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foreveia · 2 months ago

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take two ⤨ iwaizumi hajime

⨭ genre; fluff, idiots to lovers but like they're actually so dumb

⨭ pairing; iwaizumi x fem!reader

⨭ word count; 5.7k

⨭ descriptions; your boss has been trying to set you up with her son for months, but as it turns out at the holiday party... you've already met him before.

⨭ warnings; explicit language and dialogue, no graphic content tho, alcohol

⨭ a/n; fun little short fic to fill the fix to publish something lolol enjoy this iwa love dump as i work on my next long fic (tell me in the comments if y'all like these better)

song i listened to writing this: 'hold your breath' by chase atlantic

one.

There are exactly three things you know to be true about Iwaizumi Emi:

She is the best divorce attorney in Tohoku, possibly the country.

She is the kind of woman who could negotiate her way out of murder charges and secure the victim’s house in the settlement.

She is, without a doubt, trying to set you up with her son.

You respect her. You admire her. You are, on occasion, lowkey terrified of her.

Which is why you’re currently sitting at your desk, nodding at all the appropriate intervals while she breezes through yet another pitch about why her son and you are, in her professional opinion, a perfect match.

“He’s back from Irvine for the summer,” she says, skimming a property settlement document like it personally offended her. She tosses it onto your pile nonchalantly, and you let out a short sigh because it’s just more backend filing to do and, despite your adoration for your career path and real passion towards legal work, entry jobs in the firm are mostly busy work. “I really think you’ll like him. He’s—”

You tune out. Not in an obvious way, of course—no, you’re a professional. You sprinkle in the occasional mmhmm and sounds great so she doesn’t catch on, but this isn’t your first rodeo. You’ve heard this pitch before—multiple times. Hajime is intelligent, responsible, not an idiot like some of these men out here, blah blah blah.

It’s not that you have anything against him, really. It’s just that you’ve spent months perfecting the art of dodging your boss’s matchmaking attempts, and frankly, you don’t have the energy to entertain her latest scheme.

“You’re finally going to meet him at the firm’s ball this weekend,” Emi continues, finally looking up from her paperwork, her smile entirely too satisfied.

You blink. “Oh.”

“He’s excited to meet you too.”

Now that is new. Usually, these monologues are strictly one-sided—I told him about you! and You two will get along so well! But he’s excited to meet you too? That’s an escalation. That’s a game-changer. That means he knows about you. He has an opinion about you.

You resist the urge to groan. Instead, you summon a polite, professional smile—the same one you use when dealing with particularly insufferable clients. “Looking forward to it,” you say, because what else are you supposed to say to the woman who could single-handedly end your career if she wanted to?

In reality, the only thing you’re looking forward to about the ball is the open bar. Being in your early twenties means being woefully broke, and you’d be lying if you said the thought of unlimited free alcohol wasn’t a strong motivator.

So, you strike a deal with yourself: you’ll put on a fancy dress, endure painful heels, and let Emi parade you in front of her son like a prize show poodle—all in exchange for an endless supply of pinot noir, cocktail shrimp, and, if you play your cards right, an entire bottle of champagne to sneak home in your purse.

It’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make.

two.

Because you’re an adult with an absolutely thriving social life (read: you have two friends who are willing to tolerate your bullshit after 6 PM), you, Yachi, and Kiyoko are now seated at your favorite little izakaya, wedged into a corner booth with plates of karaage and a pitcher of beer between you.

Kiyoko is talking about wedding venues. Because she’s engaged. To Tanaka. Which is objectively insane because in your head, they’re still in that “grossly obsessed with each other but pretending they’re just friends” phase, even though they’ve been together for years. The whole thing is a crime against single people everywhere, but you are supportive because your already jaw-dropping friend is somehow glowing even brighter now that she has a fat rock on her ring finger. She looks lighter, happier. She deserves it.

Yachi, meanwhile, is explaining—between delicate sips of her beer—that she’s too swamped with work to even think about dating. Which, yeah. Fair. The woman works harder than most people you know, so you respect it.

Then, as the conversation naturally shifts to your love life (as it always does, because you’re the group’s designated mess), you sigh, sinking into your seat dramatically.

“I haven’t had sex in months.”

There’s a beat of silence before Kiyoko and Yachi both roll their eyes in unison, like they rehearsed it.

“Oh my God,” Yachi mutters.

“You cannot still be caught up on GDD,” Kiyoko says flatly, pouring herself another drink.

“Okay, first of all,” you say, holding up a finger, “it is not about him. It’s just a general fact about my current state of being.”

“Uh-huh,” Kiyoko hums, entirely unconvinced.

“Second of all,” you continue, undeterred, “GDD was life-changing, and I feel like I should be allowed to mourn the lack of that level of—of excellence in my life.”

“Life-changing,” Yachi repeats, deadpan. “You hooked up with him once.”

“Yeah, and my life was changed.”

GDD—Good Dick Dude, as he has been dubbed by your dear, unsupportive friends—was a guy you hooked up with in January after a truly legendary New Year’s Eve party.

The night itself had been pure chaos. Hinata had somehow scored an invite to this insane rooftop party—one of those bougie, exclusive, if-you-know-you-know events where you absolutely do not belong but somehow manage to fake it enough to get through the door. He’d gotten a few plus-ones, which is how you ended up there, sipping champagne you definitely couldn’t afford and making out with a guy who, to this day, remains one of the most mind-blowing hookups of your entire life.

Gorgeous, buff, and dangerous with his hands. The kind of guy who knew exactly what he was doing, which, honestly? A rarity these days. You barely remember his name—something short, easy to moan—but you do remember his stupidly perfect smirk and the way he all but ruined you against the nearest flat surface.

But then the party ended, the night faded into a haze, and you never saw him again.

Which is fine. It’s fine. Really.

You’re definitely not still thinking about it.

Kiyoko takes a sip of her beer, unimpressed. “You’ve been on, what? Five Hinge dates since then? Six?”

“Seven,” Yachi corrects.

You point at her. “Exactly.”

Kiyoko gives you a long, slow blink.

“I mean that as proof that I am not hung up on him!” you clarify. “I’ve been trying, okay? But the bar is in hell. Do you know how many ‘we should get drinks’ texts I get from guys who put crypto investor in their bios?”

Kiyoko sighs. “Okay, but let’s be real—are you actually giving any of these guys a chance?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Frown. “I mean�� like… conceptually?”

“Right.”

Yachi, forever gentle but devastatingly perceptive, tilts her head at you. “Is it possible,” she says carefully, “that maybe none of these guys are measuring up because you’re subconsciously comparing them to him?”

You scoff. “That’s ridiculous.”

Is it ridiculous?

Because, okay, maybe—just maybe—no one has quite lived up to that night. And maybe you’re being a little unfair to the dating pool by expecting every single guy to have that same kind of chemistry with you. And maybe you do occasionally find yourself staring at random ceilings, wondering where GDD is now and if he even remembers you.

But still. That doesn’t mean anything.

You’re pretty sure.

“I hate you guys,” you grumble, stabbing aggressively at a piece of karaage.

Yachi pats your hand sympathetically. “We know.”

Kiyoko, ever the queen of smooth topic transitions, nudges the conversation in a new direction. “Speaking of your questionable taste in men, your boss is still trying to set you up with her son, correct?”

You groan, letting your head fall back against the booth. “Unfortunately, yes. And now, apparently, he’s excited to meet me.”

Yachi perks up. “Wait, so you are meeting him?”

“At the firm’s ball this weekend,” you say, waving a hand. “It’s fine. I’ll get a little wine drunk, take advantage of the seafood bar.”

Kiyoko raises an eyebrow. “So, you’re not going to entertain the idea of this Hajime guy at all?”

You scoff. “Absolutely not.”

Yachi hums, tilting her head in that way she does when she’s about to say something devastatingly reasonable. “I mean… what if Emi’s right?”

You blink. “What?”

“What if this is it?” she says, half-teasing, half-genuinely curious. “Like, what if you meet him and he’s actually your soulmate? Imagine if this whole time, your boss has been playing the long game, orchestrating your love story like some kind of corporate fairy godmother.”

You snort. Loudly. “Right. Because that’s totally my luck.”

Kiyoko and Yachi exchange a knowing look, but they let it go.

You take another sip of your beer, shaking your head. Hajime Iwaizumi—whoever he is—is not the love of your life.

That would be insane.

three.

You had to pull out your graduate school formal gown from the back of your closet for this, but wow, you really forgot just how good you look in red.

Your day-to-day work attire consists of pantsuits and button-ups, neatly tucked into cautiously ironed trousers, so you’ve honestly forgotten how nice it is to get dressed up once in a while. There’s something about slipping into a gown that fits like a dream, sweeping your hair up just right, and swiping on that perfect shade of lipstick that makes you feel invincible. Like you could negotiate a million-dollar deal, steal the firm’s best clients, and seduce someone’s husband all in the same breath.

Not that you would, obviously.

Probably.

The venue is ridiculous in the way all law firm events are ridiculous—held in a ballroom large enough to house a small country, chandeliers dripping in gold, servers weaving through the crowd with trays of champagne and fancy bruschetta topped with fucking caviar of all things. All this just to celebrate another year of making money off people’s divorces. Incredible the way capitalism works.

You’ve barely made it through your first glass of wine before Emi finds you.

“There she is,” she croons, linking her arm through yours. She looks positively radiant in an emerald gown, diamonds at her ears, and the kind of effortless elegance that comes from winning. You’d respect it more if she weren’t actively dragging you toward your inevitable doom. “Come on, sweetheart. Hajime’s here, and I cannot wait for you two to finally meet.”

You bite back a sigh, because of course. No warm-up period, no buffer—just straight to the matchmaking. “Can’t I get a few more drinks in me first?”

She waves a hand, utterly dismissing your complaints. “You’ll like him. I know you will.”

You doubt it. But you let her lead you anyway, mostly because you know resisting is pointless: your boss has the world’s most spell-blinding smile and enough charm to always get her way. Emi always wins.

She stops near the bar, where a man stands with his back to you, broad shoulders wrapped in a sharp black suit, one hand resting on the counter as he talks with someone just out of view.

Emi squeezes your hand. “Hajime,” she calls, her voice warm.

The man turns.

And every thought in your head immediately ceases to exist.

Because standing before you, looking unfairly good in a tailored suit and sipping from a glass of whiskey like he isn’t single-handedly ruining your life, is GDD.

Good Dick Dude.

Hajime Iwaizumi is Good Dick Dude.

Your brain short-circuits. This is not happening. This is some kind of fever dream, a cruel trick played by the universe to punish you for your sins.

Hajime’s sharp green eyes land on you, recognition flickering behind them, and then—oh no.

He smirks. Like he knows exactly what’s running through your mind right now. Like he remembers everything.

Emi, completely unaware of your crisis, beams. “Hajime, this is the associate I’ve been telling you about.”

His mischievous, more than just amused smile widens. “Oh, I know who she is.”

Your soul leaves your body.

Because that voice? That voice is the same one that had whispered filth against your neck four months ago. The same voice that had laughed when you moaned his name. The same voice that had ruined you in ways you still haven’t fully recovered from.

You are going to die. Right here, right now, in the middle of this godforsaken gala.

“Hajime Iwaizumi,” he says smoothly, offering a hand. His palm is rough when you take it—calloused, strong, a stark reminder of exactly where those hands have been. His grip is firm, steady, and entirely too knowing.

You swallow, pasting on the best Oh wow, I am totally not spiraling internally smile you can manage. “Yeah,” you say weakly. “We’ve met.”

“Oh!” Emi beams, clasping her hands together like she’s just delighted by this new revelation. “That’s wonderful! I knew you two would get along.”

You let out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a strangled choke. Hajime is still watching you, head tilted slightly, like he’s enjoying this: like he can see the exact moment you realize how deeply, horrifically screwed you are. Because there is no way Emi knows. She’s too composed, too pleased. If she had any inkling that her son and her associate had met four months ago in a completely inappropriate context, she’d have you both buried in litigation faster than you could say conflict of interest.

Which means Hajime is choosing to be a menace.

God, you’re going to kill him.

“Hajime just got back from Irvine a few days ago, for the start of his summer break,” Emi continues, completely oblivious to the absolute war waging behind your polite smile. “I’ve been telling him all about you, of course.”

You almost choke on your drink. “You have?”

“Of course I have!” Emi nods enthusiastically. “She’s one of the brightest associates we have, Hajime. Sharp, diligent, absolutely ruthless in negotiations—she reminds me of myself when I was her age.”

Your lips twitch. You do enjoy being compared to the most terrifying woman you’ve ever met, so it’s really too bad that this entire situation has you currently dying inside.

Hajime hums, eyes still locked on you. “Yeah,” he says, voice dipping just slightly. “She’s definitely memorable.”

Your entire body lights on fire.

Memorable.

Oh, he’s being insufferable on purpose.

Emi sighs happily, taking a sip of her champagne. “I knew you two would hit it off.”

You want to scream. You want to throw your drink in Hajime’s face. You want to rewind time and never step foot into that rooftop party.

Instead, you just smile tightly. “Mm-hmm.”

Hajime grins at your suffering. “So,” he says, tilting his glass in your direction, “how have you been?”

You resist the urge to kick him in the shins. “Busy,” you say, voice clipped. “Working.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding thoughtfully. “Yeah, that does sound like you.”

