#and lilting across the boss room

[sweetmapple]

Endure

[perlelune]

Hunger | Coriolanus Snow

From the moment your husband introduces to President Snow, you're untethered, as if the very floor was ripped from underneath you.

Warnings: NON-CON, District 12! Reader, Covey! Reader, Housewife Kink, Manipulation, Somnophilia, Breeding Kink, Chasing

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

Nervousness wrenches your insides as you peer at the proceedings from afar. Another gala to raise funds in order to quell a budding rebellion in the Districts. The second one this year. 

They always leave you feeling sour. It’s not like the Districts have no reason to start an uprising. The next reaping is fastly approaching and you’d rage too if your family was to go through that again.

You take a tiny sip from your glass of posca, mindful not to overindulge. The diluted, aromatic wine is far stronger than one would imagine. But a slight dash of intoxication is the only way you can see yourself getting through the night. Crowds always made you anxious, but a gathering of Capitol citizens stirs a particular discomfort in you. 

You’re not one of them and you often wonder if they can tell, sense a whiff of District 12 on you. The foul stench of unbelonging. Perhaps in the manner you speak or your stance. You’ve never managed to perfectly mimic the way Capitol ladies carry themselves, born from a lifetime of practicing poise and etiquette. After all, you are an outsider, and always will be.

Regardless of how many galas you attend, fashionable dresses you order to match the quickly changing trends of the Capitol, effort you exert to erase your thick Covey accent…it seems someone can always tell there’s more to you.

It’s in that mocking glint in their eyes, that sneering lilt in their voice.

To them, you’ll never be more than District rabble. 

Which is exactly why you despise these events. But your husband insisted. He’s working hard to impress his boss, the most important man in all of Panem, and you can’t let him down.

You must be the picture of charm. Laugh at every joke, nod your head when a serious topic is being broached, display interest when personal stories are being shared.

You place a hand on your roaring stomach, a frown creasing your brow. You haven’t swallowed a bite the entire day, too anxious about how tonight would go.

Your gaze darts about the room. The tantalizing spread of appetizers in the middle of the room seems to be calling your name. Your mouth waters.

Without a thought, your feet glide across the marble tiles. A little self-conscious, hesitation tingles at your fingertips as they drum by one of the silver platters. Another pang of hunger pierces your insides at the sight of the food. You cave in, picking up a tiny sandwich from a plate. Your eyes close, angels singing in your mouth as delicious aromas trickle on your tongue. 

“Sweetie, there’s someone you must meet,” your husband chimes at your back.

Still chewing on a mouthful of meat and bread, you whirl. Your eyes bulge. Startled, you nearly suffocate on your food.

You quickly wipe your mouth as heat rushes to your cheeks.

You’ve seen his face before. The murky screens do not do justice to his dashing looks.

“President Snow. It’s a pleasure. Apologies, I was…”

A smile ghosts over his lips as he drinks you in, his cerulean gaze dragging over your frame. “No apologies,” he answers silkily. “I’m glad you’re enjoying the food. At least someone is.”

He picks up your hand and presses an ephemeral peck on the back of it. You turn to Henry. The shock adorning your husband’s face mirrors yours.

President Snow’s lips curl skywards.

He lets go of your hand and adds, “It’s nice putting a face to your name. Henry is always raving about you.”

You shake your head, eyes bashfully finding the floor. “Oh, I’m sure he isn’t,” you mumble.

The blonde hums as if to disagree. He bends close to your ear.

“He’s always lauding what a wonderful wife you are, dutiful, sweet…”

…Makes me almost jealous.

Your head whips up.

You blink at the whispered words, barely above a breath. Maybe you heard wrong. It’s hard to tell, the way Snow gauges you, that subtle smile still decorating his handsome face.

He asks you trivial questions about how you’re settling in and how you’re enjoying your life in the Capitol. You answer every time, ignoring the chill dancing at the base of your spine.

His scrutiny swells your unease.

So as soon as the conversation veers away from you and towards the topics of lawmaking and taxes, you snatch the opportunity to excuse yourself.

You give an apologetic smile to your husband.

“Henry, maybe I should go. I’m not feeling too hot.”

He scowls at you. “You want us to leave already?” Disappointment bleeds in his tone. A thick layer of shame settles in the pit of your stomach. You’re being a bad wife.

“You can stay, even if I go,” you try to offer.

“There’s still so many people we haven’t talked to…” Henry argues.

You deflate. You suppose it would be uncouth to leave too early.

To your surprise, President Snow’s smooth lilt interjects, “If your wife is unwell, you both should go.”

You gape at him. A strange glint bounces in his cerulean orbs and unease flutters through you once more. 

Henry sighs, grabbing your hand.

“Alright. I’ll go fetch the car.” 

He gives the blond a formal salute before dragging you away.

As the two of you leave, the heat of Snow’s attention prickles along your spine.

“Did he say something to you?”

Gasping, you turn to your husband. He pointedly looks at you and you shift awkwardly in the passenger seat. 

“What?” you say, taken aback by his sudden question. 

He studies you for a while before his gaze drifts back to the road.

“Snow. He said something to you, didn’t he?”

Your chest clenches. Faking nonchalance, you shrug and reply lightly, “Just a joke but I didn’t understand it.”

The days soar by, humdrum and uneventful. You file away the strange moment at the gala and return to your everyday life. Henry occupies most of your time but when you’re not catering to him, you tend to the house and read. And during stolen moments…you play and sing. Henry doesn’t know, of course. It’s a life you left behind, or are supposed to at least. 

You’re the wife of a Capitol official, not some District balladeer peddling song for coin.

But you can’t help it. 

Singing reminds you of home. Of endless green meadows and lazy afternoons by the river. Your life from before may have been uncertain but you find yourself missing it at times. Missing the freedom to do and act as you pleased.

An orphan like so many others, the Covey were the only family you ever knew. Then you met Henry. Henry who spoke so sweetly to you and gazed at you with warm brown eyes. And he became your family. He didn’t care that you were from a District or that your manners were lacking. He embraced you.

And now you wish to support him in all that he does. Even if it means tossing away parts of yourself.

The front door cracks open, halting the path of the needle between your fingers. A smile blooms on your lips as you place Henry’s shirt on a nearby table. You can resume fixing the buttons on it later. You rise from the armchair and make your way to him. You help him out of his coat, noting the excitement radiating off his frame.

He’s not usually this ecstatic after a day of work. You tilt your head in puzzlement.

He hugs you before announcing, “We have a guest tomorrow, a very important guest.”

“Oh,” you reply, tamping down your concern. The apartment isn’t exactly ready for guests, much less important ones. The fridge needs to be stocked and the furniture requires thorough dusting.

“Yes, I was mentioning what a wonderful cook you are and he said he hasn’t had a home cooked meal in a while.”

“Who?” you ask, your curiosity peaking.

“President Snow,” Henry replies with a victorious grin.

Dread and confusion collide inside you. Why would President Snow visit you and your husband of all people? While Henry’s been rising in ranks quite fast, you can’t picture the leader of the country making time for people like you.

But you don’t voice these thoughts, instead you inquire, “Are you sure my cooking will be enough for him? His palate is used to those fancy meals at the Capitol.”

He cradles your face and plants a kiss on your forehead.

“Don’t doubt yourself, honey. You’re an amazing cook.”

“I just don’t want to let you down,” you confess, anxiously chewing on your lip.

“You won’t,” he assures. His chestnut gaze dives into yours. “This could be a great opportunity for us. Imagine what being close to Snow could do for our lives. He could promote me. We could even move to a bigger place.”

Your brows knit. “I love our place.”

Henry laughs. “Yes but the day we expand our family, you have to admit it’ll be a little small.”

You peer at your surroundings. Every corner of the little house harbors a beloved memory. You’d hate leaving it behind, but you suppose he’s right. You might outgrow it one day.

Henry frames your chin to draw your focus back to him.

“Just be yourself,” he says. “Your kind, sweet, wonderful self and all will be well.”

Nodding, you give a feeble smile.

“Understood.”

The next day is spent meticulously cleaning every inch of the house. For hours you’re anxious, wondering what to say or do, how to behave. You don’t have the natural wit and charm to impress someone like Coriolanus Snow. You keep worrying you’ll speak out of turn and embarrass Henry. Preparing dinner is the only time your mind is at rest. You stir the vegetables in the stew, smiling as the delectable scent fills your nostrils. It’s simmered for hours to create a rich flavor. It’s only your second time trying this recipe so you’re a bit nervous. Henry adored it but he’s your husband. You don’t know if President Snow’s delicate taste buds will find your meals to his liking.

You’re slightly more confident about your strawberry cake. While you struggled with it at first, the frosting never quite coming out the way you wanted, it’s now turned into one of your specialties.

The doorbell rings and you freeze. You glance up at the clock hanging near the stove. Already? Time has flown and you didn’t notice.

As you approach the door, you smooth out the wrinkles in your apron and straighten your spine. You take a deep breath before opening the door. 

A wobbly smile cants your lips upwards. 

“President Snow, it’s an honor,” you greet cheerfully.

The tall blond crosses the threshold after your husband. You take him in, trying to girdle your apprehension. He casts an imposing figure with his slicked back silver locks and tailored purple suit, the signature white rose pinned to his left breast pocket as always.

An aura of authority seems to follow him wherever he goes. 

“Please, the honor is mine,” Snow says. His sky gaze roams across the living room. His expression is unreadable and you feel a bit self-conscious. It’s likely not as luxurious as what he’s used to. But to your surprise, he looks right at you and says, “What a lovely abode.”

His nose twitches as he hums, “I smell something heavenly, for me perhaps?”

You nod.

“I made beef stew.”

“Wonderful.”

Your cheeks warm at the compliment. 

“Shall we sit?” Henry says, escorting him to the dining room.

You rush to the kitchen and throw your apron on a chair. Inhaling a lungful of nerve, you slip on gloves and grab the pot from the stove. Slowly, you bring out the food. Your skin tingles with the weight of Snow’s eyes on you. 

You ladle out the stew on each plate. When you circle the table to serve Snow, you feel the faintest brush of fingertips over your hip. You flinch.

When you look at him, an almost imperceptible smile hovers on his lips. You blink and it almost seems like it’s gone, as if you dreamt the entire instant. The ladle wavers in your hand.

Did he mean to do that? Once again, you question your own senses, your sanity. It was a fleeting touch, the accidental kind that occurs everyday. But somehow your nerves are agitated with this mere, insignificant second.

Quickly, you round the table and plop down in the chair next to your husband. He squeezes your hand beneath the table, his brown gaze spelling “good job”. Relief sits inside you. You spent all day agonizing over every aspect of tonight so it’s nice to know Henry appreciates your efforts at least.

Everyone starts eating, your husband and Snow engaging in topics you only listen to with half an ear. Instead you focus on your plate, swallowing tiny bites of the stew. 

The flavor is nice and rich, just like you hoped, and pride trickles inside you.

“You’re so silent. Are we boring you?”

Snow’s abrupt statement yanks a sharp gasp from you. Your head snaps up. You realize both he and Henry are staring at you. Your face warms.

“N-No, I just don’t have anything interesting to contribute,” you stammer, your head dipping. 

“My wife has no mind for politics, I’m afraid,” Henry chuckles. 

Your mouth screws shut, your fingers tightening around your spoon. It’s more that your opinions differ vastly and there are things Henry prefers you don’t say aloud.

A crooked smirk blooms on Snow’s lips.

“Ah, a pretty, silent one. I believe you lucked out with this one, Henry.”

Your teeth grind as your brows twitch. Pretty and silent. You don’t know why the words chafe you, cutting into you as deep as a knife. 

You rise from your chair and grab your near empty plate. 

“I should go clean the kitchen,” you announce with a terse smile.

You don’t look back as you walk away, berating yourself with every step.

This isn’t how one should behave in front of him. But you also don’t think you can spend another second in his presence.

You rub the sponge over the top of the stove, satisfaction trickling inside you as the grease and sauce stains are wiped away. You bask in the calm, concentrated on your task. 

A warm breath tickles the shell of your ear.

“You seemed peeved before.”

Sucking a sharp breath, you whirl on your heels. Your hand spreads over your chest as your vision is filled with the towering frame of President Snow. His stance is relaxed as he peers at you curiously.

“You scared me…President.”

He ignores your reaction, continuing his statement from before, “When we were discussing the next reaping.”

You shake your head. “I wasn’t peeved.”

“Your face, it did that thing.” Your forehead creases. He inches closer. The scent of roses, thick and heady, coats your senses. Your head starts spinning. “Like now. It bothered you.”

Panic flutters through you. This is a man who could have you hanged or jailed for saying the wrong thing. But something about his expression tells you he won’t relent, that he'll only take the truth and nothing else.

So your heart spills out of you.

“In an ideal world, we wouldn’t need the Hunger Games. They are…” You trail off, remembering yourself, who you’re speaking to. You bite down your feelings and go quiet.

But Snow bends over you, crowding your space as your back hits the edge of the stove.

“What? Barbaric? Cruel?” He chuckles and goosebumps rise on your flesh. “But we do need them, dove. Every single year. So the districts never forget their place, and most importantly ours.”

Your lip quakes. Snow’s gaze follows the motion, his lips slanting lopsidedly.

“Such a sweet soul,” he whispers.

He suddenly backs away from you. Air rushes back to your lungs.

“It’s late. I should take my leave. Thank you for a most…enlightening dinner.”

You resume your life and, for a while, everything is normal. Henry doesn’t talk about that night again and neither do you, the both of you bonded by that silent agreement. Maybe he saw Snow talking to you in the kitchen, maybe he didn’t. You’ll never know as he keeps his thoughts to himself, throwing himself into his work and acting like his usual self. 

And if there’s a bit more distance between the two of you in the marital bed, you try not to let it bother you. With time, the strangeness will fade and you and Henry will be back on track, trying for a child and enjoying marital bliss.

Though one evening, things are anything but normal. In fact, the world all but ends.

Your husband peruses the notice letter for rent once more. The blood seems to leave his face.

He runs his fingers through his dark curls.

“I don’t understand.”

Hands resting on his shoulders, your heart skips a beat as you read the neat printed letters.

Rent in your building has doubled overnight. If you and your husband do not pay up by next week, you will be evicted. Houseless.

Hell, you might even be sent back to your district. Your heart plummets to your feet. Your knees buckle underneath you. Henry catches you before you fall, leading you to the sofa as panicked breaths rush through your lungs.

He hunkers in front of you and holds your hands.

“I promise you I’ll find a way. Take out a loan or-”

“A loan we won’t be able to pay back?”

His jaw clenches. “Just let me handle it, okay?”

Though doubts creep inside you, you nod.

The days race along, tension growing each day as the deadline is approaching. Only three days. In just three days, you and your husband will be evicted unless a miracle happens.

And you conclude from the dark circles under Henry’s eyes and the way he barely answers when you speak to him, that he’s as clueless as you are.

There is no solution. Once again, the Capitol and its arbitrary rules strike.

So you come to a decision.

A decision that leads you in front of the biggest mansion in the entire Capitol. President Coriolanus Snow’s house. You suck in a wide lungful, quelling a shudder at the sight of the blue-clad peacekeepers lining the walls.

You stride towards the massive entrance gates. White roses twine around the wrought iron, their thorns seeming as sharp as knives. 

You gather your nerves and lift a tremulous hand towards the intercom.

Before you can even state your matter, a disembodied, feminine voice rises from the device.

“Do you have an appointment?” the woman asks stiffly.

Hasty words pour out of you. “No, but I just need a minute-”

“President Snow doesn’t accept any visitors,” she responds harshly.

Your heart sinks. Of course he doesn’t. It was naive of you to cling to the illusory hope he’d see you anyway. Just for one dinner he likely forgot about. He’s the president. There are crucial matters that perpetually call for his attention. A myriad of things bigger and more important than a single Capitol citizen’s rent issues.

Still, you elect to try again, remembering the imminent deadline.

“Please,” you beg. “It’s very important.”

A distorted sigh ripples from the intercom.

“If you do not leave the premises, we will be compelled to remove you from the property, miss.”

One of the peacekeepers posted at the gates looks straight at you, his hand tightening over the rear of his machine gun. A wave of ice spreads through your veins.

You swallow and step back, accepting your defeat. Burning with shame, you start walking away from the mansion.

But you’re hardly a feet away, as the same voice from before erupts again, much softer this time. 

“My apologies, miss. I didn’t realize you were a close friend of President Snow.”

Your jaw hangs slack as you turn.

A woman with long dark hair appears through the open gates.

“Please, follow me,” she says as she approaches you. “The president will see you right away.”

Still steeped in utter shock, you acquiesce. You trail behind her. You can’t help but allow your eyes to wander as the woman escorts you through a dizzying series of hallways. While the front of the mansion is impressive with its lavish gardens and striking architecture, the inside is just as grandiose. You feel small as your gaze rests on all the sculptures and paintings decorating every corner of the house. Everywhere you look, there is something beautiful and eye-catching. The entire house is like a museum, meant to be admired rather than lived in.

Eventually the woman halts in front of a mahogany door. She tugs on the brass handles and stands to the side, making room for you to walk in. You mumble ‘thank you’ under your breath as you stumble inside the office.

President Snow’s blue eyes crinkle when they rest on you.

“Hello, dove. Why don’t you have a seat?” he offers, pointing at the chair before his desk. 

Licking your lips, you do as he says. Despite the softness of the plush upholstery you sit on, your nerves flare up. You had an entire speech ready, one you practiced on the way here. 

But now that you’re here, his intense focus pinned on you, you’re at a loss. 

Shaky words trickle out of your mouth.

“President Snow. I know you must be so busy…”

“Nonsense,” he interrupts, leaning back in his leather chair. “I always find time for my friends.”

You swallow the lump in your throat.

“T-That’s a relief to hear,” you stammer.

A maid brings a kettle and biscuits on a silver platter. 

“Tea?” Snow asks as he picks up the kettle.

“No, thank you.”

As Snow pours himself a cup, you ponder your next words. You don’t want to seem greedy but you can’t think of an elegant way to state your purpose.

So you settle for the truth.

“I came because…my husband and I are in a bit of trouble.”

Snow scrutinizes you for a while. Your stomach tightens. 

He then gives a sluggish nod, bending forwards as his fingers lace together.

“Do tell me everything, dove.”

You do exactly that. Snow is silent as your trembling voice fills his office. No word leaves his mouth while he listens. You don’t skip out a single detail, making a point to emphasize what consequences could befall upon you and your husband should you fail to meet the deadline. 

When you’re done, he sips from his tea cup and hums, “How unfortunate.”

“Can’t it be undone? I mean, couldn’t you…”

He chuckles along the porcelain rim of his cup. “I’m not responsible for every law and charter. I approve them, of course, but there are committees, councils. Each law serves the betterment of Panem as a whole. I can’t undo what has been done. I mean, how would this look to the rest of the Capitol? Like I have a different set of rules for my friends? I have to look impartial.” Heaving out a deep sigh, he sets his cup down.  “Apologies, dove, my hands are tied.”

The world seems to collapse around you. Your stomach sinks.

You surmise it was too big an ask, even for the President of Panem. You can’t expect special treatment. It was silly of you to even come hoping for anything resembling that.

You were foolish. Now you must collect the pathetic remnants of your dignity and take your leave.

Gulping down the tears pressing at the back of your eyes, you nod. 

“I’m sorry I asked,” you croak, already beginning to rise from your chair.

His deep lilt pauses your motion.

“But I suppose…there could be a solution. An alternative.”

Your brow furrows as you drop back on the chair.

“An alternative?”

“I could cover the difference.”

Your mouth nearly hits the floor. Snow using his own funds to help? It could be the very miracle you and your husband waited for. You would have to pay him back over time, of course. But for now, it would allow you and Henry to keep the apartment.

It’s a godsend.

“You would do that for us?” you mutter, shock stealing your air.

His reply is nonchalant. “Yes. I’d simply file it under my own personal investments.” Slanting his head sideways, he studies you. “I’d just ask for a small favor in exchange.”

“A favor?”

You wonder what kind of favor you could do for someone like Coriolanus Snow, the man who has everything and more. Gaping at him, you wait for him to elaborate.

He leans forward, crossing his arms over his desk.

“It’s not much but it would mean the world to me. The house needs some upkeep. Just a few light chores here and there. No cleaning, of course; I have an entire staff in charge of that. But the garden needs tending.” His inflection softens as he takes you in. “A home cooked meal every now and then would be nice, and I might sometimes ask you to join me for tea and conversation…” Mirth sways in his cerulean orbs. “As dreadful as that may sound.”

You move your head in assent.

“I think I can do that. But w-why me?”

He gives a long exhale, resting his jaw in his hand.

“Honestly dove? You’d be the one doing me a favor. All day, I’m surrounded by vultures.” Snow rolls his eyes skyward. “Sycophants who placate me with false smiles and honeyed lies.” His tone warms when his gaze falls back on you. “I simply wish to return home to someone genuine, someone who would never lie to me. And you wouldn’t, would you?”

“W-What?”

“Lie to me.”

Your skin heats under his scrutiny. 

Trying not to squirm, you sputter, “Never, sir.”

“Music to my ears,” the young president croons.

It’s not sounding like more work than what you do at home. You can already hear Henry’s discontent echoing in your head. You won’t have as much time for him. That too will be yet another adjustment.

But what other option is there? Even the family of four above yours had to move, unable to keep up with the sudden rent increase. You and Henry could be next.

“I…W-When do I start?”

The corners of Snow’s lips tug upwards.

“How does tomorrow sound?”

“You’re going to work for him?”

Henry’s displeasure ripples through you. You twine your hands and cast him an apologetic look. He despises that you went behind his back; you know that. But Henry ran himself ragged trying to come up with a solution. You didn’t want him to carry the burden on his own. That is not what a marriage is.

“He needs a housekeeper, of sorts. And he paid this month’s rent and the next upfront.”

Henry’s brows crumple. “Still, that’s…” Shoulders sagging, he crashes onto the sofa. The built-up exhaustion of the last few days seems to return all at once. You know he hasn’t slept a wink this whole week. Heart squeezing, you join his side and cradle his hand in your lap. Henry’s voice is dripping with shame and regret. “The entire reason I moved us here is so you never have to want for anything, so you wouldn’t have to work or suffer another day in this life.” His head dips. “I failed you.”

You cup his face, plunging your eyes into his.

“You didn’t fail me. And I won’t suffer. Sometimes life throws you lemons and you just have to squeeze those suckers dry.”

A hollow chuckle slips through his lips.

You run your thumbs over his growing beard.

"Listen, I know this wasn’t in our plans, but it’s just for now. In time, we’ll figure something out but I have to do this.” You lean your forehead against his. “For us.”

“Okay,” he belatedly concedes. He pulls your hands to his chest, kissing your knuckles.

“Just come home when you’re done.”

“I will,” you promise. 

The first day slogs forth without a hitch. A car picks you up in the morning and drops you off at President Snow’s estate. The dark-haired woman from before welcomes you, introduces you to the staff and walks you through your duties. You learn her name is Ariadne. 

You spend most of the day busy in the garden and library. Snow’s garden of roses might be one of the hidden treasures of Panem. Taking care of it is a pleasure and you even give yourself some minutes to bask in the sun’s warmth. 

The library shelves need dusting and you tend to this task as well, humming familiar tunes to yourself while working. It is no harm if no one is around to hear you sing. 

You don’t get bored as there’s always a task requiring your attention in the massive house. 

When stars begin to dust the darkening sky, you rush to the kitchen. You get started on dinner. Staff members give you space to work and you’re grateful. You don’t like being ogled while you cook. You marvel at the gold, high-end appliances as you knead your dough. The kitchen is pristine, like everything else in the house. You settle for something simple, hearty and warm. There is no point in pretending you’re some fancy chef when you’re not. If it’s what Snow desired, he’d have hired one. There’s a plethora of them in the Capitol for him to choose from after all. And they’d all line up outside his house in a heartbeat if he requested it.

You stand nervous, hands folded in your lap as the meal you prepared is brought out onto silver plates. You spent hours on it. Hopefully he likes it.

“This smells like heaven,” Snow purrs.

He then points at the chair next to his on the long table.

“Have a seat.”

Your eyes bulge. Not only are you stunned by his request, as there are so many other chairs on the gigantic dinner table, but you were hoping to return home to Henry once dinner was served.

 “Oh, I thought…”

He smiles at you. “I hate dining alone.”

You consider arguing. But as you remember all that you owe him, your mouth squeezes shut. You give a meek nod and drag your feet to the chair.

“Of course.”

