#and then like two years of utter neglect

[bucketofchum]

Oops I'm so sorry I just wanted to respond to the ask but then I wrote the whole ass section of the story

[nikovraskol]

crack baby ; one

wc ; 3063 masterlist after dying, you expected to be greeted with the open arms of the void swallowing your body, mind and soul. what you didn't anticipate is waking up sixteen once more with a chance to change your fate -- but something strange is happening, why are the locks changing and why are all eyes suddenly on you ? tw ; brief mentions of death, neglect, abuse, curse words

prologue, one, two, three, tbc..

The walls feel different, you’re unsure why or how but they seem almost suffocating, each crevice and crack threatening to suck you up, to consume you and hold you between its atoms until you can’t breathe, until you’re stuck in eternal darkness between the Manor’s walls, ordained to watch your family thrive without you. 

Though, that may very well be because of Bruce flipping Wayne walking besides you, an awkward silence stretching between the two of you, his stature large and intimidating, covered in scars from adventures you wouldn’t dare to even dream about.

As the vigilante Batman, you held an undetermined amount of respect for the man. He is Batman, after all. He protects Gotham, and by proxy, he protects you. But as Bruce Wayne, you feel little to nothing for the man.

Sure, the actual sixteen-year-old (Name) would’ve jumped for joy at a chance to even see her father, let alone walk the halls with him, at eighteen there was a period of time where you loathed the man, where you would curse yourself for sharing DNA with him. But you’re technically twenty-one, and twenty-one year old you was grateful to him for housing and feeding her, but resentful for the neglect she faced.

These conflicting emotions inside you mixed together to create a cocktail of complete and utter apathy towards the man.

“Alfred mentioned you didn’t come down for breakfast, you’re growing, you should eat a sufficient amount of food everyday.” His voice broke through the deafening silence, the Manor feeling bigger for some reason as you send him a confused expression, your brows furrowing as you take in your father in earnest.

 There wasn’t a time where you had a chance to take him in fully. Aside from when you first came to the manor, but that time was behind you and you made an effort to push anything about that to the back of your mind.

He looked cold, as untouchable as he did on TV, he felt far away despite the fact that he was right beside you. For a moment, you were transported back in time, back to when you’d sit on the floor, knees to your chest as you stared at the old, laggy TV before you.

“You look like him.” Your mother hummed from behind you, she was sat on the old beat-up couch where she slept each night, brushing your hair with the utmost of care as she avoided the man on TV, Bruce Wayne, your alleged father. A smile dawned your face as the flickering of the TV casted an almost eerie glow into your living room, a premonition for what’s to come, evident by the way your mother’s movements grow more rough, by the way her hand curls in your hair, forcing you to look away from the man. You didn’t protest, you knew better.

You look like him? You wouldn’t say so, when you picture yourself you picture your mother – though that may be your bias talking, you’ll always prefer your mother, despite the ache in your heart whenever you think of her.

“Right..” You mumble, not sure how to reply to him. This was uncharted territory! How do you converse with a father who you’ve never spoken to before despite living under the same roof for ten years, despite sharing blood, despite sharing a last name. 

You’ve always felt like a black sheep, uninterested in the nitty-gritty of being a vigilante. You had nothing to contribute, in a family where transactions formed bonds, you had nothing to give. You were nothing, not Batman, not Robin, not anyone. Just (Name), like a piece of cheap plastic glued into a small crack on a pristine, porcelain vase. You didn’t belong, you cheapened them all, it’d be better to peel you off.

It’s why they never looked back at you, no matter how much you cried, begged, It’s why Dick would send you a half-hearted grin and a promise of ‘’I’ll take you somewhere later’ to placate your begging, to make you shut up. It’s why Jason would push past you in the hallways, why Tim would blatantly ignore you, and why Damian would sneer whenever he’d see you.

You weren’t able to migrate to Cass or Steph, and by the time Duke had joined, you had already given up on the prospect of forming any meaningful relationship in this Manor and it’s looming walls.

Then suddenly, a thought hits you, a rush of something – this was your perfect chance, you likely wouldn’t see your father again so it’s okay for you to ask now, right? There will be no other chances.

“Can you.. lend me some money?” You ask suddenly, cringing on how that sounds. That isn’t really the best thing to ask the father who you haven’t interacted with for fuck knows how long – he was probably picturing you as some money-hungry leech. Which is fine, his opinion of you meant nothing to you anymore, he can imagine you as whatever he likes.

But you need money if you’re going to live in a half-decent area of Gotham, getting a job and saving money for a house would take too long on a minimum wage salary, and your piggy bank was completely empty, and you couldn’t move cities. Not at sixteen.

“What do you need it for?” Bruce asks, his eyes sliding over to you cooly. A pang of something hitting his gut like a physical blow, his hands clenching as he struggled to look at you for too long. You looked like him.

When Alfred came into his office, sighing about how he was worried for his second-youngest child, Bruce was confused. Tim was fine, he hadn’t gotten hurt on patrol, and he wasn’t sick – at least, to Bruce’s knowledge.

“I’m not talking about Master Tim, I’m speaking of Master (Name), they’re acting in an unusual manner.” Alfred sighs, his gaze narrowing at Bruce – the judgement clouding his gaze heavy as he stares down his master.

“(Name)?” Bruce mumbled, his brow raising – he remembers you. Maybe. He remembers the concept of you, the product of a one-night-stand he had, a child he was forced to take in because of the death of your mother. He remembers the look in your eyes as you stared up at him, and he distinctly remembers the way you had clutched onto his hand, tears pooling your eyes as you sniffled, scared of the world, seeking comfort from the man everyone called your father.

But after that, nothing. His mind drew a blank when it came to picturing you – his first born blood related child, the thought made his stomach churn with guilt. His hand clenching as he avoids Alfred’s disdainful stare.

He tried to read the documents before him once more, his loyal butler’s scornful gaze burning into his back as the guilt in his stomach dug it’s claws into his lungs, squeezing until it became unbearable.

He’ll check on you, he decides. He’ll make an image of your face, that’ll settle the all-too familiar guilt inside him. Or at least, that’s what he told himself as Alfred led him down the familiar halls of his Manor, until he hit the other side – a side untouched ever since Bruce was a child, an area of the Manor he didn’t bother with.

Why were you here? The guilt in his stomach intensified, clawing it’s way up his throat as he reached your door. His hand hovering over the handle. This wouldn’t do. His guilt was increasing, weighing heavy on his back. The silence was unnerving, on the other side of the Manor, where everyone else resided – there was always some sort of background noise.

The silence surrounding your room was sickening, threatening to encase his form. This really wouldn’t do, he’d create an image of your face and move your room, somewhere close to his. Somewhere where he can occasionally drop by, he’ll sedate his guilt surrounding you, cutting off the bud of the problem before it can grow into something deeper, he didn’t have time for any of that as Batman.

And with that, he opened your door.

“I need it to buy a house.” You shrug, feeling a little awkward talking about this with your father. Did he even care? You didn’t think so. Oh goodness, the silence was so stifling you wish you could be shot all over again and–

You stop when you notice he isn’t walking beside you anymore, turning your gaze behind you to take in his expression and– why the fuck does he look shocked?! Your expression scrunches up as you take in thee Bruce Wayne, thee Batman looking at you, completely caught off guard.

It’s an expression you’ll never forget until the day you die.

“Buy a house? Why?” He asks, his lips tugging into a tight line as he stares at you with that same calculating expression, the one that made your nerves stand on end – the one that made each cell in your body burn with the urge to curl into yourself, to appear as small as possible and and plead for mercy. You hate it (It reminds you of her).

“I’m– moving out..” You say, your voice smaller than you had intended. The walls are slowly crushing you, you’re sure. This all feels like a cruel dream, a twist of fate you don’t want to accept. Oh, please, you don’t want that look, you want him to look at you with another expression (with the expression he gives others, the expression of a father),

Bruce paused, his body going rigid as he exhales through his nose – the guilt simmering in his body, each muscle threatening to snap, he hates this feeling. He wants to know you, he wants to know his child, the child tucked into the corner of the Manor. How cruel is fate, to threaten to rip you away, to pluck you from his garden the moment he took notice of your pretty petals.

“Do you have any in mind?” Bruce asks, his head tilting as he scans you from head to toe, his voice growing lower, colder. A familiar rush runs through you, the rush you felt when you were in that piss-soaked alley. The undertone of danger clear  – what was his problem?

“I’m not sure yet, but– I saw a nice apartment by Gotham Harbour..” You mutter, your hands wringing behind your back nervously. This was strange, scary, unnerving, anxiety-inducing – pick your damn description! “I’ll.. see about sending you some.” He says gruffly, before nodding and walking away without another word. Instantly, you let out a deep sigh, your hand clutching your heart as you mumble curses, stumbling back to your room. That was–..

If you were actually the sixteen-year-old (Name), you’d probably be on your way to get a tattoo saying ‘my father spoke to me!’, but as you walk down the long, foreboding hallways all you can muster is fear. You don’t know why, but that exchange felt like a catalyst for something big, the future has changed. You’re swallowed by the realization that whatever power you had is slipping away, the future has changed almost comically fast and you’re left standing alone in an abyss of uncertainty.

Something’s going to happen, you just hope you’re not a part of it.

Meanwhile, on the other, brighter side of the sullen Manor, Bruce is brooding in his office, the tick-tocking of the grandfather clock matching the pace of his heartbeat. His dear (Name), his child, moving out? At sixteen? Blasphemous. He ran a hand through his hair, sighing deeply once more, ignoring the pointed look from his youngest son standing before him.

“Father, I believe it’s time to start training. I surmise you haven’t forgotten your promise?” Damian asks, taking in his father’s disgruntled appearance. Strange. It’s certainly not unheard of for Bruce to be in a disheveled state, what with him protecting Gotham every night. But last night was quiet, there wasn’t anything big going on so they were able to take it easy. He should be relaxed, or at least put together.

“Damian, I haven’t the time, Dick is staying in the Manor today, ask him.” Bruce says, standing up from his chair as he walks towards the door – ignoring Damian’s rattled expression, his young son following his footsteps with a huff.

“If I had wanted to train with Richard, I would’ve asked him.” Damian retorts, following his father around with his arms crossed around his chest – miffed by the turn of events. What on earth was keeping his father from training with him? He had been looking forward to this! He continued to protest as they ascended down the stairs, past the living room where Dick was lounging all the way to the kitchen where Alfred was already preparing a feast, the butler diligently working with practised ease.

“Master Bruce, Master Damian.” Alfred greeted, the smell of his cooking wafting through the air as he took in the sight of Bruce’s frown and Damian’s pout, they looked alike, it was almost comical, not that the butler would voice that out loud.

While the old man may seem relaxed, his hands were clenched a little too tightly to pass off as natural. He was waiting with baited breath to see if his plan had borne fruit, if Bruce had managed to find out the reason for your odd behaviour. Of course, Alfred could’ve asked you himself, but you had never been one to open up. 

No matter how much the old butler tried, he wasn’t able to break through the walls of defence you had built around yourself during your stay in the Manor, hopefully the man you craved affection from would be enough to crack that impenetrable shield.

“Did you know that (Name) is planning to move out?” Bruce asks suddenly, his blunt words cutting through the mouth-watering aroma of the carefully seasoned chicken in the oven. Bruce’s eyes remain trained on Alfred, watching as his mouth drops slightly. So he didn’t know. He ignores Damian’s aghast expression and Dick who had sauntered in moments ago.

“No.. I wasn’t aware.” That was unexpected, of all the things Bruce could’ve said, Alfred wasn’t prepared for that. You? Move out? You were merely sixteen, a child! You weren’t even the age to earn a livable wage and you wanted to move out? Unbelievable! “What– What did you just say?” Dick stammers, his eyes flickering from Bruce to Alfred as the tension in the room silently grows, weighing on the room like a guillotine, an unspoken threat looming above each of their heads. Dick couldn’t believe what he was hearing. You wanted to move out? His precious baby sibling? The sweet child who would follow him around shyly, who would light up at the smallest hint of affection, the child who couldn’t ride a bike or do their times tables or–.. No, that was years ago, right? Or, at least he thinks so.

To be honest, when Bruce had said your name, he was initially confused. (Name) was unfamiliar to him – but that feeling went away when he pictured the small child hiding behind the corners of the Manor. His precious sibling! So, it doesn’t matter, right? He forgot about you but he remembered you just as quickly. He’s your older brother, he couldn’t have forgotten you. No, not when he’s everyone’s reliable older brother, that’s impossible! Disgraceful! Deplorable!

How old are you now? He wonders bitterly, a heavy, unsettling feeling forcing it’s claws in his throat as he feels a dull ache stretch through his body, his heart pounding through his ears. You? Move out? That’s insane, you can’t move out. He still needs to take you out to that restaurant he promised you (all those years ago), he needs to help with your math homework, he–..

He feels like he might throw up, he takes a tentative step back, ignoring the expression on Damian’s face. He needs to see you, to grab you and demand answers, he can’t believe such a thing to be true. Sure, maybe he hasn’t interacted with you at all, and maybe he can’t picture your face, or your personality in his mind aside from the small, lingering child who would follow him around – but you can’t leave! Not before he takes you out to that restaurant, like he promised. What kind of big brother doesn’t follow up on his promises?

“This is a ploy for attention.” Damian huffs, glowering at the mention of you. So, you’re what’s driven his father away from training with him. Figures. You’re jealous and weak, it’s natural you’d make empty threats to scavenge for attention like the filthy leech you are. Pathetic.

So why? Why was father making such an expression? Why was Dick so pale, as though he’s about to hurl? Even Alfred looks caught off-guard. What’s going on with these buffoons? Can they not see the foolishness in the idea of you moving out? 

But, there’s a feeling in the air, masking Alfred’s cooking that tells him you’re serious. You’re planning on moving out. What a stupid notion – he should go to your room and smack you for even suggesting it, that you would survive outside of the Manor, in Gotham no less.

“What will you do, Master Bruce?” Alfred asks after a beat of thoughtful silence, the air in the room crackling with the weight of everyone’s ideals, his eyes narrowed at Bruce’s tightened expression.

“They’re.. too young to live alone.” Bruce’s tone is even, the same voice he uses when going over a mission plan and such, but the message in it is clear. You can’t go, and they all understand it, they understand it well.

Alfred watches the three part ways, each of them with a newfound goal in mind, and he can’t help the relief that washes over him. This is great, he had been worried that they would let you go – that they wouldn’t care to keep you, Alfred would have to do all the work himself then, and he’s much too old for that.

Yes, this is much easier. The cogs of fate are turning, the strings on your limbs tightening with each passing second. You’ve inadvertently set your role in an inescapable performance – maybe next time, go downstairs for dinner – no matter how shaken up you are.

yall i was gonna post this later.. but everyone is so nice omg. i feel so scared to post PLEASEUHH constructive critisicm is appreciated <3 :3 also thank u for being so kind on the prologue :p

[saetoru]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩ my life with you (that’s way over now)

synopsis. some people get drunk calls from their exes, maybe even flowers with hand written apologies. you get a knock on your front door with two random kids and a murder case

length. 3.0k words (once more it was supposed to be short)

contents. exes to lovers, ex boyfriend! suguru, gn! reader, slightly deviated from canon (he doesn’t kill the entire village + doesn’t defect), slightly a fix-it fic, blood, murder, child abuse + neglect (canon events with suguru and the twins), angst to slight fluff with hopeful ending (pretty much happy tbh), mentions of family + kids, suguru pretty much being a broke and depressed lil guy lollll

notes. idk what this is but it was written for me i just wanted to write it so here. take it and look away

right before you graduate, you and suguru break up. you don’t want to, but he insists it’s only fair—he can hardly be there for you the way you need him to be, he says. something’s changed in him, it has since that day last year. but still—you don’t want to break up.

so you argue, he stays firm, you cry, he doesn’t change his mind, you break up, he leaves, and the world momentarily collapses.

it’s the way things work, you suppose. they don’t quite always go the way you planned. you graduate not long after that, leaving him behind to throw yourself into work while you toe into the baby steps of adulthood. real adulthood—the jujutsu world has a way of thrusting you into that faster than normal, anyway.

by the time it’s late summer, you get your first apartment. it’s a rundown place—the bathroom tiles look dirty no matter how much you scrub, the walls haven’t been repainted in what seems like decades, and the thermostat never works properly to feel like what the temperature indicates.

but it’s yours—you leave jujutsu high fresh into the real world, paying your taxes and buying your groceries all while you exorcise curses for a living. barely an adult, barely getting by, barely alive as you get up each day and live.

and then suguru comes knocking on your door half past midnight.

“hey,” he says nonchalantly, like there’s nothing wrong with standing there—but you know him better than that. you can hear that detachment in his voice as he stares between your eyes, but not quite in them.

“you—” you start, staring at him incredulously before you decide to give up. there are no surprises with suguru, not anymore you suppose. you don’t really know him anymore. “suguru, it’s midnight,” you sigh—and that’s when you see them: two small children that can’t be much older than five.

bruises are clear as day on their arms, even while standing in the darkness outside. there’s also the slight swollen curve of their eyes, and you can’t help but notice how they’re practically skin and bone. children who have probably not yet even lived for five winters, and you almost wonder if they’ve been through more than you have in you’re entire lifetime.

suguru clears his throat before you can stare at them any longer.

“this is nanako,” he gestures at the blonde, “and this is mimiko.” the brunette one seems more shy, curls behind his leg further as her name is uttered.

you don’t know what to say, so you settle for smiling—you’re not sure if it comes out too genuine, but you try. it’s all you can offer, really.

“hello,” you hum for a moment. and then you turn back to suguru, “it’s midnight.”

“i know.”

“you should be at school grounds.”

“i know.”

“suguru,” you sigh, eyeing the blood stained on his cheek. you don’t like where this is heading. there’s a sick feeling twisting in your gut, bubbling, bubbling, bubbling.

bile. you can taste it. something’s not right.

“where did you find these kids?”

“on a mission,” he says simply, “village heads were keepin’ em locked in a cage like animals. can you believe it?”

again, that casual tone. it almost as easy as humming your favorite tune, as smooth as your skin on freshly washed sheets, as quiet as the first day of snow when the world is still. but something about it is hollow—something’s not right.

“why’d you bring them here? instead of school? shoko should look at them—”

“i told them they’d be safe here.”

they’d be safe anywhere, you think. as long as suguru’s there too. as long they’re under his watchful gaze, nothing could hope to beat down on their youth like it already has their whole lives. but you don’t say that—something tells you he won’t believe you.

maybe not right now.

you don’t look at him. you can’t. something’s not right, but there are children present. so you throw on your best smile and open the door wider, offering them to come in.

your apartment is small, just one bedroom and one bath. there’s hardly enough food for yourself for tonight, you still have to go grocery shopping this week. the missions were lined up back to back to back—but that’s just life as a sorcerer, you suppose. most days you hardly have the energy to eat more than a few apple slices when you return home anyway.

you wave your hand at your place dramatically as you say, “come on in, ladies. your humble abode awaits.”

they giggle slightly at that—it’s the first time suguru hears them laugh. you have that effect, he knew you would. it’s why he brings them here and not there. and…well, there’s a more complicated issue at hand. but that’s for later.

right now…well, for right now, he lets you guide them to the bathroom.

“you have money on you right?” you ask. he blinks, staring at you for a moment before slowly shaking his head.

“spent the last of it on cigarettes this morning.”

great, you think, before sighing and trudging over to grab your wallet as you press a few crisp bills of cash in his hands.

“here.”

“what’s this for?” he raises a brow.

“go buy them clothes,” you look at him like he’s stupid. he might be, in all honesty. just a little. “i’m not putting them back in…those once they’re all cleaned.”

“wha—i’ve never shopped for children before,” he gapes, “and i don’t know what size they are, or—”

“figure it out, suguru,” you say tiredly. it’s half past midnight—by now, you’d be passed out from your mission. he seems to take the hint. “and bring some snacks too. should be enough.”

“fine,” he grumbles—and then he’s walking out the door.

for a second, it feels familiar watching him leave. but then you decide not to dwell on it—there are much more important matters at hand.

you turn to the two girls before crouching in front of them with a gentle smile, “who’s ready for bubbles?”

——————

nanako and mimiko have never had a bubble bath before. you decide to let them taste the first tendrils of youth by splashing in your tiny bathtub while you find suguru for some much needed answers.

he sits on your couch, shirt wrinkled and hair falling loose and blood still staining his cheek as he hunches over his legs, elbows resting on his thighs as he thinks. and thinks. and thinks and thinks and thinks.

you wonder about what—what could be plaguing his mind? a lot you’re sure, but this isn’t suguru. not the one you know, at least.

the one you knew, the voice in your mind hisses—do you really even know him at all anymore?

“so,” you sit on the opposite side of the sofa, curling your legs under yourself as you eye him from the side, “care to explain?”

“i killed them,” he mutters. you go still. “the village heads. i did it without hesitating. that’s bad, right?”

“well fuck, suguru,” you breathe, restless, “that’s certainly not good.”

“i had a reason,” he argues, “all i needed was one.”

“there’s nothing that excuses murder—”

“oh, but we can excuse locking kids in cages, is that right? why? cause they’re sorcerers? they’re not—they’re children.”

“i didn’t say that,” you rub your forehead. this is all too much. too, too much.

being a sorcerer is too much. being in front of suguru is too much.

you finish your third year with a broken heart and graduate in spring—at one point you’d hoped graduating wouldn’t change anything between you and your friends, between you and the boy you loved. everything would be the same, even if you’d leave the place that held you all together—you’d still find a way back to each other, you liked to think. but then it all changes before you can even comprehend.

haibara is dead. nanami is hardly coping. gojo is everywhere but here. shoko is in high demand. suguru is hardly present even when he’s right in front of you. nothing is the same and you don’t think it ever will be. you lose the one thing you count on being yours forever, and now, he’s right here again. but not really here—not with you so much as near you.

suguru has killed people, sitting on your couch with you while the two children he finds are bathing happily in your bathtub.

there’s some irony in that—maybe in a perfect world, suguru and you would sit on the couch, much happier than right now, though. maybe you’d be tucked under his arm and curled into his side as you both chuckle at the happy squeals in the distance. maybe in a perfect world.

but this world is cruel. too cruel, in fact. it forces children to grow up too fast during some times and lets adults continue to be children during others. it’s sickening and all too much.

but this is the world you live in. there’s not much to change in that—not much you can change. maybe sitting on the couch with suguru is what you should be grateful for, whether it’s in this world or another.

“i came here because it’s safe,” he mumbles, quieter this time, “i don’t…i didn’t trust anywhere else.”

something tells you he’s not talking about the kids. you look at him for the first time that night—really look at him. you take in the lost weight, the sunken cheekbones and the bruised under eyes from the lack of sleep. the cracked lips from being chapped and the dry hair that’s lost its normal shine.

something’s not right—you won’t be able to mend it, but you think you can keep it from getting worse.

“it is safe here,” you murmur, nodding in assurance, “but you can’t…i can’t let you do that. not again.”

“what? kill people?” he snorts in dry amusement. it’s quiet for a bit—you open your mouth a few times like you want to say something, but nothing ever comes. he finally decides to fill the silence. “i don’t know what’s right and what’s wrong anymore. people shouldn’t kill. but some people shouldn’t live.”

“i think jujutsu is supposed to save people. not everyone will deserve it, but i suppose we wouldn’t be much better than them if we used it for anything other than that,” you whisper. he looks over at you at that, peers at you deep in thought as he contemplates your words.

“that’s funny,” he chuckles, “i used to think that too.”

“what changed?”

“everything.”

“then change it some more,” you shrug, “until you think it again.” he looks at you incredulously at that, eyeing you like you’re crazy.

“you’re an idiot,” he scoffs.

“says the killer,” you scoff back. you look at him this time, in the eyes and full of conviction, full of promises you couldn’t make before but fully intend to keep now. “don’t kill anyone else and i’ll help you. with those kids, i mean.”

“you want to co parent with me?” he chuckles.

co parent—the word makes your stomach twist. even after all this time, after all the hurt and pain, suguru is easy to imagine that with. he’s easy to imagine anything in the future with, really. he’s always been perfect like that, but you’re starting to realize there’s a lot more imperfections to him than you initially thought.

but it’s okay, you think. if you didn’t stop loving him before, you certainly don’t stop now. blood on his hands or not, he’s yours—even if he doesn’t want to be.

“don’t say it like that,” you murmur softly, hugging your arms around yourself, “please.”

you let yourself be vulnerable for just a moment—not because you want to, but because he needs to know. he needs to know how unfair he’s being and how patient you are with him despite it all. you deserve that much.

“sorry,” he mutters—he has the decency to look away and drop his smile.

“you don’t kill anyone, and i’ll look for a bigger place. deal?”

“for us…all?”

“yes. just until you figure it out, i’ll help you out with them. and then you’ll responsibly use your paycheck as a full time special grade sorcerer and maybe send a few checks my way to say thanks to my good will.”

he chuckles at that, shaking his head. “i’ll repay you,” he hums, tapping his foot. he does that when he’s nervous, you still remember—you could never forget anything about him. “i…i owe you, anyway.”

it’s quiet some more. you don’t know what to say, and quite frankly, you don’t want to say anything at all. but once more, he fills the silence for you after a while.

“what if…” he starts, “what if i want to co parent with you?”

“you dumped me,” you point out, unable to hide the bitterness any longer. it cracks from your tongue through your words like honey that went dry. “remember that? cause i sure remember.”

you’re an adult now, just barely, but an adult all the same. you should handle this the mature way—but you’re still young. still hurt. still blanketed in the fresh wave of nostalgia that leaves you aching with grief.

so you let yourself be bitter. suguru can handle that much after he left you to pick up your shattered pieces.

“i didn’t want to,” he says quietly. “i never wanted to.”

“but you did.”

“i didn’t…you didn’t deserve to see me unstable.”

“you’re not very stable right now either,” you pinch your nose tiredly, “you killed people, suguru. but somehow you can manage to have two kids now. but not me.”

“they need me,” he defends.

“i needed you too,” your voice cracks.

you did. you needed him—and you like to think he needed you too. maybe it wasn’t perfect, nothing ever is, especially not when you fight curses and see their ugliness every day. but that’s the best part of having each other—having something pretty amidst the hideousness.

he left you with more ugly than you knew what to do with. it’s unfair, you think for a moment, unfair that two girls who hardly know him at all have more of him than you ever did. he’d never abandon them—that much you know for sure.

you’ve laughed with him, held him and wiped his tears and kissed him under the moon until it became the sun. you’ve seen him with his hair down and his guard lowered. you’ve seen him in every way possible but in the end, he walked away.

they’ve seen him for less than a day and somehow, he’ll be there forever. there’s something unfair about that and you hate that you’re bitter with children but the world in cruel like that.

suguru slowly inches over—it’s cautious at first, and then he fills the gap all at once. you pretend you don’t feel the way your thighs touch.

