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lilacxquartz · 1 month ago

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Those Late Summer Nights | Chapter 21

satoru gojo x f!reader x suguru geto

plot: moving to the city from a small town was no easy feat, especially to start teaching as a jujutsu sorcerer.

summary: everyday was exactly the same but then satoru dropped a heavy truth onto you.

trigger warning: noncon in this chapter, approach with caution, it’s quite bleak. disclaimer, i don’t support these behaviours irl.

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21. Purgatory

Ignoring Satoru for a beat, you thought about where it all went wrong for you to have ended up in a place like this.

It was hard to imagine let alone comprehend due to the absurdity of the situation. As far as you understood, you were securely tucked away in a small pocket of space underground deep within the Gojo clan estate. Far from the prying glimpses of the residents who roamed the surface, with only passing flickers into the above stolen whenever he made his way down.

You didn’t know all that much about the estate he snuck you into, but given Satoru’s influence and power, you calculated that your chances of escape were slim.

Satoru very likely had you lodged somewhere within the confines of his personal chambers as a result; perhaps it was a space that had been custom-tailored to include a secure underground space for your impending arrival. Maybe those who worked on such a spot had just assumed that he wanted privacy in case people came looking for him, or at least, that’s where your mind drifted to when considering the location. Wherever you were, this place was a secret. You knew that much, especially evidenced so by your fits of desperation manifested as endless wails and screams and begging only for the cries to fall onto deaf ears (if any at all).

Such consideration of your circumstances however left you in a recurring grave predicament.

If you were perfectly contained in a place that nobody else knew about, then your initial fears were surely correct.

You were done for.

You glanced up at Satoru who had your head idly resting on his lap, talking about the traffic on the way back home. You tuned in and out of his words selectively, only picking up on the details you deemed to be important. He often drawled on about the little things, playing pretend with you as the doting lover, so ready to sit back and listen to his words that held onto a darker charged meaning. Maybe he knew that you weren’t truly listening, maybe also, he just didn’t care. Delusion was a powerful motivator, after all.

You considered the possibility of escape again.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried, it was just… that the odds were highly against you. The only way out was up and try as you might, you never once breached even a crack. The basement was impenetrable and your chances, as long as Satoru was around, were unfortunately slim. Besides, had there been such a route way out, then you would have known by now. You searched for it countless times, at least. Whatever work he put into the basement, whoever he had paid to design the damn thing had ensured to seal off every single exit, with the only way out seeming to be from the above.

So yes, to think that this was your reality was a devastating thought and you could never accept it. You could acknowledge it, sure, but you couldn’t accept it. You refused to and yet, he was always there for you when you didn’t want him to be, ready to not quite poison you as Suguru did, but latch onto the whittled-down aftermath of your broken-down psyche, holding onto whatever remained.

“It’s better this way for us both,” Satoru continued to say, combing his fingers through your hair, “you’ll learn to accept all of this one day.”

You closed your eyes briefly if only to imagine what the sky must have looked like; what the air must have felt like, what the warmth of the sun was like—you missed the outside a lot, strangely enough—you were always more indoorsy but now the opportunity was simply just stolen, with no such chance to even try.

Oh, how you missed the side of Satoru that you got to know before he turned… into this.

You’ve had time to process your anger, so it wasn’t like you could become any more resentful than you already were, but the time that had passed, the stagnant resolve of it all—left you depleted and depressed, making you lose your appetite for all things worthy of living. Of eating, of drinking, of moving and simply just… surviving. Living had become a chore and you were alive only out of necessity. It was to the point where you truly had come to believe that being dead must have been more exciting rather than remaining locked in a slowly aging purgatory like this.

And, due to all of the days blurring seamlessly together otherwise, your only break from the monotonous flow, was when you both had the chance to exist together. So all of those silent protests you took when you refused to move from the spot, when you refused to eat, or when you laid awake as he slept and the like—none of it ever had an impact, nor ever mattered at all—not when he continued to touch you the way that he did.

It wasn’t the fact that he repeated it that was the grounding part either, but rather that instead of shutting down all displays of hope, rather than immediately silencing all forms of attempted protest, he would simply… let the situation build. He would the tension rise and would simply just ignore, ignore, ignore. The delusional resolve would push through and it was back to you being simply just ‘stir-crazy’ as he put it, often joking (albeit not promising) to take you out, if even just for a bit when he later had some time spare and whenever you thought that just once, that there could be a break from the usual, you were always wrong. Satoru was dedicated to his schedule, towards his nightly habits; it was just different how he did it every time. Sometimes he would talk before and sometimes he would talk after, but he would always get with you. Always.

There was never a break and truth be told, you were going insane.

It felt surely insulting too, to listen to him prattle on and on about his job that was supposed to be your job, too.

Satoru, after all, like you were supposed to be, was a Jujutsu teacher and he seemed to be good at his job, which was such a difficult thing to grasp. He loved to tell you all about what was happening on a day-to-day basis, often with your head resting just above his knees or against his shoulder while his hands roamed around your body, no matter how much you resisted.

“Come on, [name],” he predictably said, sitting up as he pushed you back up to his level with his eyes pointed at the breakfast table (or that’s what he called it), “you need to eat to live, you know.”

You gulped dryly, watching as he rummaged through the bag he brought back with him, taking out something from way down at the bottom. Takeaway? Your memories recognised it as the very same type from the first time you had split that exact meal with him, Shoko, and Suguru. Your mind raced back to when he did something nice for you and made you feel included as a result, so you wondered what significance there was for today to be a reminder of such memories—or if there was any such resemblance at all—it wasn’t that likely that you were overthinking, especially given how limited your circumstances were.

“You have to take better care of yourself, you know,” he added, nudging forward a plastic container of food towards you, the food being exactly what you tried back then. There had to be something behind this action, surely. You weren’t reaching.

This wasn’t just a usual meal; he was planning something—but what?

“I can’t have you completely wasting away,” he added, reducing his voice to a concerned murmur as he propped the lid off, sliding the chopsticks across to where you sat, “not when we have so much time left together.”

You blinked at the meal and then glanced up at him, wondering what exactly he was planning on pulling. With a weary tone, you cleared your throat before bringing it up, “I’ll eat, but… what are you doing?”

Satoru, being as stubborn as he was, didn’t reply to you right away. He simply watched for you to get started, his intentions unwavering and pushed without pause; he would have you do as he wanted before informing you of anything at all, no matter what it was. Perhaps this was why you both collided so often; you were both equally stubborn against one another but for different reasons. He could maintain his gradually crumbling facade for as long as he claimed able to do so, but the surface he hid under was visibly cracked and it was obvious that, he too, was struggling. You’ve had plenty of time to learn how to read him, and his barely-contained impatience was far from subtle.

All of those smiles he would crack to convey a casual display of ease only to be clenched away by the grinding of his jaw or his fist squeezing as he struggled to hold onto the slipping semblance of control that drifted in and out of his reach. The way he would talk in strained bursts of barely contained anger, going as far as convulsing from the stress that dared to boil away from the stress bubbling within. His life wasn’t easy, that much you could emphasise, but he wasn’t being fair to you when you now had to take on the role of someone who unconditionally supported these parted bursts of lapsing sanity.

Sometimes, he would succumb to these moments of turmoil, letting out punches of barking laughter—something that unsettled you and at other times, he would break himself on purpose and cling to you, just because.

Satoru Gojo may have been the strongest, but you often got to see him at his weakest, so perhaps that’s why he had to hold onto you as tightly as he did.

“Eat,” he repeated, tearing you away from your troubling thoughts and replacing it with something even colder, the mask slipping back on. Satoru was seldom violent, rather more so just… forceful. Thankfully he had never raised a hand at you, even when you bit and kicked and clawed away at him, but his restraint seemed worse than usual today—as if he was at last, finally just as worn down as you were.

This was his own fault though, you thought. You wanted to tell him that lovers, particularly spouses or whatever he was forcing you to take on the role as, didn’t keep their feelings bottled up and locked away from each other. That much you did learn from Suguru, who at least told you the importance of learning to communicate, because sometimes, that was the only thing that could work when nothing else did.

How… peculiar was it that you learned something useful from him?

You sighed as you plucked the to-go chopsticks apart from one another, fitting them into your hand and digging into what he had gotten you. You ate slowly with your eyes flicking on and off at him, who watched you with unsettling focus.

“Good,” he clapped his hands together once, seemingly soothed by the sight, “I’m glad you are still capable of listening to me, because like I said, I’d hate for you to grow unhealthy down here. I can’t have you become sick.”

You nodded wearily, biting back the urge to tell him that you would be healthier if he at least you have even fifteen minutes of outside air a day, knowing that suddenly his careful demeanour would drop and you would be the hypochondriac instead.

Satoru led you back to the sofa when you were both done, helping you settle back against his shoulder. He offered you those crisps that you once, in passing, mentioned you liked, but you didn’t reciprocate his offer. Something was off about how much he was giving you—with how much he was paying attention to you—it was beyond the usual level of care, so you wondered what actually must have happened on the surface.

You didn’t get a fresh flow of news from him, anyway. He was selective with what he disclosed to you and you weren’t too trusting of the information he did reveal on the occasion that he did. Shoko? Suguru? Utahime? He would hold their names hostage to you, taunting you with the occasional slip of a promise that they weren’t completely lost from your life. He knew that you still cared about them, even the one who had hurt you, not quite understanding why didn’t say his own name with the same sort of chime, despite the pain that he inflicted upon you, in his mind, being equal.

He bit his tongue, refusing to find out why.

Instead, it was easier for him to punish you for having feelings that you couldn’t control.

For not making sense, for not existing in the same way that he built you up to be in his head.

“You’d like to see them all again, I’d bet,” he repeated, having already said something similar before tonight.

“Huh?” you blinked, barely catching on that he was addressing you directly that time.

“I said…” Satoru repeated himself, letting the reminder of his words hang in the air before continuing, “That you’d probably like to see them all again, huh? If you behave, that is.”

You sighed again, swallowing away the resentment once more. What even was ‘good behaviour’ anymore, anyway?

“If I behave…?” you half-scoffed, unable to resist a jab at his words, not caring for formalities anymore (yet another habit picked up from Suguru, maybe also Shoko, too), “maybe if you didn’t keep me locked up.”

“You—“ Satoru began before cutting himself short, prompting you to narrow your eyes at his barely contained composure, “—you don’t get it, you… you don’t understand,” he strained, laughing somewhat at what he believed to be a naive response on your end, “I had to do this for your own good, you’re safe down here, don’t you get that?” he asked, seeming to hint at something new, something that he hadn’t yet shared. “You think that I didn’t notice that little stunt that you and Su… that you both, pulled?”

“What are you talking about?” you sighed, trying to sink back into the sofa, finding that he didn’t let you.

Satoru snorted again, sounding amused, “That little stunt of yours back at your hometown,” he replied, keeping his voice eerily calm as he tucked a strand behind your ear, “did you really think you could continue to walk free after murdering a civilian? Even as a witness… you’d be an accomplice, an accessory to a crime,” he hinted, likely referencing Yui.

Remaining sceptical, you glanced up at him briefly before back at the wall. “So you know?” you asked him in an unsurprised tone. “Why bring it up now, though?”

Satoru scoffed before continuing again, “Because, you keep thinking that you have a right to a way out when all I’m doing is keeping you safe from the higher-ups,” he said, relaxing his voice for some reason, “they can be quite harsh, you know. I’m keeping you safe down here along with your little secret. Wouldn’t want that to get out, now would you?”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” you replied instead, “it’s been months since you brought me down here.”

He sighed, realising your point. For a moment, he relaxed but then his features creased into something serious again, as though having a revelation of some sort. “Because, I’ve been keeping something from you, to protect you even further.”

“And what’s that?” you asked, taking the bait.

“…Why do you think he did that for you?” he asked.

“Suguru?” you asked, watching something else glint in his icy blue eyes when you spoke out his friend’s name the way that you did. “He was helping me bury the past, or something like that.”

Satoru clicked his tongue and sucked at his teeth before leaning back, letting you readjust to him or not as you preferred. He unwrapped the bandages around his eyes, tossing them off to the side. “I thought as much too, but then I did some digging. I couldn’t let my once-good friend just commit something so rash without at least trying to understanding why, you know?” he asked you, building up to some sort of unspoken truth. “He used you, [name]. He used you to justify his own issues, because if he actually did so to help you, then he would have stopped at Yui.”

You paused. “What do you mean?”

Satoru let the silence between you build for a moment, letting the implications fester and rise. He brought you down to lay on his lap again with one hand holding rather firmly over your shoulder and the other against your skull. He then took a deep breath, as though he was about to share something heavy with you. “Yui wasn’t… the only casualty, [name]. He took care of your parents, too.”

“Say that again?” you asked, feeling your eyelids flutter as you couldn’t quite process what was said.

“Not long after,” Satoru continued after about half a minute of stagnant silence, “he did the same to his own parents, too. I suppose we should have all seen the signs, especially given what his attitude was like towards non-sorcerers, convincing himself that they were all part of a deeper issue, but…”

You tried to sit up again, finding that the position he kept you anchored down in was impossible to get out of. You wanted answers, but he kept continuing with more and more new information, not letting you process anything at all.

“Wait, though…” you struggled, “what did you say before?” you pressed again, still not having processed the first part of his claim.

“I didn’t want you to find out this way,” Satoru continued instead, smoothing your hair with his palm in a soft, affectionate gesture, “but you still seem to holding onto something that shouldn’t be there with… him, when all he did was just use you to further his own selfish ideology. Don’t you get it, [name]? I’m just looking out for you down here, I’m keeping you safe. So why not… just…have a little trust in me?”

You stared straight ahead, feeling many things all at once. The words finally settled into your mind, not quite believing the extent of what he had claimed, and yet, accepting his words with violent clarity. He was your only source of what went on beyond the surface, after all, so your weakened state of mind accepted his words as truth, even if deep down, refused to believe it. You felt angry, upset, confused, and numb all at once—yet, Satoru still dared to ask for your trust—after everything that had transpired over the summer, after keeping you in the dark both literally and figuratively, he claimed to still be doing this for you.

You shuddered a breath down, letting your tears spill over his clothes. You didn’t argue with him, knowing that whatever he revealed wouldn’t change a thing. Deep down, you wanted to believe that Suguru wouldn’t go that far, but then you remembered the look in his eyes when he regarded Yui being the very same as when he met with your parents—so maybe, just maybe, Satoru’s claims weren’t too far from the truth.

Maybe he did do the unthinkable.

“But, this can’t last forever,” you finally whispered.

Satoru seemed to relax again, his voice growing calm once more, “You underestimate me,” he said, repositioning you once more so that you now laid your back over the sofa, the inevitable finally taking place.

You locked up as he inched towards you again like clockwork, hovering over your body in a way that was almost longing, caging you in between his arms as though you had somewhere to run off to. You blinked up at him, wondering just how he could be in the mood at a time like this, after such casual admission of a grave confession, that his friend, your former lover, abuser, whatever, had inflicted something potentially devastating as the right time to continue with touching you.

“Not today,” you tried to mumble out, unable to focus.

Satoru ignored you, leaning forward instead. His lips ghosted over your neck as he pressed coaxing little damp kisses along your collarbone, his voice growing low and heavy as he took advantage of your disoriented state, having you right where he wanted you.

“It’s okay, it’s fine,” he murmured, pushing his knee in between your legs so that you couldn’t close off his advances, “you don’t have to do anything,” he continued, “just let me take care of everything—of you—I’ll make sure you feel good, too.”

You sighed, feeling exhausted. Maybe he would let you drift off, or maybe if you zoned out with enough focus, you could quicker go back to blurring all of the days together again.

Satoru continued at usual, trying to ensure that the experience was as nice as he could make it (with all things considered), but otherwise repeating the staleness yet again. It was messed up, but you were bored of it—of him. You hated to admit it, that even right at this minute, you missed how Suguru… never mind, you couldn’t do this to yourself just yet. Not now. Instead, you gritted your teeth and screwed your eyes shut, pretending that you were somewhere else.

Satoru in the meantime moved down the sweatpants he had you wear, his hand fumbling to reach and pull at his own trousers. He was already hard; evidenced by his straining arousal that pitched against his underwear, tearing out from the second he let his clothes drop. He used to participate in foreplay, but since then grew lazier, which you supposed guiltily again, that Suguru at least never skipped. You grunted instead as Satoru pushed himself into your hilt, feeling the consequences of his impatience rub painfully within you.

“You’re so tight today, huh?” he commented, finding it difficult to push into you from your lack of arousal given the heavy moment. You struggled to take him in properly, feeling his girth stretch you out, but it was far from pleasant and likely not that nice for him either.

Pulling out of you briefly, Satoru spat down onto his tip, using his hand to rub the saliva and coat his shaft before driving himself back into you. He rocked his hips forward with strained fervour, keeping your knees pried far apart with his hands, wrangling them into all sorts of positions as he wrestled to keep your attention.

You winced as you felt him spear into you, feeling the entirety of his length kiss against what felt like your cervix, causing you to recoil in rhythmic pain. Ragged gasps rolled out of the slip of your tongue as you tried to keep up, finding that you couldn’t do so as fluidly with his gradually increasing momentum, finding that both the coiling pain, as well as his pressing tempo, left you sorely breathless.

Letting your legs fall, he hovered over you by keeping himself steady with his arms anchoring parallel over on the sofa cushioning. Satoru continued to rut his hips, sawing relentlessly into you as time went on, hoping for a better reaction but all that you could offer was strained whimpers and barely choked-out cries, growing frustrated at the result. A chorus of “come on, come on, come on,” could be heard in mumbled-out mutters, understanding that the only time he ever got a response from you was when he surrendered into being rougher than he was more comfortable with doing so.

Wanting desperately to feel wanted back, by the only person that he ever sought out with such intensity and then not hearing those pretty little sounds that he once heard coming from Suguru’s apartment was difficult for him. Such a recurring memory sent Satoru into a resentful stupor, almost, as he too, tried to replicate what he once heard, only for you to never give up in the same way.

His fingers clamped down against your hips, his fingernails bleeding scratched crescents into your soft skin as he grew closer to his release. At last, you whimpered, moaning in pain instead of pleasure, but it was enough to go on; enough to pretend with. His own words fell silent as he too, was brought to pain from pushing, kneading, straining himself into your cunt in a hurried attempt to de-stress, until finally—…

Satoru slowed down in a stuttered thrust, releasing at long last. He ground his hips into you with lazy, languid pumps before he slumped over you in an exhausted daze, feeling completely and utterly spent, barely pulling out of you.

“It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” he murmured into your neck, “but one day you’ll see and appreciate it,” he continued, just barely coherently muttering out words that blurred into one another, not quite making sense at all.

All the while you at long, long last, sighed. You were finally able to relax.

Another thing weighed heavily on your mind though.

Even with the heavy truth that Satoru dropped on you, you still found yourself missing… him.

Why?

(Was there something actually wrong with you, after all?)

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ohbo-ohno · 1 year ago

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Kinktober Day 1 - Leather & Latex

Ghost x Soap - 4k (on ao3)

summary: Simon goes to a kink club looking for a masochist to beat. (Ghost POV)

cw: dom!ghost, sub!soap, sadist!ghost, masochist!soap, heavy painplay, undernegotiated bdsm because i didn't want to write it all out sorry lol but everything is 1000% safe sane and consensual

note: this is really not one of my faves of the month and i hate to start out on a not so strong note but oh well 🫠 hope you guys enjoy!

Simon leans against the bar, scanning the crowd for a potential play partner and swirling his glass of water lazily.

There are a few displays, but they rarely match Simon’s severity. He can hear Valeria whipping someone on a public stage, but her subs can never handle more than one session a night. Valeria’s as mean as he is - she puts on a good show, but always manages to get to the real painsluts before Simon can.

He needs someone who can take a few hits. Tonight his fingers twitch with the need to beat a pretty thing black and blue, he craves the pained cries and tears of a sub suffering so beautifully for him. None of his usual play partners are free tonight, all either coupled off already or busy, which means he’ll have to test drive someone new.

Always risky. In his experience, subs have a tendency to overestimate their pain tolerance when it comes to him. He tries to make his expectations as clear as possible going in, but it’s a coin toss on whether or not the sub will actually understand.

He’s contemplating moving to another club, listening as Valeria’s sub goes from shouting to screaming, when someone sidles up beside him.

The man is big, standing taller than almost everyone around him but barely eye level with Simon’s chin. He’s muscular too, defined abs and pecs displayed by his lack of a shirt. He’s got a chest harness on, one that wraps just under his tits and between them, a leather strap crossing across his collar bones and over his shoulders. There’s a little d-ring in the center - Simon imagines it’s for a leash to be hooked onto, considering his collar-less neck. He’s got something covering his groin at least, just a tiny and tight pair of leather shorts that Simon would bet money let his ass cheeks hang out.

He’s wearing an orange band on his right wrist - submissive, everything goes. Simon’s black band burns on his left - dominant, S&M

He raises his eyes back up the man once he’s done with his perusal, lets them linger appreciatively on his body. Simon’s always liked bigger subs, the ones who look like they can take a few blows and come right back for more.

The mohawked man smirks at him when they make eye contact, leans into Simon’s personal space with an elbow on the counter. “You’re not so bad yourself, handsome.”

Simon only cocks an eyebrow at that. He’s wearing his own leather pants and a tight latex top with a surgical mask over his nose and mouth, meaning there’s very little skin left uncovered for this sub to see. “Cocky, are we?”

The sub hums a little more, moves even further into Simon’s space. Surprisingly, he finds he doesn’t quite mind the intrusion. “Aye, I know I look damn good tonight. You lookin’ for someone to beat?”

Ah, right to business. Simon finds he likes this sub more and more every minute.

“Yes,” he replies, turning his body fully towards his potential partner and straightening up. “Need someone who can take whatever I decide to give. You gonna give out in the first twenty lashes?”

That gets him a snort, the smaller man moving so close they’re nearly bumping chests. “I hope that’s your warmup. Takes a lot to hurt me, I’m a right painslut. You up to the challenge?”

Simon gives the man another long look, assessing him a bit more, trying to gauge how much of his tone is bravado and how much is genuine. “What’s your name?”

“Johnny. Yours?”

“Simon. But you’ll call me Sir. Are you good with the traffic light system?”

Johnny perks up, like he hadn’t expected such an easy agreement. “Aye. You want to do this in private or on a stage?”

Simon shrugs, already abandoning his water and stepping away from the bar. “Up to you.”

“Showroom, then.”

Simon smirks at the decision, somehow unsurprised that this little sub is a bit of an exhibitionist. He strides off to the showrooms, doesn’t bother to glance over his shoulder to make sure Johnny’s following along.

There are already several people sitting in the audience for the impact-play room, watching another Dom carry their sub out through the one-way mirror. Simon holds the door open for Johnny once they’ve both cleared their intent with the dungeon monitor, confirming that they’re using the traffic light system as safe-words and that they’re going inside with no intention of having sex, just of beating and being beaten. Johnny’s antsy through the whole discussion, nearly bouncing on his toes in anticipation. It makes Simon’s lips curl beneath the mask, makes him want to grab the boy and force him still.

He pulls the mask off once they’re alone in the room, uncaring about their small audience seeing his face.

“Och, you really are handsome,” Johnny flirts, sliding up to Simon’s side and eyeing him like he’s his next meal.

Simon wraps a hand around his throat, has him pinned against the wall before Johnny even realizes he’s been moved. “That’s not how you refer to me, Johnny.”

The smaller man smirks, licks his lips and leans forward so Simon’s nearly choking him. “You really are handsome, Sir.”

That earns him a backhand to the face, gets Simon a sharp exhale and wide eyes in return. “Watch the attitude. You’re already getting the beating you want so badly, bratting won’t get you anywhere with me.”

This time, Johnny’s “Yes, Sir,” sounds far more sincere.

He pulls him away from the wall with a hand on his shoulder, sends him stumbling towards a Saint Andrew’s Cross in the middle of the room with a smack to the ass. “Stand there, back to me.”

Johnny swings his ass as he walks, sends a sultry look over his shoulder. Simon is careful not to give him anything, just crosses his arms and stands tall.