You pick up your knife and fork…one of the knives and forks. You choose at random, unsure what purpose each of the cutlery items serves.

A smile waltzes upon Snow’s lips as he watches you. Shame pools in your gut. You feel like you’re making a fool of yourself.

He takes a bite of food and hums low in his throat, his eyes closing.

“Your cooking never fails to amaze, dove,” he lauds. Blue eyes search your face. “Are you hiding other talents from me?”

Your eyes lock onto your napkin, following the swirl of the flower patterns sewn in the corners. “I don’t think so,” you mumble.

Dinner continues in silence, only occasionally shattered by Snow’s sounds of delight and words of praise. Your own bites are small. While you’re glad it turned out the way you wanted, you’d rather save your appetite for home.

When a maid brings tea after the meal, Snow raises a dismissive hand.

“We’ll have tea and cakes in the study,” he announces.

Your face scrunches. “But it’s getting late. I should-”

“I must insist,” he interrupts. He rises from his seat and offers you his outstretched hand. 

His smile broadens.

“You would rob me of your company so swiftly, dove? How cruel of you.”

Reluctantly, you accept the hand he gives you. He helps you out of your chair and motions at you to follow him.

The both of you end up in his study, sitting by the fire. Tea is placed on the small table between you. Coriolanus takes a slow sip while you fiddle with your hands.

His cerulean gaze locks with yours.

“That song you were humming earlier.”

Your chest seizes.

The loud thudding of your heart fills your ears. You swallow thickly. 

“A song?”

“Yes,” he says absently, adding another spoonful of sugar to his cup. He gives a small stir before bringing it to his lips again. “I heard it as I walked by the library.”

You try not to let your panic show, cloaking yourself in false nonchalance. You thought you were discreet, quiet almost.

“Ah, that. It’s nothing,” you elude.

“No, it was lovely. You have the voice of an angel.” 

The compliment leaves you speechless.

But his next words tie your stomach in knots.

“I want to hear it again.”

“I don’t really…perform for audiences.”

“You mean since you left the Covey?”

Mouth agape, you stare at him. How did he find out? You don’t remember ever bringing it up. In fact, you wouldn’t. You expend great effort to hide your past on a daily basis.

Your reaction draws a snort from him. Amusement bounces in his orbs.

“Come on, dove, that accent…It might fool others but not me.”

“I don’t sing anymore,” you state firmly. 

Even if you did, you wouldn’t do it for Coriolanus Snow. Not of your own free will.

He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His inflection becomes sharp, all softness evanescing. “Remember when I told you that I hated lies?” His pointed gaze sends chills through your body. “Sing for me, dove.”

Your mouth goes dry as sand. 

You understand his words for what they are. An order from your president. A strange order…but an order nonetheless.

You don’t get to refuse. You’re to sing for him, whether it pleases you or not.

Like a bird in a cage.

So you do it. Your lips fall open and clear, soft notes rise out of you. A traditional song your mother taught you. It tells the story of a girl who meets a boy with ocean eyes, how she drowns in them but the fall is like rising to heaven. 

As your voice fills his office, Snow’s scorching gaze doesn’t leave you.

When the song is done, he doesn’t applaud or praise you.

Instead, his eyes bear into you for what feels like an eternity. You try not to move, though your heart thunders in your chest. 

“See, was that so hard?” he asks, that cocky smile still adorning his lips. You don’t reply, your throat ablaze. It felt as if you didn’t belong to yourself just then. And it terrifies you. He slides your untouched cup towards you. “Drink your tea before it gets cold. Then, you can go home.”

Without a protest, you lift the cup to your mouth. One measly cup of tea and you’ll get to go home. Then this uncomfortable evening can end. Finally.

But as the liquid trickles inside your mouth, tendrils of darkness lurk in your vision. Your body gets heavier. So heavy you can’t hold the cup anymore, or even yourself. The porcelain dish vanishes from your hands. You sag into your chair.

Progressively, colors dim around you. 

Then sleep drags you down into a rabbit hole of utter oblivion. And all is blackness.

Softness like you’ve never felt before greets you when you awake. Like being embraced by fluffy clouds. For a while, you linger in the comfortable sensation, humming against the plush blankets. But as your eyes land on the thin slice of sunlight spilling from the window, you unleash an audible gasp. 

You bolt in a sitting position. 

Your eyes widen as you find Ariadne observing you between the velvet curtains at the end of the bed.

Gripping the side of your head, you glance at your surroundings. Clearly, you’re in a room. But how did you wind up here? No matter how hard you try, you can’t summon a single memory from last night.

“Ariadne? What happened?” 

She circles the bed to take a seat next to you. Her gentle tone alleviates your rising panic.

“You fell asleep,” she explains. “Master Snow brought you here so you can get some proper rest.” 

You sigh. It does make sense. Though you can’t stamp out the trickle of embarrassment sitting inside you with that knowledge. You dozed off on the job, on your first day. Hopefully, Snow isn’t too offended. 

“I must have been more tired than I thought,” you mutter, looking down.

“He’s gone now; he had urgent business at the Justice Building. But he insisted you eat a proper meal before you go.” She points at the golden food cart near the bed, every tray brimming with pastries, fruits, meats and cheeses. Way more than you could eat in a single meal.

The kind of decadent abundance the Capitol likes to indulge in. 

You politely decline. 

“I can’t…I have to return to my husband. He must be worried sick.”

Ariadne puts a hand on your arm.

“Word has been sent to him that you were simply tending to Master Snow’s needs last night.”

You purse your lips. It’s not ideal but at least he knows you were working. 

“Good,” you reply, nodding.

You yank the blanket off your body, determined to stand up and leave. But as soon as you’re on your feet, you crash back down on the bed, a strange ache awakening in your limbs.

Your forehead creases. You hug your stomach, a vicious cramp creeping there too.

Ariadne’s immediately at your side, placing her hands over your arms.

“Take it easy, miss,” she warns. “You exerted yourself a great deal yesterday.” She beams brightly. “In fact, Master Snow has given you a few days off. He was very satisfied with your work and expects you in three days’ time.”

Your brows rise. “Oh, that’s very generous.”

Her grin expands.

“He is exceedingly pleased with your performance.”

Over the next few weeks, Snow keeps summoning you sporadically. The days you work for him are pretty much the same. You attend to your daily tasks, you cook for him and then the two of you have tea in his study. He has you sing for him sometimes. You’ve learnt to swallow your feelings and perform according to his whim. You don’t even sing to yourself anymore, the exultation you drew from it all but gone. It was a way to stay connected to your Covey roots, to keep your family close to your heart. Now you can’t do it without his icy gaze invading your thoughts.

You often end up incredibly tired on those days, your body aching and sore for hours afterwards. You never imagined working for Coriolanus Snow would drain you so much. Falling asleep in his house even turns into a regular occurrence, happening almost every time you show up for work.

Naturally, Henry isn’t thrilled with that. Every time you come back home, too tired to wait on him hand and foot like you used to, his displeasure grows.

But he’s also yet to find a way to fix the issue, so the two of you must keep working. You’ve already sold everything that you could, clothes, any belonging of slight value. 

The gap is still too vast. 

And the city won’t allow you to apply for another place to live, claiming the waitlist is already sky-high.

Though you resent it, Coriolanus Snow is your only hope.

“You’re not in charge of dinner tonight,” Ariadne announces one night as you fire the stove.

You turn the burners off, your eyes rounding.

“I’m not?” 

A bright smile blooms on the brunette’s face.

“Master Snow is inviting you to dine with him as his guest, to express gratitude for your outstanding work.”

Your lips part in surprise. In the many weeks you’ve worked for President Snow, this has never happened. You have shared meals, of course, but you’ve never received such a formal invitation.

You suppose it’s all a game to Snow, and he simply changes the rules whenever he feels it.

She astonishes you further when she urges you to follow her to one of the guest bedrooms.

Utter dismay fills you.

A white dress lies atop the bed. The sleeveless evening gown looks more expensive than any dress you’ve ever laid eyes on. The delicate white silk flares at the waist, the gigantic, fluffy layered skirt making your head spin already. You imagine how hard it'd be to move in such a dress. Though you surmise it won’t be too much of a concern as you only need to sit through dinner with it.

“Master Snow expects you to wear this tonight,” Ariadne chimes.

She helps you slip on the dress, a task you undoubtedly would have struggled to complete on your own, the many layers of tulle, silk and lace of the huge skirt alone their own challenge.

Eventually, you’re dressed. 

She escorts you to the dinner room. Curious eyes dart about the halls, noting their unusual emptiness. Not a single footman, maid or Avox in sight. 

You’re alone.

“The house is very quiet,” you point out.

Ariadne beams at you from above her shoulder.

“The entire staff’s been sent home. Master Snow wants to wait on you himself tonight.”

Your stomach knots, a foreboding feeling swelling within you.

Still, you glide forward. It’s a little late to turn back.

When you enter the diner room, Snow’s face lights up. He makes his way to you. As usual, he’s dashing, his platinum blonde locks neatly combed back and his crimson suit highlighting his tall frame.

His gaze twinkles as he drinks you in. 

“You’re a vision, dove.” He lifts your hand and brushes his lips over your knuckles. His eyes slam into yours. Time seems to hang still for a few seconds. “As I know you would be.”

Keeping your hand in his, he escorts you to your seat. He pulls your chair for you and you fumble with your skirt a little before finding a comfortable way to sit. 

“So…no maids today?” you say lightly. 

His lips slant. He removes the lid off one of the pots. The mouthwatering smell instantly reaches you. 

“I thought it’d be nicer to enjoy a quiet, private dinner together, as a way to celebrate.”

Your face contorts into a puzzled expression. 

“Celebrate?”

“Your last day as my housekeeper,” he replies cheerfully.

Your heart misses a beat. Is he firing you?

You attempt to tamp down the quake in your voice. You fail miserably.

“Really?”

He gauges you and his smile grows.

“Yes. In fact, you and your husband will never have to worry about rent anymore. Him  especially. Everything’s settled.”

An audible exhale slips through your mouth. 

“This is…I don’t know what to say.”

“You can say thank you.”

“Thank you, President Snow.”

His laugh resonates in the near empty dining room.

“Please, call me Coriolanus.” He ladles soup onto your plate before bending close. You tense as his warm breath ghosts over your temple. “We’re quite…close now, aren’t we, dove?”

You gulp down the lump in your throat.

“I suppose we are…Coriolanus.”

You wince. Uttering his name feels wrong, forbidden almost.

Satisfaction doesn’t part from his handsome features as he regains his seat. He gestures for you to start eating. You feel a bit self-conscious as he observes you intently. 

Still, you do as he heeds, not needing to be told twice. 

The quicker you eat, the quicker you’ll get to be home and out of the uncomfortable dress. 

You groan as your lids flutter, a blurry shape rocking back and forth in your vision. Fatigue tugs at your heavy limbs as you stir. Your forehead scrunches. Your body’s hot, like a furnace, like you’re burning from the inside out. Tingles spark somewhere in you and you keen sharply, leaning into the sensation. Feverish whispers surround you, words you don’t comprehend in your daze.

The pull and tear. The pleasure mingling with the pain. You’re in a strange dream, maybe a nightmare.

Deep-chested grunts land in your ears. You awake further. It’s a voice you recognize, from somewhere…but not like this. Never like this. Something’s wong. Your forehead wrinkles. Something’s wrong but you’re so tired. So so tired. Your mind’s like cotton. Your limbs are as rocks.

As your lids sag, something slams into you. Fast, hard and vicious.

Your heart bounces. Your eyes snap open.

Your stomach drops.

A sinister smile you know too well by now welcomes you.

“Hello, dove. Awake, finally,” Snow whispers, his hips snapping into yours. Your breath catches as his cock grazes against your sweet spots. You clench around him and he chuckles darkly. “That angle always does it for you.” Smugness oozes off his hoarse timbre.

You look up at him. Sweat dots his brow, his tousled blonde locks clinging to his forehead. His blue eyes are cloudy with lust. His white shirt is half open, revealing a glimpse of the bare, glistening muscles underneath.

And as your gaze travels lower, horror flares inside you.

You gape with wide eyes as his veiny length disappears inside you. Again and again. The fluffy white shirt is bunched around your waist, your panties torn, exposing your lower body to President Snow’s lewd scrutiny entirely. His large hands dig into your hips, trailing crescent bruises in the shape of his fingernails.

Your shocked gaze finds his.

His smile expands.

“P-President Snow, what are you doing?” 

You know it’s a stupid question…but you have to make sense of this. Because none of this can be real. Maybe it’s a nightmare and you’re still sleeping.

You gasp as he pushes you into the mattress, piledriving into you at an angle that has you seeing stars.

“Taking what’s mine, of course,” he says matter-of-factly, hooking his arm under your thigh.

He lifts you and spreads you even more. His darkened gaze follows the motion of his cock as he pounds into you, an insatiable look twisting his handsome features. 

Reaching between your tangled bodies, he pinches your tender heap of nerves. He rubs against it, teasing it with maddening circles until your legs quake. You come apart beneath him, crying out as your back arches against the soft sheets.

“Please, stop,” you whimper, tears gathering in your eyes.

Snow’s pace quickens. Ragged moans tear from your throat. Your vision flickers.

He bends over you to lick one of your tears, humming in satisfaction at the taste. 

His lips drag against yours as he asks, “Is it truly what you want? Because it’s kind of hard to tell the way your pussy hugs my cock.” His mouth curves upward against your cheek. “Like it does every time.”

A wave of ice spreads through you. 

Every time? Realization hits you, knife-like as it pierces through the veil of denial. 

Every time…

The pieces fall into place as you remember all those times you fell asleep, unable to recall how you ended up in bed. Tired, confused…sore.

A shudder shoots through your frame.

You twist your body as panic seizes you.

Coriolanus growls when you clamber away from him, heading for the edge of the bed. You curse the pesky gown and the way it hinders your movements.

He yanks you back with ease, gripping the back of your head and shoving you down into the mattress.

Lips graze your earshell as he snarls, “Where are you going? We’re not done. We have to make sure you carry the next Snow heir.” In one stroke, he sinks into you from behind. You choke on your breath, the pain snatching your air. With one hand cinched around the back of your neck, he starts rutting into you. Your bruised folds ache at the blunt invasion. Still, your core clings to him in a way that stirs shame in your gut. “Although after all these times…” You hear the smile in his conceited inflection “It’s a given, isn’t it?”

Your eyes swell with tears. Your lips part in a silent scream. The sick song of flesh against flesh fills the room, mingling with his feral moans. 

Each time your walls tighten around him, bile rises up your throat. 

“What have you done to me?” you sob against the drenched silk sheets.

“Oh, I think you know,” he purrs. His warm breath fans over your scalp. “You can feel it, can’t you? How well your body knows me now, dove.”

His hips stutter, his thrusts getting sloppier. His cock twitches inside you. As warmth trickles alongside your walls, you feel sick again. He remains nestled inside you a while, panting above you and shoving the excess back in as you remain still.

As you feel his digits poke and prod, a chill runs through you. 

You can’t let him touch you again.

You keel over the edge of the bed, heading straight towards the floor. Pain ripples through your knees as they hit the carpet. You’re forced to ignore the crack resounding through your bones, awkwardly getting to your feet and dashing to the wooden swing doors.

Coriolanus’ wicked laugh echoes behind you. 

“Oh, dove, if you wanted to play hide and seek, all you needed to do was to ask,” he taunts.

Terror grips your throat. You ignore it alongside everything else. Alongside the pain, alongside the uncertainty, alongside the fact that you can still feel him inside you. Like you never left the bed. Like you’re still caged in his embrace.

Your legs carry you, barefoot and panicked, as you run through the palatial hallways as fast as the bothersome white dress will allow.

The president’s deep voice bounces against the ornate walls.

“Ready or not, here I come, my darling.”

The blood rushes to your feet. Your head spins and your feet tangle. You trip. Immediately, you gather yourself. You lift the skirt and dive hastily towards the living room. You duck behind a sofa. 

It’s a pathetic place to hide; you know it. But the lavish mansion is nothing but open spaces doused in sunlight. 

There is nowhere to hide.

The clamor of your heart is deafening in your ears as you hear objects crash to the floor a few feet away from you. Hand over your mouth to keep every sound in, you jerk every time the racket grows on the other side of the sofa. 

His frustration coats the air.

“Come out, come out wherever you are, dove,” he calls, his tone icier than before.

You freeze, holding your breath and wishing he doesn’t think to look where you are.

The minutes pass, agonizingly slow. The flimsy hope that he may have left even begins to bloom inside you.

Hot air suddenly breezes over your nape.

“Found you.” 

Your heart leaps to your throat. You go still. Coriolanus hauls you from the floor, half-carrying you and half-lugging you across the living room. You try to bite and claw any part of him you can reach but his hand locks around your throat.

He slams you harshly against a wall. Your head rings, the lines of his face momentarily doubling in your vision. You bite his hand. Cursing under his breath, he bangs your head against the wall again. You go limp.

Through your hazy sight, you note the scarlet trail streaking the back of his hand. You drew blood. Even if you’re lost, you bask in the ephemeral second of victory.

He carries your unmoving form the rest of the way back to his bedroom. You loathe yourself for your stillness. You want to put up a fight. You want to claw. You want to bite. You want to kill him with your bare hands. 

But all you can do is simmer in helplessness as he brings you right back to the very place you tried to escape.

He gently releases you on the bed then climbs over you. Goosebumps erect on your flesh as he caresses the side of your face, a strangely fond gesture considering everything he put you through.

“Please,” you mumble weakly. “You can have anyone you want. I have a husband.”

His face contorts into an expression of pure mockery, as if what you said was beyond ludicrous.

“I don’t want just anyone.” He lifts your chin, scorching blue gaze diving into yours. “I want you.”

“As for your husband…” His voice trails off as he traces your trembling bottom lip with his thumb. A crooked smirk drags his lips skyward. He leans over you to whisper, “Well I did say he’ll never have to worry about rent ever again, didn’t I?”

Your heart sinks. You can’t believe you trusted Coriolanus Snow. A foolish mistake. A dangerous mistake. One you’re now paying dearly. He not only trapped you…he also hurt Henry.

All because of you.

You will never forgive yourself.

“What did you do to him?” you ask, anger and heartbreak making your voice wobble.

A chill-inducing glint dances in his orbs.

“I haven’t done anything.” He cocks his head. “Rebels are criminals of the state and shall be sentenced as such.”

The world collapses around you.

A chasm of despair swallows you whole as quiet tears stream down your face.

As sobs shake your frame, President Snow plants soft kisses on your wet cheeks. You feel him grow hard against your belly as he hums, as if the taste of your hopelessness was ambrosia to him. Heavenly sweet.

He cups your face.

“Do not fret, dove. I’ll make sure you don’t miss a second of his execution.” The emptiness of his blue eyes staggers you, their depths as icy as a frozen lake. “It’s important for all citizens of Panem to learn from watching.”

The expression on his face turns downright diabolical. His knuckles sweep over the apple of your cheek.

“And I want you to learn as you watch the light go out in his eyes, dove, that this was inevitable, that I always win.”

His tone softens as his hands drag over your hips.

“I wonder how many children you’ll give me. Will they all sing as pretty as you?” The hurried rustle of his pants as he frees his cock freezes your blood. He bites his lip, lust already misting his gaze as he prods impatiently at your entrance.

“I suppose we’ll just have to find out,” he croons.

[lovebugism]

Hi!!!

Could you write jealous!eddie x reader…🫣

I’m down so bad for this man istg

ty for requesting :D i too am down bad for this man — grump!eddie can't believe other people get to look at you (jealous!eddie, established relationship, 1.7k)

bug's one year celebration ♡

Eddie thought the comic book section of Family Video was the coolest thing in the world until he met you. And it’s weird ‘cause now you’re all he can think about. He’s holding a collector’s item in his hands, but all he can see is you — and how close you’re standing to Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington.

The boy lays two VHS tapes on the counter before you, each packaged in a thick plastic case. My Neighbor Totoro and The Land Before Time. He waits for you to make an impossible choice while you idle just ahead of him, elbows propped on the countertop with your head in your hands. Your wide-eyed gaze darts between the two options.

Your head shakes between your palms. “I can’t decide,” you conclude, rising to full height with a final huff. “It’s like choosing your favorite child.”

“Well, good thing you don’t have to,” Steve quips with a lopsided smirk. His nose scrunches, and it makes his honey eyes sparkle. “‘Cause you’re getting both. On the house.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you tell him, brows pinched in a quiet sort of protest.

He drops the tapes into a plastic bag, then shrugs like his hand slipped. “Too late.”

“Won’t your boss get mad?”

“What Keith doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“I don’t want you getting in trouble because of me,” you agonize, face twisted with every bit of it.

Steve meets your worry with a wider, pink grin. He bounces a shoulder and jostles the nametag pinned haphazardly to his emerald vest. “I’ll be fine, alright? I’m strong— I can take one of Keith’s stupid lectures.”

Your hesitant fingers brush his golden ones when you take the bag from him. “You’re so brave, Steve Harrington,” you lilt with a teasing glint in your eye, tilting your cheek to your shoulder to feign sincerity.

“The bravest, actually,” the boy jokes in return.

Eddie watches all this play out from where he lingers at the comic book stand. A whole rack of his favorite superheroes, and he isn’t paying an ounce of attention to a single one. 

He was only halfway listening at first, still mostly focused on the cartoon in his hands — if only to pretend he wasn’t completely eavesdropping on your conversation. But now he’s outright staring the two of you down, with an unabashed glare pointed at the asshole flirting with his girl. 

“God, he’s disgusting,” Eddie grumbles under his breath when Steve says something that makes you laugh.

He’s not talking totally to himself. Not entirely, anyway. Dustin’s crouched just beside him in search of one of the newer comics that he swears Keith is hiding from him. “He’s just being nice,” the curly-haired boy reasons with a shrug, obviously distracted as he flips through a stack of flimsy magazines.

Eddie scoffs and finally turns away from you to look at the boy below him. He blinks for the first time in several minutes as he shoots the kid a deadpan stare. “Oh, so it’s not because he thinks my girlfriend’s hot?”

“He’s definitely doing it because she’s hot,” Dustin answers without thinking twice.

“Watch it, Henderson.”

“You asked!” he argues, tilting his chin to look up at Eddie with a wide, ocean-eyed stare. “I’m just saying. Steve’s a good guy. He wouldn’t do that to you— Now, can you please help me find this stupid comic book before I lose my mind?”

Eddie huffs. He decides it might be healthier to distract himself with this metaphorical treasure hunt than stare daggers at you and Steve from across the room. “Which one are you looking for again?”

“Metamorpho— The original. Not the stupid reprint that just came out.”

The older boy stills. He closes the comic book between his palms with one pale hand until the cover of it flips down. Metamorpho, the vibrant cover reads, The Element Man. He’d been too busy looking at you, he hadn’t realized he’d been hiding the thing from Dustin for five whole minutes.

“Is this it?” Eddie murmurs, shoving the thing in the boy’s face.

Dustin’s head shoots up. He snatches the thing from the boy’s grip and gapes at it, with all his practiced teenage boy dramatics. “You had it the entire time?!” he shouts, but Eddie’s already sauntering to the front counter — where Steve’s still making you laugh. 

As pretty as you are smiling (so much that it makes his chest ache), there’s a simmering anger burning orange in his chest. Making you laugh is his job. Not Harrington’s.

You seem to notice his presence before he’s even wrapped you in his arms. You flash him a beaming grin that makes his stomach whirl. He gets sick with it — with nostalgia or something equally tender. 

The green of his envy starts to fade when he realizes you’re wearing his skull and cross-bones sweater, all bundled up in it like it’s yours. He feels a primal sense of ownership, knowing that you’re swaddled in something that belongs to him, knowing he has you in a way Steve doesn’t. It’s not every day the local freak gets to one-up the king.

“Ready to go?” Eddie grins, rosy and broad, as he wraps his arms around you in a loose, sideways embrace. The warmth of the proximity has your stomach doing backflips. The familiarity of his scent, musky and woody and smoky, makes your heart thud hard against your ribcage.

“Yep,” you nod, still smiling. “Steve’s letting me get the movies for free.”

Eddie’s lips smack against his teeth as his jaw drops in a feigned sense of awe. His wild curls bunch at his shoulder when his head tilts softly sideways, looking at the boy across the counter. “Aw,” he croons, high-pitched and sarcastic. “Isn’t that sweet?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Shut up before I revoke your comic stand privileges.”

Eddie squints. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me, Munson.”

Eddie, deciding to be the bigger person, chooses to abandon the petty argument. He feels like the bigger person, anyway — like he’s ten feet tall, walking out of Family Video with you under his arm. He could lose a thousand arguments and still feel like a winner as long as he gets to crawl home to you.

