#he knows that i know that he knows etc etc etc
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“you made me feel small” dreamwastaken your days are numbered. the fact that tommy who was such a passionate creator who was so young and who has expressed so many times that he looked up so deeply to his ‘mentor’ figures and who cared so much about the cool stuff he was making was treated like this is just so fucking sad.
i don’t think it’s even the inniter saying this like this objectively sucks. dream was horrible, mean and manipulative to a kid who looked up to him and who just CARED SO MUCH.
every single dms that has been leaked of tommy’s (logan paul, dream, etc) has just demonstrated how eager he was to get these grown adults’ opinion and approval. and in response they gave him a dogshit example. and he still turned out better than them.
and that is precisely why, even though tommy is far from perfect and has fucked up and we don’t truly know any of these creators behind the scenes, i will always be a shooter for him because he’s demonstrated sincerity which is more than i can say for so many of these people.
he deserved to be treated so much better than to receive guilt tripping mile long messages from a grown man who knows he looks up to him.
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But What Do I Know? | SKZ [Virgin!OT8]
Just some odd headcanons I've got regarding Virgin!SKZ. Some things I think they're into, how they behave as virgins, etc. But again, what do I know?~
Members are grouped into categories for these headcanons.
Warnings: 18+ Content; Oral sex, fingering, spitting/spit mentioned, dry grinding/humping, cum, makeouts, biting
NSFW Masterlist | SFW Masterlist
Group Number One : The 'I swear I didn't know it would happen!' Boys [The Pants Cummers]
Virgin!Minho swears on his life - to himself, of course - that he WILL NOT come in his pants the first time the two of you have a heavy makeout session - but it happens anyways. And he realizes after that, that he kind of.. likes it? He learns if he grinds on you a little he also gets the friction from his jeans and that helps him come even faster. Forget being put down because he reaches his high in just a few minutes - he's trying to makeout with you as long as possible to see how many times he can come.
Virgin!Jisung is WILDLY embarrassed when it happens, until he realizes you never noticed. Even if he'd gotten all blubbery and started to whimper in nervousness, you'd though he was just enjoying himself and whining into your mouth because he was happy. But then he excused himself to the bathroom to clean up and took nearly half an hour, his ears still beet red when he returned to you. You'd asked what happened and when he was honest, you reassured him it was fine that it happened - and that you thought it was kind of hot. Now, he lets it happen to please you because he knows you like it - which makes him love it even more.
Virgin!Jeongin isn't really sure what happened the first time. He was making out with you, you were on top of him - and then his thighs were trembling and you were sitting up in shock. As soon as he realizes he'd just nutted in his boxers, he's flushed in the neck and chest with embarrassment. How did that happen - WHY did that happen? He's all whiny and whispering about how he's so so sorry that he'd just done that with you on top of him. But when you shush him and whisper that it's okay while kissing his neck and tugging his collar down to mark him up, he'd begun to think maybe it wasn't that bad. And if you kept kissing him like that it was definitely going to happen again.
Group Number Two : The Masters with their Hands
Virgin!Chris doesn't really have full confidence in himself when he slips a hand in your panties for the first time, but he'd done as much research as he possibly could before his date with you earlier that night so he was sure he'd be fine. And his confidence only raised after you let your head tip back and moaned out his name. He'd let out a sigh as he pushed two fingers into your warmth, new to the feeling of being inside of you but enjoying it nonetheless. And your reactions, your whining of how much you loved his hands and how big his knuckles are, how good they feel on your walls - Yeah, he's a bit cocky after that and no longer worried about if he'll be able to please you.
Virgin!Hyunjin knows what he's doing in theory - not in practice. He did no research but it can't be that hard; and for him, it's not. It seems to come to him naturally (after you having to guide his thumb to where your clit actually is), with his middle and ring fingers pushing deep into your pussy until your thighs were quivering against his hips. He's a master at multitasking, able to rub your clit with his thumb and pump his fingers into you almost too quickly too well. And all while hovering above you, biting his lip and looking so good, too? Almost a bit mean of him to be this pretty and talented in bed.
Virgin!Seungmin really only is good at this because he plays games on PC. He's use to clicking the keys quickly, using multiple fingers at once - so you'd best bet he's good at fucking his fingers into you so quick it's got you nearly crying against the sheets. Also another who's good at multitasking - again, because of gaming - but it's with his other hand this time. And his mouth. He'll lean down to suck on your clit, fuck two or three fingers into you, and reach up to grope and tug at your chest with what feels like practiced (even though it's not) ease. Also mean in bed but.. in a different way. ;]
Group Number Three : The 'I can't help it' Boys [The Bed Humpers]
Virgin!Changbin swears that he didn't even realize he was grinding against the mattress while making out with you until he was making a mess on the sheets. Usually it's you he teases about your orgasm hitting early or the way your legs tremble in need when he sucks on your chest during heavier makeout sessions. But this time? This time it was him being teased, plump cheeks rosy pink and eyes darting over the sheets where pre had leaked from his tip and smeared on the mint of your bed. He's pouty, swearing up and down he didn't realize he had done that, before being welcomed back into your waiting arms with a shy smile. He waits until he has your reassurance that it's okay and it's nothing to be embarrassed about before he lets it happen again - and even blushes and gets shy when you ask him a few weeks later why he isn't humping the blankets while he sucks on your neck and chest. You think it's cute - and he's happy to please.
Virgin!Felix is.. kind of shameless about it. He's happy to let you know he's into you by touching and kissing and whatever - but he's a little too shy, and inexperienced, to even think about grinding on you. Your hips? His hips? Not connecting just yet. He's waaaay too shy to do anything like that. But he does want the friction, does crave the touch and grind of it all, so he'll go for the next best thing - laying between your legs while he kisses you all nice and slow in the early morning and rolling his hips down against the mattress. The feeling of his pajama pants rubbing on his cock is perfect, and the stiffness of the mattress... It's enough to satisfy him without getting too touchy with you just yet. And you seem to find it cute, too, that he humps the mattress all shy and sweet. If he notices you looking or watching he'll probably stop but any other time he's happy to keep going. Though there have been a few times he's gotten closer and humped your thigh instead. Not that you were complaining.
Group Number Four : The '*moans while neck deep in pussy*' Boys [The Messy Eaters]
Virgin!Hyunjin looooooves eating pussy. It's his favorite past time actually. Not busy? He's on his knees between your legs while you watch a show. Getting ready for sexy time? He's on his knees at the end of the bed waiting. Getting home from work? He's kissing you in the doorway and pinning you there so he can go down on you right away and relieve any stress. Honestly just a househusband with a nasty mouth who CANNOT keep his spit in it. It's like he's feral, almost. The type of guy who growls when you try to pull away or who bites at your thighs, nipping at your clit when you squirm too much. Again, so inexperienced that he's honestly not super great at eating you out - but does his best and is more than enough to please, at the cost of spit dripping down his chin and your thighs.
Virgin!Jisung. I've said it before, I'm saying it again!! Jisung likes to eat you out but really only when it's something casual and lazy. At first he was SO nervous because he was afraid he'd mess up or be bad at it - but then he realized, you're.. pretty chill about it all. You'll be on your phone and he'll be between your legs, sucking on your clit and dragging his tongue through your folds like you're the sweetest ice cream he's ever tasted. He's sweet when he eats you out and he's really careful about it, but he's.. drooling everywhere. Maybe even builds up the courage to spit on it if he thinks you're not paying attention, only to apologize and giggle when you flinch in surprise.
If y'all want a part two let me know - I have like 4-5 other groups already written in my notes lol.
Permanent Taglist :
@dwaekkicidal @jabmastersurpriseee @possum-playground
@thatonedarkskinnedsiren @oc3anfloor @theyadorevalerie
@jeonginsleftcheek
#skz imagine#skz x reader#stray kids x reader#skz smut#stray kids smut#bangchan x reader#felix x reader#changbin x reader#hyunjin x reader#seungmin x reader#IN x reader#han x reader#lee know x reader#skz scenario#skz headcanons#stray kids headcanons#bbokicidal
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cm characters reaction to you waking them up with oral
nsfw | mdni | oral (f&m receiving), somnophilia?, etc.
aaron hotchner - waking aaron up with oral would be like 10/10 one of the best experiences. he’s a pretty light sleeper. he has to be for cases and such. so when he wakes up the moment your tongue circles around the tip of his cock, letting out a low groan. his hand would immediately go to your head, intertwining his fingers with the strands. “fuck, baby,” he’d moan in a low, exhausted voice that never fails to make your thighs clench. he would just relish in the feeling, letting you work your magic on his cock.
derek morgan - i like to think that derek is a deep ish sleeper. he’s the type to be snoring. so what’s the best way to get him to stop snoring? wake him up by sucking his dick of course. i feel like derek wouldn’t wake up until you add your hand into the mix, sucking him and jerking off whatever you can’t fit into your mouth. he’d wake up with a “god, babygirl,” while bucking his hips into your mouth.
emily prentiss - waking emily up with oral is AHHHHHH. she’s a whiner. i don’t even know how to properly explain it. you’d be sucking her clit, face buried in her cunt and emily would wake up when you dip your tongue into her hole. she’d whine, opening her eyes to look at you eating her out. because she needs to watch you of course. “please don’t stop,” she’d moan, holding your head to her cunt.
jennifer jareau - JJ is not a deep sleeper. so she would feel you move and would wake up. but she wouldn’t move or do anything until she feels your face between her thighs. the moment you started licking her cunt, she’s letting out a small chuckle that turns into a moan. and she’s like “well good morning to you,” with a sleepy smile on her lips. and you just reply by sucking on her clit and letting out a noise of your own.
spencer reid - spencer, although he prefers giving heed over anything else, will never say no to your mouth on his cock. the moment your mouth is going down on his length, he wakes up with a whimper. and as your tongue swirls on his tip, he’s letting out a sleepy whine, bucking his hips into your mouth. he’d lick his lips before parting them, letting out moans of pleasure as he looks down at you. “o-oh my god,” he’d moan as he’s gripping your hair, holding your head as he cums down your throat.
#criminal minds#criminal minds imagine#criminal minds smut#criminals minds x reader#aaron hotchner#derek morgan#emily prentiss#jennifer jareau#spencer reid#aaron hotchner x reader#derek morgan x reader#emily prentiss x reader#jennifer jareau x reader#spencer reid x reader#criminal minds x you#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds reactions#spencer reid smut#aaron hotchner smut#derek morgan smut#emily prentiss smut#jennifer jareau smut
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If there ever is an autobiography of mine and that guy stumbles upon it, he won't make it past the first page 😭
But also, what a weird barometer to have, cause mistakes (or what an individual considers one), brings conflict and conflict drives the story, so has he ever finished a book in his life?
I wanna know what he defines as a mistake, the genre he most goes for (cause I'll admit romance usually has the stupidest plots and I have stopped reading a lot of romance books cause their conflict in the real world wouldn't even make it into an argument) the authors he likes etc
There was a reviewer or commenter who said "I always keep track of how many mistakes the protagonist makes and after three, I stop reading the story and never look back".
I think about that person pretty frequently. We read for our own enjoyment, and therefore there's no wrong way to read a book so long as you're enjoying yourself, but ... maybe I don't actually believe that. Maybe there are wrong ways to read a book, and this guy found one.
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Tormented Spirit | 15
Part 1 [...] 14 15 16
"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."
Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 4k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, DD:DNE, smut (piv, fingering, fingering, double penetration, cock warming) violence, pregnancy, miscarriage, panic/anxiety attacks, suicidal ideation, attempted suicide, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.
A/N: guys i think hes trying. | cross posted on ao3
@arabellasleopardcoat @prettybiching @myllovellybones
You don't know how many times you and Daemon walked around the fountain. Truth be told, as the seconds bled into minutes, you began to fear he would get impatient with you and ask you to stop your walk before you were ready to. It didn't help that every time you looked to examine his demeanor, he was already looking at you. His gaze was scalding. You could not keep it for more than a second.
You could not help but pick at the flower in your hand until all its petals were scattered on the floor. You felt uneasy around him.
At some point, you became too restless walking around with him that you opted to sit down and be done with it. "Very well," you mutter, sitting on the wide ledge of the stone fountain, "I shall tell you."
Daemon sits next to you, brows furrowing at the way your breath hitches.
You suck in a deep breath, "our children are-"
"You need not speak of them this instant," he takes your hand, squeezing it, "not if it is unbearable."
You look at his hand. You look at him. You see the softness of his gaze. You feel nothing. You mutter his name.
He mutters your back in response, reaching for your cheek.
You pull away, both your head and your hand.
He gulps, watching you scoot back. He retreats and digs his nails into his lap.
"If I do not tell you now," you shake your head, looking over your shoulder, "I do not know when next I will be willing."
Daemon watches you watch the water trickle. He shifts, "I do not mind."
"I do," you whip your head back, "I do not want to keep you waiting."
He watches your dark hair flow with the wind. He so badly wants to brush it out of your face. He shakes his head, "you have waited enough for me."
You chuckle dryly, "you misunderstand," you look away and reach for the flower drifting over. You grunt as you stretch your arm out, "you make me uneasy."
Daemon's face twitches. Poison spreads through his thorax and an invisible noose tightens around his neck. He opens his mouth, but only a shudder leaves him. You say this so casually too... what horror.
You manage to reach the flower and relax back in your spot after grabbing it. You stare at the rose before turning to your husband. He looked so unlike what he did the day he left you. His hair, which was once nearly the length of yours, now couldn't cover his ears. And his eyes... they were uncharacteristically soft. You lower your gaze, "there was once a time I put a flower in your hair... do you recall it?"
He knits his brows.
You brush your rose petals.
He does not recall. "I recall the day you littered your brother and your ward with blossoms you picked from the field."
You chuckle as you fidget with your rose, "pity."
Daemon swallows a thick lump in his throat, "would you help me recall it?"
"Twas the same day," you smile, looking up at him.
He is winded, "I-"
"I pity you, I really do."
Deep lines form on his face. He shakes his head as his voice breaks, "I... do not mean to forget."
You chuckle again, though there was no trace of amusement in your chest, only tightness, "I know you don't," you tentatively raise the flower and take a deep breath. It takes a few moments for you to gather the nerve to secure the rose by his ear.
Daemon stills as you do so, then helps you put the flower in place.
You pull away, looking at him and his rose. You noticed the way his breathing grew heavy, how his eyes glistened with tears that threatened to fall. You sigh and shrug, "I remember placing a bud in your hair and thinking you-" you stop to chuckle. Youu shrug and shake your head, "-were devastatingly handsome I could not help but stare."
His lips part and his nostrils twitch.
You wait for him to react.
He does not.
"Do you not recall this either?" you raise your brows, "those were your own words."
He knits his brows, sheepish over how you were seemingly teasing him so suddenly for his vanity.
"You came from the City Watch," you clarified, "I did not know it yet, but you had razed King's Landing and executed criminals in the streets—"
His jaw slacks, "ah."
"—you were covered in blood. I stared because I was concerned and that," you point to nowhere, "was what you told me."
He shakes his head, "a poor jest of a man who thinks himself funny," he turns to the bushes, "forget the memory."
You knit your brows, "I do not want to forget."
He looks back at you.
"I did agree," you mutter, "though instead of devastatingly handsome, I would have called you beautiful."
Daemon wanted to speak, but then the flower in his hair was being blown off by the wind. He keeps it in its place, forfeiting the moment to respond.
"It must be terrible to have only the capacity to recall things that cause you rage or suffering."
A wind blows between you and the air in his lung is pulled along with it. Daemon shivers when you reach a hand out to him. He looks at your outstretched palm before taking it in both of his. His heat causes your skin to prick with goosebumps. His hand felt as hot as dragon fire.
"I recall your scent and the feel of your skin," Daemon scoots forward, "I recall your tenderness and your fire. I-"
"You must understand," you cut him off, placing your other hand atop his, "I do not ask you to recall merely to reminisce," you take a few deep breaths, "I do this to explain I no longer feel that way."
His stomach drops. He realizes then this stoic countenance you held was not that but indifference to him. He whimpers and lowers his head, "no, please-"
"I feel nothing for your sadness," you mutter, "I cannot lend you any more of my pity, for where I once saw beauty, I now see only grief..."
Tears stain his cheeks.
"And loss," you pull away to wipe his face, "my babes looked so much like you."
He presses his hands atop yours and pushes them into his cheeks so that you would not let him go.
"Our babes," you correct yourself.
He whimpers. He screws his eyes shut, trying to recall their names. He cannot.
"I did not write about them for I knew you took many lengths to avoid having children with me."
His eyes are suddenly wide open. He is blindsided.
"I, myself, could not believe it when the maester told me I was with child. He explained to me that it is possible to conceive with premature ejaculation."
Daemon's hold on your hands loosen. You knew what he was doing all alone? You pull away.
"I was deeply afraid you would doubt me, doubt their parentage because you never spilled inside of me, but... you should know that my tw— our twins both had silver hair," you sniffle, "and violet eyes."
You begin to weep as the punishing memory plays in your head. He feels helpless to see you this like this, twice over because he knows if he touches you, you will retreat.
You whimper and shake your head, "many bore witness to my... miscarriage."
The thought horrifies him.
"Your brother being one."
Daemon's face is aghast.
"You can go to him if you ever wish to accuse me of infidelity."
"You think the worst of me," he groans.
You stare at him for a moment then burst into dry laughter, "I do not. You attacked my guards for something you misheard me mutter in my sleep— I think exactly what I know of you."
He makes a sound, "but I-"
You wait for him to continue.
There is nothing left for him to say.
"You must," you sigh, "understand... I am only trying to make you understand. Where you yearn presently I yearned for three years."
"But I don't understand," he shakes his head, "had I not returned today, would you have still written to me?"
You inhale deeply, "I would."
"Then why don't you want me?"
"Because, Daemon!" you come to a stand, "had you not returned today, you still would have ignored me!"
He looks up at you.
"And my children would remain unburied!"
His jaw drops, "w-what?"
"I did not have them buried!" you point to the side, "I had them kept rotting in a box so that they would be acknowledged once by their father and be sent off in the traditions of their house."
Daemon slowly rises to his feet. He gulps, raising a hand.
You step back, "do you understand?"
He clenches his fists, then relaxes. He nods, "what do you want me to do?"
"I want you to prepare the funeral rites for my children and I want their bodies honored tomorrow."
He stares at you for a moment before nodding again. He mutters under his breath, "eminna ziry gaomagon, ñuha jorrāelagon." I will have it done, my love.
"Ȳdra daor yne brōzā bona." Don't call me that.
He is taken off-guard, forgetting that you now speak his mother tongue.
You wipe your face and smoothen out your robe, "I nightly have supper with my sister and nephew."
He watches you shake your head. Something happens to his heart as he imagines how you've lived without him.
"You are more than welcome to join us, so long as you promise to keep your manners."
He perks.
"But you ought to know I normally invite whichever ward is keeping me guard to dine with us."
His eye twitches. He aimlessly examines the sky, "I..."
You watch his expression closely.
"I do not think I can stomach being around your wards, let alone dine with one."
"But I've explained that-"
He raises a hand. You clench your teeth, watching him shake his head. He releases a deep breath, "it is not my desire that you resent me more than you already do."
You watch him reach a hand out to you.
