#beneath tattered flesh

[milosometimeswrites]

Incorrect Quotes - Tag Game

THANK YOU so so much @surroundedbypearls (you can find her post here!). This looks so fun omg

Rules: use this link to generate character quotes

I'll be using the characters from 'The Strings of Willis Manor' for this game. Please enjoy because this is so funny to me.

===

Clementine: I fell— Andromeda: From heaven? Clementine: No, I literally fell— Andromeda: In love with me the moment you saw me? Clementine: MY ARM IS BROKEN! Andromeda: Okay, but do you think I'm pretty? Be honest.

===

Clementine: Thistle got into a fight. Andromeda: That’s bad. Andromeda: Andromeda: Did they win?

===

Thistle: *walks into the kitchen, ignoring everyone* Andromeda: Hey, Thistle, how was your day? Thistle: *picks up an onion and bites into it, staring at Andromeda* Hell. Clementine, watching this unfold: *whispers* Who hurt you?

===

Thistle: So, I've been thinking Andromeda- Andromeda: That's dangerous.

=== these are so fun and quite accurate, so here's two bonus 'Beneath Tattered Flesh' ===

Newt: I'm going to ask you to be respectful. Caesar: I will politely decline.

===

Newt: *Locks Caesar in the car.* Act like a child, get treated like a child. Caesar: What? Isn't it illegal to leave a child locked in a car?

===

I had to physically restrain myself from doing more.

Tagging: @imslowlydisintegrating, @olive-riggzey, @trancetales, @the-down-upside-finch and anyone else who wants to play ((please tag me when you do it because these are so funny-))

[tightjeansjavi]

Mine

A/N: um…hi! I write piss kink now? 👹 I don’t know what came over me today but I was sitting at my desk and just thinking about that mean old man, when all of a sudden, I thought hmm…what would it be like if Joel pissed on me? Then I proceeded to think about the prospect of him peeing on me while I was in a WORK meeting and well, you guess where this is going ;) oh! Fun fact, I wrote most of this in the shower! (How fitting) don’t read if this sorta content disturbs you, and if there’s any puritans out there that wanna call me a sick fuck and tell me I’m going to hell, baby, I’m already there! Feminism went completely out the window on this one!

~word count: 2.7k~

Summary: Joel Miller fucks you the same way he does every night…until he decides to switch things up for the first time.

Pairing | dark!joel x f!reader

Warnings: dark!joel, rough/mean Joel, overstimulation, heavy on the degrading kink, breeding kink, biting, dom/sub dynamic, oral f receiving, spit kink, pussy slapping, slight dubcon, piss kink, implied free use, Joel calls the reader his bitch and cocksleeve, unprotected piv, pussy pronouns, no specific age for the reader, reader has no physical descriptions, +18 minors dni!

Hot wisps of breath fan the shell of your ear. There’s a sheen of sweat coating your skin when his tongue darts out to taste a droplet of your perspiration on his tongue. His strong hips and thighs cage you posessively as he drives his cock further into your already ruined and messy cunt. His thrusts are relentless, and with each heavy punch of his cock into your cervix, you’re gasping for air; begging, pleading for him to let you breathe, but he always refuses.

He takes you like this the same way every night. Never soft and sweet, always rough and demanding. He’s like a rabid dog that broke away from its chain and headed straight for you. Ripping, clawing, and gnawing on your soft flesh. He takes and takes when, and however he chooses.

His large hands, calloused and scarred, act as a brand upon your skin. He molds you to his liking, pressing your face further into the seedy mattress till you can taste the dust ridden fibers on your tongue. His hands are capable of inflicting so much pain, and you can only imagine how many people he has killed with them.

He grunts against your ear, teeth biting down on the soft lobe till you’re yelping for him to stop and he removes his heavy hand from your soft cheek momentarily, only to grasp your hair between his fingers and roughly yank your head up from the mattress. Hot tears blur your vision. You’re in a confused daze, his words sounding muffled as you gulp down lungfuls of air.

“Ain’t much use to me if my favorite cocksleeve stops breathin’, sweetheart.” He gruffly teases, an edge of playfulness in his tone. “Keep on breathin’ in that sweet, sweet air. It’s the only shred of kindness you’re gonna get from me tonight.”

He forces your back to meet his chest, arching your spine to meet the heavy thrusts of his cock splitting you open. He drops your hair, your scalp feeling raw and tender from how hard he was yanking on it. His strong arms encase around your middle, fat fingers tormenting your nipples. He squeezes and pinches them before he shoves you right back down into the mattress.

“Turn your head to the side so that you can fuckin’ breathe.” Is all he says while he reaches for the old headboard for leverage. The shitty mattress shakes and squeaks beneath the weight of his heavy thrusts when he picks up his grueling rhythm, again.

You listen to his advice, if you would even call it that, and turn your cheek to the side so that your airway isn’t restricted. Your trembling hands reach for the tattered sheets, and your fists clench the fabric for any sense of support.

“Atta girl.” He rasps, blunt fingernails dig fiercely into the soft flesh of your hips, taking and marking you with red crescents indented in your skin.

“J-Joel.” You try to find your words, but they are muffled and fragmented. Your mind is too focused and centered on the pleasure rippling through your body to even try and protest.

“Shuddup and take it like you always do, baby. Know you can. Don’t gotta act stubborn about it.” He hisses between his clenched teeth, bending his chest forwards against your arched back. He sinks his teeth into the spot where your shoulder blades meet.

In some twisted and erotic way, he is mating you. His primal nature to breed you, and claim you as his; only his, takes over as he bites down on your flesh hard enough to draw blood to the surface of your delicate skin. And you have no choice but to let him, because despite how used and abused Joel Miller makes you feel, you keep coming back for more because no one fucks you like he does.

And when you don’t respond to his crudeness and condescending tone, he feels pleased by your submissiveness and need to please him.

“Was startin’ to think that my perfect little fuck toy wasn’t gonna show up for her fucking tonight. Thought maybe she had finally woken up and realized her worth, but then I find ya outside my door like a stray puppy jus’ waitin’ to be fucked.” He grunts deeply, slowing the movement of his hips before drawing them back slowly. “Cus’ no matter how many times you try to deny it, you love bein’ my cock sleeve. My fuck toy. You fuckin’ live for that shit baby, and you know what? I think it’s about time that I reward you.” He lets out a throaty breath before driving his hips forward, knocking the air from your lungs in tandem with his hips sharply jutting into the soft swell your ass.

His sweat slick skin slaps against yours, the obscene sounds of sex, and your ruined pussy squelching around the thick intrusion of his cock, send your eyes rolling back into your skull when you struggle to lift your cheek from the mattress to look over at him.

“W—what kind of reward?” You choke out, lips falling open in an o shape when his fat cock head nudges against that inner soft and spongy spot deep within the walls of your inviting warmth.

He chuffs a laugh, lifting his head up from where his teeth were just embedded into your skin. “Ah, there she is. Eager as ever, huh? Be fuckin’ patient, baby. Before I change my mind and decide you don’t deserve a reward at all.” He snaps, slamming his hips forward once more before he draws them back again. He slips out of your sopping pussy completely, leaving you on the edge of your approaching orgasm.

His cock is glistening in the low light, a creamy ring of your combined arousal coats the thick, veiny girth of his cock. He scoots back just enough so that he can watch the way your pussy pulses and drools a trail of enticing slick down between your trembling thighs.

He uses his thumbs to pry your inner lips apart before he spits a glob of saliva between your gaped, pulsing hole, and down to your untouched clit, swollen and puffy with need.

“Such a messy little pussy. You should see the way she’s winkin’ at me right now. So needy and desperate for my cock to fill her up with my seed, ain’t that right?” He sounds drunk, words slurred together, darkened eyes glazed over in lust. He licks his lips, inhaling the heady scent of your arousal like a hound dog locked on a trail. “Smell so fuckin’ sweet, too.” He groans before surging forward, burying his face between your parted thighs.

He’s never eaten you out before. Always claiming that you were undeserving of his skilled mouth and tongue. But tonight he’s finally given into tasting you, and once he’s had a lick, he can’t stop. He keeps you pried apart at his leisure, dragging his broad nose right through your trail of slick from the source. His lips suckle on your clit before dragging downwards to tease your folds, sucking on them, too. He’s eating you as if your pussy, and her sweet, sweet, nectar is his life source.

Your body jolts forward when his wiry beard scrapes at the apex of your thighs. He growls against you before reaching around for your hips and anchoring you in place once more so he can continue feasting.

He obscenely slurps and groans against your cunt before drawing his face back for a lungful of air. His chin and beard are glistening, coated in your arousal when he licks you from his lips. You think that maybe he’s finally having a change of heart when he flips you onto your back with ease, your breasts bounce from the movement when your back hits the mattress with a soft thud.

He never strays from fucking you from behind, on your knees with your face smashed into his mattress. That’s how he always takes you. His way only. And yet, here you are staring up at him with your big doe eyes bright and innocent. Your lips parted when he grabs the back of your knees and presses them towards your chest.

“Make yourself useful and hold those for me, will ya?” He barks out an order.

You scramble to grab the underside of your knees, sweaty fingers nearly slipping before you are able to have a solid grip around them.

“Good girl.” He nods before wedging himself between the small opening of your thighs. He catches that almost hopeful glint in your eyes and shoots it down immediately with an intimidating glare.

He brings one hand to the back of your scalp, roughly yanking your head upwards so you’re making direct eye contact with him. His dominant hand is loosely wrapped around the shaft of his cock, and he slaps the fat mushroom head against your puffy clit to gain your attention. “You focus right here.” He snips, brows furrowed together in a harsh line across his forehead. “Don’t you go and gettin’ this twisted, ya hear me? I know how you women work. Y’all think that jus’ cause a man does somethin’ different for once, that he’s softenin’ up to ya. He ain’t. You’re still my bitch, my little cocksleeve, and you’d best be wise to remember that, baby.”

“Y-Yes, Joel. I’m still your—”

He cuts you off with a low snarl when he begins to feed you his cock from this angle inch by inch, glancing down between your bodies so he can see your pussy pulling him in further. “That you are, my girl. Still feelin’ jus’ as eager for your little reward?” He questions with a cock of his brow, smirk tugging across his devious face.

“Please.” You beg him softly, not understanding what it was you were begging him for in the first place.

“Such an eager little cocksleeve to be pumped full of my seed, baby. Never thought I’d see the day.” He chuckles, pressing his hips forward till he’s completely bottomed out inside of you, and the coarse thatch of hair above his pubic bone presses into your clit.

Wait…what?

You look at him dumbfounded, shaking your head and hoping that you just misunderstood what he was saying. “What?”

“What?” He mocks your surprised tone condescendingly.

“Joel.” You try to reason with him, “we—we can’t! I—I don’t want to carry your fucking kid!”

“Aw.” He pouts, drawing his hips back before slamming them forward again. “You don’t wanna be filled to the fuckin’ brim with my seed? You don’t think your pussy wants that, baby? I think she does.” He teases.

“No, Joel. Please. Anything but that. You can come on my tits, my face, just please—not inside!” Your mind is already reeling at the possibility of having to carry Joel Miller’s fucking offspring in a world such as this one. You felt like one of those breeding mares shipped off to some stud farm to be passed around between stallions till one of their foals would inevitably stick—

He laughs cruelly at your fear and the way it dots your vision. He can imagine exactly what’s going through your mind at that very moment. “You should see your fuckin’ face right now.” He snickers. “Relax, sweetheart. I got a vasectomy years before the outbreak.”

“Jesus fuck, Joel! Why didn’t you just start off with that?!” You yell in his face, wishing you could punch that stupid grin right from the perfect pout of his kissable lips. You feel the tension visibly leave your shoulders when he satiates your fears of pregnancy, even if he does it in such a cruel manner.

“Cus’ I like toyin’ with ya. It’s entertainment for me, baby. You’re so easy to play with. I can do it with my eyes closed.” He muses before rolling his hips forward.

“You’re such a dick for that.” You attempt to chastise him, but your attempt is fruitless.

“Now, don’t go thinkin’ you’re entirely off the hook now, sweetheart. I do believe you said earlier that I could do anythin’ else I wanted to ya, right? Your words, baby. Not mine.”

Damn, his mind is sharper than a fucking arrow.

“Yeah…I did say that you could cum on my tits, or my face—”

“Mmm…nope. That ain’t gonna cut it for me unfortunately. I think I wanna do somethin’ else.” He trailed off, meeting your slightly nervous gaze with a small tilt of his head. How could his words and body language always be so fucking…mean?

“Okay, well, what else do you want to do?”

He shrugs his shoulders in disinterest before he grabs your hands that are still secured around the backs of your knees and removes them quickly so that your thighs fall open. He wants you spread at his mercy when he begins to ram into you, over, and over again. “You’re just gonna have to wait and find out.” He grunts deeply, bending down at an angle so he can nip at the juncture of your neck.

Your head lolls to the side so he has easier access and the pleasure starts to coarse through your body till he moves his mouth down the clavicle of your chest. First he starts off with chaste kisses to the swells of your breasts, and then he toys with the pert nipple between his lips. You let out a soft mewl that quickly turns into a high pitched yelp when his teeth sink into the sensitive pebbled flesh, hard.

“OW!” You cry out at the assault of his mouth. He does it again before switching to your other nipple, delivering the same mistreatment before he soothes the broken skin with his tongue.

You jokingly call him an animal thinking that he would disagree and scold you for it, but instead…he leans into that side of himself. He fucking loves it.

“Yeah, baby. I am a fuckin’ animal. You got that damn right.”

He fucks you like one too, till your creaming around his cock, leaking out around his thick girth that continuously punches into your pussy. He slips out suddenly with a wet squelch, leaving you feeling a little dazed and positively fucked out.

“Still want your reward, baby?”

You nod dumbly, cock drunk and eyes glazed with stars still twinkling behind them.

“Alright, my little cocksleeve. Close those pretty eyes for me, and no peekin!’”

Your eyes snap shut on command, chest rising and falling as you catch your breath.

The old mattress squeaks when his weight rises from it. You think about risking a peek to see what exactly it is that he’s doing, but you decide against it.

He stands above you on the mattress at his full height, looming over your spread legs while your ruined pussy is still drooling along the soiled sheets. He looks down at you with his cock wedged between his fist.

You can hear the wet sound of his fist jerking himself off before you feel the hot ropes of his seed coating your face, lips, neck, chest and lower. He shoots a load across your tummy, and right down to your pretty spread pussy.

Well, I suppose that’s a nice…reward? You think to yourself.

“Ain’t done yet, sweetheart.” He scolds you lightly from above when he sees your thighs beginning to close up like a nighttime flower closing its petals till the sweet kiss of sunrise.

He really has more than that? Damn, I underestimated this sick son of a bitch.

He relaxes his shoulders, letting out a decompressing sigh before he slowly releases his bladder with a sick smirk plastered on his face.

First, you detect the familiar stench of urine, and then the steaming liquid lands on your face, trickling down your lips. You let out a sound of protest and lift your hands above your head to shield yourself from his piss. It trails down the valley of your breasts, down your stomach and between your thighs, mixing into the trail of slick between them.

He’s marking you like a fucking dog marks his bitch, and you’ve never felt more degraded and humiliated in your entire life till you find youself under Joel Miller’s golden fucking shower. The stench of urine and cum stings your eyes and the sensitive hairs in your nose.

He bends down, cock now softened between his thighs and places one hand along the side of your face, brushing away a stray dribble of cum and piss from your lips with his calloused thumb.

