#be prepared for lots of pictures of me torturing him

[vvalllerie]

guess who i have >:3

everyone say THANK YOU to @cowboysmakebetterlovers for making all of my dreams come true. i love you forever and ever <3

[woewriting]

amae (ii)

pairing: cairo sweet | reader summary: cairo's actions continue to frustrate you, but when unspoken words are finally said out loud, you understand her. word count: 4619 warnings: mdni, +18 only! jumpscare: mr. miller, sexual tension, a bit of angst, jealous cairo, small reader x winnie situation, scisorring, face riding (reader receiving), language, smut in general, brief softness.

part 1 . part 2 | masterlist

Apparently, college parties were a bit different in Tennessee, which was a sweet surprise to you. Different from the ones you were used to back in your hometown, this one was hosted at the English professor’s house  — you noticed as soon as you opened the front door, a picture of him with his wife near the entrance.

You raised your eyebrows when you bumped into your professor, an apologetic smile on his face.

“I didn't see you there, I'm sorry.” He touched your arm in a weak squeeze before placing his hand back in his pocket, the other holding a red mug.

“It's okay, Mr. Miller. I didn't know you would be here.” 

“I always host this reading before the actual party. My wife and I will go on a weekend trip and Winnie asked if she could host a ‘small’ gathering; apparently, the house they usually go to for the party is unavailable. Beatrice left after noon. Smart decision of hers.” You laughed at his expression, knowing damn well it would be anything but small. You could tell by the faces around you that you never saw in any of his classes or readings before. They didn’t exactly fit the ‘tortured-poet’ profile “Are you joining us for the reading? It started a few minutes ago, I just came to the kitchen to get some more coffee. Cairo should start at any moment.”

At the mention of her name, you felt a bitter taste in your mouth and you took a deep breath. 

A week had passed since the girl sat on your lap, kissed you, allowed you to touch her and then started acting as if nothing happened. During classes, you could feel her eyes on you, that uncomfortable feeling of being watched taking over your senses every five minutes, as if she was waiting for you to turn around and smile at her.

But you didn't. You avoided her like the plague. As soon as the class ended, you gathered your materials, plugged in your earphones and left without looking back. 

Winnie complained a few times about your sudden avoidance of her and Cairo, asking non stop what had happened, if she did something that got you upset, but all you could do was apologize and say you had a lot on your mind with finals and assignments with a short deadline. It wasn't a full lie, but the girl could see the change in your expressions.

And now, all that hard work to avoid the brunette would go downhill as she was waiting a couple steps away from where you were standing, waiting for Mr. Miller's returnal so she could read what she had prepared for tonight.

“Cairo and I aren't in the best place right now, if I'm being honest. I didn't know she would be here.” 

“Oh…” The man scratched his chin. “I didn't know that, I'm sorry. If there's anything I can do to help, don't hesitate in asking. I know Cairo, she can be… stubborn.”

You bit the inside of your cheeks at the statement. During your first days in Mr. Miller's class, Winnie kept you updated on the strange relationship Cairo had with your now professor; on how starstruck the young writer was at being close to someone she admires and looks up to. It was uncomfortable seeing how close he would be to her, making your stomach twist inside you with anxiety, yet there was nothing you could do as she seemed happy to be noticed by him. 

When you asked about this whole situation to Cairo, trying to disguise your reactions, she told you: “he is someone I admire and I know he can help me with my writing. I look forward to our meetings as I have his attention all to myself.” You gave her a small smile that nearly made your eyes shake. Just like now.

You blinked a few times, pursing your lips together. 

“We'll be fine.” You decided to answer, not truly believing in that. “But I appreciate the offering, Mr. Miller.”

“Anytime.” 

“Does your wife know that soon her house will have drunk people stumbling against the walls?” You asked in an attempt to ease the sudden awkward silence.

“God, no.” He laughed.

“I’ll try to keep the glass decoration in one piece.” Once again his hand rested on your arm for a few seconds in a silent ‘thank you’ before he checked the silvery watch on his wrist. 

“The reading is almost finished. Walk with me?”

Unable to deny the request, you simply nodded, walking in front of the professor as he motioned to you. 

The second you arrived in the living room, your eyes landed on her like a magnet. It might be because she was standing in the improvised stage by the window, or because of the deadly stare she locked on you when you walked in with Mr. Miller by your side. If she had a laser in her eyes, you'd be a sieve by now with thick blood covering the dark wood floor. 

A hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you to the corner. Winnie smiled at you, saying she saved you a seat by her side on the couch even though she wasn’t sure you'd be here for the reading. The childish side of yours screamed for you to answer her with: “if I knew she would be here, I wouldn't have come” in a very annoying voice, but you only smiled at her, squirming in the leather couch. 

The room was in complete silence, waiting for the girl staring at you to start her reading. Cairo took a deep breath, licking her dry lips to start. The sun was starting to descend on the window behind her, transforming that whole scene into a beautiful portrait that your mind would keep for as long as you could remember.

“And as I witness her most intense intentions through dark eyes, with hands marking mine own peachy skin in a bruising grasp, I fall asunder above her. My body; weak, begging, pleading for her merciless touch as I watch her slam the door shut. The smell of something burning fills the walls, yet it's not the smoke that leaves my lungs, it's the fog that fills as I turn, fated to fall and fated to fail, and wish for her gaze, my resolute resistance scrawled in sand, tumbling through her open hands just as through the neck of our hourglass.

From the high, the grayness takes form; thick, lascivious, dangerous. The unsureness of faith buries words that one day I aim to say. Miserable thing, watching with tearful eyes as she leaves. The tree branches knock on the window, witnessing the whole pitiful scene engraved in my memory.”

You paid attention to every word she enunciated with a strong, determined voice, it felt like she was trying to open your skull and carve each one onto your brain matter. You felt dizzy at them, heart beating fast against your ribcage. While everyone applauded the young writer, you clenched your jaw, swallowing nothing that would help your sudden dry mouth. 

Cairo smiled, the type of smile that would make anyone drop to their knees and pray for her. Winnie was excited by your side, the subtle scent of alcohol you smelled on her made you laugh. The girl was loud and, at the moment, when all eyes turned to you two, you regretted sitting by her side. From across the living room, your eyes met hers again, now sat beside Mr. Miller while he whispered something in her ear to which she smiled wide, turning to him. 

As another student took over the stage, you couldn’t absorb any words that were said, disappearing into thin air. All you could focus on was Cairo’s hand occasionally touching his forearm when she leaned to say something in his ear, earning a quiet laugh from the professor, the urge to stand up and drag her away from that bothering situation, instead you walked to the kitchen in hopes to find a single drop of alcohol that would make that tension vanish from your body. Soon, Winnie joined you. 

“This is so boring, my God!” She whined, sitting up on the kitchen island while eyeing you up and down in the bright light for the first time. “You’re  overdressed as usual, I see.”

“Your underwear as usual, I see.” Winnie spread her legs as long as the short leather skirt allowed her to, giving you the high quality view of a lacy underwear as she takes the vodka bottle from your hands, taking a long sip, feeling the burning spreading over her chest with a satisfied hum.

“You like?”

You let out a huff, looking away. “You wish.”

“I will kiss you one day.” She said more to herself than to you, like a secret promise that escaped due to the lack of inhibition — not that she had any, even in her sober moments that word didn't exist in her vocabulary.

Shaking your head at her statement, you pulled the sleeves of your sweater, taking the half empty bottle from her hands and getting ready to prepare yourself a drink that didn’t taste like a slow death. 

The reading kept on until the sun was completely set in the horizon, turning the living room into a dark scenario, lit only by the yellowish color from the table lamps. Slowly, the students started leaving while others arrived, walking in the house with bottles and bottles of alcohol, storing them in the kitchen’s fridge.

While you paid attention to the cup in your hands, wondering how long it would take for you to detach from the reality that was drowning you, you felt a bump on your shoulder.

“What is it?” 

Winnie signalized with her head, making you look over your shoulder, witnessing Cairo and Mr. Miller talking near the stairwell that would lead to the second floor of the house. 

“I think he wants to take her upstairs.”

“She can do whatever she wants, Winnie.” You mumbled, trying not to squeeze the cup in your hand when taking a sip. The bitterness making you frown. “Cairo is a big girl.”

“Are you sure about that?” 

“What do you mean?” Turning back to her, your eyebrows sewn together in confusion.

“Because she won’t stop looking at us.” You shrugged, finishing your drink in one long sip. You felt your stomach complain at the big wave of alcohol. 

“She can disappear with him for all I care.”

Winnie tilted her head, still looking at the two of them with narrowed eyes. “Oh, so I shouldn’t say they’re going upstairs and she seems pretty excited about it?”

“Yup, not a single thought about it is on my mind right now.” Grabbing the bottle again from her hands, less subtle and emptier than the first time, you poured yourself a very generous sip on your cup, drowsy smiling to Winnie when you handed over the, now completely empty, bottle. 

As the minutes went by and the alcohol went in, your control over your senses were slowly losing its grip and you started to worry about Cairo against your will. Controlling the impulse to run upstairs as you weren’t drunk enough to blame on the booze, you shook your head, leaning your body against Winnie’s while the girl talked excitedly to a random boy from the football team, your mind too caught up analyzing the things the young writer said earlier to pay attention to any conversation around you. 

The music wasn't loud enough as the professor still hadn't left, but you could feel every beat of it synchronized with the beat of your heart. 

Your fingers found the skin of Winnie's thigh, starting to draw random lines out of boredom. Other than the girl, and Cairo, you weren't familiar with the faces that kept on surging from the front door every five minutes.

“If you keep doing that, I'll drag you upstairs too.” Black whispered, making you tilt your chin up at her.

“Maybe you should.” 

Winnie was beautiful, you couldn't deny that. From the hazel eyes to the plump lips that looked so attractive at that moment, getting closer and closer, making a tingling feeling crawl over your legs like a spider. You wanted to kiss her, and you would have, if it weren't for the footsteps coming from behind you, making Black pull away. You knew it was Mr. Miller, the strong perfume making your nose burn. 

The older man stood in front of you, looking at Winnie who was still seated on the marble island, an innocent glow in her eyes that almost made you laugh, but a hand wrapping around your wrist pulled you away from that situation. All you could hear as you were being dragged to the — now empty — living room was Mr. Miller asking the girl to behave and to not destroy his house or he would fail her. You laughed to yourself.

“Did you seriously allowed Mr. Miller to take me upstairs?” Cairo asked, pulling at the sleeves of your sweater like a spoiled kid when you refused to look at her, waving at the professor when he turned around to leave, leaving the house and a bunch of teenagers and new-adults unsupervised.

Your eyes were dark and your body a little soft when you stared at her, yet you still were in control of your actions, the drinks just diminished the worry of doing or saying something wrong. At that point, you didn't care about what left your mouth. You wanted to curse the young writer.

“He's our English teacher, not a serial killer.”

“He could've forced me to do something!”

“You seemed pretty excited to go with him. Now, excuse me, I'm gonna find Winnie so we can finish what we were about to start.” Before you could walk past a furious Cairo, her hand, once again, glued to your chest.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

"What the fuck is wrong with you? You blew me off, Cairo. What did you expect? That I would run after you and beg for your attention?"

"Yes!"

You let out a breathy sigh, the corner of your lips up in disbelief. "You really are so self-centered, you don't care about anyone other than yourself. You're a fucking bitch!"

"And you're dying to fuck this self-centered bitch."

"Not after Mr. Miller, thank you." You scolf sarcastically.

"He didn't fuck me, you idiot.” The hand in your chest grabbed the fabric of your sweater, pulling you down to her so she could whisper with lips nearly pressing on yours. “He wasn't you." 

Her eyes softened as well as the fist that held you in place, moving it to the back of your head. 

Staring at her eyes, you didn't know what to find. You didn't even know what you wanted to find. Maybe a sincere answer.

“Cairo…” You started, sighing against her lips, closing your eyes for a brief moment, trying to gather cohesive words to form a sentence. You blamed the alcohol for this pathetic lack of senses. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to care. I want you to show how desperate you are to have me, how you crave my body in your hands.” You swallowed hard, carefully listening to the whispery confession, the soft motion of her lips grabbing your attention. Once again, you wanted to steal that small freckle from her upper lip. “I want you to burn my skin with your fingers and bruise me with your mouth. And if you really wanted me to be yours, you would've turned around, thrown me on that fucking bed and taken me.” The strong pronunciation of that last part got your body heating up, the urge in your chest spreading in your veins and mixing with the existing alcohol. 

“You’re not very clear in your intentions, Cairo. You’re good at saying everything and nothing.”

Taking your hand, the writer pressed it against her chest. She took a deep breath, goosebumps covering her body at the warm feeling of having your hand touching her again.

“Can you feel that?” You nodded, letting your forehead gently fall against hers. “Do you understand now or do I have to draw it for you?”

Suddenly, your brain became fogged and you were getting lost again. You saw dark brown eyes. You felt a strong bumping in your hands. You smelled woody cologne and cinnamon. Yet, you didn't know where to go. 

“I want you to draw for me.” You said, desperately trying to find the right path.

Cairo nodded her head, pulling you with her once again, but this time, with her fingers intertwined on yours and more gentle than the first time. You trailed behind, careful to not trip on the stairs as she led the both of you somewhere you didn't know, the lights were off on the second floor, making impossible for you to see anything that wasn't right in front of you.

You heard the sound of a door opening and being locked once closed. The moonlight was invading the room through the open curtains. Blinking a few times to adjust the blurred vision, you felt your body being pushed against a soft mattress and a lightweight on top of you.

“I'll draw it for you.” Cairo whispered, pressing her lips on yours in a chaste kiss. “Do you have any idea of what you do to me?” She asked while kissing down your neck, your hands squeezing her waist over the cotton fabric. You shook your head, licking your dry lips, still tasting her lip balm on them. “Here, let me show it to you.” 

Cairo sat on your hips, guiding one of your hands under the white dress, in between her legs. Flashbacks returned and your heart stopped beating for a second while she moved herself on your fingertips, eyes locked on yours, a smirk surging in the darkness. When you moaned at the warmth that embraced your fingers, she did the same.

You breathed out the air that was stuck in your lungs, affected by the scene that unwrapped in front of your eyes. It was a erotic, alluring view, slowly burning itself into your brain like a polaroid. A flash of smile drew on Cairo’s face, satisfied with the reactions coming from you, with the way your eyes stared at her with a dark, flame of desire, lips parted as you struggled to breath.

The cold touch of her rings sent shivers down your spine when her hand wrapped itself around your neck, pressing the sides of it, feeling the pulsating vein under her fingertips. A sob escaping her throat when your fingers easily slipped into her, burying themselves in the warmth of her velvety walls, clenching around you, while the heel of your hand pressed against her swollen clit.

A vile glow shining in the dark brown eyes when she leaned down, squeezing the sides of neck harder as she felt the knot inside her getting tighter. That feeling of desperation growing impatient in her chest.

“Have I lost myself, or have I gained you?” You asked in a soft voice, following a steady pace with your fingers as she moved herself on you. Even when you were the one carrying her in your hands, it was hers that controlled the air in your lungs. 

You’ve always seen Cairo as a spoiled girl that grew up in a big house, having all her wishes wrapped in a pretty paper waiting for her on her bed when she came home from school. But now, as she falls apart in your hands, saying your name like a sacred mantra, you saw beyond words and actions, you saw the urge to be held and cared for, like a little girl that didn’t get a hug after they wake up.  

Staring at her in awe, you felt tears coming to the brim of your eyes, the squeeze cutting every small space for the air to bring you life, but you didn't care, not when you saw the vision of what heaven must be like; the curly brown hair falling over her right shoulder, the soft strands tickling the skin of your neck as she fell over you, hiding on your chest.

Coming down from her high, Cairo carried a sly smile when she looked at you. Her kiss tasted like ashes, bitter, against your tongue. 

“You taste sweet.” The writer whispered in between kisses, sucking your tongue into her mouth over and over, sighing in pleasure at the fingers that slid off of her. Carefully bringing your coated fingers to your mouth, you wrapped your lips around them, being watched with full blown eyes every movement of yours.

“And you taste divine.” 

It only took a millisecond for her lips to meet yours once again, the softness of the act long forgotten as she bit your lower lip, tasting the iron in her tongue with a sadistic smile at the painful cry you let out, squeezing her ass in your hands; burning the peachy skin with your fingertips. The words of her writing echoing inside your brain, spreading it on your blood flow. 

“I like this sweater, you look charming in dark blue.” Her hand found the collar of it, tip of her fingers tracing the skin underneath, making the fabric itch around your neck. “Take it off.” Despite the sweet tone in her voice, you obeyed the breathy order, pulling it over your head and tossing it somewhere in the unknown bedroom. Cairo stood up, removing the brown leather boots and her own dress, the white lacey set that remained on her body making you gulp. 

The writer stood in between your legs, her hands on your hair while yours held her by her waist, goosebumps all over her body as you kissed the toned abs, softly biting the skin.

Cairo looked down at you with curious eyes, the tip of her tongue trapped between her teeth, admiring the small galaxies your mouth left all over her like she was an empty canvas that needed some color. And you were doing the perfect job, painting an universe on her skin as you knelt down, bringing her underwear along with it. The writer kicked the useless cloth, putting her leg over your shoulder and hooking it behind your head; you salivated at the view of her cunt glistening in front of you. 

One of her hands caressed your face with gentleness, her thumb sliding over your bottom lip before she made you open your mouth, pushing her hips closer to your lips. She was dripping on your tongue, the taste of her filling your mouth as you hummed in pleasure, licking what escaped your agape mouth. 

The big brown eyes stared at you in flames, burning your skin into a bright scarlet crimson. You nudge your nose closer to her, inhaling the intoxicating smell; everything about Cairo was sweet, from her last name, to her voice that could recite the most beautiful poem by core, to the honey flavor slick that dripped from her aching hole, running down her thighs at the view of you ready to worship her, and when your tongue slid in between her folds in a long, slow lick, her head fell back and a shiver went down her spine. 

Pressing your tongue flat over her hardened nub, you closed your eyes, the grip on your hair pulling you impossibly closer. You circled her clit with the tip of your tongue, drawing random patterns with precision on the sensitive nerve, earning yourself a praise that came with a smile when she looked down on you. 

Moving your hands up her thigh, you squeezed the muscle, making her ride on your tongue, aggressively and delicious. The sounds escaping your open mouth reverberated all over her sensitive flesh. 

Cairo was an exhibitionist, she adored having eyes on her all the time, paying attention to every admirable detail that was attached to her. And having you on your knees praying against her cunt was filthy, enticing and agonizing, that heat wave scorching her insides and melting on your tongue, and you made sure to swallow it with a gratifying smile.

You could suffocate in between her legs and it would be a heavenly death. 

Kissing your way up, you brought her body closer, circling her waist as she hooked both legs around you, sliding her tongue over your shiny lips before you dropped her on the bed. Cairo was about to complain at the lack of care, but she soon shut her mouth, watching you kick your converse to the side and unbuttoning the tailored pants that hugged your curves in the right places.

Taking a deep breath, you slid the fabric down, taking your underwear with you, the shyness taking over you once you were free from any cloth covering your body; all this being watched with lustful eyes. 

The young writer’s eyes pierced your soul, engraving in her brain every mole you had around your shoulders, silently choosing her favorite one to add to the list of small details of your body she loved and kept fresh in her memories, always making sure to add ‘em in her writing. It amazes her how you never noticed the importance you had in her work, you were her muse. 

“Come to me.”

She didn’t have to ask twice, at the sound of her sweet voice your feet led your body closer to hers, moving according to her words, your knees sinking in the mattress only to find balance on top of her.  Her hands on your back brought you closer and you fell, once again, into that piquant feeling where it felt like you were about to drown, but her lips on your neck got you breathing in fervor. 

It was easy for the brunette to take control, reversing positions and sitting atop your abdomen, gripping one of your legs and casting one of hers in between them, fitting herself against you. 

“Fuck, Cairo.” You mewl, closing your eyes at the aggressive way she pressed herself down, easily gliding on you. One of your hands found her thigh, squeezing the flesh until it blemished under your fingertips, moving your hips according to the pace she set. It was cruel, desperate, the dark brown eyes fluttering closed. 

The bed slammed against the wall, the old wood-frame fated to snap at any moment; you didn’t care, it was impossible to focus on anything that wasn’t the girl in between your legs, rubbing herself on you with an inner desire to split you in half. You dazed at her, the angelical aura surrounding her like an armor, preventing the sins from escaping the walls of the still unknown bedroom like the squelching noises were, the lewd sounds from the both of you echoing around the hallway for anyone that dared to come closer and press their ears against the locked door. 

When the impetuous climax hit you like a jolt of electricity spreading in your veins, Cairo fell on top of you, exhaustion taking over her senses as well as the tired muscles complaining from all the spasms. 

The writer looked at you, tearful eyes as you soothed her bare back with an equally pleasured expression. Your bodies were weak, relying on each other at such a delicate and overwhelming moment, marked in black and blue by your hands and mouth, a greedy memory that will last. And if it ever vanishes, like the galaxies made out of bruises, all you needed to do is knock on her window.

[bittencandy]

𝔊𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔫-𝔈𝔶𝔢𝔡 𝔐𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯

Summary: You broke up with your ex more than a couple of weeks ago, and you're desperate to try and move on. Though it's more than a little difficult to do when his face and likeness seems to be everywhere. Pictured on everything from billboards to cereal to . . . Pregnancy tests?

But maybe you won't have to move on after all.

Warnings: Mammon is a warning all on his own. 18+ content. Minors DNI! AFAB, Fem pronouns. Some unhealthy relationship dynamics (this is probably the healthiest I could realistically make Mammon), some fluff. Jealous Mammon: voyeurism (sex while on a phone call); degradation kink; mirror sex; D/S dynamics; clothed m, naked f; biting; a web as a collar; cockwarming; overstimulation; multiple orgasms; PinV; cream pie; blink and you'll miss it electro play; oral (M receiving); size kink, height difference, belly bulge; honestly, these tags make this sound a lot more intense than it is.

Notes: 26.3k words. Not proofread. Warning divider @cafekitsune. Probably one of the most self-indulgent pieces I've ever written. I have no idea what possessed me to write for this absolute garbage disposal of a man - entity? - but here we are. I've long since stopped trying to make excuses for this. It just is what it is. His sh*t personality and adorable face has captivated me.

It's not explicitly stated but the Reader is heavily implied to be a Succubus.

This was absolute torture. Each day that has passed you by seemed to crawl through the hypothetical hourglass in a reluctant, slow drag, like the universe was intent on leaving you alone to drown in your thoughts; dark, isolating, hopeless thoughts that clung to you with long, cold claws. There was no reprieve. There hadn't been for weeks. And instead of healing and drawing to a close, it seems like that aching, lonely pit that's been sliced into the pulse of your chest has only grown wider, and now it feels as though it might swallow you whole with flaying, gnashing teeth.

And to make matters worse, it's your fault. You were the one who decided to break things off with him. You were the one who said that the relationship was hopeless. That it wasn't going anywhere and the both of you were just rushing towards an inevitable dead end that would just wound you both. You believed you were doing the right thing at the time. Saving you both from the heartache. You were just too different. You wanted for different things and the goals and ambitions that drive you were too polarizing for you to have a healthy, coexisting relationship. And on top of that, after Fizzarolli had ended their ten-year partnership, Mammon had been hellbent on getting you to spy on the jester. Trying to utilize your position within Ozzie's restaurant to dig up dirt on the pair. You had refused, but he just wouldn't stop asking. It was enough to put a strain on what you had. You were offended that he assumed that you would just carelessly throw your friendship with the King of Lust away. That you'd betray his trust. For a little while you had felt so confident and vindicated in your discission in leaving the King of Greed. But here and now, you can't help but to second guess yourself. And the ceaseless chatter of the that tiny voice in the back of your head keeps telling you that you've made a mistake - 

No. 

Nope. 

You were not going to let yourself go down that route. You did the right thing. You did what was best for yourself and sometimes the right thing hurts to do, but it will be all right. You'll survive. You just need time to move on that's all. And then you'll be able to get yourself together. Remind yourself of all of the experiences and people that you had missed out on since you've been in a relationship and then you'll be a brand-new person, prepared for life and all of its opportunities. 

But it was a bit difficult to move on when the person that you were trying to get over was literally plastered over every inch of Hell. Seven Rings and all, he had found a way to weasel himself into every facet of everyday life, to the point that it is actually insane. You're surprised that you had never noticed it before. But now, ever since the breakup, you've been horribly hyperaware of all of the ways that he has marketed himself across the city - even in a Ring that isn't his. Billboards, TV commercials, magazine covers, even on the plastic packaging for diapers - he hates kids! What does he know about diapers?!

You couldn't even go without seeing his face when you were paying for things. You had never wanted to set a bill of money on fire before, but the urge had become increasingly difficult to fight when you had offered to pay for dinner last week with your friends, and you been reminded of the fact that his likeness is featured on the banknote for a hundred souls. 

You couldn't even go the corner store to stock up on your depleted supply of alcohol without stumbling upon that wide, jagged grin. It was irritating. It made you feel nauseous and sick - mostly because whenever you saw that familiar sneer an array of lovesick butterflies burst inside of your stomach; always closely followed by an adoring, fuzzy warmth that sweeps across your spine and burns at your cheeks. It's disgusting. Obnoxious. And not even the sound of some other customer loudly coughing a few aisles across from you nor the repetitive buzz of the stark, pale florescent lights hanging from the ceiling above are enough to pull you out of those old feelings. They cling to you like a kind of residue. Sticky, thick and stubborn. And even worse is the fact that you find comfort in it. It's familiar. It's warm. And a part of you can't bear to part with it.   

Ugh, you're hopeless. 

You reach for the bottle you came for - Beelzejuice, which is admittedly too cloying of a drink for you. It could make you sick with its sweetness if you consumed too much, but it got you drunk fast, and as of right now that's all you wanted. You wanted to forget. Even if it was only temporary. But even with your chosen liquor in hand, your eyes keep straying over to the bottle with his face on it. Some cheap knock-off brand, it seems. A watered down and bland substitute, but it looks to be like it might be one of the most expensive beverages on the entire shelf, because why wouldn't it be? 

The portrait of his face on the label is a simple sketch, similar to the rudimentary doodle that he always adds next to his signature, but it's still enough to have your heartbeat skip wistfully. It's a familiar brand of alcohol. One that you had found in his liquor cabinet several times. A poor duplicate of one of Satan's brands of whiskey. You had never gotten around to trying it honestly, and you wouldn't be trying it tonight. Not even with his adorable face sketched out on the labe- 

You jerk away from the shelf with a colorful string of profanity huffed out underneath your breath, strained and exhausted. This entire situation has you run ragged. Tired with yourself and your feelings and your apparent inability to just. Move. On!

You outwardly groan, squeezing tight onto the neck of the bottle in your grip, swinging your head back on your shoulders. The glare of the lights above isn't even enough to stray you from your thoughts. And for a moment you just stare upward, ignoring the dull sting that the pale glint projects against your eyes while you rove them over the water damaged stains on the ceiling, pointlessly making shapes in the splotches. Trying to look for some kind of distraction, no matter how stupid it may be. But you can only quietly stand in the aisle for so long before you're kicked out for loitering. 

"Dammit," You swear, dropping your gaze back down again, vision skipping around the store, over the colorful array of saturated products and the few other people randomly scattered about the floor. It gives you pause when it lands on someone who's standing only a few feet away from you, in front of the shelving facing your back. But irritation flares when you notice that they're watching you with a somewhat animated expression. There's a smile quirking at the corners of his mouth and despite the friendly aura surrounding him, the weight of his eyes has your skin prickling uncomfortably. And even with you telling yourself to just shrug it off, to just ignore him and continue on with your night, you can't hold in your annoyance. 

"The hell are you looking at?" You snap, glaring with a snarl. 

The Imp blinks, shoulders drawing up tight like he's surprised, and the reaction just serves to irritate you even more. But before you can get another remark, another demon is breezing past you and joining his side with a sunny expression on their face. The guilt and humiliation that settles over you feels like a set of talons running down your back, and you immediately want to shrink into yourself and vanish. You can't fight off the cringe that sweeps over your body, and you struggle to give them an apologetic, strained smile, lifting the hand holding the bottle of mead up to give an awkward wave, and the alcohol inside sloshes around in a way that seems to hammer home your embarrassing predicament. 

He doesn't return the look, instead he's looping arms with his lover and leading them out of the aisle all together, but not without shooting you a wary glance over his shoulder and you hear him whisper lowly in their ear before they both disappear around the shelving: "Don't make eye contact with her. She might be a biter." 

You need to chill out. You're acting completely erratic, and towards people who don't deserve it. Complete strangers who were probably just here to pick up some junk food and a slurpy, and now they get to go home and talk about the crazy lady standing in the liquor aisle.  

It would be fine. Everything would be okay once you just get home. 

Everything was indeed not fine. In fact, it might have been worse. 

It started out normal enough. You went about your regular routine. Or the routine that you had adopted these past few weeks anyways, which usually consisted of an occasional glass of alcohol and a bowl of ice cream, eating and drinking your feelings while you watched whatever mindless trashy show is currently playing on TV. You try to do some kind of selfcare. Anything to keep you from drowning and getting pulled down into the dredges of your pathetic longing and angst. Tonight, that meant painting your nails and applying a face mask that smelt of pineapples and nectar. And for a moment it was actually nice. It felt peaceful even. 

You had slid the glass door that led to your compact outside balcony open, letting in the distant lull of the traffic down below and the scent of the balmy night breeze inside your apartment. That was always a plus to the Lust Ring, that even with the heavy population and the smog of the bustling, neon city, the air here always seems to be a little perfumed, subtly sugared and almost a little heady. 

You were humming yourself, perched up on the soft cushioning of your couch, barely registering the angry shouting coming from the speakers of your television. It's probably just two of the ladies fighting again. Tension is going to be at an all-time high considering that Luz is getting married, and she didn't invite Opal to the wedding. Things were bound to get messy. But even with your interest piqued you could hardly get yourself to glance up from your work while you apply coats of a cheerful yellow nail polish to your toes. It wasn't your first choice, but you figured that it was a happy color. And you had hoped that maybe it would make you feel better. It didn't. You had decided halfway through that it was an awful decision. Whether it was because of the particular shade, you don't know, but you found yourself observing the polish underneath the warm glow of your lamp with a mild sense of regret. 

Oh, well, it's not like you can't change it. 

You lift your focus up from your feet that you had propped up against the lip of the coffee table, scanning the counter for the bottle of acetone, but you come up empty. There's nothing but your glass of mead and the half-melted bowl of cookies n' cream that you had forgotten most of the way into painting your nails. You could have sworn that you had grabbed it and a handful of cotton pads and swabs from your bathroom before you had started, but apparently you didn't.