"Let me walk you at least?"
You stare at his hand for a moment. When you take it, you feel your stomach drop and Daemon feels his spirit lifted.
The walk you take is silent. When you arrive to the solar you dined at, Daemon rubs your hand before pulling away. You watch him fade down the hall and you feel conflicted to see him go.
He walks off to gods know where and aimlessly continues to do so until he hears someone call his name. When he turns, he sees his brother's face.
Viserys had been smiling, up until he got close enough to see Daemon's face. The king's brows furrow. He places a hand on his brother's arm, watching tears stream from his face, "skoros iksis pirta?" What is wrong?"
"I could not ask her... but she said you saw them," he mutters, gripping Viserys by the arms. His lips wobble and his brows tighten, "vestas ao ūndan ñuha riñar." She said you saw my children.
Viserys tenses when Daemon's grip tightens, out of aggression or desperation, he was not sure. To his brother, sometimes the two were one in the same. He places his hands on Daemon's shoulders and tries to calm him down.
Daemon shudders, "what did they look like?"
It hits him. He thinks of the moon you left for Oldtown after Daemon left for the Stepstones and how Alicent worried that it would cause conflict between in your marriage. A sourness spreads in the king's mouth as he recalls Alicent worriedly relaying her sister's worries to him— that Daemon would accuse her of fleeing to Oldtown because she had strayed. Viserys clenches his jaw, "they're your children, brother."
Daemon's brows furrow, "w-what?"
"They're Valyrian— silver hair, violet eyes-"
The prince shakes him, "you misunderstand me." He shakes his head, a whimper leaving his lips, "what did they look like?"
Viserys watches Daemon's eyes water all over again.
"Did they look like me? Did they look like her? Did they have her nose? Her lips? Her brows? Or mine?" He shudders, "were they beautiful?"
Viserys feels his lungs tighten when his brother sobs into his chest. His own eyes water and he throws his arms around Daemon. He leans into him as his brother's arms tighten around him. Viserys does not recall the last time Daemon's wept in his arms.
"Shijetra nyke. Nyke shifang aōha ōdres sir," Daemon says through tears. It forces tears to fall from Viserys's eyes. Forgive me. I understand your pain now.
Viserys holds him a little tighter, "ñuha valonqar." My (younger) brother.
The two remain this way until Daemon was calm enough to part from the embrace.
After supper, you make your way back to your chambers, frowning to see it empty. You take a candle and light it, heading out of your room to look for your husband. In truth, you did not know why you were doing so, for all you knew, he was out in Fleabottom, reliving the early days of your marriage. Still... here you were.
You pad quietly down the halls and ask the occasional servant you pass if they had seen Daemon. The response was the same between them all: no, princess. You nod and bid them good night each time before walking off.
You realize soon your feet were silently leading you somewhere, which is why you stop when you reach the hall to the Kingsguards' quarters. You find your eyes falling to the door that lead to the shared room of the Cargyll brothers. You momentarily recall the rather cold dismissal you gave them, which was so unlike you. Your heart calls for you to check on them. The next thing you know, you're knocking on their door.
You watch the light on your candle flicker as you wait for an answer. You watch it go off when the door opens with a, "princess."
You look up, finding Arryk's worried face, and soon, Erryk behind him.
"Has something happened?" Erryk asks hurriedly.
You shake your head, "no... I," you look at the smoke wafting from your candle, "I just wanted to see if you were alright."
Arryk, even through the darkness, could see your bare décolletage. His eye lingers before he shakes his head, "you needn't worry about us. My brother and I are well."
"It was your husband that ended up badly injured," Erryk quips.
Arryk looks over to his brother. Erryk has his eyes on you, or rather, your candle. He reaches out, "allow me to relight it, my princess."
You watch him take your candle and a shiver runs down your spine as the wind blows down the quiet hall.
Arryk notices and steps aside, "it will not take long, but please, take a seat."
You walk into their room and Arryk motions to one of the beds. You take a seat and watch Erryk look through his drawers, grumbling, "where the bloody hells did I put that damn flint?"
Arryk drapes a blanket on your shoulders, rolling his eyes at his brother, "hang on."
You tighten the blanket around you, immediately feeling warm, not only because of the added layer, but because it smelled like your ward. You watch Arryk dig through his own drawers and the moment he grumbles like his twin, you realize you it was going to take long. You didn't mind at all though.
You decide to lie down and make yourself comfortable. You yawn, knowing then you were, in fact, exhausted.
Erryk decides his flint is lost and snaps at his brother, "where's your fucking flint?"
Arryk glares at back at him, "mind your manners, worm."
Erryk immediately tenses, remembering why he was looking for flint in the first place. His eyes turn to you, throat tightening to see you lying down. He steps forward, calling out your name.
Your heavy eyes open wide, only to fall again at the sight of Erryk, "hmm?"
Erryk kneels beside you, "you cannot sleep here." His hand twitches, dying to touch you.
Hearing his twin's words, Arryk turns. He rubs his chest and curses under his breath.
You merely hum again, snuggling deeper into your blankets.
Erryk speaks your name once more.
You sigh, "yes?"
"Princess," Arryk says, clenching his fists in an attempt to steel himself away, "I do not think we will find flint to light your candle."
Erryk ignores reason and listens to desire; he places a hand on your cheek, belly burning when you lean into his touch.
Arryk gulps at the sight of it. His voice is soft and shaky, "y-you cannot sleep here."
You sigh once more, finally pushing yourself up from the bed. You tighten the blanket around you with a groan. Your heavy eyes look upon Erryk, knelt on the floor, his own eyes were blown, wholly opposite to yours. You then turn to Arryk, stood rigid by his drawers. You notice the way his fingers twitch.
You place your hand on Erryk's shoulders, intending push yourself up on him, that is, until you feel the heat of him; he is impossibly hot. You examine his face, lips parting at the sight of his furrowed brows. Erryk whimpers when your colder hands come to his cheeks. He wants for nothing else than to warm you.
"Do you want me to leave?" you mutter.
Erryk immediately shakes his head. Arryk immediately calls out your name.
Erryk ignores him, eyes lowering to your neck, or what was left uncovered by your blanket.
You turn to Arryk, licking your lips before asking slowly, "do you want me to leave?"
Arryk gulps, lowering his head.
"You're welcome to leave, brother," Erryk mutters, hands coming atop yours. He hisses at the coolness of your skin and mutters rather pathetically, "please."
You ignore Erryk, eyes on his twin, "Arryk?"
Arryk scoffs, lifting his countenance. He does not say a word. He merely walks to the door and locks it before walking in front of you to kneel beside his brother.
Erryk whines when your hand leaves him. You shush him as you take Arryk's cheek, "the gods gave me two hands to hold you both at once."
Arryk leans into your touch, nearly choking on his spit at the smell of your fragrance on your wrist.
"Please," Erryk begs for the second time, "my skin grows hotter. I need to warm you."
You relish the feel of their cheeks a moment longer before pulling away completely. Their eyes watch you like a hawk and you bask in the attention before pushing the blanket off your shoulders. You sigh and nod, tilting your head back.
They are immediately upon you. Four hands roam you at once, two hot mouths on either side of your neck. They move in sync, never colliding with a hand that did not belong to them, their touches somehow contrasting yet complimenting all at once.
Arryk, ever the more level headed and patient, kisses against your throat slowly and gently. His hands work to undress you, to massage your breasts, to assure you of his devotion. Erryk, ever the more hungry and eager, licks and nips against the juncture of your neck and shoulder, though not in a manner that would ever be unpleasant. His hands work to pleasure you, to make you moan, to make known his yearning.
Like clockwork, each twin finds your most sensitive part, loath to part from your skin. Though one was as greedy as the other in their desire for you, your own desire came before theirs, and never has there been a moment where either of them kept you wanting.
You lean into Arryk, eyes screwing shut as you chase after his mouth. He does not make you wait; his hand comes to the back of your neck and the other moves to the opposite breast, pinching your nipple, knowing it will get you to moan. He immediately feasts on your moan, tongue dancing into your open mouth. His hand kneads your breast to warm it like he did the other.
Erryk, now that you were tilted to one side, takes this opportunity to part your thighs more by bringing your leg over his lap. He easily finds his way past your bloomers and rubs your clit, moaning at the feel of your building wetness.
The twins work in efficient tandem, and soon you're all three of you naked and hot. The bed for the guards are unlike your own; it was barely just enough for one, let alone three, and yet, you made it work; the desire to be close to each other made it work.
It was not enough to have Arryk pressed behind you and Erryk in front, you were desperate to have them inside, and you relayed just that by reaching for Arryk's cheeks and throwing a leg over Erryk's hips. Receptive as ever, Arryk kisses your hand and Erryk rubs your thigh.
"I need you both," you mutter.
"You have us," Arryk assures, rubbing your belly.
Erryk manages a kiss on your jaw, "who do you want first, my princess?"
"Both."
"Fuck," Erryk tightens his hold on your thigh.
Arryk's brow furrow, "are you certain?"
You whimper at the feel of fingers brushing between your legs. You mewl as someone pumps in and out you. You arch your back and ride out the sensations, "please."
"She's more than ready, brother."
"We should make her peak first."
"No," you whine, eyes opening to look at them both, "I can take it."
They are about to protest, but their words are smothered by how you grind back into Arryk and grab Erryk's cock, each as hard as the other. You pant, "we've done it before."
Arryk squeezes your hip. His voice is heavy, "a-are you certain?"
"We do not want to hurt you," Erryk softly offers.
You nod and turn to Arryk, kissing him reassuringly. You then turn to Erryk doing the same as you stroke him a few times before guiding him into you. His reaction is instant, he moans when his tip feels your wetness, and the only reason he does not plunge into you is because he holds your comfort higher than his own need.
Arryk kisses your shoulder as he leans into you. The first stretch is the one met with most resistance and he, along with his brother, always ensure you have ample time to adjust to them before even thinking of their own comfort. It's all worth it in the end, because, gods, when they're both sunked in, the feel is maddening.
The sounds that you emit when they begin to move starts soft, but both of them know better than to think it would remain. As soon as they begin to pick up the pace, they muffle your mouth with their own, assuring you have enough room to breathe though your sounds are garbled.
In truth, they could only dampen the noise so much, as there was the sinful sound of wet skin slapping to account for. Soon, the thrusting and squelching became unmistakably lewd. Soon, dampening the uncontrollable sounds scratching up your throat became near impossible.
Faster and faster and deeper and deeper and hotter and hotter and wetter and wetter— then snap.
It was good that Arryk knew your body so well that he clamped his hand over your mouth just before you clenched around their cocks. The sound that left you was loud, loud and to the bone obscene. You make another sound at the feel of them pulsing and twitching inside of you; the twins single-mindedly ride out the pleasure raging across you all with increasingly sloppier thrusts.
Arryk eventually pulls his hand off your mouth, only to replace it with his mouth, and Erryk kisses you soon after. You three remain entangled like this, hot and satisfied. You want nothing more than to sleep in their arms.
An instant stream of hot seed spills down your thighs when they pull out. You whimper in protest, never liking it when they leave you before you are ready. You're rarely ready.
They tell you what they always do, they'd never leave if they hadn't just done so, and they ought to clean you up.
And they do; they clean you up and you whimper some more, this time to complain about the cold. So there, in that tiny bed, all three of you slept, keeping each other warm.
That's when Daemon starts from his own bed, heart racing, body sweating. He is severely disoriented as he turns to the window, blinded by the morning sun, then to space on the bed beside him. He heaves as he scans the emptiness, mind racing with the terrible nightmare he had woken up from.
He scratches his eyes as tears begin to prick in its corners. He jumps, throwing the blanket aside and forfeiting slippers as he marches off. He reaches the door, but then he starts when he hears a squeal.
You gasp, one hand on your chest, another on the door sill for balance. You had just emerged from the bath, startled to see him sprinting off.
Daemon immediately comes to your side, gripping your arm. He notices the smell of your soap first, then the presence of your servants behind you second. He gives them a look and leads you off, silently dismissing them.
Your servants scurry off as Daemon leads you to your vanity.
You look at him, noticing the manic expression on his face, "is everything alright?"
He does not turn to you as he sits you down.
"Is there somewhere you need to be?"
"You," he blurts and shakes his head rapidly, "I was looking for you."
You watch him scratch his eyes. He takes the comb on your vanity and only once he's untangling your hair do you see from his reflection that he looked distraught and teary. You mutter, "Daemon-"
"When did you come bed?"
Your brows quirk and you're about to respond, until he yanks through a tangle, causing you to wince.
Daemon stops and immediately shakes his head as he looks at your reflection, "I did not mean to."
You frown, slowly enunciating, "Dae-"
"Do not answer," he clenches your comb in his hand.
He looks erratic. Your heart rate picks up, "what?"
"I change my mind. I do not want to know when you came to bed," he shakes his head, combing through your hair again. You swear you see his hands shake as he does. He whispers to himself, "or if you came back at all."
You do not catch it, but you do catch his hand, forcing him to stop combing.
Daemon shivers as you come to a stand. You look at him, face falling at the tears so suddenly streaming down his face. You furrow your brows and reach for his cheek. You are taken aback when he pulls away.
You gulp, unsure if you should step forward or back. You decide to stay put and slowly call out to him.
Daemon wipes his face, "I-"
"Is it the wake?"
"..."
Your own eyes begin to water, "... did you, perhaps, have a nightmare?"
He is at a loss for words. He flinches when you take a step forward.
You watch him closely as you raise your hand. He does not move away up until you touch his arm. You must admit, the way in which he shrugs you off stings. Still, you compose yourself with a sigh and nod. "Very well," you step back.
His hand raises, "wait."
You are rendered frozen when he grabs your arm. Your chest begins to tighten and your eyes begin to water against yourself. You shrug and chuckle dryly, "I do not understand."
Daemon's face is pained as he releases you. He lowers his head and steps back, "neither do I."
You both stand there for a moment. You wait for him to say something but he never does. In truth, Daemon was waiting for you to do the same.
He was rather disappointed to hear you say, "perhaps you should take a bath."
He watches you wipe the tears off your cheek and wonders why it was tears found you so easily. Was it your affliction? Or just him? He nods, "very well."
Your gaze is fixed upon him as he heads to the bathroom. You sigh deeply, sitting back in your vanity chair to gather yourself.
#alys rivers who#daemon fanfic#daemon targaryen x reader#daemon targaryen#daemon x reader#daemon targaryen fanfic#daemon smut#daemon targaryen smut#daemon fluff#daemon targaryen fluff#house of the dragon smut#hotd fanfic#hotd smut#daemon angst#daemon targaryen angst#daemon#daemon targeryan#house of the dragon#erryk cargyll fanfic#arryk cargyll fanfic#erryk cargyll smut#arryk cargyll smut#house of the dragon fanfic
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Let me in your ocean, Swim
The five times Sukuna tried to confess his feelings, and the one that works
PREVIEW- COMING SOON
Pairings- Sukuna x F reader (both like 23/24)
Summary- You have known Sukuna your entire life, and he's infuriated you for most of it. Since you were kids on a playground he was picking on you, and you decided you hate him (love him!?) little do you know, he's been in love with you since the moment you met. There were five times he tried and epically failed to let you know. You all don't see each other for two years after college, when you run into him on Valentine's day at the bar- and you think, what better for getting jilted tonight then a hate fuck from Sukuna!? But... no, in fact he needs to finally tell you the truth.
CW- enemies to lovers (kinda!?) Sukuna is TERRIBLE at feelings, lowkey a bully when you're younger, go through the five times he tried to tell you (intermingles with the current night) romantic, sweet, angsty and NSFW. Smut at the end and throughout a lot of teasing and tension. warnings- rough sex, dirty talk, creampie, oral (m and f recieving) fingering, alcohol, use of recreational drugs etc- oneshot!!
Comment to get on the Taglist! Gonna be a LONG one (Same premise/style as Gojo and Geto 5+1- but it's Sukuna SO lol)
You didn’t expect to be sitting alone at a bar for Valentine’s day, but here you are, dressed to the nines in a beautiful glittery black dress, hair done up, makeup perfect on your skin. You have glittery bangles along your wrist, and red bottom heels, you’re as dressed up as you ever got, but right before your date, your boyfriend decided to break things off with you.
Which leads you to this hole in the wall bar, across the street from the fancy restaurant you’d sat at for an hour waiting on him, only to get broken up via text. Sighing, you order another drink, tensing then when you hear it, the damn voice of the man who you simultaneously couldn’t stand and also had it bad for, for years and years, ever since elementary school.
“Tch, what’re you doing here brat?” You glare up at him, but when you see just how good Sukuna looks, after two years of not seeing him? You falter, lips parted just so as he smirks down at you.
However, his heart is pounding in his chest, despite certainly not showing you outwardly, you take his damn breath away. Sukuna has always found you to be the most beautiful, infuriating little creature in existence. And you’ve just gotten more beautiful, which in itself irritates the shit out of him, it was hard enough acting ‘normal’ around you all his life.
But now?
“What’re you doing here, Kuna?” He snorts, rolling ruby red eyes, leaning against the bar with an elbow propped on it, glaring at you.
“Don’t call me that, god.”
“It irritates you, so I will.” You smile up at him, sipping the rest of your drink, which he eyes disparingly.
“What’s that pink shit?”
“Oh, like your hair?” You counter, raising a brow, his jaw sets. “Ya want one, Kuna?”
“No, I don’t want your little bitch drink.” You roll your eyes now, as he sits next to you, and your eyes sweep over his starch white dress shirt and black slacks, stretching over muscles that seemed to have only gotten more pronounced since college.
“Not even my cherry, hmm?” You tease, pulling the marachino out of your cup, dangling it in front of his face.
“That’s long gone, I’m sure, looking all slutty…” He murmurs, right in your ear, you shove at him, scoffing.
“You’re slutty, Sukuna. Pretty sure you fucked a whole sorority last time we caught up?”
“Mmm, rumors, rumors.” He holds up two fingers now. “Gimme something that’s not a little bitch drink, please.”
“So manly, oh heavens!” You pretend to fan yourself and he can’t stop the laughter, but he soon covers it with a glare.
“Get her some more of this pink crap.” He says, and you are a little surprised then, looking at the handsome man who’s had your heart for so long you can’t remember a time before him.
“You buying me a drink?”
“I am buying you a drink. I… it’s been a long time.” He misses you, but the words are caught in his throat.
“It has been a long time. Thank you.” You smile as the bartender hands you another dirty shirley, and hands Sukuna a glass of whiskey on the rocks. He sips at it, eyes darting over your frame, your sexy body that is so well shown in that dress of yours, all he can think of is unzipping it.
“Where’s the boyfriend?” You blink a bit.
“How’d you know I had one?”
Well, Sukuna’s been insta stalking you but he won’t admit it.
“Heard it from our friends, duh. Just because we don’t see each other doesn’t mean I don’t see them.”
“Yeah well, it’s not like… I didn’t want to see you. We left things…”
“Yeah.” He sighs now, running a hand through pastel locks, a hand with black tattoos and black nails, throwing off this corporate vibe he has, something dark about him, but then, there’s always been. “You single on Valentine’s day?”