“Now, no other man is ever gonna want to fuck my bitch when she’s reekin’ of my piss and cum.”

~~~

Banners made by the lovely @saradika-graphics 💗

Follow @tightjeansjaviupdates for fic updates and notifications

[earlymorningfoxhunt]

Freak On a Leash

I fucking love right Darkthur so much, I've been rotating these guys in my brain for the past week. Hes wonderful, I want him dead, here's my ramblings about em:

Arthurs horribly fucked up, hes not jazzed about killing but he sees it as a tool in his arsenal + it helps that he kinda enjoys the blood lust

John gets his arm amputated because of an infection/ it being mangled and dubbed too far gone by doctors, neither can protest in their comatose state. John is half awake even with anesthesia so he feels when they start sawing through flesh and bone. his coma period is much more horrific, with Lilly being the only thing to anchor him to hope. Arthur waking up feels like a godsend.

John can still feel the residual limb and can slightly move the elbow around. when he gains control of arthurs right leg, theres a learning curve to walk, tho they adjusted after having to sprint around the island caves.

Dreamlands is where they begin to bond/Arthur sees him as a person and John feels like more than an a voice in his head. its a stained relationship but they realize they still care about each other after they escape the pits.

Arthur invokes the "do you trust me" as they reach the plateau, John says yes

Arthur hold up the dagger to his chest

"i have your fucking heart"

Hastur is flabbergasted and almost impressed that this hobbled man he threw in the pits still has fire in him.

John is freaking the fuck out.

Arthur is using both of them as a hostage to negotiate 100% of what they want. "John will be mine, you will return us home, your stupid fucking cult will leave us alone, and you will rot in the dreamlands half the king you once were. you will lose to a mortal or die along with your better half."

"you're bluffing. would you really trade your life for this parasite? Arthur Lester, you're smarter than this."

Arthur doesn't break eye contact when he plunges the dagger into his chest.

the kings tendrils fly towards him with a guttural screech.

all forward momentum stops with the weapon, less than an inch from Hasturs fluttering heart. blood pumps down his tattered dress shirt with only a sharp inhale and twitching eye to indicate pain.

a smile dusts his face "is this really time for games, king?"

"how does it feel to be beneath someone you consider lesser? I bet it stings" Hastur growls and arthur twists the knife "down boy"

"John do you really want to stay with this freak?"

John, vaguely pissed off "my dick has lead me places i wouldn't go with a gun"

kiy: oo get it white boy

john: do NOT get it white boy

[kiwicopia]

MDNI | Themetober: Tricked

Fae!Geto x Fem!Reader

CW: noncon/dubcon, kidnapping, imprisonment, chained reader, mentions of starvation/dehydration, mentions of impregnation, dacryphilia, cunnilingus, overstimulation, licking, biting, body worship, face fucking, sex against the wall, creampie.

tags: @sweetchildcloud

Themetober Masterlist

He had to give credit where it was due, truly. Not many humans could evade a fae for as long as you had, but even you had limits to this evasion. He just had to find them; however, he wasn’t as patient of a fae as he should have been. The desire to have you as his was overwhelming to the point that drastic measures had to be taken. One little slip-up was all he needed, and the very second it occurred, he whisked you away to his domain.

“Darling,” he cooed, dark eyes watching as you shied away from him. Your body moved further back in the cell, and the soft clinking of the chains caused the corners of his lips to twitch as he smiled. “It doesn’t have to be this way. Things would be easier if you would simply give in.” Geto inched closer to the bars of your cell, his fingers tightly wrapping around the cold metal as he rested his forehead against it. “You’re being childish.” 

You hadn’t eaten or drank anything in three days, having refused him each and every time he would bring you something—it was such a childish thing for you to do. His eyes lowered, squinting as he assessed your huddled form in the corner of your cell. Geto didn’t want things to be this way. He couldn’t understand why you resorted to such stubbornness, which only resulted in an inevitable deterioration of your body. 

The fae huffed in irritation, brows creasing as his mind came to a single conclusion: be forceful. Honestly, this was the last thing he wished to resort to, but he couldn’t think of any other way to make you see reason and listen to him. With a quick tap of his forefinger against a metal bar, the door to your cell opened and he stepped inside. Your wide, teary eyes watched as he came closer to you, causing you to squish yourself against the cold, hard wall of the cell. 

“You have left me no choice,” he said. Geto then snapped his fingers, causing the chains connecting you to the cell wall to quickly slide back, which lifted your body to your feet. He came closer, stopping a foot in front of you before reaching a hand out to gently caress your cheek. He thumbed a tear away, tutting softly before letting out a small sigh. “You’ll see reason soon enough.” 

Disgust bubbled in your stomach as his hand drifted from your face and down to your thigh. His other hand followed suit, and you squirmed as his fingers wrapped around the flesh beneath your tattered dress before forcing your legs apart. Geto hummed softly, his smile broadening as he lowered himself to his knees. 

“So beautiful,” he whispered. His thumbs rubbed gentle circles against the skin along your inner thighs before cupping the plump flesh and lifting your lower half up. It was just enough for him to roll his shoulders underneath your legs, situating them over his shoulders perfectly—though he still kept his hands cupped beneath your thighs. Geto’s lips kissed along the skin, trailing his movements further up to your awaiting cunt. ��So beautiful, and all mine.” His nipped at your flesh, causing you to cry out before attempting to wriggle away from him. 

The fae tutted softly, shaking his head a little before tightening his grip on your thighs. You should know better than to refuse—not that you could if you tried. “Please,’ you begged. His eyes flitted up to your tear-filled expression. The way you cried and pleaded for him to stop brought forth a low rumble in his throat, as well as causing his cock to chub at the sight of more of your tears. You were so beautiful like this. Teary-eyed and pleading; a real sniffling mess as you attempted to wriggle away once more, but to no avail. “Please don’t—.” 

Your words died midsentence upon feeling his tongue lick a thick stripe along your folds, the tip curling slightly to catch your clit at the right angle. His ears rang with cries that spewed from your pretty lips, only to be ignored as he continued lapping at your cunt. The fae’s fingers dug into the flesh of your thighs to quell the constant squirming of yours as you tried pulling your hips back. Geto’s nose soon brushed against your bundle of nerves the further he pressed his face against your pussy, earning a shrill cry as you tossed your head back against the cell wall. 

He couldn’t hold back anymore. The soft slurps rang in your ears, and the fact that your body was so eager to wet itself with arousal as he pleased you felt so wrong. You didn’t want this, you never wanted this. But it felt good. No longer could your mind hold the disgust for what he was doing to you; that feeling now fading as a sick and twisted need for him to continue festered in its place. 

The second your hips began to grind against him, he knew. You were giving in, and he groaned softly as his cock twitched beneath the fabric of his pants. It ached to be free, to be deep inside of you, but not yet. Geto still needed you to give in entirely, and there was only one way to get that. His pace increased as his tongue delved past your folds, lapping up the slick that now coated his lips and chin as he feasted on you like a starved beast. 

His nails dug into your flesh the more you fucked yourself against his face, now whining and moaning for more. You needed more, wanted it, craved it, and he delivered. The fae held your lower half up as your body shook upon releasing a sudden, sharp cry. His dark eyes watched as your back arched while your senses flooded with pure ecstasy. “Pretty girl,” he chuckled. Geto flicked his tongue along your puffy clit, relishing in the whiny moan that slipped out from you. “I’m still not finished eating.” 

He lapped at your sensitive, slick cunt again, pulling orgasm after orgasm from you until he finally felt satisfied. The fae’s tongue licked along his lips after he pulled his face back, relishing in the sweetness of your multiple releases. Your body still twitched from the effects of him overstimulating you, which made you perfectly pliant for him as he stood to his feet and pressed his chest against yours. Geto kept you balanced between him and the wall, with an arm around your waist while a free hand worked to release himself from the confines of his pants. 

His cock sprang free—the tip angry and weeping arousal—and he slowly rubbed the thick head against your folds before easing himself inside. You whined at the stretch, body tensing from the sudden burn that ached the more he disappeared inside of you. The fae’s arm around your waist tightened as his hand moved to grip your hip, and his face buried itself in the crook of your neck. Your scent wafted through his nostrils, causing his dick to twitch inside of you, and Geto gave you a small moment of adjustment before pulling his hips back and slamming himself into you. 

The pace was relentless, with little to no room for gentleness as he fucked you. Gods, you were so tight and warm, with walls that sucked him back in with ease—so heavenly to him, this feeling. His arm soon unwound from around your waist, and both of his hands firmly pressed against the cell wall. Your tears were long gone by now, with eyes rolled back as you babbled nonsense in his ear, to which he let out a breathy chuckle at. 

You were adorable. His little human, getting herself fucked by a fae she thought she could evade. The thought of his little tricks almost not working on you days ago didn’t sit well with him, and he now desired to make you his in more ways than one. Fucking you just didn’t seem to be enough for him. Geto could impregnate you, force the swell of your belly with his seed. Then you would be his forever. 

Such an idea spurred him on, his body squishing you against the wall as his cock bullied your sopping cunt. “Take it, take it, darling,” he panted. Those words spilled from his lips like a mantra, a heavenly chant that would ensure your bond to him for life. Gods, it was enough for him to finally come undone. With a low growl rumbling in his throat, Geto fucked into you one last time, spilling into you and painting your walls in thick, creamy cum. 

His thrusts had slowed, gentling out as he kissed along the side of your neck. You were too fucked out to comprehend what had even happened. Too overstimulated from orgasms prior to realize the fate he resigned you to. Geto was a fae that had always gotten what his heart desired, no matter how sick and twisted it was. 

If impregnating you kept you bound to him, then so be it. Simply another little trick that had to be done. 

[pochaccoups]

“ PREY ” — choi seungcheol

pairing — werewolf!seungcheol x f!reader

summary — you are but prey to him.

wc — 2.2k

warnings — nsfw content. minors dni. smut, cunnilingus, predator/prey, images of gore and death (it’s all metaphorical), religious imagery/references (probably sacrilege oops), this is NOT omegaverse

author’s note — howling by xg on repeat recently. sorry if this isn’t what u were expecting but all my writing inspiration comes from angela carter

this fic is part of MONSTER: a hip hop unit series.

Your legs and lungs burn with the heat of a thousand fires.

You wonder how long it’s been since you started running. Was it minutes or hours? You don’t know. All that you do know is that every second that passes is a second closer to your death. It’s certain that you won’t make it out alive—it won’t let you—yet that is what makes you run faster, push yourself harder, your lungs reaching their absolute limit to provide you with the oxygen to keep going. 

There’s a crunch of leaves in the distance, to your left. It’s not behind you. It never was. 

Slowly, the sound of four separate steps hitting the earth grows closer and closer. You can only vaguely hear it over the sound of your heart struggling to pump blood through your body. 

A shriek rips itself from your throat. It cuts through the air as you’re thrown to the ground like you’re nothing more than a doll. Sharp pain slams through your body. The ground beneath you spins. Bile rises to your throat. 

Crying for help is futile. Even if you had the strength to yell, only the trees would hear your pleas. 

When you open your eyes that you hadn’t realised you screwed shut, you’re face to face with death. Daggers for teeth inside of a snarling, drool-dripping snout; yellow eyes like the moon had fallen from the abyss above and nestled into this beast; pointy ears that made the devil’s silhouette appear when your vision grew blurry. 

The last dregs of adrenaline in your body are what allow you to try and crawl away, to scramble like a newborn fawn on its unused legs. You don’t make it two feet before you’re dragged backwards through branches and dirt.

You’re not sure what makes you fight, but you do. You struggle despite the way his hands snake around your limbs like thorny vines, and every second that you keep struggling your skin stings more and more, his hold tightening until you think he’ll snap your bones.

The wolf keeps you pinned to the forest floor, revelling in the pitiful sounds of your fear. His claws find a home in your flesh, but it is still not as agonising as the anticipation—all you want is for him to get it over with; to shred your chest apart and rip your beating, bleeding heart from its seams. 

At its core, however, a werewolf is a monster. It is terrifying, not just because it is hideous, but because it is also cruel. It thrives off of your fear. You’re going to die—you know that. He knows that too, so he holds your frail little life in the palm of his hands and dangles it in your face.

Your dress becomes tatters and scraps the moment the wolf’s claws come to touch it, but he leaves your skin mostly unscathed. Mostly. 

His low growl grows louder in your ear until your skin is warm with his breath. It turns to a terrible rumble, deep and sadistic, one that reverberates through even your own chest, one that makes you cower, and suddenly you’re nothing but a small rabbit. It digs deep into your brain, finds every nook that you’ve stowed your traumas away into and drags them out until you’re no longer moving. No longer breathing. 

The wolf stands and watches tears leave salty trails down your face as they dry, only to be replaced again by more. 

You must look pathetic the way you try to scamper away again, persistent even when you’ve lost the will to persist. You are human though—to grasp onto every last fibre of hope of staying alive is innate. 

Quickly the wolf grows bored by your ‘escape’ attempts. In one sudden movement he plucks you off the ground and tosses you over his thick shoulder. 

“P-please… Let me go,” you sob as thickets of trees continuously pass by you. You hear a clock ticking in your head and it lines up with the footsteps of the beast that holds you captive. “Where are you taking me?”

Your voice is small, probably but a squeak in the wolf’s ear. Even if he hears you, he does not show it. Only trudges on to the slaughterhouse. 

Your consciousness comes and goes as fatigue settles in to replace adrenaline. As you hang limp, your body tries to put itself back together, your muscles and bones pulsing painfully from being overexerted. 

A door creaks open, then slams. Your eyes flicker open, you’re pulled back to reality. You don’t even have time to come to your senses before you’re bouncing upon a mattress.

With a groan, you push yourself to sit up, cradling your spinning head as you glance around at the wood panelled walls, the two square windows on either side of the door, and the old dining chair in one corner that’s next to a wood burning stove. 

The wolf approaches and this time you look directly into his eyes that glow in the dark of the cabin. 

He bares his teeth, but you no longer cower. 

He climbs over you, prowls along your body, and you’re swallowed by his shadow again as he pins you beneath him. 

“What big teeth you have,” you sigh, reaching up to his snout, your hand the size of a child’s next to him. 

He gives a thundering growl again, spit flying as his jaws circle your neck. It makes you grimace. 

“Okay, okay, can you turn back now? It’s hard to look at you.”

Your words work like some sort of spell. He steps back into the darkness of the cabin, and in an instant the massive creature starts to shift before your very eyes. The place begins to fill with a grotesque cacophony of cracking bones as they shift to fit a smaller body, and now it is his turn to scream in agony. The old floorboards groan as he falls to his knees, as his thick fur vanishes into pale flesh, as claws retract into fingernails.

As the monster dies, your lover is left. 

Handsome, human, features replace animal ones, and Seungcheol looks at you so fondly that it’s jarring. Even though he glistens with sweat and he’s gasping for breath and his pupils are blown out and wild, he sags with relief at the sight of you, a contrast so stark to before. 

He’s on his knees at the edge of the bed you’re perched on before you can even speak.

“Did I hurt you?” is the first thing he asks, his voice scratchy like it’s his first time speaking. He’s cautious as he reaches for you to inspect your limbs, finding your skin littered with bruises and scratch marks that make his heart clench. 

“Well, a little, yeah,” you say, and you laugh, and Seungcheol is partially comforted by your nonchalance as well as the fact that it was you who had wanted to play the part of the little hare; his prey. His eyes had bulged out of his head when you proposed your masochistic idea for a Friday night; a ‘bonding’ activity that would be fun for both of you. 

It took a while before he was convinced. He warned you that he couldn’t guarantee your full safety once he was turned. You insisted you knew what you were in for.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he whispers into your skin before he kisses your bruised wrists, then moves down so he can kiss your grazed knees too. 

“There’s a way you can make it up to me, you know,” you tell him, your voice charged with something suggestive, something that Seungcheol can pick up on immediately. Still, he presses you.

“And what’s that, my darling?” 

“You can… eat me.” 

Seungcheol takes a deep breath, rising up off the floor so that he can lean over your body. He stares into your eyes and this time it’s much, much softer, and yet there’s a glint in them, a flash of hunger, almost like the one the wolf had in his eyes.

“You want that?” he asks. 

“Mhm,” you say, and your voice is but a whisper, as though you aren’t in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by miles of trees, as though all that will hear your voice is not birds and wild creatures—and your lover, of course. “Make it up to me.”

His gaze clouds over as his teeth sink into his bottom lip. Then he steals your breath from you once more, pressing his lips against yours, and it’s searing. Perhaps it’s the adrenaline that’s still flowing through both of you, that’s making you move with vigour. Perhaps it’s Seungcheol’s guilt, or your fiery, aching need. Perhaps it’s all of that all at once. 

His tongue shoves past your lips, makes its way against your own tongue. Your teeth clash and your noses rub together, and then Seungcheol breaks the kiss. It’s only to attack your neck in a slew of bites, teeth grazing over your skin until a mark blooms there. 

His hands trace along your body, your skin scorching beneath the remains of fabric that you’re still clad in.

“Cheol, my dress,” you sigh, tugging at his hair. “Want it off.”

Without another word, Seungcheol halts his assault on your neck, takes two handfuls of the remnants of your sundress and riiip!—and you know the fabric was no more than paper to him, but you’re only a girl and his strength never fails to leave you so flustered that your entire body grows scorching hot. 

“And this?” he says, warm hands cupping your bra-covered chest. You moan when he squeezes them, then his fingers start to toy with the straps, but he makes no move to pull them down your arms.

“Take it off, please,” you say, pushing yourself up on your elbows. Seungcheol grabs your arm as you reach behind you before you can find the clasp. 

“Look,” he says, and a second later your bra faces the same fate as your dress—a shredded heap upon the floor. 

With your tits exposed, Seungcheol can’t help but latch onto one immediately. His mouth is so warm around your nipple, and one of his hands is squeezing it while he sucks, and his other hand is playing with your other one, pinching and tugging, and you think you just might explode. 

He leaves the peaks of your tits puffy and spit-soaked, and only then is Seungcheol satisfied enough to leave your chest alone and put his hand between your thighs instead. 

“What about these?” he asks, pressing his fingers to your clothed cunt. You jolt when he does, because you knew you were wet, but you didn’t realise you had soaked through the fabric already. 

“O-off, God, please,” is your reply, hands grabbing at him, urging him, egging him on. 

He’s on his knees again, gazing up at you as he disappears between your thighs. His nose nudges against your cunt through the wet fabric, and he inhales hard until his eyes are rolling and there’s drool pooling in his mouth.

“Fuckin’ delicious,” he grumbles, licking his lips while he tears your panties in half. You’re still reeling from watching him breathe in your scent and fuck, now his tongue is on your pussy.

A shaky moan of his name leaves your mouth as he licks at every part of you, laps up your dripping arousal like he’s starving for it—he is. But finally tasting you does not bring him one step closer to satiation. It drags him further and further away from it until he’s addicted to chasing it, until he will never get enough. 

When Seungcheol’s lips seal over your clit and suck, he sends your legs into tremors, sends stars dancing in your vision, sends you into heaven. You grab at his hair, at the sheets; do anything you can do to hold on to your sanity as Seungcheol devours you. 

The harsh, indulgent dance of his tongue over your cunt makes you cry his name. You say it like you’re praying. You beg; beg for mercy, but also for more. It’s all too much, but it’s not enough. It’s heaven and hell how he works his mouth against you, clawless fingertips still sinking into your skin as he keeps your hips pinned to the mattress, keeps you splayed out all for him on a silver platter. 

Seungcheol licks and slurps and laps at your cunt until you’re dripping from his lips. He is gluttony, ravishing you even when he cannot breathe because his mouth and nose are buried in your pussy. Even when he is full, he wants more of you, blessed and cursed with eternal starvation. But you are the body and the blood. You are the Lamb, and eating you will atone his sins and he will be forgiven. 

So he tears you open; with his mouth he rips you apart at your seams until finally you come undone. Even then, he feasts on your remains as you wail and writhe, as sin burns through you, so heavenly that it must be holy. Even then, he eats, and eats, and eats you up.

thank u for reading! reblogs and feedback are highly appreciated <3

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

I’m BEGGING You 🙏🏼

Write de Delete Pressure ending

'I've got him now..I can put an end to this.'

That was all you could think about as you stared down at the monster, the fishman you once bartered with, seeing how utterly pathetic he looked.

Finally.

Finally.

You've caught him in his latest hideout, and this time there was no escape for him.

It's quite ironic considering you were the one who's been running away from monsters for so long, never having the means to fight back. All you could do was hide and pray that they wouldn't find you.

After having lost count how many times you've perished to the anglers, Pandemonium, and all the others...you figured Sebastian, your "only friend", would be your safe haven from those savage creatures.

But after someone in a previous team accidentally triggered their recently-purchased flash beacon in his shop....you realized he wasn't any different from them.

Not after he nearly choked them out, breaking the tool with a spiteful warning to never try that again--as though convinced they did it on purpose--before throwing them to the ground.

They died instantly, blood pooling all around their head, and the only thing Sebastian was concerned about was needing to move his shop to a new hideout.

Oh, and of course, the items they left behind after their corpse was retrieved.

Then the next time you met him, somebody else tried to do the same thing with intentions to annoy him....and he shot them point blank in the chest. No warnings. No mercy.

That's right.

He had a shotgun hidden beneath his coat. Something that Urbanshade wouldn't dare allow you to possess lest they detonated your gear for even looking at one.

But now that they've given you clearance to eliminate him by whatever means necessary--so long as it was only used to target him and not to escape or damage any property--you were currently holding that same weapon in your hands.

It had one shell left in the chamber, as Sebastian used up the rest during his pursuit of you.

He must have caught wind of the orders the overseers gave out, as he closed his shop and became completely fed up with your attempts to reach the crystal.

Now that Painter was no longer able to stall your progress after you destroyed him for good, he was next on the hit list.

Eyefestation was on it, too, but she would be...difficult to contain. She was the least of your worries.

He, on the other hand, could be easily cornered if you were persistent enough.

The bastard tried playing dirty, at first--sending anglers after you, getting Eyefestation outraged enough to fry your brains, and even distracting you so a Wall Dweller could feast on your body. All before you could even reach Door 50.

You were more than angry.

You were livid at these cheap tricks of his, constantly yelling his name and daring him to come face you himself....and indeed he did at some points, armed with nothing but his gun, claws, and teeth.

True to his document, he was surprisingly fast for his size, able to crush you in a vice grip with his tail, leave deep gashes in your flesh, shoot you point-blank, and even throw you into the dark pits of the ruined facility.

As expected, you came back again and again, finding new ways to outsmart him.

This time, you had the crystal in your possession and repaired the cables in the ocean floor, but your mission wasn't over yet.

Sebastian refused to let you leave, and HQ demanded one final task from you: kill him, lest he sabotaged the submarine that was your only ticket out of here. They refused to send it until the deed was done.

While it became difficult to leave even a scratch on him at first, you managed to wound him more and more every time with makeshift weapons like planks with nails or anything you had at your disposal.

Now it was all finally coming to a head, as you've got him cornered, seeing his clothes shredded and his flesh bloodied from all the fighting.

And while you weren't in any better shape yourself, with your uniform a bit tattered and the crystal's container bearing scratches from his claws..he was in a far worse state.

He wasn't even trying to fight you anymore.

He just curled up in the corner of the room, hand pressed to his chest--his white shirt bleeding red--and the bandage on his third arm having become undone, revealing a reopened wound.

"You've lost, Sebastian." You huffed. "This ends here."

"....gh...ngh...."

You removed your scuba mask so he could see the fury in your eyes, and how they also stung with betrayal. It consumed your heart, leaving an ache greater than the physical ones you felt in your legs.

Once, you liked him, his company, and his attempts to make jokes and light out of grim circumstances.

Once, you considered him a friend and a humble shopkeeper who was just trying to help those who used to be like him: prisoners wrongfully incarcerated such as yourself.

Once, you could never imagine Urbanshade giving you the orders to kill him AND be willing to follow through with them.

That's all changed, however.

"They were right..you're nothing but a goddamn animal." You spat, watching the way he shuddered and gnashed his teeth. "You're just like the rest of them. You're all killing machines."

"...no.." Sebastian managed to choke out, looking up at you through his matted black hair, wheezing. "D-Don't..say that..I'm nothing like them.."