And then - 

You hardly even make out the words, you just hear the voice. That horribly familiar voice, raised in that accented lilt. It has you perking up subconsciously. Your head jerks like it's being tugged on an invisible string, threatening to give you whip lash with your full attention zeroing in on the screen and your body twists in its hunched position to sit ramrod straight.  And for one fleeting moment, you hope that your ears are just playing a trick on you. That the universe was kind enough to give you a break within the comfort of your own home, but that small glimmer of optimism is quickly snuffed out like a weak flame when a blur of various shades of green streaks across the screen, accompanied by the jingling of bells and coins. And then there he is. 

Ruining the most recent episode of the Housewives of Sin City. 

This absolute hell. Well, yeah it is literally. But figuratively as well. 

What is he even doing on this show? You can't recall him mentioning to have an interest in it or any of the stars a single time that you had been together. Except for maybe that one time he had found you watching it, and he had casually asked you about one of the wives who had been in the throes of an enraged outburst, while shoving a handful of chips into his mouth, speaking around the mouthful: "What's wrong with that skank? She on the rag or something?" 

But now, he's apparently a guest at Luz's wedding. How that's even possibly - why that's even possible doesn't add up. And the shock and irritation running throughout your body like an electrical current has twisted up the features of your face, causing the moisturizing mask placed over your skin to lose its grip, suddenly peeling itself from its hold to fall onto the carpet in a flat flop near your feet. 

You don't even give it any mind. Instead, you're looking for an outlet, blindly reaching for the nearest object to throw and your hand snatches up an old Loo Loo Land apple plushie next to you on the couch for you to hurtle at the screen. It makes impact with a pitiful squeak before plopping on the floor and the TV doesn't so much as rattle from the hit, which is honestly a blessing as much as you'd love to see the glass projecting the image of his grinning face to crack and split down the middle. But you can hardly find it in yourself to be thankful for that little fact. You're annoyed and angry and hurt. 

Actually seeing him in motion and not in the form of pictures or drawings is just picking at that fresh wound that's still openly bleeding. And suddenly, those three long years of being at his side have never felt so far and yet so close: looming and almost painful. You lurch for your phone, scooping it off of the table to fervently scroll through your contacts. You briefly pause on Fizz's name, and for a second you consider calling him. He would understand. He would sympathize with what it's like to struggle with learning to let go of Mammon's influence and figuring out how to move on. But that wouldn't be fair. Not to him. Not after he's just recently cut ties with the King of Greed, and officially dropped the Sin as his mentor. It would be opening up a cut that he's still beginning to heal. 

It has you scrolling your thumb down a little bit further until you find Lottie's number and you press it without much thought, other than the fleeting wish that you weren't interrupting her. She should be free from her shift at the firm by now; it's late enough. But with each trill of the phones ringback tone you get a little more unsure, and the sinking feeling that she's busy, that you've disturbed her nearly has you ending the call. The image of her caller ID posted in the background doesn't help either.

You know that she won't be angry about you contacting her. She's actually been pretty insistent that you do just that if you ever begin to feel overwhelmed or upset, but suddenly the sight of her joyful, beaming face doesn't seem so jovial anymore, and the scarlet glint of her eyes seems accusing and harsh. It's enough to have you second guessing yourself, but just as you're about to press on the red button on your screen, she answers. 

The comfort that floods over you lifts from your body like a sack full of bricks and you breathe an audible sigh of relief when you set the call to an open speaker. "I think I'm going crazy," you blurt. You almost wince at the lack of tact, but you can't help it with all of the emotions and stress rising to the surface, forcing all of your worries to spill out of you like a flooding geyser. "Everywhere I look, he's there! How am I supposed to move on when he's shoved in my face every second of the day? I went to the store a few hours ago, and he was all over the place; on cereal boxes and chip bags and fucking laxatives-" 

"Okay, okay, okay, " her voice soothes firmly, successfully grabbing you attention enough to get you to just stop talking. "Listen. I really don't think that you're giving yourself enough time to move on from this. I mean, it's been what? Maybe just a little over a month?" 

"Yeah, " you nod dejectedly, scooping up some of your liquified ice cream on to the spoon to drink. "Just about three weeks." 

She hums lowly. "So, you two were together - surprisingly - for a few years. All of those feelings aren't just going to dry up overnight, babe." 

"Ugh, I know!" You whine in an elongated groan, dropping the spoon back into the ceramic bowl with a noisy clatter. You tighten the grip that you have on your phone so that it doesn't go flying out of your hand when you let yourself fall face first into the couch cushions, not caring if it stunts your breathing and when you speak next your voice is slightly muffled. "It's just so frustrating. I don't know what's holding me back. I mean, I really don't even know what I had ever seen in him in the first place." 

You hear her scoff on the other end and there's a clipped humorless laugh tainting the sound. "His money? Well, no he's too cheap to even spend it - whatever. Either way, I'm glad you finally woke up to his bullshit. The guy's a total sleaze." 

The comment makes you bristle despite your pervious statement, but you can only manage a grunt in response, tired and low while you turn your head, moving from the press of the cushions to finally allow yourself to breathe properly without inhaling the bits of perfume and dust that have undoubtedly gotten caught within the velvet fabric. You've heard all of the confused whispers and frustrated remarks for years. From Lottie and Ozzie and many of the other performers and staff at the restaurant, none of them were shy in voicing their bewilderment over your relationship with the Sin of Greed. They weren't looking down at you per se. You could tell that the side eyed glances and chatter all came from a place of good will and genuine concern - "He just isn't a good person, darling." Asmodeus had told you once. "I know him better than just about anyone and believe me when I tell you that he'll chew you up for all your worth and spit you out when he's finished licking up the bones. You deserve better." - but they still frustrated you. 

In the past you had told yourself that they just didn't understand him like you did. That underneath all of the selfishness and confetti and snark that there was something that cared. What a complete blind, fool you had been. 

Your eyes land on the TV screen, letting you defeatedly take in the sight of him on stage, guitar in his hands while he belts out one of his songs on an exuberantly decorated stage with champagne colored streamers and the glimmer of coins (fake of course, he'd never use the real thing out of the risk of other demons scooping the change off the floor and stealing it) falling around him, and a row of golden cannons shoot off explosions of sparkling fire and pyrotechnics. He's no doubt eclipsing the wedding ceremony with the act but knowing him that was entirely the point. 

So he's there as the part of the entertainment then. He's got to be charging them out the ass for this performance. 

You let yourself admire him, sweeping over the neon green of his eyes and the round shape of his face. You could almost feel the cool sensation of his cheeks against your palms. He's always ran a little on the colder side; a little chilled to the touch no matter how heated the atmosphere around him may be. But you had never minded. And you find yourself longing to brush your thumbs along his skin, to feel the weight of his face underneath your fingertips like you've done at least a thousand times. 

"He is still a little cute," you remark, melancholic but a little loving too. 

Lottie sighs on the other end, ragged and weary but then her breath snags and a small bout of silence hangs over you both. "Is that - is that him singing? Are you watching him?" She accuses, tone saturated in disbelief. She makes you feel like you're being berated by your mother. Like you're a child being caught doing something that you shouldn't have, and it has shame stinging at your cheeks. 

"I was watching my show," you defend yourself, eyebrow furrowing as you observe him break into the songs verse. "And then he decided to show up." 

"Oh, for fucks sake," she grouses. You can tell that she's shaking her head on the other end. Probably pacing, too. "All right, we're going to do something about this." 

That both intrigues and concerns you and you perk up just a little bit. "Do 'what' exactly?" 

She doesn't immediately answer and that sets you on edge. You can still hear her shuffling around on the opposite line and it has tension setting in your muscles while your brain tries to scramble around for whatever  it is that she's trying to plan or set up, but your mind keeps coming up frustratingly empty. "Seriously, what are you doing?" 

"I . . . " she begins a little distractedly. "Am setting you up on a date." 

It feels like a bullet has fired your heart out from your chest in sharp burst and the shock is enough to have you clambering up from your flopped over position to glare down at your phone. You can taste the adrenaline on your tongue like something acrid. For a moment you can hardly get the jumbled words out from your throat, and you're left sitting frozen with your mouth hanging open dumbly. " You . . . Wh - " Your eyebrows pinch close. "You what?  With who?" 

"Do you remember that coworker that I told you about? The hot paralegal?" 

You hum to yourself, trying to jog the memory free but nothing familiar rises up to greet you. "No," you answer bluntly, picking at a loose thread from the couch cushion. 

The admittance doesn't seem to dampen her excitement in the slightest. "Well, he's nice and Sherry said that he has a massive dic - "

"Okay, I get it!" You say quickly. 

"And I think this will be good for you," she says, tone dipping into something gentle and soothing. "I mean, I know I said to take time to move past this, but maybe you could use this as a reason to get out. To take your mind off of things - it won't be anything serious! Just a . . . distraction." 

Your lips purse and you can feel a refusal rising up from your lungs, but then your eyes are drifting back over to the TV. The bitter taste of disappointment hits you like a mouthful of lime juice when you see that he's been replaced on screen with one of the wives during a confessional scene, and it serves as a harsh reminder of how pitifully stuck on him you are. Sure, you know that you only need a little bit of time to completely move on, but Lottie's right. Maybe a harmless little date wouldn't hurt. Maybe it would be enough to finally help you to pry those bits of affection and devotion from him and take back your life. "Okay, " you relent wearily. 

She exclaims in a burst of excitement, and a part of you loathes how happy she sounds while you're currently stewing in your own misery. "Great! I already texted him about it, but I'll send you his number." 

You hum to let her know that she's been heard, a little absentminded while you continue to stare at the screen with some piteous part of you waiting for him to pop back up on the TV. The phone call drifts from there, directing back over to Lottie's day. A nice reprieve from thinking about your own, but as selfish as it is, it's hard to try and pay her words any attention while you're buried under your own emotions. You can't help but be a little bit thankful when she has to end the call, having to turn in for the night in the preparation of some early meeting in the morning. 

It leaves you to just sit in silence, with your bowl of melted ice cream propped in your lap while you mindlessly watch TV, seeing the content flit across the screen but not registering it. You had made yourself change the channel about fifteen minutes ago, even when your thumb had stubbornly hovered over the controls of the remote while your subconscious waited for that familiar grin to show back up on the screen. And that fleeting little thought had been enough to get you to mash down on the channel button until you landed on an entirely random program. Some renovation show, about taking homes from demons struggling against foreclosure to remodel the seized properties into luxury houses for reselling to the wealthy and famous. 

A lot of the designs were just beyond absurd. Like the bathroom with a mini golf course built into the flooring or the laser tag arena that was merged with a sex dungeon. It was an odd union of hobby and . . . necessity?

And that's where you stayed for an indiscernible amount of time without moving apart from a small shuffle to readjust; you had long since forgotten your intention to remove the yellow polish from your nails. You were steadily nursing on your glass of Beelzejuice, fighting off the slight wince on your face whenever you took a sip. Between the saccharine, syrupy flavor and the burn of the alcohol whenever you swallowed it down, you were hitting close to your limit for the night. Fortunately, a nice, relaxed haze was already settling over you and fizzling at your limbs and fingertips. And for a few blissful moments, you didn't have any clamoring, distracting thoughts or feelings welling up and threatening to stretch you thin. It felt like peace. 

You had texted the number that Lottie had sent you a little while ago - Hugo, it seemed his name was - just to try and make an effort, even if it was a reluctant one. It was just a quick hello, nothing much more than that, and you hadn't built up the courage to check and see if he had responded to you. It was so odd. The entire situation and you hate how much you feel guilty about accepting an invitation for the date. It had some acidic, nasty sensation bubbling in the pit of your chest; sharp and cold, but luckily the potency of the alcohol was enough to distract you. 

Not for long though, because the show is switching to a commercial break and once again the familiar sight of a layered, pointed clown costume drops across the screen, encapsulated around the looming shape a figure that you know all too well. His voice is raised, meant to grab the viewers' attention easily as he breaks into a pitch meant to entice the watcher into buying his newly manufactured sex robots, modeled after a pair of twins from the Envy Ring.  

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" Your entire body seems to sag, weighed down with defeat, and you swear you can feel tears prickling at your waterline as he leans closer towards the camera, twirling his staff with one of his upmost hands. And for a while you don't even hear what he's saying. You're too busy being forced to watch him while he cavorts around a simple, plum purple background with a pair of robots obediently stationed behind him. And it isn't until he reaches for the both of them and presses them both up against his sides with a somewhat provocative grin stretched over his face that your mind seems to focus, and his indistinct salesman speech becomes fully audible.  

" - each sold separately! But if you purchase the both of them in a package deal, then you'll have double the fun for the low, low price of two thousand, six hundred and ninety dollars - not including tax! C'mon! Don't be a cheapskate - " He leans forward, eyes narrowing while his voice subtly shifts a few octaves lower in a threatening rumble - "you better get 'em both, you sick fuck! Ya know you want to!" 

Your hand seems to raise on its own, gripping onto the remote and smashing down on the power button, causing the screen to go black, saving yourself and your sanity from having to look at him for a second longer. 

It's safe to say that sleep didn't come easily that night. You had tossed and turned for hours on end, and it wasn't until the dawn was rising in the horizon in a blossom of pale lavender and peach hue that you were able to pass out from pure exhaustion. The next few days continued as they usually do with preforming down at the restaurant and going out for drinks with your coworkers afterwards. You had begun to text Hugo within that time, and you felt a bit of consolation to know that he too wasn't looking for anything particularly serious, having been out of the dating game for a few years after spending his focus on furthering himself in his field of work. The both of you had unanimously agreed that whatever was going to take place between you would be entirely casual. It was after two days of speaking that he had asked to take you out for dinner, and with Lottie's words echoing loudly inside your head, you had agreed. 

It wasn't until you were getting ready that night that your reality had officially sunk in. That you're actually going to go out on a date with a man that you hardly even knew. After three years of remaining in a relationship it felt like such a strange concept. You had never imagined yourself with any other person but Mammon. And now here you were, rummaging around in your closest for something to wear. Shoving through the mountain made of Thing plushies and all of the other miscellaneous trinkets that he had sent you once he had realized that you were indeed serious about ending the relationship, just to try and get to the clothes hanging from the closet rod. 

You had thrown most of his little 'peace offerings' away at first, but after the fourth day of having to carry the armfuls of Mammon plushies and oddly enough, Loo Loo Land novelty cups (you're fairly sure that he was just sending you stuff that he had found in inventory) down to the garbage hatch down the hallway, you had just begun to shove it all into your closet instead. The questioning stares from your neighbors had always felt too invasive whenever they'd watch you slip down the corridor with his pathetic attempts at bribing you back into a relationship clutched to your chest in the shape of stupid toys and knickknacks.

You actually manage a smile when you successfully tug the hanger holding your chosen dress free from the confines of the closet, but you don't even bother trying to fight against the scattered collection of plushies by attempting to close the door to your closet. Not with the way that they've tumbled out from the confines of the snug little alcove and onto the floor. It would be a losing battle, and you don't have time for that with the clock steadily ticking. You were quick to rush off to the bathroom, taking care to spend time on styling your hair as best as you could and making yourself presentable, spraying on a few puffs of perfume across your body. 

You had been fine throughout the entire process. The nervousness settling in your gut had been noticeable but manageable. It was faint enough to keep your mind off of it, to push it down and ignore. It wasn't until you were actually at the decided upon restaurant and sitting across from Hugo at a candle lit table for two that the restlessness and hesitancy become unavoidable. And you had long since forgotten your food, far too nervous to eat. It had you trying to distract yourself from the wild thrum of your heart beating in your chest by looking around the dining room, admiring the pale, iridescent shimmer of the dramatic crystal chandeliers hanging above the array of tables and the large, carved marble statues placed along the circumference of the great the walls. 

"Are you all right?" Hugo suddenly asks, breaking from your trance. Your attention snaps over to him, making the jewelry hanging from your earlobes jingle. 

"Yeah, of course," you reassure quickly, playing with the stem of your wine glass somewhat distractedly. "I'm just getting reused to this sort of thing. It's been a while since I've been on a date with someone new." 

He smiles, nodding in understanding way while he prods at his food. "Well, we're both in the same boat in that regard." The burgundy shade of his irises shimmer underneath the gentle glow of the candles flame. "It's no pressure, remember? This is purely casual." 

It has you breathing a visible sigh of relief, and the entirety of your body relaxes while you let yourself rest your weight on the table with your elbows. It was something that he has told you before, but it was nice to hear it in the moment, face to face. Hugo moves a bit closer, and the motion looks a little awkward. A little unsure, and as bad as it may sound, it was almost pleasant to see that he too is removed from his comfort zone. That you're not the only one that's entirely out of their depth. 

"I hope that this isn't too forward, but why did you agree to even do this?" He asks. "It's just, from how Lottie described it, it was all sport of sudden." 

The question gives you pause, as straight forward as it is and for a moment you find yourself without a proper response. He did say that this entire outing was casual, no strings attached. But even then, it isn't exactly appropriate to say that you were just trying to get out of the house because you were going clinically insane; that you're out here on your night off, drinking wine that's entirely too expensive because everywhere you look, you see your ex's face and it's been wearing down on your resolve little by little like pressure on a weak, torn rope. Sure, you have the potential to be an asshole, but even that feels a little insensitive. 

You had told him that you had just recently gotten out of a relationship, but he has no clue just how fresh the separation actually is. And you have no idea what Lottie may have said to him, but as of right now you'd like to try and keep your personal business to a minimum if at all possible. Satan forbid you accidentally mention just who you ex is. That last thing you need to deal with is him getting intimidated and running off because you used to have tied with the incarnation of Greed. 

"Honestly?" You say, absentmindedly tapping your nails along the stem of your glass with a soft shrug. "As superficial as it is, Lottie said that she knew about a hot guy that was single and looking for a night out. I agreed." 

He chuckles at that, playing coy but you notice the subtle way that he preens under the casual compliment. The hint of a smile curling at the corners of his lips, and the slight spike of lust that trickles across the air. It's low, a blink and you'll miss it scent; heady and a little warm, and the faint thrum of it nudges against your body like a hesitant touch before it vanishes. But despite your instinct to chase after that minute pulse of desire and cultivate it into something more, you find yourself completely uninspired to do just that. As dejected and disappointed as it makes you in yourself, you'd honestly rather spend the remainder of your evening catching up on your TV shows than wasting it between the sheets with him. But then again, that doesn't have to be the point of tonight. Tonight, you're just here to get out. To remind yourself of what's out there. You have to try. 

"Was she right?" He speaks suddenly just as your taking a sip from of your wine, leaving you to tilt your head curiously with an intrigued hum. "Am I hot?" 

You lower your glass, drinking the swig down and you make a show of eyeing him while you debate on how you really want this night to go. This could be a simple time out on the town, or you could truly try to go down the opposite route and wind up in some trashy No-Tell-Motel a few blocks down the strip. He seems receptive enough. In fact, despite his earlier statements, you're more than sure that he wouldn't be opposed to a little harmless fling. And maybe it would help you forget Mammon, even if just for a little while. But is that really what you want though . . ?

"Hmm, ask me later tonight," is all you say, smirking softly, and there it is again. That dim heated little pulse that leaves him and threads across the atmosphere. It should be enough to interest that deep, primal part of your psyche, but there's absolutely nothing. 

"So, what did your ex do, if you don't mind my asking, " he says, and you struggle to keep the smile on your face present at the mention of Mammon. " Sorry, I'm just trying to figure out what kind of expectations I'm supposed to be meeting." 

Well, that shouldn't be all that difficult to surpass. Not with how self-absorbed and oblivious Mammon has always been. And truthfully, Hugo was attractive - or hot, as Lottie had promised. Sure, you had seen pictures of him with all of the texting that the both of you had done but seeing him in person was somehow all the better. It was easy to see that he takes care of himself. His eyes are gorgeous, sharp and expressive and the suit that he wears is no doubt expensive. And with how considerate and patient that he had been with you throughout your entire time together, he didn't have much to worry about in terms of acceding past the standard that Mammon had set. 

"He was . . . " You wrack your mind for a way to delicately leave out the hints that your ex just so happens to be the King of Greed. You really won't be able to handle the entire slew of questions that would no doubt come from that little nugget of information. " A performer . . . " You settle with a squint. "And a businessman of sorts. " 

"Oh, yeah? Is it possible that he's been in anything that I've seen before?" He questions conversationally. 

Yes. It's very, very possible. "No," you shake your head with what you hope is a neutral expression on your face. "I doubt it." 

You take a quick sip of your wine, desperate for some sort of liquid courage to dull the low turning of your stomach. He hums softly, letting you know that he's heard you and pats his mouth clean for any traces of food. 

"So, did you work together then?" He tilts his head in a curious kind of way, and the inquiry has your eyebrows furrowing incredulously, prompting him to clarify. "You said he was a performer. You work at Ozzie's, right?"

"Uh, yeah," you admit. "But no. He's business partners with my boss, so he pops in for meetings every now and again. That's how we met." You clear your throat, shifting in your seat to try and regain a sense of comfortability. The memory always leaves you feeling a bit confused. A little torn and stretched between contrast of a fond sense of love and nostalgia but reversibly the bitter sting of loathing and regret. It leaves you a jumbled mess. Stuck because you can't help but wonder just what you had ever seen in Mammon, but it's even worse because all those affections still haven't fully waned. Even before you had fully become acquainted with the Sin of Greed there'd always been that odd sort of intrigue that would pull at you whenever he had arrived at Ozzie's for a meeting; typically, a discussion over the production of Fizzbot's much to Asmodeus' chagrin. 

Your boss was never enthused over Mammon's presence in his restaurant, mostly because the Sin would always try to scout new talent to exploit in the shape of Ozzie's employees whenever he was present (not to mention that massive tab that he had racked up at the bar and the kitchen that he always manages to weasel out of paying). And you had been one of those employees yourself. You had been pulled over by the King of Greed one night after your routine, and he had shamelessly tried persuading you in becoming one of his performers directly in front of Ozzie, offering you fame and money and fans beyond your wildest fantasies. Naturally, you had declined the proposal. 

The refusal had visibly rubbed him the wrong way, with him no doubt taking it as blow to his pride and his image, but he hadn't let it stop him. Every time that he came in for that monthly meeting, he'd make sure to pop the question, and you'd gently let him down each time. But for whatever reason, his persistence never bothered you. It was almost fun in fact, like a game of cat and mouse. It was entertaining, in a strange sort of way, like the both of you were waiting each other out to see who'd crack first. You actually enjoyed his company. He was brash, garish and vulgar. The jokes that he made were always at another expense and he was insensitive to the point it was concerning, but for some reason you found yourself inexplicably drawn to him. He made you laugh; he let you be yourself, and the both of you could spend hours gossiping amongst yourselves and trashing other demons, laughing at their misfortune and mistakes. Was it rude? Absolutely. But with him, that was perfectly fine. He was a complete douche (still is) but he had never really flirted with you, he'd never given much of an indication that he was interested in you in a sexual nature, apart from admiring your talents on the stage it was a nice break from all of the constant salivating customers that would clamor up against the edge of the platform and ogle you throughout your shift. It was nice just having a conversation with someone who wasn't expecting or wishing to get some cheap blowjob backstage. Ironically enough, one of the most exploitative beings in all of the seven circles of Hell managed to make you feel the most normal. Like you were more than just your basest functions, more than lust and a performer.  

It had been Asmodeus who had recognized when your intrigue in the Sin of Greed had melted past an amused kind of fascination and into endearment and desire. He had seen the shift in your emotions long before you had, and you had vehemently shrugged off his gentle accusations for months on end. Insisting that he was reading into the weird type of kinship that you had fashioned Mammon all wrong. You had insisted that you were just friends. You just found him interesting, that's all. 

But unfortunately, Ozzie had been right. 

"Is it okay if we change topics?" You ask suddenly, desperate to get out of your head. To quit reliving old, painful memories. " It's just - talking about my ex, you know?" 

Something sheepish and a little ashamed flits across his face and he's immediately apologizing. "Oh, I'm sorry. That was a little insensitive of me." 

"It's okay," you say truthfully, shrugging with a soft smile. "So, do you have any kind of hobbies?" 

The conversation diverges for there - thankfully, carrying on while you both try to learn about each other. It leads you to discover that Hugo has a multitude of talents, such as being able to play several kinds of musical instruments and he has a proclivity for painting and a fondness for cooking that was cultivated by his grandfather. He was quick to offer to teach you how to make a dish from the Wrath Ring for your next date, after he learned that you aren't all the adept at the culinary arts, mostly due to the lack of interest. 

He's undeniably a sweet guy. He seems to be generous and easy going, but despite all of that you still can't hide from that sharp, nagging feeling that's been picking at you the entire night. The realization that there just isn't much of spark regardless of how charming and gentle he seems to be. And although conversing with him is easy, nice even, to a degree it feels like talking with a coworker or a catching up with a friend. But maybe the lack of attraction wasn't the only thing to blame. The entire night there's been this harsh, laughable sense of guilt and betrayal brewing inside of you, almost like you being on this date with Hugo is somehow cheating. But that's entirely stupid. Not to mention that it doesn't make any sense. Those bitter emotions shouldn't have any footing because you and Mammon aren't a couple anymore, but it's almost like your feelings and heart haven't accepted that yet. 

And it leaves you admittedly a little distracted, until you're just mindlessly nodding and laughing whenever it's the appropriate response. Eventually you're just sleepwalking throughout the entire dinner; your body is present, but your mind definitely isn't. Suddenly it's hard to keep yourself in place and your eyes start shifting around the dinning room like you're in search of an exit. This is too much too soon. You shouldn't have agreed to this. You shouldn't be here.

And in your internal panicking you couldn't keep yourself from covertly slipping your hand into your purse hanging from the back of your chair to retrieve your phone while Hugo isn't looking, too busy animatedly scanning his eyes around the room while he's reminiscing about some past vacation on an island resort in Envy. The sting of guilt makes you slightly shuffle in your seat like you might be able to shake the feeling free, but it doesn't keep you from hiding your phone underneath the table in the clasp of your hand while you tap the messaging app and search for Lottie's name. Maybe if you were able to explain yourself to her, she'd help to bail you out. Maybe you could get her to give you a fake call and come up with an excuse- 

You freeze, focus landing on the name posted directly underneath hers.

Moo💚

It's such a dumb nickname, and honestly aren't even sure where it had come from. You had just started using it one day, and you stuck with it because even when Mammon would grumble under his breath and roll his eyes like every utterance of the pet name costed a year of his immortal life, you would always see that monochrome blush tinting his cheeks at the sound of it. He'd get offended if you addressed him as anything else; one morning when your brain was still sluggish and dulled by the cloud of sleep, you had called him 'Mammon' and he had elected to give you the silent treatment until you were finally able to figure out just what exactly you had done wrong. And it would make your chest turn fuzzy and soft whenever you'd see the reaction that it garnered from him, full of devotion and affection. 

And now the simple nickname, something you had felt nothing but fondness for, feels like it's mocking you. Dangling something in front of your face that you'll never get to have again. You can't help yourself when you press on the contact's name, opening up your messages. It's like your heart is in your throat, heavy and trembling and threatening to suffocate you, and it takes every ounce of your frayed sense of will to keep your from reading the text thread. You could remember the last couple of messages that he had sent without looking over them. The last of them asking for you to 'come to your senses' and return back to one of his penthouses in Greed and when you refused the text had turned egotistical and indifferent, with him claiming that he didn't need you. That he'd do just fine without you. 

And just like that your will snaps. 

x/x/xx 12:43 am 

fine go ahead i dont even nrrd u 

x/x/xx 12:43 am 

duck 

x/x/xx 12:44 am 

*FUCK

x/x/xx 12:44 am 

*NEED 

x/x/xx 12:44 am 

go crawl to ozz for all i care 

Those simple set of words feel like a knife to the chest; sharp and slicing and you feel those pitiful emotions rising up again, threatening to spill over in the form of tears. You don't know what causes it. If it's the sudden call of Hugo's voice, laced with concern and curiosity as he asks if you're okay, or if it's the slight tremor in your fingers that makes your thumb twitch and press the image of the call button in the corner of the screen above your messages, but when it happens your stomach feels like it falls through your ass. You visibly lurch when his caller ID pops up with an in-progress call and you audibly gasp ragged and a horrified as you slam your finger on the end call button so harshly that it's a wonder that you didn't damage your phone. 

Your entire body is pulled taunt like you've been struck by a live wire, and you're sure that Hugo is more than confused because you must look as though someone has a gun pressed to the back of your head. 

"Are you all right?" He repeats, leaning forward over the table to make eye contact with you. 

It does enough to let you regain some control of your body, letting you pull a tight, unconvincing smile across your lips as you nod. "Yeah. I'm fine." You say, more so to yourself than to him. Honestly, you're being a little dramatic. The connection - if it could even be considered as one - couldn't have lasted for more than a split second. He probably won't even notice the missed call. More accurately, he most likely has your number blocked. You're blowing this entirely out of proportion. You're good. Everything is all right. 

"I'm fine," you reiterate and luckily, you're able to make your expression a little bit more convincing. 

It's fine. 

The air prickles. It shifts and thrums like it's being charged by an oncoming lightning strike, and you can feel your body respond to it. Your back goes straight from the sensation of something hot and buzzing shooting down the notches of your spine while your heart flutters from anticipation in some traitorous Pavlovian response before you even hear that familiar cha-ching! jingle across the electric, pulsing atmosphere. The space directly next to you erupts in a puff of rushing lime and emerald smoke, joined by a flurry of bright, neon dollar signs and confetti that whirls over the beverages and meals belonging to the neighboring tables; effectively tainting the other patron's food in its scatter. 

"Well, well, well, look who's come crawling back!" 

You're experiencing so many different emotions right now; you can't even keep track of it all of it while it roars around inside of you like a deluge bursting past the battered walls of a crumbled dam. You manage to recognize a few: concern, irritation, regret and most disturbingly, relief, joy and admiration. It's like you're entire being is suddenly overloaded with conflicting information and you aren't sure what you're supposed to say or do. 

In your disarray you notice that Hugo has gone still, just as surprised as you are. And the entire restaurant has fallen deathly silent, no longer noisy from the ceaseless chatter of varying conversations or the scrape of silverware on porcelain and the clinking of wine glasses. It's still. So hushed that you could hear a pin drop. Even worse, is that everyone's attention is now fixed on your table. Guests and employees alike, their focus is now on you. It's like you've been strapped down and flayed open on an operating table; you don't think you've ever felt so exposed, so judged in your entire life. 

Your mouth hangs open, but nothing makes its way out, not even when Hugo shoots you a questioning look before his eyes center back onto Mammon. 

"So this is who you're spending your time with now, " he remarks in that tantalizing lilt, leaning - looming over Hugo with an intrigued squint. His lower hands are folded across his stomach, but he uses the other pair to take ahold of your date by his wrists, spanning his arms open like he's inspecting a toy and his head tilts with the chime of bells. "He's a bit of a flimsy fucker, ain't he?" 

