#it is all black and white and it takes one mistake for the trust to shatter

[pickled-flowers]

As an autistic person who masks too much, I fucking see you. I hear how you speak of other autistic people who don't mask like me, I see you having no patience, being uncomfortable, weirded out. But it's fine, because I'm not like that right? No one can really tell that I'm autistic, because I'm a nice one, I'll listen to you talk, I'll put myself in your fucking shoes. I am 100% sure you would be disgusted by what I actually am. If I stopped biting down on my words, you would call me a monster as well, and you wouldn't be wrong, but I told you from the start what I was, it's your own fault for refusing to believe me. Except I respect myself, I love what I am, so take the door, please, and don't linger in my life. This nice personality I've crafted for years takes me so much energy, so if you see the mask fall down, wonder why.

[edenesth]

01. The Captain — By Order of the Black Pirates

An 'Ice On My Teeth' Comeback Special Series

Pairing: gang leader!Hongjoong x fem!reader

AU: gang au

Word Count: 18.1k

Summary: The Captain of the Black Pirates—respected, feared, and unmatched in strategy—lives by his sharp mind and unshakable resolve. But his carefully constructed world begins to crumble when a grave mistake leads him to torture an innocent suspect nearly to death. Haunted by guilt, his quest for redemption takes an unexpected turn, awakening a part of him he never thought existed: a desire to protect and care for someone.

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Trigger Warnings: violence, torture, abuse, blood, scars, mentions of murder and SA, language, contains dark themes in general

SERIES MASTERLIST | ATEEZ MASTERLIST

The dim glow of lantern light flickered across the room as the gang leader held the letter between his fingers, turning it over with a scrutinising gaze. His brow arched slightly, the ivory wax seal bearing the unmistakable insignia of the White Serpents—a gang notorious for their cunning and deception, their pristine image masking venomous intent. Silent but deadly, serpents poised to strike. And Hongjoong knew them well.

"Well?" His voice was calm, almost amused, as he studied the coded message in his hand.

Yunho exhaled sharply with a shake of his head, frustration etched across his face. "She's stubborn. Won't admit to a thing. Twenty-four hours, and still nothing."

The Captain's smirk widened, dark amusement playing in his eyes. "Really? Even with this treacherous letter in her possession?" He tapped the envelope lightly. "Twenty-four hours… that's impressive. No dog has ever lasted that long." His tone was laced with mock intrigue. "Perhaps she's an especially loyal one. How interesting."

He leaned back, nodding toward the heavy iron doors leading to the basement, his voice low and confident. "A tough one to crack, no doubt. But they all crack… eventually." The distant echo of chains rattling and the creak of the doors opening sent a chill through the air. The game had only just begun.

Let's see just how long you can last.

The room was dim, suffocating in its silence, the air thick with tension and the metallic scent of damp stone. Your breath hitched as consciousness clawed its way back, and the cold, unforgiving chill bit at your drenched skin. You blinked through the sting of icy water clinging to your lashes, your trembling gaze rising to meet the source of the voice that shattered the oppressive stillness.

"Congratulations, miss!" The sudden, mocking boom made you flinch, fear coiling tighter around your chest. "You're the first to last a full day in these chambers. How very impressive!"

The man before you was smaller than the one who had been 'questioning' you earlier—a tall, lanky figure whose blows you could still feel—but this one's presence was far more terrifying. Cold authority radiated from him, his smile a twisted mockery of warmth. He stepped closer, his sharp eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "I trust my boys have treated you well."

A shiver tore through you, body wracked with uncontrollable tremors—whether from the bitter cold or the malice in his voice, you couldn't tell. His grin widened, and the false politeness only made it worse. "Fear not, my lady," he purred, his tone soft and deadly. "I'll treat you even better… until you decide to be honest, of course."

Your heart sank into the pit of your stomach, despair crashing over you. You tried to shake your head, but your body was too weak and cold to offer feeble resistance. And yet, you knew—this was only the beginning.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you wished for the thousandth—no, the millionth—time that this was all a nightmare. The cold seeped into your bones, but it wasn't just the chill that made you tremble. It was the gnawing fear, the hopelessness that clung to you like a second skin.

How did it come to this?

You replayed the events over and over in your mind, searching for an answer, but all you found was confusion. Just a day or two ago, you had been weaving through the bustling port, arms laden with imported goods for your employer. The crowded streets were alive with noise—merchants shouting, sailors hauling cargo, smugglers slipping through the shadows. You had only wanted to return to work, unaware that fate had already marked you.

Then it happened. A sharp turn into an alley. The sudden grip of rough hands. Black-clothed men cornering you like wolves circling their prey, eyes sharp and merciless. Their accusations—espionage, treachery—made no sense. You tried to explain, voice trembling, but they didn't listen. Not until they tore through your belongings and fished out a letter—one you had never seen before.

The blow came swiftly, a fist to your face, and the world went dark.

Now, here you were. Broken. Bleeding. Trapped in a nightmare you couldn't escape.

"P-please… I d-don't know who the Wh-white Serpents are," you stammered, forcing your swollen eye open to meet the man who seemed to command the room, his presence suffocating. "I s-swear…"

Hongjoong's tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, his irritation barely concealed behind a mask of feigned calm. "You know," he said, his voice laced with a dangerous softness, "I was really hoping you wouldn't say that again." He exhaled in a mock sigh, his patience wearing thin. "Now you've left me no choice."

With deliberate steps, he moved toward the glowing embers at the far side of the room. The fire crackled, and your breath hitched when he wrapped his hand around a hot branding iron, its tip glowing ominously.

No, please...

Panic surged through you, and tears spilt uncontrollably down your cheeks. You didn't even have the strength to sob anymore. You could only watch in frozen terror as he turned back, the iron in his grasp radiating heat and menace.

"Come on," he cooed, voice deceptively gentle. "I'd really hate to ruin such pretty skin. All you have to do is be a good girl—tell me what this blasted letter says. Tell me the name of your boss." His grin was sharp, dangerous, but beneath it, you sensed his patience was threadbare.

The White Serpents. The name alone ignited his fury. Their faces were always hidden, their identities a mystery. Even their leader remained a ghost, a phantom in white. And that infuriated him more than anything—an enemy he couldn't see, couldn't predict.

And now, you were his only lead.

The room seemed to shrink under the weight of his frustration. The dim light flickered over the cold stone walls, shadows dancing like spectres of every soul that had suffered here before you. His grip on the branding iron tightened, the metal searing hot in his hand, glowing with menace. He didn't want to take this step—truly, he didn't. But the memory of how they found you replayed in his mind, solidifying his certainty.

You were guilty. You had to be.

He clenched his jaw, recalling the chaos at the port. The Black Pirates were in the midst of a crucial covert operation, tensions strung taut like a wire. They had been waiting for the White Serpents to make a move, for the elusive spy to slip through their defences. The streets were crowded, the perfect cover for deception.

Then there was you.

A simple girl, or so it seemed, navigating the busy market with unsuspecting ease. Unbeknownst to you, the real spy—the one they had been hunting—moved silently through the crowd. In a calculated move, the informant slipped the coded letter into your bag and vanished into the sea of bodies before anyone could catch him.

Hongjoong's men, sharp-eyed and vigilant, saw the handoff. They reacted swiftly, believing they had caught the elusive spy. You were cornered in the alley, fear etched across your face as you begged for understanding, your confusion only cementing their suspicions. The letter was damning enough. Evidence was evidence, and the Captain trusted his crew's intelligence.

But now, staring at you—broken, trembling, tears staining your bruised cheeks—he felt the edges of his certainty fraying. You persisted in your pleas, clinging to innocence with a desperation that should have crumbled by now. And yet… you hadn't.

"Last chance, woman," he said coldly, his voice like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. The heat from the iron radiated, the threat palpable. "There will be no going back from here. I'm sure you know that."

He meant the words as a warning for you, a final offer before he left mercy behind. But deep down, perhaps they were a warning for himself, too—a foreshadowing he didn't yet grasp.

You shook your head weakly, trembling from exhaustion and terror. Still no confession. Still the same maddening persistence.

Hongjoong raised the branding iron, holding it close to your battered face. His eyes burned with something dangerous, something teetering between anger and frustration.

"Well then," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, the finality in his tone sealing your fate—or so he thought.

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The air in the torture chamber hung heavy with the acrid stench of scorched flesh, mingling with the damp chill of the stone walls. His cold, calculating gaze never wavered as he watched you, unconscious and crumpled on the floor, your body trembling even in unconsciousness. The mark of the Black Pirates seared into your back, raw and angry, a testament to the brutality you'd endured.

"That'll scar for life," one of his men muttered, a mix of awe and amusement in his voice.

Hongjoong let out a low, humourless chuckle, his eyes dark with unrelenting resolve. "For life?" he echoed, tilting his head slightly. "How optimistic. I doubt she'll live long enough to see the next sunrise if she continues to be this stubborn."

His voice was void of emotion, laced with a chilling indifference that sent a shiver through even the most hardened of his men. He didn't enjoy this—not exactly—but he had no patience for weakness. If you wouldn't talk, you were nothing but a liability, and liabilities were dealt with swiftly.

He turned away for a moment, tossing the branding iron back into the fire with a careless flick of his wrist. Embers exploded in every direction, but he paid them no mind. "We've wasted enough time on her," he said, voice cold and final. "If she doesn't confess after this, end it. Finish her."

The room fell silent, save for the crackling of the fire, the finality of his words hanging in the air like a death sentence. One of the guards nodded, his expression stoic. "Of course, boss."

Hongjoong motioned toward the bucket of dirty water beside you, its murky surface rippling with the slightest movement. "Wake her," he commanded, his voice devoid of mercy, anticipating the agony that would soon follow.

The guard lifted the bucket with ease, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim as he approached. Without hesitation, he tilted it, the filthy water cascading over your battered body. The moment the contaminated water hit your wounds, especially the fresh burn, your body convulsed violently.

A scream ripped from your throat, raw and guttural, piercing through the oppressive stillness. It wasn't the kind of scream that came from fear—it was the sound of pure, unfiltered agony.

The Captain didn't flinch. He stood tall, arms crossed, watching with a detached curiosity as you writhed on the floor. "That's better," he muttered, almost to himself. "Now, let's see if you're ready to talk."

He crouched down beside you, his face an unreadable mask. "Final chance," he said softly, almost tenderly, as if mocking your suffering. "Who sent you?" His voice dipped lower, dangerously calm. "Or would you prefer to die in this filth, unloved and forgotten?"

The only response was the ragged sound of your breath, broken sobs wracking your body. His patience was wearing thin, and though he was a man known for his control, he was ready to end this.

A shuddering breath escaped your lips, each gasp searing through your lungs like fire. The icy water clung to your battered body, every drop seeping into your open wounds, amplifying the unbearable pain. Your vision blurred, the dim room spinning into shadows and smoke, but you clung to the fragments of your thoughts, the last remnants of who you were.

This is it, you thought, the realisation settling over you with a strange, hollow calm. This is how it ends.

You didn't know why these monsters had dragged you into their nightmare, why they believed you were a spy. You didn't understand the cruel fate that had brought you here, only that it had. And now, there was no escape. The man before you, with his cold eyes and cruel smirk, had made that clear.

Your body trembled violently, not from the cold but from the acceptance creeping into your heart. Death will be a mercy, you thought. Better this than more agony.

Closing your eyes, you let the numbness wash over you, a strange kind of peace taking root beneath the layers of fear. You thought of your friends—the laughter shared over simple joys. You thought of your family, their faces blurred by memory but still holding warmth. And you thought of your employer, the one person who had seen worth in you when the world turned away. You prayed they would not grieve too long. You prayed they would find solace.

I'll watch over them, you promised silently. From wherever I'm going.

The wet, acrid air filled your lungs, heavy and suffocating. Every second stretched into eternity, and you waited for the final blow, the one that would release you. Your heartbeat slowed, the frantic rhythm giving way to a dull, distant echo.

And then, the room grew deathly quiet.

Hongjoong remained crouched, studying you, his iron grip on control unwavering. He didn't speak immediately, and that was almost worse. The silence pressed down, a suffocating weight, as if the world was holding its breath.

"Still nothing?" His voice was soft now, eerily gentle, like a predator savouring the last moments before the kill.

You didn't respond. Couldn't. There was nothing left to say. You were ready for the end.

And then, with a slow exhale, you heard him murmur almost to himself, "What a shame."

The gang leader let out a long, slow breath, his head shaking slightly, a humourless smile curving his lips. His eyes lingered on your broken form, slumped over, trembling and soaked, but utterly still, as if you had already crossed into death's grasp. Your eyes fluttered shut, the last spark of defiance extinguished. With a heavy sigh, he rose to his feet, dusting off his coat with deliberate care, and with a curt nod, gestured toward his men.

"Finish it."

The words were cold and final, slicing through the room like a blade. One of the guards stepped forward, the metallic click of his gun cocking echoing in the dim space, followed by the low scrape of his boot on the wet floor. Hongjoong turned his back on you, jaw tight, waiting for the shot to ring out, waiting for the moment to pass so he could move on from this wasted effort.

But then— footsteps. Quick and urgent, echoing down the stone stairway.

"Wait."

The voice was calm but firm, cutting through the tension like a sudden gust of wind. The room froze, the guard's finger hovering over the trigger as all eyes turned toward the stairs. Yeosang emerged from the shadows, his usual cool composure replaced by something unsettled. His sharp gaze darted toward your barely conscious form before locking onto his captain, his face unreadable, but his unease unmistakable.

Hongjoong's brow lifted in mild curiosity, though his patience was wearing thin. "What is it, Yeo?" he asked, voice clipped as the Phantom strode forward, his expression grave.

Yeosang leaned in close, his voice low but firm as he murmured something into the gang leader's ear, too quiet for the others to hear. Whatever he said, it landed like a blow. Hongjoong's entire posture shifted. His jaw clenched, his fists curling and uncurling at his sides as he processed the whispered words.

The room held its collective breath.

After what felt like an eternity, the Captain straightened, his eyes dark with a new kind of frustration, though there was no mistaking the glimmer of something else—regret? Anger? It was impossible to tell.

His voice, when it came, was sharp and decisive. "Release her."

The room erupted in a flurry of confusion, but no one dared question him. The guard with the gun hesitated for only a second before lowering it, stepping back. Another moved to untie the chains binding your wrists, the cold iron clattering to the floor as your limp body crumpled forward.

Hongjoong's gaze never wavered, his face carved from stone as he watched you collapse. His men obeyed without question, though their confusion was palpable, the tension still thick in the air.

As you slumped to the ground, barely conscious, he let out another breath, slow and controlled, his eyes narrowing in thought.

"Take her to the infirmary," he commanded, voice icy but steady. "And keep her alive."

His men exchanged uncertain glances but quickly moved to obey, lifting your frail body with care as they carried you out. He remained rooted, his eyes lingering on the bloodstained floor, his fists clenched once more as Yeosang watched him silently.

"I hope for your sake," Hongjoong muttered under his breath, "this wasn't a mistake."

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The heavy oak door to his office slammed shut behind him, the echo reverberating through the grand but cold space. Hongjoong paced across the dimly lit room, the fire in the hearth casting flickering shadows on the walls, but offering no warmth. His hand shook slightly as he poured another shot of whiskey, the amber liquid splashing over the rim. He didn't care. He downed it in one swift motion, the burn doing little to drown the bile rising in his throat.

Wrong person.

His brother's words replayed in his mind like a curse, each syllable a dagger to his pride.

"Hyung, we got the wrong person. She's not the spy—the real one escaped. This woman was just... there. A scapegoat."

He squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. The whiskey glass slammed down on the desk, the sharp crack of glass against wood making his men just outside the door flinch. But none dared to enter. They knew better.

His fists balled at his sides, trembling with suppressed rage—at Yeosang, at his crew, at himself. The sight of your bloodied form flashed in his mind, the raw agony in your voice as he pressed the searing iron into your skin. He could still hear the echoes of your pleas, the desperate, broken words you had whispered over and over: I'm not who you think I am... please...

He should have known.

How could he have missed it? The way you had looked at him, not with defiance or guilt but with pure, unfiltered fear and confusion. He was Kim Hongjoong, the Captain of the Black fuckin' Pirates—his instincts had never failed him before. Yet this time, he had been blinded by rage, by the need for control, and it had led him to commit an unforgivable mistake.

His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the desk, the polished surface groaning under the strain. No amount of wealth or power in this city could erase the image of your battered, broken body lying on the cold floor. The branded mark he had burned into your back would scar, not just on your skin but in his mind, forever.

The Black Pirates were ruthless, yes, but not reckless. Innocents were not meant to be collateral unless there was no other choice. This... this was different. It was unacceptable.

He let out a low, bitter laugh, hollow and laced with self-loathing. "How could this happen?" he muttered to no one, his voice cracking. "I'm the one who doesn't make mistakes."

But this was a mistake. A fatal one, if Yeosang hadn't intervened.

The storm inside him raged on, unrelenting. No amount of whiskey could drown it, no fire could warm the cold knot in his chest. For the first time in years, Kim Hongjoong felt something foreign and unwelcome searing through him.

Regret.

He sank into the leather chair behind his desk, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His hands covered his face, shaking as if he could scrub away the guilt, the shame. But it was branded on him now, just as deeply as the mark he had scorched into your skin.

After what felt like hours, he remained in his office, standing by the window, the golden light of the waning sun casting a sharp contrast against the deep shadows in the room. His gaze pierced through the glass, locking onto the tall, black gates of their mansion—gates that symbolised power, control, and security. Yet today, they felt like bars of a prison. He imagined how those gates must have looked to you, cold and foreboding, as you were dragged inside, far from the life you knew, thrust into a nightmare you hadn't earned.

He clenched his jaw, fists curling at his sides as the weight of his guilt continued to press down on him. One mistake. One mistake. That's all it had taken to bring you here. A mistake from his men, from him, and it had led to your torture. His throat tightened as those cruel memories clawed at him: your ragged pleas, your broken body, and worst of all, his voice—cold, detached, ruthless—demanding answers you didn't have.