He moves forward once Johnny’s leaned on the cross, straps his ankles and wrists into the attached cuffs and double checks he’s not cutting off any circulation. He stands in front of Johnny for a moment, cups his chin and stares deep into the sub’s eyes to try and get a feel for his headspace. His eyes are clear, sparking with anticipation.

Johnny smirks up at him. “You’re gonna beat me black and blue, aren’t you?”

Simon can’t help the twitch of his lips. “Oh, I’ll break you, boy.”

“You’ll try.”

That gets Johnny his second slap of the night, an open-palmed crack against his cheek.

“Watch it. You okay with being naked, or you wanna keep those little shorts on?”

Johnny snorts a laugh. “Take ‘em off, they’re hardly covering much anyway. Get the harness off, too?”

Simon scowls at the expectant tone when he steps around Johnny, yanks his zipper down and leaves the shorts hanging loose around one ankle. He gives Johnny a few harsh blows to his ass, goes until his own palm buzzes pleasurably at the sting. If they were doing anything more than a little painplay, Simon would take the time to work on Johnny’s attitude.

“You just naturally a brat, is that it? You’ll speak to me with respect if you want your beating.”

That gets a moan, has Johnny shifting in his bindings. “Sorry, Sir.”

Simon gives his cheek a smart tap, then a squeeze. He’s got quite the ass, this Scotsman. Simon can’t wait to paint it red. He steps back after a moment of feeling him up, scans his options for the night where they hang against the wall.

He starts off with a flogger. It’s a lightweight thing, with thin leather tresses that’ll make for a nice but decently intense warmup to see if Johnny’s as much of a painslut as he claims. It’s light in his palm, and he swings it in the air a few times to stretch out his wrist and build up a bit of anticipation.

He starts laying strikes when Johnny starts wiggling again, paints them across the boy’s shoulder blades and a bit lower to turn him a light pink. His skin is tanned, so it takes a bit of work on his part. Johnny’s silent at first, still squirming around like he can hardly feel anything, so Simon increases the force of his swings at just a bit of a faster pace than he would’ve with another sub.

Johnny lets out a little sigh, like he’s relaxing into something pleasant, but he stays stiff and upright on the cross. No flinching, no cringing, no whimpering or whining.

Simon smiles to himself. First test, passed.

He continues his warm up, lays harder and harder strikes along Johnny’s shoulder blades and mid-back until he’s painted a nice rosy color, watches him settle a bit as the sting starts to sink in a bit more. By the end of the warm up, Simon loosened his dominant arm and wrist nicely, and set the tone well enough for Johnny to stay quiet and still.

At least, that’s what Simon thinks. Until he steps away to set down the flogger and pick his next tool, when Johnny looks over his shoulder with a confused look.

“That’s it?”

Simon raises an eyebrow. “That’s your warm-up.”

Johnny almost looks disappointed, resting his chin on his bicep. “Oh.”

Simon doesn’t speak, let’s Johnny stew in his own silence until he decides he’d like to finish his thought. It doesn’t take long.

“Are your twenty lashes gonna be like that?”

He fights down a smirk. “It’s a warm-up, Johnny. And you’ll be taking far more than twenty lashes, don’t start getting greedy.”

He doesn’t look fully mollified, but Johnny’s lips tilt up in the corner and he turns his head back to the wall. Simon rolls his eyes at Johnny’s back - God save him from bossy subs. If they were any more committed to each other, Simon would lock Johnny’s little prick up for an attitude like that. He’ll have to settle for humbling him with a few whips. Not the least fair trade-off in Simon’s mind.

He picks up a cat-o-nine with particularly thin leather tails, the type that should leave Johnny hissing if Simon uses it right.

He repeats his process, swings the tool through the air a few times to let Johnny hear it move, let him try and guess what’s coming. Again, he only makes contact once Johnny starts his squirming again.

He whips across the already pinked skin. Johnny sucks in a sharp breath at the first hit, releases it loudly and seems to steel himself for what’s coming. Simon can’t help his smirk now, laying lashes noticeably harder than he might with another sub.

There are clear markings across Johnny’s back where the tails hit, little raised red lines making a nice addition to the base color he’s already got going. It takes Johnny a bit longer to go still this time, takes a bit to settle into the pain but taking the whipping nicely once he does.

The color looks good on him. Johnny’s an incredibly muscular man, and the way he stiffens in anticipation of Simon’s next swing - the way his back muscles spasm a bit against his own will when he hits a particularly sensitive spot - has Simon chubbing up in his pants.

He lets out occasional little sighs at the sting, noises that seem entirely involuntarily as he starts to truly lean into the pain.

Simon adjusts his cock and gives Johnny a break after nearly 30 lashes, doesn’t say anything as he waits for whatever smart-ass remark he’ll get. He shifts back to the wall of tools as he waits, picks his next instrument.

Johnny doesn’t disappoint. He doesn’t glance over his shoulder this time, stays nice and still, loose, like the pain is starting to get to him.

“They got anythin’ more intense back there? No offense, Sir, but it’s lookin’ like your bark is bigger than your bite from this end of the leather-”

Crack!

That gets a loud cry from Johnny, his head thrown back and his spine arching away from the pain. The bullwhip feels good, familiar, in Simon’s palm, and he turns it a bit as he watches Johnny blink wide-eyed, watches him sink back into the correct position with a stiffer posture.

“Still think you can take your twenty lashes?”

Johnny huffs, hangs his head and shakes out his shoulders as best he can in his bindings. Simon watches as he slowly unlocks each of his muscles, smirks at the sign of an experienced painslut. Johnny knows damn well that the tenser he is the more he’ll hurt, and as much of a whore as he might be for his whippings, twenty lashes with a bullwhip are hard to take even loose-limbed.

Simon lets the whip drag on the floor, then cracks it through the air next to Johnny’s side. He laughs when the boy nearly jerks himself off of his cross, let’s his voice echo menacingly in the room to work Johnny up a bit more.

“Gonna have to be still if you don’t want to hurt yourself, Johnny. Be good now.”

Johnny drops his head a bit, groans as he clearly talks himself into going still. He does so a moment later, body nearly deadweight against the cross.

“Attaboy,” Simon rumbles. He snaps the whip, watches the sharp stripe of red form on Johnny’s back and nearly smiles when he cries out again. “Start counting.

Crack!

“Ugh, fuck, th-three.”

“Nope, you didn’t count the first two. Start over.”

“You’re fucking kidd-?!”

Crack!

“Fine- shit, one!”

Crack!

“T-two, Christ…”

“I don’t think I like your tone, Johnny. Start over. With respect this time.”

He really does smile at the agonized sound Johnny lets out. Poor little maso, doesn’t even know what he’s got himself into by baiting Simon all night.

“We’ll do twenty-five, just to make sure all that nasty attitude is properly beaten out of you. Remember to watch your tone.”

Crack!

“One, Sir!”

“There you go, Johnny, good boy.”

Crack!

“Two, Sir!”

The lashes look very nice along Johnny’s back. Simon almost wants to step forward and trace them with his tongue, watch Johnny cry out at the sting soothed by the soft muscle, whip him across that same spot and watch him wail…

Crack!

“Five… five, Sir!”

Simon’s careful not to let the whip wrap around at any points, lands his lashes in firm safe-zones to avoid any serious injury. It’s got the extra perk of layering his lashes on top of each other, making Johnny scream when he gets one after the other in nearly the same spot.

Crack!

“Seven, Sir… fuck…”

He doesn’t allow himself to fully sink down as he whips Johnny, he knows he needs to stay alert in case his sub’s tone shifts to anything that indicates real danger, but he lets himself float into Domspace just a bit. He feels powerful as he whips Johnny.

“Ten, Sir!”

Johnny’s shoulders quivers, and Simon adjusts himself in his pants again. There’s something so satisfying about bringing such a large, strong, masculine man to his knees (metaphorically, of course, seeing as Johnny couldn’t fall to his knees if he wanted to, tied up as he is). Johnny had walked through that club like he owned the place, head thrown back and showing off every piece of his body he could get away with.

“T-Twelve, Sir!”

It feels good to put him in his place. To metaphorically grind his heel firmly onto Johnny’s back, have him literally writhing and shouting while tied to a cross, taking his lashes like a good boy. The sight of such sharp red lines over all those hills and valleys of muscles…

“Sev… seventeen!”

“Seventeen what?”

“Sir! Sir, sir, seventeen, sir!”

Crack!

“Ei-Eighteen, Sir! I’m sorry, so sorry, Sir…”

“That’s alright, you’re still doing good, Johnny. Check in with me - you alright to keep going?”

The look Johnny shoots over his shoulder is almost offended, and surprisingly put-together considering his previous cries. “Course, Sir. Am still green. Will let you know if am not.”

Simon almost snorts. “Back around. You’re not done taking your lashes.”

There’s a smile on his lips when Johnny obeys his command. “Yes, Sir.”

“Hm. Keep counting.”

Crack!

“Nineteen, Sir!”

Simon’s surprised Johnny’s as coherent as he is at this point. He’s never pushed quite so far with a play partner on the first night, but Johnny’s eyes had been nearly clear when he’d glanced over his shoulder, only a few light traces of tears down his cheeks.

Crack!

“Twenty-two! S-Sir!”

His last three lashes are the hardest, even though Johnny’s already taken so much. He wants the boy broken down to pieces, wants him sobbing and unable to control it, wants him trembling and gasping for air in Simon’s arms.

Johnny nearly screams the final numbers, each of them laid one over the other.

“Twenty-five! Twenty-five, S-Sir!”

“Hmm, good boy, Johnny. Took your lashes well for me.”

Simon lays the cruel whip back in its place, steps around in front of Johnny and cups his chin to raise his face and make eye-contact.

Those last few lashes did their job, Johnny already looks far more fucked out than he had only minutes earlier. The stream of tears down his face is constant now, but his brow is smooth and his lips quirk up into a little smile, giving Simon all of his weight and trusting him to hold him up.

Simon strokes his leather-clad thumb over Johnny’s chin. “Color?”

Johnny doesn’t answer right away, clearly focuses on cataloguing himself and the pain now that it’s not coming so consistently. Simon’s glad to see him take the time to answer truthfully, continues to stroke across his chin for a bit of comfort. Eventually, Johnny blinks back up at Simon and says, “Green, Sir.”

He can’t help but smile a little. “Want to go a little longer, then?”

That gets him a smirk. “If your arms aren’t tired yet.”

Simon backhands him, lets his chin go so he jerks into his own arm and muffles his groan into his bicep.

“Never met a brat who’s quite as much of a painslut as you. It’ll be fun to watch you beg.”

Johnny’s canines peek out behind his lips when he grins. “Do your worst, Sir.”

Simon gives him a sharp little tap to the cheek, another to his ass when he walks away. “I’ll make you regret that, Johnny. You’ll be sceamin’ yourself hoarse by the time I’m done with you.”

The gloves Simon slips on after taking his off are heavy, a little warmer than he’d usually like for daily use, but the sharp spikes down each of the fingers are what really matters. He tests one with a fingertip as he talks to Johnny, smirks at the sting.

“You wish. Haven’t had a Dom make me cry like that in years, you think you’ll be the one to break my streak?”

Simon smirks as he hovers just at Johnny’s side, feels the heat emanating from the sub’s body and watches sweat drip down his back.

“Oh, I know I will.”

He lands a sharp smack against Johnny’s bared ass, makes sure to curve his fingers just so to make sure Johnny feels each and every barb.

He yelps, jerks away from the sting and squirms a little in his binds. Simon bites his tongue to keep from laughing as he watches Johnny’s face go from teasing and a little dazed to shocked, wide-eyed and mouth gaping.

He doesn’t wait for another response, only begins to rain down smacks on Jonny’s ass. He’s careful not to slam the spikes too deeply - doesn’t know how Johnny is with blood, doesn’t want the dungeon monitor to make it his business when Simon is so close to bringing Johnny down - but that doesn’t blunt the impact any. With the spacing of the spikes and his own fingers, it’s nearly impossible for him to not layer the hits over one another.

Simon angles himself just a little further forward, to get a better look at Johnny’s face as he starts to writhe, starts to try and run from the pain. His face is scrunched up beautifully, tears dripping down his chin and to the floor. He grits his teeth against moans.

They go like that for a bit. Simon moves himself fully behind Johnny to land slaps with both hands at once, spends some time with just Johnny’s upper thighs for a bit so they don’t feel neglected. His whole back is red, from shoulders to thighs, and the sight gives Simon that rush he’s been itching for all day.

When Johnny goes from moans to whimpers Simon moves to the front of the cross, places his gloved-hands lightly over Johnny’s chest to get his attention.

“Look at me, Johnny.” Simon waits, gives the sub as soft a smile he can when Johnny’s teary eyes meet his. “Color?”

It takes a moment, but Johnny stutters out, “G-green,” with a breathless pant, his body loose against the cross.

Simon hums as he wraps his arms around Johnny, presses his elbows tight to the boy’s ribs and places his hands firmly on Johnny’s shoulders. “Good boy.”

He drags down over the lashings, watches with rapt attention as Johnny screams.

His face goes red with it, veins popping in his neck, spit dribbling down his chin, body fighting to get away from the pain even tied as firmly to the cross as he is. Simon smiles, strokes his hands up and down in uneven patterns without easing the pressure.

“F-fuck, fuck, oh my God, sir- sir, I- fuck!”

“That’s it,” Simon chuckles, gives a few harder presses into place he knows Johnny’s more sensitive and relishes in the sound of his scream cracking. “Scream for me, boy, c’mon.”

He follows commands beautifully, Johnny. Simon’s not sure he’s ever been so satisfied watching a sub break down, watching them lose all control and go into the pain completely.

He lets himself indulge in Johnny’s pain-filled expression for as long as his boy can bear, drags his hands up and across his most sensitive spots, squeezes his ass a few times to reignite that sting.

Eventually Johnny manages to blink hazy eyes up at Simon, murmurs, “Yellow, Sir,” softly, tears still dripping down his cheeks and his breath hitching.

Simon can’t hold back his smile as he takes the gloves off, unchains Johnny and eases his limbs down. The Scot is all dead weight in his arms, but Simon’s more than strong enough to carry one subbie out of a showroom.

He’s careful with the way he carries Johnny so he doesn’t aggravate any painful spots - he hefts him over his shoulder, keeps a hand behind both of his knees to hold him steady and resists the urge to stroke his glowing ass, to feel how the heat emanates from it. There’s a little drunk giggle from over his back when he flips Johnny up.

The previous Dom and sub have cleared out the aftercare room just outside of the showroom, meaning Simon’s got free reign to coax his sub for the night down to planet Earth.

He lays him out, stomach down, on a long leather couch. The furniture’s upkeep cost must be insane considering how many sweaty bodies have laid across it, but it’s in pristine condition as Simon sits.

He tucks Johnny’s head into his lap, turns his face to the side and gives him long, slow pets down his mohawk. Johnny hums a bit at the contact, burrows his face deep into Simon’s stomach and reaches his free hand down to wrap around Simon’s ankle.

He’s endearing when he’s blissed out, his little face peaceful and his limbs loose, his back covered in Simon’s marks and his sub seemingly all the happier for it. He’ll have to get some soothing cream in a few minutes, have to properly take care of Johnny’s body when he’s not conscious enough to do it for himself.

But that can wait. For now, Simon leans his head against the back of the couch, continues his soothing motions through Johnny’s hair, and thinks about how he’ll coax the sub into another session sooner rather than later.

#this one is so much longer than it was supposed to be im so sorry lol #ghoap #ghostsoap #ghost x soap #soap x ghost #bo writes #john soap mactavish x simon ghost riley #john mactavish x simon riley #soap mactavish x ghost riley #kinktober 2023 #kinktober day 1 #ghoap smut #ghostsoap smut #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #hey google how do i get people to see my fic without putting it in the tags for people looking at like gifs and stuff #kinktober

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dawn-moths · 2 years ago

Text

“Ivory for Ebony, Rust for Gold”

Undertaker x Female Reader

*this is a prologue to my “Cause to Start a Vendetta” series.

word count: 15,400+

(Struggling to pay this month’s rent and fighting about who among you and your roommates needs to pick up some extra hours at work, one of them makes a harsh comment that you should just get a sugar daddy to deal with your financial troubles since that’s all you’re probably good for. To her it was just a hurtful, sarcastic remark. But to you, it's an idea, an opportunity for revenge in its own twisted way. Because if you were going to let someone tell you what to do, they could at least be willing to treat you to some nice clothes and expensive dates. So when you match with the mysterious and dark yet beautiful and wealthy “Undertaker” on a dating app and he actually extends the invitation to take you out, how could you possibly deny?)

content warning/disclaimer: 18+ content! minors dni! most of this is fluff with smut at the end, dating apps, daddy kink, sub/dom dynamics, size kink, loss of virginity.

*ao3 mirror*

***

Your alarm went off at eight AM.

You could say “bright and early” if not for the fact that the sky that blanketed London was a pale, gloomy grey more often than not.

You jabbed at the screen of your phone to silence the irritating shrill of the alarm, heaving out a deep sigh as you rolled over and sat on the edge of your bed, running your fingers through your tousled hair to try and untangle some of the knots that had formed during sleep.

Another day… You thought to yourself, despondent as you stared in a daze out the window, black cabs dotting the streets as they mixed in with the traffic of people on their way to work or school.

You and a college friend of yours had tossed around the idea of moving in together in London for a few semesters before you’d both finally pulled your meager funds into one pot and committed to it. You’d had to find a third member to join the flat if you wanted to be able to afford it, and your friend had known someone who seemed like she’d be a good match.

And it had been fun, at first— a new and exciting experience that had led to so many late nights out hopping from clubs to pubs and somehow stumbling your way back to the apartment with only half the night’s memories intact.

You’d met so many interesting people, made a few new friends, had gotten used to weekend get-togethers and house parties that you’d thought would last forever.

But again, that was in the beginning.

Y’know, when you’d still had some extra money in your bank account to play with— to burn.

Now, nearly two years later, all three of you were struggling.

Because the days of bar hopping in the tightest minidresses you owned and having handsome strangers buy you round after round of whatever you were in the mood for that night had seemingly come and gone. There hadn’t been an invite to a weekend hangout or a house party in what felt like forever. At least, not one that you had time to attend.

Because all your lives now only consisted of two things— school and work.

And you were getting tired of both.

The sound of your roommates chatting quietly out in the kitchen beyond your bedroom door pulled you from your daze momentarily as you tried to hone in on what they were saying. They spoke with a hushed kind of urgency— the perfect tone to use when discussing secrets.

You snuck up to the door and pressed your ear to the crack, listening in.

“Well I don’t have time to pick up any extra hours with my schedule!” the girl who was the friend of your friend insisted, the words whispered with the intention to be taken as a very quiet shout. “Not to mention I have a ton of stuff to do before grad school!”

“Yeah, and I’m about to start my senior thesis which is gonna eat up all my free time so I can’t get another job either…” your actual friend countered, sounding more conflicted than riled up.

You then heard your name being thrown around, something about how you were the one who seemed most likely to be able to pick up some of the slack.

You didn’t like where this conversation was going yet you couldn’t stop listening. Couldn’t make yourself known to be eavesdropping yet either.

“She doesn’t even care about school!” Your third roommate continued, clearly upset with the situation but willing to throw you into the fire if it meant sparing herself. You’d found out after a couple months of living with her that she was the top of her class, teacher’s pet type. The days she didn’t brag about the prestigious grad school she’d gotten into were few and far between. “We all know she’s a C’s get degrees kind of girl anyway. She should be the one who has to go out and get another job, not one of us who actually have a career waiting after graduation.”

That particular dig cut you especially deep.

Sure, you might not’ve been the most studious member among your flatmates, but you had your own set of strengths.

Like, for instance, you could sweet talk your way out of getting written up for being late for class almost every single time. It didn’t matter which professor was chewing you out for skipping a lecture or not turning an assignment in on time, you’d mastered how to get off with a warning with each and every one of them.

And you were great at fashion advice. If it wasn’t for your knack for perfectly balanced color combinations and precisely pieced together aesthetics when it came to jewelry and clothing then your roommates would’ve never gotten past any of the bouncers that guarded the entrances to the popular nightclubs you all used to frequent. You could turn even the most timid and awkward girl into a drop dead gorgeous ten with the right hairstyle and shade of lipstick.

And— and this part was what made the comment that had just been said about you particularly hard to swallow— you were always there for your friends. You’d been their shoulder to cry on so many times, had taken them out for milkshakes and a movie after a breakup or saved them from having a one night stand with some fuck boy that you knew was just going to hump ‘em and dump ‘em because you practically made it your job to stay up to date on all the latest rumors and juiciest gossip.

But, despite the harshness of their opinion on your academic skills, you knew that, with the full context, they were right.

Because rent was almost due again and you’d all just barely scraped by for the past couple of months.

That was the price you paid for living in the heart of the city— the city that you barely even went into anymore since, despite what they thought you did with your free time, you were trying to study a little more, maybe earn yourself a B instead of skating by with C’s…

When they’d asked you if you wanted to renew the lease for another year, you’d just said yes, not wanting to have to scramble to find new people to live with or move back into campus living where you couldn’t even have your own space.

But now things were getting desperate.

Tensions were rising among all of you over this and you didn’t want to have to be the one to give in when you felt like you were just getting motivated to try and raise your GPA.

But you knew you would, in the end. Because you always gave in, let them bully you into submission as they talked you in circles and convinced you that it would just be for a little bit, that you’d only have to take a couple extra shifts until you guys were all caught up.

“Alright, well, just let me talk to her about it…” your friend suggested, sounding sort of sympathetic, though she still wasn’t willing to take on the extra responsibility so long as there was someone else available to carry the weight. “I don’t think she’s gonna be happy about it though—”

Both of their heads turned to stare at you as your bedroom door swung open.

“Who won’t be happy about what?” you asked then, trying to act innocent but still letting a little edge of irritation slip into your tone.

The stiffened posture of your startled roommates softened a bit as they sighed.

“It’s the rent…” your friend went to say. “We’re not gonna be able to pay it this month unless—”

“You need to pick up some more hours at work,” the pushier of the two cut in, crossing her arms and giving you a stern look which only flared the crackling embers of your annoyance.

But the longer she glared at you, just like always, you could feel yourself beginning to back down. You wanted to be able to hold your ground, to tell her that she had no right to make such demands of you, but instead you just averted your gaze and let her keep trying to tell you what to do. “It won’t be forever, just until we can catch up on the bills. I’m too busy with all of my already existing school and work obligations and she—” She gestured to your friend who was looking at you apologetically. “She’s got her senior thesis to work on.”

Your little hands were nervously fidgeting with themselves— a habit you’d long been attempting to break since it was a dead giveaway for your anxiety— but you forced yourself to look back up at your rudely assuming roommate as you protested, a slight scowl twitching timidly on your brow, “Well… I’m still in school too. And I have a big test coming up. I don’t think I—”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed, shooting you a condescending smirk. Her words only became even more patronizing as her tone liltingly insulted, “We all know that the only reason you’re even still going to class is because Mommy and Daddy are paying your tuition and you feel bad about letting them down.” You flinched at the sheer audacity of her assumption— even if the part about your parents paying for your education was correct— and felt tears threaten to well in your vision, the back of your nose pickling with the unpleasant emotion.

“That’s not—” you tried to say, but she interrupted again, clearly in the mood to get out all the horrible things she’d ever thought about you in that particular moment.

“And your little cutesy, innocent act doesn’t really work. Not on me, at least.” Your actual friend then shot your roommate a warning glare as she hissed her name. Still, she continued, stepping closer to you as you stood in the doorway and fought to hold back your frustrated tears. “You think I don’t hear you through the wall when you’re on the phone with whoever talking about how—” she then went to imitate your voice in a dumb, high pitched, mocking tone, “you just like, really wish you could drop out already because you don’t even like what you’re studying and this is totally a waste of your time.”

“That’s enough!” your friend raised her voice over the unnecessarily cruel argument. But your roommate wasn’t done showing her true colors just yet. She was going to paint over you with all her harsh, petty shades until even your tears couldn’t wash away the bleak pigment.