The expression on Hugo's face is understandably one of bewilderment, and he lets his arms drop back onto the table counter weightlessly when Mammon releases him. You can see all of the questions burning in his stare and you know that you have to give him some kind of explanation, even if this entire situation was a complete accident on your end. 

"Hugo, this is the . . . performer - uh, businessman that I was telling you about earlier," you clarify somewhat cryptically, giving him a tense smile. 

His jaw drops a little, shoulders going slack with what has to be the weight of shock and possibly intimidation. "Your ex is the King of Greed?" 

"Ex?" Mammon hisses, bending his body over the smaller demon while bearing his sharp teeth like he might bite and tear flesh while he jabs an accusing finger at Hugo. "What? You think just 'cause me and the missus had a little spat that you can just try and move in on my woman?" 

The fucking audacity that he has. 

Anger sears through you with a gravity that surprises yourself, and you stand up from your seat so abruptly that it has the legs scrapping across the smooth tiles with a sharp noise that could make you flinch if you weren't already so preoccupied. " 'Missus?' We aren't even marrie- we aren't even dating anymore! What the hell are you doing here?" 

The Sin blinks at you with what might be surprised before his expression melts into something composed and neutral. "You called; I came. That's what good boyfriends do," he says, and you can hear some kind of accusation in his tone, and he jabs a finger in your direction. " I showed up for you, even after you tore my heart out and practically pissed all over it! Did it get you off? Pissing all over our love?" 

The laugh that leaves you is entirely humorless, and at this point you're too upset to even consider that you're having an argument in the middle of some expensive restaurant with your ex while your date sits and watches like some kind of reluctant voyeur.  "Oh, please. Because you were always so invested in our relationship, weren't you?" you snap with your tone saturated full of sarcasm. "You poured more effort into trying to figure out ways in getting back at Fizz and Ozzie than giving me even a shred of your time. You started treating us like a chore, don't even try to pretend."  

You're able to find some satisfaction in the way that his eyes twitches, his composure slipping. In hindsight, it's pretty stupid trying anger someone who's capable of snuffing out your existence with the snap of his fingers, but as of right now, you can't find it in yourself to care. You want him to get mad. 

"And I told already fucking told you that it was only temporary," he defends, tilting towards you to get eye level. "I'm a busy man, babes and blackmailing and ruining the life or your backstabbing, shit-stain, ex-employee takes time. " He explains casually, making your irritation spike. 

"Well, that 'shit-stain, ex-employee' happens to be my friend," you hiss hotly, and your tail lashes out behind you. 

"All right, maybe we should all calm down and breathe," Hugo chimes in, advising in a hesitant pitch. 

Even with his suggestion hanging in the air it takes you and Mammon a moment to pull your venomous glares from each other, and onto him, but it's enough to have you revaluating your current position. You cast an awkward glace around the room, struggling not to shrink underneath the intrigued, gossip hungry stares of the other patrons. You sit yourself back down on the seat, outwardly cringing as it makes an obnoxious screech when you nudge it forward to tuck yourself back up against the table. 

"If I want your opinion, you little shit, then I'll ask ya for it, " Mammon snaps with a smile that's all teeth, lethal and razor sharp. 

"Then perhaps you should leave," Hugo says. Despite the firmness of his tone, you can see the way that his eyes shift nervously. Not that you could blame him. Mammon can be menacing when he's in a good mood, much less when he's genuinely displeased, and that's not even adding onto the fact the he's royalty that has an entire Ring of Hell serving as his domain. Honestly, the fact that the demon had chosen to speak up at all surprises you completely, and Mammon seems to share your astonishment if the befuddled way that his face has twisted up is any indication. 

"The fuck did you just say to me?" The Sin asks, eyebrows furrowing as his eyes glint in that venomous shade of green. You can see the tension setting into his shoulders as he arches over Hugo's space, using his height to make the smaller demon lean back into his chair. You try and send your date a wary glance, warning him to tread lightly. Mammon could be a little unpredictable at best, especially with how he reacts to criticism or just basic social boundaries, so there really wasn't any way to guess how he may respond to Hugo's request. He could either laugh it off with a few harsh insults or he could lash out and try to kill the Imp entirely. 

The latter of which, was the last thing that you wanted - for obvious reasons. 

But Hugo doesn't heed your forewarning glances at all. He looks up at Mammon, somehow managing to school his features enough to come across as unbothered. "Well, according to her, it seems that you two are no longer in a relationship; and she's made it clear that she doesn't seem to want you here anymore. " He says. "I just think it's best to respect what she wants." 

You can feel your mouth go dry and your tongue feels too thick and useless. Suddenly it's as though all of the warmth and oxygen has been syphoned out of the room, making your body tense like it's been dunked in frigid water. The grin on Mammon's face stretches just a bit too wide, and the cheerful expression almost seems a bit feral. You can feel that charged aura building up around him, not enough to create any visible static, but you can still feel it humming along your fingertips and brushing over the exposed bits of your skin. It's a decent indication to let you get a read on his mood, allowing you know that Hugo is wobbling along a very frayed tight rope right now, and any wrong miscalculation could send him spiraling down below. 

For a second you think that Mammon's composure might snap but instead that wolfish quality to his sneer melts away as though it had never been there, and he looks positively jovial. Somehow that's worse. 

"Ya know what!" he snaps one of his topmost fingers together. "You're right. We should give the little lady what she wants." 

Hugo blinks in surprise, visibly relaxing but the buttered-up tone that Mammon uses just sets you on edge. It's too performative - even for him. 

"I think that means you should be the one to leave then, mate." Mammon sighs, with a kind of artificial sympathy as he takes Hugo's glass of wine from the table and tosses the near full cup of alcohol back like it's a small sip before he leans close to the demon conspiratorially. "After all, she isn't here to move on, she's just here for a little distraction. Why she chose a limp dick like you for that, I'm still not sure. But hey! I'm not one to judge." 

That stings. Mostly because there is some actual merit to his words, as awful as they are to hear. It's a tough pill to swallow, but it isn't one that you want to take from Mammon of all people. That might have been one of the most difficult things about being in a relationship with the Sin. Is that regardless of how brash and inept that he happens to be at the best of times, he's undeniably good at reading others. He knows what makes them tick or how to use their insecurities as a tool. It made it so difficult to hide the most delicate and abrasive parts of yourself from him, and you suppose that might have been you fell for him in the first place. Because you could always be the worst side of yourself, and he had never shied away from it. Not once. 

"Well, I'd like you to leave . . . Your Highness," Hugo responds with halfhearted resolve, and you can hear the other tables whisper amongst themselves like they're occupying the front row seats to a drama. 

And it has that horrible sinking feeling in your gut. 

"Is that so? And just what the fuck are you gonna do to make me, bitch boy?" Mammon taunts, and you can hear the hint of a low growl tainting his voice. The enthusiasm and intrigue wafting from the other occupied tables in palatable, and it feels like you're all holding your breath, dreading whatever may come next but unable to look away. And you want to speak, to get Mammon's attention off of Hugo and onto you instead, but you can't manage to say a damn word. It's like your voice is stuck in your throat. 

Your date opens his mouth, to possibly defend himself or relent, but he never gets to opportunity to because one of Mammon's hands is lashing out in a quick blur, grabbing Hugo by the throat. The other sets of his eyes have appeared, glinting with a violent glare of chartreuse and the sibilant sound, similar to the hiss of a rattlesnake's quivering tail, or the disturbed hiss of a cicada puffs from his chest. He raises Hugo up to his level, making the Imps feet dangle pathetically above the floor while his tail lashes wildly. Mammon's lips curl in a nasty sneer, dripping with satisfaction and aggression. "I could break you, pipsqueak. Be careful not to piss me off more than you already have, yeah?" 

The grip around Hugo's neck way deadly, and you could see his eyes beginning to bulge from underneath the weight of the Sin's iron hold, making him look like some kind of fucked up chew toy. One good squeeze and he's as good as dead. "I can't believe this is the little fucker you tried to replace me with," he jeers, dangling the smaller Imp like a rag doll. 

Finally, all of the tension and chaos is enough to break you from your stupor, letting you reclaim control of your limbs to leap out from your chair for the second time of the night. "Mammon!" You shout, by the Sin doesn't seem to even register that you're speaking with the way that he doesn't so much as spare you a glance. His eyes are fixed onto the demon whose windpipe he has his fingers tightly secured around.

"Mammon! Put him down." You snatch ahold of one of the Sin's wrists, tugging on his arm. "Let. Him. Go, " you warn through gritted teeth, even though you're probably about as intimidating to him as gentle breeze. 

Mammon finally spares you glance, the sadistic cheer shifting from his face as his eyes cast down to yours. Hugo continues to thrash around wildly, like a fish tossed out onto a dock but the King of Greed doesn't seem to be in any rush to release him. Instead, he's sighing, exasperated and fully disappointed when he notices your enraged glare, and even without any visual pupils or irises you can still tell that he's rolling his eyes at you. "All right, all right, don't get yer thong in a twist, " he scoffs; frustrated. " Jeez, you've always been so protective over the other normies." 

He releases Hugo like he's a discarded piece of garbage, letting the demon land near his feet in a weak pile. You're quick to let go of the Sin's wrist as you slip past Mammon to drop yourself down onto your knees in front of your date, roving your vision over him helplessly as he heaves and sucks in ragged, labored breaths. Pure guilt and hatred wracks through your body at the sight of him and all the while your mind harshly chants that this is your fault. That you did this to him. 

"I'm sorry, " you whisper fervently. " I'm so sorry." 

He can't respond to you around the strained gasps shaking through his lungs, but you feel him flinch when you place a comforting touch against one of his shoulders. The reaction, no matter how warranted, makes you jerk away from him. It hurt. It dug that remorse in deeper like a hot poker and you were desperate to direct it something. It has you spinning on your heels, rising up to round on Mammon. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" You snarl, anger burning at your fingertips and searing in your chest. The combination of surprise and annoyance on his face just pisses you off even more, making your wings flair out. You catch the way that his eyes glance around the room, surveying the reactions of the customers and servers who have long since taken out their phones to spread the gossip. There's no doubt that this is going to be all over online headlines and trending on platforms like Sinstagram and VoxTok for the next couple of days, and you know that the way that you're publicly insulting him is a setting you on a fast track to his shit list. But you don't care. Not right now. You want him to get mad. You want him to become just as upset and irritated and wounded as you are. 

"You're a psychopath! " You rant. " Arrogant, insensitive, selfish -" 

" Uh, yeah, babes, " he interrupts, flourishing his arms across his body in a presenting flourish. " King of Greed." 

"I'm so tired of hearing that excuse." You scoff around the frustrated laugh bubbling up in your chest, clenching and unclenching your hands to try and relieve some of the tension in them. 

"Let's chill out, eh? You're causing a bit of a scene," Mammon grouses. 

That genuinely stalls you. Why, you aren't sure, you should be used to this sort of behavior by now, but you're already too worked up to just ignore that comment. "I'm causing a scene?" You point your fingers into your chest, staring up at him with a pure molten resentment. "You're the one who crashed my night and assaulted my date. If anyone here's the problem, it's you!" 

A part of you waits for him to lash out, fully expecting to see those sharp, neon flashes of electricity start to fizzle and shoot out around him in a warning, but it never comes. Instead, he's rocking back on his feet, and the irritated scowl on his face shifts, molding into something soft and deceptively charming. "Baaabe, " he draws out an almost singsong whine. "Let's not do this anymore. Aren't you tired of all this fighting?" 

His mouth sets into something like a pout, and that coupled with the gentle, saccharine lit to his voice has you hesitating to berate him even more. It's such an obvious ploy to manipulate you - it has to be - but even worse is that it's working. You can feel that annoying, sugared sense of affection rising up and stupefying you. He uses your stalled response to his advantage, taking your hips and cupping your face with both pairs of his hands to tug you a little bit closer into his space until you can feel the thrum of his magnetic aura dipping across your body. His thumbs sweep over the edges of your cheeks, and some treacherous part of yourself longs to lean into his cool touch. "I miss us. I miss you, " he confesses like the moment between you both is private, and for a minute you completely forget that you're in a crowded room, airing out your relationship drama for all to see. "Don't you miss me? Even just a little?"

He almost sounds vulnerable when he asks it. The other sets of his eyes have long since vanished from sight, but the sheer amount of emotion gleaming from the main pair makes your heart ache. And even with all of your common sense raging inside of you and telling you to pull away from him, to slip out of his hold before you get caught too deep to pull out, you don't know if you can. Not when you can finally feel him again after so much time apart. And even with the smooth, press of his leather gloves keeping you from being able to feel his skin directly, the cool sensation of them is too good to let go of. "Yes," you admit, almost a little brokenly. There's the hurt of self-disappointment that runs through you when you say it, but the relief and exhilaration that rises up greatly overshadows it, frothing up and drowning it like the crash of a tsunami against the surf. 

"See?" He coos tenderly. "See how much better it is when we don't fight?" 

It's the sound of a rough intake of breath that finally rips you out of your moment of weakness and your eyes flit over to the origin of the noise out from your peripherals. It's when your focus lands on Hugo that reality comes hurtling down on you. He's pulling himself up onto his feet, still clearly a little disoriented but thankfully coherent. It has you tearing out of Mammon's hold before you can register it, approaching the Imp with a concerned furrow pinching your eyebrows close. "Are you okay?" You ask, a bit of a stupid question you admit, but you aren't sure what you could possibly say to make this situation any better.  

The stare that Hugo pins you with is a little wild and you can see noticeable traces of fear and rage, and he tries to smooth out the wrinkles that have marred his suit, combing his fingers through his unkempt hair in an attempt to try and right himself.  "Why would I be fucking okay?" 

It's a justifiable reaction, you suppose, but it doesn't make it any less painful take the brunt of that searing glare. You recoil away from it, thumping back into something solid and soft, and the scent of money carries over you; the hint of that leather musk that transfers onto the bills from being stuffed into purses and wallets; the slightly metallic notes of coins and the till from cash registers. That familiarity of it has you unconsciously sinking into the presence pressed up against your body for comfort. 

"You're still here, are ya?" Mammon's voice rumbles out, and you can feel the vibrations of it thrumming across your back, but it's hard to even hear what he's saying while you're bombarded by the searing pressure of everyone else's enthralled eyes pinned onto you; the bewildered, hurt stare that Hugo fixes you with as he steadies himself on his weakened legs. It has you feeling naked and bare. Stripped down to display all of your imperfections for all of the world to see, exposing you for judgement. But it's the cold, stinging weight of remorse that wounds you the most; driven in deep by that unforgiving voice in the back of your mind that keeps telling you that the entire trajectory of this night is your fault. That Hugo was humiliated and harmed because of you. 

You should have just stayed home. You should have just - 

"Let's say you and me ditch this shithole," Mammon purrs: the soothing chill of his hand's seeps through your skin, gripping around your shoulders and waist, threatening to make you go lax against him. "Let's go back home. We can make up for all our lost time." 

The scattered whispering around you nearly makes you miss the Sin's words. You can hear all of them, softly giggling amongst themselves and gasping in shock. But it's Hugo's shaken glare and all of the confusion and hatred that peeks through it that catches you. And there's some deep, knee jerk drive that tells you to go and try to comfort him. To try an apologize for the entire derailment of the date and explain yourself, but instead you're leaning back into Mammon's presence, savoring the musky scent of him and the distant magnetic thrum that constantly pulses across his body. 

You know whatever comes out of your mouth next is going to choose your fate. It'll completely seal the deal, so to speak, for the remainder of your life. And as dangerous as that thought is, as perilous as that truth may be, you can't find it in yourself to be scared. You find yourself leaning into it - into him - and fully accepting the troubles that may come from it. If you're going to be truly honest with yourself, these past few weeks have been complete torture because as much as you loathe to admit it, you've been lying to yourself. Pretending that you want to move and forget him, when in all honestly, that's the furthest thing from your true desires. You want him. You think that you always will, and some awful part of you basks in it. Seeks it out even. And that shameless bit of you helps you in shedding off the shame that comes with the looks from all of the patrons. Suddenly you don't mind all of the judgmental and fascinated ogling. When he's at your side, none of them matter.

"Sure," you agree, and all of that remaining doubt fizzles out into a dull, muted nudge in the back of your mind. "Let's go home." 

You can feel the pleased hum that he releases more than you hear it. A rumble that's close to a purr and he hugs you tighter against his body with all of his limbs like he's afraid that you might vanish if he doesn't. He scoops his lower arms underneath your legs, effectively clutching you to his chest and your arms grip around his neck instinctively. The look that he gives Hugo is outright gloating, with that wide, jagged grin stretched out across his face and you have to roll your eyes at the pompous display.  

"Hey, don't forget to pay the check before ya leave, mate," Mammon teases. " And make sure to leave a good tip. Wouldn't want to be a dickhead."

You can feel the electrical pulse around him begin to build. It gives you barely any time to scoop up the strap of your purse with your tail, lifting it from its place hanging on the chair before that little royalty free children's cheer breaks out with that loud cha-ching! and the room distorts and mutates into a twisting billow of green. Hugo's face is the last thing that you see as you vanish within Mammon's grip, still wearing that startled and insulted expression that twists up his features and the look in his eye's stings. It remains with you as the world shifts into something dark and distorted with shades of a deep jade and flashing neon; and everything twists and spins out until everything loses its sense of tangibility and becomes a weightless amalgamation of electricity and smoke. And for one elongated split second it feels as though you don't even have a physical body. Instead, you're just a thing conceptualized through thoughts and emotions and wills that serves as some kind of conduit for those scattered electrical currents to run rampant through you while they take you apart piece by piece and shrink you down into something small and fleeting until you're being is forcefully expanded and overblown. And then finally there's sensation in your toes and fingertips and the point of your tail. You can breathe again, and the cool press of Mammon's body and arms can be felt around you. 

You gasp, remembering to force yourself to inhale in an attempt to ward off that delicate weight of dizziness that fizzles around your skull, and with a few steady breaths the faint lull over your head fades away until you can finally focus and get a sense of your surroundings. 

At least you didn't vomit like the first time. 

It's a quick glance through the large observational window that helps to orient you, giving you a sweeping view of the dreary city down below and the glittering cast of the cerulean and lime green neon lights and signs that decorate some of the buildings. You're just glad that he teleported you both inside. The air in the Greed Ring - if it could even be categorized as air - can often times be putrid, if not outright lethal depending on what section of his domain you're in. Even though this particular penthouse happens to be in one of the more put together cities, far from the smokestacks overwhelming contaminated plumes, the factories and toxic landfills, the wind is able to carry the pollution over on its currents, and it's been known to be quite dangerous. Noxious and putrid enough to be detrimental. 

Seriously, you've seen it choke out a family of four. 

Reality hits you with all of the grace of a speeding truck, that you're actually here in Mammon's house, and you're left to try and brace for the oncoming torrent of regret and self-hatred that's going to absolutely piledrive you, but it never comes. There's no crushing weight of disappointment or exasperation. Instead, you're greeted with a delicate but fizzling sort of peace. It's like some kind of grip has been lifted from your shoulders and lungs and you're finally able to breathe again after being held underwater and suffocated. It floods through you like a soothing type of warmth, like the sunlight peeking out from the dense shield of cloud cover after days of darkness. It's pleasant and balmy despite the fact that the arms and hands holding you are somewhat tepid; a little cool, and you lean into it. 

It surprises you when that gentle feeling of relief starts to shift, and you can taste something sharp and hungry crack across the atmosphere, a little sour. Jealousy, you instinctively recognize. And it's quickly chased by a heavy, pulsing thrum that's heady and a little smoky, and your body's response is immediate, knee-jerk and intrinsic, and every part of you seems to flood with heat and buzz like you've been struck with a livewire. As rare as this particular brand of desire is, it's one that you're intimately accustomed to, and it has Mammon's magnetic signature all over it. All-consuming and wanting and possessive. 

He's never particularly been a lustful being, and all honesty, the number of times that you've had sex with the King of Greed has been far in between. In the beginning it was something that you had almost taken personally. You had nearly assumed that maybe there was something wrong with you, that perhaps he just wasn't attracted to you has an individual. But luckily, you had been quick to realize that he just didn't have much of a sex drive all together. It didn't stem from a place of disgust or even necessarily a full-on lack of interest, it was just the urge would rarely ever arise for him. It just wasn't an instinct that he had, or at the very least, it was one that would make an appearance very fleetingly. But it worked for the both of you surprisingly. Usually, after a shift at Ozzie's you were gorged on as much lust and energy as you could possibly take. Too much of a good thing could leave you feeling nauseous and uncomfortable in your own flesh, like your skin has been cinched too tight. It made being around him a breath of fresh air.

But that didn't mean that he absolutely never had a libido. But usually whenever his desire would emerge, it seemed to have a deep-rooted connection to jealousy and some inherent need to prove that you were his. 

One of the first times you had sex was during one of his Annual Clown Pageant's and some random demon had shouted up at you from your place above where you were curled up against Mammon's side, stupidly asking for you to lift up your shirt and show him your tits. And the violent crackle of electricity was about the only warning he got before he was roped by a sudden cast of glowing webbing and then promptly tossed across the long expanse of the stadium. Your pretty sure that several of his bones had been shattered. 

But as annoying as the stranger was, maybe you should give that guy some props. Even though he had landed himself a trip to the ER you had spent the remainder of your night getting your back blown out by the King of Greed. 

You have tried to tell Mammon that he doesn't have to have sex with you to convince you that you're his. That he doesn't have to buy your love and loyalty with sexual gratification. Despite the nature of your being, you don't have to have sex to feel loved or cherished. He satisfies the need you have for touch well, with his constant desire in having you stuck to his side or in his arms in some kind of fashion. You already know that you're fully his. You want to be, and you accepted him and all of his affections and at times lack thereof completely, but he'd always been insistent on touching you after someone has shamelessly flirted with you. Almost like he had to remind himself that you were still there. He wouldn't stop until every inch of you was doused in his scent and it was unmistakable you were his. 

Considering how long the two of you have been a part recently, how nasty the breakup had been and the sheer magnitude of the lust and jealousy prickling across the atmosphere and seeping into your skin and saturating your bones, you had a good impression of how the rest of this night is going to play out. It has anticipation running rampant in your veins. You tear your eyes away from the dark city outside of the window to face him, and the weight of his gaze nearly knocks you breathless. His eyes are glowing bright within the dim lighting of the room, burning a deadly shade of chartreuse. It makes you feel pinned in place, like you're being tracked by something dangerous. A weak animal dangling within the jagged, lethal maw of a starved creature. 

The energy that's descended over you dances over your skin, magnetic and searching and so vibrant that for a moment it almost feels as though it could transform into a living, breathing thing and consume you both until there's nothing but scraps left behind. You're toeing the line of something vicious, a little wild, and a part of you wonders if you'll even come out of this in one piece. You might just get torn apart. 

But you've never been one for self-preservation. 

You aren't completely sure who moves first. But suddenly his lips are on yours, tasting floral and a little spicy from the wine that he had stolen from Hugo earlier, and it feels like you've been zapped from the fervent exchange. Your body momentarily goes a little lax, making your tail drop your purse on the floor with a careless flop in favor of winding around one of his lower forearms. It's already a little sloppy and uncoordinated, fueled by desperation and want. Then again, Mammon always has been a little messy whenever he kisses, all tongue and teeth. It might have disgusted some, his outright lack of tact and finesse, but you've always found it endearing and honestly hot. It's depraved, completely filthy, and it doesn't stop you from moaning when he licks into your mouth to taste you. 

Every part of your body seems to burn like you've been dipped into melted wax. A shiver skips down the notches of your spine, quivering from the sensation of his lust clouding over you and curling up in your lungs, packing your head full of stuffing. His desire just serves to fuel your own, pilling it up on top of each other until it already has you near mindless. It's straight up embarrassing how easily he's able to affect you. To practically turn you into a pile of mush with a couple of looks and some kissing, but you can hardly find it in yourself to be ashamed. 

Both of your hands are everywhere, slipping across each other's bodies, groping and clawing. You can feel the hint of his talons pressing against the cover of his gloves, dragging over your skin like he means to leave marks. The simple thought of him scratching across you with dark, stinging streaks remaining in the wake of his sharp nails has you shifting yourself to wrap your legs around the thick of his abdomen so that you can shamelessly grind against his stomach like some kind of slut, impulsively seeking out your own pleasure. 

You can feel the vibrations of his low, mocking laugh tremble underneath you, spurring a liquid heat to build between your thighs. But the whine that leaves you is a little broken and ragged when he cruelly removes his mouth from yours to leer down at you. It makes you painfully conscious of the spit that's been smeared across your lips and the breathless way that you're already panting. 

"Look at you, grindin' up on me like a bitch in heat," he croons meanly, but it doesn't offend you, and he knows that. It's a little fact about you that he utilizes constantly for his own benefit. Your desire to take the brunt of his insults until your defenses are stripped bare and you're left to his wills and wants. You can practically feel the satisfaction rolling off of him in waves, thick and rousing and it just has you needing more. 

"Mammon," you whine brazenly, intentionally coquette. 

You can tell by the look in his eyes; glowing and craving, that it just fuels his ego, single handedly feeding into his hubris. Not that it needs to get any bigger. Regardless of that simple fact, you can't help yourself in indulging him majority of the time; watching him preen underneath your subtle praise and blatant desire; even when he doesn't realize it. Even then, it takes you by surprise when your spun around and tossed into the air as easily as a pillow. You land onto something equally firm and bouncy with a small gasp. The thick, individual threads that stick to your skin in a sultry, adherent grip, have your limbs stuck, keeping you secured to whatever surface he's stuck you to. 

His web. 

A cursory glimpse has you confirming just as much; taking in the sight of the bright neon glow of the silken twine that keeps your limbs fastened to its grip. The lack of mobility doesn't unnerve you in the slightest, instead, it has something excited smoldering inside the base of your abdomen. And the lust and ardor pouring from him, combined with the magnetic aura that constantly pulses over him does amplifies your fervor to an embarrassing degree. 

The grin on his face is sharp and smug, showing off the lethal rows of his teeth. He lowers himself onto the web slowly, his movement are all purposeful; calculated and unrushed. Intentionally dragging out his climb above you, no doubt reveling in the way that your body writhes to try and get near his own.

"You're so fucking desperate," he taunts and there's the hint of a laugh tainting his words. "Could have fooled me, with the way that you were practically eye fucking that cheap bitch." 

Your face crumples up into a light sneer, and there's a retort on the tip of your tongue. That low voice in the back of your mind is telling you to keep quiet, or else he'll drag this out more than he already is, but your sense of pride rises up to the forefront. "Well, I wouldn't have been off with another man if you hadn't acted like such a dick." 

His eyes narrow, and it could have been a trick of light, but you swear that they glow brighter underneath the shadows saturating the room. That electrical aura around him spikes, becoming palpable underneath his flaring irritation, trickling over your skin like an electrical current that makes you gasp. But he masks his indignation with a smirk that looks all too pleased, like you had blindly bumbled into a trap. 

"I really don't think that you're in position for back talk," he chides, tilting his head condescendingly as he continues his climb over you, spreading your thighs wide to fit himself between your legs with the musical chime of bells. He's settled himself over the expanse of your body, placing his topmost pair of hands on either side of your shoulders to prop himself up. Just another soft spot that he likes to take full advantage of. He knows the way that your differences in size affects you, that way that bulk of his body practically engulfs yours. It already has a thrill shooting down the nape of your neck, and your nipples harden underneath the cool silk fabric of your dress while your back involuntarily arches, seeking out the feel of him. You can't even stop yourself from attempting to grind your hips against the swell of his lower abdomen in some carnal search for friction. "It's making me feel like ya don't even want me here anymore," he says, feigning to sulk. 

You try to swallow the whine that bubbles up from your throat when he straightens himself, pulling away from you, but it escapes regardless, a little breathless and strained. He definitely heard, if the satisfaction that gleams in his eyes is any indication. He puts a studious expression on his face, eyebrows pinched close while he raises a hand to his chin like he's thinking. "Ya know, I'm pretty sure you left one of those little toys of yours after we split. "

Oh, no. 

That gives you some pause, makes your body cease the desperate roll of your hips to focus on him. It takes a moment for your brain to catch up, but once it does it's able to latch onto the fact that you did indeed leave one of your sex toys here at the apartment. One of your favorite ones in fact. A rabbit vibrator that you had bought a few years ago. You had been completely pissed when you realized that you had left it behind after you cleared what you had in his closet and bathroom, and returned back to your apartment to unpack. You had been upset about having forgotten it for the entirety of a week, but you were too prideful to text or call him about it. There was no way that would have broken your silence towards Mammon over a vibrator of all things. And it honestly throws you for a loop to know that he even kept it. 

But even worse than all of that is the smile that's stretching at the corners of his mouth. The sight of it alone has the alarm bells in your mind going off. "Considering that you don't want me anymore, I could just go get it for you. Put it in that needy little cunt of yours and let it take care of you all night." 

It wasn't an idle threat either. He'd absolutely deliver on it. It's something that he's done to you before, cruelly leaving you bound to his webbing with a toy placed on the highest setting to draw out orgasm after orgasm from your body until you were a boneless, drooling, thoughtless mess. The memory does admittedly have a thrum of heat pooling down between the apex of your legs, but the idea of not being able to touch him after so much time apart sounds like absolute torture. 

You find yourself shaking your head, chanting a series of 'no's' under your breath. He hasn't even done anything to you yet, and you've already been reduced to a pathetic pile of mush, already a little drunk from the influence of his lust and magnetic thrum. 

"Are you sure?" He presses, absolutely toying with you. His lower hands settle on your legs that have hooked around his waist to sweep up until they're rucking up the skirt of your dress and slipping underneath the fabric to pluck at the straps of your panties with the sharp edges of his gloved fingertips. The feel of his chilled touch on your heated skin leaves a buzzing trail in their path and you press your body further into their hold, savoring the pressure of them. 

"Please," you beg unabashed in your shameless behavior, but you've long since abandoned your pride if it'll just get him to actually do something. 

"Hmm," he hums lowly, squinting at you questioningly, making your anticipation rise only to snuff it out. "I don't know . . . I'm still not convinced." 

You try not to let your exasperation show. You don't want to give him the satisfaction to know that he's truly getting under your skin, though you're sure that you're failing fantastically. You could still smell his jealousy in the air, sharp and bitter on your tongue, and it gives you a pretty keen idea on how to approach this. It's obvious that he wants you to feed into his ego a bit more, wants to see you plead for him and earn his attention back to gorge those possessive urges that he has. You could definitely do that.  