You stiffen. Hajime, you realize, is having the time of his life watching you squirm. And it’s only going to get worse.

Because Emi suddenly claps her hands together, eyes bright with mischief. “Oh! I should leave you two to chat,” she says. “Get to know each other properly.”

Oh. Oh no. Emi. Emi, please.

But before you can protest, she winks at you—winks, like she’s a fairy godmother orchestrating the perfect romance—and disappears back into the crowd.

And just like that, you are alone with him.

Hajime watches you over the rim of his glass, eyes gleaming with amusement. “So,” he says, smirking, “I see you haven’t forgotten me.”

Your jaw clenches. “You smug little—”

“You look good,” he interrupts smoothly, scanning you from head to toe. His gaze lingers, appreciative but blatantly teasing. “Red suits you.”

God, you want to strangle him. You cross your arms, willing yourself to stay calm. “You knew this whole time, didn’t you?”

He chuckles. “I had a feeling.”

“A feeling?”

He tilts his head, as if contemplating. “Well,” he says, “it wasn’t confirmed until I saw you.”

You glare. “You could’ve warned me.”

“And miss that reaction?” He grins. “Not a chance.”

You hate him. You hate that he looks so effortlessly good in a suit. You hate that his voice is still just as devastating as you remember. You hate that even now, months later, you can still feel the phantom weight of his hands on your hips, the rough scrape of his callouses against your skin, the way he had murmured just like that, baby against your ear—

You inhale sharply. Nope. Absolutely not. We are not thinking about that right now.

Hajime, unfortunately, definitely knows what you’re thinking about. His smirk is downright criminal. “So,” he says, leaning in slightly, voice low, “been a while, hasn’t it?”

You refuse to give him the satisfaction of blushing. “Oh, shut up.”

He laughs, warm and amused, and you are horribly aware that this night is only just beginning.

four.

Hajime happens to actually be a pretty intelligent and funny person, which is making it much, much harder to dodge his attempts at flirting and his mother’s attempts at forced-proximity matchmaking.

It was supposed to be easy. You were supposed to sip your wine, endure some polite small talk, and then fade into the crowd before Emi could corner you into any serious you’d make such a beautiful couple talk. But instead, you’re somehow still here, talking to him, because Hajime Iwaizumi is annoyingly easy to talk to.

Which is not fair. It’s not fair at all, actually.

He makes it look effortless, like this isn’t completely unhinged, like it’s not absolutely deranged that your boss has spent months trying to set you up with a man who has already—

You take a sip of your wine. You are not going to finish that thought.

Hajime watches you over the rim of his whiskey glass, looking entirely too entertained by this whole situation. “You seem tense.”

“Gee, I wonder why.”

His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t argue. “Hey, could be worse,” he says. “At least my mom has good taste.”

You choke on your sip, feeling the bubbles tingle in your nose and really regretting every life decision you’ve made in the last six months. “Oh, my God.”

He laughs, tilting his glass in a mock toast.

You squint at him, wary and slightly annoyed, unable to fathom how he’s not also dying at this situation. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I mean…” He shrugs, all easy amusement. “I’m just saying—this could be a lot worse. Imagine if she was trying to set you up with someone actually terrible.”

“I don’t know,” you mutter, swirling your wine. “You’re already pretty high on my list of worst-case scenarios.”

“See, now that hurts.”

You roll your eyes. “You’ll live.”

Before Hajime can respond—before you can regain any sense of control over this conversation—Emi appears out of nowhere, her eyes shining.

“There you two are!” she says, absolutely beaming. “It’s time for the first dance!”

You freeze.

Hajime—the absolute traitor—just raises an eyebrow. “First dance?”

“Yes! It’s tradition,” Emi says, already ushering you toward the ballroom floor. “Senior partners and their dates open the dance floor—it’s been that way for years.”

You dig your heels into the floor. “But I’m not—”

“Now, sweetheart,” Emi interrupts, entirely ignoring your panic, “you wouldn’t want to break tradition, would you?”

You stare at her, betrayed.

She smiles.

Oh, she planned this.

Hajime, standing beside you, lets out a quiet, amused sigh before draining the last of his whiskey. “Well,” he says, offering you a hand, “guess we should give the people what they want.”

You glare at him. “I hate you.”

“Uh-huh,” he says. “That’s why you’re still holding my hand.”

You drop it immediately.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop him from leading you on to the dance floor. His hand slides around your waist, pulling you gently to the center of the ballroom; you’re struggling to ignore the far too many pairs of eyes on you two as he rearranges your arms around his neck.

And—oh, hell.

You forgot how solid he is.

His grip is firm but steady, his palm warm where it rests against your back. He moves easily, like this isn’t completely ridiculous, like your brain isn’t currently melting out of your ears.

“Relax,” Hajime murmurs.

You scowl. “I am relaxed.”

His lips twitch. “Yeah, totally.”

You hate him. You hate the way he’s looking at you—amused, interested, entirely too smug for someone who has already ruined your life once.

He leads you into a slow, easy step, and goddamn it, of course he’s good at this, too. His movements are effortless, confident. He keeps the rhythm perfectly, and you hate that you match him so well.

He tilts his head, watching you. “You’re thinking really hard about something.”

“No, I’m not.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Right. So you’re definitely not thinking about how good I am at this.”

You promptly step on his foot. He laughs, and it ignites your hatefire even more.

“Asshole,” you mutter.

“I was going to say you look good tonight,” he muses, unfazed. “But now I don’t know if you deserve the compliment.”

You glare at him. “Shut up.”

Hajime smirks. “Touchy.”

He spins you as the music hits a crescendo, dropping you abruptly into a dip that catches you heavily off-guard. It makes you lock your fingers tighter around his neck, and when he lifts you back up, you nearly slam right into his very, very firm chest (what the hell, is this man made entirely of protein?), face first.

“What the fuck?” you huff, a little winded. “You are actually a horrible human being.”

Hajime hums, tilting his head slightly, his eyes flickering with something too smug, too entertained. “You keep saying that,” he muses, voice low enough that it barely carries past the space between you, “but I think you just like having someone to complain about.”

Before you can deliver a scathing reply, he tugs you a fraction closer. It’s subtle, barely noticeable to anyone watching, but you feel it—the shift of his fingers pressing against the small of your back, the way your body slots against his just enough for warmth to pass between you.

Your breath catches, and it’s infuriating how he notices. How his hold tightens, like he can read every single thought running through your head and is thrilled by it.

“You’re such a dick,” you frown, shifting slightly, trying to put some space between you.

Hajime chuckles, and the sound is entirely too satisfied. His mouth is right by your ear, so you practically feel it more than you really hear it, when he murmurs, “And what are you gonna do about it?”

Your brain short-circuits.

Because that—that—is not fair.

That is the kind of thing a man should not be allowed to say in that voice, in that low, teasing rumble, into your ear, while holding you against him like this.

It happens before you can even think about it.

Before you can register that you are, in fact, in the middle of a ballroom at your company’s annual gala. Before you can process the reality that Emi is somewhere in this crowd, and she has already been insufferable about this whole ordeal.

Before any of that can hit you, you grab the lapels of his stupidly well-fitted suit, tilt your chin up, and kiss him.

It’s instant, sharp, devastating. Your hands tighten against his chest as you crash into him, and Hajime—because he is the worst person alive—immediately reacts.

One hand presses firm into your back, the other finding its way to your jaw, fingers curling just slightly as he deepens the kiss without hesitation. His lips are warm, just the right mix of soft and steady, and when he angles his head just so—his nose brushing against yours, his thumb skimming your cheek—you feel yourself sink, like he’s pulling you under and you don’t even mind drowning.

It should not be this good.

It should not set your pulse racing like this, make you forget for a single, damning second that this is the worst possible thing you could be doing right now.

But it does. And for just a moment, nothing else exists. Not the party. Not the music. Not the fact that literally everyone is watching you right now. Just the heat of his mouth, the firm press of his fingers at your back, the way he exhales sharply like he wasn’t expecting this either, but he’s not about to stop it, not for anything in the world.

And then you remember where you are.

You rip yourself away, blinking rapidly, your brain racing to catch up with what you just did.

And that is the moment you hear it: the loudest, most delighted squeal of your entire existence.

Your stomach plummets.

Because standing at the edge of the ballroom, her hands clasped together in sheer glee, is none other than Emi Iwaizumi herself. And she is positively vibrating with joy.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she gushes, and the way she looks at you is the exact way someone would look at their child who just announced they were getting married. “I knew it! I knew you two would be perfect together!”

Your soul leaves your body. You stare at her, horrified. You slowly turn back to Hajime—who, because he is an absolute menace, is still standing entirely too close, still holding you just slightly like he isn’t ready to let go.

And he is smiling.

The kind of smile that says I win. The kind of smile that says he is absolutely going to remind you of this for the rest of your natural life.

You physically have to stop yourself from shoving him away.

Instead, you inhale, sharp and deep, and will yourself to stay calm. Emi is still talking. She is still gushing. And you cannot deal with whatever she’s about to say next, so before she can so much as breathe, you turn back to Hajime, seize his wrist, and drag him off the dance floor, because if you don’t get away from this immediately, you are actually going to die of secondhand embarrassment and shame.

five.

This is because of your dry spell.

Your dry spell is the reason why your entire sense of self-control and awareness have gone out the window, and the reason why, now that you and Hajime have successfully escaped the ballroom onto the balcony, he is doubled over laughing and you are actually freaking out.

“Jesus fuck,” you groan, pressing your hands to your face. The cool night air does nothing to soothe the absolute catastrophe unfolding inside your brain. “I kissed you. I kissed you in front of everyone.”

Hajime straightens, still grinning like an asshole. “Yeah,” he says, entirely too pleased. “You did.”

You drop your hands, glaring. “Fuck you, dude. You’re not helping.”

He shrugs. “Wasn’t aware I needed to.”

You let out an incoherent noise of distress.

Hajime, because he is insufferable, just leans against the balcony railing, watching you unravel like it’s the best entertainment he’s had all night. His tie is slightly loosened now, his jacket unbuttoned, and somehow, he looks even better like this—a little rumpled, a little amused, looking at you like he already knows how this is going to end.

That is actually unacceptable.

“This is your fault,” you snap, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You goaded me into it.”

Hajime raises an eyebrow. “Oh, so I made you kiss me?”

“Yes,” you declare, with full conviction, even though you definitely grabbed him first. “You set me up.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “You really can’t handle taking the L, huh?”

“I can handle it,” you insist. “I just don’t want to.”

His lips twitch like he’s trying very hard not to laugh again. “So you kissed me against your will?”

“Yes.”

Hajime tilts his head, amused. “Interesting. Because you seemed pretty into it.”

Your jaw drops. “I—you—shut up.”

He chuckles, and God, his voice is all warm and low and pleased with himself, and you really need to get it together before you do something stupid again.

You exhale sharply, crossing your arms and shifting your focus to the city skyline instead. Sendai stretches out before you in a sea of golden lights, a stark contrast to the absolute nightmare happening in your head.

This is fine. You can recover from this. You just have to never, ever acknowledge it again.

You square your shoulders, turning back to him. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. We are going to go back inside, pretend this never happened, and move on with our lives.”

Hajime hums, considering. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s gonna work.”

You squint. “What do you mean that’s not gonna work?”

He pushes off the railing, taking a step closer—too close, enough that you feel it again, that ridiculous, stupid warmth that shouldn’t still be there after all this time. “I mean,” he says, slow, deliberate, “you’re acting like that kiss was a mistake.”

You blink. “Because it was.”

He lifts a single eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“Yes,” you say immediately, but it comes out way too defensive, and Hajime knows it.

He grins. You decide that you hate him.

“I’m sure,” you insist, crossing your arms tighter, like that will somehow make this whole situation less insufferable. “It was a heat-of-the-moment thing. A lapse in judgment. That’s it.”

Hajime tilts his head, thoughtful. “Okay. So if I kissed you again right now, you wouldn’t like it.”

Your entire brain short-circuits. The audacity. The unbelievable nerve.

You gape at him. “You wouldn’t.”

His grin widens. “Wouldn’t I?”

You hate how smug he looks. You hate that your stomach flips at the idea of it. You hate that you don’t immediately shut it down.

He watches your expression carefully, like he’s waiting for you to stop him, like he won’t actually do it unless you give him some kind of sign. Which is so much worse, because it means he’s giving you the chance to say no, to walk away, to end this before it can spiral any further.

But you don’t.

And that—more than the kiss itself, more than Emi’s squealing, more than the public spectacle you just made—is what finally sends you into full-blown panic mode.

You do want him to kiss you again.

You stare at him, pulse thrumming, brain caught in a violent tug-of-war between denial and desire. And Hajime? Hajime is watching you with the patience of someone who knows he’s already won.

“Say it,” he murmurs, voice low, steady.

You scowl. “Say what?”

“That you want me to kiss you again.”

Your jaw clenches. He’s baiting you, letting you choose, waiting for you to meet him halfway. You exhale sharply, tilting your chin up. “You’re so full of yourself.”

His mouth twitches. “Not an answer.”

“Fine,” you snap. “I want you to kiss me again.”

Hajime grins. “That’s all I needed.”

And then, he does.

This time, it’s slower, deeper, not rushed by the heat of the moment. He takes his time, like he’s savoring it, like he’s memorizing the way you melt into him. And you? You let him. Because, goddamn it, you were never winning this battle.