Remorse surged through him, an agonising tide that refused to ebb. His own words echoed in his mind, venomous and unforgiving: "Be a good girl and tell us what this blasted letter says." His stomach twisted, the taste of bile bitter on his tongue.

He turned away from the window, squeezing his eyes shut as he clutched his head, fingers digging into his scalp as if the pain could drown out the memories. But it only intensified the haunting vision that consumed him: his mother's lifeless eyes, staring into nothingness, wide with fear and betrayal. She had died for nothing—used, discarded, and left to rot by men who saw her as collateral damage. All for debts that weren't hers to pay.

He had been just a boy—useless and powerless—as he watched her lifeblood seep into the dirt, all because of his degenerate father, who had left them behind with nothing but mountains of debt. The loan sharks had spared him, a mistake they didn't live to regret. Hongjoong had spent years rising from the ashes of that helpless child, becoming the monster who hunted monsters, the leader who swore to tear down anyone who preyed on the innocent.

Yet now, here he was, no different from the men who had taken his mother from him.

He slammed a fist onto the desk, the sharp crack splitting the heavy silence. His breathing was ragged, uneven, as his mind spiralled into the past. He had sworn not to harm the innocent.

But he had failed. He had repeated the very sin that had shaped him.

They weren't heroes. The Black Pirates were thieves, smugglers, outlaws. But they lived by one code: never harm those who didn't deserve it. They stole from the corrupt, the greedy, those who exploited the powerless. They were not saviours, but they were not supposed to be butchers either.

And now, because of his blindness, you lay broken and scarred—an innocent woman caught in the crossfire of his rage.

His hands trembled as he dragged them through his hair, staring blankly at the dark wood beneath him. His reflection in the glass across the room looked unfamiliar—haunted, lost, and consumed by a regret that would never fade.

How can I ever make this right?

The oppressive silence in the room was broken by a familiar deep voice, one he always sought when the weight of leadership became too much. "She's stable," Seonghwa said, his tone calm yet sombre.

Hongjoong exhaled a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, relief flooding through him like a tide that couldn't quite wash away the guilt. "Stable," he echoed, the word offering little solace.

His brother stepped closer, the soft creak of the floorboards the only sound between them. "They've patched her up... but I don't think some of the scars will ever go away." His voice dipped into something quieter, almost apologetic. "Especially not that mark."

The gang leader winced, his fingers tightening into trembling fists. The brand—his brand—seared into her back, a permanent testament to his cruelty. "The mark," he muttered, voice hoarse with regret. "She'll carry it because of me."

Seonghwa leaned against the edge of the desk, folding his arms, watching him with a measured gaze. "Because of us," he corrected, though the words offered no comfort. "But this isn't like you. You don't make mistakes like this."

Hongjoong let out a hollow, bitter laugh. "And yet, I did. I fucked up. She begged, Hwa." His voice cracked, raw and ragged. "She begged, and I didn't listen."

The eldest's face softened, but he didn't look away. "Regret is pointless if it doesn't drive change," he said quietly. "We can't undo what's been done. But maybe... maybe we can still make it right."

Hongjoong looked up, his eyes hollow but desperate. "How?"

Seonghwa met his gaze, steady and unwavering. "By giving her a choice. Her freedom. Protection if she wants it. You can't erase the scars, but you can make sure she's never harmed again."

The Captain's jaw clenched. "And if she wants nothing from us? If she wants nothing to do with the Black Pirates?"

"Then you let her go," Seonghwa replied simply, his voice steady. "With the assurance that she'll never have to fear us again."

Hongjoong leaned back in his chair, tension coiling in his shoulders. "I don't deserve forgiveness."

"No," the Gentleman agreed softly, his voice firm but kind. "But it's not about what you deserve. It's about what she does."

The words hung in the air, heavier than any weapon, cutting deeper than any blade.

Hongjoong dragged his hands through his hair, the tremor in them betraying the turmoil within. "Tell them to keep her comfortable," he whispered, voice barely audible. "And... let me know when she wakes up."

Seonghwa inclined his head, moving toward the door but paused before stepping out. "You may never forgive yourself, Joong," he said, his voice softer now, "but that doesn't mean you can't try to do better."

As the door clicked shut behind him, the leader was left alone with the echoes of his guilt—and the faintest, most fragile glimmer of hope.

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The quiet hum of the infirmary filled the air, broken only by the soft rustle of sheets and the faint crackle of the oil lamp on the bedside table. Hongjoong stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes locked on your still form lying on the cot. The sight twisted something deep inside him, the sharp pang of guilt slicing through him once again.

"Hyung?" Jongho's voice pulled him from his reverie, soft but laced with surprise. "Why are you here?" His brows knitted together in confusion as he stepped closer. "Seonghwa hyung said to only inform you when she's awake. She's not—"

The gang leader cut him off with a subtle shake of his head. "I had to see if she's okay... for myself." His voice was low, almost a whisper. "You're dismissed. I'll take over."

Jongho hesitated, his eyes searching his leader's face, filled with concern and something unspoken. "Hyung..."

"I won't..." Hongjoong's voice faltered, his throat tightening. "I won't hurt her any further, Jongho."

The youngest sighed softly, the tension in the room heavy between them. "That's not what I—"

"I know," Hongjoong interrupted, closing his eyes and swallowing hard. "It's fine. Just... go thank the doctor for me."

Jongho lingered for a moment, his gaze lingering on the Captain's worn expression. Finally, he gave a respectful bow of his head. "I'll be nearby if you need me."

With that, the Anchor left, the door clicking softly shut behind him, leaving Hongjoong alone with the stillness once more.

He stepped forward, the floor creaking beneath his boots, and sank into the chair beside the bed. His hands trembled as he clasped them together, resting them on his knees. He could barely bring himself to look at you, the bandages wrapped around your body stark against your pale skin, the ghost of the agony he had inflicted still lingering in the air.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words breaking like fragile glass. "Fuck, I'm so sorry."

The apology felt hollow, inadequate, but it was all he had. He sat there, staring at you, hoping that somehow, even in sleep, you might hear him. But the only response was the steady rise and fall of your chest, the rhythmic proof that you were alive.

Alive, but not whole.

He leaned back, his head tipping against the wall, the weight of everything crushing down on him. For the first time in years, Kim Hongjoong—the feared Captain of the Black Pirates—felt utterly powerless.

His eyes, unwilling to linger any longer on the bandages covering your wounded body, drifted downward. There, beneath the cot, something caught his attention. A crumpled, dirt-streaked tote bag sat neglected, its once vibrant fabric marred by careless fingerprints—his men's fingerprints.

He furrowed his brows and leaned forward, retrieving the bag with careful hands as if it might break apart at any moment. The stitching was amateur but charming, the drawings simple yet endearing. Scrawled in bright, cheerful lettering at the centre were the words Marigold Gift Shop.

It looked so out of place here in the dim and sterile infirmary, like a splash of sunlight drowning in shadow.

He set the bag on his lap and gently pried it open. The contents were jumbled, chaotic, but it was clear that everything inside once held meaning. Trinkets, small souvenirs from the port—a handful of seashells, a hand-painted keychain, and a delicate glass charm in the shape of a flower. These were not the belongings of a spy.

He reached deeper and pulled out a tiny notebook, its edges worn from use. His fingers brushed over the cover before flipping it open. The pages were filled with neat, dainty handwriting—simple lists:

Small wooden carvings

Candles (lavender & sea breeze)

Handmade bookmarks

Seashell jewellery

It wasn't just a list of purchases—it was a routine, mundane, innocent.

Hongjoong's throat constricted, and his hands trembled as the realisation struck him anew: you had been working. You had been on an errand for your job at the Marigold Gift Shop when they dragged you into their nightmare.

His vision blurred, his breath catching in his chest.

You had no idea who they were. No idea what danger you had stumbled into. You were just there, in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it cost you everything.

Hongjoong squeezed the notebook shut, resting it against his forehead as though it could somehow absolve him of the crushing guilt. People must be looking for you—your friends, your family, your employer. The ones who had sent you on this errand, trusting you would return safely.

And now, what could he give them? A broken, scarred version of the vibrant soul they had lost. How could he face them? How could he return you to them like this?

He sat in silence, the only sound in the room the steady rhythm of your breathing and the occasional drip of water from the infirmary's ceiling. His gaze lingered on the crumpled tote bag resting on his lap, its cheerful colours muted beneath the grime. His fingers traced the fabric absentmindedly before he noticed the bucket of clean water and a spare rag near your cot.

For reasons he didn't fully understand, he stood and reached for the rag, dipping it into the water. The cloth came away damp and cool, and he squeezed out the excess with slow, deliberate movements. It was a strange sight—Kim Hongjoong, feared leader of the Black Pirates, bent over a bag, carefully wiping away the dirt and grime.

He worked in silence, the world narrowing to this singular task. Each stroke of the rag against the fabric felt like an apology he couldn't utter aloud. Slowly, painstakingly, he cleaned the tote, rubbing away the stains until the bright colours began to peek through again. The cheerful drawings and stitched patterns reemerged, fragile yet resilient beneath the care of his steady hands.

Piece by piece, he began to arrange your belongings. The trinkets were cleaned and carefully set back in place—each seashell, the delicate glass flower charm, the hand-painted keychain. He smoothed out the tiny notebook, the pages no longer crumpled but straightened with the same precision he reserved for the most critical of plans.

As he worked, he felt a strange lightness settle over him. He hadn't noticed the small smile tugging at the corners of his lips until it faded, replaced by the weight of reality as his gaze shifted back to you.

The bag, now pristine, sat neatly on the table beside you, a quiet testament to his care—a care no one, not even his brothers, had seen in years.

He stood there for a long moment, staring at you, at the bandages wrapped around your broken body, and the regret clawed at his chest again. His smile had vanished entirely, replaced by the grim determination that only guilt could bring.

How could he make this right? How could he even begin? Would you ever be able to forgive him, or himself, for what he had done?

The questions lingered unanswered in the stillness as he sat back down, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together.

He didn't know the answers. All he knew was that he had to try.

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The world swirled in an agonising haze as your consciousness began to claw its way back. Every inch of your body screamed in pain, each bruise, cut, and wound making itself known like fire crawling beneath your skin. It was almost impossible to grasp the full weight of the agony—how could anyone describe the sensation of pain this overwhelming? It was a deep, suffocating thing that made every breath feel like a battle.

You tried to open your eyes, but even that small movement was an assault on your senses. The brightness behind your eyelids was too much, the pressure of it sending a wave of dizziness crashing over you. When you managed to blink, your eyes watered uncontrollably, the effort alone nearly too much to bear. The burn on your back, the curse of that mark—his mark—lingered like a red-hot brand, the pain compounded by the memory of it being tainted with filthy, contaminated water. You couldn't even tell if the pain had dulled or if it was just the agony of everything else making it seem like the worst of it. Even if you didn't die from your injuries, you were certain that infection would claim you before long.

Slowly, with a whimper that barely escaped your cracked lips, you arched your back, instinctively trying to relieve the burning pain from the mark. The movement was weak, your body screaming in protest, but the sensation was a small reprieve. As you forced your eyes open again, blinking over and over to get your bearings, your vision began to sharpen, and the haze of confusion began to recede, bit by bit.

The white ceiling above you was a sharp contrast to the hellish basement you had been trapped in. A sterile smell filled the air, the kind that only came from a medical facility. You were no longer in that filthy, oppressive place. Were you safe now? Had someone rescued you? Was it the authorities? Or perhaps your friends, your family, or your employer had noticed you were missing and raised the alarm? Had they found you in time?

You desperately hoped for any answer that could bring you some sense of peace, but the sight before you shattered that hope in an instant.

Turning your head slightly, you froze. The tears that had started to retreat at the thought of safety now rushed back with full force. There, sitting in a chair beside your bed, was the man who had nearly ended your life.

His face was shadowed in exhaustion, his posture slumped slightly as if he'd nodded off in his seat. His presence hit you like a blow to the chest, a knot of raw fear twisting in your gut. The man who had tortured you, who had burned you, who had broken you was right there. The man who was responsible for every inch of pain you'd endured.

Your breath hitched in your throat, and despite your body's desperate need to remain still, the fear surged within you. You couldn't help but tremble, a silent cry of terror rising in your chest.

But even in your panic, something else stirred—a strange, foreign confusion. He was here. In this room. But he wasn't hurting you. Was he... watching over you? Was this some new kind of torment? A psychological game? The thought made your head spin.

Tears fell down your cheeks as you tried to shift, but your body refused to obey. You were broken in every sense of the word, and now, trapped by your own fear and pain, you couldn't make sense of anything. All you knew was that the man who had caused all of this—the man who had dragged you into this nightmare—was right there, inches away from you.

And you had no idea what it meant.

Your attempts to keep your sobs quiet failed, the soft, broken sounds escaping against your will. Each tremor in your chest seemed to echo in the sterile room, and despite the pain, your body recoiled in fear as you saw him stir. His brow furrowed, eyes fluttering open slowly, the grogginess of sleep fading as he registered the sound—and then, his gaze locked with yours.

Panic surged through you, your breath hitching violently as his dark eyes met your own, wide and trembling, your irises blown out with terror. You wanted to scream, to run, but your body betrayed you, too weak and broken to do anything but sink further into the thin blanket covering you. All you could do was shrink back, the ache in your body drowned out by the overwhelming fear coursing through your veins.

Hongjoong froze, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat. Then, he sat up straighter, slowly, deliberately, as if trying not to startle you further. His jaw clenched, and for a second, the silence stretched unbearably between you. He raised his hands carefully, palms facing you in a universal gesture of peace, his movements measured and cautious, like one might approach a wounded animal.

"Hey," he began softly, his voice low and careful, as though it might shatter you further. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you."

You didn't believe him. How could you? The fear in your eyes deepened, your body curling instinctively beneath the covers, though every movement brought fresh waves of agony. Your eyes darted around the room, seeking escape, seeking anyone else—but it was only him.

He sighed, a heavy sound filled with something that almost resembled regret. He stayed seated, keeping his hands up, as if showing he was unarmed would make any difference to the scars he had already left on you. "Nobody will hurt you again," he said, and his voice trembled, just barely. "That... that includes me."

You watched him, breath ragged, your body trembling with the effort to stay still. He swallowed hard, the guilt written in every line of his face as he continued, his tone thick with something you couldn't name—shame? Guilt? Desperation? "I know this is all very confusing, and you have no reason to trust me, but we made a mistake. I made a mistake."

He paused, his throat bobbing as he swallowed again, struggling with the weight of the words. "You're not who we thought you were. And for that—for everything we... I put you through—I'm sorry."

His apology hung in the air, but it did nothing to ease the terror in your heart. It sounded sincere, but sincerity didn't erase the pain, the scars, the nightmare that still lingered in your mind. It didn't change the fact that this man, who now sat before you looking so remorseful, had been the one to destroy you.

Tears continued to stream down your face, and all you could do was stare at him, disbelieving and broken, the word sorry echoing hollowly in your mind. He had taken everything from you, and now he expected that word to make it right?

The silence stretched between you, fragile and suffocating, as you lay there—shattered, terrified, and unsure of what came next.

As if your body had decided to break the unbearable silence itself, your stomach let out a loud, insistent growl. The sound was jarring in the stillness, so absurdly out of place that it caught both of you off guard. You gasped, clutching the thin blanket tighter to your face, cheeks burning despite the pain radiating through your body. Humiliation and fear clashed within you. Would he be disgusted? Would he regret sparing you? Was this the moment he'd change his mind?

You couldn't help but brace yourself.

But instead of anger or disdain, he simply blinked in surprise before his lips parted, and he mumbled softly, "Oh, right. Stupid me. You must be starving." His voice carried a gentleness that was almost foreign, as if the words were meant more for himself than you.

The wooden chair scraped lightly against the floor as he pushed it back, the sound startling in the quiet room. He stood slowly, the motion casual, almost hesitant. "I'll bring you something to eat," he said, the words so ordinary, so kind, that they felt unreal.

And then, just like that, he walked out of the room, the door closing quietly behind him.

You lay frozen, staring at the spot where he'd been moments ago, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Your mind spun in confusion, trying to reconcile the man who had tortured you with the one who now spoke softly and promised food. Was this some twisted game? Was he really going to bring you food—or was it laced with poison, a final, cruel trick?

But if he wanted you dead, why not just finish it when he had the chance? Why tend to your wounds, only to kill you later? The questions swirled relentlessly.

You bit your trembling lip, tears pricking the corners of your eyes again. He could have killed you. You had seen it in his eyes that day—the moment he gave the final order. You had accepted it then, surrendering to fate, your body succumbing to the darkness.

Yet here you were. Alive.

Still shaking, you turned your head to the door, trying to comprehend the reality before you. Was this real? Was he truly changing—or was this a prelude to something worse?

The confusion and fear gnawed at you, but beneath it, a glimmer of something unfamiliar lingered.

Hope.

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"Here," he said softly, holding out a spoonful of chicken soup to your lips. The aroma was heavenly—rich and savoury, exactly what your starved body craved after days without food. Your stomach clenched painfully in response, desperate for sustenance. Yet, despite the temptation, you frowned and turned your face away.

He sighed, his hand lowering slightly but not withdrawing entirely. The bowl in his other hand trembled ever so slightly as if he wasn't sure what to do next. Finally, he set it gently on the table beside you, the warm liquid inside rippling quietly.

Eyes trailing after his movements, you caught sight of your bag resting there. It wasn't in the state you remembered—no longer a crumpled, filthy mess. It had been cleaned meticulously, every stitch visible and tidy, the fabric now free from dirt and grime.

His voice interrupted your thoughts, soft and almost hesitant. "Oh yeah, your bag. I... got busy while you were sleeping and cleaned it up."

You clutched the blanket tighter, sceptical. Him? Cleaning your bag? It was absurd.