"Come on, Mammon, please touch me," you whine, and your eyelids flutter when one of the golden bells hanging from the decorative layers of his costume catches on your clit from over your underwear, rolling over it in a way that makes your mouth drop open. "It's not the same if it isn't you. It needs to be you. Just you. I want you to use me, I need you to fuck me, please, plea- " 

"Yeah? You ready to make it up to me?" He asks, gripping onto your chin when you nod eagerly in response. He chuckles lowly, eyes burning in that intense shade of green while his grin stretches wide. You hardly register it when the grip he has on your hips tightens, and a quick blur has your positions switching when the silk strands of his webbing release from your skin and suddenly you're the one looking down at him, perched on his abdomen. He's practically lounged himself over his web with the top pair of his arms curled behind his head, reclining himself against the tapestry printed pillows and satin cushions. It catches you by complete surprise when he reaches with his other set of hands and manages to rip your dress and undergarments from your body with the harsh tear of fabric. 

"Well, then - " he starts, landing a cracking smack across the swell of your ass, ripping a delighted gasp from you at the sensation of the sting - "best get started. My dick ain't gonna suck itself." 

He really is so charming. 

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes at him, propping yourself up on your palms to slink yourself down from your place on his stomach and in between his legs. You meet his gaze with your own when your pull back the pointed, embroidered fabric of his motley to reveal the bulge of his cock straining against his pants. You haven't even taken him out from his breeches yet, but it never fails to surprise you how massive he is. It always takes you off guard, though it does nothing to dull the white-hot desire scorching at your body, threatening to eat you from the inside out; it only fuels it. 

He catches the lust and want in your stare judging by haughty glint saturating his expression, lips pulled back in that jagged grin. 

You really want to wipe that look off his face. 

You can't fight off the urge to lean forward, dropping your mouth open to glide your tongue over the fabric that's pulled taut over the heavy thickness of him. Trying to suck his dick through his costume like a degenerate. You moan aloud when you catch the head of his cock underneath your tongue, but you can't help but be a little disappointed when you're unable to taste him through the barrier of his pants. Though that little bit of discontent is quickly snuffed out by the subtle way that his thighs twitch on either side of your head. It has you pulling your mouth from him to take it in his expression. He's unfortunately managed to keep it unfazed for the most part, still sporting that smug smile, but you know him enough to notice the mild furrow pinched between his eyebrows that let you know he's affected. 

It gives you the motivation to reach up and unfasten the concealed buttons keeping his pants secured. You try to hide the anticipation in your movements, doing your best to stay articulate and nimble with your fingers as you pop the buttons free from their openings in the garment. Even with the confidence and desire rushing through your veins like molten sugar you have a difficult time keeping your features fixed into something unwavering when his cock springs free from his pants. He's big to say the least, almost ridiculously so. Sure, you've taken him before, but the memories never really do him justice. 

For a moment you're just left to stare dumbly. Admire, really. Roving your eyes over the length of him, appreciatively glancing at the ridges that flare and line down his shaft; shortening and tapering off the closer they get to the bulbous head. You've had a fair number of flings and lovers in the past, but he easily has to be one of the biggest you've ever taken. The first time that the two of you had sex you had almost been a little intimidated by the size of him. But with time, that intimidation quickly melted into a type of awe and desire. You can feel your body react, muscles drawing up tight and heat throbs between the apex of your thighs. 

"C'mon now, you were so fucking desperate for it earlier, " he coos, reaching down to grip himself, dragging the head of cock against the shape of your bottom lip, smearing his cum over your pout like a chilled gloss. You open your mouth to taste him, salty and musky across your pallet and you continue to lower yourself down him until you can feel him brush against the back of your throat. You can't help but hum, content from the weight of him on your tongue, the vibrations of your voice reward you with sharp hiss from his lungs. He's cool to the touch, but not unpleasantly so, and the chilled temperature of his skin is almost soothing, like a sort of balm spreading across your tongue. 

He's big enough that you can already feel the strain in the hinges of your jaw, and you try to mindful of your teeth, careful not to accidentally scrape him. There's absolutely no way that you'll be able to take all of him this way - you know from experience. It has you placing the rest of him that you can't fit in your mouth into both of your hands, using the saliva that's spread across his girth to aid the firm glide of your palms, moving them in tandem with your mouth to build a steady rhythm. It's already sloppy. Spit drips past your lips, coating his cock in a way that depraved, if not a little gross. Not that he's ever minded. Mammon always seems to prefer his head a little messy, and you've always been one to indulge him. 

You make sure to drag your tongue along the underside of his cock, stroking the point of it over one of the soft, sensitive ridges throbbing along its length when you drag your lips up to suck at the head, swallowing the precum that trickles from the slit in a generous pour. 

Tears have already begun to prickle at the corners of your lash line, blurring your vision just a bit. It's a little upsetting that it's made it difficult to see the expression on his face, the furrow of his eyebrows but the way that his mouth has dropped open for him to release a bout of ragged expletives is more than enough to dull the sting. 

It has you doubling your efforts, desperate to hear more of those breathless swears. You drop your mouth down on him until you can feel him in your throat, and the wet heat of it has him gripping the back of your head with a strained grip, claws threatening to burst through the leather of his gloves and scratch, guiding you to swallow a little bit more of him. 

You aren't even the one getting head right now, but you're just as worked up. Your entire body feels like it's being overloaded with something electrical and blazing. Your cunt is soaked, cum smeared down your thighs in a way that you couldn't bother being ashamed of. You're drunk on the scent of sex and the pulsing sensation of lust that's seemed to replace all of the air in the room, making it difficult to see past your desire and your need to taste him. You moan around his length, twisting your fists around him fervently as you suck at him with the goal to make him spill down your throat. 

"You're such a slut, ain't ya," but it's more of a statement rather than a question. "Trying to fuck yourself up against nothing like some kind of whore." 

For a moment your brain scrambles along dumbly, trying to make sense of his words when you finally realize that your hips have been rolling up against the air in some mindless instinct, and your thighs are tightly pressed together in an effort to find even the smallest bit of friction. It makes shame prickle across your tear-soaked cheeks and you're quick to halt the movement of your waist while you try to refocus on the task at hand, stroking your tongue over his throbbing girth. 

"Aw, none of that now," he chides, a little patronizing. Suddenly one of his legs is prying between your own, forcing a frayed mewl from the depths of your chest when he presses it against your slick cunt. It has your hips jerking over him, mindlessly undulating them to seek out that delicious rise of ecstasy. The laugh that bubbles up from him is demeaning. It should probably humiliate you. Make you upset.  Or at the very least motivate you to grab onto the remaining tatters of your pride and try to gain some sense of control. To make some half-assed quip or insult at him to at least to assume the illusion of authority. But you like it. You like being at his whims. It makes you feel like you're his. "Damn, you're such a greedy fucking thing. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to come for my spot." 

You can only manage to moan around his girth, trying to focus around the thick syrupy warmth that's begun to drizzle inside your skull, making your thoughts drown and sink somewhere a little fuzzy and distant. You can feel that familiar surge of heat and euphoria rising up and swelling at a rate that should be embarrassing. All you can focus on in the pressure of two of his hands holding onto the back of your head and one of your horns, using the leverage to work your mouth up and down his cock, using the wet heat to build up his own pleasure until you're practically some glorified sex toy. The very idea of it has your eyes rolling back in your skull and your hips jolt against the curve of his knee, rolling it against the slick swollen bundle of your clit. You keen at the contact, nearly gagging on the rhythmic press of his cock hitting the back of your throat.  

You can feel him pulse in your mouth, and his hips twitch with each thrust, losing the control of the even, pronounced pace that he had before until it's all but choppy and selfish. It has you doubling down on your efforts, rolling your tongue over him, swallowing even more of him down despite the how it makes even more tears trickle down your face; squeezing and twisting both of your fists around his length in a frenzied need to taste him. You want him to spill down your throat. You're immediately rewarded by his sweet, guttural groans, basking in the way that they ring out all ragged and low across the room. 

He's close. So, so close, and you are too. You feel your shared ardor and lust prickling up around you; in your fingertips and toes, burning white-hot and heavy in the cradle of your hips. Your body coils up tight, waiting to have it crest over you and sweep you under its unforgiving pull. 

And then his body is pulling up taut, back bowing until he's nearly curling over you. It takes you a bit by surprise when the grasp that he has on your head tightens in a grip that toes the line of near painful, and he jerks your mouth down onto his cock until it's snug in the back of your throat. He spills inside of you with a gutted groan of your name and a menagerie of frayed swears. "Fucking take it you fucking - shit - filthy bitch - fuck." You do your best to swallow him down, drinking down the cool burst of his cum eagerly. It's difficult with the abundance of it, and the sheer amount of it still shocks you little. But you do your best not to waste a single drop, slipping him from out of your mouth to lick up what's leaked down his length. 

You look up at him through your lashes, damp and clumped together, to admire the lazy smirk on his face. His eyes have gone heavy and a little lidded from the aftershocks and satisfaction weighing down his body. You lean into his touch when he cradles the side of your face, wiping the tears from your eye as he guides your lips away from his cock, still hard and throbbing to place all of your attention on him. He doesn't even have to ask for you to obediently open your mouth, dropping your jaw open and sticking out your tongue to show him that you've made sure to swallow all of his cum. 

"Look at that," he marvels, bells chiming. "You just might still be my good girl after all." 

You whine at that little shred of praise, rocking your cunt against his leg with even more fervor. The texture of the fabric dragging over your clit has your eyes nearly going cross, and you can't even find it in yourself to mad at the mocking way that he chuckles at your desperation. Probably delighting in the breathless moans and mewls that are pouring out of your in an unabashed surge. 

"Yeah? You want to make me happy?" He coos, all patronizing and falsely sweet. It should tip you off, and to a degree it does reach that coherent, long buried part of you. But you're already too cock drunk and caught up in all of the lust in the air to focus clearly. "Then quit fucking my leg and sit up." 

The sound that leaves you is mournful and little agonized. The very idea of that sounds like complete torture. You're so close to that precipice of ecstasy that you could taste it as much as you could feel it. Winding up your body tight and promising to drag you underneath a torrent of pleasure, all smoked honey, electrical and dulcet. 

"Mammon," you gasp with a plead saturating your tone. 

His face shifts into a fake pout, eyebrows furrowed like you've wounded him, and as obviously fake as the expression is, you can't help but be disturbed by the mere notion that you might have disappointed him. He places a hand to his chest dramatically. "But I thought you wanted to be my good girl again? And here I thought we'd made some progress."  

"I do," you insist vehemently. "I am, I swear I am."  And regardless of the pathetic nature of your tone, it's also firm in your conviction. You grip onto some of the thick threads of the webbing beneath you and you think you could honestly snap them if you grabbed them any tighter, sucking in your breath while you reluctantly will your hips to stop. You could honestly sob when you feel the heat in your cunt die out into a hungry, unsatisfied throb, but the need for Mammon's approval triumphs that want. He hums appreciatively when you get yourself to shift from off his leg and move yourself into a sitting position between his legs. You struggle not to clench your thighs together to rekindle that delicious high again.  He must be able to see the near pained look in your eyes because the satisfaction rolling off of him is thick and heavy. 

He cradles your chin in between his fingers, directing you to look up at him and center your attention onto him, leaning towards you with the rustle of fabric and the jingle of bells. But it's difficult not to track his movement when he sweeps one of his hands down to his cock, using the slick of your saliva and more of the precum that's begun to trickle from his head to aid him in jerking himself off. But you force your gaze to remain glued to his even with the nasty, languid shlick sound of his hand moving over his length begging you to peek. 

"Now you're gonna come up here and sit nice and pretty on my cock, " he orders. You can't even hide the excitement that runs over you, flaring deep inside of your abdomen and no doubt lighting up your eyes. But you should have known that there'd be a catch. That it would never be so straight forward with someone like Mammon. "And you're going to stay still and quiet. I've got a very important call to make - ya know, business and all. I won't bore you with the details, but if you try and get yourself off - if I pick up so much a twitch from those hips of yours or single whimper from those pretty lips and you can go ahead and forget cumming tonight."

All the hope that you had previously felt seems to leave your body like a deflated balloon. Despite your need to please him you can't keep your frustration from bleeding into your features and you can feel what must be the hint of a scowl twisting on your lips. But of course, Mammon being Mammon looks nothing short of entertained by the response. "Aw, don't be like that," he soothes with sarcasm coating his words while he pinches your cheeks between his fingertips. "It'll just take a second. 

Liar. An absolute liar. He's going to drag this out for as long as he possibly can, and always a masochist, you feel excitement unfurling in your gut at the prospect of it. 

"Understand?" He asks, with a wide, expectant grin. 

"I understand," you agree without a shred of hesitation. 

"Get up here then," he says, sitting himself up from his place lounged against the pillows. But then he's impatiently grabbing onto your waist before you even have time to move, flipping you around to press your back against his plush stomach, sitting you astride him with your legs on either side of his body. You can feel the head of his cock brush against your sensitive clit, making you twitch, a little tender from your ruined orgasm, but you swear that the light touch could have made you cum had it just been a little bit heavier. You have to draw in a deep breath, pulling your focus onto the chill of his body temperature seeping out onto your back as some kind of center. Serving as a kind of buoy to guide you through the deluge of thoughts, and sensations of both of your lust and that electrical aura that constantly pulses around him. It helps you to reach down and take ahold of his cock, lining it up until it's pressed against the slick entrance of your cunt, and you savor the pleased throaty rumble that it drags from him. 

He doesn't release the grasp that he has on your waist, even has you begin to lower yourself onto him. Your jaw drops when you start to sink down on his length, and your walls flutter as they stretch to accommodate the swollen head of his cock. It's something you've done plenty, but no matter how many times you do it, it never fails to make it feels as though the air has been snatched from your lungs. You gasp raggedly, grabbing onto one his free hands, lacing your fingers together with a squeeze as you continue to sink yourself down. The stretch comes with a slight burn. Lighting up a deep ache in between your hips but it's one that feels so good. It never fails to make your brain go blank. You just hardly manage to hear Mammon saying something to you. But it seems too far away and vague to make out with the delicious fog taking over your brain even though you are able to recognize the tone that he's using as encouraging and uncharacteristically soft. 

You hardly have time to register one of his fingers winding over your clit with tight, practiced movements that have liquid fire shooting up your spine. It makes your hips roll involuntarily and the head of his cock fully slips inside of your cunt with a filthy wet sound. You're finally able to make out some of his words now that the thickest part of him has finally worked past the tight ring of your entrance. "Remember when you couldn't even take me?" He asks, almost conversationally, like he isn't still teasing your clit and practically splitting you open with his cock. "But you were so eager to try. Now look at you, with your cunt taking it like a fuckin' pro." 

You drag in another quivering breath, continuing to sink down on him and for a moment you brain distantly worries, despite all logic that he isn't going to end. For a second it seems like he isn't. The brush of the ridges lining down his girth is an exquisite kind of torture, sliding against your walls in a way that has you whimpering and keening aloud. You feel so full already but whenever you think you're nearly done; glancing down to check, there always seems to be a few more inches left. It isn't until you finally feel the solid press of his thighs underneath your ass, physically keeping you from going any lower, that lets you know that you've managed to take all of him. You peer down, almost like some subconscious part of you needs to verify that you've actually fit the entirety of his length inside and when you do the sight of the subtle impression of his cock in your stomach nearly makes you keel over. It's something that you've seen before with Mammon, but it never fails to shoot pure euphoria into your veins, and the glides around your clit from his fingertips does little help you already frayed sense of self. 

You gasp unsteadily, panting like you've run a marathon and you let yourself sag against Mammon's abdomen completely, allowing him to keep you upright while you try to keep yourself tethered to reality. But Mammon, the complete bastard that he is moves the hand that had been on your waist and slips it around onto your abdomen until the soothing chill of his palm is pressed against the gentle outline of his cock. It tears a whine out from your throat and your cunt clenches around his girth so violently that for a moment you think you might cum. You tetter on the edge of euphoria for one glorious second before the sensation settles into an unsatisfied throb. 

"Look at you," he marvels with pure satisfaction. "Get a little bit of cock in you and you might as well as be fucked dumb." 

You definitely wouldn't qualify it as a "little bit." But you aren't going to tell him that. Not that he necessarily needs you to, your reaction to the girth and length of him is obviously more than enough of an indication of the affect he has on you. 

"You remember the rules?" He asks. It takes a minute to comprehend his words. His bells ring out delicately, signaling his movement before you even feel the weight of his chin resting on your shoulder while he waits for your response, sweeping his thumb over the bulge in your stomach in teasing motions. But the sensation also serves to ground you and pull your thoughts to the forefront. You turn your head as best as you can, meeting the searing green of his gaze from your peripheral vision with a clipped, sluggish nod. 

"Yeah, I remember," you confirm, a little breathlessly. His eyebrows raise expectantly, grin widening with his own anticipation, prompting you to reaffirm the list. "Keep still, keep quiet. . . And I can't cum unless you let me."  You add that last bit a little reluctantly. Mournfully. All you can do is wish that he won't drag this out for too long, even though you know you're just setting yourself up for failure. The entirety of Hell would freeze over sooner. Hopefully, he's not in the mood for breaking any records. You really don't feel like being edged for five hours straight . . . not tonight, at least. 

"Atta girl," he praises in a sonorous purr. 

And then his hands are everywhere. The finger on your clit is joined by another giving you no reprieve, and the palm that you had been gripping with you own slips free from your hold, joining its opposite to sweep up and take both of your nipples into their fingertips, plucking and rolling. It's wonderfully overwhelming and you have to fight off the unthinking urge to writhe and jerk underneath his ministrations. He might actually kill you tonight. Overload you with pleasure until you're burning and set alight with. Maybe by the end of this, there will just be your bones left. But what a way to go. 

It has you so distracted, caught underneath a blissful haze, that you hardly notice the phone that he's pulled out from of his costumes concealed pockets. You think nothing of it at first, but even in your glazed over mindset you're still able to vaguely muse how familiar the casing is. The color and pattern on the back of the device looks oddly similar to your own. But that couldn't be right. 

His thumb glides across the lock-in screen, tapping in the pin number to login and it shifts into the screensaver. The picture is familiar. Oddly so. It was one that you had taken a few years back of you and Mammon. He was towering over you with his face smooshed against the crown of your head from when you had abruptly tugged him down by one of his arms to fit into the frame. You were beaming in the photograph, riding an adrenaline high from just having gotten off one of the amusement parks more tame roller coasters, lips pulled into a joyful smile while you glanced up at the Sin who was looking a little disgruntled (because you had forced him to take you to Lu Lu World for your date and not his awful, cheap knockoff Loo Loo Land). But even through his displeased, and somewhat surprised expression you could see just the hint of a smile showing. It was one of your favorite pictures, one that came from an even fonder memory. It's your screen saver. That's your phone. A 'business call' he had said. The damned liar. 

"Oh-ho, I figured you would have changed this by now," he comments, amused and no doubt pleased. You feel something akin to embarrassment prickle at you. You were planning on changing it. Honestly, you were. You had just never . . . gotten around to it. You were initially also planning on purging your picture app and deleting the entire folder dedicated to him as well. You just hadn't done that yet either. But more important right now, is how he managed to get his hands on your phone in the first place. Or just what he's planning on doing with it. 

"Mammon, what are you-"

"Ah, ah, ah," he tuts disapprovingly. "What're the rules?"

Despite your curiosity, you close your mouth without further prompting. But even with his hands steadily building up a steady, consuming fire across your body, kneading and stroking your breasts while he continues to circle your clit with his fingertips, you can't tear your eyes away from the phone. Watching with intrigue and a dull sense of dread as he opens up your messaging app and starts searching through the names with the glide of his thumb. He's humming in your ear, low and concerningly cheery. You aren't sure what he's planning and that's what worries you. He pauses the screen with a small, "oop" and then scrolls back up like something caught his eye. It's when the screen pauses on a certain contact that your stomach sinks. 

Hugo - Lottie's coworker 

Your stomach sinks at the sight. And for a moment your brain hopes that you're wrong. There's no way he's actually going to that. He won't. 

"Let's see what kind of sick shit we've got in here." He clicks the name with a fascinated hum. But even then, you can hear the venomous edge to the sound. You don't let yourself watch when starts to read through the text thread. You can't really put attention on anything else really, other than liquid heat and electricity pouring over you, dissipating the concern and focus that briefly had. But there's nothing to be ashamed of regardless. You had hardly done anything with Hugo that could warrant any jealousy. At least not on your end. Yes, you had been cordial with him and maybe even a little intrigued, but that had hardly been anything that qualifies as outright flirting. Even Hugo, apart from some compliments had been pretty PG in the grand scheme of things. 

Your body goes lax against his abdomen when your cunt clenches around his girth, and you try not to twitch from the unanimous, harsh grind and tug from each of his fingers. His body tenses suddenly, coiled up tight like he's physically restraining himself from acting out on something. You're able to pull yourself together enough to glance back down, instinctively searching for the cause behind his apparent distress. Your eyes land on a text, one you vaguely recognize from the beginning, when you had just started talking to Hugo.  

Thursday - 7:43 PM

your ex kind sounds like a asshole. seems like he didnt deserve you, you're better off without him 

Yep. That'll do it.

You can feel the electrical current around Mammon pick up again, hot and sharp, just toeing the line of nearly becoming painful, but instead it has you gasping out in pleasure. Relishing the sensation of the magnetic aura thrumming across your bare skin, humming over your nipples and the wet heat of your cunt. You can feel it prickling over your clit, and it has your toes curling. Your head lolls back on his shoulder letting you catch sight of your reflection in the large mirror built into the wall across the room. You look absolutely debauched. Your skin was visibly peppered with perspiration; if you paid enough attention, you could see sweat glinting on your body like flecks of glitter, gleaming in in silver and gold underneath cast of the exuberant, vintage style chandelier. Your eyes have a clouded over quality to them, almost like you're intoxicated, and you suppose that you are. But the most lecherous and outright sinful is the way that you can see the impression of him appearing from within your stomach with each gulping, ragged breath you take; and the sight of his hands roaming and stroking over your body, strumming you like an instrument that he's so intimately acquainted with is the image of hedonism. So beautifully wicked, but so, so good. 

You easily could have lost yourself to it completely. All of the sensations, the scent of sex and lust in the air. But then it's back. The taste of jealousy, bitter and citrus on your pallet. It's able to rouse you from your sluggish, inebriated state long enough to recognize the muted trill of the ringback tone coming from your phone. But it's difficult to worry over that when the persistent fingers on your clit and plucking at your nipples are steadily tipping you towards that precipice of heat and rapture. Your cunt has started to flutter around his length and your abdomen clenches tight with the build of something heavy and vast rising up over you, ready to consume you from the inside out. 

You can hear the muted click of someone on the other side of the call answering - Hugo, your slow-moving brain supplies.

"Oh wow, he hasn't blocked you yet," Mammon muses aloud. "Now keep quiet. Unless you want 'im to hear."

You should make an effort to get Mammon to hang up the phone. You know that you easily could. The Sin is self-serving and obstinate at the best of times - all the time - but this is something that you could get him to stop doing with a single word. You could tell him to figure out a better way to 'get back' at Hugo and cure his jealousy in another way, and he would. But you don't find yourself even trying to get Mammon to end the call. Something about him being this insistent on proving that you're his has electricity licking up your spine. 

"Hey! This is the useless cunt that I met at the restaurant, right?" He greets, voice deceptively kind despite his words being just the opposite. There's a long pause on the other side of the line before you pick up a reluctant response, which sounds like it might have been a confused, "eer . . . yes? This Mammon, I take it?"

"The one an' only!" He replies jovially, like he doesn't have you a few good strokes off from cumming while he has a person on the line. But then again, that's his entire play. He wants Hugo to hear. Even so, you try to cling onto the rules he had set, biting into your bottom lip in the effort to keep your mouth shut and the whimpers that want to spill out tightly trapped in your chest. "Listen, I feel like we may have gotten off on the wrong foot earlier, so I just wanted to call and set some things straight to make sure we fully understand each other." 

You try to stay privy to their conversation, but it's getting progressively harder to. You have to squeeze your thighs to keep yourself grounded and sat still, but it backfires and only works to tip your closer to ecstasy. You try to pin your attention on anything and everything to keep you grounded. You tear your vision from the mirror instead to look out onto the city, focusing on the thin veil of some kind of smog or cloud that's begun to roll in, the flicker of neon lining the streets, and it appears that a building in the distance has been set aflame; lit up with green fire. That explains the fog - or more accurately, the smoke. 

It's no use though. You can still feel the pleasure fizzling over you skin and welling up inside of you. It's getting more and more difficult to hold off. Even while you try and think about a million different things. Taxes, the missionary position, Extermination Day, clowns.

Oh, wait. Scratch that last one. 

And then, horribly, a strained moan sneaks out from your throat. For a moment you're too caught up in the haze clouding over your head to even register the sound. And you probably wouldn't have if you didn't catch sight of Mammon's delighted, almost maniacal expression grinning back at you from the mirror in your peripheral vision, all sharp edges and a little feral. He looks all too pleased by your slip up. When he speaks next his voice has taken up that low, resonant tone that melds around his accent. "I just wanted to soothe any concern you may have had for my favorite girl. I can promise you she's in good hands. " And then, like the twisted bastard he is, he's lifting the phone from his ear to hold it closer to you like he's tring to capture all of the filthy sounds coming from your body. "I mean, if you could see the way she's soakin' me - " he whistles high and astonished -" it's a fuckin' sight, I tell ya." 

You try to keep your mouth shut so that Hugo doesn't hear and figure out what's going on. But it's difficult to swallow down the noises that Mammon keeps trying to pull from you with his nimble fingers, and then he's gliding his fingertips over your clit in heavy, mean circles that has your back bowing taut, and the seam of his glove catches on the sensitive nerves in a way that has your jaw dropping open. His fingers twists and glide over your nipples to add to the fire, and with just a couple more strokes you're practically blindsided by the molten electricity and bliss that rushes over you in an unforgiving stream. You cum with a loud pornographic cry as you twist and writhe underneath his attention, cunt clenching around his length in a wild spasm while your body tries to wring itself of all of its pleasure. For one moment your mind goes completely blank, leaving you just feel. The world drowns out underneath the onslaught of euphoria that wracks through your entire being, and the only thing that keeps you even remotely present is the cool press of his chest and stomach supporting your back. The chill of him soothes your heated skin, influencing your body to go slack over him. 

You have to remind yourself to breathe, drawing in labored gasps while the pleasant haze of endorphins hums through your veins and thrums within your skull like syrup and static. 

"Like I said!" Mammon says suddenly, reminding you of your current predicament. There was no mistaking what you and Mammon were doing. Hugo absolutely had to know the King of Greed had just made you orgasm while on a phone call. You feel a little flash of embarrassment, but it's so muted and distant. Buried deep and virtually nonexistent. "She's in good hands. So, if I see you anywhere near her, I'll gut you open like a fucking pig and scatter what's left of you all over Hell." 

You hear Hugo's muffled response, a little frantic, skipping over his words but before he can get out the rest of his plea or reassurances, Mammon hands up the call, and carelessly tosses your phone to the side. You don't manage to pick up the sound of a harsh clatter, so you can only hope that the artisan rug saved it from fall damage. You're still too sluggish and dopey to fully register the eager and starved quality that's melded into his lust. But the energy serves to rekindle your own fervor on a kind of subconscious level, even while your body still twitches with subtle aftershocks. He only gives you a small sort of reprieve, slipping his fingertips from your nipples to greedily knead at your breasts. But the touch on your clit doesn't waver it, it only lightens by a few degrees, still swirling and sweeping unforgivingly. You catch his faux pout in the mirror's reflection; pretending to be displeased and disappointed, but you can see the excitement bleeding into his features; lighting up the fiery chartreuse of his stare. "I didn't give you permission to be so noisy," he complains, and his eyebrows pinch close. "It's almost like you wanted him to hear you." 

"I was just giving you what you wanted, " you reply, dipping your tone into something soft and alluring. Sure, maybe it was a little stupid prodding at the Sin of Greed, and you know that you're playing right into his little ploy, but you can't stop yourself. If you tend to his ego some, he might be a little lenient on whatever 'punishment' he has in store for you. You reach a hand up to cradle his cheek, guiding his face to tilt down enough to press against the crown of your head. Affection blooms in your chest when you catch the way that he tries to subtly lean into your palm, trying to soak up its warmth. "That was the point, wasn't it? To prove to him that I'm yours?" 

You can feel his hips twitching underneath you, and the small shift works his cock in you just a little deeper. You gasp at the sensation, still hypersensitive and tender from your pervious orgasm, but even then, it doesn't fail to send a trickle of desire pooling down your back and in the center of your abdomen. Honestly, you're beyond shocked that Mammon has managed to hold himself off for this long. He's never been the one for self-restraint, and the amount that it must have taken to keep him for thrusting up into you must be monumental. That deserves to be rewarded a little bit, right?

Of course, you can't be too heavy handed with your praise, as much as he loves it when people sing him compliments and applaud his endeavors. It can't lean anywhere that makes him feel as though as he's not the one in control. It has to be delicate and subtle. At least while he's still coherent. Once he's a drooling mess, that's a different story. But you'll get to that. 

"Come on, Mammon," you beg, squeezing yourself around his cock while you work your hips against him in faint, gentle swirling motions. His eyelids lower, and you can see his grin waver just a bit, and it might as well as be a visual fracture in his resolve. "I want you to use me. Make me forget him, please." 

The grip he has on your breasts fall and take ahold of your hips, and that's the only warning you get before he's picking you up and lifting you up and down on his cock like a toy. It punches the air from your lungs in a way that's almost violent, and it leaves you scrambling, mindlessly clawing and gripping onto his arms in an effort to orient yourself. You can't even hear yourself anymore, but you're sure that you sound absolutely mindless right about now. You can feel every moan and cry that he forces from your lungs with each thrust. It feels like you're being burned alive, raw and merciless, and it has a fresh round of tears prickling at your waterline. You're still too sensitive, but it hurts so good that if he stopped, you're pretty sure that you might actually die.  

"Damn - fuckin' hell, you're already squeezing me, and I just started," he laughs with a kind of awe and pride. It shocks you completely, because he's right. You can already feel your cunt fluttering around the delicious drag of his girth, the ridges running along his length and the finger gliding over your clit building up the fiery pleasure, making all of your muscles winding up tight in the preparation of another orgasm. But maybe it really isn't all the surprising with the way that he's passionately fucking you onto his cock, like he's determined to have you both finishing as soon as possible. "You're mine. All mine, " he says, reaching up to grip your throat. Not to restrict your breathing, but enough to feel the pressure of his grip. 

"Yes," you agree brokenly, nodding dumbly because that's all you can really manage. "Yours. I'm yours." 