When you finally pull away, breathless, he smirks down at you. “See? Not a mistake.”

You groan. “I hate you.”

He laughs, pressing another quick kiss to your forehead that feels far more intimate than a casual pair of friends-with-benefits should. You, scandalized, shove him away, but Hajime just grins, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You’re impossible,” you mutter, pressing your fingers to your forehead, like that will somehow stop the ridiculous heat crawling up your neck.

Hajime hums, smug. “And yet, you’re still standing here.”

You are still standing here. You could have left, could have walked back into that ballroom and pretended this entire thing never happened. But instead, you’re here. On this balcony. With him.

You shift, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “So… what now?”

Hajime leans back against the railing. “Dunno. Guess that depends on you.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why do I feel like you already have an answer?”

“Because I do,” he says plainly, in a way so nonchalant and effortless it could only be said like that by him.

You exhale sharply, tilting your head up to the sky, like the stars might have some kind of solution for this. “You know this is gonna be a thing now, right?”

Hajime raises an eyebrow. “A thing?”

“Yeah,” you say, making a vague gesture between the two of you. “A thing. Emi’s gonna lose her mind. She’s probably already telling the senior partners that her matchmaking career is a success.”

Hajime laughs, the sound easy, effortless. “Yeah. She probably is.”

You sigh, dragging a hand down your face. “I am never going to live this down.”

“Probably not.”

You squint at him. “You could at least pretend to be sympathetic.”

Hajime shrugs, then reaches for your hand, tugging you forward so suddenly that you nearly stumble into him. His hands slide down to your waist, thumbs brushing over the fabric of your dress. “I could,” he murmurs, close, too close, “but we both know I wouldn’t mean it.”

You scowl. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” he says, smug, “you still kissed me. Twice, actually.”

You glare. “Stop counting.”

“No promises.”

You groan, pressing your forehead to his chest in sheer exasperation. “This is my villain origin story.”

Hajime just laughs, wrapping his arms fully around you, and you hate—hate—that it feels nice, that it feels right.

“Hajime,” you say, voice muffled against his suit jacket.

“Yeah?”

You lift your head just enough to meet his gaze. “If we’re doing this, you are legally required to make it up to me with at least two fancy dates. Minimum.”

Hajime smirks, like he was already planning on it. “Deal.”

“And no getting too smug about this, either,” you squint.

He tilts his head. “Define ‘too smug.’”

You groan, shoving at his chest. “God, I hate you.”

Hajime just catches your wrist and grins, pressing a slow, soft kiss to your knuckles. “Sure you do.”

You really don’t. And both of you know that very well, because he has his mother’s spell-blinding smile and you have always been a sucker for them both.

⨭ closing; churned this out over one 3 hour writing sesh bc i got this idea in my head and had to see it through. not proofread and very very hastily written, but i like her anyway. #comment #reblog #lemme know ur thoughts mwah xoxo

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queenshelby · 1 month ago

Text

His Property (Part One)

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Virgin!Reader

Warning: Non-Con, Dub-Con, Forced Submission, Humiliation, Age Gap

Summary:

You are an innocent young woman sold by your father to Thomas Shelby in exchange for clearing his debt. Thomas views you as his possession, believing he can treat you however he wishes.

Please comment and engage to let me know what you think!

The limousine purrs to a stop in front of Arrow House, and your heart pounds against your ribcage like a trapped creature yearning to escape. You gaze up at the imposing mansion, your eyes wide with a mixture of fear and curiosity. You find yourself gazing at the towering structure that looms as a sentinel over the sweeping lawns and manicured gardens, its cold stone walls as forbidding as the ice-blue eyes of its owner.

Your father sits beside you, his grip on your arm firm and unrelenting.

His face is a mask of grim determination, eyes fixed on the mansion as if it were a monster he's about to feed.

"This is it," he says, his voice as harsh as gravel. "Your new home."

Home. The word sends a shiver down your spine. You have no choice but to follow him out of the car, your heels sinking into the dewy grass. As you approach the grand entrance, the heavy oak door creaks open, revealing a man in a crisp black suit. His sharp features and piercing blue eyes leave no doubt who he is. Thomas Shelby.

The mere mention of his name sends a shiver down your spine. He stands in the doorway, his eyes raking over you like a physical touch. You feel your cheeks flush under his scrutiny.

"Y/N," he says, your name rolling off his tongue like a dark promise. He steps aside, allowing you to enter the grand foyer. The air is thick with the scent of expensive cigars and something darker, more primal.

Your father clears his throat, his eyes darting nervously between you and Thomas. "Y/N, this is Mr. Shelby. He's...

taken care of our debt." His words hang heavy in the air, a finality that makes your stomach churn. Thomas nods, his eyes never leaving yours as he assesses you, from top to bottom, as if you were prey.

"Yes, your father and I have come to an arrangement," he says, his voice as smooth as velvet but with an underlying edge that sends a shiver down your spine.

Your father shifts uncomfortably, his gaze flickering between you and Thomas before he nods, a grimace on his face. "I trust you'll take good care of her," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Thomas merely smiles, a slow, predatory curl of his lips that sends a jolt of fear coursing through you. "Oh, I intend to," he says, his eyes locked onto yours.

He turns to your father, his voice cold and dismissive. "You may go. I'll send for you when our business is concluded."

Your father nods, his eyes flickering between you and Thomas before he turns and walks away, leaving you alone with the man who now owns you.

Thomas closes the door, his footsteps echoing in the grand foyer as he approaches you. You can feel the heat radiating off his body, the power he exudes like a palpable force. He stops in front of you, his hand reaching up to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear.

His touch sends a shiver down your spine, and you can't help but flinch at the contact. He chuckles low, a sound that rumbles like thunder in his chest.

"You're frightened," he observes, his voice a low growl.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. You know what's expected of you, what your father has sold you for. But the reality of it is unlike anything you've ever imagined.

"Will...will you hurt me?" The words escape your lips before you can stop them, a mixture of fear and defiance in your voice.

Thomas's eyes flash with amusement, and he leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear.

"Only if you want me to," he whispers, his voice a low, seductive growl.

He steps back, his eyes scanning your body again, lingering on your breasts, your hips, your thighs.

"I don't want you to, sir," you reply, your voice barely a whisper, but it's enough for him.

A slow smile spreads across his face, and he reaches out, tracing the line of your jaw with his thumb. "We will see," he says softly.

He turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, confused and slightly relieved but, before you know it, one of his maids appears, her eyes cast downwards as she speaks.

"Let's get you settled in dear. I understand you have had a long

journey," the maid says, her voice soft and soothing like warm honey. She guides you through the grand house, your footsteps echoing on the polished marble floors. The opulence of Arrow House is starkly apparent; crystal chandeliers drip from the high ceilings, casting prisms of light that dance on the walls, and paintings of landscapes and still lives adorn the walls, each one more expensive looking than the last.

You are led down a long corridor, the air growing colder as you move further away from the main entrance. The maid stops in front of a heavy wooden door, her hand on the brass handle.

"This will be your room," she says, pushing the door open. You step inside, your eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the heavy curtains. The room is large, with a four-poster bed draped in velvet curtains, a fireplace with a roaring fire, and a chaise lounge positioned in front of the window. It's luxurious, but the air is thick with an undercurrent of darkness, a subtle reminder of Thomas's presence.

"Is there anything you need, dear?" the maid asks, her eyes scanning your face. You shake your head, your mind racing with a million thoughts but your mouth unable to form the words.

The maid smiles softly, her eyes kind. "You'll be alright, dear," she then says as she turns to leave, but you call out to her.

"Wait," you say, and she pauses, turning back to face you.

"What exactly does he... want from me?" The question tumbles out of your mouth before you can stop it, a heavy weight settling in your stomach as you await her response.

The maid's expression softens, and she steps back into the room, closing the door behind her.

She walks over to the chaise lounge and sits down, patting the space next to her. "Come, sit," she says gently. You hesitate for a moment before moving to sit next to her.

"Mr. Shelby, he's... complex," she begins, her voice low and careful. "He likes things to be... just so. And he likes to be in control." She pauses, choosing her words with care. "He'll expect you to be obedient, to meet his needs, and to do so without question."

You swallow hard, the reality of your situation settling like a weight in the pit of your stomach. Your older sister had only just explained the concept of intimacy to you after you had been brought up strictly catholic, and the thought of experiencing it so suddenly and with such a man was terrifying.

"But what if I don't want to do the things he asks?" your voice barely a whisper, but your heart pounded in your chest like a drum, afraid of the answer.

The maid's eyes were kind, and she reached out, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. "I am afraid you do not have a choice, dear. Not now. But in time, you may find that you want to please him. Many have before you."

"But if I do not like what he does to me?" you ask, your voice quivering slightly, the reality of your new life crashing down on you like a wave.

The maid's expression turns softer, and she squeezes your shoulder gently again. 'You will learn to like it, dear, or at least to tolerate it. Mr. Shelby has a way of... making people see things his way.'

Your heart sinks, and you feel a lump form in your throat. You want to ask more, to understand what exactly he expects from you, but the maid's shoulders tense, and she glances at the door.

'I should go,' she says, standing up. 'We'll meet again though, and I'll help you as much as I can, but for now, you should wash up and get some rest. Tomorrow is a new day.'

You nod, a sense of resignation washing over you as she leaves. Alone in the room, you let the weight of your situation sink in. Your breath hitches as you think about what lies ahead, your mind racing with questions and fears.

An hour later, a soft knock at the door startles you. You hesitate for a moment before calling out, 'Come in.'

The door creaks open, revealing a young man, around your age, with shaggy brown hair and kind brown eyes. He's dressed in a simple but well-made suit, his demeanour friendly and unassuming.

He smiles at you, and you can't help but feel a small shiver of relief at the sight of someone close to your own age.

"Hey, I'm Lucas," he says, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. "I'm one of the housekeeper's son and I help out around here sometimes."

You offer him a small smile, your shoulders relaxing slightly. "I'm Y/N," you say, standing up from the chaise lounge. "Nice to meet you."

Finn nods, his eyes scanning the room before settling on you. "I heard you were coming," he says, his voice casual.

"Thought I'd come say hi, make you feel a bit more at home."

You appreciate the gesture, even if the words 'at home' still feel foreign on your tongue. "Thanks," you say, offering him a small smile. "I could use a friendly face around here."

He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Yeah, Arrow House can be a bit... intimidating at first. But don't worry, you'll get used to it."

You sit back down on the chaise lounge, and he takes a seat on the armchair across from you.

The room feels less daunting with his presence, and you find yourself relaxing slightly.

"So, what's it like here? I mean, living in Arrow House," you ask, trying to keep your voice casual.

Lucas leans back in his chair, his eyes thoughtful. "It's different, that's for sure. It's like living in a castle, you know? But I know it will be different for you. I mean, I know why you are here and I am... I am not in the same situation as you," Lucas says before he pauses, his eyes searching yours, as if trying to gauge how much to say.

A shiver runs down your spine at the mention of your situation. "I don't want to be here," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lucas's expression softens, and he leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I know," he says. "But try to make the best of it," he tells you.

You nod, a lump forming in your throat at his kindness.

"I'll try," you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Lucas smiles warmly; his eyes filled with genuine concern. "Good," he said simply, resting his hand on yours in a friendly manner.

His words are comforting, but the weight of your new life is a constant reminder, pressing down on you like a heavy shroud. You force a smile, grateful for his presence.

"Thank you, Lucas," you say, and he grins, standing up and holding out his hand.

"Come on, let's go for a walk in the gardens.

Fresh air might do you some good," Lucas suggests, his hand still outstretched. You take it, grateful for the offer of escape, no matter how temporary.

As you walk through the grand house, you can't help but feel like a prisoner in a gilded cage. The opulence is overwhelming, a stark contrast to the simplicity of your childhood home. Lucas guides you through the sprawling gardens, the scents of blooming flowers and freshly cut grass filling the air. You take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart.

"So, what's your story, Lucas?

How long have you been here?" You ask, trying to focus on anything but the heavy weight of your new reality.

Lucas shrugs, his hands tucked into his pockets as he walks beside you. "Not long. A few months. My mom got a job here, and I help out around the place. It's not so bad, really. The people are nice enough."

You nod, your eyes scanning the gardens. "What about you? Where are you from?" He asks, his voice casual.

You hesitate, unsure of how much to reveal. "Small town. Nowhere special," you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper. "I grew up catholic. My father had a big gambling debt, and now I'm here," you say, your voice tight. Lucas glances at you, his expression sympathetic.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. That really sucks," he says, his voice genuine. "But listen, you're young, you're smart, and you're tough. You'll figure this out."

You scoff, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. "Tough? I'm terrified, Lucas. I don't know what I'm doing here. I don't know what he expects from me."

Lucas's expression softens, and he reaches out, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder.

"Hey, it's okay. Just know that you are not alone. I'll be here to help, alright? And I'm sure some of the other staff will be too. We're not all bad here, you know."

You nod, appreciating his words even if they don't completely ease your fears. "Thanks, Lucas. I appreciate it."

He smiles, his hand dropping to his side as he looked up, noticing Thomas Shelby 's silhouette in one of the grand windows.