"Everything inside too," he added, a small smile pulling at his lips. "You have some pretty cool stuff."

Your eyes widened, heart racing. He touched your things? Against your better judgement, you reached out, wanting to verify the state of your belongings, only to let out a sharp cry as pain flared through your body with the movement.

He was beside you instantly, his hands hovering, unsure whether to touch or retreat. His face twisted in something that looked suspiciously like hurt when you recoiled, sinking back into the bed to avoid him.

Clearing his throat, he asked, voice soft, "You want your bag?"

You nodded timidly, watching him closely. His small smile returned, gentle and relieved. "Let me help you," he murmured, pulling his chair closer. He placed the bag on the bed between you both, unzipping it carefully for you to see inside.

For the first time since waking up, your eyes softened. Everything was as he said—clean, neatly arranged. Trembling fingers reached out for the glass flower charm nestled inside, your favourite trinket. But before you could touch it, your stomach betrayed you again with a loud, desperate growl.

Humiliated, you drew your hand back, shrinking into yourself.

He chuckled softly, reaching for the bowl again. "I know you don't trust me, and you shouldn't," he admitted, his tone gentle and sincere, "but I can assure you, this is safe to consume." To prove it, he scooped a generous spoonful and took a bite himself, letting out an exaggerated hum of satisfaction.

You swallowed hard, the sight and smell tormenting you. Still, you hesitated when he held out another spoonful.

"If you won't eat it," he said with a sigh, "then I'll finish the rest." He raised the spoon toward his own mouth as if to follow through.

Before he could, you opened your mouth quickly, and his grin softened. Gently, he fed you, the warm broth sliding down your throat like liquid gold, soothing and comforting. The flavours were simple, yet after days of deprivation, it felt like the most luxurious meal you'd ever had.

He remained calm, every action slow and deliberate, offering care despite your fear and mistrust. His patience was unsettling, yet... somehow, in that moment, the terrifying man you had known felt like a distant memory.

But the pain in your body lingered. And so did the scars.

Hongjoong felt a warmth he couldn't explain swelling in his chest as you finished the final spoonful, the empty bowl resting between you both like a fragile truce. His eyes softened as he watched you, vulnerable yet still defiant, the faintest remnants of tears glistening on your lashes. He reached forward, hand poised to wipe the corner of your lips, but before he could, a sharp knock on the door shattered the moment.

He blinked, and it was as if a mask fell into place. The softness in his gaze vanished, replaced by the cold, commanding demeanour you knew too well. He set the bowl on the table, the clink of ceramic against wood too loud in the heavy silence. Straightening in his seat, shoulders squared, he uttered a firm, "Come in."

You shrank back into the bed instinctively, your body curling as far from him as your injuries would allow. The door creaked open, and another man stepped inside—his brow raising slightly when he noticed you were awake.

"Hyung," he said, his tone both respectful and urgent, "you're needed at the meeting. To discuss our next steps, now that the..." He hesitated, casting a brief glance your way, as if unsure how much to say in your presence. "The actual spy remains at large."

Hongjoong nodded, the authority in his posture unwavering. "I'll be there. Thank you, Jongho." His voice was clipped, businesslike, a stark contrast to the gentle tone he'd used with you only moments before. "Summon the doctor. Have her checked thoroughly and ensure she's comfortable."

The man named Jongho gave a short nod and left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.

For a moment, the Captain remained seated, his back straight, tension radiating from him. Then, as if reminded of your presence, he turned to you once more. His expression softened, just for a second, as he offered the faintest smile—fleeting but genuine. "It's okay," he murmured, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. "No one will hurt you again. I won't let them."

Before you could react, the smile vanished, his face hardening once more as he rose to his feet. Without another glance, he strode to the door and exited, the soft thud of his boots fading into the distance.

You lay there, staring at the closed door, heart racing, mind spinning. The man who had nearly destroyed you had just promised your protection. And despite everything, a single, terrifying thought whispered through your mind:

I believe you.

The room felt unnervingly quiet after his departure, the air still heavy with the remnants of his presence. You stayed frozen for a moment, listening to the silence, your pulse still thundering in your ears. Slowly, cautiously, you shifted beneath the blanket, every movement sending fresh waves of pain rippling through your battered body.

But you endured it, your gaze locked on the bag resting beside you. Trembling fingers reached out, brushing against its fabric, now pristine compared to how you last remembered it—torn, dirtied, ruined. Carefully, you pulled it closer, clutching it to your chest like a lifeline, tears welling up as you stroked the surface. Your fingers traced over the familiar stitches and doodles, remnants of happier times, of days spent working, laughing, living.

Were your loved ones searching for you? How frantic must they be, wondering if you were still alive, hoping, praying for your return? The thought broke something inside you, and you wept silently, the tears streaming down your face as you reached inside the bag.

Piece by piece, your belongings greeted you, neatly arranged—your keychain, your tiny souvenirs, even the little trinkets you'd collected on that ill-fated day. None of them bore the grime and cruelty you had last seen, each one painstakingly cleaned, cared for. Despite yourself, a hollow sob escaped your lips, and you hated how much it affected you.

At the very bottom of the bag, your trembling hand closed around the familiar worn edges of your notebook. You pulled it out, your tears falling freely as you held it close, opening the cover with a sniffle. Flipping through the pages, you found the list you had written, the innocent to-do list that had led you into this nightmare. Your thumb traced the ink of your handwriting—dotted with tiny stars and hearts—and you almost smiled through the pain.

But it wasn't your handwriting on the newest page. You froze, blinking through your tears as you stared at the words, scrawled in a neat, unfamiliar script:

I'm sorry. I will make it right again, I promise.

Your breath caught in your throat, a sob escaping that you couldn't suppress. He had written it. The very man who had branded you, broken you. And yet here, in this quiet, fragile moment, his apology was inked into your most personal possession.

It wasn't enough. It could never be enough.

But it was something.

The notebook fell from your hands, landing on your lap as you curled around it, weeping not just from pain, but from the deep, agonising confusion that tangled with it. You didn't know what to feel anymore. Hatred? Grief? Or some terrible, unbidden hope that his words weren't just lies?

As the tears blurred your vision, you whispered brokenly to no one, "Why does it hurt more now?"

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The days stretched into a haze of silence and uncertainty. You hadn't seen him since that moment when he fed you soup and scribbled his apology into your notebook. In his absence, Jongho became a constant presence—a quiet sentinel, always bringing what you needed but never lingering too long. Aside from him, the kind doctor, with her gentle hands and soothing voice, tended to your wounds, her care meticulous and soft. But it was always just Jongho and her. Never the Captain.

At first, you felt like a prisoner, wondering what the end of this strange hospitality would bring. Would they let you go? Was this kindness a façade before some darker fate awaited? But as the days went on, your thoughts turned inward, your hands finding comfort in writing. You filled parchment after parchment with letters—letters to your parents, your best friend, your employer. They were full of reassurances you weren't even sure you believed. I'm alive. I'm safe. I will come back. But the ink soothed you, even if you knew they might never be sent.

Today was no different, except for the soft murmurs between you and the doctor as she changed your dressings. Her hands worked deftly, the cool air brushing against your skin as she peeled away the layers of gauze and replaced them with fresh, clean bandages. You let your mind drift, thinking of the promise he had scrawled in your notebook. He said he'd make it right. But how? Will I get to leave? Will I ever see my old life again? And if I do… will I ever be the same?

The faint creak of the door interrupted your thoughts, and you looked up instinctively, expecting Jongho's usual unhurried entrance. But it wasn't the Anchor.

It was him.

Your breath caught, and you froze, eyes wide as you met the gaze of Kim Hongjoong. He, too, stilled in the doorway, his expression unreadable, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something—guilt, perhaps? Regret? His gaze fell to your back, to the horrid brand etched into your skin, and you saw the way he flinched.

He wasn't the only one.

Your body trembled involuntarily, an instinctive recoil from the man who had caused you so much pain. The doctor, blissfully unaware of the tension thickening the air, glanced up with a warm smile. "Oh, you're here! I'm almost done, just give me a minute."

The gang leader nodded stiffly, but he didn't speak. He quickly averted his gaze, turning away as if the sight of you was unbearable. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it should be.

But not for the same reasons as before.

You watched him from the corner of your eye, clutching the edge of the blanket as the doctor finished her work, her hands light on your skin. She hummed softly, her presence a soothing balm to your raw nerves. But your focus remained on him—on the way his shoulders tensed, on the way he refused to meet your eyes again. When he did chance a glance, he caught your gaze, and you saw it clearly: shame.

His lips parted, but no words came. You wanted to demand answers. Why are you here? What do you want from me? But your voice remained trapped in your throat.

The doctor stood, packing up her supplies with a satisfied smile. "There we are," she said brightly, glancing between the two of you. "I'll leave you to rest now." She nodded respectfully to Hongjoong before quietly excusing herself, leaving you alone with him.

The door clicked shut, and the silence between you thickened. You stared at him, your heart pounding, as he stood there, still and unsure. He finally spoke, his voice low and rough, as if it hurt to say the words.

"I didn't mean to... interrupt." He looked down, hands clenched at his sides. "I only came to see how you were."

You didn't know what to say. Under normal circumstances, perhaps a thank you would have been appropriate—but this wasn't normal, and he didn't deserve that. So you kept quiet, your lips pressed into a thin line, your hands fidgeting with the edge of the blanket.

He sighed softly, the sound barely audible, before clearing his throat and moving to sit beside you, just as he had that day with the soup. He settled into the chair with a quiet grace, attempting a small, hesitant smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. His gaze flickered to the books, papers, and pens scattered across the nursing table beside your bed.

"I hope Jongho managed to get you everything you asked for," he said gently, his voice low and careful, as if afraid to startle you. You nodded, but kept your eyes downcast, focused on your wringing hands.

His gaze followed yours, landing on the letters you had written—the stack of parchment covered in your careful handwriting. For a moment, you tensed, waiting for the inevitable backlash. Would he order his men to burn them? Would he scold you for daring to think of leaving, for daring to hope?

But instead, his voice was soft. "Would you like me to deliver them?"

You froze, lifting your head slowly, your wide, disbelieving eyes meeting his earnest gaze. He gestured toward the letters with a slight movement of his hand. "The letters," he clarified. "I could send them for you."

Your disbelief must have shown on your face, the way your brow furrowed and your lips parted slightly in shock. He saw it. He felt it. And it cut deeper than he expected. Of course, you still saw him as a monster. Why wouldn't you? He had given you every reason to believe that. If he wanted to change that, he would need to do more—much more.

He closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself, before looking at you again with an expression that was raw and unguarded. "Look," he began, voice heavy with something that felt dangerously close to regret. "You're not trapped here, in case you're wondering. You're free to leave whenever you want."

You blinked, your heart racing at the words. Could you believe him? Could you trust that freedom was within your reach?

"It's just that…" He trailed off, searching for the right words. "After everything we—I've done to you, the least I can do is help you heal. To nurse you back to health, to give you what you need. I need to make it right. That's all I want. For you to get better, to return to yourself. And if there's anything you need to make that happen… just say the word."

His voice dropped to an almost pleading tone. "So tell me—do you want those letters delivered? Is that it?"

You stared at him, searching his face for any trace of deception, any hint of insincerity. But all you saw was honesty. Whether or not it was real, you didn't know. But the sincerity in his tone, the earnestness in his eyes—it was undeniable.

And you couldn't lie to yourself. The letters were what you wanted. To set your mind and heart at ease. To reassure your loved ones that you were still alive, still here, even if only barely.

So you nodded.

He exhaled slowly, as if relieved, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw a glimmer of something softer in his expression. "Okay," he said simply. "I'll make sure they're delivered."

You struggled, the words stuck in your throat like stubborn stones, not fear this time—but something else. Something unfamiliar and unsettling. You nodded again, the gesture small and hesitant, and to your surprise, he seemed to find it… endearing. His smile softened further, and though you wanted to resent him for it, there was something disarming about the warmth in his expression.

Noticing the way you hesitated, as if wanting to speak but unsure how, he shifted in his chair, intertwining his fingers and leaning forward, careful in his every movement. He stopped just short of your space, close enough to offer comfort but far enough to avoid overwhelming you. His eyes, soft and patient, held yours, and the corners of his lips tugged upward in that same gentle smile—a silent reassurance: I won't hurt you. It's okay.

He seemed aware of how much he was smiling, almost as if surprised by it himself. His eyes glimmered with something that felt out of place in a man like him—genuine kindness. It struck you then, how foreign that smile must have been on his face, as if it had gone unused for too long. You wondered who he had once been, before this life of cruelty hardened him. And you hated that part of you, the part desperate for softness, wanted to know.

"It's alright," he said softly, his voice gentle and warm. "You don't have to be afraid. Just tell me—what do you want?"

The tenderness in his tone felt unreal. This was the same man who had once stood over you, cold and unyielding, ready to snuff out your life. And yet here he was now, speaking to you as if you were fragile, precious even. It was maddening. Confusing. And yet, damn you for being nothing more than a frail human aching for kindness, your guard cracked, just a little.

You didn't know why you asked it, why this question had been sitting in the back of your mind, waiting for its chance to escape. But when you finally spoke, your voice was soft, barely above a whisper, trembling with vulnerability. "Your name."

He blinked, caught off guard. For a moment, silence stretched between you, his expression shifting from surprise to something softer, almost regretful. And then, in that quiet space, he realised the truth: from the very beginning, through everything he had put you through, he had never once told you his name.

He sat back slightly, exhaling a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "Hongjoong," he said, his voice steady but tender, as if offering you something sacred. "My name is Hongjoong."

Your lips parted, and though you had imagined feeling hatred for this name, it didn't come. Instead, all you felt was the raw ache of everything left unsaid.

"Hongjoong," you repeated, tasting the name on your tongue like a fragile thing, and the way you said it felt like the start of something neither of you could yet name.

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Hongjoong had made it a point to visit you every evening, just before the world outside your room fell silent for the night. At first, you dreaded those moments, unsure of his intentions or what he might say. But as the days turned into weeks, those visits became routine. He would sit beside your bed or across from you at the small table, his demeanour always calm, his tone soft and steady, and slowly, piece by piece, he unravelled the mystery of who he was, what this place meant, and how you had been drawn into their world.

His name, you learned, was more than just a name. He was the leader of this place, a sprawling mansion that served as the heart of a powerful syndicate—a gang, as you quickly realised. The people here, the ones who moved with deadly precision and cold efficiency, were his crew. Not just criminals, but men who had pledged their loyalty to him and each other in the face of a world that sought to destroy them.

You had been caught in the crossfire of a feud between two factions, mistaken for an enemy spy in a moment of chaos. It explained the brutality with which you had been treated, the mistrust that lingered until the truth emerged too late. "You weren't supposed to be hurt," he told you one night, voice thick with regret. "I didn't know who you were. If I had known..." He never finished those sentences, leaving the unsaid to hang in the air like a bitter aftertaste.

And now, the pieces fit. The puzzle you had struggled to solve finally made sense, but with that clarity came an unsettling reality: you were surrounded by criminals. Even if Hongjoong had promised safety, you were in a den of people capable of murder, of violence, of unspeakable acts committed in the name of survival and loyalty. It went against everything you believed in—your sense of morality, the honest life you had led until now.

Yet, despite your fear and discomfort, you knew you had no choice. What had happened could not be undone. The only hope you clung to was for a swift recovery, a chance to leave this world behind and return to the life you had once known.

As your injuries healed, you grew stronger. The sharp, constant pain dulled to a distant ache, and with the doctor's meticulous care, you were soon able to move around. Hongjoong had a proper room prepared for you—one more fitting, spacious, with large windows that let in the light. It was more comfortable than you dared to expect, but you knew better than to interpret it as anything more than a gesture of atonement.

Still, you couldn't deny the strange, unspoken connection that had formed between you and him. You wouldn't call it friendship—you couldn't. He was still the man who had brought you to the brink of death. But there was something. Something fragile, a bond woven through shared guilt and reluctant trust. You found yourself relying on him in ways that shamed you. You hated it, hated how you felt a strange sense of calm when he was near, as if the very person responsible for your suffering was now the anchor keeping you steady.

It was complicated. Confusing. And worst of all, it made you question whether the lines you thought were so clear—between captor and captive, between right and wrong—had begun to blur.

Unbeknownst to you, Hongjoong wrestled with the same confusion—especially about the emotions that had begun to surface lately. He couldn't shake the persistent need to be near you. It gnawed at him like an unrelenting tide, wearing away the walls he had built over the years. He told himself it was duty, responsibility. After all, he was the reason you had nearly lost your life. If he hadn't acted so quickly on false information, none of this would have happened. He reasoned that it was only right to take full responsibility, to ensure your recovery—physically and otherwise.

That logic gave him something to hold on to, but it didn't explain everything. It didn't explain why his eyes instinctively sought you out whenever he walked the halls or the strange calm that washed over him when he saw you safe. It didn't explain the warmth that bloomed in his chest when he heard your voice or glimpsed your rare, hesitant smiles. No, it wasn't just responsibility anymore. It was something deeper, something he wasn't ready to name.

After another gruelling meeting filled with discussions of crisis management and strategies to track down the elusive spy, the Captain's head buzzed with tension. His face remained a mask of cold authority, his steps measured, his shoulders squared. He passed his men without sparing a glance, his thoughts elsewhere. Always on you. The dining hall was empty, your room vacant, and the painting room—where you often sat doodling, lost in thought—was deserted. A strange, unwelcome worry tightened in his chest.

Relief only came when he pushed open the heavy library doors and saw you standing there. You stood in a sunlit aisle, the golden light streaming through the tall windows, bathing you in a soft glow. The light illuminated your features—now mostly healed, the bruises reduced to faint shadows, the cuts mere whispers of what they had been. You were beautiful, he realised, and the realisation ached in a way he hadn't anticipated. He closed the door quietly behind him, the sound muted, careful not to startle you. His steps were slow and deliberate as he approached, his heart inexplicably racing.