“I am, officially. Ass of a boyfriend left me across the street via text. And… are you…”
“Yeah, I also got broken up with, but slapped in the face, and in person. Think they planned the shit?” You giggle, shaking your head and sipping your drink, leaning just a bit closer, leg brushing his wide, strong one. He damn near moans just at feeling your body after so, so long.
“Maybe they did. I’ve wanted to see you, though… I just…”
“There’s something I wanted to… tell you. Actually. I thought about calling you, but…”
“Yeah? Calling me?”
“So surprising?”
“You hate me? So yeah.”
Sukuna sighs now, sipping his drink again, looking down into your beautiful eyes, your beautiful face, remembering just all those times he’d ruined it with you. Fuck, since the first moment he met you, he was a dick, and pushed you away, all because the shit he feels terrifies him. And over the years, he’s tried, but he thought you were too far gone, nothing but a regret, a memory.
Something to compare every girl he’s with, never you, are they? There’s no one like you.
But you’re here of all places, and though Sukuna thinks shit like ‘signs’ are the dumbest thing ever, he can’t let this pass, not this time. He takes a breath and his lips part, his fingers then brush your hair back, something far too gentle for Sukuna, something that makes your eyes dilate, your little gasp so sexy he can’t think.
“You trying to fuck me tonight?” You ask, and he chuckles, the gentle brush now a rough grip in your hair, leaning over you.
You taste the whiskey on his breath, you feel his lips so close, your breaths mingling, as your hand comes to his shirt, balling the fancy material in your little fist. “That what you want, brat? Me to fuck you finally?”
“Maybe I do.” He freezes then, blinking long lashes, leaning even closer, free hand gripping your waist in the crowded bar. “A hate fuck? Sounds like the perfect thing to forget tonight.”
“Hate fuck, huh?”
What you don’t know is, Sukuna is in love with you.
Art in the banner is from WynnChan270 on Deviant art- if you find them on tumblr plz lmk so I can credit here! <3 divider is from div1nepetal
Perma tags: @alt--er--love @seeing-stars-alt @nanasukii28 @labelt-san @makingtimemine @cuntphoric @n1vi @aldebrana @indiewritesxoxo @loafteaw
#ryomen sukuna#sukuna ryomen#sukuna x you#sukuna x y/n#jjk x fem!reader#jjk smut#jjk x reader#jjk sukuna#ryomen sukuna x reader#sukuna x reader#taglist open#wip#new wip#jjk x you
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FORGIVE ME FATHER, FOR I HAVE SINNED - JAYVIK X READER
synopsis: you've always been a good girl. You got amazing grades in school, participated in extra-curricular activities, you volunteered at the local food bank. You were everyone's dream daughter or potential daughter-in-law. You even wore a purity ring on a chain every day. You were allowed to do this since you were a nervous wreck when your parents first gifted you the ring and you were so scared you were going to lose it.
You were the perfect daughter. Until your church introduced two young, handsome priests. Father Viktor and Father Jayce.
warnings: religion (I'm roman catholic pls leave me alone with my dirty fantasies) power imbalance, age difference (reader is 19, J + V are early 30s), corruption kink, innocence kink (girly they go feral when they see the purity ring necklace), loss of virginity, voice kink, hand kink, inappropriate thoughts, mentions of masturbation, confessional, dirty talk, pussyjob, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, risky sex, squirting, semi-public sex (you're at the church but it’s not busy.) two smut scenes (VxR and JxR, the end suggests a threesome), J + V got big dicks, Grammarly is my beta
genre: m/f (m/m/f suggested at the end)
p.s. I know I don't want to seem like a horny degenerate but this was too good to pass up! If anyone wants fluff, angst, etc. shoot me a request and I'll write it as soon as I can!
You've always been a good girl. You got amazing grades in school, participated in extra-curricular activities, you volunteered at the local food bank. You were everyone's dream daughter or potential daughter-in-law. You even wore a purity ring on a chain around your neck every day. You were allowed to do this since you were a nervous wreck when your parents first gifted you the ring; you were terrified you were going to lose it.
You wear modest clothes every day. A mixture of pants, long skirts (no shorter than just below the knee), button-ups, cardigans, sweaters, long-sleeve shirts, dresses, and the odd high-neck t-shirt. You have to have at least one option when the weather gets hot.
Luckily for you, you weren't picked on in school. But at the same time, you didn't have many friends. People liked you because you’re kind and helpful, but they didn't want to become friends because of how modest and prude you were. They were nervous you’d rat them out if they did something “immoral.”
Life went on as normal. The same old same old. You graduated top of your class two years ago, you just recently got a certificate to be a librarian in a little over a month of work, and you got a modest job at your local library due to glowing references, and the older ladies at the library love you. It's your home away from home.
And you still go to church every Sunday. This Sunday was different though. You knew from the service that was held two weeks ago that Father Paul was going to retire. He had gotten too old to do the necessary duties of a priest, and that he was going to find his replacement before he left.
And it looks like he did.
If you have anything to say about the two, young, handsome men standing behind the altar. Wearing the traditional black uniform and white collar.
You feel like your heart is in your throat as Father Paul introduces the two new priests to the congregation. The two men are… very handsome.
Father Paul gestures to one of the men. He's tall, with long hair, beautiful bone structure, and the most captivating eyes you've ever seen. He's holding a cane in one of his hands. Father Paul says his name is Father Viktor.
The elderly man then gestures on the other side of himself to the other man standing there. He's even taller than Father Viktor, bulkier too. His shoulders are broad, his hair is messy, and he has a beard. Father Paul introduces him as Father Jayce.
You subconsciously clench your thighs together as an unknown heat travels down your stomach and into your private bits.
Oh no, you can't help but think to yourself. This isn't going to end well.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Church on Sundays became very popular. Like… ridiculously popular. You saw people at church that you haven't seen since you graduated high school two years ago.
Father Viktor is leading the sermon. His voice was loud, clear, and captivating. His accent made every word sound like it was dripping honey. Before you know it, its time to take the holy communion and the blood of Christ. You rise up from kneeling on the pew and brush imaginary dust off your simple black skirt. You adjust your small black cardigan, and nervously look down at your white button up. Everytime you've ever worn white, you somehow dirty it and it always ruins your mood.
When it's your turn to reach the end of the pew, you curtsey and do the sign of the cross. Your skirt lightly touches the ground. As you follow in line to receive the body of Christ, you silently pray you don’t fall. Before you know it, it’s your turn; and you’re face to face with Father Viktor.
He holds up a small circular piece of bread and calmly states, “The Body of Christ.” You kneel and say, “Amen.” After that, you open your mouth and lightly stick your tongue out. Father Viktor’s hand goes under your chin as he raises your head, and he lightly places the Eucharist onto your tongue. You close your mouth and Father Viktor’s eyes darken as he swallows lightly.
You stand up and after a few steps, you stand in front of Father Jayce for the blood of Christ. The two priests share a look and it’s almost as if they sighed in relief. Only adults can obtain the blood of Christ.
Father Jayce holds up an ornate chalice, “The Blood of Christ.” You smile and repeat, “Amen.” Father Jayce then brings the chalice to your lips and you take a small swig of the wine. You then walk away doing the sign of the cross as you return to your pew.
Your undies are wet and you don’t know why.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
It’s been weeks and you feel like you’re going insane. Every moment of every day, Father Viktor and Father Jayce are on your mind. They even plague your dreams.
Your undies get wet, your breathing gets heavy, and your body heats up. You’ve started touching yourself to the thought of them.
It feels so good.
It feels so wrong.
You need to speak to someone about this, but how can you? Your parents will have a meltdown, and you don’t have any friends. You sit in your room stumped before an idea comes to mind. Confessional.
You quickly get dressed into a neutral plaid skirt that just brushes your knees with black pantyhose, a plain black top, and your black loafers. You make sure your purity ring necklace is centred and protected under your shirt before exiting your house. You get into your car and drive to the church.
It’s not too late, just past dinner time. No one will be at the church, except for you and one of the Fathers.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The parking lot is empty, save for a few cars for the church workers. You park and exit the car, quickly making your way inside.
You appreciate the beauty of the church before finding an empty confessional and ringing a small bell, letting the priests know that someone was waiting for them.
After a few minutes of silence, the other end of the confessional opens up and a priest steps in. It’s hard to tell which priest it is. The lighting is too dark to see.
“Peace be with you.” The priest states. Damn. You can’t even tell which one it is due to their voice, the confessional muffles it too much.
You lightly sigh, “And also with your spirit. It’s been a month since my last confession, Father.”
“And what do you need to confess for?”
Your lips press together as you try to find a way to say this without sounding bad. You can’t. So you decide to be blunt.
“I’ve had lust in my heart, Father. For two men I cannot have. They’re constantly on my mind throughout the day, and plague my dreams when I sleep. I—“
You hesitate to say the next part. You can feel your face heat up as you stutter the next sin, “I touch myself… to— to the thought of them, Father.”
The other side of the confessional is quiet and you feel like crying. Eventually, the priest responds with, “And who are these two men? Are they someone you shall not covet? Such as someone who is married? Someone you’re related to?”
You gulp.
“Someone who is devoted to only one, and that one is God.”
The confessional becomes quiet at that. Before you know it, the door to your side of the confessional is opened. You gasp at the sight of a disheveled Father Viktor. His hair is messy, falling out of the small bun at the back of his head. His face is flushed and his pupils are huge. There’s a small snarl on his face.
“Is this some kind of joke? Do you wish to tempt me to defile you?”
Your eyes widen, “No Father! I speak the truth. Please don’t be mad. I’m sorry for my thoughts and desires!”
Father Viktor enters your side of the confessional booth and closes the door behind him. The booth is just big enough to do small adjustments in; but you’re chest to chest with the beautiful priest.
“Say no, and we can pretend this never happened. You can go home and nothing will have changed.”
You nervously bite your lower lip and Father Viktor growls at that, “And… if I say yes?”
Father Viktor crowds you, until you have no room to move and whispers in your ear, “Then you shall become mine.”
A whimper escapes your lips and that’s all the answer Father Viktor needs. He turns your head and kisses you, it’s passionate, it’s frenzied. It’s a little messy.
It’s perfect.
You pant against his mouth as he touches your skirt, “May I?” You nod vigorously and he hikes the skirt up to your waist, ordering you to hold it there with one hand. You can’t help but comply.
Viktor groans when he sees you’re wearing pantyhose. He grabs the seem at your crotch and rips it, causing a gasp to escape your throat. Your undies get even more wet. A diligent finger taps lightly on the soaked fabric, so soaked you might as well not even be wearing it. The thin, white cotton has gone damn near translucent due to your arousal.
The gusset of your undies is pushed to the side as the handsome priest touches you in places you’ve only started to recently touch yourself.
He rubs your clit until it’s pulsing needily. He drags a finger down and teases your entrance, Father Viktor brings his face close to yours; so that as he speaks his lips brush against your own.
“Can I—”
Before he can even finish his sentence, you whine out a small yes.
Father Viktor chuckles and puts his middle finger into your pussy. It's so much longer and thicker than your own. It's reaching places you didn't even know existed.
“You need to learn patience, darling. What if I wanted to shove my cock into you instead, hmm? I'm not sure you can even handle two of my fingers.”
A whiny moan is what he gets in return to his scolding, “I can take two fingers. You heard me in confessional, I've been touching myself constantly now.”
Father Viktor growls at that and starts to finger your pussy faster, a schlick sound is heard throughout the confessional. Eventually, he adds a second finger and rubs your clit with his thumb. You’re gonna cum. You're gonna cum on the hand and fingers of one of the most handsome men you've ever had the pleasure of meeting. Every time you go to church and obtain the body of Christ you'll remember how fucking good those fingers felt inside you.
At your dirty thoughts, you cum. Trying to muffle your squeal into the palm of your hand not holding up your skirt. Father Viktor fingers you through your orgasm, and licks his fingers clean when he's done.
You feel a large bulge on your hip, “Do you want any help with that?”
Father Viktor chuckles, “You can't handle too much more, but there is one thing you can do.” he calmly states as he undoes his belt and lightly pulls down his pants and boxers; showing off an impressive dick.
Ok, no wonder he said you can't do much. His dick is massive and you're in a cramped confessional. Not much wiggle room.
Father Viktor slaps his cock against your clit and you gasp, “I'll just rut into your pussy until I cum. Is that okay with you?”
You bite your lip trying and failing to hide your smile, “Mmhm.”
He smiles and slowly starts to rock his dick into your folds. The head of his cock brushes against your clit in such a delicious manner, you won’t be surprised if you cum again.
“Hmm, what’s this?” Father Viktor asks as he notices the chain hidden beneath your shirt. The hand he used to finger you comes up and softly takes hold of the chain, pulling it out of your top to lay outside for once.
His eyes widen and his hips stutter once he realizes what he's looking at, “Is that a purity ring?”
You furrow your eyebrows, “Yes?” your tone questioning as it raises in pitch.
The older man groans in an almost feral way before resuming his rutting, going much faster and harder than he was before, “You’re a filthy fucking virgin. Letting a man over a decade older than you rut into your pussy like a common whore.”
You're feeling too much of everything right now. Everything comes to a standstill when the tip of Father Viktors cock catches on the entrance of your pussy. Father Viktor brings a hand down to rub vigorously at your clit and you yelp as you cum for a second time. This time a little dribble of arousal escapes you.
Father Viktor groans as he cums inside you, it’s so warm, and there's so much of it.
You both pant and Father Viktor gives you a final kiss before you both have to clean up to go, this one is much sweeter.
You readjust your underwear and cringe at the cold, wet sensation, you drop your skirt and you ironically thank god that your skirt is long enough that no one else can see the damaged pantyhose.
Viktor redoes his belt and fixes his hair. He exits the confessional and offers out a hand to you, you take it gladly.
You notice his cane is leaning against the outside of the confessional and gasp in worry, “Father, are you okay? I forgot you used a cane. Are you in any pain?”
Father Viktor just smiles at you, “The confessional booth was small enough that I didn't have to worry about moving too much or falling. But thank you for the concern. Also, after what we just did, you can call me Viktor.”
Father— Viktor’s smile turns into a smirk, “Drive safe darling. This Sundays mass shall be quite interesting, don’t you think?”
You giggle as you make your way to the door.
Your footsteps stop when you hear Viktor call out your name, “Shall I tell Father Jayce your confession, or will you do it yourself?”
You coyly look back over your shoulder as you open the churches doors, “You can tell him. I'm curious to see what his reaction will be.”
The last thing you hear before the church doors close is Viktor’s chuckles.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The next Sunday mass you go to, you feel as if you have eyes on you the entire few hours you’re there. Every time you look up from your prayer, your singing, your kneeling on the pew, you see Viktor and Father Jayce looking at you.
They’re being subtle. They have to be. If they get caught staring lecherously at a young woman who's over a decade their junior, they'll be the town paraiah.
Everything goes smoothly until the end of mass. When everyone is leaving, Father Jayce lightly calls your name. “Are you able to stay behind? Father Viktor has had a flare-up of pain and I require a second set of hands to clean up the altar and the pews.”
You lightly chew on the inside of your cheek and shuffle on your feet. You think on it for a few seconds before shyly nodding your head. Father Jayce smiles, he has dimples; and his crows feet deepen the slightest bit. He has a small gap between his two front teeth.
Not only is Father Jayce handsome, he's... Cute.
The two of you break apart, going pew to pew, row to row, cleaning up as you go.
You raise the kneelers, place the bibles back on their shelf, pick up little pieces of garbage and bring them to the garbage bin near the front doors of the church.
“Are you done? I need some assistance cleaning up the altar.”
You turn around and hum, slowly walking to the back of the church, going up the few steps to the altar where Father Jayce is waiting for you.
The altar honestly isn't too messy. You just need put away the candles, the candle holders, the wine, the bread, and the lectionary. The massive book the priest reads from during mass.
Before you know it, the altar is cleaned, except for the wine.
“How did you think of mass today?” Father Jayce asks, as he fondles his rosary. You lightly gulp, “It was good. I enjoyed it.”
Father Jayce hums, “I’m glad. You're a very… good person.”
You feel your brows furrow in subconscious confusion, “Thank… you?”
The handsome man purses his lips as he saunters towards you, wrapping his hand around the wine pitcher and dragging it alongside him on top of the altar, “But you're not purely good, are you? No. You sin. Your perfected image is so ingrained into this towns mind that they can't imagine you in any other way.”
Your breath hitches as you lean back onto the altar, trying to put some distance between you two. Father Jayce crowds you against the altar, he's much bigger than you. It’s startling.
It’s arousing.
“You know, Father Viktor told me all about the the little rendezvous you two had. I thought he was joking, maybe he had a dirty dream. Because there’s no way such an innocent, good girl did that within the church. Within a confessional.”
You bite your lip and look down, Father Jayce tilts your head back up with a single finger under your chin. He brings the wine pitcher up to his mouth and takes a large swig.
“But I know he was telling the truth.”
“How?”
“The way you look at us is how the Devil tries to tempt the innocent, and Father Viktor and I are not.”
You gasp when Father Jayce brings the pitcher to your mouth and taps your bottom lip a few times. The glass is cold, and the wine is sweet.
But it’s not as sweet as the way Father Jayce’s eyes darken as you take a gulp of wine.
The pitcher is slammed onto the altar and Father Jayce gives you a passionate kiss. You sigh and lightly open your mouth, and Father Jayce’s tongue caresses your own.
Your arms wrap around him, your hands carding into the hair at the base of his neck. He growls and grips your waist, hiking you up onto the altar.
A gasp escapes your lips, he's so strong. Father Jayce parts your legs at your knees, your dress riding up to an almost obscene level.
His hands drag up your thighs to your hips under your dress, his fingers curling into the sides of your underwear.
“May I?”
“Yes. Please.”
With that, Father Jayce pulls down your underwear, unhooking it from your feet and putting them into his black slacks. He drops down to his knees and you grab his hair in shock.
No way. He's not going to— is he…?
Yes he is, he brings his face close to your core and licks from your entrance to your clit. You jolt, gripping his hair harder as you moan out in pleasure.
He groans and the vibrations make you want to cry. He starts to focus all his attention onto your clit, as he slowly fingers you. The double combo is dangerous. Your pussy is drenched, your face is hot, and your back is curling. Your thighs clutch around Father Jayce’s head and he goes even harder.
Your vision whites out and you cum. Hard. Father Jayce kitten licks you through your orgasm and eventually you shove his head lightly away due to the oversensitivity.
Father Jayce stands up and kisses you, his lips and beard are lightly damp. You feel embarrassed and aroused at that knowledge.
“Take it off.” Father Jayce orders, gesturing to your sage green dress. You gulp, and slowly raise the hem over your head. Your flats have fallen off your feet during your pussy getting ate.
Now you're sitting on the church's altar, only in your basic white cotton bra. Father Jayce is still fully clothed. “All of it.” he demands.
You bring your hands behind you to your back and unhook your bra, your breasts now free for Father Jayce to appreciate.
He unbuckles his belt, unbuttons his slacks and lowers it just enough to free his cock. His cock is also massive.
Jesus Christ, your priests are hung.
Father Jayce lines up his cock to your entrance and slowly pushes in, you moan, your voice cracking at the immense feeling of pleasure. He’s stretching you so much, you’re so full. There’s a minuscule pinch but Father Jayce prepped you so well, there’s barely any pain.
Your parents made it sound like you’d die.