“i need you too,” he admits, voice small. there’s a small, shaky crack that eats away at your heart, trying to gnaw into the raw part. the easy to reach part. the part you shouldn’t let him see anymore. “i…i always needed you. i’m sorry.”

“we were supposed to need each other,” you sniffle.

“we do,” he slowly slumps his head onto your shoulder. you let him stay there—don’t dare move a muscle in case he pulls away. “you’re the only thing that keeps me stable. i don’t think that’s fair.”

“needing someone isn’t unfair, suguru,” you scoff.

“okay,” he grabs your hand, squeezing. for the first time, he lets it all go. lets tears slowly slip from the corners of his eyes as he slumps into your side. he cries for riko. for kuroi. for satoru and the time he lost him for a moment. for their youth. for haibara. for not being enough even when he shouldn’t have had to be. somewhere amidst all that, your arms wrap around him and he’s pulled into your chest—that familiar feeling of your fingers threading into his hair makes the world start spinning again. “i need you,” he chokes.

“okay,” you say shakily, nodding slowly as you let yourself hope, “as long as you don’t stop this time.”

he buries his face into your chest, and you kiss the crown of his head.

cruelty is an unstoppable force. your love for suguru is an immovable object. neither is going anywhere, but perhaps they can coexist.

“satoru’s gonna have a massive headache when he explains this one to the higher ups,” you snort after a while.

he laughs into your shirt, real for the first time in a long time. “i’ll buy him something sweet. should make up for it,” he hums. and then he looks up, smiles innocently as he asks, “wanna lend me some cash? i’ll pay you back when i’m a responsible handler of money.”

“you’re hopeless,” you chuckle, “but at least you’re here.”

————— BONUS —————

“okay,” satoru starts, holding his hands up in surrender as he stands before the higher ups. damn old geezers, he thinks. “so he did kill a person or two…but—”

“there is no excuse,” a voice hisses.

“he didn’t mean it,” he huffs indignantly, “it was an accident. those can happen sometimes.”

“what—”

“he’s going through a phase, okay? let him work through it, he’ll be fine.”

“that’s not—”

“i’ll let him off the hook this time,” satoru grins, pushing his glasses up his nose as he shrugs, “he’s got a family now, y’know? kids and a spouse, and they’re looking for a home. can’t take that away from them.”

“he’s not even married—”

“it’ll happen eventually,” he insists, “so let’s all just calm down, yeah? great, thanks!”

“gojo—”

“see ya!”

he walks out, flashing an obnoxious peace sign at the higher ups as they hiss at him to return as he’s walking out. that takes care of that, he thinks, as long as suguru doesn’t make his life harder and kill more people, he can handle it—you did promise him kikufuku if he does.

satoru is babygirl defender no. 1 ain’t nobody doing it like my guy 🤞🏽 he would be loyal to you while you were in jail no doubts

[nadvs]

the act of unravelling (part one)

pairing rafe cameron x pogue! female reader

rating mature 18+

summary you never expected you’d get tangled up with a kook, least of all, rafe cameron. one night, you make a life-altering decision to get revenge on someone you both despise. after you vow to keep what happened a secret, your relationship begins to twist into something more.

tags very dark! violence, homicide, drug and alcohol use, parental neglect, mental illness, s/a, trauma. no smut.

author’s note thank you to this anon!! this fic deviates from canon. timeline is s2 when rafe is at his most unhinged.

» masterlist

disclaimer there is no explicit s/xual assault scene in this story, but it is referenced and the trauma that comes with surviving it is explored. it is committed by an original character. when writing this, i pulled from personal experience, so please be mindful that if you comment, do not engage in any victim-blaming as it is triggering to me and others.

·········

In a single harrowing moment, you’ve learned that there’s truth to the expression that the enemy of your enemy can be your friend.

Rafe looks all too comfortable holding a gun. The rage coursing through you is deafening, persuading you that the person he’s pointing it at deserves to die.

And then, you utter the words rising in your throat.

“Do it.”

╰┈➤ two days earlier

Your shifts at the country club are a repetitive motion of driving over the golf course’s hills, handing the island’s wealthiest people their overpriced drinks, and accepting their money with a fake smile.

The job was always a predictable bore. Until a week ago, when you started seeing a familiar face.

The moment Rafe’s eyes landed on you and he realized that one of the Pogues he revels in berating is the new cart girl, his lips twitched into a smirk.

Every time you see him, he does the same thing. He orders a beer and says here you go, sweetheart when he tips you.

It’s always a fifty. No other club member gives you nearly this much. It’s like he loves reminding you that this type of money is pocket change to him.

Every time you serve him, you subdue your glare and take the crisp bill that sits between his fingers, wondering why even though the man is an arrogant asshole, you can’t stop staring at him.

You feel weak for not hating him all the way. You can’t help that over the years of your tense, sporadic interactions, a part of you has always wondered if he feels the same pull of attraction that you do.

You have to remind yourself of who he is. A man committed to letting everyone know how much better he thinks he is because he was lucky enough to be born into money. He’s heartless. And you can’t wait for the day that you finally rid yourself of this fixation you have for him.

It’s a sunny Thursday afternoon at the end of a long shift and you’re parked by one of the paved pathways on the course, recording your last transaction in your logbook.

You hear the familiar whirring of a cart passing by. It stops. You don’t think much of it until you hear his voice.

“We’ll take two beers,” he calls from behind the steering wheel. You look up to see him. Rafe.

“I’m obviously off duty,” you reply curtly, looking between him and his friend.

“What, so you can write in your diary, but you can’t give us some drinks?” he calls.

“It’s a logbook,” you reply coldly. “It’s called having–”

You flatten your lips together, trying to control yourself.

“Having…?” he challenges. The mocking tone of his voice is what makes you snap.

“A job,” you reply. “Not everyone can live off of daddy’s money.”

Rafe huffs a laugh, a wisp of amusement flashing on his face.

“Careful, Pogue,” he says. “What’ll your boss say if he knows that’s how you’re talking to me?”

“I’m off the clock, Kook,” you say the label with the same vitriol. “I can talk however I want.”

You close your book and start up your cart before he can irritate you any more. Even though there’s something aggravatingly magnetic about him, you refuse to allow him to taunt you any longer.

·········

You meet up with your friends on the beach that evening, zoning out as the three of them chatter around you, passing a joint you brought.

You stare ahead at the soft waves under the setting sun, thinking of Rafe’s cold stare, thinking of the smirk he seems to always have etched on his face reserved especially for you, thinking of how you wish your body would catch up with your mind because how can you dislike somebody this much but also be so attracted to them?

“Who’s your plug?” JJ asks, seemingly impressed. He pulls you out of your daze as he passes you the joint. Smoke curls out of the end of it, twisting in the wind.

“That guy, Porter,” you say flatly. You take a puff, thinking back to the shaggy-haired Kook who approached you at a party on the north side of the island the other night, offering you half the price on your first buy.

He also tried to convince you to try something harder, but you told him you’re sticking to pot. You weren’t about to get hooked on coke, especially not because a drug-dealing Kook wants to take more of your money.

You continue to stare ahead, passing the joint along.

“What a trust fund kid name,” JJ laughs. “Fuckin’ Porter.”

Your friends chuckle around you, but you continue to stare ahead.

“Hard day at the office?” he says in response to your absentmindedness. You meet JJ’s gaze, shaking your head as if to dismiss your own thoughts.

“Rafe is such an asshole,” you say.

“What’d he do this time?” Pope asks. Your friends await your response, already well aware of your history with the bullshit you’ve ever had to deal with at work lately.

“He said something about ratting me out to my boss for talking back to him,” you reply. You scoff, getting mad all over again. You need to pull yourself out of this funk. “Whatever. All I do is complain about him. He’s not worth it. This is the last time you’ll ever hear me talk about him. I mean it.”

You make an effort to join in your friends’ conversations, feeling guilty that you’re so spaced out. With parents who never give you much attention at all, the guys surrounding you are your family. Your brothers. They deserve better than to hear you ramble on about Rafe.

Rafe’s eyes travel over the silhouettes sitting along the darkening shoreline when he arrives at the beach with his friends.

It’s the sound of his pick-up truck’s door shutting that gets your attention. You look over your shoulder. Then, you glance away, indifference on your face.

It pisses him off. Rafe has always craved what he can’t have. Power. Self-control. You. Every time he talks to you, you act like he’s such a bother, a sharp thorn in your side.

You get under his skin. And he’s never wanted a girl this bad. A goddamn Pogue of all people. Something about you lures him in. It makes him want to see what really lies behind the irritation that burns in your eyes every time he speaks to you.

He needs to crack your armor. And he has always loved a challenge.

As the beach populates, the division between the Kooks and the Pogues is clear, as if an invisible line is drawn in the sand. He stays on his side, you stay on yours.

When night falls, you and your friends have all smoked through the entire joint, and you’re a bit buzzed but not nearly as high as you’d like to be.

You spot Porter by the shoreline, drinking with his friends, and dust the sand off your knees when you stand up.

“I’m gonna go buy some more,” you say to your friends.

“Going into enemy territory?” JJ asks.

“It’s nothing new to me,” you laugh. “I work in enemy territory, remember?”

“You need company? Or cash?” John B asks.

“All good. My treat,” you say. “I’m loaded with tips.”

You don’t mention that a majority of the money in your pocket is from Rafe.

As you approach the boisterous group, you cross your arms and feign confidence. In reality, being around these types has always put you on edge.

Kooks give off a sense of invincibility, almost impunity, like predators at the top of the food chain, perpetually safe from harm and always on the brink of inflicting it.

You notice Rafe’s stare on you from his place in the large group and your stomach twists. Your eyes flit off of him and you wonder how it’s possible to wish someone would stay away but also so deeply crave they’d come closer.

Truthfully, within the tangled way he makes you feel, you’re kind of scared of Rafe, too. He’s reckless and unpredictable. And yet, that side of him excites you. There’s a complexity to him that has an inescapable effect on you.

“You holding?” you ask Porter once you approach him. He’s one of the few Kooks you don’t mind so much. He doesn’t have the cold air of arrogance that you’re so used to.

“It’s good shit, isn’t it?” he says with a smile. “How much you want?”

You leaf through the bills in your hand.

“Just a joint,” you say. The waves crash behind you, almost drowning your voice out. You make the exchange and push through the crowd, eager to get back to your friends.

You thought you managed to get away without any complications, but two words stop you.

“You lost?”

You turn to see Rafe, overwhelming heat rushing through you as he closes the distance between you, towering over you as the breeze brushes his hair over his forehead.

“What, ‘cause I’m on your side of the beach?” you mutter. “Grow up.”

Rafe smirks. He gets such a kick out of fucking with the Pogues. Especially you.

“Is that what you’re spending my tips on?” he asks, eyes darting down to the joint in your hand.

“Yeah,” you answer. “You can tell your father I say thanks.”

Rafe’s mouth curls into a bigger smile. When he looks at you like that, like he wants to be around you, you wonder if he secretly enjoys your company.

“How long you been buying from him?” Rafe asks.

“Why?” you say. The way you glare at him makes every muscle in his body tense. He’d be an idiot to deny how attracted he is to you. “You gonna tell my boss?”

“It was a fucking joke,” he mutters with a laugh. “You Pogues all have sticks up your asses, I swear.”

You grit your teeth. He’s clearly pleased when he riles you up like this. You don’t understand how somebody could be so spiteful.

“What do you want, Rafe?” you say.

Silence settles between you, the chattering of people on either side of the beach intertwined in the air, an overlap of worlds far apart. He reminds himself that he has something important to ask you.

“Did he offer you anything else?” he says. You’ve already heard the gossip about how Rafe’s selling coke now. He must want to offer you a better price.

“I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling,” you reply. Rafe scoffs, his tongue jutting under his cheek as he takes you in.

“I’d never sell to you.”

You huff a flat chuckle. You’re tired of his juvenile obsession with the class divide that sits between you.

“So, I’m good enough to serve you drinks, but not good enough to buy your drugs?”

You feel a sick sense of satisfaction when his face hardens with anger. For a second, you worry that you’re just as spiteful as he is, that you’re no better than him.

Rafe scoffs. He’s seen what coke does to people. To himself. He refuses to see it happen to you. But of course you expect the worst of him. Like everyone else does.

“Did he offer you anything else or not?” Rafe repeats with a note of irritation.

“Why?” you sputter.

“I need to know if he’s trying to steal from me.”

Rafe refuses to be in competition with anyone. Other Kooks can sell weed all they want, but coke is his territory, and if he has to claim his territory, so be it. He’s heard rumblings that Porter’s expanded his offerings now. And Rafe isn’t going to let him fuck him over.

“He did,” you finally answer. “Coke. He said it’s the purest on the island.”

He only nods tersely, lips twisting in frustration, before he turns around and storms away from you. So, that’s all he wanted from you. Information.

“You’re welcome,” you half-shout. Curiosity pulls you in as your eyes follow him into the crowd. Sure enough, Rafe pushes Porter to the ground, shouting indistinctly, earning jeers from the crowd.

It’s typical. Nearly every time you see Rafe out socially, he’s yelling and fighting someone. You walk back to your friends, hoping you can shake off the feeling he left you with.

·········

The only thing getting you through your shift the next day is that tomorrow is a holiday. The night of the Fourth of July is an escape from the stresses of your life, an excuse to get wasted with your friends under the fireworks and let yourself drift off into oblivion.

After you clock out, you’re pacing through the country club’s bar when you hear your name called from the patio. You look to see Porter sitting at a table with a couple of friends, his smile wide.

“Didn’t know you worked here,” he says when you approach.

“Yeah, I’m a server on the course,” you explain. You almost expect him to ignorantly ask for a drink, but have to remind yourself that he’s not like Rafe.

“How is it?”

“It’s fine.”

“Come on, we won’t tell,” Porter chuckles. “You hate it, don’t you?”

“Only sometimes,” you reply with a laugh. “Depends on the day. And on the person I’m dealing with.”

“Fair enough,” he says. He pulls out his phone, punching in the password. “I meant to tell you last night that you should have my number. You know, for when you need to stock up.”

You take his phone, cluing in that he’s making himself more accessible to you for the next time you need to buy from him. As you text yourself his name, one of the men at the table motions to Porter.

“Bro,” his friend says, gaze trained ahead. Porter looks past you to the bar and shakes his head in disbelief.

“Can’t escape him,” he sighs.

You follow his eyeline to spot Rafe at the bar with a friend, dark liquor sitting in the glass he’s holding.

“Not a fan?” you ask.

“Is anyone?” Porter laughs. “He’s a nutcase.”

“Don’t let him hear you,” his friend murmurs.

“Yeah, he’ll kill you,” the other guy laughs.

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Porter replies.

Your eyes linger on Rafe a second longer than they need to. Your curiosity for why he’s the way he is is like a flame that won’t burn out. He has everything he could possibly want. Why is he so mean?

“Yeah,” is all you can say. You turn around again and give Porter his phone back.

“Oh, there’s a party at my beach house tomorrow night. My neighbor does this crazy fireworks thing every year,” he tells you. “I’ll text you the address.”

You nod appreciatively, glad that at least some of the rich people you deal with don’t buy into the idea that you’re beneath them.

·········

It’s nearing nine p.m. when you make it to the beach house the next night. The guys are rambling on behind you as you step inside the massive, humid house, filled with chattering people and loud music.

“Where are your car keys?” Pope asks.

“Right here,” JJ says, jingling them in front of his face. “Do I need to show you every five minutes?”

“I’ll just take them,” Pope says, grabbing them and stuffing them in his pocket. “You can’t be trusted.”

“It was one time,” JJ says. You laugh as you think of last weekend when he’d lost his car keys at a party in the Cut.

“Yeah, and we had to search the sand for, like half an hour,” you remind him.

“You know what I’m not hearing?” JJ says. “A thank you for driving all the time.”

“Remind me, who actually drove last time?” John B asks. “And who was hurling in the backseat?”

JJ scratches the back of his neck.

“I’m a man of honor,” he says. “I’m not not going to chug when I’m told to chug.” His eyes fix on something across the room. “Speaking of…”

He heads towards the keg and you and Pope share a disapproving shake of your heads. You follow your friends, grabbing a solo cup and sipping on beer.

A few minutes later, your phone buzzes with a text from Porter: You here? Want to buy?

You’ve already smoked through the joint you bought two nights ago and quickly reply: yes.

He texts: come upstairs.

“I’ll be right back,” you quickly tell your friends before you push through the crowd.

You duck under the string tied across the bottom of staircase, a sign that warns partygoers that it’s off limits hanging in the middle. One door is open in the upstairs hallway. You see Porter sitting on a bed, rolling a joint on a book that’s sitting in his lap.

“Hey. Got a fresh one for you,” he says.

“Thanks.” You dig into your pocket. “Same price?”

“Sure.” He cocks his head. “It’ll take a while. You can come in and chill.”

You sit at his desk close to the door, talking as he packs the thin white paper.

When he stands up, instead of giving the joint to you, he darts across the room abruptly. Your brows knit in confusion when he shuts the door, the loud music reduced to muffles now.

“What are you doing?” you ask, fear twisting your heart in a vise.

He must have read things wrong.

You assume he’ll stop when you tell him no.

He doesn’t.

·········

You fall to the hard floor. You grip the edge of the bed, hardly any light spilling into the room from the hallway as you blink rapidly to gain your bearings.

A loud slam was what woke you up. You don’t remember falling asleep. You don’t even know where you are.

Two shadowy figures stand on the other side of the room. One roughly pushes the other to the floor. You stay still, peeking over the bed. Your body is trembling with pain and you don’t know why.

“Do you think I’m joking?” a man spits.

You know that voice. It’s Rafe.

“Dude, relax,“ the man on the floor says.

You might be sick. It’s Porter on the floor, whimpering like an idiot. You remember why your body is aching now.

He hurt you. He hurt you and you retreated into your mind and you fell unconscious. A cold swirl of anger and disgust and sadness twists your stomach into a knot.

“I told you to stay out of my fucking way,” Rafe shouts. “Where’s your stash?”

“In the desk,” Porter says quietly. “Just take it. I’ll stick to selling weed, okay? You have my word.”

You watch from the floor, Rafe’s broad figure leaning to pull open drawers and shove items off the desk, objects clattering on the floor in the dark. They don’t know you’re here.

Consciousness slowly grips you. Rafe confronted him about selling coke. He told him to stop. And Porter didn’t listen.

Your eyes flood with hot tears. He didn’t listen to you, either.

You just want to leave. To get out of this horrifying room. To figure out how to put yourself back together after surviving one of the worst ways a person can break another.

Loud fireworks abruptly crack in the sky, startling you, shining light in through the window. And that’s when you see it. Porter is by the other side of the bed, still on the floor, and in his raised hand, something is gleaming.

A gun.

“Rafe!” Your throat is dry, sore from the way you’d screamed.

He suddenly turns towards you, confusedly finding your face across the room. Then, his gaze snaps down at Porter. He notices the gun. And he lunges.

You stand on shaky knees as you watch Rafe land vicious punches, every blow making Porter groan.

“Gonna pull a gun when my back is turned, pussy?” Rafe bellows. “Really?”

You round the bed, staring in horror, your mind still in fragmented shambles. You’d told Porter to stop so many times and every strike of Rafe’s knuckles against his jaw gives you a jolt of satisfaction, a desire for him to suffer more.

He was never a nice guy. He’s just like all of them. A predator.

Rafe scrambles to his feet, heavily breathing as fireworks continue their pops and sizzles over the beach.

The gun is in his hand now. His heart is thrumming, his blood boiling hot. He could’ve died. If you didn’t call his name, he could’ve lost his life.

Rafe’s steady and firm, holding the weapon still, a sharp contrast to how hard you’re shaking.

“Do it,” you say. Rafe’s eyes finds yours, his lips parted, blood splattered on his face. It’s not his. Porter didn’t land any punches. Rafe beat him that badly.

“What?” Porter cries. “Are you insane?”

He’s staring up at both of you through wide eyes as the barrel of the gun remains directed at him. You imagine how terrifying you must look to him, standing over him in the dim room with his pathetic life in your hands.

“Me?” you mutter. Hatred courses through your veins when you glare at him as he lies on his side, bloodied and weak.

The power has shifted into your hands. He was the one looking down at you earlier, hurting you. And now that your body is yours again, you don’t hesitate to kick him in the stomach.

He grunts when you make contact, his body curling forward.

Rafe watches, rendered speechless. He thought he’d seen you angry before. He hasn’t. This is new. This is pure rage. This is a level of wrath he didn’t know you were capable of.

Even through the darkness, Rafe can see that your eyes are shiny with tears when you turn your head to look at him again.

“What the fuck are you waiting for?” you snap, your words dripping with agony and rage. “If you don’t do it, I will.”

Rafe is powerless against the angry, malevolent instinct that’s guided him all his life. He doesn’t think.

The blow of the gun cuts through the air.

Your breath catches.

And he’s just a body. Lifeless on the floor. Gone.

You look up at Rafe. Your chests are heaving, broken and shaky breaths spilling out of your mouths. The colors lighting up the night sky tint your tear-streaked face. He’s never seen agony personified. He has now.

You glance down at Porter again. His mouth is agape. His eyes are shut. Forever. Forever.

“Oh, my God,” you whimper. Hot tears fall over your cheeks so quickly that you fear they’ll never stop. The adrenaline escapes you like water spinning down a drain, replaced with a bottomless dread.

Rafe realizes he’s still pointing the gun. He lowers his arm, his palm sweating against the grip. He had to do it. He had to. He didn’t know that taking a life would feel this good. He doesn’t feel a shred of regret or remorse. For once, he has real power.

But then he watches the way you sink down to the floor.

“What did we…” you whisper, words rushed. “What did we do? Rafe, what did we do?”

There’s a dead body next to you. Cold permeates your bones. You know it’s the type of chill that will never leave you.

Rafe kneels in front of you. The gun hits the floor with a heavy thump. The air smells like gunpowder, fried and smoking. He’s trying to meet your eyes, but your gaze is skittering around as you sit, crumpled and trembling.

“Hey,” he says clearly.

You’re staring at the ground, your breaths shallow.

“Hey,” he repeats louder. Finally, you look at him. “It was self-defense.”

You nod weakly, processing how within a second, you’ve tangled yourselves together into a knot that you can never unravel. Rafe pulled the trigger, but you told him to. And you’re sure you would’ve done it yourself if Rafe didn’t. You’re murderers.

Rafe’s hand is an inch away from you, almost putting it on yours, almost touching someone with tenderness instead of anger for once. You saved his life. You loathe him, but you saved his life, reacting in a split second.

“Why were you even up here?” he asks.

“Just be glad I was,” you say, hoping it’s enough to satisfy him.

“Yeah. Yeah,” he mumbles. “Thank you.”

If you weren’t so shellshocked, you’d laugh. You never expected Rafe to have manners, and you never expected that if he did, it’d be a show of gratitude for helping him kill somebody.

Nausea pools in your gut at the reminder of why you were so angry. Did Porter plan it? Did he always have his sights set on you, like a vulture circling the sky, ready to attack?

What happened earlier tonight flashes through your mind. He deserved to die. He did something unforgivable. He said things about how girls always do this, they always tease but never give it up.

You didn’t just save Rafe. You saved all the girls who were fated to cross that monster’s path. You pushed a soul to its death, but it was one not worthy of life.

Rafe stares at you as you blink rapidly, your mind clearly racing.

“He rip you off or something?” he asks, at a loss for why you’d encourage him to pull the trigger.

Of course Rafe thinks it’s about money. That’s all that matters to him.

“Yeah,” you lie, voice cracking. You can’t tell him. You can’t relive it. Especially with someone who you know is cold-blooded. Someone who might blame you for coming up to this bedroom in the first place.

Tease. Porter called you a tease while you pleaded for him to stop. You drop your head in your hands, chest stuttering with your breathy cries, remembering how he’d hurt you.

Rafe stares at you, confused, wondering how you could be so angry and vengeful and ruthless, just to regret it a second after the bullet left the chamber.

“We had to do it,” he states.

“I know,” you tell him. You wipe your cheeks with your palms, well aware that he could never understand why you’re really crying. “We’ll just tell the truth.”

He shakes his head at you.

“Tell who the truth?” Rafe mutters, his stare hard. “We’re not telling anybody.”

Your breath shakes. He wants to hide this. To try to get away with it.

“What if someone heard the gunshot?” you murmur.

“Everyone’s outside,” he says. “And those stupid fireworks are so fucking loud. Nobody could tell the difference.”

You wipe your face again, considering his words. Your phone is buzzing in your pocket. Someone’s calling you. Surely one of your friends. Why didn’t you just tell them where you were going? Why didn’t you just have one of them come upstairs with you?

Impatience quickly rises in Rafe while you stay silent.

“I almost knocked him out the other night,” he says. “In front of everyone. You think backing me up would be enough for anyone to believe I was protecting myself?”

You chew on your bottom lip anxiously. Rafe has a reputation for being violent. Porter put up a front that he was a nice guy. His friends even said right in front of you that Rafe would kill him. Who’d believe that Porter actually pointed a gun first?

Besides, if you vouched for him, who’s to say they’d trust you? They could spin it and say Rafe paid off a Pogue to lie for him.

“And then the cops would dig and find out it was over coke,” Rafe sputters. “It’d be a fucking mess. We’re not telling anybody.”

He’s right. Confessing wouldn’t do you any good, either. It could go sideways and you could never afford a good lawyer.

Nobody deserves to be punished for taking down the evil, lifeless man lying on the floor. Not you. Not even Rafe. You won’t take the risk.

You gaze into Rafe’s eyes, finding comfort in the striking blue hue for the first time, feeling a newfound sense of loyalty to him.

He gave you vengeance in a world that would never punish the man who hurt you. You’re in this together.

“Okay,” you whisper. “What do we do now?”

“We get rid of the body.”

next >

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[perlelune]

Glory And Gore | Feyd-Rautha

The trip to Giedi Prime you take with your mother should have been a mere diplomatic gesture. Instead, you find yourself prey to the inevitability of fate as it sinks its claws into your flesh.

Warnings: NON-CON, Deception, Parental Neglect, Cannibalism, Mutilation, Bene Gesserit Reader, Knives, Murder, Forced Marriage, Primal Kink

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

“I don’t want to.”