You were focused on a pressed flower bookmark tucked between the pages of a book, your head tilted slightly as you admired it, your fingers gently brushing the fragile petals. The scene was simple, ordinary. Yet it stirred something in him, an unspoken truth he wasn't ready to confront.

"Marigold," he said softly, his voice low to not disturb the tranquillity. "That's my favourite flower."

You looked up, startled at first, but your expression softened when you saw him. "Really? It's mine too," you replied, your voice steady, though a hint of curiosity lingered in your tone.

A small smile tugged at his lips, softer than usual, though it carried the weight of everything left unsaid. "It is? Then you should keep it," he said, nodding toward the bookmark, surprising even himself with the offer.

"But—" you began, gesturing toward the marked page.

He chuckled quietly, shaking his head. "I never had time to finish the book anyway. Can't even remember what it's about. Just take it. It's yours now."

Anything you want, it's yours.

For a moment, the silence between you stretched, fragile yet profound, like a delicate thread holding more than either of you dared admit. Hongjoong didn't know what this feeling was, only that it was growing. And being near you eased a part of him he hadn't realised was broken.

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The evening air was still, and the faint glow of the lamp in your room cast a soft halo beneath the door, a beacon that drew him to check on you one last time before retiring. He knocked gently, expecting the usual soft response or even a brief acknowledgement, but there was only silence. His brows knitted in concern, and he knocked again, the sound a little firmer this time. Still, no answer.

Then he heard it—a muffled yelp.

Panic surged through him. He couldn't wait. "I'm coming in," he called, his voice urgent but not harsh, and without hesitation, he pushed open the door.

The sight that met him stopped him in his tracks. You were sitting on the edge of your bed, your shirt halfway unbuttoned, exposing your shoulder and part of your back. The fresh bandage you had been attempting to wrap around yourself lay unravelled on the floor, a tangle of gauze mocking your efforts. Your face was flushed with embarrassment, and the moment you realised he was there, you scrambled to pull your shirt back up, your movements frantic and clumsy.

He didn't look away, not out of disrespect, but because he couldn't ignore the mark on your back. That cursed brand. Every time he saw it, it felt like a punch to the gut, a cruel reminder of his failure. If he could change one thing in his life, it would be that—undoing the moment that left such a permanent scar on you. He swallowed hard, his throat tight, before finally speaking, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it.

"Do you need help?"

Your immediate response was a firm shake of your head. "I'm fine," you insisted, though the tremble in your voice betrayed you. He could see it all: the mess of your hair, the exhaustion etched into your face, the slight tremor in your hands. You had been at this for a while, stubbornly trying to do it alone, and it was clear that you were anything but fine.

Hongjoong sighed quietly, stepping closer, each movement deliberate and gentle, as if afraid he might scare you away. "You're not," he said softly, without accusation, without pity, only quiet understanding. He knelt in front of you, eyes level with yours, and held out his hand, palm up, an unspoken offer. "Let me help."

You hesitated, biting your lip, your pride warring with the exhaustion. But eventually, you let out a shaky breath and nodded, your eyes downcast. He reached for the discarded bandage on the floor, his movements slow, deliberate, as if trying not to disturb the fragile air between you.

Carefully, he unbuttoned your shirt just enough to reveal your shoulder, his fingers never straying more than necessary. The moment felt intimate but not in the way that made you feel vulnerable. It was gentle. Respectful. As he wrapped the bandage around you with practised precision, his hands were steady, careful not to brush against your skin more than needed.

"You don't have to do everything alone," he murmured as he fastened the bandage, his voice like a balm. "I know you're strong, but you can let someone help you."

You didn't respond immediately, the warmth of his words sinking in as you sat in silence. Finally, you whispered, "Thank you."

He gave a faint smile, one you didn't see but could hear in the softness of his voice. "Anytime."

You finally turned to face him, your breath catching when you realised just how close he was. His face, so much softer now than the man who had once been your captor, was mere inches away. As if more modest than you, he quickly moved to help button your shirt, his fingers deft but gentle, avoiding your gaze as if giving you privacy in a moment that was anything but private. Your eyes, however, couldn't stop following the sincerity etched into his expression, hating the way it made your heart race. How could your body betray you like this, reacting to someone who had once been so cruel?

You swallowed hard, trying to banish those thoughts, and lowered your gaze. That's when you noticed his wrist peeking from the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. It was the first time you saw them, the scars that twisted from his elbows to his wrists like angry, jagged reminders. Your brows furrowed, curiosity—and something deeper—propelling you forward. Without thinking, your hand reached out and grasped his as he pulled away, holding it gently.

"H-how'd you get these?" your voice trembled, more from the vulnerability in the air than any fear.

Hongjoong stilled. The small smile on his face faded, replaced by a haunting stillness. He pulled his hands back gently, as if realising for the first time he had no right to be near you, no right to touch you. He placed your hands carefully back in your lap, almost reverently, and turned toward the window, the fading sunlight casting shadows across his face.

A humourless chuckle escaped him, low and bitter, as he glanced at the scars on his arms before shifting his gaze to the darkened horizon. "Let me tell you the story of a boy," he began, his voice void of emotion but heavy with pain, "who had everything taken from him. Not that he had much to begin with—only a mother who loved him more than anything." His voice cracked, almost imperceptibly, but you caught it. "Even that wasn't enough for fate."

He didn't look at you, eyes fixed on the darkening sky, as if it held all the answers. "My father was a worthless drunk with a gambling problem. He left us with nothing but debts, and my mother… she worked herself to the bone, trying to keep us afloat. But it was never enough. The loan sharks came one night." His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I was too young to understand what they wanted, why they were shouting at her. But I remember… I remember watching them beat her to the ground."

His voice dropped to a whisper, but it cut like a blade. "I watched them strip her, violate her, and when they were done, they slit her throat as if she were nothing." He exhaled shakily, his jaw tightening. "They left me there with her body. Taunted me. If they had known what they created that night… maybe they wouldn't have left me alive."

You sat motionless, your heart aching at the raw truth of his confession. Suddenly, everything made sense—how he had become this way, hardened and cold. You could understand now, even though it hurt to. Perhaps you would have become the same if you had endured such horrors. No one is born evil. We are all blank canvases, shaped by what we experience, by the pain life forces us to endure.

His eyes fell to the scars on his arms, and a bitter smile tugged at his lips. "These," he murmured, flexing his fingers as if feeling the memory burn anew, "are souvenirs from that night." His voice grew colder, distant, as if reliving the moment. "I remember their nails clawing at my arms, desperate to cling to life. But it didn't matter. Those bastards were never going to escape."

Despite the chilling edge in his words, you felt no fear. Instead, you saw the boy hidden beneath the armour, a boy the world had broken too soon. He turned back to you, his eyes no longer cold but filled with a deep, aching regret. "And that's why," he said, voice trembling with emotion, "I wish I could undo what I did to you. I swore I'd never harm the innocent, never become what they were. But I failed." His voice cracked. "I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry. Nothing I do will ever make this right."

To his surprise, you reached out, your hand resting gently on his shoulder, offering comfort where he expected none. He turned to you, his eyes glistening with tears he refused to let fall.

"It's okay, Hongjoong," you said softly, your voice unwavering yet gentle. "Everyone makes mistakes."

And then you smiled—a small, genuine smile, brimming with forgiveness. It shattered something within him, but it also healed something far deeper, a part of him he thought was long dead.

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Things had shifted significantly between you since that fateful night when he first bared his soul, revealing the shadows of his dark past. Your understanding unlocked something in him, and in turn, you also began to open up. Little by little, you spoke more, smiled more freely, and allowed yourself to be vulnerable in his presence. Hongjoong, too, had changed. What once were brief visits to check on you became shared meals, quiet conversations, and the gentle ritual of him changing your wound dressings daily. It had become a routine—a comforting rhythm filled with tender moments, lingering touches, deep gazes, and countless almosts.

Almost kisses. Almost confessions. Almost something more.

Just a little longer, he told himself, fighting the constant urge to feel your lips against his. He needed to earn your trust fully before daring to take that step. He knew he didn't deserve you—but the heart wants what it wants.

But of course, just as he allowed himself to believe things were finally settling, reality reminded him otherwise. He should have known better than to think peace could last in his world. You and he had grown closer, but the life he led was never one to offer tranquillity for long. Conflict loomed on the horizon. An important meeting was fast approaching—a meeting arranged long before you had entered his life.

The Black Pirates, an organisation that had always operated with an exclusively male force, had struck a delicate negotiation with the Red Room, a renowned spy training facility specialised in producing elite female operatives. Though both syndicates had thrived independently, they saw mutual benefit in an alliance, especially as the shadowy threat of the White Serpents continued to grow. A treaty was in the works and was supposed to be one of Hongjoong's top priorities.

Yet, things had changed. You were here now, and part of him refused to leave you. The thought of being away, of leaving you vulnerable even for a moment, gnawed at him. So he made a decision: Seonghwa would attend the meeting in his place. The eldest, the Gentleman, was their best negotiator, and if anyone could secure a favourable outcome, it was him.

"It's set then," he said, his tone final. "Seonghwa will represent me for this." He leaned back slightly, eager to conclude the meeting and return to you.

But he should have known better than to expect it would be accepted without protest.

The moment the words left his mouth, Mingi's hand slammed onto the table, the force reverberating through the room. "Really, hyung?" he spat, his voice heavy with frustration. "You're going to send someone else on your behalf for something this important? I was already fed up with this nonsense, but enough is enough!"

The screech of the temperamental member's chair echoed as he shoved it back, rising to his feet, the fire in his eyes blazing. Yunho reached out, gripping his arm in warning, but Mingi shook him off, his glare fixed on their leader.

"No!" he growled, his voice rising. "When will this madness stop?! I'm sick and tired of you being distracted by her. At first, I understood—you felt guilty, like you owed her something. But now? You're letting it go too far! You've been wasting precious time hovering around her, growing soft! And now you're putting our work at risk. When does it end, huh?"

The room fell into a tense silence, the air thick with the weight of Mingi's accusation. Hongjoong remained seated, his fingers interlocked on the table. He met the taller man's gaze with a cold, unwavering stare.

"Sit down, Mingi," he said quietly, his voice calm, but the authority in it was unmistakable.

Mingi didn't move, his jaw tight, defiance radiating from him. "Answer me," he demanded. "When does it end?"

The room seemed to hold its breath.

"You think I'm neglecting my responsibility," Hongjoong said, his voice low, even, and far colder than before. He rose slowly, pushing his chair back with a deliberate grace. "You think I'm growing soft. Maybe you're right." His eyes, sharp and cutting, bore into Mingi's. "But everything I do is for this gang's survival. Including ensuring her safety."

Mingi scoffed, disbelief written across his face. "Her? She's not one of us. She's a—"

"Enough," Hongjoong snapped, the steel in his voice cutting through the room like a blade. He stepped closer, towering over Mingi now. "You question my judgement again, and it won't be this quiet." His voice softened, but the danger in it was palpable. "I trust Seonghwa to handle this. And I trust you to remember your place."

For a moment, it seemed as if Mingi might push further, but his best friend, the Enforcer's hand tightened on his arm, a silent plea. He growled in frustration and, after a tense beat, finally sat down, seething but silent.

Seonghwa's calm voice broke the heavy quiet. "I'll handle it, Cap. You've made the right call." He shot a glance at Mingi. "We all want the same thing: to be stronger, united. Let's not lose sight of that."

Hongjoong's shoulders relaxed slightly, though his eyes never left Mingi. "Good," he said, his tone final. "Then it's settled."

As the others filed out, Mingi lingered near the door, shooting one last glare at his leader before leaving without another word. The Captain remained behind, letting out a long breath, the weight of the confrontation pressing on him.

He should have known peace wouldn't last. But as his thoughts turned to you, one question echoed in his mind.

How much more would he have to sacrifice to protect you before it all fell apart?

Fortunately—and unfortunately—you had already found the answer to his unspoken question.

"Hongjoong," you whispered, your voice trembling as it cut through the stillness of the dimly lit library.

The soft glow of the lamps cast gentle shadows over the shelves, wrapping the room in an intimate quiet. Across from you, he sat, his eyes warm and attentive, watching you with that familiar, close-lipped smile—the one that always made your heart stutter. His expression was gentle, full of a quiet tenderness that you both craved and feared.

But tonight, that smile felt like a dagger. It broke something inside you, making what you were about to say hurt even more.

"Yes?" he responded just as softly, his voice a soothing balm you didn't deserve. He leaned forward slightly, the care in his gaze evident, as if you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

You swallowed hard, your fingers trembling as they clutched the delicate bookmark he had given you, your lifeline in this moment of unbearable heaviness. "I'm… I'm all better now," you began, the words sticking in your throat. "I wish to leave. I want to go home."

The change in him was immediate. His smile vanished, and his hand shot across the table, grasping yours before you could pull away. His touch was warm but trembling, desperate. "Wha—where is this coming from?" His voice cracked, panic threading through every word. He hadn't known how long he'd have you by his side, but he never imagined losing you this soon. He wasn't ready. "Was it Mingi? Did he say something to you? I swear to god, if he—"

"No," you interrupted, shaking your head firmly, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. "He didn't do anything." You squeezed his hand, trying to draw strength from the contact. "I just… I think it's time. Time for both of us to return to our own lives."

His grip tightened, his eyes wide with disbelief. "No," he whispered, shaking his head as if refusing to believe your words could make them untrue. "You don't have to do this. You don't need to leave yet. The doctor—I'm having her work on something for the mark. You're not healed, not really."

You bit your lip, his raw emotion tearing through your resolve. You wanted to stay—God, how you wanted to stay—but the memory of that argument was too fresh. You had stood outside the meeting room earlier, waiting for him to finish, only to hear Mingi's voice raised in anger, accusing him of neglect, of weakness. And you had heard Hongjoong's silence—heavy, burdened. You couldn't be the reason for his pain. You couldn't be the weakness he couldn't afford.

"I heard it all," you confessed, voice trembling. "The argument. I know how much I'm complicating things for you." Tears blurred your vision, but you blinked them away. "It's not fair—to you, to them. We're from different worlds, Hongjoong. You and I… we were never going to work." Your voice softened as you finally named what had been unspoken: the feelings between you both.

His face crumpled, the pain etched into every line devastating to witness. "Don't do this," he begged, his voice breaking. "Please… don't."

You closed your eyes, trying to steady your breathing. "This is how we make things right," you whispered. "You wanted to fix what you did, to give me a chance at freedom. This is it."

Silence engulfed the room, thick and suffocating. Slowly, he let go of your hand, as if releasing it would break him entirely. His head bowed, shoulders slumping under the weight of your decision.

"Oh…" It was all he could manage, and the raw pain in that single word nearly undid you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The quiet of the library, once a sanctuary, now felt suffocating. You had made your choice, and you believed it was the right one.

So why did it hurt so much?

"I'm sorry," you whispered, standing from your chair. You hesitated, wanting to offer some kind of solace, but knowing it would only prolong the pain. "Goodnight, Hongjoong."

With every step you took toward the door, it felt as though pieces of your heart were left behind. And when you reached the threshold, you heard it—his broken, whispered plea.

"Don't go."

But you didn't stop. You couldn't. Because sometimes, love wasn't enough.

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As if running from you could change the inevitable, Hongjoong buried himself in work, pouring over plans and strategies like a man determined to forget. Meetings stretched longer, tasks multiplied, and he worked late into the night, ignoring the hollow ache growing in his chest. But no amount of work could silence the truth—or erase the memory of your soft, breaking voice.

He could only run for so long.

One day, the quiet was broken by Jongho's hesitant knock on his office door. The youngest cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably under the Captain's tired gaze. "What is it?" he sighed, leaning back in his chair, trying to mask the weariness in his voice.

Jongho straightened, his eyes darting to the barely open door behind him. Hongjoong followed his gaze and froze. There, framed by the narrow gap, was the unmistakable outline of your back.

"It's her, hyung," Jongho said softly, his tone more hesitant than usual. "She... she asked the doctor to give her one final check. To make sure she's fully healed." He paused, as if reluctant to continue. "She expressed her desire to leave."

The words struck like a blade, sharp and final. For a long moment, Hongjoong said nothing, his eyes locked on the empty doorway as if he could will you to return. But deep down, he knew there was nowhere left to run.

He had been a fool to believe that anything could make you stay. He put himself in your shoes for a fleeting moment, imagining what it must be like. You had a life beyond these walls—a life waiting for you to return. And even if you chose to stay, how long could he truly keep you safe in his dangerous world? How long before the life he led consumed you, too?

And even if, by some miracle, you stayed—would your loved ones ever accept him? A gang leader with blood on his hands and sins too deep to cleanse?

No. The answer was clear.

As much as it tore him apart, he knew this was the mercy you deserved. He couldn't chain you to his darkness, couldn't selfishly hold on when letting go was the only way to truly love you.

"You're right," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "You have a life of your own. I can't ask you to stay."

The Anchor remained silent, watching his leader with a rare softness in his eyes.

Men like him were never meant to love. Not after all the sins he had committed, all the lives he had taken, all the wrongs he could never make right. He didn't deserve you—not your kindness, your laughter, or the warmth you so effortlessly gave.

No matter how much he wished otherwise.

With a heavy sigh, he turned away from the door, his voice steady but hollow. "Thank you, Jongho. I trust you to make the proper arrangements for her departure."

The youngest hesitated for a moment, but when he met the finality in Hongjoong's eyes, he nodded and left quietly, the door clicking shut behind him. Silence settled over the room again, heavy and oppressive—until the door creaked open once more. The gang leader's head snapped up, irritation flashing in his eyes, but it melted away the instant he saw who it was.

You stood hesitantly in the doorway, peeking in like you weren't sure you belonged there anymore.

