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jethrowest · 9 months ago

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let me see you stripped down to the bone…

- stripped by depeche mode

congratulations! you’ve been hired as homelander’s entire glam squad! what an opportunity! now let’s try real hard not to let the fumes get to you, okay?

pairing : homelander/afab reader

word count : 5.6k

warnings : homelander in and of himself, toxic workplace environment, something akin to stockholm syndrome, fingering, smut. 18+, mdni

special thanks to @blindmagdalena @sehtoast @homeb0ys and @clockworkzeppelin for letting me scream at you about this!

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Homelander is an asshole.

That doesn’t bother you much. You’ve dealt with plenty in this field, which means you’ve learned how to make life easier for all parties. That particular learning curve includes when to stand out and blend in, at times concurrently depending on what variety of asshole they happen to be.

As a whole, the makeup artists and hairstylists at Vought take care of The Seven and go where they’re needed. And as a cosmetologist, you were hired to provide both services for Homelander and Homelander only, which you consider to be one of the most prestigious stamps one could add to their professional passport.

Before you became official, you were colorfully threatened by a Ms. Ashley Barrett, who, after the fact, had no qualms throwing you into the lion’s den to figure your own shit out.

In no uncertain terms were you told that if you fucked any part of this up, your sparkling resume would look best as something to sit her smooth, bare ass on while getting fucked on top of her desk. No lube or protection. It would then be tossed exactly like her salad.

Not an image you could have ever predicted crossing your mind. Honestly, you should have stopped her right there and walked your happy little ass out of her office toward pastures that might have not been greener (you were being handsomely compensated), but certainly not as toxic. While the red flags were a color you couldn’t quite ignore, you were also curious about why they stood out so much more than they did regarding previous employers.

None of this is to say you live under a rock. Anyone who has access to the internet is ambushed daily by these Supes’ personal lives. Homelander’s track record as far as choice in partners went hadn’t been ideal, so you understand that made him less popular at the time. That of course has nothing to do with you or your capabilities.

You opt to wear gray-colored glasses, seeing everything with a neutral blend of black and white. As much as possible anyway.

Nevertheless, curiosity killed the cat. But hopefully not your career.

The first day was awkward to say the least. Immediately, you knew you weren’t going to like your coworkers.

Glints of sympathy changed how they perceived you. A target, whether they intended for this to happen or not, was nailed to your forehead, and it made them buzz around you like avid, greedy wasps keen on seeing how rapidly the honeybee will be brutalized. You didn’t much care for going cross-eyed while staring at that target whenever you crossed paths. They didn’t know you, yet because of who you were working under, deemed you helpless. They didn’t give you a chance to establish yourself before branding you a victim.

Why should you respect them?

Small talk wasn’t entertained either, as their judgment tarnished any future encounters. They ostracized you once you showed no interest in engaging with them. That didn’t disappoint you. You weren’t here to make friends.

You do wonder how those before you fared: if they were jaded when they arrived or if they couldn’t help but succumb to the pressures of being at the top rung of a very unstable albeit sought after ladder.

Ms. Barrett quickly introduced you to Homelander, her parting gift before leaving the two of you alone.

You weren’t completely nervous in his presence. He wasn’t any different to you than the other celebrities you’d worked on, except he could rip you in half like a piece of paper if he was so inclined. But he’s the hero of this country’s story, so really, you should have nothing to worry about.

His demeanor, you noted, suggested arrogance, annoyance, and boredom. All things you’re used to. So you offered your hand to shake, which he eyed with a slightly upturned nose before grabbing, told him it was a pleasure to meet him and got straight to business.

Looking back, he was clearly expecting more out of you. Maybe not a display as excessive as getting on your knees and professing your undying love, but close enough. Somewhere in the middle, perhaps.

Part of you believes he might have also counted on fear. To you, he’s not anything or anyone unknown. Another big name in a fancy suit with impossible demands.

You were given a routine to follow and products to use. You did as you were instructed and found the process to be simple and, as Homelander’s expression revealed, uninspiring.

While you were utilizing a face brush to apply powder, he must have decided he was done enduring your lack of enthusiasm, because he suddenly asked, “What are you wearing?”

You stopped for a split second, no longer than, and continued. “The name of my clothing designer, you mean?”

He scoffed, waving his gloved hand at you, almost knocking the applicator you held to the ground. “No, your perfume. What are the top notes?”

You laughed and that seemed to confuse him. “Why, you want a bottle?”

“I don’t like it.” He sniffed sharply and cleared his throat. “Smells like you should be on the corner selling your used body parts.”

Ding ding ding. Alarm bells and red flags galore. You enjoy a challenge, however, and are a bit of a masochist, so you persevere.

“Well, what doesn’t smell like a cheap hooker to you? I’ll start wearing that instead.”

He cocked a brow, studying you. Trying to figure out if you were being serious or mocking him.

“It’s your first day.” A warning. “Are you on your best behavior, or can you do better?” He leaned forward in his chair, forcing you backward. “You should be working harder to prove yourself. Prove your worth.” He sat back again and shrugged. “Or maybe you really are worth as much as that dumpster juice you doused yourself in.”

At this point, he more than likely envisioned your happy little ass getting offended and storming out of the room. Breaking down, sobbing. Questioning why he was being so rude. One of those or, better yet, a nifty combination.

You’ve heard worse, unfortunately for him. Not always directed at you, but that doesn’t matter. You can handle it.

“You’re absolutely right,” you stated calmly, folding your arms across your chest. He looked at you with pretentious, petulant intrigue. “It is my first day, and I want to make a good impression. Which is why I’m asking you what you would like me to wear so I can continue to keep that good impression intact and, as our professional relationship develops, stay on top of it.”

Homelander’s mouth twitched. He sighed deeply and slouched in his seat, staring at the wall to the left of him. Then he deigned to cast his gaze back at you, resting his cheek on his index and middle finger. He tapped the arm rest with his other hand.

“Ugh, fine. Whatever.” A pause followed that lasted longer than necessary. Were you meant to guess? “Just wear something, I dunno, less. If you would have done your homework like a good little peon, you’d know I have super senses. Highly developed. Can you even imagine what that entails?”

Finally, he freed the canvas you were nearly finished with, and you flicked the soft bristles across the bridge of his nose. You smiled, more to yourself than him.

Felt rather on the nose, as the saying goes.

He didn’t comment on your grin. You didn’t give him time to. But he did huff like you were being obtuse on purpose.

“I can try. And my imagination is giving me some less-than-ideal scenarios,” you replied. Another pause. At least he was letting you do your job again.

You don’t know what compelled you to keep going, but something about his lack of a real answer made you carry on. “Do you have a favorite flower or baked good? Maybe a spice?”

Homelander almost glared up at you. You say almost because, for whatever reason, it didn’t seem like he was directing that harshness at you, though former words and actions proved otherwise. Something inside, perhaps. Or outside of this enclosed space.

“I already told you what to wear. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You took the hint and remained quiet the rest of your session. Soon, you were done.

As you were packing and tidying up your station, he took it upon himself to stand behind you. He lingered over your shoulder, watching the scene play out like he was director and star and you were barely an ant on the sidewalk he acknowledged before squashing.

The heat radiating off of him was impossible to dismiss, a wall of it barricading your backside. He clasped his fingers underneath his cape and inched closer. You thought he was as close to you as he could get without touching you. He was that warm.

When you glanced up, he was staring at you through the mirror. As absurd as it was, you managed to get chills. Goosebumps broke the surface of your skin.

“Fresh chocolate chip cookies. Straight out of the oven. Like mom used to make.” He flashed an unnerving smile before turning to exit.

From there on out, even after you bent to his will and found a gourmand scent that matched what he described, Homelander tested you. Your work ethic, clothing choice, eating habits, and most of all, patience.

Your parents would ask how you were liking your job, how it was working alongside the Supes- not to mention the most famous of all- and you’d lie through your teeth. You felt you had no choice, Ashley’s threat ringing in your ears.

Resume, bare ass, tossed salad...

Oh yeah, it’s going great! They’re all super flexible. I couldn’t be happier!

At least that pun made you feel a little better about hiding the shame of what you’ve allowed yourself to take on.

This was all in the first few weeks. It started to get a little easier after that, which is surprising considering more was added to your to-do list.

You should have moved on before starting. But, for whatever asinine reason, you didn’t.

Every time you go back to your apartment and assess your appearance in the bathroom mirror, you wonder who’s making who up here. He’s changing your looks more than you are his. You’re like his human doll.

You’ve put up with a lot over the years, but this takes the cake and shoves it in your face. As fucked as it is, the flavor is growing on you. Like a fungus. Growing, nonetheless.

You can’t stop thinking about him.

It’s innocent enough, you try convincing yourself. Making sure you have the right outfit laid out the night before, the right lunch (no onions or fish or anything “freaky”!), etc. He is your superior, after all. You shouldn’t be viewing him in any other light.

He’s the most frustrating aspect of your existence these days, but he’s also the one you’re around the most. His penchant for workplace gossip and how unintentionally funny he is tends to make him palatable, which has regrettably become an understatement.

Months go by. You’ve witnessed how alone he truly is. How he has nothing outside of performing his tricks on Vought’s all-encompassing stage. And when he begins asking for your input, starts doing things for you that are so blatant it’s perplexing, you find your stress and vexation melting into cumbersome fascination.

It’s embarrassing. You don’t have the courtesy of enough time to dwell on your feelings toward the situation either, from beginning to whatever end you might be met with. You suppose that could be beneficial in the long run.

It also hits you when you least expect it; when you really don’t want it to.

Your body doesn’t wait until you finally have a moment alone. It decides, while you’re helping Homelander with his skincare routine that he insisted upon because you know more than these vacuous corporate douche-bags, to heat up without warning and slither from your head to your heart until it grasps you unfairly between your legs.

You try not to step into momentary paralysis. You understand to what extent his powers reach. It’s not like he doesn’t go on and on about them. About himself.

Whatever he notices, it’s not right away. A palpable tension fills the air between the two of you eventually. But it takes a more significant amount of time than you would have anticipated to permeate the natural flow of things.

Fuck, you can’t even be safe inside here, where your thoughts, whatever they may be, are yours. You can’t even have yourself. He has every part of you, and you are willingly relinquishing that control.

Your evening, once you can have it, consists of combing over every decision you’ve made leading up to this strange, disorienting space you find yourself occupying. All it does is leave you exasperated in a much different way than before and with an unsettling observation (or hallucination):

Was that the tail end of the American flag outside your window?

You are unacceptably late.

Rushing around, you throw on the first top and bottoms you see from your closet and spritz some perfume on your neck and wrists. You don’t check your phone. You’re afraid of what will pop up on your screen. And, frankly, you don’t have the time.

Your only option for transportation is the subway, as you’re sure the special vehicle from Vought is long gone. Why would they wait for someone like you, even if you’re practically Homelander’s personal assistant? One of his only friends. You doubt he has more than Black Noir, and that isn’t as perfect as it appears to the casual viewer.

You dread what kind of explosion you’re without a doubt walking into once you show your miserable ass up. You’re going to smell like everyone on this train. He’s going to go ballistic.

The question remains: why are you continuing to put yourself through this? It’s not your circus, yet somehow, the monkeys have become your liability.

You know, deep down, what keeps you going back. It’s simply too ridiculous to admit aloud.

Making your way past security, hurriedly presenting your badge, you realize you forgot to brush your teeth, or at the very least, gargle some mouthwash. You thank your lucky stars when you open your purse to a pack of gum tucked away in one of the compartments.

It will have to do.

When you open the door to Homelander’s dressing room, you see a couple of employees standing near the counter where the bag of supplies has been opened and rifled through, looking like they might soil themselves, a frantic Ashley, and an extremely pissed off Homelander in the middle of it all.

Reflexively, you cringe. You attempt to wipe any trace from your features, but it’s too late. Ashley is glaring daggers at you and Homelander can hardly bring himself to look in your direction. The others don’t matter to you. They never did.

“I’m so sorry I’m late. I know there’s no excuse-”

“You’re goddamned right, there’s no excuse! I don’t give a shit if god and his whole fucking choir of angels came down from heaven and divinely called you to give them a makeover! What were you thinking?!”

You’re about to answer, though you comprehend her query is more or less rhetorical. She interrupts your slightly open mouth while gesturing wildly, proving your point.

“Oh, that’s right! You weren’t thinking at all, were you?! But I do believe you’ve thought long and hard about what’s at stake here. And you know damn well we at Vought don’t tolerate this kind of sloppy behavior. Not to mention the way you’re dressed! It’s adding insult to injury!” Her hand swipes at the air, the length of your outfit, and you glance down, recognizing how comically mismatched you are. Her correct observation affects you more than it would have months prior, stinging your ego- one of the many things that’s been shelved in order to accommodate the person who won’t even grace you with a glance.

A dramatic groan cuts short any further commentary from the redhead, perpetually stretched thin between her absurd duties.

“Jesus Christ, Ashley, why are your big fucking horse gums still flapping?” Homelander’s booming voice slices through your mind like a jarring, dense migraine. He pinches his brow between middle finger and thumb, eyes closed. “I want you and Tweedledee and Tweedledum t’get the fuck out. Now.”

Ashley is plainly dumbfounded, struggling to see where she went wrong (a pattern when it comes to dealing with the volatile leader of The Seven), mouth agape. She shakes her head. “But sir, are you-?”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about or doing. Clearly.”

Ms. Barrett turns a shade paler, staring at Homelander and blinking owlishly before snapping herself out of her stupor. She hurries her lackeys out of the room, shooing them along like a pair of misbehaving toddlers. She doesn’t give a final look, no further warning. She merely shuts the door behind her.

You also hear it lock.

What the hell does she think is going to happen?

You should have stopped this while you had the chance. You should have never taken this job. You should have stood up for yourself and walked out. You should have you should have you should-

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

His caustic tone sends shivers down your spine. It’s unlike anything you’ve heard come out of him. And you’ve heard enough.

Again, you open your mouth. It fills with blood, thick and metallic and more potent than the mint from your gum. You’re silenced by it.

He stalks toward you and grabs you hastily by the shoulders, swiveling you around so you’re face-to-face with the choices you’ve made. Your mirrored image is reflected back at you, exhausted and searching for any last shred of who you might be beneath his heavy palms.

“Look at yourself! Do you even recognize who’s staring back at you?” No.

“What kind of game are you playing, hmmm? Is this… humiliating spectacle you’re putting on for the money? Your pathetic career? Like it’s goddamned rocket science to pick up a can of hairspray and use it. Monkeys have hands.” He makes a noise that’s akin to a snorting horse, exhaling forcefully past his nostrils. “I mean, did you really think you could pull a fast one on me?” He clutches your jaw, squeezing it between middle and thumb. Every muscle in your body tenses, your heart picking up rhythm.

“Spit that fucking gum out. Don’t think I can’t hear you grinding it between your molars like a dumb animal. You aren’t a mama bird, are you? Y’don’t have cute little baby birds t’force-feed your regurgitated leftovers, do you? Eugh, gross.”

You take a deep breath and exhale through your nose. It presents you with a false sense of security. You do as you’re told, and it lands on the floor in front of your shoe, saliva dangling on a thread as withered as your sanity.

Suddenly fresh breath seems like the most insignificant issue, when Homelander himself once made it out to be something earth-shattering.

You’re such a fool.

He leans in and sniffs your throat. Your fingers lengthen and bend.

You’re so many things at once. Confused, angry, nervous, scared. And, to your dismay, warm. God you’re so fucking warm. He’s heating you up from the inside out. You clench your jaw, still held in place by a firm bind.

“Get rid of those ugly clothes. I don’t care what you have to do. I can’t stand the sight or smell of them.”

You shut your eyes. When you open them, all you see is red. The other emotions are smothered in favor of that brand of heat. What happens next is a blur. You temporarily leave yourself.

“Fine. Have it your way, Homelander. You always do.”

Breaking free of his fluctuating hold, you start tearing at what you’re wearing, tossing everything- including your bra and underwear- to the ground. Your shirt winds up with the gum sticking to its loose fabric. You even take your shoes and socks off, not paying any heed to where your belongings go. Just that they’re gone.

You don’t process the glaring fact that you made yourself naked in front of your boss. In front of the most powerful man this country, and possibly world, has known. You don’t care that things have escalated this far. That they shouldn’t have. They shouldn’t have. But guess what? They did. And these are the consequences you both have to deal with.

“You wanna know what game I’m playing?” You turn around, forcing him backward. “It’s funny, I thought you’d be able to answer that for me, considering all the hoops I’ve had to jump through to not only save my ass, but make sure you had someone to talk to at the end of the day! Who on your team can you say goes above and beyond like that for you?!” He blinks at you now, eyes wide. Features fall to the floor where your clothes reside. You have his full and undivided attention.

An impressively dangerous thing to have.

“What more do you want from me, Homelander? I practically live with you without any of the benefits that usually includes! You’re really going to stand here and berate me like I haven’t given you fucking everything you’ve ever asked me for? Because I made one mistake? I gave up my entire world, which I know doesn’t mean shit to you. But it does to me.”

You fold your arms over your chest. Nothing covers it. You have to know before you lose all dignity. So you ask once more, hoping it won’t get lost in this bizarre mess.

“What do you want from me?”

Nothing. He can’t stop staring at you. You aren’t aware enough to be ashamed, but you are aware enough to be upset.

His infuriating silence compels you to bend down and gather what was a barrier between the two of you. You are no longer needed if he can’t do what he does best, which is spout off, leaking bottled words everywhere like a broken faucet. It’s a pretty simple question, you think.

That’s when the glass behind you shatters.

You flinch, pause what you’re doing and slowly stand. Cautious in whatever your next approach will be.

Surveying the aftermath, you’re relieved to find that you’re far enough away from the mirror so no injuries were inflicted.

When you finally lock eyes with the source, you see red. The atmosphere surrounding you heaves like the distended belly of a rotting corpse; hisses like an overflowing tea kettle; pierces you like lightning.

Homelander’s expression is rigid. His jaw quivers. Irises are a bright, shining scarlet. If you try anything rash, you might be next. But, having been around him for so long, you’re more inclined to believe he’s having trouble processing his own emotions. And that might have been one of the only ways to release them.

You drop the top and pants you managed to reclaim. Your brain hasn’t fully recovered from the constant devastating hit it’s taken, so you don’t want to put a name to what’s pushing you forward. You don’t stop until you’re directly in his line of vision.

Swallowing, you carefully extend your hand. The ruby color begins to crumble and give way to the vast ocean you might have drowned in one too many times. You lost track, blocking what you could out. Too real and intimate to accept for a realm that thrives off of inauthenticity and misfortune.

Homelander inhales harshly and you retreat, pupils hooking themselves to his. Searching for any sign you shouldn’t be right where you are.

Of course there are several; unfortunately, you are currently blind to them. Blind to everything but him.

That’s how it’s been for awhile, hasn’t it?

He has a habit of not granting you the luxury of time.

Quickly, he snatches your wrist and brings your palm flat against his cheek. He exhales, eyelids fluttering, nuzzling into you.

It’s so simple, yet it disarms you in ways you aren’t accustomed to.

Homelander basks in this chaste display of affection, and so do you, in awe of how enraptured he appears. Soaking you inside of his pores.

In turn, your cognizance reappears. You nearly topple over, realization infiltrating every part of you.

You’re not wearing a stitch.

A knock at the door startles you both. You glance over in that general direction and hear from the other side, “You’re on in fifteen, Homelander, sir!”

Gazing back up at him, you witness that same fire expand at a rapid rate. You use your other hand to bring him back down to reality, to ground him. It rests against his chest, delving into and cracking his ribs, flaying him open.

What strikes you is how vigorously his heart is beating. How you can feel it through his uniform.

This is how much you affect him. (Can you fathom that you’re only privy to a fraction?) Having evidence of the tiniest reciprocation drains you of any unwanted discomfort.

His fury subsides. You breathe out. He does, too.

“Go sit in your chair. I came here to do my job, after all.” The tenderness with which you speak seems to ease him further, his shoulders deflating with each word.

That aside, you’re playing with a lit match. You’re unsure who’s going to set who ablaze, but you’re willing to go down with this entire building to find out.

He does as he’s told, watching you the whole way like a mutilated mixture of a snarling cornered animal and a man fervently in love. He almost trips into his seat, not an ounce of grace in his gait.

Sacrificing his entire image just to get a glimpse of you.

Whipping his cape to the side, he sinks into the cushion. You get things ready as you typically do, your movements a bit jittery from the adrenaline sending haphazard jolts to your limbs. Despite this, you’re focused. You are more focused than you remember ever being.

You work efficiently, keeping in mind the limit that’s been put on your time.

Homelander bores holes through you. He doesn’t need lasers for that. You’re exposed and vulnerable and he pries what he fostered apart until it’s distinguishable by no one else but him.

You relearn his perfectly manufactured features. Different lights shape shadows you either haven’t seen before or feigned ignorance of. You commit to memory how he looks, smells, feels, the side of your hand grazing his cheek and hanging on.

He’s invigorating, your excitement building to a crescendo you can’t neglect. The heat in your core disperses, most of it congregating low in your belly and behind your expanding rib cage. His pupils drink you in, urgently and violently.

Your arousal is heady. He licks his lips. A hint of a whine caresses your ears and it makes you dizzy.

How could you have ever denied yourself?

You decide to take further control, testing the waters to a greater extent.

It’s your turn to watch him the whole way down. You straddle him, easing yourself atop his taut thighs.

After a few moments of humoring yourself, of pretending to concentrate on your work, dusting his nose with powder, you straighten. Eye contact has not been severed.

You motion toward his hands, balled into tense, repressed fists at his sides.

“Take off your gloves.”

Initially, it feels like maybe you said the wrong thing, or said it the wrong way. He doesn’t budge. You’re patient, however, so you wait like you’ve always done, the warmth from your cunt mingling with the hardness beneath you. Your mouth waters.

At last, Homelander nods and removes his gloves, tugging on the index of each. He places them on the armrests and transfixes himself to you once more.

“Do you want to touch me?” you ask, voice and body staying impossibly still in spite of your nerves.

Immediately, he shakes his head, “Yes,” the first time he’s spoken since your outburst, and without hesitation, reaches for your chest. You close your eyes, falling into his snooping lifts and tugs and squeezes, giving yourself permission to become possessed by the inhibited imaginations of how selfish, how rapacious his touches might be. How smooth his bare hands are, how ardent each digit is.

Leaning into you, he sucks one nipple into his mouth and palms the other, moaning and vibrating against your flesh. He digs his fingers into the pliant softness of your hip, steadying you with disciplined pressure. You squirm, attuned to every minuscule shift.

The lit match is tilted toward you now, swift and stunning. Your fingers release the brush you’ve been holding. It aligns with the slit of the cushion, forgotten and purposeless.

You wrap your digits around the hand on your curves and guide him toward your throbbing center. He doesn’t fight you. Doesn’t stop your movements. Doesn’t scold or challenge you. Instead, he curls his fingers in a way that makes you unabashedly moan, cupping your folds and pinning his thumb to your clit, adapting to your anatomy.

Your wants.

It seems like breaking away from you is a daunting task, but he does for a moment, brow furrowed, more engrossed and invested than you’ve ever witnessed.

“Fuck.” The curse sounds downright edible, your new favorite flavor. Your name tumbles from his lips like he’s been practicing, a sweet, rich icing on top. You gasp, his tongue adhering to you again, swirling around your peak before lightly biting it.

Rocking your hips back and forth, side-to-side, you grind hard into his palm. He strokes you like he’s studied what pace you prefer, how much friction you crave. You’re so wet, even you’re thrown off by it.

Once he’s finished with your chest, he’s back against the seat, unable to peel his gaze from you. Your full, swollen, glistening breasts.

His mouth hangs open, obscene, desperate whimpers slipping from it. Pupils are like whirlpools that drive you under. Drive you mad.

Homelander adeptly slips two, three digits inside your sopping cunt, unrelenting in his intentions to make up for lost time. The voracity of his actions propels you forward, balancing against his chest. He grasps and pulls at your other hip, groaning loudly in your ear, confirming his approval of how close you are to him.

It’s still not enough.

Pulling you even tighter to his blinding sun of a body, he encloses his free arm around you and desperately bucks his waist. “I want… I want… I want…” he chants. Your nails drag up his neck and along his scalp, overwhelmed by his warmth, his scent, him. Your lips ghost the sliver of skin above his collar, making him growl.

You anticipate and dread and yearn for what’s been building for so long. You clench and release, clench and release, clench and release, body chanting with him.

You’re intuitively thankful for the chair’s sturdiness; however, if it would have collapsed, you’re honestly not sure you would have noticed. Or cared.

You hear him come first. Feel the temperature rise temporarily. It’s so sudden and all-consuming that you naturally follow, his name an instinct you can’t help but divulge. You haven’t come down from the turbulent emotions rushing through you earlier, and that combination catapults you over the edge.

Your orgasm draws more deliberate, vehement grunts and sighs of satisfaction from him, as if your pleasure is inexplicably the same or worth more than his.

You can’t crumple into a boneless heap like you want to. You just can’t. You have to look at him. Look at his bliss; the glazed, barren-yet-so-full-of-you expression, of what these months of working in close quarters have done to him.

What you uncover is not what you were picturing. There’s a mixture of that haze with something almost apologetic below the teeming surface. Clouds of red to skies of blue. Destructive in and of themselves.

Sliding his fingers from your wetness, he wraps his lips around each one that was inside of you and spreads them apart. Your slick sticks to his glossy skin and stretches between digits, a generous amount. You whimper at the loss- the emptying, hollow feeling- and watch, mesmerized and delirious as he savors you.

Swallowing you whole, Homelander sweeps his knuckles across the apple of your cheek and presses his lips hard against yours. He wastes no time inhaling your gasps and moans, licking your mouth and the faint taste of mint, stealing it from you. You ingest what you can of him as well, exploring what was open to you longer than you realized.

He then seizes your wrists. It’s a rough gesture that evaporates into gentle circles along your pulse points. Still, you know you’re going to bruise where he turned the key and locked you into place: wherever he is.

A visible sheen coats his lips.

“I want you to tell me I’m good. Great. The best.”

His breathing is labored. So is yours.

He kisses the inside of the wrist smeared with perfume, your fluids, his saliva; ends with your hand and rests his cheek against the slope of it.

“I want you to be mine. All mine. Mine alone.”

You’re shaking. He moves forward and pets your hair, twirls it; grabs your nape and holds his thumb to the front of your throat. Securing you. Keeping you there.

“You have to stay. Be mine and stay.”

You thrum with an ache he forced upon you. He’ll claim you were starving and he was the only one who could satiate.

You nod. You were never going to leave to begin with.

Homelander made you his. And you thanked him for it.

#homelander #homelander x reader #the boys #antony starr #my writing #let me see you stripped down to the bone #oneshot #god it feels so good getting this out #i’ve been going through a painful writer’s block so 🥹#thank you everyone who helped and anyone who reads #this is my first full-fledged homelander fic so i’m a bit nervous but! very excited 🖤#love you all 🥰

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depravitycentral · 4 days ago

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Yandere! Gyomei Himejima NSFW Profile

Yandere! Gyomei Himejima x fem! reader

Tw: kidnapping, stalking, mentions of non-con, reader is implied to be smaller than Gyomei but let's be real EVERYONE is smaller than him regardless of your weight or height, anal play/fingering (m receiving), allusions to breeding, sub-ish Gyomei, masturbation, minor objectification, Gyomei is whipped, Stockholm Syndrome, accidental exhibitionism, Gyomei is a stone cold virgin (haha I am very funny), fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!

WC: 13.6K

HABITS:

Sex is not a priority for Gyomei.

Not only does his lifestyle make having a partner difficult, but even the physical act of sex is something he’s never been particularly interested in. He’s just simply not that physical of a man – affection isn’t something he’s especially comfortable with, and while he wants nothing more than to hold you and keep you in his arms forever (and he really does mean forever, something he doesn’t hesitate in reminding you), touching you isn’t at the forefront of his mind.

And this is especially true in the context of sexual intimacy – it’s one thing to crave holding your hand, but it’s another to crave having your thighs wrapped around his head. It’s one thing to desire you falling asleep with your cheek pressed against his chest, but it’s another to imagine you perched on top of him, your pretty moans of his name making his cheeks feel hot and his pulse rising dramatically.

It feels disrespectful, more than anything, to imagine you in a sexual light; he’s already painfully aware that having any sort of romantic feelings towards you is wrong, but to doom himself even further with explicit, lewd fantasies of you? Just the thought makes him bristle, unease and shame crawling up his spine because only perverted men do that, men with no morals or self-control.

And he’s able to keep this mentality for an impressively long period of time - you’d be hard pressed to catch him having any sort of risqué thoughts regarding you for much of the time his obsession festers, the furthest possible thing being imagining kissing you and gently cupping your cheeks.

(And even then, the idea of slipping his tongue into your mouth makes his cheeks feel hot, his entire body feeling like it’s on fire and making him hurriedly forget the thought, instead busying himself with imagining hugging you or pressing a quick kiss to your temple. But as time passes, if his concentration lessens for even a single moment, then he’s suddenly thinking about you putting your tongue in his mouth, and suddenly he needs to sit down, his head feeling dizzy and light and overwhelmed.)

He manages to stay within the confines of innocent fantasies of you, physically conditioning himself to halt any thoughts further than holding you by pinching himself or biting his tongue, anything at all to deter such thoughts and reprimand himself. But really, while Gyomei may be a very morally guided man with one of the gentlest hearts, he’s still a man.

And like most men, he has needs – even if he himself isn’t truly aware of them.

And so, while he forces himself to stay respectful of you during the day, he’s not so in control of his thoughts at night. It’s not as easy to stop himself from playing out vivid, pleasure-filled scenarios when he’s in the grips of slumber, his subconscious running wild and imagining how you’d feel with your hands on his body, your soft breasts pressed against his own rigid chest, your lips kissing his neck, and the wonderful warmth between your legs that he’s absolutely sure would be such a tight fit, truly stretching you out in every possible way.

(And god, while the size difference intimidates him ever so slightly because he doesn’t want to hurt you, there’s something about the fact that you’re just so damn tiny compared to him that makes something primal and territorial stir in his gut, the sense of protectiveness and ownership he feels over you only amplifying, despite his wishes. And then he’s imagining the way you’d squeal and grasp onto him as he sends rope after rope after rope of thick, white cum as deeply inside of you as he can manage, and it’s only then that Gyomei truly gives up any hope of not viewing you in a sexual light because how can he not fantasize about stuffing you so full that you’re leaking it? Leaking him?)

He’s woken up to messy sheets, a sweaty body and heavy breathing more often than he’d like to admit, the cum smeared across his softening cock and the material of the bed making him feel dirty, ashamed and disgusting.

(And when he sees you later that day, you’ll notice he’s a bit quieter than usual, not standing as close to you as he normally would, but if you bring it up he’ll only tear up a bit, telling you to disregard his strange behavior, but not really giving you a reason for it. He can’t lie to you, it feels wrong, but he can’t tell you, either, so he settles with omission, praying you won’t push the issue further.)

And so, as time passes, slowly he’ll find himself becoming a victim of the lust that begins showing itself, rearing its ugly head when he finds himself wanting you most, the bouts of loneliness he feels late at night making fighting off his desire difficult.

But even then, Gyomei has the patient of a saint and could probably stave off his urges to actually touch himself for the rest of his life. Dirty thoughts, no, but the act of actually stroking himself or acting upon those thoughts? He could, if he really tried – or at least he could without the intervention of something outside of his control, something that pushes him to finally, finally give in.

And that intervention comes one summer evening, when the wind is warm and the night air is full of liveliness. The village he’d been sent to had a night market that was bustling, hence the presence of a demon slowly picking off the shoppers every night. Finding and destroying the demon was quick and easy, and as Gyomei wandered through the market after completing his mission, a wrong turn led to a rather shocking discovery.

The woman’s voice sounds almost exactly like yours, only a bit higher, a bit more slurred, a bit sultrier as she moans presumably the name of the man pinning her against the wall. The alleyway between the two buildings in the downtown segment of the town reverberates her cries strongly, the wet sucking and kissing noises as the man worked at her neck making Gyomei freeze, embarrassment slowly creeping up his spine.

Of course, Gyomei isn’t naïve – he knows about the intimate relations between men and women, and although he has no sexual experience of his own, the heavy breathing, racing hearts and wet plap plap noises echoing down the alleyway towards him tell him more than enough about what exactly is taking place just a few meters away. He knows that this is really quite a private moment, and he knows that he should really, really move.

And yet, the similarities between your voice and the woman’s make him pause, his legs suddenly feeling like lead, even as the man’s grunts and questions of you like that, baby ring in his ears, making Gyomei’s eyebrows shoot up because oh no, what a horribly inappropriate thing to be hearing.

A particularly harsh thrust and a nearly pained groan from the man has Gyomei suddenly moving, sensing that the man is close to his end and the Hashira would prefer to give them privacy during such a moment. He tries to continue on with his evening, focusing entirely on the feeling of the beads between his palms and the bustling sounds of the town’s evening life as he heads back towards the more populated area, but the damage is already done.

The woman sounded so much like you that it haunts Gyomei that night, the sound ringing through his ears on repeat and driving him nearly mad, forcing him to head back home to his estate early. Once he’s smelling the familiar air of his home (tinged ever so slightly by your scent, you having visited earlier that day and leaving a lingering reminder of you that he immediately deeply inhales once he enters), Gyomei relaxes ever so slightly, head dipping down in shame as he notices the way his trousers are still fitting tightly, the woman’s sounds and the small, barely-there thoughts he’s trying to repress about your sounds physically affecting him.

Furrowing his brow, he resigns himself to the knowledge that he’ll likely spend the rest of the evening hard enough to be uncomfortable, instead simply sitting and resting atop his bed. He tries to distract himself as the minutes slowly tick by, thinking of training, praying, and anything else he can conjure up, brain working as frantically as possible because the idea of you moaning his name in that same wanton, needy way just absolutely refuses to leave him.

It’s infuriating, really, and it leaves Gyomei with a heavy sense of shame in his gut because it’s just so, so disrespectful to be thinking of you in such compromising, lewd ways. It’s abhorrent, truly a sign of just how weak he’s become in your hands, all without you even realizing it.

The next few hours are painful, his erection remaining prominent and sweat beading his brow, his concentration waning the longer it drags on. Every time he lets his mind wander, it’s turning back to you – he’s thinking of the delicious smell of curried meat that was coming from a market stand, and suddenly he’s imagining the way you would suck on the meat stick, and it’s not long before he’s thinking of how you’d suck on his lips, his fingers, him –

He sits up abruptly, biting his lip and forcing himself to his feet. And eventually, as Gyomei tasks himself with whatever simple task he can think of as a distraction, the concentration and resolve eventually breaks. The neatly folded pile of his clothing in the corner of the room shouldn’t make him pause as it does, but as his fingers feel over the fabric to identify each piece, he can’t help but notice the presence of something new atop the other items – something lighter and softer, a material completely unlike the rough, thick fabric of his uniform.

Curiously, he brings the material up closer to his face, leaning down slightly and inhaling, only to immediately stop, eyes going wide because fuck, this is your shawl, isn’t it?

You’d accidentally left it in his home and he’d placed it in the corner with the hopes of keeping it out of the way to preserve it and not accidentally ruin it. And yet, as he stands there, muscles tense with each inhale bringing your scent to his nose again and again, Gyomei finds that he simply can’t take it anymore. He’s so hard that it hurts, and with the smell of you filling his lungs, how can he possibly hold himself back any longer?

And so, with a heavy heart and shame creeping up his neck, Gyomei finds himself once again laying on his bed, back flat against the ground and swallowing heavily. He’s never touched himself before – maybe once as a young teenager, but he’s simply not had the time nor desire to, and he’s ashamed to admit that he’s nervous.

But then he’s imagining the way you’d moan again, your pretty voice ringing in his ears, the syllables of his name rolling off your tongue like velvet, G-yo-mei whimpered in his ear as he kneads at your breasts, thumbing at your nipples and kissing along the sensitive skin of your jaw.

And that’s all it takes for him to gently loosen the belt of his uniform trousers, his hand slightly trembling as he shuffles them down a bit, the cold air brushing against his freed cock and making him shiver slightly.

He’s slow and methodical as he very, very slowly relaxes. Guilt still consumes him, but he’s already got his pants off, cock in hand – and soon, he’s throwing caution to the wind and instead focusing on the idea of you.

He starts by imagining a simple part of your body – your hands, the ones whose fingers always brush his own, resting against his clothing as you compliment him, always feeling warm and soft and so, so very foreign. He swallows, his fist moving to grip himself at the base, the dull pleasure making his toes curl a bit.

Then he’s mentally picturing your arms, remembering the way they feel against his palms. He’s sure the skin there is soft, too, and he squeezes tighter as he thinks of the way you’d wrap them around his neck as he thrusts into you, hovering over you and trying to get as deep as he possibly can – he wants to feel every possible inch of you, to leave you stuffed full enough to be a gasping, stuttering mess.

He’s imagining your collarbone, his free hand coming up to trace his own for reference. He decides that your must be more delicate, softer, pretty and mirroring the shape of your jaw. Slowly, his hand begins moving upwards, a low, uneven breath falling from his lips because oh, this is a strange feeling.