Father Jayce groans deep in his chest when he sees a few speckles of blood on his cock, your arousal making his entire dick shimmer in the lowlight of the church.
“Such a dirty girl. Getting fucked in public by a man who’s over a decade older than her, and giving her virginity to him. You’re a goddamn gem.”
You moan at his words, god you’re fucking soaked. His cock keeps hitting your g-spot, and you can’t help but lay back against the altar. Your tits jiggle as Father Jayce fucks you. He slowly starts to go harder and harder. Fucking you to the point where your skin slaps together.
The altar is shaking, you're moaning, and then Father Jayce grips your hair and turns you over. You plop your hands onto the altar as Father Jayce pulls your head back.
If someone were to enter the church now, they'd see Father Jayce fucking the shit out of a woman as her tits bounce and she moans out in pure pleasure.
Your purity ring necklace bounces with each thrust.
“Fuck. Father! You feel so— so fucking good!”
He chuckles, “I’m balls deep in you right now, sweetheart. You can call me Jayce.”
“Jayce! Fuck!”
Without you noticing, Jayce unhooks your purity ring necklace and it bounces down on to the altar, the metal making a small tinkling sound.
“W— what?”
“You don't need that anymore, sweetheart. You’re mine now, and Viktors.”
With that declaration, you shove your hand in between your thighs and viciously rub your clit. One circle, two, and then you're cumming again, and this time a gush of arousal escapes your pussy.
Jayce moans and pounds into you, before going as deep as he can as he cums inside you. You can feel each pulse of his cock as he dumps his cum into you.
You sigh at the feeling, fuck it feels so good.
Jayce sighs and drops his head down onto your shoulder, he sucks a few hickeys into your neck as he pulls out. You feel some of his cum drip down your thighs.
You pant as Jayce fixes himself and then helps you get re-dressed. You two look somewhat presentable when a very familiar accented voice echoes out into the church.
“Am I interrupting?”
“No, V. You're right on time.”
“It was a good show.”
You freeze, “Wait… you could see us?”
Viktor nods, “The personal office has a perfect view.”
You laugh in disbelief.
“So,” Viktor continues, “Are we only ever able to see you within the house of god?”
Jayce chuckles as your face heats up, “No. I'm more than willing to see you two outside of the church.”
With that, Viktor smirks and hands you a small slip of paper with an address written on it, “This is where we live. Hopefully, the next time we see one another, it's within the privacy of our home. That way we can see how loud you can truly get.”
You smile at the two handsome men. They've truly ruined you for anyone else.
Hallelujah praise the lord! This was filthy and I hope y’all enjoy it! Priest Viktor and Jayce would be so hot, I’d start going to church if they were there LMAO
I started writing this when I was certain JayVik x Reader was going to win on my poll (I know cause I voted for other to see which the percentages, I was too impatient to wait 23hrs 💀)
#arcane#viktor arcane#jayce arcane#jayce talis#arcane imagine#arcane x reader#arcane smut#viktor imagine#viktor x reader#viktor x reader smut#viktor smut#jayce imagine#jayce x reader#jayce x reader smut#jayce smut#implied Jayvik x reader smut at the end#jayvik x reader#jayce x viktor x reader#fem!reader#banners by cafekitsune
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This post actually makes me want to rip my hair out. Seriously, it takes a couple of statistics, demonstrates no causation, and claims that men not wanting to do post-secondary education is a sexist thing. So then the sycophants in the notes can just dismiss this problem as the fault of men and move on.
I highly encourage everyone to read "Of Boys and Men" by Richard Reeves. He is a longtime poverty scholar based in the UK who wrote this book about men's underperformance in education and the economy.
The bottom line was clear: Men are systemically, across the board, performing worse in primary education, which poisons the rest of their life outcomes. Boys struggle for several reasons, but one of the big ones is that, in general, they develop the skills required to succeed in a formal education environment noticeably later than girls do: girls' brains develop faster. I'm talking about discipline and self-control, the skills necessary to complete the assignments and stay focused in class. By the time these skills develop, they've already fallen behind girls, and many see little point in putting work into school when they feel like school basically abandoned them.
Ask some of the younger men in your life how they felt in school, even those who pursued post-secondary education. Many of them will likely have some variant on the following story: they reached a point where they struggled to stay focused on school work, which they often failed to see the value of in the first place. Many can sometimes feel redundant: summarize the story you just read and answer many questions with obvious answers, complete this seemingly endless number of multiplication problems etc.
Personally, I suffered from undiagnosed dysgraphia, which I only realized as a 26-year-old. Writing is hard. It hurts my hand to do it for too long, and my penmanship is atrocious, but writing neatly was impossible. Despite consistently performing highly in reading and being interested in learning, I struggled with the work.
Throughout the entire time, my teachers, almost all of them women, accused me of laziness and indifference. They consistently asked me why I could not be more organized and disciplined and why I was not performing like the girls. That is incredibly demoralizing, and if it had not been for the fact that typing replaced handwriting, I likely would not have felt compelled to finish my studies.
My experience is not universal, obviously, but lots of men will likely say that at some point, they just weren't performing to the level clearly expected of them, and they didn't know why or what to do about it. Even worse, it was clear to them that the people in the school didn't even know how to help them. So they just disengaged, especially if they are in a context of poverty (and racialized), or just in a family where education was not prioritized.
I know it's à la mode to talk about how trash men as a group, but it would be great if the people who do this could actually talk to men sometimes about their experiences rather than just assume some stat is due to misogyny.
Why aren't we talking about the real reason male college enrollment is dropping? (Celeste Davis, Oct 6 2024)
"White flight is a term that describes how white people move out of neighborhoods when more people of color move in.
White flight is especially common when minority populations become the majority. That neighborhood then declines in value.
Male flight describes a similar phenomenon when large numbers of females enter a profession, group, hobby or industry—the men leave. That industry is then devalued.
Take veterinary school for example:
In 1969 almost all veterinary students were male at 89%.
By 1987, male enrollment was equal to female at 50%.
By 2009, male enrollment in veterinary schools had plummeted to 22.4%
A sociologist studying gender in veterinary schools, Dr. Anne Lincoln says that in an attempt to describe this drastic drop in male enrollment, many keep pointing to financial reasons like the debt-to-income ratio or the high cost of schooling.
But Lincoln’s research found that “men and women are equally affected by tuition and salaries.”
Her research shows that the reason fewer men are enrolling in veterinary school boils down to one factor: the number of women in the classroom.
For every 1% increase in the proportion of women in the student body, 1.7 fewer men applied.
One more woman applying was a greater deterrent than $1000 in extra tuition! (…)
Since males had dominated these professions for centuries, you would think they would leave slowly, hesitantly or maybe linger at 40%, 35%, 30%, but that’s not what happens.
Once the tipping point reaches majority female- the men flee. And boy do they flee!
It’s a slippery slope. When the number of women hits 60% the men who are there make a swift exit and other men stop joining.
Morty Schapiro, economist and former president of Northwestern University has noticed this trend when studying college enrollment numbers across universities:
“There’s a cliff you fall off once you become 60/40 female/male. It then becomes exponentially more difficult to recruit men.”
Now we’ve reached that 60% point of no return for colleges.
As we’ve seen with teachers, nurses and interior design, once an institution is majority female, the public perception of its value plummets.
Scanning through Reddit and Quora threads, many men seem to be in agreement - college is stupid and unnecessary.
A waste of time and money. You’re much better off going into the trades, a tech boot camp or becoming an entrepreneur. No need for college. (…)
When mostly men went to college? Prestigious. Aspirational. Important.
Now that mostly women go to college? Unnecessary. De-valued. A bad choice. (…)
School is now feminine. College is feminine. And rule #1 if you want to safely navigate this world as a man? Avoid the feminine.
But we don’t seem to want to talk about that."
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Cat and mouse
Warning: MDNI⚠️, Language, penetrative sex, raw sex, sexual themes, praise, breeding etc
Word count: 1.1k
Summary: Sylus wants to switch things up
Sylus likes pain. Biting, scratching , choking the list goes on and on. You’ve explored the more vanilla side of things. Letting him take control and submitting yourself completely. tonight was different. he wanted a change of pace. You lay sprawled over the satin sheets of his California king bed, legs spread and face flushed. Sylus stepped away for a moment, leaving you needy and curious. Your hips wiggle with anticipation.
What was he doing? You could never predict the onychinus leader's next moves. After What feels like an eternity, he comes back. You admire his bare chiseled chest and low ride of his boxer briefs, that delicious V line is deep and prominent. A thick vein roots from his navel to the ungodly places you craved to explore. He stalks toward you, unraveling something you can’t make out in the dark.
you whimper helplessly. “Mmm such sweet purrs from my kitten.” He rumbles.
“On your feet.” He caresses your chin with the tip of his finger, tilting your low eyes to meet his. Your body moves on its own, dragging your weight up and over the edge of the bed. He takes your place, crawling up to the rumbled spot you’d been laying in.
You can see it now. A single wine colored tie, a lighter and a candle you’d recently bought together on a couples shopping trip. Your brow arches.
“We’re going to play a game of cat and mouse.” He smirks.
”take that there and bind my wrist.” Regardless of how out of place this dynamic feels, you obey. His body is huge in comparison to yours meaning you had to quite literally climb the length of him till you were face to face with his intense red stare.
You do a simple knot, mindful of his wrist.
”Tighter, sweetie.”
you swallow nervously at the familiar nickname. It still makes your pussy throb every time you hear it. With a nod you tug firmly, securing it so tight it might bruise. A deep rumbling moan vibrates through his chest.
”That's it. Don’t be afraid. You could never hurt me and even if you could I would enjoy every second.” This ignites something in you.
your hands are steady as you reach for the candle and light. You flick it, touching flame to wick. It flickers and the wax starts to liquify, filling the air with a sweet woody scent. Sylus picked the fragrance himself.
In no time a pool of hot wax forms on the surface. You swish it around unsure what comes next.
”Don’t be shy kitten. You know what to do.” You dip your finger in and hiss—it's hot. Very hot.
”I'll let it cool a bit.” You say.
”no. I want it now.”
”-but…”
”now.” He rasps desperately. His abs flex as you raise the candle above his torso.
He sucks in air as the first drop falls down the line of chest, it slides down his stomach before solidifying just above his belly button. His eyes are squeezed shut, his lower lip latched between his teeth. Something stirs inside you. A sense of power. Your movements are confident now as you pour a steady drip all over his upper body. His cock jumps in his boxers, twitching with every drop of hot wax.
“Ah, mmm, it seems my dove has transformed into a ravenous raven.” He pants, the veins in his arms pulsing under the confines of the silk tie.
”Do you want it?” You whisper close to his ear. He takes advantage of the proximity to turn his head and nip your neck.
”Show me all your tricks, Ms.hunter” your resolve snaps like a twig. You don’t bother with taking off your panties, you simply hook two fingers in the crotch and yank them to the side. Your fingers work his boxers down at a blurring pace. His rock solid pulsing length bobs free, slapping his lower stomach upon exit. The tip is beaded with sticky pre, a testament to his overwhelming arousal. You can feel him, the heady undeniable carnal lust brewing inside him. His cheeks are feverish, his lips parted as he holds your gaze hostage.
His brows scrunch. “Don’t make me beg.” He nods down to his throbbing engorged cock. The bulbous head leaks clear fluid on his stomach, your clit throbs in sync with your racing pulse. Your own slickness seeps from within, coating your thighs. As much as you wanted to take his swollen sensitive tip into your mouth you couldn’t wait. He had to be inside of you now. You straddle his waist, his hands fight his bonds frivolously as you hover above his needy manhood.
“Please.” His hips buck upward, seeking even just an inch of your warmth. Your chest heaves as you grasp his shaft, angling him at your slipper slit. It’s pure ecstasy as he breaches your tight channel. His cock head pulses in time with his beating heart. You can’t hold back, anymore. Those crimson fluttering eyes cast a spell on you. Your hips slam down in one fluid motion, taking him all in one go. It’s compact, the stretch leaving no room inside you.
Your head falls back as you howl in pleasure, he’s touching the very back of your cunt—the spot that leaves you breathless.
“Fuck. You’re being greedy, kitten.” He growls, pumping his hips up to grind into your G Spot. You back arches like a cat on top of him as you try to acclimate to his ridiculous size. You find your rhythm and soon find yourself bouncing up and down with ease. His nails dig into the fabric of the tie as you roll your waist, swirling his hardness deep inside your heat.
“No no wait, not like that. Fuck I’ll cum to fucking quick if you-“ he hisses, trying to break free. You take that as your que to move harder, faster. Your ass slaps against his pelvis with every stroke, the pressure in your pussy an intoxicating ache. Every drop of your hips forced him into your weak spot. Sweat mixes with the smell of the candle making your head spin. You bend over to bite the smooth skin of his chest as you fuck down onto him harder.
“Fuck fuck fuck no I’m close fuck slow down y/n…” he groans, his silver head falling back into the pillows. The words barely leave his lips before you feel him spasm inside your clenching soaked pussy. A hot flood fills your womb as your own release washes over you. You fall into his neck, panting and exhausted.
“Untie me. We aren’t finished.” His cock is iron stiff inside of you.
#smut x reader#smut#smut fanfiction#fanfic#love and deepspace sylus#lads mc#lads smut#love and deepspace smut#sylus smut#lads sylus#love and deepspace#lads#lads rafayel#lads xavier#lads zayne#lads x reader
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dae-ho bf headcanons
dae-ho x gn!reader
tags: fluff. just that literally.
a/n: my obsession is not limited to hyun-ju only. he's, too, on my mind all day 😔 this is so random but i have to study and i can't because all i think about is him.
he's totally remembering all birthdays, anniversaries and important dates and will buy you flowers on these occasions.
for your birthday he's going to make you feel like the most special person on this planet. you're not allowed to lift a finger because "you'd be stealing his job".
he loves when you organize dates together without telling him where you're going.
he'd be in passenger seat, jumping in anticipation and trying to guess where you're taking him.
it doesn't matter where you two are going, because if you're there than he knows that he's going to spend a great night.
one friday a month you'd be having "cinema nights", where you order take out and watch movies together until one of you falls asleep on the couch.
he has seen all the 00's romcoms (4 sisters guys) but he's favorite movies would be action movies like top gun etc.
he moves a lot in his sleep so it doesn't matter the way you two fall asleep, he's going to end up completely on top of you by the morning.
it's a bit annoying in the summer, but in the winter it's a life saver: dae-ho is literally a human heating pad.
he texts you A LOT during the day. everytime something happens to him he's sending you a message. he could've won billions in the lottery or accidentally stepped on a caterpillar, it doesn't matter, he's going to let you know.
he just wants to share his day with you, so don't get mad if you open your phone amd find out you have 70+ texts from him.
you don't have to answer them, he's going to tell you everything once he sees you at dinner.
if you were already into skincare, you two are definitely going to do it together every night before bed.
ad if you weren't he's going to introduce you to the skincare world and you two will be doing your skincare together before bed anyway.
he'll let you style his hair the way you prefer. he'd even let them grow a bit longer if that's better for the hair styles you're giving him.
he's really just a sweetheart, he deserves the world.
#kang daeho#dae ho squid game#dae ho#dae ho x reader#daeho x reader#squid game x y/n#squid game x reader#squid game x you#squid game#squid game season 2#squid game s2#🦑:sg
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clever girl
mafia!seonghwa & mafia!yunho x undercover detective!reader. feat. mafia!ateez
words: 7.5k
warnings: dark content. extremely dubcon. depictions of gangs, violence, death (not you or ateez& not shown) and prostitution.
smut warnings: heavy dubcon, threesome, hard doms!yunho & seonghwa, exhibitionism, gun play, double penetration, anal, unprotected sex, sir kink, pet& degradation names, fear kink, some thigh slaps, mentions of pregnancy and breeding, death threats, humiliation, no aftercare, imprisonment etc
hate is deleted and blocked
-
“Detective.”
Your head darts up, gaze meeting that of your irritated looking boss. He stands above you with folded arms, a displeased expression on his face. “Sir,” you greet him. You struggle to keep your expression blank, a smile pulling at your lips; you know exactly what he’s mad about.
He slams a sheet of paper down on your desk. “Why did you request to do this mission alone?” He asks, wasting no time. “Have you lost your mind?”
You don’t need to ask what mission he’s referring to; though you, much to his annoyance, are known for choosing to go it alone, there’s only one mission on your roster right now that’s dangerous enough to make him this agitated. You sigh, rolling your eyes as you lean back in your chair. You stretch your arms out above you with a yawn before sitting back up, eyes on him. “I’ve been watching these guys longer than anyone else,” you say. “Before anyone here would even acknowledge they were an actual threat. I know how they work.”
“Yes, we’re all aware of your qualifications,” your boss snaps. “But I wasn’t asking about that. I’m asking why you want to do this alone.”
You nod, a small concession and certainly the most he’d ever expect from you. “It took me a long time to fully understand these men,” you explain. “They’re incredibly volatile and unpredictable, even for a gang.”
“Even more reason to have backup.”
“No,” you disagree, shaking your head. “Even more reason not to send officers to their deaths because they don’t know what they’re dealing with or how to deal with it.”
His mouth opens and closes, formulating a response. He frowns, tapping a heavy black boot against the floor. “You really think that’s what it’d be?” He asks. “You think we’d lose men?”
“I’m certain,” you say. “I can’t emphasise enough how dangerous these guys are if you don’t know the way they work or how to stay on their good side. But I do know those things, sir. I’ve studied them for six years.”
He hums. “And you actually think you can handle it alone?”
You smile, nodding confidently. The thought of finally meeting these strange men in person has you a little queasy, but you know you can get this done. “It’s simple intelligence gathering, sir. I’m happy to have backup stationed a good distance away, but I’m not sacrificing good people for something I can do alone.”
He stares at you for a moment, searching for any signs of uncertainty before he sighs, nodding in defeat. “Very well,” he says. “I can see there’s no convincing you. You can do this alone if you’re absolutely certain that’s the best course, but you will call for help when you need it. The moment you need it. Understood?”
You smile, standing up to shake your still hesitant looking boss’ hand. “Thank you, sir. Understood.”
On the other side of Seoul, in a dark office piled with weapons and supplies, a screen lights up, buzzing with a new message.
4:37pm
unknown number: she’ll be coming soon. alone.
A man stares down at the message, a thin smile on his lips. It’s finally happening. The girl he’s been watching, who’s followed him around corners and stared into his windows for years, will finally stand in front of him, and she’ll be completely alone. He couldn’t have asked for more.
He sighs, twirling a knife around sullied fingers. Come, little dove.
—
Five days later, a taxi drops you off just on the outskirts of what has become their unquestioned territory. It’s an unassuming area, not rich by any means but not outwardly dodgy, either, and to the untrained eye doesn’t seem at all like gang territory. But you know better, of course. You know what happens behind the doors that quickly close as you walk by; you know the terrors behind the eyes of the men who leer at you as you venture further away from safety. You know this place, and you know that as far as anyone who knows anything is concerned, you’re not in Seoul anymore. As much as your boss may claim to, try to believe differently, neither the law nor the police nor anything can help you now. Every step you take now is taken at the mercy of the eight men you’ve come here to meet. The Owners, locals call them. You’ve come to know them as Ateez.