He shot up from his seat, his movements hurried. "O-oh, it's you. Come in..." His voice softened, and you offered a small, tentative smile as you stepped inside. He gestured toward the worn leather couch. "Please, have a seat."

But you shook your head. "No, I shouldn't stay long. I just… came to thank you for respecting my decision."

He exhaled, a bitter sound escaping his lips. "Don't thank me for that." His voice was low, laced with frustration, though not at you. "It shouldn't have taken me this long to agree. You were right." His lips curved into a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. The pain there was unmistakable, and it clenched your heart painfully. "This… it has to end eventually. After all, I'm the one who did this to you. I can't possibly expect you to return my feelings—"

"Stop," you whispered, closing your eyes, shaking your head as if to ward off the self-loathing in his voice. Too late. You already had returned those feelings, and hearing him like this shattered you. "No, Hongjoong, don't say that. I just..."

He stilled, his gaze searching yours as you opened your eyes and met him, resisting the desperate urge to reach out and cup his face, to pull him into the comfort you knew he craved. But you couldn't. So instead, you smiled, soft but trembling, and extended a hand toward him.

"I'm feeling a little hungry," you said gently, your voice trembling just enough to betray your emotions. "Want to have dinner together?"

For a moment, he simply stared at you, as if unsure if he had heard correctly. But how could he possibly say no? Besides, this could very well be your last meal together. Everything else could wait—damn it all.

Until the moment you were safely returned home, you were all that mattered to him.

Just until tomorrow.

Jongho had arranged your ride back tomorrow.

Hongjoong couldn't pretend anymore. He knew this would likely be the last time he'd have you like this, in this fragile peace. So, tonight, he let the walls fall. He no longer resisted the urges that had haunted him for weeks. When he reached out to feed you, gently wiping a stray bit of food from the corner of your lips, you didn't flinch. When he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips brushing your skin with a tenderness that made his chest ache, you didn't pull away.

And you didn't say a word. You just let him.

By the end of the meal, when he saw the glimmer of hesitation in your eyes—knowing you were preparing to retreat to your room—he acted quickly, grasping your hand before you could leave. His touch was firm but not forceful, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, almost pleading.

"Would you like to… walk with me?"

You looked at him for a moment, your eyes searching his as if trying to memorise everything about this moment. Then, wordlessly, you nodded. He led you through the grand halls of the mansion, out to the sprawling, maze-like garden, where the soft glow of lanterns illuminated the paths.

Your hands remained entwined the entire time.

The garden was silent except for the rustle of leaves in the breeze. He guided you to the centre, where a marble fountain stood, the gentle sound of water trickling into the basin adding to the quiet serenity. Clearing a spot on the cold concrete, he shrugged off his blazer, laying it down carefully before gesturing for you to sit. You did, settling beside him as the horizon stretched before you, bathed in soft, silver moonlight.

"This is nice," you murmured, breaking the silence, your voice almost lost in the cool night air.

He smiled, his gaze softening. "It is, isn't it?"

For a while, neither of you spoke. The dim lanterns cast a golden glow, wrapping you both in a warmth that felt almost unreal. Slowly, as if afraid you might slip away, he placed his hand over yours once again. This time, your fingers intertwined naturally, effortlessly, as though they had always belonged that way.

No words were necessary. Every touch, every glance, spoke of everything you felt but couldn't say.

Your heart raced as you turned toward him, only to find he was already watching you. His eyes were dark, filled with emotions you didn't dare name. He leaned in, bit by bit, closing the space between you. Your breath hitched, trembling, but you didn't move away.

"Just for tonight," he whispered, his voice rough and raw. "Can we be together? Just for tonight."

Your eyes burned with unshed tears, your heart aching with the weight of the unspoken goodbye. You nodded, your voice barely above a breath.

"Please."

And then, there was no more distance between you.

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The morning light streamed softly through the curtains, painting the room in golden hues. Hongjoong stirred awake, the weight of sleep heavier than usual, but a comforting warmth grounded him. Instinctively, he snuggled closer, burying his face into the inviting scent that had become his solace.

It took only a moment for the realisation to hit him. The feminine scent, delicate and intoxicating, filled his senses. His heart skipped a beat as he opened his eyes to find you still in his arms, your back pressed against his chest, your breathing soft and even.

For a long moment, he stayed still, simply taking you in—the way your hair spilt over the pillow, the peaceful rise and fall of your shoulders, the warmth that radiated from you. Leaning closer, he pressed a tender kiss to your bare shoulder, the memory of last night rushing back like a tidal wave.

Kisses. Endless, intoxicating kisses, your lips against his as if you were trying to fill every unspoken word between you. His fingers tangled in your hair, your hands gripping his shirt, neither of you willing to let go. The clumsy, desperate stumbling through those kisses until you landed on the expanse of his king-sized bed—so often feeling too big, too empty for just one.

Articles of clothing had been shed piece by piece, carelessly scattered across the floor. And then… pure, unrestrained bliss. The feel of your skin against his, the soft sighs and whispered names, the way your bodies moved together like they were meant to fit. It was a night he would never forget, and one he knew he could never have again.

He swallowed hard as reality settled in. It was bittersweet, finally knowing what it was like to have you this close, only to face the cruel truth that he would have to let it all go soon. His gaze fell on the mark on your soft skin, the one that started it all, and he sighed deeply.

It was the right thing to do.

He repeated the mantra in his head, clinging to it like a lifeline. You deserved more—someone who could give you the kind of life you were meant to have, one without fear, without shadows. Someone who wasn't him.

But for now, just for this fleeting moment, he allowed himself to be selfish. He tightened his hold on you, his arm curling around your waist as if he could stop time by keeping you close. He etched every detail into his mind: the way your warmth seeped into him, the way your presence calmed his restless heart, the way this morning felt like a fragile dream he never wanted to wake from.

Because soon, it would all be over.

And he would have nothing left but these memories.

His temporary haven shattered with a jarring intrusion. The door to his bedroom flew open, and Jongho rushed in, his expression a mix of concern and urgency. "Hyung, she's not in her room—"

The Anchor's voice faltered mid-sentence as his eyes landed on you, curled up in his leader's embrace. The man sat up quickly, pulling the blanket to cover you to your neck, his glare sharp enough to cut steel. Jongho froze like a deer caught in headlights, his usual composure obliterated by the scene before him.

You stirred at the commotion, blinking yourself awake. It didn't take long to realise what had happened. Your cheeks flushed a deep red as you scrambled to free yourself from the blanket and darted off to the attached bathroom. "Excuse me," you mumbled hastily, your voice barely above a whisper, before closing the door behind you.

Jongho stood awkwardly, visibly cringing under Hongjoong's icy glare. "I didn't mean to—"

"Out," the Captain growled, his voice low and dangerous.

The youngest didn't need to be told twice. With a quick bow, he fled the room, muttering apologies under his breath.

Hongjoong exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples as the weight of the morning settled on his shoulders. Deciding to give you the privacy you needed, he rose from the bed, grabbed his robe, and slipped it on before leaving the room.

As he stepped into the hall, he was greeted by none other than the Firestarter, leaning casually against the wall with a smirk plastered across his face.

"Had fun, Cap?" Mingi drawled, his voice laced with mockery. "Hope that pussy was worth everything."

Hongjoong's expression darkened instantly, his eyes narrowing into a glare that could rival a storm. "Speak for yourself, Song," he shot back, his voice steady but laced with venom. "Come mock me when you don't need an exiled noblewoman to save your ass time and time again."

Mingi's smirk faltered as Hongjoong took a step closer, his words cutting like daggers. "Don't think I haven't heard about your multiple near-failures. At least I haven't fucked up anything critical. Also," he added, his tone dropping into something bitter and final, "she's leaving today. I hope you're happy."

The weight of Hongjoong's words left Mingi speechless, his cool façade crumbling. His jaw tightened as he struggled to muster a response, but nothing coherent came to mind.

Clearing his throat, he straightened and forced a shrug, attempting to reclaim his composure. "About damn time. Good riddance," he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual edge. Without another word, he turned and stalked off, leaving the gang leader standing there, his chest tight and his mind racing.

As much as he loathed the confrontation, he couldn't help but feel a bitter sense of satisfaction. At least now, Mingi might think twice before throwing careless words around. But the victory was hollow, his thoughts quickly returning to you.

With a deep sigh, he leaned against the wall, his fingers tracing the edge of his robe. The hours ahead loomed like a storm on the horizon, and he knew they would be some of the hardest he'd ever faced.

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The air was thick with the weight of unspoken emotions as the black car idled behind you, its engine a soft hum against the gloomy backdrop. The overcast sky seemed to mirror the heaviness in both your hearts, the grey clouds threatening rain at any moment. You stood before Hongjoong, your trusty tote bag slung over your shoulder, dressed simply but beautifully, your hair pulled into a messy yet endearing style. You tried to smile, but it trembled at the edges, betraying the storm within.

Neither of you spoke right away, the silence filled with everything you wanted to say but couldn't. Instead, you reached into your bag, pulling out the glass flower charm—the delicate token you had cherished for so long.

"Give me your hand," you murmured softly.

He stepped closer without hesitation, his hand extended between you. The roughness of his palm contrasted sharply with the fragility of the charm as you placed it gently into his hand. His fingers curled around it instinctively, the same hand that once had only known destruction now cradling something so delicate with utmost care.

"For you," you said, your voice steady but laden with emotion. "It's no marigold, but—"

He cut you off with a bittersweet smile, the pain in his eyes unmistakable. "I'll cherish it," he promised, his voice quiet but resolute, as though the words themselves were a vow.

He didn't let go of your hand, his grip warm and steady. You nodded, returning his smile. "Good. Treat it with care," you said, stepping closer, your proximity making his breath hitch.

The scent of his familiar cologne wrapped around you as you leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek. Your lips brushed against his skin as you whispered, "You did it, Joong. You made it all right."

His eyes fluttered closed, savouring the moment, the warmth of your presence etching itself into his memory. But then, as much as he wanted to keep you there, you pulled away gently, slipping out of his grasp.

Your backward steps toward the waiting car felt like a slow unravelling, each step tugging at the threads of his heart. He fought every instinct to run to you, to pull you back into his arms and beg you to stay, but he knew he couldn't.

As you slid into the car and shut the door, he stood rooted to the spot, his chest tight, his fists clenched at his sides. He watched helplessly as the car began to roll forward, taking you further and further from him until you were nothing but a distant blur.

"It's for the best," he whispered to himself, though the words felt hollow. "You did the right thing."

The sound of approaching footsteps broke through his haze of sorrow. Turning, he found one of his men standing hesitantly nearby. "Boss," the man said carefully, "we received an update from Seonghwa. His visit to the Red Room is going to be extended due to... undisclosed circumstances."

And just like that, Hongjoong was thrust back into the chaos of his world. He nodded, his voice cold and detached. "Got it. I'll speak with the others."

He turned and strode back toward the mansion, his steps purposeful despite the turmoil inside him. His men watched him carefully, unsure if the heartbreak would erupt into anger, but he remained composed, his demeanour unreadable.

Once inside, he glanced down at the delicate charm still resting in his palm. It caught the dim light of the hall, glinting faintly like the remnants of a dream. His grip tightened around it, not enough to damage it, but enough to ground himself.

It hurt—god, it hurt—but he found solace in the fact that he had been able to love again, even if only briefly. He didn't know how long it would take for the ache to fade, perhaps it never would, but one thing was certain: he would never forget you.

ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

The dim light of the room cast long shadows across the walls, the flickering of a single desk lamp providing the only illumination. The figure leaned back in his chair, his gloved fingers tapping rhythmically against the polished wood of the table. Before him lay a folder, its contents an intricate web of intel painstakingly gathered. At the very top, clipped securely, was a photograph of the Black Pirates.

The leader's face was circled in white ink—a mark of vulnerability disguised as power.

"Seems we've secured the Captain's weakness right from the start," the figure murmured, a sinister grin spreading across his face. His tone carried a disturbing mixture of amusement and certainty as he flipped the folder shut, the sound of paper against paper breaking the tense silence.

A subordinate stood nearby, his posture stiff, his eyes darting to the file with barely concealed curiosity. "Should we proceed then, sir?" he asked, his voice low but eager.

The figure chuckled, a sound devoid of warmth, and shook his head. "There's no hurry," he replied, his gloved hand resting atop the closed file like a predator savouring its next move. "Time is what we've got. Let them believe they've found their footing. Let them think they're safe."

He pushed the file to the side, leaning forward, his grin widening as his eyes gleamed with cruel intent. "We'll gather them all, one by one. No need to rush—it's always better when the prey doesn't see the trap until it's too late."

The subordinate nodded, though a hint of unease flickered across his features. "Understood, sir."

The figure reached for a glass of whiskey sitting untouched on the desk, swirling the amber liquid as if it contained the answers to every question. "Patience," he said, almost to himself, his voice low and reverent. "Patience wins wars. Let's see how far the mighty gang can go when their carefully constructed world begins to crumble."

He raised the glass in a mock toast, the light catching the golden liquid. "To the Black Pirates. And to the beginning of their end."

The room fell silent again, the only sound the faint creak of the leather chair as the figure leaned back, eyes fixed on the file. Somewhere, far from the machinations of this dark plot, Hongjoong might have felt a shiver down his spine. But for now, he was blissfully unaware, the weight of his loss still fresh, the memory of your departure his only torment.

And so, the game began.

Would you believe it? About 90% of this was drafted in a sleep-deprived state HAHA the first thing I do as soon as I get home from work is write this, so I genuinely hope this met expectations!

Are you or are you not surprised by the lack of a happy ending? If you know me well (especially readers who have been here since TWTHH), you probably saw this coming🤠

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

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[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Unfinished Business

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Serial Killer!Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.5k

Warnings: talk of beating/raping women and children (implicit, just mention), near drowning/death, car crash

Summary: You’re the most wanted woman in the country, and the BAU finally has you in its grasp. You hunt and kill truly evil people but it doesn’t seem to matter to the authorities if the victims are rapists, killers, and abusers. You’re doing this country a favor and you’re not finished. It doesn’t matter if you’re caught or not. You’re going to find a way to continue your work.

Square Filled: criminal au (2022) for @spencerreidbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

x

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

If the damn clock wasn’t bolted to the wall, you would have ripped it from the plaster and shattered it to pieces. You’re not supposed to be here. You’re supposed to be at home snuggling with your dog who you presume is missing you. Your sister knows to take him in if she doesn’t hear from you within twenty-four hours so you have no doubt he will be taken care of.

Instead, you’re sitting handcuffed to a table in the BAU.

You’ve been on the FBI’s Top 10 Most Wanted for three years now for your notorious work in slicing up men and women who deserve it. Every single one of your victims was far from innocent, but the FBI doesn’t care if you’ve been cleaning house. All they care about is the fact you have hundreds of victims under your belt.

You’ve been killing since you were a child because your father got you into it. It started with random strangers on the highway (he was a truck driver and would pick them up). He’d get them talking and if he so much got an inkling that they were less than innocent, he’d kill them. He taught you to wear gloves, clothes that don’t fit you, shoes that were slightly too big for you, to always have a wig on, talk with an accent, and never trust anyone.

He was never caught and died almost a decade ago. Now you’re left to continue his work.

Men who rape. Men who kill for fun. Men who abuse. Women who abuse. Women who kidnap. They’re all fair game. You’re ridding the world of evil one person at a time.

The reason you’re sitting here and not at home drinking wine is that you decided it was best to work with someone to take down a small group of abusers. The group was small, maybe five or six men, but they went out and assaulted women at night and left them for dead. This other person who you shall not name knew your father and reached out to you. He wanted to work with you in bringing the group down and you trusted him enough to agree.

Your first mistake.

Your second is when you gave him the task of finding an easy way out in case something went wrong. Something did. There was another man in the house who called 911. Your “friend” got away. You got caught. When the FBI realized who they caught, you knew you wouldn’t be getting out of this alive. There have been two dozen confirmed victims of yours but you know that number is well into the three hundreds by now.

You’ve saved a bunch of men, women, and children from getting abused and hurt, and there isn’t a thing you’d change if you could do it all over again.

You’ve been sitting in this godforsaken room for nearly twenty minutes. Maybe that’s their tactic. Maybe they want you to slowly go insane so you’ll confess to more crimes. You were born at night, not last night. At best, you’ll get three consecutive life sentences. There is no way you’re going to ever see freedom… that is if you were completely alone in this. There is a reason why your father was never caught. He has friends on the inside that you can turn to, so you know you’ll be okay if you get sent to jail.

You tap the metal table with a perfectly manicured nail when the door opens and a black man walks in with a thick file in his hands. Damn, he’s not the one you were hoping would come in. The one who apprehended you was white, and he had the most beautiful brown eyes. Lean but not too skinny. Curly hair. Such beautiful features.

The man sits across from you and lays out pictures of men you’ve killed over the years. They are unsolved cases but the FBI doesn’t know that you’re responsible for them. You keep your eyes on the man as he lays out six photos of men.

“Where are they?”

“What, no introduction? No, ‘How’s it going?’ I don’t get any of that?”

“My name is Agent Morgan, and you’re going to tell me where you buried their bodies.”

“Bold of you to assume I killed them.”

Agent Morgan takes out six more photos and lays them underneath the men’s portraits. Each of the new photos is of their crime scenes. You left a lot of blood behind but none of it is yours.

“Do you know what a signature is?” You don’t answer. “You like to leave behind a name written in your victim’s blood.” In each of the photos, you can see the name you wrote on their walls or mirrors. “Femme Fatale. No one else does that but you. So, I’ll ask again, where did you bury their bodies?”

“Mmm. Ask me again. This time, add ‘please’,” you smirk.

“This is not a game, Y/N. Tell me where they are and maybe we can work out a deal.”

“I’m already seeing three consecutive life sentences for the murders you’ve already pinned on me. Unless your deal is me walking out of this building without so much as a scratch on my record, I’m not telling you shit.”

Agent Morgan nods and gathers the photos. He’s done. He knows he’s not going to get anything out of you right now. He opens the door to leave but you stop him before he can.

