, and you hated yourself at that.

A hum sincere, was all he passed—“alright then. Since you do love running your mouth all so much, your tongue and hands—”

Your ears ringed as the sight of the crowd that was typically present here flashed in your head—“25 strokes.”

Eyes wide you stared at the ground.

A silence awaited his words and he sighed loudly.

“Say yes or does my whore want more?”

Another silence—soon he was right ahead of you—a sharp slap soon adding to the sting on your face.

Tears took no time, resting at the verge—you stared up at him, broken a voice meeting him, this was humiliating.

“I'm sorry,” you muttered softly—trembling at the look of it—not even sure what the apology was for.

“Please i’ve never…” and somewhere along your blurred sight, his eyes softened all too little—“15, it's merely a spanking.” He decided silently.

You nodded, knowing the bargain had gone deep— lowering your head, unsure of the entirety.

“Spread your legs, arch your back” he murmured, you winced slightly as you did so—the texture of the carpet felt rough—your predicament all the more.

You felt his hands then, all over your back, calloused, you realised - smooth, they were relaxing you.

You felt him knead the flesh of your ass, then your thighs, treading as far as the flesh of your inner thighs - you wanted to whine at the teasing.

“Count and thank me after each,” and all before you could agree— smack! The first smack struck hard.

Your eyes widened and a sharp inhale—“One—thank you Geto-Sama,” he nodded in confinement, satisfied Mayhaps, to your words.

His hand rested along the roundness of your ass—squeezing it, feeling it around—another smack alternated on the other cheek—“Two! Thank you Geto-Sama,”

Another squeeze—another exhale, you could feel your wetness spread - shameful.

The third strike was on the same spot as before—a pink tint added already to your ass, he adored the way you felt in his hand—“Three— thank you Geto-sa-! Ah!” You bit hard onto your lip as in the midst of your count he landed another strike at the same spot and another.

“F-four and five! Thank you Geto-Sama,” a ‘good girl’ he murmured right after, and even such—humiliated to all accords, his praise did none but cause you to feel butterflies right there.

And just there you also hated how his slaps could provide you the pleasure you hadn’t been able to.

The same cycle went on, remaining 9 spanks hit hard as before— a grab and squeeze offered in the midst of each, a smooth hand too - as he touched you everywhere - everywhere except where you wanted him most.

“So fucking pretty,” he muttered, leaning down to kiss one of your reddened cheeks—warm to his lips as his other hand smacked onto the other cheek.

“Spread your legs further,” and you did, afraid to upset him anymore.

And all to your surprise, suddenly you felt a finger probe your pussy lips—beyond ashamed you could help the weak whimper and desperate cry from escaping.

“Tch tch tch,” another sharp smack on your ass, “So wet? From a spanking?”

Another whimper as your head only ever lowered in response—“or was it thought of getting off in public, huh?” You could feel his tough hands tease you, he wouldn’t enter, no—just tease your slit for the hell of it.

“So pathetically turned on f’me,” he groaned—face up right against your gaping hole, inhaling sharply and taking in your scent.

“N-no,” you protested, halted only by another mean slap on your ass—“Don’t lie to the man you worship,” another nod, he’d already broken you.

The pretend disappointment was sheerly evident in his voice—his expressions, “Well I cannot really move further until you’re punished thoroughly darling,” his words sounded almost calming, even when you knew they were all so not.

The tip of his fingers were slow, slowly gliding across your glistening pussy—your inner thigh—squelch!

Eyes wide, a gasp erupted from your mouth as his large palm landed flat against your folds.

“I don’t think it’s your fault however, it’s her issue isn’t it?” Words so sweet, you only ever could think of succumbing to him—finally passing a weak nod.

“Ah ha,” he smiled to himself—impressed perhaps—“That’s a smart girl, now how many do you think are appropriate for her hm?” As he spoke, his fingers wouldn’t be called shy in the way they inspected you—gathering your slick from your hole, never entering enough to please, and leading it up to your asshole—dirty.

A sense of dread coursed through you, involuntarily you tried to turn around to beg him not to—another sharp slap, a sob from you.

“5?” Your voice was soft—and somehow, even in his moments of pure power Suguru couldn’t help but want to be kind to you.

And this time, he hated it.

“5 it is,” he murmured, pressing his fingers upright to your pussy lips—“Count, no need to thank this time,”

Slowly his hands already your thighs further apart—shame no more a blanket, you could only moan at the shy touches to your core.

His hands stroked your inner thighs slowly—easing you out, you knew the trick of course, and “sh-it,” you spoke as his hand Landed on your pussy.

“One,” you called out meekly, and unlike the slaps he used to redden your ass, these weren’t all so pleasurable.

Without a word he landed another—your body lurched forward just the slightest—“Two!” Your voice trembled at his touch, especially in the way he dragged his fingers all so close to your clit and then landed the third spank.

“You’re taking it so good sweetheart,” a mess, a sincere mess is all you were—breaking apart at his touch and words- all so unsure of how you felt.

The last two Spanks were a blur, broken sobs eliciting your throat at them too as finally Suguru caressed your hips— held it soft, smothered it with slight kisses—as if he cared.

He graciously didn’t mention the way his fingers were so covered in slick, didn’t mention how he wasted not a single second before licking each one clean - not wanting to let go a single drop. He also didn’t mention the way you gasped as he pressed his lips to your pussy - your folds, kissing them so softly you shuddered.

“Think you deserve a reward now, monkey?” A whine escaped you at the reference to the animal he deemed everyone else as—and yet another “Yes please,”

You knew better than to hope he’d have pleased you but all how it went, you could help the slight disappointment in you when he sat across you—spreading his legs.

An amused chuckle he let out at your expressions—“You really didn’t think I’d touch a used up pussy as yours eh?”

He would—oh how he desperately wanted to—your eyes remained down cast in your obliviousness.

“C’mere be a good slut and get me off,” hesitant was the way you crawled over to him nestling yourself between his legs—hesitant, yes but eager all the more.

And just the same his other followers felt engulfed by the need to please him.

Fingers fumbled with his belt for a second before a raised brow from him stopped you—“did I tell you to take it off?”

Your breath hitched- confused you gazed up to meet an annoyed expression, “Do only as much as you’re told to, don’t true that pretty mind of yours.”

All the encouragement you needed as you slowly raised your face up to his crotch—“Go on,” he murmured, placing his hand at the back of your head—and just so you found your face pressed hard against his crotch, taking in the musky smell— your eyes watered with the pressure he held you with, your pussy grew wetter with the avoidance he lay.

Soft whines you let out against the thin fabric of his underpants as your fingers gripped onto his toned thighs.

You could feel the thick outline of his dick—not that you lay experienced much but that would certainly be big as it went.

His hand stroked your hair softly and pulled you away too—“pull them down,” he ordered and fervently your fingers pulled the waist of the only fabric covering him down—his hardened dick spring out at once.

You fought all urges to touch it at once—looking right into his eyes, awaiting any command.

“Good girl,” he groaned as he shifted his hips to angle himself better—“Tongue out,” he muttered softly, staring at your face.

Adorable to him.

On your knees you sat, tongue out and mouth wide as you watched him drag the tip of his cock and slap it against your cheeks twice—demeaning you usually would’ve found it—now you craved it dearly.

Three slaps he lay on your tongue from his tip still—plap! Plap! Plap!— salty it tasted, his Precum.

“Take it all in,” none to your surprise, you were quick to try your best—you know you couldn’t, but to try was the way to go.

“Don’t suck just yet,” he commanded, as his dick lay inside the warmth of your mouth—you wanted to gag immediately, pull away.