"Maybe you aren't a complete savage, but at least they didn't steal from me. At least they didn't act like they were my friend."

"......"

"Even Painter was honest with me about his intentions. He knew you weren't gonna come back for him..so I did him a favor. And he thanked me, Sebastian. If only I could've put you out of your misery just as easily."

"Go..to...to hell.." He clutched his torso, his jacket slipping off his shoulders as he coughed. "Go to hell.."

"I'm afraid that's where we're both heading." Frowning, you could feel your finger sliding towards the shotgun's trigger. "It's waiting for all of us. No matter how innocent or guilty we are. But unfortunately for you...I'll be a little late to the party."

He said nothing to that, but when you were about to speak again, he mumbled something. You tilted your head, wondering why he was suddenly looking off into space. "What did you say?"

Blinking several times, you grew alarmed as he suddenly raised his hands up to his face. Then you heard the sniffles, and a drawled-out whine that sounded like something from a wounded animal, and it was all coming from the utterly broken and defeated sea creature before you.

"...m...mom..?"

"Huh?"

"Are you there? I...I-I don't wanna die.."

Was this another trick of his? To feign weakness so you could let your guard down?

That's what you wanted to believe, and yet...as he began to cry and curl in on himself, you started having doubts that he could be this manipulative when he was so, so weak and near death.

"M-Mom..everything hurts..I-I need you...please..please, please, please..help.." His voice broke, tears dripping onto the concrete floor as he tugged on his hair and lure. "Ayudame..ayudame.."

Now he's lost it.

His sobs were the only sounds that filled the room, aside from the humming lights and sounds of the sea's pressure constricting the hulls of the blacksite.

You hesitated, suddenly feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt.

How could you have forgotten?

He's mentioned a family several lifetimes ago, back when you were a naive expendable eager to have somebody to chat with who recalled their humanity. At one point, after obtaining his document, he began opening up to you a bit more about his past. Before Urbanshade and their cruel experiments.

He had a mother and siblings...his father figure was likely absent, but you knew it was rude to question that. So you let him talk about them and what he remembered. He'd never know for sure if they moved on from his "execution", or even if they were still alive at all today...

Either way, the worst feeling for him was that they'd never know he was found innocent of those crimes that got him on death row. And even if he was somehow freed...what would they think of him?

Probably as a monster, no doubt.

Yet despite it all, he cried out for his mom anyways, wanting nothing more than to be in her arms again. He had given up on attacking you and spewing vile threats in your face.

What was the point? You would just come back over and over again, and he'd run out of ideas eventually.

He was just so tired of fighting.

He wanted it all to stop.

Watching how quickly he fell apart in front of you constrained your heart, and for a moment you wondered if there was another way out of this situation--a way that didn't require one having to kill the other...

Until your diving gear began to beep.

'Shit..' Suddenly you were snapped back to the cold hard reality, as your eyes shifted to the broken experimental scrambler on the ground. It was still sparking, showing signs of irreversible damage.

Now that it no longer blocked out any communications from Urbanshade, the cameras could see you and their target in the same room together, with you hesitating to complete the mission and take the shot.

And to them, hesitance showed disobedience...and they've told you that was cause for immediate execution.

You were still an expendable. Someone they can replace in a heartbeat.

The noises seemed to snap Sebastian out of his own trance, as he looked up at you with tears staining his scaled face, blood leaking from his mouth.

He could only stare at you with resignation.

"I'm so..tired.."

Regrettably, you nodded and raised the shotgun, forcing your hands to be steady. You couldn't afford to waste anymore time, not when the beeping had gradually slowed down, allowing you to focus.

Without needing to exchange further words, you two knew the true enemy here..the one who put you both into these horrible, horrible situations in the first place..

But unless you act now, they were just going to find someone else to finish the job.

No.

"I'm sorry, Sebastian. I'll make this quick."

It had to be you, as much as you wish it wasn't you.

If only you met him under better circumstances.

He just nodded and closed his eyes.

And you fired.

You looked away as soon as his body slumped to the floor, already growing nauseous over what you've done. The shotgun fell out of your hands, landing with a loud clatter, but it was finally over

He was gone. Silenced forever.

The beeping stopped completely, before you heard HQ come back online with one last message:

"Z-13 has been eliminated. Good work. Now leave the weapon on the floor and head through the marked doors that will lead you straight to the submarine dock."

Somehow, your weary legs managed to move towards the green-lit doors on their own, and during your long walk to the dock, the crystal's container thumped against your pant leg.

Even when you finally got to rest inside the submarine as it took you away from the blacksite, you felt as though....you didn't even deserve to rest after what you did. You felt like you've committed a crime worse than the one that put you here in the first place.

They made you take a life to earn your freedom.

But why did it have to be his life?

Was there truly no other way?

[strawberrystepmom]

sanemi x f!reader. suggestive fluff, feelings exploration, established relationship (sort of?) | divider thanks to @cafekitsune, wc 1k

“Hold still.”

The statement isn’t an outright command but Sanemi can tell he is not being asked, he is being told to keep from shifting beneath your touch. You drag a bar of clean scented soap over the back of his neck, reaching over his shoulder to rub the bar across his chest. He captures your hand and takes it from you, finishing the job down the front of his body independently.

“Here.”

He holds the bar over his shoulder when finished and you grab it, placing it on the lip of the tub. The washcloth wrapped around your hand is next to get lathered up. You rub circles between his shoulder blades with the same soft cloth you’ve used on your own skin. The soap leaves translucent bubbles across his skin, popping light as air when you blow on them gently. The temperature difference between the steam rising from the bathwater and your breath causes goosebumps to erupt across his scarred flesh.

“Hey, quit that.” He tilts his head backwards, hair flopping, wisteria eyes locked on your little smile. You know exactly what you’re doing. “You’re supposed to be scrubbin’ not playin’.” Giggling, you nod and dip the cloth back into the water. You dare lean forward until your lips nearly brush against his exposed forehead, breathlessly wondering when he’ll get skittish.

It may not happen tonight considering he was the one brave enough to join you to begin with yet you wait for one breath…two breaths…and his distance never comes. It’s a relief and you proceed with what your heart is crying out for you to do; to simply lavish him with the love you feel he deserves.

“Sorry, sorry. I couldn’t help myself.”

Your lips brush against him with every word you speak, breath fanning against his sweat dotted forehead. This is far from the first time he has been this close to you or seen you nude, breasts swaying with every move you make, it’s merely the first time he's come to the realization that he wants to end his evenings like this every single day - terrifying for a man who resigned as a child to spend his life alone.

Has he ever been handled so tenderly? Perhaps long ago, in days he doesn’t remember outside of tattered pieces he can’t make sense of during nightmares. A time when he was loved and adored; a time he let go of before he could develop any attachment to it. He fears it’s too late for him to do the same with you.

“I need to wash your hair too,” you remind him with raised brows, dropping the cloth to cup your hands and scoop water to dump over his shoulders.

You kiss his forehead and he grumbles in response though you spend little more than a moment doing it. Shifting, you quickly lean backward to let him tilt his head forward, the muscles in his neck taut in this position. Admiring them and humming to yourself, you lift your cupped hands to dump water down the back of his neck and head, droplets sluicing down his back and returning from where they once came. You drag your fingers through his thick strands, gently massaging his scalp and he lets out an involuntary satisfied moan, shoulders hunching forward.

Giggling, you lean forward and rest your chin on his shoulder, hands still working. “Feel good?” Your lips touch his neck, just beneath his ear, eliciting a shiver in response. He allows you a few more moments of indulgence, scrubbing his scalp and gently yanking on the strands before abruptly sitting up and turning to face you, water sloshing gently near the edges of the tub as he does so.

Eyes following his every move, you sit back to accommodate him and rest between his legs that are stretched on either side of you, your knees pulled to your chest. You scoot forward and situate yourself fully between his legs, your thighs and calves thrown on either side of his hips, straddling him. He sighs, shaking his head, one hand falling to the small of your back to keep you upright and steady.

Despite himself, he’s grateful for your attentiveness and eagerness to care for him. Sanemi will always be slightly more subtle in the way he shows his affection but he can tell you feel it judging solely by the way you glance up at him, eyes practically twinkling with adoration.

What did he do to deserve this and how can he get you to stop?

He runs a hand through his slightly sudsy hair. “Why are you doing all this for me? I can scrub my own back and wash my own hair.” Shrugging, you half smile and swipe the cloth over his chest, tracing the pattern of the scars that cross it in either direction. “Because I love you and know that you deserve it.”

You love him. You’ve told him the same thing though in far more compromising positions, babbling it senselessly while he has been between your legs with his lips and tongue, learning how to love a woman without words. You’ve shown him you mean it beyond just this evening spent in cooling water. He opens his mouth to respond but shuts it just as quickly. You continue, scrubbing up his neck and down his biceps, spending extra time on his underarms and the crook of his elbow.

“Are you gonna let me finish washing your hair or did you want to do it yourself?” You interrupt the silence, knowing he’s thinking rather than giving you the cold shoulder. This is new to him and comfort is paramount in dealing with matters of the heart, something you’ve learned during your time spent with him.

Thinking for a beat longer, he finally nods. “Yeah, you can finish.”

Heat rises in your cheeks as he uses his hand on the small of your back to tilt you forward, your chest pressed against his, giving you the exact angle and position needed to complete your task. Sanemi presses a kiss against your clavicle, thumb rubbing small circles against your skin. His eyes flutter shut while you work.

He could do this forever.

[elryuse]

Evergarden Familia

Yandere Gahyeon X Male Reader

Tags : Mafia Boss Gahyeon, Dark Gritty Romance, Dominant Gahyeon, Blood n Gore, Submission, Forceful Sex, Branding, Creampie

Words : 7,5k

This is a Commission for My Friend @starconstruction on Tumblr and Ko-fi. Hope you Liked it Buddy.

Blood. The thick, metallic scent clung to the air like a curse, searing itself into Y/n's memory as he crouched behind the tattered sofa. He was seven years old, too young to understand why men with guns had stormed into his home, but old enough to know that his life would never be the same.

"Please!" his mother's voice cracked, raw with desperation. She shielded him with her frail body, her arms trembling as she pleaded. "We don't owe anything! We've paid everything back-please, don't hurt him!"

The man standing before her tilted his head, a smirk curling across his scarred face. Lee Sang-hyun, a name Y/n would never forget. Dressed in a tailored black suit, he looked more like a businessman than a killer, but his eyes-cold and devoid of mercy- betrayed his true nature.

"You think I care about your payments?" Sang-hyun sneered, his voice smooth yet laced with venom. He stepped closer, his polished shoes crushing broken glass beneath them. "This isn't about money. It's about power. And no one disrespects the 3 Crows."

Before Y/n could blink, Sang-hyun's fist crashed into his father's face. The sickening sound of bone breaking echoed through the small apartment. His father fell to the floor, coughing up blood, but he still tried to rise, defiance flickering in his eyes.

"Run, Y/n!" his father choked out, his voice a mix of pain and urgency.

But Y/n couldn't move. His legs felt like lead, his small hands clutching the sofa's fabric as if it could anchor him to safety. He wanted to run, to scream, to do something-but terror had paralyzed him.

"Stupid man," Sang-hyun muttered, wiping the blood from his knuckles. "Let's make sure your son learns what happens to those who defy us."

The next few minutes were a blur of violence. Sang-hyun didn't use a weapon; he didn't need one. His fists were brutal, his kicks merciless, and he seemed to relish every second of the beating. Y/n's mother screamed, trying to shield her husband, but Sang-hyun shoved her aside like she was nothing.

Y/n squeezed his eyes shut, tears streaming down his face. He didn't want to see, but the sounds were inescapable-the grunts of pain, the dull thuds of fists meeting flesh, the horrifying crack when his father's ribs gave way.

When it was over, silence fell.

"Clean this up," Sang-hyun ordered his men, gesturing to the broken bodies of Y/n's parents. His voice was calm, as if he had just finished a routine task.

"Boss," one of his underlings said, pointing to Y/n, who was now sobbing openly. "What about the kid?"

Sang-hyun turned his gaze to the trembling boy, his lips curling into a sinister smile. "Oh, he's coming with us. A little rat like him needs to learn his place in the world."

Two men grabbed Y/n by the arms, dragging him out of the apartment. He kicked and screamed, calling for his parents, but they were gone, their lifeless bodies lying in a pool of blood.

That night, Y/n's childhood ended.

The years that followed were a nightmare. Sang-hyun didn't kill Y/n-not yet. Instead, he broke him, shaping him into a weapon for the 3 Crows.

Beatings were a daily occurrence, accompanied by harsh training that pushed Y/n's body to its limits. He learned to fight, to steal, to kill. Failure was met with pain, success with indifference.

"You're not a person," Sang-hyun told him once, after forcing him to clean the blood off his first kill. "You're a tool. Tools don't have feelings. Tools obey."

Y/n hated him. He hated everything about the 3 Crows-their cold, ruthless hierarchy, their obsession with power, their complete disregard for human life. But hate wasn't enough to break free. Not yet.

By the time he was eighteen, Y/n had become one of the most feared enforcers in Seoul. His name was whispered in the underworld, his reputation as a silent, efficient killer unmatched. But no matter how many lives he took, the ghost of his parents haunted him, their blood staining his hands.

It was a rainy night when Sang-hyun gave him the order that would change everything.

"I have a job for you," Sang-hyun said, reclining in his leather chair. His office was lavish, filled with expensive furniture that contrasted sharply with his brutal nature.

Y/n stood before him, his expression blank. He had learned long ago that showing emotion was a weakness Sang-hyun exploited.

"What is it?" Y/n asked, his voice devoid of warmth.

"An S-class target," Sang-hyun replied, sliding a folder across the desk. "Jung-hwa. Chaebol heiress. But that's not the interesting part."

Y/n opened the folder, his sharp eyes scanning the documents. Jung-hwa was beautiful, with long dark hair and a confident smile that seemed out of place in the grim world of organized crime. But as he read further, he realized why Sang-hyun was so interested.

"She's part of the Delacroix family," Y/n muttered, his stomach twisting.

Sang-hyun grinned. "Exactly. Killing her would send a message to Gahyeon. It's time that tyrant queen learns not to mess with the 3 Crows."

Y/n's fingers tightened around the folder. The Delacroix were the 3 Crows' biggest rivals, a Mafia family just as ruthless and powerful. But Jung-hwa wasn't just a pawn in their game-she was a person, a young woman with her whole life ahead of her.

"Do it," Sang-hyun said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And don't screw this up. You know what happens if you fail."

Y/n nodded, his face a mask of calm, but inside, a storm raged. He didn't want to kill Jung-hwa. He didn't want to kill anyone anymore. But Sang-hyun's leash was tight, and disobedience meant death.

As he left the office, rain pouring down around him, Y/n felt the weight of his choice pressing down on his shoulders. He had two options: obey and lose what little humanity he had left, or rebel and risk everything.

In the end, he knew there was only one path he could take.

The rain hadn’t let up. Seoul’s neon lights reflected off the wet pavement, casting an eerie glow that matched the unease in Y/n’s chest. He stood in the shadows of a busy intersection, his hood pulled low as he watched her.

Jung-hwa.

She stood near the entrance of a luxury boutique, her bodyguards forming a tight perimeter around her. Even in the pouring rain, she exuded an air of elegance, her long black coat cinched at the waist, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders. She looked every bit the heiress she was—untouchable, radiant, and confident.

But Y/n knew better. No one in this world was untouchable.

For three days, he had stalked her, learning her routines, her quirks, and her vulnerabilities. He knew she preferred her coffee black with a single sugar cube. He knew she always stopped to feed the stray cats outside her apartment complex, even when she was running late. And he knew that beneath her polished exterior, there was a flicker of loneliness.

She reminded him too much of himself.

“Focus,” Y/n muttered under his breath, shaking his head. He couldn’t afford to humanize her. She was the target, nothing more.

Yet, as he trailed her through the crowded streets, he couldn’t suppress the guilt gnawing at him. She wasn’t like the other marks he’d been assigned to. Most of them were criminals, just as corrupt and ruthless as the 3 Crows. But Jung-hwa… she seemed different.

Still, Sang-hyun’s words echoed in his mind: “Don’t screw this up.”

Y/n clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He had to do it. If he didn’t, Sang-hyun would kill him—or worse, send someone else after her.

That evening, Jung-hwa returned to her penthouse in Gangnam, her guards sweeping the area before letting her inside. Y/n watched from a nearby rooftop, the scope of his sniper rifle trained on her balcony.

It would be so easy. One shot, and it would be over.

But his finger hesitated on the trigger.

Instead of pulling it, he lowered the rifle and pulled out his binoculars, watching her through the glass doors of her living room. She was sitting on the couch, a glass of wine in one hand as she flipped through a book. The sight was so ordinary, so human, that it made his chest tighten.

What was he doing? Was he really going to take another life just because Sang-hyun ordered him to?

Y/n’s mind raced. He thought about his parents, about the countless people he’d killed, about the weight of Sang-hyun’s control over him. He was tired—tired of being a tool, tired of the bloodshed, tired of losing pieces of himself with every mission.

He let out a shaky breath and packed up his rifle.

Not tonight.

The following day, Jung-hwa’s routine took her to a quiet park on the outskirts of the city. Y/n followed at a distance, blending seamlessly with the other pedestrians. She sat on a bench beneath a cherry blossom tree, watching the petals fall as she sipped her coffee.

Y/n approached cautiously, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He wasn’t sure why he was doing this—why he was stepping out of the shadows instead of staying hidden. But something about her drew him in, like a moth to a flame.

“Mind if I sit here?” he asked, his voice low but steady.

Jung-hwa looked up, startled, but quickly composed herself. “It’s a public bench,” she replied, her tone polite but guarded.

Y/n sat down, leaving a respectable distance between them. For a moment, neither of them spoke. He could feel her eyes on him, studying him, trying to decide if he was a threat.

“You don’t seem like the type who frequents parks,” she said, breaking the silence.

Y/n smirked faintly. “And what type do I seem like?”

“The brooding loner type,” she replied, her lips curving into a small smile.

He chuckled, though the sound felt foreign in his throat. “Fair enough.”

Another pause settled between them, but this time it was less tense. Y/n found himself relaxing, though he knew he shouldn’t.

“I’ve seen you before,” Jung-hwa said suddenly, her voice soft but sharp.

Y/n’s heart skipped a beat. “Have you?”

She nodded. “You were at the café yesterday, weren’t you? Sitting by the window.”

Damn. He hadn’t realized she’d noticed him. “Maybe,” he said vaguely, trying to deflect.

Jung-hwa tilted her head, her gaze piercing. “You’re not very good at blending in, you know.”

Y/n bit back a retort. She was testing him, probing for information, and he couldn’t afford to slip up. But before he could respond, she stood up, brushing cherry blossom petals from her coat.

“Well, whoever you are,” she said, turning to leave, “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Y/n watched her walk away, his chest tightening. She was sharper than he’d given her credit for. But more than that, her words lingered in his mind.

What was he looking for?

That night, Y/n sat alone in his dingy apartment, staring at the photo of Jung-hwa that Sang-hyun had given him. The more he thought about her, the more conflicted he felt. She wasn’t just a target anymore—she was a person, someone who had shown him a glimpse of a life beyond the darkness he lived in.

But he knew that sparing her would come at a cost.

As if on cue, his phone buzzed. It was Sang-hyun.

“Y/n,” Sang-hyun’s voice came through the line, cold and commanding. “You’ve had enough time. Finish the job, or I’ll finish you.”

Y/n’s jaw tightened, his grip on the phone trembling. He didn’t respond.

“You hear me?” Sang-hyun growled. “Do it, or you’re dead.”

Y/n hung up without a word.

For the first time in years, he made a decision for himself. He wouldn’t kill her. He was done being a tool, done living under Sang-hyun’s control.

But walking away wouldn’t be easy.

And as the first knock sounded on his door—heavy and deliberate—he knew that Sang-hyun had already set his sights on him.

The knock on the door came again, louder this time. Y/n's breath hitched as he scrambled to his feet, every muscle in his body tensed. His small apartment was dark, illuminated only by the dim glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds. He reached for his pistol, his fingers tightening around the grip as he moved silently toward the door.

"Y/n," a voice called from the other side, low and menacing. "You think you can walk away from this?"

It was one of Sang-hyun's men.

Y/n's heart pounded in his chest. He had known this was coming, but he hadn't expected it so soon. They weren't here to talk-they were here to kill him.

The doorknob rattled, and then, with a deafening crash, the door splintered open. A team of three men burst inside, weapons drawn. Y/n didn't hesitate.

The first man went down with a single shot to the chest. The second lunged at him with a knife, but Y/n sidestepped, grabbing his arm and twisting it until the blade clattered to the floor. A swift kick sent the man sprawling, unconscious.

The third was smarter, firing off a shot that grazed Y/n's shoulder. Pain flared, but he didn't let it slow him down. He ducked behind the couch, returning fire. The man cried out as a bullet struck his leg, dropping him to the ground.

Silence fell, save for the ragged breathing of the wounded. Y/n stood, his pistol still trained on the men. Blood dripped from the graze on his shoulder, but he didn't flinch.

He had to go.

Y/n grabbed a bag he had packed earlier, slinging it over his shoulder as he stepped over the bodies. He didn't look back.

The streets of Seoul were alive with activity, but Y/n moved like a ghost, blending into the crowd despite the pain in his shoulder. He had to get out of the city, away from Sang-hyun's reach.

But Sang-hyun wouldn't stop. He had made that clear.

As Y/n turned a corner, he caught a glimpse of a shadow moving toward him. He ducked just in time as a knife swiped past his face. His attacker-a man in a leather jacket- lunged again, but Y/n blocked the strike, delivering a sharp punch to the man's throat.

Another assassin.

Y/n didn't wait for him to recover. He darted into a narrow alley, his footsteps echoing against the walls. Gunfire erupted behind him, the bullets narrowly missing as he weaved through the labyrinth of alleyways.

He emerged onto a quieter street, his breath coming in harsh gasps. His leg burned, and when he glanced down, he saw blood seeping through his jeans. A bullet had grazed him there, too, though he hadn't noticed in the chaos.

He was losing strength.

"Damn it," he muttered, stumbling as his vision blurred. He leaned against a wall, his fingers pressing against the wound in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding.

"Help. " he rasped, his voice barely audible.

The world spun, and then he saw her. A silhouette against the dim light, her figure commanding and unyielding. She moved closer, her steps deliberate, until she was standing before him.

"Y/n," she said, her voice soft yet chilling.

His knees buckled, and he collapsed. As darkness consumed him, the last thing he saw was her face-a face both beautiful and terrifying.

Y/n woke to the scent of antiseptic and the feel of soft sheets beneath him. His head throbbed, and his body felt heavy, but he was alive.

He opened his eyes slowly, taking in his surroundings. The room was luxurious, with dark wood furniture and velvet curtains. A fireplace crackled in the corner, casting warm light across the space.

"You're awake."

The voice was familiar, and when Y/n turned his head, he saw her sitting in a chair by the fire. Gahyeon.

Her presence was magnetic, her dark eyes studying him with an intensity that made his skin prickle. She wore a tailored black dress, her posture regal, her expression unreadable.

"You should be dead," she said, her tone matter-of-fact. "Sang-hyun's men don't leave loose ends."

Y/n forced himself to sit up, wincing as pain flared in his leg and shoulder. "Why am I here?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

Gahyeon leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. "You intrigue me," she said simply.

"That's not an answer," Y/n shot back, his eyes narrowing.

She smirked, amused by his defiance. "You spared my sister."

"Sister?"

"Jung-hwa," Gahyeon clarified, her gaze piercing. "You were sent to kill her, weren't you?"

Y/n didn't respond, but his silence was answer enough.

"I expected you to try," she continued. "But instead, you hesitated. That's not something Sang-hyun's lapdog would do."

"I'm not his lapdog," Y/n said through gritted teeth.

"Not anymore," Gahyeon said, rising from her chair. She walked toward him, her heels clicking against the floor. "But that doesn't explain why you're here, bleeding out in my territory."

"I didn't have a choice," Y/n admitted, his voice low. "Sang-hyun put a bounty on my head."

"And now you're a man with nowhere to go," Gahyeon said, stopping beside his bed. She reached out, tracing a finger along the edge of his jaw. "Except here."

Y/n flinched at her touch, his instincts screaming danger. "What do you want from me?"

Gahyeon smiled, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "I want you to work for me."

Y/n stared at her, disbelief and suspicion swirling in his mind. "Why would I do that?"

"Because I saved your life," she said, her tone turning icy. "And because we have a common enemy."

Sang-hyun.

Y/n's jaw tightened as he thought about the man who had destroyed his life. Gahyeon was dangerous, but she wasn't wrong. If he wanted to take down Sang-hyun, he couldn't do it alone.

"And if I refuse?" Y/n asked.

Gahyeon's smile widened. "Then you die. But I think you're smarter than that."

Y/n closed his eyes, exhaustion and pain weighing on him. He didn't trust her, but for now, he didn't have a choice.