You can’t help but notice how weird he’s being, though. There was a foreign bite behind his words as he spat his sarcasm at Steve. The tension follows you even now, as he opens the passenger side door of his van for you. 

Eddie holds onto the rusted latch with a pale, tattooed hand. You turn to face him instead of planting yourself onto the chipping pleather seat. “Are you okay?” you ask, a subtle furrow between your brows when you peer at him from beneath your lashes.

The boy scoffs a boyish laugh, obviously overcompensating. “Yeah, I’m fine— what are you talking about?”

Your eyes narrow. “You’re being weird.”

“I think you’re being weird, doll— interrogating me outta nowhere.” 

He expects you to laugh. Then he could tell you how pretty you are, and you’d be so flustered by the compliment that you’d forget this entire conversation ever happened. You don’t laugh, though. You don’t even crack a smile. You just keep staring at him.

“I’m fine,” Eddie groans, wild curls billowing when a breeze rolls by. He still tries to smile, though the bright pink expression doesn’t quite meet his eyes. He shrugs and tries to play it cool because anything less than that is so not metal. “I’m just… I’m just a little annoyed. That’s all.”

Your chest stings and your stomach starts to ache. Your mind reels as you try to understand what you could’ve done because the oh-so-sensitive you feels like it must be your fault.

“Annoyed at me?” you press in a tiny voice.

“No!” Eddie booms instantly, much louder than you. He quietens, but his face still swirls with protest. He could never be annoyed at you. As far as he’s concerned, you’ve never done anything wrong in your life. “No— are you kidding? You’re perfect.”

He takes your face in his ringed hands, cradling your cheeks until they squish softly together. A perfect thing, indeed.

“Then what happened?” you mutter through your gently jutted lips.

The boy drops his chin to his chest and sighs. He hates that you care so much about him that you actually make him talk about his feelings. He’d much rather bottle them up and save ‘em for a rainy day. But no, you love him enough to pry the hidden emotion from his cold, black heart.

“I don’t know,” he answers first in an inaudible murmur, kicking at loose pebbles on the concrete because it’s easier than meeting your eyes. “Sometimes it gets annoying when… Other people look at you, I guess…”

He peeks at you beneath his long lashes, button eyes made of chocolate. They swim with a glittering emotion. Something tender and sheepish. He’s like a puppy when he looks at you this way. You can’t help but find him utterly adorable accordingly.

He’s a little surprised when his words make you laugh. He wasn’t joking, really, but he’s relieved to hear the honeyed sound. It runs over him like drops of summer rain and absolves him of all his envy.

“Unfortunately, I don’t think I can fix that,” you reply, smiling wide between his calloused palms.

“I know,” he whines, pouting softly. “And it sucks. ‘Cause you’re too pretty for your own good.”

You lean further into his warm hand. You blink at him with pretty eyes, and in a pretty voice, you wonder, “Would it make you feel better if I said that I only care when you’re looking at me? And that everyone else is basically invisible when you’re around?”

Eddie’s heart swells so much it starts to ache. You’ve awoken something in him — something that used to be dead before you came around, or something that didn’t exist at all. It’s something golden and made of velvet. Something warm and honeyed. Something that doesn’t have a name because you don’t even know you’ve invented it.

Despite trying not to smile too wide, a beam begins to pull at the corners of his mouth. A second later, and he’s grinning with all his teeth. He gets all shy, ducking his gaze as he nods at you. “Yeah, actually— that does make me feel a little better.”

You beam up at him, all lovesick and stupid. With your cheeks still in his hands, you rise to the tips of your toes and press a smacking kiss to the flushed apple of his cheek.

Eddie figures it doesn’t get more metal than this.

[ghostchems]

infernal - terzo x f!reader - part four

art by the amazing @piaart!!

author’s note: HAPPY FUCKING BIRTHDAY @angellayercake!! GO TELL HER HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

so sorry for the delay on this haha. i've been wrestling with this for a while but i'm pretty happy with it now! it is about 4.4k words. part one/two/three. ao3 linky.

Terzo’s house is different at night. The lights are dim and the shadows are long, every long, creaking corridor seemingly ending in a black void. You’ve never been here this late. In fact, you can’t remember what you were just doing… why are you working late? The hardwood floor rasps beneath your shoes as you turn a corner and see him inside the room at the end of the hallway, sprawled out across a plush purple couch. Terzo immediately perks up at the sight of you, propping himself on his elbows, the usual lop-sided grin sitting handsomely on his face. You feel like you float to him and you’re suddenly standing next to the couch, hovering over him. One of his hands crawls up your waist and then loops his arm around you to pull you down on top of him. It’s much more forward than the careful dance the two of you have been doing since the couch incident. You struggle to breathe in his lap, his hands firmly planted on your waist as he leans up to level his eyes with yours.

“This is what you want, si?” He purrs, his hands snaking up your back to hold you close to him, his face an inch away from you. His paint is sharp, more sharp than usual, and he feels hot to the touch, his fingers nearly burning through your shirt. Your heart flutters and you gasp, your mouth dropping open as his stuttered breath hits your lips. “You like me. You want me. You’ve wanted me from the start, haven’t you, puffetta?” You’ve heard him growl before but not like this, not in a low hum that sends a shiver down your spine. Words fail you but you manage to nod. And nod. And nod again before his large hand grabs the back of your head, his fingers knotting in your hair. You nearly moan in anticipation, wanting and needing this so badly, his lips just about to touch yours — so close to finally tasting him.

Instead, you wake up in a cold sweat, your fingers dug into the sheets and drool on your pillow. Your panting and your cheeks are flushed but you slowly start to cool off once you rip the comforter off of you, throwing it to the ground in frustration. Mostly frustration at yourself for continuing to watch videos of your boss performing. You can’t help it. Terzo let you in. He invited you to sit beside him and take a peak into his world. The memorabilia makes sense now, the posters, the photographs, the everything.

And you want to know more.

“Ah, it is really… coming along, eh?” Terzo sounds so sleepy, brushing the hair out of his eyes and gazing out of the kitchen window while his hip rests against the counter. You take a moment to look up from your laptop and out the window as well, silently taking in the improvements that have been made under your care. The grass is a lush green, a hammock underneath the only tree in the yard, now trimmed and shaped to actually resemble one. A patio with a stylish dark grey conversation set beneath a hardtop gazebo is just to the left of the window, nestled in a corner of the yard. The garden still needs some work but there are two small raised beds in the back corner, where the sun shines the most, and a few spots already reserved for jalapeno peppers at Terzo’s insistence. You turn back to look at him, unable to fight off the blush that rises to your cheeks.

“Do you like it?” There’s a lilt in your voice, lips pulling into a small smile. It makes him melt a little bit.

“Si, yes. It is much nicer than it was before…” He trails off as he slinks closer to you only to keep his gaze settled on the yard. “We must have spritz’s outside one of these nights.”

“Spritz?”

“Ehhh, it’s like rosso arancio — orangey **drink with ice cubes and, uhhhh, ah! Served in a wine glass.” His mannerisms make you smile even more. You feel like a fool and you’re sure you look like one but you can’t help it. Your dream intensified your feelings, making it nearly impossible to hide them at this point. Is it so bad? To have a crush on your weird, retired-rockstar boss?

“Oh, like in White Lotus?” You rest your chin on your hands and flutter your eyes at him. Terzo flashes a bright smile but you can see in his eyes that he has no idea what you’re talking about. Silence lingers with him hovering just above you, your eyes locked. The moment is interrupted by the buzzing of your phone. “Oh shit, the landscaper!” You grab your phone and hurry out of the kitchen and toward the backyard.

Terzo keeps his eyes on the yard, slipping his hands in his robe pockets as he waits for you to appear. You caught him off guard this morning, your dreamlike gaze and easy smile making it impossible for him to be anything other than endeared to you. He’s almost relieved for the interruption because of how close he was to breaking the tension, wanting nothing more than to shove his fingers down your throat and watch those bright eyes widen with shock. You come into view with the landscaper trailing behind you, looking over your shoulder with a smile as you use your hand to sweep across the landscape with your finger ending up pointing to some brush that needs to be cleared. Terzo has spent so much time just watching you operate and he hasn’t tired of it, which is a feat due to his relatively short attention span. In fact, he doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of it.

You’re a natural with people. You always have a cheery smile, a nice greeting and some banter to lighten things up. He’s been so shut-in, his only company either you or his own voice, that watching genuine human interaction makes him swoon hard for you. His mind drifts to the times when he used to be social and how it used to fuel him, how it used to keep him going even after his Papacy fell apart.

What fuels him now? His gaze falls to where you had been sitting and his attention is immediately captured. You left you laptop open.

Terzo has always been nosy, even during his days at the Abbey. He can’t help but allow his eyes to focus on your email inbox that you foolishly left open. How many secrets could be in your inbox? What could he find out about you through what’s there? Terzo resists. He truly does for a split second. But he just cannot help himself. He slinks into the wooden kitchen chair you are set up at and pulls his glasses out from his robe pocket. He clicks on the first thing he sees: Banana Republic and is disappointed that it is only clothes. One of the male models catches his attention, though.

His outfit, specifically. A henley and a cardigan, matched tastefully with a pair of sweatpants. Terzo wonders if this is the kind of style you like. He pulls out his phone and opens the Banana Republic website but freezes when he hears faint footsteps. Terzo scrambles out of your chair, only to settle close by, leaning against a nearby wall and pretending to be hopelessly distracted by his phone (aka, staring at cardigans).

You enter the kitchen and can’t help by eye him suspiciously, the look on his face perhaps just a bit too aloof. He keeps scrolling lazily and starts to lean backward, all too aware of your gaze. It lingers for a moment before you sit back down, knitting your brows together at the email open on your screen. Then, you see that it’s up to 50% off all items which could be combined with clearance items and you’re clicking the link, getting lost in the undeniable pull of online shopping. Terzo gives a dramatic huff and leaves the room, desperately trying to hide how tickled he is.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, unable to hide a grimace. This is silly. Today is date day. You ended up texting Dylan. How could you not? Something you’ve longed for since you were a girl was offered up to you on a silver platter. So — why aren’t you more excited? Instead, Terzo is on the mind. It feels like he’s consumed your whole life as of late, spending your days in his home working for him and now he’s seeped into your home time. You haven’t allowed yourself to fully go down the rabbit hole, sticking only with the videos he had shown you in his home despite your YouTube recommendations now being full of him but also… other videos of different singers and musicians under the same band name. Of course, you couldn’t ask despite your curiosity — it’s obviously something of a sore subject and he’s only just started opening up to you more about that time of his life. The last thing you want to do is press him on something so personal and painful to him.

But now you have to live with this knowledge.

You try to push the thought from the forefront of you mind, instead focusing on yourself in the mirror again. A black shift dress hugs your figure and you have your red scarf, your favorite scarf, loose around your neck. How are you supposed to dress for this occasion? A date after work? It’s impossible to put together an appropriate outfit for both. But also — who are you kidding? The idea of Terzo seeing you in a dress has you anxious in more ways than one. No one needs an excuse to wear a dress but for some reason you feel guilty. Guilty that this dress isn’t for him. Maybe… a little bit disappointed, too. But you should give Dylan a shot, right?

“Right?” Oh, you are anxious.

Something catches your eye in your mirror, your gaze slowly trailing toward it. Your red scarf. You hum in thought for a moment and then turn to snatch it off your dresser, quickly looping it around your neck. Immediate relief washes over you, something about the scarf soothing your nerves. Could be because it makes you think of the way warm knuckles brushed along your cool neck. A shiver runs down your spine and your cheeks flush from the thought. Fuck. You have to pull yourself together. Time to focus on work, on getting shit done to distract yourself from… well everything.

Meanwhile, Terzo is having a similar time looking at himself in disbelief. It’s the most put together he’s tried to be since his days as Papa. He sits on the edge of his bed, one hand on each knee, his toes tapping on the ground in front of him. The amount of thought that has gone into this outfit is silly, even though he basically bought exactly what the model was wearing. Now his thoughts have turned to how should he be sitting when you arrive? See? It’s silly*.* He almost ashamed of how **you’ve wormed your way into his cold, broken heart **when **that was not his plan. You’re supposed to be obsessed with him, waiting on him hand and foot while kissing the ground he walks on. Instead he’s fallen for you. How embarrassing. But how could it have been avoided?

Terzo rests his palms on either side of his bed as he leans back and spreads his legs, sharp eyes examining his position for a beat. Too forward? An amused grin flickers across his face at the thought of you reacting to him like this. Definitely too forward. He tilts his head and adjusts himself with care, back straightening out and he crosses his legs. Closer but not quite. Terzo stares at his own reflection, admiring his paint for the day. Every time he sees himself he wonders why he still applies it everyday. Perhaps it’s a comfort thing, makes him feel like he’s important again. Like he’s Papa.

He wonders if he’ll ever hear you call him that.

Terzo takes a deep breath and exhales with a rumble, his eyes falling shut. You would do anything he asked, wouldn’t you? His mouth splits into a grin as he runs his slender fingers through his hair. Eyes open slowly, gaze focusing on his reflection. Strands of hair had fallen into his face and his head overall looking stylishly unkempt. More giggles.

Perfect.

Some mornings it’s like you blink and you’re at Terzo’s home. Not this morning. You are hyper aware of every stoplight, every Dunkin Donuts as your commute drags out to the second. Too much alone time with your overactive brain plotting out kind of every situation where something could go wrong with the date or work today and coming up with attack plan after attack plan to fix the issue. Not fun. After what feels like an eternity, you pull through the eerie wrought iron gate and travel down the long, tree lined driveway. Tension fills your chest as you come to a slow stop. It’s just one weird day that you have to get through.

You got this.

Terzo is already in the foyer by the time you walk through the door which is unlike him, usually spending most mornings in bed or somewhere else dark and comfy until he can no longer tolerate his caffeine withdrawal headache. He’s balancing his coffee cup on his thigh, one hand resting behind his head while the other scrolls through his phone. Your feet come to a stop, blinking a few times to ensure what you’re seeing is real, having never seen him this clothed before*.* He’s still in sweatpants but they taper down to his ankles and he’s wearing a pair of moccasins, his hair expertly tousled and reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He’s wearing a white henley that is artfully unbuttoned to expose his thick chest hair and a cozy navy blue cardigan draped over his slinky shoulders. Only his eyes are painted — giving you the chance to finally see his bare face, smooth olive skin wrinkled with age. You stare at him silently. He looks like he’s come directly out of a magazine. Terzo head tilts to face you, his eyes still focused on his phone until they unhurriedly drag away from the screen to settle on you.

“Ammazza…” The word is an impassioned whisper. He’s stunned, eyes wide as he looks over your figure with such a deliberate slowness it makes your cheeks burn. Dark eyes settle on your scarf, a smirk tugging on his lips, then his gaze flickers to meet yours. He rises from his seat, one hand clumsily snatching his coffee from his lap to stop himself from spilling, trying to hide his clumsiness with a cough. “Buongiorno mio toppolino… eh, you are wearing a dress?”

“I am. You’re wearing a cardigan.”

“I am.” Terzo purrs and slinks closer to you as he slips his phone into his cardigan pocket. His clumsiness is now replaced by that irresistible lazy swagger you are so familiar with. He lets his eyes wander again, tilting his head while regarding you. You roll your eyes and cross your arms over your chest but it’s impossible to hide the blush that creeps up your cheeks. “I do not think I can let you start work without a dance, not when you are wearing such a beautiful dress, puffetta.” There’s an undeniable heat in his words. It’s too early for this.

“It’s too early for this, Terzo.” You huff as you avert his eyes, a desperate attempt to not fall under his spell.

“Come now… I don’t want to pull the “boss” card but, eh…?” He sets his coffee down on the table as his other arm brazenly snakes around your waist. Your face is fully red now and your brain is in a deep state of fart but you manage to move with him. This is the exact opposite of what you wanted for today but you find your stress slipping away to focus on the warmth of his fingers from having held his mug of coffee. He guides your hand to his chest then slips his bare hand along your other arm until he laces his fingers in yours and raises them to lead the way. Terzo is taller than you, not by much but he still looms over you, those piercing eyes never leaving yours. He starts to slowly sway to imaginary music as your cheeks burn, your chest impossibly warm but you start to loosen up, especially as his movements grow more fluid. “There is always time for a little dance, eh?” Terzo leans in close enough that you can feel his warm breath on your lips then rests his cheek against your temple with a hum.

And you thought cuddling on the couch was intimate. You feel every inhale and exhale, his humming gradually growing stronger in your ear. His cool lips and warm breath giving you goosebumps. Cirice. You recognize it from your be various videos you’ve watched but bite your tongue and enjoy him. This may not be a stage in front of thousands of people but it definitely feels like a demonstration of some kind. Or he could just be pushing the boundary like the creeper he is and you’re eating. it. up. The last time you slow danced was at your senior prom with your date who was on probation — unbeknownst to you at the time he asked you. Somehow this is far less awkward than that. His arm around your waist starts to shift upward, his large hand pressing up your back. He lifts his head but is still only a breath away, his smile lines deep as his gaze meets yours. Your heart stirs in your chest, air caught in your lungs but before you get swept up in the moment he changes the tone.

Terzo starts singing, more energetic and loud as he leads you from the foyer into the den. You nearly trip over yourself when he twirls you, picking up the pace to be more jaunty, more goofy. But even with the fun movements you are extremely aware of his hand on the small of your back, fingertips pressing against you every so often. He’s smiling so wide that it makes it hard for you to hold it together. All of your worries about the day are gone, though — replaced by being completely entranced by him. You know just how special this song is to him, the moments he had on stage with fans, holding their hands and kissing their knuckles. And now he has you in his arms.

“I am going to dip you now.”

“You’re going to wha--?!” You squeal as he dips you, your hand frantically gripping onto his shoulder. He doesn’t drop you though, instead pulling you back to your feet with his toned arms curling around your back. You stop breathing, your chests touching and a strand of his hair brushing against your forehead from how close the two of you are.

“Mm… you are a good dance partner, you know? Easy to lead.” Is he trying to kill you today? Terzo gives you some space but still sways with you, the dance feeling more like… more like standing very close to one another waiting for something to happen. “You spoiled me today with wearing this dress.”

And a punch to your gut. Extreme guilt builds inside you and you can’t stop the distress from being all over your face.

“Oh…oh, puffetta, I am sorry, am I making you uncomfortable or—?” You cut him off with a sigh and take a step away from him, your eyes closing to give yourself time to collect your feelings while his arms fall from around you.

“No, I’m sorry. Ugh, this is so weird. I’m… I have a date after work today. So that’s what the dress is for.” There is no air in your lungs. Everything is so strained. “But you… this…” A flutter in your chest. “I like it. I’m… sorry this dress isn’t for you.” Do you even need to be apologizing? The answer would be no if it was anyone else other than him.

His face is stone cold, so different than the joy that had radiated from him just moments ago. The smile is gone and his brows are furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. You think you’re going to, ummm, die? All you can do is stare back at him, eyes incredibly wide and worry etched across your face. What is he thinking? Why is he taking so long?

One of Terzo’s hands lunges forward and grabs you by the back of your neck, his thumb pressed hard right below your ear. A surprised yelp, grasping for his sleeve and his shirt as his grip on you only tightens. His lips crush against your mouth, tongue forcing it’s way inside. He tastes like spiced coffee. The kiss is ferocious, you feel like you’re disappearing into it, mind blank but fingers digging into the fabric of his cardigan. Terzo’s teeth graze your bottom lip as he pulls away, a fiery look in his eyes.

“Do not forget who you belong too.” A low, vicious growl with bared teeth, pointed fangs glistening in the morning light. He uses his strength to push you down to your knees by your neck, your legs now trembling beneath. Speechless, you can’t look away from him now. Silence stretches between you. And then… he leaves and doesn’t spare you another glance.

You think you are broken. There’s an ache, a primal ache between your legs that burns hotter than you’ve ever felt before. Your skin is on fire, your cheeks burning and numb. What the fuck? He kissed you. Your boss kissed you and then spoke to you as if you are his possession. And it makes you want him more than ever before.

How are you going to be able to think about anything else?

Lucky for you, Terzo is MIA for the rest of the day.

You work as if he is standing over you, watching your every move. You don’t want to disappoint him, not now. Not after he kissed you. But the date. Dylan. Oh, Dylan. Caught in the middle of something there is no way he will ever understand. You hover in your text chat with him a few times with intent to cancel on him… but you can’t. He’s the one who got away, the one who you pined for like an idiot throughout half your life. This date could close that book. Or it could be the prologue. You won’t know unless you follow through.

The end of the day rolls around and you can’t help but pause in the foyer on your way out. Your chest tightens. Such a pleasant start to the day only to spiral out of control. You’re almost happy he kissed you before you were able to tell him that your date was picking you up from his house. The front porch creaks beneath your feet, the rotting wood the focus of your work today. Dylan is already there, leaning against his car and he gives you a big wave. You smile and wave back, light on your feet as you head toward him.

“Ma che cazzo…?” Terzo stares in disbelief, watching from his bedroom window as your date opens the passenger side door for you. Rage boils up within him, his hands clutching at the hem of his cardigan. A ceiling light POPS! behind him, green electricity illuminates the room but only for a second. Flames light up the bottom of the curtains, slowly eating away at them until they are completely engulfed. He’s too angry to care. The shy smile you gave your date eats him up inside, churning his stomach and making his nerves spark. The car fades from view and he unleashes an anguished scream as his hands seemingly grow claws, tearing and ripping the cardigan he had so carefully styled that morning. He doesn’t stop until he’s shirtless and surrounded by shreds of fabric. A sloppy wave of his hand somehow extinguishes the flames, leaving him in his room in the dark.

The nerve of you. To flirt, to giggle, to flutter your beautiful, delicate eyelashes at him while entertaining the idea of another man in your mind. A whore for attention, aren’t you? Pain in his chest. He shouldn’t call you a whore. You don’t deserve that. But it hurts, puffetta. Is it because he slacked off? Or that he had gone soft on you? Terzo groans as he sits on his bed, lasting less than a second before he flops onto the mattress and sinks into the mess of covers. He has been too soft, fucking twirling you around the foyer like a lovesick puppy. A romantic at heart always, eh? It was worth it — seeing you smile and blush gives him life, a reason to wake up the next morning because he has nothing else to do. You’ve made this shithole the Ministry saddled him with into a place that actually makes him feel at home. So… maybe he could be somewhat lenient with your punishment.

Electricity crackles in his bones. He is going to spend the rest of the night here, he thinks, casting a glance at his ancient alarm clock. 5:30pm. What else could possibly get him out of bed at this point? Terzo huffs and swings one of his legs over his body to lazily roll over, dragging the covers along with him to successfully burrito himself with a scoff. Another instance in which someone stole the spotlight from him. At least this time it isn’t his decrepit father. He breaks into a wild chuckle.

That would be fucked.

[1u11ablues]

​❝ good morning. no, don’t get up, it’s raining, let’s stay in bed a little longer… ❞ (Company Boss Simon 'Ghost Riley' x Reader)

Warning: Implied nsfw.

Petrichor scented the room. Outside, the wind lilted, enticing you to ignore the cold air running in from the window. A siren tempting her victim to freeze to death. 

You wouldn’t care, typically, but the rain slanted in a way that aimed straight into the little room you’ve found yourself in.

You got up to gray. As is the typical colour pallette for the English, with their rain and their clouds and their rare sighting of sun. One could get sick of such things, eventually…

Strong arms slithered up around your waist.

Oh, right. You forgot why you were in this unfamiliar room to begin with.

A night out with your colleagues. Mr. Riley, your boss, making a surprise appearance. You, trying your best not to make it too obvious that you were crushing on him. Even going as far as to pick a seating as far away from the head of the table, but-

How were you to know that he likes to sit with his employees more?

Flashes of images greeted you as you remembered. Him never letting you pour your own drinks out. Making sure your water is always refilled. Him eating with one hand because his big arms made it hard for you to fit both of yours on the table to eat comfortably—and he insisted that you used both of yours.

God, maybe he’d noticed you stealing glances at the way his free hand rests on his thighs, how his fingers almost dipped in and pointing down where his trousers seemed to have trouble hiding a gift.

When your mind started heading towards sinful territories, you excused yourself. Said you were coming down with something. You decided to stop by the washroom to cool your overheated skin off before calling for a ride, but when you exited, was greeted by your boss with a first-aid pack that seemed tiny for his hands.

“Need anything from here?”

You should’ve just said no and dashed right out. But the people pleasing tendencies won that night.

