#and then when they gain hearts. and the RELIEF | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

candyeager · 2 hours ago

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𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍'𝐒 𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎

— sanzu haruchiyo x fem!reader

PART THREE 18.9k words

short summary. in which your heartbreak over Mikey pulls you into the dangerous and irresistible orbit of Bonten's Number Two, Haruchiyo Sanzu. warnings. sanzu haruchiyo is his own warning, graphic violence, substance abuse, toxic/manipulative relationships, explicit sexual content, depression & self-destructive behaviour, strong language. tags. female reader insert, bonten au, tsundere!sanzu, ex-boyfriend!mikey, angst with a happy ending, slow burn, heavy pining/yearning.

masterlist

Haruchiyo Sanzu is a menace. A relentless, goddamn menace. You never thought your day would end like this: chest heaving, lungs burning, and the icy river clutching your limbs as you fight to outswim him.

The water is like knives against your skin, each stroke of your arms a battle against the current’s merciless pull. Your muscles scream for relief, but you push forward, desperation outweighing exhaustion. The river churns around you, a cold, chaotic force, but it’s nothing compared to the chaos pounding in your chest.

Behind you, Sanzu moves through the water like a shark, a deadly predator with no intention of letting you escape.

You don’t feel bad about what you did. No, not in the slightest. If anything, there’s a flicker of pride burning beneath your fear, a stubborn satisfaction at the thought of his precious katana now rotting at the bottom of a dumpster. That cursed blade—sleek and gleaming, a symbol of everything twisted about him—had haunted you for years. Its absence from his side feels like a small victory, even if it might cost you your life.

“You really think you can fucking outrun me?” Sanzu’s voice tears through the air, sharp and furious, even over the roar of the river.

The sound chills you more than the water ever could. But you don’t stop. You can’t. Every ounce of strength left in your body is channeled into moving forward, even as water splashes into your mouth, making you choke. Your legs are heavy, your strokes weaker with every second, and deep down, you know he’s gaining on you.

Then you feel it.

Fingers tangle in your hair, wrenching your head back with brutal force. Pain explodes across your scalp, and your scream is cut short by the river’s icy grip as you’re dragged under for a moment. You thrash and kick, limbs flailing uselessly, but his hold is unyielding. Sanzu pulls you closer with the ease of someone completely at home in the water, his grip like iron and his strokes deliberate.

“You’ve got some nerve, I’ll tell you that,” he growls, his breath hot against your ear despite the freezing water. “But not enough brains.”

“Stop it!” you gasp, twisting in his grasp, but it only makes him tighten his grip.

“Stop? Now you want to stop?” he echoes, mocking, each word laced with venom. “You started this. Don’t tell me you’re giving up already.”

His fingers release your hair, but before you can lunge forward, his arm snakes around your waist, pulling you tight against him. His chest presses against your back, solid and immovable, and you feel the steady beat of his heart, infuriatingly calm.

“Fuck this! Let me go!” you shout, desperation in your voice, but Sanzu only laughs, low and dark, the sound of his laughter reverberating through your body.

“Keep squirming,” he murmurs, his lips close to your ear. His breath is warm against your wet skin, a stark contrast to the icy water. “It’s cute how you think that’s going to help.”

The chill of the river feels distant now, overshadowed by the heat of his body pressed against yours. His chest rises and falls with controlled, steady breaths, while you struggle just to keep yours from hitching in fear.

Sanzu drags you through the water effortlessly, like you’re nothing more than a ragdoll. Even when your feet finally scrape against the muddy riverbank, it’s not relief you feel—only dread. He doesn’t release you. Instead, he hauls you out of the water with an ease that makes your stomach churn, his grip firm and unforgiving.

Before you can think to run, he’s on top of you, pressing you down against the earth, his knees digging into the dirt on either side of your body. The ground is cold, wet, but it’s nothing compared to the heat radiating from him. Water drips from his pink hair, his soaked clothes clinging to his lean, muscled frame.

“Oh, you thought you could escape me, did you?” he says, his tone dripping with mockery. “You underestimate me too much.”

Your chest heaves as you glare up at him, defiance flickering in your eyes despite the ache in your limbs and the bruising grip of his hand.

“I could’ve—” your voice is sharp, cutting through the pounding in your ears, “if you weren’t such a lunatic.”

Sanzu’s lips curve into a smirk, a dangerous spark flickering in his teal eyes. His fingers, damp and cold, brush against your jaw, forcing your face upward. You flinch at his touch, but he holds you still, his thumb grazing the pulse beating rapidly beneath your skin.

“Careful now,” he murmurs, his voice as smooth as silk yet laced with steel. “You’ve already pissed me off. Don’t make this worse for yourself, sweetheart.”

Your fists clench at your sides, nails digging into your palms to stave off the rising wave of panic. Every nerve in your body screams at you to shove him away, to fight, to do something. But his weight presses down on you, solid and immovable, pinning you in place.

Deep down, you know there’s no escaping Haruchiyo Sanzu today.

And judging by the wicked grin that spreads across his face, he knows it too.

“So what?” you snap, but the sharpness of your tone falters as his unrelenting gaze bears down on you. It’s like staring into a storm, unpredictable and cruel. “You gonna strangle me? Threaten to kill me again?”

“Threaten?” His smile widens. “What makes you think I won’t kill you for real this time?”

The threat hangs in the air like a blade poised to strike. Sanzu dips his head lower, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, the heat of his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

“I warned you, didn't I?” His voice is low, almost a whisper. “I can end anyone—anyone. You’re no different. A flick of my wrist, and you’re gone. Don’t ever forget that.”

You flinch at his words, your breath hitching as the reality of them settles over you. You’re painfully aware of how easy it would be for him to make good on his threat. This isn’t bravado—it’s the cold, unyielding truth. Sanzu doesn’t bluff.

“To think I actually showed you pity,” he mutters. “Gave you comfort, even, while you were bawling over Mikey.”

The mention of Mikey’s name hits like a sucker punch, dragging air from your lungs. Sanzu watches you, his eyes glittering with that familiar sadistic delight, as though your pain is just another game for him to toy with.

But even as your chest tightens, anger starts to simmer beneath the surface. You snort, the sound bitter and jagged, tearing its way free despite the tremor in your body. It’s involuntary, absurd, like every other moment with him.

“Comfort?” you echo, the word dripping with disbelief.

A flicker of confusion crosses Sanzu’s face, but it’s gone as quickly as it came, irritation hardening his features. His eyes narrow, sharpening like twin daggers, locking onto yours with unrelenting force.

“Yeah, comfort,” he snaps, his tone defensive, like the very suggestion that he’s in the wrong offends him. “What? Need me to spell it out for you?”

Your stomach churns, anger bubbling inside you. His twisted sense of comfort, the smugness in his tone—as if he’d done you some noble favor—it’s enough to make your blood boil. You lean forward without thinking, every ounce of rage clawing its way up your throat, refusing to let him have the upper hand.

“You call that comfort?” you spit, the accusation landing between you like a grenade.

Sanzu doesn’t flinch. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away.

“You gave me drugs, Sanzu,” you continue, your voice rising with every word. “That’s your idea of comfort? Dulling me down? Making me numb? How the hell is that comfort?”

At that said, you see his teasing smirk vanish entirely, wiped away like a smear of paint, and what’s left is a man unhinged. Without warning, his hand shoots up, his fingers curling around your jaw with bruising force.

“Shut your mouth,” he hisses, leaning closer until his face is inches from yours. “You were a fucking mess. Sobbing. Falling apart. I did you a fucking favor. You hear me? I fixed you.”

Your heart pounds against your ribs, each beat echoing in your ears. The rushing sound of the river fades into the background, leaving nothing but his voice and the weight of his hand on your face.

But even as fear twists in your chest, rage burns hotter.

“You didn’t fix me,” you say, your voice trembling but fierce. “You ruined me.”

His eyes flash, a dangerous glint sparking in their depths. He doesn’t let go, his fingers digging into your skin as though he’s trying to imprint his version of the truth onto you.

“You were already broken,” he sneers. “I just made it easier for you to handle. Don’t act like you didn’t need it.”

You glare up at him, defiance flaring despite the way your pulse races beneath his hand. “I didn’t need you,” you snap, spitting the words like venom. “And I never will.”

His grip continues to tighten painfully, making you wince. For a moment, you think he might snap entirely from the way his dark, intense eyes bore into you, his expression a mask of barely suppressed violence. You can almost feel the heat radiating off him, a pure, unadulterated rage.

But then, from the shadows, a voice cut through the silence.

“Sanzu.”

The single word carries no urgency, no anger, but it’s laced with authority—calm, controlled, and utterly commanding.

Sanzu’s grip loosens just slightly, his head snapping toward the sound. His entire demeanor shifts in an instant, the manic edge in his eyes flickering and fading. You turn your head too, your breath catching as you catch sight of him stepping out of the darkness.

Mikey.

He stands a few feet away, his expression unreadable. His dark eyes flicker between you and Sanzu, assessing the situation in a glance, the faint frown on his face betraying a sliver of displeasure.

The sight of him hit you like a physical blow, your chest tightening painfully. How long has it been since you’d last seen him? Since the day you’d walked away? Time blurs in the aftermath, but now, with him standing there, it feels as though no time has passed at all.

Sanzu’s grip on your jaw loosens, but he doesn’t release you immediately. His fingers linger, teal eyes flicking back to yours, scanning your face as though searching for something. You can’t tell what—fear, defiance, or maybe something he doesn’t even understand himself.

“Late, as always,” Sanzu mutters, his tone casual, but the tightness in his jaw betrays his unease.

Mikey doesn’t waver, his voice steady as steel. “Let her go.”

Sanzu doesn’t move at first. His fingers remain curled around your jaw, the pressure a subtle reminder of his power over you. But then, slowly, he releases you, his hand falling away as he straightens.

You gasp for breath, your hand flying to your sore jaw as you scramble to sit up. Your limbs tremble, but you can’t bring yourself to meet Mikey’s eyes—not yet. The weight of his presence is overwhelming, suffocating.

“She’s lucky I didn’t kill her,” Sanzu mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets as he steps back.

Mikey’s eyes linger on you for a moment longer before shifting back to Sanzu. His expression remains impassive, but the silence between them is heavy, crackling with unspoken tension.

“Go,” Mikey says finally.

Sanzu raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint sneer.

“As you wish, boss,” he says, his tone taunting, though he doesn’t linger. With a mocking salute, he turns and strides off into the shadows, leaving you alone with Mikey.

The silence that follows is deafening.

You stay on the ground, your breathing uneven as you try to steady yourself. The ache in your jaw is nothing compared to the storm raging inside you.

And for the first time in a long time, you realize you don’t know who scares you more: Haruchiyo Sanzu, the unhinged and dangerous man who just walked away, or Manjiro Sano, the boy you once loved who now looms over you like a stranger cloaked in darkness.

Haruchiyo Sanzu’s presence makes it impossible to focus. You’re back at the café where, just hours ago, you’d seen Mikey with his wife. Now, Mikey sits in front of you, his familiar gaze fixed on your face, while Sanzu lingers in the periphery, leaning casually against the wall. You can feel his teal eyes on you even when you’re not looking.

“You’re okay?” Mikey’s voice cuts through your train of thought, snapping your attention back to him. “You look pale.”

The truth hovers just below the surface. Of course, you’re not okay. How could you be? His concern, once something you found so grounding, now feels like salt in an open wound. It’s like he’s still trying to play the role of your savior when he was the one who let you fall.

“Never better,” you say sharply, the sarcasm laced so thick it almost chokes you.

It’s not a lie. Not entirely. Never better because you’ve finally been forced to stand on your own, but never worse because Mikey—because he’s Mikey—makes it impossible to forget what you lost.

Mikey sighs quietly, the sound so familiar yet so infuriating. It’s the same sigh he always gave when he thought you were being unreasonable, and it only stirs your anger further.

“I still care,” he starts but then stops, swallowing back the rest of the sentence. His jaw tightens, and he adjusts his words like he’s afraid of what he might say next, “I’ve always wanted the best for you, even now.”

You almost laugh, the bitterness rising in your throat. The best for me? If that were true, would you even be here, unraveling piece by piece? His words are like a knife, and he doesn’t even know he’s holding it.

“I heard you moved out of your old apartment,” he adds, as if that’s what matters right now.

Our old apartment, you correct silently, the words bitter on your tongue. The place where Mikey used to hold you through restless nights, where laughter once filled the air, and where you’d built your life together. But now, it’s just a place you couldn’t bear to stay in, a graveyard for everything you thought would last.

“If there’s anything I can do to help—”

“Like what?” you snap, your words cutting through his sentence. “You think I can’t survive without you?”

Mikey doesn’t answer right away, and the silence that follows only worsens the sting. His hesitation is maddening, but worse is the look that settles on his face—soft, almost pitying. It makes your blood boil.

You know you’re digging your own grave. You’ve relied on Mikey since you were sixteen, leaning on him for support in every way that mattered. It’s obvious you’ve survived this long because of him, but that doesn’t mean you can’t start now. That doesn’t mean you need him anymore.

Still, his silence gnaws at you, and when he finally speaks, his voice is calm, measured, like he’s walking on eggshells.

“I know you can,” he says gently. “You’re strong, capable, and I admire that. But if you ever need someone to lean on, I’m here for you. You can depend on me.”

His words should feel like a lifeline, but instead, they feel like chains. Because you know what he’s really saying. He’s offering help, but it’s the kind that comes with the knowledge that you’ll always be just a little weaker than him.

That you’ll always need him.

“Depend on you?” you repeat, your voice cold, biting. “That’s rich coming from someone who left. You're the one who fucked me up, Mikey!”

Your words hang in the air, sharp and unforgiving. Heads turn toward you, curious eyes flicking your way, but you don’t care. Let them stare. Let them hear every word—every ounce of pain he left behind. It’s either your voice rises, or your dam breaks. And you’d rather be seen as crazy than weak.

Especially in front of him.

Mikey’s face tightens, his hands curling into fists on the table, but he doesn’t interrupt. His silence only fuels your rage, pushing you closer to the edge.

“I don’t need your help,” you continue, your voice rising. “I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone! I’ve been fine these past months—”

Lies. All lies.

You haven’t been fine. You’ve been living in survival mode, barely holding yourself together. Nights spent staring at the ceiling, choking on the weight of your own heartbreak. The fragile pieces of your heart held together by sheer will.

“—And honestly, I’d rather trust a lunatic like Sanzu than you. At least he’d be honest about being a monster.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you know Sanzu’s eyes are on you, boring into the side of your head. You can feel the weight of his gaze even as you refuse to look his way. He’s going to kill you for that, for calling him a monster, but you’re too angry to care.

Across the table, Mikey lowers his gaze to his hands, his expression shadowed. He has the audacity to look ashamed—whether it’s of himself or of you, you don’t know. And you don’t care anymore.

The weight in your chest feels unbearable now, pressing down on you like it’s trying to crush the air from your lungs. You rise to your feet abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. Without a second glance at Mikey, or anyone else for that matter, you storm out of the café.

Sanzu is standing by the door, but you don’t even look at him as you pass by. You can still feel his gaze on you, following your every step.

Outside, the chill bites at your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the storm inside you. The world feels too bright, too loud, and too indifferent to your pain. The tears that blur your vision now are hot, a stark contrast to the cold air brushing against your cheeks. You wipe them away furiously, but they keep coming, spilling over like water from a broken dam.

And then you see her.

You freeze.

It’s her. Mikey’s wife.

The source of your pain, your heartbreak, your sleepless nights.

She’s standing across the street, radiant and serene, as if she belongs to another world entirely—a world without heartbreak, without sleepless nights, without you. The sight of her punches the air from your lungs. You can’t look away, even though every fiber of your being screams at you to turn around, to run.

Her beauty is effortless, the kind of beauty that doesn’t try but still outshines everything. She moves with the grace of someone who knows exactly where they belong, her confidence unshaken by the storm she’s left in her wake. You feel the cracks in your resolve widening with every step she takes, every smile she offers to her bodyguard as he opens the car door for her.

She steps into the sleek black car with the kind of ease that feels like mockery. It’s just another perfect day for her, another moment where her life glides forward without a hitch. And here you are, standing on the sidewalk with your heart shattered into pieces so small they might never come back together.

Your knees feel weak, your vision swimming as the tears threaten to consume you entirely. The world spins, a dizzying blur of faces and voices, and for a moment, you think you might collapse right here. Let the concrete catch you, let the city swallow you whole—anything to escape this unbearable weight.

Then all of a sudden, you hear that familiar deep, gravelly voice.

“Get in the car. I’m sending you home.”

You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. The voice, the aura—it’s unmistakably him. He's followed you out of the café, his presence as persistent as the evening’s chill.

You slowly turn, and there he is—Sanzu.

The car nearest to you beeps as he unlocks it, slipping his keys back into his pocket with a flick of his wrist. His movements are smooth, controlled, and yet there’s an underlying tension that makes the air between you feel heavy. He steps closer, his smirk sharp, but his eyes—those teal eyes—are watching you too closely, betraying something deeper beneath his casual façade.

“You’re a mess,” he says, his voice low, almost lazy. “But I guess that’s not exactly breaking news, is it?”

You glare at him, the tears still hot on your cheeks. “And why the hell do you care?”

Sanzu’s smirk twitches and almost falters, but he catches himself. He leans in slightly, close enough that you can see the faint scar near his lips, the faint gleam of sharpness in his eyes.

“Care? Oh, sweetheart, don’t flatter yourself,” he drawls, his tone dripping with condescension.

“I’m only here because Mikey asked. Said you were gonna embarrass yourself if I didn’t get you off the street. And, well…” He tilts his head, his grin widening just enough to make your blood boil some more. “He’s probably right.”

His words hit like a slap, and your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Go to hell, Sanzu,” you snap, turning to walk away. “I don’t need a babysitter, least of all you.”

But you don’t make it far before his voice cuts through the air again.

“You really think I’d let you walk around like that?” he says, the sharpness in his tone stopping you in your tracks.

You turn back to face him, and this time, his expression has shifted. The smirk is still there, but it’s quieter now, his eyes narrowing as they study you.

“You’ve got tear stains on your face, your hands are shaking, and you just screamed at Mikey loud enough to wake half the city,” he continues. “So tell me, princess, what’s your grand plan? Walk until you fucking collapse? Or maybe you’re hoping someone worse than me will pick you up?”

You swallow hard, his words cutting deeper than you want to admit. But you refuse to let him see how much they affect you.

“I’ll be fine,” you bite out, lifting your chin defiantly. “I don’t need anyone.”

Sanzu laughs, a sharp, humorless sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “Yeah, that’s cute. Real cute. But here’s the thing: I don’t give a damn what you think you need right now. You’re getting in the car.”

You shake your head, your anger rising again. “You don’t get to decide—”

His hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist—not hard, but firm enough to make you freeze. His gaze locks onto yours, and for the first time, the mask he wears cracks just slightly.

“Listen,” he says quietly, his voice losing its usual edge. “You’re not fine. And I’m not about to let you spiral because you’re too damn stubborn to admit it.”

The unexpected hint of concern catches you off guard. You stare at him, searching his face for any form of an explanation, but all you find is that same unreadable look he always gives you.

He lets go of your wrist, stepping back. “Do us both a favor,” he mutters, his tone sharp again. “Quit wasting my time and get in. Or do you want Mikey to think you’re this pathetic?”

The mention of Mikey’s name is enough to make your blood boil all over again, and you storm past Sanzu, sliding into the passenger seat with a huff. You slam the door shut, refusing to look at him as he rounds the car and slips into the driver’s seat.

The engine roars to life, and as the car pulls away from the curb, you can feel his gaze flicker toward you. He doesn’t say anything else, but the silence between you feels heavier than words.

You glance out the window, your chest still tight, your mind racing. You don’t know what’s more unsettling: the fact that Sanzu came for you, or the fact that, for all his mockery and death threats, a part of you believes he might actually care.

Haruchiyo Sanzu confuses you. He always has.

The memory of your first meeting lingers in your mind, a thorn that never dulls. His hair was its natural pale blonde back then, the soft strands a stark contrast to the sharpness of his features. Most of his face was hidden behind that ever-present black mask, as if he wanted to stay hidden even in plain sight. But his eyes—the way they raked over you, cold and unwelcoming—made it clear enough that you were an outsider.

“Can't believe Mikey’s letting some chick walk all over him like that,” he had said the first time he saw you, his tone as cutting as the edge of a blade. “She’s probably got him wrapped around her little finger, sucking all the edge right out of him. Pathetic.”

He didn’t bother lowering his voice, didn’t care that you were within earshot. To him, you weren’t someone worth sparing. You were an anomaly in Mikey’s meticulously crafted world—a fragile thing, bound to break and take Mikey down with you.

It hadn’t hurt back then, not the way it might now. At the time, Haruchiyo Sanzu had been nothing more than an arrogant, brooding boy—a shadow that clung too closely to Mikey. A boy with a fervent, almost fanatical loyalty that bordered on obsession.

Even then, though, there had been an unshakable truth about him: Sanzu would do anything for Mikey.

You hadn’t realized how much weight that truth carried until the day you were forced to rely on him. Mikey had been surrounded—dozens of enemies closing in, their shouts echoing in the air like a war drum. You’d known Mikey could handle himself. He always could. But something primal, something terrifying, had clawed its way into your chest, leaving you breathless and desperate.

And so, against your better judgment, you’d turned to Sanzu. You still remembered the way he had looked at you like you were dirt on his shoes, something insignificant and beneath him.

“Scram, you little brat!” he’d snapped, his tone laced with warning. “You’re out of your league here, so fucking get lost!”

But despite his words, he went. Without hesitation, without question. You’d stood frozen, watching as he moved—his katana gleaming like liquid silver, cutting through the chaos with terrifying precision. Blood sprayed, painting the air with crimson streaks, and the sound of steel meeting flesh rang in your ears.

Sanzu had been merciless. Efficient. Unstoppable.

Mikey was the same, you knew that. But Mikey never let you see that part of him. He was careful with you, always holding something back, as if he didn’t want to shatter the image of the boy you thought he was.

But Sanzu? He never cared about sparing you.

You’d always been an outsider in his eyes.

And yet, now, years later, after everything—after all the threats, the hatred, after your messy, heartbreaking breakup with Mikey—you find yourself sitting in Sanzu’s car, the hum of the engine the only sound between you.

It feels wrong.

Haruchiyo Sanzu isn’t the type to care, to go out of his way to help someone. Especially not you. And yet, here you are, gripping the edge of your seat as he drives you home.

The streets blur past the window, streaks of gold and crimson from the setting sun spilling across the world outside. You catch his reflection in the glass—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his lips press into a faint scowl even when he’s relaxed.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t glance at you. But his presence fills the car like a storm cloud, heavy and inescapable.

Your gaze drifts to his hands—one on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. His long fingers tap a slow, absent rhythm, betraying a restless energy he won’t let show anywhere else. The tendons shift under his skin, his movements deceptively delicate for someone who wields death so easily.

The light hits his face just right as you glance at him. The gold of the sunset softens the hard lines of his features, catches in his pink hair, and makes it glow like a firelight. For a fleeting moment, he doesn’t look like the Haruchiyo Sanzu you know.

Not the lunatic you’ve always known. Not the monster who once strangled you while high, forcing your first pill down your throat under the pretense of “comfort.” Not the Haruchiyo Sanzu who swings his katana without a second thought, who laughs at the chaos he creates.

No, this version of him—silent, calm, almost serene—feels like someone else entirely.

The thought unsettles you.