"Fine," he said finally. "I'll work for you."

"Good," Gahyeon said, her voice soft but triumphant. "Welcome to the Delacroix family, Y/n."

Y/n spent the next few days confined to the lavish room in Gahyeon’s mansion. His wounds were healing faster than expected, thanks to the skilled care of her personal medic. Yet, every time he looked at himself in the ornate mirror across the room, he saw the scars Sang-hyun had left behind—marks of a life he wanted to leave but couldn’t escape.

The door to his room opened one morning, revealing Gahyeon. She stepped inside, a commanding presence that instantly filled the space.

“Get up,” she said briskly. “Your recovery time is over.”

Y/n pushed himself to his feet, biting back a groan as his injured leg protested. “What now?” he asked, his voice tinged with suspicion.

She smirked. “Now, you prove that I didn’t make a mistake saving your life.”

Gahyeon led him to an underground training room, its walls lined with weapons of all kinds. A group of her men stood at attention, their expressions wary as they eyed Y/n. He didn’t blame them—he was an outsider, an enemy until recently.

“This is Y/n,” Gahyeon announced, her voice firm. “He’s under my protection now, which makes him one of us. Anyone who has a problem with that can leave.”

Her men exchanged uneasy glances, but none of them moved.

“Good,” she said, her eyes flicking to Y/n. “You’re going to spar with Jae-hyun.”

Jae-hyun, a towering man with a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. He was clearly the group’s enforcer, and Y/n could tell this wasn’t just a test—it was a warning.

Y/n squared his shoulders, ignoring the throbbing pain in his leg. He didn’t need to win; he just needed to survive.

The fight was brutal. Jae-hyun was stronger, but Y/n was faster, using his agility to evade the worst of the blows. Still, he couldn’t dodge everything. A particularly hard punch sent him sprawling to the ground, blood trickling from his split lip.

“Enough,” Gahyeon’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

Jae-hyun stepped back, his chest heaving, while Y/n struggled to his feet. He wiped the blood from his mouth, meeting Gahyeon’s gaze with a defiant glare.

“You’ve got grit,” she said, a hint of approval in her tone. “But you’ll need more than that to survive in my world.”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” Y/n shot back, his voice steady despite the pain.

Gahyeon’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile. “Yes, you are.”

Over the next few weeks, Y/n trained relentlessly under Gahyeon’s watchful eye. She pushed him to his limits, forcing him to confront his weaknesses and hone his skills. At first, their interactions were cold and formal, but gradually, something began to shift.

One evening, after a particularly grueling session, Gahyeon handed Y/n a towel and a bottle of water. He accepted them silently, too exhausted to argue.

“You’re improving,” she said, her tone softer than usual.

Y/n glanced at her, surprised. “Was that a compliment?”

“Don’t get used to it,” she replied, though there was a faint smile on her lips.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“And yet, here you are,” she countered, her eyes glinting with amusement.

Y/n couldn’t help but smile back, the tension between them easing for the first time.

Their bond deepened during their first mission together. A shipment of weapons bound for the 3 Crows had been intercepted by a third-party gang, and Gahyeon was determined to retrieve it.

The operation was risky, requiring stealth and precision. Y/n and Gahyeon worked side by side, their movements synchronized as they navigated the enemy’s stronghold.

When they were discovered, chaos erupted. Gunfire echoed through the building, and Y/n found himself covering Gahyeon’s back as they fought their way out.

“Stay close!” she shouted, her voice cutting through the noise.

“I’m not going anywhere!” he replied, firing at an approaching thug.

At one point, a gang member managed to sneak up behind Gahyeon, his knife raised. Y/n reacted instinctively, tackling the man to the ground and disarming him.

“Watch yourself,” Y/n said, his tone half-scolding, half-concerned.

“I had it under control,” Gahyeon retorted, though her expression softened as she looked at him. “But… thanks.”

They escaped with the shipment intact, their victory cementing a newfound trust between them.

That night, back at the mansion, Y/n found Gahyeon on the balcony, staring out at the city lights. He joined her, leaning against the railing.

“You’re quiet,” he said.

“Just thinking,” she replied, her voice uncharacteristically subdued.

“About what?”

“About why I do this,” she admitted, her eyes distant. “Why I fight so hard to hold onto power, to protect what’s mine.”

Y/n studied her, seeing for the first time the vulnerability she tried so hard to hide. “Because it’s all you’ve ever known,” he said gently.

She turned to him, her expression guarded. “And what about you? Why do you keep fighting?”

Y/n hesitated, the weight of his past pressing down on him. “Because I don’t know how to stop,” he said finally.

For a moment, they simply looked at each other, the distance between them shrinking. Gahyeon reached out, her hand brushing against his.

“Maybe we can figure it out together,” she said softly.

Y/n’s breath caught, her words stirring something deep inside him. For the first time in years, he felt a flicker of hope.

“Maybe we can,” he agreed.

The Delacroix estate was abuzz with activity, its halls alive with the chatter of operatives preparing for a major operation. Y/n, now firmly entrenched in Gahyeon’s world, was reviewing the mission details with Jung-hwa in the library.

Jung-hwa leaned over the map spread across the table, her dark hair brushing against Y/n’s arm. She was explaining the security patterns of their target—a 3 Crows warehouse—when she suddenly laughed, a soft, melodic sound that made Y/n smile despite himself.

“You’re terrible at this,” Jung-hwa teased, pointing at the notes he had scribbled.

“Hey, it’s not my fault you talk too fast,” Y/n shot back, his grin widening.

Their playful banter was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. Y/n turned to see Gahyeon standing in the doorway, her expression unreadable.

“Jung-hwa,” Gahyeon said coolly. “Shouldn’t you be overseeing the preparations in the armory?”

Jung-hwa straightened, a hint of unease flickering across her face. “I was just—”

“Now,” Gahyeon interrupted, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Jung-hwa glanced at Y/n before nodding and leaving the room, her heels clicking against the marble floor.

Y/n raised an eyebrow at Gahyeon as she walked toward him, her steps measured. “What was that about?” he asked.

“Don’t waste your time on her,” Gahyeon said, her voice sharp. “She’s too soft for this world.”

Y/n frowned, crossing his arms. “She’s your sister.”

“And she’s not your concern,” Gahyeon snapped, her eyes flashing.

Realization dawned on Y/n, and he couldn’t help but smirk. “Are you jealous?”

Gahyeon’s jaw tightened, her composure cracking for a fraction of a second. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You are,” Y/n said, his tone teasing. “You’re jealous.”

She glared at him, her cheeks tinged with the faintest hint of color. “Focus on the mission, Y/n,” she said, turning on her heel and leaving before he could say anything else.

Later that night, Y/n found himself on the training grounds, practicing his aim with a set of throwing knives. The rhythmic thud of metal sinking into wood was oddly soothing, a temporary reprieve from the chaos of his life.

He didn’t notice Gahyeon approaching until she spoke.

“Still awake?”

Y/n turned to see her standing a few feet away, her arms crossed. She looked different in the moonlight—softer, almost vulnerable.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted, gesturing to the knives. “Figured I’d make myself useful.”

Gahyeon stepped closer, her gaze fixed on the target. “Your form’s off,” she said, picking up a knife from the bench. “Let me show you.”

She stood behind him, her hands lightly brushing against his as she adjusted his grip. Y/n froze, acutely aware of how close she was. Her perfume was subtle but intoxicating, and he found himself holding his breath.

“Like this,” she murmured, guiding his arm.

He threw the knife, and it hit the center of the target with a satisfying thud.

“Not bad,” Y/n said, turning to face her. “You’re a pretty good teacher.”

“I’m good at everything,” Gahyeon replied, a sly smile tugging at her lips.

Y/n chuckled, shaking his head. “Modest, too.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the air between them shifted. Gahyeon’s gaze softened, and Y/n could see something flicker in her expression—something she quickly masked.

“We should get some rest,” she said abruptly, stepping back.

“Yeah,” Y/n agreed, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had just changed between them.

The mission the next day was a success, but it wasn’t without its complications.

As they regrouped at the estate, Y/n found himself surrounded by members of the Delacroix family, all eager to congratulate him on his role in the operation. One of them, a young woman named Hana, lingered longer than the others.

“You were incredible out there,” Hana said, her admiration clear in her voice.

“Just doing my job,” Y/n replied, though her enthusiasm made him uncomfortable.

Gahyeon entered the room then, her eyes immediately zeroing in on Hana.

“Hana,” Gahyeon said, her tone icy. “Don’t you have reports to file?”

Hana blinked, startled. “I-I was just—”

“Now,” Gahyeon ordered, her glare leaving no room for argument.

Hana scurried away, and Y/n sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You really don’t like anyone talking to me, do you?”

“I don’t like distractions,” Gahyeon retorted, her voice clipped.

Y/n stepped closer, his expression challenging. “Or maybe you don’t like sharing.”

Gahyeon’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t deny it. Instead, she turned and walked away, leaving Y/n to wonder just how deep her feelings for him ran.

The halls of the Delacroix estate hummed with tension. Gahyeon sat at the head of the long mahogany table in the war room, her sharp gaze scanning the reports laid out before her. Y/n stood by her side, arms crossed, his instincts prickling with unease.

"Something doesn't feel right," Y/n said, his voice low.

Gahyeon glanced up at him, her expression unreadable. "What do you mean?"

"There's been too much silence from the 3 Crows," he replied. "Sang-hyun isn't the type to sit idle."

Gahyeon's lips pressed into a thin line. "I've strengthened our defenses. If he tries anything, we'll be ready."

Before Y/n could respond, the door burst open, and one of Gahyeon's trusted lieutenants stumbled in, blood staining his uniform.

"They. they turned on us," he gasped. "Some of our men. they're working for Sang-hyun."

Gahyeon's eyes narrowed, fury sparking within them. "Who?"

Before the man could answer, gunfire erupted outside, echoing through the estate. Y/n grabbed Gahyeon's arm, pulling her to her feet.

"We need to move. Now."

As chaos engulfed the estate, Y/n and Gahyeon fought their way through the corridors. Their enemies were ruthless, attacking with the precision of trained operatives. Y/n's mind raced as he pieced together the betrayal.

"This was planned," Y/n muttered, firing at an approaching enemy. "Sang-hyun's been planting seeds in your ranks for weeks."

"I'll kill him," Gahyeon snarled, her tone venomous.

"We'll kill him," Y/n corrected, his voice firm.

They found Jung-hwa in the west wing, cornered by a group of traitorous guards. Y/ n and Gahyeon dispatched them swiftly, their movements seamless as they worked together.

"Are you okay?" Y/n asked, pulling Jung-hwa to her feet.

"I'm fine," she said, her voice trembling. "But we need to get out of here."

"No," Gahyeon said, her eyes blazing. "We're not running. This ends tonight."

Hours later, under the cover of darkness, Y/n and Gahyeon infiltrated Sang-hyun's stronghold. The once-imposing estate of the 3 Crows now reeked of desperation and greed.

Sang-hyun was asleep in his lavish bedroom, unaware of the storm creeping toward him. Y/n entered first, his footsteps silent as a shadow. Gahyeon followed, her knife glinting in the moonlight.

Y/n stood over Sang-hyun, his heart pounding as memories of his parents' brutal deaths flooded his mind. This was the man who had stolen his childhood, who had twisted his life into a nightmare.

Without hesitation, Y/n pressed the blade to Sang-hyun's throat. The man's eyes snapped open, panic flashing across his face.

"Y/n." Sang-hyun choked, his voice weak.

"This is for my parents," Y/n said, his voice steady, though his eyes burned with fury. "And for hurting Gahyeon."

With one swift motion, he slit Sang-hyun's throat. Blood spilled across the sheets as Sang-hyun gasped for air, his hands clawing at his neck. Y/n held his gaze until the light faded from his eyes, then stepped back, his breathing heavy.

"It's done," he said, turning to Gahyeon.

She nodded, her expression unreadable as she wiped the blood from her knife. "Let's go."

The death of Sang-hyun marked the end of the 3 Crows. Without their leader, the remnants of the organization crumbled, leaving a power vacuum in the underworld.

Y/n stood in the Delacroix estate's main hall, watching as Gahyeon addressed her people. She was a commanding presence, her voice steady and authoritative as she announced the formation of a new family-Evergarden.

"Together, we will rebuild," Gahyeon declared. "We will rise stronger than ever."

The crowd erupted into cheers, but Y/n felt only a deep weariness. He had done what he set out to do-he had avenged his parents and dismantled the 3 Crows. Now, all he wanted was peace.

That evening, Y/n approached Gahyeon in her office. She was seated at her desk, reviewing a stack of documents.

"I'm leaving," he said, his voice firm.

Gahyeon looked up, her eyes narrowing. "What?"

"I've done my part," he continued. "I gave you the power to take down Sang-hyun. Now I want a new life."

Gahyeon rose from her chair, her hands gripping the edge of the desk. "You think you can just walk away?"

"I'm not asking for permission," Y/n said, meeting her gaze.

Her expression darkened, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "You belong to me, Y/n. I won't let you go."

Before he could respond, she stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You've given me everything. Your loyalty, your strength. your heart. And now, you'll give me forever."

Y/n's breath caught as Gahyeon leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. "You're mine, Y/n. Always."

A week later, the Delacroix family officially merged with the remnants of the 3 Crows, forming Evergarden. Gahyeon declared herself the leader, solidifying her position in the underworld.

In a grand ceremony held in the estate's ballroom, Gahyeon stood beside Y/n, her hand entwined with his. Her smile was triumphant as she announced their marriage, sealing their union and her control over him.

As the crowd applauded, Y/n felt the weight of her obsession pressing down on him. He had thought he could escape, but Gahyeon's love was as inescapable as it was dangerous.

And deep down, he wasn't sure if he wanted to leave.

Evergarden thrived under Gahyeon’s rule. Her ruthless efficiency and unyielding leadership made the organization a dominant force in the underworld. Y/n, now her husband, found himself at the heart of the new empire.

But the power, wealth, and influence came at a cost.

Y/n stood in the grand dining hall, watching as Gahyeon conversed with her lieutenants. She was as commanding as ever, her every word dripping with authority. Yet, whenever her gaze fell on him, it softened, her possessiveness evident in the way her eyes lingered.

“Y/n,” she called, motioning for him to join her.

He approached, his movements slow and deliberate. “What’s the matter?”

Gahyeon’s lips curved into a smile. “Nothing. I just like having you close.”

One of the lieutenants, a young man named Min-joon, chuckled. “Boss, you’re going to spoil him.”

Gahyeon’s smile vanished, her gaze turning icy. “Watch your tongue, Min-joon.”

The room fell silent, the air thick with tension. Y/n placed a hand on her shoulder, a silent gesture to diffuse the situation.

“Relax,” he said, his voice calm. “He’s just joking.”

Gahyeon’s expression softened again, but the warning in her eyes remained. “Careful, Min-joon. You wouldn’t want to upset me.”

Later that night, Y/n found himself alone in the garden, seeking solace among the flowers and moonlight. The estate was a fortress, its walls impenetrable, yet Y/n felt trapped.

He lit a cigarette, the smoke curling into the cool night air. He didn’t hear Gahyeon approach until she spoke.

“You’re avoiding me,” she said, her tone accusing.

Y/n exhaled slowly, not turning to face her. “Just needed some air.”

Gahyeon stepped closer, her presence magnetic yet suffocating. “You don’t need to hide from me, Y/n.”

“I’m not hiding,” he replied, though his voice lacked conviction.

She reached out, her fingers brushing against his arm. “You belong here. With me.”

Y/n turned to her, his gaze searching hers. “Do I? Or am I just another piece in your game?”

Gahyeon’s eyes flared with hurt and anger. “You think I’m using you?”

“I think you don’t know how to let go,” he said, his voice steady.

She stepped back, her jaw tightening. “You’re mine, Y/n. I won’t lose you.”

Her words hung in the air, a chilling reminder of her obsession.

The following weeks were a whirlwind of meetings, missions, and public appearances. Gahyeon ensured that Y/n was always by her side, a constant presence in her life and her plans.

But her possessiveness began to manifest in more overt ways.

One evening, during a gala hosted by Evergarden, Y/n found himself in conversation with Hana, a former member of the Delacroix family. She was friendly, her laughter light as they reminisced about the old days.

Gahyeon watched from across the room, her fingers tightening around the stem of her wine glass. The crystal felt cold against her skin, but it was nothing compared to the icy fury settling in her chest. Her eyes followed Y/n as he laughed softly at something the woman beside him said—a laugh that once belonged to her, or so she had thought. His hand brushed the other woman’s arm, a casual gesture, but Gahyeon’s nails dug into her palm. How dare he?

When Y/n finally returned to her side, his expression was calm, almost indifferent, but Gahyeon’s sharp gaze caught the flicker of guilt in his eyes. She smiled—a tight, practiced curve of her lips that didn’t reach her eyes. “You seemed to enjoy that conversation,” she said, her tone light, almost casual, but there was no mistaking the venom lacing her words.

Y/n hesitated, his shoulders stiffening as he met her gaze. “She’s an old friend,” he replied, his voice steady but cautious. He could sense the storm brewing behind Gahyeon’s composed facade.

Her smile turned colder, sharper. “Don’t forget who you belong to.”

The words sliced through the air like a blade, and Y/n flinched, though he held his ground. “I haven’t forgotten,” he said, his voice firm despite the unease creeping into his chest.

That night, the tension between them crackled like a live wire, heavy and unspoken, until Gahyeon finally broke the silence. She stood in the doorway of their bedroom, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her dark hair falling in loose waves around her face. The dim light cast shadows across her features, highlighting the anger simmering in her eyes.

“You think I don’t notice?” she said, her voice trembling with barely restrained rage. “Every time you talk to another woman, every time you smile at them… do you think I’m blind?”

Y/n sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Gahyeon, you’re overreacting.”

Her eyes flashed, and she stepped closer, her movements deliberate, predatory. “I’m not overreacting!” she snapped, her voice rising. “I’ve given you everything, Y/n. Everything. And you still look at them.”

He stared at her, searching for the right words, but all he could see was the pain etched into her expression—pain masked by anger. “This isn’t love, Gahyeon,” he said quietly. “This is control.”

For a moment, her composure wavered, and the mask slipped. Pain flickered across her face, raw and unmistakable, before she quickly rebuilt the walls around herself. “I love you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “I can’t lose you.”

Y/n’s resolve softened as he stepped closer, his hands reaching out to cradle her face. “You’re not going to lose me,” he said gently. “But you have to trust me.”

Gahyeon looked up at him, her vulnerability laid bare in the depths of her dark eyes. “I do trust you,” she said, though the possessiveness lingering in her gaze betrayed her words.

The space between them crackled with unspoken tension, the air thick with desire and conflict. Gahyeon’s hands slid up his chest, her touch searing through the fabric of his shirt. “Prove it,” she murmured, her voice low and husky. “Prove that you’re mine.”

Y/n’s breath hitched as her fingers traced the line of his jaw, her touch both tender and demanding. He could feel the heat radiating from her body, the way her pulse quickened beneath his fingertips. “Gahyeon…” he started, but she cut him off with a kiss—hard, desperate, and possessive.

Her lips were soft yet unforgiving, claiming him with a ferocity that left no room for doubt. She pressed herself against him, her curves molding to his body as her hands tangled in his hair. Y/n groaned, his resistance crumbling under the weight of her need. His hands moved to her waist, pulling her closer as he kissed her back with equal fervor.

Gahyeon broke the kiss, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps as she looked up at him. “Say it,” she demanded, her voice a sultry whisper. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” Y/n replied without hesitation, his voice rough with desire. The words spilled out before he could stop them, driven by the fire burning in her eyes.

A small, triumphant smile curved her lips as she pushed him backward toward the bed. He sank down onto the mattress, his heart pounding as she climbed onto his lap, straddling him with effortless grace. Her dress pooled around her hips, revealing the smooth expanse of her thighs, and Y/n’s hands instinctively gripped her hips, anchoring himself to her.

Gahyeon leaned down, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispered, “Good boy.” Her breath sent shivers down his spine, and he swallowed hard, his body responding to her dominance with an intensity that surprised him.

She rocked her hips against his, the friction eliciting a low groan from deep within his chest. Her hands moved to the buttons of his shirt, working them open one by one with deliberate slowness. Each brush of her fingers against his skin stoked the flames of his desire, and by the time she pushed the fabric off his shoulders, he was already achingly hard.

Her eyes darkened as she gazed at his exposed chest, her fingers tracing the lines of his muscles with a possessiveness that made his breath catch. “Mine,” she murmured, her voice a sultry purr that sent heat pooling low in his abdomen.

Y/n’s hands moved to the hem of her dress, tugging it upward until it slipped over her head and fell to the floor. She sat back on his lap, clad only in delicate lace that did little to conceal her body. His mouth went dry at the sight of her, her curves illuminated by the soft glow of the lamp beside the bed.

Gahyeon reached behind her, unhooking her bra and letting it fall away. Her breasts spilled into his hands, and he couldn’t resist the urge to lean forward, taking one hardened nipple into his mouth. She moaned, arching into him as his tongue flicked over the sensitive bud.

Her hands gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as she ground against him again, the thin barrier of his pants doing little to muffle the electric sensation coursing through them. “Y/n,” she gasped, her voice tinged with desperation. “I need you.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. With a swift motion, he flipped her onto her back, pinning her beneath him as he kicked off his pants and boxers. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, and he positioned himself at her entrance, the tip of his cock pressing against her slick folds.

“Look at me,” Gahyeon commanded, her voice soft but firm. He obeyed, locking eyes with her as he slowly pushed inside, inch by torturous inch. Her breath hitched, her body stretching to accommodate him, and she bit her lip to stifle a whimper.

When he was fully seated inside her, they paused, savoring the feeling of being joined together. Gahyeon’s nails raked down his back, leaving faint red trails in their wake. “Fuck me,” she whispered, her voice dripping with desire. “Show me who you belong to.”

Y/n growled, gripping her hips as he began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate at first but quickly building in intensity. Gahyeon’s moans filled the room, mingling with the sound of skin slapping against skin as he drove into her again and again.

Her legs tightened around him, urging him deeper, and she arched her back, crying out as pleasure rocked through her body. “Yes,” she gasped, her voice breaking on the word. “Just like that…”

Y/n’s hips pistoned relentlessly, each stroke bringing them closer to the edge. Gahyeon’s nails dug into his shoulders, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she clung to him. “Don’t stop,” she begged, her voice a desperate plea. “Please, don’t stop.”

He obliged, his pace increasing as his own orgasm loomed dangerously close. Gahyeon’s walls clenched around him, and he knew she was teetering on the brink. “Come for me,” he growled, his voice rough with need.

Her answer was a strangled cry as she shattered, her body convulsing around him as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over her. The sight of her unraveling pushed him over the edge, and with a final thrust, he spilled himself inside her, his release intense and all-consuming.

They collapsed together, their bodies slick with sweat and trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure. Gahyeon’s fingers traced idle patterns on his back, her breathing gradually slowing as she nuzzled against his neck. “Mine,” she murmured sleepily, her voice soft but unwavering.

Y/n didn’t argue. For now, he was content to let her claim him, even if the cost of her love was his freedom. But deep down, a part of him wondered how much longer he could endure the weight of her possession…

[flametrashiraarchive]

Succor 2

Muzan x GN!reader

Content warnings: oral sex, anal fingering, prostate milking, profanity, Muzan Kibutsuji.

NSFW MDNI.

Part 1

Follow up drabble to Part 1

Taglist: @hiraethsdesires @verose-tb @blamedbisexual @tsukiran

Muzan was livid. One of his upper ranks had fallen for the first time in more than a century, and the remaining demons of his so-called elite class were nothing more than pathetic fools, serving him with nothing but disappointment. 

He let Gyokko's severed head plummet to the platform below, taking grim satisfaction from the wet thud it made when it landed. Hantengu yelped in fear, Akaza flinched, and Douma’s perpetual smile faded. Nothing could quell Muzan’s rage. Nothing. 

"Muzan," you whispered from beneath his desk. He hadn’t known you were there, and your sudden appearance was nothing short of disarming.

You were his most depraved and alluring creation; a demon who was repulsed by the consumption of human flesh, but who garnered strength from Muzan's own fluids. And what strength it was. His breath caught as your hand slowly worked its way up his thigh.

Surely you couldn't still be hungry? You'd already sucked him dry not two hours ago.

And yet, as the fools groveled below, whimpering apologies and empty promises, your hands went to the fastening of his trousers and deftly undid it. 

"Stop that," he hissed through his teeth, glowering at your pretty face. "Cease at once, you infernal slut. Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a mee–"

A shuddering breath escaped Muzan's throat as you took out his cock and used the very tip of your tongue to tease his opening. 

Oh he could have torn your head off for such insubordination, and perhaps he should have, but as his knees buckled and he was forced to brace himself on the edge of his desk, he couldn't bring himself to stop you.

He fought to regain his composure as your hot, wet mouth surrounded his rapidly hardening cock and he tried to keep his voice level as he addressed the upper ranks. “I’d advise you all to act with more urgency from here on out. I suppose you’re not entirely at fault for your inadequacies.”

You swirled your tongue around the head of his cock and the veins in his forehead began to throb. He raised his voice once more to address the demons. “I’ve been too lenient with you because you’re upper ranks.”

He chanced a look down at you, and immediately regretted it. You gazed up at him with tears shimmering in your eyes as his dick grew to tease and nudge the back of your wretched throat. Oh, you were an abomination, a vulgar disgrace to demonkind, but he could not walk away from you. For all his power, he was devastatingly weak when it came to you and your depraved mouth.