You follow his gaze, your heart skipping a beat at the sight of Thomas's imposing figure. He stares back at you, his expression unreadable, before he turns and walks away.

"I should go," Lucas says, his voice barely above a whisper. "He doesn't like me talking to the... new acquisitions."

You frown, a chill running down your spine at his choice of words. "Why?"

Lucas shrugs, his expression grim.

"He just doesn't. Trust me, it's better if I go. I'll see you around, alright?" he says, squeezing your arm once more before turning and walking away, leaving you alone in the garden.

You watch him go, a sense of unease washing over you as Thomas's shadow looms large again in the window.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for what's to come. You can't run, and you can't hide. You have to face this head-on.

You make your way back to Arrow House, your footsteps echoing in the grand foyer as you enter.

The house is quiet, the staff moving silently through the halls, their eyes cast downwards as they pass you. The air is thick with an undercurrent of tension, a subtle reminder of Thomas Shelby's presence.

As you climb the grand staircase, you can't help but feel like a mouse in a maze, each step bringing you closer to the lion's den. You reach your room, the heavy wooden door looming in front of you like a barrier between you and the reality of your situation.

You take a deep breath, your hand trembling slightly as you reach for the handle of the door leading to your bedroom just as one of the maids approached you from behind.

"Here you are," she says softly. "Mr. Shelby wants to see you, in his study," the maid says, her voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart pounds in your chest, your breath hitches as you nod, your fingers fumbling with the door handle.

"Come, dear. We don't want to keep him waiting," the maid says, her voice a soft nudge, but there's an undercurrent of impatience that brooks no argument.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding like a drum in your chest as you follow her down the wide, marble-floored hallway. The air grows colder, the scent of expensive cigars and something darker, more primal, clinging to the air.

The maid stops in front of a heavy oak door, her hand reaching out to knock softly. "Sir, she's here," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

The door creaks open, revealing Thomas Shelby standing by the fireplace, his back to you. He's dressed in a dark suit, the material moulding to his frame.

He turns to face you, his piercing blue eyes scanning your body, missing no detail.

He nods at the maid, dismissing her with a minimal wave of his hand. She scurries away, leaving you alone with him.

The room is illuminated by the flickering fire, the shadows dancing on the walls, creating a stark contrast with the opulence of the study. Your heart hammers in your chest like a drum, the air thick with fear.

Thomas stands before you, his eyes locked onto yours, a dark promise written across his sharp features. He takes a step closer, the smell of expensive cologne enveloping you.

"You look nervous, Sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against your cheek, his touch causing you to flinch away.

His eyes darken at your reaction, and he takes a step closer, crowding your space.

"You're going to have to get used to my touch, Love," he says, the words a low growl that sends a shiver down your spine.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest as you take a step back, only to find yourself pressed up against the wall. You can feel the cold stone against your back, the rough texture a stark contrast to the smoothness of his skin.

Thomas takes advantage of your lack of space, his hand coming up to cup your chin, his thumb tracing your bottom lip.

"Open for me. Let me taste you." His voice is a command, his eyes burning into yours as he waits for your response.

You hesitate, your breathing coming in short gasps, the fear warring within you. Thomas's grip tightens slightly, his thumb pressing harder against your lip. "Now," he growls, the warning clear in his voice.

With trembling fingers, you part your lips, allowing him access. His eyes darken as he leans in, his mouth capturing yours in a brutal, demanding kiss. His tongue plunges in, exploring, dominating, leaving no part of your mouth untouched.

You gasp, your body stiffening at the sudden invasion, but Thomas doesn't miss a beat. He pins you to the wall as his mouth ravages yours. He tastes like whiskey and sin, and the fear in your chest begins to raise.

Thomas tears his mouth away, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His eyes are wild, hungry, as they rake over your body. "You taste like innocence, like a fucking virgin," he growls, his voice a low and primal.

"Please," you whisper, your voice shaking. "I don't want to do this."

Thomas smirks, his eyes burning with hunger, and presses his body flush against yours. "You don't have a choice. You're mine now and I paid good fucking money for you."

He captures your mouth again, swallowing your whimpers as his hands roam over your body.

You feel like a deer caught in headlights, unable to escape or fight as his hands trail down your waist. He slips his fingers under your skirt, hooking them into the waistband of your panties and you tremble as he pulls them down.

They pool at your feet and a tear slips down your cheek.

Thomas smirks, his lips brushing against yours. "Sshh, it's alright Love," he whispers as his fingers first made contact with your most intimate part. "I am just getting to know what's mine."

His voice is like velvet over iron as he lets his fingers run over your still dry and untouched folds.

You can't bring yourself to respond, your mind a whirlwind of fear and uncertainty. Thomas doesn't seem to mind, his fingers exploring you, sliding against your opening, making you gasp at the unfamiliar sensation.

He then pushes a finger inside you, the intrusion causing you to cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders.

"Oh Sweetheart," he growls against your neck, "You're so fucking tight."

He begins to pump his finger in and out of you, the motion rough and urgent, causing you to gasp and whimper.

"Sshh, Love," he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear. "I know it hurts, but I need you to relax and take it. You'll feel better once you get used to it."

You try to do as he says, but the sensation is overwhelming and foreign. You can feel your body tensing, your breath coming in short gasps.

You try to press your legs together, to close yourself off from him, but Thomas's free hand pushes your thighs apart, his fingers digging into your soft skin.

"Open up for me, Love," he snarls, the command in his voice leaving no room for argument as, suddenly, you felt something else when he used his thumb to rub your clit, slowly circling it with the pressure of his rough thumb.

The sensation is both foreign and slightly pleasurable, sending a jolt of confusion through you.

Thomas notices your reaction, a dark smile spreading across his face.

"No, please," you plead, your voice trembling as you try to push his hand away, but this time for different reasons. The sensation was too overwhelming for you.

You can't help but let out a small moan as Thomas's thumb continues to circle your clit. He watches you closely, his eyes dark with lust and pleasure at your reaction.

"That's it, Love," he murmurs, his voice a low growl. "Let me hear you. I want to hear you scream for me."

His finger inside you continues to move, pumping in and out, painfully, but the pressure on your clit made you feel pleasure at the same time, confusing you as you tried to wiggle away from him.

"Please stop,” you whimper, but he just chuckles, a low, dark sound that sends shivers down your spine.

"Shh, just let go for me," he growls, his thrusts becoming faster, more urgent. You can feel the wetness building between your legs, a mixture of pain and pleasure. Your breath comes in short gasps, your body tensing as he pushes you closer to the edge.

"I... I can't," you stammer, your body shaking with the effort of holding back. Thomas leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath hot and moist.

"Come on, Love, you're almost there. Let go. Give in to it," he says as he increases the pressure on your clit, his thumb circling faster, sending electric jolts through your body.

"Please. No. I need to...you need to stop!" you cry out as you can't hold back anymore and your body convulses, and you let out a scream that echoes through the study.

"That's a good girl," Thomas grins, his eyes locked onto yours, watching you come undone under his touch. He continues to pump his finger in and out of you, drawing out your pleasure until you're a panting mess against the wall.

He finally slows down, his finger sliding out of you, leaving you feeling empty and exposed.

You're panting, your body still shaking from the aftershocks of your unexpected orgasm.

Thomas grins, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction and lust as he smeared his blood-streaked finger over your cleavage, leaving a trail of your own wetness across your skin.

"There you go Sweetheart," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked but you couldn't help but feel a chill run down your spine at his words.

His fingers were still paint streaked from your wetness and virginity and he brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a groan of satisfaction. You felt a mixture of revulsion and shame at the sight, but also a strange kind of arousal you couldn't quite understand.

"Now, why don't you drop down to your knees for me, eh?" Thomas's voice is a low rumble, like distant thunder, as he steps back and begins to unbuckle his belt.

You hesitate for a moment, your body still shaking from the aftershocks of the orgasm he forced from you. But his eyes, those piercing blue eyes, burn into yours, and you know better than to disobey.

Slowly, you sink to your knees, your heart pounding in your chest like a trapped bird.

Thomas smirks, a slow, wicked curl of his lips as he pushes his pants down, his cock springing free.

He's long and thick, the head already damp with precum. He wraps his fist around the base, giving it a slow stroke.

"Open that pretty little mouth of yours, Sweetheart," he commands, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down your spine.

You hesitate, your breath coming in short gasps, your heart pounding wildly in your chest. You've never done this before, never even thought about it. But Thomas doesn't wait for your consent. He grabs a fistful of your hair, his grip tight and painful as he steps closer.

"Open, now," he growls, his cockhead prodding at your lips.

You hesitate, your lips pressed tightly together, your heart pounding like a drum in your chest as he waits

for you to comply which, hesitantly, you did, slowly parting your lips, just enough to let the tip inside.

"That's a good girl," he praises, his voice thick with lust and satisfaction. "Now take more."

He pushes his hips forward, forcing more of his cock into your mouth, the salty

taste of him filling your senses. You gag, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as he hits the back of your throat. You try to pull back, but his grip on your hair tightens, holding you in place as half of his cock disappears in your mouth, stretching your lips.

"Take it all, Sweetheart," he commands, his voice a low growl. "

You whimper, your tears falling freely now as he begins to move his hips, fucking your mouth in slow, steady thrusts. He grunts with each push forward, his cock growing harder, thicker with each passing moment.

You can feel the saliva pooling in your mouth, dripping down your chin, and you try to swallow around the intrusion, but it's no use. Your gag reflex kicks in again, and you pull back, gasping for air.

Thomas chuckles, a dark and dangerous sound that sends shivers down your spine. "You're not very good at this, are you, Love?" he says, his voice thick with lust. He grips your hair tighter, forcing you to look up at him.

His blue eyes are dark with desire, his jaw set in a harsh line. "You're going to take it all, understand?" His voice is a harsh command, leaving no room for argument as he thrusts his hips forward, his cockhead slipping past your lips and forcing its way into your mouth.

You gag again, your eyes watering as he hits the back of your throat.

You try to relax, to open up, but it's hard. His cock is so fucking big, and the taste of him, the smell of him, it's all so overwhelming.

Thomas growls, his grip on your hair tightening even further. "You feel so fucking good Love," he says through gritted teeth, his hips moving faster, fucking your face with more force.

You gag again, your mouth filled with his cock, your eyes watering as you try to breathe through your nose. Your hands grip his thighs, your nails digging into his flesh as you try to pull back, but Thomas holds you firmly in place.

You can feel it throbbing in your mouth, the veins pulsing with his heartbeat. The taste of him is salty and bitter, the scent of his sweat and arousal filling your nostrils. Both nauseating and arousing at the same time. You can't breathe, can't think, as he fucks your face with efficiency.

"Open that throat for me, Love," he groans, his voice ragged with desire. "Take it all, like a good girl."

His words send a jolt of humiliation and arousal through you which, again, was strange and confusing to you. Despite yourself, you feel a twinge of desire, a heat building between your legs.

Thomas groans, a low, animal sound that vibrates through his chest. "Almost there, Love," he says, and you have no idea what he means by that

. You're dizzy, lightheaded from being on your knees for so long with his cock in your mouth. You feel like your jaw is going to dislocate as he thrusts in and out, his cock filling your mouth completely.

He pushes in deeper, his cockhead hitting the back of your throat, forcing you to take him in even further. You try to keep your teeth from grazing him, but it's hard to control anything when you can barely breathe.

Thomas's hips stutter, his cockhead pulsing in your throat, and you are unsure what is going on until he announces his impending climax.

"I am going to cum in your sweet little mouth now and I want you to swallow every last drop of it, eh" he rasps out, his voice thick with lust and excitement.

You panic, your body tensing, still unsure what to expect, but there's no escape as he grips your hair, holding you in place as he thrusts into your mouth one last time, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he releases his load.

You gag in surprise as the hot, salty taste of him fills your mouth, coating your tongue and throat. He groans, his body shuddering as he empties himself into you, his hips jerking with each spurt.

"Swallow it, Love" he growls, his grip on your hair tightening painfully. "Every fucking drop."

You try to pull back, the taste of him overwhelming, but his grip is unyielding. You gag again, his cum and saliva splattering around your lips as you struggle to swallow his release. It is simply too much.

"Good girl," Thomas praises you anyway, his voice still thick with lust.

He pulls out, his cock gleaming with your saliva and his cum. He runs a hand through your hair, tucking a strand behind your ear. His cum was running down your chin, dripping onto your chest and even on to his shoe, and you can taste the bitter, salty tang of him on your tongue.

Using his finger, he scoops up the cum that had dripped out of your mouth and on to your chin and feeds it to you, forcing you to swallow every last drop. You whimper, your stomach churning at the taste, but you obey, knowing better than to displease him.

"That's it," Thomas praises again, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction and lust. He tucks himself back into his pants, his cock only semi-hard now.

You look down at your chest, at his release on your skin, and then at his shiny dress shoes, now with cum splattered on them too. You feel a wave of shame wash over you, your cheeks burning with humiliation.

"I... I’m sorry," you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Don't be Love. You did well," he says as you still sat on the plush carpet, your knees aching from the hard floor, your mouth still tasting like him. "But I do need you to clean up the mess you made, eh," he then ads, as if you had been careless, rather than struggling to perform a task you had never done before.

"Yes, sir," you whisper, your voice trembling as you reached up to wipe off the cum from your chest first with your bare hand and Thomas watches you, his expression unreadable.