“I mean, really. I don’t get how you even got accepted into this school to begin with.” She was standing over you now, glaring down at you as her condescending comments finally pulled the tears from your eyes to streak shimmering lines down your cheeks in pairs. “You’d do better for all of us if you just quit now and worked full time. Then at least you’d be serving a purpose other than desperately trying to hook up with one of the sport’s team captains or offering favors to your professors in exchange for a barely passing grade.”

“I never—!”

“Don’t try and act like that’s not the truth! You just—”

“I said that’s fucking enough!” Both you and your bitch of a roommate turned to look at your friend, who wore an expression of genuine anger now. Her eyes were wide and her shoulders shaking as she nudged her way past the bully who’d just berated you to stand by your side, putting her arms around you as you tried to silence the sobs that were hitching in your chest and scowling hard at the girl who was responsible for breaking you.

“Don’t talk to her like that!” she went on, now shouting and causing your roommate to back down a bit. “Just because she doesn’t feel the same way about school as you do doesn’t mean she doesn’t have the same right to an education! Maybe if you got down from your high horse once in a while you’d realize that you’re not the only one who’s stressed out right now!”

You were glad that your friend was actually defending you so openly. In the past, when your roommate had made little remarks about you to your face or behind your back, your friend hadn’t had it in her to tell her off. She’d just come to you when you were sulking in your room and offer to console you privately.

Still though, after what had just been said, you doubted you could stand to live under the same roof as her for much longer.

The worst part was that you couldn’t just up and leave. Then you’d be abandoning your friend, aside from breaking a lease, and you couldn’t do that to her right now. Not when it was still a struggle to pay the rent with all three of you.

“I’m sorry, but it didn’t sound like you were very willing to go out and get another job!” your confrontational roommate continued. “And I don’t know how many times I have to repeat the fact that I can’t do it because I—”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it!” your friend shot back, still embracing you in solidarity. “You’re smarter and more important than everyone! Would you just get a grip?”

“Oh so now you’re just gonna act like you weren’t agreeing with me two seconds ago?!”

“Y’know what, you’re such a—!”

“Please stop!” you bellowed over the bitter arguing. Your face was a mess, all tear-streaked and red from embarrassment and anger. “Just stop it! Please…”

You began to wipe away your tears, sniffling and trying to catch your breath so you could get a clear sentence out while you had both of their attention.

“I’ll do it, alright…” you caved, shooting the instigator a scathing glare. “I’ll get some extra fucking hours. Just stop talking to me like I’m stupid!” You’d looked your horrible, hurtful roommate in the eyes as you’d spit the word, hoping it sounded like a warning to back off more than a pitiful plea to leave you alone.

She rolled her eyes and scoffed at your sensitivity, turning to grab her bag and head out the door as she added on one final jab at your character, “If you don’t wanna work, why don’t you just make this easier on all of us and find yourself a sugar daddy to pay for your share of the rent? Shouldn’t be hard, given your track record.”

Your friend called after her to come back and apologize as the door to the flat slammed and she disappeared from your sight. You never wanted to see her again, hoped she got hit by a cab or a bus on her way home. When you realized how evil that sounded, you hoped she failed her next test or assignment instead. That would kill her in its own way. And, god, you were just so angry. Because you’d given in again, and to someone who’d said such awful, unforgivable things about you no less.

“I’m so sorry that she said all of that…” your friend attempted to comfort you again as you retreated into your room to change into some clean clothes and aggressively shove your books into your bag. “I’m gonna talk to her. Get her to apologize. And, look, you don’t have to pick up extra hours at work. I know you hate that job. We’ll figure something out, ok…”

You were just about to sadly assure your friend that she didn’t have to go that far. That you’d just take some additional shifts but that the moment you could get out of the lease, you would.

But then your roommates insults came back to you, echoing around in your head until the sarcastic slander turned into a mischievous motivation.

Why don’t you just make this easier on all of us and find yourself a sugar daddy to pay for your share of the rent?

There were apps for that, ones that you could specifically swipe through profiles of wealthy men looking for young, cute girls like yourself until you matched with one. You knew other girls who’d done it, who’d gotten a pair of diamond earrings or a five star dinner date out of it at the very least, if not a casual relationship.

If they could do it, then why couldn’t you?

Shouldn’t be hard, given your track record.

What she’d said about the hookups and the favors weren’t true. You just had a natural talent for getting what you wanted from men, young or old. You knew how to look up at them through your long lashes and give those cute little giggles when they said something that wasn’t even really that funny. You knew which skirts or dresses to wear that drew them to you, made them lose their train of thought as they ogled your appearance, wishing— dreaming— that you’d let them close enough to see what was underneath.

But you always knew when to pull back, when to leave them wanting more.

You were a bit of a tease, sure, you couldn’t deny that. But you weren’t a slut like your roommate seemed to think you were, letting anyone with a dick just stick it in without any effort.

Because, despite the fact that you lived in a shared flat and not a palace, you were a princess, too perfect and pretty for just anyone to have.

You needed someone who would cherish you. Someone who knew how to treat you right in all the ways you deserved.

And while a random man from a sugar daddy dating app wasn’t necessarily in it for the long haul, you did have a feeling someone drawn to that sort of relationship might like to show off— whether it be by his wealth or the pretty girl under his arm— and maybe play the part of a gentleman when taking you out on dates.

So yeah. Later that day during a break in between classes you’d downloaded the app, set up your own profile, and started swiping.

Your roommate could just go fuck herself.

With the way she only had time for her textbook, you figured it was the only way she was ever getting any.

But you’d find someone, even if it was just out of spite, and not only would he help you pay your rent for the remainder of the lease, but he’d do something that showed your roommate that girls like you were smarter than they looked.

Because you could make a man’s bank account bend to your will, so long as your body was willing to bend to his. And that wasn’t a skill you could learn in any classroom.

***

Once you’d returned home to the flat, you’d gone straight to your room, completely ignoring your roommate the same as she was ignoring you, the tension between the two of you thick enough to be cut with a knife.

Your gaze was glued to your phone while hers was glued to her required reading, and while she was probably thinking that you were slacking off again, you were actually hard at work.

Because you’d already gotten five matches an hour after you’d begun swiping through photos. Now you were studying, trying to figure out which option was going to be your best bet.

This was actually a little harder than you’d thought it’d be, if you were being honest. When it came to looks in your final five, you were spoiled for choice. However, it was the messaging aspect of the equation where things got a little�� complicated.

There was one man— a Viscount, as his profile very clearly stated— who had long, silky blonde hair and was shamelessly flaunting his abundant status and wealth, each of his pictures displaying himself surrounded with exotic scenery from a vacation or posing wearing luxurious designer brand clothing with a foreign fashion week in the background.

But his propositions to you through your texts weren’t as elegant as his image implied.

Right away he wanted to know if you could meet for sex. He’d asked if you were a virgin— which you didn’t disclose to him and instead talked around with playful replies and winking emojis— and had given you his hotel suite number as he was currently staying in The Langham in London.

He was rather insistent that you pay him a visit and you were starting to get a bad feeling about him, like if you agreed to meet with him and actually went through with it you might not return to your flat after all was said and done.

And not in a he’s swept me off my feet and we’re flying to Mykonos way.

More like a he’s going to kidnap me and lock me in some weird sex dungeon kind of way.

You decided to unmatch with him, crossing him off your mental list of potential men, and moved onto the next one.

The second suitor was also on the younger end of the spectrum, like the Viscount, though still older than you. His name was Charles Grey, and you found him rather striking with his silver-blue eyes and sleek white hair. He looked like trouble right off the bat with that sly smirk and side glance that he hosted in most of his photos, but he appeared to keep himself on a little tighter leash than your first match.

In his messages to you, however, he seemed pretty uninterested despite the fact that he’d obviously found you attractive enough to swipe right. He seemed like he wanted you to show the most effort and you really weren’t into that. You were old school in the way that you wanted the guy to pursue you, not the other way around. He didn’t seem to drop many hints about wanting to meet either. Perhaps he was just toying with you, wanting you to beg for his company so he could decide how far he was going to string you along before finally giving in and making it appear as if he was doing you a favor.

Either way, there was no chemistry there and even less luck in having him pay your bills, so again you moved on and started from square one.

Your next two potentials were what you’d actually expected upon first downloading the app— being that they were older than you. Much older. Old enough to actually be your father, but you weren’t opposed to the idea so long as they treated you right.

One was named Chris Heathfield. He worked for the government— a high ranking position, he’d been quick to let you know— and resided in an ostentatious manor bordering the countryside. But even in his profile photos he was flaunting how many women he liked to have around at all times, so many it was practically a harem. The man was clearly a womanizer, and perhaps you were naive to think that any of your potential choices were any different, but you didn’t exactly want to have to compete with other girls right out of the gate.

Chlaus— he’d given no last name— seemed to be far more genuine and gentlemanly than Heathfield. He had a kind yet enthusiastic smile, like he could enjoy even the most mundane of activities if he was in the right mood.

He traveled a lot and actually wasn’t even currently in the country, as he’d politely informed you in the messages you’d exchanged. He’d even apologized if he’d wasted your time though admitted that, when he did return to London sometime in the future, he’d still like to meet with you if you were still interested. He’d complimented you, told you that he liked your smile in the photos you’d posted, and you’d actually been sort of disappointed that he wasn’t currently available.

Either way, you thanked him for his cordial decency and then was forced to migrate towards your fifth and final match of the day.

Unlike the others, this one had yet to message you. All you had to go by was his profile photos, all of which added a new element to his sinister yet alluring beauty.

He had long, silver hair and piercing green eyes, alabaster skin with a scar cutting a diagonal across his otherwise handsome face. You’d noticed him instantly among the others, so unusual and curious yet still the most enticing.

Perhaps it was the danger of the unknown that drew you to him. Perhaps it was that he was one of the few you’d encountered during the initial phase of swiping that, while still about a decade older than you, wasn’t actually old like Heathfield and Chlaus. And his name had caught your attention too, or at least the alias he’d given himself while using the app.

Undertaker.

That’s all it said.

Not a first or last or really any name at all other than that morbid moniker.

The closer the clock hands approached midnight, the more you were starting to think he’d changed his mind about you— reconsidering whatever it was that had caused him to match with you to begin with— and you were just about to start over with a new batch of wealthy strangers when all of a sudden…

You were notified that you’d received a new message and quickly went to check it, pausing when you saw the preview of the text lighting up besides the arcane name.

Hello, Undertaker’s first message bubble read, plain and simple.

Hi, you typed back in return, adding your favorite smiling emoji afterward.

How are you doing this evening?, he asked next. You told him that you were fine, just sort of bored. Are you in London currently?, he further inquired.

Yeah, you responded, feeling kind of good about the conversation so far, though you tried not to get too far ahead of yourself. You told him you attended a university in the area and then feared that maybe you shouldn’t have said that, remembering stories about girls being stalked by people they’d met over dating apps.

But, much to your relief, Undertaker merely asked what you were studying, seeming to keep things professional for now, if that was a word you could use in this context. You answered and then there was a short lull in the conversation.

You were starting to think that maybe you’d lost him on account of pointless small talk until he came back with another message.

I’d very much like to take you out some time, he said. Is there any specific day or time that you’d be free this upcoming week?

You couldn’t contain your beaming smile.

You felt like you were in high school again, growing giddy over a new crush.

How about this weekend? You suggested. We could meet at the British Museum around noon, if you want?

You watched eagerly as the three dots of the speech bubble that showed he was typing pulsed lightly on the screen. He replied, I’d like that very much, before going on to fix the more specific details.

He asked if he could drive you around after that, bring you to dinner that evening, and to this, while in your head you were thinking nothing but different variations of the word absolutely, you responded with a slightly teasing, Well, we’ll just have to see how things go at the museum, won’t we?, followed by a playful winking emoji.

Back in the study of Undertaker’s ornate gothic mansion, he chuckled to himself while lounging in one of velvety armchairs. He also couldn’t shake the devious grin that had found its way onto his pale face.

Like you, it had been a while since he’d allowed himself to be with someone in any form of intimacy. He was used to filling his schedule with all work and no play and he’d been wanting to change that. What better way than to do it with a cute girl he could pamper?

I’ll see you then, Undertaker typed back, adding a smirking emoji, and you felt your stomach flutter with excitement. With half your face buried in your pillow as you lay sprawled out on your bed texting with the mysterious, monochrome stranger, you tried and failed to hold in a giggle.

See ya~!, you concluded, clicking your screen off and then flipping onto your back to stare at the ceiling as all sorts of scenarios of what this weekend could hold began to play in your mind.

And the more you fantasized, the more your cute, girlish little giggles morphed into something darker, something borderline evil as you thought about how your bitch of a roommate might’ve just shot herself in the foot with the comment she’d made before walking out the door that morning.

I win, you prematurely proclaimed to yourself, a crooked smirk devilishly pulling up one corner of your glossy lips.

I always win.

***

Waiting for the weekend had felt like forever, despite it only having been a few days away, but now that it was here, the mixture of nerves and excitement was steadily filling you to the brim.

You hadn’t told either of your roommates where you were going or what you were doing today. When your friend had told you how nice you looked in your cardigan and cute pastel purple dress and white platform sneakers, you’d simply thanked her, giving no hint of the occasion or who you were meeting with.

You hoped he liked it, at least noticed the effort that curling your hair into perfect ringlets with half pulled up into a ponytail and tied with a silky, cream-colored bow took.

But the longer you stood outside the museum, despite arriving a little early, the more you wondered if you were going to end up getting ghosted and be forced to stroll through the exhibits alone while trying to hide your disappointment that, in the end, you really hadn’t been good enough.

If that happened, you’d have to admit defeat and take those extra shifts at work after all.

You were leaning against one of the pillars, pulling your cardigan tighter over your shoulders as a chilly breeze blew by and staring down at your shoes, gaze tracing the way your laces zig-zagged over each other and dreading what was seeming more and more likely to be you having gone out of your way for nothing with each passing minute until—

You heard a rich, low voice speak your name, causing you to look up with innocent confusion for a second until your stare landed on the tall, silver-haired man standing before you.

He was dressed simply but nicely, in all black with a blazer and turtleneck and shiny oxford shoes, pale hands resting inside his pockets as his steady emerald eyes studied you with slight concern.

You felt yourself start to blush when you realized he’d left you speechless, cracking a small smile as you straightened your posture from the pillar and shuffled a few steps closer to him.

“Y-yes, that’s me,” you replied cheerily, hoping that your voice wasn’t shaking too much. “You made it!”

He drifted a little closer, his shadow looming over you, and you felt your heart drumming against your ribcage, his aura so powerful and unsettling yet his smile appearing calm and kind, trying to put you at ease.

“Of course,” he nodded slowly. “Now…” He gestured his hand towards the front doors. “Shall we?”

You followed after him and pretty soon found your hand in his, praying that your palms didn’t start to sweat from how nervous you were, though his hands were actually pretty cold, so you thought maybe that would help.

Undertaker’s hands were big, yet slender— long, pale fingers brushing gently against your skin as your little grip was swallowed up in his loose fist.

And his face— god…

You’d thought he was attractive in the photos, but in person it was on a whole other level.

You’d never seen someone as gorgeous as him before. Not in real life, at least.

He was like a prince of darkness, somber and eerie qualities colliding with something charming and lovely. Like a rose bush— so many thorns and winding vines to keep others at bay, yet blooming with striking flowers, vibrant petals opening under the light of a full moon only for those he deemed worthy enough to be let into his garden.

It was hard not to blatantly stare at him.

You didn’t want to be weird, didn’t want him to think maybe he should revoke his invitation to drive you around and take you out to dinner after this, but you couldn’t help it, sneaking private glances whenever you could. It appeared you weren’t the only one, what with the eyes of nearly every person you passed as you two strolled through the museum catching on him as well.

But it wasn’t just him who they were staring at, Undertaker realized with a hint of pride. He knew the crowds were just as captivated by the pretty girl by his side, the contrast between his ghostly appearance and your sweet, honey-suckle softness a rare sight to behold.

Undertaker also found it hard not to stare at you long and hard like one of the famous paintings, scanning the curves and lines of your profile and figure when your attention was turned to a particularly unique exhibit.

He traced the form of your silhouette from the top of your head, down the dip under your chin towards your neck and collar bones, over your breasts and stomach to your hips, your exposed thighs, all the way down to your shoes and back up again.

He knew instantly that he was going to have a hard time keeping his hands off you. Undertaker was an intense man— dangerous in ways that you had yet to know about— and the last thing he wanted to do was scare you away.

Not when you were exactly what he’d been looking for for so long.

Not when you were so perfect with that adorable little lilt in your giggle and the way those doe-eyes of yours looked upon things with an indescribable wonder.

Because Undertaker wanted something to protect that wasn’t just all his abundant wealth and status and one of a kind mansion decor. He wanted something— someone— who would be waiting for him at the end of a long day or a particularly harrowing business meeting. Someone he could wrap his arms around and feel their beating heart, feel the way their chest rose and fell with the steady breaths of life.

And you were so warm, so fragile.

He wondered if you had anyone to protect you or if somehow you’d managed to navigate this cruel world all on your own thus far.

And you’d opened up to him a little bit as the two of you got talking during your leisurely stroll through the museum. You’d told him that, while you didn’t have a terrible relationship with your parents, things had been rocky here or there. You’d told him that all they’d ever wanted for you was to attend university, that they’d pay for your tuition and even let you pick which one you would go to so long as you passed your classes and graduated on time.

But you’d never felt like they listened to you, like you could truthfully talk to them and share your troubles. Hence why you left home at the very first opportunity that presented itself. You’d thought getting away and meeting new people would help you find someone you felt you could really be honest with and rely on. Though, so far, it hadn’t been exactly what you’d expected…

“Well, I consider myself a very good listener,” Undertaker promised with a gentle smirk as his grip around your hand squeezed a little, drawing your gaze up to meet his once more. “I’m quite good at keeping secrets as well.”

You didn’t know what to say, could only gape at him in that doe-eyed way of yours that he was quickly becoming addicted to. He would turn it into a game, seeing how many times he could get you to look at him like that, like he was the only thing in your entire world.

Forget money and power.

What Undertaker wanted was you wanting him, needing him.

But soon enough you snapped out of it, shaking your head a bit as if to clear your daze. Then, as you neared the final exhibit, you finally gained enough courage to inquire, “So… Undertaker, huh? I’m guessing that’s not your real name…?” trying to tread carefully, not wanting to pry too much, but unable to hold in this curiosity any longer.

The mysterious man sighed out a breathy chuckle. “In my line of work,” he began, “it can be rather dangerous for one to expose their true name. So I keep mine hidden.” He paused then, as if expecting you to ask more questions or make a comment. When you just seemed to be willing to listen, he went on. “Does that bother you?” he asked with a small lift of an eyebrow.

You shook your head, glancing back up at him as you stopped before the final exhibit on your loop through the museum. “No. I mean, I won’t lie. I did find it strange at first. But you seem like you have your reasons, so…”

Your sentence trailed off as you became occupied with the art piece in front of you, lips slightly parted as you stared ahead, giving Undertaker yet another opportunity to study your face.

But this time he was staring at you with a little more than admiration for your appearance. This time he looked upon you like you were the first person he’d met who seemed to understand him in some way, to accept him as he was.

Because even his closest confidants had wondered why he couldn’t just tell them his real name, why he refused to tell anyone no matter what.

And you’d just dropped it after that, respecting his wishes to go by the moniker and moving on like it wasn’t odd even in the slightest.

He felt himself migrating closer to you, lowering his lips in hopes of meeting yours, but then stopped himself when he thought perhaps it was still too soon for that. He’d wait until the moment was right, whether that was today or tonight or days, weeks, months from now.

Because he didn’t want to mess this up. Not with you. Not when he’d finally managed to find someone who, despite his appearance or his name or the fact that he always seemed to be alluding to something darker and much more dangerous than he let on, didn’t seem to hold it against him.

And he wasn’t going to let you go. He’d do anything to make you stay, to keep you all for himself.

If it was money you were after, he’d give it to you. If it was him taking you on vacations then so be it. If it was someone who could take care of you and provide, that would be easy.

Whatever you wanted or needed, all you had to do was say the word and he’d make sure you had it.

In the beginning, he’d give it to you for free. Though, there would reach a point when he’d want something in return, though he knew he couldn’t force that on you. At least, not the first time.

“That was fun!” you smiled as the two of you exited the museum, your fingers now interlocked in a more romantic and intimate gesture. It only lasted a mere minute before your touch broke and the two of you were standing across from each other on the sidewalk, but it was long enough to send that warm feeling fluttering in your belly again. “Thanks for taking me.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” Undertaker replied. He hoped that you weren’t just being polite and wished to go home now. He still really did want to spend more time with you. Whether that was over dinner or not was irrelevant now. He’d sit on a park bench and attempt to get to know you better if that’s all you’d give him.

When you sort of just seemed to stand there and look up at him with a smile, no sign of searching the curb for where you’d parked a car or gotten off at a bus stop present in your expression, he hesitantly asked, “Did you… walk here or…?”

“Oh!” you snapped out of your daze, hypnotized by his brilliant emerald stare and that scar etched across his face yet again. Through a nervous chuckle you said, “Yeah, actually, I did… I live sort of in the area and I don’t have a car so…”

“I’m parked nearby,” he began, already taking a step in the direction where he could see his vintage vehicle from down the street. “I can drive you home if you’d like to return or we could continue on to another location?”

You considered this, though you already knew that you didn’t want to go home. When you smiled and nodded and told him that you’d like to continue enjoying his company, he put an arm around you and guided you towards his car— a 1953 Rolls Royce Dawn Drophead— and you expressed your marvel at the spotless obsidian automobile.

“Allow me,” Undertaker offered as he grabbed the door for you, letting you slide into the passenger's seat before closing it and coming around to take his place behind the wheel. The roof was down and you felt a new wave of excitement wash over you, never having ridden in a convertible before.

You didn’t know where you were going, but you honestly didn’t even care. As Undertaker skillfully wove in and out of traffic and the wind blew through your hair, your exhilarated laughter sounding off beside him as music blasted from the radio, you felt alive.

And so did he, for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

It had been so long that he’d almost forgotten what that felt like.

And you, well, you were actually starting to thank your roommate for giving you this idea in the first place.

***

The luxury department store was one that you’d seen in passing since moving to the city but never had the nerve to step inside of.

Not until today, that is.

Among some of the signs that decorated the storefronts of the extravagant shopping mall were names like Gucci and Versace, Dolce & Gabbana, Louis Vuitton, Prada, Tiffany and Chanel.

You couldn’t believe what you were seeing— all the beautiful designer clothes and handcrafted jewelry— the handbags and the belts and the shoes that were perfectly placed on display lining the windows and walls of each store.

“Do you enjoy fashion?” Undertaker asked you as you ooed and awed at all the options, his hand finding your shoulder as he gently rubbed a thumb over some of your soft, exposed skin, your cardigan having been courteously taken by the greeter at the entrance of the store for safekeeping while you tried on clothes.

He already knew that you did. Had found you on social media soon after matching with you and done some digging.

You were a wannabe fashion influencer, and given the fact that you didn’t have access to exclusive items just yet, your style and taste spoke for itself, even if it was on a budget. Not to mention, for a girl who was sharing a cramped flat in London and struggling to pay her rent, ten thousand wasn’t a number to laugh at when it came to followers.

“I do!” you replied enthusiastically, looking up at him with another one of those cute little smiles and a giggle that captivated Undertaker every time. Then, as his arm fell to cradle your waist and hold you a little closer, you shyly admitted, “I’ve never worn anything as nice as this before though…”

The ebony clad man chuckled. “Well then,” he prompted playfully, “we’ll have to change that, won’t we?”

Your eyes widened once you realized what he was getting at.

Your first instinct was to turn down such a pricey offer. If this were anyone else, you would’ve. But then you were reminded of the circumstances under which you’d met and that perhaps it would be rude not to let him spend some of his abundant wealth on you.

So you did what you were best at. You looked cute and acted on your best behavior as the two of you traveled from designer to designer, trying on all sorts of outfits and showing yourself off to him as you did so. He seemed pleased, with both you and what the mall had in stock that day, and had even purchased some items for himself along the way.

“How about this one?” he asked as he lightly ran his long fingers over the satiny fabric of a dark blue babydoll dress, one with a low back and cute puffed sleeves and a bow tied around the waist to hug your form.