He had to end the meeting.

“Gyokko, once you’ve confirmed that information to be true, you are to head over there with Hantengu at once."

No sooner had he finished speaking than a partition closed the pair of you off from the upper ranks, and he could finally let loose the growl caged behind his teeth. “You will be the death of me,” he hissed. “How many times must I feed you, my greedy slut?”

You simply sucked him harder in response. 

"Curse you." His legs trembled beneath him; his weakness and helplessness only adding to his fury. 

“Oh, fine, you licentious leech,” he snapped, putting his hands on the back of your head and thrusting into your mouth. 

He pumped his hips, brutally fucking your face as you gagged and drooled over his cock, your eyes rolling as your tongue lapped at the precum weeping from his slit. With every thrust he reclaimed a little more power, a little of his tattered dignity. His toes curled inside the butter-soft leather of his shoes as exquisite pleasure built and spilled over.

With a grunt he unloaded down your throat. Your greedy tongue lapped at his cum as a deep groan burst from his throat. “Yes… swallow it all. There. Now I truly have nothing left to give you. Leave me be.”

His eyes widened as you yanked his trousers down entirely, exposing his backside. 

“What are you– Oh I should destroy you,” he groaned as heat prickled along his cheeks and the top of his chest. He released his grip on your head to try to pull his trousers back up. “How dare you, how–” 

His blood-red eyes widened. Your strength was truly astounding as you stood, catching him off guard and spinning him around before you placed a hand on his chest and pushed him back onto the desk. The song of smashing glass and falling equipment drowned out his gasp. 

“You dare–!” Muzan’s protest died on his tongue as you slipped your finger past the barrier of his lips and laid it flat on his tongue. His pupils narrowed to reptilian slits as indignation and arousal battled for dominance. He could bite your wretched finger off– in fact, he should have, but he found himself simply moaning around it as you lowered your head to take his cock into your mouth once more. 

He licked the underside of your digit as his eyelids fluttered.

“Mmhh–” he sucked your finger, biting back a mewl as you pulled it free from his lips. “What are–” His body tensed as your finger delved between the plush cheeks of his ass, circling his hole, lubricating it with his own saliva. 

You simply raised your eyes to meet his frantic gaze. 

“You aren’t… fffuck.” His head lolled back as you continued your ministrations, your moan reverberating around his cock as you pushed past the taught ring of muscle to finger the soft flesh within. 

He was helpless then; eyes wide, mouth agape around a silent cry, chest heaving as you fingered his hole. 

“Damn… you…” he choked out, voice cracking as he lifted his legs higher, allowing you to press deeper. You hit a spot deep within him which made him see stars, “Oh… ohhpleasepleaseplease fuuuck…”

You seemed obscenely pleased as his cock started to weep, and you greedily swallowed down every drop which spilled out of him. Never in over a millenia had he been treated with such disrespect and made to feel so utterly helpless. He whined as he bore down on your degenerate fingers, furious as hot tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.

Bringing up his arms to shield his face from your gaze, Muzan let his tears soak into the sleeves of his shirt as he rocked his hips, fucking himself on your fingers, taking you deeper.

"More, curse you. Another."

You obliged your king's request, pushing another finger past the barrier of his hole, scissoring them to widen him. His eager body responded to your touch, allowing you to push deeper and massage that exquisite spot deep within him.

His cock erupted onto your tongue as you milked him, pulsing pleasure and heat consuming him as he choked out your name. On and on, the pleasure consumed him, seemingly never ending. His mouth fell open, his lips drawn back to expose his fanged teeth as his groans turned to frantic whimpers. “I can’t I can’t I can’t I don’t… Gods, curse… you… I… oh fuck oh Gods please. Please. Please~”

His orgasm exploded then, sending sparks of scalding pleasure shooting throughout his body as you groaned in satisfaction, your wicked tongue lapping up every drop of his seed. His hands grasped at anything he could find, tearing pages from his notebooks and sending vials of ingredients flying from the desk.

“Mm,” you crooned as he lay on the desk, gasping for air, his body still pulsing with the aftershocks of your torment. “Such a good master, cumming so much for me.”

His crimson eyes widened at your praise, a muscle in his jaw leaping as he bit down the whine pressing at the back of his throat. “Silence.”

Forcing a deeper breath, he placed a hand on the back of your head and flexed his fingers in a muted show of affection. "Mmh… curse you." 

You were by far the best and the worst demon he had ever created, and in that moment, he would gladly keep you by his side for eternity. 

----------

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, you can check out my other fics on my masterlist

[milosometimeswrites]

hi i know you just followed me and stuff but like your wips sound really cool and i would love to hear more about them :D

Omg hi!!!! Thanks for the ask :] I'll provide a lil bit of worldbuilding goop

The Strings of Willis Manor

Willis Manor is an old estate. It sits on a large property, outside of the city Ghim (which is the capital of Mourshirian). It's secluded in a bay of forest. The back yard is almost entirely gardens. The paths loop around, end abruptly, and are generally maze-like. In the centre of the gardens is a large butterfly house. The manor is run by Mama (mistress of the household) and Father (owner of the business that funds this place). Despite the rest of the nation turning to automata and automatic inventions, Willis Manor still mainly relies on humanoid servants/workers.

Beneath Tattered Flesh

In this world, Magic is common. You either have Magic, or you don't. Those with Magic tend to be pushed into more creative fields, while those without tend to be pushed into more academic fields. Those without Magic are believed to have an above-average intelligence. Whether or not you have Magic is entirely genetic. You have to have at least one Magic biological parent. If you are born with Magic, you have one ability. For example, one of the main characters (Caesar Dampton) can lower the opacity and density of his body, so he can become invisible and essentially incorporeal.

[inkykeiji]

what now?

character: dabi | todoroki touya

genre: smut + angst

notes: eeeee happy birthday dabi!!! sorry i’m a day late, and sorry i keep writing angst for your birthday. this piece is set directly after dabi’s touya reveal, in that dingy little safe house he seems to love so much! please heed the warnings below and stay safe!

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, rough sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dom/sub dynamics, use of master/owner/sir, fem!reader, minimal prep, biting, branding, blood, the piece switches between both dabi and touya as names, size kink + size difference, spanking, objectification, degradation + dumbification, a lil bit of praise, dabi’s pretty mean when he’s fucking, dabi carries reader, toxic relationship, dacryphilia, choking

words: 8.8k

It’s dark by the time he returns, reeking of charred flesh and ash. He had stashed you away in a decaying little safe house—a place no one else knew about, a place that was his and his alone—and had told you to wait for him. He had promised he’d return to you, no matter how long it took, no matter what happened, he’d be back, pinky swear.

Touya never breaks his pinky swears. Dabi might, though.

You had seen his video. You had been watching the news just like he told you to, anxious, waiting for any sign or indication of trouble, of terror, but the heat and the dust had been too much for the news cameras to penetrate, and there had been no reports of casualties on either side. 

Yet. 

It’s astonishing to think that the whole world knows his name now—his true name, the one buried in his blood and his bones, the one staining his soul, the one he can’t snuff out, no matter how hard he tries. You remember the first time he told it to you. 

“Touya.” 

He had said suddenly, randomly, while laying in bed with you one night back at the League’s hideout—back before all of this was set in motion, back when there was just the gentle clink of glass sounding beneath the floorboards, followed by a muddled curse and the rapid mashing of plastic buttons. 

It was muttered out in the dead of the night, when the wind was stagnant and the moonlight shimmered through grimy windows, brilliance of the beams diffused by the dirt, turning everything a hazy silver, glinting off his stitches.

“Hmm?”

“That’s my real name. Touya.”

“Touya,” you had murmured to yourself, rolling the letters around on your tongue, allowing them to seep into your flesh. “It’s beautiful.”

“Todoroki Touya.”

Oh.  

“It’s still beautiful,” you said softly, after several moments of silence, feeling Dabi melt beneath your words, tender yet resolute. “Even if the man who gave it to you isn’t.”

“Yeah,” he had responded, though his voice had sounded weird to his ears; odd, off, broken. “Fuck that guy.”

And that had been it. You hadn’t made a big deal about it, or pushed him to tell you more, or badgered him with questions and curiosities about his past. You had just accepted it and continued on. 

He had offered up shards of information over the next few months, always murmured out in the dead of night, always a piece and never a whole, always something too jagged to fit with any of the other pieces of his jigsaw he had gifted you. 

But it didn’t matter. Who he was, his past, the name he carries around and DNA twined inside his body—none of it mattered. He was, and will always be, the man you love, irregardless of the name he was born into, and the curse it bears.

The harsh unlatching of that decrepit painting startles you from your stewing thoughts, your gaze snapping toward the noise just in time to catch Dabi crawling through the trick window, entrance hidden behind the heavy gilded frame. 

Your legs toss themselves off the fraying couch the instant his gaze meets yours, heart kickstarting thick bouts of adrenaline to rush through your veins, footsteps keeping time with the tattered exhales each bang of your heart sends barrelling up your throat, body colliding into his only a moment later.

He catches you with ease, laughing loudly as he sweeps you from the floor, strong arms locked at the wrists around your lower back. Instinctively, your ankles hook together at the base of his spine, fingers immediately wandering into the dirty hair at the nape of his neck, whole body wound around his own.

He’s still laughing, bright and breathless and so, so beautiful, even as he crushes his lips to yours, even as your tongue pries past his teeth and slams against his own. It spills down your throat in warm vibrations and you swallow it readily, greedily, hands sinking further into tufts of ink-tinged ivory and twining the strands around your knuckles, desperate to tug him closer. 

The tang of death stings your tongue, earth and copper and smoke, so poignant you swear you can taste their screams, those who lost their lives to his flames and Machia’s feet and the rubble left in their wake, but you don’t care.

You don’t care, because he’s here, he’s home, he’s safe and back in your arms, with his teeth clacking against yours and his spit flooding your mouth and his unruly little giggles consistently breaking the flow of your lips. 

“Did you see it? Huh? Did you see it?” he hurls the words into your mouth, lips still mashed against your own but spread in a smile, sapphire eyes twinkling.

“I did,” you confirm with a nod, tips of your noses nudging. “I did, it was brilliant; you were brilliant, baby.”

“I know,” he snickers, foreheads knocking together, breath wafting in small, ragged pants across your face as his feet begin to move, unable to stand still. “It couldn’t have gone more perfect, I swear to fuckin’ Christ. It was—It was better than I could’ve ever imagined. I can’t even believe it.”

Words continue to tumble from his lips in excited gasps as he twirls in wide lopsided circles slow and careless around the decaying little safe house, his boots conjuring small puffs of dust beneath their soles.

“I wish you could’ve been there, baby, honest. I wish you could’ve seen that fucker’s face, it was fuckin’ priceless, and—Oh! Fuck, how could I forget the best part!” 

Halting his whirling, he pulls back to look at you more resolutely, as if he has to see the whole picture, sapphire darting around your face all wild and erratic, his smile spreading impossibly wider; uncanny, inhuman, eyes glowing with the thrill of the secret he’s about to spill.

“Shouto was there, too! How much happier could a coincidence get!” 

“Shouto?”

“I wasn’t expecting him to be there, but seriously, it was the cherry on top.” 

His feet begin to move again, resuming his impromptu dance number, adrenaline thrumming in his veins, overflowing from his orifices—smile stretching, chest swelling. 

“His presence is what really made it spectacular, you know? Sure, dad was broken, but Shouto…” Dabi shakes his head. “Little baby Shouto was knocked off his fucking feet.”

“Oh, I can only imagine…” 

…How horrifying of a realization it must’ve been; how terrifying it must’ve felt to encounter your father’s worst mistake in the breathing, bloodied flesh.

“I doubt he even remembers me—” Dabi continues, “he was only five or so when I died; he barely knew me at all.” He laughs, but it sounds tangled, caught on something buried in his throat. “Imagine that! Your big brother, only ever a ghost haunting your life, back from the grave!” 

“I’m sure he was very shocked,” you giggle, pressing your forehead to his again, fingers combing through the hair at the back of his skull. 

“Shocked? Baby, he was beyond shocked. He was—He was—I don’t even have a word for it!”

Another laugh spills from his lips, jagged and squeaky and full of razors. 

And, oh, how breathtakingly beautiful genuine happiness looks on him, even if it’s tinted with derangement—the edges of his smile a little too sharp, the glint in his eye a little too vicious.  

“The whole thing sounds magnificent,” you admit, soft and genuine, lips brushing his own. “I’m so happy it went so well.”

“It was perfect,” he gushes in a sigh. “The only way it could’ve been any more perfect is if mom, Yumi, and Natsu were there—but I’m sure they all caught the broadcast.”

You’re sure they did, too. That news programme had been playing on every major screen across the entirety of Japan; you’d have to be buried beneath a rock to have missed it.

He’s still babbling, feet still hopping and skipping around with you cradled tightly to his chest as the anticipation of his return finally wears off, clears from your system, and you take a real, good look at him. 

And your heart sinks.

New burns have bubbled up on his cheeks, leaving only a sliver of skin between them and the scars below his eyes. Staples have snapped in half, hanging precariously from chunks of dead flayed flesh, their broken edges tinged an ugly black, burnt by Todoroki flames. Speckles of crimson are splattered artfully across his hair—though whether they belong to him or someone else, it’s hard to tell—the small remaining patches of healthy skin marred by dried black dye. 

“Baby,” you breathe, struggling to keep your smile from trembling, struggling to keep concern from seeping into your voice. “You’re filthy.” 

“Yeah, you should’a saw the other guy!” he giggles at his own joke, strident and sticky in his throat, but his smile is still so bright.

“And you’re hurt.”

He blows a dismissive breath from between his lips. “Can barely feel a thing, though—and I’m not even rolling right now!” 

“Still,” you say, a frown beginning to weight the corners of your grin. “You should let me clean you up.”

“But it isn’t even painful.”

“Still,” you repeat, tender fingers brushing strands of white back from his forehead. “I want to clean you up.” 

Begrudgingly, he allows it, sat on the closed toilet lid and continuing to chatter on as you tend to his wounds, words bubbling up on breathless excitement, massive smile still slapped, almost uncomfortably so, across his face.

Oxygen keeps escaping him before he finishes his sentences, everything bouncy and enthusiastic, and it’s such a stark contrast to the Dabi you’re used to, with his languid apathetic drawl and unhurried, uninterested speech. 

And despite the subject matter, it’s nice, it’s cute. 

He tells you about his father’s paralyzation and the tears in Shouto’s eyes and the horrified panic coating their faces as careful fingers dab and wipe and smear, meticulous in their task, devoted to their cause, your head nodding along with his endless recounter, emitting the perfectly placed ooh’s and mhmm’s, asking questions when the opportunities present themselves.

And even though you love seeing him this way, full of pure joy and exhilaration, you can’t quite kill the question sprouting in the depths of your mind, chewing on the back of your brain.

What now?

It’s on the tip of your tongue, searing your tastebuds, begging to be spoken. You try to swallow it down, but it claws at the back of your tongue, clinging, curling up in your throat and refusing to be forgotten. 

What now? What’s going to happen now that Enji knows of his existence? What’s going to happen the next time he encounters his eldest child, swathed in the flames he once cherished so dearly, praised so hopefully, eating away at his boy as his hatred burns higher, blazes brighter, consumes his blood and flesh and bones and hopefully swallows down the monster that bred him in the process? 

Will there even be anything left at all? Of either of them?

Does Dabi even care? Does Touya? 

You know he’s still in there, despite the fact that his heart’s been corroded by the bitterness that’s been festering inside of him for eleven years—you’ve seen him. 

You’ve seen him, trailing along with Toga, causticity eating at his teeth as he spits that she’s fucking stupid, this is so fucking stupid, but allowing himself to be led anyway, zero resistance as her tiny hands tug him along behind her bouncing form, feet following willingly. 

You’ve seen him, meticulously picking through the glass bowls at the League’s small Halloween get together, checking and then double checking that everyone’s favourite candy is there, growling that he really doesn’t give a fuck, actually, he’s just looking for his own all the while, despite the fact that his fingers have skipped over that particular chocolate bar several times. 

You’ve seen him, on those nights where Tomura just can’t get to sleep, sprawled out on the couch in the early hours of the morning, dirty boots an inch from Tomura’s crossed legs, staring blankly at his phone and waving Kurogiri off with a go to bed already, old man. 

 So what now?

“He tried to cool me down.”

The sudden switch to a quiet, monotonous voice snaps you from your tangle of thoughts, eyes refocusing on Dabi’s face, realizing you’ve rubbed a streak of his cheek near raw. 

“What?”

“Shouto. He tried to cool me down. With his ice.” A pause, a drop of blood, balancing precariously on his lash line. “Like…Like how mom used to.” 

His Adams apple bobs with the heft of a thick swallow, his eyes blank and unblinking, staring at your shoulder. 

The blood in your veins runs frigid, hand held rigid and hovering over his wounds.

“During the fight?” 

His gaze stays fixed on that spot as he nods, slowly, just once. 

“I was overheating, and he…” 

Another beat of silence passes, the sound of your own breathing echoing in your ears, harsh and fast with the rapid beating of your heart. The blood collecting along his lashes finally overflows, escaping their confines to pool in the crinkles of dead skin and coat gold in crimson.

“Hey,” you murmur, so gentle, so soft it inspires a second wave of blood, dainty hands cupping his jaw and tilting his face to yours. 

Thumbs swipe through the thick streams of scarlet trickling down his cheeks, smearing bright strokes across healthy skin. His eyes, red and glazed but tearless, hold yours for a moment, his nostrils twitching twice. 

Beneath your palms, the hinges of his jaw flex with another dense swallow, warped smile wobbling a little.

“Whatever,” he says, voice less than an octave off from normal. “Doesn’t matter, not important.”

It does, you want to say. It is, you want to insist—

“All I want to do now is celebrate the best day of my life with the love of my life.”

Saliva pools beneath your tongue, the threat of tears thick in your throat.

“Touya…” your eyes search his face, worry woven into the wrinkles between your furrowed brow. “It—”

“Please,” he whispers, so quiet it’s barely more than a wisp of air, his eyes closing briefly for a moment as he gathers himself, lids lifting a second later. “Let me have this.” 

You want to, you so desperately want to—want to allow him this space to be happy, unfiltered and unadulterated, even in all of it’s unhinged, brainsick fervour. You don’t want to ruin this for him, the self-proclaimed Best Day of His Life, but…

What now?

It’s nipping at your lips, leaving them tingling and twitching, but you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth and suck, melting the question in the smothering heat. 

Now is not the time to ask. You will save this question, will fold it into a neat little shape and stash it away in your stomach, where it will rage and roar and demand to be spoken, where you will shove it down and stomp it into submission until it is time to be released.

You refuse to steal this moment from him.

“Okay,” you finally murmur, stroking his blood-slicked cheeks. “Okay.”

It’s hard to ignore the concern scraping at the walls of your skull, to disregard the talons tearing at your heart, to snuff out the flames licking at your lungs, but you’ll do it for him.

Always for him.

And for the first time tonight, his smile softens, sharp edges gone melty with love.

Large hands, hardened by blue fire and the ends of Marlboros, skim up your bare thighs, the callouses adorning his palms scraping roughly against sensitive skin, inspiring trails of chills in their wake. The hem of your dress pools around his wrists as his touch climbs higher, filthy fingers, with dirt caked beneath their nails and grime lining their cuticles, wiggling their way beneath a frilly pink waistband, curling almost protectively around your hips, tips digging into supple flesh just shy of too hard.

“A perfect day deserves a perfect end, don’t you think?” 

The question drips from his lips in a sultry murmur, stare heavily lidded as he tugs you down into his lap, a leering smirk smeared across his face. 

“Oh, yeah?” your arms wind around his neck, nose bumping against his own. “And what’s that?” 

“Stuffing my favourite girl full of my cum.” 

Lips trace along the edge of your jaw as he speaks, words leaving sloppy strokes of saliva as his mouth moves against you skin. 

“Over,” kiss, “And over,” kiss, “And over again, until it’s leaking out of her pretty little pussy, all over her pretty thighs, all over my pretty cock.”

“I think that—ah—I think that’s a great way to end the day.”

“Mm,” he hums, painting a flat, wide stroke of saliva up the column of your neck, the tip of his tongue tracing your cupids bow, nose bumping against your own. “It’s my favourite way to end the day.” 

His lips press to yours, tongues finding each other instantly, dragging across one another in crude, sloppy caresses, heavy and slow and firm as they grind, massaging together in little circles. It’s almost as if you’re trying to soak up his taste, to permanently imbue your tastebuds with it, to keep a little reminder of him—a single piece—with you forever. 

It’s messy, thick drool oozing from the seams of your conjoined mouths, but you don’t care, licking excess saliva from the corners of his mouth, sucking the dribble steadily collecting on his bottom lip, lapping up the foamy spit coating his chin staples, leaving them gleaming with you. 

Lips clash again, teeth gnawing their way into the warm, wet heat of mouths, desperate to devour any part of each another you possibly can, sucking gasps and mewls and laughs from one throat into another, inhaling shards of your souls and swallowing them down, burying them in pits of stomachs and depths of guts—keepsakes, kept safe.

You can taste his blood in your mouth, salty with the tears that can’t fall, trickling from the edges of his eyes. Unfurling from your mouth, the tip of your tongue licks a thin strip up his ragged cheeks, over dead skin and warm bumpy metal, sopping up crimson sadness and consuming it. 

You hold it for him, extract it from him, bear it with him, letting it soak into your heart where it can stay, for as long as he needs it to.

But that isn’t enough for him, because he wants something in return; he wants your blood, too.

Sharp teeth sink into your bottom lip, sucked taut and pressed tight to his tongue, a muted chuckle vibrating in his chest at your responding yelp. The strong hinges of his jaw flex, burrowing ivory deep, deep, deeper into your flesh, until the barrier snaps and copper explodes on his tongue, sticky and potent and so, so much. 

He refuses to release you, ribs rattling with a growl when you try in vain to tug your lip free from its captors, a sob hitching in your throat, followed by a wheezy whine. 

“Stay put, goddamn it,” he mumbles the words through his occupied teeth, tongue stroking your lip in the process. “M’not finished.” 

Your squirming stops almost instantly, body deflating into his own, and he huffs out a snort, hot against your face. 

The grip of his teeth loosens marginally, the tip of his tongue laving over the steadily weeping wound in firm, thorough strokes, tracing every indent his teeth left behind, dips rapidly swelling and filling with watered down blood, a mold of six teeth carved into your flesh. 

The strength of his suction increases, siphoning fresh blood from the tiny gashes, and he moans a little, eyes rolling back in his skull as fluttery lashes frame the whites, his hips twitching up. 

Sicko. 

His cock is already hard, rutting into your core in irregular little movements, the lace of your panties so delicate you swear you can feel it throbbing, his motions molding the dainty fabric to your soaking folds with every slight jerk upward.

Slim fingers flex, grip on your hips tightening and further burying his nails in your flesh as he forces you to begin rocking in his lap, grinding down to meet each roll up.

His lips have left your own again, his mouth streaked with your blood, a pretty pink shimmer glazing the bottom half of his face. Blood is still trickling from the six tiny slashes his teeth left, overflowing from the seam of your mouth and flowing down your chin in unbroken streams. 

Swiping a thumb through the thin floods, he smears sticky crimson across your skin, collecting a healthy swap of the substance on the pad of his finger—so much so it begins dripping down the curve to settle in the lines of his knuckle and his palm.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, repeating the action, painting you in messy shades of yourself. “Just beautiful.” 

A whimper slips through your lips, eager tongue catching his thumb and curling around the appendage—protective, possessive—drawing it into the heat of your mouth. 

He lets you guide him willingly, watches with lust-blown pupils as your lips pucker around the second knuckle, slick tongue cradling his thumb as it sucks it to the roof of your mouth, pools of saliva washing your blood from his skin. 

His breath is coming out in hot, hard huffs, exhaled through parted lips as your mouth tightens, swallows his thumb down further. His pupils pulse, gnawing away at his irises as they try to devour you whole, blue so thin it’s scarcely an outline tracing gaping orbs of black.

Your hips are still gyrating against his in erratic little circles, a single palm still clasped around your waist guiding you, encouraging you as he bucks in response, straining cock rubbing along your cunt. 

It’s just barely catching your clit, nothing more than teasing little grazes, dense heat simmering in the pit of your tummy.

You need more.

“Dabi,” you whine a little, wriggling in his grasp, a desperate attempt to garner more friction. 

“Uh-huh?”

“Touya.”

“Yeah, baby,” he answers, the nonchalance in his tone contradicting the mischief glinting in his eye. “What is it?” 

Chrome chips your nails as you claw at the heavy buckle of his belt, leather squeaking against metal. His free hand captures your wrists easily, holding them together in one palm, hard enough that the bones grind together.

“You want something? Huh?” 

Brows knitting, you glare at him, bottom lip quivering a little, fighting the urge to jut into a full-blown pout, fighting the urge to spit out what do you think? 

“You know.”

He does, of course he does. 