"Lick it off your hand, go on," he commands, and you hesitate for a moment before bringing your hand to your mouth and licking off his cum, your stomach again.

"That's a good girl,” he says, his voice a low purr. "Now, clean my shoe with your tongue."

You look down at the shiny leather and a wave of humiliation washes over you. But you know better than to disobey, so you lean forward, extending your tongue, and begin to lick the cum off his shoe.

Thomas watches you, his eyes dark with satisfaction. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with lust. "Lick every last drop."

You continue, your cheeks burning with shame, your mouth tasting like him, feeling like you are nothing more than a slave to his desires.

The taste of him is bitter and salty, a stark reminder of what you are to him, of the role you must play in his life.

As you finish cleaning his shoe, you sit back on your heels, your body shaking with exhaustion and humiliation. Thomas watches you, his eyes roaming your body, assessing you like a piece of art.

Thomas looks down at you, his expression softening. "Good girl," he murmurs, his voice gentle. "Now, go clean yourself up and get some rest, eh?" he says, his voice suddenly softer, as he helps you to your feet.

You nod, your body still shaking slightly from the ordeal. He strokes your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle, almost comforting.

"You did well tonight, Love. Very well," he praises you once more and, somehow, this made you proud.

You make your way back to your room, your body aching and your mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. You strip off your clothes, your body still sticky from his seed, and step into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over you.

You scrub yourself clean, trying to wash away the taste and smell of him, but it lingers, a constant reminder of what just happened.

Your body aches, and your knees are bruised from the hard floor.

You step out of the shower, wrapping yourself in a thick, plush robe that hangs on the back of the door but, even despite the humiliation you feel, there is something else that lingers, something that you can't quite put your finger on. A sense of accomplishment perhaps, or maybe it's just the exhaustion that weighs heavily on your body.

You collapse onto the bed, the cool sheets a welcome relief to your tender skin. You pull the covers up, burying yourself in the softness, trying to block out the memories of the night. But sleep eludes you, your mind racing with thoughts of Thomas and the things he made you do.

You toss and turn, the events of the night replaying in your head like a gruesome movie. The way he touched you, the way he tasted, the way he smelled. The way he made you feel. A mix of fear, humiliation, and whatever else this was. Desire or arousal perhaps?

You were confused and conflicted by the mix of emotions swirling within you but, after a little while, you finally managed to fall into a fitful sleep, your dreams haunted by the events of the night.

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heliosunny · 2 months ago

Note

Hello, I am obsessed with how you write Mydei and I wanted to request Mydei with a skittish Neko reader, like will jump over the smallest noise with ears and tail standing on end kind of skittish, if you're not comfortable with writing this that's completely alright and I hope you have a good day/night 😊

Yandere!Mydei x Neko!Reader

The merchant’s voice droned on, a tedious exchange of goods and gold that should have been routine. But Duke Mydei’s attention was elsewhere. Amid the scent of aged parchment and exotic spices, something sweeter lingered in the air. A presence—delicate, trembling, and utterly fascinating.

He turned his gaze, slow and deliberate, toward the one who stood just behind the merchant. A pair of feline ears twitched atop their head, betraying their unease. Their tail, sleek and furred, flicked anxiously from side to side. Every subtle movement spoke of nervous energy, as if they might dart away at the slightest provocation.

Intriguing.

The merchant’s assistant, he presumed—though the word ‘assistant’ seemed far too generous. The way they shifted behind their master, hands clutching the fabric of their too-thin cloak, suggested something else entirely. Something more akin to property than partnership.

The merchant followed Mydei’s gaze and, with a greedy glint in his eye, chuckled. “Ah, you’ve taken notice of my little pet?”

Mydei did not reply immediately. Instead, he observed. Your ears had gone rigid. Fear—pure, unfiltered fear. Yet you could not run.

“…How much?” Mydei asked at last.

The merchant blinked before a wide grin split his face. “Oh, Your grace, you jest.”

“I do not.”

Gold exchanged hands with an ease that sickened Mydei. He had purchased fine silks with more effort than this. You did not protest, did not speak, merely stood frozen as your former master took his pay and left without a backward glance.

“You belong to me now” Mydei said, stepping closer. He took in the way your pupils dilated, the way your ears twitched at his voice.

“Come.” His tone was gentle, coaxing, as if he were speaking to a frightened bird. “You must be cold.”

He offered his hand. You hesitated. Then, slowly, you placed your trembling fingers in his.

The ride back to his estate was silent, save for the steady clatter of horse hooves against cobblestone. Mydei sat comfortably, one leg crossed over the other, gloved fingers drumming idly against the armrest of his carriage. Across from him, his newly acquired companion sat stiffly, hands curled into their lap, shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow that never came.

You refused to meet his gaze.

What a shame, he would have liked to see your eyes again.

Every time the carriage jostled, your ears twitched, your tail puffing slightly before you forced it back down.

How easily startled.

“You needn’t be so tense. You are safe with me.”

Your ears pressed flat against your head. He could see your nails digging into your palms, the faintest tremor in your fingers. You didn’t believe him.

Not yet.

The carriage rolled to a stop before the grand estate, its towering silhouette standing stark against the night sky. Mydei stepped out first, turning to offer his hand.

“Come. Don't make me wait”

He led you up the steps of his home.

The doors shut behind you. The warmth of the grand hall should have been comforting after the cold air outside, but you only looked more tense. Your wide eyes darted around, as if mapping out the exits, gauging your chances.

Thinking of an escape already?

“You will be staying in the east wing” he said, releasing your hand. He reached for the ribbon at his collar, undoing it. “Your chambers will be well-kept, and you will have anything you require.”

“Why…?”

Mydei smiled. “Because you belong to me now.”

The way you flinched sent a spark of satisfaction through him. He reached out, brushing his fingers beneath your chin. You jerked slightly but didn’t pull away entirely.

“You will learn” he said, voice as gentle as it was unyielding. “There is nowhere safer than at my side.”

“Rest,” he commanded. “We have much to discuss tomorrow.”

He turned and walked away, confident that you wouldn’t dare disobey.

The night passed restlessly. Sleep did not come easily, not with the unfamiliar silk sheets wrapped around you, nor with the knowledge that you now belonged to someone who could do with you as he pleased. Yet, morning arrived all the same, ushered in by the soft chime of bells echoing through the grand estate.

The knock at their door was polite, yet firm.

“It is time to wake”

You hesitated before slipping out of bed, ears twitching at the sounds of movement outside. Slowly, you approached the door, heart hammering. When you opened it, Mydei stood there, dressed immaculately as always, a knowing smile gracing his lips.

“Good morning” he murmured, leaning against the doorframe. “Did you sleep well?”

You didn’t answer, simply looking down at the floor.

His fingers came up to tilt your chin up,“You should at least pretend, pet.” His tone was playful, but the grip on their chin was firm. “It would be rude to ignore me.”

You finally nodded.

“See? That wasn’t so hard.” He chuckled before stepping back, allowing you space. “Come. I had breakfast prepared.”

—---

The dining hall was grand, its ceilings adorned with chandeliers, the morning light streaming through vast windows. A lavish breakfast had been prepared—freshly baked bread, delicate pastries, fruits laid out in a careful arrangement.

Yet, despite the warmth of the food, you couldn’t bring yourself to eat much.

“What’s wrong? Afraid I’ve poisoned your meal?”

His laughter rang through the hall. “Oh, I do enjoy how easily rattled you are.” His fork clinked against his plate as he leaned forward. “I assure you, if I wanted to harm you, I wouldn’t do it through something so dull as food.”

That wasn’t particularly comforting.

“Eat,” he instructed. “You’ll need your strength.”

You hesitated but took a small bite.

“Good,” he murmured, watching you intently. “See? You’re already learning.”

—---

The next few days passed in much the same way. Mydei was always near, though never forcefully so. He would simply be there—at meals, in the corridors, seated beside you in the grand study. If you flinched at a sudden sound or tensed under his gaze, he would only smile, amused.

And he loved to tease.

“You startle so easily, pet. Should I keep a bell on you?”

“You look like a frightened rabbit when you do that. It’s adorable.”

“My, my, you do blush rather prettily, don’t you?”

Every time you reacted—ears twitching, tail puffing, eyes widening—he drank it in like fine wine.

Yet, in small, unspoken ways, he was… gentle.

He never raised his voice. Never forced you into conversation. If you grew overwhelmed, he would grant you space—though never too much. If you grew cold, a thick blanket would appear without a word. If you struggled with silverware during meals, his hands would guide yours—his touch firm, yet patient.

One evening, after a particularly quiet dinner, you felt something drape over their shoulders.

A thick, warm coat—his coat.

You looked up at him, surprised.

“You’re trembling.”

“…Thank you.”

“Oh? You do have a voice after all.”

Your ears flattened in embarrassment.

He chuckled, leaning in just enough for his breath to ghost against your ear. “I’ll have to get you to use it more often, then.”

—---

The next day started peacefully enough. Mydei had left early to handle estate matters, leaving you alone in the grand halls. You took cautious steps through the corridors, tail flicking as you tried to memorize the layout.

Then, the peace shattered.

A woman stormed into the estate, her heeled boots clicking sharply against the floor. She was beautiful, elegant, but the moment her eyes landed on you, they burned with pure hatred.

His fiancée.

“You” she hissed, closing the distance between you in an instant.

You barely had time to react before she grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked. Pain shot through your scalp as you let out a panicked yelp, your ears flattening in terror.

“What spell did you cast on him, you filthy thing?!” she seethed. “How dare you take what’s mine?!”

You trembled violently, your heart pounding. You didn’t understand—you hadn’t done anything! But her grip only tightened, nails digging into your scalp.

Then, the temperature in the room dropped.

“Mydei…” she started, her voice faltering.

He stood at the entrance, his golden eyes like ice, his presence suddenly suffocating.

“Let Y/n go.”

She hesitated for only a second before scoffing, shoving you back as if you were nothing more than filth. You barely caught yourself, hands trembling.

Mydei approached slowly, he reached down and helped you stand, his gloved hand steady against yours.

Then, he turned to her.

“We are no longer engaged.”

She paled. “W-What?”

“I will not repeat myself.”

She looked between you and him, disbelief turning into fury. But she knew better than to argue. With a final glare, she stormed out, the doors slamming behind her.

You felt Mydei’s fingers brush against your hair, straightening the strands she had yanked.

“…You’re shaking” he murmured.

Tears pricked at your eyes as you bit your lip. You had never been more terrified in your life.

He pulled you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you “No one will ever harm you again,” he whispered, “I will make sure of it.”

After that day, everything changed.

The maids, who once looked down on you with disdain, now treated you with careful respect. Whispers of Mydei’s canceled engagement spread through the estate like wildfire, and with it came an unspoken understanding—you were the one he favored now.

It was strange, being treated so differently. No more dismissive glances, no more hushed snickers behind your back. Instead, you were addressed properly, your presence acknowledged.

But the most significant change was Mydei himself.

Where before he had been playful in his torment, teasing you for every little reaction, now there was something… more.

A certain attentiveness. A sharper edge to his protectiveness.

And so, for the first time, you were granted the privilege of staying by his side.

—---

One evening, as Mydei reviewed documents in his study, you sat nearby, tail curling idly as you observed the delicate way he handled each page. The flickering candlelight made his golden eyes glow as he read, his fingers drumming thoughtfully against his desk.

A crease formed between his brows. Something was wrong. You peeked over, ears twitching as you scanned the document. It was a trade agreement, filled with dense wording and numbers.

Then you spotted it.

“This number is wrong” you murmured before you could stop yourself.

Mydei paused. Slowly, his gaze lifted to meet yours, amusement flickering behind his eyes.

“Oh?” He leaned back, resting his chin on his hand. “Do enlighten me, pet.”

You swallowed, suddenly nervous. But his expression was patient, expectant.

Tentatively, you pointed at the figures. “Here… The numbers don’t add up properly. If you sign this, you’ll be losing a significant portion of the expected profits.”

“Well, well…” Mydei mused, tilting his head. “A sharp eye. I wonder, what else can you do?”

As it turned out, you were quite useful to him.

Your ears, sensitive as they were, allowed you to pick up hushed conversations from maids, guards, even nobles who visited the estate. You never meant to eavesdrop, but sometimes you would hear things—things Mydei found… interesting.

“So the noble’s son has been gambling away his family’s fortune?” Mydei hummed as he idly twirled a lock of your hair between his fingers. “How very unfortunate. Perhaps I should extend a kind offer before his father notices.”

Your keen instincts also came in handy. You could tell when someone was lying, the way their heartbeat quickened, the subtle shift in their scent.

One afternoon, during a business meeting, a merchant attempted to deceive Mydei with false reports. You, standing beside his chair, stiffened ever so slightly.

“Lying to me? How bold.”

The merchant turned pale. You remained still, suppressing a shudder at the way Mydei’s fingers traced slow circles against the back of your hand—silent praise for your perceptiveness.

And then, there was your agility.

One evening, as you walked through the estate, a vase teetered off a shelf. Without thinking, you leapt, catching it mid-air with practiced ease. Your tail bristled from the sudden movement, ears standing on end.

A slow clap echoed through the hall.

You turned to find Mydei lounging against the doorway, lips curled into a smirk.

“How graceful,” he mused, his gaze trailing over you. “I wonder… would you be this quick if I were to chase you?”