Your wardrobe mainly consisted of pastels and light neutrals, a few darker colors thrown in but not many that you wore that often. Even so, if this was what he liked, the least you could do was try it on for him.

When you came out of the dressing room, holding out the flared skirt a little bit as you twirled, something in Undertaker’s chartreuse gaze changed. He’d liked all the others, sure. They’d suited you just fine. But this one…

This one made you look like Undertaker’s perfect little doll, one that he’d designed and dressed personally.

“You look beautiful,” he commended, just like with the other dresses you’d modeled for him, but then added through an awestruck sigh, “Absolutely gorgeous…” that made you stop for a moment and stare at him, blinking those innocent doe-eyes of yours, suddenly aware of just how intensely he was looking at you.

If you weren’t mistaken, you might’ve read it for pure adoration.

But you two had barely just met, so it couldn’t really be that, could it?

“D-do you really like this one?” you asked through a timid grin, turning halfway to look yourself over in one of the mirrors again, little fingers adjusting the way the bow looked in the back.

“I think it’s marvelous,” Undertaker replied coolly, stuck in a dream-like daze as his eyes slowly scanned up and down your figure once more. “But do you like it?”

You considered yourself, making sure that the garment lay right over your body, wondering if the shade looked too dark on you, but slowly, surprisingly, it was winning you over.

You nodded and began to smile again. As you turned back to face him you said, “I do like it.”

“Shall I buy it for you then, as one last treat?” he asked next. He’d already treated you to quite the expensive spree, so you fumbled for the price tag to find out just how much more you’d be depleting his bank account, but before your view could land upon the number, Undertaker was at your side, his hand wrapped around yours as he quietly reminded you, “Don’t worry about that. It’s on me, remember?”

“But…” you stalled, looking up at his looming form.

“No buts, princess,” he lightly chided, turning you around to face the mirror again as his chest pressed against your back, taking your other hand in his and holding your arms up and out a little bit as you surrendered to his grasp, like a pretty butterfly splayed out beneath the glass of a display case. It was the first time you were really noticing just how small you were compared to him. It sent another wave of that sweet, dangerous fluttering roll through your stomach, the thought of what he’d look like while on top of you flashing through your mind as you fought the urge to squirm. “You look stunning. Worth all the money in the world. So what do you say? Would you like to wear this to dinner tonight?”

Dinner. That’s right. He’d invited you to dinner.

You had no idea what kind of restaurant it would be, but with the kind of money he seemed to be so keen to spend on you, it was bound to be one with a dress code.

“O… ok…” you muttered shakily as you watched him moving his hand about you through the mirror, chilled palms gliding down towards your elbows then back up to your shoulders, sending a shiver down your spine when they found your waist and savored the trip down to your hips, resting there as his long fingers lightly pressed into your soft skin.

And it was taking every ounce of patience Undertaker had not to pull you into one of the big dressing rooms, shut the door, and have his way with you against one of the plush couches there. He’d watch your reflection writhe and arch as he hiked the expensive dress up and ran his touch down to the most tender parts of you. He wanted to know what your underwear looked like, if they’d be as cute and delicate as you were, if your bra and panties would match.

He was willing to bet they would, even if it was just for this special occasion. And even as he discarded them to the floor, exposing you to him fully, your face hot and red from embarrassment and anticipation, you’d still be his adorable little doll, his good girl, his perfect, pretty princess as he sunk into you and felt you pulse and squeeze around him in the most delectable way.

He wanted to know what sounds you’d make— what sounds he could force you to make against your will as he thrust deeper into your tight, wet warmth. Were you the kind to beg? The kind to cry? Did you want him talking dirty to you or would the skillful path of his touch across your skin be enough to make you wet for him?

God, he wanted to know. And he was determined to find out. But not here. Not now. It still wasn’t the right time for that. Besides, you’d only just put on the dress. He wanted to admire you in it for a little longer.

So the two of you moved up to the check out desk, you still wearing the dress after Undertaker had told— not asked, told— the saleswoman who’d been assisting you that you’d be walking out with it on. When she’d announced the amount of money that was due, you’d nearly flinched at the number. Meanwhile, Undertaker had simply handed her a shiny black credit card without batting an eye. He’d paid and she’d snipped the tag, which you only then noticed didn’t even have a price on it, but instead merely held a scancode that was meant to alert the anti-theft alarm if anyone tried to exit the store without paying.

“Th-thank you,” you stammered nervously as you exited the store with him, the lilac dress and cardigan you’d started the day in folded neatly and placed inside a bag that swung from Undertaker’s hand. “I-I’ve never worn something this nice. I promise to take good care of it.”

That dark, almost ominous chuckle escaped Undertaker’s lips again, his free hand finding you once more and lightly tugging you closer to him, as if he was afraid you’d stray too far and wander off. “There will be plenty more where that came from,” he promised, and you felt your face begin to blush, though you couldn’t exactly place why. “Now, shall we find you a pair of shoes and some jewelry to go with it?”

***

You now wore an entirely different outfit than before, your white platform sneakers and delicate gold heart necklace safe inside their own bags from when they’d been replaced by shiny, chunky-heeled, black mary janes and a diamond choker, dangling, teardrop earrings to match.

Every reflective surface you passed, whether it was a shop window or the glossy black surface of Undertaker’s vintage car, you couldn’t help but stare at yourself.

You almost couldn’t recognize yourself all wrapped up in this new aesthetic, not accustomed to such dark colors adorning your figure, but there was something about it that did suit you, to your surprise. Undertaker made sure to remind you of it as he’d caught you examining your glittering jewelry in the front mirror of the passenger side as you two pulled into reserved parking at the fancy restaurant, causing one more shy smile to spread across your lips before he came around to open the door for you and tossed his keys to the young valet.

This was an establishment that Undertaker frequented, as he hadn’t hesitated to request his “usual table”, the hostess giving a charming, “but of course, right this way,” before guiding the two of you through the candle lit dining hall, your date lightly tugging you along by the hand as you craned your neck to gaze up at all the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, a live piano player performing soft jazz from a slightly elevated platform at the center of the room.

After taking your seat and being informed that your waiter would be over shortly, you found yourself feeling out of place once again. Because, sure, you looked like you belonged here, but as you tried to read over the menu— most of which was in French— and didn’t recognize a single thing, the insecurities that you were an imposter began to creep back in.

“Why don’t you let me take care of that?” Undertaker suggested, taking the menu from your fidgeting grip and folding it back up, placing it on the edge of the table. Normally you’d hate it if a date ordered for you, oftentimes becoming cocky and picking something you didn’t even like. But now, you were sort of relieved. Besides, it seemed like Undertaker had a much better idea of what you’d like based on impression alone than any of your previous admirers.

After a quick survey asking what kinds of foods and flavors you preferred and if there were any particular textures or other aspects that would ruin the night’s culinary experience, Undertaker began nodding to himself, iridescent eyes scanning one of the pages until he landed on something he thought you might enjoy.

“So…” he began, swirling the vintage red in his glass as he gazed over the rim at you and your fizzy fruit drink. “Tell me about yourself…”

You had to stifle a laugh. It seemed so cliche, yet held an air of authenticity that you couldn’t help but find endearing. You’d shared a few things about your personal life and interests as you’d been walking through the museum— like the music you liked and a really good movie you’d watched recently and a little bit about what you’d been studying in school— but when posed with the question now, your mind suddenly went blank.

“Why don’t you tell me about you?” you playfully suggested, idly twirling a strand of your hair as you sipped the magenta dragon fruit drink up the glass straw teased between your teeth. “I mean…” You recrossed your legs as you leaned in a little closer, raising one skeptical eyebrow. “I feel like you already know plenty about me.”

Flashing a coy smirk, Undertaker traded you an amused grin. You hummed out a mischievous, lilting note as you awaited his response, tempted to brush the toe of your shoe against his ankle to see what would happen if you flirted more openly.

Because— aside from the obvious fact that he had plenty of money and had already spoiled you beyond your wildest imagination— you did like him. You liked the way he looked at you, soft and caring rather than hungry and expectant like most blind dates tended to go. You liked that he paid attention to little details like grabbing the door for you and offering you his jacket when he’d noticed you pulling your cardigan tighter around your shoulders on the walk from the museum to the car. You liked that he was sophisticated but not arrogant and also that he carried this sense of protection over you.

That last notion made you once again wonder what he did for a living. Someone as mysterious and secretive— so secretive that his own colleagues didn’t know his real name, as he’d casually mentioned while skirting around the question about his job earlier— as him could be involved in all kinds of nefarious activities.

Maybe he was a hitman, or a smuggler of rare, foreign gems.

He could be a conman or a cult leader or a curiously eccentric artist.

He was a book with thick binding, yet every page you flipped to was blank.

But you wanted to know him— wanted to get to know him— if he gave you the chance.

“I told you earlier that I’m good at keeping secrets,” Undertaker said, his voice dropping an octave lower. “But the real question is… are you?”

You took a moment to think about that. You thought you were. Because, as good and eager as you were at collecting gossip, you had never been one to spread it.

Not unless absolutely necessary, that is, and even then it was only to your closest friends when it concerned them directly.

“I can keep a secret,” you promised, both of you searching each other’s eyes for a minute before your food arrived and the tense, exhilarating moment was temporarily put on hold while you smiled and thanked the waiter.

Between the first bites of your dinner, Undertaker strategically spoke of his work, dropping hints that it was classified and dangerous and underground. You listened intently, nodding along as if you were slowly but surely decoding the hidden messages woven throughout his cryptic words.

Then, after he seemed done divulging all the details he could without giving it all away, you looked at him with a slightly cocked head, eyes squinted cynically as you smirked and said, “So… You work for the FBI or something, right? Or— no—!” you excitedly changed your guess, “The CIA?”

Truthfully, you didn’t really know the difference, but based on what he’d told you, it seemed like some kind of secretive, high-profile government intelligence.

“No, not quite,” Undertaker chuckled, unable to fully contain just how absolutely adorable he found you. “Though, I may have crossed paths with some people in that profession before.”

You let out another giggle, thinking he was merely toying with you just for amusement’s sake, but, despite his lighthearted tone, Undertaker was being deathly serious. If only you knew how many times he’d been investigated by all kinds of intelligence agencies, both domestic and foreign. How he’d evaded each and every one of them and their prying questions, killed the ones who got a little too close. Because his security and control over his organization was air tight, locked with a key long thrown away, buried six feet deep somewhere along with the life he’d left behind in pursuit of something bigger and better and far more brilliant than he could’ve ever imagined at the start.

He’d have to protect you from their scheming, sinister ways soon too, if you allowed yourself to be kept by him. Only then would he have to disclose more of the truth to you, make sure you really understood the gravity of it all.

But, for now, that could wait.

For now, he could continue to let you believe you lived in the perfect fantasy among glittering crystal and sparkling champagne— a fairy tale of his own dark and twisted design.

After dinner had concluded and Undertaker had left a generous tip to the kind waiter, you two had returned to his shiny black car that was already waiting for you upon exiting the restaurant. Climbing back inside as he closed the door behind you, you once again caught your reflection in the side-view mirror, having forgotten the drastic change of appearance from when you’d first walked out your front door this morning.

Undertaker’s earlier compliment returned to you. “Absolutely gorgeous” he’d called you. At the time, you’d just thought he was being kind, simply repeating a line he probably used on all the pretty girls he’d taken out.

But now you saw it too.

You were gorgeous. Exquisite. Divine.

And it made you wonder…

How long had it been since you last thought that about yourself? Since you’d last believed it?

“Now…” Undertaker began the moment he was back behind the wheel, looking over at you with one hand resting on the gear shift. “I can either drop you back off at your flat or—” He reached over and gently brushed a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, caressing your cheek with the back of his hand, tender. “We can return to my estate to continue enjoying each other’s company.” He put the car in drive and began to slowly roll away from the curb. “It’s up to you.”

You had to fight back the urge to immediately blurt out a damn near desperate sounding “yes!”, your cheeks heating as you gave a cute little smile and nod and responded with a much more reserved, “I’d like that very much.”

Undertaker smiled too— one of those soft, charming, doting grins that made you feel like you were special, as naive as it might’ve been.

“Well then, in that case,” he said, merging back in with traffic and zipping skillfully through the city’s narrow streets, “Why don’t you play some of that music you were telling me about earlier. It’s a bit of a long drive.”

***

You’d texted your friend, let her know you wouldn’t be back tonight, that you’d met someone and wanted to keep things going.

She’d asked you if you were ok, reminding you to be safe, and when you’d assured her things were going great, she sent you back a cute winking emoji and a playfully supportive, “go get some, girl!”.

Your phone was almost dead at that point, so you decided to slip it into your purse and focus on the scenery passing by out the car window as your favorite album continued playing. The lights of the city gave way to the quiet, serene darkness of the countryside beyond London’s looming architecture, the little pond of your usual stomping grounds expanding into a vast ocean of tall trees and vacant roads.

The closer you approached to Undertaker’s residence, the more you began to see mansions and manors sporadically spotting the fields, each one protected by its own unique, intricate gate or wall of manicured hedges.

Each one you passed was grander than the last, and you started to become a little nervous about what you were blindly stepping into.

Your mind went to a few darker places as well, like, if he wanted to hurt you, out here, no one would hear your screams. And, even if you did manage to escape, you could never hope to make it back to the city on foot before he caught you, acres of open land and who knows what else lurking in the shadows ready to trap you out in this valley of silent luxury.

“It’s just up ahead,” Undertaker informed you, pulling you from your anxious spiral. When you turned your attention back out the windshield, you saw the distant lights that dotted the driveway, a cage of winding, iron wrought bars curling around the perimeter of the magnificent gothic mansion.

You weren’t sure how long your mouth had been hanging open before you realized and closed it, but as the gilded gates parted and Undertaker pulled around the horseshoe driveway to the opulent, double front doors, your jaw dropped once more.

“This is…” you sighed out in awe, your face practically pressed to the passenger-side window to get a better look.

“It’s not to everyone’s taste,” Undertaker shrugged, suddenly modest. “But it’s home.”

You turned to face him, looking completely incredulous with your brows knit together and your slightly parted lips turned down into a gentle frown, as if you were offended on his behalf.

“No, it’s—” Your hand reached forward to rest atop his on the gearshift. You were unaware you’d even done it, but for Undertaker, the soft, reassuring touch was driving him insane. Because you were just so sweet, so genuine. Far more than anyone like him had ever experienced or deserved. Every second that passed with your skin on his, the more addicted he became.

All the while, you continued with a bout of stumbling compliments. “It’s amazing! I mean— It’s just so beautiful. I—” What remained of your sentence tapered off into sounds of sputtering nonsense, unable to articulate what you really meant, how impressed you were with every single thing he’d shown you so far, but luckily, Undertaker got the gist.

“I appreciate the praise,” he chuckled weakly, taking your little hand in his cool, comforting grasp. Slowly, you watched as he raised your hand to his lips, placed a chaste kiss to the back of it, then gave you another one of those loving smiles, the scar peeking out from his curtain of silver hair shining in the moonlight. “Would you like to come inside?”

***

The high ceilings and wide halls echoed eerily with every tap your heeled shoes made across the black and white checkered marble flooring. The house had been dark before Undertaker used his phone to activate the lights throughout the lower floor, priceless antiques and imported, one of a kind art pieces illuminated by crystal chandeliers and golden sconces.

However, for all the ornate wealth that glittered and shined throughout every new space of the open floor plan you passed through, you noticed something strange…

For a house of this size, this status, there didn’t appear to be a single housestaff member in sight. Not a maid or a cook or a butler.

“Ah…” Undertaker contemplated when you asked him if you two were alone here, the question coming out a little more nervously than you’d intended. “Well, I suppose I can’t be too careful these days…” He explained that he could only trust a small, select group of people, though, when it came to his home, he preferred to manage it himself. “I find help to be a bit redundant,” He said, flashing you an almost apologetic grin. “Besides, I enjoy doing things like cooking and gardening. It’s a nice retreat from the usual chaos of my life, so I don’t believe in giving that up to anyone else, even if they are deemed a professional.”

You could respect that, actually.

Plus, it made you curious to try his cooking, especially after experiencing how refined his taste was.

Anyway, after going through the first floor, the two of you headed upstairs to conclude the tour, finishing at the master bedroom.

“Your house is very nice,” you complimented, trying hard not to eye the bed too obviously, all those fluffy, goosedown comforters and egyptian cotton tempting you. “It…” You searched his eyes, loving the way they shimmered like emeralds in the dim light, then smiled as you said, “It suits you.”

Undertaker thanked you for your kind words, running one of his palms from your shoulder down to your hand before intertwining your fingers with his again, this time with nothing to interrupt the intimate gesture.

“You look good surrounded by all of it, darling…” Kissing your hand again, he used his thumb to gently smooth over the knuckles of your delicate little fingers, dwarfed in his grasp. “You make the place feel more like home.”

***

He moved slowly, cautiously, as if approaching too quickly would spook you and send you skittering like a startled alley cat. And you were nervous— not scared, but definitely nervous— as your heart hammered in your chest and your hands began to tremble.

He leaned down to give you a kiss, soft at first, testing to see how far you’d let him go. When you seemed to reciprocate, he came back for another, this one a little more daring as he rested his hands on your waist and held you there, his tongue slipping into the heat of your mouth. But again, you didn’t pull away.

His grip on you became tighter, causing you to suck in a short gasp as he kissed you deeper. You could feel a devious smirk spreading across his lips as a hum of a chuckle vibrated in his throat.

“Are you alright?” he asked in a low, seductive tone, brilliant gaze scanning you while his hands kept purchase on your hips.

You couldn’t look him in the eyes now, were too embarrassed by how red your face had probably gone, how hot your body felt just from something as simple as kissing, unable to deny the chemistry that was swimming between you two.

But when he lightly took your chin in his hand and guided your face upward, you let him, that piercing, chartreuse, half-lidded stare sending a shiver through your entire body. You felt tears threaten to well in your eyes and at first you didn’t quite know why.

Was it because you were just so nervous, so embarrassed?

Was it because you really were scared, unsure of whether you wanted to trust this man that you’d just met or not?

Or was it because you hadn’t told him that you were a virgin and knew where this night was likely headed?

If you did tell him, would he stop? Would he decide this interaction was over and call someone to take you home?

You didn’t particularly want to end things here. You were willing to go further, you thought, but perhaps it would be to your benefit to mention it to him.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Undertaker cooed as he stroked his thumb along your jaw, his soft grin never fading. “Come on… You can tell me.”

“I-I…” you began, feeling more and more like you were going to cry.

“Yes…?” he urged you, silver brows lifting with slight intrigue.

“I, um… Well…” You averted your gaze off to the side. “I’ve actually never…”

You couldn’t say it.

Even if you wanted to, the words wouldn’t leave you.

“Never what?” Undertaker pressed, tone still silky smooth and looking at you in that sinisterly seductive way of his. Despite the fact that he’d already caught on though— call it his craving for control, or just the fact that he thought you were cute— he needed to hear you say it.

“I-I’m sorry…” you stuttered, feeling as if you were already proving to be a disappointment. Tears welled to the brim of your lashline now, sparkling in the low light of the bedroom. But you had to say it. You had to admit to him the one secret that no one else would probably believe about you. “It’s just… I’m actually… I’m actually a virgin and I—”

Your tears spilled over, racing each other over your cheeks until Undertaker lifted one of his hands from your waist and gently wiped them away, his smirk gone now as he cast a gaze of genuine concern upon your adorably pathetic face.

You were shaking even harder now, both from fear of rejection and frustration at yourself for not being able to contain your emotions. But still, that didn’t seem to bother the man in front of you.

“Oh, sweetheart…” he soothed in a calming whisper, bringing you in closer for a comforting embrace, lightly combing through your hair with his pale, slender fingers. “It’s alright. There’s no need to be upset…” You buried your face further into the expensive fabrics of his coat, feeling safer the closer you were to him. “I’m going to take good care of you…” he then whispered in your ear. “I just need you to trust me.”

The only response you gave was a weak nod as you nuzzled further into him, little hands gripping his shoulders as he lifted you into his arms and rocked you gently until your nervous quivering subsided. When you finally found it in yourself to look back up at him, big doe-eyes so innocent, so adorable, Undertaker’s adoring smile returned.

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” he asked you then, voice still feather soft and strangely attentive, as if he was willing to do anything to keep you like this. Keep you all for himself.

But to his question, you just nodded, swallowing down some more of your worries as you tried to stay calm. He was lovingly stroking the soft skin of your cheek with the back of his knuckles, taking in as much of you like this while he still could before he had you panting shallow breaths and clutching the sheets for dear life as you trembled and writhed beneath him.

He’d like you just as much in that state, but it had been so long that he’d found a sweet little princess who truly was as her image implied. Because for so many others, it was merely performative, a trap set to ensnare wealthy men like him who had a type they could imitate.

No, with you he knew it was real. And that’s why he fell in love with you after just a few hours of each other’s company.

Undertaker strolled over to the bed then, sitting down on the edge with you still in his arms.

You hadn’t said a word.

What could you say?

You knew what to expect, in the simplest sense, but still, someone like him could be into all kinds of things that you didn’t even know about. The size of him compared to you alone was intimidating, how he towered over you and how your delicate little hand could disappear inside his massive grip. But part of you also liked that— liked that he was so much more powerful than you, stronger than you could ever have a chance of fighting against.

Because even if your mind had concerns, your body was already reacting positively to the idea.

Undertaker began to position you differently and you followed his lead, moving along with him to where he wanted you to straddle his lap, his hands back on your hips now as yours rested on his shoulders.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked you then, hands leisurely running up and down your sides, tracing along your waist.

You nodded again, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “I-I’m sure…” you replied, hoping the crack in your voice went unnoticed.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he assured you once more, pulling you a little closer and repositioning you slightly. “You can trust me.” He pressed his lips to your neck, leaving a trail of soft kisses along your pulse. You leaned your head back instinctively, giving him easier access as he began to suck little bruises into your skin, a new wave of shivers surging through your body at the sensation.

A few soft moans and whines escaped your throat and Undertaker’s smirk widened. He brought his lips right next to your ear and whispered, “Do you trust me, baby?”

You hadn’t even really heard what he said over the racing of your heart and the lust that was clouding your mind, pooling warm and heavy in your lower belly, but you didn’t really care. You just nodded and let the tension melt away with his kisses, which soon found your mouth again, these ones much deeper and more passionate than the first round, slow and savoring.

You soon felt something hard pressing into you where you straddled his lap, the thin lace of your panties the only thing to protect you as more heat coiled in the pit of your stomach, and you hesitantly grinded down a little on him.

His grip on your hips flexed as he pulled you down to rub even harder against his growing erection, you becoming wetter with every roll of your hips, a cute, breathy moan sneaking past your lips every time he helped you press on just the right spot for you both.

You didn’t want to stop. Couldn’t stop. It felt too good, just by doing this, and it scared you a little how much better it might feel if you really went all the way with him. But that really wasn’t up to you anymore. Because Undertaker had you wrapped around his finger like one of his sterling silver rings now.

For the remainder of the night, at least, you’d do anything he wanted, anything he asked.

Because, for whatever odd reason— ignoring the fact that you’d only known each other for a day and you barely knew the first thing about him— didn’t even know his real name— you did trust him. And what was even more, he trusted you.

He trusted you not to leave him when this was done, and that was also a rare occurrence when it came to his previous companions.

A loud, high-pitched moan forced its way out of you as he pressed you down even harder, feeling your clit throbbing through the lace and wanting to keep you under his control for as long as possible, dangling you from the edge until he decided to let you go.

It was something Undertaker was good at— controlling his partner’s orgasms— and what you didn’t realize yet was that he could use it as a punishment if he wanted to, could use it to get you begging for mercy if ever you did something bad.

But not yet.

No, Undertaker was just getting started with you.

“Take them off,” he ordered. You stilled for a moment, looking at him with uncertainty. “Your panties,” he clarified. “Take them off.”