He’s not entirely sure what breasts feel or look like, but as he licks his lips, he thinks back to all the (unpleasantly and unwilling) conversations he’s overheard from perverted older men. Soft, he thinks, and surely firm enough to grasp onto – one hand continues the slow, steady strokes as the other reaches up in front of him, shame eating away at him as he spreads his fingers, cupping and squeezing them as if your chest were right in front of him, your pretty tits bouncing, the plap plap noise of skin hitting skin filling the room.

He quietly groans your name as he continues to squeeze, head lolling back slightly against the floor, a strained look crossing his features because no, he knows the feeling that’s coming is an orgasm but dammit, he wants this to continue, even as depraved as it is. Even as disrespectful and rude – even as badly as he hopes and prays that you do this thinking of him, too.

His thumb comes up to quickly swipe at his tip, his abs clenching tightly at the sensation. He’s thinking of your stomach – it’s soft, he just knows it, the perfect thing for him to grab at, imagining the way he’d rest his head against the soft pudge of your lower tummy as he licks and sucks between your legs, feeling your thighs cage around his head, squeezing and crushing and fuck fuck fuck –

He groans your name, hips bucking up and up as he imagines what lays between those pretty thighs of yours, the exact picture a mystery but the idea making every nerve feeling like it’s on fire, white hot pleasure burning its way from the pit of his stomach through to every limb.

He’s sure fucking you would be heavenly – he’s heard women’s genitalia described as warm, wet, and tight, and the mere idea of you being that way is enough to get him gasping, his orgasm hurriedly approaching and his concentration too haphazard to use a technique to slow his breathing and delay the inevitable.

It’s futile, really, because when he imagines the way you’d clutch onto him and tell him such sweet praises, your pretty lips pressing against his desperately, whining that you want him, that you need him, it’s only natural for him to start bucking up into his hand, thrusting against his fist faster and faster and faster, the sound of his ass clapping back down against his bedsheets reverberating through the room, along with the wet slapping noise of his balls clapping against his fist as he imagines fucking into you harder, faster, more more more –

And just the idea of you moaning a breathy, adoring I love you, Gyomei is enough to get his back arching up, every muscle in his body going taut as spurt after spurt of warm, thick cum spurts from his tip, landing in rivulets across his chest, feeling hot and wet even over the fabric.

He’s panting, breathing heavily and bathing in the aftershocks of his orgasm, cock still pulsing and throbbing even as the minutes tick by, still mostly erect even as he grasps at the sheets, a fresh wave of tears beading at his eyes because what has he done?

Clarity rushes back to him and for a moment he’s in shock, the pleasure still numbing his senses. He’d masturbated to the thought of you – imagining your naked body touching his own, fantasizing about the way he’d taste you, how he’d ever so carefully ease inside you, a thumb constantly pressing against your clit to make sure everything feels as good for you as he’s sure it will feel for him.

He’s breathless, disappointed in himself, and as he silently sits up and washes himself up in the bathroom, scrubbing at the drying cum stains on his uniform, Gyomei can only sigh. It’s truly amazing what you’ve done to him – what you’ve reduced him to.

And yet, as Gyomei walks towards your home the next day with the intention of walking you to the market, he can’t help but subtly take wider steps, hoping to adjust himself as he grows hard at the mere thought of being close to you.

What have you done to him?

FAVORITE BODY PARTS:

Your Voice

Due to his blindness, Gyomei perceives your beauty in more meaningful ways than simply your appearance.

He fell in love first with your voice, the things you say never failing to leave him in awe of your kindness and your humility. He falls in love with your laughter, loving the sound and finding himself speaking more often simply for the chance to say something that would amuse you.

(Something that both you and others will notice, if only because it’s extremely unlike Gyomei to say anything even remotely hinting at humor, and while his comments often don’t land as he intended, you’ll often times end up laughing simply because it’s so out of character and odd of him. And oh, in the moment Gyomei is basking in the sound of your laughter, committing every inhale of breath and slight snort to memory, obsessively replaying the sound over and over and over.)

And so, when he’s falling into the depths of loneliness, arousal and desperation for you becoming too difficult to handle, he’ll think of the lulling sound of your voice, the way you roll your letters and how you enunciate your words. He’s memorized your speech patterns, always trying to engage you in conversation just so that he can listen to you talk, eagerly absorbing everything you say because it all feels important, like he’d be doing you a disservice to not memorize every little quirk, mannerism and opinion you have.

And so while his love for your voice begins platonically and innocently (or at least as innocent as it can be, considering his feelings for you are anything but), Gyomei finds that over time, this sentiment begins changing.

Sure, he’s still in love with your voice, but now he can’t stop thinking about what you’d sound like when you’re out of breath, when you’re moaning, when you’re whining and keening and begging and needing him to please touch me Gyomei, I need it so bad please please please –

He’s fantasizing about what you sound like during sex long before he feels comfortable with it, his mind conjuring up all these questions and hypothetical scenarios without his control. He’s idly wondering if you’re more of a moaner, all high-pitched and girly, plentiful sounds that are expressive enough for him to very easily and quickly be able to read exactly what you’re feeling, exactly what you’re wanting. Or perhaps you’d be a little deeper, more of a groaner, more likely to let out sighs rather than whines. Or perhaps you’re just very quiet - he’d be happy with that, too, finding that the minimal sounds he does manage to get out of you are all the more rewarding, all the more precious and worthy of cherishing.

(He’s even found himself, in a moment of dissociation as he tries to sleep, mimicking what he imagines your noises would be like – he catches himself after the third moan slips out, immediately stopping himself and becoming mortified because oh god, does he now not even have autonomy and control over his own body and actions?)

And once he’s stolen you away, his hand forced by some external event, Gyomei’s love and appreciation for your voice persists. He’s still captivated by it, except now he’s paying even more attention, listening to your heartbeat and the way you breath, finding himself pressing his ear up against walls when he wants to give you space but still needs to hear you.

Once your sexual relationship begins, he’s absolutely addicted to drawing all sorts of sounds out of you – he wants to hear your every moan, your every comment, every everything because he wants to know exactly how you’re feeling and what he can do to make it better for you.

He’s always encouraging you to be louder, to be more expressive, always asking you questions during sex in attempts to get you to be more vocal. It’s selfish, sure, but with the way his cock throbs at the sound of your voice, can be really be blamed?

You just have an effect on him – one he absolutely adores, shivers running up and down his spine merely at the sound of you breathing.

His Fingers

Even outside of the bedroom, Gyomei is reliant on his fingers. It’s a necessary part of his job – wielding his axe and flail, praying, even simple day-to-day activities. They’re thick, and they’re strong – calloused and weathered with the scars of battle and a tough life, and Gyomei has remarkable dexterity and control over them.

And while he may be blind, Gyomei notices almost immediately that you seem to take a liking to them, once your fear and apprehension towards him starts to wear off, once you start to see him as less of a threat and more as a provider, a lover, even.

So while he’s never really given them much thought, there’s just something about how you react to his thick, scarred digits that makes him positively swoon with happiness – it starts off relatively platonic, with you simply touching his fingers. Letting one of his hands rest in your lap, your smaller fingers comparing sizes, tracing scars and callouses, idly toying with them as you talk about something seemingly trivial to you.

(Little to you know that Gyomei is listening with rapt attention, every one of his senses heightened because you’re touching him, and it feels so soft and sweet and adorable that he almost thinks he might combust, his cheeks feeling warm and something fluttering in his stomach.)

It’ll move to you asking him to rub your shoulders, letting out little moans at the feeling of him running thumbs against your back, digging in – carefully, of course – against the tight, sore muscles of your shoulders, all the while Gyomei has to focus on continuing his job and relaxing you, ignoring the rather insistent erection pressing heatedly against his pants as a result of your sounds, the feeling of your skin, and the proximity of your scent.

And of course, you absolutely adore his fingers in the context of sex - one of them is enough to have you pleading with him to wait, please, the stretch is too much, you need a second to adjust, immediately pausing or pulling back, listening to you and asking if you’d like him to try again, if he should go slower, if you’d like to be done and instead do something else, or nothing else at all.

(He hopes, prays, even, that you’ll let him try again, that you’ll let him sink his fingers into you, curling and rubbing and mapping out every inch of you like some sort of sacred knowledge, like knowing you inside and out is his only purpose.)

And while Gyomei has never been an especially prideful guy, he can’t help the surge of satisfaction that rolls through him at the knowledge that he’s enough for you in bed, that he’s able to satisfy you and give you what you want at any time, sometimes even with just his fingers alone.

He had no experience before his infatuation with you began - he’d never even kissed someone, let alone fingered them or been inside them, but once he realizes how badly he wants to make you come, how desperately he needs to hear up-close the way you sound as your orgasm crashes through you, he’s suddenly learning as diligently as he can, taking into consideration your every whimper, moan and gasp.

Soon, he’s able to pinpoint your spot within the first three thrusts, and once he feels the way you tighten around him, almost as if you were sucking his fingers in further, deeper, he gets to work - he’s thrusting, curling, rubbing and stretching you out just how you like it, hearing the symphony of your noises and cries, along with the lewd squelching noises of his fingers pushing and pulling out of you again and again.

And when his calloused fingertips find your already swollen and sensitive clit? Honestly it’s game over – they’re never leaving the spot, quickly learning precisely how you like to be touched, the accuracy and ease of the movements nearly unfair as you squirm and writhe and gasp out his name.

Gyomei is determined, and he will get you to come, if it’s the last thing that he does. After all, how can he call himself good enough of a lover for you if he can’t even manage to do that?

DRIVE:

Before his infatuation with you began, Gyomei’s drive was quite literally nonexistent. The thought of sex hardly ever crossed his mind, and if it did, it was immediately shoved away, pushed aside for more important matters in his everyday life. Survival, hunting demons and saving innocents took all of his free time and energy, and touching himself was both unnecessary and a stark reminder of not having a partner.

(Something that doesn’t bother him up until he meets you – because now he’s suddenly hyper aware of what couples do. He’s constantly thinking of holding your hand, brushing back your hair and cupping your cheek, softly pressing his lips to the corners of your mouth and against your jugular, holding you in his arms at night to keep you protected from both the cold and any wayward demons. And of course, the other things couples do – the things that make him feel like some hormone-driven teenage boy for being so easily flustered, for being so horribly eager to try them out with you.)

His libido was essentially non-existent, and while he’d sometimes overhear Tengen talking in shockingly explicit detail to Rengoku about his latest sexual escapades with his wives, he genuinely never felt the need to even so much as think about intimacy like that, let alone indulge in it.

But once you worm your way into his heart, suddenly the urge to be with you in an intimate manner is just too much to ignore. Of course, it’s still very gradual – it takes years of friendship in order for Gyomei to even form romantic feelings towards you in the first place, much less feelings to this degree. And even once they’re realized, it’ll take a long while before he moves past fantasizing about simply sitting by your side and slowly breathing in the air you’re exhaling and instead towards fantasizing about fucking you until you’re crying.

But as time passes and he slowly gives in more and more to his better judgement, Gyomei finds himself idly toying with the thoughts lingering at the edges of his subconscious – ideas of how you’d feel underneath him, how your lips would curve against his skin, how you’d keen and sigh his name. It becomes too hard not to imagine the way your pretty cunt would suck in his fingers, clenching down and fluttering around him as he curls and thrusts them, listening to the beating of your heart and slowly but surely finding every spot that drives you absolutely crazy.

His drive is still quite low even once he realizes his infatuation with you (simply finding that while he very, very much wants to have sex with you, it’s not something he needs on an hourly or daily basis), but the more lewd, dirty thoughts about you are most certainly still swirling in his mind.

And really, how can he be expected to not fantasize about you?

You’re so beautiful, inside and out, and Gyomei is sure that if you were to allow him to touch you in such an intimate way, he'd be in heaven. The softness of your skin, the tightness of your throat, the warmth of your pussy…

(He’s heard, once again mainly from Tengen but also from others he’s unfortunately overheard, that vaginas tend to be warm, hot even. Initially, he’d just thrown aside this information, having no use for it, but the comments flow back into his head as he tries to picture what your cunt must feel like. Warm makes sense, but then he’s thinking of how it’s supposedly so very wet, assuming the woman is aroused, and Gyomei can only gulp at the thought, imagining the wet schlock noise that would ring in his ears when he’s got you bouncing in his lap. And of course, the tightness – he’s gripping himself harder at the mere thought, gasping sharply as he brings his fist up and down, varying the strength of his grip as he imagines where you’d be tightest, how your walls would squeeze and massage at him just how he’s been told it is.)

And you make it very, very hard to keep the thoughts from entering his head once he's accepted his sexual attraction to you.

When he notices the little sound you make when you throw your arms over your head and stretch, how can he not think of the way you’d squirm and cry out when he gently, sweetly presses a finger inside of you, curling and rubbing at the spot that Tengen promises will make you feel good? And although he knows it’s probably a bit inappropriate to be thinking of you in such ways despite you not being married quite yet, he honestly can’t help it - you’re too attractive to him, you mean to much for him to not want to be with you in every possible way.

After all, Gyomei wants to do everything in his power to make you as happy as possible, and if it means burying his face between your legs for hours on end and bringing you to your high a few times, he’s already plopping down onto his knees, throwing your legs over his shoulders.

(And even if you don’t really want it, Gyomei is still more than happy to taste you, practically begging you without saying the words, reminding you that he can make you relax, please allow me to pleasure you, it should help with your headache. And while it’s mostly for you, genuinely, there’s still a selfish part of him that’s hurriedly settling your pretty cunt over his face because he wants your thighs caging around his head, the taste and smell of you enveloping his senses, to have every ounce of your attention solely on him him him.)

He's not perpetually desperate for you in a sexual sense, but once Gyomei’s infatuation settles in for long enough, he will not turn you down should you offer.

That said, Gyomei will never force anything physical onto you in any capacity.

(And this is true In all senses – obviously he won’t force you into sex if you don’t consent, but he also won’t do things like holding your hand or calling you petnames, wanting everything in your relationship to be as reciprocated as possible. Except, of course, where your safety is concerned – if he looks the villain for kidnapping you, so be it, but at least he isn’t pinning you down and taking what he wants from you. Though with his stature, you’re aware that he could take practically anything he wants and you’d not be able to do a thing about it.)

While he isn’t especially experienced with romantic relationships, he’s more than aware that consent is everything, that each action and step should be accepted by both parties, whether it be a peck on the cheek or bending you over the nearest counter and leaving you sore.

Gyomei hates when you cry, and as the target of his obsession, this works in your favor - while you’re likely to develop sympathy and possibly even some warped sort of love for him, you won’t ever have to worry about being taken advantage of, or being put in a situation in which you’re forced to do something physical that you’re uncomfortable with. His top priority in any situation is you, and how can he justify shoving his tongue down your throat if you’re cringing, pushing at his far too muscular chest, showing obvious signs of fear?

How can he enjoy spreading your legs and running a thick finger up and down your folds when you’re shivering, whimpering with a few tears trailing down your cheeks?

He’d never forgive himself if he touched you without your consent, if he hugged or kissed or - heaven forbid, fucked - you without your explicit agreement, and this honestly ends up advantaging him in a strange way. It’s wrong and you know it, but eventually you’ll begin to grow fond of his gentle touches, his way of treating you as if you were made of glass, far too fragile and breakable for this world.

Perhaps it’s Stockholm Syndrome or the extreme isolation of only seeing one other person on a consistent basis, but eventually you’ll stop caring, justifying your growing yearning for his touch as simply a natural response to your situation. And at some point, you’ll want him to go further - no longer is a soft caress of your cheek enough; no, you want him to press his thumb against your lips, tracing the outline and pushing in just enough to pop it past your lips, settling on your tongue and telling you in that calming, deep voice of his to suck.

At some point you’ll decide that instead of him simply placing the palm of his hand on the top of your head as a sign of subtle, noninvasive affection, you’ll want him to instead have you on your knees before him, that same hand pressing your head down as you choke and gag on what you’re sure is a very, very sizeable cock. And once you voice these needs, gathering the courage and confidence that he won’t reject you (he would never, no matter how compromising or humiliating what you’re requesting of him is), Gyomei will be shocked, flustered, nervous, even.

When you shyly tug at his belt, kissing along the line of his jaw and whispering his name in a way that gets shivers erupting over his whole body, he won’t fight you. And all throughout the process he’s asking for your consent, refusing to move his hands until he gets explicit verbal confirmation that he can touch your back, your waist, your tits, your thighs, your ass, your cunt, your everything.

(Honestly, the question of are you sure, is this okay, does that feel good that constantly falls from his lips is almost too endearing, the ever-so-slight tremor in his voice giving away just how excited and nervous he is to be getting so intimate with you, as if the very, very insistent bulge pressing against your ass isn’t enough to tell by.)

It’s in moments where he’s completely vulnerable with you that the Stockholm Syndrome really accelerates: he’s slowly drawing circles against your clit and listening as if his life depends on it to the changes in your breathing, your moans, feeling the way your hips and thighs twitch at certain stimulation. It’s sweet, really, how attentive Gyomei is and just how anal he is about making sure that you’re comfortable with everything, and with each soft moan of his name and each orgasm he coaxes out of you, Gyomei can only thank whatever is listening, savoring the taste of you like a starving man and trying to memorize every inch of your body.

(It’s in the times of post-orgasmic bliss that he finds himself incredibly grateful for having prioritized your comfort and not pushed you into anything too early – sure, covering his mouth with the section of his happi you’d touched early in the day and absolutely yanking at his cock, his fist moving so quickly it’s nearly a blur wasn’t ideal, but it lead to this. All those evenings spent desperately trying to orgasm to release some of the built up sexual frustration and to minimize your chances of seeing the rather massive tent in his pants were worth it – anything is worth it to have you cuddled up in his arms, cheek smoothed against his bare chest, your soft breaths puffing against his nipple and making him lick his lips. Anything at all.)

MAIN THREE KINKS:

Oral Fixation

Specifically, Gyomei absolutely adores going down on you.

In general, he’s a giver in bed. He’s not a selfish lover by any means – in fact, he’s almost infuriatingly generous, prioritizing your pleasure over yours no matter the situation to the point that it’s almost irritating. And because he’s so cautious and aware that he’s significantly larger than you and thus has a cock proportionate to his height and stature, he knows that he needs to take things slow and spend a very, very long time preparing your body to take him.

And Gyomei’s personal preference is to use his tongue on you – to spread your legs and leave you squirming against him, the taste of you invading every one of his senses and only driving him to lick with more fervor, to suckle harder, to give you more more more because he needs you to be ready and able to take his cock or he thinks he might go insane.

He likes the intimacy of using his tongue on you – it means you trust him, he thinks, and there’s something so wonderful about the lewdness and vulgarity of it all. Having his mouth on the most sensitive, personal place on your body, all while your thighs cage his head in, your hips twitching and your fingers tunneling through his hair. He loves the way he feels so close to you – like he’s experiencing the most real, raw part of you that he can, the feeling almost as euphoric and intimate as having his cock nestled inside of you, warm and snug and full.

He loves the smell of you – it’s musky and earthy, something that makes his eyes roll to the back of his head and something resembling a groan slip from him at a mere whiff of between your legs, often leading to his hips bucking on their own, unconsciously moving to come closer to the source of your scent, his body physically unable to stop itself from trying to rut and fuck into you.

(Something that embarrasses Gyomei slightly, if only because he finds it rather pathetic just how poor his body-control becomes around you, ashamed at his inability to stop himself from responding so carnally, so perversely.)

He’ll often lean down and press his face against the pretty hair covering your cunt, nose-deep into it as he inhales, pants growing tight embarrassingly fast because oh fuck, he’s practically Pavolv’d himself into orgasming the moment he smells you, arousal blooming through him even though he hasn’t touched himself even the slightest.

And he’s not shy to tell you that you smell good, either – he’s always praising you in bed, but he’ll murmur to you that you smell divine, the compliment sounding throatly and groaned, and he’ll always finish it off by pressing soft, adoring kisses around the junctures of your thighs and pelvis, making sure every inch of space has been touched by his lips.

(And he gets very, very into it, too – he’s groaning lightly against your skin, letting his lips linger, letting his tongue come out to rub at the skin of your inner thigh, sucking slightly and letting go with a wet plop sound that makes your face feel hot and your stomach twist. It’s often at this point that he’ll wind up unconsciously very slowly grinding against whatever object is available, often the blankets you’re resting on and even sometimes your leg when he’s feeling especially needy, often when he’s returned from a prolonged mission. On those rare occasions, you may even feel something wet and very, very warm seep against your leg, hot cum already staining your skin and only serving as an omen for what Gyomei wants to do to you.)

He’ll trail kisses up to your clit, little kitten licks while he listens and gauges your reactions, trying to discover if you’re more in the mood for circles, figure eights, stripes, or – when a strange, unusual bout of possessiveness surges through him – the kanji for his own name.

(He’ll always grip onto you harder when he does this, still trying to be mindful of his strength, but with enough force to leave you completely immobile, utterly subject to whatever he wants to do to your body – a fact that both frightens him and excites some small, carnal part of him.)

He’ll station a thumb to work the pattern against you, rhythmic and steady, while his tongue darts out to dig between your folds, pressing shallowly into you while you twitch and whine, his thumb insistent against you. He’ll take his time to explore you, leaving no area untouched, and he’ll pull back with a few hearty sucks against your labia, licking his lips as he presses kisses against your stomach.

How would you like to come, my love? He’ll ask between kisses, the emphasis on the word ‘my’ subtle but still there. If you want to come solely from his tongue licking and sucking at you, he’ll be more than happy to – he’ll shift his positioning, laying on his back with you perched on his face, keeping his tongue stationary and instead moving you to the rhythm he knows you like, just so that all you have to do is sit there and take it, leaving your body completely in his control.

He’ll bring you to your high solely through sucking at your clit if you’d prefer, puckering his lips and keeping the pressure up, running his tongue over the sensitive skin and keeping them attached even when you buck up, your hips moving uncontrollably as you near your orgasm.

He’ll do both, if you want, able to multi-task and keep everything exactly as you like it, desperation motivating him because he needs to feel you come for him, to feel the way you muscles clench and spasm around him, to hear your pretty cries and feel your fingers dig against his scalp, pulling and yanking and making him groan lowly at the pain-twinged pleasure.

He just loves to please you really, and he can spend hours between your legs – genuinely, and without a single complaint. He’ll bring you a single orgasm or twenty, whatever you want of him, all you have to do is sweetly ask, to say his name and say please Gyomei, need another one, you feel so good and I want to come for you again all the while you grind against his tongue.

(If you really want to get him going, do all that and grab his free hand, slipping a finger or two into your mouth and sucking yourself, making sure it’s wet and sloppy and full of drool. He’ll pause for a mere second, before swallowing hard and immediately diving into your cunt, motivated because oh god, you never use your mouth on him – his own instigated rule, simply because he’s terrified he’ll choke you and kill you should he lose control and thrust down your throat. But this? Oh, perhaps he does have a penchant for your mouth, too, the oral fixation extending both ways and leaving him dizzy and light headed because even your fucking mouth is perfect, all warm and wet and smooth, making his cock leak so much precum that he idly wonders if he’s undergoing a single long, drawn-out orgasm because of the sheer volume.)

And Gyomei will be eager for the entire time he’s between your legs, keen to take you in any position – you laying down, from the back, you sitting on his face, anything that feels right – in any setting. He just loves the way you taste – how it’s so earthy, heavy against his tongue, natural in a way that makes him desperate for more, finding himself craving the taste at the most inopportune of times.

(Thank god for the looseness of the uniform pants – you can notice the tent in them, of course, with just how often he’s sporting an erection in your presence, but this way his fellow slayers won’t notice – which is good, because as your sexual relationship progresses, it’s a near daily basis that a passing thought of your taste hits him, literally making him salivate and having to leave the room briefly.)

He just really, really likes using his mouth on you, and he won’t hesitate to offer himself up at even the slightest change of you wanting it. Even the slightest chance.

Praise

He’s not terribly vocal in bed, but when he speaks he makes it count.

His natural sounds during sex are much more controlled – he’s always letting out these long, shaky exhales, his lips parted slightly and his eyebrows drawing tight because fuck you feel good. He’ll groan your name and often hiss lightly through his teeth, soft little ah-ah sounds falling from his lips when you’re sucking on him just right and riding him with the rhythm and angle he likes best.

And yet, he was very, very quiet at the beginning of your sexual relationship – only breathing heavily and giving you a slurred, rushed I’m coming right before so much cum is stuffed up into your cunt that you’re literally leaking around his still-hard cock inside of you. He was quiet mostly because he didn’t want to turn you off by letting out some of the more intense noises, groans that start low but turn into this higher, whinier sound, or chants and mantras of your name like a prayer when he’s gently rolling his hips into you, every muscle in his body clenching in an effort to restrain himself and not absolutely pound into you like he so desperately wants to.

He didn’t want to scare you or make you uncomfortable, but as he grows more familiar with your body and your sexual preferences, Gyomei finds that complimenting you seems to fall naturally off his tongue.

He already thinks of you as perfection in human form, idolizing you to such a degree that he knows it’s unhealthy but he can’t find it in himself to stop. He’s never seen your face, of course, but he’s sure that you’re beautiful, fingers having groped and traced out every feature of your face, every slope and curve of your body (even the inside of your body, too, of course) more times than he can count.

And before he knows it, all sorts of praises are filling the wet, thick air between you as he fucks into you – his voice is still low and timbered, the vibrations making shivers shoot up your spine and your nipples harden up, his strained praise of you take me so well, love only serving to get you going faster, grinding and scooping your hips more aggressively and feeling the way he sucks in a sharp breath and tenses up underneath you.

A lot of his praises focus largely on your performance during sex – always complimenting you for the way you feel, telling you that you feel like heaven and that you’re perfect and that you’re everything I’ve been dreaming of quietly under his breath the first time he carefully, almost fearfully cups your tits in his hands, squeezing gently and waiting pointedly for your response, forcing himself to not cave and squeeze as hard as he can.

He’s complimenting parts of your body, too – telling you that your skin is so soft, that your lips taste so good, that your ass is so warm and perfect to grip onto while you’re riding him. Of course, not in such vulgar terms – he only gets crude when he’s right on the brink of orgasming, some of his more lewd, risque thoughts coming to life because fuck fuck fuck it’s like you’re milking him for everything he’s worth, cunt sucking him in so tightly that he thinks he might die and oh god oh god oh god –

Even then, it’s still nothing terrible, but he’ll switch out some of the sweeter terms for cruder ones, calling it a cunt rather than your warmth or something equally virginal, really.

(Which makes sense, considering that it’s extremely obvious the first time that you touch him that he is in fact a virgin, his startled little gasps at every touch even against his torso leaving some sort of power trip rushing straight to your head because while he’s this hulking, huge, powerful man, you have him crumbling with a simple brush of your index finger, every muscle in his body flexing so hard it nearly hurts when you lick at his tip for the first time.)

Instead of asking you with a rather polite please go faster, angel when he needs you to bounce on him at a quicker pace, he’s throwing his head back a bit, Adam’s apple bobbing as he clutches onto you, losing his composure and telling you that you feel so – so good, oh keep going, don’t stop, you’re making me so close to coming – please tell me I can finish inside of you…

Which brings up another major aspect of his praise kink – Gyomei always seems to be asking for permission, even borderline begging at times. It doesn’t read as begging often, though, simply because he's still the one in control most of the time, even if you’re on top or dictating the pace. But he’ll always slip in a please, or bite his lip and wait for you to give him permission, managing to stave off his orgasm long enough to hear you moan out a yes, please come inside me, and suddenly he’s calling you beautiful and clutching onto you as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear, cum spraying into you and leaving you squirming because you can feel just how hot it is and just how much there is.

During his orgasms he’s particularly vocal, not to an exaggerated degree but always babbling in that deep, groaning voice that gets high at the very end about how you’re perfect, how you take him so well, how you’re made for him, how he loves you he loves you he loves you he loves you –

He genuinely finds you to be perfect, and every sexual encounter with him will leave you uncomfortably aware that he feels this way. He’s always complimenting you, and due to his lack of vision, the compliments are often extremely specific and leave you more puzzled than flattered.

He’s telling you that you’re the perfect size for him (this is often size closer to his orgasm, when he’s marveling and unable to fathom just how fucking tight you are around him), that you smell like how he’s always imagined (followed with a loud, audible sniff that’s trailed off with a moan, his voice higher than normal), that you’re so soft and squishy (this is always punctuated by particularly hard thrusts if he’s fucking you, and he’ll bury his face against the warm skin of your neck, hands groping at any fatty, squishy part of your body in a frenzy that’s rather uncharacteristic of him).

He just finds that while he’s normally able to stay composed and can be judicious about just how much he reveals he knows about you when he’s not touching you, the moment your skin comes into contact with his, a bit of his judgements flies out the door, instead focusing on the way you feel, how he’s been dreaming about this moment for months, guiltily wringing his cock dry at the mere prospect of getting to touch your used clothing, of getting to hear you breathing in his ear while he thumbs at his tip and lightly squeezes his balls.

You’re just so, so damn good – and in those moments where his admiration and obsession with become dangerously on display, you’ll feel equal parts disturbed and flattered, because really isn’t it just so damn pathetic that you’re able to turn such a large, important, strong man into a groaning mess that’s holding onto you for dear life with just a grind of your hips and a few well-timed, sultry phrases in his ear? Pathetic, sure, but also erotic, sexy in a way that scares even you for feeling it.

But Gyomei can’t seem to care, unable to stop himself form laying on the praise thick, not even conscious that he’s doing it – you just affect him that much.

Orgasm Control

But specifically, Gyomei wants you to control his orgasms.

Most of the time, Gyomei assumes a more dominant role in bed. He doesn’t really adhere to the dominant and submissive roles per say, but it’s rather because he holds so much power over you outside of the bedroom that it naturally follows between the sheets. You’re his captive, after all, and while you’ve slowly come around to him, perhaps even returning his feelings in some sort of deranged way, Gyomei is still undeniably the one in charge in your relationship.

So while he’s not shoving your face into the mattress and mounting you like some sort of animal staking his claim on you (though if you begged him hard enough, he might consider maybe doing something along the lines, but significantly toned down and with a constant question of is this alright, my love asked before each and every motion), between his size and his aura you’ll often find at the start of your sexual relationship that you’re following his lead, doing what he wants to do.

And this bothers Gyomei – he doesn’t like the fact that you still feel a shadow of fear for him, obvious in the way that you look to him for guidance and approval during sex, even though you have at least as much experience as him if not more. It makes him uncomfortable and reminds him of the reality of your situation, something he wants to escape from when he’s being intimate with you.

He wants to think of you as wanting to be naked in his arms and kissing him rather than you having talked yourself into it simply because he’s the only human being you regularly have contact with now. And to remedy this, Gyomei does his best to let you dictate the timing of his orgasms. He has impeccable self-restraint and control, and while it’s not necessarily easy, he’s pretty adept at holding off his orgasms.

(It’s a lot easier to come on command, of course, simply because all he needs to do is focus on the feel of you under his palms and around his tongue or cock, listening to your heartbeat and the sound of your voice and he’s already halfway there, only needing a single, final push to get him groaning and letting go.)

And while he doesn’t explicitly say it at the start, you’ll notice pretty quickly that he only lets himself go when you beg him to, only warning you with a clipped I’m close to coming as a prompt for you to tell him to either hold it in or release.

You’ll soon figure it out, and Gyomei absolutely loves the power structure that forms when you finally understand what he’s trying to do. There’s something thrilling about letting go of his control and handing it totally over to you. No longer does he have to be the strongest, wisest, or most senior – no, now he can just be Gyomei, just be your lover, the man unequivocally whipped and subject to your beck and call.

It’s freeing, almost, and he looks forward to seeing what mood you’ll be in each time your clothing gets peeled off. He’s not sure which mood he likes most – there’s something arousing about the way that you tease him, denying him his orgasm over and over and over, leaving him pent up but still attentive to your words, following your instructions and holding himself back, even when you’re doing things you know drive him crazy.

(Like bouncing on him just right, the feeling of your ass clapping against his thighs making his mouth feel dry. Or when he’s hovering over you, fucking into you slowly and deeply, and you go and wrap a leg around him, drawing him closer, begging him to finish inside but stopping him just moments before his release, telling him nuh-uh, not yet, you only get to come inside me when you’ve earned it. Or one of the rare times you’ve convinced him to let you take him in your mouth, teasing him with tracing his tip over your lips and collarbone, alternating between suckling at his tip and pushing your breasts together to rub up and down his length, narrating to him the whole time exactly what you’re doing. They all make his face go slightly red, his fists clenching up and the muscles in his arms bulging, veins standing out and leaving you to drool slightly, entranced that this behemoth of a man is listening to your words like gospel, forcing himself to be good and do exactly as you say. Even if you’re not an especially dominant person, there’s still something that’ll get you going about that, some sort of power trip that leaves you feeling light headed in the best possible way.)

The edging only serves to make his orgasm stronger, to make everything feel more intense, his eventual orgasm ending up being way more powerful, arcs of cum shooting from his swollen, red tip with such intensity that it feels almost painful against your skin.

(And he’ll finish wherever you tell him to, too – his preference is always inside of you simply because it feels the most intimate and it satisfies some small possessive side of him, but Gyomei will do whatever you want – you want him to finish on your chest? He’s painting your tits in white, droplets dripping from your nipples and drying in thick smears against your skin. Grab his hand and let his fingers feel over the mess he's made and he’ll lowly gasp, a smaller, less impressive spurt landing freshly on your chest, the feeling of his cum on you enough to get the last, sad little bit out. He’ll finish on your back, your ass, your stomach, your thighs, anything you want – just say the word and he’ll do it, eager to please you and make you enjoy your time with him, even if it means leaving his seed somewhere other than where it really belongs – inside you.)

But of course, Gyomei also loves the other side of you dictating his orgasms – that is, similarly to his ability to hold himself off, his refractory period is short. If you were to take advantage of that, you'll see him at the closest to pussydrunk you’ll ever get – make him come in quick succession, your hand steady and quick as you jerk him off, and you’ll see how the first orgasm is the familiar heavy load, the second is slightly reduced, the third even more so, and by the fifth orgasm he’s shooting blanks, abs clenching and unclenching so quickly that you almost feel bad for him, but the sounds he’s letting out are filthy. His normally low and masculine voice rises with each one, until he’s letting out something that isn’t quite a whimper but isn’t not one, either.

He loves the way you bleed him dry, your voice soothing and alluring even as you push him to the edge of his comfort zone, tears pooling in his eyes as you tell him to keep going Gyomei, I know you can give me another one, please give me another one paired with a wet, needy kiss to his lips.

You unlock all sorts of kinks and sides to him that he wasn’t aware even existed, and he’ll let you play with him as much as you please, eagerly setting down onto your shared bed, spreading his legs and helping guide you to your place in his lap, already rock hard below you.

He’s too big and powerful to be called pathetic, but he sure toes the line when you’re touching him, when you’re driving him absolutely insane.

OTHER NOTABLE KINKS INCLUDE:

Size Kink

Though, only in very specific circumstances. By and large, Gyomei is painfully aware of just how extreme the size difference between the two of you is – and regardless of your height or weight, you are smaller than him. Small enough to make him worry constantly about accidentally hurting you, terrified that he’ll somehow crush you or bruise you or simply be too much for you. It’s his number one concern when doing anything sexual with you, worrying that even a single finger slipping into your cunt will make you squirm with more than just pleasure.

But by the same token, there’s something so inexplicably right about just how much bigger he is than you. It’s shameful, he thinks, and it makes him feel like some sort of freak for being attracted to the size difference, but it makes him feel stronger, more masculine, feeling like a true protector and provider for you because he can encompass your whole body simply by hovering over you.

And he’s reminded of it at every turn – his hand against your waist covers half the area, the skin soft and plush and warm underneath him, but he can feel the curve of your hip, the expanse of his hand just that much on your body. He can feel the way your fingers struggle to fully grab around his cock, fingertips barely touching even as you squeeze him tightly, and while it seems to frustrate you, Gyomei can only headily swallow, cock twitching in your hands because god, there’s no way that will fit inside of you, will it?

And yet as he swallows, oh so slowly eases you down as you straddle him, going slow and giving you ample breaks to adjust to his size, there’s something about the way he can feel you tremble, your cunt stretching to accommodate him that makes him fist at the sheets, struggling to maintain his composure.

(The warmth and wetness of your walls certainly don’t help his predicament, absolutely soaked and sensitive from the some three orgasms he’d already pulled from you in preparation.)

He’s cautious and terrified that he’ll hurt you, of course, and his concern for you weighs out over any sort of sexual pleasure he gets from the size difference, but it’s still present at the back of his mind, toying with him and begging him to just shove himself inside of you, to take a quick, harsh pace like his body is dying to, to use you as some sort of living cocksleeve for him to fuck into and fill up. He won’t ever do that, of course, but it’s one of the main motivations behind his deep, far-reaching thrusts, enjoying the way you gasp and claw at him when he’s nudged up right against your cervix, pressing and filling you to the point of you almost feeling that you’re being split in half.

He preps you well enough that you’re always able to just barely take him, too worried that he’ll hurt you otherwise, but he still can’t deny the allure of just how different your bodies are.

(And this extends beyond the bedroom, too – he loves the way you fit against his side when you cuddle against him, or how he has to lean down for you to press kisses against his face - something he absolutely adores and very does not mind leaning over for.)