Your tail puffed up instantly.

His laughter rang through the corridor, rich and amused.

It became a game between you.

He would test you, push you, always watching how you reacted. A teasing remark here, a fleeting touch there. Each time you startled, each time you hesitated, he would smirk as if memorizing every little detail about you.

But he also valued you.

You weren’t just a pet to him anymore.

You were his sharp-eyed, quick-footed, ever-loyal companion.

And oh, how he adored that.

Mydei had left early that morning, dressed in his usual pristine attire, a smirk playing on his lips as he bid you farewell.

“Try not to get into trouble while I’m gone, pet,” he had teased, his fingers brushing against your ear just to see you flinch. “I’d hate to return and find you missing.”

At the time, you had rolled your eyes, tail flicking in mild irritation.

You should have known better.

The estate was quieter without him. You had spent the morning wandering the halls, occasionally chatting with the maids—though they were still somewhat wary around you. Then, as the afternoon sun cast golden streaks across the courtyard, you had settled near the garden, enjoying the warmth.

Your tail swayed lazily as you basked in the peaceful moment, eyes half-lidded.

Pain.

A sharp yank at the base of your tail sent a jolt of agony up your spine. You barely had time to yelp before rough hands clamped over your mouth, muffling your cry. Panic surged through you as multiple figures surrounded you, their grips firm, unrelenting.

“Gotcha,” one of them sneered, his breath rancid against your skin. “Damn thing moves fast, but you let your guard down.”

You thrashed, ears flattened in distress, but they were prepared. Thick ropes bound your wrists before you could claw at them, and a cloth was stuffed between your lips to keep you from calling for help.

“Careful with this one,” another muttered. “The lady wants them unharmed—well, mostly.”

Lady?

Realization struck like ice in your veins.

His ex-fiancée.

They were going to take you. Sell you.

Your heart pounded in your chest, terror clouding your thoughts as they dragged you toward a carriage waiting beyond the estate walls. The guards—where were the guards?! Had they been bribed?

You struggled, kicking wildly, but a harsh slap across your cheek left your vision spinning.

“Behave,” one of them snapped. “You’re valuable merchandise. Don’t make us damage you too much before the sale.”

You were on your own.

The days in captivity blurred together.

Cold iron shackles bound your wrists, the dim candlelight of the underground auction hall casting eerie shadows against the damp stone walls. You weren’t the only one locked away—other unfortunate souls huddled in their cells, whispering prayers or sobbing softly.

Your ears twitched at every sound, tail curled tightly around yourself as you sat in the corner. Fear clawed at your chest, but you refused to break.

Mydei will come for me.

You repeated it over and over like a mantra, clinging to the hope that the man who claimed you as his own wouldn’t let you disappear into the hands of strangers.

Three days passed.

Then, the auction began.

You stood on the platform, bound and displayed like an object, your tail bristling in humiliation as greedy eyes roamed over you.

The auctioneer’s voice boomed through the hall.

“A rare specimen! Keen senses, remarkable agility—an exquisite addition to any collection! We’ll start the bidding at—”

The doors to the hall slammed open.

A hush fell over the room as a tall, imposing figure stepped inside, flanked by a dozen men in dark coats. His golden eyes gleamed with fury, his presence suffocating.

“I’ll pay ten times the highest bid.” His voice was calm, but the threat beneath it was unmistakable.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. The auctioneer sputtered, momentarily at a loss. No one would dare challenge such an outrageous sum—not when it came from him.

The gavel struck.

“Sold—to the Duke.”

Before anyone could react, Mydei moved, his gloved hands ripping away the shackles that bound you. You barely had time to register his warmth before he pulled you into his arms, his grip tightening as if to assure himself that you were real.

“Y-You’re late” you mumbled, your voice trembling.

“Forgive me”

The carriage ride home was quiet.

You sat beside him, still shaken, your tail curled around yourself as you tried to process everything.

Mydei’s fingers brushed over your wrist—where the iron cuffs had left bruises.

“They will all suffer for this. Every single one of them.”

You believed him.

But before either of you could speak further, the carriage suddenly lurched to a violent stop.

The horses neighed in distress. The driver shouted something—before his voice was abruptly cut off.

“Stay behind me.”

The door was kicked open. Figures clad in black swarmed in, blades glinting in the moonlight.

Assassins.

You barely had time to react before Mydei drew his weapon, slashing through the first attacker with terrifying precision. Blood splattered against the seats, but more came, their strikes ruthless, aimed to kill.

You fought back as best you could, claws unsheathing, instincts kicking in—but there were too many. Mydei cut through them mercilessly, but even he couldn’t deflect every blow.

You saw it too late.

A dagger, aimed directly at your heart.

Before you could move, a strong force shoved you aside.

The blade sank into flesh—but not yours.

Mydei.

The world slowed. His golden eyes widened slightly as the dagger lodged deep into his neck, crimson spilling down his pristine coat.

“No—”

Adrenaline surged through your veins as you lunged, your claws sinking into the assassin’s throat, tearing through flesh. Blood sprayed, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t think.

The bodies of the assassins fell one by one, but none of it mattered.

He collapsed.

You caught him before he hit the ground, panic clawing at your chest as you pressed against his wound. His breath was shallow, his pulse weakening beneath your fingers.

“No, no, no…” Your vision blurred. His blood soaked into your hands, warm and thick.

He looked at you, eyes half-lidded, lips curling into the faintest smirk.

“Why do you… look so worried, pet?” His voice was weak, teasing even now. “I… won, didn’t I?”

He was dying.

You couldn’t let that happen.

Not to him.

You had never spoken of it before, never revealed what set you apart from others of your kind. The ability to sacrifice one of your lives to save another.

A price only you could pay.

Your hands trembled as you made your choice.

Without hesitation, you pressed your forehead against his, your energy surging forward, giving itself to him.

Pain lanced through you—a sharp, searing agony, like something vital being ripped away. You gasped, body convulsing, but you didn’t stop.

The wound at his neck closed.

His breathing steadied.

His fingers twitched—then tightened around yours.

And then, he laughed.

“You foolish, foolish pet” he murmured, his grip unrelenting. “You think you can sacrifice yourself for me?”

“I won’t allow it.”

You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his shoulder as the weight of everything finally crashed down on you. The fear, the pain, the relief—it all spilled over, and you trembled in his arms, gripping his coat as if letting go would make him disappear.

Your voice cracked as you sobbed into him. “You almost died! I thought—I thought—”

Mydei let out a low chuckle, his fingers trailing lazily through your hair. “Oh? So you do care about me, pet.”

You pulled back just enough to glare at him through your tears. “Of course I care! You saved me, you got hurt because of me—”

“Then you should take responsibility.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“I’ve decided, pet. You’ll marry me.”

Your ears stood straight up, your tail fluffed in sheer panic.

“Nope” you blurted out, voice cracking. “That’s not happening.”

His smirk widened, clearly entertained by your horror. “Oh? And where exactly do you think you’re going?”

Your fight-or-flight instincts screamed at you. Flight. Definitely flight.

You turned, bolting.

Or at least, you tried to.

A firm grip snatched your tail before you could take a single step.

A high-pitched yelp escaped you as your entire body froze. Your tail stood straight up, your ears twitching wildly as a shiver ran down your spine.

“Ah, so that’s how to keep you still” Mydei mused, his voice far too pleased with himself.

“L-Let go—!”

“Not until you admit you’re mine.”

Before you could argue, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the clearing.

“My lord!” Mydei’s men rushed forward, eyes widening at the bloodied scene around them. “Are you hurt?!”

Mydei finally released your tail, letting you stumble forward as he straightened up. His usual smirk returned, his injuries practically forgotten.

“Nothing I can’t handle” he said smoothly, then glanced at you.

You, on the other hand, were still recovering from the absolute horror of what just happened.

One of the knights frowned. “Shall we return, my lord?”

Mydei hummed, stepping beside you before leaning in close, his lips nearly brushing your ear.

“Don’t think this conversation is over, pet.”

Your tail bristled. Oh no.

#yandere x reader #yandere #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x you #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #honkai star rail mydei #mydei x you #yandere mydei #mydeimos #hsr mydei #mydei x reader #mydei

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respectthepetty · 1 year ago

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Peaceful Property is going to a BL, and I refuse to be convinced otherwise.

Home's (New) color is red, and Peach's (Tay) is blue.

So it's not the bed sharing that has me convinced.

IT'S THE COLOR EXCHANGE!

Tay has red behind him which is just the floor, but he is wearing the glasses he wears for the series, so they were still filming on this day, and what color is New wearing? Peach's BLUE!

Then I thought It might just be the ghost hunting suit that was worn in the promo.

But NOPE, it's a jersey over a blue shirt and it was during filming (Q8) because Mook showed up in the video, and so does Tay's red-orange looking arm holding the phone!

But there are even more videos of the guys playing with filters on set and NEW IS IN BLUE!

Quit playing with me, GMMTV, and give me my BL with a side GL.

I don't have time for these games, but I'll make time to search a Polca's insta to get my colors.

BL OR BUST!

#the colors mean things #color coded boys in love #color coded girls in love #peaceful property #peaceful property series #They ARE color coded people!#so why is Home wearing blue?#Huh?#ANSWER ME GMMTV!#This is a damn BL #or you're lying!#that is a color exchange!#I'm not playing games with y'all!

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rebeccathenaturalist · 1 month ago

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This is a salient argument for returning land stolen from indigenous people, written by a Caddo/Delaware writer who has spent over a decade as a ranger for the U.S. Forest Service. Our current situation with public lands at risk is yet another example where "we the people" have shown that we cannot be responsible for something so precious, and so the status quo cannot continue. The Landback movement--returning land to indigenous ownership--is one viable solution that has multiple potential benefits.

It's not just the land that has been grossly mishandled, but the rights and lives of indigenous people, too. The article states "It’s been argued that the United States violated every Indian treaty it signed. When a treaty is broken, much like when a home is repossessed, the property exchanged should be returned to its original owner for breach of contract." Landback is one way in which indigenous people are trying to get back at least a little of what has been violently stolen from them over the past few centuries.

Does it mean giving up control? Of course. But with current trends, we don't exactly have a lot of control when state or federal governments decide to allow clearcutting or strip mining on public lands. Will some places be closed off to the public if they end up back in indigenous hands? Perhaps, but at least they wouldn't be forcing the rest of us onto reservations, from which we were not allowed to stray. That's a more merciful treatment than they received.

Even if the general public were no longer allowed on a given piece of land, we would still benefit from its restoration and sustainable stewardship, through cleaner air and water, better biodiversity, and ecosystems allowed to return to more complex states over time. Moreover, indigenous communities would stand to benefit financially from the substantial tourism and other recreational activities on current public lands. Responsible management could balance access to popular sites with minimizing wear and tear, while ecologically fragile or culturally sensitive places could be off-limits.

Why not let something old become something new again, and see if we all fare better for it?

#Landback #Land Back #Indigenous people #Indigenous rights #Native Americans #United States #public lands #National Parks #National Forests #sustainability #habitat restoration #restoration ecology #land stewardship #articles #food for thought

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sweet-as-an-angel · 10 months ago

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Pyramid Head! König

Warnings: 18+, Smut, Size Difference, Rough Sex, Unprotected Sex, Dubious Consent, Tummy Bulging, Cockwarming, Kidnapping, Imprisonment, Squirting, Mention of Gangbanging, Sadistic! König, Degenerate! König, Breeding Kink, Profanity, Implied Fem Reader, No Pronouns used for Reader except ‘You’.

Pyramid Head! König is a SEX. PEST. EXTRAORDINAIRE.

He pursued you relentlessly until he finally caught you, literally picking you up by the collar of your shirt like you were a wet cat and taking you home with him.

Pyramid Head! König treats you as his own human pet. He dresses you up in clothes he finds on his travels, brings you little trinkets for you to play with and look at, tries petting you without crushing your body beneath his mammoth strength.

He treats you like property in other regards, too. Typically of the breeding variety.

Pyramid Head! König’s sex drive is really something to behold. Just ask any of the monsters roaming around Silent Hill and, if they could, they’d tell you what a degenerate he is – how insatiable and relentless he can be.

Pyramid Head! König uses anyone and anything for his own pleasure if he’s horny enough. And, lucky him, he now has you at his side 24/7.

Pyramid Head! König is absolutely massive compared to you and he makes no effort to hide it. He picks you up and uses you as his own fleshlight, holding you about the waist and spearing you on his cock, pumping you up and down the shaft while growling beneath his veiled mask.

He cares little for your cries. In fact, they seem to spur him on.

Pyramid Head! König is absolutely fascinated by the shape of his cock protruding from inside your stomach. Sometimes, he’ll make you sit on him just so he can press and prod at the outline, his dick stiffening at every clench, cry and moan you make while your body acts as unwilling shelter for his cock.

You swear you can even see the outline of a vein and the pulsing of the tip. Feel it inside you like a second heartbeat.

So it’s no surprise to anyone that Pyramid Head! König is a big cockwarming fan. Literally the biggest.

Pyramid Head! König can make you sit on his dick for hours before he decides to use your body as little more than a cocksleeve and starts pounding into you.

When he cums, it’s thick and fast. He holds you in place while he fills you, watching your stomach swell with his cum as if he were filling a balloon.