“Keep it there,” he whispered, the large hand grabbed at the back of your throat, keeping you from pulling away.

Tears were quick to rush down your cheeks as you struggled to gag—the slight pull and an annoyed glare from him.

All too quick he pulled out of your mouth.

“Don’t fucking pull away,” a warning, “cry all you want—fucking throw up from gagging I don’t care, but don’t pull away,” you nodded through your tears as you took a second to catch your breath.

“Again,” he said and again, you began.

It was tough to breathe, yes, and hard not to pull away but a look at his blissful face and you couldn’t help it—“start sucking, slow,”

And that you did, tears dried as more came a afresh, you sucked slowly onto his tip and length—weak whimpers seemed guttural as you rocked your face back and forth onto his length.

“You know why- ha- ah,” he paused, moaning, as you teased him slight, “I let you do this?”

His eyes scanned your pretty face, sucking him all so good—trying your best to please him.

“So you remember that mine is the hand that feeds you,” just then his hands balled up your hair into a fist, rough, he pulled you.

“So you- shit…Suckin’ me like the slut you are doll?” Broken gasps he let out as well as he pushed his length down your throat.

As much as you hated him having the reigns, to see him lose composure was a beautiful process.

“That feels so fucking good — ah-! ah — I'm not pleased with you fuck j-just can't believe how good it feels to — fuck — ahhhuh — yeah that's a perfect little slut, just take your god’s cock like you're meant to."

You couldn’t see from down there, his eyes rolling back but you knew it was tough for him to sit still—god how you loved it.

“Listen darling,” he began yet again—his fist was quick to pull your face away from his cock, all to yours and his displeasure.

He held you by the hair—a string of spit connecting your lips to his cock hung loosely.

“Always fucking remember that you’re the one begging to be fed by me—not the other fucking way around,” you wanted to nod but all that let out was small whines - no longer caring about feeding his ego.

The cards were dealt perfectly - you just had to play them right.

“Geto-Sama, please,” you cried, “pleasepleaseplease let me- fuck- let me help. Want you to- to mark me? Please, will you?”

Suguru fought hard to suppress the moan he wanted out—he hated that he loved seeing you this way—he hated how he wanted to see you such everyday.

He hated how for the past almost three years he’d wanted this, how he wanted to loved you.

Oh how he loved being so silly.

And just as that his length was shoved deep into your mouth again—and internal conflict in his mind as he face fucked you —he just wanted you carnally and you, him.

Not long did it take before you knew he was close.

“Stay right there, fuck — oh my god I'm close. I'm so fucking close. Gonna fill up that mouth, stuff it so good not a drop spills out.”

And at that, without another word he came inside—a warm gush in your mouth as you struggled to keep it all in—to please him—hot and sticky as he slowly pulled out of your mouth.

“So pretty,” he murmured as his fingers tapped your cheek—hinting at you to swallow it all.

Suguru watched as your tired body panted and lay still on his form—head resting against his thigh.

A soft hand brushed through your hair, a gentle smile as he wrapped the Yakuta around your naked body.

In hindsight, maybe he would regret it—but in the present of this entirely, he loved it.

He loved you.

Two months, suguru’s heart had churned—perhaps more than yours—to have you lay against him for the past two years was no issue, not until he knew your heart was opening up to him.

And something in him fought him to have you now that, that was a bad idea.

He realized now that, that something was all too stupid a thought—especially when he could now carry your body softly, pressed up against his chest as he Carried you to the shared chambers, his chambers.

Oh how he loved you being his - without complaint now.

A monkey—his mind called out, the woman I will love, his heart snapped back.

It had to be a promise - it didn’t flow out so easy, that love - as compared to his disdain for non-sorcerers, his disdain for your disgusting father even more.

He hated how he saw profit within you he hated how his heart sought a shrine within too, he wanted you but only if you wanted him.

It was confusing, to him and you and everyone around—that he was all so enamored by you—nothing more of than the daughter of his hitsman you were, skilled to fill that spot yourself, but it wouldn’t add up.

He couldn’t possibly have you work so much - but then, he just didn’t know how else to make you happy.

And even that, sadly only made you breakdown further.

But now, as he’d look at the serene expression on your face as you slept -everything senseless would fall back—as he fell in love a little more when your fingers clasped onto his when he was pulling away.

~now~

Day and night.

Slowly they passed.

The first year, then the second and then third—all the way to five years and there you sat, right beside him, regal.

Don’t get me wrong, you perhaps still hate him and he despises you too—but it is in the certain way, that every third night you’re clamping down on his form and he holds you softly right after—“I love you” muttered by neither.

He wasn’t sure on to why it was the way it was.

He hated monkeys, you were one—so equally, he must also hate you—and yet, his heart ached the day your father thrust your hand into his.

He’d seen you before that day still, running about, aloof—you enjoyed your craft—he’d enjoyed seeing you do so. Marriage to him was simply a barrier to your skills—he knew that, and yet not being married to him was a barrier to mayhaps a comfortable life.

Never before Had Suguru pitied monkeys such—and yet, to see the tears roll down your eyes, he felt captivated.

In the way the silence of his halls was dimmed when his daughters would call for you—in the way you unnecessarily commanded his house—as if you held that power.

But then, mostly you did.

In the way you held pillows all too close to yourself to feel some warmth—in the way you used the pillows as a means of a boundary between the two.

In the way you forced yourself to hate him, in the way you whimpered against his touch.

Everything.

And anything.

All he knew deep down was he wanted you happy, with him and often, without him.

“Do you know this man?” The words rolled off his tongue smooth, you stared intently at the man bowing at your feet.

“No,” words were often simple lies when you stood beside him in that assembly, the man, once referred to as your father, inhaled sharp at your words.

Suguru’s smirk only widened—your mother and sister long gone perhaps, you didn’t know, you didn’t care.

Suguru never let you care.

“He’s committed a crime,” Suguru motioned to the crowd awaiting—“A dire crime,” his eyes now trained upon you—“And as always, our goddess here will help us get rid of it, yes?”

Not the first time you’d been asked—three years ago, the first time you’d killed in that assembly, you’d committed and since then, that’s how Suguru used you - made his promises of love to you.

The best hitsman he had, his prized one.

His hand wound around you softly, a creep to your abdomen—“wanna play a game?”

The blood inside you rushed—it didn’t matter.

None of it.

You’d killed plenty of monkeys now - under his command, your morality had shifted.

What had seemed criminal then…now just a command, now just a shrug.

Suguru adored you simply as you did and you did too—but today was different.

Today, stood in front of you, a true criminal.

Blood of monkeys never bothered you—you were their deity, Suguru had reminded you every time you cried, you told him of your dilemma—they were honored to die at your hands, he’d remind you.

In the 5 years, things had changed drastically indeed - Suguru was still a fraud, you no longer cared, you were still a monkey, he no longer cared.

Especially not when he held you at night - reminding you that he did love you, sometimes through whispered words that made you giggle, and sometimes through undulating sex - something both of you had sought undesirable in the beginning.

The wood that surrounded you was thick—beautiful really, especially for a game of hide-and-seek.

A shove he passed to your father, rough—“Run,” he ordered, dark eyes softening as they landed upon you.

“Kill him in 2 hours and I’ll let you take over tonight,” a smile sketched onto your lips—“and if not…” a similar smile etched onto his.

And then this was all, a man so irrelevant as your father, he ran as you toyed with him, brought down to a reward from Suguru for you.

“Suguru?” you often called out now, pressed to his side - a hum he’d pass - annoyed slightly, you talked much now, often when he tried to sleep.