It’s just sweet in his opinion, and while it gets blood rushing south more easily than he’d care to imagine, it ultimately only serves as another reminder that he needs to keep you safe and protected, that you’re too weak to survive in the real world without his aid.

(And, of course, some selfish part of him is satisfied with the knowledge that now that you’ve had him, you’d never be satisfied with another man’s cock, never able to feel the level of stretch and fullness that he can give you. Not that he’d allow you the opportunity to try with another man – he’s not terribly possessive, but the thought of someone else touching you, fucking you, is enough to get his nostrils flaring, rage simmering through him because he absolutely does not want anyone else getting even remotely close to you in that capacity.)

Thigh Riding

Gyomei lives to please you in bed. Every sexual encounter with him sees your pleasure as the absolute priority – he’ll have pulled some three orgasms from you before he even thinks about reaching one himself, before he even really pays attention to the fact that he’s so hard he’s soaked the front of his pants through.

And he’s not picky about how to get you there – namely, Gyomei doesn’t mind being quite literally used for your pleasure, his every limb and feature available for your use. He’ll let you do whatever you want to him; bending him into all sorts of positions, giving him directions for how to finger your pretty cunt, laying down and letting you grind and hump at his face like he’s a mere pillow.

He loves to be of service to you, and he finds that the best sex is where he’s nothing more than a toy for you, at least at the beginning – hence, Gyomei grows to absolutely love having you ride his thigh. He’s huge, a hulking man with muscles so thick and defined that you’ll quite literally be drooling the first time you see them, sucking in a sharp breath when you touch him for the first time.

(And he’ll feel a mixture of pride and bashfulness grow inside him when he hears your little gasp – he’s overjoyed that you seem to like what you’re seeing and feeling, some small, anxious part of him having been terrified that you’d be repulsed by his size and the scars littering his body, that you’d find him to be too muscular, too intimidating. And you can tell, too, because the way that he visibly becomes harder afterward the gasp is a clear indication that you’re doing something to him, your mere presence and breathing getting him hard as a rock.)

He likes the physicality of the act – he keeps you steady on his thigh, the muscle large enough for you to straddle, and the feeling of your hands gripping onto his chest for support makes him oddly giddy.

The first time it happens, Gyomei honestly isn’t sure what you’re trying to do - when you straddle his thigh rather than his waist, his lips part slightly, confusion evident across his features. But as your hips start moving, your exposed, wet cunt sliding against the toned, broad expanse of his thigh again and again, he’s suddenly grasping onto our hips, helping guide you up and down the length of his thigh, occasionally tensing his muscles in order to hear you gasp and cry out his name.

He wants to do everything he can to service you, to help you reach that wonderful high, and the only thing that’s rolling through his mind at that moment is how perfect you feel, the way his name slips from your lips as your body shakes in pleasure, how he can feel the pulses and clenches of your cunt even as you pick up the pace.

And when he snakes a hand down to thumb against your clit, he nearly comes from the sound that escapes you - it’s so wanton, so lewd and dirty but so fucking hot, and suddenly all he can think of is the repeated phrase of make her come, make her come, a mixture of desperation and determination leaving him frantically rubbing at your clit.

Gyomei will offer his thigh to you whenever you feel like riding it, and once you’ve finished, your body exhausted and laying down next to him, he’ll sneakily rub along the area where your slick has rubbed off onto his thigh, bringing his fingers up for a taste and groaning as your flavor coats his tongue, free hand reaching down to palm at himself, squeezing at his balls and shuddering. Gyomei can and will do anything to make you feel good in the bedroom, and he’ll never turn down the opportunity to see you fall apart on his thighs.

(And if he’s feeling particularly needy or knows he’s leaving for a long mission away from you, he won’t bother to wash off his legs afterwards – he'll let your slick dry against his skin, wearing it like a sort of badge of honor, feeling connected to you as he slaughters demons even while you’re miles and miles away from him. It’s dirty, sinful, even, but it’s enough to keep him satisfied, to let him bear to be away from you while he does his duty. And yes, he’s running his fingers along the area occasionally and sniffing, his knees getting ever so slightly weak because the smell has the taste of you flooding his mouth, the sound of your moans ringing in his ears, even phantom touches of yours erupting all over his body.)

BIGGEST FANTASY:

As a general rule, Gyomei prioritizes your pleasure in the bedroom. He’s not a particularly sexual man, and so he views intimacy as being all about making sure that you enjoy it to the fullest extent possible – in many ways, he sees himself as merely a tool for you to use to reach your high.

(And if he happens to orgasm – which he always does when it’s you touching him – then great, but it’s not a necessity.)

And this is largely true – he really does want you to enjoy fucking him, and he’ll go to extremes just to make sure everything is as perfect as possible.

But Gyomei is only human, and as such he harbors a few fantasies that are entirely selfish, entirely about him – one of which develops by complete accident. He’s so terrified to hurt you that he’s constantly looking for ways to satisfy you without using his cock, because although he loves the feeling of your lips, fingers, or cunt wrapped around him (to the point that just thinking about it makes his composure falter ever so slightly, his jaw going a bit slack and his Adam’s apple bobbing harshly), he’s always concerned that it’ll be too big and you could hurt yourself if he fucks you with it.

And so, during the rare times he’d get off before he begins any semblance of a sexual relationship with you, Gyomei’s exploring alternative options.

And while it isn’t necessarily a way to help you get off, per se, he’d been idly gripping himself while thinking one evening, biting his lip and feeling awfully shameful of his actions but unable to bring himself to stop. He’d reached down further, sucking in a sharp breath as he carefully and delicately cupped his balls, idly squeezing and rolling them between his fingers.

But he must’ve been too deeply in thought, distracted by the idea of you, that his hand continued down, reaching and pressing against his skin, until a sudden, odd sensation made him pause, eyes going wide. He’s never even considered anything involving either your ass or his own, but at the single press of his fingers against his hole, the strange, fluttery feeling in his chest makes him feel a bit light-headed.

It’s dirty, taboo, and he hadn’t explored the thought any further that night simply because he was too embarrassed to have found it pleasurable, but it sticks around in the peripheral of his mind. There’s this ever-present question of what if, a sort of far-off fantasy that he toys with every once in a while, when he’s particularly needy and missing the feeling of your skin on his or your attention on him.

And the idea of you taking your time, worshipping his body and guiding him through a new, pleasurable experience makes more than just his cock swell, because there’s something so loving and calming about it, and letting himself be vulnerable in that way is something he hasn’t done for years – something he can’t afford to do, no matter how wonderful it sounds.

Of course he’d never, ever bring up the idea to you for two reasons – it bothers him a bit that you wouldn’t be getting any direct pleasure or stimulation out of it, and he’s too embarrassed to admit that he wants you to touch his ass, afraid that you’ll find him disgusting or flatly reject the idea. He'll keep quiet about it, and if you were to bring it up, you’ll see the way he subtly perks up, body tensing as he swallows, telling you that you don’t have to, I understand that you may not wish to.

But if you’re insistent, and you see the way it affects him, Gyomei will be putty in your hands – you can do anything to his ass, and he’ll take it so well, the only sign that you’re affecting him being the small, barely-there moans leaving his lips, a slight flush across his cheeks, and the copious, copious amounts of precum oozing from his swollen tip.

So really, play around – he’ll never request it, but it’ll only make his feelings for you grow stronger, his desperation and dependence on you growing because only you can make him feel this way.

“Gyomei, I want to try something new tonight.” You start, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his lips. He’s got you straddled in his lap, large hands resting on your hips and his back leaning against the near wall. At your words, he nods, encouraging you to continue.

“Anything you wish, angel.” His voice is low, deep, excited in a way that you can ever so slightly pick up on.

You take a deep breath, leaning up to whisper into his ear as you brace yourself on his chest. “Gyomei, I want to touch you. All of you.”

His hands lightly squeeze at your sides. “You have all of me, you know this. I am all yours, and you can do whatever you please with me.”

You laugh slightly and it makes Gyomei shiver, his grip tightening just enough to make you uncomfortable, but you don’t say anything. “No, I want to touch you where I haven’t before – somewhere new.”

You reach back and grab one of his hands, guiding it to press against your clothed ass, his index fingers landing on the indent between your cheeks.

Gyomei gulps. He’s silent for a moment, mind racing, but the semi-hardness underneath you throbs at your words, and you only smile as he shakily exhales, murmuring an “Are you sure?”

Carefully taking his earlobe between your teeth, you grind down onto him, your thumb finding his nipple over the fabric of his top. Humming, you let go of his skin with a kiss, telling him, “Yes, please… lay on your front for me, please Gyomei.”

Which leads to where you are now, with your big, strong captor laying on his front, arms kept tucked at his sides. This angle makes his muscles stand out, his sculpted back and the definition of his thighs nearly making you drool. And of course, the tan skin of his ass, muscular enough to make you grab handfuls of each cheek and spread them apart to get a good look at him. Coarse black hairs dabble over his skin, and Gyomei finds himself oddly self-conscious as he feels you staring. He’s laying with his head to the side, his breathing still a little quick, and he waits with baited breath for you to do something, to say something, anything.

What he isn’t prepared for, though, is to feel your soft lips press against the sensitive skin of his cheeks, making him jerk ever so slightly and stiffen up under your touch. Your thumb rubs soothing circles against his skin as you kiss a trail down from his tailbone to his thigh, the hardness of his muscles never ceasing as you continue.

“Gyomei,” you whisper against his skin, “relax for me, please. I want to take care of you.”

He hesitates, but forces himself to be less tense, only slightly shifting under the weight of your lips. You smile at that, planting another kiss. “So good f’me.”

That gets something small and uncharacteristically high sounding from low in his throat, but you don’t comment on it.

Your thumb comes down to press softly against his puckered hole, and Gyomei sharply inhales at the sensation, immediately clenching and shaking slightly at the feeling of you increasing the pressure, just idly rubbing circles over it.

The way you retract your hand without warning almost makes Gyomei grunt, confusion and disappointement contorting his face, but then your thumb is returning, something warm and sticky coating your thumn, and suddenly you’re pushing in, further and further until you break past the tight ring of muscle, Gyomei’s breath goes ragged because it feels strange –

It feels good, though, and as you settle in to your first knuckle, his toes curl slightly, the sensation odd but not unpleasant.

“How does it feel, Gyo?” You ask, pressing more kisses along his back and squeezing at his ass. He can’t quite answer, too overwhelmed by the feeling of your thumb inside him. Smiling, you lightly nibble at the skin of his lower back. “Know what I’m using for lube?”

He shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to get used to the feeling.

Pressing your thumb just a hair further, you smile at the way he jolts, thigh muscles tensing hard enough to see visible definition. “It’s me, seeing you like this is making me wet enough that I’m using my own slick to prep you…”

That gets Gyomei groaning, the sound muffled by the pillow underneath him, but audible nonetheless. His cock’s painfully hard, pressed up against his stomach, and he can feel the wet pool of precum already staining his skin and the fabric of the sheets below him.

Humming, you press another inch or so in, curling your finger slightly and listening the way his breathing changes, trying to identify what he likes most.

“So pretty, Gyomei,” you start, and his eyes snap open when he hears the familiar sound of your fingers sinking into yourself, the small sigh you make only making him clench around your thumb and his cock throb underneath him.

Your thumb’s all the way in now, and as you slowly, shallowly begin thrusting it, you time it with your own pumps inside. “I’m fucking myself at the same pace as you, that way it’s like we’re together.”

Your voice makes him melt, and as you angle your thumb just right, a gasp tunnels its way through him, ripping him apart and making his hips jerk forward, humping at the sheets below him.

You smile. “There, huh?”

And immediately you’re abusing the spot, pressing tightly against it and rubbing it in a hithering motion, Gyomei’s hips twitching wildly at the feeling. He’s chanting your name under his breath as the pleasure begins mounting, eyes shut again and eyebrows drawn tight.

He’s embarrassed, truly, because even something as small as your thumb has him falling apart like this, desperation lacing his movements because this is building up to be a different feeling from his normal orgasms, something entirely different that makes his whole body tense up and stutter, a muffled groan sound, “It-It’s coming – “

And suddenly cum is caked along his front, your eyes watching transfixed as the visible portion of his balls clench and spasm wildly, his ass flexing and the tightness nearly forcing your thumb out. Instead, you keep pressing against his prostate, watching the way he clutches onto the fabric below him, grip so strong that the fabric rips under him, his strength uncontrollable as his orgasm rocks him.

It’s easily a twenty second affair, cum pouring out of him and visibly seeping into the fabric surrounding him, making you lick your lips because oh, isn’t this precious? Your big, sweet, strong Gyomei falling apart with your thumb up his ass, something like whimpers falling from his lips because you’re still rubbing inside him, reaching deeper with every curl and leaving his back to tense up, shoulder blades visible as he fights off the acute feeling overstimulation.

You only press a kiss to the back of his head, pausing your movements for a single moment as you murmur his name in his ear, telling him with a near purr, “You’ll give me another one, right? I know you can do it, my pretty boy.”

And the way he shudders, hand snapping out to grab onto your thigh as he nods tells you enough, as does his muffled, choked “y-yes”.

#yandere kny #yandere kimetsu no yaiba #yandere ds #yandere demon slayer #yandere gyomei #yandere gyomei himejima #_lee's profiles #_kny #_gyomei himejima #yandere smut #kny smut #kny x reader #gyomei himejima x reader

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fear-is-truth · 8 months ago

Text

ALL PART OF HIS PLAN

kai anderson x f! reader￨nsfw. mdni￨wc: 2.4 k

w a r n i n g s – mdni !! porn with plot. oral sex (m receiving). unprotected p in v. dacryphilia. breeding kink (if you squint). english is not my first language. not proofread as usual

summary — mornings spent with kai weren’t always as mundane as it might seem

a/n – this took forever to complete cos every time i open this draft, i spend a good five minutes laughing at the cursed gif and the writing mood is completely ruined.

requested by: @ellaaaaa44

ೃ࿐ .

You woke up when the birds started chirping outside, just as the soft light of dawn filtered through the bedroom windows. Kai was still asleep next to you, his electric blue hair spilling across the white pillow like a halo. You were facing each other, his arm thrown over your waist. Carefully, you inched from under his arm and sat up, feeling the remnants of sleep clinging to your eyes. In the morning stillness, he almost looked innocent, pure, even. But you knew better— Kai Anderson was anything but pure.

Glancing at the digital clock on the bedside table, its red numbers glowing 06:57. It was Saturday, which meant Kai had a political rally scheduled at 10. As his girlfriend, you were expected to accompany him, not just as a supportive partner, but also to adorn his arm and enhance his appeal to the masses.

But Kai was smart. He had made sure the public knew more about you than just your looks. He had purposely made it known that you were well-educated, and a feminist, no less.

At first, you were skeptical about the whole idea, doubting that the media would find interest in speculating about the personal life of a politician. But, as always, Kai proved you wrong—which irked you to no end. The shallow nature of society never failed to disappoint.

The public adored the two of you, seeing you as an ambitious and attractive power couple, and the media lapped it up like hungry dogs. They also conveniently turned a blind eye to some of the more “controversial” political views of Councilman Anderson, choosing instead to focus on the carefully choreographed public displays of affection meant for the cameras—holding hands, stolen chaste kisses that you pretended to think no one was looking. Tabloid rumors ran rampant about your alleged engagement and the potential of a baby on the way, both of which were far from true, thank the fuck Christ.

That, and a couple of satanic killings that involved clowns, Kai had made significant progress in garnering supporters in a remarkably short period of time.

All part of his plan.

You had to admit, despite the circumstances, you and Kai did make quite a nice couple. There was no denying that the sex was mind-blowing and he had world-class cock that had never failed to make you come undone.

Kai was a pretty considerate lover as well, after you admitted your fear of pregnancy during “pinky power”, surprisingly, he didn’t even get mad or punish you, as expected. He told you that he respected your feelings and prioritized your health above his own preferences. Even though he openly expressed his disdain for wearing condoms, Kai stayed true to his word and wore one every time you asked him to, sparing you the stress.

But Kai had made you a promise that once he secured his position in the Senate, he would put a ring on your finger and you’d be the mother of his “messiah baby”. He made it sound like an honor, and you supposed that, in a twisted, fucked-up way, it was— you’d say yes, because it’s always yes for Kai. Even so, as much as you loved him (was it love? Or something stemming from Stockholm Syndrome, you weren’t entirely sure), the idea of bringing a child into the world still scared you shitless.

But again, you didn’t feel you had a say or a choice in the matter. Kai had rescued you from your lowest points, and for that, you were indebted to him for life.

Enough of that. That was phase two of the plan. Focus on the present.

Big day ahead, don’t fuck this up. All you have to do right now is pretty yourself up and smile, smile, smile for the cameras.

With a sigh, you slipped out of the warmth of the covers, careful not to disturb him. You tiptoed across the carpeted floor and into the en suite, closing the door gently behind you.

Yawning, you began to strip off your sleep clothes—starting with a comfortable T-shirt and booty shorts, followed by your bra and panties—tossing them haphazardly into the laundry basket. Then you stepped into the shower, the sound of rushing water filling your ears as you twisted the knob. You closed your eyes and tilted your face upward, feeling the cool spray hit your skin.

You didn't hear the sound of the bathroom door opening, nor the shuffle of clothes hitting the floor. Suddenly, the sliding glass door slid open, and your eyes snapped open in surprise, a yelp escaping your lips.

Kai stood there, undressed. His hair was a tousled mess. He blinked, his gaze sweeping over your naked form with an unimpressed expression.

He even had the audacity to look a bit offended and disgruntled, as if he wasn't the one barging in on your shower.

“Move over,” he grunted, his voice husky with sleep but his tone left no room for argument. You quickly shuffled to the side, making room for him under the spray.

Kai reached past you and turned the water knob to blast hot water, steam billowing around you as the temperature rose. His hair was slicked back by the water, the vibrant blue adding a splash of colour to the monochrome backdrop of black tiles. Head tilted back, his eyes were closed in blissful rapture as warm droplets of shower spray hit his face.

Your gaze wandered from his features to over his torso, taking in the sight in awe.

Kai looked beautiful. godly, even.

Starting from the clavicle of his neck, glistening rivulets of water meandered down, following the chiseled lines of his biceps and the breadth of his toned chest. Continuing their descent, they danced across his abs, taut and sculpted, rippling waves of raw, masculine strength that seemed to beckon you closer; drawing your eyes inexorably downward until they finally converged at the V-line of his lower abdomen.

Without as much as a glance in your direction, Kai reached for the bottle of 3-in-1 men’s shampoo sitting on the wall shelf.

“Like what you see?”

he poured some shampoo onto his palm. His tone was casual but you could sense the smugness. Heat flooded your cheeks, and it had nothing to do with the steam from the shower. Biting your bottom lip, you nodded bashfully.

“Mhm,” he hummed, fingers raking through his damp, blue locks as he pretended to consider.

“Work for it then. Get on your knees,”

You immediately sank to your knees, wrapping your fingers around the base of his shaft before pressing a kiss on the tip. He raised an eyebrow.

“What was that for?”

“Nothing,”

You smiled sweetly up at him before taking the tip between your lips, collecting the precum and swallowing it with a cheerful hum. Starting with kitten licks, you slowly dragged your tongue up the veiny underside of his cock.

“Fuck…” he hissed through his teeth,

“Attagirl– You’re so good at this…”

The heartfelt praise had a greater effect on you than his usual dirty talk ever could, encouraging you to hollow your cheeks with extra gusto, making sure to give a swirl of your tongue every time you reached the tip.

The groan that came from him seemed to validate his approval. Reaching down, Kai threaded his fingers through your hair into a makeshift ponytail to dictate your motion, bucking his hips into your mouth. Even as your eyes watered, you didn’t pull away as he continued to fuck your mouth. Instead, you peered up at him through your eyelashes and occasionally moaned so that he could know how much you appreciated pleasing him.

It wasn’t long until Kai gave your hair a small tug, and slid out with a small pop. He wasted no time snatching you by the underarms and pulling you to your feet.

His eyes raked over your body as if he was seeing you for the first time. One large, calloused hand trailed from your cheek, down to your neck, then to your arm and waist.

Bending down slightly, his hands continued to trace the smooth skin of your thighs, gently securing behind the bend of your knees. Before you could fully register what was happening, Kai was lifting you up effortlessly from the ground as if you weighed nothing at all. You squealed in surprise as he hoisted you up, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck for support.

You gazed into his dark eyes to find that the sleep-induced glaze from earlier was now replaced by intense focus and determination. He meant business.

“Stay still, I wanna try something,”

Holding firmly onto your waist, Kai settled you against his hipbones, pausing for a moment to let you wrap your legs eagerly around his waist.

With the shower water cascading above you, it reminded you of the iconic kiss-in-the-rain scene from “The Notebook,” which you had watched together in bed just last week. Well, technically, you were the only one watching; Kai had been either scrolling through his phone or looking irritated the entire time.

Maybe this was just pure coincidence and wishful thinking on your part, or could it possibly be that he was trying to recreate that moment– impossible… right?

The subtle smirk curling his lips and the slight crease of his eyes confirmed your suspicions. So he had listened to your rambles on how hot Ryan Gosling looked. “Kiss me, please,” you begged, and he graciously obliged, claiming your lips in a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. You moaned and tangled your fingers into his hair when you felt his tongue slip past your teeth.

Pressing your back against the tiled wall, he positioned himself at your entrance, so that the tip of his cock was spreading your lips open. Then he pulled back from the kiss, a string of saliva connecting you both.

Maintaining eye contact, he sank his cock into your awaiting warmth. Your eyes widened and a little “ooh-” tumbled out of your mouth at the sensation of him filling and stretching you.

A small voice in the back of your head warned of the potential consequences—a slip, a fall, and the possibility of ending up in the hospital with a concussion or a bruised tailbone. However, any lingering inhibitions melted away in a heartbeat as Kai angled his thrusts in just the right way, hitting just the right spot that made you see stars.

“Whoa, this angle is– fucking amazing…”

Kai muttered between grunts as he continued to slam into you, rocking your entire body with each of his thrusts. It didn’t take long before the tightened coil inside you snapped completely; your pussy giving one final squeeze before you screamed out your release.

“Nuh-uh, princess. I’m not done with you yet,”

He spun you around, forcing you against the shower wall. You yelped in surprise and instinctively flattened your palms to steady yourself. Gripping your hips firmly to keep you in place, Kai sheathed himself inside you in one swift, brutal stroke.

“Ack- Kai!” you squealed as your cheek was pressed against the wall with a wet smack, feeling your breasts flatten against the cool surface. Your fingernails scrabbled against the slippery tiles, desperately searching for purchase as Kai reared back his hips. You let out a loud wail when he thrust back into you, setting a harsh, punishing pace. His pelvis slamming into your ass with such force that the supple flesh rippled with each thrust.

“Ah f-fuck… mghmm—” your vision was blurry with tears as he bottomed out once again, pressing himself so deep that you could feel every ridge and vein, every delicious throb and twitch—his eagerness to pump you full of his come but also to make you suffer just a little bit for his pleasure.

“Hah- you just love it when I fuck you into my perfect little brain-dead slut, don’t you?”

He grunted, his thrusts becoming progressively sloppier but somehow still maintaining the same pace. Whining pathetically, you wiggled your hips, allowing your cunt to swallow his cock deeper. Lewd schlick shlick noises ricocheted off the walls, dulled by the sound of your moans and pattering water.

“Look at me, little lamb,”

You peered over your shoulder, shiny, fat drops of tears decorating your eyelashes. He smiled fondly at you before pressing a tender kiss on your temple.

“You look so pretty when you cry,”

Kai’s hand brushed past your mound, fingers slipping between your thighs and started stroking; deceptively gentle caresses at the sensitive bundle of nerves until your entire body started to tremble. The hot coil in your belly was now impossibly tight.

“Puh-please please please Kai ‘m gonna c-”

“Go ahead,”

You didn’t need to be told twice. Kai groaned, his head falling to rest on your shoulder, his sloppy thrusts coming to a decrescendo.

“Make a mess on my cock. There you go baby- ahh fuck– yeah just like that,”

Kai buried himself deep inside you and you felt the warmth flooding your insides. He thrust lazily into you for a few more times for good measure, and you could feel his cock continuing to throb and spasm as he buried his come as deep as he could.

When the residual spasms finally waned, he pulled out, your combined release seeping out between your thighs and splattering onto the floor. You shivered from the loss of contact. He smirked, nipped playfully at your earlobe.

“What a way to start a morning, hm?”

…

After the hot water had finally run out and you both had cleaned yourselves, you sighed contentedly as you wrapped yourself in a fluffy towel. Despite the soreness between your thighs, you couldn’t help but feel satisfied. This had to be one of the best sex you ever had in your life.

Then, reality came crashing back as you remembered the potential consequences of your reckless actions.

“Kai! You didn’t pull out!” you squeaked, the pitch of your voice raising with panic. You weren’t on birth control either, since Kai was paranoid about side effects.

Kai, still tying his blue hair into a bun in front of the bathroom mirror, turned and looked at you. “The senate election is in the bag. Might as well start trying for a baby now,” he said coolly.

Phase two was already in motion, without you even knowing it.

#american horror story #ahs #kai anderson #evan peters #ahs cult #kai anderson x reader #kai anderson x y/n #kai anderson smut #ahs season 7

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caniball1sticdes1re · 9 months ago

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hello, you

pairings . joe goldberg x fem!reader

warnings . stalking, mentions of breaking and entering, mutual masturbation (kind of), joe being a creep, reader being a creep

a/n . can’t let gang know i fw joe goldberg

hello, you.

see, the thing about you is that you think you hide things well. you think you pass as innocent. you almost had me fooled, i’ll give you that, but you forget one little detail. there is nothing, and i mean nothing, my dear, that you could hide from me. you’re looking through the children’s section, looking for a new book to read to your class, but i know you. i know what disgusting, vile things you want- no, need me to do to you. if Paco wasn’t upstairs and your little ex-fling wasn’t downstairs, i’d bend you over this coun-

“hey, joe.. just this please” she sets the children’s book on the counter, along with an erotica. she picks up a lollipop from the bowl next to joe, unwrapping it and throwing it in the small trash next to her. an erotica? when the hell did you pick this up, quick little thing. and you grabbed a lollipop? god, if you wanted me that bad, you could’ve just said something! poor, needy girl.

joe slides both books to his side, a small smirk on his face. “interesting choices.. this for the kids?” he picks up the children’s book, ringing it up before he scans the erotica. she nods, a small hum accompanied by her smile. “yeah! we finished the other one you suggested… it was really good.”

joe shoots her a smile, one that quickly fell when he’d finished reading the back of the other book. stockholm syndrome, huh? you really are starved. he sticks her receipt in the book cover before handing both of them back. his eyes linger on her lips wrapped around the lollipop as she takes it out of her mouth, her lips tinted red and wet.

“thanks joe, have a good day” he smiles, nodding. fuck, i cannot get enough of you.

hello, you

something i like about you is your lack of social awareness, how you forget to close your blinds before digging into that erotica. dumb thing, you want me to see you, don’t you? why else do you keep that one specific window open, your legs spread perfectly in my view so i can watch your hand move like your life depends on it?

the book is discarded by now, and soon enough she decides her hand isn’t quite enough to get her off. joe watches as she picks up two of her pillows, stuffing them under her wetness, whining as she grinds down on it. joe’s hand slips down his pants, his mouth in a soft ‘o’ shape. he pulls himself out, his hand running up and down his length as he stares at you, whimpering with every bump against the pillow. what he fails to see is that she’s wearing his shirt, one he’d lost days ago while he was out, taking care of the only thing that stood between him and his true love. fuck, you dirty thing, seems like i have my own little stalker on my hands.

joe’s hand picks up the pace, sighing and groaning out into his bedroom as images of him being the one she’s riding clouds his mind. he watches as her thrusts get sloppier, her grip getting harder on the pillows. that’s it sweet girl, cum for me honey.

and she does, throwing her head back as she slips her hand back down to her pussy to slide across her clit. her cum seeps out of her and drips down onto the pillow and at the same time, joe’s cum shoots out and drips over his hand, a declaration of her name leaving his lips as he does.

his vision goes blurry for a second, looking down at the mess he’d made. once he’d looked back up however, he watches as you lock eyes with him, smile, then close your blinds. well, shit.

#— joe !#joe goldberg #netflix you #penn badgley #i kind of really need him #joe goldberg smut #joe goldberg fluff #joe goldberg angst #joe goldberg save me

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kissesandarsenic · 2 months ago

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Day 31 - Stockholm Syndrome

Turning you into my cute little captive that I keep locked up in my basement so I can use and dote on you to my heart’s content.

Early days wouldn’t be easy on either of us. You’d be volatile. Scared. A silly little thing that thinks it’s okay to scream abuse at me. You’d call me all sorts of terrible names and demand I let you go. You’d say that I’m awful and that you want nothing to do with me.

But we can correct behaviour like that, isn’t that right, sweetheart?

Some discipline with a nice leather paddle will keep those undesirable thoughts behind closed lips. I’ll lock you up in chains so you can squirm but never get away. I won’t stop until you’re sobbing and pleading for forgiveness.

And then we’ll follow it up with some cuddles and kisses. Maybe even something more, if your tears really turned me on. And let’s be realistic here - they’re going to.

You’ll be my prized possession. Sure, you’re locked away in my basement and will only be allowed out when you’ve proven you can be a good pet. But I’d treat you so well. I’d cook for you, take care of you, and give you access to films, shows, books and games - so long as they’re not co-ops.

Plus, I’d learn exactly how to turn you into putty in my hands. I’ll memorise which places to touch drive you crazy, even when you think you don’t want it. How fast and slow to go. Whether to use my mouth, hands, toys or something else to make you insane with desire.

I’d tuck you in and cuddle up to you, constantly reminding you just how sweet and precious you are to me. Make it so that when I leave, it feels like fucking agony waiting for my return.

Eventually, you’ll realise that being locked up was in your best interest. Because of course, it was. I care for you so much, sweetheart. All those people outside are scary and awful, they only want the worst for you. Not like me. I want you safe. I want you happy. And I know exactly how to ensure those two things are fulfilled.

All you have to do is trust me. It’s an easy choice to make.

Or it will be, by the time I’ve corrected you.

Loretta and Salt's Kinktober Masterlist

#femdxm #fem domme #stockhom syndrome #cnc kidnapping #cnc k!nk #tw gaslighting #obsessive love #soft yandere #yandere #dark kinks #kinktober #kinktober 2024 #annnnnnnd done #loretta speaks

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saphiccarma · 19 days ago

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- Sweet Thing Pt.2

Relationships - Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary - For the first time in months, Agatha and Rio take you off the ship and into the human world. Of course, you had to go and ruin it once you were given a chance.

Warnings: Overall a little bit of dark themes, but its not obvious.

A/N: Y'all could prob guess this already, but this story is going to be kinda dark. Stuff like stockholm syndrome. Just letting y'all know. Reblogs and comments make me happy :>

Weeks had gone by, maybe even months. You weren't sure how long they held you there. The pain was never any less, you still longed to be home and with your family again. To feel the cool flush of sea water against your skin. Not once had they even let you get close to the water, no matter how much you begged and pleaded. It made your heart ache and tears swell in your eyes whenever they brought you out onto the deck.

It felt like they were taunting you. The wind would blast in your face and for once, you would get a taste of what it would be like to be free. If you were close enough to land then you would be able to see the birds as they dived for fish. Whales would surface every now and then and you wondered if they were the ones you knew.

Little by little, you began to understand the ship more. The people on it. They were a bundle of dangerous and sweet, all mixed together and thrown onto the boat. You weren't sure how you felt about being around them. It's not like you had a choice.

Alice was one of your favorites. Her brown eyes were dark, a deep color that resembled the chocolate she gave you once. Most times she kept her hair pure black with red stripes at the front, pinned halfway up, letting some dangle around her neck. The few times you saw it down completely, showed you how wavy it could be, flowing like the waves in the ocean. Alice usually stood in the back of the group, silent and watching, but she made sure to smile in your direction or give you a simple nod.

Lillia was probably the oldest on the ship - skin wrinkled and slightly tanned from being out in the sun so much. She took care of most of the cooking, skilled hands making some delicious, yet odd, food. Her hair was an interesting mix of white and various shades of gray, with hazel eyes that were always so comforting. Her voice soothed you when you panicked once, neither Agatha nor Rio around, and your breathing uncontrollable. Like the whale songs that you heard under the sea, Lillia had a way of calming you down.

Your relationship with Jen was odd. She was gorgeous, skin smooth as a turtle's shell and beauty similar to the corals that blossomed near your home. You hated how much she scrutinized you, eyes scanning you up and down with a weird sort of disgust. Despite that, there were times where she felt familiar. She would dab at your face with a wet cloth, cleaning off the blood from where Agatha punched you. In the end, you decided that you liked her enough.

Billy was your favorite. He lets you braid his fluffy black hair into tiny little braids that stuck out, reminding you of your sisters. One of your favorite things was that he brought you entertainment whenever you spent time locked in your room after 'bad behavior'. (That mostly included being snarky or trying to jump off). Once, he brought cards, little pieces of paper cut down into squares with shapes and symbols colored red and black, and he showed you how to play games with them. Billy was there for you, bringing a source of comfort when you missed the one you truly wanted.

Then there was Agatha and Rio-

Rio whose’ s nails dug into your cheek. Rio who twisted it and squeezed until your mouth was opened. Rio whose eyes were dark brown, calculating and observing every movement you made,

"Are you paying attention?" A red flush crept onto your cheeks as you glared at her, shifting on your knees. You had been sitting on the floor for forever, the wood digging into your skin every time you shifted the slightest, but Rio never let you up.

Her boot was wedged between your legs, keeping them spread apart as she examined you. Lately, Rio had taken a particular interest in studying your anatomy - which you learned was quite different from human anatomy. Her fingers pressed down on your tongue until spit pooled on her fingers, coating them in the wet liquid. Even as you flinched back from when she pressed down hard, Rio didn't let up until there was a pool of saliva. Shivering once she finally withdrew, still holding your mouth open with her other hand, Rio snagged a bottle from the desk next to her. She placed it under your chin then tilted your head down until your spit was dribbling into the cup.

Rio shifted her boot up, the hard tip pressing tight against the sensitive spot between your thighs. A small huff of air escaped your nose as you glared at her. All you got in response to your sound of annoyance was a teasing smirk and a raised eyebrow.

As of late, Rio had been taking you to her 'study area' as she called it. It was a room near the back of the ship, secluded from everyone else and all other places. The only thing audible from there was the soft sound of the ocean moving and rocking the ship. The constant movement of back and forth was one of the few things you liked, the movement lulling you to sleep when it evaded you during many nights. Stacks of books inside the shelves lined the walls, a few odd trinkets shoved between them. A desk was pressed in between two of the shelves, a chair sitting behind it. Otherwise, the room was empty.

You hated being back here, alone with Rio, where there was no one who knew what was going on. The thought sent shivers down your spine and made you twist uncomfortably when you were ack here with her. Sometimes Agatha would join the two of you. That did nothing to make you feel better.

On queue, the door was opened, a bit louder than Agatha would have. And based on Rio's glare, it wasn't the blue-eyed woman. Rio sighed, annoyed, and removed the bottle and her hand from your skin. She set the bottle, filled with your saliva, onto the desk behind her.

"Billy," her words were cool, her boot slowly dragged out, but not before shoving it up one last time, "What do you want?" You were forced to suppress a whimper at her harsh movement, biting down on your lip and giving her wide eyes.

There was a little spluttering from behind you, "I-uhm- Agatha sent me to grab you. We're docking soon."

That made you perk up, your pointy ears alert for whatever Rio had to say next. She waved her hand at Billy dismissively and there was only a second before the door fell shut again. Rio grinned, the sight almost feral, but you knew it was normal, and she bent down so that she was eye-level with you. There was a glint in her eyes you didn’t like.

"It's time to go on land, pet."

^__________^

Humans bustled about you, and it wasn't so different from the undersea markets that sold oysters and clams, pearls and coral necklaces. Your mother loved to take you there for your birthday, buy you anything you wanted. There were various wooden shops set up, people shouting into the street and waving their products around with excitement. Billy had given you a quick debrief on what the human markets were like so you wouldn't be completely surprised, but it didn't help with the shock that rolled through you.

Your fingers twitched nervously when someone knocked into your shoulder, not bothering to look back and say something. Agatha's grip on your arm made everything worse, her fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise later on. She never once let up, even when you tried to pull away because it was too much. It was all so loud compared to what you were used to. The ship was quiet, Jen and Agatha arguing being the loudest sounds there. In the sea, it wasn't exactly either loud or quiet, but you were used to that type of noise. The whales were singing and dolphins talking while fish swam around.

But this was different.

People yelled at one another, carrying large baskets around where they carried their goods - too focused on themselves. You stumbled over your own two feet more than once every time Agatha tugged harshly on your forearm. She had dressed you up in a pair of pants, loose ones that swished and made dirt fly with every step you took. A loose blouse was thrown over your head, the edges nearly dangling over your shoulders and you constantly had to push it back up. Rio threw a pair of sandals at you just before you left the boat.

Being near the port was the most comforting part of this experience. It smelled of fresh fish and the salt of the ocean was more prominent. For a moment, you were able to pretend you were back in the water. That bubble burst when Agatha told a hold of your arm and dragged you into the crowded streets.