You shake your head, trying to banish it. This is Sanzu, you remind yourself. The lunatic. The monster. The man you have every reason to hate.

But even as the words repeat in your mind, they sound weaker than they should.

The car rolls to a stop outside your apartment, and for a moment, neither of you moves. The silence stretches, heavy and taut, until it feels like the weight of unspoken words might crush you. But he doesn’t speak. He never does when it matters.

You step out of the car, the door closing with a soft click behind you. The evening air bites at your skin, but you barely feel it as you turn back to watch him. His face is unreadable, eyes fixed straight ahead, his fingers still tapping that absent rhythm on his thigh.

The car pulls away, his taillights vanishing into the distance, leaving you standing there, alone and more confused than ever.

Haruchiyo Sanzu confuses you.

And tonight, as the memory of his quiet presence lingers, you hate that he does.

Actually, scratch that.

Haruchiyo Sanzu is a damn petty bastard.

For a brief, fleeting moment, you’d thought the two of you might’ve reached some unspoken understanding. Sure, no words were exchanged, and yes, all he did was drive you home. But still, there had been a quiet truce in the air—a rare moment of something that almost resembled civility.

Clearly, you were wrong.

The realization hits you the second you step into your apartment.

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you’re frozen in place. The space you’ve spent months trying to make your own—your sanctuary—is unrecognizable. Empty.

Gone is the couch where you spent lazy afternoons staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. Gone are the shelves, once filled with books and little trinkets that held pieces of you. Your bed—your safe haven after long, grueling days—nothing but an empty outline on the floor now. Even the faint scent of lavender, your ever-present diffuser, has vanished, replaced by the sterile smell of nothingness.

Your footsteps echo as you take a cautious step forward, the sound bouncing off bare walls, mocking you. The knot in your stomach tightens, your mind scrambling for explanations that don’t exist. For a brief, desperate second, you think maybe there’s been some mistake.

But the truth—the infuriating, maddening truth—is instant and undeniable.

The only person who knows your new address is Haruchiyo Sanzu.

Your chest tightens as fury ignites in you, searing hot and fast. Of course it’s him. Who else would have the audacity? The lunacy?

You think back to last week, to the moment you thought, stupidly, that he might’ve been capable of a shred of decency. The way he’d driven you home without a single cruel jab. The way he’d let you leave his car without some biting remark to twist the knife. You’d wanted to believe there was some humanity lurking beneath the madness.

How naive.

This—this empty apartment, this gutted wreckage of your life—is his grand fucking statement.

He’d sent you home just so he could rip it all away again.

You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms as fury courses through you. It’s not hard to figure out why he did it. Beyond the fact that he’s a complete lunatic, this has revenge written all over it. He’s still pissed about you dumping his precious katana into the dumpster like the trash it was. This is payback. The emptiness surrounding you is proof of that.

How fucking petty.

Your gaze sweeps over the barren apartment, landing on the empty space where your coffee table used to be. Fury roils in your chest, spilling out in waves, hotter with every passing second. If you’d known it would come to this, you wouldn’t have stopped at tossing his katana.

No, you’d have gone for the jugular.

You’d have stolen his entire stash of pills, the ones he guards like a feral dog. The ones he pops like candy, always chasing some chemical peace he’ll never find. Or better yet—burned down his condominium entirely.

No. You’d evacuate everyone first, of course. You’re not a monster.

But Sanzu? You’d leave him there. Trapped. Let the fire consume everything he holds dear—his overpriced furniture, his meticulously curated wardrobe, his godforsaken colorful pills. You can almost picture it: flames licking at his skin, his screams swallowed by the roaring inferno.

The image is so vivid, so satisfying, it almost makes you smile. Almost.

You shake your head, trying to push the thought away. No. You’re not a murderer.

You’re not him.

But standing here in this gutted shell of your home, your hands trembling with barely restrained rage, it’s hard to hold onto that truth.

Sanzu has this way of dragging you down to his level, of twisting your emotions until the unthinkable feels reasonable. He pushes and prods and poisons until there’s nothing left but anger and the quiet hum of violence that he wears like a second skin.

And right now? Right now, you’ve never wanted to kill someone more in your entire life.

Sanzu.

That goddamn petty bastard.

“Haruchiyo Sanzu! Go to hell!”

Your scream tears through the bustling city noise, sharp and furious, loud enough to make heads turn. People stop mid-step, startled by the force of it, but you don’t care. You’re standing at the edge of the footbridge, your fists clenched so tightly that your nails dig into your palms. And there he is—the man himself—walking casually along the road below you like he hasn’t turned your entire life upside down.

Sanzu stops in his tracks, turning slightly to glance up at you. For a moment, his teal eyes widen in genuine shock, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

Good. Let him be shocked. Let him know exactly what’s coming.

The fire inside you burns hotter as you storm down the bridge. It’s been raging ever since you stepped into your empty apartment and realized he was behind it. You hadn’t even stopped to think before running to his condominium.

For thirty minutes, you’d pounded on his door like a lunatic, your voice hoarse from shouting his name. Your rage was loud enough to bring out one of his neighbors, a sour-faced old man who only stepped outside to inform you, with no small amount of irritation, that Sanzu had left ten minutes ago.

You’d muttered a half-hearted apology to the neighbor before taking off again, your rage fueling every step. You’d searched the streets near his condo like a woman possessed, the thought of spending the night on a cold, hard floor making you see red.

If anyone’s sleeping uncomfortably tonight, it’ll be Sanzu. Preferably on his deathbed.

And now, after all that, you’ve found him. Walking casually toward his sleek black car. He looks calm. Relaxed. Like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like he hasn’t just uprooted your life for the sake of some petty, calculated revenge.

Your shout stops him, but only for a second.

He blinks, his momentary surprise melting into something unreadable. Then, without a word, he turns away and keeps walking, as if nothing happened.

The audacity.

Your feet move before your brain catches up, propelling you forward with reckless speed. The world around you blurs—faces, voices, none of it registers. Passersby step aside, startled by the sheer force of your determination, their wide-eyed stares sliding off you like water off glass.

All you can focus on is Sanzu.

He’s climbing into the back seat of his sleek black car now, his movements deliberate, calm, unbothered. Pretending he doesn’t see you, pretending he didn’t just hear you scream his name moments ago.

He doesn’t even look at you as he settles in the back seat, his long fingers gripping the edge of the door. His lack of acknowledgment feels like a slap to the face, stoking the fire in your chest until it threatens to consume you.

Not today.

You slam your palm against the car door just as he begins to close it, the force of it rattling the frame. The sound echoes through the air, startling even you with its sharpness.

“What?” you demand, your chest heaving as you catch your breath. “Running away now?”

Sanzu looks up at you with maddening calm, his teal eyes catching the glow of the streetlights. For a split second, you think he might actually take you seriously. But then it happens—that smirk. That insufferable, smug curve of his lips that makes your anger spike higher. It’s the kind of smirk that tells you he’s been expecting this, that he’s been waiting for you to find him.

And worse? He’s enjoying it.

“Oh, no, sweetheart,” he says smoothly, leaning back against the seat with an air of infuriating nonchalance. “I never run away from a fight.”

The deliberate ease of his tone feels like gasoline on the fire. His teal eyes glint with amusement, and that smirk of his—God, that smirk—widens just enough to make your fists itch.

“But,” he continues smoothly, as if he has all the time in the world, “as much as I’d love to fight you right now and remind you of your place, I’ve got a meeting in ten.”

He taps his watch, feigning impatience. “So, unfortunately, I’m not exactly in the mood to entertain your whining.”

Whining.

The sheer arrogance in his tone makes your vision blur for a moment, your nails digging into your palms as you clench your fists. He’s doing this on purpose, you realize. Poking at your anger, stoking the flames, and loving every second of it.

“Don’t fucking test me, Sanzu!” you snap, your voice sharp with barely restrained fury. The effort it takes to keep yourself from grabbing him by the collar is monumental. “Give me back my things!”

Sanzu tilts his head slightly. “Your things? You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

You take a step closer, narrowing your eyes at him. “You know exactly what I’m talking about,” you growl. “My apartment. My furniture. Everything’s gone because you took it. All of it.”

“Oh, that.” His smirk deepens, and he shrugs like it’s the most inconsequential thing in the world. “Yeah, that stuff’s gone.”

“Gone?” Your voice rises, your frustration boiling over. “What the hell does that mean? Gone where?”

Sanzu chuckles, the sound low and cutting, like a blade slipping between your ribs. He leans forward slightly, resting his elbow on his knee as he looks at you with the arrogance of someone who knows exactly how much power they hold.

“That,” he says smoothly as if he’s savoring every moment of your frustration, “is for me to know and for you to find out.”

The smug satisfaction in his tone makes your skin prickle, and for a moment, the entire world narrows to just the two of you. The bustling city, the distant car horns, the faint hum of streetlights—all of it fades away under the weight of his words.

“You think this is funny?” you hiss, your voice trembling with barely restrained rage.

He leans back again, stretching out like a king on his throne, his smirk never faltering.

“Hilarious, actually,” he replies, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “The look on your face right now? Worth every second.”

You want to scream, to claw that smirk off his face, to make him understand just how far he’s pushed you. But deep down, you know that’s exactly what he wants. Sanzu thrives on chaos—on control. And right now, he has both in the palm of his hand.

So you force yourself to take a deep breath, though it does little to calm the storm raging inside you. Losing your temper won’t get you anywhere. The only way to deal with someone like Sanzu is to stay rational, no matter how impossible that feels.

With that thought, you grab the front of his shirt and yank him toward you, your fingers curling into the expensive fabric. You lean against the car door, bending slightly so you’re face-to-face with him.

For the first time, his smirk falters.

It’s subtle, but it’s there—a flicker of irritation in his eyes. He doesn’t like to be handled this way, that much is obvious. But you’re too angry to care.

“Fine,” you snap. “Since you’re incapable of being civilized, I’ll be civilized enough for both of us.”

Your glare sharpens, and you tighten your grip on his shirt, tugging him closer. “That stupid katana—I’ll pay you back. Name a price, and then stop with this bullshit.”

The silence that follows is heavy, crackling like static between you. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t quip. For once, he seems caught off guard—or maybe he’s just letting the moment stretch to keep you guessing. His teal eyes pierce into yours, unreadable, and for the briefest second, you wonder if you’ve finally managed to throw him off his game.

But that fleeting moment vanishes as quickly as it came. His hand moves—a blur—and clamps around your wrist.

“Sanzu—”

You barely manage to gasp his name before he yanks you forward with a sharp, practiced tug. The force of it throws you off balance, and you stumble, landing unceremoniously on his lap.

The sharp sound of the car door slamming shut beside you snaps like a gunshot in your ears, reverberating through the tense air. You freeze, your breath catching as the suffocating closeness of the car settles over you like a vice.

Panic surges in your chest, but Sanzu doesn’t give you a chance to react. He shifts slightly, leaning forward to address the driver—someone you hadn’t even noticed until now, silent and impassive behind the wheel.

“Drive,” Sanzu orders, his tone low and commanding.

The car lurches into motion, and you instinctively reach for the door handle, your heart racing. “What the hell—”

Your fingers barely graze the metal before Sanzu’s hand catches yours in an iron grip.

You whip your head toward him, fully intending to glare, to demand answers, to fight. But whatever words you had prepared dissolve the moment you meet his gaze.

He’s close. Too close.

Your face is mere inches from his, so close you can make out every detail: the pale green of his eyes flecked with grey, the sharp arch of his blond eyebrows, the faint scars at the corners of his mouth. His cologne envelops you—spicy, woodsy, intoxicating in a way that makes your pulse stutter.

Your hand, trembling with adrenaline, presses against his chest, and you curse inwardly as you feel the steady, unnervingly calm beat of his heart beneath your palm. He’s not rattled, not even a little. Meanwhile, your own heart feels like it’s trying to break free from your ribcage.

His body is solid, unyielding beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt. Every subtle shift of his frame feels deliberate and controlled, as if, even in this chaos, he’s still the one pulling the strings.

Sanzu tilts his head slightly, his lips curving into the faintest trace of a smirk. Not the full, insufferable grin you’re used to, but a softer, sharper smirk, and infinitely more dangerous.

“You said you’d pay me back,” he murmurs, his voice so low and velvety that it sends a shiver down your spine despite your best efforts.

“So why don’t you sit back like a good girl, and we’ll have that civilized conversation you wanted so badly.”

Your cheeks burn with a mix of anger and something else you refuse to name.

With a sharp exhale, you tear yourself away from his intense gaze, shoving off his lap and planting yourself on the seat beside him. The car’s leather feels cold against your palms as you adjust your clothes, every movement sharp and jerky, as if regaining control over your body could somehow rein in the storm inside you.

“Great,” you bite out, refusing to meet his eyes. “How much?”

Sanzu doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he stretches leisurely, his arms draping over the backrest, like he’s savoring the moment. His smirk widens, sharp and deliberate, and you know—know—he’s about to say something outrageous.

“¥100 billion.”

The words hit you like a slap.

You turn to him so quickly that your neck protests. “What?”

His grin widens. “You heard me,” he says smoothly, as if the absurdity of his statement is nothing out of the ordinary.

For a moment, all you can do is stare, disbelief crashing over you in waves. Your mouth falls open, but no words come out.

“Is that a joke?” you finally manage, shaking your head. “Because there's no fucking way—”

“Oh, yes. Fucking way,” Sanzu interrupts, his voice dripping with mockery, as if your protest is the funniest thing he’s heard all day.

He leans back further, his teal eyes gleaming as he continues, like a professor lecturing a particularly slow student. “That katana wasn’t just some random blade, you know. It was art. History forged in steel. Do you even have the slightest idea what you threw away?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer—of course he doesn’t. Sanzu loves the sound of his own voice too much.

“It was forged by master smiths. Wielded by legendary warriors. Passed down through generations. And you—”

His gaze sharpens as he lazily points a finger at you, his smirk turning razor-sharp.

“You tossed it into a fucking dumpster.”

Your teeth grind together as his words sink in, and your fists curl against the leather seat.

“Oh, and that’s not all,” he continues, his tone suddenly turning wistful as he places a hand over his chest, like he’s recounting a personal tragedy.

“The emotional distress I went through? Priceless. The cost of my time? Immense. The sentimental value?” He exhales theatrically, shaking his head. “Incalculable.”

You know he’s mocking you, but that doesn’t stop your stomach from twisting in frustration.

“That katana wasn’t just a weapon,” he finishes, his voice softening to a taunting murmur. “It was a part of me. A piece of my soul, if you will. So, yeah—¥100 billion. Generous, considering you ripped out a piece of me.”

“You’re insane!” you shout, your voice trembling as panic begins to creep into the edges of your anger.

You can feel the weight of the number crushing you, impossible to comprehend, let alone repay. It’s absurd, and you know he’s doing this on purpose.

Sanzu’s smirk deepens, his gaze steady and unrelenting. “Oh, sweetheart, I am insane.”

He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “But don’t worry, I’m not that heartless.”

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicion flickering alongside your disbelief.

“I’ve taken the liberty of assessing your belongings,” he continues, gesturing vaguely with one hand like he’s discussing the weather. “To offset the cost of your little stunt, of course. Let’s say those furniture pieces are worth, oh, I’ll be generous again—¥10 million.”

You gape at him, your stomach sinking as he raises a finger, feigning thought.

“So, that leaves you with a cool ¥99,990,000,000 to pay back.”

The number hangs in the air, a death sentence delivered with the kind of smug satisfaction that makes your stomach churn.

You blink at him, your chest tightening as your mind races, trying and failing to find a way out of this nightmare. The number is still incomprehensible. Impossible.

“Better start saving, sweetheart,” Sanzu says, his grin stretching wider as he watches the horror bloom across your face

“Go to hell!” you snarl, the words tearing from your throat as your voice trembles with suppressed fury.

Sanzu doesn’t even flinch. Instead, his smile widens, a flash of teeth that feels more like a wolf baring its fangs.

He leans back casually, his sharp gaze flicking over you with infuriating nonchalance. It feels like he’s dissecting you, stripping you down to your most vulnerable parts just for fun.

“Considering your lame little job, I guess you’ll have no choice but to work your ass off for me for the rest of your life.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut.

You swallow hard, fighting against the rising tide of frustration and helplessness that threatens to pull you under. You feel the familiar sting in your eyes, the burning ache of tears you refuse to let fall. Not again.

Your fists tighten in your lap, nails digging into your palms as you bite down hard on your lip, grounding yourself in the sharp sting of pain. Anything to keep from breaking down in front of him.

But Sanzu notices—of course, he notices. He always does.

“Oh, don’t look so down now,” he says, his voice lilting with faux encouragement. “There are plenty of jobs that can make you quick money. I’m sure we can think of something.”

You turn to him sharply, hope flickering despite yourself. “Quick money?”

He glances at you, his smirk widening like a cat about to pounce on a cornered mouse. “Let’s see. We’ve got human trafficking, prostitution…”

Your glare is immediate, your hope snuffed out as quickly as it came. You clench your teeth, realizing with a sinking heart that he’s doing this on purpose—pouring salt into the wound, twisting the knife, reveling in your frustration.

“Fine,” you bite out, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you refuse to let him win. “I’ll work as a prostitute then—”

The smirk vanishes from his face instantly, replaced by a darker, sharper expression. His eyes narrow into slits, and his jaw tightens as a sudden wave of cold fury washes over his features.

“Don’t be fucking absurd,” he snaps. The words crack like a whip, laced with something you can’t quite name—possessiveness, maybe. “You wouldn’t last a day sucking off dicks.”

The abrupt shift in his demeanor leaves you momentarily stunned. He was the one who suggested it, yet now he looks furious, his glare sharp enough to pierce steel.

“What the hell am I supposed to do then?” you demand, your voice rising with frustration and desperation. “You know I don’t have that kind of money! I’ll never be able to pay you back!”

The silence between you is heavy, suffocating. Sanzu’s gaze flickers toward you, and for the briefest moment, his expression softens—barely, but enough to make your heart stutter.

“Then stay indebted to me,” he says finally, his voice low and deliberate, each word weighted with meaning.

Your breath catches at the quiet finality of his statement, but he isn’t done.

“Work with me,” he continues, leaning closer, his gaze piercing through you with unnerving precision. “Work for me. For the rest of your life.”

The words settle over you like a shroud, suffocating and inescapable. You search his face desperately, clinging to the hope that this is another one of his twisted jokes. But there’s no laughter in his eyes now, no trace of the smug expression you’ve come to expect. Instead, he is calm—too calm. Serious in a way that leaves no room for doubt.

Realization sinks its claws into you, cold and unrelenting.

This was never about the blade. It was about control. About binding you to him, inch by inch, until there’s nothing left of you to call your own. You feel like a mouse cornered by a cat, every escape route meticulously cut off.

Disbelief turns to anger, burning hot in your chest as the truth becomes clear.

“You must be out of your mind,” you say, your voice trembling with equal parts of fury and defiance, “if you think for a second that you can enslave me with a ridiculous debt.”

His eyes narrow slightly, the faintest flicker of irritation crossing his features, but he remains silent, watching you with that unsettling calm.

“You’re pathetic,” you continue, your voice rising, each word carefully chosen to cut. “Is this what you’ve been reduced to? Tricking people into staying by your side because you’re too useless to stand on your own?”

That gets a reaction. His jaw tightens, and his smirk falters, his composure cracking ever so slightly.

But you don’t stop.

“You think you’re all that, don’t you?” you continue, your tone laced with venom. “Always playing these stupid little games, acting like you’re untouchable. But here’s the truth, Sanzu—you’re nothing but a coward. You’re a joke. You hear me? A sad, pathetic joke.”

The words hit their mark.

The air in the car grows heavy, oppressive, as silence stretches taut between you. Sanzu doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but you can feel the shift in him. His hands tremble faintly where they rest on his lap, curling into fists so tight his knuckles turn white. His breathing is measured, deliberate, like a man trying to hold himself together by sheer willpower.

But his eyes—his teal eyes burn with a fury so intense it makes your stomach churn.

“Stop the fucking car,” he says finally, his voice low and quiet, quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

The tone is lethal, more chilling than any yell or threat could ever be. It carries with it a promise of violence, sharp and certain, and you can feel the driver tense at the words.

The car slows, and your heart races, dread pooling in your stomach as you realize you’ve pushed him too far. But you don’t regret it. Not yet.

As the vehicle comes to a halt, the door on your side unlocks with a soft click. You glance out the window in confusion, your surroundings barren and unfamiliar. The road stretches endlessly into the dark, illuminated only by the pale glow of distant streetlights. Shadows dance across the pavement, eerie and unfamiliar.

“Get out.”

You whip your head toward him, confusion and disbelief flashing across your face.

“What?” you stammer, your voice trembling as the situation sinks in. “Here? In the middle of nowhere?”

He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t need to. His teal eyes are fixed somewhere in the distance, his body unnaturally still except for the steady rise and fall of his chest. The controlled rhythm of his breathing is the only indication that he’s holding himself back. Barely.

“I said get lost,” he growls, the words low and guttural, like the rumble of a storm building on the horizon. “Before you make me do something I’ll regret.”

The threat isn’t loud, but it’s deafening all the same, hanging heavy in the air between you. A thin, frayed thread of control keeps his rage tethered, but you can see it unraveling, piece by piece.

For the first time, fear creeps into your resolve. You glance out the window again, the cold night air creeping in through the slight crack. The barren road offers no solace, no comfort—just endless darkness and isolation.

But you refuse to let him see your fear. Not like this.

“Fine,” you say, your voice laced with defiance even as it trembles slightly. “I’ll get lost.”

You reach for the purple suit jacket he’d carelessly tossed onto the seat between you earlier, the luxurious fabric soft beneath your fingertips. “If you’re dumping me out here in the middle of nowhere, I’m taking this.”

You grip the jacket tightly, your knuckles turning white. The sharp, familiar scent of his cologne clings to it, invasive and suffocating as you clutch it to your chest.

“It’s the least you can do, right? Since you’re so generous.”

His jaw twitches at your words, a faint movement that betrays the storm brewing beneath his stoic exterior.

“You think that’s going to bother me?” he says, his voice flat, but the edge is unmistakable. His eyes finally meet yours, pinning you in place like a predator sizing up prey. “Take it. Keep it. Hell, burn it for all I care. It won’t make a difference.”

His words hit like a slap, dismissive and cutting, but it’s the look in his eyes that burns. You’ve seen him cruel before, smug and taunting, but this is different. This is detachment, a wall slamming down between the two of you as if he’s willing himself not to feel anything at all.

The silence stretches, taut and suffocating, a battlefield with no clear victor. You push the door open, the icy night air rushing in to bite at your skin. You step out, the gravel crunching beneath your heels as you clutch the jacket tighter.

The door slams shut behind you, the sound echoing in the empty stretch of road. You turn, half-expecting him to say something—anything.

But Sanzu doesn’t even look at you.

His gaze remains fixed ahead, unyielding, and within seconds, the car lurches forward, speeding off into the darkness.

You stand there, frozen in place, the silence deafening as the taillights vanish into the night.

For a moment, all you feel is rage—raw and unfiltered, coursing through you like wildfire. Your grip tightens on the stupid jacket, the fabric crumpling in your fists. Then, with a scream of frustration, you hurl it to the ground.

The jacket lands in the dirt, and without thinking, you stomp on it with your heels, over and over, as if punishing it might somehow lessen the weight in your chest. Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them back, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as your fury runs its course.

Then, slowly, reality sets in.

Your chest heaves, the cold air biting against your skin as you glance down at the crumpled jacket beneath your feet. Its once-pristine fabric is now smeared with dirt, but it still carries the faint, lingering scent of Sanzu.