You don’t ask him silly things now - you used to when the new shift had come - when he began holding you, when he’d begun showing care - “do you love me now?” was one of the first few ones.

You’d laid in his side - another first, he’d scoffed momentarily, “you think i would feed you soup if i didn’t?”

You’d giggled then, his heart melted as he held out another spoonful, “maybe you just want your hitsman all healthy and fine, since i’m such huge entertainment, before and after..”

He laughed along then, slight concern when your laugh turned to a cough - a huge way you’d come together, “shut up and heal,”

“Answer me,” you pressed, another shift was your tone - no longer subdued when nervous, often times teasing and sarcastic - he loved it.

“I do love you,” he’d mumbled for the first time - you’d only giggled, “i knew it.”

You had found, you loved proving yourself right to him, regardless of much he did hate being corrected and proven wrong.

And he loved it too.

(this is...not smn i'm sure of, it's just how their sex dynamics are now lol)

Another hunt took place - some woman who’d promised him thousands of money and then tried sabotaging his business - she had been quick, a good hunt indeed.

But now you lay all spent yourself.

Legs sprawled beside his head—your fingers clutched hard onto the sheet beneath.

“Suguru,” your voice drew out—a whine, “Please…” you cried out softly as his tongue lapped onto your clit.

“Please what darling?” A sharp slap landed on your inner thigh—another whine.

“I was just 7 minutes late,” your dirtied clothes lay away forgotten—the neat white towels he’d used to wipe the blood off of you—used to cleanse and purify you again lay just beside his head as you tugged on hair harshly.

A soft giggle he let out—“7 minutes too late doll- you knew the punishment right? Let me edge you thrice more now, be a good pet.”

And another giggle he passed, eliciting a sharp cry of his name when he pressed his tongue flat on your clit.

And Suguru loved this, so Did you.

Your god and his goddess.

All of this work is original and entirely my own please refrain from copying or reposting.

Likes and Reblogs highly appreciated!

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noredemptionhere · 20 hours ago

Text

"you know i'll keep you in my locket-just come here, then we can settle down." +*. +. farmer!sevika x fem!reader

this fic is only two parts-{8k words}, and this is part two. click here for part one.

warnings: psychological horror, unsettling themes, hallucinations (?), emotional distress, mild body horror, paranoia-this has actual terrifying themes. do not ignore the warnings.

“i know what i saw,” you whisper.

sevika exhales, slow and heavy, through her nose. her fingers flex slightly against your arms. “i know.”

you freeze.

a sharp, shuddering breath escapes you. “then—”

“i know,” she cuts in, softer this time, like she’s trying to soothe. like she’s trying to stop you from thinking too hard.

her hands slide up, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you in. a slow, careful motion. like she’s easing you into something.

she doesn’t let you go.

she just tucks you against her chest, resting her chin over your head.

her voice drops, a low murmur in your ear. “it’s okay, baby. i’m right here.”

you stay still.

her warmth presses against you, grounding, steady.

the weight of her hand in your hair, the slow rise and fall of her chest—it’s safe.

it’s safe.

your fingers curl slightly against her back.

“i don’t want to be here,” you whisper.

sevika hums softly, fingers stroking through your hair.

“i know.”

her voice is low. gentle in a way that almost doesn’t fit her.

she shifts slightly, adjusting her hold, keeping you close.

“you don’t have to be scared,” she murmurs. “i’m right here.”

you exhale shakily, eyes slipping shut.

for the first time tonight, you let yourself believe her.

the air doesn’t move. the floor doesn’t creak. the house listens.

—

as the weight of exhaustion drags at your body, you lay in bed with her, her frame engulfing your trembling one.

her breaths are slow, deep—steady enough that you can’t tell if she’s still awake.

your eyes stay open, unfocused, fixed on the fabric of her tank top in front of you. the quiet hum of her breathing, the warmth of her skin against yours—it should be comforting. It should be enough.

but the air still doesn’t move, and the house is still listening. you don’t let yourself fall asleep—you just let exhaustion take you first.

August the fifth — 8:30 AM

you wake up slowly. the air is still. the bed is warm. the space beside you is empty.

for a moment, it almost feels like last night never happened.

the scent of something cooking drifts through the house—something simple, something comforting. distantly, you hear the soft clink of dishes, the low scrape of a chair against the floor.

your chest tightens… everything is too normal.

your fingers curl against the sheets. the weight of exhaustion drags at your limbs, thick and cloying, like you’ve been asleep for days instead of hours. your mind feels foggy, your breath uneven, but you push yourself up anyway.

the walls feel too close. the ceiling too low.

you need to move.

your bare feet hit the wooden floor, the coolness grounding for only a second. then you push the bedroom door open, stepping into the hall.

the kitchen is just ahead. the morning light spills through the window, casting long shadows across the floor.

sevika stands at the stove, her back to you, moving with easy familiarity. like nothing is wrong. like she wasn’t holding you last night while the house listened.

your voice barely rises above a whisper.

“…sevika?”

sevika doesn’t startle. she just tilts her head slightly, like she knew you were there before you even spoke. like she’s been waiting for you.

“morning, pretty.” she says, low and easy, turning off the stove. she plates something—eggs, maybe. toast. she sets it down on the table like it’s any other day. “you slept late.”

you swallow. your throat feels tight.

everything looks normal. feels normal. but your skin won’t stop crawling.

she gestures to the plate. “eat.”

you don’t move.

your fingers twitch at your sides, nails pressing into your palms. you’re not sure why, but sitting down feels wrong. like you’re playing into something.

like you’re agreeing with it.

“…where did you go?” you ask instead.

sevika finally looks at you. her gaze is unreadable, heavy with something you can’t place.

“just outside,” she says simply. “finishing the fence.”

you sit down slowly. the chair creaks beneath you, too loud in the quiet kitchen.

sevika doesn’t say anything, just leans against the counter, arms crossed.

the plate looks fine. normal. the eggs are fluffy, the toast golden and crisp, the coffee creamy and beige.

but the second you take a bite, bile rises in your throat.

the eggs are slimy, wet. rotten.

the toast crumbles like ash on your tongue, the taste burned and bitter.

the coffee—God. it coats your mouth with something thick and murky, something that tastes like sewage, like dirt, like decay.

you freeze.

your hands shake around the fork. your stomach lurches, twisting violently.

but when you glance at the plate—

everything looks the same.

perfect.

pristine.

you take another bite.

the eggs squelch in your mouth, wet and putrid. the toast turns to bitter dust. the coffee is thick—wrong, coating your tongue like tar.

your stomach lurches.

you drop the fork. It clatters against the plate, too loud, too sharp.

sevika’s eyes flick to you.

“what’s wrong?”

you shake your head. your breath shudders.

nothing. nothing is wrong.

except it is.

everything is wrong.

you press your hands to your lap, gripping the fabric of your nightgown, trying to steady yourself, but your shoulders tremble.

“i—i can’t—” your voice breaks. your throat tightens.

the tears come before you can stop them.

hot. heavy.

you squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head harder. “i don’t— i don’t know what’s happening.”

the chair scrapes. heavy boots move across the floor. a second later, sevika crouches in front of you.

her hands are warm when they find your knees, grounding, steady.

“hey.” her voice is softer now. “look at me.”

you don’t. you can’t. if you look at her, you’ll break even more.

but then her hands slide up, firm and careful, cupping your face.

her thumbs brush away the tears before they can fall too far.

“shh, baby,” she murmurs. “It’s okay.”

it’s not.

nothing is okay.

your breath shudders. your chest feels tight, too full, too empty, like you might just collapse into yourself.