You can feel your grip on reality slipping away and fraying with each sharp grind, until your consciousness and sense of self is as good as a pile of mush. You're completely gone, lost with the confines of your own body and the euphoria soaking in bone deep. Your second orgasm sneaks up on you just as easily as the first, leaving you useless and practically immobile, leaving you to just take it. It isn't long until he reaches his climax, only a couple of thrust later and his release is filling you with a cool rush, and a ragged groan. 

But he's not stopping. He keeps thrusting into you, unrelenting and hungry like he's been caught in some kind of frenzy, and you're all too eager to take the brunt of it. His hands are everywhere, the sharp points of his claws are lethal enough to peek through the tips of his gloves and leave, exquisite, stinging marks in their wake, marking your skin. You can distantly feel his cum trickling out of you, being forced out with every slide in and out of your cunt. It's so nasty. You can hear the wet slap of your hips meeting each other, the breathless sound of your shared moans and swears. You aren't sure how many more orgasms he pulls from you. The both of you. Mind seems to blur together in one useless spill, and you're hardly able to even count the waves of pleasure that crest over you and rolls down and through your body in frothing, hot waves. 

You're coming off of a sort of high when you regain a shred of coherence. Pulled out of the fog when you feel the wet drag of Mammon's tongue sliding up your neck, tasting the salt and lust on your skin. You instinctively tilt your head back, giving him more access to your bared throat. He rumbles, guttural and soft at the display, inspiring a dopey smile to quirk at your lips, and it doesn't fade, not even when the deadly points of his fangs bite down enough to leave superficial bites behind. Neither of you have stopped moving, ceaselessly grinding your hips against each other's, not enough to create space for any decent thrusts, but just enough to create a small spark of stimulation, like you can't bear to stop despite the number of orgasms you've both had. 

"Think you've got one more in you?" He asks, lapping at the blood that has welled up from the bite marks, gently nibbling at the junction of your neck; teeth dragging to leave the stinging impression of them behind. 

"Hell yes," you answer quickly. 

"C'mon then, gorgeous, ride my cock. Show me how much ya missed me." 

He lifts you up again, just enough to reposition you, flipping you around without removing you off of his girth to face him. He lets himself fall back against the cushions and pillows in a relaxed lounge, making it easier for you to place your palms just beneath his chest for support as you perch yourself to bear most of your weight onto the balls of your feet and hands. He's already impatiently jolting his hips against yours while you try and find a comfortable position astride him. You can't find it in yourself to get upset by his restlessness, not when you can feel him physically holding himself back from moving too harshly. Something that requires a large sum of control and delicacy considering how much larger he is compared to you. Despite the size difference, his strength never fails to surprise you, how easily he lifts you around like you weigh nothing. Everything about it makes you embarrassingly turned on. Like how far your thighs have to stretch around his hips until there's a burn in the hinges of your joints just so you can place your legs on either side of him. 

It's enough to have that irresistible hum of pleasure pouring down and over your body, prompting you to lift yourself up his length, moaning and gasping as the ridges placed along his girth brush along your walls. You pull yourself high with your thighs until he's in at just the tip before you impale yourself on the rest of him, taking him in deep in a single thrust, swiveling your hips in your downstroke. The pace that you set is a little unforgiving on your legs, but it's already worth it with that way that his head rolls back into the sprawling pile of cushions. He's definitely just as tender as you are, but Mammon's never been one to shy away from a little overstimulation - something to do with being the Embodiment of Greed maybe, something to do with excess. And with all of the orgasms he's had tonight, you can already tell that he's tipping towards that mindless, drunken headspace that he occasionally achieves. 

"Oh, yeah, that's the stuff," he groans out in that accented lilt, deep and already a little gutted. Even without any pupils, you can tell that his eyes are rolling back in his skull. There's a little bit of drool smeared around his lips, glinting underneath the glow of the lights and it just inspires you to try and drag him in deeper to that blissed out headspace. He's already so close, precariously dangling over that wonderful edge. He just needs a little push. 

"You're feel so good, Mammon," you praise. You catch the way that his hips skip a little in their rhythm at your words. "You're the only one who can make me feel this way. There's no one else like you." 

His eyes lids flutter, but an arrogant grin makes an appearance on his face before quickly melting into a silent, open-mouthed gasp. "O-of course there isn't," he manages to say, even while you can see the rare tint of a monochrome blush staining his cheeks. It fuels your own carnal want, dousing it like gasoline on an inferno, driving you to ride him with even more ardor. He grips onto your waist like he needs the feel of you underneath his palms to stabilize himself underneath the barrage of ecstasy. 

The scent of your shared desire hangs heavy in the air like a special cocktail, a particular type of aphrodisiac that left you a thrall to pure debauchery and instinct. You can practically taste it, melting across your tongue all heavy and musky, saccharine and spice; a flavor that you couldn't find anywhere else if you tried. It's enough to have your body gravitating towards that debilitating pleasure and based on the blissed-out expression on Mammon's face, he isn't far off either. 

"So good, Mammon. It's just you, always you, " you moan, and the place between his brow's crinkles close. Your eyes are barely able to track it when he's propping himself up on a single hand, giving himself the leverage to reach up and loop something thin and smooth around the stretch of your neck. It's strong despite how fine it feels, like a silk thread - webbing. It's webbing. He grins when he tugs you forward with the makeshift collar, curling his body around you like he can't stand any sort of unnecessary space between either of you. His lips meet yours with a relieved groan, asking you to open your mouth with the split point of his togue, nipping with his teeth. You whine and moan into him, thrusting down onto his cock from how his thread tightens around your neck, more of a suggestion than an attempt to restrict your breathing, but it spurs you on even more. The pair of hands on your waist start to wander, one drifting up to cup your ass in a tight squeeze and the other dips low to roll the back of his knuckles over your clit. For a second it makes you lose the steady, deep drag of your pace, and your lungs snag on their breath, making break your kiss with a whine. 

"Don't you dare fucking stop," Mammon demands in a tone that's frayed and little slurred. "Keep going. I wan' it, I want it - fuck." His tucks his head into your neck, tracing the shape of his web with the dexterous glide of his tongue. You can feel his lips moving against your skin in some kind of repetitive chant and it takes a little while for your ruined brain to make sense of it. You can hear him whispering in a hushed, frayed voice: "Mine," over and over again as he licks and sucks at your skin, intent to leave marks behind. 

He pushes his hips up against yours in a punishing pace, plunging his cock up into you, hitting that devastating spot inside of your cunt that has you sobbing. Your hands claw at him, searching and gripping onto the layered fabric of his motley, twisting the material into the clutch of your fists while you try to hold onto the rest of your sanity, but you don't think that you'll be able to. It's all too much too soon. You can't hold on as much as you try to. Not while he grinds a knuckle against your clit, shoving his cock into you relentlessly, making any semblance of a coherent thought evaporate from your head as though they had never been there. You can feel it sweeping over you like you're a pathetic piece of debris caught with the current of a swelling wave. You can feel that magnetic vibration building around his body, catching you in its field and dancing across your skin, letting you know that he's just as close as you are. 

You gasp his name like it might save you, even while you're begging to be eaten alive. It's all so overwhelming, so consuming that you don't know what to do with yourself. How to cope with the scope of the emotions and sensations; the scent of you both and all the sounds bombarding your senses. It isn't a conscious decision when you pull Mammon down a little further and sink your fangs his neck, piercing the fabric that keeps it concealed. But it's hard enough for you to taste something like spiced iron flood across your tongue. 

The reaction it gets from you both is immediate. His body draws up tight while he gasps out a harsh, "fucking hell - shit - " and you can feel him pulse inside of you before you're flooded with another gush of his cum. The feel of it, the chill of it and the sheer amount is enough to trigger your own orgasm. Your vision goes dark, a vignette marring your sight while a white-hot tide takes control of your body, leaving you a passenger in your own mind. And for one blissful moment you don't even exist. You don't have a job, or an apartment with judgmental neighbors. You don't have a favorite food or a particular song that you listen to on repeat. For a moment it's just you and him. 

It takes everything in you to cling onto him. Your wings flare out involuntarily, body twisting while your cunt clings around his girth like it's trying to work him for all he's worth. You can feel that searing bliss in every part of you. From your toes to the pit of your abdomen, making your eyes roll in the back of your skull while you ride out the tail end of your pleasure and everything fizzles into a gentle darkness. For a minute everything is still. Peaceful and gentle while feeling comes back to your limbs and you remember how to breathe. But it's ultimately a familiar scent that guides you back to reality, light with the twinge of leather, earthy, warm and smoky. It sort of smells like money. It smells like Mammon. You lean into it, nuzzling your face into something soft and expanding with breath. 

It's enough to make you open your eyes that you hadn't even realized had closed, to look up. The small motion takes a great amount of strength with how sapped your muscles feel, even with the last bits of lust still thrumming in the air and energizing you, but you manage. Mammon has collapsed back against the cushions with you clutched against his stomach with each of his hands gripping some part of you. Even from this angle you can see the pleased, almost dopey smile on his face as he sightlessly stares up at the ceiling. It's such an uncommon expression to see on him, untainted by his usual snark or hubris, but the rarity of it always makes you cherish them even more. 

But then you see a furrow pinch between his brows and his mouth purses in clear annoyance. It has worry prickling at your skin, nestling in your gut like a block of ice, but before you can ask him what's wrong he's speaking. "I can't believe you were gonna leave me for that shitty little bloke," he grumbles. He tries to sound harsh and unbothered, but you swear you can hear something fragile peeking through the rasp of his voice. 

"I wasn't actually interest in him," you assure, answering honestly, propping your arms on his stomach enough to hold yourself up. "A friend had set me up. I just - I don't know. I was . . . I needed a distraction." 

"Which friend?" He asks suddenly, sounding a little too intrigued.

You squint at him suspiciously, letting a short bout of silence fall over you both. "No. You aren't allowed to kill them." He visibly pouts at that, and this one is actually genuine. You entertain the thought of making a joke. Of steering the conversation somewhere humorous to save the both of you from something that might be too real, too bare. But you know you can't. If you're going to try and do this with Mammon again then these kinds of talks need to happen.  "That wasn't just sex talk, I really didn't want him, Mammon. Not for a single second." 

His gaze sweeps down to you, and you're sure that you catch something vulnerable flit across his expression; eyes minutely widening with what may have been relief, but it was so quick that you barely get any time to register it. He schools his features into something indifferent and nonchalant before you can truly take it in. "Psssh, of course you weren't interested in him. How could you be when you've got me." 

"Exactly," you agree, watching him preen under the comment, inspiring you to lean into his ego a bit to draw him out of whatever dark thoughts may be running around in his head. "It would be stupid if I did."

"Dumb as shit," he agrees eloquently, with his brash charm. 

It has a laugh puffing from your chest, and it's quickly followed by a heavy drowning warmth in your chest, like a sun was caught within your bones. It's purely fond. Full of endearment and love. You love him. Fuck you love him, even if it tears you apart. It might be stupid, a road that leads to a dead end or a perilous cliff, but you couldn't be bothered to stop on your path to possible self-destruction. You don't know if the true scope of your emotions is returned. If Mammon is even capable of feeling something like raw, selfless love. Probably not. Compassion and consideration don't exactly align with his function as the Embodiment of Greed. Of being avarice incapsulated inside a body to fulfil a particular purpose within Hell. But you always held out hope that there was something in there. You've seen the pure affection displayed by Asmodeus for Fizz; living proof that a Sin could be more than its role, its basest instinct. If the personification of Lust could find and express love, then just maybe Mammon could to. 

Wow, look at you, being hopeful in Hell. 

You're broken out of your internal struggle when Mammon shifts, tightening his grip around you to keep you secured to his body as he tilts on his side. He curls himself around you even more until his chin is resting on the crown of your head, engulfing you in the breadth of him and his scent. It's enough to settle the torrent inside of your mind, replacing those insecurities and replacing them with comfort and contentment. You can feel the gentle fuzz of sleep beginning to lap at you, seeping into your limbs and weighing them down. You want nothing more than to sleep. To let yourself fall into the dredges of unconsciousness with the soothing chill of Mammon's temperature wafting over your body like a balm. But it's a little difficult to do that when every inch of you is still damp with sweat and his cum is still steadily pouring down your thighs from around the weight of his length that he's yet to pull out, flowing with each small shift or movement. 

"Mammon?" You ask, listening to the steady draw of his breath, hoping that he hasn't fallen asleep, but even then, the pattern is still too quick for him to be unconscious. You purse your lips, sighing audibly. "Moo?" You try again, and sure enough at the sound of the corny nickname a simple, but questioning grunt rising up in response. 

"We're going to need a bath." 

"Eughhh," he groans, low and already thick with the desire to sleep. "Fuck." 

[wasty28]

Shocked by the sheer lack of Mafia!Au in the lcf/tcf Fandom.

Why is there none? Have you seen the way Cale acts ? The way he sometimes uses underhanded methods bordering on illegal to get to his goal while posing like a benefactor in front of the society ? Kidnapping, Torturing, looting religious/official treasures ? The mere existence of the Molans in his vicinity ? The revenge for Raon act ?

When Cale said:

[SPOILER AHEAD]

"There is an unchanging fact in the world...You don’t mess with family" to the WS he was not joking.

Before learning that Earth 1 was post apocalyptic and the whole backstory I really pictured KRS to be part of some underground corporation or gang involved in shady things. What's with:

-Team leader? -That's a very particular phrasing-taking him in-with no context

-Him saying he treated his work as normal office work when it supposedly was not? In which way ?

-The whole taking the reins of the team after alluded DEATH of the team leader??? Caused by what ? Or who ?

-Flimsy flashback of them all beaten up and sore on the ground after a "mission" hasn't gone as planned ? How tf was I supposed to know they were fighting monsters !?

-The whole I didn't want to get close to my coworkers to protect them shit ? What why ?? Of what ?

-Just the general way he acts super efficiently as Cale henituse and accommodatly ignores the law when he wants(for good reasons but still !)

-That one official art of Cale posing with SUPER BUFF laded with scars ???! KRS at the back

My brain was totally going off rails, but that's not the point. What I mean is there is exceptional potential here.

Though I don't know shit about cartels, gangs, or mafiosi, I can see the missed opportunity.

Give me that modern!au that slaps.

I wanna see guns, car races, corruption, scams that chaotic energy with things going boom boom in the background, children who shouldn't be there, and Bob. Lots of Bob.

I wanna see future politician!Alberu being totally gobsmacked that this trashy young master, with a failed idol carrier due to all the rumors and scandals related to his personality turns out to be his most trusted ally for the elections and apparently has more than one hand in the underground world and cartel mafiosi also stopping human trafficking, terrorism and slowly but surely preparing for war on a continental scale on the side, is his only match in term of wits and efficiency.

And this fucker says he wants to be a slacker. Haha! Make him prime minister.

[yourdeluluescapist]

SHACKLES| Bangchan X Fem!reader| Request! @jiyeonslays

A/N: For some reason, anytime I give a date on anything. Life decides to hit me with its trials. Romance for some reason hinders fanfics. It was supposed to only take 2 days, but apparently my love life didn't like that answer. But i did put in more effort to make it a little more worth it. <3

Warnings: smut, creampie, semi rough sex, half angst half fluff.

WC:1617.

✧

It’d been 2 years since he went to jail for murdering him. You’d wished it hadn’t been labeled murder, it was just much needed vindication. He did it for you, to protect you, to make sure nothing came between him and his love. But thankfully, he was released today. And you were damn well gonna give him a warm welcome.

---

The price of safety from another almost felt like it wasn’t worth it. You’d missed Chan ever since he was locked up, even if it was legally wrong. It was the only way, the only exceptional thing that could’ve been done to keep you safe. You knew damn well if he didn’t do what he did, it would’ve broken you. 

You normally weren’t the one that thought killing another should ever be an option. But the pain, the abuse that went under every type, and the downright disgusting treatment of you.  It felt right, divine intervention, the only call that could begin to rectify and convict your ex of his act of torture.

Hours upon hours of his verbal berating, his fist clutching whenever you didn’t agree, and the pain from being treated like nothing and only seen as another thing on the earth that stole breath from the earth. 

But Chan? He saved you from that, freed you from that torment and showed you what real love was. Being treated like you mattered was refreshing and very much needed. He took care of you even after all the reassuring that killing him was the right decision. Throughout all he did, you were still never prepared to watch someone you hated with all of your being, simply die in front of you.

Trauma was never something you’d wanted to have to stomach, but knowing it all. You almost wished you pulled the trigger instead of Chan.

But all reminiscing made you forget the fact that you had ignored while rethinking all of this while spread out in your bed.

He’d be getting released today, and right now? You should have already been on the road..

A heavy groan and slow, yet heavy hand slowly dragging down your face. You clothed your naked body, got your keys, and left to start this dreadfully long 2 hour drive.

- - - 

He got into the passenger seat of your car, the look on his face looking different after so long. But his aura hasn't changed, he was still the same chan. Even after taking the life of a man who absolutely deserved it. That comforting smile still melted your heart, and all you wanted to see was that smile you had missed so much. All day, all night. 

“Hey, baby. It's been a while huh? Did you miss me?” Chan turned his head to you, smiling ear to ear as he studied your face again.

“Don’t ask me something stupid like that,” You leaned over from your seat and hugged him. “Of course I did, you know that.” You slightly pouted.

“Hey I was joking.” He chuckled, his tone softening from how much he missed you too. “I know you did, and you’re well aware I did too.” He embraced you and placed a gentle, clasping hand behind your head and kissed the top of your head.

”I wrote and sent you things every day! Even your favorite books, and sometimes those pictures we took a while ago.” You pulled yourself away from him to give him his space.

“And I thanked you for all of that. Especially those nude ones, I needed something to pleasure myself too.” He smirked, leaning onto the car down and placing his head on his fist.

“Even in prison, you're still a walking, talking cock.” You put the car in drive and pull out the lot.

“One you’d always happily service” He said in a jumpy tone, shooting a playful punch at your elbow.

Once you guys got on the road, silence and whatever was on the radio made the ambience of the car for the next hour. Though quiet, it was sweet. Being with him after all this time, you didn’t care how you spent your time with him.

Thinking back on all the unhinged and fun conversations you shared in this same car bestowed a lingering smile on your face. It was so good to see him again. Every part of your body pulsated and quivered with pent up excitement and libido. Being near him brought it all back, you haven’t done the deed with anyone since then, and you thought.

“God, I missed him badly. I’m wet just sitting next to him now, I’m so pent up I could just strip him and take him whole..” 

Knowing that, that's what you were going to do. You wanted him to take you whole, you’d been waiting for him to touch you, to fuck you, just simply kiss you after all this time. You just yearned for another time where his key would unlock your hole.

- - -

The feeling of being picked up and slammed on this bed he used to always take you on was lip biting. He didn’t waste a second when you shot the offer of. 

“Tonight, I don’t care what you do to me. Whatever hole you please, however rough you wanna do me. I just want you to fuck me crazy.” 

“Was this what you were waiting for? Just for me to fuck you like a slut?” He asked in a husky voice, his hands dancing against your breast. 

“Mhm.” You moaned at his touch, “That’s exactly what I want, I’ve been waiting years for this. I need you bad okay?” You quiver at every movement, you haven’t been so tense at a man’s touch since then. It feels like you couldn’t even handle this let alone full blown fucking. But your body told you, it wanted it all. 

“Well okay princess, I'm gonna have my way with you okay?” He leaned down, being mere inches away from your neck and began to pepper you down.

You nod in agreement, his lips feeling like butterfly wings across your skin as he kisses around your neck, slowly going down the line and making it to your clavicle, playfully nibbling at it and getting more sensual everytime your body shakes in pleasure. 

He groaned as his kisses got lower and the depth between each one getting harder and harder. You had basically begged for him to hurry up and get down to your pussy. Though he knew that, and he loved taking his sweet time to savor every part of you. To tease and to annoy you. 

“Oh, Chan!” You screamed, “Just get down there already, I'm begging you I can't take it anymore.” 

Taking what you said into playful consideration, he stopped kissing you from top to bottom and quickly dragged his tongue down your torso until he was met face to face with your sopping wet entrance.

He was like a plumber the way his tongue plunged his tongue in and out of your vagina. Also following that, the onslaught of a very much invited finger joined in to make sure your pipes were cleaned. 

He only sucked more and more, kept changing from fast and slow with his fingers. You couldn't handle it anymore, your body knew it couldn't hold that orgasm any longer. And knowing that, you came all over his face and his fingers.

“That's only the first time, sweetheart. He uttered, licking his finger clean and beginning to take his briefs off. Releasing his rock hard cock, veins bulging all the way from the tip down. Tense and ready to reunite with its plaything once more.

He had crawled on top of you, showing every ounce of his muscular body like it was in 4k. His big chest, his bolstering biceps, and chiseled abs. Also not ignoring his huge package that was waiting to get in the back of your truck.

“Are you finally gonna actually fuck me? You know I hate that foreplay shit, I'm too horny for that.” You playfully pout at him, a seductive smirk growing on your face.

“Mhm,” He began to drag his tip around your clit, covering it in all of your sweet juices. “Just you like it.” He said as he rammed it inside you, a strong sexual moan escaping your mouth with pants following its path.

“Oh my, FUCK. I needed this, after so long I’ve been begging to be filled up like this again. His cock is just playing inside me, I can feel every throb with double the effect. My pussy is just hugging him back with every time that dick shows me it still wants me.

He didn't beat around the bush this time, his strokes went deep. In and out repeatedly, harder and harder with every second that passed. You could feel him getting closer and closer, and you only began to think more wildly. Making you wrap your arms around his torso, your grip tight as he started to pound you harder. 

“Cum inside me, Chan. Please, I want it so bad.” 

“As you wish, princess.” He replied, going balls deep inside you and releasing a fat load inside you. One that would definitely knock you up.

You pant and pant feeling his cum course through your vagina.

After he dropped that inside you, he had basically collapsed on top of you, obviously wore out after so long without sex. Though he was heavy this was the only time that you would let this happen .So you caressed his head and your fingers through his hair as he cuddled up on you. 

You missed this and would do anything to keep this forevermore.

[hyuckiefluff]

Hey so I hv request! Really love the way you write♡ ok so mark is on adrenaline high frm the concert and is really touch starved and really just wants to fuck his gf! Established realtionship y/n and Mark, feel free to add your magic, thank you!!!

a/n: thank u for the nice words and for sending in this req!! this is exactly what i needed to get back into the mood cuz i’ve (once again) been neglecting my writing lol but anyway when i read this the first thing i thought of was quiet down hence the pic :)

ps: requests are still open btw (still got a lot of them to go through but feel free to send in more) i usually do them in order of which one inspires me the most so even if you send rn i might get to it first!

pairing: mark lee x fem!reader

wc: 1.3k

content warnings: semi-public sex, unprotected sex, slight choking, brief mention of blood, mark is sex starved so he goes a bit crazy, ass groping, handjob (m. receiving), cum eating yeah ik ik i keep writing this but i can’t stop sawry, big c0ck mark!! barely any prep or aftercare (they don’t have time!!!) basically just a messy & needy quickie backstage.

masterlist

Mark was losing his mind. 

Why?

All because you placed him on a week-long sex ban in an attempt to prepare him for the upcoming tour. He knew you were just trying to help him adjust to being away from you, but it felt like torture.

Everything was fine at first, or at least Mark was doing a great job pretending. But as the first week neared its end, his resolve started to crumble. Today, in particular, he was extremely horny for no reason.

...Well, he actually did have a reason and it was the picture you sent him this morning, wearing the new underwear he had gifted you  'They fit perfectly, Markie ;)'.

And as if that wasn’t enough, you showed up to his show wearing his favorite skirt—the very one you knew he always fucked you in. He wasn't sure if he was just thinking with his dick, but it felt like you were trying to push him to his limit.

Either way, it was definitely working, because when you leaned in for a kiss, he caught a glimpse of your underwear in the mirror's reflection and and he had to fight against every part of himself to not moan right then.

To make matters worse, you were still wearing the black lace panties he had gifted you.

By the time he stepped on stage, he was already painfully hard. What kind of pervert gets turned on in front of an audience just because his girlfriend accidentally flashed him? Well, apparently, Mark Lee did.

But he didn't care about looking like a desperate, sex-starved fool. 

So as soon as the VCR started playing and they had to change outfits, he made a beeline for you backstage. Ignoring the protests of staff and confused band members telling him he only had 10 minutes to get ready he grabbed your arm and pulled you through the crowd.

“That’s more than enough time,” he muttered under his breath. Despite your persistent attempts to ask where he was taking you, Mark didn’t stop until you were hidden away in a dark, secluded corner behind the stage.

"Mark, what's going on? Are you okay?" You inspected him with concern in your eyes, checking for any injuries.

"Ah...fuck... I have a really big problem," he groaned.

"What's wrong?" But you quickly understood the issue when he pulled up his shirt, revealing the growing bulge in his pants.

You tried not to laugh, but the way he looked like a child in need of help was too endearing. "Aw, did I do this to you?"

"It's not funny," he protested, suddenly invading your personal space. "I need you to fix it." His forehead pressed against yours, his hands roaming over your sides and gripping your hips to press you firmly against his body, your lower abdomen coming in contact with his hard on.

"Of course, baby" you replied, ready to kneel down, but he stopped you by grabbing your arm. You looked at him confused, and the stage lights cast an angle that highlighted his pleading eyes. They were glossy with desire.

"I need to be inside you," he murmured, his voice strained and raspy.

The idea of having backstage sex at his concert with just about seven minutes left before he had to return to the stage felt crazy. But there was something about it that turned you on beyond explanation.

So, you cupped his face and kissed him hard enough that your teeth clashed with his lips, but not even the slight taste of blood stopped you from devouring each other’s mouth. Mark quickly matched your intensity, his tongue wasting no time exploring every corner of your mouth. Every time he nibbled on your lips, it elicited little gasps from you. His hands moved from your hips to your ass, pressing you firmly against his bulge, a clear reminder that he was about to explode down there.

You started to undo his pants, the friction of his erection against the fabric made him suck in air through his teeth. He broke away from your lips, allowing you to pull down his pants. His boxers were already stained with pre-cum, and when you lowered them, his dick looked at you flushed and angry. You bit your lip, his size always made you clench your thighs in anticipation.

Before you could even touch him, he turned you around and that’s when you realized you were pressed against one of the glass boxes from their performance.

"Mark..." you moaned his name when you felt the tip of his dick at your entrance. There was no time for much preparation so when he slowly pushed his hips forward, a string of curses left his lips at the tightness.

"Fuuuck..." he groaned when your walls clenched around him relentlessly. Tears welled up in your eyes, and you leaned against the box for support

“God, you feel so good” His hands gripped your hips, and you felt his lips kissing your shoulder before he whispered that he was going to start moving. You nodded weakly.

His pace started out slow, but there was an undeniable urgency in each motion. His hand moved from your hips to your neck, gripping you softly and pulling you closer with every deep thrust. His lips found that sensitive spot just below your ear, and with every kiss and nibble, you couldn't help but clench around him, making his hand close tighter against your throat. This pattern continued for a while, bringing you closer to the edge.

"Please..." you whimpered, and he grunted softly against your neck.

"What do you need, baby?" he asked.

"More, please, I need more," you moaned, feeling his grin against your neck.

He wasted no time. His thrusts quickened, and you couldn't help but release soft gasps and moans with each movement. You leaned forward against the box, your breath fogging up the glass, feeling it tremble beneath you as he continued fucking into you harder. Mark was losing himself, or perhaps he already had; he was rutting against you as if he was an animal in heat.

"M-mark... I'm close," you mewled, not sure if he even heard you amidst the loud cheers.

"Mhm, me too," he moaned, his voice strained. 

It only took a few more thrusts and you were spent, moaning and mumbling incoherently as he helped you ride your orgasm.

 "Fuck, it's gonna be messy if I cum inside you," he realized, slowing his movements.

He was right… he wasn't wearing a condom so as soon as he pulled out, it would definitely drip down your legs. And there wasn’t anything nearby to clean you up with.

"Pull out," you said, and you could see his confusion from the corner of your eye. Nonetheless, he did as told. His hand was already on his dick, ready to take care of himself, but when you knelt down, it was as if his body glitched momentarily.

Your hands replaced his, applying just the right amount of pressure in your strokes to evoke that familiar sensation building in his gut. You looked at him through your eyelashes, your makeup slightly smudged from tears and sweat. The sight was incredibly hot, and just when he was about to cum, you opened your mouth, catching all of his release. Some of it trickled down your throat. The whole scene, along with the sounds you made while swallowing, had Mark almost in tears from the sheer intensity of the moment.

After swallowing every drop, you stood up, adjusting your panties and casually licking a remnant from the corner of your lips, all while maintaining eye contact with Mark. He watched you in stunned silence, still catching his breath. You chuckled when he remained frozen for a good 10 seconds, pulling him close gently and zipping up his pants. In that moment, you heard his voice.

“Please come on tour with me,” he begged, his eyes wide with hope. You just smiled and kissed him.

“Where’s Mark?! You guys are up in 2 minutes!” The staff's frantic shouts pulled you both back to reality. You exchanged a glance and burst into giggles like a pair of teenagers.

i think i might be shadowbanned guys so interact with this post if u enjoyed it pls &lt;3

[armystrong980]

Help Him

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Mild Cursing

Word Count: 9,234 😬

A/N: This is my first Bucky Barnes fanfic. Please go easy on me! I would love to know how all of you liked the story. Enjoy, and thank you for reading!

    Steve called me to the conference room of the Avengers Compound. He called sounding pretty serious and asked to see him immediately. With no hesitation I made my way over. At first glance I watched him pace up and down the room with his head down and his hands on his hips. "Shit, this can't be good." Steve caught a glance at me. He seems lost in his head but he motioned me to come in anyways. 

"Thank you for coming so quickly." He paused, "There's something you need to know before I start." Steve hands me a folder with a worried look on his face. "This mission is going to be very dangerous. I need my best Avenger and all I could do was come to you." He sighs.

 I take the folder from him confidently. "Thank you for reaching out to me. You could've chosen Nat or Wanda." "I don't want to make it sound like you have to do this but I know I can always count on you. That's why I called." It's true. I had saved Cap's ass more times than I should've.

As I open the mission folder with a shaky breath, it revealed a man in cryo with a HYDRA symbol next to it. You read the name out loud, "James Buchanan Barnes?"

He nods as he looks me in the eyes. "I need to save him." I've heard this name before but couldn't quite put a finger on it. "May I ask who he is?" Steve crosses his arms loosely and looks down slightly biting his inner cheek. "He's my best friend, family, I thought he was dead all these years." 

I look at the information on the file that shows James' birthday. March 10, 1917. It made me think. "Smithsonian." I blurted out. He looks up at me with a knowing look in his eyes. "I seen you and him together in pictures at the Smithsonian. All this time he was under HYDRA's control?" Steve nods uncrossing his arms.