But that doesn’t mean he’s just going to give it to you.

“C’mon, I wanna hear you say it,” he purrs as your chin puckers, your whole face scrunched up in a scowl. “C’mon, baby, c’mon, be a good little girl and ask for it.” 

Sapphire scathes your skin, almost as bright and burning as his flames, his unadulterated attention nearly too much to bear, confidence and brattiness withering beneath his scorching stare.

Lashes fluttering, your eyes flee his, tears forming to shield you from his heat, shoulders caving inward in an attempt to protect you from his unyielding scrutiny. 

“W-Want your cock.”

His tongue clicks in disapproval, a mocking frown slapped across his face barely suppressing his amusement, eyes shining, power flaring. 

“That’s not asking, sweetheart.” 

Swallowing thickly, you force your gaze to his, lids squinting a little beneath his brilliance.

“Can I please have your cock? Please?” 

“Please what?”

And although he’s acting unaffected, he can’t quite quell the spasming of his hips, jerking up in minuscule movements and grinding his cock into your sopping hole, panties clinging uncomfortably to your folds.

An eyebrow raises, a question of Well? I’m waiting… imbued in the subtle action. 

He isn’t going to give it to you unless you ask properly, like a good little girl is supposed to.

As expected.

“Please, Master,” you mewl, fingers curling over the edges of his belt and tugging, sharp leather biting into soft hands. “Please, please, let me ride your cock, Sir.”

Cavernous eyes observe you for a moment, scanning for dishonesty, grin growing when a whine vibrates in your throat, low and needy.

“Please?” you whimper, the leather of his belt creasing beneath your grip, squealing as it rubs together, a plead hitching in your chest. “Pl—Please, Sir.”

“Alright, alright,” he’s pacifying, acting as if he’s doing you some sort of favour, as if his cock isn’t jumping eagerly with each drool of pre-cum leaking from its slit. “Go on, then. Get it out.”

Words of thanks are pouring from your lips as your hands hastily undo his pants, yanking at the buckle, tugging at the zipper, shoving at the waistband, messy and urgent until his cock is finally released.

The stretch is nothing short of incredible, as it always is with him, little hole trembling as it swallows around his girth, drawing him in further and further, deeper and deeper, slow and steady until the head nudges your cervix, his hips twitching up twice, ensuring he’s hit the end, buried to the hilt with nowhere else to go, completely stuffing your cunt full. 

And despite the trademark ache, delicate flesh stinging as it splits into little fissures to accommodate him, your hips begin moving immediately, starved and raring, whimpering a little into his shoulder as you cling to him, every rotation of your hips radiating pricks of pain through your gut.

“God, you’re pathetic,” he snorts, but the insult is soft, edges dulled by love. “So fucking desperate for my cock, aren’t you?” 

“Can’t help it,” you murmur, rubbing your cheek along the curve of his neck, then his jaw, streaking your face with his sweat. “Missed you so much.” 

“I know, baby,” the tip of his tongue swipes through the blood still staining your chin. “Bet you missed my cock just as much, if not more.”

“Yes, yes, Sir,” you’re nodding in messy little motions, hips still rocking languidly against his own, clit gliding against his slick pubic bone in rhythmic strokes. “I did, I missed it s’much—”

A gasp slices through your slurred words, sharp air shoved from your chest as his hips begin snapping upward, rough and ruthless and without warning, the hands grasping your hips tightening around your flesh as he forces you to stay in place.

“Of course you did,” he grunts out, as if it’s preposterous to think otherwise. “I’m not at all surprised; my sweet lil slut can’t live without my cock, can she?” 

“Never, never, ne-never,” you babble out in confirmation, words stuttered harshly with the piston of his hips. 

Another laugh spills from his lips, airy and malicious in melody.

“No, never,” he rasps, ever-so-slightly breathless with the effort, dewdrops of sweat beginning to adorn his hairline. “Fuck, how would you ever get off without me, huh?” 

The question sends a pang searing through your heart, echoing a question you’ve been asking yourself often as of late—how would you ever survive without him? 

The thought stings your eyes, thick tears rushing to cloud your vision and rendering him nothing more than a watery blur of ivory and violet.

“I—I wouldn’t, Sir, I wouldn’t!” you cry out, rapid fluttering of your lids dislodging teardrops, streaming down your cheeks in glistening pairs. “I n-need you, I need you, always, always, al-always!” 

Your fingers curl against his shoulders, nails catching on staples, a hiss spit from the gaps of his teeth. They sink into grafted skin, dead and weathered and dusted in ash, and cling, knuckles locked and stiff as you try to pull yourself impossibly closer to him.

Gnarled flesh collects beneath the edges of your nails as your grip strengthens, chewing on his body and gathering it in your grasp, consuming whatever tiny slivers you can, a silent plead to stay.

“It’s okay, precious,” he hushes you, lips pushed into a mocking pout, contradicted by the smothering affection exuding from his eyes. “M’here, m’not going anywhere.”

God, you hope not. 

“Please, please—” 

And you drown yourself in it, drown yourself in him; his taste, spicy hickory and warm smoke, exhaled onto your hungry tongue, soaked up and swallowed down; his gaze, overflowing with adoration and intense attention, tying itself in a thick braided noose around your neck and tightening; his touch, stamping his prints into your flesh in blotchy bursts of blue, singeing his name with licks of sapphire that welt and wound, that crust and crater and scar. 

Your ribs squeeze, sucked inward by the voracious black hole your heart has morphed into—never sated, never filled, always vying for more—whole body curling beneath the strain.

But he’s right there to hold you, to steady you, to keep you intact, his hands the stitches you need to keep from unraveling.

“I know, I know,” he’s cooing as you choke on sobs, still scraping weakly at his back, “your Master’s gonna give you what you need.”

Slim fingers flex, soot-stuffed nails latching onto your flesh like tiny leeches, dug in nice and deep, using his grasp as leverage to control the speed and angle of your hips. 

Your feet skid against the chipped bathroom tile, the muscles in your legs tensing as you attempt to find stable purchase on the floor trying to aid in his movements, to fuck yourself on him.

It’s no use, though—it’s not like it matters, anyway, not when Dabi’s got complete domination over your body, over all of its movements and positions, manhandling you into whatever arrangement he pleases, reduced to nothing more than his favourite little plaything. 

“It’s real cute,” he’s telling you in that sugared condescension you’ve come to love so much, “that you’re trying so hard to help me.”

A whine escapes your lips, caught somewhere between apologetic and petulant, hips stammering as they begin to slow, and he laughs. 

“Aw, no, don’t stop,” his tongue clicks against his teeth. “Keep trying, it’s so precious.” 

And although his tone is taunting, full of characteristic derisive glee, his eyes are encouraging, begging you to keep going, for him. 

And so, you do, desperate to please him, the muscles in your thighs beginning to burn as you work in vain to pathetically hump away at him, hips knocking together irregularly as your footing continues to slip.

It doesn’t do much to assist him, but he’s happy anyway, a certain type of pride saturating his features, dulling the points of his wide smile, dimming the harsh brilliance in his eyes, turning his face into something a little softer, something a little sweeter.

Dabi keeps an iron grip on the pace—not that you’d ever expect anything different—forcing you to ride him hard and fast, bouncing you on his cock as his hips buck up in expert rhythm, completing your movements every time. The head drags over that engorged spot with each pound into you, sending a judder of scorching sparks to rush through your blood, each bout more intense than the last.

“God, look at you, you’re such a little slut for me, huh?” he pants out, rapacious eyes sweeping across your face, keen to soak up your expression. “Taking my cock like you were fuckin’ made for it.”

He’s really fucking into you now, jerking you on his cock like a toy, because you are—something that’s his to use whenever, wherever, and however he sees fit, something that’s his to own, to care for and splinter to bits and painstakingly piece back together, over and over and over again.

Tears of ecstasy are pouring from your eyes, cascading down your face in twin streams, excess dewdrops embedded in spiked lashes glittering with every rough pump of his hips.

It all hurts—always does, with Dabi, incapable of treating anything with any degree of gentleness; not a flaw, just a fact, oblivious to his own strength—but the pain only works to elevate the pleasure, pushing it higher and higher and higher until it’s choking you, smothering your lungs and stuffing your throat and spilling out your mouth in the form of messy, stringy sobs.

“S’been so long, Sir, so long,” you weep, nails burrowing further into his body, almost as if they’re desperate to reach his core—to pry past his ribs and claw into his heart and curl up in his soul. 

Because it has been so long, too long, most of Dabi’s attention soaked up by Paranormal Liberation duties and his own extensive planning as Shigaraki’s due date drew closer and closer, any scraps of time thrown your way whenever he had a spare moment to sneak off to this dilapidated safe house where he’d stashed you away, his visits sporadic and unpredictable. 

“You’re right,” he says, and there’s a tinge of melancholy to his breath. “It’s been way too long since your sweet cunt has been filled with your Owner’s cock, hasn’t it?”  

“It has, it has,” you’re nodding sloppily, tongue tangled in threads of spit.

“My poor lil pussy,” he pouts, and it’s so derisive. “Must be starving, it hasn’t been stuffed nice and full with my cum in forever.” 

“No, no, no,” you’re chanting in agreement, “feels so empty without you, Sir, feels s-so wrong.”

“Aw, don’t worry, sweetheart,” he crudely laps at the steady stream of tears, vicious bouncing causing his teeth to nick your cheek. “I’m gonna change that.”

Chapped lips find your ear, slicked with saliva, his voice dropping an octave as he continues. 

“Because tonight,” he breathes, sweltering against your ear, his tongue darting from between wet lips to trace along the curve. “I am going to stuff you so full of my cum that—ah, fu-fuck—that it’s going to flood your cute lil tummy, that it’s gonna seep into your organs, into your fucking blood, that it’s gonna be leaking out all over the fucking place.” 

“Oh, oh, please, Sir, please!” 

The pleads come out as a single string, melded together with drool and garbled on your tongue. Little jolts of fire shoot through your body with the constant ramming of his hips, flames licking at your veins as they sear through them, the sharp slap of your ass against his thighs complementing his harsh pants and your broken moans.

“Yeah, I know, my little cumslut wants that so badly, doesn’t she?”

Your brain struggles to stitch together a sentence longer than his name, your mind gone delirious for his seed—and it’s an aching, it’s an addiction, sick and depraved and downright uncontrollable—little uh-huh!’s mercilessly fucked from your throat, head bobbling along with the affirmations.

You can feel it, a taut pleasure building within your body, a fluttering that furls into a tight ball of sapphire flame in the pit of your belly, pulsing a little faster, a little harder, a little more with every drive of his cock. 

“Oh, Touya, Tou—Touya!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, say my name.” 

A growl rattles against his ribs, whole chest vibrating with the force of it, and his head dips down, slick tongue painting strokes of thick, shimmering saliva across your skin, an artist priming his favourite canvas.

“C’mon, tell me who’s making you feel this good—” and although it’s supposed to be a command, it comes out as a plead, voice tapering off into a low whine, muffled against your shoulder. “Tell me, tell me.”

“You, Touya,” you choke out, the name mangling itself in your throat. “You, you, you!” 

“You’re goddamn right, it’s me.” 

Sharp teeth bury themselves in your flesh, mouth clamped over the junction of your neck, harder and harder and harder until the barrier of your skin finally splits, syrupy copper erupting on his tongue. 

His name shatters on your lips, a dark chuckle soaking into the wound when you arch your neck, stretched and strained and offering him more room to work despite the squeal of pain sticking in your throat

It’s all so much, too much, his teeth in your flesh and his cock filling your cunt and—and—!

“Gonna—gonna—!” 

A large palm collides with your ass, sick slap echoing off the cracked walls. 

“Is that any way to ask your Master for permission?” Dabi spits, voice dripping with disappointment. “God,” he huffs out a laugh, incredulous, but the mirth shining in his eyes is so bright, so blazing it almost hurts to look at. “My cock must’ve really made you go fucking stupid, huh? Don’t you know this body belongs to me?” 

Another spank lands against your bottom, a yelp hitching in your chest with the ruthless jackhammer of his hips, his fingers sinking into the burning flesh in a bruising grip, amplifying the sting of the slap, digging it deep into your tissues. 

“This body is not allowed to cum unless I say so—so ask nicely, you little bitch.” 

“M’sorry!” you cry out, a fresh torrent of tears flooding your eyes. “M’sorry, m’so sorry, Master—”

“Yeah? Yeah?” 

His other hand snakes between your heaving, sweat-drenched bodies, thumb and forefinger clamping down on your clit and tweaking, hard enough to force a scream from your tongue, sending spikes of pain rushing through your veins. His fingers flatten against the engorged little nub a moment later, rubbing hard, quick circles into it, a malicious little giggle squeaking in his throat because it’s so swollen, baby and Christ, you must wanna cream all over his cock so badly! 

Sounds of affirmation spill uncontrollably from your lips, head nodding in frenetic little motions, whole face shimmering and sticky with salt, snot, sweat. 

“Uh-huh? Uh-huh?” 

He’s mocking you, chin tilted up in superiority, staring down the bridge of his nose to regard you in patronizing pity, eyebrows raised and imploring you to continue. 

“Apologies are not asking, baby,” his grip catches your slippery clit again, twisting it harder this time, your eyes scrunching shut as a cry shatters on your tongue, fingers scrabbling against his shoulders, tearing out staples. 

He’s right, you know he is, but he’s making it difficult to speak, difficult to ask, difficult to stitch together a single word at all, let alone a full thought, when he’s playing with your clit like that, alternating between pulsing pinches and gentle caresses, the calloused pads of his fingertips providing just the right amount of friction. 

Your whole body quivers with the effort of holding your orgasm back, muscles pulled tight and taut with the strain, and he laughs—beautiful, breathless, bona-fide—cock twitching inside of you. 

“Pl—Please, Sir,” you manage to gasp out, entreatment forced from your tongue in a single thin breath. “Please, let me cum, please, please, please!” 

The pleads melt into one gooey stream as they flow from your lips, slathered in drool and dripping from the corners of your mouth in thick cords. 

“Yeah? You want it? You wanna cum all over your Owner’s cock?” 

“Yes, yes!” you practically wail, pawing urgently at him. “Please, sir, let me cum, make me cum, I wanna—I wanna—”

“Alright, alright,” Dabi’s pacifying, but his actions don’t slow, hips merciless with their assault on your body. “Go ahead, sweetheart, make a pretty mess on me.” 

Never one to disobey a direct order from your Master, you do, almost instantly, entire body convulsing as your cunt pulses around his shaft, gushing so much slick that it floods his thighs and soaks the waistband of his pants.

The constant circles ground into your sensitive clit as you spasm around him only work to heighten the pleasure, brain gone numb with the shocks of ecstasy coursing through your body, another flurry of jolts sent through your veins with every run through the routine, skin rippling with the impact. 

He doesn’t stop his assault even after you cum, vehemently refusing to let up even as the clenching of your cunt fades into something faint and erratic, even as violent tremors loop through your veins, entire body quivering in his tight grasp, even as your fingers claw weakly at his wrist, crooking staples and scraping scarred flesh, blood rushing to fill the gouges left by your nails. 

No, he doesn’t stop until you’re teetering on the brink of passing out, wandering in and out of consciousness, his name leaving your lips in a near incomprehensible jumble, slurred and heavy with spit. 

Only then does he scoop you up in his arms, your legs dangling limply from his elbows as his palms firmly clutch your ass, hard cock still aching and buried deep inside of you, and carry your pliant body to that worn, fraying couch, with the puffs of white cotton leaking through the polyester and the exposed springs groaning beneath your weight.

You barely notice the change in scenery, though, still blissfully fucked out, nerves gnawed raw  by his overstimulation, a soft hiss slipping from between your teeth as the scratchy cushion rubs against your bare bottom, a raised imprint of Dabi’s palm and all five fingers still rapidly swelling. 

“It’s my turn now, angel,” Dabi’s words drift over your body in an indistinct haze, vision fuzzing at the edges, your head nodding instinctively. 

“Gonna—Gonna make good on your promise, Master?” 

“I always do, don’t I?” 

And then his hips are thrusting, cockhead repeatedly ramming your cervix with every harsh plunge forward, leaning down to catch fresh tears with his lips. The tip of his tongue traces their salty trajectory all the way to your bottom lashes, matted into wet little spikes, before sucking a hickey into your cheek, tiny capillaries bursting beneath his tongue, staining the thin skin with swiftly developing violet.

Tufts of ivory cling to his temples in damp clumps, dried black dye liquifying beneath his heat and running down his cheeks, leaving streaks along the line of his jaw and the curve of his neck. Sweat collects in the dips of his collarbones, shimmering gently in the flickering light spilling from the television set, a wavering news reporter recounting the tragic events of today, stuttered by static.

“God,” he nearly whines, voracious eyes sweeping across your face, desperate to soak up your twisted expression of pleasure-tinged pain—the way your lids keep drooping as you struggle to keep them pried open, eyes speckled with stars, lashes encrusted with tears; the way your tongue keeps lolling out to draw your slick lip back between your teeth, muffling your whimpers and mewls, and oh, no, he can’t have that, a gentle tut of his tongue clicking against his teeth as his thumb tugs it free from your mouth, drawing out a stringy whine in the process.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous when you go dumb from my cock.”

The words leave his lips in an airy gasp, as if he can hardly believe you’re real beneath him, as if he can hardly believe it’s his cock making you look this way, a hand leaving your waist to slide along your torso, taking the hem of your dress with it, rough palm tracing every curve and dip and bulge as it crawls to your collarbone. 

He takes his time to admire you—to appreciate the sensation of your skin beneath his touch, fingers gripping, kneading, scraping, gathering palmfuls of you in his grasp before letting go again in a stunned sort of marvel—hips slowing to an uneven rutting, unable to fully halt his fucking. 

Keeping a firm, steady grasp on your body and pinning you in place, his free hand continues to roam, hardened fingertips sinking into the pretty blue lace of your bra hard with enough force to elicit a yelp from your lips, amusement tugging at his lips. 

“So, so beautiful,” he pants, eyes skimming your now exposed body, his fiery gaze outlining every edge, dedicated in committing every contour to memory. “Fucking look at you.” 

In all the time you’ve been with him, your body has become a scrapbook of Dabi. It tells stories of him—what he’s done, how he’s felt, where he’s been, why he did it—stamped permanently into your flesh using his teeth and his tongue and his flames, in raised flesh and puckered craters and glittering scabs.

You can’t tear your stare from his face, though, too busy worshipping him, sapphire eyes gaping and glazed as they travel along your body, soft huffs of breath escaping his lips, pushed from his throat with the tender heaving of his chest, saliva glistening on his lips, smeared so prettily across the staples climbing his chin. 

Dainty fingers grope at the air, pathetic and yearning, clawing at nothing, and he laughs a little, nothing more than a smooth, deep vibration at the back of his tongue.

His touch finds the apex of your thighs again, nails dimpling flesh as he spreads your legs wide—so wide your muscles begin to burn, taut beneath the strain—a quiet groan rumbling in his chest as he stares at your stretched cunt. 

Two fingers press into your clit, still slick and swollen, grazing over it in slow caresses—back and forth, back and forth, gliding easily over the puffy nub and snorting a little at the way your hole flutters, eager and aching, squeezing his cock, sucking him in, begging for more. 

So cute. 

Eyes wide and unblinking, he plays with you in a trance, slowly but surely building up pleasure in you, pressure in you, fascinated by the way your body so readily reacts to his simple motions, grinding circles and rubbing strokes and pulsing fingertips. 

It enraptures him, puffs of hot air exhaled through slightly parted lips as he watches just his touch bring you to orgasm for the second time tonight, obsessed with the way your cunt trembles around his cock, a surge of your essence streaming from your hole, embracing him in a thick, wet heat.

Your cunt gorges on him—so fuckin’ greedy, even after cumming twice—fluttering a little around the base of his shaft, still oozing so much slick that it’s glazing your ass and his balls, steadily seeping past the tight seam of your hole. 

It’s so pretty, it’s so fuckin’ pretty, baby, he’s breathing, eyes hazy with awe, hips drawing back just a little to watch the way your body clings to his girth, sheathing his cock in a shimmering layer of arousal. 

A palm wraps around the base of his shaft, the head of his cock still buried an inch or two in your straining cunt, and he jerks himself hard and quick, sick wet slaps echoing out among the room as his hand slams between your cunt and his pelvis. 

“Fuck, f-fuck—” 

His hips start moving on their own accord, too impatient, his hand nothing compared to the sweltering ecstasy of your cunt, and he releases his cock, sticky hand collaring your throat, pinioning you to the couch, his thrusts so vicious they’re jostling your body up the cushions, the palm crushing your airway keeping you in place.

Lithe fingers flex as their grip on your neck tightens, coarse pads of his fingertips beginning to heat up, blood in your veins bubbling beneath his touch. 

Your flesh melts beneath his hold, melds itself to his grasp, desperate to stay in his hands forever. 

The sting is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, his palm and all five of his fingers singed into your skin in the prettiest, most precious permanent necklace. You can barely breathe, exhales coming as weak little wheezes, and you swear his flames must be licking into your throat, down to your lungs and straight through your veins, incinerating your blood as your body goes numb, cunt clenching around his cock for the third time, wailing out shards of his name. 

But you don’t allow his hold to let up, to loosen at all, both of your hands placed firmly over his, holding it there harder, a loud moan escaping his lips, his hips stammering out of rhythm. 

“Brand me, Master, brand me, brand me,” you’re gasping out, voice wrecked and raw. “Make me yours, mark me as yours, forever!”

“Jesus Christ,” he nearly sobs, his thrusts turned brutal, primal, losing any semblance of finesse as he relentlessly fucks you, motions stuttering as he finally cums, a violent shudder coursing through his body before he collapses on top of you, drenched in sweat as his cock throbs, filling you to the brim with hot, thick cum. 

“More, Touya, more, more!” you’re crying out, scrabbling at his shoulders as you try to pull him closer, shivering legs latching around his waist as tight as you can manage as your hips roll up to meet his own, crudely humping him. “Gimme more!” 

A groan, dense and heavy, spills from his lips, his entire body rippling with hiccups as he ruts into you—automatic, instinctual, desperate to give his sweet girl what she wants, even if it hurts.

“Yeah, yeah, ye-yeah, Touya, Touya, fill me with y’r cum!” 

And so, he does, using your cunt to milk himself even as his form quivers with every rock of his hips, chills skidding across his flesh with every bump of his cockhead against your abused cervix. 

He keeps going, just like you begged him to, just like he promised he would, until your tummy is stuffed full and your cunt is leaking with his seed, until neither of you can take it anymore, bodies shuddering with every hump and drag and grind, deliquescing into one another, a puddle of limbs. 

You stay like that for a while, his body blanketing yours, breathing as one, being as one. Gentle fingertips trail up and down the column of his spine as his bones begin to fuse and harden again, tiptoeing over the trails of staples stitching dead skin to healthy flesh and evoking a mild shudder, pads of your fingers pressing into each golden suture, counting them lovingly, kissing every one. 

Eventually, after your fingers have traversed across all thirty-one, he shifts, manhandling you onto his chest as he shuffles himself beneath you, cradled between his thighs. 

“What now?”

You don’t mean to say it, don’t mean to shatter that delicate, post-orgasmic, precarious peace with two simple words, but they claw up your throat and pry past your teeth and gnaw on your lips, desperate to be vocalized, immortalized, heard.

What now? 

They’re uttered out softly enough, lips moving against his heart, warm breath seeping into his chest, the question worming its way beneath his skin. 

His muscles go rigid, his breath stalling in his lungs.

What happens now that his goal has been reached, Part One in his plan succeeded? What’s the next step, now that the world knows Todoroki Touya is alive and simmering in his hatred, fuelled by spite and ravenous with revenge?

What happens when he goes to face his father for the final time? And what happens if he never returns?

“Oh, I dunno,” he sighs out, but his voice trembles. “We could fix this place up, all nice and swanky, have a couple’a kids, get a golden retriever—y’know, real nuclear family type shit.” 

You laugh, but it comes out strangled, sounding strange to your ears, a distorted sob. 

“The dream, huh?” 

“Yeah,” he says, quiet, nostalgia for a time that has never happened, that will never come, aching in his words. “The dream.” 

A silence settles over the two of you, as tender as the edges of a festering wound.

“I have to do it,” he says after several moments have passed, and his voice is soft—softer than you’ve ever heard it before, softer than you ever thought him capable of—infused with apology.

He does.

You know he does. You understand why. That’s how the story ends, the final chapter he’s been drafting—you were never meant to be a part of this tale, written in between lines and margins, stuffed between words, twined throughout the pages nonetheless. But ultimately, this is his story—to write, to tell, to edit, to revise, to create, to conclude. 

You know.

But the acceptance sticks in your throat, furled into a tight, hard lump, so you nod instead, punctuating your affirmative with a kiss pressed to his chest, planted right over his heart. It soaks into his skin, burrows itself into pulsating muscle and finds salvation there, finds home there, a puzzle piece that snaps into perfect place—something that’s always been missing, now complete. Something he’ll take with him, when his pen leaves the page, when his book snaps shut.

You don’t dare look at him. You don’t need to. You can feel the stutter of his chest, hear the hitch of his breath tangling on hard truths to swallow, smell the copper streaming down his cheeks again.

And you hug him tighter. 

You know. And no matter how badly you wish to, you won’t stop him. 

[darylssunshine]

A Little Bit Dangerous, But, Baby, That's How I Want It

warnings: stockholm syndrome, f in v, swearing, TWD violence

genre: smut

era: reapers

word count: 2.1k

a/n: no I don't condone actual stockholm syndrome obviously, but I am deranged and have Fantasies.