“Paracetamol,” you simply said, reaching a palm out, expecting him to pop open two pills and send you home. Well, you didn’t expect him to actually stepped forward and placed the back of his knuckles against your temple, gauging your temperature.

Thank god you were actually feeling a little warm.

“There’s a clinic down the road. Let me,” and before you know it, your purse was in his hands, and he urged you with only his presence on your back.

When the clinic came into view, you finally admitted that you weren’t really that sick.

“We should check, just in case,” he spoke, the sight of your purse trapped underneath his arm and torso the only thing keeping you distracted from total humiliation right then and there.

“It’s fine, sir. A good night’s sleep is all I need,” you assured. Funny how life decided to laugh and throw in a heavy storm as extra.

“We can’t drive home in this weather,” he complained, hair wet from the downpour, and his arms on grand display. What is it with men and their habits of rolling the sleeves of their shirts up?

“There’s a motel right across,” your idiot mouth suggested, thinking it will only be a while to wait the rain out.

Well, now you’re wet and shivering and it’s almost midnight with no signs of the storm passing. In a one bed motel room with its fluffy duvet and warmer sheets than the death fabric clinging to you.

“I think you should get in bed, love,” he suggested when he noticed you looking at it longingly. Also a wet and shivering mess, stood guard, looking outside the window. “Hang your wet clothes to dry and get warm under the blanket. I’ll leave soon as the rain stops.”

Neither of you seemed to be having the best of luck that night.

“Sir, I think you should do the same. It doesn’t seem like it’ll stop soon.”

“Fuck,” he cursed just as his lips began to pale, stripping down hurriedly before jumping into the bed beside you.

It took a while for him to warm up. Perhaps too long for your comfort.

“Are you still cold, sir?”

He nodded with a twitch of his jaw.

Worried, you pull the covers up until his head is covered. Having no other ideas on how to warm up a man that doesn’t involve touching him.

Eventually, you had to put that suggestion forward, anyway. You called down and requested for warm tea to be sent up, and after he’d downed a cup, braced yourself for your question.

“I’m plenty warm, sir. I’d like to share some of it with you, sir.” I’m not trying to take advantage of you, sir.

In hindsight, you should’ve expected the difficulty that comes with cuddling someone you’re attracted to, skin to skin. 

So something twitched. Jerked. Leaked and stained.

By then, the elephant is the room.

“I’m not known to keep a warmed woman wanting,” he joked with his arms under his head, “but there’s always a first time for everything.”

You scoffed.

“You say that as if your dick isn’t trying to lift the covers off me.”

“I never said I’m not. Wanting.”

“What happens in this room stays in this room?”

Neither of you couldn’t believe the words that naturally tumbled out of you. But it was too late to reel in the rampant thoughts that should’ve been spoken with your inside voice.

What happened next was a flash. It took all but seconds before he pulled you into a crashing kiss. Hovered over you as his lips trailed kisses down your body, stopping just before the apex of your thighs.

Foreplay was too intimate when you know this moment was stolen.

“You’re all but ready,” he echoed your thoughts before pushing in. 

That did the trick of stoking the furnace in him right up. He was no longer shivering from the cold, but from the high of his orgasm as it painted your stomach—both of you trying your best to keep the noise to a minimum. Everyone knows how thin motel walls are.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, settling into a sleepy embrace behind you after he’d cleaned you up. 

Fatigue and bliss kept you from overthinking. But now, in the wee hours of the morning—storm still somehow going strong—your worry blossomed.

Thoughts keep you from falling back into comfortable slumber until the arm pulls you up close to the body behind you. An ongoing heater now that he was able to warm himself up.

“Good morning,” a sleepy murmur came out of him.

Your shiver had nothing to do with the cold blasting into the room. You got up to try to close the windows back up, but stopped by his hold.

“No, don’t get up.”

“It’s raining, sir. I need to close the window before the room gets wet.”

He pressed you firm onto the bed. Sat up and jogged straight to the window to shut it close tight.

“Please, call me Simon,” he said, gazing straight into your eyes. “And please, let’s stay in bed a little longer. We’ll think about the consequences of this later.”

When life throws you a storm…

[libby-for-life]

I was inspired to write this on the Discord. Have fun reading this!

Lucifer Clones x Adam

Adam sighed as he walked around the palace, bored out of his mind. He wished there was more to do in Hell but Lucifer was so stubborn in protecting him that it was impossible to do anything fun without him worrying his dick off.

What was Lucifer even doing right now? Sure, he was the King of Hell, but did that mean he had to be busy 24/7? Surely there were breaks when you were the boss of everyone?

Adam let out a deep sigh, feeling a mix of trepidation and annoyance as he slowly made his way into Lucifer's office. There sat Lucifer, exuding an air of royalty and sophistication, clad in his impeccably tailored, expensive attire. His aristocratic aura was complemented by a pair of stylish glasses, an accessory he never failed to look sexy in, even while engrossed in his work. Adam nervously nibbled on his lip before mustering up the courage to enter the room, greeting Lucifer with a sardonic, "Heya, short stuff."

Adam's heart raced as Lucifer looked up with a smile, his effortlessly beautiful appearance giving Adam a feeling of giddiness. "Hello, Adam. Bored already?" Lucifer's teasing remark only served to irritate Adam further. He was indeed bored, but he didn't appreciate Lucifer making a spectacle of it.

Adam, feeling a surge of impatience, leaned over the desk and gazed at Lucifer with exasperation etched across his face. "When will you finally be finished?" he inquired, his impatience evident in his tone. Lucifer, feeling the weight of Adam's dramatics, let out an audible sigh. "I'm not even close to being done," he responded wearily. "It's going to take a few more hours at this rate." Adam groaned internally; waiting that long was the last thing he wanted. The persistent tug of boredom needed to be addressed immediately.

"Why don't you go play with Charlie or Angel? I do need to get this done."

As much as Adam enjoyed spending time with Charlie and Angel, he found himself wanting to engage in a different kind of activity. He couldn't resist the mischievous urge to provoke Lucifer with a sly grin. "You know, I think I'd rather not play with Charlie or Angel," he remarked. Lucifer raised an eyebrow, immediately catching on to Adam's playful undertone. "I want to play with you~," Adam added, emphasizing the last word with a playful lilt in his voice.

Lucifer, caught off guard, blinked back a blush, but ultimately relented with a resigned sigh. "If that's what you want," he responded, setting aside his initial reluctance. Adam couldn't help but smile. It seemed that all it took was a bit of playful teasing to coax the Devil out of his chair.

Lucifer, with a mischievous gleam in his eye, snapped his fingers, and in an instant, two almost identical copies of himself materialized on either side of Adam. The sudden appearance of the two figures startled the First Man, causing him to let out an involuntary yelp. However, before he could stumble and fall, four hands swiftly caught him, preventing any mishap.

Adam, feeling a mix of surprise and embarrassment, found himself blushing under the gaze of the two identical smirking faces. Confusion and apprehension filled his thoughts as he tried to make sense of the bizarre occurrence.

Addressing Lucifer with an uncertain tone, Adam uttered, "Lucifer?" He knew he could make clones but he hadn't seen them up close like this before.

The Devil responded with a sly smirk, his eyes glinting with amusement. "If you're so eager to play, perhaps you can entertain yourself with them. I'm sure they can provide you with ample pleasure."

Adam's eyes widened in disbelief as the two identical figures let out sinister chuckles in response to his desperate plea. "WAIT! This isn't what I meant!" he exclaimed, but his words fell on deaf ears as Lucifer had already redirected his focus to his paperwork, leaving his clones to assert their dominance and force Adam down to the ground.

The smirks on both of their faces sent a pleasured chill down Adam's spine, as a malicious glint entered their eyes, signaling their enjoyment of his predicament.

The first clone grabbed his hair and yanked, causing Adam's head to be forced back while the second clone kissed his exposed neck. Were they seriously going to paw at each other while Lucifer wrote at his desk?!

Those lips kissed once more before biting, leaving a moan to tumble out. "Keep Adam busy," Lucifer said to his clones as they began to strip him. "I'll join later, okay?"

Adam moaned when someone tweaked his nipples and pulled on sensitive flesh. "No, wait! Not there!" Adam begged as he was pinned to the floor. Both clones just chuckled at his pleading and kissed either side of his cheek.

"Don't worry, Adam~." The first clone said as he nipped at the First Man's jawline. "Just let us take care of you, little lamb." The second clone added. The next few minutes were just the sounds of moans, slaps, and groans as Adam was pleasured from all sides.

It didn't take long for Adam to be on all fours, ass in the air as the first clone spanked him red. The second clone was getting the best blowjob of it's existence. "Such a good slut." The first clone purred as he slapped Adam's fat ass, the ample flesh rippling on contact.

"Yes, the best slut and only for us, right Adam?" The lamb demon moaned his affirmative. The second clone began to roughly thrust into Adam’s mouth as the first one locked his lips in preparation to eat the First Man out.

Adam groaned at the feeling of a long tongue slithering inside, touching everything and leaving no crevice uncovered in its saliva. It felt so deep.

That tongue wasn't there long before it was replaced with a thick appendage prodding at his hole. Adam moaned as he felt himself being plugged from both sides.

Adam's mind was clouded with lust as he was thrusted into, the clones talking as they fucked him hard. "So cute like this, Adam. Maybe this is what you were made for, hm?"

"Yes. To take cock. You take it so well."

Adam felt like he was in Paradise. They fucked him up until they both came. Adam had thought that would be the end, but the clones continued to fuck only switching so the other clone could have a turn with a different hole.

"Well, Adam looks like he's having fun," Lucifer remarked, watching as Adam was fucked like a toy by his clones. They chuckled at him and posed for the camera that Lucifer was pointing at them. "This would make a lovely background." He purred.

The picture had his clones holding Adam as they were balls deep, while Adam was too out of it to do anything other than to drool cum. He looked beautiful this way.

"Well, it's my turn now~."

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Up All Night 7

Warnings: dark elements, noncon, age gap, narcissim, probably name calling and nasty words, other dark elements. Proceed with caution. (older!reader)

Note: I wasn’t serious about this but now I were. Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.

Part of The Club AU

You drive Drysdale to his overpriced house so he can at least dress like a professional. You wait in the car as he takes his time. You have no illusions. About him or anything else. He’s in no rush but you won’t let him get to you. 

Your phone rings and you answer. It's Laing. At least you can get some work done while Drysdale only wastes his own time. 

“Good morning,” Laing greets. 

“Morning,” you say as you rest your elbow on the armrest, “how are you?” 

“Great, and you?” He asks, a nicety. You know he hardly cares. 

“Good, so you’ve thought about our conversation?” 

“It’s all I could think of,” he says, “I’ll sign the deal but I have a condition.” 

“Certainly, we will find a way to meet it.” 

“You. I only want to deal directly with you. I don’t want to sit in a room with that frat boy dripping in nepotism.” 

You almost laugh. He is a writer, he has a way with words. You only smile as the front door swings inward and Drysdale emerges. 

“I’ll put it across the table. I think we know the answer already but I’ll be sure to confirm it once I speak with my boss,” you say. 

“Mm, hard to imagine him telling you no,” he scoffs, “anyhow, you must have your hands full as it were. I’m still in town. I’d prefer a face-to-face… there’s a lovely restaurant in the hotel.” 

You're not naive about his offer, or that lilt in his voice. “Business, Mr. Laing.” 

“Of course,” he agrees, “we will try to keep it professional.” 

His suggestion tickles the back of your neck, “I’ll let you know when I have the answer.” 

“I’ll send you the details for tonight,” he says presumptively, “until then.” 

You hang up and drop your phone in the slot between the cupholders. Drysdale opens the passenger door and swings into the seat. You reverse before he can clip the seat belt into place. 

“Couldn’t find my socks,” he snickers. He’s trying to taunt you. 

“Oh?” You utter dully. 

“Took a bit but I found ‘em.” 

“Good,” you praise him as if he’s a child showing you a drawing of a crooked house. “And did you put them on the right feet?” 

“Hey,” he snips, “I’m still your boss.” 

“I recall,” you reply curtly. “Speaking of,” you reverse and tweak the wheel so he hits the door, a reminder for him to buckle up, “Laing called. We have a deal.” 

“Yes, I knew I talked him into it,” Drysdale clips the belt into place. 

“Certainly,” you agree dryly, “I’ll meet with him to finalise the papers and we should be good.” 

“You’ll meet with him?” He asks. 

“I mean, unless you’d like to stay late tonight and do it yourself. He has some other obligations while he’s in town so he wouldn’t be available during the day,” you say coolly, “I know you are particularly fond of your evenings.” 

“Whatever. I musta downed a roofie,” he sneers. 

“Mhm,” you hum. 

“Do you have to do that tone?” He huffs. 

“I didn’t do a tone,” you shrug. 

“You did,” he insists, “let’s hit the Starbucks, I need something strong.” 

A strong slap to the head, maybe. You keep that one to yourself. You want to tell him no, like a spoiled brat deserves, but you want this deal to go through so you should appease him. 

“Fine,” you turn your blinker on, “do you want whip cream on top and a cherry?” 

“You’re doing the tone again,” he slouches in the seat as he thumbs his phone. 

You let him sink into the screen. It’s easier that way. Let him play with his toys and have his treats while you get the real business done. 

🧣

You confirm your meeting with Laing in a text. He swiftly sends back the details for his hotel and the restaurant where you’ll meet. You smile to yourself. The credit will be in Drysdale’s name but you can’t help but feel particularly proud of this one. 

“What’s so funny?” Your boss interrupts your internal celebration as if he can hear the very thought of him. 

You sit up and wipe all emotion from your face, “nothing.” 

“You look giddy. Like a girl. It’s strange,” he looks you up and down. 

“Aren’t you happy about the Laing contract?” You challenge, “you know the firm needs this.” 

“Yeah, I know, because I’m the boss,” he says firmly, leaning against the side of your desk. “I had a question for you.” He smirks as he plants his hand flat beside your mouse, “do you always wear those silky little nighties or was that just for me?” 

You blink at him, “don’t flatter yourself.” 

“Ah, come on, workaholic like you, how long’s it been?” 

You restrain a sniping retort. You’ve not known many lightweight like him to do much in bed, if they can even get that far. The thought of him in that context tickles your lip with the urge to curl. He doesn’t seem like the type to know where the clit even is. 

You look away and sigh, “I do just fine, Mr. Drysdale, but I’d be happy to answer that with HR present.” 

“God, you’re such a fucking tight ass,” he sneers, “probably dry as bone with all that salt.” 

You tilt your head and arch your brows. He was singing a much different tune last night, not that you enjoyed his melody. But he can’t fool you. You’ve dealt with men like him before. Their egos can’t handle the slightest hint of rejection. 

“Mr. Drysdale, your two o’clock...” you hum as you check the screen, “I’m not quite sure what it is. The block is blank but I just got a call from legal, they requested your attendance in a meeting--” 

“Can’t,” he dismisses you breezily, “I got better things to do than listen to lawyers. They should be able to do their jobs without me.” 

“I’m sure they can but it’s part of running a publishing house--” 

“Don’t tell me what my job is, secretary,” he retorts, “fucking god. Don’t think because of last night, that you got any authority over me. Let’s get this straight,” he walks up to you, one arm crossed, his other hand pointing at you, “I’m your boss. I always will be your boss, just like you’ll always be a dried up old lady.” He scoffs down at you, “That ass is gonna fall one day.” 

You blink indifferently and spin back to your desk, “right then,” you refuse to let him rile you, “I’ll reply to legal.” 

[shingekinohyrulewrites]

Friend or Foe ?

Overhaul, the powerful leader of the Shie Hassaikai, kidnaps Pro Hero Deku's girlfriend. Now his prisoner, you have no choice but to get to know him. But . . . is Overhaul so bad after all ?

Read on AO3 here

TW for kidnapping ; CW for SMUT so 18+ only please !!

Dating a pro hero had its perks.

You had a guaranteed protector from any type of harm, someone who had a good income, and you had a front row seat to many exclusive events. Dating the number one hero, Izuku Midoriya aka “Deku,” meant that your perks were bumped up tenfold. The spotlight was always on him, and if you were spotted on his arm, it meant it was aimed at you too. Although the attention could be constraining at times, you secretly relished in it and felt immense pride towards your boyfriend.

However, dating such a public figure had its drawbacks.

Like the current moment you found yourself in.

One moment you had been in your bed, exhausted from another day of work, and the next you found yourself groggy in an unfamiliar room. The floor was cold underneath your thin pajamas, and as you came to, you realized the lighting was dim. When your eyes finally came into focus, fear immediately struck you as you recognized the looming figure sitting in front of you.

Kai Chisaki, aka Overhaul, the young head of the Shie Hassaikai.

You had recalled when Izuku had told you about his battle with him, how he had been successful in saving Eri but that Overhaul had disappeared without a trace. There had been rumors that he was still working as a yakuza, and a few heroes had reportedly run into him. Despite that, no one had made an effort to capture him, and he remained working as a villain behind the scenes.

Now, here you were, lying at his feet in what you could only assume was his hideout.

He was resting a gloved hand against his cheek, golden eyes seemingly bored as he glanced down at you.

“Well, look who came to. Welcome.”

His deep voice had an unamused lilt to it, although the plague mask he wore muffled it slightly. You glared at him, trying to sit up but feeling the room spin around you.

“You might want to be careful. I personally mixed the sedative we gave you to bring you here. You’ll be unsteady on your feet for a while.”

Glaring at him again, you ignored his warnings and rose to your feet unsteadily.

“Izuku is going to find you, and he will kill you this time.”

A chuckle rumbled from behind his mask, golden eyes squinting as he seemingly laughed. Shaking his head, he waved at someone behind you, instructing them to take you to your new room. A pair of strong arms grabbed onto your shoulders, pushing you towards a door and into a dim hallway. After a few turns down different corridors, you were shown your room. It was a simple one, with a queen sized four poster bed on the right and a large bookshelf directly across from it. A vanity sat beside the bookshelf, with a door beside it leading to what you assumed was the bathroom. You were surprised to see there was a window with sheer white curtains pulled shut, letting in some moonlight from outside. The lackey pushed you in, pointing at the bed.

“You are to stay here at all times. Meals will be brought to you. You will be supervised during baths, no arguments.”

Your stomach sank at that.

“Boss suggests you get some sleep. Like he said, the sedative he gave you is pretty strong.”

It seemed as if he could read your mind, as your body began to feel exhausted at that moment. You nodded, waiting until he shut and locked the door behind you before stumbling over to the bed. Collapsing onto it, you shut your eyes and dreamed of your boyfriend coming to rescue you.

***

The silver lining to being a kidnapping victim was the strict routine you kept.

You were awoken at eight AM sharp every morning, with a different member of the Shie Hassaikai coming to rouse you from sleep. The door next to your vanity turned out to not be the bathroom, but instead a closet. The bathroom was down the hall, and you were led there every morning to shower for the day. As mentioned they waited in the bathroom for you, timing your showers to ten minutes. They would watch as you stripped and stepped into the shower before turning around to give you some privacy.

When you returned to your room, a tray was always waiting for you. The first day, the tray had been placed on the vanity, and you had frowned and turned to the member responsible for you that day.

“I don’t even have the decency to have a dining table or something?”

The next day, when you returned from your shower, a small table had been added, with a comfortable armchair placed next to it. You ate in silence before handing the tray to the minion who always took it hastily and shuffled out. The remainder of the day was spent either reading, sleeping, or pacing the room. Lunch was delivered at noon sharp, and dinner at six o'clock promptly.

Overhaul never made an effort to come visit you. The rotating door of subordinates never mentioned him either, and you were beginning to question why he had kidnapped you in the first place.

After the first week, you knew that finding something to pass the time faster was needed, so you decided to look at the bookshelf. Each shelf was stuffed with books, and you were surprised to see a lot of titles that you had already read. You decided to start at the top shelf, pulling the very first book and working your way to the bottom. The first book was, ironically, Pride and Prejudice, a guilty pleasure that you often reread. You spent the day reading it, paying no heed to whoever was in charge that day as they delivered lunch and dinner.

The days bled together as you went through each book. You were a bit disappointed that there was nothing new for you to read, but the reading helped pass the time. One of the lackeys had pointed out your reading habit while walking you to the bathroom, and while you showered he struck up a conversation with you about what you were currently reading.

“Tess of the D’urbervilles,” you called out over the running water. “I’ve read it, like, ten times. It’s a favorite of mine, but pretty much everything in the bookshelf is.”

“Wait, you’ve read all those books?”

You turned your head and was relieved to see his back was to you as you showered.

“Yeah, reading is a big hobby of mine. I’m thankful for the books, but something new would be appreciated.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, letting you know you had three minutes left in the shower. The walk back to your room was silent, and he stated he would see you later to bring you your remaining meals. You picked up Tess of the D’urbervilles, picking right up where you left off.

When lunch arrived, you were kind of looking forward to whoever had been in charge of you that morning. He was the only one who made an effort to talk to you, and you felt lonely pretty much all the time. Right as noon struck, you heard the door unlocking and looked up, a fleeting feeling of happiness rising in your throat.

It turned to dread as Overhaul walked in.

The subordinate from earlier rushed in behind him, placing the tray of food on the table. You noticed he had a book tucked under his arm, and he placed it on the armchair before scuttling off. Overhaul stood by the door, gloved hands clasped behind his back as he studied you silently.

“Are you finding your living arrangement adequate?”

You crossed your arms, frowning at him.

“You mean do I like being trapped in a room and having my showers timed? Yes, of course, it’s so peachy.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he slowly walked towards you. You scooted backwards on the mattress, trying to put as much distance as possible between you two.

“Relax, I’m not going to hurt you. The opposite, actually.”

He stopped at the foot of your bed.

“I heard that you’ve read all of the books that I provided for you in the bookshelf. I must say, I’m rather impressed. You are a very well-read woman.”

“Er, thank you.”

Overhaul gestured to the book that had been left on your armchair.

“A gift, I suppose. I hope this isn’t a novel you have read already.”

You studied him before carefully sliding off the bed and walking over to grab it.

“Things Fall Apart?”

He nodded, cocking his head as he spoke to you.

“It’s a fantastic narrative about the effects of colonialism in Igboland. It really shows you how humans have the great talent of ruining many things.”

“You’re one to speak,” you muttered without thinking.

You froze, turning to slowly face him. He seemed unbothered, his golden eyes crinkling a bit as you realized he was smiling.

“Let me know what you think. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

He left then, leaving you alone. You ate first, savoring the food before grabbing Things Fall Apart and climbing into bed. Overhaul was right - it was a fantastic book and it was hard to put down. You ordered the dinner tray to be brought to you in bed so you could continue reading comfortably, and you stayed up late to try and finish it.

For the first time in a while, you were tired when you were awoken at eight. The henchman of the day noticed it and was particularly gruff with you as he led you to the bathroom. He sneered at you as you undressed, barking out the minutes left and ogling your naked body, much to your chagrin.

Overhaul returned at lunch, standing by the door again and waiting for his employee to leave. He looked at you with what appeared to be expectancy before speaking.

“So? What did you think?”

“You were right,” you admitted, although you didn't want to. “It was an amazing book. I stayed up late to finish it.”

You walked over to hand him the book. As you got closer, you were surprised to see that he towered over you. Angling your head up to peer at him, you took note of how his green jacket stretched slightly to fit his broad shoulders. He smelled . . . clean.

“Thank you. It wasn’t necessary, but I appreciate it.”

“Well, I asked if your living arrangement was adequate. It’s only fair that you keep your mind sharp.”

He took the book from you, his gloved hand brushing yours. Another book was produced from his jacket.

"This title is a bit older, but a great narrative as well.”

Middlemarch by George Eliot.

“The author of this is actually a woman. It was a series, but this is the whole collection.”

You thanked him, turning away shyly to look towards the tray.

“I shall leave you. Until tomorrow.”

He returned the next day with the same expectant look.

“It was a little boring,” you had admitted, hoping he wouldn’t be upset.

Instead he had laughed, shaking his head as he held his hand out to take the book from you.

“Well, how about North and South? It’s a bit Jane Austen, but with the issue of class heavily focused on.”

A new routine was established, one that included Overhaul. He began delivering your meals alone, bringing a new book every morning with breakfast. If he was busy or pulled into meetings a note was sent with his subordinates, apologizing for his absence and offering a new book for you to read. While you ate, the two of you talked. He asked if you had ever wanted to be a pro-hero, and you told him you had no desire to, especially since you had a fairly uninteresting Quirk. He told you about Pops, the man who had raised him and who he greatly admired. You told him about your favorite things, and he told you about his. After a while, you found yourself finding him as a friend and not a villain.