Tall buildings, taller than the ones you had merely observed when you were still home, boxed you in from all sides. People stood atop those buildings, watering their plants or chatting with one another. Everything here was constantly moving. Not in the way the sea did though, the sea flowed with a practiced and familiar flow. People were odd.

Agatha stopped at a stall, and for the briefest of moments, her hand let go of you. Without thinking much, you took off, feet kicking up dirt with every frantic step. Running was still new to you, but with the hope of freedom you got the hang of it. You shoved through people. They gave you shouts of protest. Rio and Agatha were hot on your heels, you could tell. Once, one of their fingers ghosted along your blouse, tugging. Desperation helped you rip free. The near chance with capture again spurred you on more, picking up speed.

Taking a sudden right, you skidded and almost lost your balance. Agatha shouted behind you, her words a sharp warning. You knew you should listen, it would be smart, but home could be so, so close. You followed the sound of crashing waves and seagulls cawing. Wind whipped in your face, similar to the way currents would rush past you in the water. Oh, you could be there so soon. Your hair got into your eyes, and you brushed it away frantically, you had to be able to see right now.

The smell of salt became stronger the farther you ran. You were almost there. Birds crowed above you, almost cheering you on. The finish line was right there. You could see the ocean now, the crashing waves and the wet sand. Slapping against your skin, the sandals felt restricting but you had no time to take them off. You burst from the confines of the buildings that had walled you. Arms pumping and pushing yourself to run fast, you were almost there.

The ocean was right there. You could be home. Mother and Father would be waiting with your siblings, eager to welcome you back. Tears of joy pooled in your eyes at the thought. All you had to do was get deep enough to transform and then you were free.

A sudden weight on your back stopped you. You fell face first into the wet sand, the water lapping at your face - you were so close. A body was on top of yours, holding you down. A scream, one of pure desperation and frustration left your mouth as you thrashed.

"Calm down," Agatha's voice was the coldest you had ever heard her as she pushed your face into the sand. You twisted around, somehow managing to get on your back, and spat sand from your face. Your hands clawed at Agatha's shoulders, trying to shove her back, but she merely held firm. Agatha waited it out while you struggled and screamed, not caring for the eyes that began to stare. Tears streamed down your face, wet and mingling with the sand that clung to your skin. "Calm down." She repeated it, firmer this time.

Your breath was coming in ragged breaths as the fight left you. A broken sob came from your lips as your head fell back, eyes falling shut. The waves licked at your hair, the water a small comfort in this moment. It was cold. If you were just a little further in then you would be able to hear some of the sea creatures. Maybe the fish would circle your body, welcoming you home. But that wasn't happening. Instead, Agatha was hauling you up, her grip somehow even tighter than before. You cried in pain at how harshly she yanked you up. Agatha scoffed and rolled her eyes, but she did not apologize.

"Never," Her face was right up against yours as she said the word, breath hot and eyes narrowed, "Do that again. Rio take her back to the ship." Agatha threw you at Rio, the other woman catching you with a small smirk. Her hands landed on your hips, smiling down at you as if you weren't crying.

"Aww don't cry," Rio's thumb wiped away your tears, and that was all you got before she was dragging you away. The fight returned to you for a moment, and you struggled, but Rio merely swept your feet out from under you and threw you over her shoulder. You gave a surprised yelp, her shoulder bones digging into you as she walked back towards the ship. Your fists pounded on her back, legs kicking as you tried to break free. Freedom was so close. It was so close.

Marching up the deck of the ship, Rio nodded to people passing. You felt like a child on her shoulders. Maybe they saw you as one. Rio kicked the door to below deck open, ducking so as to not hit her head on the frame and you had to pause in your struggle to do the same. She carried you down the hallway before reaching your room. Once again kicking the door in, she finally set you down. There was hardly a moment for you to recover from the harsh landing, being thrown onto the bed, before the door was being slammed shut.

You heard the telltale sound of the key locking it.

Scrambling up from the bed you pounded your fists on the door, "Rio please!" Your voice was strained due to the tears that ran down your face, "Let me out!" And you begged. And begged. And begged. Even after you knew she was long gone, you sunk down in front of the door. Your hands trembled and your breathing was shaky as you gasped, trying to get more air in. You screamed until your voice was raw and cracking with every word.

You were so close to home and now it was just gone.

Taglist: @vigilante24ish

#agatha harkness x rio vidal #agatha harkness x reader #rio vidal x reader #agatha harkness x you #rio vidal x you

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yanderespet · 8 months ago

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TW noncon and other LFL themes

Some shnasty Jacob Alden headcanons:

-Jacob would totally try to baby trap a female MC at some point in the relationship, even a captive one if your relationship has progressed far enough. You can postpone it to some degree, but you don't actually have a choice once he decides it's time(people never feel perfectly ready for kids, after all, maybe he'll change your mind by getting you preggers?), and he'll treat you with extra care <3. In his mind, having kids is the ultimate show of love and a way to bind you together forever~

-He's also the type of guy to be serious about marriage and he'll make a little ceremony out of it even with a captive MC lol

-Jacob would fuck and eat out a girl on her period he dgaf about things getting messy

-Jacob LOVES bondage and sensory deprivation to make his captives desperate for him, it's his favorite punishment method combined with isolation. He'd rather not physically hurt you in the process of making you love him (unless he has to)

-Jacob can develop lima syndrome, but he never kidnaps those he doesn't have a crush on in the first place because he has no incentive to and would rather kill anyone giving him trouble(although hes concise with his killings). Thus it'd have to be under special circumstances, and his captive would probably have to be the one to develop Stockholm first. Their interest in him would pique his interest in them...

#jacob alden #jacob alden x reader #lurking for love #tw noncon #tw pregnancy #my posts

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 1 year ago

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Little Warrior

Pairing: Sigtryggr Ivarsson (The Last Kingdom) x F!Reader Warnings: Canon typical violence and death, kidnapping, slight Stockholm syndrome, attempted sexual assault, sexual tension, coercion, corruption kink, talk of religious beliefs, female masturbation, loss of virginity, smut. Word count: 4.6k

Summary: When Sigtryggr and his men seize Winchester he takes a special interest in one of their captives (I have essentially yeeted Stiorra from the story and adapted the storyline of how her and Sigtryggr become an item to suit my own). Based on this request.

Author's note: No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

They come in the night. As Winchester sleeps, the Danes descend upon it.

She is woken by the blood curdling shouts and screams of the townspeople, accompanied by the acrid stench of smoke from nearby burning buildings.

Her heart lurches in her chest, panic causing bile to rise in her throat as she acts purely on instinct, scrambling from her bed and out of the house wearing just her nightdress. The only thought in her mind is that she doesn’t want to die trapped in her home as it’s burned to the ground.

Once she is outside, she watches wide eyed with horror at the destruction around her. Buildings are ablaze, people lay dead and dying upon the ground, the thick coppery scent of blood makes her want to vomit.

It’s only when the coolness of the night air begins to chill her skin that she realises just how perilous her situation is - a thin layer of cotton is all that separates her flesh from the horrors around her. She worries about what these Heathens will do to her if they see her in such a state of undress.

She trembles at the thought, dread gnawing at her insides. It’s too risky to go back inside, her only option is to hide. She takes her chances beneath an overturned farmer’s cart, crawling beneath the gap and cowering, waiting for the chaos around her to die down.

Clutching the cross around her neck, she sends up a silent prayer to God to keep her safe. Her destiny is in his hands now.

The aching in her joints for having been crouched for so long is beginning to become unbearable when the noise eventually quietens. She wonders if the Danes have left, if King Edward will return to rescue Winchester or if they have managed to capture it in his absence. Where are the Wessex guard?

She freezes when she hears the sound of approaching boots upon the ground, her heart hammers wildly against her ribcage when they come to a stop in front of the cart she’s hiding under.

“I can see your feet, Christian”, comes the voice of a man. He speaks softly and quietly, and it sends shivers down her spine.

Too paralyzed by fear to do anything, she remains as she is, her breaths coming quick and shallow, a rapidly dying hope in the back of her mind that he might give up and leave her alone. But there is no such luck.

“You will come out,” he commands, “or I will drag you out, the choice is yours.”

She clamps a hand over her mouth to muffle the frightened whimper that escapes her, attempting to force herself further back against the wooden confines of her misguided hiding place.

A large hand appears beneath the cart, reaching towards her before wrapping itself around her ankle.

She shrieks, thrashing against the hold it has on her as she’s dragged out. She lays wide eyed on the cold earth, her breathing erratic, as she looks with terror upon the Dane that towers above her prone form.

His long brown hair is wild and unkempt, half of it pulled back, and a ragged scar runs the length of the left side of his face. He regards her with mild amusement and she becomes aware again of her state of undress.

The thought that he might rape her sends her senses into overdrive, pure adrenaline driving her decision making. She knows she’s in no position to run, her only other option is to fight him, so as he crouches down towards her, she lunges upwards, slapping and scratching at his face and shoulders.

He is quick to overpower her, pulling her to her feet and twisting her arm behind her back.

“A fearsome little warrior, she is,” he chuckles, keeping her arm taut behind her as he gently urges her forward.

He guides her towards the front steps of the King’s estate, where several people are kneeling before a group of Danes. As they draw closer she recognises a few of them; King Edward’s sons and a few of the Wessex guard.

She is certain she’ll be killed. The man presses on her shoulder, urging her to kneel beside the other captives. She takes up her position, the stone step is hard against her knees, and she is all too aware that she is the least valuable of everyone gathered there.

“Send them to where they keep their dead King,” the man says, looking at Edward’s children and then nodding towards the chapel.

“We need to send a message to Edward,” a dark haired, heavily pregnant woman says, as two of the Danish men pick up the boys and carry them off. “We must force him to yield Winchester to us.”

It makes her shudder to think that this woman will be a mother, when she is capable of such atrocities.

“And what do you propose, Brida?” He responds.

Brida regards her with a look that makes her blood run cold. She has never seen anyone look at her as though she is worth less than nothing, her brown eyes are filled with utter contempt. “Send him her head,” she tells him, “it is more shocking to Christians when you are prepared to kill women and children alike.”

She gasps audibly, stricken by terror at the notion that they intend to behead her, until she feels his hand upon her shoulder.

“You will not touch her,” he says cooly, “slaughter the men, but she stays with me.”

“And what will you do with her?” Brida asks, raising an eyebrow.

“That is for me to decide,” he responds dismissively.

He makes a cut throat gesture at the Danes that flank Brida, then nods towards the kneeling guards, before pulling her back to her feet and directing her inside of the King’s estate.

She winces as she hears the sound of blades making thick, wet impact upon flesh, followed by dying screams of agony. Despite her shock and disgust, she cannot help the twinge of relief that lightens the feeling in her chest that that is not what destiny has in store for her, at least not yet.

The room that he brings her to is what she assumes is a study. It is filled with books, maps and writing materials, the space is occupied by a wooden writing desk, a chair and a settee.

As her eyes travel around the room, taking in her surroundings, she’s startled out of her reverie when her gaze settles back upon him. He is standing so close, silently observing her, his expression unreadable.

Once more she is reminded of how little she is wearing, and now that she is alone with him, fear of what he might do to her returns in earnest.

“S-stay back,” she stammers, backing away, eyes scanning the room for something, anything, that she can use as a weapon.

He smirks, unmoving, as he looks her over from head to toe. “Be calm, little warrior. Do you know who I am?”

Her face contorts in confusion. “No…”

He straightens, tilting his head slightly, clasping his arms behind his back. “I am Sigtryggr Ivarsson. I am a Dane. If I wish to hump a woman I do not need to do so by force.”

She softens slightly, fear does not grip her heart quite so icily as before. His name is meaningless to her, but she is relieved that he means her no harm.

Sigtryggr leans in, his breath tickling the shell of her ear. “But make no mistake, little warrior, I will have you, and you will beg me for it.”

She draws back quickly in disgust - not at his words, but at the reaction they elicit from her. The way warmth pools in her lower belly fills her with immense guilt. This man has invaded her home and killed people she knows, people she loves, she should despise him.

Swallowing thickly, unease prickling at her, she elects to change the subject. “What have you come here for?”

“To take what I am owed,” he says simply.

“And what is it you believe you’re owed?”

“Land. Your people drove me from mine,” he explains, anger lacing his tone, “your boy King will give back what he stole, or I shall keep Winchester and send him the heads of his children.”

She inhales shakily, feeling like she wants to cry. “A-and…how do I factor into all of that?”

He softens, shrugging slightly. “You don’t, but I can’t imagine your King will yield quickly, and it is always nice to have company. You are brave, for a Christian.”

“So I am your prisoner?”

“No, little warrior. You are free to leave any time you’d like, and take your chances with Brida.”

The implication is not lost on her. Her freedom is an illusion when the alternative is death. Sigtryggr is her only guarantee for safety.

“Shall we find something else for you to wear?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

She looks down at the thin material of her shift, seeing how dirty it is from having been crouched beneath the cart, dragged out and then forced to kneel on the steps of the estate. Her cheeks heat up with embarrassment.

“Yes, please,” she whispers.

He nods. “Wait here.”

Sigtryggr leaves her alone in the study, not bothering to lock the door behind him - a sign of his confidence that he knows she won’t try to escape.

He returns a few moments later with a white cotton shift that is similar to the one she is currently wearing, She assumes it belongs to Ælflæd, something he has found within a bedchamber.

“Where is the rest of it?” She asks.

“What do you mean? It’s the same as what you have on, and it’s clean,” he says simply.

“Yes, but this is meant to go under–” she sighs, “nevermind.”

She takes the shift from him and begins to change, noting the way that he turns from her, keeping his eyes fixed on the shelves of books that line the walls of the room. The small mark of respect makes her smile. She had not anticipated such manners from a Heathen.

He pulls a book from the shelf when she is finished, flipping through its pages. “Can you read?”

She nods and he hands the tome to her.

“Read to me.”

“Can you not read?” She asks with a raise of her eyebrow.

“I can,” he says with a smirk, “but where’s the fun in that?”

She sighs, settling into the chair in front of the writing desk, while Sigtryggr sits upon the settee a few feet away, and she reads to him.

Over the next few weeks their days are spent much like this. She reads aloud to him, though none of the books are particularly interesting, mostly religious texts and historical records of Wessex. She’s not convinced that he pays any particular attention to the words, but he seems to enjoy the sound of her voice.

They find a Hnefatafl board and Sigtryggr teaches her how to play. They while away hours strategising ways to remove each other's pieces from the board. He has a sharp mind, is calmer and more analytical than any other Dane she’s ever met. He bests her with his cunning multiple times, until she finally begins to get the hang of it and he begins to lose to her.

“Another game?” She asks. “How many have I won now?”

He shoots her a sideways glance, a faint smile upon his lips. “I am not keeping count.”

She giggles. She is beating him, but he does not seem to mind.

They sleep upon furs and blankets that Sigtryggr has brought down to the study and fashioned into a makeshift bed. Her stomach flutters at laying in such close proximity to him, but true to his word he never touches her. Shame blooms hotly in her chest as each of the days pass and she finds herself yearning for it.

He brings her food, and the hopelessness of the situation looms over her as with every meager meal the bread tastes more stale.

“Read to me, little warrior,” he requests, reclining on the settee, his forearm slung over his forehead.

She grouses, hunger pangs causing her stomach to rumble painfully. “I cannot concentrate,” she whispers.

“What is the matter?” He asks, sitting up to look at her.

“I am hungry. I’m always hungry.”

He nods, stepping towards her and offering her his share of the bread.

She looks from his outstretched hand to his face uncertainly. “What will you eat?”

“I will manage, and you will read to me,” he tells her, as she takes the offering and he settles back down.

She smiles to herself at the gesture, warmth spreading throughout her. So she eats, and she reads to him.

Sigtryggr disappears each day, leaving her alone in the study. She only leaves to bathe and to relieve herself, but she is perfectly happy to stay put and await his return, especially when she is all too aware of the alternative.

Each day when he returns he brings news of the continuing siege. King Edward and the Wessex guard surround the walls of Winchester, but will not attack as his sons are being kept captive in the chapel. They have yet to yield to Sigtryggr’s demands for land.

She fiddles with the cross around her neck, eyeing the Mjölnir that sits around his carefully. “Can there not be a peaceful resolution?”

"It is more difficult to live peacefully with enemies than to fight them,” he tells her.

“But we live peacefully,” she retorts.

“We are not enemies, little warrior.”

The sentiment makes her heart flutter, though there is the lingering question in the back of her mind; what are we?

He leaves her alone again as usual one morning and she busies herself poring over maps to pass the time.

She turns when she hears footsteps, expecting to see Sigtryggr but instead it is a man she does not recognise. He appears Saxon, so she cannot understand why the Danes have allowed him to move around the estate so freely.

The stench of ale upon him as he draws closer is nauseating. His eyes hold malicious intent as he advances towards her, and her blood runs cold at the sight.

She stands, backing away from him. “Whatever you are planning to do, please reconsider,” she pleads, “Sigtryggr will punish you if anything happens to me.”

“I have allied myself with the Danes,” he slurs, “but at what cost? They treat me like a dog, while Sigtryggr coddles you. Tell me, whore, is your cunt really that good? Perhaps I ought to find out for myself.”

She yelps as he lunges for her, grabbing her and pinning her against the desk. Fury flashes through her as she struggles against him, attempting to free herself from his hold.

“Whatever treatment they give you, you have brought upon yourself, traitor,” she spits.

Her head snaps to the side, a sharp sting spreads across her cheek as he strikes her.

She barely has time to adjust her focus before she feels him forcefully being pulled off of her.

“Eardwulf!” Sigtryggr snarls angrily. “Fucking coward!”

His fist makes impact with Eardwulf’s face knocking him to the ground, before he is dragged away.

She curls up on the furs, shaking as tears stream down her cheeks, waiting for her heart rate to calm. What could have happened to her if Sigtryggr had not returned when he did doesn’t bear thinking about.

She is unsure of how much time has passed when he returns.

“Are you alright?”

She turns towards the sound of his voice, gasping when she sees he’s covered in blood. Rushing towards him, she places her hands upon his face. “You are hurt…”

Softly he grasps her wrists, keeping her hands where they are. “This blood is not mine, and Eardwulf will not hurt you ever again.”

Her lips part in shock at the thought that he has killed for her, saved her life twice now. She studies his face, taking in the stormy blue of his eyes, the fullness of his lips.

She allows her gaze to linger there for just a moment too long, embarrassment making her hot, eager to distract herself. She traces a finger over the scar that runs the length of the left side of his face.

“How did this happen?”

“A man tried to take my eye during battle,” he explains softly, “so I took his life.”

“But you were hurt.”

“Injured, yes. Left with a scar, yes. But very much alive.”

“As am I, thanks to you.”

She drops her hands from his face and he steps away from her, pulling off his blood soaked light armour and clothing.

She feels her throat run dry at the sight of his bare torso, all lean, lithe battle hardened muscle, adorned with scars. She longs to trace her fingers over each of them.

Looking away, she feels ashamed for harbouring such thoughts and desperately tries to ignore the throbbing ache in her core.

As night falls and Sigtryggr lays asleep beside her, the feeling that lingers between her legs has yet to subside. It is maddening, robbing her of rest. Every time she closes her eyes the image of him stood bare chested before her enters her mind.

She has never touched herself before, it is impure to do so, yet she needs relief or she is sure she will go mad.

Sparing a glance in the darkness towards Sigtryggr, she makes sure his eyes are closed before reaching a tentative hand between her legs. She lets out a shaky sigh as her fingers make impact against the sensitive flesh.

She is not quite sure what she is supposed to do, but finds that a combination of rubbing the area and bucking softly against her hand feels most pleasurable, so continues to do that, holding her free hand over her mouth to muffle the sounds she makes.

There is a feeling that builds within her, a zenith that she feels she must press towards, so she continues in earnest, until finally she feels something within her release and her entire body shudders, a soft moan stifled against her lips as white hot pleasure rolls through her body.

Laying there afterwards she does her best to calm her breaths, feeling guilty for having done something so depraved.

She is startled by Sigtryggr’s voice beside her. “If only you’d beg, little warrior, I could do that for you.”

Her breath hitches and she quickly turns away from him. Not knowing what to say, she feigns sleep, clutching her cross and praying silently that he’ll forget.

She is grateful when he speaks of it no further, and life goes back to normal, or at least what normal is for them.

That is until a couple of weeks later when Brida storms her way into the study, clearly having grown impatient with the lack of progress being made.

“It has been more than thirty days since we captured Winchester, and your negotiations with the Saxon King are not working, Sigtryggr,” she glowers at him, “the time for talking is over. We are killing more captives.”

She does not miss the way that Brida’s eyes linger upon her as she says this, a shiver of fear causes her skin to break out into gooseflesh.

“I will choose who we execute, not you,” Sigtryggr tells her.

“You cannot protect this Saxon forever,” Brida retorts.

“Oh, but I can,” he says, placing himself protectively between her and Brida. “She is mine, and I will decide what happens to her.”

Brida scoffs, turning and leaving. Sigtryggr follows, leaving her alone to ponder the fact that he has once more saved her life.

When he comes back several hours later, he looks so tired. The expression he wears is one of defeat and she feels her heart ache for him.

“Read to me,” he says softly, sitting heavily upon the settee.

She regards him quietly, she wants to comfort him. She wants to comfort herself. She has grown weary of denying him.

Before she has time to think about what she’s doing, she crosses the room, and places herself upon his lap, her thighs astride his.

“What are you do–”

His words are cut off as she presses her lips to his eagerly, before pulling away. “I’m begging, Sigtryggr, please. I–”

He surges forward, kissing her again, his mouth possessing hers hungrily as he grasps her hips, lifting her as he stands to deposit her onto the makeshift bed upon the floor, his body caging hers in against the furs.

“I knew you’d give in, little warrior,” he whispers against her neck, kissing his way down her throat to her collarbone.

His fingers toy with the hem of the shift she wears, a silent plea for consent in his eyes as he looks at.

She swallows thickly and nods, nervousness and excitement fluttering ceaselessly in her stomach.

He pulls the garment over her head, throwing it to the side before sitting back on his haunches to admire her.

“Gods…you were worth the wait. So beautiful,” he whispers reverently.

She squirms beneath his gaze, turning her head away at the intimacy of the gesture, feeling shy and uncomfortable.

“Look at me,” he tells her softly. His fingers grasp her jaw, turning her face back to him.

Slowly he undresses, until he is as naked as she is. She feels the familiar ache between her thighs as she drinks in the sight of him, chiseled and battle hardened.

“Now we are equal,” he reassures her.

He reaches for the cross around her neck, toying with it between his fingers, before giving a quick, hard tug, causing the cord to give way. “What we are about to do is no business of your nailed god,” he tells her, tossing it to one side.

He kisses her once more, slower this time, their mouths saving the feel of the other’s against it. Trailing featherlight kisses down her body until he reaches her breasts, he wraps his lips around one of their hardened peaks, sucking gently.

The sensation causes her to moan, a pleasurable sensation shooting through her body, pooling into wet warmth between her legs as she arches against him.

Sigtryggr repeats the motion on the opposite breast, before descending further down, leaving wet kisses in his wake.

She freezes up when he grips her thighs, placing them over his shoulders so that his face is level with her most intimate of parts.

“What…what are you doing?” She asks anxiously.

“I’m going to taste you,” he says matter of factly, making pointed eye contact.

“You cannot do that,” she protests weakly, “it is an unclean thing to do.”

He grins at her, shaking his head slightly. “Christian,” the word leaves his mouth as a half hearted insult, before he presses forward.

The first swipe of his tongue against her folds causes her to gasp, her hands burying themselves in his hair as he uses his grip on her thighs to pull her closer, his tongue moving against her firmer, deeper, faster.

A groan of satisfaction rumbles in his throat, the vibrations causing her insides to clench as she bucks against his face, chasing the edge of oblivion that his tongue is pressing her towards.

He sucks at her pearl, before laving his tongue over it and she cries out as she spasms against his mouth, ecstasy numbing all of her senses as he continues to lap at her.

Once she relaxes, he pulls away, sitting back between her legs, his chin slick with her juices. His fist runs over the length of his cock as he takes in her blissful state and her eyes widen as she sees the size of him.

He is thick, long and slightly curved. She has never looked upon anyone’s manhood before and she trembles as she wonders how it will possibly fit inside of her.

Sensing her trepidation, Sigtryggr caresses her cheek with his palm. “Relax, little warrior, I have prepared you well.”

He presses the head of himself against her entrance and she braces herself, but then he stops. Her eyes flit to his questioningly.

“Beg for it,” he whispers.

She whines, wanting to hide her face in furs that they lay upon.

“Beg,” he says again, more insistently.

“Please,” he pushes forward, aided by her arousal and release, “please,” he pushes forward again, more of her swallowing him up, accompanied by the sensation of stretching and the slightest of stings, “please,” he pushes forward once more, finally sheathed fully inside of her.

She realises as he settles on top of her, giving her a moment to get used to the feeling of him, that this was merely a means to distract her so that she wouldn’t focus on the possibility of it hurting and grow tense. She smiles, stroking the wild tresses of his dark hair. Always so cunning.

He withdraws his hips slowly, before carefully pushing forward again. He repeats the motion several times, watching her face carefully.

As her breathing quickens, her brow relaxing as her jaw begins to slacken, he increases his pace, hips snapping against hers faster and faster, their kisses frenzied as they pant into each other’s mouths.

She feels him throb inside of her, the sensation pushes her back towards the precipice she’d fallen over earlier, but before she reaches it he is pulling out, spilling pearlescent ropes of spend across her belly.

He wipes her clean with a blanket, discarding it before laying down beside her and pulling her into his arms. A satisfied ache settles within her, she feels she could fall asleep like this, but his voice lulls her back to full consciousness.

“I have released the King’s sons back to him,” he tells her quietly.

“What will happen now?”

“He is sending a warrior named Uhtred into Winchester to negotiate terms, if I accept those terms then my men and I will move on.”

Her heart sinks. She cannot bear the thought of him leaving, not now she knows what it’s like to be in his arms. “Oh,” is all she is able to muster, pressing tighter to him.

They fall into a quiet doze, until he gently squeezes her shoulder. “I must go and speak with Uhtred.”

She watches sadly, quietly, as he dresses. He leans down to kiss her before he leaves and she pushes her lips eagerly to his. If he is to abandon her then she will cling to every last moment until he does.

When Sigtryggr returns later, she is dressed in her shift again, though her cross remains discarded. She is seated by the window, staring listlessly out of it.

He carries a bundle of clothing in his arms and she looks at him curiously.

“To keep you warm,” he explains, deepening her confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“I have discussed terms with Uhtred and we have reached an agreement. I will leave Winchester, on the condition that you accompany me…not as my prisoner, but as my woman.”

She grins, running into his arms and wrapping her arms around his neck.

As they ride away from Winchester, side by side on horseback, she does not feel as though she is leaving her life behind. On the contrary, it has just begun.

662 notes · View notes

depravitycentral · 10 days ago

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Yandere! Sanemi Shinazugawa General Profile

Yandere! Sanemi Shinazugawa x fem! reader

Tw: kidnapping, violence/mild gore, Sanemi controls your diet/comments on what you eat, mentions of physical and sexual assault (not by Sanemi though because he is Consent King™), my characterization of Sanemi is a little unusual I think but I stand by it, part of that characterization involves him being very sexually frustrated so mentions of masturbation, Stockholm Syndrome, mentions of reader being insecure/having low self esteem, kind of mind-break ish for reader, fem reader, MDNI

WC: 13K

DARLING PROFILE:

Honest

To Sanemi, there is nothing more worthless than liars - with the exception, possibly, of demons. He doesn’t understand why one would skate around the truth, and in his eyes it’s a sign of weakness, of an unwillingness to face reality and to cheat themselves.

Needless to say, he wouldn’t tolerate a partner who is prone to lying, who lets falsities slip from their lips like it’s nothing. He wants to know that his partner won’t front anything, that each word and phrase that they speak is nothing but how they feel, their honest thoughts and feelings.

Trust means a lot to him, and because it’s so difficult for him to fully open up, to allow himself to becomes vulnerable, he’s quite selective with who he lest see the real Sanemi Shinazugawa, the real man who wants nothing more than for the ones he loves to be safe and happy.

He needs a darling who won’t bullshit him, who can hold his respect and take a slight weight off his shoulders by knowing that they won’t ever lie to him.

It doesn’t mean his paranoia diminishes in any sense of the word, but the sentiment is still nice - it’s pleasing to him that when his darling is finally giving in and telling him in a defeated, resigned voice that they love him too, when he’s forcing out a compliment that sounded wonderful in his head but strange once it passed him that the small smile and soft ‘thanks’ they give is real.

He needs to comfort of knowing that his darling is authentic, that they’re showing their real selves to him, and with each glimpse he sees he only falls more and more in love.

Opinionated

There is no doubt that Sanemi works tirelessly to be as powerful as he can, that it’s his sole drive in life to kill and defeat demons. He’s a man fueled by adrenaline and hate for the man-eating creatures, and he desires a darling who is similarly motivated.

His darling doesn’t need to have a tragic past or anything of the sort, but he appreciates someone who is somewhat of a spitfire.

He likes women who can challenge him, and if his darling is able to keep up with him and even occasionally be better than him at something, it’s a sure fire way for him to grow interested.

He loves the idea of his darling being capable and independent (ironic, considering the way he grows to coddle his darling and let his overprotectiveness convince him that they’re utterly helpless without him), and a darling who’s able to showcase this personality trait gets him ever so slightly flustered.

He likes someone who can stand up to him, who doesn’t let him boss them around, and while he’ll want them to be complacent and listen to him once he has a more solidified role in their life, there’s something so incredibly attractive about them having their own mind and opinion.

He may act like it irritates him at first, butting heads with his darling and even occasionally complaining about how headstrong they are, but it’s one of the very first things that catches Sanemi’s attention and keeps it.

(That and, of course, the color of their eyes, the sway of their hips, the lilt of their voice, and myriad other qualities that make him gape like some lovesick school boy. Pathetic.)

Kind

On the flip side, Sanemi is also wildly attracted to a darling who is a truly kind person.

They can be opinionated, hardheaded, competitive, any number of things that leave them labeled as a strong personality, but it’s in the moments where Sanemi sees how truly compassionate they are that his feelings really become cemented.

He’s had to bury his own compassion and empathy down over the years, hardening his shell and playing into the character so well that it’s become essentially his real self, and to see his darling able to be so kind and loving to the people around them makes him wildly flustered and jealous.

It reminds him of his old self, and while that brings its own heavy baggage, there’s something freeing and so very calming about it, like some long lost puzzle piece is slotting into place because it just feels right.

And when his darling turns that kindness onto him, Sanemi’s genuinely at a loss for words. The first time they scold him for getting injured and help tend to his wounds, he’s already putty in their hands. He’s momentarily struck silent when his darling presents to him a small gift from a nearby market, the gift itself meager and not something Sanemi particularly wants, but there’s something about the gesture that gets his heart racing, flattered and unsure why they’d be giving someone like him something.

It’s a quality that he subconsciously looks for, and though he’d never admit it, it’s difficult for him to not notice just how kind his darling would be in the context of motherhood. They’d be great with children, he’s sure, and while he doesn’t want to bring any children into the world while it's still crawling with demons, he’s nursing the quiet, embarrassed dream of his darling carrying his children and heading a loving, large family.

It’s the stuff of his fantasies, the kind of thing that makes him flush and get irritated at sappy at is, but with each kind gesture and compliment, his darling only makes it harder and harder to not dream of it.

Brave

On many levels, to become a person Sanemi respects you’d have to be brave. He simply doesn’t tolerate those who are weak-willed or meek, and a darling who’s more willing to put themselves out there or stand up for others is extremely attractive to him.

His darling doesn’t need to be a risk-taker, but he appreciates someone is willing to go outside of their comfort zone every once in a while. This is especially true when it comes to interacting with him. His tough demeaner scares most people off, so his darling would need to be willing to tough it out and stand up to him in order to dig past his rough exterior and get at the soft, vulnerable side of him.

It makes him proud, really, when his darling does something that he deems brave or difficult for them. It fills him with a sense of accomplishment, feeling genuinely happy for them because he’s so very proud when they achieve even basic things.

He's extremely observant and picks up on even minute aspects of his darling’s personality, and so he’s very in touch with what’s within his darling’s comfort zone and what isn’t.

This trait is by and large a positive for him, however there are times when it becomes the bane of his existence; if they do something he deems stupid or unnecessary and puts them in danger he becomes very, very angry. He’s paranoid in every sense of the word, terrified that his darling will die or somehow disappear, leaving him behind to be all alone, losing just another person he’s come to love.

(Though, love is perhaps not quite the word for it – needs, maybe, or even adores, just with a sense of finality that scares even Sanemi.) His darling’s braveness is a double-edged sword, and once they’re under his lock and key, he’s trying to cut down on their ability to act on this as much as possible, not only for their safety but also his sanity.

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:

Protective

As a general rule, Sanemi’s expression of his feelings towards you is rather indirect. He’ll never outright confess that he’s in love with you until very, very late into his obsession, and by that time you’ll have already been trapped by his side for at least a few months, already uncomfortably aware that he feels something for you, even if he won’t put a name on it.

He’s not traditionally romantic in any sense, and while he does harbor fantasies about being all soft and mushy with you, he can’t seem to allow himself to act on these desires, particularly towards the beginning of his infatuation.

(He’ll spend his nights laying awake, staring at the ceiling while his fingers trace patterns against the scars on his chest, imagining they’re your own softer, prettier hands, that you’re laying beside him and lulling him to sleep with your touch and soft voice, that you’re telling him that you love him and that you feel so safe with you, Sanemi. Idly, he wonders whether you’re put off by the scars – you’ve never mentioned it, sure, but Sanemi isn’t stupid. He knows you’re too nice and perhaps too intimidated by him, but he still bites his lip and wonders whether you wouldn’t mind them, if you’d like them, if you’d be attracted to them, even… And suddenly his fingers feel like fire because now he’s imagining how it would feel to have your lips trail the scarred skin instead and oh god-)

He’s not particularly overt with many aspects of his obsession, with a few stark exceptions – namely, Sanemi is very, very overprotective of you. Call it a result of a traumatic childhood and adult life or perhaps even a coping mechanism, but once his feelings for you begin to fester, your safety becomes his number one priority.

And really, isn’t it understandable?

Seeing humans get slaughtered on a daily basis constantly reminds him that you’re weak. Sure, he’s a Hashira and risks his life with every breath, but you’re you. You’re painfully unprepared to handle a confrontation with a demon, and with each new violent, gory death he sees, Sanemi becomes more and more aware of this.

It’s maddening, really, because he’ll be out on a mission and be just a hair too late to save some poor civilian woman and oh, her hair color is so very similar to yours – from a distance it almost looks like you. Your faces aren’t similar, though, and as Sanemi runs past the fresh corpse in pursuit of the monster, he’s breathing a sigh of relief because for the smallest, briefest moment he was almost convinced that that was you.

And later that night, as he sits down alone in his quiet, empty mansion, every blink of his eyes is flashing an image of you in her position, scarlet blood staining your skin and tears drying against your cheeks. It makes him grit his teeth, pacing around the room and clutching onto his sword hilt, muttering under his breath about how you’re driving him crazy and this shit needs to stop, I have to stop, this has to stop…

But he still finds himself dashing off to the modest room you call home, anger flaring when he notices you’ve left your window open, mentally berating you and promising to sternly remind you tomorrow to not be so careless.

Wide eyes peer into your bedroom to catch sight of you peacefully sleeping, and he sucks in a breath at the sight. You’re just so pretty – all soft and warm in your bed, lips parted ever so slightly, the slope of your nose catching his eye, the slow rise and fall of your chest.

(He’ll stop to match his own breathing with yours, palm pressing against the glass of the window, unable to stop staring even as he calls himself pathetic and a creep for watching you sleep. It’s just calming in a way he can’t describe, and when he finally forces himself to move some thirty minutes later, the cycle only restarts as he steps foot back in his home.)

His anxiety that you’re unable to protect yourself manifests pretty early into his obsession – and you’ll notice, too. He’s unusually concerned with all aspects of your health and safety – he’s always asking when you’ve last eaten, what you had, if you’re still hungry, when you last had protein or a vegetable or drank water. And while he’s trying to be as civil and nonchalant as he can manage, he’s still staring, looming over you and looking at you with an intensity that makes you feel so very small, your answer more of a question than an answer.

And if he doesn’t like the answer, you’re being dragged to his own personal kitchen, all the while he’s grumbling about how you’re so irresponsible, can’t even feed yourself on your own, meanwhile he’s already boiling water and cutting vegetables, having forced you to sit on the most plush cushion he owns.

And you will be eating everything he feeds you – when you seem hesitant, he's threatening with a disturbingly serious I won’t let you leave until that tray is clean, the calmness and sincerity in his voice driving you to immediately pick up your utensils.

Typically, his cooking isn’t bad – perhaps ever so slightly charred, but it’s cooked to your tastes and preferences (though he never explicitly asked about them), and he’s always looking at you while you dine, those wide eyes of his never seeming to blink as he surveys every possible detail about you.