“You must.”

“Mother-”

“Use it!”

The authority dripping from your mother’s voice has you shrinking in your chair. You lift your gaze. A shudder slithers through your frame. Your fingers squeeze around the armrests, gripping so tightly you can feel the iciness seeping into your veins.

You study your mother’s face. 

An unsettling realization crashes over you.

You no longer are looking into your mother’s eyes…but at the Bene Gesserit. You steel your features and iron your resolve. 

You swallow a deep, calming breath.

“Give me the blade,” you repeat, for perhaps the hundredth time that morning. The exact count has evaporated amidst your heated nerves long ago. Your mother is unyielding today, pushing you further than she ever has before. While her purpose eludes you, the urgency etched in her manner from the moment she tore you from bed that day doesn’t. Today, your mother will not settle for surrender. She demands results. 

Results for all the years she spent drilling the Bene Gesserit ways into you.

There is no hint of being swayed in your mother, her handle on the dagger unwavering. No twitching. No slackening of her grip. Your spirits dim.

“Again,” she barks.

Pearls of sweat gather on your brow as you strain your mind once more. The humming courses through your blood, the echo of power swelling in your mind. Fiery tendrils trickle through the veil of hesitation and nervousness. 

You grasp at the threads, the fleeting wisps of control, pulling on them with all your might. Still, they slip through your fingers like sand. Frustration flares inside you with every attempt. 

You persevere, enduring through the agony bleeding inside your mind. Through the liquid fire sweeping through your veins. 

You meet your mother’s harsh stare.

“Give…me…the blade…” you articulate, injecting every bit of hazy conviction glowing inside you. 

For a while, you and your mother hold each other’s gaze. A battle of wills. An ephemeral, pathetic one that ends as it always does…with your mother snickering at your failure.

She shoots up from the chair, exasperation evident in the drawn-out sigh she unleashes.

“No willpower. Just fear,” she says, pacing across the room.

“Apologies, mother,” you mutter, lowering your head in shame. 

The Voice. The damned Voice. In eighteen years, you have never mastered it. 

She approaches you, kneeling in front of your chair.

“Child, you must never fear, because fear…”

“...Is death,” you finish. The Bene Gesserit words are woven into the very fabric of your mind, for you have uttered them so many times since childhood.

She places her forehead against yours, cupping your cheeks.

The combination of your two voices echoes in the room.

“Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me…”

As you recite the familiar prayer, a wave of serenity swaddles you in its calming tide.

Your eyes flutter open. 

Your mother’s fingers wrap around yours.

“Reverend Mother will see you tomorrow.”

“So soon?”

“You are of age. It is time.”

“Time for what?”

A shadow flits across her eyes.

“For the Gom Jabbar.”

“Gom…Jabbar.” A crease appears on your forehead. “What is it?”

A tense smile spreads on her face, her grip on your hand growing tighter.

“You will learn soon enough,” she says.

Rest eludes you that night, your mother’s words weighing too heavy on your mind for it to float away in peaceful slumber. Tormented by nightmares, you toss and turn between your sheets. 

A beast chasing you, its claws sharp and long…Like knives. Darkness creeping on your every step. Fire shooting through your veins.

The world in flames, while you burn alongside it.

You awake drenched in your own sweat. 

Hugging your knees, you lean against the headboard. You stare ahead. Moonlight drizzles through your carved window, casting shapes of silvery light against your walls. The same granite walls you have known since childhood. Usually so familiar, comforting. Today the sight of them reminds you how utterly alone you are.

Your thoughts churn, the storm of doubt and gloom within you grazing its peak.

Per custom, you are a disappointment to both your mother and the Sisterhood. The Voice. The Weirding Way. No matter which skill your mother and the myriad of Bene Gesserit teachers you had over the years attempted to drill into you…you failed to master every single one.

It’s not for lack of trying on your part. You wish you knew why. Why your voice always cracks. Why your hand always falters. Your mother has never given hope to lure a steel-mindedness out of you that was simply…never there. No part of you wishes to bend others to your whim or cause harm. You don’t crave control or power. Only serenity and peace. 

The next day springs forth in a haste, the blinding light of the sun arriving too quickly for your comfort. There is a deliberate languid nature to your motions as you get dressed, fussing with your hair and dress. A pointless attempt at delaying the inevitable.

Gom Jabbar. You mulled the words over and over in your non-sleep. Mighty oppressor or mighty enemy. The translations from Chaksobar to Galach are plentiful. While you don’t know what awaits you on the other side of the door, from your mother’s pinched expression the day before…unpleasantness is guaranteed.

You trudge inside the dark room, a chill shooting through your spine at the sight of the still figure of Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam sitting in the middle. Her pale, weathered features, wrinkled and creased like ancient parchment, stand out amidst the unsettling gloominess ahead. Even behind the black veil, the older woman radiates an aura of ancient, mystic power, her presence both fascinating and intimidating. 

No word unfurls from her tongue at first, her keen, bird-like eyes assessing you. Despite the urge to cower, you hold your chin high and stiffen your spine.

“Your Reverence,” you greet, bowing so low your nose almost grazes the tiled floor.

“Come closer, child.”

Your feet move on their own before you even register the command. Shock pulses though you as you approach the Reverend Mother. The Voice…She used the Voice on you. No Bene Gesserit ever did that before. None would even dare. Not on a Count’s daughter.

You land in front of her, stunned and shivering.

She collects a viridian metal fox from beneath her robes, its eerie light glowing ominously in the darkness. Your heart stutters as you note the chasm inside the box, a lightless void reflecting nothing but complete blackness.

“Put your right hand in the box,” she orders.

Her tone is bereft of the thrall of the Voice now. Willing compliance... you realize this is what she wishes from you. You stare at the pitch blackness inside of the box, the sight alone stirring your unease. Hesitation limns your fingertips. 

“I…”

The Reverend Mother’s firm voice booms across the air like thunder.

“Is this the respect you show to your elders?” she roars.

You flinch. Shameful heat lurks its way inside your cheeks. Mother would be embarrassed if she saw you now, denying the Reverend Mother herself, the Emperor’s Truthsayer.

You inhale a wide breath and place a tremulous hand inside the metal box. As the darkness engulfs your appendage, a cold wave creeps over it. The prick of a needle on your fingers follows closely. Sensations vanish from your hand, only an odd numbness remaining.

The old woman’s gaze sharpens. Her wrinkled hand shoots upward with a quickness that leaves you speechless, halting right beside your neck.

A glimpse of metal beckons you from the corner of your vision. Temptation to turn your head simmers within you but an instinct set deeply into your bones screeches at you not to move. 

You yield to to the second hunch.

“I hold at your neck the Gom Jabbar,” she informs. “The high-handed enemy.”

“Poisoned needle?” you absently wonder.

You catch the shadow of a smile through the black veil.

“Your mother did say you were a clever one.” She tilts her head slightly, reminding you of a vulture circling its prey, gauging the right moment to swoop down and sink its claws. “A soft heart with a sharp mind.” Dread coils around your heart. “The test is simple, girl. Your hand must remain in the box. Keep it in the box, you live. Withdraw it, you die.”

“What’s in the box?”

“Pain.”

Tingles begin to spread.

Your breath snags, needles starting to dig across the back of your hand. But unlike before, the sensation lingers this time. Growing and growing. Uncomfortable at first, then unbearable. Then, it turns blatantly hellish. Fire licks your flesh, the flames causing your entire body to break out in sweat and your breaths to come out labored and uneven.

Pain such as this cannot be of this world, you begin to think.

The kind that grows more vile and intense every second. You writhe, tears rushing to your eyes. Your free hand clutches your stomach, twisting the flesh in desperate need of an anchor amidst the unnatural agony. The room fogs around you, your quick, panicked breaths and the wild drumming of your heart filling your ears. 

The longing for death comes and goes, the impulse to withdraw your hand teetering over a precipice. At least, death would bring release from the unfathomable pain. 

Blessed freedom. You nearly surrender to that wayward instinct. Nearly.

In the end however, the acute, overwhelming awareness of the lethal needle less than an inch from your neck keeps your hand inside the box.

“An animal in pain would chew its own leg to escape a trap,” The Reverend mother says calmly, unfazed by your tears and sobs. “But a human would bide its time, suffer through the agony until he might remove the threat to his kind. This is a test of humanity. This is what us Bene Gesserit do. Set humans apart from animals.”

An eternity in the pits of hells seems to drag along before she gives you permission to withdraw your hand, her hand dropping from your neck. 

“Enough,” she says.

You tear your hand out of the box with a trembling exhale, astonished when your gaze tumbles upon smooth, unharmed skin. You turn it upside down, flabbergasted. It looks the same. Yet the furnace within the box made the burning feel so real, so vividly, terrifyingly real, that you were convinced the flesh and bones were devoured by the flames. You expected a lump of bleeding, smoking flesh. In disbelief, you fold your fingers several times. You wince. Phantom pain still sits in your hand, your nerves alight with embers of ache.

Suppressing a fresh surge of tears, you lift your eyes to the Truthsayer.

“Your tolerance for pain is sufficient,” she states. “Congratulations, child. You are human enough to serve our purposes.” She hums in thought, a sliver of satisfaction seeping through her solemn inflection. “You may not be a complete waste of genetic material after all.”

“You almost failed the test, I hear.”

You shift in the bench opposite your mother, her imperious tone ripping the wound of your glaring incompetence open once more.

Your attention wanders above the closing gate of the starship. You commit the luxurious plains of your planet to memory. Your chest twinges with preemptive melancholy. From what you heard, Giedi Prime is a dry, depleted rock where trees are replaced by rows of factories and metal skyscrapers which only blot out the dusky skies even more. A nightmare from the sounds of it. Though your mother insisted you join her on the trip, arguing your presence is key to the success of the treaty.

So you swallowed your reluctance and agreed to come.

“I thought I would lose my hand,” you mumble, your fingers clenching. The awe over the flawless state of your limb hasn’t left you.

“Her Reverence would never maim a prospect,” your mother argues.

You nod, gaze colliding with hers.

“Just kill them if they fail to prove their humanity?”

You still recall the sharp, poison-dipped tip pointed at your neck. The oppressive weight of impending death nipping at your flesh.

The line between surrender and success had been thin. Too thin.

Your mother’s stern brow furrows.

“Pain is always a possibility…One you must embrace.”

“Why? Isn’t the Gom Jabbar a singular occurrence?”

Instead of answering you, your mother lifts a black, oblong chest from beside her. You noticed it before but forgot to inquire about its purpose.

The metal and dark accents of the object mimics the Harkonnen style. Your fingers sweep over the symbols engraved on the box. 

“What is it?” you ask.

“Open it.”

You do as instructed. The inside of the chest reveals a set of knives, a long obsidian one and a short silvery one. The blades glimmer as you lift them, their sharp edges catching the artificial light of the cockpit. 

“They were forged from the finest steel on Alderan,” your mother says. You give a puzzled stare. Your mother elaborates, “You must gift them to the na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen upon arrival. For his coming of age.”

Right. Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen’s birthday celebration. You were told there would be a grand spectacle in the arena, that he was a great warrior, revered and admired by his people…perhaps even more than his uncle the Baron Vladimir. Day after day before the trip, your mother has impressed upon you the importance of attendance, of embracing the Harkonnen customs as if born into them. Every single one, however uncanny, crude or brutal.

So, much as the concept of spilling blood for entertainment repulses you…you shelf your disgust for now. Personal feelings must capitulate to diplomacy.

Your critical eye sweeps over the knives. These must have cost a fortune. Sinister beauty and artful skill fused in ominous synergy inside a finely made instrument of death.

“It’s fine craftsmanship,” you say. Your fingertip drags across the curved edge. A crease appears on your forehead. “But the edges…they could be sharper.” Your eyes light up. “I could finish before we land.” 

You sift through one the heaps of precious stones and minerals lining the walls of the cockpit. 

Victory floods your being as you find what you sought. A flat whetstone that shall serve your purpose well. You find a spot on the floor and begin your task. The knives shine brighter with every swift glide of your hand.

The frown on your face deepens.

“I hope the Baron’s nephew is pleased with our gift.” 

You know next to nothing of him. Though you surmise if your families are to start trading with each other, getting along would be wiser.

Your mother smiles at you though it fails to reach her eyes.

“I have no doubt he will be very pleased with all the gifts you bring him, daughter.”

The frosty, pollution-heavy winds of the lifeless planet whip your face as you set foot outside the car. Your eyes roam over the large building housing the Harkonnen arena. The imposing structure casts an intimidating shadow against the nebulous, gray sky above it. Dormant volcanoes peek through the horizon in the distance, the only remnants of natural landscapes.

Hopelessness surges through you. 

Despite having landed less than an hour ago, a fierce longing for Alderan’s endless green fields and snowy mountain peaks roars inside you. Every cell in your body screams to go back inside the ship and return home.

But you can’t. Such a display of rudeness would be a disaster for diplomatic relations. So you plaster on a smile and ignore the potent stench wafting around you.

You exert meticulous sovereignty over your expression when the Baron floats toward you and your mother. Nothing could have prepared you for this. The sight of the bald, massive man hovering towards you and your mother in his suspensor chair. 

The floating figure of the baron stops in front of you and your mother. A circle of servants, clad in black clothing, follows behind him. You note their bowed heads, the way their eyes never rise high enough to look directly at you or your mother. A brand marks their necks, one you recognize as the sigil of House Harkonnen. You’re reminded how ubiquitous the slave trade is on Giedi Prime. Your mother mentioned it but the harsh reality of it didn’t strike you until now.

“Welcome to Giedi Prime,” Baron Vladimir greets. His gristly tone surprises you, eliciting a chill across your spine you swiftly suppress.

“My Lord,” your mother says, sinking into a graceful bow.

You mimic her. The baron leers at you.

“She is even more exquisite in person.”

You recoil, the glint in his calculating stare stirring your unease.

Your mother’s gaze sweeps across her surroundings.

“The na-Baron isn’t in attendance?”

“My dear nephew is preparing himself in the gladiator pit. There are rituals we Harkonnen observe upon one’s coming of age.” Your mother nods. 

The baron smirks, his focus swinging to you. “Perhaps you could pay him a visit, little one?”

You clutch the small chest in your hands. 

“I…”

“Go on,” your mother urges, shoving you forward. 

You gasp, almost tripping in your shock. The baron’s commanding voice rises.

“Slave!” 

One the cowering servants leaps from the circle. 

“Yes, sire?” the boy mumbles.

“Escort the girl to my nephew at once.”

The servant approaches you. His gaze briefly lifts before finding the floor again. A pang of empathy twists in your chest as you note the fear etched in the servant’s eye. You find yourself wondering what these eyes have witnessed, what horrors lurk on the wretched rock.

“Follow me, my Lady,” he says. 

As you’re led away from the welcoming party, you toss a glance at your mother above your shoulder. The message written in her eyes and stern expression is clear as lake water.

Do not cast a veil of shame upon our house. Remember your duty.

Sucking a deep breath, you turn away.

You and your retinue of two guards and an attending maid are taken to the bowels of the arena. A horrid stench clings to the walls as you trudge through the dim walls. It grows more potent the closer you get to the pit. Your chest heaves. The urge to empty the meager contents of your stomach in the sand tickles your dry throat. You quell your disdain with a shake of your head.

You are here to present your house in a positive light, help Father’s treaty with House Harkonnen be a success. 

As you enter the room, you get your first look at Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. Warmth finds your cheeks. He’s almost bare, his rippling, pale muscles on full display. Two servant girls paint broad, black strokes over his carved back. The dark color stands out against his alabaster skin. Not a stray hair covers him and you suppose he’s as smooth-skinned and hairless as the rest of his kind. 

When his dark gaze settles on you, you take tremulous steps forward. 

You open the chest and present the knives to him.

“This is a gift for you, Lord na-Baron Feyd-Rautha,” you say, your voice cracking at the end. 

Silence hangs for what seems eons, Feyd-Rautha cocking his head as he gauges you. It takes every ounce of bravery inside you not to flinch. His presence alone has every hair on your body stand at attention. 

There’s a cold intensity in his glare, a tautness on his slender features. 

You feel as prey being assessed. The urge to run itches your flesh. Your mother’s quiet warning echoes in your head. Remember your duty. You dig your feet into the ground, willing your roaring pulse to steady.

You hear him speak for the first time. His voice is hoarse and deep. Like the scratching of a stone over a sharp object.

“Would you like some fresh meat, my darlings? Lungs, a liver, perhaps?” he offers, smirking at three women sitting in a corner of the room. Their inky, whiteless orbs and ravenous grins send a chill through your spine. 

His eyes fall on the knives inside the chest. His hand sweeps over the blades, an odd gesture almost reminiscent of a lover’s caress. He places the silver knife against his tongue, as if to taste the sharpness of the weapon. You shudder as you watch him, a foreboding feeling spreading across your flesh.

For a brief span of time, the well of your buried childhood memories tugs you to its depths. You recall a day when you were little. Your father took you hunting in the forests of Alderan. You chased a butterfly and got lost. You fell across a field. When you rose, you were nose to nose with a fierce predator. It stared at you a while, so still as its slanted, yellow gaze pinned you to your spot that you thought you were safe. You didn’t notice the calculated way it was prowling towards you, its maw opening slowly in anticipation of its next meal. The gift of tender, unsuspecting flesh. It’s not until your father speared the creature with his sword that you realized the jaws of death almost closed in on you. As it sprawled across the field, it unleashed an ear-piercing dying howl.

You were struck with shock that day.

A similar shock rocks you to your core when Feyd-Rautha slices the throat of one of the servant girls at his side and stabs the other repetitively. Time freezes as the lifeless bodies of the slave girls hit the sand with a loud thud. 

Speckles of dark blood stain the bottom of your light tunic.

Your wide gaze lands on the other slave girl, tucked in a corner of the room. You watch her shrink in fear, the quaking in her hands so intense she nearly drops the tray she’s holding. 

Horror fills you. She isn’t wondering if she’ll be next…but when.

Feyd-Rautha’s attention swings back to you. Dread coils around your heart. 

“Hm, these are shockingly adequate,” he purrs appreciatively, grabbing the other knife from the chest.

It’s hard focusing on his words. Behind him, the three bald-headed women are swooping down on the poor servant girls’ corpses like vultures ripping a carcass to shreds. One of them pulls out a knife and slices the girl open from neck to gut. They bury their hands inside the girl’s body and grab fistfuls of her soft insides that they greedily shove into their mouths. Pieces of guts and dripping flesh jut from their pale lips, trickling down their chins and necks.

One of the women catches you staring and flashes you a blood-drenched, black grin. 

You shudder. The maid at your side chokes on a sob, her hand flying across her mouth. Even your guards are appalled by the display, one of them averting his eyes.

A whispery croak slips through your lips.

“I s-sharpened them myself this morning,” you say, your fingers tightening around the chest. 

A crooked smile unfurls on the na-Baron’s lips.

“Well, aren’t you full of surprises, pet.” 

His smile expands. “How rude of me,” he says, tossing a casual glance at the ghoulish spectacle behind him. The women are still gleefully feasting on the slain slave girls. “Would you like a bite as well?” His mirthful gaze flicks over your heaving chest. “Fresh heart, perhaps?”

You swallow past the lump in your throat, forcing a placid smile onto your face.

“I-I’m quite alright, my Lord. I already ate.” The chomping noises of the cannibalistic women rises, one of them tearing into the slave girl’s side with her sharp nails. 

Sickness spreads through your being. You avert your gaze.

“I shall leave you to get ready for your entrance, my Lord,” you stammer as you give a quick bow. 

“I look forward to our next meeting, my Lady,” Feyd-Rautha says, the amusement never leaving his face as you scurry out of the room.

A tremor still lingers in your hands as you join your mother in the golden box above the triangular arena. The moment you sit at her side, she questions you.

“So, what did you think of him?”

“Who?” you reply, feigning ignorance.

She sighs. “Feyd-Rautha.”

You press your lips. The crowd chants his name as he steps into the arena, clutching the blades you gifted him at his sides. He walks slowly, with purpose. Yet there’s a hint of tedium in his haughty gait. As if today was no different than any other day for him, and the taking of more lives were nothing more than a mere footnote in his long list of tasks for the evening.

Sadist. Psychopath. Deranged. 

These are some of the few choice words that surge inside your mind in response to your mother’s inquiry. 

You utter none of them.

“Why does it matter? Our stay on Giedi Prime will be short, will it not?”

You peer through the binoculars your mother hands you. There’s a gut-wrenching brutality to the na-Baron’s practiced motions. 

You watch him cut down two Atreides gladiator-slaves with ease. It’s clear something has been done to the men, their wobbly, confused steps through the arena a painful scene to witness.

Your chest seizes every time his blade tears into the poor mens’ flesh. He snarls after a series of successful strikes, seeming more beast than human when he bares a row of black teeth.

A shiver ripples through your spine.

“You must keep an open mind,” your mother heeds.

The last gladiator-slave is different. You note it right away. There’s a lethal precision in his movements that was amiss in the other Atreides soldiers. Panic swarms the golden box. Baron Vladimir’s advisor begs him to cancel the fight.

“This one isn’t drugged,” he says, fear lacing his tone.

“This will spoil my nephew’s birthday,” the baron rumbles, dismissing the man with a withering glare. He remains disturbingly calm. “Show me who you are, dear nephew.”

You take a deep breath. The rest of the fight veers to an unusual route. Feyd-Rautha removes his body shield, welcoming the challenge the Atreides soldier offers with open arms.

A psychotic smile decorates his lips as he fights for his life. For the first time since the fight began, he comes alive in the arena. 

The vicious trading of blow after blow has bile rising to your throat. Unable to stomach it any longer, you bolt to your feet and mumble a rushed apology to the Baron.

“I shall retire to my chambers,” you say.

As you exit the golden box, the excited clamor of the crowd as they scream Feyd-Rautha’s name follows your hasty steps.

You sneak a glance through the high, blue doors. The sight inside the vast hall has your blood curdling. Debauchery the likes of which you have never witnessed unfolds before your eyes. A  peculiar blend of orgy and slaughter occurs in the hall. You’re failing to comprehend what you’re seeing, relief coursing through you that you refused the Baron’s invitation.

Once more, you are stunned by the vast cultural differences between your people and the Harkonnens. Sickened, you step away from the doors. Twisted curiosity led you there, and blatant disgust will take you straight back to your room. 

The dusky, barren walls of the Harkonnen keep are a stark contrast to the colorful tapestries that can be found all over Castle Alderan.

Homesickness tugs at your heart strings. This alien world is hostile, wretched. You long for the familiarity of your bed and the warm, soothing winds of your planet.

As you roam the hallways, a prickling across your nape has you whirl.

Your sight fills with Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.

Your chest clenches. Your head whips around, a fresh urgency livening your steps.

“Should you not be celebrating your grand victory, my Lord?”

“Frivolous pleasures do little to sate me,” he says, easily keeping up with you. His gravelly baritone ripples across your spine. “This isn’t for me…It’s for them. And my uncle knows it.” His arm brushes yours. You bristle. Amusement bleeds in his tone. “Where are you running off to, pet?” 

Pet. You tense at the belittling moniker, the one he forcefully bestowed upon you. 

“To my chambers. The evening has exhausted me.”

“You left early.”

You cast a puzzled frown upon him.

“In the arena," he specifies.

Your fingers curl into fists. The unfairness of what you witnessed still staggers you. The Atreides soldiers weren’t given a chance. Pigs led to their inevitable slaughter. And Feyd-Rautha plucked joy from their misery, seeing every slave as a tool to satisfy his unquenchable thirst for blood. 

“I have no stomach for violence, my Lord.”

A humming sound pours from his throat.

“Perhaps it was careless then.”

Confusion flutters through you.

“Careless?”

A wicked smile tilts his lips skyward.

“Of my uncle to hand me such a delicate flower…one whose petals are bruised so easily.”

You let out a hollow laugh, dread gripping your insides. Loathing the way his dark gaze slides over your frame, you set your eyes forward.

“You say such strange things, my lord.”

“Do I?” He adds casually, “After all, you were promised to me.”

Your heart falters, missing a beat. He must be drunk, you ponder, in a feeble attempt to placate yourself with reassurance.

“Perhaps you ought to sleep the evening off, my lord. I believe victory may have gotten to your head, warped your perception.”

His sinister chuckle bounces against the walls.

“A pet with a sharp tongue. How fortuitous.”

It’s the only warning you receive before he snatches your wrist and slams you into a nearby wall. 

You gasp. He pins your wrists beside your head, trapping you between him and the wall. You squeal, eyes bulging at the abrupt impact. You can already feel bruises form beneath his steely grip.

You fight to get free but he doesn’t budge. Sadistic enjoyment contorts his features as he admires your fruitless struggle.

He leans close to you. Your pulse soars.

“What are you doing?”

His lids sag as he drinks you in.

“Well…sampling my other gift, of course,” he whispers, lust oozing in his voice.

His mouth crashes over yours. You go dizzy. The kiss is bruising, staggeringly possessive. A brutal, sloppy clash of lips, teeth and tongue. You give his lip a harsh bite but it only draws a cheerful laugh from Feyd-Rautha. The acrid tang of metal coats your tongue. He moans against your lips and starts exploring your curves. 

As his hands pluck at your soft flesh, fear surges through you. 

“Let me go,” you scream, trying to use the Voice. There’s a flicker in his eyes and you feel hope…but it swiftly vanishes. One of his hands fastens around your throat while the other charts a dangerous path under your tunic. His fingers crudely poke and prod the apex of your thighs.

Your panic swells. 

“Unhand me this instant!” you shout, a trickle of power rushing in your words. 

Feyd-Rautha shakes his head, your thrall only seeming to last a few seconds. Mirth shimmers in his inky orbs as he studies you. 

“Are you trying to use Bene Gesserit tricks on me?” The hand around your throat tightens. You claw at his arms, your vision flickering as he taunts, “Why don’t you try again, little witch?” He sinks two fingers through your dry entrance. Tears swim in your eyes at the aching, sudden stretch. His cruel voice flows against your temple. “Perhaps I ought to slice your tongue and shove it down your throat for our wedding.”

The hammering of your heart grows deafening. You swallow your tears and look into his eyes. You gather a thin breath to speak.

“Back away…” you croak weakly, desperation flailing inside your chest. 

He gives a slow blink. To your surprise, the hand around your throat slackens. His eyes narrow as he leans away from you, a dazed expression on his face. You don’t take time to bask in fleeting relief, racing to your mother’s room as soon as his hands aren’t on you anymore. 

Once you reach your mother’s chambers, you fling yourself into her arms.