You walk with your head down, trying not to catch any more attention than being a lone woman at this time of night already commands. One hand is stuffed in your jacket pocket, fingering at your gun for reassurance while the other hangs at your side. Beneath your jacket, the black dress you’ve chosen to wear hangs just above the middle of your thigh. You hate the feeling of it, shorter and far less comfortable than the pants, jeans and shirts you’ve become accustomed to as a detective, but it’s all that was available for the very specific tactic you’ve chosen.
From your interviews of Ateez’s associates, or at least the ones who you’d managed to catch before they did, you know that they are extremely and understandably stingy with their information. Their personnel, operations and other intelligence is closely guarded on a completely need-to-know basis. It’s what makes trying to capture the lower-level members of the organisation such a pointless task; the majority of them don’t even know who their bosses are, let alone any useful information about them. In fact, the chances of actually meeting the men themselves are very slim even for people looking to do business with them; from several accounts you’ve ascertained that even trusted partners and allies will work with the organisation for years without ever meeting its leaders. No, the only people who get anywhere near the leaders and, more importantly, the information they possess, are the women who come and go from their penthouse on a quickly rotating basis, and according to your informants, always seem to emerge looking even more terrified than they’d entered.
As such you’d formed your plan; you’d enter as one of their hookers, with the clothes and parts to match, find out as much as you could, bug every inch of the penthouse, and leave with your satisfied clients none the wiser. A simple enough plan, but as your years on the force have taught you, not one that’s likely to go exactly as you expect. You just hope that you come out in one piece. Or that you come out at all.
You pull the jacket further across your chest, holding it tightly against yourself. Mercifully, the inconspicuous, but for you instantly recognisable building belonging to the organisation soon comes into view. By design it doesn’t stand out, except for the fact that it is quite a bit taller than its neighbours, but you know what goes on in there; or at least, you’re about to. You take a deep breath before biting the bullet and quickly stepping inside.
The interior of the building is just as uneventful; relatively clean but stained in places with substances you’d rather not think about. A few men shuffle around silently, looking up briefly when you walk in before quickly averting their gaze when they realise what you’re here for. It’s a well-known rule, apparently, that no one is to even think about a girl the leaders have had, even after they’ve discarded her. And with such a fast employee turnaround, it’s no mystery what they do to people who violate even the smallest of rules. The leaders — particularly the eldest two, you hear — run a tight, disciplined ship, and think nothing of throwing anyone overboard. Except each other, apparently; the one thing that every single one of the informants had vouched for is the tight, indestructible bond of the men at the helm of this operation.
A man approaches you nervously, asking why you’re here and you quietly whisper the name of one of your informants; miraculously you’d managed to turn one of the men Ateez frequently used to procure their companions, and he’d agreed to hand you over to them, essentially guaranteeing your authenticity; basically, he’d promised to vouch for you not being the exact thing you were— a snitch. A cop, at that. The man you speak to nods in understanding and directs you where to go and, thanking him with a smile, you make a note to thank your informant the next time you check in with him.
The further you venture into the building, your heart pounding heavier with each step, the nicer it becomes. When you step into the elevator, far nicer and more richly decorated than the front of the building, it becomes clear that the first part of your mission — breaching the restricted area — has been successful.
You step out on the top floor and the difference is obvious; polished floors and hallways lined with mirrors, paintings and flowers show you this is a part of the building few will ever see. This is the bosses’ world. Ateez’s world.
Breathing shakily, you knock on the doorbell the way you’d been instructed — five times, with a gap between the third and fourth. You hear voices before the door opens seemingly on its own, revealing the lavish interiors of the leaders’ apartments. It’s richly decorated with a dark, oak theme, and there’s not a person in sight.
“Hello?” You call out. Your voice almost seems to echo in the vast emptiness of the penthouse. “I’m here to see the Owners? Binwoo sent me.”
Silence abounds and then, just as you start to worry this has all been a big set-up to take out the only detective who’s gotten remotely close to the group, someone emerges. You recognise him instantly as the leader, Hongjoong. You’ve only seen him in surveillance, and very scarcely; the only time he ever seems to leave this place is when someone pisses him off so badly he decides to deal with them himself, so naturally the majority of your surveillance of him has been of torture and murder and pain. Seeing him in front of you now, not as tall as he looked from afar yet somehow even more imposing, those images of him — the things you’ve seen him do — play on repeat in your head.
When he raises a hand to wave at you, all you can picture is the black leather gloves he wears while he brutalises, covered in blood. Your blood, if this doesn’t go well. There’s a reason, you think, that the employees who don’t know this man’s name and thus resort to nicknames, have settled on The Butcher.
You gulp as you wave back. You hope he doesn’t notice the way your hands shake. “Hello, sir,” you greet. You bow politely, trying not to let on to the fact that you have any knowledge of who this man is or what he’s capable of. “I was sent by Binwoo to entertain you.”
He cocks an eyebrow, staring you up and down. “He did say he had someone for us,” he says. This is the first time you’ve heard his voice clearly, and you have to stop yourself from looking surprised at how… normal he sounds. Like a regular guy in his 20s, really— certainly not the monster you know him to be. In another situation, you think you’d quite like his voice. It’s gentle and welcoming and you could even see yourself getting flustered by it; but instead the voice, the man, everything about this moment, fills you with terror.
“Yes, sir. That was me.” You try your best to sound seductive, or even normal, but you’re not sure if he buys it.
He stares at you for a few seconds, eyes narrowed. “Take off your jacket,” he orders. Fear pulsates as you obey; you note that his voice is deeper than before. You hope it’s arousal— or even just curiosity. Anything but what you’re fearing it to be.
You take off your jacket as quickly as possible, hanging it up on the hanger next to the door as he instructs you. You stand in place, hands by your sides like your informant, Binwoo, had told you he teaches his girls to do. Wearing only your dress and heels, you feel more exposed and vulnerable than ever.
He stares at you for a moment before nodding, satisfied. “I’m Hongjoong,” he smiles. “What should I call you?”
You don’t think about your answer; you’d come up with a name while planning this mission, just as you always do. “Mira.”
He cocks an eyebrow, sceptical, but nods. It’s not uncommon for prostitutes to give a fake name, particularly in circles like this, so your obvious moniker shouldn’t be a problem unless he figures out the real reason you’re using it. You pray he doesn’t.
“Very well, ‘Mira’,” he grins. “I’ll take you to the others. They’re waiting for you.”
You follow him down the hallway; dark, ambiently lit, almost cosy. The sound of your heels on the wooden floor breaks the silence into small seconds, giving you a rhythm to follow and cling to as you walk towards what could very well be your doom.
Reaching the door to the dining room, Hongjoong spares a second to look back at you, offering a thin smile that could almost be reassuring before pushing open the door. The room is bigger than you could have imagined and impossibly lavish; more suited for royalty than a criminal syndicate. Along one side of a long, oak table that stretches much of the length of the room sit seven men, arranged to face you in an intimidating formation.
You recognise them all, each face unnerving you more than the last. It’s true, they’re all stupidly handsome — even more so in real life, you realise — but all you see on their faces are the countless, endless amounts of blood on their hands. You’ve seen some of it yourself, more than enough, but the stories are even worse; men, women, children, anyone who stood in their way, slaughtered like sheep. You could swear you hear the faint ringing of screams in your ear as they look up at you.
“Gentlemen,” Hongjoong says. “This is Mira.”
They greet you with interest, a few of them offering a smile while the others simply stare you down. “Turn,” one of them says — San, you think. You stare unsuredly at Hongjoong and he lifts an eyebrow; a silent order to obey. Slowly you turn around, letting them see your back side before facing them once again. They look pleased.
“She’ll do fine,” another, Wooyoung, says with a grin.
Your gaze catches his and you gulp, unnerved. Wooyoung was the person you were most nervous to encounter; though his demeanour is friendly, enthusiastic even, the stories you’ve heard about him are the worst. He kills, massacres people with ease and he does it with that same grin on his face. It’s more terrifying than the more calculated, stoic members, because while they’ve probably killed and maimed more people than him in the long run, they at least treat it with the seriousness it deserves. Wooyoung ends lives without consideration and treats it all like some kind of game.
“Um…” you start. “What would you like me to do now, sirs?”
“Unless anyone has any requests,” Hongjoong starts. He looks around at the others and when no one speaks up, he continues. “You may put your bag on the table then come back here to present yourselves to us.”
You nod, voicing a quiet ‘yes, sir’ before nervously making your way over to the table. Your grip on your bag is iron and you’re hesitant to let it go; your bugging equipment lies in a secret compartment at the bottom hidden beneath the makeup and toys you’d brought to make yourself more convincing, and to leave it with them feels like giving yourself away. But even if they check your bag, you think, they have no reason to think there’d be any kind of secret compartment. You’re safe. You just need to get this done and then you’re safe.
You walk back to where you were, alone this time — Hongjoong has gone to take his seat next to the oldest member, Seonghwa, and now you’re eight-to-one.
Seonghwa speaks for the first time and his voice is surprisingly sultry. “Take the dress off,” he says calmly. His eyes are narrowed. “I’d like to see what I’m working with.”
With shaking hands you remove the dress, carefully unzipping the expensive (for a detective’s salary, at least) fabric and sliding it down off your body. Clad only in black, lacy lingerie, you feel a deep flush across your face; you’ve never been so exposed in front of a man before; certainly not multiple men and certainly not dangerous, notorious criminals. A whistle sounds across the room, though you’re not sure who it came from, and you blush deeper. You feel the weight of their gazes as eight pairs of eyes hover over every inch of you, inspecting and scrutinising you silently. Seonghwa, the closest to you and with the sternest expression, can’t seem to draw his eyes away from your breasts. You swallow, feeling vulnerable and smaller than you ever have before.
“Turn,” Seonghwa says, voice commanding. “Let me see the back.”
You nod, turning once again, taking your time to give them the opportunity to rake their eyes up and down the back of you; no doubt hovering on your ass, globes cleverly exposed by your lingerie. You hear a few whispered comments and try to keep your composure; you almost feel the touch of their hands on your ass, squeezing and slapping it however they like. You know they want to; you hope they will— it will mean you’ve convinced them enough for them to let their guard down.
“That’s enough,” Seonghwa says. “Turn back.”
Relieved, you turn back to face them. You’ve passed one obstacle, you think. Seonghwa stares at you for a moment, expression unreadable before he curls a long finger, bidding you closer. You take a few steps before he raises his palm, stopping you, and you still yourself. His eyes rake over your torso again before he nods. He stares up at you with dark but interested eyes and a smile breaks onto his face before he speaks.
He says it so casually you almost miss it. “I know what you are.”
His voice is so soft you only just hear him and the words take a moment to hit you. When they do, your reaction is sudden and visceral; you heart drops into your stomach like stone, blood rushing to your head at a dizzying pace and you almost pass out. But you do your best to keep your reactions internal; you know the only way to make them more certain of why you’re actually here is to freak out and panic at the mere suggestion. No. You can play this one off. You’ve trained for this. You just need to de-escalate.
You clear your throat, tapping your foot against the floor. “And what’s that?” You ask, trying to sound sultry; your voice almost breaks on the last word but you catch it in the nick of time. “A whore?”
Seonghwa’s lip quirks. “You know,” he says. “That’s not as far off as you think. But no.”
You almost want to huff at the jibe he’d thrown at you, but you remember your situation, the danger you’re in and choose to stay on his good side.
“What am I, then?”
“We don’t really need to say it, do we?” Hongjoong interjects. There’s no anger in his voice; he sounds somewhere between bored and amused. “We both know already.”
You reach up to your chest, to the chip you’d hidden in your bra in case you needed to call for backup, but a loud laugh stops you.
“Are you calling for backup?” Wooyoung grins, confirming what you already knew — they know exactly why you’re here. They’ve figured you out.
“I don’t know what you mean,” you say, still fighting your case. Your voice starts to falter as you speak, composure beginning to crack. Some small, stupid part of you still seems to think there’s a way out of this, but you know there’s not. They know your secret. And even if they were wrong, if you were innocent, this is their territory and their house— if they say something is so, there’s no arguing.
“You are,” Wooyoung laughs.
“And that backup,” Hongjoong interjects again, “they wouldn’t be the officers we found in vans on the next block, would they?”
You feel your heart drop into your stomach, jaw dropping in disbelief. No. The next block? Does no one listen to a fucking thing you say?
“I—”
“I wouldn’t bother calling for them,” Seonghwa says. You hear a few chuckles from the others, clearly enjoying this. “I don’t think I need to explain why.”
No, you think, he doesn’t. You know what they do to spies and traitors — what they’ll do to you. You can only hope they killed your colleagues quickly. If you somehow ever make it out of here, you’re going to do the same to your boss — you told him to station backup far away and this is why.
Starting to panic, you begin to back away but your pathetic attempt only takes you a few steps before Seonghwa barks, “Grab her!”, and the two men nearest descend on you.
Your years of combat training are no match for the strong, probably better-trained men, and within seconds they have you fully restrained. You struggle in their hold and the taller, Mingi, harshly grabs your hair, yanking it back to force you to stare the others straight in the face.
You expect to see anger, even bloodlust when you meet their gaze, but you don’t. Other than Seonghwa, who seems irritated at your attempt to escape, they look… unbothered. It doesn’t make sense, you think. Not with what you were trying to do and especially not with how painfully close you came to doing it. For having almost had their entire network penetrated by one terrified looking woman, they look strangely calm, like they’re entirely unsurprised by this development, and you don’t know why. Unless…?
You hold back a groan as the realisation hits you. “You knew.”
Hongjoong smiles, amused. “We’ve always known, Mira. You think we wouldn’t realise we were being watched?”
You bow your head. You’re still terrified, knowing these men have killed countless people with the blank, unbothered expressions they wear now, but right now the overwhelming, crushing emotion is just… embarrassment. You feel like a rookie again; cocky and confident with your badge and gun until you fuck up for the first time and it all comes crashing down.
You shrug. “I don’t know.”
You hear someone snort and look up to see Wooyoung, giggling almost gleefully to himself. “Aren’t you meant to be the smartest on the squad?” He laughs. You hear a few others chuckle too. “Didn’t you tell your boss you ‘knew everything about us’? But you didn’t consider the fact that we might know you?”
He makes a good point, you realise. But while you figured they’d know they were being watched, with your high-tech surveillance equipment and ability to blend into a crowd, it had barely crossed your mind that they might know who was watching them — certainly not that they’d somehow know the exact things you’d said about them. They must have bugged you, you think, or somehow gotten a spy into the department to listen in on your discussions on them. You guess you owe them more credit. And a lot more fear.
“I’m sorry,” is all you can think to say.
“I’m certain you are,” Hongjoong says. “Now you’ve been caught. Are you keen on proving it?”
You look up, confused, hopeful and terrified all in one. You thought you’d be dead by now, shot on sight. And if they intended on killing you slowly, torturing you for information before finally letting you die, you figured they’d have started by now. Or at least made any attempt to move. They could still do it, of course, but they don’t seem in the mood for that. They look… curious.
“P-prove it?” You stutter. “How?”
A few of them smile, mouths curling into thin smiles and you shift uncomfortably. The two oldest share a look before Seonghwa nods and seemingly out of nowhere, Hongjoong pulls a gun, setting it carefully but loudly on the table. He keeps a hand on the trigger and his eyes on you as he speaks. “Firstly,” he says. “Don’t try to run. I’d hate to stick a bullet through your pretty face but if you bolt, that’s exactly what I’ll do. And I know you’ve seen yourself how excellent my aim is.”
You gulp. Hongjoong’s right. Through the lenses of your binoculars you’ve seen him — all of them, in fact — make some almost impossible shots. Certainly more impossible than a woman in heels trying to escape from a locked room. There’s no point trying to run. You’ll leave when — if, you think with a shiver — they allow you to.
You feel yourself deflate, nodding defeatedly. “Okay.”
“Alright,” he smiles. “Mingi, Jongho, let her go.”
The men holding you stare almost petulantly at their leader but he raises an eyebrow and they relent, releasing their grip. “Not a fucking toe out of line, Mira,” Mingi whispers in your ear. He says your ‘name’ like it’s diseased.
Despite being released, your body refuses to move; it stays paralysed in the same position, too terrified to even shiver. A blessing in disguise though, you suppose; Hongjoong looks pleased. “See,” he smiles. “It’s so easy to just be good for us, isn’t it?”
You try to respond but all that comes out is a small, pathetic squeak. A few chuckles sound out across the room and your gaze catches Yunho, who, though appearing calm, in his eyes looks just on the edge of feral. You gulp.
Seonghwa is the first to move; he says your ‘name’ lowly, curling a finger towards you. “Come here,” he orders.
You approach him as slowly as you can excuse, soon enough ending up inches away from him. He looks you up and down, inspecting your body with dark eyes.
”You’re shivering,” he says softly.
You manage to force out a few words. “I’m cold,” you reply. “And…”
“And scared?” He asks. You don’t respond, but you flush pink and he chuckles. “Clever girl,” he says. “You should be scared. I’ve never liked the way you seemed so… fearless about us.”
He wraps an arm around your waist, eyes flashing when you jump in surprise. “So flighty,” he mutters. “Sit on my lap.”
You don’t know if you would resist if you could but that doesn’t matter; your body, seemingly in survival mode, moves of its own accord to straddle him. His hands settle on your waist, just above your ass and he smiles.
“Still shivering,” he chuckles. “Good girl.” He leans in close enough that only you can hear as he whispers; “San’ll be much nicer to you if you stay this terrified.” You gulp, eyes flickering in the direction of the man mentioned; he’s watching you intently, face blank but he’s clearly not one to mess with. He’s so much more intimidating in person.
“Now,” Seonghwa says, and you turn your gaze back to him. “Let’s see what you can do for us, hm? Open your mouth.”
You hesitate briefly, but quickly obey, parting your lips slightly. Seonghwa runs his thumb across your bottom lip before he tugs at it to open your mouth further; before you know it a wad of spit lands on your tongue, and he closes your mouth again. He taps your cheek. “Swallow,” he says.
You pray your boss never finds out about this; straddling your enemy’s lap and swallowing his spit on his command. Then again, you’d be lucky to see your boss again at all. You don’t particularly trust that they’ll spare your life just because you let them fuck you. This feels more like playing with their food.
Seonghwa pushes two fingers into your mouth, ordering you to suck. They push to the back of your throat, making you gag but you keep them inside, sucking them desperately and trying to ignore the way your body screams at you to get them out. “Sucking me so good,” he grins. “You’re gonna look so pretty with our dicks in your mouth.”
You can’t help the moan that slips out; nor the flood of relief that washes over you at the praise. Maybe they will let you live after all.
Seonghwa thrusts his fingers lazily in and out of your mouth, letting you choke and gag on them as your throat slowly adjusts to the intrusion.
“I must say,” he says. There’s curiosity and knowing in his eyes; a knowledge of something you think is secret. It unnerves you even further. “You’ve come around to this remarkably quickly. I really thought you’d put up more of a fight, petal.”
Noises of agreement sound out, the men chuckling to themselves. “Pathetic,” you think you hear Yunho say.