“When you’re ready to come back, bring in the cute one. I have a thing for brown eyes and curly hair.”

Agent Morgan all but slams the door on his way out. It’s an hour before someone comes back to you, and this time, it’s who you want.

“Ah, there he is,” you grin and sit up straighter.

“So, I’m the cute one?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Dr. Spencer Reid.”

“Ooh, a doctor. I’m impressed. You look so young.”

Spencer opens a file and takes out pictures, different than the ones Agent Morgan showed you. They’re of your apartment, more specifically, the room you have hidden underneath your stairs. You have a basement in the house but the stairs to it are located underneath your staircase going to the second floor. The door is only accessed when you pull up the last step of the staircase. You had that installed when you bought the house so that your extracurricular activities can remain a secret.

Inside the basement are records of the men and women you’ve killed, where you’ve put their bodies, future victims on your list, and people you are suspicious of. You hate that they found that, but it doesn’t matter. You have many houses across the country and even one in Europe that all have the exact same information. If your father taught you anything, it’s to keep backups and backups of your backups.

The only difference is that every safehouse has a different list of different men and women. There are a lot of evil people on this Earth, and you’ve only worked in one country. Imagine what you’d find in Europe.

“We know you’ve killed more than two dozen. It looks like hundreds.”

“What else do you know?”

“I know that you’re smart--smarter than you’d have us believe. I know that you like to work alone. With a rap sheet like yours, you can’t trust anyone. It’s the reason you got caught. The one time you trusted another person, they let you down.”

“So, you’re not just pretty, you’re smart, too.”

“You can deny it all you want, but the facts are right here.”

“I’m not denying any of it. I killed them. All of them. You know where their bodies are. You don’t need a confession out of me which makes me think you wanted to see me.” You grin and lean forward as much as you can. “Isn’t that right, Spencer? You just wanted to talk to me.”

“I’m going to make sure you don’t see the outside of a prison for the rest of your life,” he whispers.

“I like it when you talk dirty to me,” you smirk and lean back.

“We will be transporting you to a high-facility prison before sunrise.”

“As long as you’re in the car with me.” Spencer doesn’t say anything and cleans up the photos from the table. Like with Agent Morgan, you don’t let him leave just yet. “I’m not a bad person, Dr. Reid.”

“According to your basement, you’ve killed over three hundred people.”

“Richard Sigler was raping his six-year-old daughter. Her own mother didn’t believe her when she told her about it. Benjamin Cross has beaten and raped ten women over the course of a month. He was about to add an eleventh victim when I caught up to him. Alexis Greene aided her husband in kidnapping three children. I was with my sister’s kids when she tried it with me. She never got to a fourth.” You rest your elbows on the table. “I never hurt innocent people.”

Spencer doesn’t say anything and leaves the room. It’s another two hours before you’re placed in the back of a car with Spencer behind the wheel. Luck must be on your side because you two are alone.

“What, no one else is going to join us?”

“They didn’t need to. It’s a short drive.”

“Lucky me,” you grin. “So, since I’ll probably never have a genuine conversation with anyone else, tell me about yourself.” Spencer doesn’t answer. “Let me guess, you’re a reserved know-it-all. Secret romancer? Kinky in bed?”

“Shut up,” Spencer sighs.

“Ah, so you’re kinky, huh? What are you into? Personally, I love being tied up. Choking is a big one.”

“Like I’m going to tell you what I’m into.”

“You don’t have to. I can read people pretty easily. You’re an open book.”

Spencer tries to focus on the road but it’s snowing pretty hard. He didn’t know there would be a snowstorm soon. He thought he’d be able to drop you off and return to the BAU before it hit. He turns the windshield wipers on but it doesn’t do much for the snow pouring down.

“Maybe we should pull over. Get nice and cozy in here,” you chuckle.

“And give you a chance to escape? No way.”

“I have cuffs on, Spencer. You’re the one in control. That’s one of your kinks, right? Being in control.”

“Okay, right now, I need you to shut up.”

You do only because the car is shaking. There must be black ice on the road, and Spencer is trying his best not to skid too much. Spencer doesn’t look nervous but you can tell by his labored breathing and the slight perspiration on his forehead that he’s nervous as hell. The only reason you are, too, is because there is a giant lake to the right of you, and you’ve seen too many movies where cars skid on black ice and end up in lakes.

“Spencer, maybe you should pull over,” you say seriously.

“Don’t tell me how to drive.”

The streetlights barely give Spencer enough light to see the road in front of him, and the snow piles onto the windshield faster than the wipers can remove it. Spencer jerks the wheel to the right to avoid a pothole when the car is caught on a sheet of black ice. The car spins in circles before plunging into the freezing cold waters of the lake. Spencer’s head slams into the steering wheel and is knocked out immediately. Water rapidly fills the car, too fast for your liking. You take off your seatbelt and squat onto the seat so you can slide your cuffed wrists underneath your feet. You’re very flexible for someone your age, and you’re thanking your sister for pushing you to do yoga.

You hop into the front seat and ram your elbow into the passenger window. When all you get is a bruised bone, you know you have to try something else before all of your oxygen is taken from you. After all you’ve done, you’re going to let something like this take you out. The water has reached your chest now, and you open the glove compartment for something hard to break the window.

This is a cop’s car, so they have the tools needed to break open windows. You grab the small tool and slam it into the window. It shatters immediately, and you quickly swim out of the window into the dark lake. You’re about to swim to the surface when you look back at Spencer. You can’t leave him there. He’s going to drown. He’s innocent.

You don’t hurt innocents.

You swim to the other side of the car and use the same tool on his window. You reach in and grab him only to realize that he still has his seatbelt on. The tool you have is also good for cutting seatbelts, so you slice his lap belt and pull him out of the car. It’s hard since you’re handcuffed but you have to get him out of the lake.

Your lungs burn from not having enough oxygen, and black spots start to form in your vision. No matter what, you have to get to the surface before you pass out. Just when you think you’re going to suck in a lungful of water, you break through the surface. You struggle to keep both your head and Spencer’s above water but you manage to swim to the edge of the lake. You push Spencer onto the ground and heave yourself next to him.

Shit, you’re freezing. You reach into his pockets and see if there is a key for your handcuffs. Again, luck must be on your side because there is. You unlock the cuffs and place one of them around Spencer’s wrists and the other to the very thin light pole next to him. You can’t have him following you. You look at Spencer’s face to see him paler than before with blue lips.

“Spencer!”

You lean over him, place your lips over his, and blow into his mouth. You pull back and start doing three chest compressions. You repeat the process five times before Spencer coughs up a bunch of water.

“Oh, thank God,” you sigh. “You’re alive.”

“What happened? How did you…?”

“Sorry, babe. I gotta go before they realize you’re missing.”

Spencer jerks his body only to realize he’s handcuffed to the light pole. You grin and hold up the key to the cuffs. You toss them over to him but they’re just shy of his feet. If he stretches hard enough, he’ll reach them but only after he gets his strength back.

“No, get back here right now or I’ll--”

“You’ll what? Arrest me?” You take a few steps before turning back to him. “Don’t take this personally. I have a list to complete. Oh, soft lips by the way. If things were different… As much as I like you, I really hope I don’t see you again.”

Spencer sits helplessly and watches you parade off into the night. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever see you again but he’ll try like hell to make sure he does.

x

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[nymphea0]

Kurkans Mate.

The Beast And The Bunny.

Yan! Ishakan x Reader

Part 2.

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.

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Manhwa :약탈혼 / predatory marriage

/ 약탈혼 (완전판)

: Adult Manhwa (18+)

Author/Illustrations : Saha / Hera(Art)

Word Count : 2.34K Word.

Hello.. Neva again here, I hope you are well and happy and have a nice days

might have some bad grammars, correct me if there are any mistakes in the words in the story I wrote. Anyways i hope you all enjoys my story,love much.- Neva🦋🦋.

- Kurkans Mate Pt.1

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.

.

.

It's been about 3 months since you lived with Esmera, you helped Esmera not only because she saved you, Esmera was also willing to take you in.

Your activities are very ordinary, not much different from how you spend your days in Antra village, looking for herbs and mushrooms and planting vegetables, and collecting firewood.

It's been 3 months since you last met an exotic-skinned man who was injured in this forest.

You sometimes think is this a good choice to save this man? Indirectly you also reveal your identity to the foreign man through your blood healing.

And from the bottom of your heart, you feel a very bad feeling, but you don't know what causes that worry.

.

.

.

Ishakan, a man from the Kurkans tribe, has an extraordinarily handsome appearance and abilities that are above average humans.

The Kurkans have no shame and are openly hostile to anyone they don't like, the Kurkans will kidnap those they consider to be their partners. Either by force or not.

The Kurkans tribe, is a tribe with the blood of the beast. Animal blood. For some of the continent's inhabitants, the Kurkans are barbarians.

However, on some continents, the Kurkans are also used as slaves, either sexually or just as guards. But slaves are still slaves.

Ishakan is one of the slaves of the nobles, freed by a princess from the kingdom of Estia, Princess Leah Von Estia.

.

.

At night in a brothel, Leah walks in wearing a robe and wig to cover her real hair, which is white as the moon.

Walking slowly towards a man with an athletic body covered in a black robe.

"So you are my bed partner?" The voice that sounded quite rough, it can be seen that this is the voice of a noble lady.

Ishakan who saw the princess, could only grin and guide the princess into the room that had been prepared.

Closing the door, then with one push Ishakan pushed Leah against the wall, causing her wig to fall off, her face flushed red when she saw how handsome Ishakan was.

"Why would a princess go to this dirty side of town?" Grinning slightly at Leah, with a voice that sounded seductive, Ishakan asked.

Leah gave explanation after explanation to Ishakan. Leah had no hope of living anymore, with the fact that her family sold her to a nobleman who was as old as her father, Leah could not accept her virginity being given to that nobleman!

Chastity is the highest honor in the kingdom of Estia, because it concerns the dignity and self-esteem of the family, especially a royal family, so Leah has a mission before she gets married, she will embarrass her family by removing her chastity.

Ishakan looked at Leah with a difficult look, on the one hand he didn't want to take Leah's chastity, and on the other hand he also couldn't let his savior suffer, even though Ishakan was sure Leah didn't remember him, because the incident was so long ago.

.

. .

Morning finally, the experts took Leah's purity, Ishakan negotiated with Leah, he would help Leah, although at first Leah really didn't trust Ishakan especially when she found out Ishakan was a kukrans!, a barbarian with animal blood.

A delegation took place between the Estia kingdom and the Kurkan kingdom, where this delegation included peace and an end to war as well as looting and slavery.

.

.

It has been about 3 months since Ishakan has worked as a Kurkan king, the case of the gyipsey that sold drug and sorcery and the case of the attempted release of the Estia queen who turned out to be a dark witch or as the sorceress

And it has been 3 months since he last saw his wild rabbit, you.

Ishakan still remembers the taste and smell of you and your blood. So much that Ishakan is looking for and exploring about your blood, a blood that can heal wounds!

The Antrabeth tribe, Ishakan only knows as a mythical tribe that is said to be a tribe that fights nature because their blood can heal every kind of wound and disease, as well as long life, a tribe that is loved by nature.

However, all of his efforts to find traces of the Antrabeth tribe were in vain, once the world was shocked by the appearance of soldiers carrying blood and a head with blue hair, the Antrabeth tribe became extinct.

The witches, kings and nobles, tried to drink the blood of the Antrabeth tribe, instead of getting long life and healing from the illnesses they experienced, they actually experienced very terrible conditions!

Their skin blistered with bumps all over their bodies that moved, until a nature witch discovered that the blood of the Antrabeth tribe would not work.

if the owner of the blood does not give consent to the blood that is drunk. Those who drink, take and kill the Antabeth tribe, the child of nature by force, they will experience the curse of 1001 nights, a curse where they will not die but also not live.

.

.

Closing the book entitled History of the Child of Nature, Antrabeth.

Ishakan sighed, grinning slightly, something inside him screamed very loudly since he met you, his animal instinct, the kurkans instinct.

If the Antrabeth tribe is extinct, then you are the only one left, Ishakan can't help but claim you, make you his mate!

'Tok'

'Tok'

'Tok'

Genin, Ishakan's aide who doubles as his right hand, entered the room while carrying several rolls of old parchment.

"Your Majesty, here are some carefully selected candidates for the kurkans queen."

Genin handed the scroll to Ishakan.

Ishakan just nodded and opened the scroll, several names of princesses and noble ladies were visible, one of them was Princess Leah Von Estia.

"Take it away, I have found my mate" with his deep voice Ishakan said while grinning.

Ishakan stood up slowly then looked at the genin and said.

"Prepare my horse, I will pick up my wild rabbit" laughed softly as he left his king's room.

Leaving the Genin who stared at Ishakan with goosebumps, every time Ishakan laughed there were only 2 conditions, 1 Ishakan was in a bad mood where usually Ishakan would return to the palace in a state of blood from his victims, and the second condition Ishakan was in a good mood, where every object of his pleasure would definitely end between happiness or... death.

Genin, who never believed in the god of the kurkans in her entire life, prayed to the old gods for the poor creature who managed to catch the attention of Ishakan, the strongest king of the kurkans in the history of the previous kings of the kurkans.

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Ishakan with his stallion as dark as night moved almost more than 5 hours to the place where his wild rabbits were. Normally if he rode a horse he would need 12 days to get here, but because of his animal instincts which also led to his horse, what was originally 12 days, became 5 hours, strange but it's the kurkans we're talking about.

Ishakan with his sharp memory and navigation from your scent, of course he could easily find the forest where you live.

The same forest where Ishakan was injured and resting.

Looking around the forest, Ishakan with his golden eyes like an animal shone brightly as soon as he found the forest he was looking for in front of his eyes, Ishakan could feel the circulation of illusion magic around this forest.

Smirking softly, Ishakan then got off his horse, walking slowly but full of unstoppable enthusiasm, Ishakan entered the dark forest, as soon as Ishakan entered a thick fog covered the forest.

.

.

You, are helping Esmera make gingerbread cookies, and various other cookies.

You are currently not in the disguise of the 1 drop potion for your hair and eyes.

Esmera saw you who was right across the kitchen table could only stare in awe. Your bright blue hair shone brightly at night caused by the reflection of the moonlight, which was as bright and blue as the sky or aquamarine crystal.

But it wasn't just your hair that fascinated her, but your eyes were also very enchanting, as if your eyes were sky stars, a mixture of purple, blue, yellow and gray and there were small white spots around your eyes, like beautiful sky stars.

Sighing softly, Esmera continued to mold gingerbread cookies, while asking you who looked so enthusiastic about decorating gingerbread cookies.

"So excited, huh? Have you never baked before?"

You who were so excited decorating the gingerbread that now looked like a person but in a small and bald version, looked at Esmera and shook your head slowly.

"My family doesn't have much money, so every week we can only bake bread that lasts for at least 1 week.".

In Esmera's eyes you are like a very small, cute and weak kitten! A kitten that needs to be protected and kept safe from the cruelty of this world.

Before Esmera could speak again, the door of the hut was forcibly broken down by someone who broke in!

Esmera was as fast as lightning even though Esmera was old, Esmera was still a nature witch. Esmera placed you behind her, with a silver dagger in her hand.

Esmera's heart screamed in panic!, how could she not feel the ringing of her illusion magic when someone entered the forest?!. There were only 2 answers, one could be that this person had a low life force so that her illusion magic considered something harmless, and the second was a kurkans, kurkans are strong, more stronger the kurkans, more useless a magic is!, but how could kurkans be here? The desert oasis of the kurkans tribe takes at least 12 days to get here

Both you and Esmera look in horror at the entrance to the kitchen.

The sound of heavy footsteps can be heard getting closer to the kitchen.

You of course hold a kitchen knife in your hand.

.

.

Ishakan walks through each forest carefully, until he stops and sits sweetly on a tree trunk, looking towards the hut, Ishakan can see an open window, looking around the room, it must be the kitchen.

Grinning softly until he sees you taking a tray of cookies, your hair that he thought was brown, turns out to be as blue as the sky?!, oh by the old gods of the kurkans, Ishakan wants to come to you, claim you as his!.

You are so beautiful, so fragile and weak, so perfect for him!, his life partner!, his mate!.

With one kick, Ishakan came down from the towering tree, walking towards the door of his wild rabbit hut.

With one kick, Ishakan entered the house whose door had now been destroyed and fell to the floor miserably due to his powerful kick.

Walking slowly until he entered the kitchen, looking towards the corner of the room, where Ishakan was sure the old woman in front of you was a natural witch, because only natural witches used bone necklaces.

.

.

Esmera stared in horror at the figure not far in front of her, tall, with a black leather robe, and a long-handled sword, and a smell that reflected an animal, kurkans!

With a sharp voice full of alert Esmera asked.

"Who are you?!, what do you want from our little hut?!"

Instead of an answer, a laugh! That deep and rich voice was what laughed at them.

You who were behind Esmera were increasingly panicking in your heart, afraid and thinking that this person was an enemy soldier who was still looking for you!!

"Calm down woman, I'm only here to take what is mine, my mate"

That deep voice that sounded very arrogant... have you heard it before! That exotic skinned foreign man with golden eyes like an animal?!.

"You?!"

Loudly and pointing a knife at the figure you pointed at him with full courage.

Esmera looked at you confused, wondering if you knew this figure.

Ishakan he laughed, seeing you in the corner of the room, very small like a rabbit or kitten that was growling at him, oh.. his partner was so cute and fragile. So soft and weak, really in need of protection.

Ishakan gently opened the hood of his robe, revealing his handsome face, decorated with a wide grin showing a row of neat and clean teeth and some of his fangs.

"You remember me right? I came here to take what is mine"

Esmera, she immediately knew what this figure meant!

"Listen Kurkans! You can't take her as your mate! This child is mine, I found her first!"