I had become best friends with Steve ever since he had gotten out of the ice. I would do anything for him. "I'll help you." It was as if weight had been lifted off his shoulders. "Are you sure?" "Steve I'm positive. Let's go bring your friend home." All he could do in that moment was hug me. I hugged him back and heard him whisper in my ear thank you.  

Steve’s shoulders seemed to drop a little as he released the embrace. He took a deep breath, clearly relieved, and looked at me with renewed determination. "I can't tell you how much this means to me. I know this isn't going to be easy, but I trust you completely."

I nodded, flipping through the rest of the folder. The file contained blueprints of the facility where James Buchanan Barnes, also known as Bucky, was being held, along with security details and a rough schedule of guard rotations. It looked like a high-security compound, which meant we’d need a solid plan to get in and out without drawing too much attention.

"Have you got a specific plan or are we coming up with something on the fly?" I asked, trying to gauge how much preparation Steve had already done.

"I’ve got a few ideas," Steve said, his tone shifting to a more tactical one. "But I was hoping we could brainstorm together. We’ll need to be quick and efficient—any misstep could jeopardize the mission."

We spent the next few hours going over the details, mapping out the security measures, and figuring out the best approach. We decided to use a combination of stealth and quick strikes to neutralize the guards and avoid detection. Steve would take point, and I’d cover our rear and handle any unexpected complications.

As we wrapped up the planning, Steve gave me a serious look. "We’re not just rescuing a friend here. Bucky’s been through a lot. He’s probably been brainwashed and tortured. We’ll need to be prepared for anything."

"Understood," I said, my resolve firm. "We’ll get him out of there. We just need to stick to the plan and stay focused."

Steve clapped me on the shoulder, a small, appreciative smile tugging at his lips. "I knew I could count on you."

With our plan set, we gathered our gear and prepared to head out. As we left the conference room, I couldn’t help but think about the gravity of the mission ahead. This wasn’t just about rescuing someone; it was about saving a part of Steve’s past and, hopefully, helping a friend reclaim his future.

We set off towards the compound, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. The stakes were high, but with Steve by my side and the mission clear in our minds, I knew we had a fighting chance.

The operation went off almost flawlessly. With Steve’s meticulous planning and our teamwork, we managed to infiltrate the compound, disable the security systems, and reach Bucky’s cryo-chamber without incident. As we approached the chamber, I could see Steve’s anxiety transform into a mix of hope and determination.

Bucky was unconscious, strapped inside the chamber. His face was a haunting reminder of the time lost and the struggles endured. Steve’s hands shook slightly as he worked to deactivate the cryo-system. The chamber hissed open, and Bucky’s breathing seemed to steady, though he remained unresponsive.

“Is he going to be okay?” I asked, placing a hand on Steve’s shoulder.

Steve glanced at me, his face etched with concern. “He will be. He has to be.”

With the cryo-chamber open, we carefully lifted Bucky out and placed him on a stretcher. Steve’s eyes never left his friend, a mixture of relief and worry playing across his features. We transported Bucky back to the Avengers Compound, where medical personnel were on standby.

The next few days were a blur of medical assessments and treatments. Bucky was slowly waking from his long period of cryo-sleep, but the process of reorienting him to reality was fraught with challenges. He was disoriented, struggling to piece together his fragmented memories.

During this time, I found myself spending more and more time with him. I was assigned to monitor his recovery, help him adjust, and provide emotional support. As I sat by his bedside, talking to him, I saw glimpses of the person he once was—charming, kind, and fiercely loyal.

One evening, after Bucky had shown some signs of recognition and began to engage in conversation, he looked at me with a curious expression. “You were there at the compound. I remember you… but I’m having trouble placing you.”

I offered him a reassuring smile. “I’m Y/N. I helped rescue you and bring you home. Steve’s been really worried about you.”

Bucky’s gaze softened. “Steve... I remember him. We’ve been through a lot together. I owe him everything.”

“And you owe me nothing,” I said with a chuckle. “I’m just glad we could help.”

As Bucky continued to regain his strength and clarity, our interactions became more frequent. We shared stories, laughed over old memories, and supported each other through the tough moments. Bucky’s sense of humor and resilience were contagious, and I found myself drawn to him in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

One evening, as the sun set and cast a warm glow over the compound, Bucky and I took a walk through the garden. The tranquility of the space was a stark contrast to the intensity of our recent experiences.

“You’ve been incredibly patient with me,” Bucky said softly, breaking the comfortable silence. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” I replied, glancing at him with a shy smile. “It’s been my pleasure to help you, and to get to know you better.”

Bucky’s eyes met mine, and there was a moment of unspoken understanding between us. The bond we’d developed was more than just friendship—it was something deeper and more profound.

In the days that followed, as Bucky continued to heal and adjust to his new reality, our relationship grew stronger. We spent time together away from the compound, exploring the city and enjoying each other’s company. It was clear that our connection was more than just a fleeting attraction; it was something that resonated deeply within both of us.

One night, under the stars, Bucky took my hand in his and looked at me with a mix of vulnerability and affection. “I never thought I’d find someone who could understand me like you do. You’ve been my anchor in all of this chaos.”

I squeezed his hand, feeling a rush of emotions. “And you’ve been mine. I’ve never felt this way before, but I know that what we have is real.”

Bucky leaned in, his gaze lingering on my lips before closing the distance between us. The kiss was tender and filled with a deep sense of connection. It was as if all the pain and uncertainty of the past had melted away, leaving only the pure, unspoken promise of a shared future.

As we pulled away, Bucky’s eyes were filled with warmth and hope. “I want to build a new future, with you. Whatever it takes.”

I smiled, my heart full. “I want that too.”

From that moment on, Bucky and I began to forge a new path together. We faced the challenges of his recovery and the complexities of our evolving relationship with courage and optimism. Through it all, our love grew stronger, transforming from a bond forged in the fires of adversity into a lasting partnership filled with hope and possibility.

And so, with the Avengers Compound as our backdrop, we embraced the journey ahead—one where we were no longer just allies but partners in every sense of the word, ready to face the future together.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Don't Touch Her

Requested Here!

Pairing: David 'Deacon' Kay x fem!SWAT!reader

Summary: You and Deacon are abducted by men who want revenge on you. After Deacon is forced to watch them hurt you, it is up to him to comfort you and keep you calm.

Warnings: angst, chloroform, beating/torture of reader (not overly graphic), depictions of injuries, fluff/comfort at the end, I stand by my opinion that Street would always pick rock and fall right into 20-David's trap every time they asked him to play

Word Count: 3.0k+ words

A/N: I am a Deacon uses pet names apologist. Sweetheart, gorgeous, babe... He only uses the good ones; which I know for a fact. I hope you enjoy and please let me know what you think!🤍

Picture from Pinterest

“He always picks rock,” you whisper.

Deacon nods, continuing the streak of tricking Street with something as simple as rock, paper, scissors.

“Rock, paper, scissors,” Street says, presenting his fist as ‘rock’ while Deacon lays his palm flat as ‘paper.’

Deacon’s eyes widen, nodding to himself. “I can’t believe I beat you!”

You snicker behind your hand as Deacon shakes Street’s hand, a pleased smile on his face.

“I can’t believe he falls for that every time,” Hondo laughs as Street leaves.

Hicks yells for 20-David to prepare to roll, and your quiet morning of pestering Street becomes a distant memory in the long hours that follow.

✯✯✯✯✯

Through your years of friendship with Deacon, you’ve grown incredibly close. Whether in the field or out to dinner, you can talk without speaking, understand without hearing, and show your care from great distances.

After a series of bank robberies turned hostages, 20-David returns to HQ just past the thirteen-hour mark after leaving. It’s a few minutes after 9 p.m., but you’re all exhausted and hungry. Street, Luca, and Tan decide to go to a nearby 24-hour diner before going home, but you want to go home, not sit in a greasy diner.

“Want to come over for dinner?” you ask Deacon, removing your gear and stowing it in your locker.

“Sure,” Deacon answers happily. “You cooking?”

“Oh, yeah,” you play along. “I was thinking a three or four-course meal, worthy of a Michelin tire - star or two.”

Hondo chuckles at your joke before waving over his shoulder on his way out.

“Sounds delicious,” Deacon replies with a smile. “But I’m in the mood for something a little faster.”

You nod, leaning against Deacon as he takes your bag. After years of spending time together after work, you have created a well-calculated habit. If you go to your house, Deacon drives, but if you go to his house, you drive. Most nights, one of you leaves your car at S.W.A.T. HQ, accompanying the other to work the following morning.

Deacon wraps his arm around your shoulders, leading you to the parking lot and stowing your bag with his. Offering you a hand, he helps you into the car and ensures you are buckled in, safe, and comfortable before shifting the car into gear and driving away from work for a few hours of rest.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Careful,” Deacon says as he helps you out of the car.

“Ricky, who is that?”

Ricky shrugs, hiding just out of sight in your hallway. 

“Should we bail?”

“Are you crazy, James? No! This is our chance to get him out. He’s our brother,” Rick argues quietly. “Just get ready for two fighters.”

The door opens, and you step in before Deacon. As you close the door, you raise a hand to stop Deacon. Something feels off, though you can’t place what.

Walking toward your hallway, Deacon is right behind you when two masked assailants attack you. Approaching from behind, you and Deacon are at a disadvantage as you try to keep them far enough away to keep the rags in their hands away from your faces. You elbow the man behind you in the ribs, but when he leans forward, the rag covers your mouth and nose as the smell of chloroform invades your senses. Even as your reflexes slow, you continue fighting, looking over at Deacon in a similarly poor state.

 “Don’t touch her,” Deacon growls through the rag, fighting against the arms holding him still.

A dark chuckle sounds as Deacon watches you fall to the floor, his own consciousness fading soon after.

✯✯✯✯✯

When Deacon opens his eyes, his first thought is you. He immediately feels the cold steel chair under him and the tight handcuffs on his wrists, but he ignores his own conditions as he scans the room for you.

Across the room, your hands are suspended and tied above a rafter. Your feet are still on the floor, but the position is straining your muscles and leaving you open to anything.

You blink your eyes open, coughing as your senses return one by one. Deacon tucks one leg under his chair, prepared to lunge toward you and free you, but the two men from your house walk in before he can.

One points a gun at you while telling Deacon, “You move, and she dies.”

Closing your eyes as you take a shaky breath, you level your expression before sending Deacon a sad smile and a nod.

“You remember my brother?” one of the men asks as he raises his mask just long enough for you to place him.

“Ricky,” you begin.

A metal pipe hangs from Ricky’s hand, and he swings it up toward you before you finish. Your breath rushes out quickly, and when you tip forward, your shoulders catch the brunt of your weight.

“So, you know me, but you don’t care that my brother is still in there,” Ricky replies, pushing your legs back with the pipe.

You yelp at the strain on your arms, and Deacon’s jaw clenches when the second man spins the gun to remind him he can’t do anything.

“Stay, boy,” he taunts.

Deacon can only watch as you’re beaten, catching Ricky’s comments about a past case riddled between his hits. Trying to get more information, he can’t place the case until he hears another name.

“James, care for a turn?” Ricky asks.

James and Ricky, Deacon realizes, are the brothers (in the Los Angeles gang sense of the word) of a man you arrested several years ago on a drug charge.

You scream, pulling Deacon from his memory as his eyes find you again. James has a large piece of rubber wrapped around his hand as he swings his arm, punching you in the face and knocking your balance off again. Deacon’s eyes fall momentarily, looking away when he sees the growing puddle of blood on the concrete floor below you.

Deacon wants to look away from you, but he can’t. When you find the strength to look up at him after a harsh blow from the pipe, your face is bloody and tear-stained. Deacon’s nostrils flare in anger as he tenses every muscle to keep himself from running to you and making it worse.

With tears building behind his eyes, Deacon continues watching as James and Ricky alternate blows, slowing as you stop reacting. When your head drops forward, the pain getting the best of you, they decide they’ve had enough for now.

James stops in the doorway, turning to Deacon as he jokes, “Release, boy,” before locking you and Deacon inside.

Deacon rises slightly, worried about your lack of movement until you speak.

“Don’t,” you say, more blood falling to the floor as you speak. “It’s a trap, Deac.”

“Why now?” Deacon asks quietly. “That was years ago.”

“I testified against his parole,” you answer weakly. “He was doing better with the psychiatric help and he’s so close to getting his degree. He’s changing, but they want their running buddy back.”

✯✯✯✯✯

You flinch as a truck roars to life outside the wall behind you, grumbling as gravel is sprayed onto the wall. Deacon waits, and after several minutes of silence, he stands and walks across the room to you. Kneeling before you, he gently lifts your legs one at a time to wrap his linked arms around you.

Your small gasps, groans, and winces of pain are met with a quiet but reverent apology as Deacon slows his movements. He raises his arms to your hips, lifting you to remove the strain from your arms.

“Move your arms forward,” he encourages, “the nail is straight out, so you should be able to slide the rope off.”

With a jerky movement forward, you feel the rope slide before freezing when a door slams.

“Go,” you command, worry in your voice as you squirm to encourage Deacon’s arms back down your legs. “Please, Deac, go now.”

He obeys, hesitantly returning to the chair just before the door swings open. James walks in, shaking his head as he walks behind Deacon. Expecting another comment comparing him to a dog, Deacon keeps his eyes on you.

He can’t see what James is doing behind him, but your eyes widen suddenly, the now-visible whites a stark contrast to your blood-soaked face.

“Don’t- don’t do that, James. I will do whatever you want me to,” you beg, your voice too strong for the situation.

Deacon can tell from the tone of your voice that you’re worried about him, whatever James is preparing to do to him. However, the puddle of blood below you concerns him far worse than anything they can do to him.

“You’ve survived all night,” James says with a small sigh. “I guess I can give you a few more hours to come to your senses.” He walks around Deacon and squeezes your jaw harshly to whisper, “And when the parole office opens, you better be ready to call.”

James pulls a knife from his pocket, and Deacon fights his panic as he watches it rise over your torso, past your face, and to the bindings holding you up. He pulls the knife carelessly, and you fall to the floor, curling in on yourself as he steps over you.

When James leaves, and you and Deacon are alone again, he rushes to your side, gently moving you as he searches for the source of so much blood. 

“If it’s been all night, and it’s tomorrow now, do you think they know?” you ask weakly.

“Hey, look at me,” Deacon requests kindly, waiting until your chin turns toward him. “They’re on their way. Nothing else is going to happen to you before our team gets here. You trust them.”

You nod before a pained exhale exits you, rolling onto your back to ease the sudden pain. With your torso exposed to him, Deacon can now see the particularly nasty gash spanning your right side, from the bottom of your rib cage to your hip. He assumes it is from the metal pipe, and the amount of dried blood surrounding the wound makes him think it is from one of the first blows.

Deacon pulls his jacket down to his hands, balling it around his cuffed hands, and presses it to your bleeding side. You whimper at the pressure and close your eyes tightly.

“You’re going to be okay,” Deacon promises. “Just hold on for me.”

“It hurts.”

“I know, I know, sweetheart. Just a few more minutes and help will be here, remember?”

The door opens suddenly while your mind is still caught on Deacon’s pet name. Someone laughs before grabbing Deacon’s shoulder to pull him away from you. He falls back out of your sight, and you don’t feel strong enough to look up. You hear something metallic hit the floor, followed by a duller thudding noise before the door closes again.

Worried they did something to Deacon, you take a painfully deep breath and prepare to sit up.

“Don’t do that,” Deacon chides, laying a gentle hand over your shoulder to keep you down.

Deacon’s handcuffs are off, and though James said the first aid kit is supposed to get you ready to call the parole office and sound believable, Deacon’s first and only priority is you. He doesn’t care about their goal; he only wants you safe and alive.

You watch Deacon, grateful for the distraction of his focused, caring, yet angry expression as he cleans your wounds, bandaging them as well as he can with the limited supplies. He finishes wrapping the gash on your torso before moving toward your face. Sending you a small, sad smile, Deacon raises his hand to catch the tear that leaks from your eye.

“Don’t lose hope. Not in our team,” he whispers.

“Thank you,” you reply, watching as he gathers a handful of supplies from the kit beside you.

Deacon rubs an antibiotic wipe across your face, staining it red before ripping another open. He feels a bit like Lady Macbeth, stained by your blood and unable to remove it. It takes every wipe and a dampened towel to clean your face enough to evaluate the bruises and scrapes littering your skin. When Deacon can clearly see your mouth again, his eyes narrow before he gently parts your lips.

You whine, and Deacon sees that your lip is split on the inside from one of the countless hits to your face. Deacon nods, glad that the source of the blood present every time you talk is from that and not something internal. 

“We need to get you upright,” he mutters, looking between your head and your injured side. “It’s going to hurt, but I don’t want that blood draining into your stomach.”

“Help me?” you ask, raising a hand toward him.

Deacon nods, tucking his shoulder under your arm and pulling you with him before setting you against the wall, turning so that your deeper wounds aren’t pressed against the wall. Your breathing sounds labored, more so when you tilt your head forward to slow the bleeding, but you’re still conscious and breathing, so Deacon is counting every blessing, no matter its size.

✯✯✯✯✯

Resting against Deacon’s side, you’re harshly distracted from his presence by a gunshot on the other side of the door. You flinch backward into Deacon’s arms, which tighten around you as everything silences. The doorknob rattles, and you turn toward Deacon.

“Deac? You in here?” Hondo yells. “20-David, locked steel door in the basement,” he tells the team.

“Hondo!” Deacon replies with a surprised chuckle. “We’re both in here. Get that door open and call an ambulance!”

Deacon smiles as he kisses your less-battered cheek, thanking God for getting you out. When he hears the charges are set, Deacon moves around you, shielding you from any possible debris.

“Ambulance for who?” Hondo replies just before the door blows open. He sees you behind Deacon and says, “They’re two minutes out.”

Deacon nods, staying by your side as the paramedics load you onto a gurney and transport you to the hospital.

✯✯✯✯✯

“I’m getting discharged,” you cheer, sharing the good news when Deacon returns to your hospital room.

“So, I heard,” he responds, smiling as you extend your hand.

Your doctor wanted you to take several walks throughout the day, and Deacon has offered his company on each of them. He smiles as he walks beside you through the hospital hall.

“You’re going to stay with me for a few days,” he tells you. “As long as that’s okay with you.”

Part of Deacon was worried that seeing him would be a reminder of what you’ve been through. You smile every time he returns, even if he only went down the hall, so he’s confident that you still enjoy his presence.

“So, I’m driving?” you ask with a smile, referencing your habit of trading responsibilities.

He shakes his head, smiling as you wink at him. Your bruises are lighter after several days in the hospital, and your bandages are changed often, signs that you are healing. Your demeanor isn’t that of someone who was beaten and nearly killed just a week ago.

“Thank you, Deacon,” you tell him as you return to your room.

He hovers, ensuring you’re safe as you sit on the lowered bed. “Any one of us would have done it.”

“Even the kiss on the cheek?”

“You don’t remember any such thing,” Deacon replies playfully, pulling his chair to your side.

“I remember that you looked really worried,” you admit quietly, picking at the thin hospital blanket. “But you did what they said so they didn’t kill me.”

“I was worried. Watching that was- I honestly don’t know how I kept myself calm enough to stay in that chair.”

“Your calmness saved my life, Deacon.”

You pull Deacon’s hand into your lap, placing both your hands around his larger one, content in his presence and his care for you.

✯✯✯✯✯

When you get inside Deacon’s house, you sigh as you sit on a comfortable chair after far too long in stiff hospital beds and seats. You watch Deacon as he gathers your things, moving into the kitchen before bringing you a blanket.

“I guess this means we’re done?” you ask.

Deacon looks up quickly, his brows furrowed while his eyes are fixed on yours.

“You’ll never want to come to my house again,” you add.

Deacon releases a panicked breath, the worry that you meant something different escaping. He sits beside you before speaking, laying the blanket in your lap and placing his arm across the cushions behind you.

“I can’t think of a single thing that would drive me away from you,” he says.

“Not even all my scars?”

“You’ve never had a problem with mine.” Deacon shrugs before finishing, “You’re a survivor, that is what those marks mean.”

“I- I want to tell you something, but I don’t want you to think it’s just because you saved my life.”

“Then let’s say it later,” Deacon responds, quickly pressing his lips to your temple. “Maybe we can try dinner again in a few days; enjoy that four-course meal you promised me."

You nod as you laugh, leaning against Deacon’s side. You’ve loved him since long before he saved you, and you’re ready to tell him. Luckily for you, Deacon feels exactly the same, though his protectiveness may be a bit more prevalent for a few weeks.

Each moment spent with Deacon is a gift, and you count down the moments until you can tell him exactly what he means to you. Deacon is your best friend and always will be, but he’s easy to love and willingly gives his love in return. Though his protectiveness swells and his anger rears its head at the court hearing, you lean against his side, a reminder that you are still here because of him. And the dinner after is plenty of incentive to stay calm… for you.

[vegaseatsass]

My Stand-In Episode 11

AUghhghhhh I can't believe next week is the last week of this series, what am I supposed to do with my life without it? (Meet You At The Blossom, you are my only hyperfixation hope)

I shan't talk about the end of the episode except to say that it feels right that Spiritual Master is the biggest MingJoe antishipper out there. Yes, he's been tirelessly advising this young master on his disastrous love life and its cosmic implications for three years, but that doesn't mean he's rooting for him or thinks the torturous time loop he's trapped everyone in is karmically sound!!!!

I also really can't get over the "every story that's not about a time loop is about a time loop" vibes of the scene too, how it was filmed, the way the master described the cycle they're in, all of it. Good stuff. But beyond that I'm zipping my lips I dare not even speculate on what is coming in episode 12.

What I do want to talk about is the Akarayota family!!

I think it is so brilliant that Ming's dad was kept fully offscreen and out of the picture until episode 10. It made him such an ominous, menacing figure. Like it seems obvious to me now that last episode, when Ing asked about telling his family and Ming said he needed to make sure it was the right time first, he was talking not about emotionally preparing himself or like, winning his family over, but about this blackmail scheme he needed to suck Mike into to "defeat" their father, which he always knew was the only option. Putting aside everything else in the Ming vs. Dad game of family ruthlessness chicken, at the end of this episode, this man was going to get his son killed in a way similar to how Ming got Joe killed: out of stubbornness, out of a refusal to believe long after he was shown that Ming would choose Joe not just over his family but over his own safety, out of a belief that he could control the situation and let Joe perish and lose nothing more than Ming's, like, will to live (but if you keep him locked in the house forever after, that won't matter, right?). You can just really see where Ming gets it from with this guy. I also have to wonder what the FUCK was going on in that household during Ming's childhood that a. the siblings are all so codependent b. Ming has learned to throw up on command c. Ming throwing up on command is something Mike has seen him do and treats as an old familiar trick.

So let's talk about the siblings! Ahhhh!!! My heart!!! When Mike first mentioned a promise, I was sure it was going to be a tit-for-tat trade where Mike owed Ming some kinda life debt (a la May saving Ming from drowning and getting pneumonia) that Ming was cashing in on. My guess was Ming had done some kind of monumental favor for Mike in their youth and Mike Owed him. But no no no! Mike's promise was made in the past three years and as far as we can see was simply borne of not wanting to see his brother in pain. I promise you, Ming, if Joe ever returns I'll do anything to help you be together, so please, for now, move on with your life. How fucking much does he love and prioritize Ming if that's a cash-in-on-able vow he'll break the law and fight their father over? How much of Mike's life is already spent cleaning up after Ming and shielding him? Again, what the fuck was going on in that household in his childhood that the oldest son in the family splits his time between business, Buddhism, and keeping his baby brother out of the line of fire? I had the thought that Ming could go to Mike for money to avoid their father, but Mike telling the loan shark "WE cannot get $500 million to you by tonight" without Ming even needing to ask him kind of said it all. Lowkey wondering if Ming is THE heir and Mike is a half-brother or illegitimate son of some kind since it does seem like the family wealth is concentrated in May and especially Ming's hands, even though Mike does nothing but work for this family lol. And May <3 I have a lot I'm mulling over in her relationship with Tong but the fact that she showed up just to shut down the line of familial manipulation that hinged on her womb was so badass. There's also something about Tong using "you chose your brother over me" as a DIVORCE JUSTIFICATION that makes me wonder if that was an ongoing conversation and threat in their relationship, that she had to prove again and again that she saw Tong as family as much as she did her beloved little brother... I do hope we see a little bit before the very end of Ming reciprocating his siblings' immense devotion to him (in ways other than "fled the country to hide that I was obsessed with your boyfriend's posterior", or tbh even gifting his perfect secretary to the brother who has always wanted him lol). But I am very compelled by what we've seen so far, that the Akarayota siblings consistently choose each other and shield each other from their powerful, terrible parents.

Last but not least, mama Akarayota! Love her writing! I love that the scene where she's accepting Joe and Mingjoe's love comes packaged with "oh yeah I was the one who destroyed your relationship with your mom teehee oops", and she doesn't even seem very sorry about it, she's just sooo happy that Joe passed her little test and loves her son and is making Ming happy and alive, and who really cares what happens to Joe's life or family. I love that she felt the urgency of Ming going to meet with the loan sharks in ways her husband didn't, but instead of working with her son or finding a way to pay the money her son-in-law owed, she just did the impulsive thoughtless rich person move of calling the cops, which escalated literally everything and missed getting Ming killed by a Joe-shaped hair. Why pay $500 million baht to criminals when you can rely on your power and the state? It's just such an automatic, instinctive, realistic choice for her to make and I love love love the consequences it came with. Basically I love that even though Ming's mother has the classic QL parent arc of moving from pressuring her son to marry women to warmly accepting that he loves a man, she does it with so much rich person violence and collateral damage along the way. There's a complexity and realism there I don't often see.

I also wanted to talk a little bit about Sol and how moving I found it that he uses "I can't get over you" as a way of connecting with Joe, empathizing with and accepting how obviously Joe is never going to get over Ming, and actually, finally letting him go. About how JOE FUCKING DYING AGAIN does in fact justify his frantic in-denial attempts to block Mingjoe a few episodes ago lol, but how beautiful it is that he was ready to let Joe go and make his own choices in this episode. About how much I wish Ming had!!! TURNED TO SOL!!!! FOR MONEY!!!! TO SAVE THE LIFE OF THE MAN THEY BOTH LOVED!!!! but that would I guess be even more of a drastic character change than Tong suddenly caring about his wife and unborn child lmao.

But I have to rewatch the episode with Laura now so we can both suffer so I will end the post here. Augh I love this series, I want it to be next Friday already I want to know what's going to happen but I also don't want it to end, augh augh augh

[skyward-floored]

Whumptober Day 6: Made to watch, “It should have been me”

This took way too long to finish and didn’t even end up the way I wanted to in the end exactly but it’s fine! It’s fine!!!

*cries*

Warnings: blood & injury, being electrocuted, slight torture-y elements.

Read it on ao3

————————————————————

“Link. Hey, Rancher, wake up.”

The serious tone of voice dragged Twilight from his comfortable sleep, making him blearily open his eyes. He found that his head was under the thicker blankets the inn had provided for their beds, and he reluctantly poked his head out, frowning at the cold that met him.

Warriors looked down at him, arms crossed and face unreadable, and Twilight blinked at him, still waking up.

“What’dya want?” he mumbled, squinting at the window. All he could see was dark grey. “...Wars, what time is it?”

“Early, I don’t know. About dawn I guess,” Warriors shrugged, and unceremoniously pulled Twilight’s blankets off. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

“What?!” Twilight sputtered, and grabbed for his blankets. “Give me those! It’s freezing in here!”

“I know right? It’s awful. These people have no clue how to keep an inn warm, I mean it’s snowing outside.”

“Captain,” Twilight growled, seriously annoyed now. He’d been having a rather nice dream about a warm, sunny field with goats in it, up until Warriors had decided to drag him awake. “Why are you up so early, and why are you waking me up so early?”

A smile twitched at Warriors’ lips. “Why Rancher, I thought you country folk were used to waking up at the crack of dawn.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate sleeping in on a freezing morning when we’re at an inn for once,” Twilight bit out, snatching back his blankets and wrapping himself in them. “What do you want.”

“Sheesh, you’re cranky this early,” Warriors said with an eye roll. “Anyway... do you remember what we were talking about last night after dinner?”

Twilight stared at Warriors, and pulled his blankets back over his head.

“Rancher come on, hear me out!”

The blankets were peeled back again, and Twilight looked up at Warriors’ face, only barely apologetic. The captain gave him a grin, and Twilight groaned, sitting back up with no small reluctance.

He was wide awake now, he supposed he might as well hear what the captain had to say.

“Fine. What.”

Warriors cleared his throat, looking excited. “Okay okay, so last night Wild and Wind wouldn’t shut up about how similar they think we look, right?”

Twilight nodded, frowning a bit.

The night before, after they’d all eaten dinner and were sitting around talking, Wind had asked the others if they’d ever noticed how similar Twilight and the captain looked. Wild had immediately agreed, a grin on his face, and the others had quickly hopped on board as well, loudly debating their similar features.

Some of the arguments had been valid, and Four had put together a surprisingly long list of resemblances between Twilight and Warriors that Twilight was inclined to believe, but several of them were just ridiculous. Even when Twilight voiced this, he was immediately shot down, and Wild and Wind wouldn’t let the matter drop, repeatedly bringing it up until Twilight and Warriors couldn’t stand it anymore and went off to bed.

“What does that have to do with dragging me out of bed at the crack of dawn?” Twilight asked, and Warriors grinned, holding up two green tunics.

“It’s so we have lots of time to prepare. I think we should show them just how similar we really are.“

Twilight sat up a bit straighter, paying more attention now as he looked between his and Warriors’ tunics.

“Oh?”

“Let’s switch clothes. Just for the day. We’ll give them a shock,” Warriors grinned, and Twilight found himself grinning as well, picturing the looks on Wild and Wind’s faces. “Maybe get them to knock it off with the twin jabs too. What do you say?”

Twilight reached out and took Warriors’ tunic, and gave the captain a smirk.

“Show me how you usually pin your scarf.”

(...)

Wild and Wind’s reactions were, to say the least, exactly what Twilight had hoped they would be.

Warriors and Twilight had quickly dressed, then stationed themselves so they weren’t facing the stairs, their differences harder to notice from the back. Wind had come down to breakfast soon after, yawning into his hand, and had tugged Warriors’ scarf to ask him when they were going to leave.

Except Warriors had been Twilight, and Wind nearly jumped out of his skin when he looked up and realized who it was he was actually talking to.

Wild had had a similar reaction, though it had taken him a bit. He was most of the way through breakfast before he’d suddenly jumped up and pointed between the two, face so gobsmacked that Twilight nearly choked he was laughing so hard.

After the chaos had died down and they’d finally finished breakfast, they’d headed out from the inn, a light flurry of snow falling on their heads. Warriors and Twilight stayed in the wrong clothes as they traveled through the snowy forest, responding to the wrong names and just generally confusing the others.