You crouch down, your fingers trembling as you pick it up.

You throw it over your shoulders, the warmth of the material doing little to comfort you. The anger in your chest simmers, but now, something else creeps in—something heavier.

Regret.

You’re furious at Sanzu, but a part of you is furious at yourself too.

You shouldn’t have said those things. You shouldn’t have let your words cut so deep, shouldn’t have hit him where you knew it would hurt the most.

It wasn’t your place to say those things.

But it was your anger—wild and uncontrollable, driving you to lash out in the only way you knew how. You wanted him to feel it too, to understand the sting of your own hurt. And for a fleeting moment, you’d seen it in his eyes: the crack in his armor, the way your words had struck him.

But instead of satisfaction, all you feel now is emptiness.

You wrap the jacket tighter around yourself, its weight heavy on your shoulders as you start walking down the deserted road, the cold night air biting at your skin.

Alone.

With nothing but his stupid jacket and the lingering ache of words you can’t take back.

Haruchiyo Sanzu feels like a distant, sour memory now—something that lingers at the edges of your mind, bitter and unwelcome, like a taste you can’t quite wash away.

Weeks have passed since he left you stranded in the middle of nowhere. You still remember the icy sting of that night, the wind gnawing at your skin as you trudged along desolate roads, his suit jacket wrapped tightly around you. Its scent—sharp, woody, and unmistakably his—had clung to you like a curse, as if mocking your every step. You’d made it to the bus stop just in time for the last ride home, your legs aching, your spirit raw and splintered.

But that was then.

Your days now have grown quieter. The chaos of Bonten, once an ever-present storm on the horizon, has retreated. No Sanzu. No Mikey. Just silence.

It’s a fragile kind of peace, tenuous and uneasy, like walking on a tightrope suspended over the void. The ache of it all—Sanzu’s threats, Mikey’s betrayal, the hollowing-out of your life—still lingers, but it’s beginning to heal. Slowly, piece by piece. You’ve started finding solace in small things: the warmth of sunlight spilling through your window, the steady rhythm of your breath at night.

Still, there’s no denying the shadow that lingers. The specter of Bonten hangs over your life like a storm cloud, distant but menacing. You’ve learned not to let yourself get too comfortable, knowing full well how easily your peace can be ripped away.

Your apartment reflects that unease. You’ve stopped trying to rebuild the life Sanzu tore apart. The furniture he took has gone unreplaced, leaving the space sparse and functional, like a temporary refuge rather than a home. A futon rests on the floor instead of a bedframe. Your fridge is nearly empty, your meals taken outside to avoid the suffocating stillness of your own walls.

You live like someone waiting to run. As if, at any moment, you might pack up the few belongings you have left and disappear without a trace.

Some days, you consider leaving Japan entirely.

But today, it’s not Sanzu or Mikey who disrupts your fragile peace. It’s her.

Mikey’s wife.

You see her before she sees you.

You’re in the convenience store near your apartment, standing in the narrow aisle of instant ramen. Your hand hovers over a cup of miso-flavored noodles when your gaze shifts—and lands on her.

At first, you think your eyes are deceiving you.

Her long, dark hair frames her face delicately, though there’s her expression is tired, worn at the edges. Her features are familiar, painfully so, but it’s the swell of her belly that catches your breath.

She’s pregnant.

A cold wave crashes over you, bringing with it all the pain and bitterness you’ve been trying so hard to forget. The heartbreak, the betrayal, the way Mikey had slipped through your fingers and into her world—it all rushes back with a vengeance, leaving you reeling.

What is she doing here? Why is she here?

You don’t stick around to find out. Gripping your bag tightly, you turn on your heel and walk away, hoping to slip out unnoticed. You tell yourself she doesn’t know you, that she won’t recognize you. That you can pretend this never happened.

But then she calls your name.

Your heart stops.

Her voice is soft, lilting, and utterly devoid of malice. But it hits you like a punch all the same. Slowly, reluctantly, you turn to see her walking toward you, her smile bright and warm. One hand rests lightly on her swollen belly, while the other lifts in a friendly wave.

“I’ve been wanting to meet you!” she says, her voice sweet and full of enthusiasm.

You blink, caught completely off guard. “W-what?”

She stops a few steps away, her eyes shining with a sincerity that twists the knife even deeper. “You’re Mikey’s friend, aren’t you?”

Friend?

The word rings hollow in your ears, absurd and suffocating. You blink at her, unable to mask your disbelief.

“Um, no,” you manage to say, though your voice sounds far weaker than you intended. “I’m not his friend. Not really…”

“Oh, I know.” Her voice is soft, breezy, as though she’s speaking about something mundane. “You both were in love back then, right? But don’t worry, I don’t take it to heart.”

Were in love?

The phrase hits you like ice water, cold and paralyzing. You feel the air shift around you, your stomach twisting uncomfortably. She looks so bright, so radiant—her presence glowing with an effortless kind of beauty that feels impossible to touch.

And then there’s you.

Rusted, dark, barely held together by fraying threads.

She’s standing there in a designer dress you recognize instantly, the kind you’d once dreamed of wearing when your life still had a semblance of stability. Everything about her exudes grace, her polished demeanor so far removed from the raw, vulnerable edges you’ve been living with.

And you? You’re standing in sweatpants and a tank top, fresh from the gym, your hair tied up messily, your skin still faintly damp. You feel the faint sting of sweat clinging to you, the sharp contrast between her pristine elegance and your disheveled state making your insecurities roar to life.

If you’d known you’d run into her, you would’ve worn something else—anything else. Something that could at least mask the deep, gnawing inadequacy rising like bile in your chest.

“So,” she continues, her voice light, unbothered, as if she hasn’t just turned your world upside down. “You live near here?”

“Yeah,” you reply hesitantly, shifting on your feet. “Kinda.”

“Ah, I see, I see.” She smiles warmly, like she’s genuinely happy to see you. “I live up the hills with Mikey. We just moved there. You should come if you have time.”

The bile in your throat sharpens. She says it so casually, so invitingly, like she’s unaware to the wound her words inflict. Doesn’t she know? Doesn’t she understand what’s happened between you and Mikey—that you’re not exactly on speaking terms?

Or is she playing dumb?

Your thoughts spiral downward, dark and tangled. Maybe she’s doing this on purpose, flaunting her position, rubbing it in your face. Maybe this is all part of her plan to remind you exactly where you stand—or don’t stand—in Mikey’s life.

You hate that your mind goes there, hate the negativity clawing at your insides. But how could it not? After everything you’ve been through—every betrayal, every heartbreak—how could you expect anything else?

“There’s a lot I’ve been wanting to tell you, you know.”

Her voice pulls you from the storm in your head, soft and almost hesitant, yet it strikes you like a thunderclap.

“I’ve been meaning to thank you,” she continues, her gaze steady and warm, as if her words hold some unspoken sincerity you can’t begin to understand.

“Thank me?” you echo, the wariness creeping into your voice.

“For letting him go,” she says simply, with no malice or spite, just a matter-of-fact honesty.

The bile rises higher, threatening to choke you, as she adds quickly, “I’m not trying to be rude.”

Her gaze softens, and for the first time, her smile falters. She glances down, one hand resting on her swollen belly, the gesture so natural yet so deliberate it feels like another blow to your already fragile composure.

“When I first found out I was pregnant, I was scared,” she admits quietly, her voice trembling just enough to catch your attention. “What if Mikey didn’t care about this child? What if… he couldn’t let go of you?”

Her words are gentle, but they cut deeper than any insult could.

“I didn’t have a responsible father growing up,” she continues, her gaze distant now, fixed somewhere beyond you.

“My family sold me to the Sano family when I was a teenager to pay off my father’s debt. Shin—Mikey’s brother—took me in. He promised I’d marry Mikey someday, but we weren’t exactly friends back then.”

“So when I found out I was pregnant, I thought… what if Mikey couldn’t love this child? What if he didn’t care? But then you left him, and I... I couldn't believe it. But it made things easier, you know?” She pauses, looking back at you with a faint, tentative smile.

“Mikey is going to be a great father to this child. So… thank you.”

You feel like the ground has crumbled beneath you.

Your mind is a whirlpool of emotions, dragging you down deeper and deeper as her words replay in your head. Thank you for letting him go. The phrase loops endlessly, echoing louder each time until it drowns out every other thought.

What are you supposed to feel? Regret? Jealousy? Bitterness? Relief? Gratitude?

Instead, all you feel is guilt.

It sits heavy in your chest, acidic and biting, as you force yourself to meet her gaze again. She’s glowing, radiant, full of life and hope. Her hand rests protectively over her belly, her smile soft and warm, as though she hasn’t just gutted you with her words.

You wonder if she can see it—the way your heart is breaking all over again, piece by piece.

Because as much as you hate to admit it, she’s right.

You feel like a villain in your own story, selfish and blind. If you hadn’t let go, if you’d kept clinging to Mikey, what would you have done to her? To this child? How much pain would you have caused, all for the sake of holding onto something you knew deep down was already gone?

The realization sits heavy in your chest, twisting your insides with guilt and self-loathing.

You force a polite smile, the corners of your mouth trembling as you nod numbly. She’s still talking, but her words fade into the background, drowned out by the roaring in your ears.

When the encounter finally ends, when she walks away with her glowing smile and radiant presence, you remain frozen in place, staring blankly at the rows of snacks and drinks in front of you.

The world around you feels dimmer now, the air heavier, as if everything has shifted just slightly out of focus.

You don’t even notice the tears slipping down your cheeks until you taste the salt on your lips.

Haruchiyo Sanzu always made it clear where you stood.

“You don’t belong here,” he’d sneer, his voice dripping with disdain, “not in Mikey’s world, and definitely not in Bonten.”

He was never wrong. You didn’t belong in their world. You were the outsider, the one thread that never quite wove into the fabric of their lives. You knew it, and he made sure you never forgot it. His words stung more than you’d admit—not because they were untrue, but because of the way he said them. Sharp. Dismissive. Like you weren’t worth the air you breathed in his presence.

But you stayed. Out of stubbornness. Out of loyalty to Mikey. Out of defiance. Maybe you wanted to prove Sanzu wrong, or maybe you just wanted to prove something to yourself.

Still, deep down, you hated that world.

The violence. The chaos. The constant, suffocating tension. You didn’t understand it, and you didn’t want to.

The thing about violence is how loud it is. How it drowns everything else out. It used to make you tremble, used to keep you up at night. Over time, you thought you’d grown numb to it. Spending years with Mikey and his friends, and later meeting the men of Bonten, you believed you’d built up a tolerance.

You were wrong.

Now, standing in the dim light of your apartment, you feel that old dread creeping up your spine, cold and suffocating. The sound of fists pounding on the door reverberates through the space, loud and relentless.

“Open up!” a voice slurs, rough and angry. It’s followed by another—harsher, louder—yelling something you can’t quite make out.

You press your back against the wall, clutching your phone in trembling hands. The door shudders under the force of the blows, the wood groaning as if it might splinter any second. Through the peephole, you catch flashes of them—three, maybe four men. Their faces are rough, unshaven, their clothes stained and worn. Not like Bonten’s polished soldiers. These men are desperate, frayed at the edges, their anger wild and unrestrained.

Your breath comes in short gasps, panic clouding your thoughts. Your first instinct is to call the police, to beg for help. Your thumb hovers over the screen, but you hesitate.

Don’t call the cops.

The rule rings in your head like a mantra, drilled into you after years of being with Mikey. Police attention meant danger, not safety. Danger for him. Danger for Bonten. Calling them now feels like a betrayal of everything you promised to leave behind.

But this isn’t Bonten. This isn’t their problem. This is you, alone in an apartment that feels smaller with every second, trapped with no escape.

Your mind flickers to Mikey. You can almost see him now—stoic, composed, walking through that door with the kind of calm that could silence a storm. Whenever things got bad, you called him, and he always came. No questions. No hesitation.

But that Mikey doesn’t exist for you anymore.

The memory of his wife slices through your thoughts like a blade. Her glowing face, her soft laugh, the way she spoke of him like he was hers—and hers alone. He isn’t yours to call. Not anymore.

The pounding grows louder, the door rattling violently on its hinges. A voice yells, “We know you’re in there! Open the damn door!”

Your legs buckle, and you slide down the wall, your knees drawn up to your chest. You grip your phone tightly, every instinct screaming at you to do something. But you don’t know what.

The fear is suffocating. It wraps around your throat like a noose, tighter with every second. You’ve spent so long trying to convince yourself you’re stronger now, that you could stand on your own two feet, that you’ve learned how to survive without anyone’s help.

But here you are, knees to your chest, tears streaming down your face, and the truth is like a knife twisting in your gut.

You can’t.

The pounding on the door grows louder, the wood splintering under the relentless force of fists. Angry voices bleed into one another, demanding, mocking, hungry. You flinch with every thud, the sound rattling through your bones. A muffled sob escapes you, and you clamp a hand over your mouth, biting back the noise.

This isn’t the first time you’ve felt this kind of fear, but it’s the first time you’ve been truly alone. The knowledge slices through you like ice, leaving you raw and exposed. There’s no Mikey to call, no Bonten soldiers to sweep in and erase the threat with brutal efficiency. There’s only you.

A shudder wracks your body, and your trembling hand brushes against the edge of the clothing rack beside you. The soft rustle of fabric draws your attention, and your eyes fall to the floor.

The purple suit jacket.

It lies crumpled and forgotten, a remnant of a night you’ve tried desperately to push from your memory. It doesn’t belong here, much like the man who owned it.

Your gaze lingers, and then you see it—a small white card slipping from the pocket. It flutters to the floor, landing face up, the bold logo of Bonten catching the dim light.

You don’t think. You don’t breathe. You just move, reaching for it with trembling fingers.

The card feels heavier than it should as you turn it over, your eyes scanning the crisp lettering.

Haruchiyo Sanzu.

Beneath his name is a series of numbers, printed in sharp black ink. A phone number.

Your heart stutters.

The voices outside grow louder, their words blending into a cacophony of threats and anger. The door creaks ominously under the next blow, and your grip tightens on the card.

This is insane. Calling him is insane. You haven’t spoken to him since that night. Since the night he left you stranded, drenched in rage and despair, clutching this very jacket like it was some kind of armor.

But the desperation burns hotter than the fear now, a frantic, clawing need for survival.

Your fingers fumble as you pick up your phone, the screen shaking in your grasp. The numbers blur as tears spill over your lashes, and it takes three tries before you can type them in correctly.

The first ring feels endless, each second dragging you deeper into doubt.

The second ring is faster, sharper, and the sound cuts through the fog of your panic.

For a moment, you think he won’t answer. You think this was a mistake, that you’re as alone as you feared—

But then his voice crackles through the line.

“Who is this?”

It’s sharper than you remember, edged with a steel-cold annoyance that sends a shiver down your spine. Your lips tremble, and you purse them tightly to hold back the sob threatening to escape. You don’t understand why hearing his voice makes you feel like crying even harder, but it does.

“Speak up,” Sanzu snaps, his tone edged with irritation.

“S-Sanzu,” you finally manage, barely able to get the words out. “It’s me.”

The silence that follows feels like an eternity, heavy and tense, like he’s holding back a storm on the other end of the line. You brace yourself for his anger, his mockery, but it doesn’t come. Instead, the pause stretches, his silence daring you to say more.

Before either of you can speak again, a loud bang on your door startles you, and you jump violently. Your sobs break free, audible now as you stare helplessly at the door. It rattles in its frame as another fist slams against it, followed by more shouting from the men outside.

Sanzu’s voice turns sharp on the other end of the line. “The hell’s going on there?”

You try to speak, to explain, but the words choke in your throat, tangled with fear. All you can do is breathe, ragged and uneven, as the chaos outside intensifies.

“Oi!” he barks, louder this time, his tone laced with urgency. “Answer me! Where are—”

Another deafening bang.

This one is so forceful it feels like the door might splinter. The phone slips from your grasp, tumbling to the floor with a hollow clatter. You scramble to pick it up, but the noise outside grows louder, drowning out his voice on the other end.

The pounding at the door is relentless now, each blow reverberating through the room like the ticking of a doomsday clock. Panic grips you in its iron claws, your movements clumsy and frantic as your survival instincts take over.

You abandon the phone.

Your body moves on its own, propelling you away from the front door and down the narrow hallway. Your breath comes in short, desperate gasps, your vision blurring with tears as you throw yourself into your bedroom.

The door slams behind you, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the suffocating silence of the room. Your hands shake as you fumble to turn the lock, your fingers slipping over the cold metal. When it finally clicks into place, you collapse against the door, your back pressed to the wood as if your weight alone could keep the intruders out.

It feels like the walls are closing in, the air too thin, too heavy. You clutch at your chest, trying to steady your breathing, but the panic has its claws in you now, dragging you deeper into its suffocating grip. You don’t know how long you stay rooted like that. Minutes passed. Maybe even hours, you’re not so sure anymore.

Then—suddenly—silence.

The world feels like it’s holding its breath, the oppressive silence louder than the chaos that preceded it. The pounding has stopped, the shouting gone, leaving behind a void so deafening it presses against your ears.

It’s almost worse than the noise.

Time stretches and warps, each second dragging by as your mind claws for clarity. Summoning strength you don’t think you have, you push yourself up on trembling legs. Every step feels heavy, your movements jerky and uncoordinated as if your body doesn’t quite belong to you anymore.

You unlock the door with a faint click.

The hallway beyond is eerily still, the dim light from your living room casting long, distorted shadows. You step out, and your breath catches in your throat.

The door to your apartment is wide open.

Your eyes widen as you take in the scene. Blood mars the pristine white of the door, streaked across the floor in grotesque smears.

Then you see him.

Sanzu stands there, framed by the dim glow of the streetlight outside, his silhouette sharp and unnerving. You notice the blood on his clothes, streaked across his shirt and jacket in violent, haphazard smears. It stains his hands, dripping from his fingertips onto the floor.

Your gaze shifts downward.

A body lies crumpled at his feet, its face obscured by shadow. The man’s arms are bent at unnatural angles, his chest motionless. The pool of blood spreading beneath him glints faintly in the light, viscous and dark.

Sanzu’s face is calm, almost eerily so, as he stares down at the lifeless figure. His expression is unreadable, his teal eyes cold and devoid of emotion. With a slow, deliberate movement, he wipes the blood from his cheek using the back of his hand, smearing it across his pale skin like war paint.

The gun in his other hand hangs loosely by his side, its barrel still gleaming faintly in the dim light. You can’t tell if it’s from blood or something else. Somehow, you just don’t care.

You should feel fear—any normal person would. The violent scene before you, the lifeless body, the blood painting your once-pristine apartment—it should terrify you.

But all you feel is relief.

It crashes over you in a tidal wave, drowning out every other thought or emotion. Relief that it’s him standing there. That he’s here. That the nightmare outside your door is over.

He came. For you.

The realization is enough to blur the edges of the world around you, your vision swimming with unshed tears. Your breathing hitches as you take a hesitant, shaky step forward. Then another.

The space between you feels unbearable, suffocating, as if every step is a battle against an invisible force pulling you back.

Before you even realize what you’re doing, you’re running.

“Hey—”

Sanzu’s voice breaks the silence, startled, but it barely registers.

You throw yourself at him with all the force you can muster, not caring about the blood, the chaos, or the consequences. His arms come up instinctively to catch you, but the sudden impact knocks him off balance. The two of you stumble, falling to the floor in a tangled heap.

The world around you fades to nothing.

Your arms wrap tightly around his neck, clinging to him as if letting go would mean being swallowed whole by the darkness again. You bury your face into the curve of his shoulder, breathing him in despite the metallic tang of blood that clings to him. Beneath it, faint but familiar, is his scent—spicy, woodsy, unmistakably him.

It grounds you. Anchors you.

The fear, the helplessness, the bone-deep panic that had consumed you moments ago—all of it begins to dissipate, replaced by a sense of warmth and security. You sob against his neck, your tears soaking into his skin, clinging to him as though he’s the only thing holding you together.

The way his body stiffens beneath you is unmistakable, his muscles rigid and tense, as though your touch burns. His arms hang awkwardly at his sides, frozen, like he’s never held someone like this before—or never wanted to.

But you don’t care.

Your world is too fragile, too broken, for that to matter now. You’re too overwhelmed by the fact that he came, that he’s here, standing in your wrecked apartment, blood on his hands and violence in his wake, because of you.

Despite the tension that always seemed to push you further apart. Despite the fights, the sharp words you’ve thrown at each other like knives. Despite the threats and the violence that define him, the very things that have always made you hate him.

He came.

When you thought no one else would.

You’d told yourself you could survive on your own, that you didn’t need anyone. You’d convinced yourself that being alone was easier, that it hurt less. But the truth is, the loneliness had been unbearable, suffocating. You’d felt like you were drowning in it, your chest caving in under the weight of your isolation.

And now, his presence makes it easier to breathe. The sting of everything—of the fear, the heartbreak, the loss—eases, just slightly. Just enough for you to feel something other than despair.

Sanzu doesn’t hug you back, doesn’t move to comfort you in any way. He doesn’t need to.

Because for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel comforted. Safe.

And for now, that alone is enough.

Haruchiyo Sanzu had promised you those men were still alive.

But as you replay the scene in your mind—their broken bodies crumpled on the floor after they dared to put up a fight with him—you can’t help but question how true that promise really was. The way they had groaned, barely conscious, with limbs bent at unnatural angles… it seemed more like Sanzu had spared them out of boredom rather than mercy.

“Those punks are from a rival gang, always stirring shit with Bonten,” Sanzu had said, his voice tinged with indifference, as if this was nothing more than routine. “They’re probably after you ‘cause of your history with Mikey.”

The words still sting, cutting deeper than you’d care to admit. Your connection to Mikey has always been both shield and curse, dragging you into a world you never wanted to belong to. But Sanzu didn’t dwell on it.

You’d braced yourself for the mockery, the sharp smirk, the inevitable I told you so. He’d always taken a perverse pleasure in throwing your choices back in your face, a constant reminder of your naivety.

But this time, the mockery never came.

Instead, he brought you here—to his condominium. No biting remarks, no sneering comments, just quiet efficiency as he led you through the sleek, sterile space with its minimalist decor and faint scent of antiseptic, like he’d tried to scrub something clean but couldn’t quite erase the stains of who he was.

Now, lying on his impossibly soft bed, you stare up at the ceiling. The faint sound of the shower hums in the background, steady and soothing, a sharp contrast to the chaos you’ve just escaped.

You shouldn’t feel safe here. You know this, deep down. Sanzu is the embodiment of destruction—chaos wrapped in sharp lines and sharper smiles. He’s everything you’ve spent years trying to avoid, a warning etched into flesh and bone. But here you are, wrapped in the cocoon of his world, and for once, you aren’t afraid.

You’ve been here before.

The memory sneaks up on you, vivid and intrusive. The night you came here to treat his wounds flashes through your mind. Mikey had been furious with Sanzu for hurting you while he was high, and the fallout had been brutal. You’d bandaged him, your hands trembling with a mix of sadness and pity as he winced under your touch. That same night, you’d drifted into a haze of his pills, craving escape, and woke up tangled in these sheets.

Back then, you hadn’t noticed the subtle scent that clung to the fabric, hadn’t let yourself linger on the details of him.

But now, as you curl into the comforter, pulling it closer to your face, it’s unmistakable. It’s a scent you’ve grown used to over the years—on his clothes, lingering in the air whenever he was near. You’ve never stopped to think about it before, but now, it feels oddly significant.