“You know, Seonghwa,” Hongjoong says. You turn in surprise at his voice— sitting in Seonghwa’s grip, those dark eyes burning into you, it’s easy to forget there’s anyone else in the room. Hongjoong smiles amusedly at you before he continues. “It’s almost like she wanted to fail. Like she wanted us to realise what she was because she knew that’d mean we couldn’t let her leave.”
You manage to stop yourself from scoffing— thank God, you think, because the pistol on the table in front of Hongjoong is ever present and you’ve seen him use it on others for a lot less. But come on. That’s ridiculous. You’ve been after them for years, never for a moment with any intention other than locking each and every one of them up for good. You try to protest but Seonghwa clamps his palm over your mouth, shushing you. “You might be right, Joong,” he smiles. “That would explain why she came here so poorly prepared. Like a lamb to slaughter.” He removes his hand from your mouth; his fingers brush over your lips and linger a little longer than you can justify.
Hongjoong chuckles. “Is that it, little lamb?” He asks. “Were you hoping for this?”
You shake your head, determined to refute him but to your horror, part of you starts to wonder if there might be some truth to his words, if you… no. No way. Of course you weren’t hoping for this. Still, your hesitation tells them more than you want them to know. “I…”
“She was,” Seonghwa grins. “Naive little girl.”
You frown, brows furrowing. “I’m not—”
Before you can finish your sentence, a deep voice you recognise as Yunho sounds out, silencing you. “Will you stop fucking talking back,” he snaps, almost shouting. He leans over to where you’re still held firmly in Seonghwa’s grip, eyes dark. “I swear to God,” he whispers.
“Yunho,” Hongjoong replies before you can, tone warning but amused. “Don’t be mean to her. She must be so scared right now, hm?” He turns back to you, narrowing his eyes. “And maybe something else?”
“She’s horny is what she is,” Yunho snorts dryly. “Dripping for us yet still with so much attitude.”
“She can’t resist,” Seonghwa says. “It’s in her bones, isn’t it?” He strokes your face with a gentleness you’d never expect from him; but the knowledge of how easily he could and might still kill you makes it a lot less comforting. “She wants to hate us, knows she should but this feels so right, doesn’t it? So good.”
You whine, shaking your head; you know you’re past the point of resistance now but you can’t bear to fully submit. There’s no coming back from that. Seonghwa sighs, stroking your hair. “As soon as you give in,” he says, “this will get so much easier.”
“I—”
“Hm?” He asks. “What? You can’t?”
You shake your head and he smiles. “You can, Mira,” he says. “You will.”
You groan, squeezing your eyes shut as if you could make this all go away just by blocking it out. You hear them chuckle, then before you know it you’re being lifted up; you open your eyes and see Seonghwa has stood up, still holding you in his arms, before laying you down on the table with your legs hanging over the edge. Your stomach twists as you realise the position you’re in; completely exposed and at their mercy. Ripe for the taking. Your hands are lifted above your head and you look up to see Yunho, holding them together firmly in one hand. Seonghwa’s hands come to rest on your hips again.
“Open your legs.”
You whine, shaking your head squeezing your thighs together. Seonghwa scowls, displeased and wraps a calloused hand around your plush upper thigh. He stares you down, eyes dark as he starts to squeeze. His sharp nails dig into you, piercing the skin ever so slightly under the pressure. You whimper, squirming a little but he doesn’t react.
“Open them.”
Cold metal touches your temple. You don’t need to look to know that Yunho is holding a gun to your head. You swallow thickly, trying to stay calm. At this point, you’re not disobeying on purpose; you’re not stupid enough to think that would work. But in the thick of adrenaline, where your body had once obeyed of its own accord, now… it won’t move.
Seonghwa gives Yunho a pointed look and then the gun leaves your head. Now in the elder’s hand, he puts it down for a moment before, with one hand on each thigh, he spreads your legs open with ease. “There we go,” he hums.
The steel of the pistol is ice cold against the warmth of your inner thighs as he moves it slowly up your legs until it points directly at your pussy. Covered by the thin black fabric of your panties, you nonetheless feel entirely exposed, like he can see right through them.
The end of the gun comes to press up against your panties and you feel the cold steel through the fabric; but where it presses against your clit, pressure slight but noticeable, it’s almost nice. It doesn’t move; Seonghwa keeps his hand still in place, watching with a small smile as you try to conceal your pleasure. He pushes it against you slightly, making you gasp, and gestures to your panties.
“Take those off,” he says. “Quickly, if you want the safety to stay on.”
You scramble to obey, tugging them off and discarding them next to you. With a small smile, Seonghwa picks them up and stuffs them in his pocket. You bite your lip. “Sir,” you whisper.
He hums, cocking an eyebrow before placing the gun back where it was before. This time he presses it more firmly against your clit and you squirm. “Nice and still for me,” he murmurs.
Turning your head, you see the other men gathered around the table. They’re just… watching. No one looks affected, no one’s touching themselves; they’re just watching their friends take you apart with entirely blank, focused expressions. Like it’s a clinical procedure.
Unnerved, you turn back to face Seonghwa just as he slips the gun ever so slightly into your pussy. You gasp, almost crying out but Yunho quickly shoves his fingers into your mouth, silencing you. “Now, now,” he cooes. “We don’t want to make them angry, do we?” His voice is sickly sweet and condescending and the most terrifying thing you’ve ever heard. You shake your head, still gagged by his fingers and he chuckles. “Good girl.”
Then the gun is gone as Seonghwa pulls it away— a string of wet, sticky liquid following in its wake. He smiles knowingly and you wish the earth would swallow you up. You’ve creamed on a fucking gun, shoved up your pussy by your worst enemies. You’ll never come back from this.
“My, my,” you hear Hongjoong chuckle. You turn to meet his eyes and he tilts his head, smiling innocently. Seonghwa grabs your face to force your gaze back to him. “Stop looking away,” he says. “I’m the one fucking you.”
The gun clatters down and without warning Seonghwa’s long fingers are penetrating you; two, you think, maybe three. He doesn’t ease you into it (why would he, really?), just quickly stretching you out on his fingers. And then Yunho’s there too, standing next to the elder and watching him work you open with dark eyes.
Soon they swap places, and while Seonghwa’s fingers are certainly large, Yunho’s are something else entirely. His fingers pump in and out of you efficiently; your pleasure clearly isn’t what’s on his mind, but rather, working you open for something bigger. He certainly pays no mind to your reactions; even as you whine and cry his eyes never move from your pussy as you come more and more undone around his fingers. He’s focused, dangerously so.
Once his third finger sits comfortably in your pussy, he pulls them all out, leaving you gaping and empty. You whine at the loss and he chuckles before he picks up his gun again. He runs it up and down your thigh with light, teasing touches.
“Want it in you?” He asks.
You nod, desperate. At this point, you wish you felt shame— you wish you were embarrassed and humiliated to be debasing yourself like this for your targets; but instead you’re just aroused. Completely, overwhelmingly, suffocatingly aroused. “Sir,” you whisper again.
He grins, twirling the gun in his hand. The ease with which he handles it is a stark reminder of where you are, who these men are. It does nothing to lessen your desperation.
“Very well,” he says. “Stay still, Mira. Wouldn’t want the safety coming off accidentally.”
Accidentally. You almost scoff. You’re a detective; you know a thinly veiled threat when you see one. And this is barely veiled. Still, you do as he says without complaint, keeping your legs spread and pussy open for access as he presses it against your entrance. It goes in surprisingly easily; lubricated by your gushing pussy and it’s as humiliating as it is exhilarating. You make a noise of discomfort, biting down on your lip until you taste blood; half of pleasure and half of pain.
The steel is cold and inhuman and the edges push painfully against your walls and it’s degrading and terrifying. Yet at the same time it feels so good to be used and demeaned in this way; to be fucked open not for your pleasure, not even his pleasure, but purely for his own amusement. You know every noise or face of pain you make is making him harder and it’s a rush you’ve never even felt from sex. Fuck. What is wrong with you?
At this point, you don’t even know who’s talking; people and voices blur into one distant, surrounding haze.
“She’s loving this,” someone says.
“Sick bitch,” another spits, then, “we should keep her.”
Then the gun is gone, and you’re suddenly empty, your walls clinging to nothing— briefly. Within a few moments something else nicer, warmer, better is sliding into you; you look up, meeting Seonghwa’s gaze as he pushes into you. He’s large and thick, bordering on this side of too much, but it feels… good. Fuck. You’ve never felt like this in your fucking life; neither, it seems, has he.
“Fuck,” he choked. “Tight little whore. So fucking good.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, lost in a fog of pleasure and clinging to the rhythm of his quickening thrusts. Half of you wants to forget who it is that’s doing this to you, making you feel so good; the other half thinks this is the only dick you want for the rest of your life. But with each thrust of Seonghwa’s dick deep inside you, slamming against your cervix each time, you become less and less able to think of anything at all— except the waves of painful pleasure washing over you, and your desperate desire for it to never, ever stop.
It’s just your luck that, just as you feel yourself approaching your climax, Seonghwa pulls out without warning, leaving you empty and leaking. You’re about to cry out in protest when you find yourself flipped over, pressed down and bent over the wooden table. You feel the two men behind you, kneading your ass, and a sharp slap lands against it before Seonghwa pushes back into your pussy again.
“Hwa,” Yunho says. “I don’t think she’s full enough.”
Seonghwa slows his pace, and you feel his stern, scrutinising gaze on you. “You’re right,” he says. He spreads your ass cheeks, making you gasp, and he chuckles. “Look at that little asshole clenching. I think it wants to be filled.”
Yunho makes a noise of agreement, pressing a finger to your rim and making you jump. “Think she can handle my cock in there?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really,” Yunho says nonchalantly. “But I’d rather not break her completely. She’s too tight, it’d be a waste.”
“Fine,” Seonghwa says, slowly starting to thrust again. After a few moments, he pulls out, and you feel Yunho’s long fingers enter your pussy. You whine, confused, but a slap of Seonghwa’s hand against your thigh silences you. Yunho’s fingers pull away, replaced with Seonghwa’s dick again, before Yunho’s fingers are on your asshole, pushing into the rim with— oh. He’s… he’s using your slick as lube.
“Dirty girl,” he mutters. It takes embarrassingly little time before he manages to fit all three fingers in there and he stills. “You ever been fucked here before?”
“N-no,” you gasp, squirming under the two men’s grips on you.
“Good,” he says. “Hold still.”
The feeling of his cock pushing past your rim makes you scream— it’s fucking maddening; painful and pleasurable and pretty much every adjective you could use to describe anything. You don’t even recognise the sounds you’re making now; you barely sound human, squealing and crying like an animal.
“Yeah,” Yunho grunts. “Bark, bitch.”
You’re fully sobbing now, a broken, dripping mess as two cocks pump in and out of you. Seonghwa’s fingers are digging into your hips, no doubt leaving bruises to match those blooming under the impact of your colliding bodies each time they thrust. Yunho’s hands are in your hair, tugging your head backwards; it stretches your neck painfully, but you doubt he cares; the only thing on either of their minds is using you for their own satisfaction. Only the sound of laughter reminds you of the presence of the other six and you crane your neck to look at them.
“Look at her,” Jongho laughs. “Taking it like a fucking whore.”
Emboldened by his comments, Yunho speeds up, thrusts getting quicker and harder by the second. You feel your walls clenching around his cock, squeezing him each time he moves.
Seonghwa’s thrusts are just as fast, hitting you just as deep, but in the more familiar cavern of your pussy, they’re not quite as overwhelming as Yunho’s. You can tell by their tightening grips on you when they’re close, slowly losing their control.
“I’m gonna fucking cum in you,” Yunho growls. “I’m gonna get you pregnant and fucking keep you here. Our little breeding bitch.”
You cry out, half pleasure half pain, and it pushes you over the edge; with a shout he releases inside you, hot load filling you up and leaking out around his dick before he pulls out. Seonghwa follows quickly, unloading in your pussy before pulling out, leaving you fucked out and leaking onto the floor.
“Disgusting bitch,” someone says.
Seonghwa touches your hip almost gently, and you find yourself crumpling to the floor, unable to hold yourself up anymore. Sat in a pathetic heap, you faintly see the men surrounding you.
“You did a good job, Mira,” Hongjoong says, and he almost sounds fond. “A maid will take you to your cell.”
Cell. The word hits you like bricks crashing down; knocking the wind out of your chest and dropping you back into your reality— you tried to beat them. You failed. You’re trapped. You know they see the terror creep back onto your face. You imagine they enjoy it.
Seonghwa pats your head, and for a moment it looks like he wants to kiss you; instead he just smiles, nodding curtly before following his brothers as they walk away. Hongjoong is the last to exit, leaving you alone, still crumpled on your knees and covered in cum on the floor of the hall. Before he closes the door, he turns back to you; his eyes hover over your shivering form and a smile flickers.
“If you can keep this up, Mira,” he says, “we’ll probably let you live.”
The slam of the oak door echoes around the room.
-
thanks for reading! i think this is darkest fic i’ve ever written. i’m trying to start branching out into more plot-heavy fics along with the usual smut, so this is something of an attempt in that area. your feedback is much appreciated and motivates me to write more. reblogs and comments are appreciated. requests open. love🖤🖤🖤
#ateez smut#ateez hard hours#kpop smut#ateez x reader#ateez hard thoughts#seonghwa smut#yunho smut#mafia ateez#ateez au#ateez fanfic#dom seonghwa#dom yunho#mulloey writes
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#legit always been confused about this having never worked stock and rarely ever worked tills#is it just that yall don’t care? like there’s obvi stock in that back room he’s showing#is he doing this intentionally against the customer in some way cause he just can?#cause he dgaf if the shop makes the sale?#cause i truly miss the days when i used to ask and they would come back with the item . idk when or why this practice ever changed#cause ik it’s a video but he headed straight back and just chilled and didn’t even imply trying to look for the item#was i just going to shops that were too bougie or was it that the shop im remembering is a co-op?#looking for genuine and sincere responses here pls
Having worked stock I can answer this question for you: Because whatever the customer is looking for is not there and he knows it's not there, but customers often need a visual reassurance that you're not trying to lie to them for some reason.
Used to be that product was bought in intervals by someone going through and logging what was low, and then ordering a lot of something they knew was high-demand just to have on hand. Now a lot of stores these days have automatic restock on most merchandise that triggers if it gets low/runs out in the system, and then we'd see it the next Wednesday shipment (or whenever the "big" weekly shipment happens for the store). Often there's also only enough to fill the shelf space for that week to avoid pile-ups in backrooms, and special seasonal stuff shows up in batches before the season even starts and never again after that, giving limited merchandise to sell that just sits in the backroom for 3 months.
Sometimes something gets stolen/broken/etc that makes everyone think it's out of stock and yet there really is something in the back—much to our surprise—but unless the backroom is in good order (and usually it's not, due to not having enough workers), it's gonna take 45 minutes to 3 hours to find exactly what we're looking for, since there's a bunch of other stock and also seasonal products that we have to shift through. And since there's often not enough workers, then whoever is sent back doesn't actually have enough time to actually look and can only pretend to look before they gotta get back to the floor to get back to their tasks on hand.
#it's just not there and people don't believe you when you say “sorry it's not there” lol#worst is when something *has* been stolen/destroyed/lost but nobody caught it and it ends up sold out with stock sitting at +1 or +2#then customer is usually confused why it would still be in-stock online/in-app/on our inventory scanners and we can't help them#the best we can do is check to see if other stores nearby have it and only the ones in our systems#depending on the store they may be able specially order something to be shipped to the store for the customer to pick up in 2-3 days#but usually that's only at stores that offer big/pricey items
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"For a show that is praised to have “good disabled rep” mainly because of Fizzarolli and a scene he shares with a young deaf kid where they both use sign language to communicate, Helluva Boss seems to simultaneously use disabled characters as punchlines and thinks using slurs like the r-slur is funny. Like the bellhop guy in Ghostf*ckers being called a "thing" with Blitzo and Millie looking at him in disgust. And Moxxie, a character many consider to be autistic coded, generally being the show's punching bag (being called slow, being fatshamed, getting SA'd for laughs, etc). And the two times the r-slur were used were directed at Moxxie and the receptionist in Western Energy who immediately before almost getting called it says that she can't spell or read. I know in that last scene Blitzo doesn't actually end up saying it and cuts himself off, but still... And funny how people say the scene where Blitzo cuts himself off from saying the slur is the crew "learning from the pilot about not using offensive slurs like that", when they literally went on to make a slurs shirt as official merch for the show. :/"
Submitted by @oceanicartgal
#vivziepop critical#vivziepop criticism#vivziepop critique#anti hazbin hotel#anti helluva boss#anti vivziepop#tw ableism#vivziepopcriticalconfessions
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Enter Mason challenger
A rival ram 🐏 ✨️ pursues the Mc after being a local blacksmith helping Mc with a fence 😀
The possibilities of them be howdy hooting mess a hot mess
TBH I don't see Mason's story needing a "challenger" or really working with one. Plus, Mason's REALLY good with his hands (iykwim) so he can fix Reader's fence so Reader wouldn't need to call anyone lol
THAT SAID... I've been playing around with this idea of a yandere farming sim. Basically, think about all those popular farming sims like Stardew Valley, Roots of Pacha, Moonstone Island, Animal Crossing, etc. and have the villagers be yandere for you.
I'll make a whole separate post for all the villagers soon, but here's the ram (a tailor) that I made as a small preview, since you mentioned a ram in your post~
Here's Izan, the owner of the clothing store in your village! He's a bit shy, but very sweet with extremely obsessive tendencies. He tends to be a bit delusional, reading into every one of your kind actions as a sign of your affection for him. Be careful, he's really good at tying knots ;)
He's super blushy and super romantic!! He just wants hold your hands and all that cute stuff (he just gets a little... jealous, you know?)
#yandere oc#male yandere#tsuuper ocs#yandere x reader#yandere x you#tw yandere#male yandere oc x reader#male yandere oc#yandere ram boy#yandere farming sim#Farming Sim Tsuu OC
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Maybe Jonathan learned it from Speedwagon?
It would make sense, given that Speedwagon “lived in darkness” as a young man. He might have had to hide the shine from his eyes while he was watching for danger, or a mark to steal from. He demonstrated he could easily rob a moving carriage by swinging through the window after hanging upside down from the roof. I can’t imagine George 1 or Jonathan ever had a reason to hide their face with shadows but it’s possible Speedwagon did that pose while he and Jonathan were interrogating Wang Chen, or when Speedwagon was retelling a tale from his past. He and Jonathan had some time to recover from their broken arms and ribs from the manor fire long before they met Zeppeli. Speedwagon’s left arm was broken but he could still use his right arm to gesticulate for his dramatic tales (he seems to be right handed anyway since he used just his right wrist to break the stone mask with a 15 pound sledgehammer.)
Anyway. I already headcanoned that a lot of Joseph’s personality, observation skill, prediction skill, love for sleight of hand tricks, etc came from good ol’ Grandpa Speedwagon. It would be funny, and fitting, to see Speedwagon’s influence starting with Jonathan. It could have even started with George I, since George allowed a scarred ruffian to help Jonathan stage a very dramatic prosecution and arrest for Dio. I headcanon Speedwagon was the one who wanted to put out all the lights and use the shadows to set Dio on edge.