“i don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you whisper, voice cracking.

sevika hums softly. her thumbs stroke slow, steady circles against your cheeks.

“it’s just the nerves,” she soothes, leaning in, pressing her forehead against yours. “you’ve been stressed.”

you shake your head, but she hushes you.

her hands slide down, pulling you forward, wrapping you in her arms.

“you’re safe,” she breathes, pressing her lips to your temple. “i’ve got you, sweetheart. i’ve got you.”

you clutch onto her.

trembling.

breaking.

————————

days pass. slowly.

or maybe not at all.

the sun rises and sets, but time feels stretched too thin, pulling at the edges of something fragile. you move through the farmhouse like a ghost, your body going through the motions, but your mind lags behind. sevika keeps you close, always within arm’s reach, her presence a constant weight against your senses. she touches you often—soft brushes of her fingers against yours, steady hands at your waist when she guides you away from the windows, absentminded strokes through your hair when you sit curled up on the couch. she makes your meals, fixes the blankets when you shiver, presses lazy kisses all over your face like nothing is wrong, like you’re not going crazy.

like nothing has ever been wrong.

but it is.

something lingers beneath the surface, a wrongness you can’t touch, can’t name, but feel in every breath you take. the air never moves right. the nights stretch too long. you wake up gasping sometimes, tangled in sheets damp with sweat, heart hammering, but with no memory of why. and when you turn, when you reach, sevika is always there. pulling you close. telling you it’s fine. that she’s here. that she’ll always be here.

you start to believe her.

because you have to.

because the alternative is too much.

you stop asking about the fields. you stop questioning why your phone won’t turn on, why the radio never picks up a signal, why the road past the cornfield looks different every time you try to stare too long. you let her tuck you in. you let her pull you onto her lap when you cry. you let her wipe away your tears and press her lips to your knuckles and murmur sweet things in your ear until your body betrays you and relaxes in her hold.

the days pass.

slowly.

until.

the sheets stick to your skin when you wake up.

the air is thick, unmoving. your chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths.

it’s still dark. not quite morning, not quite night—just that strange, dead space in between, where everything feels stretched too thin. the kind of silence that makes your ears ring.

something isn’t right.

you don’t know what pulls your eyes open, what forces your body to move, but you shift, peeling yourself away from the damp sheets. Your hands tremble as you push up on your elbows.

and that’s when you see it.

the shape at the edge of the bed.

a figure. unmoving. watching.

your body locks up.

the sheets bunch in your fists, breath caught somewhere in your throat. you try to focus, try to make sense of what you’re seeing, but the dark warps around it, like it doesn’t belong here. like it isn’t meant to be seen.

your lungs burn. you realize, distantly, that you aren’t breathing.

then— you blink.

and suddenly, it’s on top of you.

a hand—cold, wrong—presses to your chest. the weight is suffocating, crushing, but when you open your mouth to scream, nothing comes out. your body is frozen, locked in place, like it’s holding you there.

its mouth moves.

a whisper.

low. twisting. raspy. crawling into your skin like something living.

“non sum periculum.”

the words slither into your skull, digging deep. you don’t understand them. don’t know what they mean. but you hold onto them like a lifeline, desperate, memorizing the sounds, the way they fall.

and then—

it’s gone.

the air moves. your lungs drag in a breath, ragged and shallow. your body jerks upright, sweat slicking your back, your hands shaking violently where they grip the sheets.

a sound. footsteps.

sevika steps inside, a mug of coffee in her hand, eyes flicking over you.

her expression doesn’t change. she’s calm. normal. like nothing happened.

“hey,” she says. “you okay?”

you don’t answer.

you can’t.

the words are still there, lingering in your mind. unfamiliar. unknown. but you won’t let them go.

you swallow hard, fingers curling around the sheets. you don’t want to forget.

you’re too shaken, too uncertain, and—most of all—you don’t want to risk losing the words. if you say them out loud, if you try to explain, you might get them wrong. they might slip away, like a fading dream.

so you swallow hard, grip the sheets tighter, and shake your head.

“i’m fine,” you lie.

sevika watches you.

she doesn’t move right away. just stands there, coffee in hand, eyes unreadable.

then, finally, she nods. “alright.”

she sets the mug down on the nightstand, the quiet clink of ceramic against wood making your stomach twist. “drink this,” she murmurs, and then she leans down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead. “i’ll be outside.”

and then she’s gone.

the door shuts softly behind her.

you wait.

count the seconds. the minutes. until you’re sure she won’t come back.

then—quickly, quietly—you reach for your phone.

your fingers shake as you open the browser, pulling up the search bar.

you hesitate.

one last second to convince yourself this is nothing. Just a nightmare. just your nerves.

then you type:

“non sum periculum translation.”

no results.

nothing.

not in english. not in any language.

your stomach drops.

your fingers tremble against the screen as you stare at the empty search bar, your breath coming too fast, too sharp. that— that doesn’t make sense. you must’ve spelled it wrong. you must’ve—

you delete the words. re-type them. slower this time. letter by letter.

non sum periculum translation.

you hit search. the page reloads.

no results.

a shiver crawls up your spine. your mouth feels dry. you swallow hard, thumb hovering over the screen, willing something—anything—to show up.

and then—

at the very bottom of the page, small, almost easy to miss:

{Did you mean: ‘I AM NOT THE DANGER’ ?}

the blood drains from your face.

your ears ring.

your breath is stuck, caught somewhere between your ribs, between your heart hammering too fast and your hands gripping the phone too tight.

something is wrong.

something is so, so wrong.

you have to decide what to do with this.

do you tell sevika? keep it to yourself? try searching again, digging deeper, hoping something else comes up?

you stare at the words on the screen, heart pounding, brain scrambling for an answer—

footsteps. again. behind you. slow. heavy.

you turn.

sevika is standing in the doorway. watching you.

her voice is low. calm.

“what are you looking at?”

your pulse pounds in your ears.

the words echo, twisting in your head, rearranging themselves until they finally make sense.

‘i am not the danger.’

your breath stutters.

you look at sevika—tall, broad, unmoving. watching you.

the realization slams into you, cold and suffocating.

not the danger.

your fingers tremble around your dead phone. the room feels smaller. the air heavier.

sevika takes a slow step forward. “baby?”

soft. gentle. warm. like she always is. like she always has been.

your stomach turns.

you don’t know why—but you feel uneasy, too uneasy.

sevika’s gaze flickers to the bed.

the faint crease in her brows, the almost imperceptible tension in her shoulders. she looks concerned.

your skin still crawls from the earlier connection, from the weight of something other pressing against you. from the words—low, guttural, whispered straight into your skull. unholy. unknowable.

you force your breath to steady, force yourself to move, force yourself to be normal

“i’ll follow you,” you murmur, voice tight. “just need a shower first.”

sevika studies you for a beat longer, then nods. no questions. no hesitation.

she turns and leaves.

the door clicks shut behind her.

you don’t move.

your gaze drifts back—slowly, unwillingly—to where she had been looking.

the bed.

right where it sat. where he sat.

you keep telling yourself that it means nothing. maybe it was just a glance. maybe she was just thinking, lost in thought, looking through the bed rather than at it.

but you saw the way her eyes lingered. how her brow twitched, just barely. the way she shifted her weight ever so slightly, like she had noticed something she didn’t want to acknowledge.

like she didn’t want you to notice.

you feel it still, the wrongness clinging to you like a second skin, that horrible weight lingering in the air. the demon had been right there. sitting. watching. you had felt its presence with every nerve in your body, felt its voice slither into your bones, into the cracks of your mind, whispering something you still don’t understand.

and then sevika had looked at the bed.

you told her you needed a shower. that you’d be down in a minute. she nodded without question, didn’t press, didn’t insist on staying. she just left.

and the second the door shut behind her, you let out a breath so sharp that it stung.

but somehow, being alone felt worse.