Her arms wrap around your shuddering frame. She caresses your hair, gently whispering, “Daughter, the hour is so late…Is something the matter?”

You release a shaky breath, sinking further into her embrace. 

“May we return to the ship? Go back home?”

“Why?”

You cast a tearful gaze towards her. 

“Haven’t we done our duty, mother? Is it not enough?”

A long weary breath flows from her lips. Her hands curl around yours. She takes a deep breath before speaking again. 

Her face becomes stern, impenetrable.

“Apologies, sweet child. We cannot.”

You search her harsh gaze. A heavy silence settles between the two of you. You retreat, horror clogging your airways as unsaid words hang in the air. 

“Mother…What have you done?” you mumble, a fresh wave of tears breaking past your lashes. 

“You are to marry Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen in three days’ time,”she bluntly announces. Your jaw drops as you take another step back. “All the arrangements have already been made.”

Your voice trembles.

“And Father agreed?”

“It was his idea, approved by the Reverend Mother herself.”

The deepest pits of hell welcome your plummeting heart. You sink to the floor, the weight of your kin’s treachery growing too heavy to bear. 

“And you did not speak against it?” you mutter, disbelief confining your breath. 

Your mother falls to her knees, joining you on the floor.

She cradles your face. “It is your destiny. We are Bene Gesserit. We exist only to serve.”

“He is a monster.”

“I’m afraid it’s irrelevant.”

A sharp breath spills from your throat. Your head snaps up.

“Is this all I am to the Sisterhood?” You unleash a dry laugh. “A broodmare to be sold and used to further their plans? To you and father…”

Her mouth wobbles. “Our way is not to question, but to answer when duty calls.”

You bring a quivering hand to your throat. You can still feel his harsh fingers crushing your windpipe. 

“Do you see what he has done to me?”

“Mother, please…”

A flash of regret appears on her face. It barely lasts a second before a mask of indifference drapes over her features again. 

“You should rest,” she says, cupping your cheek. “You will need your strength for the days ahead.”

You take in your mother’s blank expression. The blatant lack of emotion despite her knowing what Feyd-Rautha did to you. You swallow a shivering sob. It might have hurt less if she struck you across the face. Or drove a dagger through your chest.

The room chills around you as you reach a sinister conclusion. 

You are completely alone. 

Packing your scarce belongings takes little time. You didn’t bring a lot with you on Giedi Prime. The trip was supposed to be short after all. A mere courtesy visit to honor your father and the Baron’s alliance. How naive you were.

In the end, you are just a pawn for the Bene Gesserit and your father to move around. You always knew marriage would come eventually. It is what you have been prepared for your whole life. But you harbored the faint hope that your future husband would be kind, or at least a decent man.

As you recall every instance of Feyd-Rautha’s cruelty, horror clutches your insides.

There isn’t a sliver of kindness in him. You venture he may even draw sick pleasure from others’ misery. The smile that touched his lips when you struggled against him still chills your veins.

It stuns you that someone like him, who seems more animal than man, even passed the Reverend Mother’s test, that he somehow withstood the pain, and maybe even embraced it. 

Logic dictates that he must have however. Otherwise the Reverend Mother wouldn’t ratify the crossing of your two bloodlines.

The mere thought fills you with dread. He is dangerous. A monster who thinks, who plans, who schemes, who gathers joy from pain.

You come to a decision. You will not be Feyd-Rautha’s bride. 

You must find your way back home. The sisterhood can find another sacrifice to fulfill their prophecy. It will not be you.

You wait for the keep to be quiet, not a sound lingering in the cold, blue hallways. You conceal a few belongings beneath your cloak. Another set of clothes, a compass, some jewelry and other valuables you’re hoping to trade for safe passage on a starship. Doubts wander inside you. 

Where will you go? What will you do? Will you survive the weather conditions and atmosphere of a completely different planet? You still remember your brief visit on Salusa Secundus for the Princess Irulan’s coronation day. How you couldn’t move without fire rushing to your lungs. How every single step felt like you were taking a hundred. You could die. 

Still, the prospect scares you far less than what awaits you in the Keep.

Uncertainty lies in your future. But you do know one thing. You must run as far away as you can from Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.

Getting past the guards is easy enough. 

You use what you remember of your Bene Gesserit training to sneak outside the fortress. 

Harko city welcomes you in all its dull, somber rotting glory. You cross past discarded piles of rubbish and large oily puddles as you race through dark alleyways. Everywhere your gaze rests, it’s assaulted by sheer decay and putrefaction. Unlike the clean, cold, pristine interior of the Keep, the city is crumbling. 

The putrid stench rising from the streets almost causes you to turn back. In the end, you refrain, steadfast as you rush through the busy streets. Every second is precious. You could get caught, dragged back to the Keep.

The back of your neck prickles. Your pulse escalates. The presence of three men hovers at the edge of your sight. Pretending you didn’t notice them, you subtly hasten your strides. 

They catch on quick, too quick. 

One of them pounces on you. You keel over and collapse on the harsh, dirt-covered ground. You try to crawl away, fright engulfing your senses.

Another of the men grabs your ankle and yanks you towards them.

Leering smiles float above you in the dim light of the alley.

“Hm, we could fetch a good price for that one,” the last man says. “Such a pretty little thing with pretty, pretty hair…”

The man who caught you barks a derisive snicker.

“An outworlder. How exotic.”

The second one bends closer to sniff the air around you. Your throat constricts as you turn your head.

“Not just any outworlder,” he says, his head tilted in curiosity. “This one smells like royalty.”

Elated chuckles burst in the darkness.

“That royal bitch will make us rich.”

The man who smelled you licks his lips. 

“But shouldn’t we sample the goods first?” Fear shoots through you. “Never had me a highborn gal before.”

“Me neither.”

“This is a once in a lifetime-”

The man chokes mid-sentence. Your mouth drops as a blade is driven through his neck from behind, practically beheading him. Blood rains over you. Wet spots drip onto your face and dress as each of the men is gutted by a swift, ruthless opponent. You watch one pull a knife. He doesn’t get to use it, unleashing a blood-curdling scream when his hand is sliced at the wrist. The fingers of his severed hand twitch as it hits the floor. He sinks to his knees, wailing while cradling his bleeding stump against his chest. He meets his end with a brutal smash of his head into the stone wall. Gray matter spills from his skull as his eyes roll back and he falls in a dark puddle lifelessly.

The last one tries to run but is dealt with in the same merciless fashion. 

Your wide, horrified gaze sweeps over the massacre. The speckles of blood on your face are still warm with the heat of the dead men’s bodies.

A shaky breath spills from your throat.

Your head rises. You come face to face with Feyd-Rautha’s expressionless stare. He picks up your trembling frame from the ground and tosses you over his shoulder. He strolls over the men’s corpses as if they weren’t even there, huffing a deep sigh of annoyance.

“You should be glad I found you in time, pet,” he says.

He throws you inside a car. The door slams and you huddle in a corner. Feyd smirks at your shrinking form.

“Truly? Nothing to say after all that fuss?”

Tremulous words trickle through your lips.

“Just let me go home.”

He slants his head, the corners of his lips lifting slowly. “No.”

“You could say that you didn’t like the look of me,” you insist. “That I repulsed you.”

Feyd-Rautha snorts.

His hand shoots out, moving too fast for you to comprehend. He leans over you, fingers squeezing your throat. “Pet…you were mine before you even set foot on Giedi Prime.” His dark gaze drags over you. You get a glimpse of black teeth as he grins. “The only place you’re going tonight is my bed.”

Once the car reaches the Harkonnen keep, you’re roughly pulled from your seat. Your chest tightens as you note the severed heads of your guards and maid lined in a neat row near the gates. Their lifeless eyes are wide open, staring at nothing. 

You stumble back, hands flying to your mouth. 

Satisfaction twinkles in Feyd-Rautha’s dusky orbs.

“I had to kill these incompetent fools, of course. They let my precious bride slip away.”

You gawk at him in shock. Guilt presses inside you. If you hadn’t tried and failed to escape, those poor people might still be alive. Tears swell beneath your lashes.

The na-Baron exhales, gripping your arm and tugging you along when you refuse to move. He smiles. “Do not worry, pet. We will find you new servants. Better ones.”

You end up in a large room inside the Keep. A tub filled with water sits in the middle. Feyd-Rautha’s concubines flash black-teethed smiles at you as you crash into a heap on the floor.

“Get her ready for me,” he says.

“Yes, master,” the three women reply in concert.

Your eyes swing upward in alertness.

“Ready for what?”

His inflection is chillingly matter-of-fact.

“Well, our wedding ceremony, of course.” You unleash a whimper as his fingers twine in your hair, twisting your neck backwards. His feral gaze seems to peel the layers of your blood-soaked tunic. “Why wait a few days when I can have you as my birthday gift tonight?”

His hand coils around your jaw, forcing your head to pivot. Your gaze falls on a slave girl standing fearfully in a corner of the room. You’re struck with recognition. She was in the arena before his fight, tending to him along with two other girls. Two girls who are now dead. Courtesy of Feyd-Rautha. She glances at you before her eyes tumble to the smooth black tiles again.

“Do you see her?” he whispers, his chest brushing against your back. 

Feyd-Rautha beckons the girl with two fingers. She staggers forward. 

“Speak, slave,” he orders.

The girl opens her mouth. However, instead of uttering words, only distorted whimpers come out. Horror twists your insides as you realize something crucial is missing inside her mouth.

“W-What happened to her?” you ask, dreading to hear what you already suspect.

His dark chuckle resonates in your ear.

“She can’t talk anymore. Do you know why?” His lips graze your cheek, his raspy tone lowering. “Because I took her tongue.”

Your stomach sinks.

When you attempt to turn away, his grip on you becomes harsher. He forces you to keep your eyes on the girl.

“I want you to take a good look at her.” His hand spreads over your chest, right above your hammering heart. “Try any of your Bene Gesserit tricks on me again…and I will feed your tongue, and perhaps even other parts of you to my darlings here.” He snorts. “After all, I only need one part of you intact to make me an heir.”

“Do you understand, my love?” he inquires, his husky bass dripping mockery upon the last two words.

You swallow a large gulp of air. “I-I understand.”

He storms out of the room and you sink to the floor. His concubines dive upon you. They nudge you to the tub and remove the clothes off your quivering frame.

The blood, grease and dirt is scrubbed off your flesh. Scented oils are massaged into your skin and hair. A dress is wrapped around your body. 

You numbly let it all happen, defeat sinking its hooks deep inside your soul.

The farce of a wedding ceremony flies by in a blur. 

Baron Vladimir and your mother are both in attendance, the two wearing satisfaction on their faces, albeit in different manners. While the Baron is smug, your mother is attentive. Not a single emotion betrays her face and you feel thoroughly abandoned. 

Before the ceremony, she mumbles in your ear that the Reverend Mother requested a girl-child. You know the process, have been taught how it’s done. But it’s a cruel reminder…that you are nothing more than a tool in the larger schemes of the Bene Gesserit. 

And that perhaps, your entire life you have simply been your mother’s mission. Maybe she even feels relief to be delivered from her duty. 

The thought overwhelms you with sadness. 

You stand before Feyd-Rautha in a flowing white dress while he dons black from head to toe. 

He astonishes you by uttering his vows with the utmost seriousness, swearing to protect and cherish you until death forces the two of you apart. Death...In that moment, you find yourself silently wishing for its swift, imminent arrival.

When the Harkonnen priest whirls to you, the words stick to your throat, refusing to unfurl from your tongue. 

“Does the bride consent to the match?” the officiant repeats.

Shell-shocked, you shiver in your spot. Feyd-Rautha’s mouth quirks upward.

“Oh, she consents. She is simply too overwhelmed with happiness to speak,” he replies on your behalf, openly taunting you.

You grimace as he slices the inside of your palm with a dagger and brings it to its lips. Your blood coats his mouth and his tongue flicks out. He hums at the taste, a smile blooming on his face. He does the same to himself, digging even deeper in his alabaster flesh. You flinch as he presses his bloody palm against the bottom of your face. 

The Harkonnen wedding ritual concludes with him planting a rough kiss on your lips. He shoves his tongue inside your mouth, pulling you against him. 

When the ceremony ends, he hoists you in his arms and takes you to his bed. 

As promised, he lays his claim on your body right away. 

Your wedding dress is ripped open with a few precise slashes of his knife. Your insides coil, the fear of him driving the weapon through your soft flesh keeping you docile underneath him. You don’t say a word, your tongue shackled by his earlier threat. He takes a moment to drink you in, relishing the rapid rise and fall of your chest as he drags the tip of his blade across your skin. He savors your fear like the sweetest offering, growing harder against your thigh as you tremble beneath him. 

His black-toothed grin freezes the blood in your veins. 

“My pretty little pet…all mine to play with, finally,” he rasps. 

There’s no gentleness in the way he explores your body, scratching and nipping at your flesh as if to make sure no one dares doubt whom you belong to when you leave his chambers. Every plea for him to slow down is met with renewed ferocity. He tastes and fondles every inch of your quivering flesh. Your nipples pebble under his palms. Your core ignites below his tongue. Pleasure and pain mingle in sinful, twisted harmony. 

Your back folds and your eyes roll back as a myriad of confounding sensations assaults your senses. 

As he buries himself inside you to the hilt, he frees a satisfied grunt. 

Pain clamors through you when he starts to move. Your walls catch fire at the aching, brutal stretch.

Holding your wrists above your head, he pours every ounce of lust and aggression inside you. You feel it in every stab inside your core. 

His pale, muscular form pins you to the bed as he thrusts deeper inside you, reaching a tender spot that has you releasing an ear-splitting scream. You squirm over the soaked sheets as he takes you again and again, the mix of blood and arousal coating his length easing his blunt intrusion. Your helpless wails mingle with his feral moans. 

Raspy words in the coarse Harkonnen tongue are heatedly whispered into your ear. You don’t understand any of them and it makes your terror grow.

You feel as if you will break, shatter at the seams beneath his rough, careless touch.

The agony seems to stretch into eternity. 

Feyd-Rautha’s lips skate across your bruised cheek. 

“Do not fret, pet. I shall aim not to break you just yet,” he teases, sinister promises lurking in his lewd inflection. “Not when our fun has just begun.”

A single wayward tear traces a slow path down your cheek. 

He greedily licks it, purring at the taste of your misery. 

You feel him strain against you as he nears his peak, his thrusts getting slower and deeper. He comes with a deep roar.

The na-Baron spills his seed inside you. Your eyes shut. Power flows inside your womb as you conjure the right outcome.

A girl they desired. A girl they shall have. As you writhe beneath Feyd-Rautha, forced to bear his rough, bruising touch, you wish your daughter fierce and strong.

Strong enough to pluck the stars from the heavens. Strong enough to unweave the tangled threads of time.

Strong enough to twist the arm of fate itself if she wills it.

[mauvecherie-writes]

be mine this christmas: l.hamilton.

pairing: lewis hamilton x black oc!xenia richards

trope: grumpy billionaire x personal assistant au

ru’s 💌: this will be my last update for a few days because I have some school work to do that I’ve been avoiding lol. The Lewis in this story is not to be conflated with IRL Lewis. He’s an asshole who knows he’s an asshole but you’ll love him the same. This story is fast paced because it takes place in about one day.

series masterlist

chapter: TWO

chapter warning: DUAL POV, mentions of toxic family dynamics: child neglect, asshole!lewis

chapter w.c: 3.86K

𝐋𝐄𝐖𝐈𝐒

Lewis had an affinity for pissing people off. Since childhood, it had been something that he loved and it was probably something that he always had a fascination for. Seeing the way that he could affect someone else in such a way that dictates their mood was amusing to him. For most people, it was a funny occurrence that he would quickly forget about as soon as he left their presence . But there was one person that he made a point to aggravate with her furious expression being left in her wakes as she stormed away - his little assistant, Miss Xenia Richards.

Being able to garner a reaction out of her was worth his time in gold. It was like a hobby of his where he kept a running record going of how many times that he could successfully piss her off. Any moment that he was feeling bored, all it took was a swivel of his chair and an intercom call to her desk and it took nothing to invoke a reaction out of her - simply because it was too easy.

Why did Lewis love it so much? A very simple answer. He was an asshole.

It was how he was raised - or lack thereof.

A toxic cycle that he found all too time consuming to break with everything else that he had going on. It was just the way he was and he was not going to dig deep into his childhood trauma to figure out why pissing his PA off gave him a greater satisfaction than winning a new client. He liked the way he was just fine.

He wasn’t going to psychoanalyse why when she bashfully hid her face away from him, it made his dick hard. Or when she storms out of his office, he loved the way her ass jiggled and he pictured it bent over his lap wiggling as he slapped the smooth surface. He didn’t care as to why he enjoyed aggravating Xenia so much. But he was not going to stop any time soon.

When the company was established, Lewis had put it in the company policy that the executive staff would not fraternise with anyone directly in their line of authority and for the last three years he had been deeply regretting that rule. He was sure even the way that he fantasised about Xenia would be grounds for his termination from his position. So the next best thing that he had in his arsenal was riling her up.

His fascination also probably had to do with the fact that getting smart-mouthed and strong-willed women to submit to him was a kink of his. It was a dangerous affliction that he knew would cost him but it was worth it, million times over. Especially if it was Xenia at the end of his tunnel.

Lewis knew that she put up a good front but he could see right through Xenia’s faux exterior. She was nothing more than a brat who needed guidance. Specifically his guidance.

“Sir.” The sweet voice of his secretary, Tabitha, came over the phone’s intercom.

“Yes Tabitha?” He answered as it put a stop to his wayward thoughts.

“I have a list from Olivia on what else is needed for the Christmas party.” He could already feel an idea formulating before he could even utter thank you. The eagerness that swept through him at the thought of his assistant’s displeasure was concerning but he chose not to focus on that. Instead, his mind dwelled on how her face would contort between wanting to be defiant and wanting to submit to his bending. It was too good of a moment to not witness. As for now, he’ll just have to settle for the memories.

Lewis grabbed his cellphone from the desk and typed a quick message to Xenia with an updated list. He predicted that by now she probably would have been grabbing Mile’s lunch as the sushi restaurant was a few more miles further out from their offices. It was a last minute addition and when he thought about it, he preferred the roast blend from MonMouth instead.

After sending his message, he placed his phone back on his hand-carved red oak desk and turned back to face his computer screen. When the screen lit back up, he scrolled through some of the marketing reports and was particularly impressed with the continuous success of PLUS44WORLD. Nearly half a decade later into his retirement, his merch was still a major selling point of his brand. He then schemed through a few proposals from marketing agencies for sponsorships. He forwarded the ones that he thought would work best with the company to Miles and the legal team.

Even despite his obsession with enraging his personal assistant, Lewis could not deny that she did a fantastic job. A damn near perfect job actually. Everything that he threw her way, she was able to handle it with ease. Departments handed in their reports on time due to her delegation. Meetings and proposals, he went through half the time because Xenia often assessed them before forwarding them to him. This ultimately left him with very little to do towards the end of the day.

That was not great for his boredom. As he looked out of the window and watched the falling snow, he was forced to spend time with his thoughts. By the stream of thick fluff, he predicted that by the time Christmas rolled by, the streets of London. Would be covered in blankets of it. He hated the way that his mind shifted to his parents. They hated the cold, snow in particular and spent most of their time somewhere in the tropics.

At the very first sight of snowfall, they ran. As soon as they were able to leave Lewis alone with his nannies, they did. He was raised by his nannies, whichever one they had at the time. Up until he began to take an interest in motorsports, then his parents decided that they wanted to do their job. They had done just enough for it not to cause a media firestorm as his success grew expeditiously. The perfect family, they were dubbed.

It was only ever for the public. Behind closed doors, Lewis was often left alone - back into the arms of his nannies. Alone again, especially at Christmas. He never let it bother him, in essence, he was surrounded by too many people to actually ever be alone. But in his solitude, he had observed a thing or two about humans. Their mannerisms, their habits, their tells - all to come to the conclusion that people were ruled by their emotions. Whether they wanted to or not.

Through his adolescence, he pushed his nannies past their limits - most of them quitting before their contract was over. It was then that he decided that he was not a fan of compliant women. They were not stimulating enough for him. Lewis learnt a lot of things in his isolation as an only child. How to be in charge of his own happiness. He was indifferent to his parents due to their mistreatment and he probably needed professional help to unpack that. Right now, that was not a priority.

Instead, he chose to find solace in causing Xenia discomfort. He enjoyed seeing the life in her eyes when she got mad. He always wondered if there would be that same fire when she reached her climax. Or would she crumble beneath him, spent and exhausted. One assumption he was almost certain of was that she was undoubtedly a screamer. That he was sure.

As if his thoughts had summoned her presence, he turned around at the tumbling of limbs, bags and lunch barraging through his office door.

The better part of him wanted to stand up and offer some help. The arsehole part of him leaned back into his chair, silently watching as Xenia cursed as she struggled to make it through. After a painful moment, she was able to gather herself as she dumped the bags onto the floor and then placed his lunch and coffee onto his desk without a single spill.

“Such a gentleman for helping me with the door, sir.” She spat out the last word with so much venom. Xenia had probably done it to annoy him as if he wasn’t already in the mindset that he was, it would have. All it did now was that it shot shocks through to his dick. Too many times had he fantasised about her using his official title as she thanked him for her pleasure. He chewed on the inside of his cheek to control his smirk from breaking out as he watched her shuffle in one place as she tried to regulate her emotions. Her hand twitched by her sides as she seemed to be counting down.

She was so responsive, Lewis thought to himself. And it only drove his desire to toy with her more. Xenia may not respond with words but in letting her body respond for her, it fuelled the flames in the pit of her stomach.

Since Lewis had hired her, he knew that she would be more than he bargained for and he had begun to wonder if - even by just the smallest fraction, that she also wanted to please him. It would make sense if she did. Xenia was responsive to him in other ways that she may not have been aware of, eager for his touch and eager for his praise.

Yet she would not submit, she would not give up her control to him. But he would take it, own it, bend it to his will and there would be no going back.

However, as tempting as it would be, it was a pleasure that he would not indulge in just yet. The company rules were there for a reason and his desire would remain in his thoughts and burn his soul as they were starved of fruition.

Lewis would just have to settle for the tremble of her full, glossed lips, the rising of her chest instead of the jiggle of her ass. He would observe the fierceness that swirled in her eyes every time that she looked at him rather than the feeling of her cunt clamping down on his dick. He would expand her energy to run around the city with a list in hand for as long as it fuelled the fantasy of her running out of breath as he drove into her, marred the walls of his warped mind.

That would do. For now.

𝐗𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐀

There were many kinds of demons in accordance with the religions and mythologies of the world and as this particular demonic spawn sighed as he leaned forward, Xenia wondered what she had done in her past life to deserve this.

“Let’s hope that I don’t need to get my shirts re-starched due to your negligence.”

Oh, this dickhead.

For the second time in less than two minutes, Xenia had to use the countdown method to control her rising temper. And for the fourth time that week, she thought about handing in her resignation, cashing out her savings and moving to New York. It was wishful thinking. A sigh left her as she patted her hair back into place.

“Maybe if you had helped me then that wouldn’t be a worry would it?”

“And why would I do that? It’s what I hired you for.”

Now, she knew that being of a certain class made people lose touch with reality but to hear such words come out of the cretin had her mind racing with insults that could curse an entire bloodline. All of them colourful and all of them violent enough to get her a secured spot in HM Bronzefield.

So she stood there in silence as she swallowed down her disgust at the complete lack of chivalry. They stayed there, Xenia attempting not to burst with anger and Lewis daring her to defy him.

You just need this job a little bit longer, Xenia.

Pushing her pride aside, she bent down, picked up his dry cleaning and walked across the main office space to the private en suite. She hung them behind the door and took a moment to inhale and exhale, again and again until she felt her hert beating steadily again.

Entering back into the office, she did not offer Lewis a second glance as she picked up the other bags up from the floor. “Now that you have your lunch, I will take these bags to the conference hall.” She turned to walk away, her body burning with anticipation to leave his scrutinising gaze. Then he cleared his throat and she had to stop herself from screaming in frustration.

“Is there anything else that you need from me, sir?”

“I do.” For all of the times for Xenia to be affected by his voice, it had to be when she wanted to bash the side of his head with the bags in her hands. Not only that, she hated the visceral reaction his voice seemed to have on her body. Her core tightened as a shiver rushed down her spine.

Xenia forced herself to stay still, facing the door as he stood directly behind her. She did not want to look into his eyes as she was avoiding whatever she was feeling.

“As soon as you drop those bags in the conference rooms, please come back here. I know your propensity to become distracted.”

He was right and it gutted her that he had picked up on the restlessness of her mind.

“Yes, sir.” Xenia did not stop once she had thrown the door open and rushed across the floor, avoiding the eyes of the other assistance.

“Are you alright?” Her mind couldn’t register that it was the voice of Tabitha. She incessantly pressed on the elevator button, in an effort to increase the distance between her and Lewis. Her eyes cut to his office and she saw him leaning against his desk so he took sips of his coffee as he scrolled through his phone. As if he could feel the intensity of her glare, his eyes flickered up and met hers. Holding her stare, Lewis put his phone down and pressed a button on his desk and the glass walls began to tint darker and darker until they were pitch black. Before he was enclosed in complete privacy, Lewis shot her a wink.

And it almost dissolved her resolve.

“Xenia?” The sound of her name jolted her back to reality. She looked to her right and saw the older woman, Tabitha standing there. In her mid fifties with a full head of grey dreadlocks secured on top of head in a bun with spunky red glasses sitting on the bridge of her nose. “I asked if you were alright dear.” The Jamaican twang to her voice gave her a sense of comfort that made Xenia relax her tense shoulders.

“I’m okay Tabitha, thank you for asking. I’m just trying to get through the day in one piece.”

“Knock on wood as soon as you find some. That boy is very unpredictable.” Tabitha winked at her as the elevator doors closed. The ride down to the ground floor was swift. When she entered the main conference hall where the party would be hosted, it wasn’t a shock to her at the utter chaos that was taking place. Ladders tall and short propped against the walls as frivolous leftovers of decor loitered on the floor. Workers ran around as they tried to finish the last of the set up.

As she stood at the door, Xenia could see the beginnings of her vision coming together after weeks spent designing. This was not just a party for the company staff, no. All of the members currently sitting on the board attended. Major clients that the company wanted to keep in favour amongst social media content creators on the PR list. Ala in all to say that a lot of fucking people were going to be in attendance and Xenia had felt the pressure, to make it perfect as she did every year since her employment.