It was also hard not to notice that he was attractive. He had grown comfortable enough with you to remove his mask, and you had been stunned silent at seeing his face. His eyes were ingrained in your mind, but seeing it combined with all of his features sent heat rushing to your cheeks. He had a sharp jawline with stubble never growing, a sharp nose, and slightly pouty lips. Whenever he took off his jacket, you admired his tall, lean form but took note there was evident muscle. The henchman who you had grown close to, who you came to learn was named Rappa, told you that he had fought Overhaul in an underground brawl, and he had been surprised by how fit the man was.

You were conflicted at the attraction that was beginning to develop. The friendship that was developing also led to an internal conflict, and you kept convincing yourself that the only reason you were getting along with him was to avoid being killed. Whenever you caught yourself thinking about him throughout the day, you told yourself you were developing Stockholm Syndrome. A tiny voice in your head reminded you that the theory had been debunked, but you kept convincing yourself that that’s what it was.

Time bled together, and it felt as if you had been kidnapped for a year. Overhaul continued to visit you, and eventually you were allowed to wander the hideout with a guard. Rappa often accompanied you, especially when you sat in the courtyard. Your window had a view to the small area, a small fountain surrounded by flower bushes that often got abundant sunshine. Sometimes you just sat there, shutting your eyes as you turned your head to the sun. Other times you brought a book, curling up by the fountain as you flipped through pages hastily. Rappa would engage you in conversation, and the two of you often exchanged laughs.

Overhaul must have developed a strong sense of trust in you, as one day while delivering lunch he asked if you would accompany him to an event. You cocked your head to the side, putting your utensils down to fully listen to him.

“It’s a social event. My presence has been requested, and I have an image to preserve.”

He hesitated before clearing his throat and resuming.

“Word has gotten around that you are in my clutches, and it is expected that you will come along with me.”

“O-oh.”

The room fell silent. You couldn’t look at him, eyes focused on the food.

“There will be guards with us at all times. No one will lay a finger on you.”

You didn’t respond. Overhaul got closer, pausing right before the table.

"I will not make you do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

You slowly looked up. He had removed his mask, tucking it under his arm. His expression was sincere, features tinged with slight worry as he waited for you to say something, anything.

“Okay.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”

“I’ll go with you.”

The days leading up to the event were filled with preparations. A tailor was sent to collect your measurements, promising to bring the gown in the next few days for you to try on. Rappa went over security measures with you, teaching you codewords for various situations that could arise. Overhaul popped in when he could, checking on you to make sure you were still comfortable with going before departing for the day.

You were given details about the event. It was a private event, invite only for the most sought after villains. When you asked what type of event it was, Overhaul paused and said it was an auction.

“There may be some . . . things that might disturb you. You will be safe as long as you do what I say.”

The day of the auction you were allowed to sleep in. Breakfast was left for you, a note beside it stating you would be summoned to get ready later that day. You ate slowly, thumbing through the most recent novel that Overhaul had left you. Rappa came to collect your tray, waiting for you to finish and sparking light conversation. Once you were done he gently took the tray, studying your face for a moment before speaking.

“Overhaul will come and collect you in the afternoon. He will oversee you as you get ready for tonight.”

You felt nervous for the first time. Rappa smiled, taking note and gently placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be there to protect you.”

He laughed, turning to walk out of your room.

“Besides, Overhaul will kill me if anything happens to you. You’re too precious to him now.”

The door shut, leaving you sitting there with your mouth agape.

Precious?

***

While reading, you fell asleep. You woke up to someone softly shaking your shoulders.

“Are you alright?”

Dazed you sat up, the figure in front of you coming into focus. Overhaul was inches away from your face, mask on as his golden eyes peered down at you with concern in them. The close proximity had you blushing, and you pulled away slightly.

“Er, yeah. I’m okay, sorry for falling asleep.”

He pulled away, a slight frown on his face.

“No need to apologize. Come, we must get you ready.”

You were surprised that he offered out his hand. He always wore gloves, and right now was no exception. Hesitating, you took it, letting him pull you out of bed and leading you out the door. You were used to the walk to your bathroom, taking a sharp turn to the right but he kept walking forward.

“Um, where are we going?” you asked.

“My personal quarters.”

Heat flared throughout you. Was this . . . appropriate? Couldn’t he have sent someone to your room instead? A flurry of questions flooded your mind, keeping you distracted as he led you the rest of the way. Two men stood guard outside his door, greeting him with nods as they let you both pass. His room was neat, with white walls and plush, white carpet. A large king-sized bed was to the right, covered in a fluffy, white comforter and various comfy looking pillows. Two matching nightstands were on either side, adorned with lamps. Two large windows were on the opposite wall, letting in abundant sunshine. A desk sat in front of the windows, with documents and office supplies placed neatly on its surface. To the left, a dresser and bookshelf sat on either side of a door, which was where Overhaul was leading you.

The door opened to a luxurious bathroom. There was both a clawfoot tub and a large shower with a rain showerhead. You felt your chest tighten as he closed the door, locking it before clearing his throat.

“Since we will be in close proximity all night, I will directly oversee your hygiene. Please strip and get into the tub.”

He busied himself then with turning on the tub water, opening a cabinet and rummaging for bath soap. You watched his back, biting your lip as you realized you had two choices: strip, or be killed. With shaking hands, you pulled your shirt off before sliding off your sweats. Overhaul turned around, mouth open to ask you a question but snapping it shut upon seeing you in your undergarments. He swallowed slowly, trying to keep his eyes on yours but failing.

“Go on. The water won’t be hot for long.”

You took note of the slight quiver in his voice. Sucking in a breath to steady yourself, you unclipped your bra and slid your panties down your legs. You slowly approached the tub, waiting until you saw the bubbles forming and looking at Overhaul for approval. He merely nodded, and you gently stepped in.

The water was hot. You stifled a painful groan, slowly sitting down and trying to keep your body relaxed. Overhaul pulled a stool, shrugging his jacket off and hanging it neatly on a towel rack. He pulled his gloves off, draping them over the jacket before settling next to you.

“I’ll be gentle.”

You didn’t respond, keeping your eyes low. His hands threaded through your hair, gently loosening some knots before pulling it into a neat bun. Your breath got caught in your throat at the gesture. His hand dipped into the water, swirling the bubbles around. A bath sponge was produced out of the water, and he gathered bubbles on it before placing it on your shoulder. He inhaled a shaky breath, letting it glide across your collarbone before brushing against your chest. The material tickled you, and you bit your lip to hide any sounds. The sponge dipped towards your navel before rising again and passing your chest again. You were aroused, and you were ashamed of the fact. He gently pushed you forward, washing your back before dipping the sponge back in the water.

“Lower into the water.”

You slowly slid down, letting the bubbles get washed off. He washed the area again, lingering on your chest before resuming the same path as before. After rinsing, he instructed you to stand. You stood on shaky legs, flitting your eyes over to him quickly before looking straight ahead.

The sponge started at your navel, brushing across your hips before circling around to your lower back. You shuddered, biting harder on your lip as he returned to the front. He paused. You were about to turn your head to peer at him but he kept on, rubbing the sponge on your core.

“You . . . you need to be clean. Everywhere.”

You nodded frantically, trying hard not to press your thighs together. He kept on for a few more seconds before moving down your legs, circling around and washing your ass.

“Water.”

His voice was a whisper now. You sat back down, sinking a little lower to be safe.

“Up, angel.”

Angel.

Your head was spinning, and you blamed the hot water. He lingered on your hips, his free hand gently squeezing one before retracting. He brushed against your core, his wrist pressing against it before moving down your legs. You sank into the water when he asked, lifting your feet up so he could wash them quickly before asking you to stand. He handed you a towel, asking you to dry off while he cleaned the tub.

You waited by the door, trembling slightly as you watched him scrub furiously. The back of his neck was red, and you convinced yourself it was the heat.

Yeah. Just the heat.

***

The image in the mirror kept surprising you.

The hairdresser had left you with your natural hair, blow drying it to give volume at the top. The makeup was smoky, paired with an innocent pink lipstick. The dress that had been chosen was . . . sultry. It was a spaghetti strap, cut with a V to accentuate your cleavage. Expensive lingerie had been picked out, with a lace pushup making your boobs the center of attention. It cinched at the waist, a high slit ending at the top of your thighs. Black garters finished the look, peeking out through the slit.

Overhaul’s eyes went wide upon seeing you. Rappa grinned, showering you with compliments as he took his position beside you. The both of them were dressed in tuxedos, their hair neatly styled. Rappa had tamed his long hair, and it hung neatly to his shoulders. Overhaul’s hair, despite being short, had been slicked back slightly.

“You look fantastic,” he murmured.

The three of you rode in a private car with heavily tinted windows. Overhaul sat in the front while Rappa rode in the back with you. The ride was quiet; the only sound was the music playing softly in the background. Through the dark tint, you noticed you were driving away from the city and towards the warehouse district. You watched as the roads began to disappear, the car pulling off into what had once been some sort of shipping dock. The driver kept on before coming to a stop at a lone warehouse in the back.

“Rappa, you know the drill.”

He nodded, sliding out of the backseat and jogging around to open your door. He extended a hand out, grinning as he helped you out. Overhaul was waiting in front of his car, offering his arm politely to you. Rappa took his place behind the both of you, silent as he followed you inside.

The warehouse seemed inconspicuous at first, but as you entered you could faintly hear noise in the distance. The sound of your heels clacking echoed in the large expanse, your breaths coming out louder than usual. At the far end, a large stack of shipping containers were stacked around a door, where two men stood. Upon seeing Overhaul approach they nodded, opening the door and bowing.

The inside was far from what you expected black market events to be.

The hallway was lined with lanterns, glowing with a soft, orange light. The floor beneath you had lavish carpet, a deep violet color and soft under your feet. The three of you continued on towards a set of brick stairs, descending down towards jazz music. At the bottom of the stairs, a large room opened up, covered in round tables with dark tablecloths and jars filled with candles. People hung about, a few wearing masquerade masks to conceal their identity. Your heart dropped as you realized a few Pro Heroes, openly chatting with what you could only assume were villains.

Overhaul nudged you forward towards the bar. The bartender grinned, leaning against the counter as he took in your appearance.

“Well, well,” he beamed. “I never thought I would see the day you had a lovely woman on your arm, Overhaul.”

“Do you not recognize her?”

The bartender leaned in, studying your face before his eyes widened a fraction.

“No shit. That’s Deku’s little girlfriend!”

He leaned back, whistling.

“How did you bag her?”

“I kidnapped her.”

You bristled at the reminder. Right. You were here against your will.

Right?

“We have wares to view. We shall chat later.”

Just like before, Overhaul nudged you towards another set of stairs in the back. This hallway was lined with open doors, each one showcasing a wide variety of “goods”. You saw rooms upon rooms of weapons, drugs, and, to your absolute horror, people. Overhaul noticed your distress and grabbed your hand, interlacing your fingers before giving it a quick squeeze.

“Eyes forward,” he murmured.

The three of you went on towards the final set of doors, where Overhaul stopped in front of the only closed one. He knocked three times before entering. The League of Villains was waiting inside, heads snapping up and grinning upon seeing who was there.

“Well, well, well,” Shigaraki grinned. “We have business to discuss.”

***

Rappa had steered you away as Overhaul stayed behind to discuss business. You went back downstairs, sitting at a table while he hovered, eyes sweeping around you. Thankfully, after seeing who you had arrived with, no one dared to approach you. After about twenty minutes you were nervous, eyes flickering back to the staircase looking for Overhaul.

“Were you abandoned, little one?”

Rappa narrowed his eyes as a man came up to you. He was unfamiliar to you, but you could smell the alcohol on his breath. Swaying unsteadily on his feet he leaned in, leering at you as he licked his lips.

“You’re very pretty. I can show you a fun time, much more than that bird beak guy.”

You opened your mouth to argue with him but he grabbed your hand. Rappa stepped in, trying to pull the guy off of you but failing. You wailed, the guy’s skin melding to yours as you realized he had some sort of attachment Quirk.

“Well, would ya look at that?” he slurred. “I guess you’re mine now.”

“You guessed wrong.”

The man was grabbed, Overhaul’s eyes alight with anger as he used his Quirk to disintegrate the drunkard. Your eyes went wide as his arm began to disappear, getting close to where you were connected before suddenly stopping. The pain in your hand dissipated, and you realized he was using his Quirk to reverse the pain.

“Are you alright?”

He gently pulled you to him, cupping your face as he gently brought your hand up. You were shaking slightly, nodding as he examined your skin.

“Thankfully he didn’t do any severe damage. Come, let us go. I’ve done what I needed to already.”

Overhaul let go of your face, and you realized suddenly that his hands were still bare from using his Quirk. He slid one hand down, settling on the small of your back. Heat flashed through you at the intimate gesture, and you found yourself leaning into him. The walk back to the car was, thankfully, without issue, and you were headed back in no time.

“Shall I escort her back to her room?”

Rappa had opened your door, raising an eyebrow at Overhaul who shook his head.

“No, I want to check on her hand again. You’re dismissed for the night. Thank you, Rappa.”

His hand resettled on the small of your back. When he opened the door to your room, you turned to look up at him.

“Thank you for helping me,” you said softly.

He shook his head. “I was just trying to protect you.”

It was silent for a moment while his eyes flickered down your figure.

“That dress looks, ah, complicated. Shall I help you out of it?”

Before you could think it through, you nodded. He stepped in, quietly closing the door behind him and locking it. You took note of that, arousal coursing through you as you walked over to your bed, sitting on the edge of it so you could remove your heels. Sighing, you rubbed your feet. Overhaul came to kneel in front of you, gently taking your feet and massaging them. You sighed in content this time, tipping your head back as you relished in the feeling.

Even though you had simply been by his side all night, there had been tension between the both of you. You blamed the bath with him earlier, but you had caught him glancing at you throughout the night. Even now, as he rubbed your feet, he was sneakily staring at your chest, eyeing the way your chest rose and fell.

“Let me unzip your dress.”

He sat beside you, gently sweeping your hair aside and grasping the zipper. It slowly slid down, his fingers lingering on your skin. You shivered, closing your eyes as you felt arousal forming deep within you. The dress fell from your shoulders, slowly falling before pooling in your lap. You heard Overhaul inhale at the sight of the lingerie underneath.

“Overhaul,” you whimpered.

His lips were quickly on your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss before sliding across your shoulder blades.

“Kai,” he whispered. “Call me Kai.”

You turned around, studying his face before kissing him. One hand cupped your face, the other grabbing your hair and gently tugging on it. You raised your hands to hold him but hesitated, knowing about his aversion to touch. Kai sensed your hesitation and pulled back, grabbing onto one of your hands and placing it on his crotch.

“Touch me,” he commanded.

You squeezed his bulge, releasing a low groan from him. Your hands moved up, pulling at this shirt to untuck it before unbuttoning it quickly and throwing it onto the floor. His eyes never left yours as you worked on his belt before slowly pulling his zipper down. There was a pause as you stared at each other, a silent way of asking for consent before continuing.

Kai stood to remove his pants, leaving him in his underwear. His erection was straining against it, causing more arousal to pulse within you. He gently pushed you back onto the mattress, and you crawled further back to settle on your pillows. The mattress dipped as he knelt on the edge, slowly making his way towards you. You felt fire burning your skin where his eyes landed, memorizing every dip and curve of your body and committing it to memory.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you,” he murmured.

He leaned down, capturing your lips in another searing kiss. His hands grabbed yours, placing them beside your head as he interlaced your fingers. His bulge kept rubbing against you, creating delicious friction that just wasn’t enough. Your hips jerked up, seeking more but Kai simply chuckled, shaking his head as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck.

“So impatient, hm?”

One of his hands let go to reach into his waistband and slowly pull his underwear down. His cock sprang out, thick with a neat trim at its base. Kai reached down to pump himself, and your stomach clenched when you saw he could barely wrap his own hand around it.

“Are you ready, angel?”

You nodded furiously, looking deep into his eyes as you grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him down to kiss him. You felt his cock head pushing against you, and you lifted your hips to help him slip inside. The initial stretch burned a little, and you tried to relax to help him ease inside.

“Relax,” he breathed, pressing a wet kiss to your temple.

You sucked in a breath, eyes fluttering shut as you slowly felt your body relax. Kai groaned as he pushed further inside until he bottomed out and was pressed flush against you. He froze, panting above you as he allowed you to adjust to his thickness. When you were ready, you jerked your hips up.

Kai started off slow, pulling his hips back until just his tip was in before slamming into you. You gasped, squeezing his hands at the feeling as he repeated the motion. Goosebumps rose on your skin, with a shiver running down your spine at the feel of him stretching you out slowly. After a few thrusts, he began to pick up speed. His thrusts began to get rougher, and you felt your bottom beginning to get sore from the sheer impact of his hips.

But you didn’t care. Your mind was spinning at how good he was fucking you, and you wondered where he had been your whole life. You wrapped your legs around him, trying to put your feet up as high as you could. The changed angle had him hitting you even deeper, and you couldn’t help the loud moan that you let out.

“Kai,” you panted. “Don’t stop.”

Your words spurred him up, and his thrusts were so fast your body couldn’t keep up. You felt your insides clench as your orgasm began to form, and Kai sensed it because he fucked you even faster.

“You’re mine,” he growled. “I’m going to fill you up and no one else will be able to do so. Understand?”

You nodded frantically, words failing you as the knot in you snapped and you came hard with a yell of his name. Kai kept on, riding you through your orgasm until you felt him spasming inside of you, followed by a surge of warmth. He shivered, nuzzling against your neck as he tried to relax his breathing. When he pulled back, his eyes were full of affection as he stared at your blissed out face.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he whispered.

“I’m all yours, Kai.”

***

The silence of the base was broken by the sound of a loud crash. A flurry of underlings ran towards the sound, Rappa among them to report back to Overhaul. He was quickly notified that the sound of the crash was the Pro Hero Deku, who had come to retrieve his long-missing girlfriend. The Shie Hassaikai leader was calm, dictating orders to his men and waiting patiently in his meeting room.

It didn’t take long before the young man had fought through the throngs of men, stepping into the room with a menacing glint in his eyes. Overhaul sat on the couch, arms spread lazily along the back of it. One leg was crossed, ankle neatly pressed against his knee.

“Well, it took you long enough.”

The resolve in Deku quickly crumbled upon noticing you. A slow grin tugged at Overhaul behind his mask, his hand coming up to rest gently on your head. You were sat on your knees at his feet, leaning into his touch and angling your head to smile up at him.

“But it took you too long. She’s all mine now.”

[slashingdisneypasta]

Dorothy Must Die!Lion x Scarecrow'sFemAssistant!Reader || Drabble

Plot: What it's like catching the fearsome Lion's attention, becoming his favourite, but also falling under the protection of his good friend.

Warnings: Threatening confession.

*picture there so y'all can see HOW HUGE THIS FUCKEN LION IS- and I assume this picture is from BEFORE he grew big and terrifying.

"And this... "Your boss, Scarecrow, sounds bored as he waives a gloved and straw-filled hand the animal's way, after introducing the Tin Man. "this is my old friend Lion, of course."

Obviously you knew who both of these men (Creatures??) were; you've been appointed the Scarecrow's research assistant for good reason afterall. You knew everything you could learn, and that certainly involved Oz history- in which your new boss, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly (Or not-so-cowardly, any longer) Lion were main figures.

But you let the Scarecrow tell you anyway. Because you're smart, and you know- a man like that? Needs the validation of sharing information others may not be aware of. And you would rather not get on the viscious scientists bad side boss or not.

You give both the Tin Man and the Lion a solemn, respectful nod. "Illuminating to make your acquaintances. I've heard all about your bravery in killing the Wicked Witch of the West by Queen Dorothy's side."

The Tin Man nods respectfully and sensibly back, and he's about to say something as his old metal mouth squeaks open- but the Lion, who's the same height as his two friends on all-fours, cuts in; approaching you and flashing a huge toothy smile down. "Oh, Scare old friend! Where have you been hiding this one?" The Tin Man promptly closes his mouth, a note or irritation in his metal squeal this time, you think. "She's pretty! You're pretty, young lady."

-immediately you go bug-eyed. What?? WHAT?? You're used to the Scarecrow's sensible, monotonous, borderline rude ways; this straight forward compliment is completely foreign to you. Though, you're sure you shouldn't be surprised by his boldness. The Lion is an animal, and animals don't play with subtlty, or pretending. And he is known for his courage these days, you suppose.

"U- um, I- "

"And she smells delicious."

"Wh- "

The Scarecrow cuts you off, with a sigh. "Leave her be, Lion. You're flustering her and I have no use for an emotional research assistant."

"I'm flustering her?" The Lion asks, looking at you with a stern, puzzled look on his face. With a roll of his giant muscled shoulders, he backs up a step. "My apologies."

"No- I- that's okay." You manage, then take a deep breath. "I... take no offence."

Another broad, leonine grin spreads across the big cats maw again. "Oh." Is there a wild, roguish lilt to his grin? Almost a smirk? "Good." He tells you bluntly in that deep voice sounding something like a roar, tail swishing behind him.

~

A few days later, it's the first time you've been allowed a break from thr Scarecrow's dark room's and the smell of death that fills them other then for meals. The Scarecrow wanted to be left alone, so he sent you to do some reading on cerebrospila fluids, and you chose to do so out in the courtyards. In the bright sun, surrounded by the emerald palaces beautiful gardens.

The Lion seemed to have had the same idea, covering a good portion of cobblestones with his large body sprawled lazily out under the warm ray's; dozing. And you keep sneaking glances at him like some silly girl- allowing your mind to skew from your duties and half admire the monster's muscles as well as half wonder to yourself what he meant by saying that you smell 'delicious'.

Does he want to eat you?? You've heard about his enormous, insatiable hunger, as well as how he enjoys his meals to be alive when he eats them. That doesn't sound particularly good, to you.

But... he also called you pretty. And that's throwing you off.

Before too long, you've only been sitting outside for no longer than 10 minutes, the Lion's deep echoing voice fills your eyes like molasses.

A crackly purr like growling sound escapes from deep in his chest as he stretches a little, muscles rippling under his skin, and his eyes gaze over at you half-lidded. "Nice day, isn't it?"

"Very nice."

"Come over here, pretty assistant."

You don't have a choice, it's the Lion (The King of the Beasts), and besides if you did try to run he could pounce and catch you in no time at all- so you do the smart thing, and close your book and wander over. When the enormous beast just looks at you, his maw pulling wider in a lazy grin, before nodding with his giant head to a spot next to him, you carefully sit down on the cobblestones with him.

After a moment of the Lion just looking at you, either like you're a prime steak or a masterpiece (maybe both), you take a deep breath. "Are you going to eat me??"

"... I want to. I like you quite a bit; you're pretty. If I could I would keep you and nibble off you for as long as I could- days, weeks, months, even years if you were strong enough. And the Scarecrow would just keep replacing your limbs one by one. You could be my favourite." He allows, looking pleased and impressed by your bravery, a roguish and wild lilt to his gorey, sharp smirk. "... but you're my dear old friend's help, and I wouldn't like to put him on the spot like that."

"... oh."

"Scared, little kitten?"

"I- "

"You shouldn't be." He sighs, adjusting his massive paws in front of him and making himself more comfortable. "Trust me, I spent far too long being a coward and fortune favours the brave. I'm King of the Beasts, now."

... "You have a point." You nod, speaking quietly.

"I do."

"Well... I- I should go." You curse yourself for stuttering, for you're still scared, but the Lion looks reproachfully at you. "The Scarecrow will be expecting me- "

Before you can even move, the Lion leans over and drops his heavy head on your lap with a thud; his snout nuzzling into your hip bone. He gives a content yawn, sounding more like a gentle roar thick with sleepiness. "Not yet... "

That makes your eyes widen wide open and heat fill up your chest, and your neck, and your cheeks. "But- I thought- I thought you didn't wish inconvenience the Scarecrow??"

"He can wait for a little while, pretty Y/N. I need you, now."

[wheneverfeasible]

Bloody Hands, Broken Hearts: a Mafia AU

Chapter 4

chapter wc: 5.3k || rating: E || main tags/warnings: alcohol/drug mention and use, sex trafficking, past rape/non-con, violence/blood/bruises, mean dom!Eddie, mob boss!Eddie, (forced) sex worker!Steve, feminized!Steve, see ao3 for full list

Though nothing Explicit has technically yet taken place, I’m gonna go ahead and bump up the rating just to be on the safe side due to the conversations that are taking place.

cw: violence, threat of sexual violence, homophobic language, Steve acknowledges past rape

1, 2, 3, 4, …

~

Steve sat curled up against the headboard of the bed, his brows furrowed in confusion as his hands cradling a glass of ice water. It had been ordered with an exaggerated roll of eyes by Munson when, after trying to talk further, Steve had exploded into another round of coughing from his abused throat. A quick call down the hall later for where his men had gone to wait, and soon he was thrusting the glass into Steve’s hand with a mocking lilt of his brow.