(Really, he’s doing two things – firstly, he’s obsessively checking over every aspect of your eating habits. How many times do you chew before you swallow? Which foods do you start eating first, and do you eat section by section or a little bit of everything? Do you blow on your foods if they’re too hot, your pretty lips puckering into a cute little ‘o’ that makes him suck in a breath? But even aside from that he’s staring, transfixed, because just last night he was dining alone at this table, solemnly chewing at his food while imagining your presence beside him, fantasizing about the day when you’re eating together, perhaps even swapping stories of the day or complimenting him or telling him that you look so handsome today Sanemi, it’s kind of pissing me off… Just the thought makes him sit up straighter, unconsciously puffing out his chest because he wants you to be very, very aware of the muscles lining every inch of his body.)

And even aside from food, his protectiveness is apparent in the way he treats you – he’s always quickly gazing over your body, checking for any signs of cuts, scrapes, bruises, or limps, the surveying genuinely clinical rather than perverse.

(Of course, later that night he’ll remember the details with a slightly lewder twist – wondering how soft your thighs must be and letting his hands flex into a fist in an effort to grab onto something, even though it can’t be you. He’s imagining exactly how those nipples of yours must look like, imagining in detail the way they’d look all pebbled, the skin soft and warm and god, he bets you’d taste sweet, like some sort of heaven.)

He’s refusing to leave your side when you walk into town, always trailing at your arm and constantly glowering at the people around you, his excuse something related to checking for demon activity in the crowd – you don’t mention that it’s daytime.

(He’s always raising a brow when men approach you, rage simmering just below the surface alongside an underlying sense of anxiety and insecurity because while he may be the most capable of protecting you, the kinder, gentler man that calls you beautiful at the small morning market may be more capable of winning your heart. And so, when they get too close, he’s quick to place himself between the two of you, a scowl on his face and his tone a mix of condescension and threatening when he tells him to get lost, one more step and I slice your arm off. It’s protection, sure, because who knows what these men could want from you, but the small, possessive part of him is smug when the man scurries off, his worries momentarily quelled because you’re still next to him, not that stranger.)

He’s pessimistic about people by nature, always assuming the worst, and so Sanemi accompanies you every free moment he possibly can, acting as your shadow and impossible to get away from. It’s irritating, really, because even if you fight and bicker with him about it, requesting that he please leave you alone because it scares you to have him hanging off of you like that, he’ll only resort to following you from a few meters behind, blending in with the crowd but still keeping those eyes on you, hand always tightly clutched around the hilt of his sword just in case your safety is threatened.

He knows it’s stalking, sure, and he reprimands himself for his weakness and inability to control himself, but the moment you’re out of his sight panic is racing through him, his breathing getting shallow and his skin feeling hot because fuck fuck fuck this isn’t happening, you’re not gone you can’t be gone please oh god where are you –

He’s running as quickly as he can to check behind every corner, desperation to find you so potent that it bars him from feeling embarrassed, only calming once he finds you. He’ll grasp onto your shoulders once he does, his grip nearly bruising as he demands to know where you’ve been, practically yelling at you to tell him if you’re hurt, if anyone bothered you, if you’ve been attacked or if you’re scared.

It’s only when you wince or beg him to back off that he does, freezing up and letting his mouth fall open stupidly, before suddenly jumping back as if touching you pains him, clenching his fists and gritting his teeth, disappointment and anger in himself for injuring you rolling through him.

He treats you like you’re delicate, fragile, breakable, and no matter how often you tell him – and prove to him – that you’re not, Sanemi refuses to acknowledge it.

After all, you needing protection gives him purpose. It gives him justification to be around you, to be allowed in your presence – it makes him think he might, just maybe, be worthy of your love. And no matter how pathetic it makes him feel to admit it, Sanemi would do absolutely anything to get you looking at him and needing him like he needs you.

Anything.

Possessive

And it’s palpable. Sanemi is many things, but subtle is not one of them – and while he may be decent at masking many aspects of his obsession with you, his possessive side is certainly not one of them.

He’s easily jealous, always suspecting the worst of people that approach you. The man that comes up to ask you for directions obviously has an ulterior motive, perhaps wanting to ogle you or get just a hair too close to your body for Sanemi’s comfort.

The older man that accidentally bumps into you as he walks with his cane may seem innocent, but Sanemi’s immediately scowling, eyeing the man like a hawk because many old men seem to feel much too entitled and much too confident in bothering younger, attractive women, and he’ll be damned before he lets some old creep harass you.

(A bit hypocritical, all things considered, because while Sanemi may be your age, he’s significantly more of a creep – the way he’s constantly following you, constantly thinking of you, imagining your smile and your laugh and of what he’s sure is a very warm and oh so fucking wet place between those plush thighs of yours. The old man would probably only touch you – Sanemi wants to do much, much more.)

And so, a large portion of his possessiveness stems from his own protectiveness. He firmly believes that no one else is capable of protecting you to the level and degree that he can. He’s a Hashira, unafraid to throw himself into danger for a cause he fully believes in, so why should he be afraid to put himself on the line in order to keep you safe and sound?

Slaughtering demons is still his life’s mission, sure, but somehow you’ve wormed your way in, too, and Sanemi finds it increasingly difficult to simply ignore how much of an effect you have on him. And even as much as he tries to deny his feelings in the beginning, praying and hoping that they’re simply temporary, it becomes very, very difficult to force himself to not care when he sees anyone else speaking to you.

And honestly, a lot of the anger comes from the fact that you have never been this familiar and carefree when conversing with Sanemi – you never smile at him like you do with this new man, all teeth and rounded cheeks and glowing eyes. It’s cute, adorable, beautiful even, but it’s also infuriating, making Sanemi’s blood boil and something ugly and uncomfortable press against his ribs.

Other men always seem to be able to more easily speak with you – they’re wittier, better at complimenting you, managing to make you laugh and smile in a way that hurts Sanemi to see. It’s painful, more than anything, and early into his obsession it’s moments like these that show him that no matter how he tries to convince himself that his feelings for you aren’t as strong or potent as he thinks, he’s wrong.

He needs you in a way that simultaneously frustrates and terrifies him. He hasn’t felt a connection and genuine desire in such a long time that he doesn’t even recognize the feeling at first – it takes him seeing you interact with men over a prolonged period of time to even understand the nature of his infatuation, realizing that instead of mere irritation he’s feeling, it’s something deeper, harsher, more personal.

It’s something that makes it hard to breath, his fists clenching and his legs feeling like lead, dread settling deep in his chest because oh god, what does he do?

He tends to act before thinking when it comes to you, his body seeming to react before he even has a moment to process what he’s seeing, and this is certainly no exception when another man approaches you. He’ll be quick to step in, but as Sanemi’s obsession continues on, he becomes more and more torn about his possessive tendencies.

By and large, he’s lucid about the nature of his feelings for you. He knows what he’s doing is wrong, and as time passes and his love for you only seems to grow exponentially, he begins to wonder whether interfering with potential lovers of yours is really the correct move. He’s horribly jealous, of course, barely able to keep himself from hurling the moment he sees you interacting with anyone else, but there’s something else there, sitting just below the surface and giving him ever so slight pause.

It’s guilt, the idea that he’s becoming unreasonably possessive and territorial over you when he really has no right to. After all, thinking of you as his woman makes him feel good, his chest feeling all tingly and his cheeks going hot, but it’s not really true, is it?

You’re not his – he’s just an admirer, a stalker who desperately wishes he could call out to you and have you smile at him, look at him, let him wrap you in his arms and even press a kiss or two against his trembling lips. But you’re not – and it’s difficult for Sanemi to rationalize that the longer his obsession goes on.

And so, by the times that he’s a few months into accepting his feelings for you, Sanemi tries to limit his interventions into your interactions with others to only situations where you’re uncomfortable or in danger. And it’s noble, truly – but the problem arises from the fact that Sanemi is the one judging when this occurs, deciding when someone is bothering you.

His mood plays a huge role in this judgement decision, his moodiness and however long he's been away from you or gone without interacting with you swaying his decision. If he’s been particularly absent from your life for the last few days or weeks, Sanemi is believing that everyone has ill intentions with you – every man that glances at you, even every elderly woman that compliments your eyes or your figure.

They all want you, and it makes him panic, growing anxious and terrified that someone will snatch you away from him, that he’ll lose you and with you every bit of happiness and calm you make him feel. It’s a panic response, more than anything, and he’ll immediately rush in, sometimes not even caring how you grow irritated and frustrated that he always seems to just appear, despite the fact that you have the situation under control.

It’s a mixture of genuine worry for your safety and selfish desire to keep you all to himself that motivates him, and you’ll notice a stark difference in his behavior once he’s got you stolen away in his estate. He won’t directly reveal his feelings to you, but his sense of ownership over you will become much more apparent with the way he’s always providing for you, giving you all sorts of expensive gifts and getting only the best foods for you, doing anything and everything to get you to like him, to get you to become willingly his and to show you that no one else could treat you as well or love you as wholly.

He’s a prideful man, sure, but when it comes to you everything flies out the window – he’s barely able to conceal his desperation for you, and the defense is so weak that you’ll spot the cracks immediately. You’ll be able to tell just how badly he needs you to admit that you’re his, his control over your life worsening with every day that passes because he simply can’t stand knowing that you aren’t utterly, completely his.

And really, would it be so bad to give in? There’s something romantic about a man who wants you so badly that he’s so hyper fixated on keeping you his and only his, isn’t there? Something exciting, something flattering, something raw?

Sanemi sure hopes you think so, but at the end of the day it doesn’t really matter – he can’t stop himself, and you will become his at the end of the day.

Shy

But in an extremely specific way – he doesn’t shy away from interacting with you per say, but it’s very, very difficult for him to become completely open and vulnerable with you.

He’s simply too closed off – he’s entirely unused to having anyone close in his life, his few relationships held quietly close to his heart and rocky, to say the least. (His love for Genya, for example, or even the comradery he feels for Obanai and his fellow Hashira, though he’s much more expressive than he realizes.)

He’s simply not good with words, often finding himself saying things he doesn’t mean or speaking with a tone entirely unreflective of what he feels. And as a result, he struggles with the idea of opening himself up to you. You’re simply too important to him – you’re his everything now, the woman he wants to protect and keep safe above all else.

And while he’s not deluded enough to believe that you can understand him simply by looking at him, Sanemi hopes and prays that his actions are enough to convey the depth and nature of his feelings.

(Though, he’s often unsure of whether he wants you to really understand just how strong his dependence on you really is. Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t know that he can’t spend a single hour without passing thoughts of you sifting through his mind – a simple glance at a cloud has him thinking it vaguely looks like your hair, the shape making the corner of his lip turn up ever so slightly, his fingers subconsciously rubbing together and imagining the texture against his skin. He doesn’t want you to know that sometimes, when he’s sitting alone and eating the rather bare-bones, plain meal he’s cooked for himself, he’ll set a second plate, biting back his pride and quietly speaking into the air, pretending that you’re sitting there and entertaining him, nodding along to his words and encouraging him after a particularly difficult mission or seeing you getting just a tad too friendly with another man.)

Really, a lot of the fear of opening himself up comes down to Sanemi’s lucidity about his feelings for you. He has no romantic experience, true, but he’s not stupid – he’s aware that it’s unusual to be this attached when the two of you are really only platonically involved, even as much as he yearns to take things further.

He understands that it’s not normal to be so hyper fixated and concerned on your health and safety, always having a moment of clarity as he scolds you for wearing shoes that are worn down enough to hurt the soles of your shoes, or for not drinking water all day.

He’s very aware that it’s wrong of him to be following you home and keeping an eye on you without your knowledge or consent, and truthfully he’s afraid to see your reaction when you realize just how truly depraved he’s become for you. He's sure that you’ll find him repulsive – maybe you’ll curse him out, calling him a freak and a creep and even a monster for invading your personal privacy and space on such a regular basis.

(You’d be mortified, he’s sure, to find out that he often lets himself into your apartment during the day, knowing you’ll be at a friend’s place for the next few hours and wandering back after following you there, the familiar scent of you calming him immediately once he steps inside. He’s sure you’d be angry to know that he’s thumbing at each and every item of clothing you own, memorizing the feel of the fabric, running his fingers along the inside just to pretend to feel your skin, finding that this is the closest thing he can get to touching you. He’s sure you’d be mad to know that he’s picked up your pillow, hugging it to his chest and pressing his face against it, deeply inhaling and even planting a few unsure, rather stiff kisses against the material, wishing with a sort of boyish hope that tonight you’ll happen to press your face against that specific spot as you sleep.)

He’s naively nursing the hope that you’d by some miracle be okay with his more covert behaviors, wishing that you secretly feel as strongly for him as he does you. But even then Sanemi doesn’t let himself slide too deeply into that thinking, aware that it’s dangerous to become so detached from reality. You will be horrified, and he will be absolutely shattered to see the way you’ll flinch away from him, how you’ll look at him with fear and disgust in your eyes.

(And really, the pathetic thing is that while Sanemi will be ashamed of your newfound perception of him, he can’t deny that he’d be absolutely giddy to have you looking at him, your attention entirely on him even if it’s negative. And that only serves to fill him with more self-loathing, something ugly and heavy settling against his chest at the thought because it really is awfully pitiful that simply your attention is enough to have his knees feeling weak, his cheeks tingling and his palms growing sweaty because oh, you see him.)

And so, Sanemi does his best to avoid broaching the subject of how he feels about you. Instead, he tries every possible method he can think of to express himself through actions.

He doesn’t have much as a reference point, both his career and his comrades not exactly ideal sources of healthy, loving relationships, but at a certain point Sanemi becomes too desperate to ignore his few resources. He needs you to see him, to smile at him and acknowledge him, and so he bites his pride and awkwardly approaches Kanroji about it.

He’s not exactly overjoyed to be asking for her advice, but she’s the only one he feels has any sort of idea what you could possibly be looking for in terms of romantic gestures. (He’d also considered asking Shinobu, but he’d immediately crossed that idea out upon realizing that not only would Shinobu likely tease him in the moment, she’d very likely never let it go, constantly holding it over his head that the Sanemi Shinazugawa needed advice on how to woo a woman. At least Kanroji would be kind about it.)

He’s approaching her and asking as nonchalantly as he can manage whether women like men to give them flowers, escort them from location to location, cook for them, where women like to be touched (with a very, very quick clarification of not in a weird way immediately following the question), or any number of other things. And Kanroji, while suspicious of his intentions, is more than happy to gush about the small things that make women swoon. And Sanemi is hanging onto every word – pressing for details about what specific compliments to shower you with, what small gifts he should consider picking up on his missions to bring home to you, what tone of voice he should be using instead of his usual gruff, irritated lilt.

Sanemi is quick to try and instill some of these ideas into his ‘relationship’ with you – he spends easily an hour biting his lip and diligently searching through every single flower at the shop, his hands slightly trembling when he hands you the small bouquet, struggling to make eye contact as he quietly – and with something almost akin to a tremor in his voice – tells you that your kimono is beautiful, the statement almost phrased like a question.

It’s the closest Sanemi is willing to get to admitting his feelings in times like these, and up until the point where he steals you away into his own abode, these sporadic bursts of confidence and nerves will leave you with whiplash because mere moments later he’ll be growling at a drunk man approaching you, threats slipping from his lips and his aura suddenly switching from bashful, almost schoolboy-esque to deadly serious.

And once he’s been forced you kidnap you, this behavior mostly continues. He still doesn’t want to fully confess everything, but he’s trying his absolute hardest to make you as happy as possible – going out of his way to keep you comfortable and satisfied, guilt eating away at him and making him overcompensate by treating you like you’re royalty.

With time, he’ll slowly become more open to you – that mask will slip ever so slightly, bits of his true feelings shining through. He’ll accidentally let it slip that he knows something about you that he shouldn’t, cluing you into his behaviors revolving around the stalking and rifling through your things.

It’ll be the middle of the night and he’s suddenly jolted awake after a particularly graphic nightmare, half asleep as he rushes out of his bed and practically runs to find you. He’s frantic to check that you’re still in the bed he’s set up for you, his breathing only calming down when he sees your still form, a declaration of love, adoration, and relief slipping from his lips that you happen to hear and wonder at how he can be so sappy and whipped.

It’s embarrassing, more than anything, but Sanemi simply struggles to be vulnerable – eventually you’ll become uncomfortably aware of just how badly he needs you, what with his growing need for your affirmations and physical touch, but the process is slow going, frustrating, confusing, even. But please be patient with him – he’s trying his best for you, really, and with every rejection and laugh when he’s attempting to open up, the less likely he becomes to completely and fully trust that you could love him, too.

DEALING WITH RIVALS:

Sanemi has always been a bit more on the aggressive side; between slaughtering demons for a living and being a bit brash in his words in his personal life, he’s never been one for handling problems with delicacy, or even really diplomacy – when he gets angry, it’s a bit all consuming.

And when you get thrown into the equation? Well, Sanemi is a lost cause – his emotions regarding you are so complex, so overwhelming and deep that the moment he feels your relationship is being threatened, he’s immediately shutting it down, attacking the threat mercilessly with everything he has because fuck, he can’t let you leave him.

When it comes to romance and love, he’s honestly quite insecure; he knows that there’s no way he’s your first choice, that someone as harsh and rude and demanding could ever possibly be the one you desire. Not to mention the fact that he’s constantly putting his life on the line, the gamble he’s playing on whether he’ll live to see the light of day every night. And he’s not sure about the scars the job produces, too, because while he normally wears them as a badge of pride to signal his toughness and battle experience, he’s not so sure you’d share the same positive response to them.

(It’s such a constant worry for him that the moment you’re in his vicinity, he’s torn between leaving his uniform wide open to show off his sculpted pectorals and abs and simultaneously wanting to cover up, terrified that you’ll find his scarred and calloused body upsetting, repulsive.)

He knows he’s not the ideal man, but there’s a part of him that’s desperately clinging onto the idea that maybe, just maybe you love him too, that you’re just as happy being with him, that you need him as badly as he needs you. It’s unrealistic, though, and in his heart of hearts he knows it and berates himself for even entertaining the idea that you see him as anything more than an acquaintance (or a friend at most).

And yet, the moment that he sees another man – one that’s arguably more similar to what he’s sure your type must be - all reason gets thrown out the door. He’s gritting his teeth as he sees another man approaching you, talking to you, even so much as looking at you – it’s a threat to the relationship he’s precariously building between the two of you, a possibility for something to drive you away from him, the mere idea scaring the absolute shit out of him.

You’re his everything, the reason he lives to see another day, and the moment your safety is compromised (because Sanemi is absolutely fucking sure that that man approaching you with a flush on his face and wide eyes has intentions that are only bad, desires racing through his heart to hurt you, leave you crying and violated and so very scared) he’s immediately wanting to interfere, to break you away from whatever son of a bitch decided to come between what’s rightfully his, what he’s devoted so much of his time and energy to – you.

And even as he realizes that this mindset is detrimental, unhealthy, potentially irreparably damaging your perception of him, Sanemi can’t find it in himself to stop. He’s just too paranoid, too terrified that you’ll be so cruelly ripped away from him.

And of course, it’s also a matter of paranoia where your safety is concerned, too – he has no faith in your ability to fight, and he’s confident that if a bigger, stronger man were to assault you in some way, you’d be hard pressed to fight him off.

(A notion that makes him sick, immediately clutching at his sword and furrowing his eyebrows, the need to see you immediately making him spring to life, already sprinting to where he knows you typically are this time of day.)

And so, Sanemi will often step in between the stranger and you, regardless of the context. And while it pisses you off when it’s a friend of yours or even a simple stranger with innocent intentions, Sanemi manages to redeem himself because every time a creep approaches you, he’s always, always there to swoop in and save you just as the weight of your situation begins washing over you.

(And Sanemi is more than happy to play your savior – just the look you give him, so full of admiration and gratitude and, dare he say, awe, is enough to make him flustered for the next week, finding himself unable to fall asleep and instead imagining your face, clutching at his pillow and squeezing his eyes shut, small whispers of your name falling past his lips.)

In retrospect, you really shouldn’t have gone out for groceries this late. It was winter time, when everything goes dark much too quickly. Before you’d known it the sun was setting and you had yet to stock up on food for the week, making you quickly race out the door and trying to catch the last few minutes of vendors. The market was just barely open, the entire town feeling oddly deserted considering how early it still was.

As nightfall descended, the sun slipping past the horizon, you find yourself carrying a bag of heavy groceries and padding back home, grunting occasionally at the heavy weight in your arms. Your home wasn’t in the best of neighborhoods, the area always feeling just slightly ominous at night, but the rather depressing sight of your empty cupboards had forced you to venture at a time you’d normally avoid leaving your front door.

Biting your lip, you let the groceries in your hand shift slightly, letting the weight shift from one arm to another. Your attention is so focused on the cloth bags in your arms that you fail to notice the figure standing at the side of the road, lounging in front of a small family-owned restaurant that was closed for the evening. His robes are a dark green color, stained with something along the front that left it dark and greasy, a bottle of something strong-smelling in his clutched fist.

You hadn’t noticed him at first, but you suddenly go stiff as he whistles, the bottle crashing to the ground and shattering. Freezing only momentarily, you quickly keep moving, trying to ignore the way the man is calling after you.

Hey, get back here, woman, he’d slurred, even audibly sounding drunk.

The rather weak torches stationed every few meters along the street make it difficult to see behind you, but you can clearly hear his footsteps getting closer.

You can also hear the distinct lack of others’ footsteps, meaning you’re totally alone with a drunk man seemingly intent on bothering you.

Gulping, you keep your shoulders low, trying to curl into yourself but keeping the same pace, hoping by some stroke of luck the man would lose interest or give up on following you. Your home was only a few blocks away, if you could just push a little further maybe you’d be able to close him off at the door, and surely he’d stop then, right? He’d be too bored waiting outside for you, surely.

Hey bitch, turn around! His hand is suddenly on your shoulder, fingertips digging tightly against your clothed skin and making you wince slightly. He’s taller than you’d thought, something that becomes frighteningly obvious as he turns you to face him.

He’s sneering, lips curling up into something ugly that makes your gut twist. His breath reeksof the same sour, alcohol-baked scent, and as he leans in, you try your best to step away, leaning away from his approach.

Please leave me alone, you try, your voice sounding pathetically weak even to your own ears. He’s strong, you can tell – the dingy clothing hid his physique, but it’s not hard to feel the way his grip tightens, the way he makes an unpleasant noise that has fear prickling up your spine.

What did you just say to me? He asks, baring his teeth and moving to cup your jaw between his fingers, pressing his thumb against your lips and pressing hard enough to make you squirm, the pressure against your teeth making your panic only grow worse. He cocks a brow at your struggling, his smile creeping up again as his free hand came up to rest at your hip, moving down and towards your middle, barely passing over your clothed navel and making you open your mouth to scream. The groceries are dropped, your fear overweighing your despair at losing your week’s salary on a single grocery run.

You’re barely able to vocalize your fear before a sudden flash of white fills your peripheral, the pressure against your mouth suddenly lessening. Your body slumps down, falling to your knees on the ground as your eyes grow wide, your breaths heavy and labored as you look upon the scene before you.

The man – your savior, is standing before you, five fingers wrapped around the man’s throat and shoving him up against the wall of the nearest shop, Sanemi’s teeth bared and his own chest rising and falling rapidly.

He’s got his free hand clutched onto the hilt of his sword, and for a brief, terrifying moment you’re sure he’ll whip his blade out, perhaps slicing into the man’s guts and leaving him a bloody, mutilated pile of bones. Some sick, malevolent part of you finds a sick sort of pleasure in the idea, but your body is moving before you can even think, struggling to your feet and moving to rush forward and stop Sanemi from acting on what you’re very aware is a quick-trigger temper.

But before you can take more than a few steps, the sound of the Hashira’s voice is ringing in your ears. It’s low, gravelly, sounding as if it’s taking every bit of his concentration and self-control to not be screaming and yelling, nasally and gravely, the words clipped and uneven as his fingers tighten.

You piece of shit, touching women without their consent, you’re fucking disgusting, rot in hell –

It’s like a mantra, Sanemi sounding so very genuine and forceful, and as you stand frozen at the intensity in his voice, his words only become darker, more sinister.

Don’t touch her, don’t you fucking dare or I swear I’ll slice your head clean off and dismember your every limb. He grins, eyes going wide. I’ll slice off your cock, too, that’d be good, huh? Can’t bother any innocent women when you’re not even a man.

He punctuates this point with a kick to man’s groin, the pained groan he lets out only making Sanemi’s smile widen. You take a small step back, but Sanemi doesn’t even seem to notice.

Anyone who touches her is dead. You hear me? You’re fucking dead.

The harasser is clawing at his hand, whimpering and wheezing as his air supply grows smaller and smaller. It’s at this point that you audibly gasp, covering your mouth with your hand and staring at him with shock, your fingers trembling and your heart racing.

That noise seems to snap Sanemi out of his trance, his muscles going rigid and his head snapping to you. His eyes widen and his lips part, the airiest whisper of your name falling from his lips, and then he’s suddenly letting go of the stranger, backing away and staring at his own hand in shock, as if he’s horrified by what his own body has done.

The man falls to the ground, curled up and coughing, but neither you nor Sanemi pay him any mind. He’s still looking at you, mouth opening and closing like a fish, mind racing as he tries to think of something to say – anything to say, really, because the way you’re looking at him right now is making his heart break, panic engulfing him because no no no now you must think he’s a violent killer and oh god you must hate him now –

He breaks the trance by rushing forward, hands immediately coming out to clutch at your shoulders, his grip noticeably softer than how he’d been choking the man. His eyes are searching over your face, glancing over every inch of your body, his breaths still coming out uneven and ragged, and Sanemi’s quickly swallowing, unsure of what to say but practically blurting out the words.

That wasn’t – I don’t – I’m not going to hurt him, I promise –

You blink at him, body stiff and unsure, but the longer he babbles on the more your muscles relax.

I wouldn’t hurt a human, I’m not a monster, I just – he was harassing you and I don’t even know what happened, I just started moving and –

You shut him up by carefully, hesitantly placing a hand over one of his, the skin contact making him suck in a sharp breath, gaze immediately zeroing in on the sight.

Your smile is only half-genuine, fear and adrenaline coursing through you, but now that the man has crawled away, cursing Sanemi out, you’re starting to calm down. You’ve spent enough time with the Hashira to know he won’t hurt you, and seeing him this worked up, this flustered and desperate to get you to believe him is proof enough that he’s telling the truth.

Stop Sanemi, I know. I understand. At that he visibly relaxes, his jaw tensing and clenching as he swallows. Thank you for saving me.

He pauses, eyebrows rising ever so slightly, before he lets out a deep, shaky exhale, nodding his head and stepping back, releasing his grip on you.

Good is all he says, still looking at you, before his grip rests once more on the hilt of his sword. He glances towards your groceries, before scowling. Are you stupid? Why the hell are you out at this hour to get groceries?

You bristle at this, familiar behavior making you shoot him a glare. Don’t judge me, not all of us can afford to have private servants cook us meals.

Sanemi scoffs. I don’t have private servants, you’re making shit up again.

You continue to bicker, still shaking slightly as you gather the groceries that fell out of the bag upon impact with the ground. Sanemi begrudgingly helps you, forcing you to let him carry both bags while he escorts you home, berating you for being out at this time the entire way.

It’s only later that night that you really truly think about what had happened, his words ringing through your mind because why had Sanemi said that? How had he even known where you were, much less that you were in danger?

You’re not sure, but as you slip under your covers and bury your face against your pillow, you find yourself brushing aside the odd coincidental nature of the encounter, instead finding yourself thankful that Sanemi was there to intervene before things got truly bad.

(Meanwhile, Sanemi is staying true to his promise of not killing any humans – though he’s quick to track down the drunk man, scoffing at the state of him. He’d fallen asleep, evidently, laying on the dirty streetcorner a ways away from your home. Rage overcomes him as he recalls the way this man had touched you, even going so far as to grope your most intimate region without your permission, anger and even a small bit of jealousy overwhelming Sanemi.

He'll certainly not kill the man, but he wasn’t lying when he promised to slice off the man’s cock – he wouldn’t miss it, would he? Besides, he tells himself as he cuts clean and quick lines, it’s for you. This way, the creep might not feel the need to harass you again, and might keep his filthy hands to himself.

And when Sanemi drops him off unceremoniously outside the doors of the nearest medical house, he can only scoff, turning his back on the bleeding man and listening as the medics immediately begin swarming him.

He doesn’t like hurting humans, sure, but for you? Well, the walk back to your home is short, and as he slips inside, standing at the foot of your bed and swallowing at the sight of your sleeping form, he feels himself visibly relax. You’re just too perfect – and as he inhales the smell of you, he knows he’d do it again if it meant keeping you safe, keeping you his.)

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

Though Sanemi can’t deny the allure of domesticity with you, kidnapping you is actually something he is very strongly against. It’s a combination of factors that leave him hesitant to steal you away – he’s worried that it would permanently alter your personality, and he doesn’t want you to fear him.

He’s lucid enough to know that his feelings for you border and delve into creep territory, his penchant for following you and compulsively checking on you making it difficult to see himself as anything other than a pathetically obsessed man chasing and lusting after an innocent civilian woman.

And yet, he can’t stop himself from wanting you, needing you so badly that it physically hurts, and so Sanemi gives into his more disturbing urges with the clear, resolute promise to himself that he’ll never do anything truly drastic.

And of course, kidnapping you falls into this category. It’s the only way he can justify following you around, fantasizing about holding you and touching you and hearing you say his name. It’s the only way he can calm himself down when moments of lucidity and clarity come rushing at him, guilt clawing at his throat because why the fuck is he hovering over your sleeping figure and reaching into his trousers right now?

He doesn’t trust himself around you, and that’s only another deterrent to keeping you locked up and away with him. It’s like he’s not in control of his body when you’re present – he’s always looking at you, sneaking glances even when he explicitly tells himself not to.

(Even when he instigates a sort of punishment system for himself – he clenches his fist hard enough to draw blood or pinches himself too tightly every time he catches himself doing it, trying to break the habit. Instead, however, he finds himself littered in bruises and all sorts of crescent-shaped marks on his palms, his will-power no match for the way he needs to be looking at you constantly.)

He’s always gravitating towards you, keeping his body facing in your direction, just so that if you do something or say something he’ll be able to immediately respond, every fiber of his being hoping that you’ll reach out, that you’ll speak to him, that you’ll acknowledge him.

(Hell, he’s even lost control subconsciously – he’s puffing his chest out without thinking about it when you’re around him, subtly trying to make the deep slit in his uniform go wider so that you can see more of his corded muscles, clenching his abs tightly enough to make the definition impossible to ignore. He’s running his hands through his hair the moment someone mentions your name, swiping his bangs out of his eyes just to look presentable, just so that if you see him you’ll maybe, just maybe find him attractive and appealing.)

It’s pathetic, he thinks, and he’s terrified that once you’re stolen away by his side, trapped with him as your sole companionship and provider (an idea that does, of course, make something pleasurable and good roll up his spine), these behaviors will only get worse. If he can’t control himself when he’s still physically distant from you, who knows what he’ll feel at liberty to do once you have nowhere else to run.

He’ll never hurt you, he’s sure of it, but he really, really doubts that you’ll be comfortable with all of the things that his subconscious wants to do to you. He’s sure you don’t particularly want to be encaged in his arms while he squeezes and squeezes and squeezes, trying to get you as close as physically possible because he’s still irritated that he can’t live inside of your skin.

(But what if he crushes you, or somehow breaks your bones with the strength of his affection? It’s enough to get him biting his lip, staring down at his open palms and scowling, frustrated at himself because he knows the euphoria of touching you will make him stupid.)

He’s sure you don’t want him to hand-feed you, bringing the chopsticks up to your mouth, watching your pretty, soft lips open up and letting him place the home-cooked food against your tongue.

(And seeing you looking at him with your mouth open, taking something that he’s made and given to you against your tongue will have him flushing, swallowing heavily and having to look away because fuck he’s such a pervert and he’s ruining a sweet moment by growing unbearably hard in his trousers, and oh god – what if there’s a wet spot when he stands up? Will you notice? Fuck fuck fuck!)

It’s a recipe for disaster, not to mention the fact that your fear and hesitance would likely force you to become a shell of your former self. You’d be reduced to nothing but a skeleton of your personality, and that’s the absolute last thing Sanemi wants. He wants you – authentically, fully, as you are when you’re free and independent. And stealing you away would change that, he’s sure – and he’d never forgive himself for diminishing even a flicker of your light.

But of course, misfortune seems to follow Sanemi like some sort of sick joke – it’s only a matter of time before something terrible happens.

It’s a demon attack, likely. Perhaps some demon has noticed that a Hashira seems to hold a penchant for a particular human, and with his marechi blood they’re very, very eager to lure him out and feast on him. And in the process, you get caught in the crossfire – it’s rare that Sanemi leaves you completely and truly alone, but when he’s been summoned for a mission, he can’t exactly decline.

And so, he rushes through the job, quickly finding the demon and slaughtering it in the quickest, fastest way possible before immediately returning back to you, falling into the shadows so that he can continue to keep an eye on you, letting out a rather harsh breath when he finally spots you again, in tact and unharmed.

Except one night, as he sprints through the dark forest, he sees the very faint outline of your home and immediately his eyes go wide.

Your front door is wide open.

He generally thinks you’re rather careless about your safety, sure, but even you aren’t that bad – something is wrong. He pushes himself to run faster, harder, his breaths sounding more like wheezing as he descend on your house, immediately rushing inside and drawing his sword. The adrenaline coursing through his veins only makes him falter for a moment upon seeing his absolute worst nightmare – you’re on the ground, eyes slowly blinking and your body crumpled up, most of your visible skin covered with blood.

His nostrils flare, the sight of the demon crouching over you making his grip on the sword hilt so tight his knuckles turn white, something akin to a genuine growl coming from him.

Get the hell away from her!

He’s yelling and charging, immediately activating his breathing technique and beheading the creature before it can even react. His chest is still heaving, and despite the black mist that begins to appear on the creature’s neck, he’s immediately settling down, straddling the creature and throwing punch after punch. It’s bloody – it’s spraying all over his uniform, staining the white as his fists dig into flesh, denting and tearing and destroying, all the while Sanemi is yelling at it, cursing and calling it a vile, disgusting creature, claiming it’s trying to hurt and kill his woman.

It’s terrifying, really, and as you slowly lose consciousness you’ll find yourself feeling even more terrified, unsure of what’s happening.

And as the demon disappears, Sanemi slowly calms down, gathering his senses and immediately grabbing you, carrying you to the Butterfly Mansion as quickly as his legs can carry him. He doesn’t want to bring you home (or at least, he knows he shouldn’t), but once Shinobu has you patched up and he returns to your now blood-stained abode, Sanemi’s biting his lip, wavering.

He can’t let you come back here – not with the knowledge that you could be attacked again, not when you’re out of his sight and protection, not when you’re so very vulnerable. And so, he begrudgingly brings you back to his estate, settling you into the bedroom as far away from his own as possible.

(He’d refrained from keeping you in the room he’s spent the last few months pretending was your own, too – outfitted with all of the items he’s bought for you but been too afraid to give to you: all sorts of hairpins, beautiful weavings, flowers, even small, curtly written notes he’d been crazed enough to write in the dead of night when he just could not stop thinking of you. No, that’d be too much – he doesn’t want to overwhelm you, so he locks that room up, praying that you never, ever find out about it.)

When you awake, you’ll find yourself changed into fresh, clean clothing (soft clothing, too, the kind that you could never afford), tucked into a bed in a room you don’t recognize. The futon is soft, the sheets warm and decorated with a pattern and color that you distinctly note is a favorite of yours. Your entire body hurts, wincing as you sit up.

It’s only then that the door slides open, a tuft of white hair greeting you as Sanemi clears his throat, wide eyes glancing at every visible part of your body. He’s rather curt when he explains where you are, glossing over the why and instead cryptically reiterating that you’re safe now, so drop it.

As a captor, Sanemi is surprisingly attentive – you’d known each other before your kidnapping, of course, though he’d always seemed like a rather hot-headed, difficult man.

And those mannerisms certainly don’t change when he’s got you trapped with him – except now you can see that there’s something deeper under the surface, something vulnerable and raw and real. You’ll see it in the way that he touches you like you’re made of glass – shying away and retracting his hands just moments before they touch your skin, acting almost as if the idea of touching you repulses him.

(God, nothing could be less true – he so desperately wishes to brush his fingertips against the smooth skin of your thighs, to cup your cheeks in his palms, to press his lips against yours – softly, slowly, as if he can’t quite believe that you’re real.)

You’ll see it in the way that he has every meal cooked and prepared for you, the Wind Estate quiet and empty except for the two of you. It’s always your favorite foods, cooked with every idiosyncrasy and taste of yours in mind, with a level and degree of accuracy that will terrify you at first.

And frankly, you will be terrified at first – he’s reluctant to admit his feelings to you, sure that if you were to know the truth of the situation you’d immediately reject him, and as stupid as it is Sanemi doesn’t think he could handle your rejection. It would break him, emotionally, physically, and mentally, leaving him a shell of a man and still just as desperately, pathetically in love with you if not more so.

But the reason you’ll be terrified isn’t because of his demeanor or the way you think he feels – rather, it will become obvious very quickly that Sanemi knows much more about you than you thought. You know you’ve never told him your preferred menstrual supplies, and yet the bathroom he’s assigned to you is stocked full of the exact model and heaviness you prefer.