You bury your face in the soft material, inhaling deeply as a strange feeling stirs in you. You don’t know when it started, this unusual awareness of Sanzu, or why it feels so heavy now.

You squeeze your eyes shut, frustrated with yourself. Why are you even thinking about this? About him?

But no matter how hard you try to push it down, you can’t ignore the quiet realization blooming inside you: Haruchiyo Sanzu is starting to feel… different.

Your gaze wanders aimlessly around the room, searching for a distraction. It lands on a bottle of white pills sitting on the nightstand. They’re different from the ones you’ve seen him take before, or the ones he’d offered you.

You wonder what they’re for. Did he take one recently? Are they for sleeping? For calming his mind? Or are they something darker, something that’s keeping him tethered to the edge he so often seems to teeter on?

The curiosity gnaws at you until you can’t resist. You reach out, your fingers hovering just above the bottle—

“Don’t go poking around in other people’s stuff.”

His sudden voice startles you, and you insctinctively pull your hand away from the bottle. Your head snaps around, and there he is, standing in the doorway of the bathroom.

Steam billows faintly behind him, curling around his silhouette like a ghostly aura. He’s clad in a loosely tied bathrobe, the fabric hanging open enough to reveal his pale chest and the faint scars that mar the otherwise smooth skin. His damp pink hair clings to his forehead, water droplets trailing down his temple, tracing the sharp line of his jaw before disappearing into the hollow of his collarbone.

The sight of him, raw and unguarded like this, hits you harder than it should. He looks so effortlessly attractive, his usual sharp-edged chaos softened by the intimacy of the moment. You feel the heat rushing to your face, your stomach twisting in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

You force yourself to look away, to focus on anything else—the steam in the air, the quiet hum of the ceiling fan. But it’s no use. His presence fills the room, leaving no space for anything else.

“What’re they for?” you ask, your voice quieter than you’d intended.

Sanzu’s lips quirk up into a knowing smirk. “You really wanna know?”

The way he says it, low and teasing, sends a shiver up your spine. He strides toward you, his steps slow, calculated, like a predator closing in on its prey. Your instincts scream at you to run, to flee, but you remain frozen, your breath caught somewhere between anticipation and dread.

You nod, your throat dry, unable to look away as he closes the distance between you. You watch as he reaches for the bottle on the nightstand, his long fingers curl around it with practiced ease. He shakes it lightly, the sound of pills rattling against plastic breaking the tense silence.

Sanzu slides one pill into his palm, holding it delicately between his fingers. His gaze then flickers to yours, and there’s a challenge, a dare, a twisted sense of amusement in his eyes.

“Why not try it for yourself?” he says as the smirk on his lips widens, daring you to take the bait.

Your gaze fixes on the pill, a small and harmless-looking thing, yet charged with so much temptation.

You don’t stop to think.

As if in a daze, your hand reaches out toward it.

You’re not entirely sure why you’re doing this. Maybe it’s the strange comfort you’ve started to feel in Sanzu’s presence, the way he makes you forget how to think rationally. Or maybe it’s the recklessness he brings out in you, the way he makes you want to let go of the rigid control you’ve always tried to hold onto.

But just as your fingers are about to touch the pill, Sanzu pulls his hand back, holding it out of reach.

“Look at you, so eager,” he drawls. “Someone offers you a little something, and you're all over it.”

You glance up at him, startled by his words.

“Can't resist a little escape, can you?” he continues, his teal eyes gleaming with malicious glee. “Want to float away, forget about all your problems. But when shit goes down, you'll be the first to blame me, won’t you?”

The accusation hangs in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating.

His tone, laced with scorn, dredges up memories you’ve tried to bury—of the riverbank, when you snapped at him, accusing him of ruining you. You’d been furious at him then, seething at the way he had introduced you to the blissful oblivion of drugs, at the way he seemed to revel in watching you fall apart.

But now, that same temptation claws at you, an unbearable ache. The pill in his fingers feels like a lifeline, a reprieve from the pain and fear that have consumed you for weeks. You want it. You hate that you want it.

And Sanzu knows.

When you don’t answer, he steps closer. His hand rises, his fingers cool and deliberate as they tilt your chin upward, forcing your eyes to meet his.

“Say that you want it."

His eyes bore into yours, a teasing light dancing in their depths as though he’s savoring every second of your internal struggle. “Admit it. I won’t even blame you—after all, I’m the one who showed you how good it feels, aren’t I?”

The words are a taunt, a challenge, and yet there’s a flicker of something else beneath his teasing tone. An edge of bitterness? Of longing?

You can’t tell, and it only makes the weight of his gaze all the more unbearable.

After weeks of living like a hollow shell, aimless and haunted, the thought of surrendering to the haze again feels like relief. Sweet, blissful relief. And the man standing before you—dangerous, unpredictable, impossible Sanzu—is the only one offering it to you.

He saved you.

You can’t shake that truth. The same hand that gripped a gun mere hours ago, ensuring your safety with a ferocity that left no room for doubt, is the same hand holding your chin now. The same man who once inflicted pain is offering you solace, even if it’s in his own twisted, chaotic way.

Your mind screams that this is wrong, that Sanzu is wrong, but your body betrays you. You don’t want to fight anymore. You’re so tired of fighting.

The thought of letting go, of releasing the crushing weight you’ve been carrying, feels like salvation.

“Sanzu,” you whisper finally, his name tumbling from your lips in a voice that’s barely audible, deliberately weak.

The sound of it pulls a reaction from him—a flicker in his expression. His smirk falters, if only for a fraction of a second. It’s fleeting, almost imperceptible, but you catch it.

“I want it. Please.”

His smirk sharpens at your admission. Slowly, Sanzu raises the pill, holding it between his fingers like an offering—but instead of giving it to you, his teal eyes glint with a wicked promise that this moment won’t be as simple as you think. Without breaking eye contact, he raises the pill to his lips, sliding it between them in one fluid motion.

Your breath catches.

The small, simple gesture feels electrifying, almost obscene. You can’t look away—not from the pill nestled between his lips, not from the curve of his mouth as it closes around it. His lips, soft and pink against his otherwise sharp, dangerous edges, hold your gaze captive.

Before you know what you’re doing, you lean forward, closing the small distance between you until your lips meet his.

Sanzu stiffens, his body going rigid as your lips brush his.

Your tongue grazes his lips, catching the pill and pulling it away. It should end there. That’s all you meant to do. But your lips linger, longer than they should.

His lips are soft, impossibly soft, a jarring contrast to everything else about him—the sharp edges of his jaw, the cold steel in his eyes, the danger that clings to him like a second skin.

A part of you doesn’t want to pull away. That part wants to stay here, to push further, to find out if there’s anything else about him that could be soft, gentle, human.

But the logical part of your mind, faint as it is, reminds you of who this is. It reminds you to move, to inch back.

Or at least, you try to.

Before you can move far, Sanzu’s hands shoot up, gripping your shoulders with a force that borders on bruising. His touch isn’t gentle—it’s desperate, as though he’s clinging to you as much as he’s holding you in place.

Your eyes widen, surprise flashing through you. You open your mouth to speak, to ask him what he’s doing, but the words die in your throat when his lips crash into yours.

The kiss isn’t soft. His lips move against yours with a hunger that leaves you frozen for a moment, caught off guard by the sheer intensity of it. His hand slides to your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, leaving no room for hesitation.

The pill lies forgotten on your tongue, its bitterness seeping into your mouth. The taste should ruin the moment, but it doesn’t.

Instead, it sharpens everything.

His lips, his touch, the way his tongue slips into your mouth, claiming every inch of you—it’s overwhelming in the best possible way.

You remember feeling his lips on yours before, when he forced the first pill down your throat. Back then, the kiss had meant nothing to you, just another cruel moment in a long string of chaos that defined your relationship with him.

But now?

Now it feels different.

Your hands, hesitant at first, clutch at the fabric of his bathrobe, shyly curling around it as his hands move through your hair. His fingers rake gently against your scalp, sending shivers down your spine.

How can someone like Sanzu, so violent and chaotic, feel this soft, this gentle?

And the kiss—it doesn’t just feel good.

It feels perfect. He feels perfect.

His hand slides to your back, firm and insistent, pulling your body closer until there’s no space left between you. You’re flush against him now, every inch of you pressed to his, but it still doesn’t seem to be enough for him.

He keeps pulling you closer, as though he needs more—as though he needs all of you, to consume you completely, to make you a part of him.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel held.

Until suddenly, he pulls away.

The cold rushes in, sharp and unforgiving, knocking the breath from your lungs. You feel the loss acutely, the absence of his lips on yours, his warmth, his touch. It leaves you empty, aching, a hollow space where he’d just been.

Then you notice it—the pill is gone from your tongue.

Confusion flickers across your face as you look up at him, and your gaze catches on the pill now nestled between his teeth. Before you can process what’s happening, he tilts his head and spits the pill out. It hits the floor with a faint tap, rolling once before disappearing under the edge of the bed.

You blink, stunned, your thoughts scrambling to make sense of what you’ve just seen. Did he really just do that? Did he really just spit out the drug—his drug?

Sanzu’s drugs have always been his obsession, his crutch. You know how much they mean to him, how possessive he’s always been about them. And yet here he is, spitting it out like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t matter at all.

“What—” you start, your voice faltering as you struggle to piece together your thoughts. “Why did you—”

Your words are cut off as he suddenly shoves you backward. You lose your balance, falling unceremoniously onto the mattress. The world shifts around you, and when you blink, he’s already straddling your hips.

Your breath hitches as his weight presses you into the bed. The dim light plays tricks on his face, casting shadows that make him look darker, more menacing, and yet impossibly alluring. His teal eyes pierce through the gloom, burning with an intensity that sends your pulse racing, and you’re certain he can hear the way your heart pounds against your chest.

“Why’d you do that?” you demand despite the tremor in your voice. “I said I want it.”

Sanzu’s eyes sweep over you, slow and deliberate, as if he’s taking in the rise and fall of your chest, the way your body fits beneath his.

“We’ll do that later,” he murmurs. “All the drugs you want. But not now… I need you sober now.”

The rasp in his voice, the quiet command behind his words, leaves you momentarily speechless.

You blink up at him, confusion creasing your brow. Sober? Now? From the man who thrives on chaos and indulgence, the demand feels out of place. But before the words to question him can form, he’s on you again, his lips crashing into yours with a force that makes your thoughts scatter.

His tongue sweeps into your mouth, claiming you with the same hunger that leaves you trembling all over again.

This time, your hands move instinctively, wrapping around his neck and pulling him closer. Your lips grow swollen under the intensity of the kiss, but the need between you only builds.

His hands roam down your sides, exploring every curve of your body. When they finally brush against the bare skin of your stomach, a shiver runs through you. The warmth of his touch is stark against the cool air, making your body arch involuntarily.

You know what he’s doing.

He’s testing you. Teasing you. Giving you every chance to stop this, to pull away, to say no. But you don’t.

You can’t.

Instead, your back arches further into his touch, your body betraying you, seeking him out. His smirk curves against your lips, and you can feel the triumph in it, the silent acknowledgment that you’ve given him exactly what he wanted.

And then, like a blade cutting through the haze, the realization strikes.

This is why he wants you sober.

He wants you to feel everything—to be aware of every touch, every sensation. If you were high, you’d miss it—you’d drift into oblivion, the sensations dulled, the memory blurred. But not like this.

Sanzu wants you here. Present.

This isn’t just about him taking from you; it’s about you choosing to give.

The realization swells in your chest, unexpected and overwhelming.

Your fingers tighten around him instinctively, pulling him closer, as though the connection between you isn’t close enough. Your hands slide up into his damp hair, threading through the soft pink strands. The texture surprises you—softer than you expected, almost delicate against your fingertips.

His breath catches in his throat at the contact, and you feel it. The subtle tremor in his body, the slight hitch in his movements.

It sends a jolt of heat rushing through you.

You push further, emboldened by his reaction. Your other hand slips beneath the loose folds of his robe, brushing against the heated skin of his back. His muscles tense under your touch, but he doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he groans softly, the sound low and rough, vibrating against your lips.

It’s intoxicating.

The sound he makes, the way his breath stutters under your touch—it sends a sharp spike of desire straight through you, pooling low in your belly.

He likes it.

And God help you, it’s turning you on.

You feel the haze of desire wrapping around you, thick and heavy, pulling you deeper into him. Every touch, every kiss, every sound between you feels amplified, like the rest of the world has melted away, leaving just the two of you.

You want more.

Your hand trails lower along his back, exploring the warmth of his skin, the tension in his body, the way he seems to hold himself back just slightly, like he’s afraid to lose control.

But then, a sharp, piercing sound cuts through the moment. The shrill ring of a phone.

Reality crashes back into you like a tidal wave.

You freeze, your lips still against his, your hands still tangled in his hair and pressed against his back. For a moment, neither of you move, caught in the lingering heat of the kiss, as though the sound doesn’t belong to this moment, to this room.

You pull back just slightly, gasping for air, your chest heaving as your eyes meet his. The sight of him leaves you momentarily speechless. His teal eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, his pupils blown wide with desire. His cheeks are flushed, his lips red and swollen, glistening from your kiss.

He looks… undone.

You wonder in that instant if you’ve ever seen him like this before—if anyone has ever seen him like this before.

You bite your lip, hesitating, your heart hammering in your chest as a question rises to the surface of your mind. You don't know why you need to ask. Maybe it's the intensity of the moment, the vulnerability you see in his eyes. Or maybe it's your own vulnerability, the way you're letting yourself fall deeper into him than you ever thought you could.

"Sanzu," you whisper. "Do you have feelings for me?"

The question hangs in the air, fragile and trembling, threatening to break under the weight of what it means.

But Sanzu doesn’t move.

He doesn’t even flinch.

“Feelings, huh…” he murmurs at last, his voice quiet, as though he’s tasting the word for the first time.

His gaze dips lower, lingering on your lips. You watch as his tongue darts out, wetting his own lips, the movement slow, calculated, and maddeningly hypnotic.

“Even if I tell you my answer, would it change anything?”

Your eyes widen in confusion, your mind scrambling to make sense of what he means. You part your lips to respond, to ask, to demand clarity—but before the words can leave you, the sharp trill of the phone cuts through the air again.

The sound is jarring, slicing clean through the tension between you, leaving it to collapse into nothing.

Sanzu’s expression hardens, the vulnerability you thought you saw fading in an instant. He pulls away from you with a harsh sigh, his body shifting as if to distance himself. The absence of his warmth hits you immediately, a sharp ache settling in your chest. The space between you grows colder, as though he’s taken all the heat with him, leaving you with nothing.

Without meeting your gaze, he reaches for the phone on the nightstand, his fingers brushing against it almost angrily. You watch him, eyes scanning his face, desperate for any sign—anything—that might explain the shift, the sudden barrier now standing between you.

When his gaze flickers to the screen, you catch it—the briefest reaction. His eyes widen, just for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough.

Whatever he sees there, it rattles him.

He clears his throat, his voice sharper now as he answers the call.

"Yes?" His tone is clipped, professional, a far cry from the low, intimate murmur he'd just been using.

You sit up slowly, watching him closely.

The shift in his demeanor is jarring. Whatever softness you’d glimpsed in him just moments ago—the tenderness in his touch, the vulnerability in his kiss—vanishes as if it had never been there. In its place is the Sanzu you’re more familiar with, the one who wears his toughness like armor, his emotions locked tightly behind a smirk or a sharp edge.

Your mind drifts back to his words. Would it change anything?

What had he meant by that?

It was a simple question, wasn’t it? One he could have answered easily, yes or no. But the weight of his response—or lack thereof—lingers heavily in the air, making you doubt its simplicity.

Unless…

Unless it’s not as simple as you want it to be.

Sanzu’s teal eyes snap to yours suddenly, cutting through your spiraling thoughts, and you jump, startled by the intensity of them. Without a word, he holds the phone out to you, his movements deliberate, his expression unreadable.

“It’s Mikey. He wants a word with you.”

Your heart sinks.

Of course.

How could you forget who Sanzu is in your life?

He’s not just Sanzu, the man who saved you, the man whose touch made your heart race. He’s Haruchiyo Sanzu—Mikey’s loyal second-in-command, his soldier, his shadow.

And you?

You’re the ex-girlfriend, the woman who once held Mikey’s heart but shattered her own in the process.

You reach for the phone hesitantly, your movements slow and cautious, as if taking it will solidify something you don’t want to confront. Your fingers brush against Sanzu's as you grasp it—a fleeting touch that feels like an entire conversation.

For a moment, neither of you moves. You can feel the heat of his skin against yours, a whisper of the intimacy you just shared. But when you meet his gaze again, it’s like looking into a storm that’s already moved on, leaving only destruction in its wake.

You press the phone to your ear, swallowing the lump rising in your throat.

“…Hello?” you manage, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Your name comes through the line in that voice you once knew so well, and the sound of it knocks the air from your lungs.

Mikey.

It’s been so long since you last heard him say your name, and yet it feels like no time has passed at all. The sound of it sends a shiver down your spine, a reminder of all the things you’ve tried—and failed—to bury.

You don’t answer him right away. Your eyes remain locked on Sanzu as he climbs out of the bed.

His movements are slow, unhurried, but there’s tension in every step he takes. The way his shoulders set, the subtle clench of his jaw—it’s as if he’s forcing himself to move, to leave.

You feel the loss of his presence like a wound reopening. The further away he gets, the tighter your chest feels, until it’s almost unbearable.

You want to call out to him.

To tell him to stop. To stay.

But how can you?

Mikey’s voice is still in your ear, grounding you to a past you thought you’d left behind, pulling you back into a world that no longer feels like yours.

Sanzu reaches the door, his hand hovering over the handle for a fraction of a second. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but you see it—a hesitation. For the briefest second, you think he might turn around.

He doesn’t.

The door clicks softly as it closes behind him, and the sound feels deafening in the silence that follows.

You’re alone now.

Alone with Mikey on the other end of the line, his voice saying your name again, softer this time, as though coaxing you back into a conversation you’re not ready to have.

And yet, your heart continues to ache—not for the man on the phone, but for the one who just left.

< part three ends >

author's notes. heyy lovely sanzu kinnies <3 i hope you're all doing well! first off, i want to apologize if this part feels a little rushed—i really wanted to get something out before my break ends, but i hope you still enjoy it :> thank you so so much guys for sticking around and showing love to BNT, honestly ur support means the world to me <33 as always, i'd love to hear what you think, so please leave a comment or note if you can! thanks again for reading and for being so awesome (〃´▽`〃) !!

taglist. @bontensproperty @sleeplessreader12 @thisismarisaaa @fallensuguru @karuki-tori @unfortunately-a-dazai-kinnie @celestica-1988 @taebaozi @tribbisweetdear @aizawap @aquamarixx @sadlyradley @gh0stgirl333 @iluv-ace @reiners-milkbiddies @bontenbabyy @risheliette @loveantonnlee @sukunas-bitxh @honeygonebads-blog @r3yk @soilaluna @l1ttl3m1ss666 @novv @slvdsjjk @miffysoo @qyoongi @drakensdarling @ask-the-insect-hashira @awkwardaardvarkforever @thebiggestlovergirlever @shinichirolover @kyyuuuuu @ajumma @missmanjisano @meowww1041 @kiasnotforever @slayyy739 @rainzelenia @strawberrychrome (lmk if you want to be tagged too!)

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fairyfortalliance · 1 year ago

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the imagery of no health regen…… wounded skin that doesn’t heal…. torn clothes….. burns…. scorch marks….. bite marks….. blood everywhere…… unraveling bandages…… oh…….

#secret life #secret life smp #if i ever write a slsmp fic. everyone is going to be wounded as FUCK #like. i love it when fan artists draw the characters punctured with arrows #or burned after dying to lava/fire #and now with no health regen. how the injuries don’t go away #a worn and ragged green life almost desperate to turn yellow #if not for the full set of health again #stab wounds that don’t close. a heart bleeds until you die. the scratch marks itch under the armour #ohhhhhh it’s so sexy #teammates changing each others bandages bc the blood never stops #infected wounds? that only ease when more hearts are earned from the secret keeper?#i’m so obsessed with this already #like yessssss the player gets weaker and weaker as they lose more hearts #they are so damaged and injured they can barely raise their shield #their whole body aching. scathing with every hit and blow #and then when they gain hearts. and the RELIEF #of scorch marks fading. wounds closing. blood drying. pains easing. broken bones set themselves #so much cruelty in the world. everyone takes that extra little care with each other #no more friendly slaps on the shoulder or even high fives #everyone is just very still. too fatigued to do anything but survive

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sturnlsstuff · 2 months ago

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MASK ON | ghostface!matt x fem!reader

— warnings: smut, dom!matt, sub!reader, cursing, knife play, choking, creampie, unprotected p in v, pet names, dirty talking, masturbation, mentions of murder, mdni