And, because you were a good girl, you listened. You were going to step down from the bed and discard them, but you gave a startled gasp as Undertaker decided he wanted to be the one to do it instead, quickly flipping you onto your back and leaning over you while your legs were still spread. He paused, staring into your wide eyes with his unshakable confidence before puffing out a small breath of amusement from his nose and hooking his thumbs under the waistband of the lace, slowly pulling the thin fabric down and exposing your soaked slit to the cold air of the room.

Once they were completely removed from your person, he balled your panties up in his fist and shoved them into his back pocket. You didn’t think you’d be getting them back, but you didn’t care. It would just be an excuse for him to buy you new ones anyway.

You tried to pull your legs together, face red hot with embarrassment again, but he didn’t give you enough time, effortlessly pulling you back up with him to sit just as you had before, no delicate lace to protect you anymore. But now you were nervous for a different reason. Because you were so wet, and Undertaker knew that, but you weren’t sure if he actually wanted you to ruin his expensive trousers.

“Go on,” he chuckled upon your hesitation. “It’s ok.”

“But…” you barely protested before he settled you back over his still hard cock, you wincing as the rough texture of the trouser’s fabric pressed against your clit.

“No buts,” Undertaker playfully warned, slowly rolling his hips up into you to tempt you to find your rhythm again. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you? So do as Daddy says.”

At that, you felt even more arousal leaking from you, going back to grinding on him, the sensation different but better.

As you did this, Undertaker moved his hands up to where your dress hung off your shoulders a bit, pulling down the neckline until the matching lace of your bra was exposed to him, cupping both your breasts in his hands and kissing your cleavage, earning himself another one of those cute sounds he was slowly becoming addicted to.

When he reached behind you to unhook your bra, you stilled again, breathing stuttering a bit as you found yourself even more exposed, the undergarment tossed to the floor and your nipples already furled tight from the chill that permeated the entire mansion.

“U-Undertaker!” you gasped as another one of his kisses found your nipple.

Calling him that out loud still felt strange, and you almost wanted to try and ask him again what his real name was, despite him seeming so protective over it the first time you’d inquired.

Maybe you’d get used to it.

But when another whimper of “Daddy…” trailed off your lips as his tongue teased the sensitive bud of your breast, the mysterious, monochrome man seemed to like that, so you figured perhaps that ought to be the name you addressed him by.

Undertaker chuckled darkly then, slowly laying you down on your back and pulling your dress down over your hips and tossing it to the floor to join your bra, leaving you completely bare and vulnerable under him now.

Normally, he would get completely undressed before stripping away the last of your remaining fabrics, always liking to savor the moment when the most tender parts of a body were exposed to him, but tonight he’d gotten too caught up with having a new toy to follow the usual protocol.

Because you were a gift. Truly, you were.

You were a sweet girl, a good girl, an adorable, darling little doll for him to dress and undress as he pleased.

And even as you lay in anticipation for the crescendo of the moaning chorus the two of you would compose together— face blushed and body trembling, ready to arch and sway to his touch— he knew you were different from the others who’d been under him like this before.

And after tonight, after he’d had you, he’d only want you more.

Just like a prized possession or a favorite pet, he couldn’t let anyone else get their hands on you. And he’d do anything to ensure that you stayed.

“D-Daddy…?” you whimpered hesitantly as Undertaker was almost completely freed of his clothing, so many layers to get through before all of his pale white skin and deep silvery scars were on deadly display.

The slash running across his face had been a bit jarring at first, though had added to his appeal, the extra element of implied danger attracting you to him.

But there were so many more, his entire body littered with them, and you couldn’t help but wonder just what— or who— had done something like this to him. What was even capable of inflicting such lasting damage.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he asked, positioning himself over you again and holding your wrists above your head in one large hand, his palm cold against the warmth of blood coursing fast under your skin.

What happened to you?

Who did this?

Are you ok?

All questions that you wanted to ask, but didn’t.

Instead, what came out was, “P-please be careful with me…”

Undertaker clicked his tongue through a smile, cooing at you almost condescendingly as he reassured, “I’ll be gentle, baby. Don’t you worry.”

With his free hand, he reached down to run his middle fingers over your drenched cunt, massaging your clit and making you jolt when he found just the right spot.

And god, he liked to tease you, applying pressure on your most sensitive area and making you squirm and writhe and beg before letting another sinister chuckle rumble through his chest and moving his fingers lower to enter your tight, needy little hole.

You sucked in a shuddering gasp when one finger slipped in, then two, rhythmically pumping in and out while beginning to scissor inside and stretch you, making you whine and wince every so often.

“You’re beautiful, sweetheart,” he muttered in a low, velvety baritone, making that sensation in your stomach wind tighter and tighter. “You’re doing so good…”

Once he felt like he’d stretched you enough— though you were still so tight— he slightly repositioned himself over you, using his knees to spread your legs a little further apart as your body tried to pull them back together against your will.

You tried not to tense up too much, tried to stay calm and relaxed as you felt him lining himself up with your pulsing entrance and then slowly press the tip of his cock inside. You winced when he first entered you, the feeling foreign but not entirely as uncomfortable as you’d thought it’d be.

And Undertaker was keeping his promise, being as gentle as he could, aside from that fact that when you whimpered or whined or tensed he didn’t stop, just slowed down until he felt like you could take a faster pace. Your sensitive skin tore around the thickness of him, feeling like you were being split in two as your teeth clenched and your toes curled in an attempt to outlast the pain.

Once he was fully inserted, you both stilled for a moment, him helping you adjust yourself over his cock and catch your breath for a second before he began with smooth, rhythmic rolls of his hips into yours.

Once he pulled another one of those irresistible little sounds of pleasure from you, he couldn’t help but pick up speed, the rolling morphing into thrusting, trying as hard as he could to work you up to his preferred pace lest he frighten you with the intensity of which you’d get used to, eventually.

“That’s it… baby girl…” he spoke in between grunts as your cunt constricted even tighter around his cock, your eyes already beginning to roll back as you felt your limit approaching.

But Undertaker didn’t want to let you come yet.

He liked looking at the fucked-out daze that splayed across your face, even that expression appearing adorable when you were the one wearing it.

“D-Daddy…” you begged through your next breathy moan. “P-please…!”

Undertaker was getting close too, picking up the pace and feeling you tense even more under and around him, the pain threatening to outperform the pleasure if he didn’t time things just right.

But neither of you could speak now. Not even your pathetic, mewling pleas or Undertaker’s growling, whispered praises could be uttered. With every snap of his hips digging into your tender inner thighs, Undertaker conducted a symphony using your high-pitched whines and delectable moans, your sweet little voice echoing through the high ceilings and empty upper halls of the ornate, gothic mansion.

And then, finally, Undertaker let you come, your entire body tensing and shuddering as your insides squeezed harder than they ever had before around what was inside you. Then you fell limp, panting breaths hitching in your chest as you lay there like a rag-doll, head buzzing and pleasure surging.

Undertaker only made it a few more thrusts into you before he finished too, filling you up with his hot, sticky cum and moaning out as his head fell to nuzzle into the crook of your neck, his labored breaths felt on your skin as the two of you lay there in a mess of trembling limbs and heavy breathing.

Your hole kept fluttering around him, the intensity fading down after a few minutes, and then Undertaker slowly pulled out of you, falling on the bed beside you and tugging you close to him, pressing you to his chest as his long, lithe arms wrapped around your shivering form.

“It’s ok, baby girl…” he whispered to you as he stroked your tousled hair, sweat sticking it to your temples, your body still trembling slightly under his touch. “You’re ok… Daddy’s got you… You’re ok…”

And you didn’t really know what to do now, didn’t know what to expect.

Would he just send you off now that he’d gotten what he wanted?

Would he even contact you again once the two of you parted ways?

After tonight, you sure hoped so, though you knew many men would just move onto the next with zero regard for the last.

But after laying there in his arms for a while, him combing his fingers through your hair and softly humming a melancholy lullaby, you had a feeling maybe he did care for you more than a one night stand.

Maybe you were being naive to entertain that idea, but you couldn’t help it. You’d been so desperate for affection for so long and now that you were finally being shown it you’d gotten attached. Lucky for the two of you, you were both attached, however silently through the night that your need for each other grew.

Before you’d even made the decision to do such a thing, you’d fallen asleep, exhausted from the day’s— and night’s— activities, but Undertaker still had work to do.

He carefully unraveled himself from around you to head into the bathroom and get something to clean you up with, back to being careful and tender as he wiped away as much of the mess the two of you had made that remained between your legs as he could without waking you.

Tomorrow morning he could give you a bath, join you in the warm water and put his hands all over you again. He could make you breakfast and watch you sit at the long dining room table while wrapped up in one of his fluffy black bathrobes, the sleeves too long for you and the oversized garment making you appear even smaller compared to him than you already were.

He wouldn’t want you to leave, but he’d have no choice, because you didn’t live here and your friends might get worried if you didn’t come back. Not to mention, he was bound to be called back to headquarters sooner or later to attend to more matters concerning the Aurora Society.

But after he’d kissed you goodbye and you’d stepped out of the jet-black Rolls Royce, he’d be planning how and when he could see you again.

You’d both be thinking about each other while you were away, always eager to be in each other’s arms again.

Before you knew it, the lease to your apartment would be up for renewal but you’d have to break it to your friends that they’d have to find a replacement for you since you were moving into a luxurious mansion on the outskirts of London. They’d be hesitant of your decision at first, warn you not to rush into things too quickly, but you’d assure them that you were in good hands, promising to stay in touch and visit them again soon.

But it became so easy to lose track of time when you were with Undertaker. Days turning into weeks turning into months before you even realized it, seasons changing, holidays and birthdays and special occasions spent on extravagant vacations filling up your schedule with the man you loved. You’d meet his closest confidants and learn more about what it really was that he did for a living. Or at least, as much as he was willing to let you in on.

You became close with Grell quickly, both of you bonding over your similar taste in music and fashion and favorite movies. You tried to be on your best behavior around William, in the beginning, quickly realizing that the serious and stoic man didn’t have a knack for entertaining his boss’s girl like his outgoing, red-headed colleague did. And then there was Ron who, though he always seemed outwardly cheerful and always ready for a good time, you couldn’t get a sure read on.

But this would become your life, your normal routine. What used to be scraping by for the month��s rent and picking up convenience store food on your way to the part time job you hated was soon replaced by shamelessly expensive shopping sprees and five star Michelin restaurants and skipping around the spacious mansion in a brand new dress while you waited for Undertaker to finish up a meeting at headquarters.

And you loved your life. You loved him.

Because things were perfect.

And, as long as you were with him, they always would be.

I mean, wouldn’t they?

***

(Hello and thank you for reading! Whether you’re coming to this fic already having read my “Cause to Start a Vendetta” series or this is your introduction to it, I hope you enjoyed :)

I’d actually written the first draft of this fic about a year ago, not long after I’d started posting chapters of the main series. I wanted to give a little more backstory on the reader’s life before meeting Undertaker.

But yeah, this wraps up the series. Like I said in the afterword on the final chapter, I might write little bonus one-shots for this series in the future, but now I’m honestly looking forward to starting the new Undertaker fic I’ve had in my head for a while.

Thanks again for reading! See you soon~! <3)

#undertaker #Undertaker Kuroshitsuji #kuroshitsuji undertaker #undertaker black butler #black butler undertaker #kuroshitsuji #kuroshitsuji smut #black butler #black butler fanfiction #black butler smut #undertaker x reader #undertaker x you #undertaker x y/n #black butler x reader #black butler x you #black butler x y/n #kuroshitsuji x reader #kuroshitsuji x y/n #kuroshitsuji x you

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iboatedhere · 4 months ago

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It's been exactly 1 year since I posted my first RWRB fic, Baby, All At Once (This Is Enough) , and I've been so overwhelmed by the lovely comments and support on not only that fic, but every fic I've posted since. I really appreciate everyone that has showed me love this past year and I can't wait to see what the next year will bring, starting with this fic! Inspired by a request from @pragmatic-optimist from so long ago I can't even find it anymore :)

“Fuck,” Alex mumbles as he checks the live traffic radar on his phone for the hundredth time. A solid red line all the way to Heathrow. “Fuck. Hey,” He calls up to his Uber driver as he zooms in on the map. “Could you get off at the next exit and then take side roads? We’re cutting into my three-hour cushion time.”

The driver twists all the way around in his seat and then gestures out the window at the bumper-to-bumper traffic, which is being made worse by the heavy rain hanging over London for the past week. “What exit, mate? We haven’t moved in thirty-five minutes. Where exactly am I getting off?”

“I don’t know,” Alex groans. “I’m sorry. I'm stressing the fuck out because Heathrow is built above the gates of hell, and I thought I gave myself enough time to navigate it. It hasn’t stopped raining in a million years, and if I miss this flight, I’m royally fucked because there isn’t another flight until tomorrow morning. I really don’t want to spend another grand on a ticket plus whatever a hotel room would cost, so I just really need to get to the airport as fast as possible.”

The driver blinks at him.

“Also,” Alex continues, feeling more than a little pathetic, “I didn’t have a chance to get coffee this morning, so that’s fucking me up too.”

The driver eyes him warily before he turns around. “Pal, I think coffee is the last thing you need right now.”

Read More on Ao3

#rwrb #rwrb fic #firstprince #firstprince fic #Flight Plan

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bluenet13 · 3 days ago

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A Very Marry Christmas - Read on AO3

Tim's plans to propose are repeatedly thwarted by Lucy's busy holiday schedule. Desperate to make it happen, he decides to take a chance during the team's gift exchange. A @chenfordsecretsanta fic for @mamadoc

'Twas two weeks before Christmas, and all through the house, the sound of Tim Bradford's footsteps echo steadily. Outside, Christmas lights twinkle brightly as Tim paces in his living room. Fifteen steps to the coffee table, ten more to the door. Another fifteen to the stairs, and finally twenty back to the opposite wall. He's counted them certainly once, possibly thrice, but most likely he's into double digits. Anything to distract himself from the small box burning a hole in his pocket.

Lucy is half an hour late. It happens often and Tim usually accepts it without complaint. But tonight, it makes him restless and so he paces. The food is getting cold in the kitchen, because it was either cold on the table or burnt on the stove. That also happens often, because one of them is almost always late, and because Tim is nowhere near a chef and dinner has been burned in more than one occasion. But not tonight. Tonight, Tim followed the instructions Genny sent to perfection, wanting the evening to be equally perfect.

It's another half hour later when keys jingle outside. Tim stops and stares, eyes wide as his hand inadvertently moves to cover his pocket.

A moment later the door opens, and Lucy is right there. She drops her bag and catches Kojo as he comes barreling down. She kisses him in the head as Tim continues staring. If he was a less confident man, he would get offended at his girlfriend kissing their dog hello before him. Instead, he patiently waits for his turn, and a minute later Lucy is back in his arms where she belongs.

"Hi Lu," he breathes into her hair, letting the familiar scent sooth the butterflies dancing in his stomach. "How was work?"

"It's been a day," Lucy sighs, "Had to break a fight at Best Buy, almost arrest a teen and treat the mall Santa Claus he brought to tears and help with a traffic accident after a poorly tied tree slipped off a car's roof in the middle of La Brea."

Tim grimaces and gently turns Lucy around so he can massage her shoulders and neck. "The joys of the Christmas season," he says sarcastically. Yet, he smiles to himself. Hoping tonight will make however many Christmases together life gifts them the most joyful of seasons as they celebrate their anniversary year after year.

Lucy nods and relaxes into Tim's touch. She closes her eyes and is nearly asleep on her feet when her phone buzzes in her pocket. Picking it up, she shoots Nolan a quick reply and turns to look at Tim apologetically. "Yeah, about that… The day is about to become a little more joyful."

Tim deflects at the inflection in her voice because they have been here before. "What did you do?" He almost tacks on a now at the end of the sentence, but he doesn't want to start the rest of their lives together with petty comments and unnecessary arguments.

"I sort of got volunteered for a community event tonight," Lucy explains, then breaks for a kiss to soften the blow. "And I sort of volunteered you to come with me."

To Tim's credit he manages to muster a tentative smile and almost convincing nod. "That sounds great, Luce."

"You're not mad?" Lucy asks, finally catching the delicious smell coming from the kitchen. "You made dinner?"

"I did, but it was nothing special. I can pack it, and we can reheat it tomorrow at the station." He fails to mention how dinner was Lucy's favorite dish as a child that she's mentioned a few times she hasn't eaten since the falling out with her parents. If she asks, he can just say he bought it, no need for her to know he spent hours cooking and start suspecting he's up to something.

"Okay, I'm sorry." Lucy smiles and it's so infectious that Tim finds himself smiling back even if his plans are completely ruined. "Let's go change into something more festive. I promised Nolan I would be there in an hour at most."

Making a silent note to have a conversation with Nolan, Tim follows Lucy into the bedroom. But not before making a stop at the highest shelf in the kitchen and depositing the ring safely inside.

-x-x-x-

Three days later, Tim puts the disappointment of the failed proposal behind him and tries again. He's just finished wiggling Kojo into a Santa costume, complete with beard and hat, when his phone rings.

He cringes when Lucy's picture pops into the screen and silently begs the universe that she's just calling to tell him she's on her way home.

The universe in turn laughs at his face, and keeps going on uncarily, as Lucy explains in his ear.

"I'm sorry, Tim. I know we had plans to go on a hike with Kojo but two of Harper's detectives called out and she needs help with an open case."

Tim sighs and lets the disappointed show on his face while masking it in his voice. "Isn't there anyone else that can help?" He tries, not wanting to read too much on the universe yet again conspiring against him.

"Yeah, but Harper asked me first. She knows I've been trying to make up for the detective's test and everything else that happened."

Tim hates that Lucy is still trying to atone for things she shouldn't be atoning for, but that's just the nature of the world and he promised himself he would be supportive. God knows he's the one that will be trying to make amends the rest of his life and it still won't be enough for what he put her through.

"It's okay. We can go on a hike another day," he says dutifully, silently beginning to get the costume off Kojo. "Be safe, I love you."

"Love you too, see you later tonight." Lucy blows him a kiss and the line goes dead.

Tim's heart sinks at the silence but he smiles down at Kojo and pats his head softly. "What do you say about going on a walk with just daddy?"

-x-x-x-

It's three nights before Christmas when Tim decides to try yet again. This time he's picked a day when they are both working so he can make sure they both end up at the restaurant like they're supposed to.

When the clock on his small office ticks five in the afternoon, he checks his phone and smiles upon seeing Lucy's text. She's just finished her last call and is on the way back to the station. Perfectly on time.

A few minutes later, Lucy pokes her head through the small gap he left open on the door and gives him a blinding smile. "I will go shower and get dressed and we can be on our way."

"Sounds great, Luce."

This time, Tim picked the fancy restaurant where they had their first date after getting back together. He almost picked a new place to signal a new beginning, but instead he chose the one that reminds them that even in life's darkest moments, when destiny or each other pushes them apart, they're still stronger together.

He reserved a cozy corner table, ordered Lucy's favorite wine in advance, and rehearsed his speech more times that he knew were necessary. Trying his very best to keep things on track and his plans in motion.

But as seconds then minutes start ticking by and Lucy still hasn't returned, Tim starts to get antsy. He glances at the small velvet box he's been holding and curses when he sees his sweaty hands are getting it damp. He dries it on his jacket and puts it in his pocket, so he doesn't oust himself when Lucy comes in.

When the door finally opens a few minutes later, it's not Lucy, but Angela. Tim curses softly, unclenches his hands, and settles on his chair. He forces his tense shoulders to drop and focuses on his best friend. She has that funny look on her face that he hates, and he just knows his plans are about to be ruined again.

"Sooo…" Angela begins and Tim cringes.

He waits and cringes some more when Angela raises her hands apologetically without having said anything that needed apologizing for. She glances at his attire and decides to sit down.

"I was talking to Nyla when Lucy came in to change and she heard us talking," Angela finally explains and Tim already doesn't like where this is going. "I was telling her how the latest case forced me to take overtime three Fridays in a row and I missed Wesley's birthday, plus the anniversary of when he proposed."

"Okay?" Tim prompts, trying but failing to wait calmly for the rest of the story.

She takes a deep breath and explains everything so quickly that Tim misses half the words, but he still gets the gist of it. Lucy felt bad so she offered to babysit the Lopez-Evers siblings so Angela and Wesley could take their reservation to make up for their missed celebrations.

"I'm sorry, Tim. Lucy looked so earnest when she offered that I really thought you guys wouldn't mind, but seeing you now…" She trails off, looking him up and down and taking in the freshly pressed suit and expertly combed hair.

Tim's shoulders slump but he nods anyway. He loves Lucy's big heart, he really does. Yet still he wishes her big heart would stop getting in the way of his.

Angela coughs and Tim realizes his silence has stretched too long to the point of suspicion. The last thing he wants is his detective friend to start detecting so he grabs her hand and squeezes supportively.

"It's okay. Don't worry about it and just enjoy the evening with Wes." He tries not to sound too annoyed, but the way Angela's brows furrow makes him think he's just failed spectacularly.

"Timothy, is there something you're not telling me?" Angela asks sweetly, in her most dangerous voice.

Tim opens his mouth to try to form an excuse when Angela lifts a finger silencing him.

"Wait, I got it." She starts ticking fingers as she goes. "You made reservations on a Friday night to one of LA's busiest restaurants and one I know for a fact you have only visited once before, when I helped you finally get your head out of your ass and ask Lucy to a first date, again. You are wearing a suit that I also know for a fact you didn't own before because I've been in your closet, and I know I would have picked this one for my wedding had it been there. You combed your hair in a way that I last saw… Never, you have never combed your hair to make yourself look like a Hollywood star and not the guy that catches people pissing on the Hollywood Stars."

She pauses, takes a big gulp of air, and goes for the killing blow. "And you're really trying to be inconspicuous, but you have been staring at the ring box-shaped lump in your pocket ever since I came in."

Tim has known Angela long enough to know that lying would be pointless, so, uncharacteristically, he decides to open up without her having to threaten him first and tells her everything. She spends about ten minutes squealing, demanding to see the ring, and hugging him to his dismay, before quickly sobering up and starting to plan with him.

-x-x-x-

In the week leading up to Christmas, Angela dutifully helps Tim plan perfect proposal after perfect proposal. They end with Tim in a Santa costume delivering gifts at the local children's hospital, Tim and Lucy babysitting Lila and Leah, Lucy volunteering them for an extended patrol so another officer could finish gift shopping, and party after party that was fun but too crowded for him to propose.

Out of ideas, and time, Tim decides to propose during the gift exchange Nola and Bailey organized for the team at their home. There are a million things that could go wrong, but everything has already gone wrong when it shouldn't, so he figures there's not much more he can lose.

With Angela's help he wraps the engagement ring as Lucy's Secret Santa present and manipulates the draw in a way that he knows for certain Lucy's name will be the one on the last paper left for him when he's purposely late to the drawing.

The evening goes well for the most part, but he's nervous as hell so Angela keeps topping his whiskey glass to keep him relaxed. He's a little tipsy by the time Bailey declares dinner over and the exchange beginning, but at least the gift is still where he left it, Lucy hasn't volunteered them for anything that would cut the night short, and no one has realized what he's planning.

As planned, Bailey opens the first gift from Celina and rejoices at the LAFD onesie. Then Nolan fist bumps James, smiling at his new tool kit, and Tamara squeals at the blouse Angela got her.

The rest of the exchange proceeds in controlled chaos but things take a turn when it's just Harper and Lucy left, and Harper grabs a box that looks suspiciously like Tim's box, same wrapping paper and all.

Tim turns panicked eyes at Angela and silently begs her to do something. Always smart and quick-witted, she clears her throat. "Harper, wait! I think you might have grabbed the wrong gift," Angela says, trying to sound casual. "Unless you have a secret admirer that's not James?" She pointedly looks at the box that clearly contains jewelry and at Nolan's gift from her husband. "I think that one is for Lucy."

Harper pauses, a skeptical look on her face. "Nice try, Lopez. But the name tag says it's for me."

She slowly unwraps the gift and by the time the lid comes off, revealing the sparkling ring inside, Tim has fully stopped breathing. Harper gasps and the room falls silent.

Harper's eyes widen in shock, and she looks around the room, confused, her eyes finally settling on Tim, then Lucy, then Tim again. "Uh, Tim? I think there's been a mix-up."