(It’s your own bathroom, thankfully, though when you’re asleep sometimes Sanemi will sneak in, picking up your toothbrush and letting it sit against his lips, suckling at the bristles and rifling through your trash just to find a pad or two when he knows you’re menstruating. He’d rather slice off his own hand than admit it to you, of course, but just being in a space that you regularly use makes him feel special, connected to you in a way that makes his knees weak and the smallest, faintest of smiles cross his lips.)

You’re sure you’ve never mentioned what clothing size you wear, and yet there’s a slew of brand new, beautifully made kimonos and lounging wear perfectly tailored to your body, all in a range of colors and designs that are your favorites.

(There’s also a few in a lime green material and a single, pure white one, both of which were guilty pleasures that Sanemi felt compelled to include in his orders from the local seamstresses. And if you were to wear one, willingly, during a shared meal with him? Well, don’t comment on the pink color of his cheeks, nor the way he ever so slightly stutters when he tells you that you look nice.)

Frankly, he’s a pretty good captor to have – he gives you space, and forces himself to stay away from you for most of the day in an effort to not overwhelm you. At least, at the beginning. He tells himself it’s enough to know that you’re locked up in the Wind Estate, safe and sound and perfectly removed from the danger of the outside world, but his paranoia and yearning for your company eventually drive him to spend just a hair more time with you.

Instead of giving you privacy during meals, he’ll instead knock at your door, entering with his own plate and sitting down as far away from you as possible within the room, silently eating and trying not to make his staring too obvious.

(He mentally justifies it as making sure that you don’t choke on your food, but really it’s more about seeing you enjoy what he’s made for you and knowing that you’ve eaten today. Good. He'll sharply inhale, biting back a smile as he slowly eats his own food, trying to prolong the moment.)

He spoils you with all sorts of gifts and supplies for any hobbies you may have, and while he initially doesn’t interact with you as you knit or draw or read, eventually he’ll gather the courage to ask you a question, trying (and failing) to sound nonchalant as he asks what it is that you’re drawing, how to knit, or what your favorite book is.

It’s a slow but steady process, and as time passes and you grow more and more complacent with your situation, you’ll find yourself coming to enjoy the rough, oddly charming presence of Sanemi. Even if his stalking and feelings for you become an unspoken truth, his fondness for you difficult to ignore (with the way he treats you so gently, spoils you, and very poorly hides the way his cock springs to life each time you say his name).

And so really, Sanemi feels guilty enough for being in love with you, and even more guilty for forcing you into a life of complacency – the least you could do is compliment him, right? You could at least invite him to join you for meals and walks around the modest garden of his estate. You could at least intertwine your fingers with his and pretend to not notice the way he gasps, mumbling something incoherent that sounds vaguely like your name.

Really, it’s the least you could do – and with every action, Sanemi only falls for you harder, deeper, his resolve to keep you safe, happy and his only growing.

PUNISHMENTS:

While his obsession with you alters certain parts of his personality, some characteristics remain absolutely true regardless of his feelings for you. And unfortunately, one of them is his quick-trigger temper.

You calm him, the mere sound of your voice making the tension in his muscle relax, the clenching of his jaw lessening slightly, the tensing of his shoulders becoming less pronounced. The feeling of your hand pressing against his chest makes him freeze in place, the anger simmering in his gut becoming more diluted, the rage slowly leaving him because god, you’re standing right in front of him and he can see every fine detail of your face and he can smell you and god…

You have a physical effect on him that calms him ever so slightly, but he still finds himself remarkably susceptible to rage, even with you in his vicinity.

Of course, rarely ever is he actually mad at you – early into his infatuation he’d found himself constantly irritated and enraged at you, convinced that you’d somehow purposefully made him into the lovesick fool that he is, unable and unwilling to admit to himself that it’s entirely his own doing leading to his spiral into dependence on you. He’d even tried to hate you, consciously filling his head with lies and telling himself that you were weak, a burden, only something that would slow him down. And yet, the anger was never quite real, never quite honest.

(Never directed at you, really, but more directed at himself for being so weak as to form such strong, dependent feelings on you.)

And so, Sanemi’s anger more often than not revolves around someone else – often, someone around you. Men that get too close, friends that meddle when they notice that you have Sanemi as an unwanted admirer, your boss when they treat you poorly, even strangers that are even the slightest bit rude to you.

He’ll never go far enough as to injure another human to point of death, if only because he’s still guided by morals that yearn to save humans, but Sanemi is absolutely committed to making sure that you’re treated like the royalty that he perceives you as.

(Often, any men that feel bold enough to approach you, or god forbid touch you meet a bloody, painful altercation with the Hashira, unable to do anything but be pounded into a pulp as he swings and punches, leaving them a bloody semi-conscious mess on the ground, even spitting onto them as he mutters something about being a fuckin’ monster, assaulting women like it’s nothing…)

But all that said, there are a few very specific things that can get Sanemi angry at you, too. He can forgive you lashing out at him and calling him terrible names, even openly welcoming it sometimes because he knows it’s true.

He’s mostly worried when you attempt to escape rather than angry, terrified that you’ll somehow hurt yourself or be eaten by a demon if you manage to get through the patch of wisteria trees surrounding the perimeter of his estate. Instead, his main triggers are when you injure yourself, or when you say something negative or degrading about yourself.

He’s so paranoid about your safety and health that the mere idea of you injuring yourself gets him borderline panicking, his breathing getting heavier and his hands starting to tremble as panic engulfs him because he absolutely cannot lose you, too.

He’s always quick to reprimand you, yelling at you but dressing your wounds as gently as possible, treating you as if you’re made of glass and cleaning everything perfectly to prevent any further harm. But really, what truly angers Sanemi is when you display a lack of self-respect, though he’ll never explicitly punish you.

He loves you – so much so that it physically hurts, his chest aching when he’s away from you, every muscle growing restless and anxiety settling in his gut because he needs to see you right now. He’s a worshipper in every sense of the word, and to have you disrespecting yourself and talking down to yourself in any capacity is enough to get his blood boiling. It’s two-fold, really, because not only is it an assault on your character, but it’s an assault on his, too. It’s a remark against him for thinking of you so highly, for revering you and kissing the ground you walk on. It bruises his pride and makes him defensive of you, even if it’s you yourself making the remark.

And so, Sanemi tends to grow angry, unable to comprehend how you can possibly see yourself as something less-than when he’s so utterly enraptured with every fiber of your being.

Being trapped with him means long expanses of time where you’re alone, Sanemi out on a mission or pulled away begrudgingly, and as time passes this will slowly start to affect you.

Too much alone time equates to an awful lot of staring in the mirror, fingers prodding at the skin of your cheeks or arranging your hair this way or that, furrowing your brow and trying to understand exactly what it is about you that makes Sanemi so enthralled. You can’t put your finger on it – you’re just you, and while he’s never come right out and said it, you’re very aware that Sanemi finds you beautiful.

(You’ve overheard him, after all, late at night when he’s muffling his groans and the wet schlock schlock noise is audible even through the wall separating you. It’s difficult to not hear it, after all, when he’s moaning your name as he gets close, stuttered curses and little gasps of s-so beautiful, fuck and all sorts of other praises slipping out of him as his orgasm approaches.)

It’s too much time for you to be alone and overanalyze. And even now that you’ve been with him for well over a year, now that your whole world has become Sanemi Shinazugawa, it’s too easy to let the insecurities get the best of you.

And really, you shouldn’t have ever mentioned it – later that night, when Sanemi returns home from his latest mission, he can immediately tell that something is wrong. He closes and locks the multitude of locks on the front door, glancing at you with skepticism and worry, before placing his hands on your hips and pulling you close, leaving a single long kiss against your forehead as he asks you what’s wrong. Your small mumble of nothing doesn’t convince him, but Sanemi just pushes it aside, deciding to revisit the subject after you’ve both eaten.

Dinner is quiet, and it’s halfway through that he decides enough is enough.

What the hell’s the matter with you? He’s asking, setting down his chopsticks and staring pointedly at you.

You’re not too terribly afraid of your captor by this point, but the intensity of his stare still makes you fold in on yourself slightly, embarrassment and self-consciousness eating away at you. Sanemi continues the staring, unwilling to back down, eventually scoffing and telling you to just spit it out, I’ll wait as long as it takes.

And that you believe, enough to get you blurting out a quick I’m not good enough for you to be so in love with.

It’s slurred and difficult to understand even to your own ears, but it gets Sanemi’s face twisting up, a mixture of shock and confusion making his brows knit together and that familiar scowl sit on his lips.

What the fuck? It’s all he can ask, really, because this is so out of left field and unexpected that he genuinely has no clue how to respond.

At his pointed confusion and silence, you play with your thumbs, hunger totally gone as the words start falling out of you like some sort of nervous word vomit. It’s just that I don’t really get why you’re so – so fixated on me. I’m nothing special, and before you get angry at me just know that it’s okay and I’m not trying to get away I just –

Sanemi cuts you off by rising to his feet before you can even blink, a hand snapping out to wrap around your wrist. Before you know it you’re being dragged down a series of long hallways until you come face to face with a door you’ve never set foot passed – Sanemi’s personal, private room.

Normally, when the two of you share a bed (something that has only recently begun happening, after Sanemi gathered the courage and you’ve become so touch-starved that you welcomed his presence), you sleep in the room he's had made up for you, Sanemi allowing you to stay in the quasi-comfort of your ‘own’ room rather than force you into yet another unfamiliar situation.

But you hardly have any time to gawk at the room before he’s shoving you in front of his modest mirror, the reflection of yourself making you blink twice. He's angry – you can see his face in the mirror now, and his cheeks area bright red and a few veins are standing out against his neck, a sure sign that he’s livid and is only barely able to hold himself back from acting on it.

It makes you shrink slightly, though you’re confident at this point that he won’t hurt you, at least not purposefully.

Look at yourself, he tells you, voice strained. He’s standing behind you, gripping onto your shoulders and forcing you to face yourself in the mirror.

You do as you’re told, but it doesn’t seem to satisfy Sanemi.

He groans, resting his forehead against the slope of your shoulder. Look at yourself.

A pause, then: Please.

Swallowing, you search each and every feature of your familiar face. Your eyes, nose, lips, cheeks, eyebrows, jaw, anything and everything you can think of. After a few moments, Sanemi looks at you in the mirror again, his eyebrows furrowed tightly.

Do you really not see it? He asks, and you merely shake your head.

He bares his teeth. Dammit, how can you not? How can you be so fucking blind?

It’s harsh, his words making you wince slightly, but they’re loaded with something unlike his usual rage – there’s something sweeter to it, something that feels different and gets you meeting his gaze in the mirror. The look on his face is almost pleading, and you’re struck with the realization that he’s not angry, he’s frustrated. Genuinely frustrated that you don’t seem to understand just what he sees in you.

Slowly, you bring your fingers up to your cheeks, fingertips pressing against the soft skin. Sanemi watches you with bated breath, his grip on you still tight.

Compliment yourself, he instructs, the words sounding strained. You blink at him, swallowing heavily.

You mutter out a small comment of how your eyes aren’t too terrible, and Sanemi groans at that. His hand moves from your shoulder to your chin, pinching at it and bringing you closer to the mirror. Give yourself a real compliment, or I’ll stand here all fucking day until you do.

You tell him that you have pretty eyes, and it seems to please him. He nods, almost subconsciously, keeping his grip on your chin. Damn right you do. Pretty eyes and a pretty smile. Tell me more.

He keeps you in this position for nearly an hour, forcing you to list off each and every possible compliment about your looks and personality that you can think, his gaze never wavering in intensity or sincerity as he grunts and nods at each and every one.

It’s only as your jaw starts to ache and you start to grow restless that Sanemi eventually lets go, turning you gently to face him. A finger lightly traces over the shape of your lips as he exhales, the softness of his actions and the moment making you feel light.

Don’t undersell yourself. His voice is firm, his lips set in a thin line. You’re perfect, and you need to accept that.

He covers your mouth with his hand as you part your lips to respond, shaking his head. No, none of that shit. We’re doing this every day until you decide that you’re good enough for me – until you prove to me that you respect yourself the way you should. New compliments every day, and I don’t care how hard it is for you. When you run out, I’ll step in, but you’re elaborating on everything I say. Got it?

You nod, a strange sort of tenderness welling up inside of you that only makes tears prick at the corner of your eyes because oh god, how wrong is this? Your captor, the man who stole you away and keeps you trapped inside his him, is complimenting you and it’s making you feel more loved and wanted and appreciated than you’ve felt in your whole life. There’s just something so sincere about his push for you to understand just how wonderful he thinks you are that makes your lower lip wobble, the way he’s actually genuinely enraged by your insecurities and the absurdness of them making your nose tingle.

It's sweet, something your captor really shouldn’t be, and as tears slip down your cheeks Sanemi awkwardly presses you against his chest, silent as his grip grows progressively tighter. He’s no stranger to insecurity, and as he drags you to the mirror the next day and the next after that, you’ll slowly find yourself believing him when he says that you’re kind, that you’re beautiful, that he wants you more than he’s ever wanted anything else in his life.

It's strange and you may hate yourself for it, but as the days pass you’ll find yourself growing more and more fond of Sanemi, his commitment to improving your self-esteem feeling like the more intimate thing anyone has every done for you, and slowly you’ll find yourself seeing him in more and more of a romantic light. Sure, he’s stolen you away and stalked you extensively, but when he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear and calls you beautiful in a voice so raw that it cracks, how can you not fall for him? Maybe you’re sick in the head, depraved, any number of terrible things, but with each compliment he forces from your lips, you’ll find yourself caring less.

He just really, really loves you, doesn’t he?

OVERALL DANGER:

4/10

By and large, Sanemi is akin to a large, possessive guard dog. The mere thought of hurting you makes him sick to his stomach, and he’ll go to any possible length to ensure your health and safety.

(He’s had literal nightmares about leaving you bloody and bruised, and he’s actually woken up and immediately hurled, breathing hard and nearly in tears because it felt so real and it’s almost like your blood is actually on his hands.)

He’s paranoid, terrified that you’ll somehow be killed and stolen away from him, your presence the only thing that seems to calm him, growing to become the only thing that motivates him to wake up every morning.

He’s overprotective, letting his fear for your safety bleed into every aspect of his relationship with you – he’s following you around like a lovesick puppy, constantly vigilant for threats to your safety. He’s obsessively tracking your meals, fussing over making sure that you’re getting balanced, nutritious foods, constantly asking you if you’ve drunk water on any particular day.

And he’s possessive – refusing to allow you to interact with most men, skeptical of your friends, entirely untrusting of each and every person in your life. He won’t try to manipulate you into isolating yourself, but Sanemi really, really wants to, only holding back for the sake of your mental wellbeing. And really, that’s a large factor in Sanemi’s behavior towards you – he loves you, or at least in his own deranged, too-intense way, and he’s willing to kill himself physically and emotionally just to make sure that you never frown, that you’re never sad or angry or afraid.

His first priority is you, always, and it’s only after that that he considers getting you to love him back. It’s of course the goal – he wants you so badly that you have no fucking clue, because how could you? How could you possibly understand just how deeply his dependence on you has become, just how intertwined a mere scrap of your attention becomes for his self-confidence, his happiness, his sanity in his day-to-day life?

He’s well and truly whipped for you, his every waking thought revolving around you, but you’ll that your life will be relatively good with him. He’ll treat you like a queen, spoiling you and doing everything in his power to keep you happy, and can you really hate it as much as you claim to?

Can you really, honestly say that Sanemi is a monster when he keeps you well cared for and respects you despite the way you know he wants to ravage you and keep you all for himself?

Can you honestly say that you don’t want him just as badly, that you’ve become so accustomed to him that you’re well and truly his?

Sanemi sure hopes not, and as time passes, you’ll slowly give into the small, desperately and pathetically hopeful looks of his, reaching out to touch him when he’s too hesitant to initiate, even whispering those lovely, sacred three little words. And once you do, he’ll only work harder to adore you, only falling deeper and deeper into obsession with every passing day.

With every passing second, really.

#yandere kny #yandere kimetsu no yaiba #yandere demon slayer #yandere ds #yandere sanemi #yandere sanemi shinazugawa #_kny #_lee's profiles #_sanemi shinazugawa #sanemi shinazugawa x reader #kny x reader

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xerotiny · 9 months ago

Text

Room for Two // No Saint No Saviour #1

Pairing: Choi Jongho x Reader (#1 in psychopath au)

Warning: smut, dom!jongho, sub!reader, sociopath!jongho, naive!reader, stalking, very obsessive level of stalking and manipulation, Jongho is a psychopath, so he's cuckoo and desperate, manhandling, masturbating, masturbating to clothes, rough sex, unprotected sex, deep throat/ throat fucking, spit play (just a bit), pussy slapping, use of cuffs and chains. Stockholm syndrome. (Yikes)

Note: this is a little unhinged, so proceed with caution. Also, as per the request and many more options given, I chose psychopath au. Well borderline psychopath. Oops. ps: grab yourself a snack because this is long. :) Not proofread.

Requested By: from wattpad.

Gist: when your best friend's boyfriend decides to move in with her, you're left with no other choice but to find a new place for yourself. Of course, because three's a crowd. You do find a perfect new place, courtesy to your coworker who you didn't know existed till now. But maybe it was better if you hadn't interacted with him at all.

Song rec: I Want To by Rosenfeld.

Word Count: 21,474

"I hate that you have to move out," your best friend, Na-Ra sulks watching you zip one of your bags.

You heave out a sigh and proceed to your other bag, this one was overflowing with your clothes; it's going to take a lot more than just simply zipping it around. Stumbling through the cluster of boxes, you sit on top of the bag and tug at the zipper. It comes halfway through and then gets stuck. Genius move.

"I have to move out because—" you keep pulling at the zipper, using all your force to close it. Even if it wasn't. "—you and Yeosang are little freaks who just can't keep it in their pants."

"Touché," Na-Ra mocks, leaning back further against the headboard of your bed, which unfortunately you'll have to leave behind, considering your new apartment is fully furnished.

You glare at her, and she pouts, teasing you further on with her quiet mumble, "let me have some fun, babe," her smile widens, "we're in our honeymoon phase, if not now than when?"

You shrug, struggling with the zipper because you were hell bent on closing the bag. Besides, your arm had started to strain and ache under the stress it was subjected to, not that you were going to learn anything from it. Listening to your friend's words, you force yourself to roll your eyes and glare at her.

"You've got your whole life ahead of you to do whatever with him," you hiss through your gritted teeth, "but no! You are kicking me out of your apartment for some average dick."

"Above average," she corrects you, "he's not that small you know." Her voice gets louder somehow, "besides, you yourself volunteered to move out!"

"Yes, because I don't want to be a third wheel. And Gross. That's T-M-I." You emphasise, "I would be the least interested person in your sex life, although some part of me already knows too much. Sometimes I wish I could burn my ears off, because of all that I've heard."

"Does the chaos sound like music to your ears?" she instigates, letting out a soft chuckle; she wouldn't let you know it, but the sight of you wrestling with the bag was certainly entertaining for her. "You're going to rip your hands out if you force it so much."

"Instead of being all smarty pants, why don't you come help me?" you groan, and she giggles softly, hopping off the bed.

She stands by the edge of your bed, gandering around till her heart drops; she'd miss you, and she had made it known to you for the past few days. Rummaging her eyes through the messy room, she suppresses a chuckle and shakes her head. Your room never stays messy, you were more of a perfectionist than keeping everything haphazardly strewn around. Well, you were OCD about all little things around you, which would make sense why you constantly strived for perfection.

Na-Ra walks over to you, stepping through the boxes carefully and crouching down in front of you; the flounce of her dress flutters around her when she sits down and casts you a hopeless glance. Her lips quiver just enough to make you realise how painful her trapped sentiments were. It must be tormenting for her to see you go, after all you two were best friends since high school. Your friendship with her has lasted forever, till either of you graduated from college, and got a job.

"I'm going to save you some tears," she begins, a pout casing her lips, "so, no melodrama. There are no bitter goodbyes, only cheerful farewells."

"This is not a farewell, come on," you assure her with a smile, "we'll meet all the time. I'm literally twenty minutes away from you. Give me a call. Set up a place. I'll be there. Probably, meet for a drink or something."

Her pout softens. Dragging on with her silence, she lets out an amused chuckle before playfully punching your arm. "Of course. How can I forget you don't function without liquor in your system."

"Hey! I never said anything about booze." You retaliate, defending yourself, "it's all on you. Though on the contrary, I think booze is just what I need right now because I've got work tomorrow."

"And what?" Na-Ra continues to laugh, "you're going to meet your new landlord half-buzzed out of your mind."

"As if 'sober-me' would have enough grit to talk to him," you mumble, your cheeks heating up at the mention of your landlord. "I think we both agreed he's adorable as fuck."

"He's cute," she shrugs, "just not my type. Hey, but there's nothing wrong with you liking him."

"I don't like him!"

You huff out, breathless and tired from pulling the zipper close. Taking a deep breath, you slide yourself off the bag and fall on the floor, right in front of your friend who offers you a smug smile.

"Na-Ra, I really don't like him," you state, sternly as so to make a point, "I didn't even know of his existence until Yunho told me he was looking for a tenant to sublet his spare apartment." Pausing shortly after, you fidget with your fingers and heave out a sigh, "and then my desperation got the worst of me. I agreed to it without thinking or looking into his background. But if Yunho says he's a great guy, then he is. Maybe. I trust Yunho."

"You'd have to be some different kind of unbothered and pathetic to not know he existed as your coworker," she snides.

You roll your eyes, leaning back into your unzipped bag, and frowning softly, "don't blame me, he's a tech guy and I'm in the management department. There'd be no reason for us to meet, unless I have any issues with the software or my computer."

"Which I assume you never needed." She deadpans, checking the time on her wristwatch before tapping your thigh in urgency, "well, we better get to work. Is this the last of your luggage?"

"Yep, these boxes and two bags; other stuff has been moved already." You gander at your half-closed bag behind you, "I can't get this bag to close, so guess it's just one now."

"I'll bring it over when I get the time to. Does it have something important?" she questions, and you shake your head, "nothing that I need urgently, just some spare clothes and kinky underwear I stopped wearing after, you know..."

The way you trail off sends an immediate jolt of remembrance in her; she doesn't want to respond to it, but also doesn't want to keep you in the loop of reminiscing those sullen days. You catch the littlest of distortion on her face, the kind which makes her seem like she's sad or melancholic. And you thought this won't be a sad goodbye. You dust yourself off from the ground, given you were thinking about your past; in a way to elaborate, the past you were thinking about was the time when you broke up with your boyfriend. Many would tell, you were the perfect couple, but perfect doesn't seem to cover the improper cracks and absurd excuses—nah, it brings out suspicions. Three years into the relationship and you got to know he had another chick to entertain all along. Heartbroken but not really broken with your dignity, you left him, no matter how much he begged you not to.

In retrospect, you were done being the naive and gullible deer everyone used to their own gain. Not that you could say the same thing about your work life now. Ever since you had befriended a certain person, you were starting to understand the functioning of lying men. The knowledge authentically supplied to you by your work friend, Jeong Yunho. To say the least about him, he was a giant teddy bear, always towering over you and giving you unwanted hugs. Some being bone crushing too. Your friendship was a little delicate, but you were always on good terms with each other. When he heard your woes on your living arrangements, considering you had sieved through most of the details, he quickly came up with a solution.

His response to you was, "hey, if you're in a fix, I heard Jongho is looking for tenant to rent his spare apartment to. You should talk to him."

And your initial reaction was, "Jongho, who?"

It was not entirely your fault to not be up to date with what goes in your workplace; besides, Jongho was a tech guy, belonging to the cyber security team who had a different schedule compared to you. In the end, things do turn out for the better. You were merely an acquaintance with Jongho, the current dynamic being changed from strangers since he called you over to show you around his spare apartment. You couldn't complain much, and to be fair, there wasn't much to complain about either.

The spare apartment was neat, clean, and well maintained, to top it off, it was even furnished so you had nothing to worry about. As Jongho chattered your ear off, he mentioned that he had possessed the apartment from his late aunt, from her will. He didn't know what to do with it since he had already bought an apartment in the same building (after liking how perfect his aunt's apartment was for him) and had settled down properly. It would be an unnecessary bother to move out, given he hadn't just rented it but in actuality, bought it under his name.

Jongho was a sweet guy, he had a great personality, a good sense of humour and his cheeky smile was so infectious. The day you met him, you were totally swept away, not just by his geeky appearance but because of his character. He respected you, your decisions, made you feel comfortable even though you were practically strangers at the beginning—overall he had left his mark on you. The good kind of course. From that day onwards, you and Jongho started talking at your workplace; a new friendship in the making while Yunho left out, of sorts. He did not bring it to your attention, however.

A few more days of talking, frequent coffee breaks spent at Jongho's desk, and the unprecedented lunch 'dates', you were a little smitten with Jongho. Who wouldn't be? Jongho was a dreamboat, fitting to your expectations of what and how a man should really be and foremost, he was the greenest flag from all the stupefying caricatures you had dated in the past. Including your cheating ex.

All that aside, to say you were a little excited to move into your place, would be an understatement. You had been looking forward to it from the day you finalised the deal with Jongho. Okay, you can't really validate your feelings based on how good of a man he was. For all you know he could even be a serial killer, or a psychopath. Well maybe you shouldn't think too dark about it. Or maybe you shouldn't have discarded that thought the moment it popped in your head.

˖⁺‧₊˚ 🦋 ˚₊‧⁺˖

"You know, if you had told me beforehand, I would've come over to help you," Jongho says it as a matter factly, smiling at you with the same warmth as he did when you two first met.

And just as that time, he was peculiarly happy and proud; you observed him from head to toe, admiring him and his sense of fashion. Clad in a simple navy-blue cardigan and black pants, he made very little efforts to look this pretty. Not to mention, his black rimmed glasses which were thick and sat perfectly on the bridge of his nose. You were pleased with him, and his littlest of efforts. Other than the obvious fact that you were starting to view him in a different light.

"Eh, couldn't trouble you," you grunt while picking up a box from the trunk of your car; pouting silly, you watch Jongho pick one too regardless of you telling him not to. "You're really stubborn, aren't you?"

"What can I say? I don't like doing what told to," he chuckles, his teeth on display, "and what, do you think I can't carry this box, which feels like it's filled with feathers, up five flights of stairs?"

"No, I did not mean it like that," you defend your initial remark, knowing it was a mere request from you to him.

"I'm very much secure with my masculinity, buttercup," his lips twitch to a teasing smile, "though it doesn't make sense to mention it afore you."

"To reassure you, I wasn't questioning your masculinity," you giggle, "it was more of a formality. You know, can't let you do any of my things because you've already done too much for me."

"That's all balderdash."

He waves you off, holding the box in one hand and using the other to close the trunk of your car, while making sure you weren't standing any closer to it. The sound of the slam makes you flinch, in bewilderment however more in fear; his brute strength would be surprising, surprisingly strong to know you'd be helpless against him if he ever tries something on you. Which, a thought, you again considered to be the folly of your mind, because why would a guy like him do anything against your will? Mistake.

The two of you, walk inside the lobby of your new apartment complex, technically it was his too. According to your knowledge, Jongho owned a place on the seventh floor while his aunt's apartment was on the fifth floor. An accented mahogany table sits empty upfront, probably the reception desk or something. Adjacent to the desk, lies a wall with mailboxes: golden doored, metallic numbers of the apartments, and the acrid stench of something rotting. You were taken back by it, by how that particular area reeked of rotting flesh, but the entire place smelled moth-eaten, stale as if. This sure leaves an eldritch sense of horror in you, because at the time of your first inspection, this place was nothing alike to what you're witnessing right now. Regardless, you decide to push it down, not bothered by the fetor, or the forsaken desk in front.

Jongho guides you to the stairwell, veiled behind a heavy looking door; the elevator is out of order, unfortunately. Even after countless complains to the manager, the elevator hadn't been repaired or had any signs of mending. Jongho pushes the door open, grunting under his breath—the door did seem heavy and substantial, no wonder his cheeks were flustered by an inch when he ushered you in.

"Ladies first," he adds.

"Oh why, thank you kind sir." You bow your head a little, joking along with him.

Jongho lets the door close behind you, and continues, "you know, I chose to help you. So, it's my responsibility to make sure everything is perfect."

"I think you've done enough; I have nothing to complain about." You start climbing up the stairs, with him in your pursuit; you glance over your shoulder and offer him a genuine smile, "besides, I was pretty ignorant about...you. To think I didn't know you even existed until Yunho brought it up."

Jongho's eyes darken only for a moment, only so for you to catch a flash of uncertain turpitude in them. Feeling a sense of unease crawl your spine, you stare straight ahead and hasten your pace up the stairs; not so quick for him to get suspicious.

"It's alright," he dismisses, voice sullen, "everything happens for a reason, doesn't it? If your friend's boyfriend hadn't moved in with her, or if you hadn't brought up your living situation with Yunho, I doubt you'd ever have noticed me."

"What's your agenda?" you scoff, "you're making me feel bad about myself."

"Dearest apologies," he mumbles, "I meant to infer that you and I were destined to meet, one way or another."

"When you put it like that, it doesn't make me seem so...selfish." You mutter under your breath.

To your assumption, you must've climbed up two floors; and it confirms when you pass the landing area for the second floor. Jongho is still walking behind you, noticing you, wanting to keep you engaged in a conversation. He doesn't really say anything for a minute however, bating you in the silence of nothing till you heave out a sigh and grow tired of it.

"It's just weird how one thing leads to another," you break the silence, "it's almost like a fate's blueprint, you were ordained to meet each other at this given time, in this given situation."

Noting the hesitance in your tone, Jongho bites back on his concern and questions you diligently. "Are you having second thoughts about the move?"

"What? No!" you're too quick to dismiss him off, not because he had pressed your nerve, but rather because you didn't want to seem ungrateful. "This is the best decision I ever made. Trust me."

"Agreed, otherwise you'd be stuck listening to the very annoying and loud moans of your best friend. I know it infuriates you." He chuckles, "don't worry, the walls here are thick so you won't be needing your noise cancelling headphones anymore."

"That's right..." you chortle along him with, which soon dies to a sudden burst of tranquility upon realising an odd point about him.

You halt in your steps, standing still in the landing between the third and fourth floor, unmoving till he calls out your name.

"Why did you stop?"

You turn around to face him; you were sure he could notice the drain of colour from your face, or even how delicately your lips were trembling to get your words out.

"It's kind of odd how you know..." you drag your words into a whisper, "I never mentioned it, did I?"

You never mentioned it to him before, never told him you wore headphones while going to bed. Was that just a coincidence? Or was it his hunch? Though, on the contrary, was he keeping an eye on you? The latter option just feels wrong, so you fling it straight out the window.

Jongho's face twitches with reluctance for a mere second before his lips curve into a flattering grin. "It's only obvious you'd be using them while sleeping, if your roommates are too loud. Agreed you didn't mention it particularly, but you did tell me that they were stuck in a honeymoon phase. Why else would I even say it?"

"Makes sense," you shrug and continue on with your walk, not giving it much thought anymore.

Jongho heaves out a sigh of relief, appeased by his piddling attempt to cover up his mistake. Nonetheless, he knows he has to use his words with utmost restraint and choose them well before speaking. He can't have you doubting him, suspecting his good character over the silly rashness of his avidity towards you. Like a shadow, he creeps behind you, never letting you know of his presence; he's foreboding, professing predisposition to the ordeal of what he painted as 'work of destiny'. Was it really the work of destiny to get you two together?

Only time would tell.

˖⁺‧₊˚ 🦋 ˚₊‧⁺˖

"Cool place, babe." Na-Ra comments, ogling around your living room with her boyfriend strapped to her waist. "Very niche, I must admit."

Her boyfriend, sticking to her waist like some parasite, pouts and lets out a sweet-sounding chuckle, "I agree. A humbling abode for a woman like you. Suits you well."

"Oh, why thank you, Yeosang." You roll your eyes, "I still need to work on some stuff, decorate a couple of crooks and crannies."

"Puh-lease," your coworker's snort resounds from the couch, "you flipped this place over from an abandoned domicile to an elaborate habitat of pink."

"Geez Louise, Yunho," you deadpan, "if you abhor pink just let me know. I'll redo everything in black—just like your soul."

"That sounds like too much work," his brows tuck together while he replies, "and too many efforts. Don't waste them for my sake."

He tugs on the collar of his shirt, unbuttoning it further till he reaches second button; Yunho's tall stature sits awkwardly on the couch, his legs spread in front of him, while he slouches just a little against the back of the couch. Lethargy is quite evident on his face, regardless he proffers you a giddy smile and asks you to hand him a bottle of beer. It was his third one of the nights, there were many more to come.

You scoff, moving away from your friend and her boyfriend, to get yourself a drink from the snacks table you had arranged. Picking out two bottles of beer, you hand one to Yunho and settle down next to him. The day was here, the day where your best friend whined on about how you should host a housewarming party; regardless of you renting it. So, there you were, a little after midnight, relieved from your day job, hanging out in your new apartment with your friends. Except for Jongho. You couldn't find him anywhere after work and thought the only feasible thing to do was to leave a voicemail on his phone.

"I think you should really get on with the balcony," Yeosang snides, coming to sit on the chair next to the couch with Na-Ra tucked by his side; he settles down comfortably first and then pulls his girlfriend on his lap. "It has a good view of the city, and the sky. Maybe lay out a carpet, get a swing chair and add some plants to spice it up a bit."

Na-Ra nods her head, "talk about having a perfect romantic setting."

"Guys, I hear you," you roll your eyes, "unfortunately the reins to make any updates around here are with Jongho. I can't do anything without his permission."

"He won't mind the minor changes," Yunho shrugs, chugging a good deal of his beer while making eye contact with you, "bet he'd get on it with you, knowing he has a soft spot for you."

"Bullshit," you mumble, guzzling your beer down, "he doesn't have a soft spot for me."

"Oh, yeah. He doesn't. He doesn't have a soft spot for you and he didn't just help you out with your living situation." Na-Ra speaks up, "he didn't feel bad when you told him you never noticed him in your workplace. And he helps you out with everything and never says no. Yep, that sums it up, he doesn't have a soft spot for you."

"Says a lot about him," Yeosang simply pouts and shakes his head, "one would have to be really oblivious to not notice the signs."

Na-Ra gets up, going to grab a couple of beer bottles, chiming to her boyfriend's remark, "don't worry, she's always been a little naive about those things." She comes back and returns to her place, rightfully in Yeosang's lap and raises her bottle to you, giving the other one to her boyfriend, "it took her two years to realise Song-Wook had been flirting with her. So, I won't be surprised if she takes another two years with Jongho too."

"Damn, kid. Two years?" Yunho snickers, tracing the tip of his forefinger on the rim of the bottle, "two years to fathom a dick had been dallying with you? Well, Jongho better be upfront with you if he wants to have a shot with you."

"Don't you have something better to do?" you glare at Na-Ra first, then at Yeosang, and finally, Yunho. Grinding your teeth, you murmur out a tired sigh, "my love life is one one's concern. And it shouldn't be either."

"You think we won't be concerned after that ugly blowup with your ex?" Na-Ra says, sipping her beer, "that jerk was cheating on you."

"Are we talking about...?" Yunho trails off, keeping his now empty bottle of beer on the coffee table in front of him.

You nod at him, indicating he was on the right track; noticing your sullen eyes, he proceeds to say something, but it's lost in the slightest tremble of his lips when the doorbell buzzes loud. The intercom chimes in next, speaker propagating a man's voice laden in static.

"Hey, it's me. Jongho."

You get up from the couch and march your way to the front door. This seemed weird to you because Jongho knows the passcode to the door already. Why wouldn't he use it to let himself in? Brushing those doubts away, you begrudgingly open the door and find Jongho standing with his hands occupied in holding a small box. The shimmering ribbons on it could certainly provide you with assumptions and predictions.

You usher him in, he mumbles a soft 'thank you' to you before slipping out of his boots and into the house slippers you lay out for him. He's walking right behind you, carefully holding the box in his hands while you guide him to the living room where the others' smiles were hinting at something else. Jongho places the box on the coffee table and sits next to Yunho on the couch; eyeing Na-Ra and Yeosang with much vacillation of his trust, he turns to you and offers you a benign smile.

"My hands were full," he begins, "otherwise, I would've let myself in." Looking around, he notices a couple of things but doesn't voice out his thoughts, instead, he fixates his eyes on you. "Am I late to the party?"

He sounds guilty. You wave him off, striding over to sit on the extra chair next to the couch; bringing your legs up, you pull your knees close to your chest and wrap your arms around them.

"Not really," you reassure him, "we were just cracking some fatuous chatters and nothing else. You didn't miss a lot."

"Well, I hope I didn't," he chuckles and leans over to untie the ribbons on the box he had brought with him. "I'm not so up to date with these gatherings, so I just got a cake. Everyone likes a cake, right?"

Yunho coos, "so adorable of you. A little sweetness is what we need."

"And a heck lot of calories," Na-Ra comments.

"Which you'll be burning off once we get back home," Yeosang adds, and everyone groans except for Na-Ra.

"Please, we don't need your sexual innuendos ruining our peace," you grumble and run your hand over your face. Composing an adorable smile, you glance at Jongho and muse, "that's really nice of you, Jongho. But you didn't have to get anything. This is more like a make-believe party I was forced to host, cause some people here are really stubborn."