— a/n: matt is a bit crazy in this, it might be a lot so if u don't like, don't read xoxo

part two / part three

~~~~

saying that matt was obsessed was an understatement. he was going feral for you. losing his mind. every guy you talked to was found dead not even twenty four hours after your last interaction with him. it was making you think that maybe you have some kind of curse on you, but it was impossible... right?

matt was having his eye on you for a while now. but it was different. at first when he caught you at some party, he thought you will be his next victim. you guys talked, you thought he was funny and good looking. his tattoos caught your attention, you couldn't take your eyes of his arm. that's when matt's plans changed. he couldn't kill you, because he needed you. he craved you, wanted to put his hands all over your body, wanted to make you scream but from pleasure. but he was too anxious to start whatever, he didn't even know how. and you were so confident...

because matt was only shy without his mask on.

since this first and last interaction you both had, he started gaining informations about you. everytime your parents were at work and you were at school, he was in your room. he made a key to your house, allowing himself to come and go whenever he wanted. he stayed in your room for several hours, already knowing its layout by heart. he went through your drawers, smelled your sheets, stole your pretty lace underwear. but he also did something else. he installed a camera in your bathroom and in your room, to facilitate access to you. so every time you showered, every time you changed - he saw it. and he jerked off to the view, whimpering your name, with your panties wrapped around his dick.

he couldn't take it no more. his sick fantasies weren't enough.

he found himself in his car, parked down the road in your neighborhood. his phone in his hand as he kept watching you through the cameras. you were taking a shower, the water running down your perfect body. he couldn't stop staring at your beautiful curves, the way you soaped your skin, your wet hair sticking to your back... he wanted to be there with you, to press you against the wall and fuck you relentless, watching the pleasure forming on your face, listening to your sweet pretty sounds-

he was quick to pull out his painfully hard dick from his black jeans and start moving his hand up and down his length. having the perfect view on your tits, he kept imagining being there with you, being able to move his tongue around your nipples... he whimpers, thrusting into his fist, his dick pulsing desperately for some relief that he couldn't achieve. he was already struggling to cum, but it got worse when you got out of the shower and covered yourself with a towel, cutting off his view of your body. he groaned, stopping his movements and pulling his boxers and pants up. he was now on a mission. he had enough of just watching you.

leaving his car, he quickly made his way to your house and into the garden, hiding between the bushes. it was dark and he was dressed all black, so no one could spot him. he also knew that your parents were not at home. leaving you alone even though there is a crazy masked killer lurking nearby, looking for innocent girls like you? a bit stupid, he thought.

after putting on his ghostface mask and using a voice changer, he calls your number, waiting impatiently for you to answer. meanwhile you were in your room, still only covered by the towel and searching for some clean pajamas as you heard the phone buzzing. seeing the unknown number on the screen, you didn't think much of it and picked up.

"hello?"

"what's your favorite scary movie?" you hear a low, hoarse voice on the other end of the phone. frowning, you look at the screen of your phone before putting it to your ear again, thinking that someone is just making fun of you.

"what?"

"i asked... what's your favorite scary movie." the voice repeats, making you a bit confused.

"who's this?"

"that's not the answer for my question, sweetheart." the way he said 'sweetheart' makes you shiver. matt still hides in the bushes, watching you through the cameras on his other phone, seeing the confusion forming on your face and how you are still standing in your room just in a towel. this wasn't helping with his painfully hard cock that was straining against his jeans.

"uhmmm, i don't really watch scary movies..." you say unsure what to answer.

"yeah? then what do you watch?"

"i... i already answered your question so now you answer mine. who is this?" you ask again trying to sound confident even if the call was confusing you. was that one of your friends making fun of you?

matt lets out a low chuckle liking the attitude you're trying to put on. he knows he could make you change your act pretty quick. "isn't it a bit stupid? leaving you alone in the house when some psycho killer is nearby? maybe watching you? would be even a little unfortunate if he was talking to you right now, huh?"

your eyes widen and you look around as if you were going to find him. you understand the situation immediately. now you knew who you were talking to. it was him. and you felt your body rush through adrenaline. matt already was quietly unlocking your door downstairs to get inside. "what??? what do you want? please, leave me alone-"

"relax, sweetheart. i'm not gonna kill you. in fact you look too good right now to do anything to you other than making you moan while my cock is deep inside your pretty pussy."

"w-what??" you look around again as it could help you find him. processing his words, you frown your eyebrows, grabbing the top of the towel and pressing it tighter to your body. "how do you know how i look right now-"

"i know that you look incredibly hot in your pretty thin towel that isn't covering too much." matt smirks putting his second phone into his pocket and standing in front of the stairs. he didn't want to scare you too much, he needed to convince you to let him touch you.

panic starts filling you and you start looking around again. quickly walking to the closet, opening it, checking under the bed and in your bathroom. but he's nowhere to be found, obviously. "what do you want?!"

"i already told you sweetie. you aren't that dumb, are you? i just wished i could rip that towel off you... would you let me? hm?" as you hear his words, your eyes travel to the fabric covering your body, automatically pressing it against your chest. matt continues, "i'm not gonna hurt you, i promise. i just think you'd like this... i was watching you and i know what you watch when you touch yourself. naughty, aren't you? you like it rough and when the mask is on, huh?"

your eyes widen, your body shiver and neither of you says anything for a moment, your mind trying to process what you just heard. "you... what do you mean by saying..."

"yes, i watched you."

chewing on your bottom lip, you feel two things. panic and... something you definitely shouldn't feel right now. you actually liked watching home made porn when the guy had a mask on, while touching yourself. you knew it was fucked up, that you were fucked up and you had a lot of kinks that you would never tell anyone. but he knew. he watched you, took away your privacy. and something about this turns you on right now, making you more confused than ever.

"will you let me in, sweetheart?" you hear him ask and at the same time the stairs in the hall creak, indicating that someone was coming upstairs. but you were alone... right? matt knew your door were unlocked, he could easily get inside, but he needed to hear that you let him in. your body is literally frozen as you stand in the middle of the room, gripping the phone and looking at the door with wide eyes. heart pounding in your chest from the adrenaline and fear, yet the ache between your legs keeps growing when you think of every single thing he said. he was watching you, craved you and knew how fucked up your fantasies were because his were worse. "so? can i come in?" you see the door handle slowly turning, he was just outside the door to your room.

"y-yeah..." it slips out of your mouth faster than you can even realize. the call ends, you look at the screen confused, before your attention is turned towards the door which opens with a crack and a person dressed all in black, wearing a ghostface mask enters your room. he wasn't very tall, you checked him out, but couldn't notice much besides the knife he held in his hand. and that made your heart skip a beat and take a few steps back.

"oh c'mon, don't be shy now. you let me in, didn't you?" he speaks up, his voice a bit different than on the phone. it's almost like you recognize it, but you don't know from where. he slowly makes his way over to you but you continue backing away, with your heart pounding in your chest until you reach your bed, falling backwards onto the mattress, the towel loosens on your body, making matt smirk under the mask. he stops in front of your bed, looking down at you and tilting his head to the side a little. god, you were beautiful. he reaches his hand, running it slowly down your thigh, making you flinch a little. feeling your soft, smooth skin under his fingertips was like his dreams coming true. then with one quick movement he rips the towel off you, leaving you completely bare. you watch him with widen eyes, too stunned to speak because you're scared and that sends vibrations straight to your pussy. "what's the matter sweetie? you look like you've seen a ghost."

"i—" the words get stuck in your throat, even though you can't see his eyes, you can feel him looking at you. feeling it really intensely, not understanding how this situation can have such an effect on you, making goosebumps appear on your body, your pussy throbbing but at the same time the sight of the knife in his hand makes it slightly terrifying. "i... i j-just— what will you do...?"

a low, hoarse laugh leaves him, he places the non-sharp side of the knife between your tits and starts moving it downwards, but not in a way that will hurt you. looking at this with widen eyes, you can't believe how hot what he's doing is making you feel. matt was literally in heaven right now. seeing your terrified face but at the same time the lust in your eyes, the way your body reacted to his touch, it made him go crazy, his cock twitching in his jeans needing to feel you around him. needing to ruin you. "you've no idea how long i been wanting to do this...." he spreads your legs, a groan escapes him, seeing your pussy dripping with arosual, already ready for him. his fingers trace over your wet folds, spreading them open as he sees your pink dripping entrance and he inserts one finger inside you, the movement making you gasp silently and close your eyes for a moment. "...mmm, yeah.... so fuckin' pretty... wish i could taste you— fuckk, so wet f'me... and you didn't even see me— you're jus' a little slut, hm?"

he places the cold blade of that knife on your hard nipple, the feeling makes you let out a soft whimper and it's like a sudden wake-up call for him. he just made you let out a noise. and immediately want more. removing his finger out of you, holding your folds spread, he runs the handle of the knife along the entire length of your heat, making you whine again. "oh god..."

"you like it? i knew you might be into some crazy shit jus' when i first saw you...." matt throws the knife on the mattress and not wanting to waste more time, unzips his pants. "y'want it, yeah? tell me. tell me you want this---" he slaps your pussy making you squeal, the sound echoed throughout the room. did he really have to ask? you were dripping. for him. you should be scared of this psychopath in front of you, but instead you were turned on, which was sickening.

"mhm..." you hum, your eyes watching his movements very intensely. his pants were already down to his knees along with his boxers. swallowing nervously, your eyes stare at his hard cock, precum leaking from his red sensitive tip. damn, he was big. maybe even too big. "i-i do, but... i don't know if you're gonna fit---"

he felt his control slip away, those words making his cock harden more than possible. he just lets out, "--don'cha worry sweetheart.... i'll make it fit—", giving himself a few strokes and spreading your legs, pressing your knees against your stomach, he finally slides into you immediately feeling your slippery walls sucking him in and making him groan. you let out a muffled scream when he doesn't give you any time to adjust, he's just too desperate and feeling you around him makes his mind go blank. you feel his dick deep as he begins to move slowly inside you, brushing against your g-spot because of the position you two are in. your hands grab the sheets, eyes rolling back as he starts to pick up the pace immediately. it hurt, but at the same time it filled you with pleasure.

"oh--- 's too big... i can't—"

"yes you can." he growls thrusting into you harder, he can't get enough of the way your cunt feels around him so perfectly, the way you squirm beneath him, every single one of your moans leaving your lips, making him addicted. he looks down cursing to himself as he watches how his dick slip in and out of your sensitive pussy, each slap of skin makes you silently screaming and gripping the sheets as your life depended on it. "so fuckin' pretty... too big, huh? yet you take it all, like the good girl you are... fuck--"

"--mmmm, pleaseeee... oh my god—" you have no idea what even you're begging for. cutting yourself off, your eyes snap open looking at him, looking at the mask he was wearing, it just makes you clench around his dick.

"oh fuck, keep doin' that... s'fuckin' good f'me—" the headboard starts rocking against the wall with each movement of his hips and that's when you feel his hand wrapping around your neck, his fingers gripping gently at first as he picks up his pace even more making your mind spin. "that's right— take it... fuck-- take it all— make me fuckin' proud...i knew you aren't that innocent as you pretend to be.."

"oh- i... don't.... oh my—" you aren't even able to form a sentence as his fingers tighten around your neck, making you let out more muffled moans but still being able to breathe. his every thrust into you starts overwhelming you with pleasure, watching him while he ruined you, that mask on his face drawing out of you your deepest, most hidden fantasies. matt was too far gone, the look on your face, the way your brows were knitted together and mouth slack open letting out more sweet needy sounds, it all was imprinted in his brain and he won't forget this for a long time.

"don't hold back, sweetheart. let me— mmhh shit— let me hear you..." his fingers squeeze around your throat some more causing your breath hitch as he continues going on the unholy pace.

"feels so.. s-so good— oh! right there... plea--" another scream leaving your lips when matt keeps pounding into you, your stomach drops over and over and your pussy squeezes around him again. he's in total disbelief how good you feel, how your walls manage to strangle him more, it's even better than what he imagined. "---'m gonna.... fuck!"

"yeaah, that's it sweetie.... cum all over my cock... make a mess on it— shittttt.... y'like it that much? being fucked by the fuckin'.... ghostface.... huh? mmhmm—" matt growls when his dirty words just adds to your pleasure and suddenly the knot in your stomach releases. too far gone in the sensation he was giving you, you let out a shaky moan, your eyes rolling back while your body continues to shake.

"oh yeah, so good... perfect..." matt groans and just by your expression, the way your legs were shaking, he feels his dick twitches. he lets go of your neck, warm cum bursts from his tip inside of you as your walls sucks him in deep. your legs fall down onto the mattress, both of you catching your breath as he gives you a few more thrusts before stopping and pulling out, taking last look at your pussy now leaking with your own and his release. you open your eyes, but matt is quick to stop you. "no, don't. keep them closed f'me. don't you dare open 'em until i tell you. got it?"

you frown a bit but keeps your eyes closed. "wha-"

your words are cut off pretty fast when matt pulls his mask halfway up so that only his lips are exposed and presses them against yours, stealing a small, surprised whimper from you, but you quickly kiss him back. you can't even feel him properly, only feeling the soft texture of his lips as he immediately pulls away, leaving you a bit surprised. feeling a small gust of wind, as if you couldn't feel the warmth of his body anymore, you ask, "--can i open my eyes?"

but there's no response, so after a moment you find the courage to open your eyes, but the room is empty. a small frown appears between your eyebrows while propping yourself up on your elbow and looking around, but the mysterious ghostface guy was nowhere to be found. he disappeared as if... as if it was just your dream. your next sick fantasy. however, you touch your lips slightly with your fingers, still feeling the sweet taste of the kiss that lasted too short for your liking and you know it just couldn't be only your imagination. it has to be real.

right?

—————————————

a/n: this is lowkey inspired by some fanfic i read a looong time ago on ao3 but i can't find it rn and i have no idea what it was called 😭

#matt sturniolo #sturnlsstuff ❦ [ghostface!matt]#matthew sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo smut #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo x fem reader #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo x you #ghostface!matt

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choerrypuffs · 2 months ago

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red velvet hearts.

pairing: bad boy!donghyuck x baker!reader

genre: fluff, slight angst

word count: 7.7k

synopsis: you patch up a boy with a bloody nose and bruised knuckles, only to find out that he has quite the sweet tooth.

author’s note: why do i keep injuring hyuck in all my fics lmao??? anyways i tried to write his character a bit differently than i usually do to challenge myself so please let me know how you guys like it! also remember, ladies: this is fiction. you cannot fix him <3

warning(s): brief description of injuries, mentions of violence, maximum amounts of cringe and melodrama

playlist: all my ghosts by lizzy mcalpine ― heart eyes by coin ― close to you by gracie abrams ― sidelines by phoebe bridgers ― the alchemy by taylor swift

RECIPE 1. TIRAMISU

“This is not what I meant when I said you need your back blown out.”

“Not funny. I almost died,” you grumble as you wrap the back brace around your torso. You hate the immediate relief you feel from the support it provides, no longer able to tell yourself that it’s really not as bad as it seems―which only makes you angrier.

“Throwing your back out while lifting a giant bag of flour and nearly getting crushed to death by said flour is genuinely the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever heard,” Yeri, your best friend (derogatory), snorts as she shakes her head. “I wish you had cameras in the storage room because I want to see that shit so bad.”

“Thank you for the brace. You can get the hell out now.” You roll your eyes.

“So, what are you going to do now? Aren’t you swamped with orders?” Yeri asks, ignoring you completely.

You have no clue what you’re going to do now. It isn’t just orders you have to worry about fulfilling; it’s also the freshly baked pastries that you have to sell every morning. After a year of blood, sweat, and tears, the bakery that you built from the ground up is finally starting to gain some stable business. So, of course, you chose now of all times to try to lift a bag of flour over your shoulder like you were Dwayne The Rock Johnson.

“I think I’ll have to hire some temporary help,” you answer begrudgingly.

“You could sound less like someone is holding you at gunpoint,” Yeri snorts, “Come on. It had to happen sooner or later anyway.”

“I was handling things just fine on my own.”

“Were you, though?” Yeri raises an eyebrow, gesturing to your current state.

You fear you walked right into that one. “Shut up and help me make some posters.”

The two of you eventually manage to whip up some haphazard “Help Wanted” posters, the letters written in glitter pen and Yeri’s clumsy bubble text. You tried your best to fill in the empty gaps on the construction paper by placing Pompompurin stickers that you normally give to customers’ kids all over it. The posters look like a nine-year-old girl’s school project gone wrong, but you hope it’s charming enough to catch some attention.

By the time you and Yeri finish hanging up all the posters, the sun is already starting to set, and all you want to do is go home and put a heating pad on your back. After saying bye to Yeri, you start making your way back to the bakery to lock up. Once you arrive, you notice a figure dressed in black slumped over in front of the door. You can see their shoulders rise up and down as they take in labored breaths, leaning against the glass door for support.

Every rational fiber in your being screams at you to not approach the stranger alone, but it’s not like you can just leave this person at the front of your place of business. Cautiously taking a step forward, you squat down to eye level with the stranger, wincing slightly from back pain. Through the sweaty and matted mess of his brown fringe, you can see that the stranger is a young man around your age. However, his face is absolutely battered: bloody (and almost certainly broken) nose, split lip, black eye swollen shut, and a jagged cut on his cheek. If he notices your presence, he doesn’t show it, keeping his head hung down.

Gingerly placing a hand on his arm, you give him a small shake. “Excuse me? Are you okay? Do you need me to call an ambulance?”

His brows furrow, and he opens an eye (the only one he’s probably able to open) with a wince before lifting a finger and putting it against his lips. You notice that his knuckles are completely scraped raw.

“Not so loud. I’m okay,” he answers.

“You don’t look―”

As if on cue, his stomach rumbles with a guttural growl that slowly drawls into a sputtering gurgle before dying out all together―leaving a long silence to hang between the two of you.

After another beat, he gives you a sheepish smile. “You got anything to eat?”

You stare at him for a moment; his face is flushed, pink all the way down to his neck.

And like a stupid horror movie character who opens the door to a room that clearly screams danger, you nod.

Fortunately, he―Donghyuck, as he introduced himself―ends up not being a crazy ax murderer.

Unfortunately, you find yourself awkwardly sitting in your closed bakery with a virtual stranger, fiddling with a first aid kit while watching him absolutely devour a piece of leftover tiramisu that you had in your fridge. If the situation wasn’t so insane, you might actually think it was pretty funny. For someone who looks the way he does, this current picture of Donghyuck absolutely doesn’t suit him―bruised chipmunk cheeks stuffed with ladyfingers and cocoa powder stuck on his split lip.

When he’s finished, Donghyuck looks over at you with a mesmerized expression on his face, as if you just fed him ambrosia. There’s a softness to his face that you didn’t think could exist underneath all that grime and dried blood.

“That was…delicious,” he breathes.

“Thanks,” you snort, pushing a glass of water towards him. Unsurprisingly, he chugs it in the blink of an eye. “I still think you should get those injuries checked out, though.”

“Nah, I’ll rub a little spit in them and it’ll be fine,” he shrugs.

“Don’t be gross,” you sigh, scooting your chair closer to him as you set the first aid kit on the table. “Now, come here.”

Donghyuck reluctantly dips his head, and you carefully cup his jaw for support, disinfecting and applying ointment on the cuts and scrapes on his face. You also clean up the dried blood near his nostrils and on his bottom lip, and he doesn’t flinch even when you accidentally brush tender areas like his broken nose or the gash on his mouth. Instead, he stays perfectly still, leaned back in the chair with his forearms resting on his thighs and fingers nonchalantly laced together.

He keeps his gaze trained on something past your shoulder, and you also try your best to focus, but it’s hard to keep yourself from staring―especially when his demeanor has changed so much. He’s so calm and quiet in such a cold, ruthless manner, as if he’s physically steeling himself from pain―like he’s done this a million times before. Occasionally, you feel his eyes swipe across your face when he thinks you’re not paying attention, and it occurs to you how close the two of you are. Suddenly, you’re acutely aware of the heat of his skin against your palm and fingertips, and you rip your hand away from his jaw.

Clearing your throat, you move onto his hands, dabbing his raw knuckles with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol before placing large band-aids on them. Despite your best efforts, it’s hard not to notice how slim his long fingers are or how surprisingly clean his nail beds are for someone who’s covered in blood. You keep your head completely bent, fighting the urge of looking up and possibly meeting his eyes.

“There, all done,” you announce a little too loudly.

“Thank you,” he says softly, “for the cake and for this. For helping me.”

“Don’t worry about it. I didn’t do much,” you blurt, still avoiding eye contact as you clean up the table. However, you notice in your peripheral that his gaze follows your movements, almost hesitantly, before he asks:

“So, you’re hiring?”

You click the first-aid kit shut, blinking a few times before turning back to him. He looks at you with a raised eyebrow, waiting for an answer.

“I―yeah. How did you know that?” you ask, puzzled by such a random question.

Donghyuck points at a poster that you didn’t even know you left here, sitting on the table right behind you. You realize that he was probably looking at it while you were patching him up.

“That poster that says ‘help wanted.’ With the Pompompurin stickers. I’m actually in between jobs right now, so if you would have me―”

“You know Pompompurin?” you interrupt him. It’s not that important and should not stand out to you as much as it does. Yet, you can’t help but grin at the fact that someone like him knows about a tubby Golden Retriever character with a name that sounds like a mashup of the English language’s most adorable onomatopeias.

Donghyuck trails off, stiffening as if you just found out his deepest, darkest secret. He opens his mouth slightly, trying to speak but unable to formulate a response―an excuse, rather. Instead, he just lets out an airy cough, putting a hand over his mouth and turning away from you in an attempt to obscure his face. Despite his best efforts, he can’t hide his glowing red ears and the way his earlier coldness melts away.

“I―yeah,” he responds, words slightly muffled by his hand.

You struggle to maintain your composure as you gnaw on your bottom lip to keep from laughing. Fighting a smile in your voice, you finally say:

“The pay won’t be that much, but you’ll get a bunch of free desserts at the end of the day. Are you okay with that?”

It takes him a moment to process that you’re offering him the job, and you watch his eyes light up and a warm smile overtake his face. There’s still a light shade of pink dusting his cheeks, clashing with the purple bruising and swelling of his injuries.

“I’d love nothing more.”

Suddenly, it occurs to you that Donghyuck somewhat reminds you of a tiramisu.

He may look a bit rugged and grimey, bitter like coffee, but in actuality, underneath it all, he’s soft and fluffy (but not too sweet) like a mascarpone filling.

RECIPE 2. BLUEBERRY PIE

“Are you out of your mind?”

You cringe away from your phone, hurriedly turning the volume down. “Damn, you don’t have to scream like that.”

“You should be the one screaming,” Yeri hollers. “I better not come over one day and find your body stuffed in the freezer or something.”

“I thought you wanted me to hire someone!”

“Not some random dude off the side of the street who was covered in injuries and doesn’t even have any baking experience,” Yeri hisses.

“I don’t need him to bake. I just have him working the front counter and doing all the heavy lifting when I get my ingredient shipments,” you protest. “Did you think I would really just hand over all my orders to some random dude and go party it up in Cancún or something?”

Yeri is silent for several seconds before asking, “He’s hot, isn’t he?”

“What?”

“So you did know what I meant when I said you needed your back blown out.” You can hear the smugness in her voice.

“Yeri,” you say tiredly, “please be serious.”

“I am serious. You’re the one being unserious,” she retorts. “Yesterday, you acted like you would rather sacrifice your firstborn child before hiring a part-timer, and now look at you. Dickmatized.”

“Okay, I’m hanging up now.”

“So, when do I get to meet him―”

You quickly hit the button to end the call and shove your phone into your pocket, letting out an exasperated sigh. You definitely won’t be hearing the end of that for a while. Your face feels warm for some reason, and you decide that you need a coffee break. After you finish making it, you pour yourself and Donghyuck a cup.