Even when you whine and tell him it’s painful, that you feel as if you’re about to burst, he doesn’t let up. He’s far too enamoured with the bloating in your middle to care what you think.

Pyramid Head! König’s favourite thing to do is, when he’s completely emptied himself inside you, press down on your stomach and hear you cry out. God, nothing makes him feel or act more feral.

Nor does anything compare to sight or the feeling of his seed squirting out of you and spraying across his butcher’s apron when he presses down on your stomach, forcing hours of carnal pleasure from your body as if to purge and prepare you for another round.

Pyramid Head! König wears those stains like a badge of honour.

If you ever displease Pyramid Head! König, he shackles you to a corner and cums on you for days at a time, repeatedly, until you’re literally almost drowning in a pool of his cum.

He doesn’t care that he’s practically shooting dust by the end of it; the sight of you drenched and crusted in his semen makes the cramping in his hand and cock more than worth it, to see you so utterly humiliated and his.

Pyramid Head! König doesn’t let you wash it off until he deems you worthy of such a privilege. And when he can finally wrangle his libido back into some form of order, regardless of how minimal that may be.

More often than not, he ends up licking you clean before you can go in search of soap and water. With what appendage, you have no idea. All you know is that it’s long, wet and slips out from under his mask like a tentacle, relinquishing you of one bodily fluid in exchange for another.

Despite Pyramid Head! König’s possessive demeanour, he isn’t above enlisting the help of other monsters and manifestations to get his point across.

If ever you do something to royally piss him off, he’ll actually bring a monster (or two, or five) to you – those he can control with his influence – and make them fuck you.

Pyramid Head! König enjoys seeing you in pain when you’ve wronged him. Especially when, as he pulls you out from the mound of flesh and forced orgasms, he appears as your hero. Your saviour.

Only to use you again as he always does. As he always will.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad X

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miharuki · 5 months ago

Text

𝖄𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖁𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖓 𝕻𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖃 𝕽𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗 (𝕱𝖊𝖒) 3

Offical theme nomura

A butler hurried through the vast mansion, carrying the morning’s correspondence for his masters. Arriving at the head of the household’s study, he stopped, straightened his attire, and composed himself professionally before knocking on the door.

“Come in,” came the voice of an older man from within. Entering as instructed, the butler held out the stack of letters that had arrived that morning. He stopped before the desk and lifted the pile. “Sir, your correspondence has arrived. However, there is one letter in particular that I believe may interest you.” The lord of the house took the pile of letters and leafed through them, reading the names of each sender, until he came upon a blue envelope with golden accents. His gaze dropped to the golden handwriting on it: Nomura L. Néantazur.

“Call (Mother’s Name) immediately,” he ordered. The butler bowed and left the study. “What could that demon possibly want this time?” he muttered under his breath.

“Why would he send us a letter like this?” asked the woman, standing beside her husband and fanning herself in distress.

“I don’t know,” he replied, disdain evident in his voice. “I’d bet it’s about that brat again.” The man sneered before taking a letter opener and carefully slicing open the cyan envelope. As he read the elegantly penned words, spelling out Nomura’s intent with the utmost formality, his wife couldn’t contain herself.

“He wants what?!” she shrieked, collapsing into the chair in front of her husband, hand on her forehead in despair.

“To think that little disgrace could catch his attention,” the man muttered, setting the letter down and glancing out the window at a small house hidden within the gardens, far from the main mansion.

“It wasn’t enough to keep her on our property? We had to apologize to the royal family, and now that wretched girl brings even more trouble upon us? How could I have given birth to someone like her?” The man stood, stepping over to his wife, who had her face in her hands, and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Calm down, dear; she’s not a problem to us… for now.”

Naturally, upon arriving home, her parents had been disappointed—if not more than that.

“So, what do we do now?” the woman asked, dramatically sobbing, while her husband smiled beside her.

“We’ll simply say that the letter never reached us. There’s no way we’re allying with that blue devil.”

“Yes, exactly. Well thought out.” They exchanged smiles, pleased with their scheme.

What they hadn’t anticipated, however, was that just a week later, an elegant carriage in dark tones with a blue gleam would arrive on their estate. The man who stepped out wore costly shoes and elegant attire, his guards surrounding him as he made his way to the door and knocked firmly. After a few seconds, the maid opened the door and, shocked by the visitor, dropped the feather duster she was holding.

With a sweet smile concealing something darker, he looked at her and said, “Will you allow us to enter and summon your masters?”

The maid quickly stepped aside, opening the door further, allowing the young man and his guards to enter. The butler, who had been watching from a distance, hurried over to join them.

“A-ah, my apologies! Please, follow me to the parlor.” The butler passed by the maid, tugging on her sleeve as he whispered urgently, “What are you waiting for? Go fetch them!”

The butler led the way to the sitting room, allowing the young man to take a seat before bowing. Soon, another maid appeared, pushing a cart and setting down a tray with a fine teapot and matching cups. She poured tea for the young man, who accepted it with a smile and took a sip.

The door opened shortly after, revealing the master and mistress of the house. The man’s expression initially showed shock before he cleared his throat and regained his composure. Behind him stood his wife, partially hiding her face behind her fan. They both took seats on the sofa opposite the visitor.

“Your Highness! To what do we owe this visit?”

“Well, it seems you haven’t received my letter, seeing as I received no response,” Nomura noted, setting his teacup on its saucer before looking up at them. The man exchanged a nervous glance with his wife before chuckling awkwardly.

“Yes, yes… no letter here. I mean, you know how postal services are these days, eh? Ha… ha…”

“Very well,” Nomura replied, his tone cool as he leaned back slightly. “I am here to propose a business arrangement. A mutually beneficial one for both of us.”

pt1. Pt2

"I'll possibly do Part 4:)

Should I make a smut? Or do you not like that? I think I might turn it into a series. But seriously, Nomura is officially a profile character now.

@aiimee9 @chlov @uhkaey @notleclerc @taylorazureeee @sassykitkat22 @zuumaa @mononlogue @party-9 @endaculi @heartless-tate @mel-vaz @poptrim @kitty-chan33 @surprisemodafakas @reni502 @slowlysweetnightmare @hotnbloodied @yandereoverlord @mel-star636 @aphrodit333 @hotvinimon @cupidsgift @bien-bonjour14 @l0v3rrl @heraxochi @yamekocatt @lovorette @acenby-weirdo @kisalovesoobin @wutap @ron000 @lazydelusionsimp @kthehoeforfictionalmen @forbidden-sunlight @bubbles2416 @rosegracewood09 @b2mmyy

@julietdelamare @snowlotr @kitkatmochi @happydeertraveler @lem-hhn @crazytacokoala @mitzukichan18 @hey-im-bored504 @resident-cryptid @thefbiiswatching @beardedblizzardexpert @mymemd @smilefortae @emperatris-rinaka @sugarcookie11

@marise-eternal @smilefortae @happydeertraveler @keepghostly @lovelygenerousdream @illytian @beardedblizzardexpert @kpoplover2013 @aiimee9 @forbidden-sunlight @angelofdarkness2 @undecidingfate @queenmimis @princessloveweird @angstylittleb1tch @kyoko-neko @marvelsgirl4ever @kitty-chan33 @txtbeomi @reni502 @bookwormgamerweeb @hillaryary @lxvcia @sell-e @meowmeeps @rains-mae @dragongirl642 @baileebear @bramblelux @acequeenbee @pixiu0 @defnotlucienvanserra @sirenetheblogger @mspurpl3 @00hellohello00 @husbadosandfics @mapleeereads @saniecho @chinxinsomnia @laskamilkney @astylos @astylos @any-n-everything @lukasrightthigh @kyokiveil @iamapotatoe @ayame0ice @kel142 @xu8hao @msluccapotato @whattheheii @noshitmyfriend

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coochiequeens · 3 months ago

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Womens history just got richer.

When the deeply patriarchal Romans first encountered Celtic tribes living in modern-day France and Great Britain in the first century B.C.E., their reaction to the roles of the sexes was one of surprise and dismay. The tasks of men and women “have been exchanged, in a manner opposite to what obtains among us,” wrote one Roman historian.

New evidence from Celtic graves now confirms that at least one part of Britain was a woman’s world long before the Romans arrived—and for centuries afterward. One ancient British tribe known as the Durotriges based its family structure—and perhaps property inheritance—on kinship between mothers and daughters. Men, meanwhile, left home to live with their wives’ families, a practice known as matrilocality that has never been seen before in European prehistory.

The work, published today in Nature, helps explain why women in Iron Age Britain are often buried with high-status grave goods such as mirrors and even chariots, says Ludwig Maximilian University of Munich archaeologist Carola Metzner-Nebelsick, who was not involved with the research. “It’s a fantastic result,” she says. “It really helps explain the archaeological record.”

Ancient histories—not least Julius Caesar’s 50 B.C.E. account of invading Gaul—hinted at female empowerment among the Celts. “They wrote about it because they found it so weird,” says Trinity College Dublin geneticist Lara Cassidy.

Many modern historians assumed the accounts were exaggerated; they dismissed rich female graves from the time as outliers. But over the past few decades, archaeologists comparing burial practices at hundreds of Iron Age sites from Britain to Germany began to think there was a kernel of truth to the Roman reports.

The Durotriges cemeteries, located in the far south of England near the city of Bournemouth, offered a way for Cassidy and her team to investigate. Burials there began around 100 B.C.E., roughly 150 years before Roman forces invaded the island. Unusually for Iron Age Britain, the tribe didn’t cremate their dead. Instead they buried them close to home, in the hills surrounding their farmsteads.

Whereas men were laid to rest with a joint of meat and perhaps a pot containing a beverage to sustain them on their journey into the afterlife, Durotriges women are often found with elaborate offerings including mirrors, combs, jewelry, and even swords. “If you judge social status by burial goods, then female burials have vastly more than male,” says Bournemouth University archaeologist Miles Russell, a co-author of the new paper.

Over the past 4 years, researchers sequenced DNA from dozens of Durotriges skeletons in a set of cemeteries in Dorset, England. By matching identical fragments of genetic material from different individuals, they reconstructed a family tree that spanned six generations—many of whom were female descendants of a single female founder. Two-thirds of the people in the kin group buried in the cemetery shared a rare type of mitochondrial gene, a form of DNA inherited only from the mother, including some of the men who shared the same female ancestor.

Other genetic evidence from the Durotriges cemeteries pointed to matrilocality, showing that men joined the clan from other families. “Women are staying close to family and are embedded in the support network they’ve known since childhood,” Cassidy notes. “It’s the husband who’s coming in as a stranger and is dependent on the wife’s family.” Women were evidently a force to be reckoned with in this part of Iron Age Britain.

Archaeologists have found that members of Great Britain’s Durotriges tribe often buried women with more grave goods than men.Miles Russell/Bournemouth University

Such patterns could help explain finds elsewhere in the Celtic world, where women were sometimes buried with rich grave goods or even chariots. “We’re thinking this could have been quite widespread,” Cassidy says.

To gather further evidence, she and her colleagues re-examined previously published genomes from more than 150 sites in Britain and Europe stretching back to the Stone Age. Starting around 500 B.C.E., the diversity in people’s mitochondrial DNA declined, the team found, suggesting more of them shared the same female ancestors. There was no matching decline in the diversity of Y chromosomes, which are passed from fathers to sons.

That suggests communities across Britain were anchored by specific female lines, with men marrying in from outside. “The signal they see in [the Durotriges] case study can be reproduced in other British sites,” says Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology archaeogeneticist Joscha Gretzinger, who was not involved with the work. “That’s quite a smoking gun.”

The study is part of a growing use of DNA to reconstruct genetic kinship in the deep past—and use it to shed light on the structure of past societies. University of Liverpool archaeologist Rachel Pope says the research is starting to highlight the wide variety of social organization people practiced in the past, something archaeology has hinted at over the past 2 decades.

Some of the earliest kinship studies using ancient DNA, for example, showed that Stone Age farmers in Britain and France living in the fifth millennium B.C.E. were organized patrilocally, with women leaving their homes to marry while men stayed put. The new data from Durotriges suggest that by the Iron Age, 4000 years later, something had shifted. “This is quite exciting,” Pope says. “There are moments in time in which societies seem to have a lot of high female status.”

#Women in history #ancient britain #ancient British tribe known as the Durotrig #matrilocality #Bournemouth

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cthulhus-curse · 4 months ago

Text

Hopeless

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3,077

Warnings: Dark!Milf!Natasha Romanoff, Mommy Kink, Dub-Con, Drugging, Minor Character Death, Graphic Descriptions of Gore, Kidnapping, Bondage, Ball Gags, Knife Play, Blood Play, Praise, Obsessive Behavior, Jealousy, Stalking, Murder, Scissoring, Fingering, Cunnilingus | 18+ Minors DNI

Summary: Natasha takes her time watching, humming, and preying upon her unwilling pet until at one point she snaps. Taking you away is what she sees fit.

Each day without fail viridescent eyes stared at you from across the street. Covered windows were no match for the hard gaze thrown your way, watching every move and breath you took. They were obsessed — pupils addicted, dilating whenever you dared step from the confines of your home into the world. With a hitched breath, she had to hold onto any nearby surface for support. The unknowing effect you had on your neighbor was catastrophic.