You glare at Na-Ra and all she does is rolls her eyes and drinks more of her beer.

"So, you expect me to come empty handed?" Jongho retaliates, opening the box to reveal the cake in it. "Ouch, that hurts."

"I didn't mean that," you whine, defending yourself. "You're playing a very risky game, Jongho."

"And it seems like I'm winning?" he mocks, carefully picking the cake out of the box and placing it on the table. "Well, to your new beginnings in this house."

You watch Jongho as he pulls out a small candle from the pocket of his pants and takes its cover off before stabbing it through the cake. The candle sits in the centre, while Yunho lights it up with his lighter he usually has on himself; Na-Ra and Yeosang are the bystanders, observing, acknowledging.

"Okay, make a wish," Yunho jokes when Jongho brings the cake to you, "not exactly what I expected I'd be saying."

Jongho stands next to you, leaning over while holding the cake in front of you; with a nudge of his head, he brings it a little closer to you and you blow out the candle. And no, you did not make a wish as Yunho asked you to, which you were regretting because you really wanted to make a wish. Applause resounds from your guests, Na-Ra cheers a phrase which is incoherent, and inaudible, considering how lost you were in Jongho's eyes. The warmth of hazel in them is contrasting, a lot—but there's avidity in them, bringing you closer to him. You're leaning, inching your way to him to touch his lips, at least your heart was forcing you to.

"Let's cut the cake, shall we," Yunho announces, making the two of you flinch and pull back.

"You guys have fun," Na-Ra pipes in, however, dejected. "I have to be early for work tomorrow. Duty calls, sadly. I'll be around quite often. So, don't be disheartened."

"I'm not," you deadpan, but soon soften yourself when Na-Ra and Yeosang get up from the chair to leave.

"Yeah, before we leave, I got your luggage," she winks, hinting at something and you do catch up on it, "I left it in the trunk and thought I'd have Yeosang bring it up while leaving."

"Oh, more luggage?" Yunho questions, "how many bags do you have, jeez."

"Just enough for my clothes," you shrug, "under some unforeseen circumstances, I had to abandon this one there."

"Yeah, by unforeseen you mean haphazard work of stuffing all your clothes into one bag, so the zipper doesn't close," Na-Ra jokes, both of them now at the front door. She lets out a soft chuckle, "okay, we better leave before you murder me with your eyes."

"I wish it worked that way. But if you don't visit me often, then I might," you threaten her playfully, getting up from the chair and going to engulf her in a warm hug.

Na-Ra embraces you tighter to herself, returning your enthusiasm; you keep yours and Yeosang's hug a little short. The two of them are out of the front door when Jongho interrupts your last whiling farewells.

"I think it's better if I tag along and get the luggage myself. You won't have to make a double trip up." He stands next to you, by the open door. Offering a small smile to Yeosang and Na-Ra, he too then slips in boots and leaves with him.

Na-Ra waves you off energetically, appearing a little disappointed with how things had to end tonight. Nevertheless, she doesn't let it show on her face as she's leaving with Yeosang, and Jongho in their pursuit. You flash them one last smile and shut the door; a sigh parts your lips regardless and sulking you return back on the couch next to Yunho. He hums a soft tune before grasping your shoulder, pressing his fingers to massage gently before sliding his hand to your back.

"You're not alone," he whispers, "but I can tell why you'd feel lonely."

"Five years living with her," you continue, merely in a mumble as you look at him, eyes showcasing your glum heart. "Five years and we separate now. We've been childhood friends, you know. Never went by a day without each other."

"Nothing could've prepared you for this day," he shrugs, pulling you close to his chest, giving you a much-needed sympathetic hug. His scent dithers your senses to nothing, a bit calming but that's all it was. "Female friendships are precious, endearing even."

You nod, tracing your hand along his which were wound tightly around your waist; you were starting to creep up on the sense that this hug wasn't anything close to friendly. Though, at the moment, when you were too lost in dwelling on your memories with Na-Ra, you didn't mind staying a bit longer, not that you cared since he was trying to blur the line of friends and lovers between you two. It wouldn't come off as a surprise, you were well aware of Yunho's adoration for you, but maybe you always pushed it aside since you viewed at him through nothing but a friendly gaze.

The serenity in the moment is too loud, too rapturing for you to notice someone walking in through the front door. When the gentle lock of the door clicks, is what makes you flinch and pull away from Yunho, eyes straining across to find Jongho's silhouette standing at a distance from you two. He holds onto the handle of your bag, knuckles going white from how tight he held. Squeezing till his fingers are all around the handlebar, he fixates his glare on you, both of you for that matter. A haze of dark crosses his eyes, submerging in the warmth they once held, and disappearing almost too quick for you to puzzle out. His lips curve, almost in a dainty manner before they're delving deep into his cheeks; that maniacal smile, the touch of just a little crazy was driving fear into your spine.

"Am I interrupting something?" he asks, rolling the bag out of his way, before fixing his eyes on Yunho.

The older doesn't make a sound, not even a as he scrambles to his feet and dusts his shirt off. "Yeah, no, nothing at all. I was just leaving."

It seemed like he was weighing his words carefully, trudging to the front door before grabbing his coat from the rack next to it; Yunho offers you a gentle smile, yet it was indiscernible to the course of his and Jongho's interaction. He shrugs on his coat and leaves without uttering a single word, stranding you bemused amid the living room. Jongho's apparent smile had turned a little inane for you.

"He didn't have to leave in such a rush," Jongho says, "anyway, are you in the mood for some wine?"

The sudden contrast in his words and demeanour causes to rift in between, driving countless doubts in your mind till they're diminished to nothing by Jongho's gummy smile. His eyes are trained on you, intensely piercing as if to manipulate your mind into his own. Striking out the possible cynicism in your head, you nod and curl your lips frailly so to reassure him.

"Sounds good to me."

"Of course," he chides, "I believe I have an unopened bottle lying somewhere around in the kitchen."

"Oh," your lips round themselves, voice barely audible. "That was yours? I recall seeing it in the cabinet above the stove; I did not open it and instead chucked it in the fridge."

"No worries."

He waves you off, disappearing in the dimly lit hallway and making his way into the kitchen. After listening to some shuffling around in there, his footsteps muffle and ascend from the hallway, emerging out with two glasses for wine and the bottle itself. Instead of placing the glasses and the bottles on the table, he nudges his head in the direction of the balcony; the balcony adjoined the living room with full length doors sliding open and close. You follow his suit, walking a step behind him.

Cold shivers run down your spine when he leads you out on the balcony; a scenic view awaits you, that is if you consider the dilly dally of empty streets as scenic or even close to it. The moon is hung high in the sky—a cloudless sky. Stars are prominent in the dark, and the moonlight shudders along to illuminate your surroundings. Jongho helps you down on the floor, laden with a dusty carpet, probably serving its purpose from the beginning. Taking a beat to himself, he settles next to you and places the bottle and glasses in between you two.

"It has always been a perfect place to share wine with someone," he murmurs against the night wind, which kisses your face and stings a little. "Needs a little revamping, however. You know to make it a little more mawkish."

"I'd agree," you relate, looking around till your eyes are back on him.

He doesn't make a sound; save for the mumbled grunt he lets out while unscrewing the cork on the wine bottle using his car keys. Pop. The cork comes off, slipping out the rim. Jongho's lips twist in a lopsided smile as he pours you a glass first and hands it to you; preparing the other glass for himself, he keeps the bottle aside and clinks it with yours. You take a sip, relishing the bittersweet taste of the wine before bringing the glass away from your lips. Jongho stares at you a minute longer than he had intended to, peering at you to notice all your details. He adores the tiny scrunch of your eyebrows, or the way your lips tremble when you wince out from the unsweetened taste of the wine. Taking a sip for himself, he stares straight ahead; not much to the view, nonetheless he admired the dusky sky of the night.

You had an inkling that you were biting back on, a petty notion about him acting out on his envy when he saw you with Yunho. It was a friendly gesture on his part, wasn't it? Still and all, you couldn't figure out the exact sentiments of Yunho's hug—it'd be little strung out of you to consider it being more than a chaste sentiment. Howsoever, you couldn't resist overthinking and drowning yourself in it, till you're turning to him and biting on your lower lip.

"What you saw with Yunho..." you mumble, getting his attention.

His eyes are affixed on you, lips contorted to a frown, "hey, it's none of my concerns. I've seen you to share some physical affinity. Wouldn't have been surprised if I were to catch you two making out."

Even if his words were inspiring, you couldn't help but notice the abstruse tone laced to them, or the fact that his eyes were dismal and fatalistic. You wonder, or it does seem to astonish you how easily and deliberately the colour in his eyes changes, almost in a fraction of a second.

"I'm not that close with him," you shrug and take another sip of your wine. "Agreed, we've been hanging out a lot and he keeps me company at work, but there's nothing between us."

"And you thought I'd be interested in knowing that because...?" he instigates, taking you off guard.

You stumble in your words for a second, observing how his thumb rubs circles on the glass he holds. Murmuring to yourself, you look away from him. "Because, maybe, I think, or speculate that you might..."

"I might?"

"You might have a crush on me."

There you said it. Your heart palpitates so hard in your chest, your mind is a blur, and your voice is trapped in your throat; could you even recover from whatever his response might be to your unsolicited assumption? He would have to speak to know what he really thinks of your blabber. But, upon hearing nothing from him, you tilt your head with remaining courage in yourself and find him staring at you instead.

"What?"

He chuckles, his shoulders convulsing with it before he chugs down the entire glass of wine; he leans closer to you, too close to let his breath fan your cheeks. Even so, with his lips ghosting yours, you couldn't comprehend the diminished distance between you two. What would it take for a kiss to happen in this moment? A simple tilt of anyone's head? Or a leap of faith?

"I thought I was getting ahead of myself by not confessing," he simpers, "everyone knows except for you. It was so obvious."

His wispy words were hot on your cheeks. Sadly, the glare of moonlight on his glasses made it hard for you to read what his eyes entailed. You could be assuming right now, but you were starting to gamble on the kiss. Does he mean for it happen? Do you mean for it happen? It's a perfect setting overall, cold night, moon in the sky, stars glimmering, and all while the city falls asleep. Undeniably beautiful. Something out of a fairy tale.

"I mean, I'm an airhead. Who didn't even know of your name before..." you mumble under your breath and tuck yourself closer to him, keeping your glass aside.

"I think we should take a veto on the whole 'not knowing you before you offered to help' trope." He laughs out softly, bringing his hand up to cup your jaw and then eventually your cheek. "I'll admit. When I saw you and Yunho sticking to each other like that, I was jealous. Only a tinge. Felt it rage in me. It would've pensively killed me if you two had..."

"Kissed?"

"Yeah." He tugs himself to you, putting his glass to the side to cup your face in both of his hands now. His warmth spreads under your skin, tickling your senses till they're numb. "Maybe, the longer you wait the sweeter the fruit tastes."

You hum along and extinguish the mere distance between you two; the touch of your lips is cold at first, but the warmth of his palms endearing your cheeks makes up for it. The mere brush of your lips drives you wild, enamoured with the thought of kissing and sucking them. Without much hesitance, Jongho pulls back and hooks his finger under the arms of his glasses to flick them to a side. And once they were off, he dives in to capture your lips in a kiss ever so sensual for you to decipher.

His hands slide to your waist, placing themselves on the either side to help leverage his body into yours. The moment your body collides with each other, the untapped heat comes alive and inflames your soul. You could hear the minor shuffling of your clothes; of the shirt he wore and your lace top barreling into one another. Jongho's hands tighten on your waist, pushing himself closer to deepen the kiss; you angle your head to make it easier for him, easier for him to slip his tongue in your mouth.

Stifling on a giddy titter, you bring your hands to his shoulders and then gently tug your fingers around his neck. Though, in meagre seconds, you're dragging them across to tangle them in his silky locks. Jongho lets out an amused laugh, though it gets muffled when his tongue drones over yours and rubs against every corner of your fervent mouth. You're far too gone to realise how delicate his touch was, how delicately one of his hands had slipped past the hem of your top. His fingertips were searing on your skin, sizzling with a want, a desire to caress and kiss every inch of you.

Regardless of how heated and passionate the kiss was, or how intense your feelings were for him, you pull back. Your heart grows heavy, stubborn to the increasing coldness between you two; Jongho's glides out of your mouth, a few saliva strings joining your lips together. He doesn't let his disappointment show on his face, he doesn't seem disappointed at all. There's a sheepish smile on his face and it sort of, recites the tunes of his heart.

"I wish..." you trail off, breathless while resting your forehead against his, "I wish we could let this escalate. But..."

"But?" he whispers, both hands now under your top, thumbs rubbing circles on your skin. Comforting.

"I'm not sure about us, yet. I don't want to dive headfirst into this and later on realise that we weren't meant to be together." You speak your heart out, however, it does baffle Jongho, only to the slightest.

You thought he'd throw a tantrum, argue, make you realise your worries were nothing but piddling hoaxes. But he doesn't. He doesn't go along with your fears and offers you a warming smile, the archetypal one which makes you forget about your woes and terrors. You could call yourself dramatic, but with guys like Jongho, your insecurities always resurfaced; guys like him, the ones who put you above everything else, make sure you're loved by them, are rare. Your trauma from loving all the wrong guys is still very much alive in your mind. It goes without saying, you'll need time to heal, or get used to Jongho's love.

"It's okay, moonpie." You chuckle at the allotted nickname, and he continues, "you still have scars from your past, and as much as I know, scars don't heal. They leave ugly marks behind; and nothing about you is ugly to me. Never in my eyes. You can take your time, figure out what you want and be determined. Having a loveless relationship, which you only agreed to because you didn't want to hurt my feelings, would be equivalent to being thrown in a prison for a crime you didn't commit."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

˖⁺‧₊˚ 🦋 ˚₊‧⁺˖

"The shower was working just fine yesterday," you whine, agitated by the struggle of buttoning the cuffs of your shirt.

"It's fine," Jongho assures you, "I've called the plumber. He'll look into it, make necessary repairs and fix it before you're back from work. Okay?"

"Thanks a lot, Jongho," you mutter in urgency, still struggling with the buttons on your cuffs. "Thanks for letting me use yours."

"No problem." He adds with a dainty chortle, "you're welcomed any time."

This was turning into a nightmare, the way your clothes weren't cooperating with you, just as the shower didn't in the morning. You would have no reason to be in Jongho's apartment, in his lavish and spacious bedroom if not for your shower breaking down early in the morning. These series of unfortunate events were predestined to fall through on an important day for you, on the day you were expected to be punctual, professional and comme il faut. Only a few people from work were alerted about the meeting with the board of directors, you were one of them. Jongho wasn't likely needed, even having received an email from the company saying so, he didn't really bother to attend the meeting and took a sick leave. And looking at him, all hale and hearty, you surmised he just didn't want to be at work today.

"I can't believe you lied about your sick leave," you roll your eyes, bending over to catch your reflection in the mirror of his dresser. "I mean, this meeting sounds crucial and there you are, skipping on it like you don't care."

You watch him shift in bed, propping himself against the headboard while holding a book in his hands; his glasses are perched on the bridge of his nose, yet he uses his forefinger to push the further up. There's an unreadable expression glinting in his eyes, and of course, the glares of his glasses make it hard to discern. He doesn't really answer your question or show slightest of interest in what you had been yapping about. Because, he was solely focused on your figure, on the way your skirt hugged your hips and carved out your body, how the top few buttons of your blouse were undone to expose your cleavage and how tempting you appeared to him as you were bent over to fix your earrings in the mirror.

"Cat got your tongue?" you glare at him through the mirror, finding his gaze fixed on you too.

He shakes his head, almost on an instinct, "too focused on reading this book."

"The book you've kept closed for the past thirsty minutes?" you scoff, rolling your eyes at him. For a fact, you were already aware of his thirsty eyes lurking on you.

He clears his throat, "I'm reflecting on the parts I've read."

"Of course you are."

"I'm not lying." His cheeks turn red as you keep your eyes on him. "Whatever, aren't you getting late for work?"

"Thanks for reminding me again," you roll your eyes, yet again, checking yourself in the mirror one last time before stepping away. "How do I look?"

You wait for him to give you his feedback, impatiently dragging your hands across the lower half of your blouse, which was tucked in the risqué black pencil skirt hugging your butt and thighs. He wouldn't have a chance to say otherwise, he doesn't really have to because watching how sensual your professional wear was, he bites back on a wince and shakes his head.

"Are you sure you're dressed formally?" he asks, keeping his book aside on the nightstand next to his bed. "It might send a wrong message to the board of directors."

"Are you talking about the blouse?" you muse, "it's not that revealing. Come on."

He heaves a defeated sigh, watching you tug at the collars of your blouse to let your chest jut out even more. "Fine, you look absolutely stunning. Still professional. So, best of luck."

"Thank you." You wink at him and trudge away from the dresser, "in any case, I'm leaving. You call the plumber and get my shower repaired."

"Yes, ma'am." He gives you a two-finger salute and giggles softly. "Now, go. You've got an important meeting waiting for you."

"Right, right."

With that, you leave his room, eventually slipping out of his apartment and taking the stairwell to yours. It has been couple of weeks of now, if you were keeping a count, then it was now your tenth week since moving into Jongho's spare apartment. Things have been better, they're smooth; your situation has improved a lot, compared to living with Na-Ra and her boyfriend getting it on every single time of the day and night. Every dark cloud has a silver lining, your silver lining was your new apartment and hanging out with Jongho a lot, but your dark cloud would have to be how Yunho had suddenly distanced himself from you. Of course you had never had any issues with him, you were close, always have been, but there was no logical explanation to why he had turned a cold shoulder to you, out of nowhere.

You aren't bothered by him as much, not because at least you got to see him at work and talk a little (confined to only work related). Getting in your apartment, you grab your necessary things, one of which was your purse and a work file, and hastily leave too. No second look overs in the mirror, or no breaks for grabbing a quick snack from your refrigerator, you're out of your apartment in a blink of an eye. You were in a hurry, and it was starting to show.

Jongho throws the sheets to a side, kicking his legs off the bed and strolling casually around and out of his bedroom; he was astounded by your presence, a lot. He was however glad to help you out when you needed it the most. Even if it meant he had to create your problems to offer his help. Now, you might not want to go on Jongho's innocent mien, or the front he puts on for his helpless victims to gain their trust and resolve. Jongho, in the society's minds, was this perfectly shaped and well-behaved person; though to the contrary, one who has witnessed his darker, steeper, creepier parts of life, could tell he's one son of a bitch.

A sociopath is what they call the people who are severely antisocial, with no regard for morales. Or, as what Jongho's therapist had once called him. Jongho had attachment issues, it rooted from his childhood, amongst his family; it grew and thrived in his mind, until his obsessions took over. Jongho would obsess over people. First, it was his mother, then his girlfriend and now you. He was obsessed with you, very much inclined to be with you at all times.

You thought Jongho extended a helping hand out of sheer desperation or love? Think again. Everything had been planned, by his evil mind from the start, from the day he had seen you in a cafe with your best friend, from the moment you walked past him at work; Jongho had always had his eye on you at work, obsessed with you, and moderately aggravated by your ignorance towards him. It might seem coincidental to him, having seen you in the cafe the first time, then finding out you were his coworker in the same company—a mere coincidence. Or fate?

Jongho had his planned nailed down to the T. He knew your girlfriend's boyfriend would move in with her, well considering he had allegedly constructed it to happen, he knew you would find a new place to move in because of their ruckus, and of course, he knew you would turn to Yunho, who mind not, was his accomplice in this whole thing. Ha, and you thought Yunho genuinely wanted to help you. Silly you.

Turning a corner along the long stretching hallway, Jongho enters a room; he closes the door shut behind him and walks on further to the various screens blaring on a wall. There are approximately fifteen screens, all showing the black and white reels of your apartment. Yeah, he had fitted several cameras in your apartment before you moved in, at various angles, getting all good shots of you. He sits down on the chair placed in front of the screens, pushing his glasses up, he starts going through each of the screen for your silhouette. Knowing you aren't in your apartment, he still double checks, wanting to be sure of it. Once he knows you really not there, he gets up from chair, tugs on the sleeves of his cashmere sweater and smirks devilishly to himself.

He has a perfect opportunity now, to sneak into your apartment and indulge in his darkest of desires. Standing in front of your apartment door, he punches in the code and enters; he makes his way around, leisurely strolling till he's in your bedroom. Ah, the broken shower, which wasn't really broken—he had only turned its water supply off. Jongho's smirk keeps growing into his cheeks, a sense of satisfaction over taking his heart before his lust and detrimental obsession kicks in.

Sauntering in your bedroom, he comes across your laundry basket strewn in a corner. Clothes overflow, the flap of the basket remains half open, and bits of your lingerie sticks out. He crouches down on his knees, pushing the flap open to see it for himself. The strap of your lacy bra was tucked out of the basket, under which he hooks his finger and gently pulls out; his gaze admires the flimsy fabric, the floral pattern of the net and how it would cover nothing of your skin when you'd wear it. He was picturing it, shamelessly pitching a tent in his pants. He couldn't help it. Keeping your bra aside, he fishes through the rest of the clothes and finds your lacy knickers too; so, your bra and these panties are a pair, he thinks to himself before pushing himself off the ground and going to sit on the edge of your bed. Not before he makes sure to shut the blinds of the window to keep his actions hidden behind the scenes.

One of his hands held onto your panties, and other clutched the sheets under him; he brings your panties close to his nose, to get a good sniff of your scent, a scent which had driven him to his madness. His cock strains in his sweatpants, painfully confined in his briefs. He wants to pull it out, he wants to do the unthinkable, all for you. Jongho does exactly what his mind had been playing on replay for the past two minutes now. Fantasising about you, and your body, he reaches down and starts palming his cock through his pants, making it harder as he thinks about you. He then tugs at his sweatpants and briefs, his cock springing out to hit his lower abdomen. Glancing down, he knows how hard he had gotten by just your clothes, and it was pushing him to his edge. He probably isn't even embarrassed to admit the truth about what he was going to do.

Jongho wraps his other hand around the tip of his cock, his thumb rubbing circles on the tip before his fingers slide down along the shaft. Stroking himself, he gets himself harder than before, stiff enough to jerk himself off. He relaxes in your bed, arching his back. The palm of his hand engulfs himself entire, and keeping his pace steady, he starts rubbing it back and forth. Veins on his shaft bulge out in a few seconds, and he hisses at the cold and calloused sensation of his hand.

"Fuck," he curses under his breath, his voice a mere whimper as he brings the tempo of his hand up. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."

He screws his eyes shut, tight enough to picture more of your naked body, to imagine himself getting sucked off by your pretty little mouth; he's seen every inch of your bare body, every time you'd be in the shower or would soak in the bathtub. He's in love with your body, so much, so madly. Sweat starts dripping down his forehead, a few strands of his ebony hair sticking to his skin, while his lips tremble chanting your name. He has your panties pushed up against his nose, taking eventual sniffs of it to drive himself crazy.

With a few quick paced strokes, he switches his rhythm and drags them out, going around the tip to massage it a little; precum starts dribbling out from his slit, and his hand spreads it along his shaft. His cock, glistening with his precum, is still very stiff and eager for the release, yet Jongho keeps his pace slower than before. He takes a deep yet trembling breath in, convulsing his lungs to the sheer pleasure he was deriving out of this. His face was flushed, cheeks red, lips quivering, eyes shut closed and his skin shining with a fresh coat of sweat; he needed more, he needed you. Loosening his fingers around his cock, and pulling his hand away, he brings his other to wrap your panties around him. The soft and warm feeling of your panties pushes him into his carnality, inching him closer to his release.

Tightly wounding his fingers now, he picks up the pace and goes hard; his moans are beginning to fill up the room, his eyes are swelling with tears till a few cascade down his cheeks, staining his skin. He's close. So very close. And the way he was dragging your panties up and down on his cock, was starting to get to him. With few more concise and fast paced strokes, he starts bucking his hips into his hand, fucking himself better. He knows he'll come undone any second now, realising how badly his cock had been pulsating in his hand. Everything blurs to nothing when he twitches, his body shuddering as he lets go. Streaks of white cover his hand, bits of it running down your fingers and a lot of it drenching your panties.

"Oh, sweetheart," he breathes out, his whimper sounding melodious to the empty room as he peels his eyes open. Heaving a wispy laugh, he glances down at his hand, full of his cum and your panties ruined by it. "You'd look so pretty squirming under me, while I'm...oh, fuck."

His mouth falls open, jaw slack, as his vivid imagination was starting to make him hard again. There's still time for you to get home, he wouldn't mind going another round. This time however, he keeps your panties and picks out your bra, spending another hour of his time masturbating and fucking himself to your thoughts, to the very vile imagery of you in his mind.

˖⁺‧₊˚ 🦋 ˚₊‧⁺˖

You were pacing back and forth, chewing on your nails as Jongho sits on the couch, shifting his eyes to your oscillating body.

"My lingerie is missing." You mumble, showing no signs of stopping in your movements. "The red set of my lacy underwear is gone, disappeared into thin air," you spell out with panic lacing your words, "what kind of pervert would do that? How is that even possible? I locked my door, there was no way anyone would have broken in to steal my underwear."

Jongho hums, relaxing back in the couch and feigning to be in deep thought. He doesn't utter a word. A criminal would keep his mouth shut under the fear of being unraveled. Jongho has your underwear, the red set of your bra and panties is lying in his wardrobe, sullen with his cum and reeking wildly of his scent. He's been jerking off to them every night since he got his hands on them, it's vile, it's disgusting but it's his way of loving you.

"This is maniacal, Jongho. I'm scared of living here now," you stop in your steps and stare at him. "I'm scared." The last of your words sound more like a whisper and that makes Jongho fake his concern even more.

He gets up from the couch and heads to the kitchen to bring you a glass of water, or what you think he was getting for you. You sigh and sit on the couch instead, placing your elbows on your knees and your head in your hands; you were frustrated, annoyed, frightened of your situation and how it was affecting you. Jongho walks out in mere minutes, bringing a glass of water to you. He hands you the glass and you take it without any doubt or having a reason to doubt him. Taking eventual sips, you feel yourself calming down bit by bit. In no time, the glass is empty and sits on the coffee table in front of you. Jongho watches you keenly, resisting the very urge to smirk. His straight face showed no emotions, no signs of impatience that he felt in his heart, but staring at you with his ravenous eyes, he only masqueraded his concern.

"Feeling better now?"

"I guess," you shake your head, returning back to having it slumped in your hands. "But this is outrageous, Jongho. Who could—just, I need some time to recover I think." You mumble, and your head was starting to get heavy.

Jongho notices your unease, and how dizzy you were staring to get. On the other hand, you were confused as to why you were suddenly starting to feel the discomfort; this issue wasn't that serious to begin with, yet you were starting to feel the aftermath of stressing out too much. It's really concerning to you how your lingerie got stolen, only one pair of it, however. You hadn't noticed it missing till after a few days from your important meeting, when you were searching for it to throw it in the washer.

You feel numb, your head throbbing with an unwanted ache till you're seeing stars in your eyes; breathing gets harder for you, your lungs burning and your throat suffocating you. This was sudden, but it was bewildering. Your vision turns blurry, your lips shaking and your heart pounding in your chest. Jongho stands in front of you, doing nothing, standing still on his spot till he's sure you're knocked out. And you are, in few more seconds, darkness shrouds your eyes, your mind switching off and your body falling limp to the side on the couch.

Was there something in the water?

You were never so comely with darkness, nor were you so fond of feeling lonely and scared. Not remembering how you ended up in this situation, feeling yourself lying in something soft, something constraining your movements and the kind of familiar scent tingling your nose. Squinting your eyes, your distorted mind starts waking up; the dull ache in your head isn't gone, but it isn't too intense to make you groan in pain. When you're fully conscious of your surroundings, you find yourself in a comfortable bed, way too comfortable; the mattress has sunken to your weight, the sheets on your body are and soft and warm. In the dimly lit room, you notice the details and find everything quite too familiar. A room, with a window and its drapes drawn over, with a dresser and a closet, with a layout so familiar.

When it finally creeps up to you, your body jerks off the bed. Sitting upright, you scrunch your brows together and find it astounding to be in Jongho's room. What had happened that led you here? Did you pass out and he brought you to his apartment? But then why would he bring you to his apartment? That doesn't make sense. He could've tended to you at your own apartment. This certainly doesn't feel right.

And it shouldn't either.

Not when you find one of your hands shackled in chains. A broad cuff is wrapped around your wrist, the metal cutting into your skin, and a long chain dangles from it to the headboard of the bed. What the fuck was this? You start panicking, your breath hitching and your mind going point blank; your anxiety starts getting the worst of you when realise you're still your old clothes. The same spaghetti sauced stain tank top and shorts you had worn when you called Jongho over regarding stolen lingerie.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, what the fucking shit is this?" you grunt through your gritted teeth, wanting to cut off the cuff from your wrist.

You're still panicking, caught up in the daze of escape instead of keeping your senses perched on other things. Let's say for the surrounding. It's beyond your comprehension to understand when a certain man walks in, muffling his footsteps against the floor and shuffling around to stand by the edge of your bed.

"Oh, you're awake, now. Are you, moonpie?" he murmurs, "I was starting to get tired of waiting around for you."

You could discern the soft pout on his face under the haze of dimmed lights. He leans over, towering with his broad shoulders on your body, making you feel small and puny.

"How are we feeling?" his worry is bittersweet, an underlying intention evident to your mind. "Hopefully, better. You've been asleep for a day or two." He shrugs his shoulders as if the words mean nothing to him, "who's keeping a count? Your friends? Yunho...?" he heaves out a chuckle, shaking his head, "probably. No, it's right. They must be concerned. Actually, he must be really worried considering he was in on this."

There's a beat of silence, and you decide to fill it in, having been unbothered by his jeering phrases. "Jongho, what is this? What kind of sick joke is this?"

You tug your hand, the chains shackling and creating a buzz around, a sound he was so delighted to hear from you. He traces his thumb across his lower lip, his eyes glazing only for a second on your face before they rummage to gander at red marks on your wrists. The cuff had really eaten your skin off, in a way, it looks tormenting and painful—something he surely finds himself relishing.

"A joke?" he mocks, "Moonpie, why would you think any of this is a joke? I'm doing all of this for you."

He sits by edge of the bed, and you scamper to press yourself against the headboard, wanting to be away from him or his touch even. This was something out of a movie, a low-budget thriller movie where the protagonist gets trapped by a psychopath and is subjected to all kinds of torture by them. How ironic is that? You were stuck in that situation yourself, wondering what Jongho's mind was constructing in every passing second. Given your interest in watching all sorts of documentaries, you knew you had to play your cards right, choose rightful words to get your way in this.

"For me?" you gasp on a breath, "Jongho, this is fucking crazy. You're fucking crazy—"

"—am I? Am I fucking crazy to think I can protect you from the world?" he growls, somewhat keeping himself composed, "I've seen how the others look at you, with their lust-filled eyes and the untamed desire they have for you. I can't let them taint you too. You're far from being corrupted, never in my eyes."

And there it was, the flash of ambiguous darkness in his eyes, the way it acridly makes your spine tingle. Even if it had lasted for mere seconds, you knew where this was headed, you were starting to figure him out; vaguely, but gradually. You needed to be levelheaded and cautious.

"All those days and nights of watching you, reading you, getting to know you, they were some of the best times I've ever had. You didn't even know I was there, like a shadow lurking behind you. Everywhere you went, I was there. I couldn't get enough of you, never actually." He adds, "I don't want to hurt you, I would rather die than hurt you. I just want to keep you close to me, away from the hungry stares of your so-called friends. You'll be safe here."

You hadn't realised when his hand had traced up your leg and rested on your thigh, but maybe you were too immersed in his words and thoughts to notice anything at all. Too immersed in his words and thoughts, the raw sentiments of his demented mind, you were in fact drowning in the aftermath of believing him, of ever interacting with him.

"You'll always be safe here, moonpie." He rubs circles on your thigh, thumb pushing into your flesh, "I'll go get something for you to eat. You must be hungry. You are hungry, aren't you?"

Your lips were sewn shut, heart practically in your throat at the way his tone and voice had changed. The clear shift from being obsessive to concerned caught you off guard. Jongho offers you a sweet yet deadly smile, his lips curling like the Cheshire Cat before he walks out of the room and leaves you in utter chaos. Confusion, despair, disgust, and your nicking anxiety had already started to get the worst out of you.

To think Yunho was into this all along, shatters your heart even harder. Now that the room was completely filled with silence, you could hear the minute shuffling happening outside. Jongho is probably preparing the food for you, and as much as you hate to admit it, you were indeed hungry. Your stomach growls at the thought of food, mindlessly thinking about what he had or was bringing for you to eat.

After a few minutes of waiting, the door rattles to him entering inside; he's soft on his feet, but his presence is heavy and intimidating. When he stands by the edge of the bed, holding a tray in his hands, he offers you a small smile before placing it down in your lap. You notice the contents then, a meagre meal of carbs, protein and fibre: pieces of chicken steak, some sautéed vegetables and mashed potatoes. To accompany the food, there was a small can of soda.

This was a filling meal, he really had thought it through, from the food itself. How long had he been planning this? He must be enjoying the sweet taste of his victory, which menially isn't anything but the decadent fulfilment of his efforts and hard work.

Jongho sits down on the edge, giving you enough space; even so you were pressed up against the headboard, not wanting to be any closer to him. The tray in your lap is warm, and you could vaguely discern the mist rising up from the food. Had he cooked it? Or had he just ordered it from outside? Besides that, your worst fear was getting drugged again. Had he drugged the food?

"I'm not hungry," you state, softly.

"But you need to eat, moonpie."

"I don't need anything from you."

He grunts, "you're really impossible to deal with."

Steering himself away from you for a mere moment, he lets his head hang low and shakes it; an amused chuckle follows, reverberating till the time stands still and you're taken back by him.

"Jongho!" you call out, the chain rattling as you brace your hands against his chest.

He had leaped over to you, shoving you into the headboard till your back hurt. One of his hands held down your shoulders, by pushing it hard against your chest. While his other hand grabbed your jaw, forcing you to stay in place.

"You should listen to me," he grunts in your face, pressing his fingers and thumbs into your cheeks to get your mouth to open. "If I tell you to eat, then you eat it, damnit. Don't make me say it twice. Next time, I might not use my words."

He lets go of you, crawling away from your body and checking the tray of plate, whether it had made a mess on the bed or not. Lucky for you, his enraged actions weren't as haphazard as you'd expect them to be; if there had been a mess of food in the bed, who's to tell what he'd do to you. In odd times as these, it's certain to agree with every wish of his, oblige every word he speaks and never go against him. He is volatile, waiting to blow up in your face any moment if you even move wrong. So, you have to weigh and measure every consequence before talking to him and carrying yourself around him.

Using your free hand, you pull the tray properly on your lap and pick at the food with their bare fingers. No spoon, no fork, no knife. He knows how to play. And he knows it well. Standing up on his feet, leaning over the edge of the bed, he strokes your shabby hair away from your eyes and offers you a gentle smile. In his mind, he hadn't been violent towards you. Acting as if he hadn't just pushed you up against the back of his bed and threatened you with his malignant anger.

"Good girl, now was it so hard?" his fingers caress a side of your face, slipping down your cheek to your lips. "Don't make me use force against you, moonpie. I don't like it. I can't stand the thought of bending you to my ways. Just...be a good girl for me, okay?"

You nod, picking out a piece of chicken steak he had cut and putting it in your mouth. It was hard to chew, no matter how soft the meat was in your mouth. Swallowing it was going to be even harder.

"Finish it, hmm?" he insists, stepping back till he finds himself sitting on a lounge chair by the door. "I'll wait until you finish everything on your plate."

Already having a hard time to swallow, you somehow manage to nod at him. Little by little, piece by piece, with your greasy fingers you finish most of the things in the plate. You still had a spoonful of mashed potatoes in your plate, the vegetables and meat were almost done with too.

"I've got all day," he sighs, dreamily as if, he wasn't getting tired of watching you and it was starting to show. "I'm not going anywhere. You can take as much time as you need."

Only the thought of him staring at you all while you tried to finish the plate, gave you an icky sensation. Your back was covered with sweat, your clothes were soaked in sweat too. Disgust was the last thing you wanted, but it was rather a feeling sticking to your spine ever since you had gained your consciousness.

"Done." You mutter, a sense of victory taking over your mind but soon dissipating into glum and hopelessness; he had gotten up from the chair, taking short strides toward you.

He was inspecting the empty plate, closely enough to not miss out anything. How sickeningly frightening was that? Even worse, how much of a sicko was he? You could have never guessed of his freakish predicament in the beginning, could've never imagined there's a devil hiding behind the warm gummy smile of his. Your current situation was pointing to the otherwise. On the spectrum of luck, you were stuck in the bottom half where misfortunes awaited you.

"Ahh, good girl." He mutters under his breath, patting your head before taking the tray out of the room with him. "I'll be back soon. Don't make a sound."

You were left alone in the dimly lit room, a room harbouring no light of sort; the window was draped shut apparently with black curtains, and the only source of light for you was the lamp on the nightstand next to you. As one your hands had been cuffed to the wall, you couldn't reach out to the nightstand or the drawers below it. You were hopeful the drawers might have something of your use, something to get you out of the cuffs.