Emsera ran while carrying a silver dagger in her hand towards this stranger.

But what Esmera fought was a kurkans, of course Emsera was immediately defeated with just one flick of the sword handle that Ishakan didn't even open!

Esmera fell unconscious on the floor.

You who saw Esmera, the figure of the witch and your savior was already on the floor, in a state of fainting caused by the stranger you saved.

You froze stiffly, not realizing that the stranger you saved was already in front of you!

Your chin was raised, your galaxy eyes met the eyes with the golden irises of the animal.

The stranger spoke in his deep voice.

"Don't we know each other, my wild rabbit?"

Chuckling softly while stroking your face and your bright blue hair, a stark contrast to his brown hair, so smooth like silk.

The man brought his mouth close to your ear, whispering in his deep voice.

"I am Ishakan, Ishakan Kurkans, Your life partner. Your mate."

You stared at this man named Ishakan in horror as he stared at you with eyes full of love, passion and animalism.

His grin was the last thing you saw before darkness descended upon you.

.

.

.

*Source Image : Pinterest

©️Nymphea0 2024 ,OG story, Project Dark Manhwa Character Series.

Tag list; @snowflakes666 @nerdygoateepeanut @blurryperrtymoonlight @luminethebest @scenicelixir @n4muqr @cannyyyyy @athena-roy @sirenetheblogger

Please dont steal my work, or use without my permissions, Always be good people Dear. Much love, Neva🦋🦋.

[cammys-imagines24]

°•Soft Moments with Mizu•°

Contrary to what others would claim, Mizu does have a soft side.

A side she's had to shove down into the deepest parts of herself because everytime she's let it be free, it's been a mistake.

She showed that side to Mikio and he betrayed her. Called her a monster.

But, she can be soft, gentle and playful to those she trusts, especially to you.

So much so that you'll never understand why people call her a demon in the first place.

The part within Mizu that was revealed to you was that of a woman in love. Who laughed and teased you in between kisses and smiles at you as if you were the very sun.

She quite literally and figuratively, let's her hair down with you.

Speaking of, she loves it when you comb through her hair.

After a long day of needing to fake it, she absolutely relishes being able to let her hair loose from its up-do and the feel of your hands in her hair.

Your fingers gently coaxing knots free from her silky black strands and the way you massage her skull, too. She can't help but let out a moan sometimes, despite being embarrassed about it but you love the sound.

Mizu will help you apply your makeup if you wish her to. She's not partial to wearing any herself, regardless of needing to pretend to be a man or not but she enjoys doing such an intimate routine with you.

Bonus points because she also gets to cradle your face in her hands, her fingers tracing the outline of your bottom lip just to see you blush so hard even the white can't conceal it.

On more than one occasion she purposely messes up your lip stain by pressing her mouth against yours. Her own lips smeared with your red pigment a sight to behold.

Whenever you're cold her navy cloak is yours, even if she's freezing herself.

Whenever you two spar together, though she may never let you win, she will steal so many kisses.

She'll pin you down over and over again just to kiss you and feel your body beneath hers. Her unable to stop herself from pushing her knee in between your legs.

By the time you're finished sparring you're too turned on to even care about how badly you lost to her.

When you two travel from town to town Mizu loves nothing more than being able to call you her "wife."

She'll say it's easier. Easier to get a room at an inn and better for you since then you don't receive unwanted attention from men because you're a "married woman."

But, really it's just because she adores calling you her spouse outloud. She'll call you her wife all day long.

Whatever you're eating, she will give you the bigger portion. The best piece. She'll take stuff she knows is your favorite off her own plate to give to you.

In the quiet of the night with you in her arms, Mizu will whisper sweet nothings in your ear and pull you close.

The harsh rasp of her voice replaced by her lighter tone instead, pretenses all gone.

She will tell you she loves you quietly, whispered in your ear or the very words traced along your bare skin with her fingertips.

Telling you how glad she is she found you when really you feel like the grateful one.

To others Mizu may be a demon, an Onryo but to you she's your beloved.

A woman who has shown you her vulnerabilities and who trusts you completely.

She would protect you to the ends of the earth and she cherishes you with all her pieced together heart.

[chiisana666]

walk him like a dog!

synopsis: some perverts need a serious reality check.

warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+ sub!perv!sanji x mean!dom!fem reader, big dick sanji, non-con voyeurism, dub con, sanji is a nasty perv fr, slapping but he likes it, blackmail?, footjob, mention of zoro x reader, sanji w/ a tongue piercing, cunnilingus, semi-public, choking, edging?, ruined orgasm, unprotected p in v, cum swapping, more stuff that I missed

wc: 3334

notes: image sourced from pinterest, credits for dividers here. not beta-read so apologies for any mistakes, I wrote this all in one sitting and was blushing like a slut the whole time. i wanna step on the stupid cook, he is so baby girl <3

There you are before him, dripping wet and pissed as hell.

He hadn’t meant for you to catch him - he didn’t even know how he ended up in there, honestly! But you knew better than to trust whatever bullshit alibi the cook spewed when you caught him poking around in the women’s changing room.

Sanji had been present when you announced your intention to unwind in an Onsen not too far from where the Thousand Sunny was docked, inviting Nami and Robin to join. Much to both your and Sanji’s disappointment, both declined, opting to turn in for the evening in preparation for setting sail the next morning. But it did not matter, you would enjoy a quiet evening soak and perhaps a nice sake after regardless.

The kindly old woman behind the reception counter of the inn was overjoyed to have a customer, and you were delighted to find the hot spring empty, all for yourself. Once behind the red curtain concealing the woman’s dressing room, you strip away your sun-bleached top and tight shorts, undergarments following suit. You neatly fold the articles and put them into one of the numerous empty baskets on the shelf, placing your shoes aside. Wrapping yourself in a fluffy white towel that the old lady had given you, you entered the bathing area, sliding the door shut behind you. Hanging your towel on a nearby hook, you gingerly dip a toe in the water, before slipping fully in. The steamy water welcomes your aching muscles, tenderly loosening the knots tethered across your neck and shoulders. You sigh pleasantly and relax against the rock behind you, eyelids drooping shut as you sink further.

Unbeknownst that steps away lurks an all-too-familiar face. It had been easy enough for Sanji to slip away after you, claiming he too yearned for a soak. Really, he thought it was a nice idea and meant to enjoy some relaxation himself. But the obvious lack of customers and the late hour were all too tempting, and Sanji easily slipped through the red curtains rather than the blue.

He was just going to take a quick look, and then go to the men’s side. He peeks inside the only occupied basket and goes red in the face as he is greeted by your cotton panties neatly placed on top. Just once and then he’ll leave. Sanji presses his nose against the crotch and inhales deeply. It was intoxicating. His left-hand gropes at his hardening cock through his black pants, and one turned into two, and two turned into three.

Sanji’s gaze steadily lingers towards the sliding doors to the spring, he can hear you faintly humming a familiar tune. Perhaps he can just take a quick glance, and then he swears he will leave. He creeps towards the doors, your panties still clutched in his right hand. Using the greatest care, he inches it open, just enough to reveal a sliver of the scene it obscured. There you are - just a slice but enough to send Sanji reeling - leaning against a large rock, your locks messily done up to keep them dry, the swell of your breasts peeking above the water line, all while the hum of your sweet voice flitters through the air.

His eyes roll back as he raises your underwear to his face again, sliding his hand beneath his pants and giving his dick a firm squeeze. He wants to burn the image of you into his mind, eyes peeping open occasionally to ensure all the details are correct. His left hand fists at his stiff member as he imagines what more lay beneath the water’s edge. Sanji groans lowly while he pictures how your pretty panties snuggly grip your ass, or the heavenly sight of it slapping against his thighs while he drills into you from behind. He swore he could hear the sweet chirps that would fall from your supple lips, begging him for more, harder.

Sanji was close, just a little more and then he could cum and leave, and you would be none the wiser. He moans again, a little less mindful that you were mere feet away. He tugs at his cock, feeling his balls tightening just as he is about to-

BOOM!

Sanji topples backward, his tailbone smacking against the wooden floorboards while his hands fly behind to catch himself. He snaps out of his daze on impact and meets you with a shocked expression.

While enthralled in the depths of his disgusting, perverted mind, Sanji had failed to notice that you had left the springs and toweled off. It was during this that you heard a quiet groan, so faint you almost missed it. Initially fearing someone, perhaps the old woman, maybe hurt, you wrapped yourself up and hurried towards the doors. But then, you halted right before them, noticing the tiniest crack between the door and the frame. Through this, you caught the smallest glimpse of blonde hair and immediately slammed the door open.

So now, there you are, dripping wet and pissed as hell. Your towel is clutched against your nude body, hair now freed from its’ confines. Your jaw clenches tightly, and Sanji swears he can see the steam blowing out of your ears.

“Why you-! You vile little- you, you!” Words cannot express the admonishment you feel in this moment as you take in the cook: his belt hangs unbuckled, button and fly open to expose his hard dick pressing against his boxers, begging to be freed. His face is flushed, blonde hair damp from steam and sweat. And your crumpled panties lie next to him, evident drool marks littering them.

You growl and lunge at him, your hand tangling with his locks and yanking him into the bathing area, before slamming the door shut behind him.

“What is wrong with you!” You shriek, letting go of his hair and flailing your arms around. Sanji falls to his knees and peers up at you, bottom lip slightly quivering. He wasn’t sure if he should be turned on or fear for his life. Likely the latter, but he was more so feeling the former.

“I cannot believe that you would- argh!” You reel back, right hand striking his left cheek with a loud smack! Sanji’s head jerks to the side as he falls forward onto his hands, a loud, shameless moan echoing around you. His cheek tingles and burns as blood rushes back to his cock, reminding him of the orgasm you had stolen from him moments prior. You stare at him for a moment, shocked at his unconventional reaction. Then, you squat to his level, and, using the same hand you just struck him with, you grab at his hair again and force his face up to meet yours.

“You disgust me, Sanji,” you spit, noticing the ill-defined outline of your palm and fingers on his cheek. You might want to fuck him up, but if he is going to behave this way, you might as well enjoy yourself too, “Perverts like you are good for nothing, right?” You give another yank, sending shockwaves through his scalp and down to his cock.

“Right?” You ask again, more aggressively due to his lack of response. His eyes clench shut, afraid he may cum the second he meets yours, “Look at me when I speak to you, mutt.” Your hand moves to grip his face, fingers digging into his cheeks, forcing his lower jaw to hang open. The tip of his pink tongue pokes out as he gazes at you, half-lidded, while your head moves closer to his.

“Yeth!” he lisps through puckered lips, wincing at the crushing force bruising against his tender cheek, dick twitched in his pants. You smirk at his pure patheticness, humming contently in response.

“That’s what I fucking thought.” You stand up abruptly, pulling him back onto his knees by his jaw, which continues to prove just how much he enjoyed this. Sanji could easily free himself from your grasp if he wanted to, and yet he lies limp while you drag him around like a ragdoll.

With one foot planted firmly into the stone ground, your other traces up his thigh to his covered cock. You press the ball into his shaft, eliciting a guttural moan from Sanji’s chest, gurgling on the spit that had accumulated in his mouth as a result of the grip on his jaw. Running your toes up and down his length, you sigh, hand moving to regain his locks once more. You massage the crown of his skull soothingly, tilting his head upwards while you lean over him.

“Why shouldn’t I just tell everyone,” You purr in his ear, biting at the lobe, “the cook is a nasty pervert that peeps on girls. Imagine what the crew would say?” Sanji’s eyes shot open, what would he do if everyone found out about this incident? They knew he could be obsessive, but this was entirely different than just fawning over pretty women. Surely, they will kick him off the ship, drop him on some island in the Grand Line, and never turn back. Or worse, perhaps he will be thrown overboard to whatever creature lurks beneath the waves.

You sense his fear and giggle, placing a wet kiss on his jaw, “Guess you’ll have to convince me to keep my mouth shut.” Your toes curl under the waistline of his boxers, tugging at it so it slaps against his hip bone with a thwack! Sanji leans into the kisses you sloppily pepper along his cheek before a firm pull at his neck alerts him.

“Off,” you demand, fingers wrapped around his black tie. Stepping back, you watch as Sanji’s trembling hands undo his tie and unfasten the buttons of his blue-stripped dress shirt, discarding both to the side. He looks back at you, eyes pleading for your touch once more. You stare at him like he is stupid and scoff, “Everything, mutt!”

Sanji makes quick work of the rest of his clothing, kicking off his shoes and yanking down his pants and boxers in one motion, thumbs peeling off his socks last. He sits back on his forearms, fully nude, dick standing proudly against his lower abdomen. You feel your mouth salivate and thighs clench together at the glorious state of him. No matter how much you want to despise Sanji, you can never deny how beautiful he was, and even more so his dick was. The mushroom head is flushed red, angry, and leaking globs of precum. He is larger than you had expected, seeing as most perverts sported little cocks to juxtapose their massive egos.

But no, Sanji impresses you in both length and girth, possibly rivaling Zoro’s dick which had fucked you stupid on more than one drunken occasion. And his hefty balls that hang between his spread thighs are the cherry on top.

You leisurely untuck your towel and let it slip down your body, exposing your lusciousness to Sanji. He sighs, cock bouncing.

“Well?” you ask, arms crossing and eyebrow quirking, beckoning him to make the next move. He crawls toward you and rests on his haunches, thick hands grabbing at your calf while he leans down to kiss at your ankle. The fine hairs of his mustache tickle with each smooch, and the scruff of his beard drags behind them. Sanji puckers moist, messy kisses up your calf and across your thigh, creeping past your perfect cunt while his hands caress your hips and ass. He licks and suckles marks across your pelvis, pulling you into his body, your hands reaching down to steady yourself on his shoulders.

His striking eyes bear up into yours as he grabs your right leg, hooking it over his left shoulder and pulling your cunt to his face. Sanji flattens his tongue against your damp core, and you jump at a cool metallic feeling on your clit. He licks a languid strip up towards your mound, flicking slowly, obviously showing off the barbell pierced through his fat tongue.

Sanji devours you, switching between fucking your sopping hole with the thick pink tip of his tongue and tickling over your clit with his piercing. The firm grip he has on your waist and thigh is all that is keeping you up, entranced in the methodical rhythm of grinding your hips on his face, one of your hands stroking through his golden locks.

Sanji can feel his dick twitching and throbbing at your sultry gyrations, desperately wanting to feel your sweet cunt milking it. He groans into your cunt at the thought, vibrating your clit.

“F-fuck San-ji,” you keel over him, pressing his face impossibly closer to you. You can feel a familiar pressure thumping deep within your abdomen, a slow ascension beginning. You so badly want to cum all over his stupid face, but you cannot erase the image of his gorgeous cock from your thoughts. Much to your own dismay, you push his head away from your core, dropping your shaking leg and pushing at his shoulders. Sanji gets the hint and lays back across the stone floor, shivering at the coolness despite the billowing warmth of the hot spring steps away.

You drop to kneel above his hips, dripping cunt hovering inches above his thick, weepy cock. You trace your hands across his broad chest, pinching at his nipples and scratching at his pectorals with your nails, before finally taking purchase at his throat. You give a gentle squeeze and his hands, which now rest on your hips, offer one in return. You giggle at the somewhat cute exchange, leaning down to meet his lips with yours. The kiss was gentle, lulling you into forgetting how this exchange even began. His tongue dances with yours, sweeping around your mouth, piercing clicking against the back of your teeth.

You drop your hips to grind your wetness up and down his length, soaking his cock and balls with your sweet juices. Sanji bucks his hips up into yours in response, exchanging moans through kisses. The pudgy tip prods at your hole, hooking at your clit – although this alone was heavenly, you can feel your patience growing thinner with each thrust.

Breaking free from his lips, you left one hand wrapped around his neck, keeping yourself propped up, while the other reached behind you. You position his tip at your entrance, inching yourself downward on his cock, slowly split yourself open. He fills you up almost too perfectly, head massaging your spongy walls as you begin to fuck your tight pussy up and down his length.

Sanji’s eyes clenched shut; he knew he wasn’t going to last long, and it was taking everything in him not to stuff you full of his creamy seed right there. His grip on your hips tightened, alerting you to his nearing peak. You snapped your hips against his harder, ass slapping against his heavy balls while his tip prodded aggressively within you. Your greedy cunt sucks his cock in, clinging like a vise. Sanji’s breaths become shorter and more exasperated, eyes rolling back as he feels his balls tighten with the grip you had on his neck. He was so close, so so close-

And then you stopped, completely halting the movement of your hips within a second.

“Nooo!-“ Sanji whines, but is cut off with a harsh smack to the left side of his face with the backside of your hand.

“Shut up.” You command sternly, a harsh contrast to the sweetness of your earlier kisses, “Why the fuck would I let you come before me? Are you that fucking stupid, mutt?” Your degrading words send a shudder down his spine.

“You’ll be lucky if I let you come at all,” you chuckle at the flash of fear that ran through his eyes, mimicking his earlier panic. Leaning back, you release his neck and rest your hand on his thigh behind you. Your other reaches down to grasp the base of his cock in an ‘o’ shape, acting as a make-shift cock ring.

You grind your cunt down onto his pelvis, his groomed pubic hairs tickling at your clit while his dick kneads your walls. You sigh in contentment as you resume your bouncing, your juices making it easier to accommodate his thick length.

Sanji can already feel his high creeping in again, stomach tightening while he thrusts his hips up into you to the best of his ability. But the tight grip you had on the base of his cock inhibits him from toppling over the edge. He wants to cry, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as he starts to babble at you.

“Pl-please baby- fuck- please let me c-cum inside of you,” He sobs pathetically, drool dribbling from the corner of his swollen lips. His wet eyes peek open to meet yours, hoping to find a shred of mercy but only to be met with malice. You grin wickedly at him as you slam yourself down on his thick cock, abusing your own cunt.