Never would she shake the feeling of love when it came to you. Regardless of how little you’d talked — slight exchanges of words in the morning, the time she took to rummage through her mailbox precisely scheduled to greet you. During each smidge of a second she spent with eyes fluttering across the street, she grew intoxicated, drunk in the liquor that was your existence.

For the most part she was able to keep her urges hidden away in the closet carrying a suitcase with all the pictures, toys, and items she had of yours. The obsessing unconsciously grew exponentially ever since you had moved into the neighborhood less than a year ago. Many times she found herself sprawled over the bed, her hand between her legs with slender digits shoved far inside her sex. With her children in school and her breadwinner wife off at work, the house was hers to haunt.

Weeks passed by and never did she break the incorrigible distance between the two of you. It was an unspoken deal — you were watched from afar and, in her belief, you tease her in return with your pretend innocence. For the images she had of you, there was no denying you wanted her. It was what she told herself each night she giddily went to sleep with a smile plastered on her features, eyes closed with her wife’s arms wrapped around her slim body — the image that it was you instead of the brunette woman got her through a peaceful slumber.

With a secrecy intact, she was content.

Until she wasn’t.

Due to the tending of the children, she was left to pick up after them right as they had left on the bus to school. Crumbs left on the table, food across the floor, she sighed. The small elementary school children were nothing if not messy, but she loved them dearly. They were one of the few things she adored in the boring dull life she carried.

Normally she was to grab the mail around the time the children left, but as she peeked through the front door, her body clothed with a pair of tight yoga pants and a sports bra, her eyes widened.

There stood her wife, who had taken a day off, laughing off across the street. She had gone out on a run long before, kissing the kid’s heads as she dropped off a goodbye. Rather than spend her time at home, the brunette had a hand on your upper arm, getting far too close to the one thing that caused her wife any happiness within her miserable life. The more the two of you interacted, the mightier the anger beneath the small woman grew. Her wife who whispered hotly in your ear, pushing her body uncomfortably close to your own, would not take away her property.

That was something Natasha refused to let slide.

It was a split-second decision fueled by fury, betrayal, and impulsively. From her younger years Natasha still had her favored stash beside your own. She struggled to keep her thoughts normalized, remembering with a foggy mind what the therapist had told her at the hospital all those years ago. Eyes closed, deep breaths, happy thoughts, but all that came to mind as she snooped through the closet was how far she’d have to lodge her knife inside her wife’s chest in order to bring her the most pain.

With her experience, it did not take long to have a body slumped over the entrance of the house when Maria arrived. The first had been at the ripe age of thirteen — a pair of girls, those who made fun of her, followed her home late on a school day. Back then she was easily prone to letting her anger slip away, which led to the disappearance of her fellow students. The acting she had put on at the police station for weeks was Academy Award worthy.

Years after that she allowed herself to grow, to obsess over others and take care of anything that sat in her way. For her violent outbursts she’d been sent to the hospital on two occasions, but never spoke a peep about that ledge of hers that oozed blood. It was her own little secret each time she snuck out from her dormitory in college to bury yet another bag of meat. Although such urges had ceased when becoming wed to Maria, the one who she once believed to be her true love, slipped through the cracks of her shell of a body upon your arrival in town.

Natasha allowed herself to enjoy the sight beneath her. The woman who she once loved lay battered on the hardwood floor, her ocean eyes lifeless as her skin took a pale hue. It was only accented by the various macabre gashes on her chest and stomach — 38 to be exact, one for each year Natasha had been on Earth. The pool of blood beneath the motionless cadaver was mesmerizing.

Bending down, Natasha reached out to brush a finger above the scarlet liquid, brushing away the masterpiece she had created. The bloody tip was plopped into her mouth, the woman groaning at the metallic yet wondrous taste of her favored treat.

“Not bad,” Natasha told herself, kicking her wife’s body mockingly while gripping the handle of her messy knife — she’d have to get a newly sharpened one if she wished to pay you a visit. “Sorry it came to this, baby, but I want a divorce. No one takes what’s mine. Guess you should’ve known better.”

Breathing in the scent of victory through her nostrils, Natasha relaxed. She always did feel alive and exhilarated when watching life blink away from a person’s frail body. Already she found herself excited for her next kill.

Looking out the window with her skin and clothes tainted with red, Natasha smirked manically. She eyed you through the glass, watching as you took your dog out to the front yard before returning back inside. The happy family she had always wanted would be started with you. All she had to do was rid herself of her ex-wife’s body before robbing herself a new toy.

“We’ll be together soon, detka,” she promised. The excitement she had was exuded all across the house. Long months of patient waiting would finally come to an end, and she had no one but Maria to thank. “I promise mommy will be there today. I’ll protect you from all the bad people.” She hummed when remembering to use the other special treat on you. “You’ll never be hurt by anyone but me again.”

｡☆✼★━━━━━━━━━━━━★✼☆｡

With a wide smile, freshened up with a hint of a Channel No. 9 perfume after a much needed shower, and her confidence, Natasha strode to your door later in the day. She didn’t need to spend long there, although her hesitation came when she was met with a sight of you, she simply basked in your presence. The way you had appeared through the cracked open door made her swoon.

The expertise she carried got her to swiftly press her front against your back, a syringe’s needle tearing through your skin as she dumped the chemicals inside of you once invited into the house. Hugging you tight prevented your suddenly unconscious body from falling flat on the ground. Strong arms kept you up, dragging you away through the house until she reached the garage. Natasha didn’t imagine you’d mind if she dared take your car for a little ride.

She had to wait a few minutes after having dumped you in the car, knowing there was still someone else she had yet to take away. Natasha wouldn’t dare let her plan fall apart with silly mistakes.

Ropes were tied across your nude body, clothing torn off upon your arrival to the far away land she found solace in. Natasha took her time. She enjoyed every last second, the momentum building up as the drugs in your system washed away every so often. You’d wake up soon, but as a means to leave you all ready, she prepared your body for her to claim.

With such a large amount of free time in her life, being a rather quiet housewife stuck in the neck of suburbia, Natasha’s research had been intensive to make it all perfect for you. She had bought pink ropes which she carefully wrapped around your body. Each little knot made her grunt, breathing out harshly when getting your wrists tied to the headboard, your legs forcefully pried apart and unable to close no matter how much you fought – you’d be far too out of it to even move, but she place safety precautions all over as to never take chances.

Once the ropes were carefully placed on your body preventing an escape, Natasha went on to grab a special toy she had bought the previous week. The selection had been tough, but out of all the ones she found at the store, the woman settled for a heart ball gag, the collar of it a faux black leather tint as the heart dripped with a red hue.

Staring down at her handiwork, Natasha hummed. After countless months filled with insistent boredom, she’d finally get what she wanted.

“Wake up, princess. It’s time to open those beautiful eyes of yours,” she mumbled sweetly. Sitting at the edge of the bed, Natasha cupped your face, slapping it gently until she noticed you stirring. “Let me see you. You’re finally safe with me. Maria can’t hurt you anymore, detka.”

She had taken the liberty to remove her own outfit, the special reward she had hidden for you being far away in the basement. While her gaze dropped to your nude breasts, groping each of them perversely, biting her bottom lip to hold back a groan, your eyes fluttered open. You couldn’t place the walls that surrounded you, your vision gaining a smidge of clarity when noticing your neighbor sitting above you.

No matter how loud you tried to scream, all that came out were muffled noises of fear.

“I brought you to our lake house. Maria used to take me here every summer before we had the kids. I’m sorry we couldn’t do this elsewhere, but I couldn’t let them see you. They mean the world to me, just like Maria did, but baby you,” she shifted over the bed, a hand falling flat on your nude stomach leaving a dry bloody knife on top. “You are my world.”

Natasha tilted her head, eyes landing on the ropes that kept your legs pried apart and wrists attached to the headboard. Tugging at them, she hummed at how sturdy they were. Not the slightest movement could make the tight knots disappear.

“I’ve watched you for such a long time. It’s been so long since I’ve been touched by Maria, but it doesn’t matter anymore. She’s gone and you’re here. I’ve seen pictures of you, the ones I’ve taken I mean.” In her nude greatness, Natasha climbed over the mattress, positioning herself against you, her legs hooked with your own as your cunts ghosted over one another’s. “You have no idea how many times I’ve touched myself thinking of you. In the shower, late at night with Maria next to me…” Natasha’s dark eyes rolled to the back of her head. Groping her own tits, she let out a deep breath. “Oh Y/N!” Your name rolled off her tongue like honey. “Let me make you feel good. I want to watch you bleed under me. Oh I bet you’ve been thinking about this for so long. Your pussy is practically begging to be fucked. Don’t worry, darling, mommy’s here.”

Natasha breathed in your scent, mewling at how drenched you were. The fear in your eyes drove her mad, her own pussy oozing juices as she grazed it against yours. A hand grabbed the knife, wiping the blood against the sheets she’d forever treasure. Maria’s fluids meant nothing to her unlike your own.

There were sloppy attempts to move away, your eyes widened, tears trailing down your flushed cheeks leaving them wet with horror. All Natasha did at that was beam. She ghosted the dull part of the knife against your stomach. The tip was oh so close to you – so ready to tear at your skin and leave you a maimed mess. You couldn’t help but wish to bleed for her.

When you let out a particularly loud growl, still hearable with the gag on, Natasha was quick to lean down and press the blade against your neck harsh enough to leave a small red mark beneath. “Don’t make me hurt you, baby. Please, please don’t do it. I get really bad when I’m angry. Be a good girl for me and behave. I don’t want to do to you the same thing I did to Maria. Please.” She grinded her pussy against your own, moaning at the wetness she felt mixed with her own. “I don’t want you gone.”

Enchantment is all that soaked her body when urging her hips back and forth. Natasha allowed herself to bask on the arousal shooting through her, her clit garnering stimulation from your skin. To be filled up is what she wanted, your digits deep within claiming her as your own. She couldn’t bother untying you though, at least not until she broke you down and built you back up, molding you as her own relentless animal.

“That feels good, huh? You like mommy’s pussy, I can tell. Oh yours is so fucking wet, such a dirty baby,” Natasha giggled. She casually made little cuts along your chest. The knife was substituted by her lips, tongue sticking out to lick the small bouts of blood before she sucked you clean. Finally tasting your essence drove her mad, her brain rebooting as she found the words to speak. “So fucking good. Oh baby you taste divine. And look at how much you’re bleeding for mommy. I’m so happy you want me to have all of this. You’re truly special, my love.”

You didn’t do much by lying there, frozen in place while Natasha tore at your skin maniacally. Each cut forced a wave of heat to drift across your bones. They alternated from soft ones, merely scratches, to deep gashes that turned white before furious bouts of blood dropped out. Soon enough your chest, breasts she groped regardless of the wounds upon them, and stomach were covered in a fluid scarlet blanket.

Natasha was unable to keep up with all the blood, lapping at whatever she could while humping your cunt. Although you were unable to move, you still gave off slight thrusts, closing your eyes at the mix of pain and pleasure which overtook you. She didn’t dare stop for a second. All Natasha saw was red which she deliciously took in.

With a hand holding the dull part of the knife against you, the other drifted down between your bodies. The redhead alternated between stimulating your clit and her own, leaning back to better position herself to better fuck your pussy. Mesmerizingly, your blood drifted down her chin, hands coated with a similar fluid as she lost herself in you.

“Mommy’s close, baby, so fucking close. No one could ever make me feel like this. Only my pretty princess can play with mommy,” Natasha whimpered, her digits desperately flicking the bundle of nerves. The macabre nature of her actions was overtaken by her adorably scrunched up features. “And no one can ever touch my toy. You’ll never bleed for anyone the way you do for me. Just you and mommy against the world. Never forget that, Y/N.”

Natasha only took a moment to garner her breath when she came. Her back was arched, the excitement of the day fueling her need to let go. She nearly slumped down over your bloody body, but instead chuckled, staring down in awe with bloodshot green eyes that would forever haunt your dreams.

Knowing you were close to the edge, the older woman positioned herself between your legs. She licked her fingers clean from your blood before sliding them within your wet tight gaping hole. “My lovebug actually loves it when mommy hurts her,” Natasha noticed as she took in the warmth of your walls, digits pushing down your folds until she reached the depths of your cunt. “If I had known you’d be such a little minx, I would’ve taken you away sooner. I’m so happy that you want me back. Look at how well your pussy takes mommy,” she pointed out, mesmerized by the way your walls clamped down, juices springing from your cunt that sloshed with wet sounds at the slight movements. Leaning in, she lapped at your clit, swirling her tongue around and moaning as she tasted you. “Such a good girl. Oh we’re going to have so much fun together.”

Fingers didn’t stop fucking deep inside your sex until you came. Natasha was drugged within your juices, vigorously drinking them as though it was the Holy Chalice. When you did fall apart with an intense orgasm shooting through you, you were far too tied up to dare arch your back, settling instead for grunting against the gag as you fell apart. Your brain was far too gone with the mix of the drugs and your loss of blood to focus on the woman sitting at your feet.

With your own wife’s body stashed out, Maria herself back home with limbs cut and thrown in several trash bags, beaten to a pulp but still breathing, in the basement, Natasha was elated to train you. Perhaps you could use her favorite tool to take a life with your own hands. She knew it would be thrilling to watch, although the same could not be said for poor little Wanda who sat shivering naked against the concrete, her mind only upon you, relentlessly wishing for your safety.

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