She managed not to get her feet tangled in discarded tinsel as she entered the room further.

“Drop them near the main stage, Nia.” Olivia, the event coordinator and good friend pointed in the direction that she wanted the bags to be. Her dark, raven locks were pulled into a high ponytail, her beautiful umber skin glowing under the low lights. Similar to little miss bitch, Lola, Olivia had the same gymnast body type. However, Olivia was nowhere close to the bitch that Lola was, she was an angel.

Once the bags were dropped, Xenia stepped back to admire the work that was being put in. The theme this year was Winter Wonderland with a specific colour scheme to stick to considering what the traditions of what a winter wonderland entails. But the design was coming along very well and Xenia was very proud of herself.

Crystal and faux glass decorations adorned the ceilings alongside uniform rows of white christmas lights. The centerpiece was a ten foot Christmas tree sat on the stage that was still in the process of being decorated but she knew that when it was done, it would be the showstopper.

“You think you can help us tackle that monster?” Olivia asked as she opened the bags that Xenia had delivered.

“Not a problem darling. I just need to go and see what Hamilton wants first and then I’ll be back down.” Olivia smirked at the mention of their boss but when she met Xenia’s death glare did she swallow it back. Olivia had a sick fascination with Xenia’s relationship with Lewis. From the beginning, she claimed that the sexual tension was intertwined in the bonds of their hatred for each other. Olivia had the ridiculous notion that Lewis seemed to enjoy infuriating Xenia because she was terrible at hiding her emotions. Whilst that may be true, that he loved goading a reaction out of her, Xenia loved doing the same. Even if it was the smallest loss of composure, it gave her a sliver of triumph.

“When i come back, the very mention of his name, I will fuck off out of here.” Xenia threatened, which caused Olivia to roll her eyes. Her track back up to the executives floor was one she dragged her feet for. She was not in a rush to get back to Lewis’s office. When she approached her desk to grab her iPad, she could feel his eyes peering at her through the privacy window. She had always found it creepy that he could watch the floor but no-one could look into his office when the tint was at full transmission. Xenia didn’t bother with knocking, he knew that it was her anyway.

The air grew thicker as he was unfazed by her show of an entrance. He was ignoring her as he typed away on his computer. She lowered herself onto a chair in front of his desk in a huff.

Can this man hurry up? I have shit to do. Xenia said to herself internally.

“Can you stop being dramatic, Richards? There’s no need for all of that.” His words were slow and mastered as he finally typed in the last of whatever that he was doing and turned his gaze onto her. His deep brown eyes were dark, alluring and made all of the muscles in her body tighten.

She could be honest, Xenia talked a big game and she absolutely had a massive attitude but there was not a lot of bark in her bite. Especially now as they were alone, Xenia’s body knew what her mind refused.

“Can I be honest with you Miss Richards?” The smoothness of his voice was enticing. Like a matured whiskey being poured over ice, she knew not to reach for a taste.

And yet, she still took the bait. “When have you never been honest with me?”

Lewis smirked. “I like this little game that we have going on between us.”

”Game?” Xenia frowned in confusion. Lewis nodded his head as he stood up from his chair and circled the desk until he was closer to her. She froze in her sit but managed to lean back into it so as to create some physical distance. His dark eyes remained on her as he rolled his sleeves, exposing his intrinsically tattooed skin for her viewing pleasure. Xenia forced her eyes back to his face and to maintain that eye contact as her traitorous core tightened at the simple act.

“Don’t play coy. I won’t say what it is that we play as it doesn’t need to be stated.” He paused as he fixed the folds of his shirt. “But I like it.”

Her worst enemy at that very moment was her body. Her nipples tightened as her core pulsated. Once in a while, the thought of hate fucking her boss crossed her mind, more often than it should. However, today was simply not the time nor place to let her mind wander into places that had been locked behind red doors.

Xenia crossed her legs and cleared her throat. “Of course you’d think torturing me is a game that we both like to play. I mean, I knew that you were a narcissist but this sounds concerning. Do you need me to contact someone?” The faux concern in her voice caused Lewis to lean backwards. He folded his arms across his chest and peered down at her. That fucking stupid smirk back on his face. The strands hanging on either side of his face with the overhead lights casting shadows that danced across his skin.

She should have been intimidated but she wasn’t. She was deeply aroused and then it dawned onto her how they were positioned.

Lewis above her and her below, almost eyes level with his crotch.

A show of submission. One that she would not give into. Xenia quickly shuffled back up to her feet and that caused Lewis to widen his smile before he moved back to his seat.

“What did you actually need me here for, Mr Hamilton?”

“I just wanted you to make sure that you don’t forget about the list I have emailed you.” Lewis said so casually as if he had not just accosted her. The scoff that left her could not be held back as she grabbed her iPad from his desk and charged towards the door.

What a waste of my fucking time.

“Oh and one last thing, Miss Richards.”

Don’t roll your eyes girl.

“Yes, sir?”

“Make sure to remember the number six for me.”

Is this man alright?

Xenia exhaled through her gritted teeth. “Yes, sir.” She had almost made it out of her door when she heard the faintest whisper. Whether he had actually said it or not, a shiver rolled down her spine and lit her nerves aflame.

Two simple words,

Good girl.

reading list: @queenshikongo3 @dhlfastestlap @saintslewis @serpenttines-library @saturnville @hopefulromantic1 @lettersofgold @cocobutterqwueen @melodichaeuxx-lacritquexx @sapphireheaven @olyvoyl @lewisroscoelove @lh44adore @hellomadamebutterfly @scorpiobleue @laneywrld @qveenmelanink @tremendousstarlighttragedy @bekindbecoolbeyou @greedyjudge2 @itsapurrfectstorm @createdbylivingclocks @omgsuperstarg @peyiswriting @miyuhpapayuh @blowmymbackout @purplelewlew @henneseyhoe @perfecttrashface @alianovnaromanovanatalia @leilaxaliel @hotfudgeslug @iamryanl @pickingupmymercedes @eleetalks @ambs-06 @annisassintchaska @boujiestpoet @nayaesworld @nat-lh-44 @mochachocolatteyaya @melaninpov @kindan3rdy951 @elyseesarchive @sl33p-deprived-princess @soiguessimtheshit @acidlv @trinitoldyouso @gwenda-fav @f1-football-fiend

[knavesflames]

hiii el! :D u may know me from ur messages a bit ago (PLS I SUCK AT USING TECHNOLOGY AND I DIDN’T KNOW HOW TO ASK A QUESTION) but i wanted to ask for u to write maybe just some like cute morning arle fluff? sorry if it’s a bad ask 😞

also, could i be 🩵 anon?

Hi <3 of course you can! It is NOT a bad ask, I’ve been meaning to write a lil bit of fluff anyway. I was quite excited to write this :’) enjoy!!

Content: fluff, arlecchino is soft and tired

Word count: 1.1k

Utc <3

People say that once you get used to sleeping next to someone, it becomes impossible to sleep alone. You thought it would be the opposite. You enjoyed sleeping alone, preferred it, even. You like the space to move and roll around and you like to wrap the blankets around you to form you into a burrito-like shape. It became somewhat of a joke between friends that when you finally did find a partner, you’d end up sleeping in separate beds. Secretly, you agreed.

For Arlecchino, nobody assumed she’d even find a partner. The woman is so closed off with her feelings that one wonders if she even had any, if they died along with her best friend and Mother so many years ago. When the topic of relationships was brought up (seldom as it was to even get past the first two sentences- she would shut it down before anyone could get anything out of her), her excuses were dismissive, claims of work taking precedence over any interpersonal relationships, claims of the not-so-secret but somehow very-secret project the Fatui are working on, and her biggest excuse yet- the children. “The children need a stable figure to guide them as they grow. Relationships are most definitely not stable. It does not teach them how to fight. Sorrow and anger make you weak, yes, but I would argue that love makes you defenceless.” would be a sentence she uttered often.

Of course, that was not the only reason. Processing what had happened to the people close to her is something she neglected to do, and she does not need to be haunted further by yet another shadow, or even worse, another conscious body following her around the way Clervie had, whether as a manifestation of her bloodfire, or a manifestation of her conscience rearing its head when she had worked so hard to pretend it doesn’t exist. Love is not something she should get herself involved in, she has told herself time and time again. She has stared into the mirror an endless number of times, both as a newly appointed Father and more recently, when she finds herself alone. Her priority has always been the children, and she refused herself the privilege of living comfortably. Until you, obviously.

When you first began sleeping next to each other, you had been dating for a while. It took a while for her to even let you into her house. You seem to notice that her house has the faint smell of citrus. Lime, perhaps. You wonder where it comes from, but you assume it's some sort of air freshener. When you first began occasionally sleeping over, her touches were few and far between. Not in any malicious way, of course, but almost like she was restraining herself. You were too, in a way, not wanting to overstep any silent boundaries she had set. It was an awkward time.

Now, though, after a long period of time of getting her to open up, she clings to you like a moth to a flame. Case in point, this morning. You wake up to the soft light entering your room, filtered by the curtains covering the glass. The first thing you notice other than the light is a pair of strong, muscular arms wrapped around your middle, clutching you and keeping you close. You let your hand gently move across the marred skin, feeling each scar and muscle of the arm holding you so tightly. A face is buried into the back of your neck, gentle breath tickling the skin, and displacing the hair there. Arlecchino’s body is warm, warmer than the normal person's body would be due to the balefire that courses through her veins. You try (and fail) to escape from her grasp with a little wriggle, but her arms only pull you closer, her voice coming out hoarse and gravelly.

“Stay,” she mumbles into your hair. “It’s early. There isn’t a need to get ready for the day yet.”

“I have to, there’s so much to do today.” you yawn, twisting your body to face her. Your arms snake around her, one under her neck and one around her waist. There’s sleepiness in her dark eyes, and she looks up at you groggily. She looks vulnerable like this, and you think she’s almost smiling. Almost. She groans slightly as she stretches out, her muscles rippling as she does so. Arlecchino’s face buries back into you soon after, and her grip on you doesn’t loosen in the slightest. One of your hands comes to gently caress the waterfall of snow white hair, occasionally painted with black streaks (and the one red one she touches up every six weeks), massaging the scalp and gently scratching whenever she lets out a soft sigh.

“You smell good.”

“I just woke up, I’m not sure there’s much to smell.”

“That may be the point. You do not need to put on any fragrance, I enjoy the scent of you. Just you.”

“You say, as if you don’t fill your home with the scent of limes. Limes, of all things.”

“That is not what we are conversing about. We are conversing about you, not some citrus fruit.”

You can’t the small chuckle that seems to escape your lips. She’s so soft like this, you think, you can barely believe her status in the Fatui (you’d forget entirely if it wasn’t for the glint of the dagger placed deliberately on her nightstand. She says it’s for your protection- you know she had it there before, too, but now she has a reason to keep it there). Her nails, filed to perfection, trace circles on your back, and her free hand pulls your thigh over her hip, bringing you as close as you can possibly get.

“Must you go? Surely, you can push back any arrangements you have today and stay with me a little longer.”

“You know I can’t, and neither can you. Do you not have that meeting?”

“Yes. With some other Fatui, but none of them are worth my time when you’re here. They mean nothing to me. You mean everything.”

“That is why I'll be here tonight. You can hold me again.”

You find yourself reassuring her a lot that you won’t disappear. You don’t mind. Eventually, after five minutes of pretend bickering, you relent to ten more minutes before she drags herself out of bed. By the time she’s changed from her pyjamas into her usual suit, her hair brushed and pinned back into her signature ponytail, any trace of the sleepy, clingy Arlecchino is gone. What remains is a stoic, unreadable woman who lovingly kisses your forehead before she leaves, a slight plea in her voice when she tells you: “See you tonight.”

[devourable]

† church boy

[ sfw | tw : religion (not named but heavily implied), sacrilege, potential religious trauma? as well as general yandere content but it’s v tame ]

male yandere x gender neutral reader! only pronoun used for reader is ‘you’. i havent written like this in a very long time so i apologize if this is bad ;_;

abraham lived a simple life for the majority of his 21 years on this planet. he was born and raised in a religious household, the only son of a wealthy pastor, surrounded by typical bible-thumping folk who taught him that *** was above everything, above him, above the things he loved, and putting anything (or anyone) above his faith would surely result in his damnation. and his whole life, he believed that.

that was… until you entered his life.

it happened at a fundraiser he was volunteering at. it was any other day for the boy, handing out advertisements and chatting with everyone that came and went. an average, mundane event for him where he’d talk about the same things he did every day, smile, wave, everything that was expected of him.

after the last person in his line had left, he looked down to begin organizing his things so he could join the rest of the party. when he was shadowed by someone stepping in front of him again, he expected to see a familiar face — maybe someone that might’ve forgotten something? but when he looked up…

abraham’s breath caught in his throat. he swore the earth had stopped spinning the second your eyes locked.

whether if you were there because you shared the same religion, was dragged there by a friend/family member, or simply because there was free food, he had no clue - but it didn't matter. your looks, the way you moved, the sound of your voice — why was it all so... enchanting?

he couldn’t help the slight stutter in his words as he hastily offered you a pamphlet, quickly introducing himself and inquiring about you. what was your name? were you new to the church? why haven’t you met before?

the soft laugh you emitted as you spoke and the feeling of your skin grazing his felt like fire. and your name... oh, the poor boy didn’t even realize it, but he couldn’t help it — within moments of knowing you, he had grown totally enamored!

abraham found himself hovering by your side for the rest of the event. he was awkward, you’d quickly realize, but it was in that sort of sweet, inexperienced way. he was desperate to know you, to get closer to you, hoping that maybe if he could understand you, he’d figure out how to quell these intense feelings that had built within him — but to you and everyone else, he was simply making sure a new face wasn’t alone during the event. he was just being a good little pastor’s boy! that’s what he told himself too, over and over again.

he was being good by making you laugh. he was being good by giving you his number. and it was good that he grew elated by the idea of getting to see you again after this. he was a good person, so what if he was neglecting his duties to be around you? he did what he was supposed to all the time, surely he could be forgiven just this once.

right?

his obsession with you didn’t take long to blossom after that first meeting. you started to infiltrate every part of his life in one way or another. his prayers became tangled up with thoughts of you. rather than reading the bible, he’d reread the texts between the two of you while he waited for you to respond to them. when he went to church, he found himself scanning the pews in hopes of spotting you among the congregation rather than finding a seat right away. when service began, he couldn’t focus on the preaching taking place because he was too busy thinking of ways to see you again.

despite the utter adoration abraham had grown to feel for you.. at some point, for the first time in his life, he couldn’t help but wonder — was he becoming sinful? was he growing gluttonous for your attention? he couldn’t have been, he had been so devout his entire life! it was fine for him to miss a few services to see you as long as he made up for it later…

he couldn’t tell if you were an angel, as heaven-sent as he felt you to be, or if you were the embodiment of temptation, pulling him away from his faith and beckoning him to sin. were you both? could you be both? with the progression of his obsession with you, his conflicted feelings about his relationship with his faith grew alongside it.

maybe you just weren’t any good for him.

but your name and god seemed to always come up at the same time…

so maybe, it was a sign that he had someone new to worship.

[dejwrld]

CHOSOIST KINKTOBER GAMING PLAYLIST — WEEK 1

( DEMON TIME) 🎮 INCUBUS!SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY X READER

— game synopsis: your boyfriend has been quite neglectful when it comes to your needs. not particularly being the best book boyfriend similar to the books you've read. but the one demon that visits you in your dreams seem to give you everything you need.

( cw ) ⸻ fem reader, female anatomy described, mentions of reader having a boyfriend, doggystyle, unprotected sex, dirty talk (simon calls reader a slut), mentions of wet dreams, pillow humping, infidelity, kinda monsterfucking, mentions of simon having horns, gaslighting, i changed the ending like 5 times omg

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ kinktober masterlist / previous playthrough

You planned the whole night out for you and your boyfriend—a Halloween tradition that you two always did every year. Binge-watch some Halloween movies, give out candy to children who knocked on your shared apartment door, and have wonderful sex as Jason Vorhees kills his next victim playing in the background. But tonight, you sat alone on the cream-colored sofa with a half bowl of candy (because trick-and-treaters didn’t stop coming despite your boyfriend did). You felt embarrassed, the running thought that you should have let this relationship go sooner flashing through your mind similar to a light bulb flickering on when someone has a wonderful idea. 

You were grasping onto a dead relationship and yearning for a happy ever after that wasn’t even there. You turned the television off and decided to clean up for the evening. Putting away the snacks you laid out and the pizza that grew cold as minutes went by. Pure disappointment sat at the pit of your stomach while cleaning up and eventually finding yourself in bed a little earlier than usual. You quickly did your evening routine of skincare and brushing your teeth before letting your feet guide you to your bed. The sound of late-night partygoers was heard outside and you can only tune out the squeals of excitement as you drift off into a deep slumber. 

But as your body finally fell into the comfort of getting some rest, you soon felt your body jerk up suddenly at the sound of your wooden floors creaking. You wanted to be excited that your boyfriend actually came home and maybe you could do the activities you had planned. Expecting to see him tugging off his button-down shirt and complaining about his supervisor being up his ass during the eight-hour work shift—but instead, you were met with a large figure staring at you. His burly arms crossed over his chest causing the tight black t-shirt to clench upon his upper body. You blinked a couple of times assuming you were dreaming. You even reached to your wrist to pop at the beaded bracelet your boyfriend got you at this carnival you guys went to. The beads sting your wrist after you do that action and you still don’t jolt up in a completely cold sweat.

“You’re not dreaming, love.” His deep voice erupted your thoughts that were racing with questions. “Actually, kinda in the middle. Not dreaming, but actually dreaming. Hard to explain,” He points out before tilting his head at you.

Now you wanted to scream. A large man with a black mask that had a skull imprinted on it was standing just inches away from your bed and your body shook with fear as you inched away from him but was met with your cream-colored headboard.

“It’s no need to panic, you summoned me here. Well, kinda.”  He explains. “Fuck.” He utters before clearing his throat and trying again.

“Every Halloween, some lonely single person's guilt and hurt is so strong that it summons me or one of my peers. A mere incubus that they can have for just one night,” The masked man explained, and when he saw you look at him as if he’s grown an extra pair of arms (which he could do if he put his mind to it, he was fuckin’ demon after all). “You’re actually the first person I’ve been assigned to in a while.”

“I’m so fucking confused right now.” You swing your feet over the ledge of your bed, sliding into your slippers, and walking over to the mysterious man. When you got closer, you immediately poked at his arm and were met with hardness. 

He was real. He wasn’t like some ghost and maybe you had gone crazy.

“But I’m not single…” you pointed out as you circled around his large frame to get a good look at him. If he wasn’t a ghost, he still was here, and if anything went to shit to the point that you had to call the cops—at least you had a visual of his stature. 

You couldn’t tell if his face scrunched up in a confused manner, but his eyes told the rather confused feeling he possessed. You stood in front of him crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m actually taken…” Your voice trails off and for some reason saying that left a bad taste in your mouth. 

It didn’t feel like you were taken. Especially when you went to sleep alone tonight. 

“Hm, that’s interesting. It doesn’t seem like that. So if you’re not taken…you’re hurt. Did the little boyfriend and yourself have an argument?” The stranger waltzed over to the small loveseat in your room and sat down. It was as if he was a therapist questioning you about life. 

“No.” You quickly admit. “We didn’t…he just didn’t show up tonight when I planned something for us. He hasn’t answered his phone, nothing. So, I’m just confused about what I should do because this has happened before.” 

“I see.” His voice trails off and he rubs at his clothed chin before standing up. “Let’s go have some fun, love.” The mysterious man whose eyes you were hypnotized with extended his large hand for you to take. 

“What? I’m still in my pajamas.” You pointed it out. “I need to go change, maybe fix my hair.” You motion to the silk scarf that was tied upon your head.

“Eh, don’t worry about that. I’m a fuckin’ demon. I have it all figured out.” He says. 

You met his gaze and you saw this twinkle in his light-colored eyes. It was a similar twinkle and glint that your boyfriend had when you two were in your cupcake phase during the relationship. “What’s your name? I can’t just go out with a stranger that claims he’s a demon.” 

You heard him kiss his teeth, “You’ll figure it out soon.” And with that, he grabs your hand and in a blink of a moment, you’re both in a crowded bar.

You knew exactly what bar you were at because it was one that your boyfriend frequented a lot with his friends and co-workers. You had to pick him up countless times when his alcohol intake had hit its limit. But as you stood in the middle of the bar, you noticed that no one didn’t notice you. A person walked by you and you were expecting to feel their shoulder roughly bump into you—but instead, their body went through yours as if you merely were a ghost. No one in this bar knew you two were here, which sucked considering your attire.

Your hands roamed your body as you wore a blood-red leather corset and a black leather mini-skirt that hugged your lower half perfectly. On your head was a headband that was decorated with two sparkly red devil horns. Of course, he would ensure you were dressed up as a demon. Your eyes searched in the crowd for him and you saw him behind the bar looking at the massive choice of alcohol. You walked towards the bar and watched him closely, “Why are we here?” You asked. 

“To have a good time.” The man’s fingers tapped at his masked face before grabbing a random bottle and some shot glasses. “So, drink this and let loose.” 

You took the shot off the bar and drank it quickly just in time to hear a loud cheer from the back of the bar. Your head turns to follow the commotion of people dressed up for Halloween while playing what seems to be an intense game of pool. When you saw the familiar figure with a football jersey on, your heart sank immediately. There your boyfriend was playing pool with a huge grin on his face while his friends cheered him on. The shot you took, immediately helped your stomach form the most horrendous knots and you wanted to go home. 

“No.” The demon behind the bar said before filling your shot glass up again. 

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.” Your eyes stared at the liquor in your glass and you then watched him lift the mask just a bit so he could down his own shot. “You brought me here on purpose.” Your eyes narrow at him. 

“I did. To see that you’re all sad for that.” His fingers motion to your boyfriend. “He has seen your text messages by the way and five missed calls.” He adds and you didn’t even want to question him he knew that you had blown up your boyfriend’s phone. 

“It’s really no point to be here. I’ll just talk to him when I get home.” You adjusted the headband on your head. “So, can you please teleport me back home Mr. Demon?”

“No.” He adds before walking around the bar so that he is sitting on the barstool next to you. His large callous hands grab the end of the stool you were comfortably sitting in and bring it closer to him. “We’re going to make your lovely boyfriend so paranoid that he’ll be groveling at your feet.” 

“And how the hell are we going to do that if he can’t see us?” Your eyes met with the mysterious demon and you felt hot under his gaze. Maybe it was because you couldn’t see his face and since it was Halloween, no one was going to question why he wore a mask.

“Who said he can’t see us?” His head tilts just a bit before he snaps his finger and suddenly when he snaps his finger and moves your stool just a bit—your boyfriend glances in your direction quickly. So quickly he did a double take at how close you were with the demon who popped up in your life this evening.

Your boyfriend’s eyes enlarged at the sight of you and what you were wearing and soon the demon snaps his fingers again. You watched as your boyfriend still glanced in your direction, but it was as if he simply was imagining things. He shook his head and went back to sipping his alcohol.

“He’s going to lose his mind by the end of the night.” The demon adds with confidence oozing from his tone. 

“I guess, this will work. But, I must ask. Why’d the mask? Also, where are your horns? Don’t demons have horns?” You took it upon yourself to take the cocktail that the bartender just put on the bar since no one could see you two. 

“I do have horns, just think the horns give everyone a good spook.” He points out. “Last time, a lady threw a glass at me. So, I settled with the mask and no horns.” He takes a sip from the beer bottle that the bartender sat in front of a talking customer next to him. 

“Hm,” was the only thing you said. “Are you ugly? A lot of horror stories perceive demons as ugly.” 

“Quite the opposite.” He backfires. “Can’t really haunt people's dreams to have sex with them and solve their problems if we’re ugly.” He jokes.

“Then can I see your face?” You asked, your fingers twirling the straw in your cocktail and you gave him a grin. 

“After you stop being so uptight and help me…help you.” He finishes his beer and he stands up motioning for you to follow.

With a quickness, you’re downing your cocktail and following the man in the crowd. The music was so loud that you had to practically yell out anything you wanted him to hear. “What about your name? Do you have a name?” 

“Simon, or Ghost. Whichever you prefer.” He walks over to the pool table, and leans against the pool table adjacent to the one your boyfriend and his friends were at. 

You watched as some random woman dressed as a cheerleader placed her arms around your boyfriend's waist as he was trying to hit the pool ball. You felt jealousy, anger, and betrayal seeing this. He ditched your plans to be out with her. That douche. 

“Don’t have such a down face.��� Simon nudges your side before grabbing the pool table. “Like I said, we are going to make him lose his mind by the end of the night.” He grabs a hold of your waist after grabbing a pool stick. “Just go with the flow, love.” He whispered in your ear and you felt your skin decorated with goosebumps. 

Simon helped guide your hand towards breaking the balls in the middle of the table. Despite the bar being fairly cool, you felt hot with how close he was to you. His crotch pressing against the fatness of your butt in the skin-tight mini skirt. His breath itching at the shell of your ear. Just as you are about to hit the ball, he snaps his fingers again making you two noticeable in the crowd of people. The sound of wolf whistles could be heard seeing your figure bent over—if Simon wasn’t here, strangers would have been to see what your momma gave you. There as Simon helps you break the group of balls perfectly, you squeal in excitement gaining the attention of your boyfriend’s friend and soon your boyfriend again. His face goes red at the sight of Simon’s hands all on you and you watch as he scrambles to remove the pretty woman off him. He made his way to the pool table, but Simon snapped his fingers again causing your boyfriend to be confused once again. Your eyes scan over his face while he shakes his head and mumbles something under his breath. 

“And now he’s going to call you. But you’re going to ignore his call because that’s exactly what he’s been doing to you.” Simon leans against the pool table and the two of you watch as your boyfriend pulls out his phone to call you. 

You were astonished at what you were viewing, he was panicking. The mere thought of you being with another man had him about to explode. You watch as your boyfriend runs his fingers through his hair, a thing he does when he’s overthinking his ass off. You knew for a fact that he was overthinking the fact that you were probably out having just as much fun as him. 

“So, Simon. Do you have sex with all the women whose lives and dreams you hop into?” 

“Not all of them. Some just want someone to talk to.” He shrugs. “You on the other hand just need someone to teach your nitwit of a boyfriend to appreciate what he has.” He adds. 

“So, you wouldn’t have sex with me? Just put my boyfriend in check.” You playfully nudged his side and you were met with hardness. 