Jonathan was crafty and cunning, and came up with brilliant tricks on his own, and he was a drama king, too (ie his temper tantrum before he rolled himself down the hill. His teaching Danny to put out fires. His depressed lamenting before he enthusiastically gobbled up a chocolate bar.) Jonathan would have made a good theater kid if George had allowed him to pursue the arts instead of academia. Adding flamboyant Zeppeli and Speedwagon (not to mention Drama King Dio) to his spheres of influence would certainly enhance his own posture and habits.
Speaking of. Dio also hid his face a lot in part 3. Maybe Jonathan learned it from Dio, and Speedwagon learned from Jonathan. Who knows. Anything can happen in fandom headcanons.
Honestly
#joseph joestar#jonathan joestar#“yeah your grandpa used to do the john cena thing for some reason”#same hat#jojo's bizarre adventure#jojoke#jjba fan art part 1 and 2
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"It's All Your Fault, Isn't It?"
Yan! SatoSugu x Reader Sum: You've had the chances, why didn't you take them. In the end you'll always just lose the purest of love. Last part of: Can my friend join?, This is Love, Right? ** Can be read as standalone fics** TW: Yandere Behaviors (Obsession, Manipulation, etc), Death of Child Character, Blood, Toxic Relationship Dynamics, Depression, Dubcon, Lactation, Pregnancy themes, SatoSugu, Angst No Comfort. MDNI WC: 7.7k
A/n: I got supperrr stuck in the loop of editing, so I am just gonna post it, I feel like rereading it after the tenth time. I almost just pressed delete lol. :) enjoy!
It’s all your fault, isn’t it?
You did this to yourself. You should have walked away when the chance was there, when the door was still open, even just a crack. You should have screamed, fought, run—anything to reclaim a sliver of your freedom.
But you didn’t.
You stayed.
Was it the security? The comfort of knowing you’d never struggle to pay bills or scramble to find work? Was it the way Satoru promised, over and over, that you’d never go unloved, never feel the ache of loneliness again?
Or was it something darker? Something you couldn’t quite admit to yourself?
You told yourself it was love. You told yourself you were lucky. How many women could say they had someone who’d give them the world? Someone who, with a flick of his wrist, could bend the rules of life itself to ensure you had everything you could ever need?
So, you stayed.
Even before Suguru became part of the equation, you stayed. You even stayed when Satoru would come home in the dead of night, his footsteps a faint echo through the silent halls before his hands found you. You’d stir from your sleep as he pulled your panties down with barely a word, his breath hot against your neck.
There was no tenderness in those moments, no love—just need. A raw, consuming need he claimed you had to fulfill. And you let him, didn’t you? You let him push inside you with barely any preparation, your body yielding to him because he knew it so well.
Satoru knew the places that made you crumble, the spots where your body quivered, the way your breath hitched when his fingers grazed just right. He knew you better than you knew yourself, didn’t he? His movements were deliberate, practiced, the wet noises filling the room a cruel testament to how thoroughly he’d mastered you.
You’d given him permission. He reminded you of that often, didn’t he? That you’d said yes. That he worked so hard, carried so much, and that this was his right. That he had needs only you could meet.
And you understood. You always understood.
After all, he was the strongest, wasn’t he?
So, you let him use you.
Like a doll.
You’d lay there, staring at the ceiling, as he buried himself to the hilt one last time, his loud groans of release cutting through the stillness. A pathetic little whimper followed, muffled by the darkness, as he spilled himself inside you. And then, as if the act meant nothing, he pressed a sweet kiss to your temple, murmured something soft and indistinct, and rolled over to his side of the bed.
You stayed there, silent and unmoving, the lingering heat of his body beside you doing nothing to warm the cold ache between your thighs.
That’s when the thought would creep in. A sick, unwelcome whisper:
You didn’t even climax.
You hated yourself for thinking it. For letting it matter.
But still, you stayed.
Was it fear that held you there? Or was it hope—a desperate, foolish hope that one-day things would change? That one day, every day would feel like those rare, sweet moments when he pressed teasing kisses against your lips before dragging you out to get sweets. That he’d touch you with love, with the tenderness he so effortlessly showed to others—when he wasn’t breaking them apart piece by piece with that same teasing grin.
And now, looking back, you can’t decide what’s worse: that you didn’t leave when you had the chance…
Or that part of you still doesn’t want to.
You stayed, even when the small arguments started. The little spats about wanting him to open up more, to share pieces of his life with you, the pieces he always kept hidden. Perhaps it was selfish—maybe even naïve—but you wanted to know why he loved you.
Really, truly loved you.
But you never asked.
You saved that question, tucking it away deep into your heart, right alongside the cracks that had already started forming. You told yourself it wasn’t the right time. That maybe he wasn’t ready. That you shouldn’t push. Instead, you focused on the good times, clinging to them like lifelines.
Because they were good, weren’t they?
What other guy would give you the world like Satoru did? What other guy would bring you flowers every week—a different color each time, sometimes traditional, sometimes exotic, but always beautiful? What other guy would shower you with affection so openly, so shamelessly, pressing kisses to your skin, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as though you were the only thing keeping him grounded?
Satoru had told you he loved you. And maybe he did—in a way that wasn’t entirely built on desire, the need to keep you within his grasp, or the insatiable craving to hold you close for the rest of your days.
That’s what you told yourself, anyway.
That’s why you stayed.
Even when Suguru came into the picture—when those dark, calculating eyes lingered on you just a moment too long when his quiet, honeyed words wove themselves into your life like threads binding you to a tapestry you couldn’t escape—you stayed.
You had the choice, didn’t you? You could have said no. You could have walked away.
But you didn’t.
You stayed, and now there was no one else to blame.
So, truly, it is all your fault.
However, your heart’s at fault too, isn’t it? For leaning into Suguru's touches, craving his warmth, even when you knew deep down that he was a cruel and awful man. A man who veiled his darkness in sweetness, wrapping it in gentle words and tender caresses that made you doubt your own truths. He was a master of contradiction—soft hands and sharp edges, honeyed lies hiding an iron grip.
You could have left.
You could have said no to the whole relationship, shut the door before it ever opened.
But you didn’t.
You stayed.
You told yourself that maybe this was the best you could hope for, the best kind of love someone like you deserved. Because it was love, wasn’t it? They loved you. Even if it was conditional. Even if you had to give and give, piece after piece of yourself, just to receive a sliver in return.
Love comes in many forms, after all. And this was love.
Or so you continued to convince yourself.
This is what you deserve. That you should have listened to your gut, back when every touch felt too heavy, too lingering, too much. Back when their words seemed to wrap around you like chains instead of promises. You should have left before the walls around you closed in. Before you realized that leaving wasn’t just difficult—it was dangerous.
You had your chances, didn’t you? If only you’d taken them.
You knew Satoru would tear the world apart to find you if you ran. He’d find you, no matter where you went, no matter how far. But… would he really?
If you’d left early enough, maybe it wouldn’t have been like this. Maybe it would have been nothing more than a bad breakup, a lesson in heartbreak you’d recover from in time. Maybe, if you’d left after Suguru’s return, Satoru would have leaned on him instead of spiraling further into obsession.
But you didn’t leave.
You stayed.
Such a stupid, stupid girl.
And yet…
It was never just about them, was it?
Because you craved love too, just as much as they did. You wanted it desperately—so much that you ignored the warnings in your heart, the creeping dread in your chest. You wanted to be loved, to feel wanted, to belong to someone in a way that was absolute, undeniable, and unshakable.
And that’s exactly what they gave you.
But love like that—it came with a cost.
And you paid for it in silence, in submission, in the pieces of yourself you’d never get back.
So now, here you are, locked away in the beautiful Gojo estate. A place so grand it should feel like a palace, yet it suffocates you like a gilded cage. Every corner gleams with wealth and power, every surface reflects the life you’re supposed to be grateful for.
The maids don’t meet your eyes.
To them, you aren’t Satoru’s wife. You aren’t a partner. You’re something lesser.
A pet.
Because you aren’t the one ensuring the estate runs smoothly while Satoru is away on his endless missions. That responsibility doesn’t fall to you—it belongs to Suguru, doesn’t it? He’s the one in charge. He holds the reins, commanding the household with a quiet authority that leaves no room for question.
And you?
You remain.
The pet. The wife. The child-bearer.
Barefoot and pregnant, with a swollen belly to show for it, you shuffle through the estate like a ghost. Your body aches, weighed down not just by the child growing inside you, but by the chains of a life you can’t escape.
Suguru sees to it that the estate runs like a well-oiled machine, all while maintaining his title as the second strongest. His responsibilities never seem to tire him, never seem to dull his devotion. If anything, they only make him more overbearing.
He adores pampering you.
He drapes you in the softest blankets, ensuring you’re always warm. He dresses you in the finest clothes, silks and satins that cling to your growing belly, showcasing the proof of your usefulness. He loves the way your independence has been stripped away, loves the way you’ve been forced to rely on him for everything.
When did you become so dependent?
When did you start accepting his affection like a loyal dog, start leaning into the way his rough, calloused hands would trace the curve of your stomach? When did you start craving the way he’d gaze up at you with that lovesick smile, his voice low and honeyed as he murmured sweet words about the future?
“I hope the baby looks like Satoru,” he’d say, his eyes dark and soft as they met yours. Then, after a pause, “I hope it’s a girl.”
The words always made your chest tighten, made your stomach twist.
You know he must miss the twins.
It’s not just the weight of their absence—it’s the way he’s filled that void with this child, this unborn life. You can see it in the way he touches you, the way he watches you. He’s more excited about this pregnancy than you are.
And that’s the cruelest part, isn’t it?
Because to him, this isn’t just a child. It’s a legacy. A purpose.
To you?
It’s another chain.
And yet, you hate how loving he is. How he’s always there to hold your hair back when you’re bent over, heaving in the dead of night. How his large, warm hands find every knot in your aching limbs, massaging away the tension with a tenderness that makes your heartache.
It’s cruel, how gentle he can be. How he disarms you with care just when you think you might muster the strength to fight back.
There’s a constant mantra in your mind, a desperate hope that the baby won’t resemble either of them.
Because the thought of seeing their features reflected back at you stirs a fear too heavy to bear.
The thought of seeing their features reflected in those tiny, innocent eyes is terrifying. It brings the fear that every decision will feel like a mistake, that allowing any of this to happen will become an unbearable regret.
You tell yourself you hope, but it’s hard to ignore the possibility, isn’t it?
What if the child inherits Satoru’s piercing blue eyes—so crystalline they seem otherworldly, glowing even in the faintest light? The same eyes that burn and freeze you all at once, stripping you bare and exposing every secret, every hidden part of you.
Even his grin—boyish, sharp, too wide—lingers in your mind. A grin that could charm and cut in the same breath, leaving you unsure whether to lean closer or step away. What if that grin appeared on a smaller, softer face, just as devastating?
Or worse—what if the baby inherits Suguru’s gaze?
Those dark, soulful eyes that pull you in like the tide, gentle at first glance, inviting even, but hiding endless, churning storms beneath their surface. Eyes that promise escape is not an option. Unlike Satoru’s, Suguru’s smiles are quieter, softer—but no less dangerous. His smiles feel deliberate, like they’re slipping past every defense you didn’t even know you had.
Would the baby inherit Satoru’s arrogance? Suguru’s patience?
Or worse—would the child inherit both of their possessiveness?
The thought makes your skin crawl.
But the fear doesn’t end there.
Because it’s not just about the baby, is it?
It’s about you.
About how they’ve already carved themselves so deeply into your soul that you can’t even imagine a world without them. You hate that truth. Hate the way it festers inside you, a bitter root growing into every part of you.
You hate Satoru’s smirk when he strides into the estate after a mission, brushing off the exhaustion and blood as if it’s nothing. How he towers over you, his white hair catching the light in a way that seems almost ethereal, his fingers tilting your chin up with a mock tenderness that makes your breath catch.
You hate how he always knows exactly what to say to make you crumble, his voice dipping into that teasing lilt that makes your heart flutter in spite of yourself.
And Suguru—oh, you hate how he lingers. How his touch lingers. His hands are always warm, always deliberate, tracing paths across your skin as if he’s claiming you, piece by piece. Every stroke of his fingers feels like a silent reminder that you are his, that you belong to him. His voice, low and soothing, is a cruel contradiction—a balm against your nerves, even when his words are laced with quiet threats you pretend not to hear.
You hate them.
You hate the way they consume you, the way they’ve woven themselves into the fabric of your life so tightly that even your thoughts feel tangled in their presence.
And yet, as you sit in the vast, lonely expanse of the Gojo estate, the weight of your belly grounding you, you know the truth.
You’re not just afraid of the baby looking like them.
You’re afraid of what that child will mean.
Because if they look like Satoru, with his arrogance, his fire, his brilliance, how will you deny the pride swelling in your chest? How will you stop yourself from feeling that flicker of awe, even when you know you shouldn’t?
And if they look like Suguru, with his quiet strength, his steadfast devotion, how will you deny the love? How will you stop yourself from melting beneath those familiar eyes, from imagining them crinkling with joy or softening with affection?
You can’t.
And that's horrifying.
You won’t be able to ignore how Satoru has changed, how he’s become softer, more attentive in ways that make it harder to hold onto your resentment. How he lingers closer to you than he ever did before, as if the mere distance between you might undo something fragile inside him.
How he’s started resting his head in your lap as you sit together in the serene gardens, his white hair catching the sunlight like spun silk, almost ethereal. His long lashes cast soft shadows over his cheeks as his half-lidded gaze flickers up to meet yours, brimming with a tenderness you don’t know how to process.
He murmurs lazy words of affection, his voice low and warm, the kind of sweetness that drips like honey and sticks to your skin. His fingers trace absentminded circles on your thighs, soft patterns that feel far too intimate, far too easy.
And you hate how much you crave it.
You hate the way his presence soothes something raw inside you, even when you tell yourself it shouldn’t.
You hate how he’s begun helping you with the small, intimate things you wish you could keep to yourself. Like the unbearable ache in your swollen breasts, the pressure building so much it leaves you trembling, whimpering in pain. How he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even ask.
The way Satoru's lips wrap around you with loud, deliberate suckles, the sound echoing in the quiet as he eases the pressure with almost clinical precision. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t falter. His hands grip your hips to steady you, his thumbs pressing reassuring circles into your skin.
You hate the sound.
You hate the warmth of his breath against your skin, the way it prickles, a constant reminder of just how close he always is—too close.
When he’s finished, he pulls back with a satisfied hum, his lips brushing against your collarbone with a lingering kiss. His voice low, almost tender, as he murmurs, “I love this version of you.”
The words settle into you like stones. His lips, still soft from the milk, press against yours, and the faint sweetness lingers, almost cloying. Satoru murmurs more words—gentle, saccharine things that would feel kind if not for the way his hands start to roam as they wrap around your waist.
“How nurturing you’ve become,” he whispers, his tone carrying a dangerous sort of reverence.
That’s what he loves. That’s what he says.
And the way he looks at you when he says it—those bright blue eyes glinting with something dark, something that sinks its claws into you—makes your skin crawl. Because you know exactly what he means.
He doesn’t love the nurturing in and of itself. He loves how it ties you to him. How it binds you to this role, this life, this carefully constructed world where you are his and only his.
The version of you he loves is one that has no room for defiance, no space for resistance—only the space to give, to sacrifice, to bend under the weight of his love.
And that’s what makes it so much worse.
Because even as you hate it, even as your stomach churns and your skin prickles, there’s a part of you that leans into his touch. A part of you that longs for the softness, for the fleeting moments when it feels like love instead of control.
And you hate yourself for that, too
Because you know how it goes. You’ve seen it now. Lived it.
How one pregnancy ends and another begins.
The cycle repeated itself after your firstborn, didn’t it? Barely a year after you gave birth, they had you pregnant again. You didn’t even have time to recover, to heal, before they decided it was time for another.
But they love you, don’t they?
Satoru’s affection is impossible to miss—the way he grins at you, almost childlike, as he cups your face with hands that can destroy worlds but hold you as though you’re the most delicate thing he’s ever touched. How he showers you with gifts, flowers in every shade imaginable, rare treasures that sparkle as brightly as his endless energy.
How many times has he told you, in his low, teasing voice, “You’re my world, you know that? I could do anything, have anything—but none of it would matter without you.”
It sounds like love, doesn’t it?
And Suguru—Suguru loves you too, in his quiet, steady way. You see it in the way he watches you, his dark eyes softening when you enter the room, the weight of his gaze feels suffocating. He’s the one who stays calm when you cry, wrapping his arms around you and murmuring, “Shh, it’s okay. I’m here. You don’t have to carry this alone.”
And you believe him, don’t you?
They love you. That’s why they insist on keeping you close. Why Satoru kisses your forehead every morning, why Suguru runs his fingers through your hair as he whispers sweet nothings you’re too exhausted to resist. That’s why they ensure you’re taken care of, why they never let you lift a finger, why they promise they’ll always protect you.
“You don’t have to do anything,” Satoru once said, kissing your swollen belly as he grinned up at you. “Just stay here with us. That’s all we need.”
“It’s not just for us,” Suguru added, his voice softer, more measured. “It’s for you too. We want you to feel safe. Loved.”
And in moments like that, when the weight of their words settles in your chest like a lullaby, you almost believe them.
You tell yourself that no one else would love you this much. No one else would care for you so completely, so unconditionally—because this is love, isn’t it?
The maids barely acknowledged your struggles. Their gazes were cold, dismissive, even as your body ached and your mind screamed for reprieve. They would gently pry your child from your arms with hushed whispers.
“You need more rest,” they’d say, their voices soft but unyielding. “We’ll take care of them. Don’t worry.”
And what could you do? You’d watch helplessly as they carried your baby away, leaving you empty-handed, empty-hearted. As if you were nothing more than a vessel, an incubator meant to bear and birth heirs for the Gojo family.
Your firstborn was a boy.
A son.
An heir.
He looked just like Satoru.
Those piercing blue eyes stared back at you from his tiny, cherubic face, wide and curious, already holding a glint of brilliance and confidence you couldn’t deny. His hair was the same stark white, impossibly soft beneath your trembling fingers as you brushed it back, memorizing every perfect strand. Even the little smirk he gave in his sleep mirrored Satoru’s—a playful, almost mocking curl at the corners of his mouth that made your heart ache with emotions you couldn’t unravel.
You loved him.
You hated that you loved him.
And when Suguru would cradle him in his arms, his dark eyes soft and filled with a devotion that seemed to crack the carefully constructed walls around your heart, you couldn’t deny the warmth blooming in your chest. He’d whisper promises to the child—vows of protection and guidance.
When Satoru would swoop in, effortlessly spinning the boy around with an energy that filled the room with light, the sound of your son’s uncontrollable laughter echoing like music, that warmth would return. It would swell in your chest, suffocating and undeniable, a cruel reminder of the chains you wore willingly and unwillingly all at once.
This is what they wanted, wasn’t it?
This is what they’d planned all along.
And now, with another child growing inside you, you realize something that terrifies you more than anything else.
You’re not sure if you stayed because you had no choice.
Or because you wanted to.
Again, it’s all your fault.
For trying to run, again.
For thinking, just for a moment, that you could escape them.
You were far too pregnant. Belly too far swollen, body heavy and slow, every step a reminder of how deeply tethered you were to this vast estate. But the thought wouldn’t leave your mind. The desperate hope of freedom burned too brightly, too wildly, even as your body betrayed you.