It was driving Wild crazy, and Twilight was loving every second of it.

A few small flakes fell on his head, and Twilight shivered a bit as the wind blew at his face. The weather was even colder outside the inn, and the Links had all bundled up in their thick clothing, Wind and Four looking especially chilly. Twilight actually wasn’t bothered too much by the cold, especially with Warriors’ scarf wrapped warmly around his neck, and he noticed with a smirk that Warriors himself looked quite content in his wolf pelt.

“You know, you smell like a wet dog, Captain,” Legend mentioned offhandedly. “Look a bit like one too. You’re giving Wolfie a run for his money.”

Warriors shot him a look from under the hood of Twilight’s pelt, and Legend smiled innocently.

“Well perhaps so, but I’m much warmer than you are,” he pointed out, and Legend’s smirk fell a bit.

“Well at least I’m not swimming in clothes made for someone twice as muscled as me.”

The two continued to exchange jabs, and Twilight shook his head in exasperation. Warriors may have been wearing Twilight’s clothes, but it didn’t change his personality a bit.

“You look nice in the captain’s scarf Twi,” Four said at his side, his own hood up to block the snow. “The colors set off your eyes.”

Twilight chuckled. “If you say so. It is rather soft,” he admitted, holding up a bit of the rich, blue fabric. “It definitely does the job, but I don’t know how he handles this thing in warmer weather.”

“I could ask the same of you,” Warriors said back, and Twilight shrugged. “All this fur must be awful if you’re ever anywhere warm.”

“Oh I manage.”

The conversation stopped for a bit, and Twilight looked around at the road they were following, noticing with some concern how high a couple of the drifts of snow were. If the snow had blown across the path like that anywhere, some of their shorter members were going to struggle.

“Think I’m going to scout ahead a little,” Twilight said, tapping Time on the shoulder. “I’ll see if I can make it to that bridge the villagers were talking about, see how much snow we’re dealing with.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Time replied. Then his face twitched into a smirk. “Don’t trip on your scarf.”

Twilight snorted and shook his head, already walking away.

“Hey, I’ll come with you,” Warriors offered as he jogged up to join his side, and Twilight looked at him in surprise. But he nodded and made room so they could walk side by side.

“You didn’t have to come you know Captain. Not that I mind, but just because we swapped clothes doesn’t mean we have to be together the whole day,” Twilight mentioned once they were out of earshot of the others, and Warriors shrugged, looking around at the woods.

“Eh, I wanted to. Besides, I was getting real sick of Legend calling us the ‘wolf twins’.”

Twilight barked out a laugh, and he and the captain continued ahead through the snowy woods, silent and cold.

They were quiet for a while as they outpaced the group, the snow falling softly around them. Twilight had no clue who’s time they were in, but wherever they were, the forest was beautiful, covered in snow and ice, flakes falling silently around them.

Twilight felt almost like he was in a storybook walking through the picturesque woods, and the unfamiliar clothes he was wearing only added to the almost otherworldly sense. It was odd having a scarf around his neck, but he didn’t mind the way it flared out behind him when he walked. It was sort of fun.

Twilight looked over at Warriors, keeping pace next to him, and studied him a minute. He had to admit to himself that Wild was right, at least a bit. With the pelt’s hood up covering his lighter hair, Warriors really did look almost exactly like Twilight.

“What’s that look for?” Warriors asked, and Twilight blinked, realizing he’d been staring.

“I was just thinking,” he admitted, and looked Warriors up and down. “I hate to admit it, but the others are kind of right. We really do look similar.”

“Yeah, I know,” Warriors said, and his eyes took on a distant look. “...Did you know there’s a statue of you in my time?”

Twilight startled. “What?”

“Well, there’s ones of a bunch of us actually,” Warriors reprimanded, and met his eyes. “Even Wolfie. We didn’t realize just how many there were until we were clearing out the Temple of Souls after the war. We were making sure there wasn’t any leftover dark magic or monsters, but we mostly just found statues, and... paintings.”

Warriors shook his head as if to clear it. “Anyway, I originally thought the one of you was me. We were so similar-looking, especially at the time with the hats and everything, it took a while until we figured out you were a separate hero entirely.”

“Well, that explains why you recognized most of us when we met,” Twilight said with a smirk, and Warriors chuckled.

“Yeah, I’ll admit I cheated. I don’t know if I saw one of everyone though, now that you mention it. I wonder—”

“Wait, shh,” Twilight said abruptly, holding a hand out.

Warriors went silent, and Twilight swiveled his ears around, the snow softly falling on their heads.

The woods had gone even more silent then before, no birds, no wind. Twilight knew he had heard something, but he wasn’t sure if it was just a twig snapping from the weight of the snow, or something more—

An earsplitting screech rang out through the woods, nearly sending Twilight and Warriors to their knees. Twilight’s heart stopped at the familiar sound, but before he could even grab his sword or raise his head, something crashed into him and threw him against a tree so hard he nearly blacked out.

He heard a shout through the ringing in his ears, and forced his eyes open, gasping at the sight of a Shadow Beast mere inches from his face.

No, no how is this possible it can’t— does this mean— the Twilight Realm—?!

Twilight struggled to grab his sword, but the Shadow Beast tightened its grip, and it held him so tightly against the tree Twilight was worried it would break something.

He looked frantically around for a way to get out, and saw that while Warriors wasn’t pinned like he was, he was completely surrounded. The captain was looking around at the shadow beasts with a worried look in his eyes, and he made frantic eye contact with Twilight. But before either of them could do or say anything, Twilight heard footsteps crunch through the snow nearby.

He looked up, and felt ice drop into his chest.

Zant stood in the center of the clearing, like a blot of spilled ink against the pristine snow. Twilight stared, praying that he was somehow mistaken, but as Zant strode forward, there was no doubt that it was the usurper himself.

He barely seemed to notice Twilight, giving him only a single glance, then stalked over to Warriors, standing just inside his army of shadow beasts.

“Hero of Twilight,” Zant said with a hint of glee in his voice. “It’s been so long, did you miss me?”

Warriors flicked his eyes over to Twilight, then back to Zant, a glimmer of confusion in his eyes. Zant was clearly referring to him, and Twilight stared at them both for a second before realizing what was happening.

Oh sweet Ordona, he thinks Warriors is me.

Warriors obviously realized what was going on as well, for he quickly smoothed his face of its confused look, casually pulling the hood further over his head. Twilight thrashed against the Shadow Beast, opening his mouth to shout, but one of its hands moved to cover it and his cry was cut off.

Warriors glanced at him again, then exhaled, and tightened his grip on his sword.

“That’s right Zant, that’s me,” he said steadily, even adding a bit of a twang to his voice that made him sound vaguely like Twilight. “The Hero of Twilight.”

Twilight thrashed even harder against the shadow beast holding him, but the monster didn’t budge, no matter what he did.

Wars you idiot it’s me he wants!

“Hmm... you’re scrawnier than I remember...” Zant hummed, leaning down to stare at Warriors’ face. “I suppose you haven’t been doing so well without your little shadow? So sad that she shattered the mirror the way she did.”

Twilight ignored the sting the words left in his heart.

“How have you returned?” Warriors demanded, never lowering his sword. “The last I heard, you were dead.”

“Ah, it was my new glorious god! The Creature of Shadows!” Zant crowed, twirling in place. “He has allowed me this return so I may have my revenge on those who have wronged me, in exchange only for his allegiance!”

Zant abruptly stilled, voice dropping into the tone he used when he sounded more sane.

“And you, Hero of Twilight, are the first on my list.”

Warriors barely had time to leap away as Zant drew twin swords and jumped at him, avoiding his attacks and striking back as best as he could.

Twilight clawed at the Shadow Beast holding him, desperate to help the captain, but it only struck him across the face, and retightened its grip. Pain exploded across Twilight’s face, but he ignored the sharp pain in his nose, watching Warriors fight with an increasing panic.

He couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t even call out advice or encouragement with the Shadow beast covering his mouth, just sit here and watch, with his nose throbbing and blood trickling down his face.

When he was the one who should have been fighting in the first place.

Warriors fought almost like he’d faced Zant before, neatly dodging his attacks and easily matching his swings. At any other moment Twilight would have admired his technique, but he was too worried. Zant’s speed was nearly impossible to keep up with, and Twilight could see Warriors was quickly tiring.

Right about when Twilight was growing truly panicked, Zant stepped back, pausing in his frantic attacks.

“This has been quite fun, but I’m afraid I didn’t come here to fight,” he said coolly, and his helmet shifted, revealing his mouth pulled up in a smile. Warriors paused as well, but kept his sword up, still ready and willing to fight.

“Then what do you want?” Warriors said breathlessly, and Zant’s smile twisted into a grin.

“To make you suffer.”

Two shadow beasts leaped at Warriors from behind, catching him off guard and throwing him to the ground. They pinned his arms and legs in a similar manner to Twilight in mere seconds, and Warriors’ sword went flying, Twilight letting out a muffled shout.

Zant stalked forward, his weapons skimming the snow on the ground.

“I should have killed you back at the Spirit’s Spring long ago, but now I’m almost glad I didn’t. I think I prefer to draw it out,” Zant said in a voice filled with glee as he stood above Warriors. “I’ve waited to repay you for stealing my rightful throne for a long time, Hero.”

“Rightful throne? It was never your throne to begin with,” Warriors scoffed, and gritted his teeth as Zant pressed the tip of his sword to his cheek.

“It should have been!” Zant hissed, and dragged the sword across Warriors’ face, leaving a bloody line in its trail. “I am the Twilight Realm’s rightful king! It is my throne, and I am it’s ruler!”

“I’ve met the true ruler of the Twilight Realm,” Warriors gritted out, and Twilight’s brain stalled for a second. What? “and you’re not her.”

“I am the rightful ruler!” Zant shouted, and dug the tip of his sword into Warriors’ shoulder, pulling a gasp from his lips. “Say it!”

Warriors glared. “Midna is—”

“DO NOT SPEAK HER NAME!” Zant shrieked, and lit his swords up with a dark, crackling magic.

Warriors’ eyes went wide and Twilight let out another muffled shout, but the two of them could only watch as Zant stabbed the blades downward into Warriors’ arms.

Lightning ripped across Warriors’ body, and he screamed, his back arching with electricity.

Twilight had never heard him make a noise like that.

He kicked out madly against the shadow beast holding him, but its grip never budged, and he couldn’t do a thing as Zant slowly removed his swords, leaving Warriors to gasp for breath, twitching slightly in the snow.

Tell him you’re not the one he wants, Twilight mentally begged, watching in horror as Zant repeated the action, making Warriors scream again. Tell him you’re not the Hero of Twilight, Captain!

“I am the Twilight Realm’s king,” Zant practically hissed as he yanked his swords out of Warriors again, leaving him shaking and bloodied on the ground. He thrust a blade under Warriors’ chin, lifting it so he was forced to meet his eyes. “And you and that imp are nothing but insignificant worms under my feet.”

“I... th-think she’d say the opposite,” Warriors rasped.

Zant howled in outrage and lunged forward, but it was then that Twilight finally managed to bite the Shadow Beast’s hand with enough force that it removed it from his mouth.

“I’m the Hero of Twilight!” he screamed, and Zant froze, turning slowly towards him. “I’m who you want Zant, leave— leave him alone,” his finished thickly.

Zant didn’t move for a second, staring at Twilight in silence. Then he turned back to Warriors, grabbing him by the collar and lifting him up so they were practically nose-to-nose.

The hood of the wolf pelt fell back, fully revealing Warriors’ bright blond hair, and marking-less face.

“A fake!” Zant roared in outrage, and threw Warriors to the ground, the captain still twitching with electricity.

He turned towards Twilight, practically shaking with fury.

“You,” he spat, small crackles of energy leaking from his sleeves as he approached. “You. Hero of Twilight. How dare you—”

A golden arrow flew across the clearing, and buried itself right into Zant’s shoulder.

Light burst outward and Zant let out a primal scream, clutching at his arm. More arrows followed, and Twilight heard the Shadow Beasts cry out as well, but he couldn’t see very well due to the sudden increase of light. The monster holding him let go, and Twilight didn’t stick around, catching a glimpse of armor and knowing the others would deal with the monsters.

He made a beeline for Warriors, stumbling a little as he ran. His head still hurt where the shadow beast had slammed him into the tree, his nose was bleeding all over his face, and his whole body was sore, but he wasn’t planning on stopping.

“Captain, are you with me?” he asked as he slid to his knees, and Warriors blearily looked up at him, eyes bright with pain. “Warriors, can you hear me?”

“You... you got a little...” Warriors croaked, reaching up like he was going to wipe the blood off of Twilight’s face, and the rancher waved him off, hands fluttering over the captain’s bleeding body. He was still twitching occasionally, blood soaking his clothes, and the cut across his cheek was bleeding steadily, dripping blood into Twilight’s pelt.

“By the gods Captain, you’re an absolute idiot,” Twilight said with a surge of guilt and horror, putting pressure on what looked like the worst injuries. “You should’ve just told him who I was, why didn’t you?!”

“He wanted... you. Better this way,” Warriors breathed, and gave Twilight a bloody smile. “I am... sorry I... I wrecked your tunic.”

Twilight glared at him, then untangled the scarf from around his own neck. “Permission to get your scarf bloody?”

“‘S only fair,” Warriors chuckled weakly, and Twilight bundled it over him, stemming the flow of blood.

Warriors let out a cough, a twitch running through him again, and Twilight helped him sit up when he tried to himself, the captain leaning heavily on his shoulder. He moved his head so it was resting more easy, and looked at the blood on the captain’s cheek, guilt still laying heavy in his chest.

It should have been me.

“...Rancher?”

Twilight looked over at Warriors again, wincing at a screech that rang out much too close by.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t regret it,” Warriors said firmly, shivering with another tremor. “Not... not at all. Don’t be... guilty.”

Twilight looked away. “Well what am I supposed to do then?”

Warriors gave him another bloody smirk.

“Y-you could say thank you.”

Twilight felt a smile twitch onto his face against his will, and he snorted out a laugh through his still-bleeding nose, lightly bonking his head against Warriors’.

“Fine. Thanks.”

Then he turned and looked Warriors directly in the eye, pushing aside the still heavy guilt in his chest.

“And once you get a red potion in you, I want to know how on earth you know Midna and Zant.”

Warriors smiled as a triumphant cry came from the battle around them.

“Sure thing.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Black Light 9

Warnings: noncon, namecalling, violence, other dark elements. Proceed with caution.

Note:thank you for waiting! Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.

Part of The Club AU

You gape for a moment before you’re certain this is real. You wet your lips with your tongue as you sway nervously in the doorway. You are poorly prepared for company.

“Um, I’m not allowed to have boys in my bedroom,” you say.

August scoffs and stands. His deliberate slowness underlines his size and has your brows popping up your forehead. Oh, he is very big and strong. Of course, you knew that already, you always thought he was built like the Terminator, but it’s very obvious at that moment.

“I’m not a boy,” he growls as he takes a step forward.

You chuckles nervously and drag a foot back as your heart races. The questions bubble up all at once; how did he get in here? Why is he here? And most concerningly, what does he want?

“Sorry, uh, sir, man,” you babble, “I just…” you blink and look around, “I wasn’t expecting–”

You spin and race down the hall, gripping the towel for dear life as it flaps dangerously. You hear him barreling behind you and you let out a shrill cry.

No, no, no. Why is he doing this? You’re a friendly person, all you ever do is be nice to him, so why is lifting you up right now? Why are your feet kicking in the air above the carpet as he drags you backwards?

His thick arm traps you against him, writhing as you fling and arm out trying to grasp onto anything. You whimper as your fingers claw over the pictures of your parents’ many couples’ trips and your annual camping excursions. 

“Why are you doing this? Please…” your hand hooks around the doorframe as he turns into your room, grunting as your head hits his chin, “please, I didn’t do anything.” He yanks you away from the doorway, your fingers bending back painfully. “Please don’t murder me. Please. I don’t wanna be a story on a podcast.”

He turns and flings you so you land on your bed, bouncing jarringly as you barely keep your towel from flying completely open. He stands at the end of the mattress, hands on his hips, looming over you. His eyes narrow as his nostrils flare.

“Alright, well, we can cut a deal, make it fast?” You plea, “I don’t think I can handle torture–”

He rolls his eyes and grabs the middle of his shirt. You flinch as he swoops his shirt over his head and tosses it away. It catches and dangles from your SpiderGwen figure. Good, she doesn’t need to be a witness.

He reaches for you and you shriek. No! You can’t go out like this. You saw too many movies on Jack the Ripper not to put up a fight. You kick out and he swiftly deflects your foot with his elbow. He latches onto the towel and rips it away, leaving you naked and stunned.

You look down and push yourself up, trying to cover yourself as you curl into a ball.

“Hey dude, can I at least die in some clothes?”

He huffs again, giving you that look you get, the one that says ‘stupid little girl’. You furrow your brow as he snakes his hand along the front of his shorts and tweaks a brow. He grabs the bulge there, the one you hadn’t noticed behind the swish fabric.

“Oh,” your head clicks, “ohhhhh…” a cold river flows down your body, “well, that’s flattering but I don’t know if I’m ready–”

He rescinds his hand and shakes his head, muttering under his breath. He goes to your dresser and pulls open the drawer. He sifts through the contents as you watch in confusion. You uncross your arms and put your heels on the bed as you keep an eye on him.

You shimmy towards the foot of the bed slowly, trying not to break his attention. He has two of your belts in hand, the braided white leather and the glittery pink leopard print. You get closer and lower your legs down until your soles are on the floor.

You stand and he spins. You cry out as he just as swiftly strides back to you, grabbing you by the throat. You whimper as he pushes you down to the bed. You wriggle helplessly and touch his wrist.

“I didn’t mean to run into you…” you gurgle.

He snarls, irritation needling between his brows. He runs his hand to your shoulder and flips you over. You yelp and he smacks your ass, hard. You kick your feet and whine.

“Ouch! Okay, look, I agree there's tension here but you're a bit above my age range--”

“Quiet,” he sneers as he grabs your arms and pulls them back behind you, “must you make everything difficult.”

“Uh, I think I have every right– to make–this— difficult,” you try to pull free but he overpowers you easily. He winds the belt around your wrists, tight until your hands throb, and knots it.

He stretches a knee high sock above your head then swoops it around your face, gagging you with it and tying it at the back of your skull. You garble around it, unable to close your mouth fully as it saps the moisture from your tongue. You wiggle, like a snake and he turns you onto your back.

“Now,” he stands before you and hooks his thumbs in the elastic of his shorts, “no more talking.”

[bumblee27]

Boo! Guess who's doing Whumptober? I hope y'all are prepared for how many times I'm going to kill off each member of Sherlock & Co. (My interpretations of prompts will definitely vary across fandoms, but it will be quite a lot of torturing the silly detectives <3) Also I apologise for the layout they're all gonna be like this :'D

• 1 • "if only we could hold on" •

It wasn't his fault. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins, blinding him to danger - as is the way of the soldier. He was so fixed on the thrill of the chase, he didn't hear Sherlock's warning shout. He didn't see the empty elevator shaft.

That is, until he was already falling.

Alarm bells of terror screamed within him, but his military reflexes threw out an arm with lightning speed to catch himself on a ledge. His whole body jolted to discover that it was no longer falling, but instead almost impossibly suspended.

He gasped for breath as he processed his situation, his heart thudding inside his chest. He had just barely managed to grab onto a part of the elevator's unfinished mechanic built into the wall. The entrance through which he had fallen was about as far away as his own height three or four times over. Beneath him was (as John perceived it) endless nothingness.

“Shit.”

He had processed it.

“Shit, shit shit shit, oh my god, oh my fucking god-”

John had always scorned the trope of seeing one's life flash before their eyes. He called it cliché. Unrealistic. But now, he watched.

As his blood pounded in his ears and he grew increasingly aware of his hand growing slippery with sweat, he watched

He saw his childhood home in Shoscombe. He saw his school friends playing in the street. He saw the way his mum couldn't help herself from crying when she told him his dad wasn't coming home. He saw Afghanistan, he saw Ukraine. He saw his comrades, little more than blurry faces now. He saw the first time he got the mic running. He saw Stamford, he saw- he watched himself meet Sherlock. That man, so strange, so - covered in blood - why did he ever go to look at a flat with him?

He almost smiled.

He was glad he did, though.

He watched himself meet Mariana for the first time, too, and the day she moved in with them. He watched every single case, one after the other, tick by. Such significant moments of his life, gone in a second like they meant nothing.

“John!”

John snapped back to reality with a start. He looked up, to see Sherlock's face staring down at him. “Take my hand!”

The outstretched arm was miles away. “I- I can't!”

“Yes, you can! Take it!”

“It's too far!”

“Reach! For God's sake, Watson, take my hand!”

John swallowed thickly, feeling strangely like he had eaten sand. “I am not dragging you down with me.”

Sherlock blinked. “What-? Don't be ridiculous!”

“You can't let him get away. Promise me you won't.”

“Take. The bloody. Hand!" John had never seen Sherlock desperate before. He was always so stubborn, so sure of himself.

He took a deep breath. “Please- please tell Mariana I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Sherlock.”

And then his hand lost its grip.

He was vaguely aware of Sherlock screaming his name, but he didn't quite register it, which was probably a good thing.

And one memory stayed firmly and vividly in his mind. It was a picture, a freeze-frame, of Mariana and Sherlock.

They were laughing.

[drmaddict]

Patchwork II - Growing Up

This is the second part to this story:

https://www.tumblr.com/drmaddict/721982589869621248/patchwork?source=share

Summary: Growing up comes with a lot of challenges.

Warnings: teenagers fighting on a party, fluff, use of (y/n)

Word count: 2.757

"What are you doing here?"

Mike stoped in his movement. He had almost made it.

"Nothing." he said far too quickly and turned to Henry. Disappearing the small something in the pocket of his jacket pocket.

Henry just raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "If I remember correctly, everyone's privacy is considered here."

"I... I just needed... batteries.", Mike stuttered.

Henry grinned. "You'll have far more success in (y/n)s cabinet."

Mike turned bright red and looked down at the floor.

"Mike come on. I was young once, too."

The boy tossed the condom packet on the bed and continued to look at the floor. Hoped fervently it would open up and swallow him.

Henry closed the bedroom door and sat down on the armchair in the corner of the room. "We should talk about this, right?"

Mike shook his head. "You know the internet is very informative," he muttered, still red-faced.

Henry smiled. "Yeah. I know. I was young once, too," he pointed out again. "But that doesn't change the fact that these with latex and we know you're allergic to it thanks to your chemistry experiment in school."

"Oh."

"Yeah oh. Mike there is nothing wrong with wanting to be prepared. You can talk to me about anything, but you don't go digging around in my or (y/n)s stuff! ... We don't want to traumatize you right away," Henry continued to grin.

Mike turned to the window, overwhelmed, and buried his face in his hands. "Too much information!"

Henry laughed amused.

Mike looked at him sullenly.

"Sorry big guy. I'll stop." Henry raised his hands placatingly. "You and Amber have been together for so long, it's understandable you want to make that step.... She wants too, right?"

Mike slumped a little. "Yes Amber does." he mumbled.

Henry stopped. "What about you?"

Mike shrugged.

"You don't have to."

"I should want to, shouldn't I?"

"You don't have to do anything you're not ready to do. No matter what anyone at school might say."

Mike plopped down on the bed and looked up at the ceiling.

"I don't know if I.... quite yet..." Mike waved his arms around. Who could have guessed that such a tall and strong teenager could look so small.

"Sex can have many sides Mike."

Mike just grumbled.

"Start with something you feel comfortable with. You'll figure out what you like."

Mike sighed. "And what if I do it wrong?"

"That's the beauty of it. There is no wrong. Just two people and agreement. This isn't a boxing match Mike. There's no perfect technique and no strategy. But at least talk openly to Amber about what you want. Share it with her somehow. You wouldn't want her to torture herself for you either, would you?"

"Of course not!" he blurted out immediately. He immediately sat up and looked shocked.

"Then do her the same favor."

Mike sighed. "Yeah okay."

Henry smiled gently. He stood up and walked over to his nightstand. "Here." He tossed a red packet at Mike. "These are latex-free."

Mike caught them more poorly than he could.

"And now get out of here!"

The blond haired boy stumbled out of the room as fast as he could, still bright red.

The adjacent bathroom door opened and (y/n) peered through the gap. "You'll have far more success in (y/n)'s cabinet," she mimicked him. "Did you have to violate him with that picture?"

Henry grinned. "As long as I have to listen to Humphrey jokes, yes."

"Men." she rolled her eyes and went back into the bathroom. "You coming now?"

Henry ran after her at a quickly.

Henry was sitting on the sofa reading a script when Lilly shot through the door and quickly ran up the stairs.

"Lilly?"

"No time!"

"Why aren't you at dance practice?"

The door to her room slammed into the lock and he just heard the key turn. Damn.

"Lilly, what's wrong?" he called through the door.

"I need (y/n)!" she called back.

"(Y/n) is not here! I can help you. Now open up."

"Or Mimmy or Fatima!"

"Why not me?"

"I need a woman!"

Henry sighed. "At least tell me what's wrong."

"I've got my period!"

Henry faltered. "First time?" he asked uncertainly.

"What do you think?" she yelled through the door.

"Lilly this is-"

The door was yanked open. "Don't tell me that's normal now!" She held up a finger.

Henry looked overwhelmed at the delicate now 12-year-old creature. "Do you know how shitty it is for women who do professional sports to still have to deal with something like this?"

She cringed and screwed up her face. Henry gently supported her.

"Okay. You just take a deep breath and lie down. I'll call (y/n) and then we'll take it one step at a time."

She let herself be led to her bed and lay down on it.

"I'll be right back."

Lilly nodded and pulled the covers over her.

Henry went into the kitchen and got a hot water bottle ready while he pulled out his cell phone and called (y/n).

"Hello?"

"Hey... Uhm little problem-"

"Did Mike break something again?"

"No! No Mike is fine... I think... Lilly just stormed through the door and it turns out she's on her period. She's freaking out right now and thinks her dancing career is over."

(Y/n) sighed. "Can't I have an undramatic child?"

"And your hope was in Lilly, of all people?"

She sighed before pulling herself together.

"Fine. You-"

"Hot water bottle's on. I'll make tea in a minute."

"Perfect. I'll buy her whatever she needs. Give me half an hour. Try to keep her calm until then."

"And how-"

Tuut tzut

Henry looked at his phone, perplexed.

He wasn't disgusted by it. God it was just normal, but he knew Lilly. And Lilly always knew exactly how she thought things should be. That her body was now 'betraying' her was hard for her to swallow.

Carefully, he walked back to her room.

"Hey princess. Are you okay?"

"No." she pouted.

He sighed. "Here. For the cramps. The tea is gross, but it always helps (y/n)."

She reached for the cup, smelled it, and put it right back down. "What's this?"

Henry laughed lightly. "I don't know."

Lilly grabbed the hot water bottle and placed it on her stomach.

Henry sat down by her bed. "(Y/n) will be right in."

"Good."

Silence settled over the room. Uncomfortable silence.

"You know there are a lot of female athletes." said Henry, looking at the shelf of trophies and medals.

Lilly just puffed and continued looking at her blanket, tugging at a loose thread.

Henry sighed.

"I didn't even get to go to practice today," she grumbled.

He patted her hand. "I'm really not an expert on this," Henry said.

"But?"

"Unfortunately, that's it."

Lilly rolled her eyes. "Men." she grumbled.

"Yup. You're a woman now."

All eight sat at the kitchen table, looking spellbound at Fatima, who had three letters in front of her.

One from Oxford. One from Cambridge. One from Havard.

"What do I start with?" asked Fatima for the first time in a long time with no real plan.

"We can open all  three at the same time," (y/n) suggested.

"I can't do that," Fatima groaned, already pushing the letters away from her.

Henry stroked her back soothingly.

"Deep breaths."

Fatima drew in an exaggeratedly deep breath.

"Me one, you one, and (y/n) one. Okay?"

Fatima nodded and grabbed the letter from Oxford.

All three tore open the envelope and pulled out the letters.

Fatima let out an uncharacteristically pointed scream. "I did it!"

Henry looked questioningly at (y/n). She just nodded with a smile.

"Three times, actually," Henry grinned. Fatima snatched the cover letter from their hands and skimmed the pages. "Oh, God. What am I going to do now? How am I supposed to decide?"

"No, no, no!", Henry grabbed her by the shoulders. "First rejoice! Then mull it over."

"You did it.", beamed (y/n) at Fatima. "God I'm so damn proud of you. Come here." She pulled the girl into her arms.

"I'm worth something," Fatima whispered.

"You always have been and you always will be. Do you hear?"

Fatima nodded and let herself be pulled back into the embrace. Everyone jumped up and hugged the two until there was only a tangle of family in the kitchen.

It was Emilia's birthday. Emilia had invited friends. Emilia had invited her boyfriend. Joseph. Henry sat in the bedroom, watching the boy in the garden through the window with suspicion.

He had decided he didn't like him. There was something boastful about him. He had also overheard him calling a classmate fat, which brought up unpleasant memories.

"Want some night vision for later?", (y/n) grinned at him and held out a coffee.

Henry grunted. "I'm just keeping an eye out."

(y/n) continued to grin.

"I just don't like him," he blurted out. "He's such...such-"

"Such a spoiled asshole?"

Henry looked at her in surprise.

"Hey I'll let them have their way. I'm not always for it by a long shot." she stated defensively.

Henry looked back into the garden. "What's going on now?"

A flurry of activity arose in the party. Joseph could be seen talking vigorously at Emilia, and Emilia's face grew smaller and smaller.

Henry immediately got up and went down the stairs. (Y/n) right at his heels.

"Joseph-" he heard Emilia's broken voice.

"Are you doing everybody now, or what?" followed Jospeh.

"That's not even-"

"Keep your fucking lies to yourself!"

Henry pushed his way through the group of teenagers when he already saw Mike pushing his way between them. A good head and a half taller than Jospeh, he had an intimidating effect for now.

"Think about what you're saying!" said Mike emphatically.

"Yeah. You don't want anyone to know that she's already spread her legs for the whole school. You know, some girls appreciate staying pure."

You would have thought Mike would have just put him in a headlock and dragged him out, but it was Fatima, of all people, who hit him with a skillful hook and sent him staggering back.

"Don't you ever talk to my sister like that again.", she hissed at him. "Now get the fuck out of this house or you'll learn what it's like to have Mike break you."

Joseph stumbled backward toward the patio, where Henry was already waiting for him. He grabbed the boy roughly by the back of the neck and pulled him along. "I better drive you home," he growled.

(Y/n) went to Emilia and Fatima and took care of damage control.

Henry, meanwhile, pulled Jospeh with him and shoved him into his car.