“Do you want to have sex with me?” His eyes met yours and you were forced to swallow the large lump in your throat. “Because I may have known your boyfriend is an idiot, but I also know he hasn’t touched you in weeks…a month and a half to be exact.” He adds as he turns to face you. This time, he’s caging you from leaving since you were still resting on the pool table. 

“I could have gone the sex route, but that wouldn’t solve your shitty boyfriend situation which would mean I would be stuck with you until you’re no longer miserable.” He says. “But, you and I know that you’re a good girl.” His hand adjusts the red devil horn headband on your head. “You wouldn’t cheat on him, even though..he’s probably going to cheat on you with her.” He motions to the brunette cheerleader who is still by your boyfriend's side even as he is attempting to call your phone.

“You don’t know me, Simon.” You pointed it out. “Only what you observe about my life.” 

“Then do you want to prove me wrong, love?” His hand rests on your waist tugging you closer to him. 

“I’m sure that’s what you’ll want.” 

“It is, I’m not going to deny it. But, I’m not going to force it out of you. You’re a grown woman, use your words and make your own decision.” He drops his hands from your waist and walks away from you, disappearing in the crowd and towards the bathroom. 

Like the touch-deprived woman you were, you followed before him. But just as you were walking to follow him in the bathroom, you bumped into your boyfriend. You expected your body to go right through his since Simon did snap his fingers, but you collided with your boyfriend’s shoulder gaining his attention. When he saw you, that look of shock appeared again and his lips parted to speak, but just as his hands reached out for you—your boyfriend's confused expression returned and his hand that went to grab at you, went right through you. You started to feel bad, but as you walked further away—seeing the woman clutch on your boyfriend made all the guilt that was bubbling inside of you burst. 

You walked into the bathroom and it was filled with many girls fixing their makeup and drunkenly complimenting each other. Bit by bit they scattered out the bathroom when they heard some generic pop song come on. Simon was leaning against the pink-colored tile walls waiting. 

“So, you’ve made your decision?” He asked with his arms crossed over his shoulders. 

“I wouldn’t be in here if I didn’t.” 

Simon chuckles at your words before he brings his hands to the fabric of the black mask. You were preparing yourself for what you were about to see. You knew he was attractive behind the mask, his whole demeanor screamed it. The way he carried himself. His confidence. You can go on and still be naming many other attributes. 

He pulls the mask out and you have to catch yourself from letting your jaw drop. Despite his face being decorated with scars, you had questions about—he still looked like he could have the face of an angel. His dirty blonde colored strands were ruffled due to the mask and his eyes—you’d stared upon them all night but finally putting a face to them made your knees go weak.

You walked closer towards him, “Will they see us?” You asked as you glanced back at the door. 

“Only if you want.” He closes the gap between you two. 

You mentally were weighing out the pros and cons of this. Frankly, the pros benefit you much more than the cons. So you took that leap and kissed Simon immediately. The sound of the bathroom door swung open, and someone walked in to grab a paper towel. Because of Simon and his silly demon powers, they didn’t even know you two were there. The drunken stranger walked right through you and Simon as you were making out. His hands roamed your body as if you were a precious gem he had just found. Your body attempted to guide him into one of the stalls, but he didn’t budge. You weren’t sure if it was because he had other plans in mind or if it was because of his huge stature. 

“It’s not like anyone could see us.” Simon's words mumble against your skin as he places kisses on your neck. His body guides you towards the bathroom sink before he twirls you around.

You were forced to stare at yourself in the mirror at your reflection. The clear lip gloss that formerly stained your lips was smudged across your face. Your eyes were glossy of anticipation and need for a demon you had just met. The feeling of his bulge pressing against your butt causes you to close your eyes and inhale sharply. 

“That’s true, but—one mere snap could make them see us.” You spoke out.

“They’ll be too intoxicated to notice.” His eyes met yours in the mirror before he rolled the skirt that left practically nothing for imagination up around your waist. The coolness of the bathroom causes your skin to be garnished with little goosebumps and your hair to stand up on your limbs, you clutch upon the porcelain sink. 

You only hum at Simon’s words while he pulls your panties to the side and begins to line himself to insert you after removing his cock from his bottoms. The tip of his cock rubs against your wet folds collecting the essence that stains the inside of your thighs. Each push forward into your pussy, the grip on your waist grew tighter. The sound of his cries of pleasure was like music to your ears. Completely distracting you from the fact that his cock was stretching you out bit by bit. 

“Just give me the go and I’ll keep going, love.” He professes. His eyes once more meeting yours and seeing the way your lips part apart to let out a broken moan, gave him the answer he ached to hear. His hips push forward being met with the cushion of your ass and he just wondered with not being touched in so long, how do you like to be fucked. 

“How’d you want, Y/N?” Simon questions, his hips rolling in a slow and sensational way causing you to moan some more. “Slow.” He adds before pulling himself fully out of your cunt. “Or.” His voice trails off as he’s lining himself back up to slam inside your addicting pussy again. “Hard.” 

Your brain couldn’t comprehend his question quickly enough because he soon gave you a mixture of both. Slow strokes to have you crying out his name as if the people entering and exiting the bathroom could hear you. Fast and hard strokes to have your breath hitch in your throat and for you to hold onto the surface tighter.

The vulgar sound of skin slapping against each other begins to ring in your ears like a sweet jazz tune. Your hand reaches back behind you to slow down Simon’s movement, but he swats your hand away as if it were a mere inconvenience to him. Simon lifts the shirt he wore to bring it up to his mouth. Despite the two of your bodies already crossing a boundary, he needed you to be closer. His teeth held up the ends of his shirt as he thrust forward inside you. Simon has pleasured many people in the world, but nothing was like this. No one has ever clutched around his hardened cock like this. Sweat beads form on his forehead and he felt completely pussy drunk for you. 

Your knees were growing weak but, Simon assured you that you don’t fall. With each stroke and thrust, he held you closer to make sure his motion didn’t get interrupted. Tears decorate your lashline causing your mascara to smudge. 

“Fuck.” You moaned out. “I’m so clos-” Your words were interrupted by the bathroom door swinging open and your boyfriend walked in making out with the brunette who seemed to be attached by his hip all evening. 

“Don’t pay attention to him, only me.” His fingers coil into your hair tugging you up so that your back is pressed against his chest. His eyes never broke eye contact with you in the mirror. “It’s just me and you in here, right?” He questions as he thrusts inside of you. 

Your eyes averted to your boyfriend as he was making out with the girl, but he broke the kiss quickly. “I just need to call her, ensure she’s okay. She hasn’t answered my calls and that’s not like her.” 

“Hmm, wonder what she’s doing.” Simon teasingly whispers in your ear. “Is she home watching her silly little Halloween movies or is she getting fucked like a slut in a bathroom?” With each word, he thrusts inside you.

“She’s probably just sleeping.” The brunette pecks your boyfriend’s lips. “Or getting fucked.” She jokes and your boyfriend pushes her away.

“That’s not funny.” He says before he tries to leave the bathroom and through the sound of your heated flesh slapping against Simon’s toned thighs, his finger snaps just in time for your boyfriend to see a glimpse of his pretty girlfriend (who he assumed was home) getting fucked a stranger he didn’t know. 

Your boyfriend’s eyes enlarged at the sight but before he could fully react, Simon snapped his fingers once more causing the two of you to be merely an illusion once more. Your boyfriend ran his hand over his face finally coming to terms that he had to get out of here. He had to ensure that you were home right where he assumed you were. As Simon continued to fuck you until you were seeing stars, your paranoid boyfriend rushed out of the bathroom calling your phone that was still home. Each second, your phone went to voice mail causing your boyfriend to spiral even more at the thought that a handsome stranger had you bent over in the bar he frequently goes to. 

“And my work here is done, love. Sweets dreams.” Simon kisses the side of your temple just in time for you to finally orgasm all over his cock—but eventually, jolt up in your bedroom in a cold sweat and your panties soaked. 

Instantly, your hands run over your body where Simon formerly touched. Your fingertips dance upon your lips that he once kissed trying to process everything that just happened. He did say you were dreaming, but it felt so real. The demon costume hugging your body like a latex glove felt real. Simon’s cock being inside you felt real. 

But your suspicions were deemed true as your boyfriend burst through the room in a panic. Sweat droplets embellish his forehead as if he ran all the way home to you. 

“Y/N, did you go out tonight?” Your boyfriend asked.

With false confusion plastered on your face, you blinked a couple of times.

“No, is everything okay? Maybe you’re being just a bit paranoid, babe.”

And in his own realm which was the home of incubus demons around the world, Simon viewed the conversation unfold with a smirk.

“That’s my girl.” 

⸻ TAGS // @syndrlla97 @leoyayzies @salaciousdoll @xintothewoodswegox @bxrbie1 @lilvampirina @wiinterz @dvafoxxystrashcan

[soft-pine]

when i think about this scene from 15.15 it makes me want to chew glass and tear up the walls in rage.

AMARA: I wanted two things for you, Dean. I wanted you to see that your mother was just a person, that the myth you'd held onto for so long of a better life, a life where she lived, was just that, a myth. I wanted you to see that the real, complicated Mary was better than your childhood dream because she was real. That now is always better than then. That you could finally start to accept your life.

for the record i want to say i am a known amara-hater. don't like the non-con shit. don't like that she's doing what so many beings in spn do and narrativizing dean's life back at him while judging him because she drew the wrong conclusions. but i think fandom does have a tendency to take those claims at face value because that is easier than combing back through to check if it's correct or not. (see for example, rachel saying dean only calls cas when he needs him in 6.18. narrativizing, incorrectly. but i digress)

so let's talk about mary. because, through the seething rage, i think two main things about this claim. 1. dean does not have this mythos around mary and 2. mary has arguably more of that mythos around dean.

first off, we'll tackle the claim that it's a myth that if mary hadn't died, dean wouldn't have a better life. because that is absolute, utter, dogshit. OF COURSE HE'D HAVE A BETTER LIFE. while i will always maintain that clearly mary and john were far from stable before she died, her death was what speared john forward into hunting, into turning his kids into soldiers, into neglect and parentifying, and every other god forsaken thing he did. "a better life, a life where she lived, was just that, a myth" - girl, i DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE DIVINE, SHUT THE FUCK UP.

like please don't come here acting like dean grieving the future he could have had that didn't include him taking care of his younger brother alone in motel rooms for days while maybe actually being left as bait for the Kid-Eater is a character flaw on his part that he needs to learn better from.

next, amara claims dean needs to see the "real, complicated Mary."

but hasn't he? dean goes back in time and meets his mom in 4.03 and 5.13. and both times he treats her both as a competent hunter and a colleague. like to be clear, before that, i dont think he was wrong to be relying on a four-year-old's memory of what his mom was like because that's literally all he had access to. but dean actually did meet and interact with the whole, complex woman who was his mother long before amara decided to teach him a lesson with her as the homework. in both 4.03 and 5.13, dean tries to give mary advice to save her life but he doesn't belittle her experience hunting or her desire to leave and life a normal life. i don't know what more you want from him in terms of interacting with his mom as a whole, real, complex person?

this also applies wholly and completely to his interactions with her when she returns in s12. he apologizes for being nervous for her safety (AFTER SHE WAS JUST RESSURECTED) at first. mary says she wants to hunt, dean gets on board. mary says she needs space, dean asks clarifying questions to best support her request. he gets mad at her not for being who she is or needing what she needs but for lying to him for months and working with people who tortured him and sam.

in fact, s12 is what i would point to to indicate how well dean articulates and navigates the nuance of being hurt by someone's actions while still understanding and empathizing with why they did it and forgiving them. for example, he says this in 12.04

DEAN: This whole mom thing, it's... I mean, we get her back, and then she leaves. I hate it, but I get it. I do. I guess I'm just...still working through some of that crap. I'll try to be less of a dick about it.

[you're not a dick, dean, ilu]

in fact, dean's much maligned "how 'bout for once, you just try to be a mom?" isn't even about dean wanting anything particularly maternal from mary. it's about him not wanting her to ditch them to hunt alone and/or with the aforementioned torturers.

so circling back to amara's speech about expectations and myths. cause while her words do not apply to dean. amara's speech does remind me of something that happens upon mary's return in s12. these lines from 12.03:

DEAN: Mom, it's okay. All right? You're home now. MARY: No. I'm not. I miss John. I miss my boys. SAM: We're right here, mom. MARY: I know. In my head. But I'm still mourning them as I knew them. My baby Sam. My little boy Dean. Just feels like yesterday, we were together in heaven, and now...I'm her, and John is gone, and they're gone. And every moment I spend with you reminds me every moment I lost with them.

of course she has every right to grieve the time she lost with her kids. but someone in this room is having trouble really looking at the people in front of them because of their idealized memory of who they were compared to are and It Is Not Dean.

and i just think about dean's speech in 12.22. cause it wasn't dean that needed to see the real mary. it was mary, tucked away in her dream world where sam is a baby and dean is a little elementary schooler who likes pie and has never held a gun, who needed to see the real dean.

[emoisthenewemu]

Make The Neighbor's Know My Name - ERWIN SMITH x F! READER SMUT

MDNI 18+

What happens when your hot, (divorced) older neighbor just can't help himself?

wc: 5.5k (sorry!)

cw: SMUT, porn w plot, Modern!AU, age gap, mentions of shitty fathers, DADDY KINK (again, sorry i just know he has one), cursing, p in v, oral on both ends, squirting, general nastiness, breeding kink lol

a/n: wow had sm fun writing this. also this may be tmi scroll if u dont care but shoutout to the dude who made me s****t for the first time i was reminded ab you when writing this, hes a whole dad now lifes crazy

˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚

Erwin Smith is an established man. He has a nice house and a good job-one where he got his hands dirty and worked his way up for years before becoming the boss. He works out on a weekly basis, eats (somewhat) healthy and can (again somewhat) cook. He is clean and well kept, educated and respected in his community. Kids love him, so do dogs and the elderly. With a politeness often associated with much different times and a beautiful, piercing set of blue eyes, he is damn dear perfect. On all accounts-a wonderful man.

So, it puzzles many that he lives in such a nice four bedroom all alone. It was not always like this; he used to be married. Had a sweet little housewife that got to stay home and do what she pleased. But it seems that freedom got to her head, overzealous with how much she could get away with-unfortunately it did not take many years of marriage to understand that it was never going to work. All it took was Erwin working a few months of overtime to push her into the arms of another man, one she claimed would give her more attention than he ever did. Perhaps he had neglected her a bit, let his job take over his life for a while. But it was all for her! So, they could have even more stability and possibly even become ready to start a family.

Nowadays he thanks God they never had a child together. And after the dull ache that was getting cheated on, the divorce, the court process that ensued afterward-the man was convinced that he was better off alone. He could accept that truth. There was no need to go chasing a feeling he had already experienced.

But that is not to say that he does not get any action. He is a man after all and they have needs, he surely does. He is no stranger to going out and chatting up nice women, taking them out on a few dates and making them feel special only to break it off when things get serious. It's a pattern at this point. His friends (employees) tell him he should drop the good guy act and just fuck shamelessly. Skip the formalities and go straight to the good part. Just be honest, it is arguably better than whatever the hell he is doing.

He considers it for about a week, even thinks about downloading an app so the opportunity is always there at his convenience. He knows he is a good-looking man who has much to offer, the matches will certainly come in.

That was until he becomes distracted by you. A cute little twenty something that moves directly across the street from him. He watched from both the windows of his home to the security camera which conveniently already faces your house. You had a few other younger girls helping you, two guys and neither seemed to be your boyfriend so that was a plus. And when he left to go get drinks, truck keys in hand-acting like he was not staring directly at you behind the shade of sunglasses you were bold enough to be the one to utter the first word.

It was after a few giggles of your girlfriends, who were also checking him out, but he was more focused on you. Hoping it would indeed be you that was moving in. "Hi neighbor!"

One of the girls slaps you lightly, mostly surprised you were actually bold enough to call out to the hot dilf across the street that's probably married. But he waves and says hello back before stepping into the large truck and driving off. They laugh as you stand there for a while, the wheels in your head turning.

You've always had a thing for older guys.

You soon come to learn he is not a dilf but the sentiment is there. It begs to argue the question, does a man really need to have a child to be a dilf? It may be in the title, but you see it more as a state of mind. And you also learn that he is divorced, he lives alone actually. Except for the golden retriever you often see accompanying him on runs.

You can thank the nosy old lady that lives next door for all of this top-secret information. It reminds you to accept her invites inside for tea often, you feel like you've met the whole neighborhood thanks to her gossip.

For the first month and a half your interactions with the man are mostly basic. Friendly 'hello's' and small little waves before the two of you leave for work in the mornings.

The first time you have an actual conversation is when you are bold enough to knock on his front door one Sunday morning. You know he is awake because he has already gone for his morning run. The sight of your new sexy neighbor all sweaty in his compression top and gym shorts has now become a part of your weekend routine. You wouldn't miss it for anything.

His hair is wet from the shower he just finished, still slightly dripping onto the thin material of his shirt. You swallow hard, trying to not get lost in the sea of muscle staring straight at you. You look up at him. He is more than twice your size.

You want to climb him like a tree.

"H-hi Mr. Smith so sorry to bother! I heard you own a construction company and well-I have this stupid door coming off the hinges! And I'd do it myself, but I suck at stuff like that! And I'd hate to hire someone to come all the way out here for something so small" You are visibly nervous, fidgeting and playing with your hands as you find it hard to maintain eye contact. He is just so fucking hot you cannot trust yourself to not gawk at the sight of him. "Of course, I'd pay you too!"

You are so cute and helpless. A fucking door hinge? Surely you have at least one friend who could help out with something like that. But as you soon come to learn, Erwin Smith will never say no to you. "Nonsense, no need to pay me. I'm always free to help a neighbor out. Let me go grab my tools"

So, he does and follows you across the street. He definitely does not check out your ass in those tiny little shorts that lift up a bit when you walk. In your defense-it's your day off, you deserve to be comfy!

Your house is exactly what he expected it to be, cute and tidy. It smells nice and everything is so girly. Pink and creme colored decorations scattered about, shiny hardwood floors that he can tell you recently cleaned. Perhaps it was in preparation of him coming over. Of course, the door just happens to be the closet door in your bedroom, with all of your cute little clothes as you sit on your cute little bed and watch.

Fuck, for some unknown reason the man finds it hard to focus. Even as you make small talk, his mind is elsewhere. Stuck on the sweet smell of you, the way you sit looking so pure and innocent-legs dangling over the edge of the bed as you watch him, head curiously cocked to the side.

He feels like a pervert for imagining what you must do in that bed. How beautiful you must look in the mornings when you wake up feeling lazy, stuck between the sheets. Do you cuddle up with the singular fluffy stuffed animal at night? Do you take it off the bed before you fuck someone, or does it stay up there? Even more, how many men have you fucked in that bed?

He forces himself to snap out of it, silently scolding himself for being so crass. This is not very neighborly of him. You would likely be disgusted by his vulgar thoughts. Or maybe you would like it, you don't do much to hide the way you stare at him. Even before this day, it was quite obvious that you had a little crush on him.

Yet as the older, more mature adult in the situation he tells himself that he must not entertain the idea. He is eighteen years older than you. Children have been born and graduated high school in that amount of time. It's downright wrong and these intrusive thoughts need to be put to an end.

It was easier said than done, especially when he catches a glimpse of your pink lacy panties thrown about the closet. He thinks about the underwear for the remainder of his day, if he were a less respectable man, he would have pocketed the pair and took the home. But he would never, he only imagines he did.

Two days later you show up to his doorstep, with a nice homemade lasagna and the sweetest smile on your face to thank him. It is you that he wishes to devour instead. He even invites you inside to talk for a bit but keeps things fairly short. He considers opening up a bottle of wine but talks himself out of it. Remember, he promised himself he would not entertain the idea of you. Although it may be too late because he fucks his fist to the thought of you every night for the remainder of the week.

And one early morning at work, before any of his men have been sent out on jobs a few of them congregate around his desk. Engaging in small talk as they usually do, telling stories of girlfriends, wives, how drunk they go the other night, cars-the usual guy stuff.

"Boss! How're the apps treating you?! You get any action?" Eren, one of his younger employees cannot help but ask seeing as he was the one to suggest in the first place.

"For real! You haven't said shit since we made you download it" Connie walks in, hardhat in hand as the other one holds the phone his crazy girlfriend is currently blowing up. He ignores the calls and shoves it into his back pocket. "Don't hold out on us man I tell you everything!"

"I'm aware" Erwin cocks a rather judgmental eyebrow-there are many stories which would have been better off unheard. Things he would much rather forget.

And then he thinks of you-the only woman which has plagued his thoughts for close to two months now. He sighs, contemplating if it worth bringing up. His heart drops as the realization dawns on him that you are practically the same age as the two young men before him-younger actually. "Shit" He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "There is...a woman. Not from an app, my neighbor actually"

"Ohhh your neighbor! So, you get to hit and just walk right back home?" Connie laughs and the man cannot help but roll his eyes. These two are definitely the wrong people to be discussing this with.

"We haven't done anything; I just find her attractive is all. Probably not the smartest idea to fool around with someone I run in to almost every day anyways"

"Why not? Saves you money and gas" Eren argues. "She live alone too?"

Erwin sighs because he has neglected to mention the most important detail. "Yes, she lives alone, apparently she inherited the house from her aunt"

"All I hear is a lonely lady who needs some company" Connie shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee. "What's stopping you?"

"She's quite young"

Eren and Connie could not be more excited that their usually reserved boss is opening up to them for once. After all of the talking they have done, it is his turn to ask for advice. "Erwin Smith you smooth motherfucker" The shorter man teases. "How young?"

"Last year of college young"

The men all but gasp, smiling excitedly as this is the juiciest piece of information they've heard in ages. They never would have expected it from a man who (with all respect) has a constant stick up his ass. "Younger than us?"

"......yes" He sighs ashamedly as the men whoop and holler. Rolling his eyes as they dap each other up as if they are the ones about to get laid.

"You better do it boss! Chicks these days are crazy. We can thank your generation for being such shitty fathers" He should expect such ignorant comments from someone like Jaeger, a guy who has been stringing his girl best friend along since childhood.

"Forget I even said anything" Smith stands up, grabbing a clipboard and few other necessities for the job site he will soon be off to. But he should know the two young men would persist.

"I say do it boss!" Eren encourages, pumping a fist into the air. "Do it! Do it!"

"Do it! Do it!" Connie joins in on the chanting, they follow the man out his office-ignoring the stares of their fellow colleagues. That is until their boss scolds them to get the hell to work. So, they do, retreating back to their trucks as Erwin stands in place in thought for a while.

They have given him much to think about.

He ponders the conversation for days afterwards. Every time he looks at you, when you have those short little conversations that keep his day going. Perhaps it would not be so bad, he hopes you aren't looking for anything serious. Or maybe he does, his mind remains undecided. It would not be so bad having a pretty young thing like you on his arm. But he is getting ahead of himself.

He talks to you more, striking up longer conversations whenever he gets the chance. You are very polite; he finds it sweet the way you cross your ankles and tuck your hands behind yourself whenever the two of you speak-almost as if you were nervous. For some reason, it makes him want you even more.

After weeks of much of the same behavior he decides he has had enough. It's not so bad, it's not like he knew you before you were an adult or anything. You are a grown woman who pays bills and provides for herself-you have your own house for Christ's sake! He needs to stop babying you, looking at you as if you are just some lost little girl. You have needs of your own. Needs he is more than certain he can meet. So, he invites you inside for drinks one Friday evening, you do not think about it for even a second before agreeing.

Sending a text to your girls about how you are finally going to fuck the hot man from across street, you shut off your phone. You want absolutely zero distractions during your visit, a plan of your own is in the works.

You drink his fancy wine and watch a movie on the couch, carefully maintaining a bit of distance between the two of you. You almost forgot how nervous he makes you, perhaps the liquid courage is what you need to get your act right.

"Come closer" He pats the spot beside him, and you hesitantly follow his orders, setting down the wine glass and closing the gap between the two of you. Your thighs are touching, hands awkwardly stuck on either side of you, the pace of your heartbeat quickens when the man slides an arm down and around your waist. "What's the matter? Am I making you uncomfortable?" He has to make sure before things go any further. Your stiff body language is telling him that perhaps he should slow down.

"Oh no! Never!" You shake your head, trying to ease into his touch. But you are still afraid to touch him yourself. "It's just......you're a bit intimidating"

He exhales a puff of air through his nose, clearly amused by your words. Brushing a piece of hair behind your ear, he speaks again. "Oh darling, I don't mean to be. What can I do to make you feel better?"

His deep voice sends shivers down your spine, it sends shivers somewhere else too. "I-I don't know" You laugh. "You're just so big and..... established. Have no idea what you're doing sitting here with a girl like me"

"Oh, don't say that" He turns his body a bit to face you better, arm still stuck in its place around you. He places the other hand on your knee, you remain painfully aware of its place. "I'm the one who should be questioning how I got such a pretty little thing sitting on my couch" You giggle, it makes him twitch in his pants. "I'm the lucky one here"

His hand slides up to your thigh, massaging the fat in a way that makes you burn with desire. A heat builds deep within you. "T-touch me please"

Oh, your sugary voice is driving him crazy; he had no idea he would be this into something like this, someone like you. He pulls you into his lap, hands dragging up and down either side of your body as he takes all of you in. He lets out a long sigh, hips shifting beneath you as his cock begins to harden at the feeling of your burning skin. He hooks his thumb beneath your shirt, looking up at you. "May I?"

You nod almost frantically before he pulls the fabric over your head. Facing a baby pink, lacy bralette-he is unable to stop the groan from leaving his lips. He kisses the uncaged skin beneath your breaths, inadvertently taking a deep breath in to get more of your syrupy scent. "You wear this for me?" He questions.

You nod shyly, trying to hide your face but he pulls it closer to look at him. A hand guides you to fill in the space between your faces, foreheads pressing together but he does not kiss you. Not yet anyways, he wants to tease you a bit first. "Use your words"

"Y-yes I wore it for you daddy" It was a shot in the dark, most men his age are into shit like that.

He groans again. Fuck. Eren was right, thanks to all the shitty fathers out there, yours included.

You laugh, finally gaining that bit of confidence you need to keep the teasing going. "Wanna see what else I put on for you?"

"Show me darling" His eyes follow your hand which goes down to unbutton your shorts, unzipping them a bit before hooking your thumb to pull them forward-giving him perfect sight of the cute little bow which sits atop your panties. The same pair he spotted in your closet all those months ago. If he wasn't hard before then he definitely was now, nearly bursting at the seams of his pants. And he chuckles, twitching in anticipation as your body rocks with his. "You planned this, didn't you? Dirty girl"

"Mhm" You laugh, hand running down his chest, you let your nails dig into the fabric of his shirt a bit. You are desperate to feel even more of him. "Did I do a good job?"