You peek your head out from the curtain that separates the kitchen and the front counter to see if Donghyuck is busy. He’s politely chatting with an elderly woman, and your eyes nearly pop out of your head when he takes out the entire tray of egg tarts in the glass display and wraps it up for her. The woman happily hands him a wad of bills and waves him goodbye. After putting the cash in the register, Donghyuck turns around and catches you in the middle of gawking.

“Oh, Y/N. I was actually just about to head back there. We’re out of egg tarts for the display,” he says nonchalantly.

“Uh, yeah, I can see that,” you whisper loudly, “Was that Mrs. Kim? Why the hell did she order a dozen egg tarts? That woman can barely finish a single cookie.”

Donghyuck blinks, clearly confused, whispering back, “She asked for my recommendation, so I said egg tarts since no one had bought any yet, and she said she would take all of them.”

You pause, things finally clicking. Grinning knowingly, you say, “You know, having you work the front is doing wonders for sales.”

“I don’t understand.” He furrows his brows.

You laugh, handing him his cup of coffee. “I’m talking about your face card, Donghyuck. You’re too handsome, so you’re flustering the customers.”

“Are we not whispering anymore?” he asks awkwardly. “Besides, that’s not true. Look at the state of my face right now.”

His injuries have faded significantly, but the bruising and cuts are still there. You want to tell him that superficial wounds can’t mask the warmth in his caramel-brown eyes, the fullness of his cheeks and the sharp jawline, and the air of mystery that enshrouds him and draws people in.

But you don’t.

“Well, for someone who’s only been working here for two weeks, you’re doing superb. Injuries or not.”

And it’s true. You’ve always preferred to work alone because you’re the only one who understands how you want things done. You naturally assumed it would be a hassle and a waste of time to try to explain to someone else when you could just do it yourself, but Donghyuck never seems to need an explanation. In fact, he knows before even you.

He gets to the bakery three hours before you, cleans and preps all the equipment you need for the day, unloads the ingredient shipments, and is already manning the front counter by the time you arrive like it was no big deal at all. He also seems to have a sixth sense of knowing when you’re about to do something you shouldn’t be, even though you downplayed your back injury. He’s somehow always there―moving all the stuff you keep on the top shelf to somewhere within your reach even though you insisted that the rickety wooden step stool you use is perfectly safe, cleaning up a glass beaker that you accidentally shattered, taking out the trash during his breaks, checking in on you when you skip lunch. He even turned down his first paycheck, saying it’s repayment for patching him up and feeding him.

Donghyuck is so perfect that sometimes you wonder if you’re being set up, like maybe he’s secretly embezzling money from the cash register―which would be a more viable theory if he didn’t drive an Audi to work everyday.

“Thanks for the compliment. And the coffee,” Donghyuck says, snapping you out of your thoughts. He gingerly takes a sip and makes a strangled noise, a mixture being choking and retching, before slapping a hand over his mouth.

“Are you okay? Was it too hot?” you ask worriedly.

“No, it’s just…really bitter,” he mumbles, words muffled in his hand.

“Oh,” you blink, “Sorry. I drink black coffee, so I forgot to ask if you wanted creamer and sugar. Come on, there’s some in the back.”

The two of you head to the kitchen, and you watch him dump an exorbitant amount of creamer and sugar in his coffee, the dark roast swirling into something more akin to milk tea.

“You know, there might be some chocolate milk in the fridge if you’d rather that,” you tease.

His head shoots up, those doe eyes lighting up. “Really?”

“No,” you trail off awkwardly, “Sorry, I'm just messing with you.”

It’s a bit adorable that you can visibly see him being disappointed in there not being chocolate milk before growing embarrassed, looking down at his cup. He turns away from you, but you can see the flush on the back of his neck.

“You really have a sweet tooth, huh?” you laugh.

“Pretty lame, right?”

“Why would that be lame? You’re talking to someone who owns a bakery, in case you forgot.”

Donghyuck smiles at you, and it’s sugary sweet like buttercream frosting. He looks at you like you just said the most wonderful thing in the world; in fact, he always makes you feel like that, no matter what you say or do. “I guess you’re right.”

“What’s your favorite dessert?” you blurt, needing a distraction urgently.

He pauses briefly. “I don’t think I have one.”

That actually surprises you. “You don’t? Even though you love sweets so much?”

He laughs, the sound harsh and rough, and it almost makes you flinch. “I’ve never really had an opportunity to have many until now.”

There’s clearly weight behind his words, but you know you’re not in a position to ask any further. A selfish part of you wants to be important enough to him that you are in a position to know more, but you’re all too aware about him very purposefully keeping you at arm’s length.

“Well, you have plenty of time to find out,” you quickly continue, pretending not to notice. “Actually, I’m going to a blueberry farm tomorrow because I’m thinking about adding blueberry pie to the menu. When I get back, I’ll bake one for you, and you can be the first to taste test it!”

“You’re going by yourself?” Donghyuck raises an eyebrow.

“Of course. Who else would I go with?”

“Me. I’ll go with you,” he replies immediately.

“But it’s, like, a forty-five-minute bus ride to the farm. Plus, coming with me to get ingredients isn’t part of your job description anyway,” you explain.

“I can’t come with you on my own free time?” he asks, tilting his head. “Besides, I’m worried about you overexerting yourself with that back injury. A bumpy bus ride definitely isn’t going to help, so I’ll drive us there.”

“You’re going to drive that fancy ass car to a farm? You do realize it’s going to be dirt roads, right?” You cross your arms.

“I think I’ll live. Besides, what makes you think this is the only fancy ass car I own?” He gives you an amused smile.

“You’re joking, right?” You stare at him.

He hesitates for a moment. “Yes.”

“That doesn’t sound―”

“What time are we leaving tomorrow morning?”

“...Seven.”

Unsurprisingly, Donghyuck picks you up right on time, not a minute too early or late. As the universe would have it, it rained the night prior―meaning all the dirt roads are now rivers of mud. You wince every time you heard a splat of mud hit Donghyuck’s pristine white car, but he seems to pay no mind to it. The two of you arrive at the farm within twenty minutes (he found a shortcut), and because you came so early, you get the entire farm to yourselves. The staff arms both of you with a large wicker basket each before setting you loose onto the massive property.

“Okay, make sure to pick the fat ones. The small ones are super tart, so avoid those,” you instruct Donghyuck. “We’re going to fill these baskets to the brim and get our money’s worth.”

“You got it, Captain.” He salutes.

You give him a determined nod and a thumbs up before turning to your respective side and beginning to pick the blueberries. The two of you work without much fanfare or conversation, and it’s a silence that lingers between you comfortably. It reassures you to hear the sound of the bushes rustling from Donghyuck working; his companionship alone relaxes you.

Eventually, when the sun starts peeking through and the weather grows warmer, both of you decide to take a break. You find a spot in the shade before sitting down, pulling out snacks and bottles of water from a backpack Donghyuck brought along.

“I have a surprise for you,” you tell him, trying to hide a smile. “Close your eyes.”

He eyes you suspiciously but does so anyway. You fish out a handful of unripe blueberries wrapped in a handkerchief from your pocket and feed some to him. His reaction is nearly instant the moment he starts chewing them; you watch as his face puckers up from how sour they are and his entire body shrivels into itself, a shudder running through him. He’s polite enough to not spit them out, but you’re not polite enough to resist pointing and laughing at him. Throwing your head back, you laugh so hard that your stomach starts to hurt.

“Oh my God, your face!”

“Ugh,” Donghyuck groans, taking a big gulp of his water. “I should’ve known you had sinister intentions from the start.”

“I didn’t think you’d react like that,” you finally manage to say after catching your breath. “You really can’t handle anything except for sweet stuff.”

“Are you having fun bullying me?” He rolls his eyes.

“So much fun,” you say in a sing-song voice.

Donghyuck tries to continue feigning annoyance, but he can’t help the low chuckle that rumbles in his chest. His eyes always soften when he looks at you, and his gaze is intimate like a lover’s―gentle, tender, unwavering, and vulnerable. But his warmth is always fleeting, and he only allows you glimpses of it through the unmoving walls that he’s erected around himself.

You wish he wouldn’t indulge you so, terrified you’ll try to cross the line he’s drawn between the two of you.

“What are you thinking about?” Donghyuck asks, trying to read your expression

“About the delicious pie I’m about to make when we get back,” you smile.

“I see,” he responds, though it’s clear he isn’t convinced. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“You better be. This is how I’m paying you back for driving me here,” you nod.

“Instead of that, pay me back by telling me what your favorite dessert is,” he suddenly says. “I do still want the pie, though.”

“That was random,” you snort. “Why do you want to know my favorite dessert?”

“Because you asked me, but you never told me yours.”

You suppose he has a point, but you find it ironic that he wants to know more about you when he refuses to offer you even a modicum of information about himself. Despite this, you tell him anyway because you are obviously the fool here.

“If you must know, it’s red velvet cake,” you sigh.

“Why?”

You don’t answer at first, carefully thinking about if you’re ready to be vulnerable in front of him―still a virtual stranger. A virtual stranger who loves sweets. A virtual stranger who is a bit of a messy eater. A virtual stranger who knows Pompompurin. A virtual stranger who worries about you even when he’s not on the clock. A virtual stranger who gently tells you to be careful whenever you try to do something dangerous, whispering, “I’ll do it instead.” A virtual stranger who allows his luxury car to be caked in mud for you.

“Because it’s the dessert that made me realize I want to do this for the rest of my life,” you finally say. “I baked it for my mom’s birthday, and I think I ended up being more excited than her.”

Donghyuck stays quiet, gauging your reaction.

“I was in college, studying to be a doctor like everyone else in my family. So, like a dumb young person who thought that dreams were more important than money, I dropped out of college and went to culinary school. My parents told me I was ruining mine and their lives, disowned me, yada-yada―a bunch of depressing stuff, you know. Eventually, I graduated, took out a huge loan, and opened up my own bakery. Worked a bunch of part-time jobs until my business could stand on its own. Now here I am. Still in debt, though,” you laugh awkwardly. “But I’m not doing too shabby. I was able to hire you, so at least I have a little cash to spare.”

He still doesn’t say anything, so you find yourself starting to ramble. You’re really not sure what possessed you to trauma dump on him like that.

“You know, a lot of people talk shit about red velvet cake because they say the only thing that makes it special is the red food coloring,” you hurriedly explain, “but that’s not true. The cream cheese frosting is super important too. Also, I always say love is the most important ingredient of all. As a baker, you’re kind of baring your heart to the customer, and isn’t it kind of cute that red velvet cake is red like a heart? Okay, please say something now or else I think I’m going to projectile vomit.”

Donghyuck reaches over and brushes a sweaty lock of hair out of your face. His fingers brush over your temple, which makes you sharply suck in a breath. You almost lean into his touch, but you catch yourself. His hand slightly lingers on the side of your neck, like he wants to bring your face closer, but he eventually pulls away.

He searches your face, and you’re not sure what he’s looking for―if anything. Rather, perhaps he’s not searching. Perhaps he’s committing your features to his memory, as if the way you look right now is something he wants to remember forever.

“You’ve worked hard, Y/N,” he says softly, voice slightly hoarse. “This is long overdue, but congratulations. You achieved your dream, and don’t let anyone ever discount that. Not even yourself.”

You wonder how long you’ve waited to hear that. You’re not even sure you knew you needed to hear that. But when Donghyuck says it, it hits you just how long and hard you’ve worked all on your own without a single break. Throughout the years, you’ve really only ever heard, “I’m sorry that happened.” When was the last time someone congratulated you? When was the last time you congratulated yourself?

You surge forward, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and burying your face in his shoulder. Donghyuck cradles you against him, one hand wound tightly around your waist while the other is tangled in your hair. You can feel his chest rise up and down as he holds you. He smells like lavender soap and a bit earthy from being outside, and the warmth of his skin against your cheek makes you want to close your eyes and fall asleep in his arms.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“No, thank you,” he murmurs into your hair.

You’re not sure why he’s thanking you instead, but what you are sure of is that you’re crossing the line, taking a step towards him and wondering if he’ll meet you halfway.

“Tada!” you announce cheerfully, setting down the freshly baked blueberry pie onto the table.

Donghyuck claps excitedly. “Holy shit, it looks amazing.”

“I’m still trying to figure out the right portions for the filling, so let me know if you think there’s too much or little,” you tell him as you hand him a slice.

Without even answering you, he stabs his fork into the pie and almost eats the entire slice in one bite, seemingly unbothered by the steam still rising from it.

“Be careful. You’re going to burn your tastebuds off. I’m not letting you eat it for shits and giggles, you know. This is for research purposes.” You cross your arms.

“It’s perfect, Y/N. I’m serious,” Donghyuck says after swallowing. “The filling isn’t too sweet, and the crust is airy and light.”

“Well, alright, Gordon Ramsay. I think we’re going to be adding a new menu item then,” you smile. “Think you can get Mrs. Kim to buy a dozen of these?”

“I don’t think she’ll need much convincing with how good these taste.”

“You’re so easy,” you tease. “All I need to do is feed you. Anyways, I’m going to clean up here, but you should head home. It’s getting late, and you wake up way earlier than me.”

“I’ll help,” he insists.

“Go,” you order, pointing at the door. “I can handle it.”

He looks conflicted but eventually relents when you threaten to physically kick him out. Before he leaves, he turns back to you and says, “Thank you, Y/N.”

“Why do you keep thanking me?” you laugh.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had this.”

“What? A blueberry pie?”

Donghyuck pauses, a slight wonder in his expression, as if he’s realizing his answer for the first time as well.

“Peace.”

And you think maybe this is a step forward for him too.

RECIPE 3. CREAM PUFF

It’s quite surreal how easily and naturally you and Donghyuck fall into a routine together. Somehow, in the blink of an eye, two weeks becomes two months. You’ve learned the little things about him, like how he always swipes some icing before you can fill up the piping bag or that he’s not a coffee drinker at all (more of a hot cocoa person) or that he purses his lips when a dessert he’s testing tastes off (no matter how hard he tries to hide it) or that he involuntarily sticks his arm out in front of you when he wants to stop you from doing something you shouldn’t.

You also notice that he sometimes comes into work with injuries. They’re not nearly as bad as the first time you met him, but it’s hard to ignore a bruised cheek or bloodied knuckles. He always has a reason for them, whether it’s tripping down the stairs or accidentally falling down and scraping his hands on the concrete. You can tell by the way he laughs it off that he doesn’t plan on telling you the truth, so you laugh with him. The two of you, having taken only a step towards one another, find yourselves completely immobile now.

He always does this: envelops you like a cloud but disappears the moment you reach out for him.

You’re honestly not sure why he’s still here. Your injury has long healed, and he clearly doesn’t need the abysmal pay you’re giving him. He feels like he’ll slip away at any moment, fleeting like a warm spring breeze, and you suppose time flies by when you know it’s limited. Despite knowing that, you can’t help but desperately want him to stay.

“I think it’s cute how hard he’s working,” Yeri randomly says one day as she eyes Donghyuck prepare orders in the front. He’s in the middle of a lunchtime rush, so he doesn’t even notice the two of you watching him like weirdos.

“Well, that’s what I’m paying him to do,” you reply, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, I think the money is the least of his worries here,” she hums, taking a sip of her coffee.

She has a point, but you’re pretty sure she’s implying something else as well. Just as you go to ask her what exactly she means, you hear a loud clatter. Flinching, you turn your attention back to Donghyuck and realize that he’s dropped a tray on the floor. However, the tray is the last thing on your mind when you see the expression on his face. It’s a mixture of horror, anger, and almost sadness―like he’s finally come face-to-face with whatever he’s been running from. It makes your blood run cold.

Donghyuck is looking at a boy around his age; the boy has dark hair, a mole under his eye, and a grim expression. More importantly, he’s covered in injuries too.

“Who is that?” Yeri whispers. “Why does Donghyuck look like he’s seen a ghost?”

Maybe because he has, you want to tell her.

Donghyuck grabs the boy's arm, squeezing so tightly that his knuckles turn white, and mumbles something to him. When he turns around and meets your eyes, he looks pained and fearful as if you witnessed something you shouldn’t have.

“Is it okay if I take my break early today?” he asks calmly, though the tremor in his voice gives him away.

You nod hesitantly, unable to force yourself to speak. You watch him as he drags the boy out; when he passes you, you can tell how tightly his body is wound right now. His jaw is clenched, a muscle spasming as he tries to control himself, and every step he takes seems labored. He’s running on pure adrenaline right now, like he’s physically steeling himself.

However, you don’t think he’s ever appeared so incredibly alone before. As you watch his back disappear further and further from your view, you’re unsure if he’ll ever return, and you never imagined how terrifying that would be.

The cream puffs aren’t rising.

You’re crouched in front of the oven, watching the dough remain flat and lifeless. You should’ve known better than to attempt to make cream puffs on such a shitty day, especially when pastries like these are so sensitive to the environment and atmosphere. Even though you know you should probably just scrap them and try again, you wait for just a little longer, hoping that maybe if you wish hard enough that they’ll magically start to rise.

But then again you suppose that no matter how hard you try, no matter how careful you are, no matter how perfect the batter is, no matter how much time you spend time piping them, no matter how much you want them to rise, they won’t.

You decide that Donghyuck isn’t like a tiramisu at all; he’s sensitive and delicate and elusive and frustrating like a cream puff.

“Y/N, they’re burning.”

Losing your balance and nearly falling over, you gasp loudly. You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t even hear Donghyuck walk into the kitchen, nor did you smell the undeniable scent of something being burnt to a crisp.

“Oh, fu―!” you curse, hurriedly opening the oven and casually suffocating both you and Donghyuck with a hot plume of air. Sputtering, you look around and grab a random rag from the sink before reaching for the cream puffs.

“Wait, stop!” Donghyuck stops you with an outstretched arm, his hand pressed to your side. “Let me do it.”

He gently takes the rag from your hand and removes the tray of charred cream puffs from the oven, dumping them into the trash before putting the tray in the sink and running some water on it―just how you like it.

Letting out a relieved sigh, he turns back to you and asks, “Are you okay? It’s not like you to make a mistake like that. You didn’t get burned anywhere, did you?”

When you don’t answer immediately, Donghyuck rushes forward and grabs your hands, carefully examining your fingers and arms. “Wait, are you hurt? Where? Tell me where you got burned. We have to cool it down with some lukewarm water. And don’t just say you’re fine. Burns are not a joke, Y/N―why are you looking at me like that?”

His hands are calloused and rough, and you can still see scabs from where he tore his knuckles, yet he touches you like you’re the delicate one. He’s covered in fresh and old wounds, yet he looks so panicked at the thought of you having a scratch.

“Shut up,” you whisper furiously, ripping your hands away from him. “From now on, don’t ask me another question. It’s my turn to ask you questions.”

He blinks, a bit stunned by your reaction, but it’s clear he knows what you’re about to say. He goes to reach for you again but decides against it. “Okay.”

“Who was that guy?” you demand. “Why are you always covered in injuries? Why did you lie to me? Who are you?”

“He’s an old friend,” Donghyuck starts quietly.

“Do you treat all your friends like that?”

“When I don’t want to see them.”

You wait for him to continue.

“Before I met you, he and I and a few of our other friends worked…odd jobs for cash,” he explains, and he looks like he’s choking on every word. “The jobs usually entailed us hurting people and also getting hurt. I did a lot of shit I wasn’t proud of. At the time, I didn’t really care. It was just nice to feel something, whether it was the adrenaline rush from doing the punching or the pain from being punched. I got a bunch of money, bought a bunch of expensive stuff, but none of it mattered. Eventually, I just felt nothing again. I didn’t even have the energy to loathe myself anymore. So, I took one last job, got the shit kicked out of me, and then I left. That’s when you found me―”

He inhales, and his eyes flicker towards you. He gazes at you so longingly, as if you were impossibly out of his reach, that you can’t help but involuntarily take a step towards him.

But he steps back.

“I thought that working here would make me feel like a human being again, but I didn’t realize how much I would―” He pauses again. “I thought working here would be a nice reset for me, but I naively thought that I could completely leave my past behind. My friends eventually found me, and I guess I care about those reckless assholes more than I thought because they managed to convince me to take on a few more jobs with them. That’s why I’ve been coming to work with injuries. But I’m done. I cut them off for good when they walked into this bakery. I don’t want…I don’t want our past to tarnish this place. I want to keep this place a beautiful, warm, and pure safe haven that you worked so hard for it to be. That’s why I lied to you, Y/N. I’m a coward to the bone, and I was envious of you. I was ashamed to admit it to you. You, who had the courage to chase after your dream. You, who had the kindness to help a good-for-nothing asshole like me. I only want you to have happy memories from now on, and I am not one of them.”

“Are you going to leave?” you ask softly.

“I probably should,” he answers shakily.

“What’s stopping you?”

“Just…one reason.”

“When you say it like that, it makes it sound like the reason is me.”

Donghyuck laughs bitterly, and his eyes drag across your face like every movement hurts him.

“You know it’s you. It’s always been you.”

When you reach for his hand, he turns away like just the warmth from your body heat burns him. So instead, you take a step back.

“I won’t ask you to stay, Donghyuck, I won’t chase you. I’m going to wait right here, and it’s up to you if you're going to meet me halfway.”

RECIPE 4. RED VELVET CAKE

When your alarm clock goes off the next morning, you seriously consider just not showing up to work. It’s not like you can be fired for being a no-show when you’re your own boss, after all.

And it’s not like you have any employees who will be expecting you.

You’ll just apologize to Mrs. Kim and your other regulars later. You’re allowed to have a day where you just rot in bed and feel sorry for yourself.

However, no matter how much you tell yourself that, you find yourself crawling out of bed and getting ready anyway. You can’t seem to brutally crush that small glimmer of hope that Donghyuck might still be there, no matter how hard you try. When you see yourself in the mirror, you recoil in horror. Your eyes are almost swollen shut from the amount of crying you did last night, and your face is sallow and lifeless.

So much for putting on a brave face, you think wryly to yourself. You tried so hard to look tough, when in reality, you bawled your eyes out and even considered praying to God for Donghyuck to stay. It’s a humiliating and humbling reality check.

“Stand up right now,” you sharply tell yourself in the mirror. “He’s just some guy. Get it together.”

You do your best to clean up your appearance and make the trek over to the bakery. It takes another internal pep talk before you can make your way to the door. After you finally walk up, you see that the lights inside are off. Your stomach sinks, and your eyes start to burn. Even though you’re holding the handle, you can’t bring yourself to open the door. It’s an outcome that you expected, yet you wonder why it hurts so badly.

“You liar,” you mumble to yourself, “You said you only wanted me to have happy memories.”

Once you make your way inside, you numbly head towards the kitchen, trying to remember what exactly you have to do today. Oh right, now that he’s not here, you also have to make sure all the ingredients are prepped first.

When you walk into the kitchen, you do a double-take.

The whole place looks like it’s been completely ransacked: used pans and utensils piled up in the sink, two opened boxes of cake mix, containers of ingredients without lids on on the tables, random lumps of flour and egg shells strewn about―

And right in front of the oven is Donghyuck, flour in his hair and frosting on his nose. He’s holding a cake stand with…you think it’s supposed to be a cake on it? The shape is mangled and haphazardly cut, but it has echoes of a heart. The frosting is a hot mess, as if a bird with diarrhea shat all over the cake. The batter is clearly underbaked and makes the cake look gooey in a bad way.

“Um, I promise I’ll clean all of this up in a second, but I wanted to surprise you,” Donghyuck starts awkwardly. “It’s not perfect, but I tried making a red velvet cake for you.”

You stare at him, still not sure how to react.

“You once said that baking is like baring your heart to the customer and that love is the most important ingredient of all,” he laughs softly to himself. “I think love is the only ingredient I managed to get right, but I’m baring my heart to you now, Y/N. I’m sorry I hid everything and lied to you, but I’m in love with you. Hopelessly so. All my life, I’ve chased a feeling, not knowing what it was. But now I do. I don’t think I knew how to feel until I met you. I never once thought I would ever have a purpose in my life, but you make me want to be a normal, proper member of society. Your dream is my dream. I want to wake up at 5AM and sell egg tarts with you for the rest of my life, if you’ll have me.”

Donghyuck sets the cake down on a table in front of you, and you notice that his fingers are dyed red from the food coloring. It almost reminds you of when you first met him, except his injuries have been replaced with red food coloring, flour, and cream cheese frosting.

“This cake is terrible,” you smile, “how did you butcher it that badly when you used cake mix?”

You watch him blush all the way down to his neck, as he sheepishly looks away. “Don’t make fun of me. I really tried my best. I stayed up watching tutorials―”

Leaning across the table, you cup his face with both hands and kiss him, brushing your thumbs across his cheekbones. He tastes like frosting, hot cocoa, and your prayers being answered. The way he kisses you back is bruising, dizzying and knocking any coherent thought out of your head, his hands finding your hips and anchoring you to him. He kisses you like you’re the sweetest and most wonderful thing he’s ever tasted.