Lucy, equally shocked, looks at Tim with wide eyes. "Tim, what's going on?"

Tim's heart drops. This is not how he imagined it at all.

Still, he stands up, his face flushed with embarrassment even as his eyes shine with the determination to make this right and finally propose to the love of his life. He steps forward, takes the ring from an apologetic Harper, and drops to a knee.

"Luce," Tim begins, his voice steadying as he looks into her eyes as if they're the only two people in the room and the whole damn universe. "I had this all planned out, quite a few times actually, but life and your big heart had other ideas." He laughs and recounts every failed attempt that preceded this day, gently shushing her when she rushes to apologize in the middle of his speech. "Lucy Chen, you're the most incredible person I've ever met, and I'm the luckiest guy because for some reason you chose me, over and over again, even when I didn't deserve it. We've been through so much together and it's all taught me that life is not worth living without you. I know things haven't gone exactly as planned, tonight and before, but maybe that's just our way. Nothing about us has been traditional or easy. But through it all, we have stuck together, and it's only made us stronger. Will you make me the happiest man on the planet and marry me?"

Lucy, her eyes filled with tears, nods. "Yes, Tim. Yes! A million times yes!"

The room erupts into cheers and applause as Tim slips the ring onto Lucy's finger. He pulls her to her feet and captures her lips in a kiss that promises the future he's always dreamed of but never dared believe would happen to a guy like him.

When they break apart, their friends are right there.

Nolan clasps Tim on the back. "Congratulations, man. That was a rollercoaster."

Tim laughs, relief and happiness flooding through him. "You have no idea."

"Well, it wouldn't be a Mid-Wilshire proposal or wedding without a little drama," Wesley jokes.

Bailey grins, shaking her head. "Don't forget honeymoons, those can go awry too."

After every member of their little family has congratulated them, only Angela remains. Her familiar cheeky grin is gone and there are tears in her eyes as she smiles at them. "Congratulations, you both! I couldn't be happier." She pulls them into a hug and saves the rest of her words for later when she's writing her co-best woman speech.

Tim and Lucy forgo the rest of Secret Santa and steal a moment alone on the porch, the cold night air a stark contrast to the warmth they feel inside.

"I can't believe you did all this," Lucy says, looking at Tim with adoration. "And I can't believe I ruined your plans so many times that you had to propose in front of all our friends." Lucy grimaces and buries her face on Tim's shirt. "That's very un-Tim-like."

Tim nods, a sheepish smile on his face. "It wasn't my first choice, but it makes sense for us."

He spares their friends a glance and his mind's-eye flashes with countless snapshots of moments together. The near misses and the relief afterward, their concern after the breakup and joy when they got back together, the countless times they’ve supported each other through thick and thin. Every trial, every laugh, every moment that has led them to this point.

"Let's make a promise," Lucy says, her voice barely above a whisper.

"What's that?" Tim asks, swaying slightly with the wind in tune with the soft Christmas music coming from the living room.

"Let's promise to always find time for each other, no matter how crazy things get. To always support each other, even when plans go awry."

"I promise, Lucy. Always." They lean in, sealing the promise with a kiss, the world around them fading away. When they pull back, Tim holds Lucy's hand, the engagement ring catching the light and sparkling brightly.

"I love you, Tim. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Lucy," Tim replies, pulling his fiancé close.

They stand in comfortable silence, the sound of laughter and celebration drifting from inside. Tim gently brushes a stray hair from Lucy's face, his touch warm and reassuring. "Should we go back inside or call it a night and move the celebrations somewhere more private?"

"Let's go back inside," Lucy suggests, squeezing his hand. "But only for a little while. We have a lot to celebrate."

Hand in hand, they walk back into the house, greeted by their friends' cheers and smiles. The night continues with stories, laughter, and joy, each moment a precious memory in the making.

When they finally announce they're going home, Angela pulls Tim close and raises her glass in a toast. "To Tim and Lucy, may your love continue to grow, and may you always find happiness in each other."

"To Tim and Lucy!" everyone echoes, their voices ringing with genuine affection and joy.

Tim and Lucy thank their friends and leave the house, their fingers intertwined as they step into the night. The sky above is clear, the stars shining brightly in their honor, each one a distant reminder of the infinite possibilities that await them.

"Ready for our next adventure?" Tim asks, his eyes twinkling bright.

Lucy smiles, leaning her head on his shoulder. "Always," she whispers in the night.

And thus begins the next chapter of their lives.

#the rookie #chenford #tim bradford #lucy chen #chenfordsecretsanta24 #chenford fic #the rookie fanfic

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echoric · 2 months ago

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I fucking love your fics so much and have been for years

I'd like to request a little drabble :D maybe some hurt Mav with Rooster witnessing it before they reconcile? Maybe they were both in the same town without knowing and Rooster witnessing mav get thrown off his bike at a stoplight. Doesn't even realise it's Maverick until he lies on the floor not moving or so. No stress though haha

thank you :') im so glad you like my writing :D & your wish is my command <3 (apologies that it's short and sorry for any typos, i rushed this out over my lunch break at work haha; i can edit [and add more] and post it to ao3 later if anyone wants that!)

see how it shines

hurt mav, protective rooster (Word Count: 1,615)

The sky was over cast, and it was raining, but only just enough to be annoying as Rooster walked back to base - as it had been for days now. Rooster was about to give up on the idea of ever seeing the sun again before the spring. His shoes were just wet enough that he could feel his socks getting wet, and his hair was just starting to get to the dampness where it was falling in his face. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair again, pushing it back and looking up at the grey sky with a frown.

Rooster heard the sound of an approaching motorcycle and he quickly stepped further away from the road. He’d already been splashed by a garbage truck flying through a puddle on the street, and he wasn’t keen on having another rain water and run off bath. The motorcycle passed him – shockingly seeming to obey the speed limit and other traffic laws. Rooster huffed quietly to himself and tucked his hands in his pocket as he approached an intersection. The sign changing to a red hand right as he got to the curb felt like the universe laughing at him, but he didn’t dare jaywalk this close to base – or in this intersection at all.

He saw a car flying up to the light before it had even been green for more than a half-second. Someone was driving like a moron – an unfortunately common occurrence with this specific intersection. Rooster swore it had to have been haunted by some road raging ghost or something, the amount of crashes that occured there were too many to remember.

The motorcycle had stopped for the red light, another rare occurrence for the local motorcycles. Rooster looked at it a bit closer – not like he had much else to look at while the light stayed red – and saw the base parking permit on the liscense plate and hummed to himself. A new transfer. He wondered if it was the new captain who was supposed to be coming in to supervise a test flight. He’d heard whispers that it was some Top Gun hotshot, one of the best graduates who had gone back to be a teacher before leaving that behind for combat and test flights.

He didn’t care.

Of all of the Top Gun graduates he’d met, he’d only liked as many as he could count on one hand. So Rooster wasn’t excited like all of the other pilots to meet this ‘living legend’, and if it was him on the motorcycle, he wasn’t going to bother with trying to follow him to his parking spot to introduce himself early like he knew the others would. Anything for a possible promotion.

The light switched to green and the walkman started glowing white. Rooster glanced over at the motorcycle and saw the rider kick the bike into gear, starting through the intersection. He stepped into the road and glanced to the other side to check just in case there were any other idiot drivers – and quickly hopped back up onto the curb as a car flew past close enough that he felt the breeze tug his clothes with it.

Rooster’s eyes widened and he turned just in time to watch the car’s break lights light up and the motorcycle swerve futilely. Before he’d even processed what had happened, he was running into the street. The car flew into reverse, peeling away from the scene without any hesitation. The motorcyclist wasn’t even moving, and the bastard was fleeing the scene even with Rooster there as a witness. Rooster would’ve tried to memorize the plate, but he knew there were cameras, and he was more concerned with the way the cyclist’s bike was shredded and pinning one of their legs under it.

“Hey, hey, I’m Bradley. Don’t try to move, I’m gonna lift your bike off of you. Can you say anything?” Rooster asked quickly, hands hovering over the bike and waiting for a sign that the biker was even aware of his presence. A weak groan was his only response, and he took it as a confirmation to go ahead.

The cyclist choked back another cry of pain as he lifted the bike, rocking more of it’s weight onto the cyclist’s leg for a brief moment before he was able to pull it fully off. Rooster paused, unsure what to do next, scanning the person for any bleeding – there was a lot of blood already. He let out a shaky breath and tugged his phone out of his pocket, dialing 9-1-1 as fast as he could manage with adrenaline making his hands shaky. He threw the phone onto speaker phone and set it down next to them, pressing down on an injury in the cyclist’s leg that was bleeding way too heavily for Rooster’s liking.

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

“I’m Lieutenant Bradshaw, I’m at the intersection of 132nd and West Center. A motorcyclist was hit by someone running a red light, I need medical and police,” Rooster spoke as he pressed harder on the wound, apologizing under his breath to the cyclist as they groaned again and shifted like they were trying to move away from the pressure and pain.

“Thank you, lieutenant. Is the victim breathing?”

“Yes, ma’am. I think they’re awake too, but I don’t want to move their helmet incase of a spinal,” Rooster said quickly.

He heard muffled typing on the other end of the phone call before the dispatcher spoke up again, “That’s a good call. Are they bleeding?”

“Yes, I’m applying pressure to a wound in their thigh. Not sure if it’s arterial, but it’s bleeding a lot. They’re wearing biking leathers.”

“That’s good. You should be able to hear the paramedics’ siren soon. They will be with you in less than a minute, keep the steady pressure until they tell you to switch out,” the dispatcher said calmly.

Too calmly.

Rooster knew it was her job to keep one emergency from spiraling into multiple, but that didn’t help the uneasy feeling in his chest as the person under him might be bleeding out and she sounded like it was any other Thursday night for her. He nodded to himself and glanced up at the visor of the helmet. In the distance, he could barely make out the sound of an approaching ambulance and he sighed in relief. He managed a weak smile and tried to sound as reassuring as possible, “Hear that, buddy? It’s your lucky day. The ambulance must’ve already been in the area.”

A groan was again his only response.

He didn’t care.

As long as the person was groaning, they were still alive. Rooster had known enough death in his life, he didn’t want to have to watch it again even if it was a stranger. The ambulance pulled to a stop near them, paramedics hopping out and grabbing a bag with well-practiced speed. Rooster waited for them to kneel next to him; one of the paramedics pressed a gauze pad over his hands and they quickly traded places. Rooster stood up and backed away, giving them space to work. He saw them go through the quick checks for a spinal injury, the cyclist passing all of them.

“Alright, then, I’m going to go ahead and get your helmet off you, okay? Should help you breathe a bit easier,” the lead paramedic said with a warm smile.

A different paramedic lifted the cyclist’s head and she carefully removed his helmet. Rooster felt like the air had been punched out of his lungs. He stared at the man with eyes the size of the moon, unable to suck in a breath as he stumbled back. It had been years, almost a decade at this point, but Rooster would’ve recognized that man even if he was blind.

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell.

The reason why Rooster was stuck on a base as a lieutenant instead of being a commander out on a carrier. His hands were covered in Maverick’s blood. They were trembling. Distantly, Rooster heard police cars arrive on the scene, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the way Maverick’s face was screwed up in pain as the paramedics lifted him onto a stretcher. Of all the people he could’ve saved, of all the people who could’ve been assigned to his base – Rooster felt dizzy. A hand on his upper arm yanked him out of his thoughts and his head shot to the side to look at the officer. He smiled reassuringly to him, glancing down at the blood on Rooster’s hands with a sympathetic wince.

“Come with me, son, we need your statement.”

“Y-yeah,” Rooster whispered quietly, eyes moving back to the ambulance as doors slammed and the siren turned on. “Is he–”

“Don’t ask yourself that, son,” the officer said quickly, cutting him off before he could even voice his question. “It’s best not to dwell on what might happen. You did your part. We’ll get your statement from you and then get you all cleaned up, and that’s as far as you need to worry about it now, alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

The ambulance flew off into the night.

Rooster stared after it for a few seconds before the officer gently touched his shoulder again to get him to follow. His hands were shaking. They were covered in cooling blood. Rooster felt the rain picking up, starting to mix with the blood covering the pavement and making pink water drip from his finger tips. He let out a shaky breath. Inhale, exhale. The officer opened his car door and Rooster sat down, orders were easy. He could follow them.

#bradley rooster bradshaw #pete maverick mitchell #top gun 1986 #top gun maverick #top gun #top gun fanfiction #request #requests open #hurt no comfort

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spirit-mail · 2 years ago

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Fresh Meat

rai_viz on ao3

König × M!Reader - 1.2k -

C1 - C2 - C3

___×× follow n send asks so I can write more

"Double foam caramel macchiato for Savannah?"

You grumbled maybe your thirtieth order of the morning out, sliding the warm cardboard cup across the counter to the nearest customer. Stomping back to your station just to find another overload of orders, with only two people working including yourself. Your coworker, Farah, taking orders and desperately trying to make a dent in the sudden influx of people, rushing in and out of the medium-capacity store.

"Is Derek dead or did he just decide not to call in today?" Farah breathed out as the rush finally calmed down. The two of you leaned against the counters, taking maybe the most useful makeshift break you could.

"If anything, I should be the one missing work.."

She instantly quirked an eyebrow towards your tired figure, wiping down the counter and looking at you intently.

"Do you remember when I told you that my friend set me up on some stupid date?"

The bell, notifying the both of you that someone entered the store rung as soon as you finished your sentence, and you both were quick to pretend you were hard at work making orders. Farah standing right in front of the register once again to take the customers order, and in that second you thought you really were just being punished by god simply for existing.

“Just a bagel, please..” Your stomach churned and you froze in front of the coffee maker, and you desperately wanted to run out from behind that counter and onto the street into oncoming traffic. Hoping maybe there was just someone with the exact same voice and speaking mannerisms as the guy you hooked up with just last night. Deciding to just “be the bigger person”, you reluctantly turned around to face König. Your lips pressed firmly together in the awkwardest expression you could possibly come up with. You waved, watching as his eyes widened and he opened his mouth to say something, ultimately staying silent. Farah could clearly see the weird tension between you two and instantly put two and two together, covering her mouth with her hand as she tried not to laugh (fucking sadist).

And then it got worse. Maybe your saving grace- maybe the reason you’re stuck here in the first place, but the man, the myth, and the legend himself, Derek, opens the door, the sound of his footsteps amplified due to your previous silence. “Sorry I’m late, guys!”

“Soo judging from your face it's safe to say you didn’t go out of your way to track me down?”

You chuckled awkwardly, sitting across from the much larger man with a bright red drink in front of him with the bagel he asked for. “I’m really sorry, I honestly never expected this to happen..” He began, eyes darting around nervously as you sighed, resting your elbow on the table and staring at him intently. “You didn’t need to get me this..”

“It’s fine, I figured you’d like it. It’s cherry.” He honestly might have just died right then and there. A million thoughts flooded through his head and suddenly it was hard for him to even move, but the one thing that was clear to him was that you remembered. It sounds stupid, maybe- but you didn’t just go off and toss him out your brain like any other person would do, and that meant enough to him as he took a sip of the lemonade, smiling softly. “I didn’t think I’d see you again so I did a bunch of shit I’d never usually do and now its all coming back for me..” You groan, realizing now that you weren’t scared of seeing him, you were scared of having to talk about it. Yeah, you could just pretend it never happened and you two are just strangers who have a hard time looking eachother in the eye, but thats a billion times worse than what you’re doing now.

“The note you left me..”

“Do not bring that up- please. It was impulsive!”

He laughs, tilting his head back as the red on his cheeks becomes more visible. “Alright. My work isn’t far from here, but I should probably be leaving about now.” He stands up, still towering over you even after you stand as well. You’re quick to open your arms out wide, clearly asking for a hug before awkwardly switching to a handshake and then back into a hug, his cheeks still a bright red as he carefully wraps his arms around your form, enveloping you into what might have been the longest hug ever.

“See you around.. Maybe probably?” You pat his back and finally let the hug go, feeling both of your coworkers nosy eyes on you.

“I’ll call you later.” He does the little telephone motion to the side of his face as he walks out the store, leaving you there practically foaming at the mouth. You would have collapsed on that tile floor right then and there if you didn’t have to work, Farah and Derek passing jokes and bombarding you with questions about him and your relationship. You reluctantly answered most of them, pleading the 5th for all the rest.

The day finally ends and you end up walking out of that coffee shop alive at 6 PM sharp, your head filled with scenarios of bumping into König on the street, or- unrealistically enough, right in front of your apartment. You made it home successfully, no awkward surprise meet-ups. Lying in your bed desperately trying to distract yourself from the anxiety that he unknowingly caused you with just one four-word sentence. From constantly checking your phone to groaning and rolling around your bed in anticipation.

You nearly screeched when you heard your phone ringing beneath your pillow, unknown caller ID. Assuming it was spam, you answered, managing a lazy and drawn out "Hellooo?"

“Hi, [Name]!” You could hear him grinning ear to ear with excitement, his voice booming through the phone and practically rupturing your eardrums. He seemed way more outgoing over the phone.

“Have you been well today?” He asked, you leaned your head back onto your bedframe and sighed. “I’m fine, you?”

“I’m great.”

The silence between you was dreadful. The occasional sound of you breathing or him moving around a bit made you want to slam your head into the wall, and when you both tried to say something but ended up interrupting eachother you really just wanted to hang up and go to sleep forever. Finally, after a little less than 5 minutes of crippling silence, he finally spoke and you were too distracted with your own thoughts to interrupt him.

“I hope I didn’t disturb you or anything like that today, I truly did not intend for that to happen..” He chuckled awkwardly into your silence.

“I uh- really liked the drink you gave me, by the way. Thank you.”

“If you’d like.. Accidentally walked in tomorrow I could give you another one.” You responded, finally feeling more comfortable.

“I’ll make sure to accidentally show up, then?” He was all giddy now, like a highschool girl talking to her crush. “See you tomorrow, then? On accident?” you grinned, reassuring the joke that it would just be another mistake.

“On accident.”

#AHHH hes so cute ummm reader saved him on his phone as “konig (big cutie) 🫶” ughhdb #spirit fics~☆#i was a lil possessed cause i wrote most of this in a few hours and then got so freaked out.. but anyways #male reader #male reader insert #black male reader #black reader #gn reader #cod mw2 #konig call of duty #konig mw2 #konig x male reader #konig smut #konig #konig x reader

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spinchip · 1 year ago

Text

NEVER THE DARK

CHAPTER 13

Read on Ao3

Prologue - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12

!WARNING: refrences to ancient, non graphic child loss!

NO ONE HAS EVER BEEN LOST. // ALL IS TRUTH AND WAY.

“Gravis, Griffin, and I just arrived on scene, Pix.” Skylors voice crackles through her radio, “The civilian reports weren’t exaggerating- there’s a giant, er, slug-like animal here. In fact, ‘giant’ might even be an understatement.” Her girlfriend sounds openly bewildered.

Pix frowns, “Is it hostile?”

“Not on purpose. It keeps picking up cars and uprooting traffic lights, but it doesn't seem aware it’s doing it. It’s just bumping into things and they’re sticking.” Skylor reports, “The trail of slime it’s leaving is smoking, though, but it doesn’t look like it’s eating at the road.”

“Have Gravis move it to a less densely populated area- out of town completely would be best if at all possible.”

“Already on it. I’ll call Warden Nobel and have him bring us another containment cell.”

Skylor was always on the ball in the field, and Pixal was grateful she was by her side, “Thank you, Sky. Can you alert Commissioner McLane to the possible hazardous materials and have him block off the street until we can have Tox examine it?”

“I’ll send speedster over now.”

At Skylors affirmative, Pixal sets her radio to the side and continues looking through her extensive set of videos pulled from all over Ninjago city. She trusted her father had done what he could to get a hit on Dixie with his facial recognition software, but she wanted to be extra certain she couldn’t find the other woman the same way. She’d started with the cameras around the museum in an attempt to find the escape route the other thief had taken after defeating the ninja, but had come up with nothing. Despite having the technology to feed these videos into and get results in a matter of seconds, Pixal chose to go through the cameras with her own eyes. Her pattern and facial recognition was leagues above any of the market value programs, and if anyone was going to catch the woman’s face in the background of a walmart CCTV feed it would be her. The woman was incredibly skilled at avoiding cameras, apparently, because Pixal was coming up with nothing, nothing, and more nothing. She even had video archives open from years and years ago, hoping to comb through them all and find a facial match for her, to at least give her something to go off of. No luck there, either.

The last set of camera feeds on her upper set of screens is current security footage from several different vantage points throughout Ninjago- these weren’t monitoring for the thief. She’d tapped these in order to monitor the streets of Ninjago which were quickly becoming overrun with monsters she’d never seen before. The slug incident today was the latest in a long line of beasts that seemed to just… appear and begin wrecking havoc. The other elemental masters had been up to their ears in emergency situations, evacuations, and damage control. Today, it was a slug, a skittering weevil-like creature that crashed into several storefronts before dying in downtown Ninjago with no warning, and a flock of birds with bony protrusions on their back and acid spit. The past week has been much the same.

It was sheer good luck that Kryptarium prisons' deeper, more fortified cells were able to contain these animals.

As Pixal flicks through the camera feeds, there’s a familiar chime from her phone. She snatches it up and punches the answer button before the second ring, “Ronin.” She greets briskly, keeping her eyes on the screen as she leans back and crosses her arms.

“You called?” He drawls through the phone, and she can clearly envision him leaned back with his feet propped upon his desk. The very picture of relaxed.

“I need you in Ninjago yesterday. Your expertise is required.” She says immediately, not bothering to beat around the bush.

“Yeah, Yeah, I got your voicemail.” There’s a shuffle on his end, as if he’ sitting up in interest at the topic, “What’s in it for me?”

“You will have a hand in saving Ninjago.” She says flatly. He makes a noncommittal grunt and she barely resists rolling her eyes, “Fine.” She slaps her keyboard and pulls up his criminal record, “You have three unpaid fines here that have put out a warrant for your arrest for- really? Those are huge fines for… illegal parking?”

“I know!”

“Consider them paid off… if you come to Borg tower.” She bargains.

There’s another grunt, this time a winded cough of exertion as he gets to his feet. “What do you need me for anyway?” He grumbles, yawning into the phone.

Pixal slumps a little, “There is a new villain in town- he is working with bounty hunters. I need your help identifying one of the girls working for him.”

“You know not every bounty hunter knows each other, right?”

“I am aware that you and her have spent several years in this profession at the same time.” She says coolly, “If anyone were to know her, it would be you. Will you come?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming to Borg tower. It’ll be a few hours.” She hears the jangle of keys on the other line, “Don’t forget to take care of my fines.”

With one hand, Pixal infiltrates the police database and erases the marks off his criminal record entirely. There was no hint that he’d ever so much as looked at an illegal parking space. It takes ten seconds at most, “Done.” She says simply, and hangs up the phone.

Another hour of nothing passes by, with a brief update from Skylor about the slug and no further activity on the cameras to be concerned about. She checks her email a few times and shoots Wu another text that he doesn’t respond to- he’d gone out to Misakos current archeological dig site to discuss the gauntlet with her, and was completely off the grid because of it. Or he was ignoring her texts. Pixal has a niggling feeling in the back of her mind that he was hiding something, but there’s no proof other than her gut feeling. She wouldn't start anything over a bad vibe.

She does another useless search for the gauntlet and once again comes up empty- there was nothing about the artifact on the internet or in any digitized academic databases she checked. There were mentions of gauntlets or sets of armor, but nothing that matched up with the powers they’d seen so far. The longer Wu went without checking in, the more certain Pixal became that he’d hit a wall too. All Misakos encyclopedic history knowledge, and even she hadn't heard of this thing… Where were they supposed to go from here?

She’s so lost in thought that the sudden screech of the red panic alarm above her head causes her to launch up out of her chair and to her feet, staggering with the surge of pseudo-adrenaline that floods her processor. She scrambles for her radio and flips it to the correct frequency just in time to hear Dareth's panicked voice shouting from the line, “-taking him to the roof!”

“Dareth! What’s going on?” Pixal demands, reaching out and turning off the alarm with the keypad next to the wall before taking off towards the elevator.

“The thief is back, and she’s stealing your father!” Dareth wails through the radio.