~~~

The tightness of the ropes was harsh against your wrists, the skin growing red and raw. Your ankles were bound as well, to the legs of a metal folding chair, with your hands behind your back and a rag fastened over your mouth. You moved your hands around again, trying to find a loose spot, but it was to no avail. Those ropes held you, and held you down good.

—

The Reapers had found you in the forest, scavenging for food with Maggie and Gabriel. You had gotten separated from your companions to avoid a herd of walkers, finding an abandoned cabin in the process. Musty and ever so slowly falling apart, but it had four walls, a roof, and it hid you from the dead, so you were sold. 

The herd was almost past your cabin when you saw a couple of masked figures dressed in all black stride towards your cabin, knives in hand. You quickly ducked behind a tattered recliner in the corner of the room. The sound of knives plunging into rotted flesh sounded off before one of the masked figures opened the creaky door of the cabin and entered, with the other following suit. They padded their way through the cabin, making stealthy footsteps and slamming open every door to check for scavengers.

Just as the two of them were concluding that there was no food or supplies left in the cabin, one of the mysterious figures caught your reflection in a nearby window and dashed to your so-called “hiding spot.” You realized your mistake a second too late, and suddenly the base of a pistol came in rapid contact with the back of your head, feeling yourself fall forward and the world go dark.

—

Your wrists were getting more and more irritated by the second, so you stopped the pointless struggle and looked around to get your bearings. There was a window on the right wall with blinds that were shut, providing not a lot of light, but enough to see what was around you. Though, there wasn't a lot to see. It was a gray, brick room. It was presumably built for the torture of others, considering how empty it was, and that there was a window next to the wooden entrance door so that people on the outside of the room could see whatever sick and depraved things were happening on the inside. 

As soon as you were about to try to get the leg restraints loose, you heard heavy boot steps just outside of the door and the click of the lock being unlocked. Your breath hitched beneath the cloth that binded your mouth. You stopped whatever movement you were doing to stare at the door, waiting for the masked people to come and kill you slowly and painfully.

What came through that door wasn't a menacing looking masked figure, however. It was a tall, broad shouldered, brunette older looking man. He was dressed in a long sleeve button up black shirt, black jeans, a black leather vest, and dark brown combat boots. He had a hunting knife sheathed on his belt. His face was rugged and wounded, the most noticeable being a red and jagged scar cutting through his left eyebrow, the rest of the scar being about an inch from his eye. It was the face of a man that has seen, and done, a lot of things. 

You were taken out of your thoughts when you heard the stomping of his combat boots come towards you. Before he even stops walking, you spit on the ground in front of him and mumble, “I’m not telling you anything, you sack of shit.”

“So tha’s how ‘s gonna be, huh?” He questioned, one eyebrow raised. 

He began slowly walking around the metal chair, reading you, drinking you in.

“Wrists hurt?” He asked rhetorically, noticing the harsh rash blossoming from the base of your wrist. He watched the back of your head as you were unresponsive, refusing to give him anything to work with. 

He leisurely walked around to your front, with you looking back at him, trying, and failing, to look intimidating. He got down on one knee to speak with you face to face, eyes stern and unwavering. “Jus’ tell me where yer friends are. It don’t haveta be like this.”

“Go to hell.” You responded immediately. The brunette man sighed and gave you a rough punch to the jaw. You yelped and lolled your head to the side, squeezing your eyes shut. 

“I can go all night, Gimme a location, sweetheart.” He said lowly, flexing the hand that just pounded into your jaw. 

“Go. To. Hell.” You emphasized through gritted teeth. The next punch was straight to the left eye, so hard that it was sure to leave a nasty black eye. He then suddenly unsheathed his silver hunting knife and started flipping it in his hand absentmindedly.

“We saw who they were. A country girl ‘n a preacher. We can either find ‘em with yer help, or we’ll find ‘em, and before we kill ‘em, I’ll tell ‘em both how I killed ya, nice ‘n slow. Yer choice.” As the man was saying this, he leaned over, painstakingly slow, to put his knife to the base of your neck, his face inches from yours. 

Unfortunately for you, your stern demeanor faltered. Your breath hitched when you felt the cold blade pressed firmly to your neck combined with the man’s warm breath hitting your face. You were so scared that you were trembling, but also there was another feeling you had in that moment that you couldn’t quite place. “I’m n… not telling you anything.” You avoided his gaze like the plague, knowing that the man was catching on to how he was already breaking down your walls. 

“Huh? What was tha’? Use yer words.” He interrogated. He placed his hand on your knee and used it as leverage to lean impossibly closer, the knife nearly breaking the skin. Almost unconsciously, your eyes drifted from the man to his hand. It was so large, it could easily surround your relatively small hands. His fingers were so long and thick, and the veins. He had too many for you to count. There was dirt and a small amount of oil under his fingernails, implying that he worked with his hands every day. Maybe a car guy? Those hands could easily snap your fragile neck without a second thought, and it made you breathe heavier than you already were.

“Hey. Hey!” He moved his hand from your knee to roughly pull your hair back, causing the back of your head to slam against the back of the chair you were tied to. That got your attention. Also, earned a high pitched yelp from you. 

“Did ya even hear wha’ I jus’ said?” He asked, not as rough as just moments before but still firm. 

You decided to finally tell the truth. “No… I was… looking at your hand.” You said sheepishly, not looking him in the eye.

This time, the man falters, leaning back to get a good look at you. He eyed you up and down and smirked. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?” 

“N-Nothing. No reason.” You blabber out, honestly a little embarrassed that you told the truth, considering that you were supposed to be getting tortured at that moment.

He roughly tugged on your hair again, your head coming in violent contact back of the chair again, making your head fuzzy. Your eyes were half-lidded when they find the man’s piercing blue ones. “I… uh… think it’s hot.”

It looked like something clicked with the man in front of you. He eyed you once again while unconsciously licking his lips and smoothly resheathing his knife. He got down on both knees to properly look you in the face. To properly get you all hot and bothered. The same hand that was on your knee mere moments ago raised up to your throat, squeezing hard. Your eyes became wide and he chuckled maliciously. 

“Tell me what you want me to do with ‘em then.”

You swallowed, your mouth suddenly becoming very dry. You very much noticed the resistance on your throat when you swallowed, and he knows you did too.

“Touch me.” 

The man gave another laugh in response with how brazen you were with your desires. With one had still clutching your throat, he moved his other hand up your leg in a teasing manner. 

“Here?” He rubbed his thumb on your knee before continuing.

“Here?” His calloused fingers rubbed the inside of your thigh, and he could feel them tremble at his touch.

“Here?” He rubbed the crotch area of your thin shorts, already feeling how wet you were from him. For him. He thumbed at your clit, earning a soft whine from you. 

“Yeah? This where ya want me?”

“Yes.” You responded desperately, letting him know that you do, in fact, want this.

He then slowly removed his hand from your throat, resting both hands on your hips for a moment before starting to lower your pants and underwear. The process is excruciatingly slow, his hands rubbing up and down your ass and then your inner thighs. He finally gets your pants and underwear down to your ankles, then yanks both articles of clothing off. Your silky, red panties get shoved in his back pocket while your shorts get thrown behind him haphazardly.