————————

you try to move on. you try to pretend. you have to—because the alternative is worse.

sevika doesn’t mention that night.

she doesn’t ask why you’ve been so quiet, why you hesitate before stepping into rooms, why you jolt at nothing. she doesn’t ask why you barely eat or why you stare into space for too long.

but she watches.

you catch it in the little moments. how her gaze flickers—just slightly—to empty corners. how she tenses when she catches you looking back. how she knows before you even speak, how her answers come too quickly, like she’s anticipating your words before you’ve even thought them.

she always knows exactly when you’re about to ask something.

one night, when she’s lying next to you in bed, you test it.

you reach for her wrist, fingers curling around it a little too tight, a little too sudden—just to see.

sevika stills.

not the way someone in pain does.

the way someone does when they know they’ve been caught.

you don’t say anything. the next morning, she places a cup of coffee in front of you.

you don’t drink it. you just stare. sevika doesn’t say a word.

August ??? — 12:06 AM

the house feels wrong.

it isn’t silent, but it might as well be. the air is heavy, thick, pressing down on your lungs like an invisible weight, suffocating in a way that warmth shouldn’t be. your nightshirt clings to your skin, damp, the sweat cool against your back.

you woke up feeling off. that same, familiar dread curling into your bones, wrapping itself around your chest.

you don’t think about it. you don’t do anything except get up, grab an apple, grab a knife. your hands move without thought, the soft, rhythmic sound of the blade slicing into the fruit grounding you, anchoring you to the moment. you need the air.

when you push the door open, the night greets you with a crisp breeze, the coolness brushing against your damp skin like a fleeting touch. the cornfield sways, gentle and slow, endless stalks whispering softly against each other. It’s the only thing that feels real.

you take a step forward, just to the edge of the doorway, your fingers tightening around the apple.

you heard the same damn footsteps.

soft, deliberate, measured.

your grip on the knife tightens.

slowly, too slowly, you turn.

sevika stands just inside the doorway, watching you.

her presence shifts the air. It’s not sudden, not sharp, not obvious. just heavier.

her voice is calm, quiet. too quiet. almost cooing at you.

“what are you doing?”

you glance down at the apple in your hand, the knife poised above it. the question feels meaningless, almost laughable.

you think about lying. you think about telling her it’s nothing. but the words don’t come.

you stare at the apple for too long before finally exhaling, voice flat.

“why did you do it?”

sevika doesn’t move.

you don’t know what answer you were expecting. maybe denial. maybe anger. a scoff, a sharp breath, some kind of mock confusion, a dismissal.

she steps forward.

the weight of her gaze presses into you, deep and unshaken, as if she already knew this moment was coming. as if she’s been waiting. the space between you shrinks.

and then she stops, just a breath away.

her voice is calm. steady. final.

“you were never leaving—“

she reaches out, fingers brushing against the knife in your grip.

“you just misread it, doll.”

your chest tightens, but you don’t move. you don’t blink.

because you already knew.

you’ve known since the second she looked at the bed. sevika did something.

something inhumane. something that’s too wrong. something that drove you mad so that you never leave.

and now, for the first time, sevika isn’t even pretending.

a tear slips down your cheek. then another. then another. silently, you lift the apple to your lips, teeth sinking into its flesh with a slow, deliberate bite. the crunch is the only sound between you.

but your eyes drift past her, flickering toward the table—

it was right there. sitting on the table—like a third family member.

for the first time—it appeared at the same time, in the same place, as sevika.

for the first time—it wasn’t smiling.

for the first time—it wasn’t looking at you.

but at her.

disgusted.

helpless.

and afraid.

#arcane #sevika arcane #sevika x fem!reader #sevika x y/n #arcane league of legends #sevika x female reader #sevika x you #arcane sevika #sevika x reader #sevika #caitlyn kiramman #caitlyn arcane #vi arcane #vi x reader

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mulderscully · 2 days ago

Text

Momentarily breaking my hiatus to further discuss the issue with the new collector edition of RWRB and why Casey's response (or lack therof) is disappointing.

Here is a link to the post I made detailing what is going on. Please read if if you are unaware.

Now, a direct quote from RWRB,

"And I'm not white like she is, can't even pass for it. People are always gonna come down harder on me."

Casey wrote these lines in the book so if they ever made a film/tv show they did not cast a white passing person to play Alex. This statement is in the annotated version of RWRB that you can look up online.

I want to discuss what being white passing means. I am a white passing latina. I have direct family members who are not white passing. My DNA just worked in a way where you see my Spanish ancestry more than my African or Native, but I have all three. Because of this, I benefit from white privilege.

However, it is important to keep in mind that passing as white now sometimes does not mean what it did historically. White passing means you can pass as white so that racist white people will not deny you certain opportunities based on your ethnicity or race. It was and sometimes still is something POC choose to do. For example, Oscar Isaac uses a passing stage name. Choose to pass. It is a denial of part of who you are to further your endeavors in a world built of oppression. Now it also means someone may look at you simply assume you are white, but that is NOT all that it means.

And even I, with my pale skin, sometimes say "I know I'm white passing." and immediately have (usually white) people say something like "No, you're not. I immediately knew you were latina when I saw you."

Now, I take people recognizing me as latine as a positive. It makes me happy because I am proud of my identity. But there is the other aspect of me not being as passing as I think I am, even though my skin tone is really light. A racist "real" white person would still descrimate against me because my blood is not "pure."

I'm mentioning this because I have seen multiple people say that the art inside this edition is fine, because Taylor Zakhar Perez is white passing.

Taylor is not white passing.

He has talked multiple times his difficultly in getting roles, the moment in the movie where he discusses prejudice against latinos is from personal experience between him and Matthew. I want you to understand that it is not only about Taylor being brown or not brown enough to play Alex, it's about his name, it's about his facial feature — his warm skin tone, but also the shape of his beautiful nose amongst other things — that make it clear that he is a man of color. Looking at Taylor, it is clear that he is a latino man with middle eastern and mediterranean ancestry as well.

But this isn't even about Taylor because we are talking about the book.

In the political world a character like Alex would never ever be mistaken for white. Alex probably never is unaware that he isn't fully white. That is what "can't even pass for it." means. It means since his mother became president, everyone knows her kid is Mexican, is brown, is not what is considered "white." by US American standards.

Remember, latino is not a race. Colorism is rampant. And since Alex is half white he is probably lighter than other latinos, esp afrolatinos, as we see on the original pink cover of RWRB. He's clearly darker than Henry there, though!

In the two arts Casey approved and endorsed not only is his skin tone various shades lighter than TZP's in the one that used his likeness, but he is given european features in the other as well. They chose to sell a book — for $80 — where Alex is drawn as white/white passing when the entire reason they wrote that line was to avoid something like this happening.

For over a week now fans (mainly latinos) have been imploring Casey to say something about this, because it's very unlike them to do this — but they haven't. This is upsetting because Casey is not latine. Not white latine either. Not latine AT ALL. If you are writing a character that is part of a community you are not a part of you have to show up for that community to the best of your ability.

At a time like this, Casey's behavior is really disappointing and the only person to blame is Casey for that. Not Taylor's casting. Casey for approving this edition and promoting it on their Instagram.