What the hell.

Munson was going to give him whiplash with how quickly his attitude kept changing, going from sexually charged, to mocking, to almost humored, to a flying rage, and back again to one of the others in no particular order and giving Steve a headache in the process. Or maybe that was the lack of oxygen he’d experienced.

It wasn’t the first time Steve had been choked, however, and as restrictive as his breathing had been, there was no denying that Munson had avoided putting crushing pressure to his trachea like Porzio had done on more than one occasion. It had been brutal, and absolutely terrifying at the time, but there had been less threat of a collapsed windpipe and larynx than he had believed at the time.

It was certainly a sobering experience, however.

Which was another thing. Munson had also ordered a wet cloth, tossing it at Steve and telling him to clean himself up from where he’d spilled the bourbon all over himself. Steve would have expected at least a slap for wasting the expensive and rare alcohol, with or without the rings, but Munson had merely waved his stuttering apologies away.

So now here was Steve, naked under the soft dressing gown thrown at him that practically swallowed him up with its size, curled up on his master’s bed, yet said master was making no move to claim what was his. Instead, he’d given Steve a chance to clean himself up, soothe his aching throat somewhat, and ordered him instead to tell Munson everything he knew about Porzio’s operation and the secret dealings he had with Munson’s mole.

It wasn’t a lot. Sure, it was certainly more than what any of the girls knew, probably even some stuff some of Porzio’s lieutenants hadn’t known, at least of his secret dealings. But it wasn’t like Steve had been part of the discussions. He’d just been in the room, either under the desk or draped across it, or wherever else Porzio wished him. But he had old Munson what he could.

There had been one time he’d been stretched on his front across the bed, arms still trapped in the bindings attached to the hook at the foot of the bed where he’d been left after Porzio finished with him, mercifully granted a repose of sleep to recover.

Except Steve didn’t sleep, though he pretended to do so. It had allowed him to overhear Porzio talking to someone about the offshore accounts, about how he was finally going to get one over on Kas the Bloody-Handed.

Steve couldn’t help snorting at where that particular plan had led Porzio. From what he’d heard, Munson hadn’t even left behind enough to identify the man through dental records.

“Something funny?” Munson asked from where he leaned against the bedpost at the foot of the bed, where he’d listened to Steve’s recounting of information, a note of warning in his tone.

Denial was on the tip of Steve’s tongue, a habitual and learned response, but he pushed that down while he took another shaky sip of the blessedly cold water he clasped in his hands. Clearing his throat with a small pained wince, Steve gave a half-formed shrug.

“I was just thinking about Porzio,” he admitted, and though his throat was doubtlessly already showing signs of bruising peeking out from his collar, it still was not as terrible as he had done to him before, his voice hoarse but not as painful to get out as he had expected it to be after everything. Less painful than a round with Porzio at least.

Munson’s brows lowered into a glower. “And what about him, pray tell, are you thinking about?”

Unable to help himself, Steve flashed Munson a quick grin. “He had been so certain he could best you. Make you his bitch.” Steve took another sip of water without bothering to conceal his smirk. “Honestly, I think he got let off easy.”

Munson’s brows next shot back up into his hairline, and Steve wondered briefly if the man knew how expressive his face could be when he wasn’t staring like a blank mask. “Easy? Never has anyone claimed I let anyone off easy before. And what would you have done, Sweet Vee? Released him to the police to answer for his crimes?” Munson drawled mockingly.

“Oh god no,” Steve snorted. “The entire institution of police is corrupt, and that’s not even touching on the number of officials in mobsters’ pockets. I’m sure you have your own fair few on your payroll.” Munson shrugged but did not deny the claim. “No, I’m glad Porzio is dead. But a quick albeit brutal beating isn’t enough. I would have cut off his balls and made him eat them.”

Munson started slightly at the ease in which Steve made his proclamation, his eyes taking in the bruised jaw, split lip, at the familiarity Steve had with this very room. His eyes then dropped to Steve’s neck, then his wrist peeking out of the sleeves of the dressing gown, letting out a small snort of his own.

“I suppose it’s true that you’re no longer the same boy ruling the roost of Hawkins High,” he murmured, stroking a hand over his short facial hair, but Steve didn’t miss the blink and you miss it quirk of Munson’s lips in a surprising smile that lacked any of the mockery Steve had already grown used to seeing.

So, Steve gave his own mocking look as he waved a hand over his body. “Clearly,” he dryly said, because he was as far from who he had been in high school as he could possibly get. He turned his thoughts away from what had put him on this path, however, to lower his gaze and fidget with the glass in his hands. Clearing his throat once more, he reached over to set his glass on the bedside table nearest to him.

He was still waiting for Munson, who seemed to purposely be keeping his distance, to start in on him. He was naked under the gown he hadn’t even been expecting to be given, and Munson was very clearly attracted to him, yet he made no move to push Steve’s legs open or order him to his knees. It was honestly kind of nerve wracking. He didn’t know what to expect next with Munson’s hot-and-cold treatment.

“Do you want me to pretend to be him, Daddy?” he softly asked, because that had to be it too, right? Munson had to be gloating that he had someone like who Steve used to be under him. “You could get me a little jersey to wear, I could talk about shoving freaks into lockers or whatever it was they did.”

A genuinely amused snort left Munson at that, causing Steve to look up at him with a small frown, mildly offended though he didn’t know why.

“As much as I would enjoy seeing you wearing those tiny little shorts again…that’s not quite what I had in mind.” Munson moved around the bed then, giving Steve once more the mental image of a predator stalking its prey. “You know, even here where no one knows my past, they still call me a freak. Among other things,” Munson smirked, settling on the bed near Steve.

It took all his power not to draw his legs up closer to himself, to not shy away from the man who was almost playful one moment and then a savage beast the next. He didn’t even know what could set the man off again to prevent it. So, instead Steve forced himself to relax, to settle back against the headboard and stretch out his legs, trying to indicate that he was open to his master’s whims.

“Tell me, Sweet Vee,” Munson said with a smile that did not match the hard look in his eyes. “Does it sicken you to be touched by me? By someone you knew in the past? Someone so far beneath your social standing?” His pale hand reached out, his fingers walking across the silken material of the dressing gown draped over Steve’s thigh, sliding the material off the dotted skin there.

Swallowing thickly, Steve forced his muscles to remain relaxed, letting his thighs open slightly until his leg was exposed almost fully. Munson made no move to expose him further, however, instead simply grazing his calloused fingertips over Steve’s inner thigh.

“That was high school,” Steve murmured, trying to be careful with what he said lest he send Munson into a flying rage again. Besides, it wasn’t like he finished school all that high in social ranking anyways. Though, Munson wouldn’t know that, he realized. Munson had skipped town before everything happened.

Forcing himself to remain relaxed, Steve risked giving Munson an almost teasing smile. “Besides. The roles have certainly switched, Daddy. You’re the one with all the power here.” Steve picked at the edge of the dressing gown on his chest, dropping his gaze down to his fingers. “I think we can both agree that we’re not the same people we were back then.”

Munson let out another surprising snort of amusement, his fingers tracing a pattern between Steve’s moles, Steve realized. It was almost…pleasant. Soothing. If one ignored the fact that those same fingers had killed countless men. Would kill him one day too, he was certain.

“That much is true,” Munson allowed. “Though had I known you were so good at taking it up the ass, I might have spoken to you sooner,” he added with a dark smirk. Steve tensed then beyond his control, Munson’s fingers tightening in their grip on his thigh. “Would you have called me ‘Daddy’ then if I fucked you in the back of your precious car? You’ve always been a slut, haven’t you?”

Steve had to clench his jaw tight so he didn’t hurl an insult at Munson. That definitely wouldn’t end well for him. Sure, he’d been a bit of a slut in high school, but there wasn’t anything wrong with being sexually liberated. It wasn’t like he’d slept with every chick that looked his way anyways. If anything, it had been more rumors than truth, but he’d let them tell their tales. Whatever. It helped his reputation at least.

Except Munson was here now, calling him a slut in a way that made his stomach squirm unpleasantly because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d genuinely enjoyed sex, the last time he’d had sex because he wanted to. But that didn’t matter to people like Munson, did it?

No, all they saw was the whore who sucked and fucked and acted like it was a choice.

They never saw the victim.

Why would they, when they were the ones who created the victims in the first place? Who snatched the victims from the streets, who sold them to the highest bidder, who took whatever they wanted until they left nothing behind but a husk of who the person the victim had used to be. There were no real survivors here. Only a shortened lifespan.

And Steve knew. He knew he was reaching the end of his. His lifespan had been shortened already in this lifestyle simply by being a man, but he’d been doing this for so long already. He might only be in his middish-twenties, but for someone like him? Those were geriatric years.

Steve knew he was going to die here with Munson, one way or another.

“Yes, Daddy,” Steve answered the only way he could. He once more shoved whatever was left of Steve back down to be the whore he was supposed to be. “You had a van though, didn’t you?” Steve vaguely recalled the monstrosity in the school parking lot. “I’m sure it’d be much more spacious.”

Something changed in Munson’s expression, but it was so minuscule that Steve couldn’t even properly tell for certain that it had. He worried he’d said something wrong, those icy prickles causing his chest to seize up once more at the memory of fingers at his throat.

“Would you have taken me in the back, Daddy?” he murmured, putting on a coy smile, hoping to distract Munson from whatever mistake he’d fumbled into. “Right there in the parking lot where anyone could hear us?”

He carefully settled his hand over Munson’s on his thigh, biting his lip suggestively as he looked up through his lashes. He could do this. He could make himself worthwhile to keep around for a little while longer.

“I can get so loud, Daddy. You’d have to gag me with something,” he purred, sliding Munson’s hand up higher on his thigh, arching his back slightly as he drew his other knee up and open. The dressing gown slipped open further, putting himself fully on display. “I could show you how good at sucking cock I am. Choke me with your thick, hard—”

Except the robe had slipped open. Had put himself fully on display. Including his undeniably soft dick. Though his voice and mouth and expression spoke of sexual want, Munson’s eyes had snapped immediately to the part of Steve that couldn’t lie about how he felt in that moment. It was so hard to get hard when you were scared for your life.

Munson ripped his hand from Steve’s grip, standing from the bed in a fluid motion that caused Steve to flinch. He was barely able to swallow back a whimper when Munson grabbed him by the bicep and flung him over, sending him sprawling across the bed on his stomach. Munson was right there after him, climbing on the bed over him.

Steve’s muscles tensed in fearful anticipation. This he knew. His fingers dug into the duvet as he clenched his teeth, waiting for the dressing gown to be flipped up, to expose his ass for Munson’s pleasure, to be torn and stretched and claimed by his new master.

“Is this what you’re expecting?” Munson breathed hotly into his ear where he lowered himself over Steve. “To be fucked into the mattress until I tire of you?” Munson’s knee moved to rest between Steve’s legs, leaning in to brush his hip along Steve’s ass. “I can feel you trembling beneath me. The thought of me touching you is repulsive, isn’t it?”

“No!” Steve gasped out, cursing the fact that he hadn’t taken the pills to give himself an artificial erection. Porzio didn’t always care, they were more for when he had to fuck one of his girls, or otherwise humiliate Steve, but maybe Munson did. “Please, Daddy, I w-want you to touch me,” he whispered.

A humorless chuckle left Munson at his words. “You’re such a fucking liar, Vee,” he murmured into Steve’s ear, his weight pressing Steve into the bed. “I could fuck you raw right here, fuck you until you’re raw and bleeding, and you’d still tell me how much you want me, isn’t that right?”

Of course it was. Unless…fuck. Did Munson get off on the struggle? Did he want Steve to fight back? Did he get off on fully acknowledging this for what it was: rape?

A choked sob caught in Steve’s throat, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut at the warmth of more encroaching tears. He tried so hard not to acknowledge for himself what this was, even though of course he knew. He’d always known.

He’d known since the first time he’d been forced to see to another’s pleasure even though he didn’t want to, even though he felt betrayed by the person who should have protected him. He knew from the moment he was first sold into the goddamned trafficking ring, broken and trained until purchased by his first master.

Knew when he was sold again, knew when Porzio claimed him, and knew now when Munson had him pressed against the bed he’d been violated against time and time again. He knew it all along. Knew it still.

“P-please,” he whimpered.

“‘Please what’, whore?” Munson growled, his hand coming up to once more fist into Steve’s hair to pull his head back slightly until his neck arched.

Steve let out a small gasp, a tear of pain escaping past his eyelids to drip down his cheek. ”Please tell me what you want from me. I-I’ll do it. I’ll be whatever you want me to be, Daddy. Master. Please.”

Munson was quiet for a moment, as though actually considering Steve’s words. Steve just had to figure out what Munson wanted from him and then he could be it, could do it, and maybe he’d live to see another day.

But, with a huff of exasperation, Munson was then roughly releasing him and moved off of his back, climbing off the bed as he moved back towards the drink cart and pouring himself a fresh glass by the sound of it, not that Steve could actually see behind him. No, Steve stayed in exactly the position Munson left him in, not risking moving a single inch.

After a moment’s silence where the only sound was Munson’s thick gulping, the other man let out a heavy sigh. There was another glub of pouring liquid in a glass, but Munson kept his distance. For now.

“Get up,” he huffed.

Steve immediately scrambled off the bed, trying not to trip on the excessive material of the dressing gown, not knowing what was going to happen. He did know, however, that he had to push everything else away and be on his best behaviour if he wanted to survive. He stood there, dressing gown hanging open, head bowed submissively with his hands clasped before him. Except that just caused Munson to let out another heavy sigh.

The sound of glass meeting the mirrored top of the drink cart, and then Munson was moving closer. Steve tensed despite himself, readying for the next…whatever, sucking in a short breath when Munson batted his arms aside so that he could grab the edges of the dressing gown. And then, to Steve’s utter shock and confusion, he closed it, looping the hanging belt into a knot to keep it shut.

“You’ve told me enough for the night,” Munson said eventually. His voice sounded calmer now, flatter, lacking either ire or mockery. Lacking pretty much anything. “I think it best if you returned to the others tonight.”

Steve’s head shot up at that, his hands darting out with their own volition to grasp Munson’s wrists before he could withdraw his hands, though a part of Steve quailed at his presumption.

“Please don’t,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, Master. I’ll do better. Let me make up for my mistake.”

Munson let out a humorless laugh, shaking off Steve’s grip on his wrists but didn’t strike out in retaliation. Instead he just rolled his eyes, taking a pointed step back from Steve.

“Trust me, darling, we’re far from over. But I’m in no mood for a whore tonight,” he scoffed. “So you’re going to go back to your room until I summon you again. Understand?”

Steve blinked wide eyes at Munson, completely confused by everything that had gone on tonight, the buzz of anxious anticipation unpleasant beneath his skin. Munson was still playing with his food, it seemed, making Steve even more apprehensive about when his new master would finally snap. Would take what he was owed.

“I said, understand?” Munson repeated, a harder edge to his voice.

Steve could only nod rapidly for a moment, heart stuttering in his chest. “Yes,” he finally managed to croak out. “Yes, Master. Daddy.”

“Good,” Munson said with what was almost a scoff. He walked over to the door, knocking on it hard enough to draw the attention of his waiting men, and shot Steve a slightly mocking look. “Leave your clothes and go.”

Wrapping his arms around himself, Steve was barely given time to wonder at Munson’s words before the door was opened to one of the men from earlier entering. He kept his eyes professionally leveled at Munson, ignoring Steve like the insignificant thing he was.

“Take Vee back to his room,” Munson ordered with a flippant wave of his hand as he moved to reclaim his drink from the cart. “Keep someone posted outside like usual but do not enter, and let none of them out unless you hear my express orders.”

“Yessir,” the man intoned, only then casting his eyes Steve’s way. His gaze quickly took in Steve’s appearance, but there was no smirk or sneer, merely a hand indicating for Steve to walk out the door.

Still utterly confused about everything going on, having never gone this long before he was claimed by a new master, Steve could only send Munson a small, furrowed brow look before he was gathering the dressing gown in his hands enough to walk without tripping over the slippery material.

With one last look sent towards Munson’s back, Steve ducked his head and left the room that haunted his nightmares. Though more of his skin was being covered than he ever remembered it being, he felt more exposed than ever as he walked the vast halls of Porzio’s—now Munson’s—mansion to his room with his girls.

His guard didn’t harass him at all, however, didn’t even send a disgusted leer his way, merely escorting Steve back to his room as ordered. He didn’t even shove Steve through the doorway when they arrived, merely unlocked the door and held it open for him.

Steve hesitated only a second before he stepped inside, drawing in a shuddering breath when the door shut behind him with a finality that vibrated through his bones, the lock clicking into place.

There was a moment’s pause, a second of quiet, and then suddenly it was like déjà vu as he felt gentle hands reaching for him, soft voices asking him if he was all right, and suddenly he just wanted to cry. He didn’t, of course. He might have only released a few tears from pain and fear earlier, but it had already been far too much.

“Vee,” Janice breathed, the others parting for her to step forward in front of him. She was the oldest of them all, and the one that had been there the longest. They had discussed more than once the likelihood of this being their final year.

Janice was very nearly 30, or perhaps freshly 30; it was hard to keep track of dates doing what they did. Being what they were. Not whores, not really. Not anymore, at least. Janice actually had been one once, had been working the streets because she wanted to, her own boss who chose who and when and where. She had enjoyed it then.

Then one of her johns had decided she was too pretty, too good, too profitable, and then she had found herself drugged and bound and hadn’t seen the free world since.

Steve could somewhat relate to that. He had been something close to a prostitute as well, though not by choice. No, he hadn’t enjoyed it then either. He had trusted the wrong person, however. Maybe his parents had been right all along. Maybe he was just too stupid.

“Vee,” Janice repeated again, her hands coming up to lightly clasp him by the upper arms. There would be a new bruise there as well, he was certain, from where Munson had grabbed him to throw him over the bed.

Without much thought, Steve threw himself into Janice’s arms, burying his face in her neck. He wouldn’t let himself cry, but as her arms wrapped around him, his breath might have been the slightest bit shaken.

“I’m okay,” he whispered, which wasn’t a complete lie. He had certainly expected the worst when he went to see Munson. A slap, a few bruising grips, a reminder that he was absolutely nothing…all of it was a favorable outcome when the other option had been a painful and bloody death.

“Are you really okay?” Tiffany quietly asked, her soft southern drawl a little more evident with her worry. “You know you don’t need to be brave for us.”

Yes he did. He knew they worried for him, knew that they wanted to take care of him just as he took care of them. That was more than evident by what they tried to pull that morning. He needed to keep up the brave face, keep up the mask he’d been wearing all his life.

“Honestly, I’m okay,” he said with more feeling, shoving everything down deep. He survived the night. This was good news.

“What are you wearing though?” Selena asked with a slight grimace, delicately pinching the sleeve of the dressing down between her fingers as though to examine it further.

“Definitely not Daddy Kas’s,” Fen snorted, taking in the obvious size of the garment.

Steve rolled his eyes, stepping back from Janice’s hold to shake himself loose. “I spilled some drink on myself, so Daddy Kas threw me something of Porzio’s to cover up with. I’m pretty sure he picked the ugliest one on purpose,” he lightly complained.

He didn’t miss the way all their eyebrows went up at his statement. It was Mona who finally asked the question he knew they were all wondering, however, though it was Zuri who led him back to his own bunk.

“What did he do to you?”

Steve sighed, collapsing on the bottom bunk and leaning back on his hands as he looked up at the faces of his girls. It was obvious that, while they had been settled in for the night judging by the pajamas they were wearing and Zuri’s bonnet, they had been waiting anxiously for news of Steve, even though it had been likely he wouldn’t be back that night at all.

“Nothing,” he said honestly, before giving a small shrug. “At least nothing sexual, not really. We…talked.” He couldn’t tell them about what exactly, at least not everything. Not about the part of knowing him still. “He wanted to know what I knew about Porzio’s business.”

“He had Miss Vee all naked in his room and he didn’t cop a feel?” Fen asked, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned against the frame of the bunk bed. She quirked her brow in disbelief. “He doesn’t have a limp dick does he?”

All the girls shuddered at that, knowing what men who couldn’t get it up tended to do to them.

Steve burst out in a laugh. “No!” He paused, frowning a little as he considered that. “At least…I don’t think so.” Come to think of it, he hadn’t really been given the opportunity to check. Even when Munson was pressed against him earlier, it had been his hip, not his dick, covering his ass.

Huffing another sigh, Steve sat up fully again and finally reached up to begin undoing the collar around his neck. It was fucking uncomfortable to sleep in, and if he wasn’t entertaining their master, then he was going to take it the fuck off. It would also give the growing bruise a moment of relief as well.

“He just wanted to know what I knew, what I had overheard,” he murmured, rolling his eyes at Janice’s look as she took in the growing bruise at his neck. “I…pissed him off a couple times, but beyond a few hits, he didn’t really do much to me. I think he’s more interested in what I know. For now, at least.”

He caught Isabel’s gaze, the way she worried her bottom lip as she looked at him. She was still so young, barely out of her teenage years. Porzio was her first master, snatched outside her job where she bagged groceries after school before being broken and trained and sold to the highest bidder. She was far too sweet for this life.

“I’m okay,” he repeated, hoping to reassure her and the others. “I’m here aren’t I? A couple new bruises aren’t anything new. He didn’t even hit me with his rings. He just wanted to talk.” He just hoped he hadn’t cost them breakfast. They hadn’t really eaten all day and he knew they’d need their strength.

“Besides,” he grinned. “I got to taste some of Porzio’s good shit. M-Master Kas didn’t even punish me for spilling it,” he said, hoping his smile didn’t waver at the near slipup of Munson’s name. He pointedly didn’t look at Janice. “He just got me a wet cloth to clean up and had me cover up in this.” He plucked at the dressing down as he tossed the collar on the shared beside table.

“Huh. And we are certain he’s a poof too, right?” Zuri teased. “Because having your ass right there and not taking advantage of it?”

Steve shot her a glare without heat. “Trust me, he’s some kind of queer. He just…” Steve could only shrug again. Why hadn’t Munson taken advantage of him? Even straight guys had used his services before when they were offered.

A mouth was a mouth and an ass was an ass, after all, especially in the dark. It helped with his hair being longer, and being forced to wear the clothes that he did.

“I think he was focused on learning what I know. Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll have me ass up soon enough.”

Fen let out a throaty laugh, moving to climb into her top bunk over Zuri’s. “Should draw a smiley face with your moles on your ass cheek for when he does,” she teased across the aisle at him.

“I’m going to smother you one of these days,” he flatly replied. His lip twitched when she cackled and slid under her covers though, grateful to her that she was still trying to make it seem like it wasn’t a big deal. He much preferred that over everyone fussing over him.

“Smother me with your thighs, darling,” Fen purred, waving a dismissive hand his way.

“And what a way to go,” Selena laughed. “I call dibs on second to die via Vee’s thighs.” She followed Fen’s lead, dragging Isabel back towards their own bunk next to Steve’s and Janice’s, which encouraged the rest to move as well. Steve was thankful for it.

“You would be so lucky,” Steve huffed, but he was feeling better at his girls’ antics. He had somehow survived his night with Munson with barely any injury to show for it. Sure, his throat still felt sore and he had a couple new aches, but those were minimal things compared to what could have happened.

Slowly but surely, everyone settled in for the night, bedside lamps switched off and whispered goodnights given. Isabel still quietly prayed each night, a soft susurration that Steve had grown used to beside him, though he wondered how much longer until even she stopped believing in something greater out there.

They had all held beliefs of being rescued one of these days, at least at the start. Everyone had hope at first. Steve wondered if his parents even knew he was missing. Wondered if they would even care, or if they would rather believe that this was some sort of divine punishment for his deviancy.

Steve rolled over onto his side, facing the opposite way from Isabel. His fingers found the bruise growing on his other wrist, his thumb trailing over the inked brand there.

He stared into the dark, his mind on his new master who was perhaps as much of an enigma to Steve as Steve was to him. His fingers tightened where Munson’s had been, the ache filling him, and in the shroud of secretive darkness, he finally let his tears fall.