His calloused hands then started making quick work untying the restraints around your ankles, getting them both off in about ten seconds. Without even exchanging words, you knew what he was doing. You swiftly wrapped your legs around his torso, adjusting so he would have the best angle.

“Good girl.” He rasped. You clenched over nothing.

He rubbed his hand dangerously close to your cunt, while his other arm was casually resting on your other leg. Like this is just a normal night for him.

“This hand? Ya want this?” He motioned to his hand with his icy blues.

You languidly nodded.

“Then beg.”

A strangled gasp forced its way out of your mouth at his comment. You then forced your brain out of its lust induced haze to come up with a coherent thought. “Ple… Please.”

He smirked, teasing your folds. “Name’s Daryl, by the way. Say my name if ya wanna be a whiny bitch.”

You were getting more needy by the second, trying to buck your hips to get even a little friction. “Please, Daryl.” Your voice was airy and you struggled to get your breathing under control.

He then shoved two shoved two fingers deep into your pussy, not even caring to stretch you out first. 

A strangled scream forcefully leaving your throat, you throw your head back in ecstasy. His- Daryl’s long, thick fingers fit perfectly inside you, almost like they were two pieces of the same puzzle. You arched your back as far as your arm restraints could let you, craving even more of his touch. You needed to feel his bulging biceps. You needed to pull and tug at his hair in desperation. You needed him. 

His pace was slow and excruciating.

Daryl spoke with a rasp. “Ya like bein’ tied up like this? Bein’ exposed? Huh? Little slut?”

All he got in response were fast deep breaths.

“Answer ‘n I’ll go faster. Told ya ta use yer words.”

Your brain was temporarily paralyzed hearing his accent get thicker, so you had to physically shake your head to snap out of your daze. “Yes. Yes, Daryl. Yes. I’m your slut.” You struggled to breathe out.

His eyebrows raised in a smirk as he quickened the pace. Unholy moans and whines left your mouth, not caring if anyone else hears. High pitched yelps and a tight feeling in your gut started when he continuously hit your sweet spot, his finger curving inside you. Your eyes were beginning to roll back, completely consumed by your hunger for Daryl. For only Daryl. 

“I- I’m gonna-”

“‘S fine. Let go, sunshine.”

With a few more pumps to your sweet spot, you did what you were told and let go. Your whole world was blurry and you felt lightheaded, but it was the best you’ve felt in a while. And no one has ever made you feel quite that good.

Daryl stood up and waited patiently for you to come down from your high, licking his fingers clean and grabbing your discarded shorts. 

You finally came back down to the same astral plane as the man now standing next to you and gazed at him with adoration. “Holy shit.”

The brunette chuckled and your dazed state. “‘Holy shit’ is right.”

He then suddenly went behind you and loosened your arm restraints. You looked over your shoulder in surprise. 

“What happened to wanting to know information?” You cocked your head.

He kneeled back down to caress your face. “Fuck yer friends. I only want you.”

[cruel-hiraeth]

꒰ THE UNBEARABLE WEIGHT OF LOVE ꒱ RORONOA ZORO X READER

warnings ⟢ slight angst (though it gets resolved). hurt/comfort. mentions of death and dying. descriptions of blood and wounds. brief allusions to buddhism. reader is gn and described as “beautiful” once.

word count ⟢ 1086

notes ⟢ happy birthday to my most beloved! this fic is self-indulgent (i.e. full of my hcs about zoro’s childhood) and a labor of love. the three of swords design in the banner is from the rider-waite tarot deck. three of swords generally depicts a difficult, sorrowful experience.

So this is how it ends.

The midafternoon horizon is fathomless—a halycon ocean—the sun anchored in its depths. A cool breeze stirs, kissing his tawny flesh, rustling his hair, and chiming his earrings; whispering beachgrass casts sinuous shadows across his face, allowing his good eye to rest in partial shade. Nearby, the tide laps at the shoreline—tenderly, the caress of a lover. Foam glides across half-buried seashells and beached debris in a brief greeting before returning to the sea, heeding her call.

Where Zoro is, he can’t be certain (not an uncommon occurence, though he would never admit it). His robe was slashed off at some point, and fell to the ground in shorn tatters. He lies bare-backed in a slurry of sand and ichor, his swords beside him; weeping wounds litter his torso, the most gruesome of which stretches from his navel to his right side. While he had the wherewithal to cut his haramaki and tie it around his waist as a makeshift tourniquet, the fabric is sodden, metallic teardrops puddling in the sand.

Pain is a feeling he greets like an old friend. It’s comforting, almost, like a suffocating embrace. As a boy, he had to nurture that cold familiarity if he wanted to survive—be it fighting bigger kids for spare scraps at the orphanage, or taking lashes from a bokken at the dojo. Strength comes with a cost, as does physical and mental growth. Existence is suffering, and suffering is—in its purest form—pain. But the mind-numbing sting that currently radiates from his injuries is the last thing on his mind.

For the first time in years, Zoro is afraid. He shivers despite the scorching sunbeams, sucking in shallow mouthfuls of air, glistening beads of sweat sliding down his body toward the earth.

It isn’t the prospect of death that scares him; he has walked most of his life along the corpse-strewn path of demons, fighting against his fate as an asura. And he has peered into death’s grim visage before—too many times count. He even dived into hell and cleaved through its bowels to face Enma, emerging victorious as the king of souls departed.

Regret, however? Regret is a different beast.

It’s why he trembles now, covered in grime and gore, half-lucid. As dark thoughts slink to the forefront of his consciousness, he’s aware that dying here will mean failing. Not simply failing himself and his own dream of becoming the greatest swordsman, but also failing his captain and best friend, and failing to preserve Kuina’s legacy. Most gut-wrenching of all, he knows that dying here will mean failing you. There’s so much Zoro wants to do with you, so much he wants to say. He itches with regret, calloused digits twitching at his sides, desperate to claw his skin off.

Clarity torments him. Memories flit before his steel gaze, now wet—a tear-streaked blade. He sees you: the flicker of your eyes when you tell a story; the curve of your lips when you poke fun at him; the halo of your hair when you nap against his chest; the set of your jaw when you’re serious. More than anything else, he longs to tell you how he feels.

I love you.

Three simple words that he always struggled to string together. Perfect moment after perfect moment was presented to him on a gilt platter: inside the crow’s nest at dawn, or beneath the lush boughs in the tangerine orchard—even perched atop the Sunny’s bow to watch the sunset. He squandered each of these opportunities because he (foolishly) assumed there would be more in the future.

I love you.

If only he could muster the strength to breathe out the sweetness of your name once more—to taste each smooth, honeyed syllable on his lips, to feel it silken on his palate. Maybe then he could forgive himself. But instead, it dies on his tongue as his vision blots and blurs. Eventually, his world goes black.

I love you.

Zoro awakes to the muffled creaking of a hull.

His head pounds, his mouth is bone-dry, and his limbs are leaden and stiff; he feels like death, and suspects that he looks like it, too. Surgical gauze tightly wraps his frame, stifled wounds screaming in agony. When he glances up and sees framed pictures of the crew above his cot, he recognizes where he is: the Sunny’s infirmary. In his periphery, you’re sitting at Chopper’s desk with a book in your lap. He tries (and, to his frustration, fails) to shift into a seated position. As soon as you notice the movement—head snapping up in surprise—you rush to his bedside.

He waits for you to reprimand him for being so reckless while away from the rest of the crew. But you don’t—not yet, anyway. (Not until he’s mostly healed. And for that, he wonders if you may be an angel.) Instead, you kneel on the wooden floorboards to level with him. Your fingertips tentatively brush against his cheekbone, as though you’re testing to ensure that he’s real. Content with what you find, you cup his chin, allowing him to lean into the soft warmth of your touch, catlike.

“I was worried about you. Well, so was everyone else. But I’ll only speak for myself,” you murmur.

His voice is gravel, cragged from disuse. “Sorry.”

After a few beats of silence, he clears his throat. “Is Chopper on break?”

You nod. “I’ve picked up the night shift so he can sleep.”

“How long was I out for?”

“Roughly two days.”

“Fuck.”

That draws a chuckle from you.

Zoro swallows. “Listen, I—”

Your thumb grazes his chapped lips, forcing him to pause. “Save your energy, Zo. You don’t have to defend yourself; you’re safe with me. I promise.”

Tired but patient, your gaze breaks him, only to piece him back together. His heart aches.

He inhales deeply. Then—in a flood of emotion he can’t stem—the words flow out: “Y’know I’m not good with feelings…or words. But, uh…” A broad palm wraps around your wrist, your skin hot against his. Ignoring the heat creeping up into his cheeks, he sighs, “I love you.”

Before he can second guess his confession, your lips bloom and burst into a radiant smile, setting your features alight. He doesn’t think you have ever looked more beautiful.

“I know,” you admit airily. Leaning in, you dot a kiss to his scarred eyelid. “I love you, too.”

[yanderenightmare]

Can we get one of my man geto 🫢 just him getting turned on by seeing the way he makes you cry.

Geto Suguru

TW: yandere, dubcon/noncon, punishment, Geto using the word monkey, reader has no cursed energy

gn reader

He unleashes gross curses on you every now and again when you get bratty with him. Harmless but effective – the ones that swallow up half your body and make you scream for him to help you. 

He sits peacefully, elbows on his knees with his head resting in his palm – one eye closed and the other observing you in amusement with a tiny smirk playing on his lips – watching you squirm.

Your whiney whimpers make him chuckle as he lazily gets up. Letting it get to your throat before leisurely lifting a large hand, exorcising it with a single simple swipe.

It disperses without a fight and you stumble to the floor trembling, breaths chocked and eyes wild while he crouches down to your level, cradling you as you shiver with hitched sobs – still feeling hundreds of wet tongues and curious fingers fondling every inch of your body, ears ringing with the distorted lustful utterings of all the things the filthy curse was planning on doing to you.

“Gonna behave for me now, monkey?” He questions softly, his smirk having relaxed into a gentle smile as he tucked a loose lock of hair behind your ear – seemingly affectionately.

But there’s no doubt he has zero respect for you, you think, remaining silent while looking up into those slitted eyes of his – feeling like a mouse being toyed with by a cat, lying wounded in its claws.

He lays his warm palm against your cheek, and you flinch with a sharp intake – offering but small whimpers as he holds your face and those big peeled eyes that look up at him in pure terrified dread. Only returning your cowering with a soft-spoken threat. “It’s either me or more monsters.” 

“No-” You gulp, urgently clutching the drapey sleeve of his yukata. “I’ll behave- I promise- I’m sorry- please… no more monsters.” You cry against his chest, muffled with tears while burying your face, yet still coherent enough to make him gently pat your head in response.

“Alright then.” He hums soothingly, pleased – his smile only widening when scooping your legs up, lifting you from the floor, and carrying you back all those confusing hallways you’d just run down. His steps – unbothered and slow – are satisfied in a sense as he holds you to his chest, returning you to his room, where he sets you down on the bed like before.

You sink down in it, your face damp from the tears. Raw and still choking back sniffles, your lips quiver in comprehension as he curls a finger beneath your chin and lifts your head to receive his lips.

He gives you tongue, and you accept it with a weak moan, dropping your back against the duvet in defeat while feeling him crawl over you. Bed creaking under the weight and sending shivers through you.

His hand, big and warm, brushes over your thigh, lifting your tattered nightshirt on his way to rub circles into your midriff with his lips still caught on yours, licking at the sweet salt of freshly fallen tears slipping down your cheeks – groaning at the taste.

He undoes the knots to his layers and lets it all slip to the floor unceremoniously, revealing pale muscles before he bears back down against you – mouth open and clashing against yours with a hungry growl. 

His lips soon slip from yours down your neck, nibbling on your collar before leaving suckling kisses on your chest, and you’re reminded of the offending mouths who'd been licking your skin only a while ago – feeling his hand knead the flesh of your thighs, exploring the space between them, quite like the horny digits who'd earlier been exploring you just the same…

And you’re left to wonder if there’s really any difference at all.

[lunarw0rks]

Angst Drabble where task 141 thinks reader was KIA but they just being held captive and was probably tortured until reader escaped?

☾𓂃❛🍰❜┊ we buried you

warning(s): platonic!141, canon-typical violence, torture mention, blood/injury, medical procedures, hurt/comfort, gn!reader ♡ masterlist // requests // ask box

you already looked dead and felt it even more. bloodied, beaten, and deprived of proper food and water for weeks. but you had your chance to escape; one chance, a slim one.

your captors' facility had been raided — before they could restrict you to a chair again. the man who was in charge had been dropped through one of the windows, and the commotion in the prison's corridors was too chaotic for anyone to hear the faint gunshot.

the ringing, and feeling of water trapped in your ears — it was a blessing given all the overstimulating chaos. no one was looking for you, not while they were defending their compound.

you lifted your head from your blank stare in your lap once you heard the heavy thump of his body. you crawled to the warden's corpse, fingering the speak button on his radio, but your vision was too doubled to focus. on top of it, you weren't sure you could speak. you gave up on that the second day into imprisonment. no words resulted in punishment, but so did the use of them. it was a double-edged sword of anguish.

it was now or never; any longer and you would catch an infection or bleed out from your injuries.

to find his gun, you would have to roll the weight of a grown man onto his stomach. maybe last week, before you sustained a broken rib you would've. but now? you could do nothing except stagger through the empty corridors with his keycard, deadened eyes doing little to observe a threat.

the luminance of the afternoon sun nearly knocked you down, an achy forearm raised to block the sheer brightness of the star. your best course of action was to keep moving towards the sounds of friendlies; now was not the time to be the hero you were trained to be.

it was a desert area, only adding to the dryness in your throat and eyes. the distant voices of soldiers, British ones grew louder as you advanced down the valley, eventually seeing a tank in view. what sounded like an officer or general, his shouts were interrupted by the downright grisly sight you were. a military undershirt matching his and your undergarments — crimson stains in the fabric, your skin, the cuts and gashes, bruises big and tiny, sunken and hopeless features.

❝don't move an inch!❞ he bellows despite you already stopped in your tracks, bare feet blistering against the torrid sand. it was only fair in a land full of terrorism — assuming anyone could be an enemy. his men raised their rifles as the officer approached steadily, the force of his squad as backup.

the keycard smears with your bloody fingertips fell to the sand before you turned your arm to him, flashing your only chance at getting back to your men; an insignia for the 141 across that traveled down your forearm.

his gaze softened as he gripped the tender flesh of your arm, inspecting the ink tattered by injury. he gives it a harsh rub with a wetted finger — but the tattoo is very real.

your legs buckled beneath you once you knew you were safe as if your broken body could only stay upright for minutes under the sizzling sun. you crumpled against the sand, eyes droopy and about to clench shut.

the last of the commotion you heard was the officer speaking frantically into his comms — and most notable, a familiar name. captain price.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

❝bleeding christ...❞ price muttered as you wheeled past him limp on a gurney. you were supposed to be KIA, buried and dead for months now. your comms had been lost, and everyone else in that transport didn't make it. but you were here, and barely breathing.

how you managed to stand, let alone remain lucid enough to identify yourself to British forces, he couldn't comprehend it. however, your captain wasn't surprised — you were tough as nails.

the medics worked tirelessly; wrapping you in cooling blankets, inserting a central line, IVs pumping fluid, and a feeding tube to slow feed you until your gut could handle nutrients again.

for hours; they induced your slumber, some much-needed shuteye as the lines and medications did their work on you. though you hadn't been moving much, your attempts at speaking and panicked looks around the medbay were inhibiting your ability to rest. but right now, your shallow breaths were like a living miracle.

you survived and made your escape out of sheer willpower — no one would forget this.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

soap was the first to sit with you, reading from a sports magazine. his logic? if you're up and bickering with him again, that means you're alright. your eyes would flutter open for seconds at a time, a small frown pointed at your chatty visitor, then they would shut again for hours. anything was better than nothing.

gaz and ghost only visited through the window into the medbay, a few minutes of observing your bruised body before they forced themselves to move along. or the captain did. the world couldn't stop for you, as much as he wanted them all to be there for you when you were lucid.

it was captain price that was. he gave the other three a light assignment, something that would keep the trio occupied for a few hours.

after what seemed like two days of medicated slumber, your eyes finally opened fully. you stared down at the stitches all over you, the soft cast around your wrist. most of all, the achy feeling is still ever-persistent despite the sedatives.

❝captain?❞ you croaked in a weak and emotional tone. you weren't in that prison, you were in the 'comfort' of a medbay. perhaps it was the drugs or the hell you had been through, but you were near tears.

his hand outstretched, a palm resting on one of the few uninjured bits of flesh on your arms. ❝you did it, kid. you... made it.❞ price's tone was soothing and low, like that of a parent consoling their maimed child.

what you had been through, he didn't need to know. he didn't ever want to picture it. what mattered most was that you were here and that you had proved yourself in the most heartbreaking sense.

he finds his pocket, pulling out his cell. ❝i have make a call to laswell. i can ask the others to visit if you'd like?❞ price asks softly, eyes remaining on you as he dials the number.

whether you wanted to see the rest of them right now or not, that was your decision. you earned it.

[brewed-pangolin]

Imagine what a menace Soap would be with these

Challenged Territory

Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x Fem Reader

18+ MDNI Explicit Smut, P in V, Soap getting all territorial over silly bruises, cue the Scottish bear

Synopsis: You play a round of rapid fire which ends with a quick session. But those bruises forming ignite the primal side of Soap and he takes it upon himself to mark you as his own

Okay. Call me crazy but I'm for damn sure Soap MacTavish puts play dates down on the calendar.

Just like date nights, movie nights, and camping weekends. Play dates are a must to keep the relationship fresh and full of vigor, especially when he's gone for extended periods of time.

And these little blasters are right up his alley.

But he'd want a fair fight, so expect to be taken to the range a few times to perfect that aim and steady your hand.

Once he's satisfied with your skill level, all hell breaks lose and he ain't holding back.

Your only indication that he's put the game into play will be your blaster on your bedside table. With him already staking out his perfect sniping position as you mentally prepare for the fire fight about to ensue.

And it always ends the same way. Both naked, breathless, and entangled on the living room floor as you tally up who got the most shots to the ass.

And those circular bruises growing on your flesh are nothing compared to the reddened handprint plastered on your left butt cheek.

--

"You can't count-, those slaps-, as hits, Soap," you muttered. A groggy whimper echoing off your tongue.

"Haud yer wheesht, lass. Beat ya by a solid 20. Easily"

"Pfft. 20's pushing it, trigger man."

"Doubt it. Cannae miss hittin' tha sweet ass a'yers."

You shoved your elbow into the center of his chest with a boisterous laugh, forcing a rumbling groan from his throat as he turned you onto your back and caged you beneath his muscular and gel tattered form.

"Ya wanna go 'nother round?" He asked with an excited growl. Eyes brimming in cerulean conquest as a curling smile formed on his kiss ravaged lips.

"Why? You clearly already beat me."

"Wasn't talkin' bout the game, bonnie," he purred lowly. His Scottish brogue thick as molasses as he pressed the bulbous tip of his cock against your wet and silken entrance.

"Feelin' a bit outdone by yer bruises. Need ta add some a'me own. Gotta-," he halted with a groan. Voice catching in his throat as he pushed between your folds and gradually pumped his hardened length into the welcoming walls of your cunt.

You rolled your eyes with a muffled moan, arching your back off the floor to assist in his entry as he glacially thrusted himself until fully seated.

"Johnny," you whimpered. Mouth open with a silent moan as your greedy walls clenched around him.

"I know, bonnie. Yer always so fuckin' tight fer me, aren't ya?" He growled as he encapsulated his mouth over your lips.

Devouring your moans before pulling away. Grabbing tightly at the flesh of your hips as he flared his chest and moved to sit on his haunches.

"Gonnae fuckin' wreck ya, lass."

The bellow that echoed in his brogue sent a spiraling shiver down your spine. Causing you to pulse around him as he hoisted your legs up and rest over his shoulders.

Clawing your nails along the floor for purchase as he pistoned his hips against your ass in a primal and aggressive thrust.

"Johnny!" You wailed, followed by a breathless gasp. Chest heaving, breasts bouncing as your body undulated with the waves of inertia from his forceful drives.

"Tha's it. Gonnae mark ya. Make ya mine. Make ya scream fer me."

Your body went into overdrive as he continually pistoned his cock into your aching cunt. Mind going nearly blank except for one thought that rolled around behind your eyes.

Soap saw those circular marks as a challenge, even if they were done so by his own hand. His need to mark you, claim you as his own pushed him into his primal state as he gripped with measured force into the supple flesh of your thighs.

And you loved it. The growls emanating from the caverns of his chest. The crazed yet loving glare in his eyes as he marked his territory with every throbbing plunge of his cock.

You'd carry those bruises with pride the next morning as you gazed at your figure in the mirror. The only change you'd make is the location. The bruises you loved. The rug burn, not so much.

Drabbles Masterlist

@deadbranch @sofasoap @punishmepunisher @d3athtr4psworld @glitterypirateduck @astraluminaaa @shotmrmiller @jynxmirage @obligatoryghoststare @mykneeshurt @simpingoverquestionablemen @thetrashpossum @ghosts-goldendoodle @designateddeadend @foxface013 @queen-ilmaree @haurasha @havoc973 @luismickydees @kkaaaagt