I think it was probably a fuck up, and now they're frozen and unsure how to handle it. I like Casey, I LOVE their books and think they seem like a good person. But this has opened some discussions that I think are being mishandled in various ways.

I'm logging off again for a bit, but I wanted to share my feelings on this a week out. Take care everyone 🩷

#casey mcquiston #rwrb #rwrb book #red white and royal blue #ok to rb

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misshoneyimhome · 3 days ago

Note

“You’re not wearing anything under that, are you?” When the OC surprises William wearing nothing underneath her Jersey and explore voyeurism/exhibitionism x multiple orgasms. I love your Willy series.

Thank you, babe! Alrighty, I know we’ve had plenty of teasing reader content lately—what can I say, William has truly created a monster 😉🤭 But I felt it was only right to give him a well-deserved shoutout for all the incredible modeling work he’s been doing! (Not me gasping and drooling over every single shoot he’s in… 🙈) - And I did try to add a touch of romance, though 💍

I do apologise if I didn’t quite capture the voyeurism/exhibitionism aspect perfectly, but I still hope you enjoy this chapter! 💕

Tropes & warnings: Inexperienced!reader x Willy, established relationship, 18+ smut: semi-public - dressing room, oral sex (m receiving), fingering, light chokehold, unprotected vaginal penetration, overstimulation, cum inside

word count: 4.5K

➼｡ﾟ

Flaunt It, Own It I Inexperienced!Reader x William Nylander ✐☆

The air crackled with tension the moment you stepped into the studio, the dim lighting casting a golden glow over the sleek set where William had spent the last hour posing for yet another magazine cover. The entire room felt thick with energy—an intoxicating mix of camera flashes, murmured instructions from the photographer, and the quiet hum of admiration from the crew that surrounded him.

And he looked infuriatingly good—like he was born for the spotlight.

Standing under the studio lights, William exuded effortless confidence. His sharp jawline, dusted with the perfect amount of scruff and his moustache, caught the glow just right. His hair, still slightly damp from the stylist’s hands, was perfectly tousled, a deliberate kind of mess that made him look even more devastatingly handsome. But it was his eyes that got you the most—those deep, piercing blues, the ones that smouldered into the camera with an intensity that had your stomach flipping in ways you couldn’t control.

Dressed in a loose tailored suit, the crisp white shirt beneath was unbuttoned just enough to tease at the toned chest you knew so well. He had the sleeves rolled up, exposing his strong forearms, veins prominent from the way he’d been flexing through poses. His posture was relaxed but commanding, like he knew exactly the effect he had on the room—on you.

And he did.

You weren’t the only one noticing.

Around him, a cluster of people flitted about—the photographer directing him into effortless poses, the stylists making minor adjustments to his collar, the makeup artist stepping in now and then to dab at his cheekbones. But it was the way the female journalists and assistants lingered that had your stomach churning. Their eyes drank him in, filled with admiration, a few biting their lips, whispering amongst themselves whenever he sent them an easy grin.

They weren’t just admiring him. They were fantasizing.

And you knew what William was like. He was charming—he thrived under attention, under adoration. He smiled back at them, laughed at their jokes, even held eye contact for a second too long.

Normally, you’d be unfazed. You were secure in what you had with him. You knew that at the end of the day, he was yours. But something about the way they looked at him today, about the way he leaned into the attention, made a fire ignite deep in your belly.

If they could fight for his attention, so could you.

But you wouldn’t do it like them. No, you knew how to get to William. You knew exactly what drove him wild.

So instead of throwing yourself at him like the others, you did the opposite.

You ignored him.

The next few hours, you made it a point not to look at him. Not once. Instead, you busied yourself with checking your phone, casually making conversation with Pablo and Banksy, petting them as if they were the only things worth your time. When assistants tried to chat with you, you laughed a little too hard, smiled a little too wide—just enough for William to notice.

And he did notice.

You could feel it—the way his gaze kept flickering in your direction between takes, the way his jaw tightened slightly when your laugh rang out a little louder than necessary. William wasn’t used to being ignored, least of all by you.

Still, he played it cool.

For a while, at least.

From the corner of your eye, you saw him roll his shoulders back, adjusting his stance slightly as he prepared for the next set of shots. His suit jacket was long discarded, his casual sweater zipped down even further, exposing just a hint of the sculpted chest beneath. He looked effortlessly sinful, and he knew it.

So did everyone else.

The stylist brushed a bit of lint from his sleeve, her fingers lingering longer than necessary. Another assistant offered him a bottle of water, her gaze flicking down to his lips as he drank. The female journalist interviewing him hung onto his every word, playing with her hair, tilting her head just enough to make it obvious she was interested in more than his answers.

William soaked it all in, thriving under the attention—but his eyes kept searching for you.

And that’s exactly what you wanted.

You continued your act, shifting slightly so your leg brushed against the assistant beside you, offering a bright, flirty smile as you tucked your hair behind your ear. The guy grinned back, clearly intrigued by the sudden attention.

That was all it took.

The moment the next set of photos wrapped up; William was on the move.

His strides were purposeful, his entire frame radiating something dark and possessive as he made his way toward you. He didn’t stop to acknowledge the lingering stylists, didn’t spare another glance at the journalist who had been subtly touching his arm just moments before.

No.

His sights were set solely on you.

Your heart pounded as he reached you, his presence commanding as he came to stand directly in front of you. The subtle cologne he wore—deep, musky, with a hint of something clean and citrusy—wrapped around you, sending a shiver down your spine.

He didn’t speak at first, just studied you, his head tilting slightly as if trying to decipher your little game. His eyes flickered briefly to the assistant beside you—the one still sitting a little too close—before he returned his gaze to you. And the assistant got the hint to ‘piss off.’

“You’re enjoying yourself,” William mused, his voice low, amused.

You blinked up at him innocently. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, his lips curling in that slow, knowing smirk that made your stomach flutter and your thighs press together instinctively.

“You’ve barely looked at me all day,” he murmured, stepping closer—so close that you had to tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. “Even when I was right in front of you.”

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “You seemed busy.”

William’s smirk widened slightly, but his eyes darkened.

“Not too busy for you,” he murmured.

The way he said it—the way his voice dropped just slightly, that unmistakable edge creeping in—made something tighten low in your belly.

But you weren’t going to give in that easily.

You merely hummed, shifting slightly as if to brush past him. “Well, don’t let me interrupt—”

Before you could take another step, his fingers curled around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. His grip wasn’t forceful, but it was firm—just enough to remind you who was in control.

“Enough, älskling.” His voice was quiet, just for you, but laced with a warning.

Your pulse stuttered.

His fingers trailed along the curve of your ass, barely brushing against the fabric, but it was enough to make your breath hitch. The sensation sent a shiver racing down your spine, the heat of his touch searing through you despite the minimal contact. He knew exactly what he was doing—reminding you who you belonged to, who you’d been teasing all day.

“You’ve had your fun,” William murmured, his voice a low hum, teasing but firm. His fingertips skimmed over your hip before gripping it lightly, his thumb brushing slow, deliberate circles. “But you know how this ends, don’t you?”

You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering in your throat.

The moment was cut short as voices drifted closer; members of the crew moving about, discussing lighting adjustments and final shots. You barely had time to steady your breath before the sound of footsteps signalled their approach. William’s grip on your hip tightened for the briefest moment, a silent warning, before he effortlessly slipped back into his composed, charming demeanour.

You, however, felt anything but composed.

As the crew members passed, one of the assistants flashed William a bright smile. “Hey, Willy, they’re setting up for the last few shots. Shouldn’t take long.”