~

I’m considering making a little character piece for Steve’s Girls, little descriptions and basic info that might not make it into the fic. Let me know if anyone is interested in that, or if you would rather it only being revealed in the fic itself.

My permanent list is currently open, so please let me know if you would like to added. Or removed, or merely removed from this fic’s notifications. I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea.

Hostage Hotties: @derythcorvinus @katyawriteswhump @honeii-puff @scoops-aboy86 @dotdot-wierdlife

[crybaby-bkg]

I was Singing This Song for You

Bakugou x female reader

Warnings/Tags: Mafia Boss Bakugou, gun violence, injury, blood, mentions of dead bodies but no main characters are killed, mentions of drinking, reader is a singer and pianist, reader wears dresses/makeup/heels for performances, momentary dissociation, smut, oral (f!receiving), cum eating, riding, desk sex, reader is very sarcastic, mentions of sex work, unsafe sex. please let me know if I missed anything!

Word Count: 9.7k

Notes: this has been in the works for a few months now and I finally got around to finishing it!! thank you again Jo for helping me develop the idea 🥰 also some commotion for the banner that I made ALL BY MYSELF????? 😌 hope you all enjoy!! the entire thing will be available on ao3 only because of the length, so below will be a few excerpts from the story!!

“Like my performance?” You ask him in a hum, sipping at your own martini that you’ve carried from the bar, before placing it down in front of you. The man eyes you for a while, then your drink, silently wondering why you’ve made yourself so comfortable in his presence even though he’s never directly spoken a word to you.

“It was nice.” His voice is gruff, raspy and low, barely audible under the next singer whose voice is just a bit too scratchy for the soft ambience of the room. You cock an eyebrow at him, chuckling under your breath, as you swirl a single manicured finger over the rim of your glass.

“Just nice?” You say, a devious smile pulling at your lips as you watch how his cheeks flush red under the golden light of the room. But the man frowns, sipping at his drink again, as you watch how his Adams apple bobs with his swallow, before he shrugs and sets his drink down from across yours.

“Just nice.” He repeats, narrowing his eyes at you, trying to understand what you’re playing at, why you’re sitting here with him, what you really want. You laugh a little though, eyes crinkling as you examine the man, how he seems to only get redder under your attention. You take him in as your laughter dies down, staring at the man who scowls further the more you take him in.

“What, you looking for me to buy you a place, and you don’t even know my name yet?” The man scoffs again, a tiny little lilt lifting up the corner of his mouth. He’s bantering with you, and it makes you want to pull more conversation out of him, even if he scowls more than he smiles.

“If I get your name, can I get a mansion with it?” You grin at him, cheekily sipping your drink, eyes crinkling when he snorts loudly. He covers his mouth with a large palm, shaking his head at you as he downs the rest of his drink with one long swallow.

“I’m starting to run out of songs, sweetheart.” He confesses, stands to slip back into his suit jacket, looking over his shoulder when you stand to help him into it.

“Well you better go digging for more, ‘cause I don’t do repeats.” You pinch at the skin of his nape before patting his collar down. He snorts under his breath, looking at you funny as he straightens his sleeves out.

“I’ve heard you sing A Song for You like, thirty times now—”

“That doesn’t count!” You tell him, waving a finger in the air. Bakugou outright laughs at that, a sight everyone in the speakeasy tries not to gape at, but it’s hard to when a man like that seems so easily joyous with someone as gentle as you. Bakugou doesn’t notice though, only has eyes for you, and you the same.

Everything is chaos after that. There’s people screaming, running to get away, more shots ringing throughout the speakeasy, cries being torn from gaping mouths. Or is that you? Have you gotten so detached that you can’t even recognize the sounds that spill from your own throat? Can’t feel the piano keys still resting under your fingers? Can’t move your body to duck, to hide, to run, forced to be stuck in the limbo of watching Bakugou fall to the ground and grunt in pain?

Is it tears, that run down your face, or is the blood splatters of a henchman that is sprawled right below the stage? You can’t tell the difference, and when your fingers shakily reach up to find what stains you, you pull them back, greeted by salt and crimson.

“What can I say? I can’t have my big tipper dying on me.” You shrug, laughing a little when Bakugou bites at the curve of your stomach at that. He pulls back though, his hands holding the skirt of your dress, in its tattered and ruined form, looking at you like you’re heaven sent, a deity to bless him and wash him away, sinless.

Read the entire thing here on ao3!

[highqueenofelfhame]

IT'S BEEN A LONG TIME COMING. I didn't mean for this to go a whole year without an update. I'm so sorry. I hope this 4.5k chapter makes up for it somehow <3

masterlist // fafs masterlist // rowaelin

As soon as he took that first deep breath upon waking up, Rowan knew he was being watched. Maybe that was thanks to all his years as an agent for the bureau, or perhaps it had to do with the months he had spent with Aelin that had honed that instinct into a sharp blade. Regardless of what had made him develop the sixth sense, he knew that when he opened his eyes to the soft light filtering through the cracks of the curtains, there would be a golden gaze pinning him to the bed.

Instead of looking at her, he reached across the bed to rest his hand on her thigh. Rowan could tell she was sitting with her legs folded up like a pretzel, her hands in her lap while she watched him. He moved a fraction of an inch closer until he could easily press his lips to the spot just above her knee. 

"Rowan?" The tentative sound of her voice had him cracking open an eye to look up at her face. A deep crease was set between her brows while she worried her bottom lip in thought.

"What has you awake so early?" This soon after waking, the lilt of his accent was heavier, his tone deeper and more gravelly than usual. 

"It wasn't you, right?" 

"Baby–" he started, pushing himself up on his good arm to a sitting position. He shifted so they were sitting knee to knee, one of his legs dangling over the side of the bed so he could move closer to her. Aelin looked away as she licked her lips before shaking her head. "Look at me, love."

 "I know. I know you didn't; I just–" Her eyes found his again, and she huffed out a sigh. It sounded like she had been carrying it in her lungs for years. "Somebody found out. They found out, and they told her. But everyone I know is dead except for Elide and Gavriel, and they think I'm dead. Even if Gav put it together, I can't see him spilling everything to Maeve before talking to me to see what the hell happened to me all those years ago." 

Digging her palms into her eyes, she took another deep breath and exhaled slowly. Rowan counted the seconds, his thumbs brushing in soothing circles over her tan skin. It was something he had been thinking about non-stop since everything exploded in the bureau lobby. Even as the bullet pierced his shoulder, he tried to make sense of everything that had come to light. 

How had Maeve known? It definitely hadn't been Gavriel. At the very least, her uncle would have approached him before going to Maeve. It didn't make any sense for him to find his long-lost and assumed-dead niece and go straight to his boss. Rowan knew firsthand that the deaths of his sister-in-law and her husband had plagued him. He was one of the few people that Gavriel had ever talked about it with, him and Aedion never having fully given up hope that maybe she was out there somewhere. It wasn't something he voiced frequently. Those admissions came after everyone else had left the bar, and it was just the two of them sharing a beer in silence after a difficult case. No, it definitely hadn't been Gavriel. 

Who then? Aelin was right. Essentially everyone from her childhood was dead now. All her confessions had happened in places where he knew they weren't being recorded. By that time, he himself had become paranoid enough that he checked all the pens in his pockets, his cufflinks, and the buttons of his shirts, even to ensure nobody had slipped a device somewhere in his clothes. If they had been recorded, it would have been inside his apartment. But he would have known about that, too. He checked regularly and had frequency blockers hidden in every room.

If working for the bureau taught him anything, it was to always be on your guard and that a healthy dose of paranoia kept you from being surveilled. 

There was Elide, but Rowan had a strong feeling that any of her suspicions would have ended with Lorcan beating down his door in the dead of night in search of the truth. She wasn't even an option, not really. 

Who, then? Had Arobynn Hammel let the truth slip to Maeve before his heart had been ripped from his chest? Did Maeve have eyes and ears everywhere that whispered back to her, even when they were sure no one was listening? It seemed far-fetched, but he knew his boss had her moments of being ruthless. But if she'd known the truth since Arobynn, why did she wait so long to tell Aelin she knew? The window of when she found out and when she spoke with Aelin had to have been a small one. Nothing else quite made sense. 

Rowan looked back at the woman he loved, her eyes fixed on his face while he processed every bit of information they knew. All he could do was shake his head and rest his brow against hers. 

"I don't know. I wish I could give you more than that, but where it stands right now, I have no fucking idea. We will figure it out– all of it. Who told her, what kind of jeopardy it puts you in, what our next steps are. We will figure it out together."

There was a determination in her eyes that was admirable. And though he could tell she wanted to push back about something that he'd said– he had no idea which part– she nodded slightly and repeated, "Together."

 ~*~

Hours later, Aelin was sitting on the floor in front of the couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Despite a warmer day outside, a fire flickered in the fireplace. Watching the flames dance and twine around one another was a welcome reprieve from the near-constant headache she'd had for the last few days while trying to make sense of everything. 

In the kitchen, Rowan hummed quietly while preparing dinner. The aroma of garlic, basil, and lemon was strong throughout the cabin. It felt bizarre that this felt like the most normal night she had ever experienced in her whole life. The sounds of dinner being prepared, a man she loved making everything with care. The reality was that it was the furthest from normal, considering she was on the run from the FBI. It was only a matter of time before she was found, captured, and dumped into a prison cell for the rest of her life. It made her stomach turn to know that the same thing would happen to Rowan for harboring a fugitive of her caliber and committing treason. 

"I don't understand how this has become my life," she said aloud, and Rowan ceased his movements. The water turned on, followed by the sound of him washing and drying his hands before lowering his body to the floor beside her. "I don't mean I don't understand exactly how I ended up here. I understand that part. What I don't understand is how my life got here."

"You mean how you ended up an assassin in the first place." He shifted to drop his arm around her shoulder, and Aelin quickly turned into him, resting her face against his chest. It always surprised her when he understood what she was trying to say, even if the words were twisted and confusing on their way out of her mouth.

"How did I go from living in a mansion surrounded by family and friends, my father gearing up for a presidential run, having tea parties with my very best friends, or running through bonfires on Beltane with flowers in my hair to this?"

"What do you remember about that night?" The night she'd spent so much time running from, one that her brain had blocked out almost entirely. Aelin sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, eyes still locked on the flames as she chewed on it for a moment.

"Not much," she admitted. "I've never talked about it out loud to anyone before, either. But it really isn't much."

"Do you want to go over what you do remember with me? Maybe something will spark, and we can work backward to figure out what is happening now." Only with Rowan would she ever talk about it, the night that ruined her life. Perhaps she had emerged from the ashes like a phoenix, but everything she had wanted to be before died that night. So she had become something else entirely. Something horrible that her friends and family would be ashamed of and would judge. But he wouldn't. 

Aelin turned so she was leaning against the couch, her arm propped on the cushion with her fist against her temple. Rowan mirrored her body language, reaching out to lace the fingers of their free hands. A silent reminder that he was there, he understood her, and he would follow this path with her to whatever end it may have. The thought alone made her want to cry, but she swallowed her emotions.

"The night that my parents were murdered, I was sleeping upstairs in my bed. Every night I went to sleep snuggled in a mountain of stuffed animals. Most of them came from when my dad went on business trips. He always brought one back for me. I had to have at least twenty stacked on top of my bed, dozens more littered around my room. I rotated them out frequently so that none of them would feel lonely having to sleep by themselves." Rowan's lips had curved into the smallest of smiles, his thumb making circles on the back of her hand. He was there. He had her. She was not alone, and she would not be afraid. 

"I remember having a hard time falling asleep that night. I'd been to my parent's bedroom twice because I thought I heard things. It was a big house; it made a lot of noise. My mom repeatedly promised me that everything was okay, and she and my dad tucked me back into bed. I remember still feeling unsettled and scared. Like something was wrong, but I didn't know what. I couldn't place my tiny finger on it then, but I would hold my breath to see what I could hear in the silence. Once, I heard soft voices, which my mom said I was just hearing the two of them talking downstairs. I heard footsteps, but again, they were still up and getting ready for bed. I was just hearing them." 

 Aelin paused then, tears already filling her eyes and threatening to slip down her cheeks. Not once had she said any of this out loud. Nobody had ever heard this part. With Rowan, she could do this. She could say it aloud despite her throat burning from trying to suppress her emotions. Maybe it was time she let them out. Had she ever really grieved? Those first few weeks at the keep, maybe. But Arobynn had quickly shut down her wildfire range of emotions some months into her training when he decided she should be over it by now. With a deep breath, she found it in herself to continue. 

"I slept a little bit that night, but it was that kind of sleep where you hear everything around you. Somewhere between being awake and dreaming. At first, I thought I was dreaming. But I heard my mother begging someone. Her voice had so much raw fear; I will never forget how it cracked when she said my name. As scared as I was, you think you're invincible as a child, you know? So I snuck downstairs, tip-toeing down the hallway to their bedroom. And then I just… froze. There was enough moonlight to see my dad completely limp on the bed. Something dark was on his skin and the sheets, running down his arm and pooling on the floor. His eyes were staring at nothing. 

A man had my mom's hair gathered in his hand; her head pulled back with a gun to her temple while she begged and begged. But she wasn't begging for herself; she was pleading that he let me go. Over and over, she just kept saying let my baby live, please don't hurt her. And then she saw me standing at the door, and the last thing she said was my name before the gun went off. I have never heard anyone's voice sound so panicked and full of terror. My mom slumped against my dad, and then I turned and ran. At some point, I slipped, banged my head on the ground, and I don't know what happened after that."

Aelin only realized she had fully begun to sob when Rowan pulled her into his lap and wrapped his arms around her tightly. While she was talking, she had registered the sounds of gasping, sharp breaths, and broken words, but it hadn't registered that it was coming from her. When she started talking, it all started pouring out. One broken word after another until her shirt was soaked with tears. On the one hand, it felt so good to finally get it out and tell someone what had really happened that night. On the other, it shattered her into a million pieces to recount those events. 

The papers had gotten it all wrong. Most of them said it had been a quick assassination. Aelin didn't know how fast it had happened for her father, but the man that killed her mother had stood there and listened to her begging for her daughter's innocent life for long enough that Aelin had made her way downstairs and heard the end of it. That she saw the end of it. That it was burned into her brain no matter how hard she tried to shut those images out. 

Aelin still had nightmares about it. 

Rowan didn't say anything for a long while, just holding her and stroking her hair while she let out every emotion she had kept locked in an iron cage in the back of her mind. Emotions she had been trained to keep a firm hold on for nearly her entire life. Arobynn used that against her, beating her down until she had become distant and cold. Only when she had met Rowan did any of it start to slip out, and she had spent months hating herself for it. Aelin had always known from the time she started to get to know him that he would be her unraveling one way or another. He would either throw her in prison or make her feel alive again. At the time, she couldn't decide which was worse. 

"I know that there were two men. I saw a second one when I turned to run. But after that, I didn't know anything else until I woke up in a bed in the keep. Arobynn never talked about how I fell under his 'care.' For a while, I thought it was just an orphanage. That I had been found and taken there while I was unwell. It didn't click until I was a few years older that it certainly wasn't the case because I would have woken up in a hospital before I got taken anywhere, and then I would have been taken to my aunt and uncle. I just remember seeing all these papers about how I was missing and presumed dead. Arobynn would show me news footage of Aerin and Gavriel begging for someone to just let them know where my body was so they could bring me home."

Her tears felt cool against her flushed cheeks, even as Rowan chased every one of them away with calloused fingertips. The memories of her aunt, uncle, and cousin standing on the porch of their home, desperately asking for her return. They hadn't known if it would be her alive and well, or if it would be her dead body. It had not mattered. Her family just wanted her back. Wanted to keep or safe or lay her to rest next to her parents. The image of Aedion's young, tear-streaked face floated to the front of her mind, followed immediately by his unseeing eyes the day she had shown up at the crime scene to find him dead. 

It was all too much. The murder of her parents, her upbringing to become the underworld's most deadly assassin, that she was now everything her parents hated about the world. All of her friends that now lay six feet under simply because they were tied to her in some way. 

The guilt had been gnawing at her bones since it all started. Aelin would give absolutely anything to trade places with them. The cost didn't matter. It would have been better if she were the one that was dead because if she had died that night, at least everyone she loved would still be breathing. 

Throughout the years, Aelin had kept tabs on each of them, knowing they would do incredible things. They all had done their best to put something good back into the world. Dorian was nothing like his father, doing what he could to speak out and back his words up with actions to pave a better way for the rest of the world. Aedion had spent countless hours working with underprivileged youth in Big Brother programs right up to his death. Even Sam was taking steps to better his life until he was killed for trying to run with her.

Nehemia… gods, the things she could have done if her life hadn't ended so shortly. She had been a beacon of hope to so many, her charity work speaking for itself. It was only about doing everything she could to help people in need, including raising money through the Lotus Foundation, one her parents had helped her create to build housing in underdeveloped parts of their home country, Eyllwe. 

Yet she was the one still living. She who had taken countless lives, that had so much blood caked onto her soul she would never be clean. It didn't matter what she did going forward; it didn't matter the circumstances of how it all happened. Aelin was the one that lived, and she had brought so much shame upon everyone in her life. 

There were no bright sides to her friends being dead. That she would never have to face them, never have to tell them the truth, though… She was too much of a coward to ever have looked any of them in the eye after the life she had been forced into.

"Do you remember anything about the men that killed your parents? What they looked like?" Rowan's voice stirred her from her thoughts, soft, deep, and lilting. His thumbs still brushed the tears that fell from her cheeks. 

"The men Maeve captured and convicted were the ones that did it. I know that for sure. I could never forget Cairn's face. His accomplice is harder for me to piece together, but he confessed after Cairn ratted him out to avoid the death penalty. I only saw him for a brief moment before I fell. If the wrong people had been convicted, I would have hunted them down and killed them myself." And she would have. Those lives would have been two of the few she held no remorse over, and it wouldn't have been quick. It would have lasted long enough until some of the grief had eased in her chest. Until she wasn't so scared to look back on her childhood memories anymore. 

"That case got her the appointment for FBI Director." Rowan lifted the bottom of his t-shirt to wipe the snot gathered in her nose and upper lip. 

"She deserved it for that. Even though I had just turned nine, I was hyper-aware of what my life was turning into by that point. And seeing justice brought down on them… it brought some relief. Not much, but enough to know they were behind bars. I would have preferred the death penalty for them both, but at least there was a confession." Aelin shrugged her shoulders. It was true. She would have killed them after her arrest if she had been in the same prison. Clearly, the gods had other plans for her, though. 

"Is there anything else you can piece together?"  

"Right now, no. But if I have any eureka moments, you'll be the first and only one to know." 

Aelin had been waiting for Rowan's apology. The one that came from a place of empathy, that made her feel like she was pitied. But it never came. Instead, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. The gesture said more than words ever could. That he understood, that he hated the shitty hand life had dealt her, that he stood with her. That he was there.

And that meant more to her than any words ever could.

~*~

Whitethorn had been right. In the days after Sardothien's arrest, he had gone on and on about how it was too convenient. It didn't make sense that she was just a whisper in the wind and suddenly became so sloppy in her work that boxes of evidence had, literally, been dropped on the steps of the FBI headquarters. 

Raking through every piece of information that they had on her, he could see that clear as day. For years their department had chased a ghost, someone quick and silent. There had never been a drop of her own blood, a single hair that fell off her head. No fingerprints, no saliva. None of her DNA packed under someone's fingernails from a struggle. They didn't even have proof that it was her at all, actually. They only knew that the legendary assassin was a woman based on one witness account, and the woman had been so old and frail and unsure of her account that it would have been inadmissible in court. 

All of her alleged crime scenes had been scoured with a fine-toothed comb. They knew it was murder; that much was clear. But Celaena Sardothien had dozens of aliases, hundreds maybe. He was sure of that. Yet the "proof" they had received in a box full of her fake passports and IDs seemed too good to be true. None of them led them anywhere; it was like she'd never touched them, never used them at any point. Anyone could pay someone to make fake identification, and what they found in those boxes was so blatantly fake that it wouldn't fool anyone. 

Her case was a puzzle that he was dying to solve. Usually, he loved cataloging evidence that led to a trial. Sure, they would have to find and capture her again before she saw her day in the courtroom, but he enjoyed this part of the work. Except for right now, when not a single loose thread took him anywhere at all. The woman simply did not exist. 

With tired eyes, he pushed away the file he'd been reading and turned to another that kept him up at night. Lorcan wasn't usually so personally invested in the cases they solved, but the look in Gavriel's eyes when he found out his son had been murdered still haunted his nightmares. The sounds of the sobs that broke free from his throat were the sounds of a soul dying. Gavriel had loved his son with everything he had, and Lorcan almost couldn't forgive himself for having to be the person that broke the news. 

Flipping open the Ashryver file, he scanned the evidence log and accompanying photos. When he got to the images of Aedion's lifeless body, he started to flip faster, not needing to see the pictures to remember them in vivid detail. 

 Just as he was about to skip the last one, a close-up shot of his face and neck, Lorcan's fingers froze against the glossy page. In the photo, Aedion's glassy eyes stared at the cloudy sky. Eyes that were a bright turquoise, his pupil rimmed with gold. They were dimmer now than they had been while he was alive, but…

But he knew those eyes. Not just because they were a strong trait of the Ashryver gene pool but because he had looked into them himself. Yes, he had met Aedion several times at various get-togethers and holiday parties. But his eyes were identical to a different pair he'd become all too familiar with for the last several months.

Then there was his face. Gavriel's son favored him strongly, but there was a softness in his features that he had spent months looking at on a different face. A woman's face. The same shade of golden hair, though in these photos, it was sticky with dried blood. 

Lorcan pulled his laptop closer to him, quickly opening a tab and sending his fingers flying across the keyboard. It was probably the fastest he had ever typed, and he had never been so impatient for the single second it took to get hundreds of images back from the search result. 

He clicked on the third photo down, one of a small family standing on a stage. The man and woman waved to the crowd while the young girl beamed where she stood between them. No older than seven, her little hands clasped her mother and father's tightly. 

Rhoe and Evalin Galathynius pictured with their daughter, Aelin, on Vice President Galathynius's presidential campaign trail in Perranth. 

A few weeks ago a conversation of Lorcan arguing with Rowan about Celaena's involvement in Elide's attack had him pushing back from his chair. Ice slithered up and down his spine, blood turning cold as he recalled one specific thing that Rowan said to him that he hadn't caught in the moment because he was so upset and worried about his fiancee's life. 

Rowan had called her Aelin. Said that Aelin didn't have anything to do with what happened to Elide. He vividly remembered feeling bothered by the conversation afterward, that there was something between the lines that Rowan hadn't been saying plainly with words, but perhaps they were there. Whitethorn had been so fiercely sure that Celaena didn't do it, didn't have it ordered, had clean hands where Elide was concerned. He might be a raging dumbass for dating a woman with multiple charges of murder to her name, but the man was not stupid. 

Lorcan's eyes snagged on another image, a group photo of two dozen or so people. Standing in the front were five children. All of them were dressed in their holiday best, standing before a towering Yulemas tree covered in glittering ornaments and twinkling lights. They appeared to be gathered in a great hall of sorts. Everyone in the picture shared wide smiles as they looked at the camera. 

In the middle of the group of children was a young girl with long dark hair wearing a red and green plaid dress. A bright red bow gathered some of her soft curls from her face. A face that Lorcan would know anywhere because not only had he seen hundreds of childhood pictures of her, but he woke up to that face every godsdamn morning. 

Elide's arms were looped through two other girls, one with long golden hair and fair skin, the other with black hair in carefully woven braids, her skin dark. The three of them wore similar dresses, the color being the only thing different about them. The blonde girl on her right had a silver and dark green dress, while the one on her right had a dress of purple and silver. 

Aelin Ashryver Galathynius was on Elide's right. That was factual. Beside Aelin, Aedion Ashryver stood with his arm thrown around her shoulders. Dorian Havilliard and Chaol Westfall were on the other side of Nehemia Ytger. Behind them were their parents and friends of their parents. All of them gathered before one of the famous Galathynius family Yulemas parties. 

It wasn't just Aelin standing beside Elide, though. That thought clanged through Lorcan hard. He felt it in every nerve and bone of his body; he had never been so absolutely positive of something in his entire life.

Celaena Sardothien was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, a girl long since presumed dead to the world and everyone that loved her. 

Holy gods.

[unfilteredaj]

Save me a Dance:

Pairing: William Afton X Employee!reader

——

Synopsis: The reader is an employee at Circus Baby’s Pizza World, stationed in Ballora’s Dance studio and Gallery. The reader’s admiration of Ballora inspires them and they catch the attention of their boss, William Afton. (Set in a Movie and Sister Location combination AU where Afton never got caught and Spring Bonnie is still a featured character. Also this is FLUFF CENTRAL. You have been warned.)