"So good princess" He confirms, kissing your chest again. "Let's go upstairs"

You agree, making sure to grab your shirt that you clutch to your chest, painfully aware of the fact you are the only one without a shirt on. But your worries are soon dissolved because Erwin sheds his own shirt the second the two of you reach his room, you sit on his large bed, taking him in all his glory. Your mouth practically waters at the sight of nothing but muscle and evidence of years of hard work, the dirty blonde happy trail you wish to see the end of.

He walks up to you, standing at the edge of the bed and you look up to him. You are eye level with the tent of his pants. He brings a hand to gently caress your face, words are not necessary to know what he wants. You're so sweet and obedient that you go to fumble with the zipper of his pants almost immediately. And when he springs out you have to stop your eyes from widening at the sheer size of him. You almost feel afraid again but you don't want him to know that-you seem naive enough already. You'd like to surprise him a bit.

You kiss the girthy tip as if it were his lips, sticking out your tongue to flick over the slit. You press an exaggerated closed mouth kiss to the tip before taking more of him in your mouth. He groans, throwing back his head as you make your way down inch-by-inch. When you reach the base you swallow, throat tightening around him as he looks down to watch you-mouth agape.

Your wide eyes look up at him gleefully, if you could smile you would. The wait for him was sooo worth it-you think as he looks down at you in what seems to be pure amazement. Brows scrunching as he groans as you choke on his length. A mess of saliva and tears as you bob your head up and down, you can feel when his tip makes it past a certain place in your throat, growing conscious of how deep he is reaching.

It hurts but you can't find it in yourself to stop, he looks so good. An absolute mess as his manly groans make you want to play with your pussy. But instead, you take it a step further, you need this man to remember you, to crave you for years afterwards just in case this never happens again. Although you hope it does. You wrap both arms around his thighs, bringing him deeper as he begins to fuck your mouth.

Erwin, who has stayed relatively quiet since then becomes a mess. "Ohh fuck-fuck! So good, gonna fuck this tight little throat.... good girl, good girl"

You moan at his nasty words, sounds of gagging and wet slaps play like a symphony. Until he pulls back once he realizes he was about to blow a massive load down your throat. No, he wants to save it.

He pulls out, strings of spit dripping from his cock as you gasp for air, wiping away the tears from your eyes and mess of liquid around your mouth. "Mmm" You moan. "Was it good daddy?"

"So good darling" He rubs his thumb over your now swollen lips. "You're doing such a good job for me"

He leans down to kiss you, finally. Fervently grabbing at your hair and hips as he makes his way onto the bed. You scoot back, lips never leaving his as he goes to pull off your shorts. Tongues pressing together in-sync, he stops for a moment to suck on yours-eliciting a small whimper from you. Your nails trace up and down his arms, lost in the feeling of his lips. You could stay this way for hours.

But he obviously would like to keep things going, pulling down your shorts all the way before going down to kiss you through the thin fabric. He makes out with your pussy through the lace, stopping to suckle and blow tiny bubbles on your throbbing clit.

"Fuck!" You squeal, bucking your hips into his face as he continues the teasing. His tongue going up and down, creating an even larger wet spot that takes up most of the area. "Pleeease daddy"

"No, you can wait" He scolds, going to kiss your thighs softly. "Be patient. I'd like to take my time with you, get you ready for my cock"

"Mhm" You nod yet your hips buckle up again. "S-sorry"

"It's okay princess" He coos, finally pulling your panties down completely. When he licks a stripe up your pussy you all but scream.

"Mmm yesss!"

He kisses your clit, sucking it before swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud. Your hips try to fuck his face, he lets it happen, diving deeper and deeper into your pussy. He sticks his tongue out and shakes his head side to side, moaning at the way you cry out-so receptive to his touch.

He moves down to fuck you with his tongue, you bump your clit against his nose, mouth open and eyes rolled to the back of your head in a pure state of bliss. You tug at his hair roughly, using it to guide you against him, so desperate for more. Your mind clouds with pleasure, mouth forming into an 'o' shape as your hips begin to stutter, breath catching in your throat. And when he pulls back to spit! on your pussy, not once or twice, but three times you think you have died and gone to heaven.  With the addition of his fingers, and focusing the attention back to your clit, it is not long after that your release washes over you.

You exclaim out loud as your back arches off the bed, softly buckling down onto his tongue as he laps up all of your essence.

The both of you are panting as he comes back up to meet your lips. Tongue assaulting yours as you taste nothing but yourself on his tongue. That's the way it should be-you think. His painfully hard length presses into your stomach, you look down to see how deep it might go inside of you, but you look back up again when you start to feel scared of the stretch. You trust him, that is all that matters.

And before he can even ask if you want him to put a condom on or not, you grab his cock, sliding it down your folds and circling it around your clit. "Want you inside now daddy"

And who is he to ever say no to you? Seconds later he is pressing himself inside of you, thankful that he prepared you for it beforehand because it doesn't take very long for him to bottom out. "Ohh shit" He groans, pulling all the way out them slamming back in. "Fuck...you're so tight"

Your walls squeeze around him even more at his words, arms settling around his broad shoulders as you fight the urge to let your hips run away. He notices the way you pull back; he won't allow it. Bringing your bodies flush against one another, he rests his forehead on your shoulder, strong arms pulling you down onto him. You cry at the pressure, the way he is stabbing at you from inside, so deep you feel it might go out into your tummy. You squeal again, legs crossing over his back. "Erwin! Mmm, no no no, it hurts"

A stray tear falls from your eye, yet your hips begin to seek out his as you grow more accustomed to the stretch. "F-fuck" Your stomach begins to flutter.

"Oh shh shhh darling it's okay" He sounds so gentle, the complete opposite of the mean snap of his hips. "You want me to stop?" Another powerful thrust makes you let out a noise closer to a scream.

"No daddy please don't stop" You begin to claw at his back as he sets himself a pace, loud sounds of clapping begin to fill the room.

Your pussy is choking him, so slippery and needy. It sucks him in with each thrust, a 'slush' noise every time he pulls himself out. "So wet" The man gasps at the sight of all your juices splattered about. He needs to see more.

Pushing your knees into your chest and angling his hips a bit higher, he begins to drill into you at an unrelenting pace. A mix of saccharine moans fill the room, the sound of his headboard slamming against the wall. "Oh, oh oh! Erwin! Mmmm!" You sound so perfect, the sound of you moaning his name alone is enough to make him want to cum.

"Feels sooo good" Your eyes roll to the back of your head as he plows into you in a way that feels mechanical. In a way you have never felt before. He is so experienced, he knows all the right buttons to push, places to touch you and kiss. You are so mind numbingly stuck in a state of bliss that you almost feel lost. Like you could never crave another man after sleeping with him.

"Guys your age ever treat you like this?" He questions, now forcing your legs together with one arm and picking your hips up off the bed. Continuing his assault on your sweet little pussy that has made him go fucking stupid. He usually maintains a sense of composure when sleeping with new women, he knows what he enjoys may not be everyone's cup of tea but you, well you are the most perfect little slut he has ever met. "They fuck you this good?"

"No Erwin!" You cry out, gripping the sheets as he continues slamming into you. "You're the best! Fuck, Erwin! It's tooo much, feels weird"

Your hips twitch, he knows very well what this means. Oh, he needs it, he needs you to squirt all over him or else he will not be satisfied. "Erwin! Erwin!"

"Yeah, keep talking princess, make all the neighbors know my name, huh?" He goes down to toy with your clit, your hips attempt to squirm away. But the arm wrapped around your thighs ensure you stay in place. He pinches your clit, tip pushing against your g spot in a way that makes it hard to speak.

"Nonono, think I'm gonna pee" You shake your head frantically, trying to grab his arms and free yourself of his grip. But he will not allow it.

"Just let go" He orders, hair now sticking to his head as he shakes it back and forth. "Squirt all over daddy princess, I'll clean it up"

You finally reach your breaking point, breath so caught in your throat that your moan is almost silent, too high pitched to even be registered. Your hips and thighs are shaking, stomach quivering and you can feel your heartbeat in your pussy as he does not relent with his thrusts-close to a release of his own. When you squirt all over him, he whines stuck on the juices gushing out of you. His eyes squeeze shut as the image replays over and over again in his head, finally dropping your body back down to the mattress as he is almost where he needs to be. "Such a messy pussy" He moans into your skin, your body lays limp as you try to do something as simple as breathe.

It is hard when he snatches every little gasp out of you. But you can feel him twitching inside you, thrusts grow sloppy as you grab at his hair, your sensitive pussy being pushed to her brink. "Please please cum inside daddy. Fuckkk I need it! Wanna keep it inside all night and remember how good you made me feel"

Your dirty words are enough to push him over the edge, spilling into you and splaying your womb with his seed. Fuck, his dick belongs inside of you. So does his cum, he wants to do this every day when he comes home from work. In the mornings before he even gets out of bed. At night when before he goes to sleep. He wants you stuffed with him at all times. His cum spills out of you as he finally pulls out, dripping down your thighs.

He looks up at you with a mischievous look on his eyes. It feels unnatural to see such a composed man come undone, the way he eats you up with his eyes.

And you are staring at him like he is the most handsome man on the planet, well he kind of is. To you at least. You chuckle, you're in danger, never has a man made you feel this good before. He made you squirt the first time sleeping with you. Fuck, you're dickmatized.

"We should have done this a long time ago" He collapses into your chest, kissing whatever skin is available softy. He will clean you up in a bit, for now he needs to rest.

"Yes, we should have" You play with his hair before kissing the top of his head, making yourself quite comfortable in his sheets. You could get used to this.

And used to it, you become. Erwin is now a daily part of your routine, the same as sleeping and eating. Getting creampied by Erwin Smith was now the highlight of most of your days but it was not all purely physical. He took you out a few times, you even met a few of his coworkers one night over drinks. You spend the night at each other's houses and begin to go on morning runs together.

You suppose you should not be surprised when you end up pregnant several months later. Knocked up by your sexy older neighbor that you now consider to be your boyfriend. He even suggests the two of you get married, but you agree to wait for the baby to come along to see if that changes anything in your relationship.

Now, because of you, he will live up to his true potential as a dilf.

[seeingivy]

you're losing me

satoru x f!reader

**part of my satoru as taylor swift songs series

an: based on a request I received! i've been trying to get back into the writing groove since finals ended - and this very detailed request was exactly what I needed - so ty my sweetie pie <3

--

“Would you guys like to order?” 

You swallow hard, looking up at your waiter, who has stopped by for the third time now. You’ve been sitting here with the first years for almost forty-five minutes now, waiting for Satoru to arrive for the dinner that you two kept promising them. Yuuji and Nobara have all but exhausted the free bread supply while you waited, much to Megumi’s dismay, who keeps claiming that they’re going to be too full to eat their dinner and complain about it for days. 

“Um-” 

You pause, checking his location one more time, before you sigh and give a polite smile. Satoru’s location still isn’t reading - meaning, he’s still stuck on his mission - and not coming to dinner. 

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” you respond, gesturing for the three of them as Megumi starts narrating everyone’s order to the waiter.

The three of them turn to you - with matching stiff smiles - when he walks away as you swallow hard and prepare yourself for the awkward barrage of comments you know are coming. 

“He’s not coming?” Megumi asks. 

“Yeah. He’s still at his mission and I have to take you guys back early anyways, so we’ll just eat without him.” 

“Maybe you can take something for him to go?” Yuuji asks. 

“No, that’s alright. Um, his dinner from yesterday should still be there. He’s good.” you respond. 

You don’t miss the look that the three of them give each other and swallow down the defense of him that you always have prepared. Not that you don’t still vehemently believe in it, because you do, it’s just that it tends to make those prolonged, pitying looks last longer when you do. 

But Satoru really is busy. There’s no one like him - he quite literally changed the balance of life as anyone knew it when he was born - so of course there are certain missions that only he can do. And there’s a certain…safety that comes with picking Satoru each time. Because they know that he’ll come out on the other side of it, with exactly what they need. 

Which means that he comes home late sometimes. Despite your best efforts to stay up - which always end with you upright on the couch, with your neck curved in a weird way - only to find that you’re safely tucked into your bed the next morning. 

Satoru always comes home at some point, making sure to tuck you into bed, but has to run off so fast that you don’t catch him in the morning. 

“Gojo-sensei’s really neglecting you, huh?” Nobara utters, earning a jab from Megumi in his side. 

You smile. 

“No. He’s just busy.” you respond, awkwardly breaking the bread in your plate. 

“You’re right. He has missions and has been really hands on with the second-years.” Megumi responds. 

You shoot him a grateful smile. 

“Exactly! Especially since they’re all about to be nominated for first grade sorcerers so…now is more important than ever.” you add. 

“It’s okay. You should just make Gojo-sensei feel really bad. Isn’t he rich? Then he’ll buy you a nice ring to make up for it.” Nobara adds, giving you a wink. 

You snort. 

“Okay, Nobara. I’ll try it.” you scoff. 

“No, seriously! He should feel bad - you’re probably drinking wine alone at night, blasting some sad songs before you get so tired from crying that you fall asleep. You deserve a gift!” Nobara adds, earning her another jab from Megumi in her side. 

You roll your eyes. 

“I do not blast sad songs before I go to bed. That’s actually pathetic.” you respond. 

“Or therapeutic. I’ll send you a playlist. Trust me, you’ll get so mad that you’ll actually get a gift from him out of it.” Nobara responds, your phone beeping in your pocket from her message. 

You look over at Megumi, giving him a knowing look, before you return to your dinner and let Nobara target her incessant rambling for someone else. At the end of the dinner, Nobara flashes you a big smile when you set Satoru’s credit card down on the table, which was an accident because you had just left yours at home. You settle down her rambling by buying them all dessert on it before you send them home. 

--

Satoru, though he would never admit it out loud, had been dreading coming home for the past week. And he’d wring his own neck out a few months ago, for even thinking it, let alone the fact that he’s been entertaining the fact for the past few months. 

But what he has waiting for him when he’s coming home, leaves him with that deep seated, guilty pit in his stomach. Because he always trods into your apartment hours late, to find you curled up on the couch, having dozed off. 

Satoru knows you - too well almost - and that despite his protests, you tried your best to wait up for him every single day. His heart warms at the fact that you want to spend time with him, but it’s quickly overshadowed with guilt when he sees the dark circles under your eyes. And it makes it ten times worse when he slips out in the morning for his mission, only to see you squirming into his side of the bed, now left cold. 

And the worst part? That you can’t even bring yourself to be mad about it. Because Satoru would feel with anger, that it would be fully deserved, but your full understanding and love for him just makes his guilt a thousand times worse. Because without fail, you always leave ehim a dinner plate out, reminding him to eat his vitamins and rink water before leaving. 

But today was different - quite possibly, the first time he’s rushed home in a while. Because his mission finished early and his meeting got cancelled, meaning that he would be home when you would be awake. He’d made arrangements, quickly running past and picking up a bouquet and ice cream on the way home, nearly sprinting all the way up the stairs. 

Satoru pads into the apartment, feet leading him straight to the bedroom, where the light is pouring from the bottom of the closed door. He hesitates, caught off by the fact that you’re singing, before knocking on the door together. He’d missed the sound of it, of your quiet singing that he’d often wake up to while you were showering. 

Satoru can recognize that you’re listening to Taylor Swift almost immediately - with how much you and Nobara play it around him - and he’s almost positive that you must have the cat cuddled into your nap, explaining all the lore to him like he’s found you doing hundreds of time. 

"Do something, babe, say something" (say something) "Lose something, babe, risk something" (you're losin' me) "Choose something, babe, I got nothing (got nothing) To believe Unless you're choosin' me" You're losin' me Stop (stop, stop), you're losin' me Stop (stop, stop), you're losin' me I can't find a pulse My heart won't start anymore

Satoru swallows hard. He knows that it’s just a song. That the sentiment could easily not be reflecting what you’re feeling. 

But he’s also acutely aware that it could be what you’re feeling. And it’s something that you aren’t telling him, because he knows that you odn’t want to be another thing that he has to deal with at the end of the day. 

Satoru groans, leaning his head against the door, as he panders with his options. Because that’s the last thing that he wants you think. It’s the farthest place he wants to be in his relationship with you, because he wants you to always come to him. The fact that you could have been holding onto these feelings, for god knows how long, makes his stomach churn as his feet quickly lead him into the kitchen and has him scribbling a note to place in the bouquet of flowers. 

--

You shoot Nobara a text as you pad out into the kitchen, your cat following you on your heels. 

you: i like the playlist! 

nobara: how much have you had to drink? 

you: i did not drink. and i am not sad. 

nobara: now who said that? projecting much…

You roll your eyes as you half debate opening up the dinner you had left out for Satoru last night or ordering takeout and leaving him leftovers to eat tomorrow morning 

“I already ordered us something.” 

You turn around, to find Satoru closing the space between you, the flowery smell filling your nose as his lips meet your forehead in a warm kiss. 

“Satoru. You’re home, I didn’t even…” 

He presses his lips firmly against yours, his right hand flesh as your cheek, sending a wave of warmth down your spine. You smile into the kiss, resting your forehead against his, as he returns a soft smile back. 

“I missed you.” he murmurs. 

You deflate, warm tears filling your eyes at his presence - bright blue eyes, the smell of his shampoo, and his warm arms around yours - as you loop your arms under his and dig your face into his neck. You can feel him leaving a few pecks in your hair, his voice soothing as you try your best to will away your tears. 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to cry, I just really missed you.” 

He pulls back, giving you a warm smile, as he reaches for the flowers on the counter and places them in your hands. You give him a bright smile, twisting them in your hands, as you fully inhald the flowery smell. 

“For you.” Satoru responds, in a sing song voice as he reaches forward to pinch your cheek. 

“You didn’t have to, love.” you respond, swiping the tiny little envelope from the bouquet. 

“Yes. I did.” he deadpans, placing his hands on your shoulder before swinging you around and placing you flesh against his chest. 

You open up the little envelope to find a little note inscribed with his messy handwriting, as his lips find their way to your cheek. 

My sweet girl, 

Your endless empathy and patience don’t go unnoticed. You’re far more than I deserve and I want to make it up to you, though I’m sure I’ll probably spend the rest of my life doing that, if you’ll let me. 

We’re going to go away, just the two of us, for a little while. I don’t care where we go, you can choose where we go and what we do tomorrow. Just know, that in earnest, I’m choosing you, even if I don’t make it clear all the time. 

I’ll choose you, always. 

Love, 

Satoru

You smile hard, twisting around, so you can look up at him. The tears are flowing from your eyes tenfold how, as Satoru lifts his hands to your cheeks, trying to push you into smiling. 

“Why are you frowning, princess?” 

“You’re so sweet, Satoru.” 

Satoru shakes his head dismissively, as he pushes you into his embrace fully, increasing the pressure of his hold around you. The two of you stand there in the kitchen for a while, softly murmuring to each other, in the pale light of the kitchen. 

When you and Satoru pad into bed later that night, you send Nobara another message before going to sleep. 

you: nvm. remind me to take ur advice more often.

--

an, again: no one crucify me I haven't written anything for like a month

the satoru as taylor swift series masterlist

taglist: @invisible-mori @porridgesblog  @k0z3me  @kayleegomez  @yihona-san06  @bsenpai  @sweetenertea  @skzismyhome @mykyoon @violetmatcha @rebeccawinters @luna0713hunter @shotenvinsoot @itzmeme @gojoswifeyyys-world @cutiejg

[princesssukunalover]

Partition

Nanami Kento realises his grave mistake of pushing his wife away. He'll do anything and everything to get her back.

Part 1

CW: Nanami lowkey being miserable, angst, mentions of divorce.

Part 2 of 5

wc: 1051

It starts off with remorseful gifts at your door and it's obvious who they are from. You refuse to even acknowledge your ex husband’s futile efforts to apologise. And after 2 weeks, when the entry to your apartment becomes cluttered with flowers in colours that you don’t even like, chocolates so full of sugar that you wouldn’t even lick them and cards that you don’t bother to open, you finally decide that you’ve had enough. You’ve had enough of Nanami’s weak attempts to win you back. Surely, 6 months ago you would have been gratified to even receive a single rose, picked from a bush on his way home from work, or any gesture that made you feel valued. But it took you less than a year until you asked yourself, ‘If he could not speak, would you still love him for his actions?’ And it took you less than a minute to realise that there were simply no actions that Nanami had done during your union that could prove that he truly loves his wife.

-

As Nanami is about to enter Jujutsu High for an important meeting, he is stopped by the abrupt buzzing of his phone. “I’ll be inside in 5 minutes.” He tells Gojo, who waves him off and goes inside the building, leaving the tall blonde alone. His heart stops for a moment, staring at his phone as your name appears on the screen. He answers it way too quickly. Nanami doesn’t speak. He waits to hear the sweet voice that he’s missed for these past few months. “Kento..” You start. He responds, calling your name. “I haven’t heard from you in a while.” He tells you. “And I wanted to keep it that way, Kento.” You sigh, causing his heart to drop in sorrow. He tries to talk but you cut him off. “Stop sending me these gifts. I want nothing to do with you.” You tell your ex husband. “I’m sorry.” Is all that Nanami can utter. “I mean seriously, did you think that some cheap chocolate, a waste of paper and roses that die in 3 days can undo the feeling of being neglected by the person you love most?” You question. “Is that all you think I am worth?!” You accuse him, starting to get angry and even a little embarrassed. Nanami answers quickly.

“No.. I know that wasn’t enough and I would never think that it’s all you were worth. You are worth everything to me. And I really never showed you how much I love you. I promise I won’t let it happen again-” You cut him off. “Kento, just stop. There’s no ‘again’. There’s no salvaging this. It’s over. You treated me like shit for most of our marriage, and now that you're gone, I’m doing better, Kento. I have a life now. I have a career.” You begin to explain how much your life has improved since the divorce, which he painfully listens to, the hole in his heart widening with each sentence. “It’s over.. Nanami.” You repeat before the call ends. Your ice cold tone haunts him; not because of the cruel manner that you’re speaking to him; not because you don’t bother address him by his first name; but it’s because in his soul, he knows that at some point in your marriage, he spoke to you in such a manner, and in his soul, there remains nothing but guilt and self hatred, for allowing him to lose the love of his life. 

-

Life for Nanami resumes after one or two months. His mansion that was once littered with empty takeout boxes is now looking cleaner these days. He’s built up a routine that distracts him from the sorrows of life. He spends his evenings alone, cooking meals that lack love and warmth, but it keeps him fed and alive, so he doesn’t give a damn. He spends his mornings working out on the floor of his cold living room, the same living room where you would make love together in the early start of your relationship. He ignores the pain in his muscles as he abuses them with every added kilogram of weight. It’s incomparable to the pain which he feels when he takes a glimpse of the wedding photos on his fridge that he refuses to get rid of. His friends wonder if he is some kind of masochist, who needs a constant reminder of the mistakes that he has made.

Every once in a while, Kento will go to a diner and treat himself to a warm and thoughtful meal. It’s one of the small ways that he can commit an act of self-love without feeling undeserving of it. Quickly, that self-love rots into self-hate as he looks up from his plate on a random Friday evening. His heart genuinely drops when he sees you walk through the door, all dolled up. Weeks of progress are undone in 10 short seconds as he scans your body from head to toe. It all comes flashing back. He remembers everything. He remembers the way he’d fuck you senselessly against the counter, against the dining table, on his bed, on his couch. He remembers the way he’d wake up next to you, watching how beautiful you looked in your sleep. And he remembers what he lost. And it is at that same moment that he remembers Gojo’s words, which echo in his mind. He needs to win you back. He’s going to win you back. 

Kento watches deliberately. It would seem that you’re on some kind of date. He wonders how many dates you’ve been on since the divorce. And although it’s not completely unexpected to him that you’re beginning to date again, he admits that it’s quicker than he would’ve wanted. You don’t notice your stoic ex-husband at first, as you greet the man that you’re meeting with, who kindly gives you a beautiful bouquet of flowers, which you are too sweet to admit, gives you some form of PTSD. After your first glass of wine, you finally notice that somebody is staring intently in your direction. As you squint your eyes to get a better look across the room, you’re met with a smirk, coming from your handsome ex-husband. Your chest feels hollow.

Comments, likes and reblogs appreciated <3 This chapter is just some plot..

[sp0o0kylights]

Someone on Twitter proposed Steve and Gareth as cousins whose family had a major falling out, and then someone else brought it up recently and long story short no idea who to credit the idea too bc you can’t search for SHIT on Twitter but it's theirs not mine. 

Anyway I wrote a lil thing as a warmup 

PART TWO

"Why don't you come sit with Hellfire?" Gareth asked, angrily leaned against the bathroom wall while Steve fixed his hair.

He'd tried not to cling since he entered high school. Tried to keep things on the downlow, least any gossipy mouths started running. 

It was so stupidly, needlessly, hard. 

 His cousin was only two years ahead of him but they'd spent the last year in different schools because of it. 

 That year, and the lack of Steve's presence in it, had grated. Now that he finally had Steve back, Gareth was loathe to play by the rules. 

"Sit with you and Eddie, "the freak" Munson? I'll pass." Steve said, but there was no bite in it. 

That, Gareth knew, was because Steve was  using Eddie as an excuse. 

"You'd like Eddie if you spent five minutes with him, King Steve." Gareth fired back on automatic. His fingers dug into his arms, as he resisted the urge to pace around the bathroom floor. 

Unspoken was all the shit that had taken place.

Steve and Nancy's breakup. The rumor mill in overdrive, first about how Jonathan Byers had taken creep shot photos of them, then about how he'd taken his shot with Nancy herself. 

The supposed cheating, the public fights, the crazy background of Jonathan's little brother being missing. 

Billy Hargrove beating Steve to a pulp. 

Now friendless, Steve had thoroughly fallen from his place at the tippy top of the social hierarchy and between his utter lack of friends and his shit tier parents, Gareth was concerned. 

"You do not want me to sit with you, Gary. I'd tell all your little friends that you're apart of the royal family." Steve turned, making an exaggerated face. "How's Munson feel about cozying up to a Prince?" 

"I'd technically be an Earl, Steve, not a prince." Gareth grumbled. 

He got an eye roll in response. "Somehow I don't think he'll care." 

"I do though." Gareth blurted out, absolutely thoughtless. 

Steve blinked at him. 

"What?" He said. 