Rummaging your eyes further, you find the dresser shrouded by darkness in a corner. The setting of this room had been tampered with, you'd know and are sure of it since you were in here before. This was Jongho's room, the very room you had used to get ready for your meeting once. You remember the dresser being situated next to the bed and not in that corner; you also recall using the bathroom adjoining this room, meaning the door which you keep second-guessing about, leads to the bathroom.

Besides the grim darkness, and melancholic sentiments, you were starting to panic. Your mind kept flooding with constant fear of death, or even worse, being assaulted by an unhinged man—you've seen it all in the documentaries before. Maybe, watching them wasn't a total waste of time. Regardless, you kept going back to your friends, and Yunho. The man who seemed so harmless at the beginning, had now been placed under a different light for you. How could you be so naïve and gullible? How could you trust strangers so easily?

You knew this wasn't the right time to guilt trip yourself; these kind of mistakes happen and can't be avoided either way. The weight on your shoulders is already anchoring you down when you start getting drowsy too. No doubt the food was drugged. Was it really? Or were you just feeling sleepy after eating the carbs? The worst part of it was, it doesn't take you more than a minute to fall asleep, your body falling limp in the bed, against the mattress while the sheets pool around.

This has to be the worst. Most definitely.

You had no clue how long you were out for, but when you came to terms with your conscious, your body was aching immensely. It could've been because of your sleeping position, how strained your body was when you slept curled against headboard. Though, you were less bothered about your body and more concerned about your bladder; you wanted to use the bathroom, urgently.

Bracing yourself, you proceed to heed out his name. At the beginning, your voice does not even reach your own ears, and takes you countless tries before knowing you could yell out his name.

"Jongho...!" it sounded a little weak, however you could hear the door squeaking at the hinges when it's opened.

Jongho walks in, looking concerned and bewildered, his eyes were wide, and his lips trembled like a loose leaf on a branch. "What is wrong?"

"I need to—I need to use the bathroom," you mumble.

Letting out a sigh, he walks around the bed and pulls out the top drawer of the nightstand. He retrieves a pair of handcuffs, the ones usually used by cops; approaching you, he nudges his head for you to hold both your hands out. You oblige as told to only to find him cuff your hands together before unlocking the broad metal cuff around your wrist which was adhered to the chain on the wall.

"Come on," he tugs on the cuff, pulling you along with it to another door.

You knew the door led to the bathroom, so when he unlocked it with another set of keys, you weren't so surprised to find yourself in it.

He pushes you inside, and closes the door, standing on the other side before hailing out to you, "make it quick. And don't even think about doing anything funny."

You gulp, audibly so. Quick on your instinct, you start looking around, hoping to find something of your use. But to your unseeming surprise, the cabinets were empty, the drawers were locked, and the cabinet mirror was a reflection of your harsh reality. Your skin was starting to dry, peeling at places, especially on your hands; your lips were chapped and bleeding, there were bags under your eyes, your hair was greasy and smelled a little. Everything was so...disgusting to you. Even your own reflection. The mirror was a glimpse to your future, no matter how much you tried to, you weren't getting out of here. Never out of his sight, his mind or his prison.

Now, you had completely given up, having no strength in you to continue fighting or think of ways to escape him. You finish relieving yourself and wash your hands, splashing some of the water on your face too. Hearing a knock bang on the door, you flinch and tremble in fear.

"Are you done?"

"Yeah," you whisper, pulling yourself together and hastily walking out.

Jongho stands right in front of you, arms folded on his chest and his eyes narrowed onto you. "I'm not going to cuff you again, you're free to move around this room."

He must've weighed all the consequences of keeping you tied in the room. As much as that is very thoughtful of him, you couldn't shake off the feeling of being trapped here all day and night. At this point, what was day and what was night? You couldn't make out the time, the windows were bind with dark curtains, there were no clocks in the room for you to even know the time or date. All you could rely on is your own sense of calculating and counting the days. Or maybe, you could just ask Jongho.

The man helps you get to the bed before dragging himself to the door; standing by it, he offers you a small smile before mumbling, "rest well, okay? I'll be back tomorrow with breakfast for you."

So, it was night after all.

You absentmindedly reflect to his smile with your own, getting in the bed and snuggling in the warm sheets. The door closes behind him as he leaves you in the dark, and once you're sure he's out your earshot, you cry. You hug your knees and cry, till your cheeks are stained with sheer agony of your tears.

This was hell.

And you really needed to get out of here.

˖⁺‧₊˚ 🦋 ˚₊‧⁺˖

You were starting to keep a track of his behaviour; not knowing how many days it had been since you were held captive by him, you still wanted to figure out how long you had been here. It would make sense for you to count the days from your last encounter with him, though for that, you would have to know how long you were knocked out for when he drugged you. Even so, counting from the time you had finally regained consciousness, it seems like it had been more than two weeks since you were here.

More than two weeks. Right. And yet, none of your friends had tried searching for you. Or maybe they had, they were on their way to seek you out. Although, Jongho was always one step ahead of everyone, he must've distracted them. The thought of your best friend and her boyfriend did come to your mind, but as usual, Jongho's advances would make you push them to a dark corner and never let those thoughts resurface.

Keeping a track of the days was easy, you only had to count the number of meals he was providing you. Jongho gave you three meals a day, the breakfast would be simple enough, consisting of an omelette and sometimes rice, the lunch and dinner were both proportionate of carbs, fibre and protein. You were glad he was offering you good food. But that was least of your concerns and nothing to be glad about.

Jongho allowed you to take a shower six meals before; thankful to that, you felt a bit fresh and dressed yourself in neat clothes. Again, the clothes had been bought by him, just as he did with every other thing. The clothes you wore were simple too, a cotton dress reaching to your calves and your brand-new underwear inside.

You were nicely dressed and showered today too, sitting by the edge of the bed and waiting for Jongho to come in with your lunch. Over the time, as irrational as it would sound to any sane person, you were starting to feel something for him. Affection? Maybe. Your soft spot for him was brainwashing you, not that he had already done with a few simple tricks, but you were starting to warm up to him.

Jongho made sure to make you realise how bad the outside world is, and how safe you are here with him. He never touched you without your consent, never made you feel threatened again; because you were starting to obey his words, his wishes, you were becoming his trained pet in a way. In the span of two weeks, you couldn't even recognise the change that had taken over you. If you could compare your old self to this one, you'd be stunned beyond measure.

But it wasn't that bad.

You listen to him. He doesn't threaten you and you don't get punished. Suffocation takes over you every time you try to reminisce of the day you had missed to obey him and had met with a ruthless punishment. As much as it is detrimental for you to remember it, you know the trauma won't leave you. Ever. You faced the punishment because you did not finish your food one time. He dragged you to the bathroom by your hair, filled up the bathtub with water till its brim, and drowned you in it. You could feel the water penetrate your lungs, shorten your breath, give you a dizzy headache. After the torture was over, he cradled you in his arms like a child on the bathroom floor, feeling guilty and ashamed of what he had done to you.

He never punished you after that. Ever. Even raising his voice at you made him feel guilty and embarrassed, so he spoke to you in humbling tones. Days were different after that incident, you thought he'd be more erratic than usual, but to your surprise he wasn't. Jongho has a good game, a very strong one to alter your perception on him. You couldn't pinpoint when it was, but you were surely feeling some type of way for him.

"I'm here, I'm here," he sings, pushing the door open while bringing in a tray of food. "I agree, I'm late. But I had a couple of things to take care of. Are you hungry?"

You nod, licking your lower lip. "I am. I thought you weren't going to come today."

"Babe, I'll always be here for you," he chimes, setting the tray on the bed first. Pulling the lounge chair closer to the bed, he sits on it and fishes out a key to unlock your cuffs. "You've been a really good girl for me, I'm thinking we won't be needing these anymore."

You took a breath of relief. The thought itself was freeing, no confinements on your wrists, no struggles, no pain, no marks on your skin. He lets the cuffs fall down on the floor, clinking softly against it while he tugs at your hands and pulls you in his lap. However, the glare on his glasses makes it hard to read his eyes, you never know when he might change his mind, and considering that, you wanted to be prepared to take on anything he flung at you.

"Jongho..."

"Shush..." he buries his face in the crook of your neck, biting and nicking your flesh till bruises start staining your skin. "I've been waiting for a long time to gain your trust. Craving your touch..." he intertwines your hands together, "I won't do anything unless you're ready. I want you to feel safe around me."

"I do," you mumble, leaning back into his touch, "I've started to feel safer around you than before."

"Is that true?"

"Do you want me to prove it?"

"How would you prove it, babe?" he asks, licking up a stripe on your neck, his tongue warm and slick with his spit.

You slip out of his lap, falling on your knees in front of him to slot your body perfectly in between his legs. He spreads them wider, letting you accommodate the space before running a hand through your hair. A sly smile stretches his lips, making you gag a bit, regardless, you let him do what he wanted to. His hand cups a wide of your face, before sliding down to grab your chin and pull you up only a bit for your lips to meet.

The kiss was hungry, wild, desperate, his lips were sucking on yours with an unquenchable thirst, while you pushed yourself into him to deepen the kiss. Your hands were on either of his thighs, but out of nowhere, you find the warmth of his own grab yours and force them behind your back. He holds your wrists in one of his hands, using the other to swiftly pick up the fallen handcuffs. You could hear the muffled sound of metal clinking, alerting you. Unfortunately, you weren't as quick to pull yourself out of his trap, or his arms; he places the cuffs on your wrist and tightens them.

His teeth sink into your lower lip, biting hard till it bleeds into his mouth. A satisfied moan rumbles in his chest, and he pushes himself away only a bit to flash you a conceited curl of his blood-stained lips.

"I like it this way," he murmurs, running the tips of fingers on your arms behind tugging on the link between your cuffed hands. "Don't worry too much...I won't hurt you. It's neither that I don't trust you. But I better be safe than sorry."

You stifle the urge to make a retching sound, wanting to flee the moment he's too immersed in whatever you had to offer. In other perspective, you nod your head and peer at him, putting on a helpless ruse and pouting so that he would continue the broken kiss. He did not needed to be told twice, however. His lips are back on yours, biting, sucking, lapping, both of your teeth clattering against each other until he cups your face and forces you to open your mouth. Instantly, his tongue slithers in your warmth, sending chills down your spine. You knew he was eager and desperate, very much so to hear you moan under him.

The vagrant and insatiable hunger in him was clearly evident in the way he was devouring your mouth. Stroking the back of your neck with one of his hands, he tilts your head behind to give him better control over you and his tongue thrusting down your throat. His other hand stays warm on your cheek, slowly and gradually falling to your shoulder while his fingers dig in your skin through the flimsy material of the dress.

He takes a deep breath, pushing himself away from you to realise what he was doing and what he wanted to do next. This time, you did not need to know it twice; the way his eyes lingered on yours for a minute longer before trailing down to his crotch, that told you many tales of what he wanted you to do. Swallowing thickly, you suck on your lower lip to resist the dwelling dread in the pit of your stomach. On a much contrary note, you were starting to get aroused and wet, your panties already drenched with your arousal. What did it take for you to be on your knees for him? His lustful eyes? His ravenous desire to make you his? Or, in fact, were you growing reminiscent of the time you had spent with him prior to this catastrophe that struck you?

"Open wide for me, okay?" he smugly whispers, keeping one hand on the back of your neck while using the other to unzip his pants.

You're helplessly stuck in between his legs, counting your breaths till you'd be suffocating on his cock; it wasn't a pretty picture in your head, but just the thought itself made you even more wet. This would have to be some sick sort of fantasy for you. Why else would you be thinking of erratic things towards your captor? In the dark side of your mind, the way Jongho had behaved with you in the past days, made you feel all sorts of things. Maybe it was the lack of human interaction, or the fact that you were away from your friends for so long, that your mind had fallen in love with the idea of what Jongho was.

Jongho tugs at the waistband of his pants, pulling them down with a few more tugs till they're pooling around his folded knees. You catch the glimpse of briefs tenting against his erection; again, something going hand in hand with disgust and lechery.

He brings his hand to your jaw from the back of your neck, and thumbs your lower lip, forcing you to open your mouth. You yelp, letting the pain of his fingernail digging in your fleshly lip, while watching him pull his briefs down. His cock springs out, eagerly. Jongho muffles a grunt while trying to push his briefs down and once he was done, he nudges your head close to his crotch.

"Be a good girl for me, like you have been for the past days."

His voice seems drunk of lust and craving, seeming raspy and heavy. You lick your lips, pushing yourself further this time to let the tip of his cock brush your lips; you don't open your mouth to take him in the instant, rather you stay, keeping your lips shut to let him rub his cock all over your mouth. The feeling was distasteful in some way, until the warmth of your mouth engulfs the littlest bit of his cock. Only the tip of his cock pulsated in your mouth, and you licked at the slit to elicit a soundful moan from him.

His touch burns on the back on your neck, holding it tight to keep your head in place while he bucked his hips into your face. Continuing with it, inch by inch his cock plunges in your mouth, till the tip hits your throat.

You gag, almost immediately. "Nnnghh..."

"Fuck." he mumbles, throwing his head back while his mouth falls opens. He even takes a moment to throw off his glasses on the floor, not bothered in the slightest to know if they landed smoothly or not. "Your mouth feels so good—so good around me, moonpie. So soft, so warm...fuck."

Leaving you to gag on his cock, he picks up the pace of his thrusts; every time he pulled out, it gave you a fraction of second to breathe, though when he pushed back with all his strength, you felt like you could suffocate. Your lungs burned, aching for air, your hands were strained behind your back, and your mind was foggy to realise any of it. What your conscious could filter was pure pleasure and desperate need for attention.

Jongho's cock was buried deep in you, stretching out the walls of your throat; you raise your tongue to the roof of your mouth, licking along the underside of his shaft as he continued to thrust in and out your mouth. The seething urge to bite down on his cock was immense in your mind, and even if you did, you knew it would not grace you with prettiest of consequences. So, you let that thought drift and oblige, doing what you had only learnt from watching porn.

"Want to breathe?" he asks as if he was going to do you a favour by pulling out.

Regardless, when you nod, he does pull himself out of your mouth and gives you a minute to breathe. You cough, feeling your throat itch while drool coats your chin and mouth; saliva strings dangle from your lips to the tip of his cock, which apparently had gotten redder and appeared to gleam with precum.

"Jongho..." you mumble.

"What? Is it too much for you?"

You shake your head, "I need you too."

"You need me, huh? Then show me what your mouth can do." He grumbles, nudging the tip of his cock against your lips.

You are back to wrapping your lips around him, lowering yourself down his veiny shaft and choking as it hits the back of your throat again. This was probably the most you had gotten inside your mouth. Now, tasting the saltiness from his precum, you roll your tongue on the underside of his cock. Licking and lapping while he rammed himself in and out of your mouth.

"Ah, fuck," he growls, the sound resonating from his chest as he throws his head back and his brows draw themselves in together. "Who knew this mouth was—oh, fucking hell—who knew this mouth was capable of driving someone wild."

You moan while his cock his confined in your throat, constrained to feel the mere vibrations of your whimpers and groans. Tears start pricking at the corners of your eyes when his pace picks up again; he bucks his lips, thrusting steadily to retain his rhythm. Too lost in the pleasure, both of his hands entangle in your hair and push you against his pelvis, your nose crushing on his pelvic bone and the bits of his pubic hair tickling your skin. It was rough, but pleasurable in a way.

While Jongho fucked into your mouth, your knees were tired from scrapping against the carpeted floor, your arms were numb from fettered behind your back. His cock slides deeper in your throat, slotting perfectly with the concise thrusts. Your lips were starting to sting from the stretch, as compared to the beginning. But minutes were starting to turn into hours, and you were still getting throat-fucked by him.

As his moans grew louder and the air in the room got heavier, you came to terms with the reality; Jongho peered down at you, a thin sheet of coat on his skin shimmering in the dim lights, while his brows remain stitched on his forehead. His lips trembled to speak something, but before he could even get his words out, you felt his cock twitch. He was close to his edge, and the thought of him cumming down your throat was least likely in your head.

Regardless, you couldn't do anything about it since his hands had already restrained you from moving your head back. Jongho's thrusts became placid and loose, surrendering to the pressure of his orgasm. Though, he doesn't give into the temptation and rather pushes you off; he pants heavily, letting his chest heave up and down. You were breathless too, but the way your throat had been abused, you start coughing from your lungs. Your chest burns, your throat has gone sore, and you couldn't feel your arms at all. Spit, drool, whatever fluids your mouth had, they were all staining your chin and lips. The opulent strings of saliva were connecting your lips and his cock, correction, his veiny and thick cock, which had fucked the hell out your throat.

For a man like him, his cock is sure girthy and thick, lacking in length however that couldn't be any of your concerns since he had a great technique.

How pathetic you were. This man has you captive, he's bending you to his ways and benefit, and you're gushing about him. Jongho seemed so harmless in the beginning, especially when you had no idea of his existence. Now, looking back to those days, it all plays out to a fever dream. Unlikely. Unfortunate. And, vague. Knowing him had bitten you in the ass, making you realise how careful you needed to be around people.

"I had imagined things—I had fantasised of the ways I'd use this mouth," he breaks your trance, hooking his thumb in your open mouth before pulling you up by it.

One of his hands comes quick to wrap around your waist as he picks you up; he guides you on his lap, your dress fluttering till he despairingly pulls it up to your waist. Your drenched panties exposed to his eyes, while you're adjusting yourself on his lap, making sure his cock hits your lower stomach.

"I hope it didn't disappoint you," you smile, hazy and clearly intoxicated with pleasure. "My mouth...my mouth can do wonders."

"Don't doubt that," he grins, placing both his hands on your waist, "but now I need to know what this little body can do..."

When his words are dragged into a mere whisper, he slides his hands to the back of your dress and tears it down. The sound of them tattering against his force, fill up the room, not that the melodies of your pants and grunts had already created a ballad; the damaged pieces of your dress start to slip off your body, revealing nothing but your lingerie. Jongho basically ogles at the sight, wasting no time in ridding you of your bra and filling his hands with your supple flesh.

"I used to see this body every day, aching to touch," he whispers, blowing air on your hardened nipples before swallowing one of your tits whole in his mouth.

"To shuck," he muffles his words, teeth sinking in your skin as he keeps kneading your other tit. "To phinch..."

His words were still discernible. Pulling back, after leaving his teeth marks around your tit, he smears some of his spit on the tip of his fingers and pinches your nipples. The coolness of spit was tantalising the rising warmth of your body; you were grinding on his bare thigh, letting his cock rub against your lower abdomen. He was rock hard and that was driving you insane. His hands slip from your chest to your back, resting in the curve before sliding further down to cup your butt.

"Jongho, please..." you whimper, bucking your hips into his in a desperate need of release.

"Yes, darling," he chuckles softly, rubbing his thumbs on either of your buttcheeks before giving them a gentle squeeze. "You're going to get it. Have patience."

Squeezing your ass tighter, he lays his palms flat on your skin and offers it a good hard smack.

You wince at the sting searing on your skin, "fuck—that hurts."

He didn't care.

Not giving it much thought, he proceeds to slide your panties to a side, keeping the other hand still on your ass.

"Christ, moonpie. You're dripping. You've even ruined your panties." He lets his middle finger trace your wet slit, rubbing it slightly to get you off.

Unconsciously, you start grinding on his finger, wanting to feel more of the friction and the demeaning pleasure you were seeking from it.

"Jongho, just fuck me already." You desperately drag out the movement of your hips, his finger sliding in and out of your slit before it protrudes into your cunt. "Hmm, fuck."

"I don't think my finger would be enough for you."

He shakes his head, snapping the straps of your panties with one meagre tug and letting the torn pieces fall off your thighs. It gets you moaning again, first you were high on the lust after sucking him off, and now, his raw intentions of tearing everything off your body. Without hesitating, or heeding you of any warning, he aligns his cock with your cunt; you take the hint a second later, pushing yourself forward for the purpose of ease.

He had no problem slipping into your tight cunt, after all, your arousal was flowing out like water; you were sure, as his cock inched in you, your juices were dripping down your inner thighs, leaving a shimmery trail behind. You were not prepared to endure the stretch from his cock, definitely not, regardless of your arousal coating every layer of your warm flesh. However, Jongho bottoms out the moment you sink lower onto his lap.

"Fuck, this cunt is a little tight for me," he groans, smirking at you.

"Shut up," you say out of breath, already struggling to adjust to his size.

He wasn't big, but he was girthy, stretching you out quite well. Taking a deep breath, you notice the mellow ache dissipating into sheer pleasure, and you start moving. Jongho bites back on a moan, watching you through his half-lidded eyes. He puts his hands on either side of your waist, giving you a leverage to increase your pace. You start off with rolling your cunt onto his crotch, letting cock stretch you out even more before riding him.

Jongho grabs your jaw, tight enough for his fingers to sink in your cheeks before pulling you towards him and capturing your lips in bloodthirsty kiss. The fervent heat shows in the way his tongue pokes inside, in despair of tasting your mouth; he heaves out a satisfied moan into your mouth when he catches up on the traces of his cock on your tongue. In a way, it riled you up, making you go harder.

The kiss breaks apart with Jongho pulling himself away, a smirk curling his lips in devilry, while his eyes are fixed on yours.

"You better watch your mouth," he warns you for what you had said before, "I have different ways to ruin it. Considering—ah fuck."

Not bothered to listen to him, you were chasing your orgasm, switching from rolling to bucking your hips up and down on cock. You lifted yourself and then sank back, every time, it gave you a feeling of emptiness before you were full again; the tip of his cock would ram deep into you, but not as deep as it would go if he tried to thrust himself into you.

"Playing a risky game, are we?" he mumbles, still holding your jaw and forcing you to open your mouth. Gurgling a good amount of spit in his mouth, he aims it at yours and the cold wad of his spit trickles down your throat. "I know how to tame a brat like you."

He lets go of your jaw and places his hand on the small of your back, supporting your body as it rocked up and down on his cock. You increase your pace, straining your hips almost as the light in his eyes is swallowed by darkness. It wasn't the first time you had come across noticing such ungodly indication in his eyes. He'd frequently show you his true colours, his true intentions, his raw emotions and the wicked schemes.

"Yeah? Then you better fuck me—better fuck me like you mean it." You whimper, your body shuddering.

Nifty tremors spread under your skin when he bucks his hips up, thrusting his cock into you. He plunges himself deep inside, a visible bulge now forming on your mound and on your lower abdomen. You did not expect yourself to prompt him so badly and quickly, though whatever it was that had gotten him on edge, you weren't complaining.

"I better have you making a mess on my cock, now."

With that, he increases the pace of his thrust, ramming his cock as deep as he could and eliciting the perfect melodious moans out of you. At this point, it was safe to say that you were no longer sane; you were never sane to begin with, no sane woman would let her kidnapper fuck her into the oblivion. You were letting Jongho do exactly that, letting his cock wreck you with almost no dignity as you ride him. Or so you thought you were. Jongho ceases his movements, keeping his eyes on you to know your rhythm and need.

And as he waited, scrutinising and perusing your tearful eyes, one of his hands comes clashing down on your cunt, slapping perfectly over your mound and slit; he waits a beat to notice your reaction, content with the way your jaw was open slack, and your eyes were rolling in the back of your head. Who thought it would make you mewl? Having his cock stuffed in you was one thing, but having him slap your bulged out cunt, was another. Both were pleasurable, but the latter was sending you to paradise of pure bliss.

Smirking to himself, he prepares to slap your pussy one more time. The sound of your skin and his fingers meeting was ravishing, echoing in the room along with your loud whimpers, which would soon turn to cries. Jongho absolutely loved watching you cry, he loved the way your tears stained your cheeks and how red they'd get after; he continues to proffer slaps to your cunt, all while bucking his hips into you. He had found his rhythm in doing that, alternating between thrusting his cock and smacking your cunt.

"Jongho, fuck—that—that fucking hurts," you cry, closing your eyes to let your tears cascade down your cheeks.

This was too much for you to bear, the immense pleasure piling on your body while bit back on the urge to release. Your body lurches into his chest and you rest of your head on his shoulder, realising he was still clothed on his upper half; not bothered by it, you too, resume rolling your hips into his, earning a mellifluous moan from him.

"If you keep doing that, I'll cum," he grows in your ear, pressing his lips against your temple as you laid your head on his chest.

His arms were around your waist, giving him a better grip to thrust into you; within seconds, his pace becomes animalistic, not faltering one bit. A familiar knot ties itself in the pit of your stomach, hot and tight, just waiting to come undone by force. You let out a small scream before pushing yourself back from his chest and looking at him, pleading him to end this suffering. He knew what he was doing, or had been doing, he was prolonging your orgasm, making your lower belly ache with desperation.

But now it doesn't seem that way. Keeping his pace steady, still wild and raw, he plunges deep into you to undo the tension in your stomach. You heave out a series of breathless moans, before giving into the temptation of release, finding your juice splash around his cock and dribble down your inner thighs. A bit of your orgasm drenches his briefs, while a few drops squirt on his chest, soaking the shirt. You were so done for, already aching to compose your breathing.

The hard part's over. But, feeling Jongho's cock pulsate intensely with every single thrust, your body starts coiling again. Familiar kind of heat rises in your gut, crawling up your spine and before you could even realise, you were preparing yourself to cum again. Back-to-back? It was something difficult for a guy to attain, yet here you were. You were sure the both of you would be releasing at the same time. Confined in your velvet walls, his cock numbs your rationality, heavily striking at one specific spot till you're crumbling in his arms. You heave a deep breath in, chest convulsing erratically when the wave of your second orgasm overcomes the aftershock of the first one. You've done it again, made a mess on his cock while he still stayed buried inside you. The feeling of being filled up to the brim, while your juices trickled down his cock and his skin, was causing your body to spasm.

Reeling out of the pain and pleasure, you find Jongho smirking at you, letting out voiceless grunts and snickers to belittle your conscious; cumming for the second time, without him trying to overstimulate you, was certainly a victory on his side. Jongho's cock twitches one last time with long and hard thrusts, and in a second's time, he's releasing himself into you. The warmth of his seed coats your walls, squirting a little deeper in your lower gut, while he slowly starts to pull out. Gradually, he slides out completely and holds you close to his body.

You were out of energy to initiate anything, already lethargic and sore. Exhaustion gets the best of you, and the only thing you remember before passing out, how dirty and slick you felt, how his cum was all over your cunt and your inner thighs, how pathetic you were to let this happen. Of course, the post orgasm clarity was making you feel guilty and rather than confronting it, you let it demean you while he stroked your back, fingers caressing your skin ever so lightly to help you relax. For a meagre second, your body eases into his, your head falling onto his chest as you collapse on him; his half-erect cock rests on your stomach, slowly going limp with the passing time.

"You were such a good girl today," he coos, a sole finger tugging at the links between the cuffs on your wrist. "Maybe it's time we got rid of these altogether."

"After all, you won't be wanting to escape now."

˖⁺‧₊˚ 🦋 ˚₊‧⁺˖

The very selective memories of him were echoing in your head; the first time you had bared yourself in front of him, let him have his way with you, the time he concluded you would never want to get out of here, away from him. And as much as you'd hate to admit he was right; you were starting to regard your old plan of escaping his clutches. To be honest with yourself, you had been gone beyond the point of return. Because every time he came to your room, you were hopeful you'd fuck, and your hopes were turned to reality when he'd fuck you to the ultimate paradise whenever he came to drop you a meal.

Basically, you had gotten used to him. As much as the pavlov's theory, every time he entered you room with a tray of good food, you'd be on your knees to satisfy him. And that did not disappoint him. At all. The two of you had gone beyond, diving headfirst into this dynamic where either of you relied on each other's body to sate your mental dwelling. You were never the one to complain, neither did he, not when he was getting to use in every way, he had desired from the time he had first laid his eyes on you.

Though, it was a forlorn mistake to give yourself into him. There were wicked consequences of those actions, leading to what seemed like addiction from both of your sides. You don't know how long you had been with him, months maybe? But after that one day, the very first time you had let him touch you in all the sinister ways he had planers to, you were madly into him, made to believe he was the only one capable of keeping you safe from the outside world. Pathetic.

To be sullied by a man like him, was to be ashamed and to be burned to ashes; you were embarrassed to admit it, your captor had stolen your heart and locked it in his cage, and the key to it was his six-inch girthy dick you'd drool over every time he was with you. Yeah, to conclude, you were his cum-slut, taking in every inch of his cock whenever he got in the mood to fuck you. Seemingly, you felt dead inside when he'd not show up to your room, feeling guilty and disgusted in yourself, because why else won't he come to you? He needs you just as much you needed him.

The concepts of days and time were all mangled for you; having no idea how many days or months you had spent with Jongho, you sit quietly in your designated room. You were waiting for him of course, because your biological clock had also been hampered with. Your heart would know when he'd come and when he'd go, when he'd want to fuck you, when he'd take efforts to clean you and give you aftercare. This surely was fucked.

You hear muffled sounds from outside, some clattering of dishes, some clinking of cutlery and another man. It was strange, at first you believed you were hearing things, that you had finally gone mad trapped in the dark room. But, when the voice booms for the second time, you were sure there was someone else in this house apart from you and Jongho. And it was a man. A man you had familiarised yourself at your workplace for months.

"Where the fuck is she, Jongho?" Yunho's voice sends chills down your spine, as it's too powerful to be heard from the other side of the apartment. "I know you've kept her here."

"She's not here," Jongho speaks up, and his muffled voice is followed by the sound of plates crashing.

"Listen here, you little shit. I never knew of your fucking intentions before; if I had, I would have never talked to her about you." Yunho's growl is loud, shattering your eardrums, for some reason, you could picture him clutching on Jongho's collar, forcing himself into his face as he continues, "I practically served her on a silver platter for you. So, if you still think your life is precious, tell me where she is."

"Yunho, you've got it all wrong. I don't have her." Jongho's persistent with his lies. "Look, I'm stressed too. She's been missing for three months already, everyone's worried about her well being. It's not just you..."

"Don't bullshit me!" Yunho screams, his voice coarse and deep. "I know she's here..."

After that you couldn't hear any of their voices or their yells, it was only sheer silence. What must've happened? Curiosity gets the worst of you and slide off the bed to press your ear against the door, wanting to listen a little closely.

Nothing.

There was pin drop silence on the other side.

And you feared, amongst the dwelling serenity, the door rattles quite harshly, causing your body to flinch and you take step back. Every nerve of your mind was consumed with fright, and sheer terror; you panicked, anxiously waiting for the door to be knocked open by someone of the two. Partly, you were scared to find Jongho on the other side. But, if it was Yunho, as you thought he was the one confronting Jongho, then you'd be relieved.

But...

Would you really?

If your memory serves you right, he was an accomplice in Jongho's crimes, helping his way to you. So, would you really trust him? Would you be relieved to find once he barges in through that door? Would you be willing to leap into his arms and hug him? The time would only tell because the hinges of the door had fallen on the floor. The person's brute strength had treated the door like a cardboard sheet, and it easily falls over, thudding against the floor.

Your heart was pounding in your chest, breathing ragged and your lips quivering; you take a few steps back, stumbling to the bed as a silhouette walks in.

"Oh, god. It's really you." You were sure that was Yunho's voice. "Fucking hell, we need to get out of here. Okay...here, take my hand."

Through the corners of your tearful eyes, you find him extending his hand over to you. Hesitations knocks your heart, but the remaining clarity of tour consciousness coaxes you to take his hand. It was Yunho after all; the very tall, handsome man from your work you could rely on for everything. To hell with your doubts about him, if he's here to help you, then maybe you should trust him. And trust him is what you do. He's dragging you out of the room, guiding you down the hallway to the living room.

Yunho's broad back covered you from witnessing a still scene in the living room. When he halts all so suddenly in his steps, you prevent yourself from colliding into his back and lean over to gaze at him in confusion. And your confusion grows to sheer horror when you find Jongho lying on the ground, blood pooling under his body which seemed to only grow with every passing second.

"What the fuck..." you mutter under your breath, your heart shattering bit by bit as you take in the view of your so-called lover lying lifeless on the floor. "What did you—what did you do, Yunho?"

The said man turns to glance at you, shaking his head as his voice turns grim and serious. "I'm trying to save you. This is nothing—the depths I would go through to keep you safe..."

"You—you...moonpie, don't leave me," Jongho's words are caught in his throat, moreover, he's disgruntled from all the pain.

Yunho's already tugging on your hand, having it intertwined with yours as tightly as he could to make sure you won't fall back into Jongho's trickery. He was right, knowing you would pity the man who had captured you and held you captive for months, you would pity the criminal because he was nothing short of kind to you.

In actuality, Jongho had done nothing wrong to you, right?

You shake your head, wanting to stay behind to help him, but to your despondent heart's desire, you couldn't get yourself to snatch your hand from Yunho's grip. Jongho's clothes were drenched in blood, his shirt soaking the crimson shade as much as it could; he was stabbed in his chest by a long shard of ceramic, probably from the mess of broken plates on the ground. Yunho keeps dragging you to the main door, but your attention was all on Jongho, how listlessly his eyes fluttered, and the slight tremble of his lips was heart wrenching...till it turns to a sullen smile, only widening thereafter.

Why was he smiling?

You were growing concerned.

It was then when you were forced to turn around, when you saw his eyes close forever, the contrasting crimson against the marble floor growing by twofold; he was long gone, and that sure as hell put you in a state of panic. Yunho's fingers dug into your skin, showing no signs of easing out, not until he had you in the passenger's seat of his car and him behind the wheel. It was nighttime. The moon was high struck in the sky, and the stars were nowhere to be seen; this was your first time witnessing the moon in so long, that everything felt foreign to you. The fresh air, the sounds of the crickets chirping, the empty street, the spot where Yunho's car was parked, all of it was so out of the ordinary that you were suffocating. The reality was tough to digest, but you still couldn't fathom that you were out of that sunless room, out of the turbid silence and hearing things you thought you weren't capable of.

"Are you hurt anywhere?" Yunho starts inspecting your body with a haste, tugging at the collar of the dress you were wearing and studying your skin.

"I'm fine," you mumble back, comprehending the sound of his voice and his touch.

"What the fuck..." he grumbles, finding your skin littered with bruises and cuts, all the hickeys from your time together with Jongho.

The cuts weren't exactly deep, and Jongho would only leave them behind for the purpose to intensify the pleasure between you two. They were almost healed, with murky scabs forming already. You wanted to push Yunho's hands away from you, wanting him to stop perusing your body as you were ashamed to show it to him.

"What were you thinking?" he shakes his head, pulling himself back to loosen his coat from his shoulder. He wraps it around you, and you start to shiver; not because you were cold or anything, because it was your first time feeling genuine affection instead of the feigned one. "This is atrocious."

"How did you find me?"

"The better questions here should be, are you okay? Did he do anything to you? What...what the hell happened?" he sighs, "we were all so worried about you." Taking a deep breath, he turns right ahead, and you do too, "the cops were useless to us after two days, you know. Because Jongho had made sure your case appears to them as a runaway and not abduction."

You quietly listen to him, facing the front and watching the night pass you by. Everything was still new to you, after months of spending your time confined in a room, of course it was natural to feel strangled in the open air.

Yunho grips the steering wheel, tight enough for his knuckles to turn while. "Your apartment was unscathed, so it was clear no one tried to abduct you. They ruled out every suspicion on Jongho because of the evidence. A lot happened after you went missing—when the cops gave up, we tried to find clues in your apartment."

Silence covers the two of you, like a warm hug from a blanket, before he decides to break it. "Na-Ra and her boyfriend never gave up; they tried calling your hometown and asking your whereabouts. I was busy going through your apartment and Jongho...he always found a way to divert our investigation."

"Until one day he got too squirrelly when we asked him about you. It was only logical to, he was your neighbour and your landlord...it made sense," his voice breaks, "he never let us in his apartment either. My suspicions only grew from that moment."

"He said..." you speak up, glancing at him to find him resting his head on the steering wheel; but hearing your voice he turns his head to face you. "He said...he had been planning this for a while. Kept an eye on me. Watched my every move."

"He surely did," Yunho lets out a satirical chuckle, "bastard had cameras installed everywhere in your apartment. Even your old one. It creeped out Na-Ra."

"You don't say," you whisper, looking away.

"He has a spare room in his apartment; filled with screens, you know, all those cameras keeping an eye on you," Yunho mutters, "I should've known it before, he was obsessed with you. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been so eager to help you out."

"Were you in on this?" you question, catching him off guard.

"Why would I be in on this?" he gasps, "I wasn't. He told you I was, didn't he?"

You nod, pursing your lips together. "I don't know what to believe anymore. I can't even tell if I should trust you or not."

"You should," he mumbles, "as a friend I was worried sick about you."

"I don't doubt that."

"Really, trust me. I'm not going to hurt you." He repeats himself.

"I know you won't but..."

"But?"

"What about Jongho? Is he really—"

"Dead? Yeah." He sighs, as if he had been holding it for long. "I aimed for his heart; pretty sure I got it."

"So, you killed him?"

"I already told you; I would go to any extent to keep you safe." He murmurs.

"So, what do we do now?" you ask because you were starting to panic.

You look at him, and he had been staring at you for a long time. He shakes his head, letting a smile cross his face, "we do nothing. We have no choice. Someone will find his body; the rot makes it easier to."

"And about you, you will have to restart your life pretending nothing happened."

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