Pixal punches the elevator call button four times in a panic despite the fact the extra pushes won’t will it to get here any faster. This is exactly why she advocated for stairs in the ninja's private penthouse- a project the others continually put off. (“We can just jump out the window and airjitzu down. No big deal!” Well what about if you need to go up!) Stupid! “What?” She demands, squeezing through the elevator doors before they’ve fully opened.

“I’ll explain later- right now you need to get to the roof!” He says urgently, his cartoony voice uncharacteristically serious.

“I am headed that way now. I will meet you there-”

“Sorry, Pix, but you’re on your own here.” His voice comes through with a wince, “I’m down for the count.”

She feels a cold chill sweep over her body, “Are you okay?”

“I’m not dying. Get to the roof, save your father, and we’ll worry about me later.” His voice comes through firm and gentle- there’d been a time where Pixal had written Dareth off as someone she’d always need to protect, but moments like this remind Pixal that Dareth was steady and solid. He’d been training ever since her Father asked him to stay by his side, his skills had grown and he’d become a formidable opponent. It had to have been someone strong to put him down- and he definitely didn't get benched without putting up a fight.

She had to be ready when these doors opened.

“Call Skylor.” She orders, the act of taking control offering her a calm she desperately needed, “She was on her way back to the tower, she can get to you quicker than I can. Do not die.”

“Ten-four, Boss.”

There’s no more time to talk. The elevator doors open up to the roof with a ding! And immediately Pixal is assaulted by whipping wind and the loud roar of helicopter blades slicing the air into pieces. She rushes out onto the tarmac, sprinting straight for the group of people loading her struggling father into the helicopter. Standing out from the black clad ensemble is a shock of bright pink hair. The thief, the woman who took her friends away, looks back at her with a bored, neutral expression. Pixels coolant feels like it’s boiling. The other woman turns towards another member of her crew and says something Pixal can’t hear through all the noise and motions to the sky as if to say shoo!

Then, without a second of hesitation, she spins around and charges at Pixal in return. She’s fast, putting a significant amount of space between Pixal and her father when the two women meet in a clash of fists on the middle of the roof. Pixal has to keep her head on straight, but she can feel her calm, controlled mask rapidly deteriorating each time she catches a glimpse of her father getting strapped into the Helicopters back seat.

He’s looking at her with fear in his eyes, but there’s a calm reassurance there- he knows she won’t get to him in time. It’s okay, Pixal.

A pang of heartbreak bruises her power core. She feels her fighting turn vicious, jabs and punches hitting and hitting hard, until she finally slams the woman face down against the roof. She whips out a set of cuffs from her jumpsuit and slaps them on her wrists- They activate with a hum and Pixal jabs the power button frantically. The cuff link beeps and Pixal slams the woman's wrists down on the rooftop beneath her, the cuffs latching onto the roof and rendering her immobile.

Pixal leaps to her feet and spins around- the helicopter is off the roof, probably has been for a while, and it’s flying across Ninjago faster than Pixal could feasibly catch. She’d have to race down the stairs to the sub basement, gear up, and then give chase- they’d be gone by then. They were already gone.

Her chest feels like it’s caving in. Why? Why can’t she save the people she loves? Why is she always on the sidelines, just a second too late?

Pull yourself together. She takes a deep, shuddering breath just to move air through her circuits. The thick smell of asphalt brings her mind back to the current issue- she turns around to find the thief still cuffed to the roof, her mouth and nose covered with blood and that infuriating bored expression on her face.

A ringing fills Pixal head and she feels disconnected from her body, pushing away her despair so hard she distances herself from her own processor.

Pixal hauls her up and takes her down the stairs to the ninjas level, not caring when she stumbles to keep up with Pixals rapid pace. She can’t care about anything right now. They rarely use the actual interrogation room, but Pixal fishes out the key for it now. On one side is the classic one-way glass and a few metal chairs seated at a metal table securely fastened to the floor. Pixal uncuffs the restrictive suppression bonds and switches them out for classic metal cuffs, weaving the chain through another padlock and chain attached to the table so she doesn’t get any funny ideas. She’s moving on autopilot, clicking locks together with practiced, robotic movements. She has to keep herself together, everyone is relying on her. Once she’s secure, Pixal washes her hands. After that she politely hands her a box of tissues so she can mop up her bloody face and gets her a glass of water and an ice pack.

She doesn’t say anything to the thief, who matches her silence quietly. Pixal observes her behind the one-way glass for several long minutes.

The bubble around her pops, and reality rushes back in. She sucks in a sharp breath and turns away, whipping her radio out and hitting the button frantically, “Dareth?” She questions. No response, “Dareth, status report.”

A long pause.

The radio crackles, “He’s alright, Pix.” Skylor’s voice comes through from Dareths radio, “He’s with the medic now. A few broken bones, but nothing life threatening.”

Pixal closes her eyes and presses the radio to her forehead, relief so deep she can almost feel it in her circuits. “Stay with him, please, and ask him what happened once he is cleared for visitors.” She glances over at the pink haired woman, who looks completely at ease as she balls up a blood soaked tissue and sets it on a clean tissue to avoid getting blood on the table top, “I caught our mystery thief from the museum break in.” Two mismatched eyes glance up and seem to meet Pixals green ones before skating away to look around the empty room, “I’m going to see what I can find out.”

The woman smiles serenely and settles back, unconcerned.

“Good luck. Call me if you need me, okay?”

“I will.”

The room is still deafeningly quiet when Pixal goes back inside. The click of the door closing behind her feels harsh on her audio processor. It’s sterile, with gray floors and white walls and fluorescent lights strung across the ceiling. Pixal sits at one of the available chairs on the other side of the table, “My name is Pixal borg. I have a few questions for you.”

The woman smiles wider.

“Hello, Miss Borg. Ask whatever you like.”

She spends the next hour asking questions to a brick wall. The thief is listening and attentive to every one of Pixar’s words, but at the end of each question or statement is pointed and resolute silence. She doesn’t rise to any bait Pixal sets out- she doesn’t get angry or scoff when Pixal slips in subtle insults, she doesn’t preen over praise, she doesn’t even look tired or annoyed as the questioning continues on and on. She’s the picture perfect image of poise, and Pixal can’t gain an inch.

Her phone rings at the hour and fifteen minute mark. She answers it with a palpable relief to have something else to do other than fail at questioning her only lead about this kidnapping, “Pixal speaking.” She greets briskly, stepping out of the room and rolling imaginary soreness from her shoulders.

“What’s with all the blood on the roof?” Ronin asks curiously.

Pixal winces- she’d handed out a few good left hooks during their scuffle, “The thief I needed you to identify made an appearance today. I caught her.”

“Damn, did you break her nose or something?”

“Her employer kidnapped my father.” She reveals bluntly.

Ronin sucks a hiss of air through his teeth at that, “…Okay, well, send me up the elevator and I’ll come down.”

Pixal calls the elevator and once it arrives she steps inside and rides it back up to the roof. She’s beginning to hate this thing. She clicks her radio just to be doing something, “Any news, Sky?”

“Dareth is sleeping off anesthesia right now, sorry.”

“Thank you. Ronin has just arrived, I believe he will be able to help.”

“Keep me updated.” Skylor says pointedly.

“I will.” Pixal holsters her radio, staring at the closed doors in front of her. She felt so useless- she couldn’t get a peep out of either of their two leads, she was stuck inside doing futile research while random monsters were running wild through Ninjago, and she couldn’t stop her father from getting kidnapped from right under her nose.

The doors open to Ronin leaning casually against the wall waiting for it. He whistles low, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline, “You look like shit.” Are the first words out of his mouth.

“It has been a rough week.” She says tightly.

“It’s Tuesday.”

“Get in the elevator.”

He obliges and she takes them back down to the Ninjas floor, filing him in on the situation as they ride down. He’s rubbing his scruff in thought as the doors open up and they step out, thinking hard, “There are two possible options I’m thinking of, Maybe Milena or Raven. Both of them color their hair regularly, and they’re sloppy enough to get caught like that.” He muses, “I’ve never heard of a Dixie Samson though, which makes sense if she’s a rookie.”

Pixal heads straight towards the interrogation room, feeling an inkling of dread- part of her is convinced the woman would have vanished in the time it took her to bring Ronin back here. She feels a line of tension leave her shoulders when she walks back inside to see her still sitting there casually on the other side of the glass.

Ronin stops dead in his tracks, “By the first master- You have got to be kidding me.” He groans, reaching up to run a hand down his face. He looks back up at the woman and does a full body wince.

“Do you know her?” Pixal cant help the amused curve of her lips at Ronins dramatics.

“Do I know her…” He grumbles darkly, dragging his feet up to the window, “She’s my ex sister in law.”

Pixals checklist of questions on the woman is immediately derailed in surprise, “You were married?”

“Everyone makes mistakes.” He defends.

“Who would agree to- no, it is not important right now. What can you tell me about her?”

“I can tell you she’s only in those cuffs because she wants to be.” He grimaces, “Her name is Stella and I doubt there's a set of restraints good enough to hold her short of strapping her down like Hannibal Lecter, and I’m skeptical if even that would work. If she’s still here, she has ulterior motives. She wants something from you, or she wants something in this building.”

“She already took everything.” Pixal barely resists baring her teeth. She sighs, “I need to get information from her.”

“Sorry, but you’re out of luck there. I can promise you she won't speak a word of her employer. You couldn’t waterboard info out of her if she doesn’t want to tell you.” He delivers the bad news bluntly.

“So this is another dead end.”

“Not exactly.” Ronin crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the glass, “Stella isn’t cheap to hire and if we throw in who exactly she’s dealing with- Borg, the ninja, you- that’ll only make this job that much more expensive. So we can confidently narrow down her employer to Ninjagos one percent.” He grins at Pixals shocked expression, “She does damn good work- the best work- but it’ll cost ya. That big paycheck is what ensures her loyalty. As long as her employer is supplementing her bank account, her lips are sealed- even in the face of torture.”

“She’s all about money…” Pixal turns that over in her mind, looking for the piece she needs to unravel Stella's loyalty.

Ronin shrugs, “All mercenaries are, Stella just has the status and reputation to be bought out by the richest of the rich. With that amount of cash backing her up, You wouldn't be able to even threaten anything out of her.”

Pixal holds up her hand, stopping Ronins words as she carefully considers his words. “I don’t need to threaten her.” As if she’d had an epiphany, Pixal immediately takes off around the corner. Ronin ends up scrambling after her, Following her into Stella's interrogation room just barely before the door closes.

Stella looks relaxed and unconcerned, that same bored expression she's always wearing on her face. She’s got her chair kicked back and her feet on the table, her cuffed hands folded over her belly as she observed them come inside. She raises a brow at Ronin and opens her mouth to speak but Pixal beats her to it.

Pixal yanks out a leather wallet from her jumpsuit and grabs a pen from her from breast pocket, “I am aware you will not speak against your employer, and I am also aware he is paying you a lot of money to keep his secrets.” She sits down in front of Stella, slamming her pocket book and pen to the table, “But I’m Pixal fucking Borg.”

She opens the book and pulls out a stack of checks, signing one and sliding it across the table blank, “Are you interested in new employment?”

Heartbeats pass. Ronin is staring at the check so hard Pixals half sure his eyes are about to pop out of his head, but Stella looks as cool and collected as ever. If Pixal had to breathe she’d be holding it, praying that the gamble works. Stella carefully takes each foot off the table and sits up straight, scooting her chair forward and resting her elbows on the table. She studies the check for a long moment before her lips twitch, the scar at the corner of her mouth pulling her lips into a pleased smile.

“I don’t want your money, Pixal Borg.” She gently, strangely respectfully, tears the check in half and slides the pieces across the table towards the two. Ronin makes a sound like a wounded animal at the action.

Pixals heart plummets.

“But there is something I do want.” Stella continues before Pixal can feel the full weight of failure. Stella looks at Pixal with a firm, intense furrow to her brow. “I will tell you everything I know if you do me a favor. I don’t know what or when that will be. This is what I do know: You are the most powerful woman in Ninjago, Pixal Borg, and I want you to owe me.”

“Deal.” Pixal hold out her hand for Stella to shake without a second of hesitation. Her friends, her family, her father- everyone was relying on her, and she needed this information because right now they had nothing.

But as Stella takes her hand in a firm grip, Pixal can’t help but feel like she’s made a deal with the devil.

Sella sits back, bored expression sinking over her features once more, “His name is Broden Voss, the CEO of Voss Technologies.” She gets right down to business. Pixal recognizes the name in flashes of memory- a place card at a table during a charity event, investors threats to take their money elsewhere when her fathers quarterly review is lower than expected, a flash of red hair and a shark-like smile as a towering man shakes her hand at a high brow cocktail party, “He hired me to infiltrate Ninjago Citys Museum of History after his previous hire, Dixie Samson, failed. I was tasked with finding and retrieving a gauntlet forged by one of Voss’s ancestors, a warlord by the name of Utano whose armor had mystical powers. I was paid to do whatever possible to return this gauntlet to him, and as such I used one of the abilities in the gauntlet to send the ninja to another Realm. The only other ability I've seen... I have witnessed Voss change the gauntlet configuration with a thought. Essentially shapeshifting, though I can't be certain how far that particular gift goes.

“Voss’s plan always centered around Cyrus Borg. Ever since Voss Technology was usurped as Ninjagos main technology company by Borg Industries, he’s felt cheated and wronged. Now that he has this powerful artifact, he intends on using it to tear Ninjago apart and rebuild it with Voss tech, installing himself back in the forefront of tech manufacturing,” She pins Pixal with a pointed look, “He’s obsessed with defeating Cyrus Borg- but your father is not in any immediate danger.”

Pixal feels a bit of tension leave her shoulders, “I have time to save him?”

“Voss wants Borg to have a front row seat to the fall of his empire. He wants Cyrus alive to see the rubble of Borg Tower and after that, I don’t know. Now that he has Borg, though, his plan will be entering the final phase. He will use the power of the gauntlet to open portals throughout downtown ninjago- I know several of the locations he’s planning on placing them that I can pass along. He’s targeting centralized, high traffic areas so he can flood the streets with monsters as quickly and effectively as possible. He is aiming for the absolute maximum amount of destruction in every inch of the city.” She steeples her fingers, “Evacuate the city. Now.”

She doesn’t hesitate on this, raising her Borg radio to her mouth, “Sky, I am officially ordering a full evacuation of the city. I will explain everything later, but right now I need you and the others mobilized.” At Skylors confirmation, Pixal turns her attention back to Stella, “Monsters from where, exactly? Where do these portal lead?”

Where did you send my friends?

Stella pauses on this question, aware the answer will not be one Pixal is thrilled to hear, “The Realm of Madness.” She reveals. “What’s going to come through that portal are some of the most terrifying monsters Ninjago has ever seen, and if I’m any good at reading people- and I am the very best- I can tell you that Broden Voss will not be able to control the chaos he creates. If you can’t stop this, it could lead to more destruction than Ninjago has ever seen.”

“Well,” Pixal says tersely, “Maybe I would have a better chance stopping him if the ninja had not been sent to the Realm of madness and unable to help.”

“Yeah, my bad.”

Ronin trails Pixal as she goes back to the computers, sitting down roughly and opening up a new tab to start another bout of research. Now she had a name- Utano, a great warlord. Pixal could work with that. She pauses and glances at Ronin, curiosity picking at her, “Your sister in law, eh?”

He lets out a put upon sigh and crosses his arms, “Ex sister in law, I’ll remind you.”

“Who became a bounty hunter first?”

“...She was,” He admits grudgingly, “She’s been in the game longer than most.”

Pixal frowns, “I went through countless security feeds and crime reports- That long and she hasn’t gotten caught on camera anywhere? Not even during a trip to the grocery store?”

“Oh, she definitely has. You just don’t know where to look.” He sits down next to her, “She changes her appearance just as seamlessly as Chamille- hair dye, prosthetics, contacts… her eyes aren’t actually blue and brown, you know. She’s evaded any and all facial recognition with clever makeup and smoke-and-mirror tricks.” Pixal opens her mouth, “-And no, I am not going to tell you what to look for. Even if I wasn't a fellow mercenary following the mercenary code, Stella is not an enemy anyone wants to have.”

“Okay.” Pixal relents, “Do you know what this favor could be?”

“No clue.” He shrugs and peeks over her shoulder, “You looking up that warlord guy?”

“Girl.” Pixal corrects as she scans over the basic wikipedia page she’d pulled up. There was… little here, “No parents listed, no spouse. She had one child later in life, but there is no information on them, Not even a name. She was married to a powerful lord in her twenties, but he died a year after they wed. She rose to power through extremist political lobbying and strategic battles with her personal militia until she had conquered over half of ninjago.”

Ronin quirks a brow, “No mention of her magic armor?”

“None here. All it says is she was killed by the elemental masters of creation during her final battle.” Pixal goes back to her original search, “But that was just wikipedia, I’m sure there’s more information somewhere.”

Spoiler alert: There was not more information anywhere.

Pixal scours the internet, following dead end academic papers and documentaries- she even got desperate and checked reddit, of all places. Even after using her status to get into parts of the internet usually barred from the general public, she still came up with nothing. “There are scrolls referenced in all of these papers, but I cannot find the scrolls. They were never digitalized, and apparently no one knows where they went.” She sits back roughly, pushing herself away from the monitor so she doesn’t have to look at it anymore.

Ronin startles awake where he’d fallen asleep on the couch after he got bored, peeking up at her over the arm of it, “Maybe Stella is lying about Utano.”

It’s at that moment that the elevator door dings open and Misako comes striding out with Wu trailing slowly behind her. She’s dressed in thick pants and a button up covered in a thin layer of sand and dirt, her hair much the same in its bun sitting on top of her head, “Did I hear you say Utano?” She asks, shrugging off her satchel and tossing it aside with a cloud of dust, “I came straight from the dig site once Wu informed me of the situation. If you already know about Utano, then we’re on the right track.”

“Misako!” Pixal stands with a smile, moving to hug the woman, “It is good to see you. We know the name, but there’s not much else on the internet to go off of.” She admits.

“I know.” Misako says with a wince, “When Wu told me about the gauntlet, I had a feeling I knew what it was. The scrolls that had any record of Utano were all under the Explorers Club’s lock and key- When I called Cecil and asked about them, he confessed that several artifacts in the clubs collection went missing the day they were all transferred to the museum's custody, apparently lost in the shuffle.”

Pixal feels her expression darken, “He is saying the explorers club lost artifacts? I find that difficult to believe.”

“I looked into it on the way here. Underhill sticks out as the most suspicious- he took off to the other side of the country and bought himself a nice, expensive house on the beach, but the rest of the club members all seem to have come into some money with similar luxury purchases as well.” Misako confirms grimly. “That doesn’t matter right now. What do you know about Utano?”

Pixal relays all the information Stella had told them and what little else she’d gleaned from the internet. Misako nods thoughtfully, “Her reign over Ninjago started hundreds and hundreds of years ago, before we were even aware the sixteen realms existed- She was part of Ninjago and the Cloud Kingdom, a parent from either realm. We refer to her armor in modern times as the Allied Armor of Azure, said to call on different realms to aid its wearer, and scholars presume she received a gift from her Cloud Kingdom parent that allowed this type of enchantment. The only pieces that were meant to survive the armor's destruction were the Helmet that we passed on to the Cloud Kingdom, and the chest plate, which we studied.”

“Is there a way to neutralize its abilities?”

“If there was a way, it would be in the stolen scrolls. As I see it, there is none.” Misako says apologetically, wincing. “Even the Elemental Masters were not able to defeat her at her most powerful.”

Pixal frowns, “The elemental masters did defeat her.”

There’s a pause, “Yes… they did, but it… wasn’t a fair fight.”

“What does that mean?” Ronin pipes up, “Did they get her while she was sleeping or something?”

Misako sighs, “You said you read she had one child, yes?” Pixal nods and Misako shakes her head, “She had three. We have private scrolls written by Utano detailing her three children and how much she loved them. The Elemental Masters of the time made a decision. They needed leverage- They needed bargaining chips. Only one child survived, and Utano was defeated.”

a heartbeat passes.

Pixal swallows down her horror, “The only way they stopped her was by going after something she cared about.”

“And from what Stella is saying, it sounds like Broden Voss doesn’t care about anything-” Ronin snorts, “Except maybe killing your dad.”

“You are not helpful.” Pixal snaps immediately.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have any good news.” Misako bows her head.

“Thank you for coming, Misako, but this has been a huge waste of time.” Pixal says bitterly, turning away.

Misako doesn’t flinch at the words, knowing what stress Pixal must be under. She almost doesn’t want to say what she needs to say next. She takes a step forward and opens her mouth anyway, “I didn’t come here to tell you about Utano. Wu could have passed along that message for me.” She says softly.

Pixal looks back at her with a questioning frown, “What did you come here for?” She asks.

Misako steps to the side so Wu is standing in front of Pixal now. He looks miserable and ashamed, staring down at the floor, “I came to make sure he told you.”

Pixal feels a lightning flash of alarm go through her, “Told me what?” she swallows roughly. From where he’s laying on the couch, Ronin sits up in curiosity. There’s a pregnant pause, “I do not have time for this.” She says sharply, refusing to let her voice shake. She turns back to the computers, moving away from them. The tension in the room feels different and wrong- She doesn’t want him to say anything.

“It’s about Zane.” Wu manages to whisper, still looking at the floor.

Pixal freezes in her tracks. Her core seems to tighten painfully, icy fingers wrapping around her insides and tangling her carefully sorted wiring into knots. She slowly spins on her heel to face him again, “What about him?” She asks carefully. The question is laced with grief.

He’s going to break her heart.

Misako makes a go on gesture with her head that Wu sees out of the corner of his eye. He takes another moment to build up his nerve and looks up, meeting Pixal eye for the first time since he’d walked through that door, “Three years ago-'' He begins.

“Master Wu, I don’t need a recap,” She says tightly.

“Three years ago,” He presses on, “After we caught Aspheera, I went to see her in Kryptarium. There were questions I needed answered. When I saw her, I asked why she chose to kill him when I was the one-” He swallows and pauses for a moment, “She told me he was not dead.”

Pixal stares at him, “She did not kill him?”

Wu takes a tentative step forward, “No, she merely banished him… To the Never Realm, a realm impossible to return from.”

“He is… alive?” She breathes softly, shock rendering her dumb for several long moments. Joy and hope bubbles up her chest, “Zane is alive. We can bring him home. We just need to figure out a way to get back to Ninjago- there has to be some way to make it back.”

“Pixal…” Misako’s voice is heavy with sadness.

“Why did you keep this from us, Master Wu?” She’s trying to be angry, but the happiness spreading through her fights the frown on her face, “We could have figured it out together, all of us, and brought him home!”

Wu looks at her with wet, sorrowful eyes. Pixels smile dims.

“There is a way back from the Never Realm,” He says gravely, “The fruit of the travelers tree, high in the mountains.” Her circuits tie themselves together, she can tell another shoe is about to drop, “I discovered it three years ago, when I traveled to the Never Realm to get him.”

She’s not smiling anymore. The room is silent. The glow from the computer monitors illuminates Wu’s robe in pale blue light. It’s so, so quiet.

Her voice is steady, “Why is he not home?”

“Pixal…” He begins.

“Do not patronize me!” She shouts, tears springing to her eyes, “Why tell me this? Why bring up the past and get my hopes up just to crush them again? I have already accepted that he is dead, I did not need you to yank my feelings around like-”

“He’s not dead.” Wu cuts in, and Pixal stops mid-rant, her hands loosening from the fists she’d balled them into.

“I do not understand.” She says blankly, slumping into herself. She tries to put the pieces together, to fit the tragedy into a story that makes sense in the absence of an explaination, “He… chose to stay there?”

“No,” Wu says sadly, and then proceeds to tell her about the worst moment of his life. He tells her about coming to a land unnaturally cold and barren, snow drifts and ice that suffocated the crops and froze people whole. He tells her about the handful of towns still alive who lived under constant fear of their supernaturally powerful emperor, a man who controlled every snowflake in the land. He tells her about making the trek across the mountain and stumbling upon a species of beast hunted to near extinction by the Emperor's samurai, and finding the travelers tree. He tells her about finally coming upon the palace gates, through the Emperor's throne room doors, and who he’d found sitting atop the dais.