In for a penny right?

 "I care." Gareth said, looking down and scuffing a shoe, making it squeak against the grimy tiles. "About you. You dick." 

"Wow Gary you almost sounded loving there."

For once, he ignored the jab. "I'm worried about you, man." He said it quietly, the painful truth pulled out of him almost by force. 

He knew better than anyone how few people Steve had. Knew how his dad was likely taking all the crap Steve had been involved in lately. 

Richard Harrington hadn't been the wedge that had separated his and Steve's mother, but the man hadn't done them any favors, either. 

His intolerance towards the working and lower classes, his demand for perfection, the way he looked down his nose not just on Gareth's parents but on his own wife and son…

Gareth's mom didn't tolerate it. 

Likewise, Stella Harrington didn't tolerate her sister ruining her shot at being a rich trophy wife. 

Both their sets of parents were dramatic and neither of them weren't anywhere near the concept of "good" but at least Gareth's weren't neglectful and abusive. 

Shitty absolutely, but he never worried about getting thrown out, or that his mom wouldn't acknowledge his birthday because he'd "complimented her outfit the wrong way." 

(”It's fine dude she just thought I called her ugly. It was a miscommunication. Dad said it's a good lesson about how women work."

"Casual reminder that your dad's an asshole and also how is telling your mom that she looked lovely in the sunlight telling her she's ugly?”

“It implied she wasn't lovely the rest of the time or some shit, I dunno man.”) 

The BMW was a shitty prize when compared what Steve had dealt with to receive it. 

"I'm okay." Steve said seriously. "It's almost the end of the year anyways. I can tough out having some extra alone time." 

"If you're sure…"

"Yeah man, I'm sure. Thanks though."

Then Steve pulled him into a hug and fuck their parents, who demanded they continued some stupid grudge. Gareth clung to him just as hard as he had at ten. Unsure if he'd ever be allowed to see Steve again.

[all-things-fic]

Sugar // HS

AN: This is old, but given how ol’ Harry has popped up outta nowhere, I couldn’t resist. Really sorry if the read more doesn’t work properly, I’m on mobile.

Sending love x

***

Anguilla was a special place for you both.

It had its way of drawing you back to it time and time again. Whenever you wanted that little bit of winter sun, to ease the blues that may have been drawn from you with the grey skies of England.

Anguilla had been the first real place that you and Harry had chosen to holiday. It felt like your first real couple holiday. Where you shed all worry and apprehension about being seen with him in a setting that was absolutely nothing but romantic.

Anguilla had been the place where you’d had one of your nastiest fights too. The kind that had you sat in the backseat of a taxi ride home, close together in presence but the furthest apart in mind. The threat of packing your luggage and getting the next flight home fizzling through the silent energy.

And it was because of that - the highs and lows - it was only right to also christen this place with the crown of being your first born’s babymoon.

Thinking back on fond memories as you lay along the four poster daybed, was how you’d come to find yourself most days on this holiday. Looking out on your private beach and watching your husband of just shy of two years fight his way around a paddleboard or a surfboard, whichever has taken his fancy that morning.

The Caribbean seas were known to be calm, but not this part of the island. Harry knew about that one better than you, and seeing him so active sometimes made you feel like you were being far too lazy, using the pregnancy as an excuse.

Truth was, you had been struggling. Heartburn was crazy and you’d started to swell in your hands and ankles from water retention. While Harry swore to you it was just the heat. You hadn’t forgotten how he’d said that it was probably just the flight that had caused it.

You loved that about him though. That he tried to always make you feel better. Regardless of how neglectful you felt toward him, he wouldn’t hear you utter such words. You were carrying his baby, you were nothing but beautiful to him. You knew he thought that from the way he marvelled in you every single day. Both with and without the spoken word.

It was like he was mesmerised. You were a bit of a forbidden fruit to him, especially when it came to intimacy. Being touched in your current shape made you cringe. You’d spent a lot of the past week covered up, under the four poster daybed you currently found yourself upon and felt like some lewd voyeur as you stared out into the ocean, under the guise of reading, and watched your husband leave the ocean.

Harry was every inch golden, regardless of the length of time he spent covered up by a wetsuit. His face, which had been slightly sunburnt, now turning that mixture of bronze and dirty tan where his melanocytes cells had increased unevenly in the sun, resulting in darker and lighter patches of skin.

He was every inch handsome and strong and he was aging far better than you (much to your delight and your resentment). He still smiled like he was the same twenty-six year old you had first set your eyes on, in that dingy London bar while on a night out with friends that you were so adamant you didn’t want to attend.

But boy, you were glad you had.

Both back then and so vehemently still to this day.

You looked on, watching as he stood his surfboard in the sand. Abruptly pushing it down and working on untying the board from around his ankle. A force that you knew would be heavy. Had he always been this manly or were you just having a moment?

He was drenched. Wet through. You could tell regardless of how far away he was and you found yourself wondering how salty his skin would taste against your lips. Left leg wrapping tightly over your right at the ankle to quell the feeling of emptiness between your thighs.

Eyes squinting slightly behind your sunglasses, you fought the urge you so badly felt behind your twitching hands, to lift them from your eyes and push them back into your hair. For some strange reason you didn’t want him to know you were affected by him like this.

Harry knew however. Of course he knew. He was in the same position. It was why he was taking his time. Jutting his chin up towards the cloudless blue skies and pulling slowly at the zip of his wetsuit, feeling the too tight fabric become less taut against his damp skin.

Pruney fingers pulled at the Neoprene material, hands peeling it away and ears enjoying the sound it made while doing so. You noticed he’d dropped his head with a smile now, wet tendrils falling down and obscuring your view of the way his face dipped and concaved so majestically when he was pleased with himself.

That annoyed you. You wanted to see that face.

Sinking lower into the bed, you pulled your book higher to hide your pout and felt dirtier now that nothing but your eyes were visible over the top of the book.

He seemed totally unphased but you were sure he knew you were watching him as he finished removing the top half from his body and revealing himself to you. Golden and smattered with more ink than ever. Ink now upon his skin just for you, mixed nicely in between the memories and the mistakes from before.

Seeing his feet digging into the sand, you felt a jolt of excitement course through you. Hand lifting to rest gently against your stomach, you attributed the flutter to your child. “Is that Daddy making his way back to us?”

Harry’s feet burned under the white sand as he found himself walking from the water's edge and closer to the daybed. He squinted, bringing his hand up to his forehead to try and get a better look at you as he approached.

You took great delight in the way his ring caught the sun from his action. Lips pulling into a triumphant grin at the thought and knowledge of how he was yours.

Smug didn’t even begin to cover it.

As he got closer, his eyes surveyed the scene that was in front of him. His wife laid out, relaxed, on a four poster bed. Chilled drinks and fruits off to the side ready for both of you to leisurely enjoy.

You hiding behind the book humoured him to no end. He loved it when you thought you were being clever. Just not clever enough, eh? He’d probably say it to you as well before the day was out.

His presence at the bottom of the bed was felt long before he physically arrived. You refused to look up at him, however he noticed the rounded apples of your cheeks as the pages of your book hid your smiling mouth from him.

Hands tying the loose sleeves of his wetsuit around his waist, your peripheral vision allowed you to take in the way his hands moved efficiently to tie a secure knot into the sleeves.

“Took your time,” you started. “Thought I was gonna have to start playing the Baywatch theme tune just to get you to move a little bit quicker.”

His lips quirked at that, him taking a deep breath through his nose as he felt the corners of his eyes wrinkle with joy. Laughter lines they called them, right? He knew they had only deepened from all the years he had spent laughing with you so far.

“Books tha’ interesting ‘s it,” he sarcastically acknowledged, enjoying the confirmation that you weren’t reading at all. “What chapter you on now?”

Your non-verbal response was to turn the book around for him to catch a glimpse of the pages. He cackled when the text came into focus. You hadn't moved from the page you’d opened up to that morning as he slipped off the bed, and let the ocean before his lover for a few hours.

“Stellar effort, darling. I admire your sell,” he clenched his fist and shook it once to emphasise his words. Your sell being the way you’d made it look as if you had moved further along with your novel of choice for holiday reading. “Gonna take you in the boardroom wi’me next time wi’a poker face like tha’.”

“Take me in the boardroom,” you repeated his words back to him, much slower than his delivery.

From your tone, he tilted his head up, using both of his hands to brush back his wet hair from falling around his face. He blew out a puff of air, his lips looking so much bigger and more inviting when his mouth made that shape.

“Jesus woman, give a man chance to breathe.”

His deep tone forced you to push your face into the book, trying to fight the urge to squeal like a silly little school girl. The chuckle that filled your ears was bliss. It was one of his dirty sniggers, the kind that he would do by keeping his mouth closed so that the sound left more of his nose in a breathy sound but the vibration of his throat was prominent.

You couldn’t bring yourself to respond, instead letting your hands fall away from the book as it remained in place from your horizontal state.

The dip to the bed was the next thing you felt, Harry placing his knees close to bottom left of the bed and pausing. It was calming silent apart from the sound of the crashing waves, and you found yourself peeking out from underneath the pages.

The sight you saw was far too soft, if a little bit intriguing. Harry was frowning lightly as he untied the knots of the tassels that held the netted white curtains framing the wooden posts of the bed.

“Unless,” he started, his voice concentrated. “You’re letting me taste you, then I’m gladly suffocating.”

Peeking out of the side of the book, you noticed how he hadn’t taken his eyes away from the way his nimble fingers were unloosening the fabric. You saw the way his facial expression changed when he triumphantly and gently tugged on the curtain to pull it across one side of the daybed.

“Don’t come near me, you’re wet-”

“‘S usually nice that way. The wetter the better, so to say.”

Usually you would’ve whacked him with the book by now, or threw a pillow at his head but all you found yourself doing was laying there and listening. Feeling a heat fill your face as your imagination was moving two steps ahead of Harry’s each time. Or so you thought, anyway.

Walking on his knees along the mattress, Harry made his way across the bed to the opposite set of net curtains.

“Why’re you shutting the curtains, I don’t want no funny business-“

Harry paused his movement, looking up at you under his drying hair thanks to the thick heat enveloping you both.

“Sure about that, darling,” he asked, fingers still against the knot. When you didn’t respond he continued to untie and pull the curtain across the opposite side of the best. “Thought so,” he mumbled.

Staying silent sometimes worked to your advantage, part of you slightly intrigued as to how he was going to play it. The book that covered your face, was gently lifted away by Harry. A soft whine leaving your lips.

“You’re gonna make me lose my place,” you made your high-pitched complaint known, only to be greeted by an amused chuckle.

“‘S the book more interesting than me is it,” he said slowly closing the item and pushing it away. “Nah. Now the fruit I can understand,” he started, feeling the way you looked up at him as he peered at the tray of healthy goodness and rubbed his hands together. “What have we got ‘ere? Cherries, strawberries, watermelon- your favourite.”

Before you could stop yourself, you reached for his hand that hung above you.

He was your favourite.

Your soft tug to his fingers had him dropping his gaze, his fingers curling around yours. His hands had changed to you lately, looking thicker and veiner. You could never bring yourself to say it out loud though, not to him directly anyway. You were sure he’d just laugh, if he didn’t already know that is.

You were positive he probably did. The amount of times you’d taken to playing with his fingers, or gently running the tips of your fingers across the dips of his knuckles and the veins on the backs of his hands. Those hands helped to make your baby, they’d help to take care of said baby in a number of months time too.

“Want summat?” He asked, eyes peering down at you behind his slowly drying tendrils. “Wha’ can I do fo’yer?”

Looking down at you, he took in the way you eyes blinked up at him.

“‘M already on m’knees for yer, wha’ more could you want? Want me closer?” He smirked, lowering himself down to lie on his side next to you thanks to your wordless nod. Head resting on his hand as he leant on his elbow, he reached up to scoop your hair out of your face and lift your lips to his. Voice lowering as his lips puckered against yours, he added, “Could do one better I s’pose? Put m’head between your legs.”

Shaky breath left your lips as he hummed. “Gonna let me do that fo’you.”

“‘S been ages since you last did,” he continued, hands smoothing down your back in circle motions, pulling you closer to his body so that you were almost flush against him.

“It’s not pretty down there,” you grimaced thinking of how your last shaving job had been harder to achieve thanks to your growing bump.

“‘S that not up to me to decide,” he asked, deeply. “Left a bit f’me to play with, yeah? ‘Ope so.”

“God Harry, stop being such a little boy,” you tried to hide your embarrassment, skin flamed for how open he was regardless of his boyish tendencies.

His snigger into the skin of your shoulder warmed you further, “‘m definitely not a little boy when I’m wanking m’self off, all over your hair.”

His comment lingered in the sexually charged air. Lips sucking gently and soft breathing barely heard over the crashing waves. Being close to him was what you craved. The sound of him coaxing you to be a little daring.

“Messy like one.”

“Messy like one,” he repeated, face amused as he looked down at you. “‘S better messy. When you can hear it, eh. All down my chin and rubbed into your thighs. Means we’ve enjoyed ourselves, don’t it.”

You found yourself opening your legs slightly at the sound of his voice and Harry took the opportunity to press his damp, wetsuit covered, thigh into the gap.

“Can feel ‘ow warm yer are for me-“ he groaned. “Let me in. Gi‘me a kiss.”

The deep inhale through his nose as he took your lips with his caused you to clench at his defined chest. He pulled off, a slight frown to his brow, “Christ nearly took a chunk of me wi’ya then.”

“Not close enough-“

“Let me in then, let me have a feast,” he hummed. “‘On your back f’me.”

Rolling to your back was easy when you had a man that weighed almost thirteen stone to guide you. Was easier when he caressed you with kisses that made you melt into him.

“You look bloody wonderful, d’ya know tha’,” he mumbled against your lips. His hand wandered as he spoke, fingers stilling at your rounded hips and dipping into your skin.

“You’re just trying to butter me up so you can get your end away,” you spoke in monotone, with your eyes closed.

“‘S it working?”

You giggled at his muffled question, his head pressed into the fabric of your beach coverup as your stomach shook lightly from your delight and laughter.

“Shift this out the way,” he gruffly spoke, pushing at the sheer item that covered your stomach. “Wan’ your belly.”

Your belly has become his kryptonite. The way it had grown and began to round out nicely. Popping into the bump that you had found yourself longing for the minute you found out that you were pregnant.

But it was also the part that you were self-conscious of. The dusting of stretch marks starting to appear, even if only light and small, among the ones that you’d experienced from when you were filling out as a teenager.

For Harry though, this was life. You were growing his son or daughter - the gender you didn’t know and weren’t going to find out either. Much to your dismay and his delight.

“One of the only surprises left in life,” he said, over a conversation around messy kisses and even messier tears from your panic of how your usual planning self wasn’t going to get a look in. “We’ve got this covered, Mommy. We don’t need to know. We’re sorted. Let us have that moment, that excitement for the entire nine months. The guessing and the little arguments over your cravings meaning that we’re definitely having a boy, or the way your shape is changing meaning we’re definitely having a girl.”

And that was a moment that you thought back on fondly now, cause he’d been right on his thinking. Those moments had been some of your best and most intimate conversations when he liked to purposely go against your guess and say the complete opposite. He loved seeing the fire in your eyes flare up as you both got friendly and competitive with each other. It was healthy to be this way and ultimately exciting and fun for you both.

You were in your thoughts so much that you almost jumped when you felt Harry’s hand get close to your belly button.

“Sensitive,” you softly whined, hearing his hushed apology against your lower body.

“‘M sorry, forgot,” he softly apologised, nose nudging gently at the underside of your bump. You felt him going lower with no desire to stop him, you intimate area letting you know that you wanted this far more than you were willing to admit.

“Had some watermelon for brunch? He mumbled into the sensitive skin of your thigh. “Saved me some?”

You whimpered in response, feeling the way the backs of his fingers rubbed gently up your clothed intimate area. His eyes were mesmerised by the turquoise blue of your bikini bottoms in contrast to your hair and softly tanned skin.

“Colour really pops, doll,” he mumbled more so to himself, watching the way your hands covered your face, elbows pointing to the sky at his words. “Love it when you show me how pink you are. Show me.”

“Stop,” you choked, lifting for him as you felt his face drop into your lower stomach and nosy along the hem of your bikini bottoms. His teeth drew up the material, pulling it away from your skin with a soft tension.

You wanted anything but him to stop.

“Can smell you from ‘ere, gagging for me,” his voice regardless of how it was muffled around fabric was the clearest thing in your mind. “Gonna give me some sugar.”

“You know I will,” you softly mewled, hands finding his at the waistband of your bikini bottoms.

“Do I?” He felt his lips tilt upward, eyes flicking upwards to see the charged expression on your face. “Help me get ‘em off you then.”

It didn’t take much from him before you started pushing the fabric down as he pulled. Hips rose of their own accord off the bed beneath you, as you let him shift and guide the bottoms down your legs, before placing them neatly to the other side of the bed.

He was close to you within a flash, his head back against your thigh this time and enjoying the way your plush skin felt pressed to his face.

“Put me where you want me,” he mumbled, hand blindly reaching for yours and placing it into his chestnut strands of hair that were beginning to form a waxy film from the sea salt.

You were shocked at how you didn’t hesitate in guiding him to your center. His groan of satisfaction caused you to scratch at his scalp as he turned his head slightly to the side against the crevice of your inner thigh, “My girl knows what she wants and what kind of man would I be ‘f I didn’t give it to her.”

Any kind of response you had fell flat into a hum, as you rolled your lips into your mouth and tried to keep as quiet as possible given the fact that you were in public.

You knew it wouldn’t last long, but you’d give it a good go.

[melancholicstation]

𓊆ྀི󠀠󠀠󠀠󠀠󠀠󠀠󠀠 ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST: OPEN DOOR! - a jack schlossberg one-shot. 𓊇ྀི

summary: your open door architectural digest interview with your husband jack schlossberg takes an unexpected, and downright sensual turn in your shared kitchen over the most innocuous citrus fruit. note: this is part of the husband!jack schlossberg universe, here are other works with wife!reader and husband!jack: like an american, husband!jack hc's, and comfort husband!jack hc's

warnings: orgasm denial (male), cunnilingus, smut, 18+

words: 1,830

"Hi AD, We're Jack and Y/n, welcome to our house"

Filming for Architectural Digest, as glamorous as it might look from the illustrious glow of a MacBook screen, was not all it cracked up to be. AD had been relentless in their pursuit, contacting both you and jack's agents on more than one occasion proposing the opportunity for you guys as a couple to be featured on their open door celebrity series.

Initially as a couple you had turned the opportunity down, with Jack working tirelessly on the campaign and you being busy with negotiations on your new book deal: it just wouldn't have worked. But after your wedding, which was featured in Vogue, the title "The Bride Wore Vintage John Galliano And The Groom Wore JW Anderson. Inside Their Cape Cod Ceremony" The open door offer came around once again and it came at just the perfect time.

A few weeks back you and Jack had been getting back into the grove of normal life after returning from an illustrious three week honeymoon in the Greek Cyclades: a honeymoon spent in mostly nothing—bar itty-bitty specs of linen as makeshift bikini's, and gucci by tom ford beachwear.

Getting back to AD, you'd woken up before Jack: which was funny because when you first entered the relationship Jack was always the one who got up early, maybe you've been a bit of a bad influence in that department. Nevertheless you spend about five to ten minutes neglecting to wake Jack up: instead opting to trace the sepia hairs littering the top of his neck while quietly leering at his chest hair—looking like an absolute creep, but I mean, he was your husband after all so—that's gotta minus at least 15% of the pervy factor, right?

When he did wake up—and subsequently clocked your staring contest with his chest, he proceeded to lean over like a total and utter drama queen to piously cover himself with the sheets like a 30s model getting a tasteful nude portrait of herself to give to a lover.

You neglected to do any makeup only choosing to smear some P50 lotion on you and Jack's face—you swore he was like a toddler sometimes always wanting to mirror whatever weird shit you put on your face. Once the hair, makeup, and stylist team for AD got there you and Jack were effectively separated for the next few hours, which you did not hear the end of via jack's incessant complaints about the distance between him and you over iMessage and many, many unhinged gif selections sent to your iPhone.

But alas, you two were reunited for the open door interview and it started off generally normal...

First, you two were situated on the front steps of your townhouse and asked when and why you chose the house,

Jack started for you, "We moved here about five years ago, and it was the second house we both had looked at ever in our whole lives, and it so happens that it was the first house we ever bought as a couple"

"Seems clandestine to me", the interviewer cheerily replies to which you both glance at each other playfully while he speaks.

Taking the hint to speak up, you share what drew you to the home adding, "I love the city, but I also love wood and I love light and I love antiques, so I just fell in deep love with the place. For us it struck the perfect balance of being in the city while not feeling like the city was breathing down your back all the time, it can be hard to find a place like that here."

Making your way into the apartment, you and Jack were told to take a short break for about 2 minutes while the videographer got a good layout of the place, and scoped out the best lighting angles to capture it.

Your home occupies the first floor of a Meatpacking District block, and is a few blocks away from the Hudson River—which more than encourages your Husband's borderline addiction to paddle boarding. But, hey you routinely get to see your man walking home in an ultra-tight swimsuit sopping wet, so who were you really to complain about such things?

Despite loving the city, you found yourself devoted to the charm of those old French farmhouse interior's that you'd looked at in your mom's old magazines. And it felt particularly poignant to you guys as a couple—being that your first couple of dates were in the south of France.

You and Jack didn't want the space to come off as just another midcentury modern sterile, ultra-functional flat. So, you opted for sheetrock to be removed from the walls and ordered a large pair of antique door double doors for the living space off 1stdibs.

Just as abruptly as the break had started, it subsequently finished and the cameras began rolling once again. The interview dragged on until you two had finally gotten to the kitchen which was the last room and the last portion of interview.

You started the space off absolutely waxing poetic about the olive-coloured room,

"This is our little kitchen, we painted it horribly together. And then needed to implore a professional painter to fix our many, many painting faux pas." you take a breath to giggle slightly with Jack at your shared delusional confidence that you could paint a whole room successfully.

It was then Jack's time to pitch in, while the camera man did a slow zoom across the decor littering the marbled countertops—causing you and Jack to both notice a certain stone bowl containing a citrus fruit that you know for certain neither of you put there before AD came. Weird you thought, you weren't notified that set-dressing came with the interview.

Leaning on the counter Jack laments, "I love baking, I cook a lot too. I love limes"—to which he dramatically takes a lime into his hands, spinning it between his large fingers, "They're great and I love them so much, and I like to present them like this in my house."

You try not to let the emotion of total bafflement present on camera at Jack straight up lying for the hell of it about the limes being an integral part of your shared household decor—he neglects to mention that they're set dressing and that he's moderately allergic to them.

Closing of the interview you fake lead the interviewer out of the house to close out the interview, only to let them back in seconds later. The interviewer, Mark, who seems to be a genuinely sweet guy thanks you and Jack for your time, informing you that the crew should be packed up in 10 minutes, and the camera guy only needs another 5 minutes to get b-roll footage.

Once all the pleasantries have been fulfilled you lead, or rather playfully drag Jack by his crisp collared Prada button-up into your kitchen.

"Jack, I mean seriously what the hell was that, truly? I know you know you're allergic."

"M'sorry it was just too good not to pass up! I mean what kind of weirdos just but a bowl of lemons out and nothing else? it's barbaric just from a feng-shui standpoint alone!"

"Godd you're such a weirdo. Come kiss me and make it quick so I can forgot that very fact, please" you beckon him to you, placing your chin on his chest with your hands on his chin. Which, by the way is blemish-less—god, you absolutely hated men sometimes.

"Oh come on! you only kiss me cause I'm a weirdo, let's be real." Jack chuckles yet fulfils your request. He kisses you like a man starved which was quite concerning since you had only parted from him today for two hours—absolute max.

The intimacy got more and more heated until well... maybe you currently had your loafer clad feet either side of jack's head while he ate his idea of a mid-afternoon desert.

The very motion of Jack placing the flat side of his tongue against your clit sent you into an absolute. fucking. meltdown. To the point where the moans you made no longer represented someone who was cognisant that they're were about fifteen people working for AD rooms away. You try to compose yourself, which provides a stark contrast to his relentless endeavour on your clit that seem to be ever increasing.

As if to praise your restraint of volume his thumb gently strokes the inside of your thigh—up and down... and up and down. Sensing your impending climax Jack speeds his motions and adds a digit that outright seems to antagonise you—almost trying to tease a mind-numbing orgasm from you. And because you're weak in the face of his machinations, you of course do.

On your come-down you notice a glaring visitor—a quite large bulge in his pants and decide to take pity on it and by looking at the saccharine, loopy look on his face, him as well.

But you wouldn't be yourself if you didn't make him work for it at least a bit.

Continuing your motions on his bulge: feeling it's twitches and reflexes as intimately as you feel him breath while sleeping on your chest at night—

That was until the door to the kitchen was knocked upon,

"Sorry to be a bother but could you guys get that bowl of limes?—the crew is absolutely swamped trying to pack up for the road."

It was at this point in your movements on his bulge that Jack was starting to get loud, a bit too loud for your current situation, so you did the one thing that could shut him up—bar actually suspending the current movements on his mound: but that wouldn't be half as much fun would it?

Quick thinking led you to quite forcefully shoving a medium sized un-cut lime into his mouth to drown out his moans: it sure as shit worked but his puppy dog-like eyes made you feel bad for your prior roughness—you settled on a quick caress of his hair as a pseudo apology.

"Oh of course it's no trouble at all, we'll go grab it now!"

Hearing the footsteps move further and further from the kitchen you glance at Jack: a pitiful, overstimulated sight really. But a sight you deeply enjoy no less.

Picking up the bowl of lemons you grab his hands, afixing each hand to a parallel side of the stone bowl,

"Why don't you go give them back that bowl of limes you love so much and then maybe we can get back to what we were doing?"

Overcome from the intense stimulation Jack nods, willing to do anything that brings him present relief,

"Good boy" you coy, swiping off your own juices from his mouth and chin, then finally taking the un-cut lime out of his mouth.

tags: @obsessedwithjohnjr @candyneckl6ce @rocker-chick-7 @ultr4v1ol3nt @violetharmonsfavgf @strip-weather-forecast @darcyspirits @fortheloveofjos @h-l-v-kennedy-blog @h-l-vlovesvintage @bluelancergirl @snowsgames @salvatoresablondie @dulcegal @kennedyism @bloxholden35 @kimcrystal123 @absurdlyvintage @jackiesgirl @chemicalw0rld @remotewatch @starsprangledgirl @strryhaze @beloved-angel