He nodded, offering that easy, friendly grin—the one that made everyone feel special, like they had his full attention. “Sounds good.”

Then, as if he hadn’t just been moments away from completely unravelling you, he turned back to you, his expression unreadable. But the dark glint in his eyes told you this wasn’t over.

You’d won just a bit more time.

And that meant you could keep playing your game.

So, you straightened your spine, smoothing your shirt as if nothing had happened, meeting his gaze with feigned innocence. “Guess you should get back to work,” you murmured, letting your fingers brush against his wrist in a fleeting, teasing touch before stepping back.

William’s jaw twitched.

You knew you were pushing it, but that was the point.

As he turned toward the set, you bit back a smirk, knowing full well that you weren’t done yet. You still had time to keep teasing him, keep making him work for your attention.

Your move was borderline cruel, and you knew it. But after watching William charm his way through the day—smiling a little too easily at the female journalists, letting the stylists linger a little too long—you decided he needed a reminder.

A reminder that he was taken.

And what better way to do that than by playing the oldest trick in the hockey book?

You always kept a spare Nylander jersey in the car, part of the “always be prepared” go-bag you and William had for spontaneous plans. So, while he was finishing up his final shots, you slipped away, retrieving the jersey, and pulling it over your head.

The second the fabric settled against your bare skin; a slow smirk curled at the corners of your lips.

Because for all the modelling shoots, the tailored suits, the perfectly styled hair—at his core, William was a hockey player. And nothing made him lose his mind faster than you wearing his jersey.

Especially when it was the only thing you were wearing.

With the oversized fabric hanging loosely around your body, the sleeves swallowing your hands, and the hem barely grazing the tops of your thighs, you made your way to the dressing room. It was quiet now, the buzz of the shoot slowly dying down as people began packing up. You perched yourself on the wooden bench inside, crossing one leg over the other, anticipation thrumming in your veins as you waited.

It didn’t take long.

You heard his footsteps first, steady, purposeful. Then the door creaked open, and the moment his eyes landed on you, everything shifted.

William froze.

For a long second, he just stared, his blue eyes dragging over your form, taking in every inch of exposed skin beneath the familiar navy fabric. His jaw tensed. His fingers flexed at his sides. His tongue flicked out, wetting his bottom lip as his gaze darkened.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice was lower than before, thick with something dangerous.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “What?”

William inhaled sharply, stepping into the room, and shutting the door behind him. He moved slowly, deliberately, his gaze never leaving yours.

“You’re not wearing anything under that, are you?” His voice was a rough whisper, the last thread of his patience hanging by a thread.

You smirked. “Does it matter?”

His response was instant.

One second, you were sitting on the bench. The next, you were caged between the mirror and his body, his hands gripping your hips, pressing you back against the hard surface, clouding every last rational thought.

His chest pressed firmly against yours, the hard lines of his body moulding perfectly to your softer curves. His breath was uneven, warm against your cheek as his fingers slipped beneath the hem of the jersey, his rough palms trailing up the bare skin of your thighs.

“You’re playing with fire, älskling,” he murmured, his voice thick with restraint, a warning laced in every syllable. His fingertips teased higher, barely grazing the curve of your ass.

Your breath hitched, heart pounding. “Maybe I want to get burned.”

The deep, guttural groan that rumbled from his chest made heat coil low in your belly. His forehead rested against yours for a brief moment, his grip tightening as if he was fighting for control.

Control he was losing.

“You wanted my attention?” His voice was nothing but a rough whisper now, his breath fanning across your lips, teasing you with the promise of a kiss he hadn’t yet given. “You have it.”

His lips brushed along your jaw, agonizingly slow, trailing lower, finding that spot beneath your ear that always made your knees weak. His tongue flicked out, soothing the spot before he nipped at it, a quiet moan escaping your lips in response.

His smirk was pure sin. “That’s right,” he murmured against your pulse, his hands gripping your thighs, his thumbs pressing possessively into your skin. “I’m going to remind you who you belong to.” His voice was hushed but filled with promise, the weight of his words sending a delicious shiver down your spine.

“On your knees.”

You obeyed, the heat between you thick with anticipation. You had always loved teasing him, relishing in the way you could make him unravel with the slow drag of your tongue, the way his breath hitched when you took him just a little deeper. But tonight, William wasn’t going to let you be in control.

You started slow, your tongue tracing along his length, savouring the way he tensed beneath you. You licked, tasted, teased, wanting to take your time, but William had other plans. His fingers tangled in your hair, not rough, but firm—guiding, demanding.

“You can do better than that,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp above you.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and the intensity in his gaze sent a shiver down your spine.

Before you could tease him further, he pushed forward, easing himself deeper into your mouth with a steady, deliberate motion. You gasped around him, your hands gripping his thighs for balance as he filled you completely, the weight of him heavy on your tongue.

“Just like that,” he groaned, his thumb stroking along your jaw, his other hand still in your hair. He wasn’t forcing—no, he was guiding, taking what he wanted, making sure you gave him exactly what he needed.

The heat between you burned hotter as you hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper, letting him use your mouth the way he wanted. You loved this—loved the way his breath turned ragged, the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch, the way he was slowly losing his composure, unravelling under you.

William let out a shaky breath, his voice strained. “Fuck, älskling… you’re so good for me.”

His words sent another rush of heat through you, your own body responding to the way he praised you, to the control he held over you.

But you knew William—he wasn’t satisfied with just this.

And judging by the way his grip tightened in your hair, he was only just getting started.

Before you could respond, he guided you up again, flipping you around to face the mirror propped against the wall. His body pressed firmly against yours, his warmth wrapping around you like a vice, keeping you exactly where he wanted. “Look at you…” His voice was husky as he traced a slow, deliberate path down your spine, his fingers trailing just enough to leave a rush of goosebumps in their wake. “Such a good girl for me.”

Your reflection stared back at you—eyes dark with desire, lips parted, skin flushed with heat. The way William towered over you, his body pressed tightly against yours, made your knees weak. He knew exactly what he was doing, how to completely unravel you with just a few words, a few well-placed touches.

His hands smoothed over your waist before sliding lower, his fingers teasing over the curve of your cheeks before gripping firmly, spreading you open. “Mmm so pretty,” he murmured, his tone dripping with amusement and control.

You barely had a moment to respond before he spit, letting the warm slide of moisture trail down the valley between your cheeks. The act alone made you shudder, made you whimper, made heat coil deep in your belly. His fingers followed, spreading the slickness, teasing without giving you what you needed.

The anticipation was intoxicating.

Then, without warning, he pressed two fingers inside your core, stretching you with ease. Your gasp filled the room, loud and needy. Your fingers gripping onto anything. The intensity of his touch sent a shiver through you, your body instinctively pressing back against him, chasing more.

William chuckled darkly, his free hand gripping your hip, keeping you exactly where he wanted. “I want everyone to hear you,” he murmured against the shell of your ear. “To know you’re mine.”

His fingers moved with purpose—slow and teasing at first, then curling, stroking, pushing deeper until your legs trembled beneath you. Every movement sent shockwaves of pleasure rippling through your veins, the pressure building so fast you could barely think.

“Willy, I—” Your words broke into a moan as his other hand found its way between your legs, his fingers expertly circling your most sensitive spot. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, consuming.

“What’s wrong, baby?” he teased, his lips brushing against the side of your neck as he quickened his pace, pushing you closer to the edge. “Is this not what you wanted?”

Your body tightened, every nerve in your body alight with sensation as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak. The tension coiled tighter and tighter, a wave about to crash over you. And to your luck, he let you have it.