"Get in! Buckle up!"

Jospeh reluctantly obeyed him.

Henry started the engine and drove off. "If I ever see you treat my daughter like that again, you'll meet my brother. Royal Marines. Think about it."

Joseph looked at him angrily. "Do you want to threaten me?"

"Yes I am. Because we're going to your mother's house right now, and she's welcome to find out how her little sunshine is doing." The boy got smaller. Figures. Henry rolled his eyes. "Now shut up."

He dropped Joseph off at his parents' house, calmly told his mother that there had been an altercation and that her son's image of women could be set straight, and drove back home.

The party had broken up. Forgotten mugs still stood in the garden and rapidly changing lights shone from the living room.

Henry peeked around the corner and saw everyone spread out together in the living room watching 'The little mermaide'. 

Emilia loved Disney movies more than anything. Since no one really knew how she grew up, they just assumed she was making up for a little childhood with it.

Henry quietly disappeared into the kitchen and retrieved his secret weapon.

When he returned, he leaned over to Emilia and held out a cup of hot white chocolate. Filled with colorful marshmallows. "Here. Helps with heartache."

Her eyes sparkled slightly with tears. "Thanks," she whispered, moving a little to the side.

Henry somehow squeezed in next to her and held her close.

(Y/n) smiled gently at him from across the room.

Henry was sitting in the kitchen drinking his coffee when he heard a car come to a stop in front of the house.

He looked out the window and saw Jason's car.

Not a minute later, the boy was standing in front of Henry, looking at him frantically. He held up a pile of sheets. "Taxes." was all he said.

Henry looked uncertainly at the pile.

"Um."

"How do you do your taxes?" asked Jason, exasperated. "I've got side jobs and income from YouTube. But if I do the math, I get 4,000 pounds back and that can't be right!"

"You know..."

"Henry help me!"

"I've got an accountant! No one knows how to do this!" blurted out Henry.

Jason stared at him. "How much does an accountant cost?"

Henry's face turned pitiful. Jason understood and slumped. "Is (y/n) there?"

"Coming in an hour."

"Whiskey?"

"It's eleven in the morning."

"It's taxes! Help me or give me the whiskey!"

Henry immediately reached for the bottle and handed it to the boy.

"How much do you actually make from YouTube?"

Jason waved it off and took a big swig from the bottle.

"Do you have a minute?"

Henry turned to the little thirteen yearold boy who was looking at him with his dark puppy eyes.

"Sure Kamon, what's up?"

Henry signaled to Kal that it was time to take a break from playing, to which the furry mountain just puffed and threw himself into the shadows.

"So... What do... Girls... How does someone ask for a... date?"

Henry looked at the boy's face, who looked as if he would like to disappear into the ground.

Henry smiled gently and sat down on the steps of the terrace. He motioned Kamon to join him. Henry threw Kal's ball without much force and started to speak. "Well the difficult thing is that every girl is different," he smiled. "Everyone's going to like something different."

Kamon looked to Kal, who put the ball down in front of them. The boy grabbed it and it was now in his turn to throw the ball. 

"How do I know what to do?" he sighed.

"You should be yourself."

Kamon slumped his shoulders. "Then it'll never work.", he grunted.

Henry slapped him encouragingly on the shoulder. "Oh, nonsense. Even Mike found someone.", he winked at Kamon.

"But Mike is-" he interrupted himself.

"Mike is what?"

Kamon wrestled with himself. "Mike is popular. And... He's big and strong and I'm-" he raised his arms powerlessly. "I'm just like that."

Henry sighed. "Kamon you're thirteen. There are boys who grow until they're seventeen. You've still got time. And as for muscles. Not everyone is into that either." He grinned. "(Y/n) likes it more when her partner is slimmer. She picked me anyway."

Kamon continued to throw the ball listlessly. "What if I make a complete ass of myself?"

"It's okay to be scared. They're women. They can be very intimidating. Who are we talking about, anyway?"

Kamon faltered. "Um-"

"Come on." grinned Henry, giving him a buddy-buddy punch.

Kamon dropped his chin to his knees and looked out into the garden. "Alex." he said so quickly that Henry almost didn't understand.

"Alex?" He considered. "So what?"

"Alex... Smith." he mumbled very quietly into his knees.

Alex Smith... Smith... Henry's eyes grew wide. Oh. Alex Smith. The little soccer player from his class. The boy Alex Smith.

He saw tears forming in Kamon's eyes.

"Kamon! No! Don't cry. It's okay!"

"It is?"

"Yes Kamon!"

"You don't mind?"

Henry took him in his arms. "Of course not."

He stroked his back. "We all love you. No matter who you bring home."

Kamon sniffled into his shoulder. "How do you tell (y/n) something like that?" he asked into his T-shirt.

Henry smiled. "Well one would take me with them and then you make (y/n) a really big cup of coffee and then.... you just tell her. Because (y/n) loves you all." He grinned. "And since you are the least amount of chaos, you are her little secret favorite." He winked at Kamon. The latter smiled at Henry out of teary eyes.

"Will you help me?"

"Always. No matter what."

[heeseungwifey]

Lazy Sunday Morning

Pairing: Heeseung x yn

Warning: contains smut!

It’s a Sunday morning. I wake up and try not to make noise as I head to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Heeseung lays peacefully on the bed, resting well from his tight schedule. We’ve been dating for two years and living together for 4 months and every day I fall more in love with him. I realised he has this cute habit of pouting his lips and furrowing his eyebrows while he sleeps, looking so endearing, It just makes waking him up even more difficult. I’ve even taken pictures of him like this so I can see them at work and remember what’s waiting for me at home.

When I have almost finished cooking the scrambled eggs, a tall figure walks through the kitchen door. Heeseung is standing there with bed hair and a white robe, sleepy and disoriented.

“Good morning my prince, did you sleep well?” I grab the plate I’d prepared for him and put toast and some scrambled eggs on it. 

“Hmmmm” Heeseung grunts as he gives me a back hug, his chin resting on my shoulder and kissing me on the neck. 

“Go to sleep baby, today is Sunday and you’re exhausted” I try to keep washing the dishes and the frying pan but Heeseung’s hug doesn’t let me. 

“I woke up… and you weren’t there… it made me unhappy” I turn around to look him in the eyes. 

“Ohh don’t say that, it makes me so sad” I say as I pet his head and hug him by the waist, feeling his slim and warm body, so comforting. 

“Let’s sleep a bit more, we’ll eat this later baby” Heeseung and I walk towards the bedroom, his arms around my neck as he holds me from the back. 

When we get into the covers I look at his sleepy face and it almost makes me cry how much I love him, how someone so beautiful inside and out can be right next to me. As I’m thinking this a mischievous smile appears on his face, his hand slowly rising from my knee to my thigh, giving my leg gentle rubs. 

“Oh, you’re a bad boy Heeseung” His smile gets wider as he realises I caught him. “You know, I was just thinking how cute you are but you’re actually so naughty” I caress his face as I feel my body reacting to his touch, my legs unconsciously rubbing against each other, trying to ease the pain. 

“What are you talking about? I’m a good boy, can’t a boyfriend give some pats to his girlfriend?” as he says this his hand is getting closer to my core, his long legs teasing my clothed groin.

“Can this really good boy stop teasing and help his needy girlfriend be happy?” It has become a habit of ours to tease each other a lot during sex, but some days it feels like I’m gonna go crazy if doesn’t end the torture soon.

“Of course baby, I’m in the feels for some lazy sex actually” Heeseung is kissing my neck and rubbing my belly under my t-shirt. My hands are busy taking his pyjama shirt off, button by button. I’m obsessed with his body and I need to see him naked all the time, a pervy thought I haven’t shared with him in case he uses it against me.

He’s fondling my thighs as I’m licking his nipples, hearing his moans right in my ear as we’re both getting turned on really fast. His hands find the straps of my nightgown and remove it rapidly, leaving me utterly bare as I don’t wear any underwear under it. 

This will not take too long, his thumb spreading my arousal to lubricate my entrance. He pulls his pyjama pants down and losses them somewhere inside the sheets, both of us now naked and ready to fuck. 

Heeseung grabs his member and coats the head with his precum, entering with easiness. We’re both so happy with our sex life, I take his dick so well, the perfect size and it feels so good, I’m always down to give him a blowjob or even do some cock warming if we’re both too tired. 

“Oh fuck Heesung, so slow… it feels so good, I need more” I messily kiss his bicep that’s right next to my head as we’re doing missionary. Like a rocking boat, he’s moving slowly but going in hard, making it feel like he’s the deepest ever. 

“Okay baby I’ll try… I’m just really focused on not… cumming yet… so tight” Heeseung is sobbing and moaning just as loud as I am, blessing my ears with his beautiful whimpering.

I change positions and get myself on top of him, his dick feeling deeper like this. I roll my hips and pinch his nipples, his hair even more messy and his hands cupping my tits, getting them warm now that I’m out of the sheets. 

“Are you close baby? do you need help? I can pick the satisfyer from here” Heeseung says as he rubs my clit rapidly. Sometimes it just takes me too long to come, so Heeseung and I have bought different types of sex toys to help me get to orgasm. My baby just comes so fast that by the time I do it too, he’s dehydrated. 

Heeseung turns the satisfyer on and gently places it on my clit, a heatwave hitting my body from my head to my toes. Heeseung is under me with his eyes closed and mouth open, drooling as he’s fighting the urge to come. My moves are erratic and I can’t keep on bouncing anymore, whimpering from the pain and waiting for Heeseung to take the lead. 

When I’m about to fully quit, Heeseung pushes me to the side and grabs my leg to put it on his shoulder as he hits the g spot with his strong movements and the satisfyer still in place. By the time I get overwhelmed by the feeling, I have climaxed two times, just a few seconds of difference from one another. 

Heeseung is a crying mess, his cum everywhere, inside of me, on my stomach, on my tits, on the bed… he falls onto the bed face down, we’re both too tired to talk to each other right now. I caress his head as he lies there looking at me.

“I was too tired to do this, why do you always trick me like this?” Heeseung is pouting as he nags, responding to him with a cheeky slap on the bum and a laugh. 

“Oh sorry, I thought I was the one who told you to just sleep a little bit this morning. I guess it is my fault to be dating such a floppy boy.” I jokingly flip to the other side of the bed, not facing him anymore. Heeseung gets up and carries me on his shoulder to the bathroom. 

“So you think I’m floppy huh? well, let’s see who can keep up with this next round” His tone sounds daring as he turns the bathtub water tab on and looks at me in the eyes. This is definitely not gonna be a very lazy Sunday for none of us.

[xxavengingangelxx]

Graves Defragged 2/?

Part two, y'all! Prepare to have your mind blown. Mine was. That is all :) Also keep in mind that this is how I see Graves based on my psych and criminology degree. You all might see and likely see him differently and that's okay! I'm guessing here. I'm not sure if what I'm speculating about Graves is correct.

Here we go! Not proofread :( I'm really, really tired tonight. Triggers for mentions of non-con and torture.

Item 11: Promiscuous sexual behavior = 1

C’mon, Graves is full of himself and narcissistic. He can have anyone he wants. I am hesitant to even give this a 1 given we have no idea what his sex life is like but I’m familiar with men who have similar personalities and they definitely bed whoever they want. Now, I happen to write Graves as heterosexual because that’s just how my mind created him (a lot of the story in Long Way from Home and Somewhere Only We Know were taken from some old stories I wrote where Warren Kole played a sheriff who was also a serial killer). But I sure as hell love reading him in all types of relationships!! 😉

Look at that man and tell me he and his men don’t get around they can’t get who they want. Sexy af.

Image credit: Call of Duty Wiki

There is a good (but dark) fic written on Ao3 that involves Graves non-conning a female citizen who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Given the picture I have of Graves in my mind (he’s a monster!) I wouldn’t put it past him. But that's my point of view. Remember my version of Graves is dark, hence the warnings on my darker fics!

And KEEP…IN…MIND…his Shadows or most of his Shadows have no issues with war crimes. There’s NO TELLING what his Shadows did to female citizens in the homes they invaded. ☹ They’re nameless and faceless which is part of what makes them so terrifying (they’re also huge, okay? Maybe in more ways than one).

Item 12: Early behavior problems = 1

This is another tough one. We don’t really know anything about his childhood. But based on what we have seen with Graves I wouldn’t doubt he at least had issues managing his anger when he was a child/teen. His lack of morality might suggest that it’s something he’s had his whole life. A lack of fear, common in psychopaths, can also lead to early behavior problems because a psychopath’s limbic system is malfunctioning. It’s not built right. This in turn causes a lot of psychopaths to have no fear. No fear or acknowledgement of danger and certainly no fear of punishments.

This is similar to what we talked about above in the sections about lack of remorse and empathy. It’s NOT that Graves feels fear and ignores it. He cannot feel fear. His brain is not wired for it.

So let’s say you’re captive with Graves. Swinging at him doesn’t work, threatening doesn’t work, and actually hitting him only gets him to hit you back hard enough for you to at least lose partial consiousness or balance. If Graves is not afraid of you, not afraid of the repercusions of taking you, what the hell can you do to at least somewhat control his behavior so he at least shows more stable mood and hurts you less?

Positive reinforcement. Rewards. Psychopaths respond to rewards. Positive reinforcement means adding a desired stimulus. OC figured this out in one of my longer fics (although subconsciously) and gave  in to sleeping with Graves. As OC became more and more compliant, Graves’s behavior became less unpredictable and less violent. If she were to act out again in the future, however, he wouldn't hesitate to at least smack OC maybe even in front of their son.

Positive reinforcement, guys and gals! Give Graves little tidbits of obedience and information. You’ll be playing him and he won’t even know it. But Graves is hella good at figuring out hidden agendas/intentions. So when he does (no, not if, when) find out, he’s gonna hurt you.

Negative reinforcement is the removal of an undesirable stimulus. This works with psychopaths but not in the way positive reinforcement does. So you can stop hitting him and calling him names but it won’t work as good as you providing Graves with positive reinforcement.

Remember Graves responds to money! That is a positive reinforcer.

Item 13: Lack of realistic, long-term goals = 0

Here we have another one that does not apply to Graves. Graves shed his Marine skin with a goal in mind. It might have sounded unrealistic but Graves pulled it off. He’s a billionaire with a PMC staffed with some of the most dangerous men on Earth.

Item 14: Impulsivity = 0

We touched in this earlier when we talked about behavior controls. Graves is meticulous, thorough, detailed, and precise. The big decisions are made with painstaking order/detail. We have talked about (and we can see) that Graves might have issues controlling his actions when he is angry. Piss him off enough and he’ll smack you (Whether you are male or female! Remember he was almost giddy when he was about to torture Valeria, a woman), I can almost guarantee it. At the very least. Piss him off enough enough and he’ll put you on the floor. Piss him off beyond that, you might have to spend a few nights in a hospital.

But Graves is certainly not impulsive when it comes to big decisions. He didn’t get to be a billionaire in charge of his own PMC with contracts left and right by making a habit of being impulsive with important decisions.

Item 15: Irresponsbility = 0

At least in my eyes! You don’t get to be where Graves is, as successful as he is being irresponsible. A business as successful as his is not one built on impulsivity nor irresponsibility.

In relation to this, I’m willing to be a whole paycheck of mine that Graves vets his men better than the FBI.

Image credit: Call of Duty Wiki

These men are so loyal they died for Graves without so much as a second thought while in Las Almas. Remember that I also touched on the fact that their loyalty for Graves goes past humanity and morality. I tried to illustrate this in a fic where Graves’s men have no issue torturing a female POW.

Look at that they did in Las Almas! They murdered citizens to include women and children. And like I mentioned before, there’s no telling what those men did when they invaded those homes before they killed their victims.

Graves didn’t like the limitations of the Marines. So why would he pick men with those moral limitations? Answer is he wouldn’t. He’d pick men who would do whatever he ordered them to do to whomever he wanted it done to. The only way I could see Graves maybe having some men with some morality is for SAR or search and rescue missions. He certainly does not want his ethically untoward men rescuing someone only to victmize said rescue subject on the ride back to the US.

Yikes.

Item 16: Failure to accept responsibility for own actions = 2

Graves is a pro at this, ain’t he? Remember the missle crisis he was indirectly responsible for? Instead of admitting it a whole clusterfuck of consequences cascaded because Graves and Shepherd tried to cover up what they’d done wrong.

Remember Congress? When Graves said he did not put 141 in danger? But you did, Graves (don’t tell him that…he might try to swing at you)! Your men shot first. Now, yes, Alejandro lunged at Graves. But nonlethal force should be met with nonlethal force. Graves’s men are loyal to a fault. When someone so much as steps too close to their commander, they shoot to kill.

And of course Las Almas! Those were hardcore war crimes being committed. And like I’ve mentioned before, I wouldn’t doubt that Graves’s men took a few liberties with individuals they found attractive in the homes they invaded. Not everyone might see it like that but remember the actions in Las Almas were meant to intimidate.

Image credit: Dan Allen Gaming on YouTube

And in some of the fics I’ve written where Graves victimizes OC, Graves blames OC for the torture she suffered, telling her that if she had just given him what he wanted to begin with (homing beacon codes to find 141) she wouldn’t have suffered at all. That’d she’d have no scars on her body and no mental trauma from what was done to her. He ordered his men to carry all that out and he watched it happen but OC, the victim, is responsible. According to Graves.

I think a lot of people really underestimate how dangerous and cruel Graves’s men can be. And yet, we Graves/Shadow Company fans have a certain affection for them 😉 Because to be honest, with all the shady stuff they do, who knows how many times they’ve saved the world. All without getting thanked for it.

Image credit: Shadow Siege Limited on Blizzard Entertainment

Item 17: Many short-term marital relationships = 0

We have no proof Graves has ever been married. It would be somewhat reasonable to conclude that Graves could be involved with quite a few sexual partners. But for marriage…we have absolutely no idea!

Item 18: Juvenile delinquency = 0

And let me tell you why. Graves was in the Marines and some positions in the Marines require a top secret security clearance. Graves’s involvement in military contracts certainly requires a top secret clearance and perhaps maybe a SCIF clearance. You cannot have any significant juvenile delinquency and be trusted with one of these.

Item 19: Revocation of conditional release = 0

None. He hasn’t been arrested (see above for my reasoning for no juvenile arrests). And if he was, I’d be willing to bet some highups in the military, CIA, and NSA would make his charges disappear.

Item 20: Criminal versitality = 2

Oh boy, if there was one item that described Graves it would be this one! This refers to the variety of criminal activity Graves is involved in. Well, we know he’s involved in some shady contracts that involve taking lives. He’s a mercenary after all. Technically, what Graves is doing, killing people for money, is illegal. Essentially invading another country and wiping a town off the map is highly illegal. Shooting to kill at 141/SAS is illegal! So not only is he involved in several types of crime but he is involved in crimes across countries, across the world.

With the money he makes, he hires nameless, faceless men with no moral compass who will then do whatever twisted deeds he tells them to and more. He also buys weapons intended to take lives for money, which is, of course, illegal.

Phew! So what does Graves score on the Psychopath Checklist?

A mere 20! The requirement for psychopathy in the US is 30 and in the UK 25.

According to Canadian psychologist Robert Hare’s research (and he’s done a lot) Graves does not quite rise to the level of psychopath. However, remember that we have very limited information. We essentially have no information about Graves’s childhood or early adulthood other than he enlisted in the Marines. With more information, his score could have gone up, remained the same, but it would not have gone down.

You’re probably like: ummmm…WTF?

And I’m with you! :D I fully expected for him to at least meet the cutoff! These posts I make are discoveries I’m making with you. I had no idea he would score so low!

Is Graves a questionable human being? You bet! Would you jump for joy if he showed interest in you (we all would haha)? But for real, he’s dangerous, he’s callous, and he can be really cruel. Just because he does not rise to the level of psychopathy does not mean he lacks remorse or lacks empathy. Those are still very real things that are part of who Graves is. This applies also to his lack of fear and his responsiveness to positive reinforcement.

Graves’s brain might look a little something like this:

Image credit: Quora (functional MRI or fMRI that takes images as the brain is working and seeing what lights up)

There is a lack of activity in the prefrontal cortex but that activity is not totally absent. Graves might let his emotions get the better of him when he’s one-on-one but overall he’s not impulsive. I'd expect to see a little more activity in his PFC actually. You’ll also see a lack of activity in a part of the brain called the amygdala. That is part of the limbic system, a more primal part of the brain. The amygdala processes negative emotions, which explains while men like Graves do not fear punishment or danger. He will, however, respond to positive reinforcement which increase endorphins, dopamine, and other feel-good neurotransmitters.

You can also see it below! There is high activity in the frontal lobe of the control as well as reasonably high activity in the limbic system. Jim's brain shows a lack of PFC activity as well as a lack of activity deeper in the brain in the limbic system.

Image credit: Rice University, Inside the Brains of Psychopaths

ONE FINAL BUT VERY IMPORTANT NOTE:

Psychopathy DOES NOT equal psychotic. They don’t mean close to the same thing. Psychopathy is mainly dictated by a lack of remorse, empathy, and fear. Psychotic means someone who is out of touch with reality. Think hallucinations, delusions, and so on. Psychotic people do not make good criminals. They’re sloppy and tend to get caught fairly quickly. A psychopath is super in touch with reality! The pick up on details and cues we do not. They do not feel fear and don’t care who they hurt, allowing them to move on with their lives. So if someone says: Graves is psychotic! You can say: ah-ah! Psychopathic :D

Y'all I'm very tired lol I hope you enjoyed. I FUCKIN LOVE talking about this stuff and I can talk about it forever! I can post soooo much more on Graves if y'all are interested :)

[ichigoromi]

𝐒𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐬𝐚 𝐊𝐢𝐲𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐢 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭 | 𝐋𝐞𝐭’𝐬 𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐧 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞

It's been a long time since I've written a Sakusa piece, and I kind of got a little crazy with it.

Judging by the title, it's not your usual fluff.

Pairing: Sakusa Kiyoomi (timeskip) x fem reader! (she/her)

Genre(s): tragedy, angst

Warning(s): terminal illness, reader's death, lots of sad stuff.

Please proceed with caution.

Sakusa Kiyoomi

“Kiyoomi, let’s break up.”

On the seventh anniversary of our relationship, I decided to break it off with the man that I once decided that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. I knew he would propose to me in that fancy restaurant that would have taken months to get a reservation to go in. I even know that he got my dream ring because he hid it in the drawer of his socks compartment.

I broke it off with him because I want him to resent me.

I want him to resent me to the point that he does not want to remember me or forgets all about me.

Why?

He deserves someone better than me because I am a bad person.

After the dinner date, I successfully stopped the proposal and ditched him there and spend the night at a cheap motel. No matter how many times he called or messaged, I ignore all of it. I deleted all the photos we shared together in my phone, so that I will not regret what I am going to do for the next few months.

This was killing me on the inside but I have to do this.

On the first day of post breakup, I packed up all my stuff and send it back to my childhood home back in Okinawa. I wanted to throw all of our pictures hanging around our home, but I want to give him the honours of destroying our happy memories.

I quit my job in Osaka and left for Okinawa. On the same day, the news article of our breakup was released. I felt some weight lifted from my heart. At least he accepted it.

During my first week back, it finally hit me. I broke up with the love of my life. I cried every night to sleep. It was painful, harsh and torture to sleep by myself but it was all of a choice made by myself.

As I was not working anymore, I had more time to spend with my family and helped out with the family small yet bustling inn that was filled with tourist.

Weeks turned into months and it was time for my family to know the truth. It was the first time I saw my tough bear papa bawled like a baby that day. I felt bad but the truth was going to come out sooner or later.

Every evening, either my mother or father would bring me to the beachside for a light walk. They say it was for my own good, but I know they are just worried about me. I guess I should not let them worry more.

Instead of going out for one of my usual night walks, I asked them to give me some privacy.

I prepared three envelopes and begin writing.

Oh, it’s not some love letters. It was my will. One for my parents, another for…him and another one for our baby girl. I used to be a lawyer, so this was a piece of cake for me. Who am I kidding? It’s never easy. I’ve tried written my wills a thousand times but I could not do it.

It kind of seals the deal that I am going to die.

When I received my diagnosis, it was a nightmare in disguise. I was 18 weeks along and…I have cancer. A terminal one at that. Life sure loves me…huh. I have already started on chemo, since I have passed the danger zone but I have lost all my hair.

I hope my baby girl gets her daddy’s luscious dark curls. How do I know if it’s a girl? I just know in my gut feeling that it will be a girl.

Besides, I hope my baby girl looks like him, I don’t want to leave another piece of me behind for him.

This is torture.

Why is life so unfair? I just wanted to be a good lawyer, get married to the love of my life and have children with him. Is it so difficult for me to live a normal life?

But I am glad to see him moving on. I recently read on an article that he was spotted on a date with one of the famous actresses that my mother probably watches.

I am happy for him. Truly, I hope he lives his life for himself and not for me.

My doctors told me that I will be able to carry my baby to full term and that was all I need. I hate chemo but I needed to do it for my baby girl.

There could be a change of events cause Mama’s body is very sick, so I am going to name you Miyuu.

I am going to add in the will in case someone objects to your name.

When my friends flew into Okinawa to see me, they all broke down and bawled like babies. Do I look that terrible? Guess I don’t have the pregnancy glow that most pregnant ladies have.

And yes, I am having a baby girl. My chemo treatment has stopped as we have about eight more weeks to my delivery date.

Everyone was updating on how their life has gone and then they told me about him too.

I am glad that he is moving on well with his life.

That is all that matter, his happiness.

As long he is happy, I can leave this world happily.

I hear the beeping of the machine and my shallow breathing in the oxygen mask that helps to breathe better. I felt my bump weakly and relaxed when I heard the strong heart beating of my baby girl.

Miyuu, darling, I’m sorry that mummy got sick before you came out to this beautiful world.

I hope you are as healthy as your father, but not the anal person like him. Be more like mummy and make more friends.

But don’t lie to your loved ones like mummy. Always be truthful.

I know you will grow up and be loved by everyone.

Mummy is going to take a rest now, my sweet darling, be safe and healthy.

“Code blue!”

The flatline, the dreaded beep sounds, the anxiety and helpless of not being able to do anything. The doctors tried their best to stabilise the mother but it was no use. She was gone at the age of 28, and now they have to save the baby in her too.

They promised the young lady that they would save this baby of hers no matter what.

“Call the OBGYN, Paediatric surgeons and book the operation theatre. We have to deliver this baby now. I will inform the family.”

It was all too soon for the family but time was of the essence.

After losing his only daughter, now they have to pray for their granddaughter.

With shaky hands, he signed the form. The form to save his granddaughter but nothing could bring back his daughter. His precious girl that he raised for 28 years old, passed before him.

“Please…please tell me I’m not too late. No…Wait, what is going on?”

Kiyoomi lets out a shaky breath as he slowly approaches the glass window, and saw it all. Your lifeless body lying in there, while the doctors were prepping to go in for an urgent surgery. The baby bump broke him.

Your father wrapped his arms around the tall volleyball player and no words were needed.

He did not even say his last words or even spend your last moments together.

Without a care in the world, he cried in your father’s arms. He was too late, to hold you in his arms, to say I love you for the last time.

At least you did fulfil one of the promises that you make together, half of it, was to build a family with him.

Every second was agonising as they waited outside the operation theatre. Kiyoomi refused to rest until he knows his baby girl was out safe and he just wanted to hold your hand for the last time.

All this time, you were suffering and he was oblivious to it.

“Babe, it’s so painful. Why didn’t you tell me that you were suffering? Just how much pain were you in? I’m sorry…I’m so sorry…”

His siblings who flew down with him, could only wrapped their arms around him and comfort him.

[Two months later…]

After putting Miyuu to sleep, Kiyoomi went into your study room. He took a deep breath as he sat down in front of your table. The graduation photo that you took together was still on the table.

And the three envelopes.

He traced your handwriting on the envelope fondly and opened the content.

It was a letter.

Hi babe, can I still call you that after our breakup?

I know what I did was brutal because I want you to resent me. Resent me to the point that you hate seeing my name or remembering me. Forget me all…but I guess you couldn’t since you opened this letter. I wrote my name especially big on this envelope because I hope my name repels you but if you’re here, I’m glad.

My diagnosis was not in our plans at all and I was pregnant. I knew if I told you, you will drop everything and spend your time with me. I am going to die. I don’t want you doing that and regretting it. That’s why I planned the breakup and hiding from you.

When I saw your news of you dating again, I thought, I’m happy that he’s moving on.

But I’m not. I miss you so much. I want to hug and kiss you or get my daily cuddles. There is a lot more that I want to do with you Mimi but I don’t have the time. I hate it so much but I regret this. I love you so much, never once did I forget about our time together.

Please don’t forget about me. I really love you so much that I don’t want you to know that I die, but you were there? Weren’t you?

I’m sorry babe that you have to experience this.

Kiyoomi, take care of our baby girl, Miyuu. I gave her that name because you’re horrible with names! I love you so much.

With lots of love,

Your First and Last  Love of Your Life.

P.s – Check the second drawer for a usb drive.

He wipes his tears and looked for the usb that you have left for him. It was his usb that you ‘borrowed’ from him during your second year of university and never gave it back.

It was videos.

But there was one that you titled it as ‘WATCH THIS FIRST’.

He clicked on it and it was you before you started on your chemo treatment.

“Erm…Hi Mimi. This is a little awkward but I wanted to film this before I start my treatment…so before I turned ugly. I’m sorry for everything, from hiding this and our baby.”

Kiyoomi’s eyes became teary as he watches you wiped your tears away.

“I don’t want to die but I guess it’s inevitable? I love you so much that even words can’t express how much I love you. Since I’m dying soon, I love you more, ‘kay? Please take care of my parents after I’m gone. I have kept my recipe books at the highest shelf where I keep my secret stash of chocolate, so cook those for our daughter.

I didn’t throw out any of our memories. It’s at Mika’s house. I couldn’t do it, so go and take it back.

Our little girl here, I hope that she looks like you but you probably wish that she looks like me, right?

Babe, I wished I had a time machine and went back to the time where I took my health seriously but I guess this is fate too.

Sakusa Kiyoomi, it was an honour to be loved by you in this life. If you don’t mind, can we meet again in our next life? In our next life, please marry me.

I love you so much and I’m sorry.”

And the video ends.

“In the next life, I will make sure we meet again, fall in love and get married and do all the things that we missed in this life. Why are you always right, she does looks like you. Our baby girl, she’s like you. I love you so much, so please let me come to you in the next life.”

For the first time after the birth of his daughter, he smiled for the first time.

This was written after the movie, More Than Blue. I got lots of inspiration from it and I hope you guys enjoyed it.

Stay safe and healthy,

With love,

Rosalie🍓

©️ ICHIGOROMI — Please do not plagiarise my work or re-edit and repost as your own.

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