When you finally pull away, it takes you a moment to regain feeling in your legs. Donghyuck presses his forehead against yours, lips brushing against yours once again as the two of you try to catch your breath.

“I think I’m going to have to fire you, though,” you whisper. “You know, with me being your boss and all. The power dynamic is too weird.”

He hums, pausing for thought. “Then how about I become your business partner?”

“What?”

Donghyuck reaches into his pocket and fishes out his wallet, pulling out a shiny and fancy-looking credit card. He hands it to you without much fanfare.

“I have a lot of money, you know. So I’m going to invest in your business. Use it as you’d like,” he casually announces.

You stare at him, your jaw hanging wide open. He never tried to hide from you that he was rich, but he never told you that he was rich rich.

“Well, damn! Why didn’t you show me this earlier? I would have forgiven you a lot sooner,” you tease, slapping him on the arm. “Are you sure you want to give this to me? I’m quite the gold-digger, you know.”

“When I told you to use it as you’d like, I meant me as well,” Donghyuck replies, shrugging.

“You’re insane.” You hope he can’t tell how much your face is burning up.

“I guess I am,” he laughs, and you don’t think he’s ever looked so free. You want to tell him that you hope he only has happy memories from now on too. You want to tell him that you’ll rewrite all of his scars with sugary and fluffy desserts so that they won’t ever hurt again.

And for the first time in your life, you feel it too.

Peace.

EXTRA

“So, have you figured out what your favorite dessert is?”

Donghyuck stirs slightly, groaning, as he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you closer. He slips his hand under your shirt (well, technically it’s his shirt) and rests it on your bare hip bone.

“Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Because I’m curious.”

“If I answer, will you let me rest?”

“Depends on how good your answer is.”

“Blueberry pie. That’s my answer.”

You smile against the crook of his neck.

“Why?”

“Because it’s the dessert that made me realize I want to do this for the rest of my life.”

#nct imagines #nct scenarios #haechan fluff #haechan angst #nct dream fluff #nct dream angst #nct 127 fluff #nct 127 angst #nct 127 imagines #haechan #nct #choerrypuffs

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killerpancakeburger · 2 months ago

Text

Well-placed Trust

As soldiers unpromptedly walk in on a maskless Ghost and you, your solution to protect his face is to shove it in your chest.

Tags: f!reader (boobs involved), civilian!reader, protective!reader, fluff + smut, Praise, Ghost is a menace (positive), boobs worship, 1k words.

Gaining Simon Riley's trust was not something you ever planned to achieve. However, now that you've had it, you were fiercely protective of it.

This would explain why, when you heard the door to Ghost's room randomly opening, and your eyes flew to the skull mask laying on his desk— barely a meter away but it might as well have been on the other side of the ocean—, your first instinct was to launch yourself at him. Bluntly shoving his face into your chest without warning, in hopes to conceal it from the newly arrived trespassers, and wrapping your arms around his head in a desperate attempt to hide his hair as well.

Nevermind that he's trapped right between your breasts.

You throw a mildly accusatory stare at the entrance, and coarse laughs ring out, followed by a barely believable apology.

“Oops, sorry. Wrong door. Didn’t mean to interrupt!”

You let out a relieved sigh as the door closes. However said relief is quick to vanish as you realize Simon hasn’t reacted at all this whole time. Not a word, not even a grunt; not a move, not even to repel you.

You let go of him like you've been burnt, even raising your hands in surrender.

“Sorry! Are you mad? I panicked, I was just trying to—”

Your waterfall of apologies brutally ceases when, after attempting to back away, you're stopped short by his embrace. You don’t know when he wrapped his arms around your waist. His expression still out of sight, anxiety nags at you, despite the logical part of your mind emphasizing that if he was actually angry, there's no way he'd demonstrate it by hugging you.

So you insists.

“Ghost?”

“Mmh.”

The sound is raspy, unbothered. He idly rubs his face against your torso, and the motion is enough to make your crotch throbs with arousal. Inhaling sharply at the unexpected sensation, you clench your thighs together.

“Simon,” you call again, trying to sound severe this time.

You have absolutely zero reservation in granting all the hugs he might crave, but surely they could be performed in a less… compromising position. Lest you end this cuddle session squirming with want. And a burning face. And the imperative need to never cross the lieutenant ever again, for fear that you'd spontaneously combust with mortification otherwise.

“‘M not mad.“

The gruff, familiar voice appeases your tension a little— the emotional one, that is. Not the physical one.

“You're not? You have a right to b—”

“I trust you.”

Your heart skips a beat at the confession. You suspected it, hoped for it— but hearing it out loud is another matter entirely. Simon Riley is a man of few words, but the ones he does pronounce are always sincere, to the point of bluntness. For him to feel the need to spell it out loud, it has to be important.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You've put my comfort over yours, no questions asked. Couldn’t be more pleased, love.”

The gravel in his voice does funny things to your stomach— why, why, why? It never had that effect before.

You try to ignore the signals sent by your body, instead passing a hand behind your neck in self-consciousness.

“Oh… well. It was nothing. I'd do it again in a heartbeat—”

“You've been so good to me, sweetheart. Don't ya think you deserve a reward?”

Your brain short-circuits. Your skin gets even warmer. Surely you misheard him.

He finally unsticks his face from your chest, resting his chin above your sternum, only to stare with the start of some impatience drowned out in warmth and fondness.

He's a vision, one that takes your breath away and causes heat to pool in your stomach.

Heavy-lidded eyes, disheveled hair, ardent stare, he's a languid, lascivious mess.

“I need an answer. Preferably in one word. Yes, no, fuck off…”

In other, normal circumstances, you would have stayed mute from the shock, or helplessly stuttered, but the imperative desire to not disappoint him, to preserve the contentment he displays, takes over.

“Fuck. Yes.”

The low chuckle that escapes him in reaction to the eagerness of your reply makes you bite back a moan. Your hands close into fists on the back of his shirt.

He lifts your shirt— "hold this for me, love"— and effortlessly frees your chest from your bra. The second your skin is bare, he presses his face back into it, nuzzling against it with a blissful sigh.

With one hand busy grasping your top, and the other clinging onto his shoulder for balance, there's nothing you can do but submit yourself to his ministrations.

It's your turn to sigh in pleasure as he proceeds to kiss an invisible line between the bottom and the top of your breast, fingers stroking the curve between your ribs and your nipple.

“Never dreamed you'd let me get my face on those, love.”

Groggy, it takes a conscious effort on your part to register what he's saying.

“Such a generous thing. It's only right you get payback.”

“You're very… talkative all of a sudden.”

“S'that a problem? Think I'm not putting my tongue to use enough?”

Right after that, said tongue swirl around your nipple and you can feel yourself clench around nothing.

“Or maybe that's just not your thing,” he adds, casually, as if he hadn’t been shamelessly gropping, kissing, licking and sucking your chest.

“I never said that.”

Your reply had been straight off, out of fear that he'd take offense and puts a stop to all this.

“You know what to do to shut me up, anyway.”

You don’t react to his provocative tone, but you’re tempted by the invitation nonetheless— to muffle that smart mouth with your bust…

Just as his focus on your breasts threatens to not suffice you anymore, his thumb insistantly rubbs the apex of your thighs, and you push back against it openly.

“Easy there, sweetheart,” he soothes you, but you can see how pleased he is by your eagerness. “M just gettin’ started.”

Soon enough he disposed of your pants, and he's parting your knees to nuzzle against your inner thigh the way he was against your chest mere moments ago. You can’t help but close them partially, and instantly he's staring you down, eyes brimming with taunt.

“Gonna smother me with your thighs, sweetheart? Like you did with your tits, mh? Better be prepared in case we get ‘interrupted’ again.”

“Fucking hell, Ghost,” you groan, half exasperated, half even more aroused, as he finally steers his head towards your crotch.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost cod #ghost smut #cod fanfic #cod fic #cod smut #cod fluff #ghost x reader #forced to repost 😔#mine #1k

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ireneispunk · 7 months ago

Text

Duty

Jacaerys Velaryon x female reader smut

After a rough start to your marriage, whispers from the palace cause you and your betrothed to start what you should have done months ago; produce an heir.

w.c: 1487

c.w: SMUT 18+, NO use of Y/N, not exactly enemies but y'all beefing, hate sex (if you squint, but more like dislike sex and its more just sass idfk), mention of pregnancy, breeding kink, afab reader, p in v sex, fingering, overstimulation, pls let me know if i've missed any

a.n: so i recently watched the queen charlotte bridgerton spin off and i absolutely loved it, this is very inspired by charlotte and george's earlier dynamic tee hee.

Four months and 3 days. That is how long it has been since your wedding, and how long you have loathed your husband. The two of you were not exactly close before your betrothal on account of the rapidness of it but the tensions that spread between parts of his family did not help. You both seem to fight every conversation you had thereafter, so it became easier to avoid each other. That was until around 3 months into your betrothal that questions of when you would need your dresses altering had you worried. You were supposed to making heirs but you both exploded whilst in the same room as each other. You’d visited the prince in his separate room and communicated the issue, he was reading by the fire. You played with your fingers in your hands as he eyed the flaw, thinking intently. He placed his book face down on the table as he petted the bench beside him. You hesitated for a moment, before sitting next to him. “Once a week, we will fulfil our, uh, duty to try and produce an heir. Once you are with child we will stop.” You thought for a moment, before nodding. You couldn’t help but feel your heart sink. This was not what you had wished for in your marriage. Jacaerys was a painfully handsome man, dark curls that framed he chiselled features.

“It is the end of the week today, your grace.” You spoke, not fully considering the implications of the statement. But the quicker your belly was full the better.

He turned to you, hesitated for a moment before moving closer to you and pulled you onto his lap. You were surprised by the sudden closeness of someone, let alone your husband. He looked up from beneath you with a glimmer of what he had on your wedding night, without the naïve hope. His hands slid up from your hips to the bust of your dress, he looked into your eyes before giving the bodice of your dress a quick tug down allowing your breast to spill out. You gasped as his hands cupped over your breasts, massaging them before running a thumb over your nipple. You brought your bottom lip between your teeth as you felt a warmth spread over your body. You didn’t dare look him in the eye, keeping your eyes shut or trained on the ceiling. You felt as one hand left your breast and hike up your dress further up your hips. He sighed to himself slightly, at the sight of your exposed cunt. He could not believe his luck the first time he had saw you. You were quite possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and unfortunately that did not change the more you both disliked each other. If anything, it grew. Seeing you from across the room at formal engagements, gluing to his side when you needed to seem like the happy couple. It made the frustrations between the two of you even more palpable over the past few months, given the lack of relief. You opened your eyes to see his dark eyes looking up at you. He brought his two first fingers up to your lips, “Open.” His soft tone contradicted the demand and look upon his face. His fingers slid into your mouth, gliding across your tongue as you closed your lips around them. Out of sheer lust you grinded your hips against him, needing to feel some release and gaining small jolt at the feeling of your cunt rubbing against his clothed cock. His free hand shot to your waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh. He removed his fingers from your mouth, admiring his spit covered fingers for a moment before they reached between your thighs and lightly grazed across your clit. You jolted, leaning forward to grip the bench behind him.

You could not stop the moan that escaped your mouth as his fingers slowly ran circles across your clit. He smirked as the noises that fell from your lips, knowing how much you couldn’t bare to be around him but fell apart in his arms was a satisfying feeling. “I did not know you were so needy, dear wife.” The honorific felt like a pin prick. Insincere and laced with sarcasm.

Despite the tightening growing in your stomach, you could not let him have the final word as usual. “You hadn’t been paying close enough attention, your grace.” A flash of frustration flashed upon his face as his hand moved to grip your hair and fingers plunged inside of you. A gasp left you as his fingers thrusted deep inside of your cunt, you had gone from strolling towards an orgasm to being thrown at it. The tips of his fingers curled slightly, deliciously massaging that spot inside your pussy that drove you wild. You jaw fell open, eyes going wide at the loss of contact when he removed his fingers from you. You went to protest before seeing his cock in his hands, brows furrowed as he stroked the length.

You couldn’t hold off any longer before you took a hold of his wrists and pushed his hands away to his sides. You took his cock into your hand giving it a few pumps, watching an expression of lust spread across his face. You leaned over slightly, letting a ball of spit leave your lips and watch as it slid down his cock. He hissed, returning his hands to your hips pulling you closer to him. You took the hint, angling his cock towards your pussy, rubbing the tip over your clit for your own pleasure a few times, before lining him up and sliding down slowly, a large groan left his lips as be bottomed out inside of you. You had forgotten just how big his cock was, and just how good it had felt filling you up. You began to raise your hips up and down, moans leaving your lips as you did. You worked at a steady pace but after being accustomed to his hands began to push up and down with the movements of your hips moving you faster. Your fingernails dug into his shoulders as he pounded into you, no matter how much your stifled your moans, you gave him the satisfaction of them loudly leaving your lips. His hand reached up to yours, removing it from his shoulders and moving your fingers between your legs. You immediately got his instruction, fingers latching onto your clit. You worked tight circles into it as you got filled over and over with Jacaerys’ cock. A familiar tightness returned to your stomach as your head dropped back and numerous illicit words left your lips. Recognising your peak, he pulled you forward by your thighs, almost pressing your bodies against each other as he quickened his pace. Your orgasm cascaded over you, feeling your pussy tighten around Jacaerys’ cock and your body buzz from the overstimulation. You rode out your high atop of him, watching as his eyes screwed shut and his thrusts became sloppier.

You took the opportunity to return your knees to the bench either side of him and bob your hips up and down as fast as you could. His fingers reached the lip of the bench gripping it until his knuckles turned white. “Mmm, my grace,” You moaned out. His eyes shot open, his heart pounding at your remark. “Please fill me with your seed.” You pleaded and moaned, half doing it for a reaction, half because it felt too good. His jaw hung open in shock for a split second before he sputtered a moan from his lips, hips snapping into yours. You felt satisfied as a warmth filled your pussy. Your hips moved slightly, slowly thrusting his cock inside of you still. His hand shot to your hip, mumbling something, before you placed your hand flat across his chest. You bobbed a few more times on his cock, being sure to be as full as possible with his cum. You smirked to yourself seeing his head throne back, lip quivering, veins prominent in his hands gripping your waist, sweaty curls sticking to his neck. You slowly raised yourself off of his cock, standing to your feet and trying to mask your wobbliness as adjusting your dress.

You stole a glance his way, admiring his beauty before he spoke and ruined it. He panted through his mouth, arms outstretched over the sides of the bench. You smirked to yourself, admiring how he too had crumbled for you. The opening of his doorhandle caused him to call your name from behind you. You glanced at him and smiled. “Goodnight your grace, see you in seven eves’.” He opened his mouth to response, but you had already shut the door behind you. You hoped it would be sooner before he fucked you again.

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submattenthusiast · 2 months ago

Text

caught

summary - catching matt humping his pillow

pairings; sub!matt x soft-dom! reader (no use of y/n)

contents; smut; male masturbation; mommy kink; etc.

notes- thank y'all for the love on my work, i heart each and every one of you so bad. enjoy!

you didn’t necessarily have a rule against matt touching when you’re not with him, no but he recently figured out he couldn’t cum without you.

he tried so hard to cum, he felt like his dick was going to fall off with how many times he’s jerked himself off, trying to reach that high point. he feels pathetic, absolutely fucking pathetic, he can’t cum without the soothing praises that you whisper, the soft pet names you call him, he needs it, he needs you.

matt begged you not to leave the house this morning, claiming that the errands could wait and that spending time with him was more important. you reassured him that you would only be a few hours and that he could be the passenger princess if he wanted.

upon his refusal you headed out, kissing his pouty lips goodbye.

matt tried to keep himself busy, watching tiktok, youtube, eating, and playing video games– which satisfied him for a split second until he was bored again. he had never felt so clingy in his life, not clingy enough to call or text you though. he had stalked your location just about a thousand times after you left. you were still at the store, not on your way home, not in the driveway.

matt slid down in his gaming chair, you still weren’t home yet and it had been hours. he was pouting, he just wanted to be with you. his mind began to wander, thinking about you, how pretty you were, how much he loved you, how your hands felt wrapped around his cock.

sinful thoughts began to cloud his head, he was practically drooling at memories of your intimate moments. matt winced at the tent growing in his jeans, cock rubbing against his boxers, beginning to feel tight. he closed his eyes, a soft exhale coming from his mouth as he reached down to palm himself.

this was so wrong, is what he kept kelling himself but it felt too good, and you were still nowhere to be found so why not?

his pleasure was short lasting as lust took over his body, he craved more. his hand was no longer enough for him. he opened his eyes with a groan, agitated that he still couldn’t satisfy himself.

his blue eyes roam around the room, looking for something to satisfy his hunger until they landed on the pillows on his bed, specifically the pillow you sleep on. matt chewed on the skin of his lips, he felt dirty for even considering humping the very pillow you sleep on at night, but it smelt like you and your scent drives him insane.

insane enough to hump this pillow for some relief.

matt sauntered over towards your side of the bed, reaching for your pillow, catching a whiff of your natural scent. he let out a whine before positioning it properly. he nervously sat next to the pillow, he’s never done anything like this before, he was feeling awkward. he adjusted his cock in his jeans, they were getting unbearably tight. that was the final push he needed.

he was driven to please himself that he forgot to check your location, to make sure you wouldn’t catch him in such a vulnerable position. you had stopped for gas quickly before heading home.

matt was kneeling on the bed now, plush pillow brushing against his crotch. he started easy, not wanting to cum so quickly, he was flustered enough by his actions. he wanted to draw this out as long as possible, so he kept his jeans on, gaining as much friction as possible.

faint moans and whimpers bounced off the walls of the room, the wood of his headboard squeaked as he moved his hips frantically against the pillow.

the sound of the garage rang throughout the house, you were finally home. matt was blissfully unaware of your presence.

“matt?” you called out, and was met with silence. it was creepy, not to mention all the lights were out. the only time the house was quiet like this was when you both were asleep. you shrugged it off and stepped out of your shoes and made your way upstairs.

his name was on the tip of your tongue until you heard them, the sound of moans and whines coming from your shared bedroom. you stopped on the top of the stairs, unsure of what to think, mind going to the worst case scenario.

you tiptoed to the door, calmly twisting the knob. you were met with a mouthwatering sight, matt grinding hungrily into one of his various pillows, mouth ajar, pleas of desperation falling out. his hair was a mess, shirt pulled up just enough to show his happy trail, jeans unbuckled but not fully off.

you were about to make your presence known until a particularly loud moan came from him. “fuck mommy it hurts please” he moaned. he paused his thrusts momentarily to shuffle his jeans down to his ankles, not bothering to remove them fully.

he froze as he saw the door open, he swore it was closed before. he stood in his boxers unable to move as he turned his head to the door. you stood in the door frame, smile on your face as you greeted him “hi honey, missed me?”. his face burned red, he can’t believe you caught him with his pants down, literally. you treaded into the room, shutting the door behind you.

“i-i can explain–” he stuttered out “just missed you so much and i got horny-” he babbled. “are you close?” you questioned, debating on what to do with the boy. “y-yes are you mad– i’ll stop” he anxiously spoke, breaking eye contact.

you stepped further into the room, walking towards the opposite side of the bed. matt’s curious eyes followed you, watching your every move. you perched up against the headboard, as if you were going to watch tv. you patted the spot where he previously was, he was still frozen, hesitant to move.

“you’re going to cum from humping that pillow sweetheart, then if you’re good i’ll take care of you” you explained to the boy who was visibly confused. “y-yes mommy i’ll be your good boy i promise” he said while climbing back onto the bed.

matt leaned down into the bed as he gained his rhythm back, hips thrusting into the pillow hurridly. “there you go, just like that” you praised, your thighs clenched together as you watched him, fucking into the bed like he does you.

his cock spasmed in his briefs and the coil in his stomach threatened to snap. “mommy close fuck– please need to cum” matt sobbed. his hips never slowed, chasing the orgasm that he’s been craving for hours.

“ah please mama i can’t hold it please fuck” he pleaded. “cum for mama” you hummed.

his eyes rolled back into his head as he came, his hips stuttered and his jaw went slack. high pitched moans decorated the room.

white stripes of cum filled his boxers, leaking out from the side. he rode out his high, exhausted from all the effort he put in.

“thank you mommy fuck i needed that” he sighed,flopping onto the bed next to you. you giggled at his silly motions, before caressing his hair.

“you did all the work sweet boy, i’m proud of you” you warmly said. matt blushed at your words. “but now mommy needs help too” you whined. matt jumped up “i can help, i’ll do whatever, please let me make you feel good” he begged. “whatever?, gonna fuck me like that pillow?” you teased, working him up again.

notes - this is really bad but i wanted to put something out. not proofread

taglist; @mattybsgroupie @frnkocnlvr @fratboychrisera @issysh3ll @zariyam @bellassturniolo @thepubeburgler @gwennybenny @matts-myloverboy

#matt stuniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo x reader #sturniolo triplets #sub matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo imagine #sturniolo triplets smut #matthew sturniolo #sub matthew sturniolo #matthew sturniolo fanfic #matthew sturniolo smut #matthew sturniolo x reader #jules writes 📓 !!

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sunnymoonxx · 5 months ago

Text

❝programmed for pleasure❞ | qimir x fem!reader

pairing: qimir x fem!reader

summary: Your best friend Qimir always had your back, and that didn't change when the Jedi accused you of treachery. Without hesitation, Qimir helps you hide. After days of close quarters and constant danger, things get heated and secrets flow to the surface.

warnings: this is just filth, english is not my native language, p in v, rough sex, unprotected sex (who needs it with him right), fingering, hints of mind control, reader finds out qimir's identity during the act, choking, cockwarming, degradating, praising, 5k+ words, not proofread

a/n: in ep2 when osha was pretending to be mae and qimir's mask dropped- so did my panties and i wish we could see what would happen if the jedi didnt barge in

also i apologise if this is not my best work my brain's rotting

now playing, fill the void by the weekend and lily rose depp

The sun blazed overhead, casting long shadows across the bustling market square. The air shimmered with heat, and the scent of exotic spices mixed with the dust kicked up by the steady flow of people. The cacophony of merchants hawking their wares and customers bartering for goods filled the air, creating a lively yet chaotic atmosphere. That's when you jumped in, covered in a heavy cloak, weaving through the crowd, moving with desperate urgency that contrasted sharply with the slow pace of the marketgoers.

Your breaths came in ragged gasps, and sweat trickled down your temples, but you didn’t dare slow down. Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat echoing the fear that suffocated you.

You glanced over your shoulder, scanning for signs of your pursuers. There, in the distance, the unmistakable silhouettes of Jedi Knights moved with an unerring determination, their robes flowing like liquid shadows. Panic surged within you, propelling you forward even faster.

You stumbled into a fruit vendor, nearly toppling the cart, and barely registering the vulgar complaint thrown at you, only focused on your desired destination.

Ahead, through the throng of people, you spotted the familiar sign of your friend’s shop. It was a small, unassuming place, nestled between two larger establishments, almost easy to miss if you didn't know what to look for. You aimed yourself toward it like a ship setting course for a distant star, your legs burning from the exertion.

Another quick glance back showed the Jedi gaining ground, their calm, composed faces a stark contrast to your own panic. You had to reach the shop; you had to get to safety. With a final burst of energy, you pushed through a group of curious onlookers, thrusting them to the ground, and practically threw yourself against the door of the shop.

It swung open with a jingle of bells as you tumbled inside, the cool air a welcome relief against the overheating streets. You slammed the door shut behind you, the noise causing your friend, Qimir, to look up from behind the counter, his eyes widening in surprise.

"Hey, what are you—"

"Shush," you panted, leaning heavily against the door, trying to catch your breath, scanning any sign of the Jedi through the glass door. "I need to hide."

“What is going on?” Qimir appeared right behind you, his face a mix of concern and curiosity. He motioned for you to follow him. This wasn’t the first time you had begged Qimir to help you, and many times you had promised to pay him back, but you never did. You tried to calm yourself as you followed him to the back of the shop where the infamous hidden trapdoor was placed.

“I owe you,” you breathed out, looking up at Qimir before you kneeled down to get in, climbing your way into a narrow space, the darkness of the room slowly enveloping you.