“William!” you cried, your voice breathless and needy as your body trembled. Your hands pressed against the cool glass of the mirror, your fingers splaying wide as you fought to ground yourself. But there was no escaping him. No hiding from the way he controlled every inch of you, from the way he pushed you right over the edge.

He groaned low against your skin as your release washed over you. He held you through it, his other hand slipping between your thighs to prolong the pleasure, his fingers teasing, coaxing more out of you even as your legs threatened to give out beneath you.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his breath hot against the nape of your neck. “So pretty when you fall apart for me.”

Your body trembled in his hold, still pulsing with aftershocks, but he wasn’t done.

William smirked at your reflection, watching the way your body responded to his every touch. “One more,” he murmured, his fingers dragging lazily along your oversensitive flesh, his own hardness pressing firm and hot against your lower back. “Think you can handle it, älskling?”

Your answer was a desperate whimper, your head falling back against his shoulder.

William chuckled darkly, his teeth grazing your pulse as he murmured, “Good girl.”

William didn’t give you a moment to recover. His hands were already moving, his fingers trailing over your trembling thighs, teasing the sensitive skin still warm from your release. You barely had time to catch your breath before he nudged your legs farther apart, pressing his body firmly against yours.

In the reflection, you could see everything—your face flushed, lips parted, eyes half-lidded and hazy with pleasure. And then there was him. Towering behind you, his hands gripping your figure like he owned you, his darkened gaze fixed solely on you.

“You look so fucking pretty like this,” he murmured, dragging his lips along the curve of your jaw.

Your body jerked as his fingers found your swollen clit again, his touch slow and deliberate. The overstimulation sent another sharp wave of heat crashing through you, a desperate whimper escaping your lips.

“Willy—” Your voice broke, your body already sensitive, but he didn’t let up.

He grinned against your skin, clearly enjoying the way you squirmed beneath him. “You can take it,” he murmured, his fingers slipping out a little, but not too far, teasing your entrance. “Can’t you, älskling?”

You swallowed hard, nodding shakily, because there was no point in denying it. Not when your body responded so eagerly to him, not when the fire inside you reignited at his words.

“That’s my girl.” His voice was thick with approval, dripping with something possessive as he replaced his fingers with his throbbing hardness, lining himself up behind you. He dragged the head of his cock along your slick folds, teasing you, making you feel just how much he wanted you before he finally pushed in.

A sharp gasp left your lips as he filled you again, stretching you in a way that had your nails scraping against the mirror. His grip on your waist tightened, and he exhaled sharply, his restraint hanging by a thread.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his forehead pressing against the back of your shoulder as he bottomed out. “You feel perfect.”

You whimpered, your body still sensitive, but the slow drag of his cock inside you had you melting all over again.

William pulled back, just enough to watch the way you moaned for him in the reflection, his hands sliding down to grip your hips. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice thick with admiration. “Taking me so well.”

Your eyes flickered up, meeting his in the mirror, and the heat in his gaze sent another shiver down your spine.

Then he started moving.

The first thrust was slow, deliberate, but the next was harder, deeper, sending a jolt of pleasure through your entire body. He set a punishing rhythm, each snap of his hips forcing you against the glass, your breath fogging up the surface with every desperate moan.

His hand slid up your body, gripping your throat, tilting your head back so you had no choice but to watch yourself unravel. “See how pretty you look when I fuck you?” he murmured, his voice rough, almost reverent.

Your fingers curled against the glass, trying to hold yourself upright as he drove into you harder, his movements relentless, precise. He was everywhere—his touch, his breath, the way he filled you so perfectly, the way he made you feel like you were completely and utterly his.

“I can feel you,” he groaned, his grip tightening. “You’re gonna come again, aren’t you?”

You could only whimper, your body on the verge of another orgasm, your legs shaking from the force of it.

William smirked. “Come for me, baby,” he ordered, his fingers pressing against your clit, rubbing tight circles that sent you spiralling over the edge.

The orgasm tore through you, so intense it left you gasping, your entire body trembling against him. Your vision blurred, your moans breaking into breathless cries as pleasure flooded every inch of your being.

And William wasn’t far behind.

With one final thrust, he buried himself deep inside you, his grip turning bruising as he came with a low, guttural groan. His forehead dropped against your shoulder; his breath hot against your skin as he rode out his release.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, the only sound in the room your ragged breathing.

Slowly, William leaned forward, pressing soft kisses along your neck, his touch suddenly gentle as he smoothed his hands over your waist. He let out a breathless laugh, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple as he gently pulled himself out. “You drive me insane; you know that?”

You smirked, still trying to catch your breath. “You love it.”

William grinned against your skin. “Yeah,” he murmured, brushing damp strands of hair from your face as he turned you in his arms. “I really do.”

As he kissed you, slow and deep, there was no need for words—no need to remind each other that you belonged to one another. It was an unspoken truth, woven into every touch, every lingering look.

A few moments later, once you were dressed, cleaned up, and settled in the car, the air between you had shifted.

William’s fingers drummed lightly against the steering wheel before he glanced at you, a smirk playing at his lips. “You know… I love seeing you wear my name.”

You smiled, already knowing where this was going. “I know.”

His gaze flickered back to the road; his voice softer now. “I know, I’ve mentioned before…you know, that maybe one day, it’ll be more permanent than just a jersey.”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you kept your voice soft. “You have mentioned it.”

“I mean it.” His grip on the wheel tightened slightly. “I want you to be mine. Not just when we’re doing… all of that. But always. I don’t want you worrying about anyone else. I’m yours. In every way.”

The sincerity in his tone stole your breath.

You reached over, lacing your fingers with his, squeezing gently. “I’m yours too, Willy. You know that. I only tease you when guys flirt with me.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I know, älskling.” His thumb traced circles over your knuckles, his expression softening. “But maybe it’s time I put a ring on your finger… since wearing my number around your neck doesn’t seem to keep them away.”

A warmth spread through your chest at his words, the sincerity in his voice melting away any lingering tension from the day. You turned to look at him, his hands gripping the steering wheel casually, but his knuckles flexed slightly, as if he was waiting for your reaction.

“You think a ring will keep them away?” you teased, raising a brow.

William smirked, his gaze flicking to you before returning to the road. “I think it’ll make it clear to everyone that you’re mine.” His voice dropped just slightly, that possessive edge creeping in, the same one that made your stomach flip. “That you always have been.”

Your heart thudded in your chest. You’d had conversations about the future before—light-hearted, dreamy talks curled up in bed, murmuring about forever in sleepy whispers. But this… this felt different.

This felt like a promise.

“You really mean that?” you asked, your voice softer now.

William scoffed like it was the easiest thing in the world. “Of course, I do.” He reached over at the next red light, his fingers finding yours, playing with them absentmindedly before lifting your hand to press a kiss against your knuckles. “I’ve known for a long time, älskling.”

You swallowed thickly, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of his words, the way they settled so perfectly in your heart.

He gave you a small smile, his eyes full of warmth. “But… you don’t have to answer now. Just know that when you’re ready, I’ll be too.”

A breathless laugh escaped you as you squeezed his hand, your mind spinning, your heart bursting with emotion. “What if I’m already ready?”

The light turned green, and William’s grin was boyish, full of something unfiltered and raw as he squeezed your hand back, his eyes crinkling with pure happiness.

“Then I guess I better start looking for a ring.”

#my asks #18+ smut #inexperienced!reader x Willy #wn88 imagine #william nylander smut #william nylander imagine #toronto maple leafs imagine #nhl fanfiction #nhl hockey smut

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