——

You watched as Ballora spun elegantly on her tiptoes around the group of children, who screamed with glee and tried to imitate her graceful movements. Ballora stopped slowly, clasping her robotic hands together gently.

“You’ve all done so wonderfully! Unfortunately, Circus Baby’s Pizza world is closing soon. I’ve had so much fun with you all today, my little Ballerinas. I’ll see you again very soon.” She lilted.

The kids all filed out of the studio, and soon you were alone, and the pizzeria was closed.

You began to clean up the various party hats, noise makers, and various other trash from Ballora’s area as she mechanically spun back to her stage and settled into a pirouette on her charging dock.

You swept, tidied up, and mopped the Dance Studio until all that was left was to wipe down Ballora herself.

Things usually never got too bad as far as Ballora herself went. Perhaps a smudge from small grease or pizza sauce stained hands. At the worst, a little girl had tried to share her cake with Ballora once, but even that ended up being alright. Your boss, the man who designed Ballora and all of the other Animatronics, designed them to stay easy to clean.

You finished wiping Ballora down, and took a moment to admire her beauty and elegance. All the while, she stayed dormant. All of the animatronics went dormant until fully charged each night.

You imagined her asking you to dance.

“Why, Miss Ballora!” You exclaimed in mock surprise, “Dance with you? Oh, what would they all think! It’ll be a scandal!”

You giggled contently, gently taking her hands and pressing yourself to her. You spun around with her, all the while staying anchored to the charging dock.

Spinning in circles, you hummed.

“Why do you hide inside these walls, when there is music in my halls? It’s so fun to sing and play..to-“

“-to dance, to spin, to fly away…” A deep voice echoed through the large room, almost giving you a heart attack.

You jumped away from Ballora as if she’d burned you. But your face was the only thing burning currently. Your wide eyes met the eyes of your boss, William Afton.

He looked… amused. He was still in his Funtime Bonnie suit, complete with a purple star covered vest and Large bow tie, but he had taken the head off. He raised an eyebrow at you.

“Mr. Afton, I… I’m so sorry! I meant no harm, honest!”

Your rambling was cut short by a gentle laugh.

“No harm done, (Y/N). I’ve seen the way you admire her. How you started wearing more blue, and more stars since being moved from Foxy’s auditorium. You like being in the Dance Studio, and you like Ballora. …She is beautiful, isn’t she.” He said gently, smiling up at you and Ballora.

He came up onto the stage to stand next to you.

He ran his now ungloved hand gently across Ballora’s cheek.

“I made her to be beautiful. To be graceful, and elegant. A mechanical homage to femininity and beauty.” He said wistfully. His eyes scanned you for a long moment. “…Plus I hear she’s an alright dance partner.”

“Not as good as having a real partner…” You murmured.

Mr. Afton grinned at you, looking far younger than he had when you saw him in meetings during the day.

“Well then… may I have this dance?” He held a hand out.

You stayed frozen for a long moment, unsure of what exactly was going on. Surely your boss had NOT just offered you a dance.

“Come on!” His quick wave radiated warmth, as did his smile. “Come on, come on.”

Maybe it was the fact that he was grinning like a loon, or maybe it was the yellow and purple bunny costume, but you took his hand.

You ended up in the middle of the dance floor, standing on two large yellow rabbits feet.

He fished around in his vest pocket, pulling out a small remote. He pressed a button, and the lights dimmed, and soft music started playing.

Your face blazed even more as he spun you both around, his hands on your hips. You looped your hands around his neck, the large suit forcing you to press yourself closely to him.

“How are you so swift, even in this huge suit?” You asked him as he dipped you.

“I’ve had loads of practice wearing it I guess.” He replied bashfully.

“Mr. Afton…” You whispered.

Your stared into his bright eyes for a long moment.

“Hmm?”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” You asked.

“You’re like me. You see the beauty where others just see novelty. You have that spark, that quiet passion burning inside of you. I can see it.” He smiled again. “And you’re a much better dance partner than Ballora.”

The two of you shared a small laugh, and you pressed your forehead against his.

“Promise me this isn’t going to be a one time thing. Promise me you’ll always save me a dance.”

“Whenever, Wherever. Always.”

[marsafter-dark]

| Fandom: 人渣反派自救系统 | The Scum Villains Self Saving System - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù

| Chapters: 8/?

| Main Pairing: Tianlang-Jun/Yue Qingyuan

| Side Pairing: Zhuzhi-Lang/Gongyi Xiao

| Rating: Explicit 🔞

| Tags: Modern Universe- Alternate Setting, Stalking, Mob boss Tianlang-Jun, CEO Yue Qingyuan, Non-consensual vouyerism, body worship, first dates, possessive behavior, gun violence, it’s a romcom but they are still figuring that out, making YQY progressively soggier every chapter

| Summary: Tianlang-Jun is in love with with Yue Qingyuan. Naturally, this means the next logically step is to stalk him.

Yue Qingyuan, CEO of China’s premier marketing firm, does not agree with this conclusion.

| Chapter 8 Summary 🔞:

Through the windows in the sitting room, sunlight pours in and floods the space, but ignores it. Instead, he makes his way past it, past the kitchen and the dining room and on and on until he reaches the door next to his office.

He knocks twice, because he is nothing if not polite.

“I hope you’re decent in there,” he says, playful lilt in his tone, then he steps inside. Taking the time to lock the door behind him, he fiddles with the tumblers in the mechanism until they make an audible little click, before turning around to greet his guest.

A warm smile spreads across his lips.

“Hello,” he says, stepping forward to crouch in front of the man and put out a hand, “Mr. Shi, isn’t it?”

In front of him, Mr. Shi— as his nephew briefed him that the man is called— sits tied up to a plush upholstered chair. They are in another sitting room, this one closed off from the rest of the penthouse, and a warm fire is crackling in the hearth. He has been stripped down to a plain white shirt and boxers, hands bound to the arms of the chair and legs to each of the front two chair legs. There is a cotton handkerchief gagged around his mouth and when he looks at Tianlang-Jun, there is a look of fear in his eyes.

[venstm]

IT FEELS LIKE HELL.

the remainders of his wings have begun to grow back - tiny, almost comical little things sprouting from the scarred skin that mars the better part of his back. at first - the doctor's had to slow the process, body too injured to even consider growing what were akin to extra limbs in the wake of his tragedy. it would have been unsafe, the risk of infection and permanent muscle and bone damage too great to have allowed his plumage to burst free from the cavernous raw of his flesh. effectively - he'd had to lose them again. only now - had they been well enough to sprout, small almost cherubic things with not even enough strength to lift him two feet off the ground. besides - his back hurt too much for that anyway.

why is he here? he asks himself.

in the mirror - hawks watches him, hawks feels. burn scar mars part of his handsome face, encompassing most of his nape. savage and vicious marred skin upon his back, a clear outline of dabi's bootprint embedded in his flesh, healing in the pattern of the treads. pathetic wings twitch at the elder's proximity, a fearful reminder of the lick of that impossibly hot flame destroying his beautiful, beautiful feathers. behind him, todoroki's looming presence entices only a cold rawness in hawks' gaze - as if his amber eyes fight to be hurt, as if he struggles to be filled with anything but yearning, because even after everything...

" touya. " he tests the name on his tongue, taloned fingertips curling into the marble countertop edges. scarred hands reverently flutter over those scars - blueflame's masterpiece, and his tiny wings twitch in reflex, a jolt of pain pleasure shooting down his spine. " admiring your artwork? " comes his deadpan resonance, hawks' words long since losing his playful lilt. " it's a fine piece. " hawks peers into the sink bowl, wishing, not for the last time, that he could shove what was left of his wingless heart down the drain and forget, with every fiber of his being, the had fallen in love with a villain.

The  remnants  of  touya  todoroki  festered  in  the  decaying  husk  of  a  man  sutured  together  by  rampant  hatred.  Hawks  was  a fool,  for  those  piercing  golden  eyes  sweep  over  him  and  see  traces  of  humanity,  the  apparitions  of  a  child  that  had  been crushed beneath  black  combat  boots,  smouldering  ash  smeared  across  the  cold  pavement.  Had  he  deluded  himself  into  believing  dabi  would  show  him  lenience,  would  take  his  betrayal  lying  down  like  some  sort  of  docile  dog.  The  punitive  fire  that  had  charred  his  feathers  and  ravaged  his  skin  was  nothing  short  of  deserved.  It  was  a  reminder  that  for  all  the  repressed  feelings  that  he  nurtured,  dabi  would  never  be  something  worth  loving,  all  but  dead  on  his  feet,  how  could  he  reciprocate  any  of  it  when  he’d  condemned  himself  to  feel  nothing  but  hatred.  He  would  always  be  vindictive,  always  chasing  his  father’s  shadow  to  the  grave,  there  was  no  room  for  such  sentiments,  even  if  he  felt  them,  they  would  remain  buried  and  unspoken.  Like  an  apparition  he  manifests  in  the  doorway,  a  shadow  that  streaks  across  the  vapid  white  walls,  his  hand  resting  idly  on  the  frame,  piercing,  blue  eyes  tracing  the  corrugating  skin  healing  between  his  shoulder  blades.  ❝  you  don’t  sound  very  thankful. ❞  he  doesn’t  wither  before  his  name,  neither  does  anything  akin  to  an  apology  manifest  upon  his  quirked  lips.  ❝  if  the  boss  had  his  way  you’d  be  six  feet  under. ❞  he  scuffs  the  top  of  his  boot  against  the  ground  for  emphasis,  slowly  raising  his  gaze  to  meet  the  other’s  in  the  begrimed  mirror.  ❝  we  aren’t  like  you  heroes,  playin’  at  forgiveness,  so  sayin’  thanks  for  not  killing  you  is  the  least  you  could  do.  damn,  they  really  don’t  teach  you  lot  manners,  do  they  ?  ❞  having  trespassed  into  the  bathroom,  his  scarred  fingers  caress  those  new,  delicate  feathers,  savoring  the  way  they  tremble  beneath  him,  as  if  they  were  anticipating  his  next,  inevitable  act  of  violence.  As  far  as  dabi  is  concerned  he’s  being  civil,  if  he  wasn’t  his  hands  would  be  firmly  curled  around  his  throat,  the  hero  swallowing  thickly  beneath  them. 

❝  do  you  hate  me  now, keigo ?❞  the  lowering  of  his  voice  is  a  sultry  rasp,  rapt  attention  paid  to  the  irrepressible  way  his  avian  sides  reacts  to  him.  Despite  how  his  presence  seeps  in  around  him,  the  scent  of  acrid  smoke  and  the  memory  of  burning  etched  into  the  hero’s  mind,  he’s  so  very  gentle  with  him.  It’s  as  close  to  an  apology  as  he  will  ever  get  and  this,  well  it’s  no  act  of  repentance.  ❝  can  you  hate  me  ?  ❞  no  matter  how  those  narrowed  eyes  bore  into  him,  the  mirror  reflects  his  lack  of  remorse  with  startling  clarity.  Dabi  angles  down,  caressing  the  nape  of  his  neck  with  his  lips,  laving  along  the  marred  skin  in  mock  apology.  ❝  y’know,  i  hate  you. ❞  it’s  said  with  such  fondness  as  to  be  wholly  unconvincing.  ❝  …  you  look  much  better  like  this.❞  invasive  hands  retreat  from  his  wings  to  caress  over  his  ribs,  spectral  touches,  as  if  he  were  embracing  him,  maybe  he  was.  ❝  wing  hero  hawks,  how  does  it  feel  t’be  flightless. ❞  their  gazes  collide  again,  this  time  in  the  mirror  his  mouth  is  curled  at  the  corners,  wicked  and  cruel. 

[takeyourdailydoseofcyanide]

Blood Red

(A request from @bcbdrums)

I hope this isn’t total shit, I’ve only written an actual battle once before, and it was short and never posted.

Summary: Essentially, Stein and Spirit are entrusted with the killing of a half-witch, half-vampire, of whom had been hiding out in Poland.

Word count: 2 475

……

“I wonder what I must’ve done this time,” Stein joked with a malevolent smirk present on his visage. Spirit rolled his eyes, scoffing playfully.

The pair had been specifically ordered over the intercom to head to the Death Room. Neither of them objected, they were just glad to escape the confines of their stuffy classroom.

They confidently and curiously trudged down the halls. Spirit’s slick, black dress shoes squeaked with fervor each time he took a step, evidently having been freshly cleaned, shined to perfection.

“Well, we were both called, so maybe it’s some sort of mission or something,” Spirit responded, shrugging his shoulders. His crimson hair bounced as he walked.

“Most likely,” he replied in agreement. “Who do you think we’ll have to fight?”

“Eh, I don’t know. It could be anyone on Lord Death’s list,” Spirit contemplated, knocking on the door to the Death Room, as they had officially reached the simultaneously ominous and happy-go-lucky place.

The old, medieval-esc door opened itself, beckoning Spirit and Stein in. They accepted the offer with grace.

“Hello, hiya!” Lord Death warmly welcomed the two with a cheerful wave, Spirit and Stein returning the gesture.

“What’d you call us in for, boss?” The weapon questioned, his eyes narrow with curious suspicion.

Lord Death deeply inhaled, the air around him growing more serious and tense.

“An extremely dangerous witch named Aima has been spotted hiding out on the outskirts of Warsaw, Poland for some time now. I am entrusting you two over everyone else in this school with putting an end to that witch’s torment,” he spoke with a stern lilt to his typically hearty and childish voice.

“We’ll be happy to undertake this mission. We will not let you down, sir,” Spirit bowed obediently, much to Stein’s displeasure and disgust.

After Stein had finished grimacing, he asked Lord Death, “When will we be leaving for Poland?”

“Your plane leaves tomorrow at four in the morning.”

“Four in the morning?!” Spirit shouted in surprised, eyes bugging out and one eyebrow raised. “Is there no way you couldn’t have scheduled this a little later?”

“The flight is well over 15 hours, Spirit,” Lord Death matter-of-factly stated.

With a deep and annoyed sigh, Spirit proceeded to ask, “Is that all, sir?”

“No, actually. I’d like to relay to you both all of the information we currently have pertaining to the witch,” he begun. “So far, we know that her magic is at its most powerful when she is at her most hungry.”

“Why is that?” Stein curiously questioned.

“She actively feeds off of not only the souls of both humans and her fellow witches, but also the bodies and blood. That is how she manages to survive,” he responded, voice much lower than usual.

“But most witches don’t have to do that in order to survive, so why her? The only ones who must are-“

“Vampires,” Spirit interrupted Stein, peering over at him. They met each other’s eyes, both staring at one another solemnly and curiously.

“Indeed. We suspect that her soul is partially vampire. And because of her evidentially partially vampiric soul, her magic is vampiric in nature,” Lord Death continued to elaborate.

“Fascinating,” Stein said, his empty eyes lighting up as a large grin paved its way across his face. Spirit felt mildly creeped out despite being used to his antics.

“Could I dissect that half witch, half vampire? He smirked wickedly. Spirit was beginning to wonder if he was actually standing next to the half witch, half vampire. Both him and Lord Death sighed in unison.

“Well, as opposed to Spirit eating her soul, we’d like to take it back to our labs for research. I think you’ll do great assisting with the research,” offered Lord Death, his voice possessing a less serious lilt to it.

“I’d love to,” Stein humbly accept his gracious offer, grin never faltering.

“Well, it’s settled then.”

The two boys began to walk out, sensing the discussion coming to a close.

“One more thing,” Lord Death rushed out, one giant white hand raising to stop them. “We do know exactly where her base is located. It has been marked on this map,” he continued, lifting a map of Warsaw and the nearby surroundings of the capital up, and handing it to Stein as he walked over.

“Understood, sir,” Spirit spoke formally and politely, turning back around once Stein had returned to his former spot beside him.

“And you’re the only ones I’m entrusting with this mission.”

“We won’t let you down,” Spirit promised, placing his hands inside of his pants pockets as he began walking once more.

……

The mild chill of autumn in Warsaw stung the two males lightly as they followed the map they were given to the outskirts of the mesmerizing city.

“Are we almost there?” Spirit asked, squinting down towards the map in Stein’s rather large hands. It was difficult to see the map in the pitch blackness of the night, thank god for Spirit’s flashlight.

“Sh! Stop,” Stein whisper-yelled, stopping dead in his tracks, slowing folding up the map and placing it in his jacket pocket. “Look down, Spirit.”

Spirit cautiously looked downward, pointing his aforementioned flashlight at what lied before him, immediately seeing a large trapdoor, covered by tall grass as some sort of disguise.

“This is it?” The weapon questioned in a hushed voice, simply making sure.

“Yes,” Stein begun. “Now, slowly and quietly move forward and open the trapdoor. Let’s ambush that witch.”

Spirit complied, taking a few small steps forward along with Stein.

“Ah!” Both Spirit and Stein yelled out, falling through what was supposed to be the solid ground below them.

“What the hell?!” Spirit wailed, having landed on both his elbows and abdomen. Stein, however, had somehow managed to have landed on his feet like a nimble and flexible cat.

They had fallen into the witch’s base, of which seemed to have been built with stone underground. They both stood and began scanning their surroundings, whipping their heads around wildly. There was no apparent witch-vampire. They were, instead, met with the sight of blood painting the grey stone around them. There was a quaint bed in the very corner, and a small, wooden desk beside it. A desk chair, of which also happened to be crafted from wood, was pushed neatly into the opening between the desk’s legs. Broken glass decorated both the desk and the floor surrounding it, a clear liquid having dried up at the screen of the glassy crime. The only light present in the base with that of candlelight and the flashlight which was now lying on the ground beside Spirit. Said candles had been placed strategically around a summoning circle.

Sudden clapping grabbed both of their attention as they spun around to face the sound.

“Finally, Lord Death’s little soldiers have come,” a disturbingly tall woman appeared from the shadows of the side of the base farthest to them. She had stringy brunette hair that fell to her lower back, resting delicately upon her bony shoulders. She was pale, so incredibly pale. She looked as though she had been decomposing for thirty years - her skin even had a blueish and greenish hue to it. Her extremities were strangely long and thin, her fingers reaching all the way to her knees. Instead of having nails, she had clear claws. Her lips were beet, even blood red, contrasting her complexion harshly. From her mouth, hung impressively long, needle-sharp canines. Because of this, her mouth was stretched downwards much farther than your average person - including your average witch. From the way in which she was smiling, a toothy grin, one could see how sharp each and every tooth of her was, obviously adept at ripping her prey, her enemies apart.

“I’m so glad you two have come to visit me. I ran out of good food a little while ago, and I’m quite famished,” she continued to speak in a sinister manner, eyeing the two of them up and down hungrily and creepily.

“Spirit, transform,” Stein ordered, his eyes not leaving the witch-vampire being embraced by the shadows in front of him.

“Right,” Spirit huffed, his eyes, too, stuck on the one specific sight. He got into his weapon form as fast as possible, whirling into Stein’s tight grasp. The moment he did, Stein positioned himself into a fighting stance.

The witch began, much to the boys’ surprise, squeaking - seemingly a means of communication with some sort of something.

Suddenly, a multitude of blood-sucking bats came rushing out from the darkness behind her, rushing for the wide-eyed Stein.

Stein swung his scythe with an air of expertise in defense, a swarm of bleeding bats falling to the ground, whimpering in pain as they died.

“Hahaha!” The witch erupted into laughter, evidently amused. “You’re a quick one, aren’t you, boy?”

“Cease!” She exclaimed authoritatively. The bats flying all around Stein and Spirit fell, not gracefully at all, to the floor, entirely unresponsive.

“What is it that you want? Why are you on Earth, in our dimension? What incentive do you have to be in Poland?” Stein interrogated her, gripping harder and harder onto Spirit’s handle each minute.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” the witch teased malevolently, taking a few steps toward him, Stein remaining entirely still.

Stein charged the growingly

aggravating witch, his scythe swooshing in the air rapidly.

“Is it perhaps because you were kicked out of the witch’s dimension for feasting upon your fellow witch, and had nowhere else to go, and needed to stay far enough away from Death City that you’d remain undetected for long enough to eat a good meal?” Stein continued to prod, speaking in an incredibly mocking and condescending tone of voice, jumping erratically backwards once she nearly punctured his chest with her razor-sharp claws.

The cruel and victorious smirk was wiped clean off of the woman’s face, transferring onto Stein’s. The frowning and furious face the lady in question was even more pleasurable than Stein figured it would be. He snickered to himself at just how easy it was to rile her up. It was his turn to look smug.

“And how do you know that?” She bit, eyes narrow and accusing.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” The meister arrogantly continued to mock, smirk growing impossibly larger.

She charged him immediately, claws pointed directly at his eyes. He successfully ducked down before they could make contact, instead grabbing her by her frail left leg and slamming her to the stone below them.

The witch gasped for air, the pain knocking all of the wind out of her. Stein could’ve sworn he heard one of her ribs crack. He stomps his foot into her abdomen, scythe to her jugular.

“Farumorirashul,” the woman spoke in a gibberish they could only assume to be the language of the witches and the casting of a spell.

“Stein, watch out!” Wailed Spirit.

Stein produced a sound he didn’t know he was capable of producing, as he narrowly avoided what appeared to be a canine tooth - one just like her own - being driven straight through his heart.

“Damn witch!” He yelped, eyebrows furrowed in fury as blood trickled gently down his arm. It had nicked him enough to break skin.

The witch giggled, positioning herself upward. Stein, before she could stand, dug his scythe through her abdomen, stabbing all the way through her back.

She coughed up blood, gurgling sounds emanating from her throat, doubling over onto the scythe. Placing his foot onto her chest, Stein kicked her down off of his weapon.

“It’s time to put an end to this fight,” Spirit declared, a determined air about him.

“Agreed,” Stein whirled his scythe into the heart of the witch-vampire below him. Before she could breathe her last breath of air, she lodged her claws into Stein’s right arm, causing the boy to groan deeply.

“Die already!” Stein shouted, pulling his scythe out and shoving it right back into her chest, over and over and over again.

More and more blood spurted out of not only her mouth, but her chest. It reminded Stein of a fountain, or perhaps of a squirt gun.

Gradually, slowly but surely, her prying hands fell limply onto the ground. The agony in his arm, however, did not fall.

Stein let go of Spirit, placing him against the wall, grabbing onto his pained arm and wincing.

“You all right, Stein?” The redhead stared worriedly at his meister as he left his weapon form.

“Yeah,” he replied in a strained tone, releasing his bleeding arm from his own grasp. “I can’t wait until I get to dissect her and study her soul.”

Spirit snickered, shaking his head back and forth. “I expected nothing less from you.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Stein joked, smirking at Spirit.

A dark purple and red glow lifted suddenly in their peripheral vision, their heads turning curiously.

It was the witch-vampire’s soul, the primary color of it being the trademark witch purple, being covered with a blood red hue.

“Woah,” Spirit drawled, just as mesmerized as Stein was.

“God, I can’t wait. What a fascinating specimen,” he spoke in a distracted voice, grinning ear-to-ear. “We need to gently place the soul in the magic-withstanding container.”

“Yeah… Here,” the weapon handed the small container to Stein, having retrieved it from his jacket’s pocket. At first glance, you wouldn’t assume it would be able to hold a soul, but it was created to expand to the various sizes of any witch’s soul.

“I hope the effectiveness of the container won’t change based off the fact that she’s partly vampire,” Stein thoughtfully grabbed the soul in question, delicately placing it into the box.

“Yeah, for real. I hope they accounted for that in some way,” he agreed, hands in his pockets. “How are we going to get out of here?”

“Well, the trapdoor didn’t stop existing, and it looks like the ladder to it is over there,” Stein pointed in the direction of the exit he spotted.

Spirit followed his meister to the ladder, not missing how Stein practically licked his lips while staring intently at the contained soul.

“What’s gonna happen to the body?” Spirit raised an eyebrow, glancing behind him at the dead woman.

“Did you not hear my mention of dissecting her? It’s going to be taken in by academy researches and troops for research,” Stein responded, sounding disturbingly excited.

“Of course,” he rolled his eyes into the back of his skull, snickering.

“And you’re next, buddy,” the silver-haired male continued, peering back at Spirit with a predatory gaze, wickedly smiling, his green eyes narrow with what appeared to be a sense of pleasure - sadistic pleasure.

Spirit shivered, a look of both fright, judgement, and repulsion present on his visage.

“Please never look at me like that again.”