“You always do,” he murmured to himself before he closed the door, leaving you alone in the pitch-black darkness. You’d been here many times, so it wasn’t difficult finding a certain switch, turning on the lights that partially blinded you. As you quickly got used to them, your other senses heightened, hearing Qimir making his way back to the front of the shop above your head.

You pressed yourself against the cool earth, willing your racing heart to calm. Above, you could hear the faint murmur of voices, the unmistakable timbre of the Jedi questioning. You held your breath, every muscle in your body tense, praying that your hiding place would remain undiscovered.

You calmed yourself, putting your hand on your chest where your heart would be, carefully listening to the conversation above you.

“Have you seen a cloaked figure running by this shop? We saw them run this way; do not bother us with lies,” came Yord’s unmistakable voice. You had never liked him, even as a youngling or a Padawan. He finished his trials sooner than you and felt the need to remind you every second. Today was the last day you decided to respect it.

“I think I saw someone pass by, but I didn’t see their face or where they were going,” you heard Qimir lie to the Jedi, protecting you again. You never grasped how he could lie to the Jedi and not get caught. You always suspected he was Force-sensitive and accidentally blocked everyone out of his mind, but that theory vanished quickly when he once face-planted on the ground after you woke him from his peaceful sleep. Maybe he was just a good liar.

Minutes felt like hours, but eventually, you heard the Jedi grow quiet, leaving the shop. You allowed yourself a tentative sigh of relief, knowing that you had narrowly escaped capture. For now, you were safe, as long as you stayed with Qimir.

It didn’t take long for Qimir to come back for you, opening the trapdoor to get you out. You climbed fast, jumping at him, almost crushing him with your suffocating hug.

“I’d like an elaboration on this one,” he declared into your ear, waiting for you to let go of the hug but returning it with slight pressure. “Weren’t you supposed to be in the Outer Rim? That’s where your Master sent you.” You let him go, running your fingers through his hair, making a big mess on his head. He let out an annoyed scuff, furrowing his eyebrows, but his smile betrayed him.

“Hmm,” you whispered, turning back to him to walk to the door and shut down the blinds. The Jedi might have been gone, but you weren’t sure. “I was already there. Mission accomplished.” You replied with excitement as you threw away your cloak on the counter, turning in a circle back to Qimir. His expression was to die for.

“Wait,” he picked up his hand as if to stop you from coming closer to him. You stopped your movements, a cheerful smile playing on your lips. “You killed Kelnacca, without a weapon, and managed to come back and do whatever you did for the Jedi to hunt you down?” He didn’t trust you at all, and it was painfully obvious. He circled around you to block your way, even if you had no intention of going outside and leaned against the counter.

“I killed Kelnacca without a weapon, came back here, and killed Torbin.” You smiled, hoping for Qimir to cheer up too, for he was the one always believing in you and your Master’s missions for you. “That’s why they chased me; they found out. But it’s done. I did it.” You couldn’t help but jump towards him, looking up at him as he stared you down.

“You killed them both without a weapon?” he repeated his question, scanning your figure up and down, like he was trying to figure out if you’re joking or serious. Your smile dropped, as you realized he was more of a puppet to your master than your friend. You liked Qimir, but there were times when you didn’t know what he was thinking or where he was going on random days.

You scuffed to yourself, annoyed but understanding in some way. You weren’t always the best apprentice, but you earned it. You earned your place as his pupil and hoped, one day, your master would show his face to you.

“Is this what you want?” you asked, irritated, throwing a tied bag on the counter, right next to Qimir’s hands. He was hesitant but opened the sack, revealing two Jedi lightsabers: Kelnacca’s and Torbin’s. “I could have brought their heads, but that would defeat the purpose.” You added, frustration obvious in your tone. You were so excited to tell Qimir, your friend, about the great news and were immediately let down by his reaction. You hoped he’d be happy for you, finally safe from your Master as you satisfied him with your work.

"Sorry, just shocked," he let out a small chuckle before closing the bag again and leaving it on the counter. "He'll be so pleased with you," he turned to you, a wide smile on his lips. The drastic changes in his mood always scared you, but now you were simply happy you could share the happy news with him.

“Of course I’m proud of you too,” Qimir added, coming towards you to pull you into another hug, this one warmer and more reassuring. You hesitatingly wrapped your arms around him, melting in his embrace. However small and skinny he looked behind his untidy clothes, whenever he hugged you, you almost disappeared between his arms.

“Now who’s gonna tell him?” you muttered into his shoulder before he let go of you, his hands leaving your back seconds later. You were so happy about your success that you never thought of informing your master. Even though you passed his test, you were still nervous about talking to him. His mask was scary enough for you, and his quiet mannerisms were even worse. You could never read what he was thinking, what he was planning next, or what he might be contemplating doing to you. If Qimir volunteered to inform him, you wouldn’t protest.

“Well, you should,” he stated to your bad luck. “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.” He smiled before going behind the counter to search for something on the lower shelf. You had to snort at his choice of words.

“Please,” you chuckled. “My Master? Thrilled?” You came behind Qimir, observing as his long fingers grasped a small glass of orange drink and set it on the table. “I don’t think he’s ever shown any emotions besides boredom and anger.”

“That’s because he’s wearing a mask,” Qimir pointed out, pouring the orange fluid into two separate small glasses. “Maybe he’s smiling behind it.” You admired Qimir’s delusion.

“I bet,” you started, waiting impatiently for Qimir to finish pouring the drinks, “he’s actually planning my demise behind that mask.”

Qimir handed you a glass, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Or he’s planning your next big test, which he’ll pretend doesn’t impress him but secretly makes him proud.”

You raised your glass to his, a smirk forming on your lips. “To surviving another day and confusing my Master,” you toasted.

Qimir clinked his glass against yours. “To more victories and shared secrets.”

As you took a sip, the cool, sweet liquid refreshing your parched throat, you felt a wave of gratitude wash over you. Despite the looming threat of your master’s reaction, Qimir’s unwavering support made you feel like you could handle anything. With a deep breath, you set your glass down and looked at him, determination shining in your eyes.

“Alright,” you said, your voice steady. “I’ll tell him. But if he decides to execute me, I’m holding you responsible.”

Qimir laughed, a sound that felt like a balm to your frayed nerves. “Deal. But I have a feeling you’ll come out of this stronger than ever.”

“Let’s hope,” you sighed, leaning against the counter on your elbows, letting Qimir’s eyes wash over you. “Also, he has to be hiding something.”

“What do you mean?” Qimir asked, a confused expression on his face as he put his already empty glass down.

“What if he’s deformed under the mask?” you let out, your face scrunching at the thought. “Or what if he’s just ugly?” You stared at nothing, not paying any attention to the words you were saying.

Qimir’s eyebrows twitched with amusement as he scanned you carefully. “You haven’t seen his face yet?” he asked, noticing how you played with your ring between your fingers as you stared down at the ground.

“You know I haven’t,” you replied with an annoyed sigh. “Look, I made peace with it, but I’m still curious about what he looks like. I want to know who’s teaching me all these things.” You complained, pushing yourself away from the counter, your eyes glancing at the black curtains over the window.

Qimir leaned back, crossing his arms with a thoughtful look. “I get it. It’s human nature to want to see the face behind the mask. But maybe it’s more about what he’s teaching you than what he looks like.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, shaking your head. “Leave it to you to find the deeper meaning. I just want to make sure I’m not taking orders from someone who might be scarier without the mask.”

Qimir chuckled, stepping closer. “You’ve faced Jedi Knights, completed impossible missions, and survived under his training. Whatever he looks like under that mask, you’ve proven you’re stronger than any fear or curiosity.”

His words settled over you like a comforting blanket, and you felt a bit of the tension ease from your shoulders. “You always know what to say, don’t you?” you turned back to face him, a genuine smile on your lips. Lately, you had noticed the way he looked at you. How his eyes darkened when he thought you weren’t watching. How his arms twitched your way when you walked past him and his intense gaze during your conversations. Like now.

Qimir was your friend, supplier, and occasional therapist. You could always vent to him about your Master, and he listened carefully. Many times, you slept over in his shop, passing out on the floor, exhausted from your tests and missions. You couldn’t count how many times you bled out in front of him and woke up the next day with your wounds bound and healed. You knew Qimir had his own secrets that he wasn’t confident in sharing with you, but some things kept you awake at night, wondering.

Despite his poor hygiene and greasy hair that framed his face in an unflattering way, you found him magnetic and charismatic. Something about him pulled you closer, and you didn’t know what. Between the nightmares and horrors, you were a victim to in your dreams, Qimir showed up to comfort you many times. You were embarrassed every time you woke from them, but the images never left your mind. And whenever you saw him after, you deep down wished they would become true.

Two days have passed since then, yet his intense gaze still lingered in your mind. He let you use his shop as your personal sanctuary, a hidden refuge from the Jedi that didn’t stop searching for you. Each day, you watched them through the window. Three times they've marched past, and twice they've entered, repeating the same questions, their eyes scanning for any sign of you.

Qimir once suggested you could leave the planet, but you quickly dismissed the idea. The Jedi now controlled who could leave or enter the exosphere. You regretted not hiding Torbin’s body, leaving him there to rot. Anger had taken over. You wanted the Jedi to find him. You wanted to shove it in their faces.

The days began to stretch into what felt like weeks, with only the tension between you and Qimir keeping you alert, even though it made time drag. The first night when you jumped out of the shower and had to borrow his clothes, you didn’t miss the way his eyes flew to your legs that the towel didn’t fully cover. Or when you tied your hair into a braid, his gaze never wavered. You didn't mind being observed, but with Qimir, it was different. His gaze made your stomach flip, and you couldn’t decide if in a good or bad way. His touch made you shiver, his presence alone made your skin burn. The only relief was that he wasn’t sensitive to the Force. If he knew what you thought every time you saw his hands or brushed against him, you’d want to drown yourself.

A few hours after you hid in his shop and got drunk together, you both decided it would be fun to practice some moves and fighting techniques, without lightsabers. Minutes later, you found yourself straddling Qimir’s lap, pinning his hands above his head. You knew he could easily turn the tables and have his way with you, but he didn't move a muscle. Instead, he laid there, letting you crush his lap as he circled your face. You remembered it vividly: how his breath tickled you, how his lips were so close that moving an inch would ruin your carefully built friendship. You were grateful for the self-control classes your Master put you through.

Now you were seated on the floor, leaning against the cold surface of the counter, staring out the window. The black curtains were no obstacle to you. You heard Qimir coming out of the shower; he didn’t want to smell like the gasoline you accidentally spilled on him. You held a glass of some beverage Qimir had prepared, both of you slowly getting dizzy from boredom and drinks. Resting your head against the table, you closed your eyes and saw Qimir through the Force. He was still in his small, cozy bathroom, drying himself with a towel. His hair was wet but looked better than it had a few days ago. His back muscles flexed as he raised his arms to dry his hair. You hadn't realized he was so fit under his clothes, and it made you squirm in your seat.

You knew you shouldn’t be spying on him like this, but the only time you had seen him like this was in your dreams, and reality was far more enticing. Your thoughts grew louder with each passing second, one screaming over another.

He was your friend and also worked for your Master. It would be wrong. You knew the consequences it could have on your relationship with Qimir, and you didn’t want to risk it. But the way he looked at you, the way his proximity made you feel, and the thought of his body against yours drove you crazy.

Your Master wasn’t against you having lovers and fulfilling your desires, as long as you stayed loyal to him. But you weren’t sure how he would feel if his two subjects started something together.

“You alright?” Qimir’s voice woke you from your thoughts as he stood in front of you. Only in his pants. You looked up at him, trying to contain your craving as you checked him up. Droplets still falling down his chest as he leaned against the other shelf, looking down at you from dangerous vicinity.

You almost choked on air, forcing yourself to look away.

“Yeah,” you choked on your words, lifting the glass to take a sip of your untouched brew. “Why you ask?” you forced a smile, missing his still wet, glossy chest to get to his face. Your heart dropped as you met with his prolonged stare. Half-lidded dark eyes staring right at you, his silhouette towering over you as he took a step closer, throwing the towel he was holding on the table.

“You staring into distance kind of scared me.” He chuckled, tilting his head as he leaned against the counter, you almost broke your neck looking up at him. He was right above you.

His hand was placed right above his pants that got to caress his thighs first. His skin was clean and wet, scars decorating his abs. His muscular chest was uncovered, free for you to admire. When he spoke to you his voice was low and raspy, different from the one he usually used. Your heart fluttered as you noticed his eyes wondering around you as he awaited your response.

You had to move, you thought to yourself. Pushing yourself against the floor you lifted yourself to your legs, the drink in your hand spilling as your hand twitched from almost falling into Qimir’s arms. You could feel the warmth radiating of off him and smell the shower gel he used. His hair was dripping wet, droplets adoring his sharp collarbones. His nipples were hard from the chilly temperature in the shop, his forearm big and large, holding his body above the table.

“Just, concentrating.” You coughed, putting the glass on the counter. “So,” you woke yourself from your dreaming, turning away from him, trying hard not to stumble. The drinking wasn’t as bad as Qimir’s half naked figure centimeters away from you. You felt faint and your thoughts only got worse, like somebody was putting them in. You felt a pressure, but you were convinced you were doing it to yourself subconsciously.

“Is everything okay?” You heard Qimir asked again behind you, feeling him walk towards you. You could feel his hands lifting, so when you turned back to face him, they brushed against your stomach. You had to fight back a moan.

“Just, the Jedi thing.” You smiled, hoping you were convincing enough, and he wouldn’t suspect even the theme of your thoughts. Resting your hip against the table and crossing your arms against your chest, you put a leisure expression on your face, as your mind raced with images. “It’s stressing me out.” You unnecessary added, trying to stare anywhere but his face or his arms or his exposed chest. He had to be cold.

“It’ll pass in a few days.” He smirked, lifting his arm to rest it against your shoulder. The cold skin made you gasp but not as much as his dark eyes.

“I just don’t want to bother you here for days.” You tried to convince yourself. “You surely have things to do, and my Master will be waiting for the news. I’ll go after sundown.” You didn’t wanna go but you had to inform your Master and the air between you and Qimir started to be intoxicating if you didn’t do anything.

“I’m sure he already knows.” He cocked his head, pulling his arm away but leaving his fingers to tickle your skin.

“You told him?” you wondered, pushing your thighs together as a small smirk appeared on his smile.

Fuck.

“No,” he denied, his eyes leaving yours, to trace them down your body. “But I’m sure he knows. Maybe he wants you to relax for a while.” He implied. You dropped your gaze from his eyes to his lips, your core slowly heating up.

“I would rather still be sure,” you swallowed your saliva, your voice breaking, his body dangerously close to yours. “Aren’t you cold?” you let out, embarrassment washing over you. He let out a chuckle when he saw your hand awkwardly pointing at his bare chest.

“Not really,” he replied, scanning your expression. He knew you were nervous; he knew your legs were about to give up and how you struggled to pretend to breathe normally. He enjoyed every second of it.

“Good, good.” You uttered, nodding along. “As long as you’re comfortable.” You wanted to fall into some deep hole and never come out.

“Are you comfortable?” he purred, closing the space between you two, his hand lifting to your face but not actually touching you. Just hanging there, below your jaw, right next to your neck.

“Why, why wouldn’t I be.” You stumbled over your words, his eyes burning your skin open. You felt his breath against your face, his curtain bangs brushing over your forehead. His feet met with yours, his chest in front of your face.

“You don’t look the best.” He whispered, leaning in, his lips now touching your ears, sending shivers down your spine. You moved your hand to the counter next to you, praying and holding yourself for dear life. “I think you need to relax.” He teased against your ear, slowly moving to your neck.

“I think I should get ready to go.” You panted, but not moving a muscle. His one hand moved right next to yours on the table, fingertips touching yours. You were so frozen by his lips tickling your neck, you inhaled sharply when you felt his hand sneak behind your waist to pull you against him. Your hands automatically pressed against his chest, closing your eyes.

“If you want,” he rasped, lifting himself to face you. You couldn’t recognize him. His eyes were pitch-black dark, animalistic look set in them. His lips were full and pink, not a sign of the Qimir that you talked to few minutes ago. You were breathless, your heart pounding heart against your ribs.

“Do you want to go?” he whispered, carnal lust in his gaze staring right back at you. You felt the wetness between your legs growing stronger with every passing second. “Do you want me to let you go?”

“No.” you answered so fast you felt ashamed. But what followed fulfilled all your dreams and more.

All the useless items and glasses on table thrown on the floor without any of you touching them, to make a room for you as Qimir lifted you up on the counter. You shakily brought your hands into his hair as he dived into your lips, imitating sex. His hands groped your breasts, fondling them and pinching your nipples through the thin fabric of your borrowed blouse.

You felt his hand abandon your face, making its way between your legs, feeling your wetness through the pants. You were soaked. You didn’t miss the smile on his lips when his fingers pushed against your core, feeling how wet and useless you were for him.

You whimpered against his mouth when he pulled away, resting against your forehead as you breathed each other air.

“For how long you were this wet?” he smirked against your lips, his fingers putting pressure against your pants making you gasp. He knew the answer, he knew exactly what you liked and where you liked it. But he wanted to hear it coming from your mouth.

“Since I first saw you,” you muttered, rolling your hips against his fingers for more friction. As soon as you made that movement, he pulled his fingers away to shoved them inside your mouth. You didn’t protest and without hesitation started to circle your tongue around them. His fingers were thick and long, making you choke when he moved them deeper.

“Such a fucking slut.” He growled, his legs spreading yours apart. Your heart fluttered at his words and confirming its statement when you let out a moan, from his fingers sneaking its way under your pants and panties to find your burning clit. You threw your head back, as your back arched, wanting to feel more of his touch.

Qimir watched you with satisfaction spread on his face as he felt you getting wetter and wetter, your body responding to his digits. He continued teasing your clit, rubbing it in circles as his other hand squeezed your breast roughly.

“You want it that bad?” he murmured, his voice raspy and electrifying. He chuckled at your failed attempt to respond, inserting his finger into your soaked hole. He pumped it slow and deep, reveling in your reaction. “No worries now.” He taunted.

Qimir couldn’t keep the smirk off his face as he watched you squirm and moan. He relished the power he had over you, keeping you in the dark and letting you believe you weren't being humiliated in front of your Master. He added another finger, scissoring them to stretch you for his cock.

“Let me hear you beg for it,” His eyes gleamed with lust as he towered over you, plunging his fingers deeper inside of your cunt. He curled his fingers inside you, rubbing your g-spot as he pumped them faster. “I want to hear you plead for my cock.”

You had no idea Qimir had this in him, but you were so dizzy because of his fingers fucking you hard, you had no strength to focus on anything else.

“Please Qim-“you shivered, eyes rolling back in your head. “Please I need you inside me.” Your breath hitched, his fingers curling and spreading your cunt.

“Atta girl.” He whispered to himself before pulling his fingers out of you, receiving a vulgar insult thrown at him. He relished in seeing you like this. He dreamed of this every day, wanting you, his pupil, spread open in front of him, letting him take you however he wanted. You were his and he was gonna make sure you understood what exactly that meant.

He smirked mischievously before leaning forward to kiss you deeply, wrapping his arms around you tightly. “Once I start, complain all you want, I’m not gonna stop.” He whispered against your lips before breaking away and looking deep into your eyes. He was a totally different man and it made you shiver throughout all your body. Even his energy changed, letting it wrap around you in the Force.

Qimir startled you when his hands landed on your chest, pushing you back so you’d lay open on the counter, legs spread open for him to take. Smiling excitedly, he grabbed your hips and move you closer to the edge of the table, before slowly unbuckling his pants.

“You ready?” he asked, licking his lips before pulling his cock out, already covered in pre-cum. He looked so beautiful above you, his hips so close to yours, his hair falling into his face and his chest raising as fast as yours. You looked a mess, but you were his mess and he wanted to devour you.

Nodding, you made yourself comfortable on the table, its cold surface making you shiver.

Smirking, he positioned his dick at your entrance and slowly thrust himself inside, making sure to stretch you nice and slow, taking his time to make the moment last. He bit back a moan, looking down at you lovingly as you struggled to keep your eyes open and not pass out at his thick cock filling you up.

“You’re doing great so far for me.” He grinned, before pulling out and slamming back in, his movements becoming faster and rougher. You forced yourself to grab the ends of the table to hold yourself in place, Qimir’s grip on your hips being nothing compared to the way he was treating your pussy.

His thrusts became harder, loving the way your walls wrapped around his cock, squeezing him tightly with each thrust.

“You’re finally getting what you dreamed of,” he groaned, lifting your hips to drive his cock deeper before pounding away. “Getting fucked by your Master.”

You cried out when his cock brushed against your sweet spot, not realizing the meaning of his words until seconds later.

“What,” you tried to lift your head up, but the way his grip tightened on your waist to fuck you harder had you failing to catch your breath. Your heart started to pound faster as the realization hits.

He saw your expression change but your body kept replying to his merciless thrusts. His hand moved from your waist to reach for your head, lifting you up, face to face. His forehead was covered in sweat, his long hair curling around his ears.

“You did so well on your last mission, I had to reward you.” He panted, not stopping his assault on your cunt. He read the conflict in your mind, letting you come to your own conclusion.

“You’re,” you trembled, his cock spreading your walls so good you had trouble to even consider the words he was saying, denying yourself.

“You’re such a good apprentice but such a slut now,” he mocked you, his hand moving from your hair to your neck, putting in pressure. “I wished you realized sooner tho. We could’ve had this every little visit of yours.” You cried out as his hand fully wrapped around your neck, his cock never stopping filling your cunt.

“Master, I don’t understand,” you managed to breathe out, feeling his cock start twitching inside your walls. You heard him groan, right next to your ear, at the feeling of your tight hole gripping him. He started to thrust harder, feeling the friction build up.

Resting your foreheads against each other and swallowing each other’s moans, had the both of you sweat, the room picking up your scents.

Qimir reached down, rubbing your clit as he continued to fuck you hard. He could feel the tension building inside of you and knew you were close.

“Cum for me, love.” He growled, his hand never leaving your neck and pulling you closer to him. “Cum for your Master.” He hitched, picking up the pace, slamming into you as hard as he could. He could feel his own orgasm approaching.

His grip on your throat tightened as he fucked you harder and faster, slowly losing control of his strength. He could see the look of pure ecstasy on your face as he pounded into you and squeezed your throat harder. Your hand automatically few to his hand that held you, struggling to breathe but not enough to make you pass out.

“You belong to me,” his voice broke, letting you know he was getting closer and closer to losing it. “You’re mine.” He whimpered into your ear, his hips bucking wildly, driving his cock deep inside of you as he came, filling you up, marking you as his. His paced slowed down to match yours, wanting to feel you cum around him, your walls almost crushing him.

Qimir didn’t move and kept his cock inside you, letting himself and you calm down and try to catch your breath. As you regain your composure, your head against Qimir’s chest, your mind almost exploded with the overwhelming thoughts.

I fucked Qimir.

I fucked my Master.

Qimir was my Master all along.

You wanted to run away, hide yourself and never come out, but Qimir’s, your Master’s arms wrapped around you and your pussy still keeping his cock warm, had you melting, not wanting to move an inch. You were confused, terrified, and thrilled all at the same time. All the times when Qimir disappeared without explanation, all the time he lied to the Jedi or did things only Force sensitive beings could achieve. It all made sense now and clicked together like a puzzle.

But you also realized he had the power to read your thought all along. He could see the impure images, the ideas, and pictures you had in your mind. Your complains and desires. Your fear. But that didn’t matter anymore. You let your Master used you, like the good apprentice you were. You had no idea what would happen now, your heart wanting to jump out of your chest, your skin covered in goosebumps. You were scared but the desire was stronger. And if Qimir ever taught you something was to transform those emotions into power. And you had enough desire to annihilate the entire Jedi order, with Qimir by your side.

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