Even as you were dragged back to that sickening place, back to the people that you convinced yourself—desperately, foolishly—that this was love.
You’d screamed at Suguru, the words spilling out like a torrent you couldn’t stop. You told him the child was yours too, that you had the right to hold them, to sleep in the same room, to be more than a vessel. Your voice cracked, raw with frustration and desperation, as you hurled your defiance at him.
You remember the way his gaze darkened.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t snap. That wasn’t Suguru’s way.
Instead, he stepped closer, his movements slow, calculated, as though he were approaching a frightened animal. He tilted his head, his expression calm, disarming, the warmth in his dark eyes a stark contrast to the undercurrent of control they held.
“You’re upset,” he murmured, his voice soft, soothing. His hand reached out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears streaking your face. “And that’s okay. You’ve been through so much, haven’t you?”
The quiet warmth in Suguru's voice made it hard to breathe, made the frustration clawing at your throat turn to something else—something like shame.
“You need to calm down,” he continued, a warm calloused hand slipping down to cradle the side of your neck, his thumb pressing lightly against your pulse. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself. I don’t want you to hurt us.”
His words lingered, heavy with meaning, as he pulled you closer, his forehead pressing against yours.
“I know it’s hard,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “But I love you. We love you. Everything we do—everything I do—is for you.”
You wanted to push him away, to scream that it wasn’t love, that this wasn’t love. But as his arms wrapped around you, strong and unyielding, pulling you into his embrace as though Suguru could shield you from the very world they had trapped you in.
“You’re everything to me,” he murmured, soft lips brushing your temple. “Don’t you see that? You don’t need to run. You don’t need to be afraid. I’ll take care of you. I’ll always take care of you.”
A voice that was so tender, so achingly sincere, that it almost broke you. Suguru's words were enough to extinguish the fire of defiance burning in your chest, to leave you standing there, trembling and helpless in his arms.
The maids saw it, didn’t they? They whispered about you, their quiet voices slipping through the halls like ghosts. They called you ungrateful. Sick. They said you didn’t understand how fortunate you were.
“You should be enjoying this,” they murmured, their words laced with thinly veiled judgment. “No responsibilities, no struggles. A carefree life. Everything is taken care of for you. What more could you want?”
What more could you want?
No choices.
That’s what they meant, wasn’t it? No choices. No freedom. No you.
Was something wrong with you? Maybe.
Maybe there was something wrong with wanting more. For wanting to feel like a person again, instead of a vessel, a doll, a beautifully dressed incubator meant to carry their legacy.
It really is all your fault, isn’t it?
Because when labor came, it dragged you into hell.
Thirty-three grueling hours. Each contraction ripped through your body like a punishment, an unrelenting reminder of every fleeting thought of rebellion, of every moment you dared to imagine a life beyond them.
The emergency c-section was chaos—a flurry of hands, sterile lights, and voices rising above the incessant ringing in your ears. You were losing too much blood. Fever scorched your skin, your body trembling as the edges of the world blurred, your thoughts slipping between consciousness and darkness.
You couldn’t make sense of what was happening. You weren’t even sure whose tears streaked your skin as they fell—were they yours? Satoru’s? Suguru’s?
You didn’t know.
You didn’t know what happened after that.
All you remember are the words.
Suguru’s voice, low and steady, cutting through the haze. He leaned close, his hand resting on your clammy cheek with an almost painful tenderness. His dark eyes bore into yours, soft yet heavy with something that made your stomach twist.
“You shouldn’t have run,” he whispered. His tone was calm, soothing even, but the edge beneath it was sharp enough to draw blood. “Look at what you’ve done to yourself. You should’ve listened.”
And for a long time, you didn’t have the strength to argue.
The days that followed blurred together. Feeling like a ghost in your body, too weak to move, too tired to speak. Satoru and Suguru hovered, their gazes flickering between concern and something you couldn't quite place. The maids continued to whisper on with their rumors, their eyes darting to you with pity or disdain, as though you’d done this to yourself.
In their eyes, you were lucky.
Lucky to have survived. Lucky to have them.
And lucky, in their eyes, to not have another pregnancy until your first two boys turned five.
Five years of peace. Or something that resembled it.
Five years of watching your sons grow, of hearing their first words, of feeling their small, warm arms wrap around you as they giggled into into your neck. Five years where it was almost believable that this was normal, where you could almost convince yourself this was love.
Because it did feel like love, didn’t it?
Until the day you overheard Suguru speaking to them.
His voice was hushed, but not hushed enough.
“Mommy is sick,” he said, tone calm and soothing like he was explaining a simple fact of life. “Sometimes she says things she doesn’t mean. Sometimes she gets confused. But that’s okay. We love her, don’t we?”
A pang sent through your chest, breath catching as you froze in the hallway. Those cruel words lies carved like knives, each one slicing deeper than the last.
He was planting seeds, wasn’t he?
Teaching them to see you the way he wanted them to see you. Fragile. Dependent. Broken.
However with fists clenched, nails pressing into palms with a sting sharp enough to ground the swirling emotions within. The urge to scream hovered at the edge, to cry and storm into the room, demanding explanations with the desperation of a cornered animal. Words burned on the tip of the tongue—protests that it wasn’t true, that sickness and confusion weren’t the chains binding this existence.
But what would they believe?
Suguru’s steady, patient voice, rich and even, always laced with quiet authority? The father whose dark eyes always seemed to understand everything, who carried himself with calm, unshakable control, even when his smiles didn’t quite reach his eyes?
Or you?
The mother who had tried to run, who had collapsed and bled and screamed, who had been scolded for her defiance. The one they saw as weak, frail, and ungrateful.
You wanted to run again. The thought burned in the back of your mind, relentless and wild.
But you didn’t.
You stayed.
Because, in the end, what choice did you really have?
But by the time your third child—a sweet boy who looked like a perfect blend of you and Suguru—turned three, the illusion of peace began to crack.
Suguru was already leaning close, his voice soft and coaxing as he murmured into your ear, “I think it’s time we try for a girl.”
Satoru, of course, was on board almost immediately.
After all, your third child was different. A nonsorcerer, just like you, showing none of the abilities your first two boys possessed. Those two had cried in the dead of night, their small voices trembling with fear as they described the horrors only they could see—things you couldn’t even begin to comprehend.
But that wasn’t why your husbands looked at Kiyoshi with quiet disapproval.
It wasn’t his lack of cursed energy that made them see him as an anomaly.
It was his heart.
From the moment Kiyoshi was placed in your arms, red-faced and wailing, he clung to you with a desperation that never faded. He didn’t want the maids to hold him, didn’t toddle after Suguru’s composed steps or reached for Satoru’s strong arms. He wanted you. Always you.
He was a mama’s boy through and through, and that was love.
A love so pure it felt like a lifeline in the suffocating world you’d been forced into.
While you loved your first two boys deeply—how could you not?—there was always a distance there, a reflection of the walls your husbands had built around you. The first two cuddled into your lap, their small hands clutching yours as they whispered things that broke you.
“Mommy, we want you to get better.” “We don’t like it when you yell at Daddy to let you leave.”
They were too young to understand, too innocent to see the chains tightening around you.
But Kiyoshi understood, in his own way. Even as a toddler, he refused to leave your side, refused to let the maids or his fathers pull him from your arms. He was always on your hip, his little hand clutching your clothes, his head resting against your chest.
“Kiyoshi,” Satoru had said once, his tone laced with false amusement, “means ‘pure sadness.’ Don’t you think that’s fitting?”
He smiled as if it were a joke, but you could hear the bitterness beneath it.
And maybe it was fitting.
Because Kiyoshi only stopped wailing when he was in your arms, as if he already knew the world outside of you was too cruel, too cold.
By the time he turned three, Kiyoshi would toddle after you in the gardens, small, sturdy legs working hard to keep up. His face—a blend of Suguru’s gentleness and your warmth—would brighten with the purest smile. When his eyes crinkled at the corners, just like yours, you couldn’t help but feel your heart swell.
“Look, Mommy!” he’d say, holding up a flower he’d plucked from the garden, his tiny fingers dirt-stained and clumsy. “For you!”
You’d crouch down, brushing his dark hair back as you took the flower, your voice soft and tender in a way you hadn’t heard in years.
“Thank you, my sweet boy.”
And for a moment, it felt like it was just the two of you.
Like you could breathe again.
But you knew better.
As the sound of approaching footsteps always shattered moments like these. Heavy and far too familiar. You didn’t need to turn around to know it was Suguru.
His softspoken voice broke the fragile silence, calm and even, as always. “Kiyoshi,” he said, warm and affectionate, though laced with something you couldn’t quite name. “You’ve been keeping your mother all to yourself again, haven’t you?”
Kiyoshi stiffened at your side, the little hand tightening its grip on your kimono as he glanced nervously toward Suguru.
Suguru stepped closer and crouched down to Kiyoshi’s level, dark eyes softening as they met his son’s. “Come here, son,” he murmured, holding out a hand. His tone was gentle, coaxing, but there was an unspoken expectation beneath it. “Let Daddy hold you for a little while. I’ve missed you.”
But Kiyoshi didn’t move. His small fingers curled tighter into the fabric of your kimono, his face pressing into your side as though trying to make himself small, invisible.
Suguru’s gaze flicked to you, lips curling into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So shy,” he said softly, his voice carrying a note of amused affection. “But you don’t have to be, Kiyoshi. Daddy just wants to hold you. You know that, don’t you?”
You felt your heart clench, torn between the instinct to shield him and the weight of Suguru’s presence. The tenderness in his tone, in the way his hand remained outstretched, made it all the harder to breathe.
“Kiyoshi,” Suguru said again, his voice dipping into a firmer edge, calm but unyielding. “Come.”
Reluctantly, your little boy let go of you, his steps slow and hesitant as he moved toward his father. Suguru’s smile widened, soft and reassuring, as he scooped Kiyoshi up effortlessly, cradling him with a gentleness that felt too deliberate, too controlled.
“There’s my good boy,” he murmured, brushing Kiyoshi’s hair back with careful fingers. His touch lingered, as though committing the texture to memory. “You love your mommy very much, don’t you?”
Kiyoshi nodded silently, his small face burying itself in Suguru’s shoulder.
Suguru’s gaze lifted to meet yours, a gentle smile, his tone almost playful. “You’ve spoiled him,” he said, a note of amusement threading through his words. “He’s too attached.”
You opened your mouth to respond, to say something, but the words caught in your throat.
What could you say?
That you were the only warmth in a world that terrified him? That his attachment wasn’t a flaw, but a desperate grasp at something safe?
Satoru appeared not long after, his presence impossible to ignore as he strolled into the garden, hands in his pockets and a grin that seemed too bright for the moment. His eyes, however, betrayed something softer—something that lingered only when they landed on you.
“Kiyoshi giving you trouble again?” Satoru's voice came out light, tinged with curiosity.
“No trouble,” Suguru replied smoothly, a hand still resting on Kiyoshi’s small back. “Just a little too fond of his mother.”
Satoru chuckled, shaking his head as he moved closer. His cerulean gaze flicked briefly to Kiyoshi before returning to you, that playful grin softening as he moved to brush a kiss against your temple. “Well, can you blame him?” he murmured, his voice low, meant only for you. “You’re hard not to love.”
The warmth of his affection made your heart twist, and your stomach flutter. For a moment, it was easy to forget the way his words often carried double meanings, easy to believe he was simply being sweet.
He straightened, turning his attention back to Suguru with a teasing smile. “But we’ll fix that soon enough, won’t we?”
They didn’t mean to hurt him, you told yourself. They wouldn’t.
But you knew better.
Because Kiyoshi was different. He didn’t fit into their world the way your first two boys did. And in their eyes, difference was something to be controlled.
For now, they let him cling to you. They let him toddle after you in the garden, offering flowers and dirt-streaked smiles that made your heart ache with both love and dread. For now, they allowed him to stay close, to hold onto the warmth you gave him, to believe he was safe in your arms.
But you knew it was only a matter of time.
Because your sons didn’t belong to you. Not really. They never had.
And no matter how much you wanted to shield Kiyoshi, no matter how fiercely you loved him, you knew one simple, devastating truth:
They’d let you have this for now.
But they would take him, too.
Because, after all, it’s all your fault.
For fleeing in the middle of the night.
The day was supposed to be perfect—a rare moment where Satoru and Suguru had taken the older two boys to the school, their voices filled with excitement as they promised to teach them more about the world they were destined to inherit. Your sweet boys kissed you goodbye with a tenderness that felt almost cruel, leaving you behind with Kiyoshi in the quiet, sprawling estate.
You had been on your best behavior. Smiling more, laughing when Satoru teased you, letting Suguru hold you a little longer than usual. You’d made them believe you were finally settling, finally accepting your role in their carefully constructed world.
And it worked.
So when the sun set and the house fell silent, you made your move.
You bundled Kiyoshi up in the softest blanket you could find, the small body warm and sleepy against your chest. He stirred only slightly as you slipped out of the estate, his tiny hands clutching onto your clothes.
He didn’t cry.
He didn’t make a sound.
It was as if he understood. As if even at three years old, he knew that silence was the only thing keeping you safe.
He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, his soft breaths warm against your skin, and you couldn’t help the tears that welled up in your eyes.
The highway stretched out before you, an endless black ribbon under the faint glow of the moon. The lights of the city sparkled in the distance, a beacon of hope, a promise of sanctuary.
You walked for miles, the cold night air biting at your skin, legs aching with every step. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Not with the faint echoes of paranoia whispering at the back of your mind.
Were they already looking for you? Did Satoru sense you slipping away even from miles away? Did Suguru wake in the middle of the night with the suffocating weight of intuition, already calling for their forces to track you down?
You didn’t know.
And you didn’t care.
The city limits were closer now, the glow of neon lights growing brighter, sharper. The faint hum of life and sound buzzed in the distance.
Kiyoshi stirred in your arms, his little head lifting just enough to peek out at the world around him. His dark eyes, so much like Suguru’s but filled with an innocence his father could no longer claim, glanced up at you with quiet curiosity.
“Mommy,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the soft hum of the wind.
You pressed a kiss to his forehead, your tears wetting his soft hair. “We’re almost there, my sweet boy,” you murmured, your voice trembling under the weight of hope and fear. “Just a little farther.”
Sanctuary was so close you could taste it.
But it’s all your fault, isn’t it?
Born a nonsorcerer.
Blind to the horrors that lurk unseen. Powerless to fight them off. Too weak to keep that sweet little boy safe.
You always imagined curses as massive, grotesque creatures—monsters so obvious that the very air would change in their presence. That the world would stop, that everything would smell of death and decay as they loomed closer.
But when a curse appears, nothing changes.
There’s no warning. No shift in the wind.
The only thing you feel is the sudden weight of your child going limp in your arms.
And then the blood.
And then the blood.
It coats the ground—dark and endless, pooling around your knees and seeping into the cracks of the earth. Sticky and warm, it clings to trembling hands, staining your kimono, your skin, your very soul.
You can’t move. Can’t breathe.
Your little boy—your Kiyoshi—lies limp in your arms, his small body growing colder with every agonizing second. Tiny fingers, once so eager to cling to you, now dangle lifelessly. His dark lashes rest softly against pale cheeks, unmoving.
He looks like he’s sleeping.
You tell yourself that, over and over, as if saying it enough times will somehow make it true. Shaking hands brush back his dark hair, trembling as you whisper his name. Softly at first, then louder, your voice splintering with every syllable.
“Kiyoshi… wake up, baby. Please.”
But nothing changes.
The world around you feels wrong—too quiet, too still. The city lights in the distance mock you, their glow a cruel reminder of the sanctuary you’d been so close to reaching. You’d promised him, hadn’t you? Promised that everything would be okay. That you’d make it there. That you’d keep him safe.
You lied.
“Kiyoshi,” you choke out again, pressing a desperate kiss to his cooling forehead. Hot tears streak down your face, wetting his soft hair as you clutch him tighter, as though you could anchor him to you—keep him here, with you.
A wail tears through the night, raw and broken, shattering the oppressive silence. The sound is unrecognizable, guttural and full of despair. It takes a moment before you realize it’s coming from you.
The blood stains everything—your hands, your clothes, the ground—but it’s the loss of his warmth that destroys you.
How did this happen?
Your mind races, replaying the moments in broken fragments. You’d been walking, your legs aching, his small body cradled against your chest. He’d been so quiet, so trusting, his head nuzzled into the crook of your neck.
You were almost there.
Then the air shifted—just slightly—a subtle wrongness you hadn’t noticed until it was too late.
You didn’t see it.
You didn’t even know it was there until his body jerked in your arms, a sharp, unnatural movement that stole his breath—and yours.
And then he went limp.
It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense.
You rock him back and forth, tears falling freely, your voice hoarse as you beg him to wake up. Leaning to press your cheek against his, murmuring his name over and over, as if the sound alone could bring him back.
Because you failed him.
Because this is your fault.
Suguru’s arms wrap around you, their weight unbearable. His warmth presses against the chill of the night, suffocating in a way that makes the air harder to pull into your lungs. He cradles you like something precious, something fragile—like he cares, even as his words twist the knife deeper into your chest.
“We’ll take care of this, just like always,” he says, his voice soft, almost gentle. His lips brush against your hair, lingering, and the tenderness in the gesture makes your skin crawl. “You just need to stop fighting us. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
Satoru stood frozen, head bowed, white hair catching the faint glow of the city lights. Kiyoshi’s lifeless body was pressed tightly against him, his hands trembling ever so slightly as he held him close. For a moment, you thought you saw something crack in his expression—something raw, something human.
But it was gone just as quickly as it appeared.
When he finally turned his gaze to you, his blue eyes were as hollow as you’d ever seen them. “You shouldn’t have done this,” he said quietly, his voice devoid of its usual teasing lilt. “Why couldn’t you just stay?”
The question stabbed deeper than you thought possible, the shame and guilt coursing through you like poison.
Why couldn’t you just stay?
The image of Kiyoshi’s bright smile flashed, his tiny hands offering you flowers from the garden, his laugh ringing out like music in the suffocating silence of the estate. He’d been your light, your tether to something good.
And now he was gone.
Because of you.
You sagged further into Suguru’s hold, the fight draining out of you entirely. The tears wouldn’t stop, falling silently now, soaking into the front of Suguru’s shirt as he held you tighter.
“There, there,” he murmured, his hand stroking your hair in slow, deliberate motions. “That’s better. You don’t have to fight anymore. We’ll make it right.”
But there was no right in this.
The car waited nearby, its door open like an unspoken command. Suguru’s grip on you didn’t waver as he began guiding you toward it, his movements gentle but unrelenting. Satoru followed behind, cradling Kiyoshi’s small form like he was made of glass.
Your legs moved on instinct, numb and heavy, the metallic scent of blood lingering in the air.
The city lights grew fainter as the car doors shut behind you, locking you away from the world you’d been so close to reaching.
You told yourself you’d tried. That you’d done everything you could.
But deep down, you knew.
You’d never escape them.
And as Suguru’s fingers intertwined with yours, as Satoru’s empty gaze lingered on the horizon, you realized something that hollowed you out completely.
It wasn’t just that you had nothing left.
It was that you no longer cared to try.
It really was all your fault.
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