“It was Zane, his body, but the man we know and loved was gone.” He tells her, voice thick with pain, “He was violent and angry, and passive to the struggle and pain of others. He did not respond to my voice, he did not react to reminders of who he once was, and he did not hesitate to attempt to strike me down.”

Pixal is silent, leaning against the communications console as if her legs had no strength. She says nothing, face twisted up in aching raw grief and sadness.

“Zane… I believe he was gone, truly. He would have been horrified at what he’d become… You must understand, I did what I did to respect the man I loved as my own son.”

“What did you do?” Pixals voice cracks.

“I could not kill him,” Wu closes his eyes, “I used the fruit of the travelers tree to open a portal to the Realm of Madness… where I banished the Ice Emperor, and freed the Never Realm from his grasp.”

She bows her head, hiding her face in shadows.

“I told you all of that to tell you this… the longer the Ninja haven't returned, the more I fear there is something… or someone keeping them there. They should have made it to the Mountain of madness by now. I have the utmost faith in them, but not only am I afraid of what they might find there, I am afraid of what- or who- may find them. The Ice Emperor was a formidable foe-”

“Stop talking.” Pixal interrupts him icily, voice hard as steel.

He goes silent, staring at her.

“Master Wu… for all of your age… for every ounce of wisdom you have… you are still one of the most foolish people I have ever met.” She looks up at him and her eyes burn, hot pinpricks of fire and pain and rage. “You should have dragged him home. We would have helped him- we would have helped him! We could have saved him-! And- and you better hope the ninja run into him, and do what you failed to do and bring him back to Ninjago- or else when this blows over I am dragging you to the Realm of Madness myself and we are combing every inch of that realm until we find him ourselves!”

He shrinks with shame and guilt under her ire as she advances upon him, rage making her fans kick into high gear, “You knew he was there, you knew the- the Ice Emperor was in the Realm of Madness and you knew he could have posed a serious threat to the ninja, yet you told me they would be okay! That there was nothing to worry about! And now- I cannot go after them! I have to stay here and protect Ninjago, I cannot leave these innocent people behind like I could have a few days ago when my friends first vanished-!” She chokes on a sob, swiping hot tears out of her eyes.

“Pixal, I didn't know-" He looks gutted, "… I’m so sorry-” He starts, reaching out, but she takes a step away from him and bares her teeth.

“Do not-” She snaps, jerking a hand down to keep him away from her, “-Apologize to me. Apologize to Zane when we get him back, apologize to the ninja for keeping this from them, and then never speak to me again. That’s the only thing you can do for me, Master Wu. We’ll work together now because the city needs everyone it can get, but after that... “ She shakes her head, condemnation in her eyes.

He nods, cowed, “If that is what you want… I understand.”

She takes a deep breath, centers herself, and picks up the communicator again. She needs to talk to Skylor, Her face is grim as she raises it to her lips.

“Pixal?” He hesitantly says, before she can speak, “What are we going to do about the ninja?”

“We are going to trust they can make it home,” She says, “And we are going to do our best to make sure there is still a home to come back to.”

The first thing Cyrus smells is the thick scent of designer perfume- he was born into money, raised in the lap of luxury, expensive colognes have always been a part of his life. With the blindfold wrapped around his eyes, the smell becomes stronger and sharper. He narrows the other occupant in the room to a handful of other high society socialites. If he were in the upscale, posh parfumerie in downtown Ninjago he could appreciate the sweet earthy scent of tahitian vanilla, ylang-ylang, rosa centerfoils, italian cinnamon, jasmine, osiris root, and rose oil. An expensive bottle worn only for special occasions- he might even recognize it. As a recently kidnapped prisoner trying to figure out how to untie his wrists from the railings on his wheelchair, some of the intricacies of the scent are lost on him.

“You’ll won’t get away with this.” It feels cliche the moment it comes out of his mouth, but he can’t help but break the silence. The other person in the room is just… staring at him. Cyrus can feel the satisfied, smug gaze weighing on his shoulders. He knows he’s being watched.

“Yes, I will.” The voice is deep and smooth, effortlessly confident.

He doesn’t know what to say.

Shifting sounds in front of him, then the soft click of a wooden box closing. The sharp flick of a lighter. The smell of burning tobacco and whiskey seeps into the air.

“Would you like a cigar, Cyrus?”

“I never acquired a taste for them.” He responds stiffly. He knows that voice, doesn’t he? From where?

“Oh, I’m sure you’d like these if you tried it. Two thousand dollars, retail.” He pauses to taste the smoke, probably. Cyrus can’t see him to tell, “Could I offer you a drink, then? What’s a man of your status’s drink of choice?” He humms in thought, gravely and low, and taps his fingers on a table (desk?) in front of him. It’s more for show than any actual thinking, “Louis XIII cognac? Chateau Cheval Blanc, 1947? Or maybe you go for something a bit pricier, hm? D’Amalfi Limoncello Supreme?”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“I recommend the cognac, personally. It’s a celebration, after all.”

The hair raises on the back of Cyrus’s neck, “A celebration of what?”

“My victory, of course.” He laughs like that was a silly question, “I won.”

Swallowing thickly, Cyrus tries again to wiggle his wrists out from his bindings. “The ninja-”

“-are gone.” The man responds and Cyrus freezes. The voice was no longer across the room, but right in front of him. He’d move silently across the floor, crouching down to speak directly to Cyrus, “The ninja are gone. No one will be able to save you.”

He leans in, his breath hot on the shell of Cyrus’s ear, “I suggest you have a glass, Cyrus. It will be the last drink you ever have.” He promises.

Cyrus jerks back and slams his head forward before he can think about it. There’s a sharp crack and something warm and wet splatters on his cheek. The man swears loudly and he can hear him stumble away.

“You son of a-” He snarls, smooth confidence immediately bleeding into red hot rage.

“That- ow- Well, that hurts.” Cyrus winced, head pounding.

“I am going to enjoy destroying you!” His voice is thick with hatred.

Cyrus doesn’t know what to think. Who are you?

His wheelchair is kicked roughly and he tips over. He falls hard and he could have braced himself and been just fine if not for the edge of a coffee table sitting perfectly at concussion height.

The world turns black.

#ninjago #ninjago never the dark #ninjago au #mentioned death #pixal borg #skylor chen #ronin ninjago #wu ninjago #misako montgomery garmadon #ninjago dareth #dareth ninjago #ninjago oc broden voss #spinchip fic #ns11

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sisterspooky1013 · 1 year ago

Text

Gaslight, Chapter 22/48

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

Ellicott City, MD

Don’t know how you do what you do, I’m so in love with you. It just keeps getting better.

I wanna spend the rest of my life with you by my side, forever and ever.

Every little thing that you do, baby I’m amazed by you.

She snaps off the radio, then pulls Tiffany’s scarf off her head and tosses it onto the passenger seat. What is she supposed to do now? Where is she supposed to go? Her instincts tell her to run, but what about the children? She is the reason they’re involved in this in the first place, and guilt sinks heavily from her heart to her belly as she imagines what might happen to them now that the jig is up. Will they be discarded like trash? Will they be leveraged against her, used as pawns in an even more disturbing way? She wants to protect them, but to this point it’s her very proximity to them that has put them at risk. Though it goes against every maternal instinct in her body, she comes to the conclusion that the best thing she can do for them right now is to get as far away from them as possible.

Eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, she digs around in her purse for her cell phone, finally pulling it free and flipping it open with her thumb. Her hands are still trembling, but she manages to dial. Lunch hour traffic means she hits every red light possible, and she can’t stop looking at the vehicles and sidewalks around her, waiting for another black suit to appear.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” she mumbles to herself, checking the rearview mirror obsessively.

“Dana?”

“Cal,” she says, relieved to hear his voice. “I’m on my way home, and I’m going to need to go away for a little while,” she begins, but he cuts her off.

“I’m already at home,” he says in a small, fearful voice.

“What? Why?” she asks, checking her blindspot before she switches lanes.

“I couldn’t—I just couldn’t,” he says tightly, and she realizes that he’s crying.

“Cal, I’ll be home in ten minutes, okay? Wait for me, and don’t open the door for anyone,” she says, finding confidence she didn’t realize she had within her. “Is your car in the garage?”

“Yeah,” he says in a near whisper.

“I need you to move it to the driveway so I can park in the garage, can you do that?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Okay, move the car, and then go inside and lock the door. I’ll be home soon.”

Twelve minutes later, she pulls into their driveway and jumps out to open the garage before parking Tiffany’s car inside it. When she enters the house, she finds it stonily silent and still.

“Cal?” she calls out, half expecting the smoking man from the hospital to appear instead.

“Over here.”

She follows the sound of his voice to the stairwell where he is sitting mid-flight, his head in his hands. She approaches slowly, sitting on the step just below him and laying her hand on top of his knee.

“Hey,” she says softly, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

“I’m all fucked up, mija,” he whimpers, followed by a wet sniff. “I’m just—I don’t know what to do.”

She moves one step up, wedging herself between his body and the bannister, and wraps her arm around his shoulders. He leans into her, and she rubs her palm up and down over his upper arm comfortingly.

“What happened?” she asks.

He sniffs and swipes his hand across his nose, composing himself.

“Everything is off,” he explains. “Nothing feels right. I couldn’t remember the PIN for my debit card to get gas, and then I got to work and I sat down at my desk and—it’s like it fell out of my head, Dana. Like it’s just gone.”

“What is?”

He sits up and looks at her. His eyes are bloodshot and swollen, his bottom lip quivering.

“Everything,” he says gravely. “I don’t know how to code. I can’t even fucking understand the code I wrote yesterday.”

“Oh,” she says, understanding.

“What’s happening to me?” he asks, and the pain in his voice makes her heart ache.

“I can only tell you what I was told, and I can’t be sure that what I was told is entirely accurate,” she says, her hand resting on his back.

“Just tell me, please,” he begs.

She looks away, running her tongue across her bottom lip as she decides how to explain it. She suddenly understands how challenging it was for Alex to relay the same information to her.

“I’m not your wife,” she says evenly. “You’re not my husband. Abby and Peter aren’t our children. This whole thing,” she says, gesturing to the house around them, “is a lie. A farce. Whoever did this to us…they went to very great lengths to make us believe that this life is ours.”

She pauses and turns to look at him, finding a somewhat vacant expression on his face. She can empathize, and knows that the questions are too numerous to even begin asking them. She has to keep talking.

“The chip in your neck contained memories. Memories of how we met, Abby and Peter’s births, your training in software engineering. Every single detail since 1992. And whatever they did to us, and whatever was in that medication, helped ensure that we wouldn’t remember what really happened. So that we’d believe it, the lie. And by removing your chip, I also removed those memories. That’s why you can’t remember how to code.”

“Or that pancakes are waffles,” he says absently.

“Right,” she confirms.

He stares off into the middle distance for a moment, allowing this new information to sink in.

“They’re not ours?” he asks, turning to look at her with a kind of disbelieving hurt on his face.

She shakes her head gently, her lips pressed together sympathetically.

“Not biologically, no. But they don’t know that. They still have their chips, and as long as they do, all they know is us,” she tells him, and he nods, looking away again.

“I don’t think I’m a good guy, Dana,” he says after a moment, and she narrows her eyes at him.

“What do you mean?”

He drops his head, staring at the carpeted step between his feet.

“They were cleaning the windows in the office and the smell of it—kind of like ammonia, maybe? It did something to me,” he says hesitantly.

“What did it do?”

“It made me remember something,” he says very quietly. He lifts his hands, forming loose fists. He moves them closer to his face and she realizes that he’s miming smoking from a pipe. “It wasn’t pot,” he says shamefully.

She sighs and moves into the space between his knees, kneeling on the step just below him. She grabs his hands, holding them in her own and looking him straight in the eye.

“Listen to me,” she says sternly. “I don’t know who you were or what you did before they did this to you, but it doesn’t matter. To me, you are Cal. You’re a good man, and a wonderful husband and father.” She feels her throat constrict and she swallows against it. She needs to be strong for him. “Whoever did this is looking for me, Cal. They came to the hospital, and it’s only a matter of time before they show up here. I’m not safe here.”

His eyes widen and his mouth falls open, but she stops him before his mind wanders too far.

“This isn’t about you,” she explains. “This is about me, and a man I used to work with. You and the kids were used to distract me, to make me believe the lie. I don’t have any reason to think they’ll harm you, unless they think they can use you to get to me.”

“What do we do?” he asks.

“I have to leave. I’m not going to tell you where I plan to go because you can’t be forced to provide information that you don’t have. I need you to take care of the kids, okay? You can call my mom for help if you need to. She has no idea any of this is happening, so just tell her that I had a work emergency or something. If anyone asks, say that you’re taking the medication, and do not tell anyone that I removed your chip, okay? Can you do that?”

He nods, but it’s lacking confidence.

“Will we see you again?” he asks hoarsely, and her chin puckers.

“I hope so,” she whispers, and he opens his arms, pulling her into a hug.

She hastily packs a bag with a few changes of clothes and basic toiletries, plus the Sam Cooke CD and the rest of the Numerol. She wishes she could take Cal’s chip for evidence or eventual analysis, but if Alex was right that it can be used to track her movements, it would be unsafe to do so. She remembers finding $800 cash stuffed into a cookie tin during her initial investigation of the house, and she takes that too. She loads her bag into Tiffany’s car and then turns back to Cal, who is standing in the doorway between the house and garage.

“Where did you get the car?” he asks, and she smiles thinly. “Never mind,” he says with a sigh, realizing that it’s the least of their worries.

They stand there for a moment, looking at one another. There’s so much she doesn’t know about him, so much he doesn’t know about himself, but he is still the person she trusts most in the world right now. The only person she trusts, really. She wishes that she didn’t have to do this alone. She suspects that he wishes the same.

“I’ll be in touch when I can,” she says, and he nods. “Give the kids big hugs and kisses for me, okay?”

His face crumples and he looks at the floor. She turns to get in the car, but then changes her mind and walks the handful of steps to where he is standing. She grabs his hand and he lifts his head, absolute agony in his eyes.

“You’re going to be okay,” she assures him, and his jaw jerks to the side.

“What about you?” he asks, his shoulder jumping.

“I hope to be,” she says, forgoing empty promises.

She pushes up onto her tiptoes and presses her lips to his cheek. Before her resolve can crumble any further, she climbs into the car and starts the ignition. Cal walks slowly alongside the driver’s side window as she backs out of the garage, and then follows her down the driveway. Before she turns the corner she takes one final glimpse in the rear view mirror at his tall, trim frame silhouetted against the backdrop of a suburban neighborhood.

It was a beautiful lie they created for her, and part of her is sad to leave it behind. But she chooses to look forward in hopes that she might be able to find her past, and the missing piece that she’s been mourning since the moment she woke up in the hospital.

He. Him.

Mulder.

She heads south, flipping the radio back on so she doesn’t feel so lonely. Her chest aches in the persistent, heavy way that only loss brings, and she hates just how familiar the sensation has become to her.

She’s worried about Cal, about the kids, about herself. She wonders if Mulder has any idea what’s happening, or if he is blissfully ignorant. She starts to think about the most effective way she can explain it to him, if she has the chance. And if she does explain it, and he doesn’t believe her, then what? Or, even worse, what if he does believe her but chooses his new life, his wife, over whatever they had and lost?

Scar tissue that I wish you saw,

Sarcastic mister know-it-all.

Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you, ‘cause

With the birds I’ll share

She feels slightly lightheaded suddenly, and she blinks rapidly and shakes her head back and forth to clear it away.

With the birds I’ll share this lonely view.

She flips on the turn signal and pulls off to the side of the road, her heart racing. She feels like she might be having a panic attack.

Push me up against the wall,

Young Kentucky girl in a push-up bra.

I’m fallin’ all over myself

To lick your heart and taste your health, ‘cause

It slams into her like a punch to the gut, making her head ache above her left ear. She can physically feel the synapses reaching out, connecting, pulling it up from the depths. Memories, unearthed like buried treasure.

“What are you saying?” he asks, flashing his eyes between her and the road with a haughty little smirk on his mouth.

“The song,” she answers, pointing to the radio.

“Sing it for me,” he requests, and her cheeks burn.

“I know I’m a terrible singer, Mulder, you don’t have to rub it in,” she grumbles, turning towards the window.

“I’m not making commentary on your vocal stylings, Scully, just tell me what the lyrics say,” he insists.

“With the blood that’s shed, it’s a lonely view,” she says flatly, and he chuffs a laugh. “What?”

“That is definitely not how the song goes,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s ‘with the birds I’ll share this lonely view’.”

She pauses, listening to the final chorus of the song.

“Hm,” she says.

“Hm?” he repeats. “Hm, you’re totally right, Mulder? Hm, those lyrics make a lot more sense?” he teases, reaching across the console to poke her arm with his index finger.

She turns her head sharply and gives him her very best irritated glare.

“Gloating is extremely unattractive,” she informs him, and he laughs.

“Does this mean you’re not coming over tonight?” he asks cheekily. “‘Cause I had plans for you, Scully.” He looks at her until she meets his eye, then adds, “Big plans.”

She rolls her eyes and looks out the passenger side window.

“Shut up, Mulder.”

She grips the steering wheel so tightly that her fingers go numb, her chest heaving and her heart pounding. Slowly, slowly, she returns to earth, to the shoulder of US-29-S, to the driver’s seat of Tiffany’s Escalade. As soon as the panic subsides, the tears come, running in torrents down her cheeks and keeping her stationary, unfit to operate heavy machinery in her current state. She wants more, so much more. She wants it all. She wants him.

Eventually, she feels ready to return to the road. She finds a seedy motel just outside the city that she’s confident won’t ask for ID, and lays clean-smelling towels over the top of the questionable-looking sheets before she curls up on the bed and begs for the respite of sleep. It’s early, but she’s exhausted, and feels like she needs the freshness of a new day in order to think clearly.

Tomorrow, she will return to the city she left behind against her will and try to find the torn edges of her stolen life. Tonight, she will pray that he meets her in her dreams, at least until the day she can return to his arms.

Tagging @today-in-fic

#the x files #x files fanfic #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #xf fanfic #x files #the x-files #xfiles #thexfiles

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thewhumpcaretaker · 11 months ago

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The Broken Veil: Sneak Peak of Chapter 1

I will hopefully be releasing this fic (my first ever released) on AO3 soon, but I'm waiting for my account invite, so enjoy this preview in the meantime. This will be a highly indulgent 18+ fic focused on whump, hurt/comfort, and dacryphilia. TWs for this chapter: grief, crying, nightmare

Summary: John Wick has just agreed to kill Santino’s sister, Gianna, repaying the marker that gave him a life with Helen. However, Helen is trying to contact John from the afterlife, to show him that it is possible to stop the cycle of violence – not by forfeiting his own life, but by creating a fundamental shift in international systems and perhaps even the balance of good and evil in this world. But he doesn’t have to do it alone. She’s coming back.

Autumn evening in New York reels between gold and grey. A pale white sky bruises over with grey smog. Even the sky is beaten in New York, and yet even the sky sparkles. Golden streetlamps and distant red flashes hang as earthly stars between the glassy black voids of skyscraper walls. Airport whiskey sparkles amber in John Wick’s grasp, and his inward body buzzes faintly against its motionless exterior. Not drunk, not tipsy, not that it would matter. He knows himself drunk, drugged, tired, bleeding, the way the machine of his body handles in every state.

On the street below, a child in a woolen pea coat grabs onto his mother’s hand as they step up into the queue to check luggage. From the bar, John can’t see their faces, only the knit caps crowning both their heads. The boy has a backpack as his carry-on, and it’s too large for him. He shifts uncomfortably. At his movement, the mother fusses and leans down to adjust it. John’s eyes are fixed on her. They begin walking again and the child, excited by something on the far side of the taxi line, dashes towards oncoming traffic. She pulls the little boy back from the street as a car swings recklessly close to the curb. John flinches away from the scene. It was hardly a close call – the kid had a long way to go before reaching the road, and even then, no doubt the car could have swerved at that speed. But it’s the sentiment of the thing, her tenderness…another swig of whiskey so he can’t finish the thought, and he turns from the window.

Drifting, playing the businessman without effort, scanning the crowd, uneasy with this moment of peace between wars. Stay in the moment anyway. Black wingtips clicking too crisply on grimy tile. A glimpse of his reflection in the storefront of a candy shop, an impeccable mask. First class is boarding at JFK Gate 11, direct to Rome. No threats among the passengers – not that he expected any, but an enclosed box in the sky is a bad place to run into an enemy. It’s an opportunity he’s exploited himself in the past. A cordial smile to the flight attendant.

Now there is no more moment to stay in. Only the trans-Atlantic stretch of night, brutally alone.

He doesn’t want to be here. He knows how the machine of his body handles in every state, and right now he handles it by tricking it into doing what it’s ordered to do. Don’t think about doing anything, don’t think about killing. Just sit still, stare straight ahead, and don’t talk yourself out of this job. The job right now is to stare at the blinking light on the wing of the plane and not move, that’s all. He remembers Gianna in their youth. She didn’t want to be a part of all this. She never had much in common with Santino. His ruthlessness, sure, but it was in service of something other than a desperate grasp for authority. She lived her life her way, pursued pleasure quietly between business, on her own terms. Don’t think about it. He thinks about how to do it instead. It’ll be right to give her a moment to face her death. Worth the risk. He owes her that much. Or is that the body rebelling again? Don’t think about it at all. Go to sleep.

He leans back and shuts himself down.

***

He’s making coffee for Helen. The bag crinkles as he scoops rich grounds into the machine. This feels so vivid, he can even smell it. He freezes. Feels vivid…this isn’t real. Lucid dream. They are always so fragile, they don’t have much time. Where is she? Movement, out of the corner of his eye. Between the kitchen curtains, he can see her outside in the garden, her back to him. The way her hair falls above the cotton of a simple sundress, the way it just touches her shoulders…she is before him, he is ready to do anything to get to her. “Helen!”

She turns towards him and her face flares with a mirror of his own desperation. She points to the front door and disappears to the left, and he runs to meet her. There is a strange vastness to the entryway, he can’t reach the far end, but the door is already open. Only the screen is locked, and she’s trying the latch, silhouetted in light. He can feel his racing pulse all the way through his wrists now. She’s looking at him with so much urgency, his heart rattles almost sickeningly with each test of the latch and she’s saying over and over, “Rome, John, Rome! The moment is coming. Let me in.”

***

When he gasps awake, his lungs are already heavy with tears. There’s something darkly gorgeous about the disoriented longing still raging through him like an adrenaline shot and he lets it linger. Hope.

It takes him several minutes to even become irritated with that final twist. A play on words, a stupid, too-obvious, unoriginal trick of the unconscious, lacking the elegance she deserves. “Home, John, home. The moment is coming. Let me in.” If I ever can, I always will. Believe me. But I can’t. He crushes a sob against his rib cage with a deep inhale, swallows, and buries his face in his hands for a moment. Don’t even go there, don’t even imagine the impossible. Then he watches the sun make sheens of silver over the jagged European coastline, still basking in the memory of how she fought to reach him.

***

From the edge of the finite, a form withdraws, regathering strength but burning with the lingering sight of him.

#john wick #helen wick #john wick fanfic #john wick whumpee #assassin whumpee #emotional whump #angst #hurt/no comfort #whump fic #whump writing #dacryphilia #assassin whump #forced to kill trope #new to fanfic #new to ao3 #new fic

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qfitpac · 9 months ago

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Tips for sharing your ao3 fanfic with the world

Part 1: ao3 mechanics

So you wrote a fanfic. Or made some fanart. And you want to post it on Ao3 and you want people to see it and read it, and maybe kudos/comment, and maybe even read your other stuff too. What do you do?

(This is kinda qsmp specific but can be applied to any fandom if you want. This is specifically to explain what Ive found to be the best ways to share your fic with people, so no info on archive warnings, ao3 rules/guidelines, etc)

Let's assume you're starting from 0. No subscriptions, you don't have fandom friends to boost ur numbers, nil. There are 3 main ways that someone will see your fic: in tags, on your user page, and linked on another website.