“Wanna fill me up, hmm? Tch- as if,” you jeer, purposefully clenching your walls around his aching dick. Another sob wracks his body as Sanji tenses, trying desperately to loosen your hold just enough for him to cum. But, if anything, you tighten it impossibly more, bouncing on him faster and faster, “You should be grateful I even let you stick it in my pussy.”

You throw your head back, feeling your core tighten and your legs begin to give out. Your own peak was right there, and you barrel towards it like a mad woman. Your bounces become sloppy, turning into messy thrusts as your climax hits. Your toes curl as bliss encapsulates your mind, your essence flooding your walls and coating his length. The clenching of your pussy around his length as you ride out your high is unbearable, and tears stream down Sanji’s cheeks while you selfishly abuse his poor dick.

The roll of your hips becomes more controlled and rhythmic as you come down, rolling your head and shoulders as you ground yourself back into reality. The tight hold you have on the base of Sanji’s cock does not let up once, leaving him dangling by a thread while you revel in your release.

You give him a look of pity, offering a warm smile as you tenderly slide up and down his dick. His breathing is still heavy, tears still flowing.

“Alright, alright,” You give in half-heartedly, slipping him out of your sore, sopping cunt.

“Wait, no!-“

“Cum,” you interrupt, releasing your grip and delivering a harsh flick to his puffy tip. Sanji screams as spurts of hot cum coat his stomach, hips thrusting violently in search of anything to fuck him through his orgasm. He tries to reach a palm to fist his cock, but your hands snatch his wrists and prevent any relief they could have brought.

It takes several moments for Sanji’s incessant whimpering and bucking to subside, leaving thick globs of seed painted across his abdomen. You scoop some of his cum up with two fingers, bringing them to your mouth to suck them clean, moaning at the taste. He is salty and slightly musky, likely from the copious amounts of cigarettes he smokes. But there is a delicate saccharine taste that lingers on your tastebuds. You swish the cum around with some saliva, leaning down to capture Sanji’s pouty lips in yours, spitting the mixture into his mouth. He swallows without even having to be asked.

Your bare chest relaxes against his, skin sticking together, while you gingerly nip and suckle on his lips, arms caging his head and fingers playing with his hair. You lay with him for many moments, relishing in the brief intimacy.

“Chérie…” Sanji groans wantonly, but you hush him before he can continue.

“I think we can work out an arrangement, cook. In exchange for me keeping your nasty secret.”

[kneelingshadowsalome]

just thinking about reader who just moved to austria and meeting könig… he obviously knows you’re new and he can’t muster up the courage to take you on a date and show you around his hometown!!!

You don’t even know what an awkward but cute coffee shop au this would make 💕

The poor, desperate “Can I come inside” slipping out of König’s mouth when he finally gets to kiss you after walking you safely back to your apartment after a nervous, a bit intimidating date, belongs to this au too!

You giggle that of course he can, hoping you're not making a mistake by trusting this anxious Goliath who barely understands that what he said could be taken in many ways. He huffs a short little laugh in your mouth when you reach for your keys, the nervousness of the evening finally turning into authentic excitement when you get to rip the clothes off from each other.

“I don’t usually do this,” you say hurriedly when he’s trying his best not to break the kiss while dragging your shirt over your head.

“Me neither,” he rasps back, and you believe him when it turns out that the guy doesn’t even have a condom with him.

Luckily, you grace him with one so that he can fuck you long and hard on your single bed, with hot breaths and a stare that never leaves your lips or your face. It’s like he’s crawling out of his skin with you, but he passes out after the third round to your relief, all the condoms you owned now filled up to the brim with pearl white cum and thrown away on the floor with your blessing.

He takes them to the trash next morning, looking slightly embarrassed and lost in your place, and you ask him what is he looking for?

“...My shirt,” he says with the condoms in hand, staring at how your nipples perk up under his tee. You stole it from the floor before strolling to the kitchen to make you both some breakfast, softly to not wake this odd giant with infinite amount of stamina.

You’re not going to surrender the shirt easily, and it’s not like he even wants to rid you from it, and once the awkward evidence of last night is finally in the bin he gets curious about the fried eggs on the pan... Along with the soft tits currently inside his clothing.

“Can I see you again...?” He asks rather demurely for a guy who fucked you like a gorilla last night, who now fondles your breasts like they already belong to him. Who told you that he once blew some people up by accident and almost got decorated for it... Who breathes into the back of your neck like someone who never had enough of anything.

He loves your coffee, even more now when you prepare it for him while wearing nothing but his black apparel and scent, but the truth is, you’ve never been so afraid. He’s the kind of guy people always warned you about, a little mad but sweet, makes love to a woman like it’s always the last time, kisses poorly but adores expertly. He could destroy you in more ways than just one, but even more than that, you fear the power you already have over him.

It’s dangerous, and you only just moved here...

[stormsbourne]

common complaints about veilguard: the counterpoint post

Spoilers under the cut lol

1) "why isn't the betrayal of felassan a mural?" the reason that the betrayal of felassan isn't a mural is that solas' regret about it is so potent that the evanuris manipulate it into a guardian to try and sabotage the crossroads. it is not that he doesn't regret it, it's that he regrets it enough that the regret is easily manipulable. the game tells you this about the guardians. "betrayal of felassan" isn't just a fun name for a revenant, it is the emotions and turmoil that revenant was made from. THE GAME TELLS YOU THIS

2) "why doesn't lucanis say he's a/demisexual, saying it online is a dumbledore moment" because it's not super relevant to his arc or romance and it's possible he doesn't know the words the same way that taash had to be told what being nb was. also it's insane to compare harry fucking potter to a game full of pansexual companions, one of whom is trans and has an arc based around their identity. it is not comparable lol.

3) "solas said in inquisition that he doesn't think blood magic is all that bad, this is a retcon" no, he's lying to rook because he is doing a blood magic on them as they speak. again the game establishes this. turns out you can't always take people at their word, especially if they are a god of lies and treachery. sometimes characters will lie to you!

4) "lucanis should be able to come to trust rook again even if you sacrifice treviso" he DOES trust rook but he's just not able to be romanced! those aren't the same thing! it's not even really about rook, it's that his arc as a character is changed if you sacrifice treviso (ie instead of coming to coexist with spite he decides that he's going to separate them and grant spite their own separate existence) so his dynamic with rook just cannot be the same. sorry you can't romance him, he'll be there in a future play. also I thought we liked consequences isn't that why we're all so mad about the three decisions only from inquisition stuff

5) "but that means lucanis is black and white not complex like the writers keep saying" I don't think you know what complexity means in terms of character writing. being able to come to trust and forgive someone for a decision that impacted you and your people, but still not being able to cross the line into dating them is a pretty complex set of emotions. people are complicated and messy and lucanis is too. sorry

6) "but you can still romance neve if you sacrifice minrathous" yeah, neve is complicated in a different way from lucanis. they're different people with different priorities and different reactions to trauma. this isn't bad writing, it is in fact, good writing to have characters respond realistically and have complexes they can or cannot move past instead of having a random approval tipping point that makes them ok or not ok with something

7) "solas is TOO morally gray, bioware just wants you to hate him" yeah I'm sure that's why there is a redeem option (overwhelmingly chosen by players) where you make him see the error of his ways and he willingly surrenders his plans after being told that he can let go of his guilt for his mistakes. sorry john epler thinks solas is a complicated person but that's what's most interesting about him. when the castling shit happens I started hollering because it's the best thing solas has ever done onscreen, it's so delightful. also, lol, the elven god of lies and treachery lied to and betrayed you? you don't fucking say

8) "why'd they have to kill varric" varric dying, as many people have pointed out, is the actual catalyst that releases the gods and traps solas by basically doing to him the same thing he later does to rook. The implication is that he immediately regrets it and this regret jams him into the fade prison in the place of elgar'nan and ghilan'nain. the game does not directly tell you this but it is implied. as for why they made that story decision, I can't tell you, but it definitely wasn't made just to piss people off

9) "weird that you can't tell taash that they can be both qunari and rivaini." I agree! next

10) "taash's nb stuff is so cringey and 101" yeah well it's not being written for tumblr folks who have all had a gender journey and read queer theory, it's being written for people who don't know shit and may never have even heard of being nonbinary. sometimes there's an audience besides you and things are written to help them understand the basics of the basics

11) "why do they kill davrin/harding" you are fighting gods and things are dire. if they hadn't killed one of them then we'd be getting complaints about how easily rook and co manage to handle things. Hell dude we're still getting those complaints right fucking now

12) "I can't believe they destroyed all of southern thedas just to burn bridges from the previous games" it is intended to be a world changing conflict because these are literal gods who are empowered by the blight. also it's not like it's a smoking crater. you don't know that they killed all your faves and in fact that is a slightly unhinged assumption to make. I get it, you're dissatisfied with the game, but you're reading in more malice than is intended

13) "why isn't rook in the book club/cooking rotation/lucanis and davrin monster conversations/whatever" so that you have room to decide if your rook would be there or not. this is an invitation to decide what kind of person your rook is, not a refusal to put them in the group

14) "why does everyone call rook that instead of their surname" logistics, same as any other dragon age game

15) "why is rook making the decisions for these characters, they're grown adults" do you think adults never seek advice or input from their friends. the point of the character decisions is that they're hard and the companions don't know what way is "right," and for that matter you're not deciding what's right, either, you're giving them advice and input that they take seriously as either your friend or your teammate.

16) "I reject this thing about canon and have decided on my own" that's fine, my rook doesn't have the "canon" mercar backstory because I just chose not to incorporate it with my view of that character. nobody is stopping you, especially not the people at bioware

[w4nd3r3r123456]

Changes (1)

Changes two

(Re-written)

Caretaker sat with Whumpee at the edge of the bed, the curtains drawn closed on the window as the chandelier above head illuminated the room. Much to Whumpee’s dismay, Caretaker had just finished explaining how he had to travel for work and thought it was best to leave Whumpee in the care of one of his friends. He sat there intently studying Whumpee for his reaction, for any hint of a negative reaction. Caretaker had just taken Whumpee in, how could they afford to argue with caretakers judgement? 

Caretaker spent the next hour packing the clothes they had bought for Whumpee over the past week, constantly ushering them back to their bed or handing them a book whenever they tried to help. Before long the sleek black suitcase stood ready at the door of their room. Caretaker gave their arm a light squeeze before going to get his own things ready, dimming the lights in Whumpee’s room as he wished him a good night. 

They both awoke before the sun the following morning, every action Whumpee did was with a solemn silence, their nerves on edge even as Caretaker spilled praises about the person they would be left with for the next two weeks. “Hey,” Caretaker turned to Whumpee as they pulled into the driveway of a massive building, white marble pillars supporting the externals of the structure. He waited for Whumpee to give him his attention before continuing, “ you call me if anything happens, all right?” Whumpee hesitated for a moment before nodding in agreement. In the minutes that followed, Caretaker had taken Whumpee to the door of mansion, greeted his friend and bid Whumpee a farewell. Whumper sighed as he slammed the door shut after Caretaker’s departure, his arm instantly darting out and wrapping around Whumpee’s slender form, a friendly grin masking his face. “Don’t worry, you won’t miss him," he prodded at Whumpee.

Whumper had lied. Whumpee laid at the foot of Whumper’s bed, their body bruised and aching, the only thing they COULD do was miss Caretaker, but then again, it was them who had stuck Whumpee in this situation. Did they know Whumper was like this? Were they mad at Whumpee? Did they regret taking them in? Is that why they had left them here? Despite that, Whumpee had tried to keep their promise, running to the house phone the moment Whumper had struck them, that idea clearly hadn’t worked considering how they could hardly move their legs now. Whumper came out of his bathroom wearing only a bathrobe, his black brushing his shoulders as he walked to his dresser, completely ignoring Whumpee’s limp form. The next two weeks past the same, Whumper would wake early and go to work, giving Whumpee exactly six hours of peace before he would come home and beat Whumpee.

The day had finally come for Caretaker to pick them up. Whumpee could hardly care, their trust in Caretaker shattered, they wouldn’t be surprised if Caretaker didn’t even show to pick them up. They had finished showering, the third time Whumper had let them do so in the two week span and was now sitting by the door, waiting. They stared at the door even as Whumpers steps echoed off the stairs and into the surrounding area, that was Whumpee’s mistake. In a split second, his fingers were curled into Whumpee’s hair, pulling them to their knees as they clawed at his hand and whimpered under him. “Pathetic” Whumper spat as he glared at the grovelling thing beneath them. “ listen you insolent piece of shit ” he began, lowering his face to Whumpee’s “ the moment Caretaker arrives, you WILL smile, you WILL wave good-bye to me, and you WILL NOT mention anything that happened. You’ll tell him we went out every night, you slept in your own bed and i not once laid a finger on you, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?” He hissed at Whumpee, who in their pitiful state, could only nod. With that, Whumper dropped their head. Painful as his words were, Whumpee could only be glad that Caretaker had no clue of this. He wasn’t upset at Whumpee and wasn’t going to leave them with Whumper. 

Whumpee had done everything Whumper had told them to and gladly left with Caretaker who asked questions non-stop to Whumpee. “......How was your trip?” The question caught Caretaker off guard but he seemed pleased nonetheless, within seconds he was spilling every detail, grinning as he did so. Every word fell on deaf ears as Whumpee stared out the window, their eyes following the ever changing landscape. “Whumpee? Did you hear me?” Caretaker called out, their grin had fallen into a frown. “Hmm? Oh…no…sorry, i zoned out” Whumpee responded, now folding their arms in their lap, sure to not let their sleeves trail up. Caretaker furrowed his brows, his frown deepening “Are you sure you’re all right? Did something happen?” He questioned. Whumpee let out a deep sigh “....no, sorry…i’m just a bit tired…..happy that you’re back tho.” Caretaker waited a moment before nodded, the rest of the drive polluted by the radio.

The next few months passed without incident. Whumpee lay on their bed, their hair barely touching the floor as their head hung off the side, book in hand. A light knock shook their attention as the door creaked open. Caretaker entered looking unimpressed to say the least, “ I already told you you’ll ruin your blood circulation doing that” he commented as he plucked the book out of Whumpee’s hands and lifted their head onto the bed before sitting down themself. Caretaker inspected the cover as he set it down, Whumpee’s eyes hungrily trailing it. “So, i have to travel again” Caretaker stated, adjusting a few pillows at the head of the bed, not making eye contact with Whumpee who had gone silent. A few moments passed before Caretaker turned his head, confusion lacing his features as he watched Whumpee. “ Whumpee? ” he reached out, his hand resting on their shoulder. One second Whumpee was glancing at his hand, the next they were in front of the room door, arms outstretched as tears flowed down their cheeks. “NO! NO YOU CAN’T LEAVE AGAIN, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME AGAIN, I’LL DO ANYTHING YOU SAY, JUST DON’T LEAVE.” They begged as Caretaker rushed over, cradling Whumpee’s small form in his arms, “Shhh, hey it’s okay. I won’t go, alright? I’m right here with you” He lulled into Whumpee’s ear. Hours passed by like that, Caretaker leaning against the doors frame as Whumpee hyperventilated before finally calming down, their cries replaced by apologies and sniffles as they drifted off. Caretaker waited for a few minutes, making sure Whumpee was asleep as he lowered their exhausted form back onto the bed, his fingers brushing through their hair brushed out hair. he leaves to sort out the problem. A mili-second later he's barging out of the house to sort out the problem.

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Love At First Sight

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Princess!Reader

Word Count: ~1.6k

Warnings: fluff

Summary: It's your first time in America, and you do your best to blend in. No one needs to know who you really are, and you're really good at playing pretend.

Play Pretend Masterlist

Square Filled: "stop. just stop." for @mfbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

x

You look out the window of the plane in thought. The decision to leave everything you’ve ever known wasn’t rash but it didn’t make it any easier. Nineteen hours on a plane really gives you time to think about the new life you’re stepping into. Someone in the States is waiting for you, to take care of you and help you through this difficult time.

What is America like? You’ve never been there but have always wanted to go. You only know what you’ve heard from stories and other people’s experiences. It’s so big that there are more than five different time zones. You were never able to travel to different countries for your protection but America seemed like the dream to be.

Now it’s reality.

When the plane lands, you watch everyone get out of their seats and grab their bags from the compartments above. Just follow what they do. No one is out to get you. You’re safe here. You grab your bag and hold it close as you wait for your turn to get off the plane. People get off like sheep in herds. You’re not sure what to do or where you’re going so you follow the flow of traffic. Some people break off to grab something to eat or use the bathroom but the majority of people head down to the baggage claim to gather their bags.

You wait patiently as the conveyor belt brings out the bags. You tried to be as inconspicuous as possible so you had gotten a plain black one. That was a mistake as most of the bags are black. You put a pink princess sticker on the top so you’ll look for that. You grab the right bag and haul it to your side before looking around the busy airport.

People pass by you in a hurry to get on with their lives but you’re not sure what to do. There are two police officers with dogs near the sliding doors, so you head over there while being careful not to run into anyone or get in anyone’s way.

“Excuse me?” Both offices turn to you as the dog sniffs your leg and bag. “Do you know where pick up and drop off is?”

“Yes. Right through these doors and to the right.”

“Thank you.”

You leave and head right where the officers directed you. The only thing you know about the person meeting you is his name, Don Stockwell. Someone very close to you trusts the man you’re meeting, and you trust your friend with your life. If he says this man is good then he is good. Some of the crowd clears out as people get picked up, and you see a sign with your last name on it. Thank God.

“Don?” you ask as you approach him.

“Y/N?”

“Yes.”

“Wow, it’s nice to finally meet you. Come here.” He pulls you in for a hug which you return. When you pull away, you notice a scar running across his face starting from his forehead down to the opposite cheek. He’s not ashamed of it or anything because his hair is slicked back when it’s long enough to cover most of the scar. “Let me get your bags.”

He places them into the trunk of the car before the two of you get in. He waits for the road to clear before pulling onto it.

“You look terrified, my dear. Don’t worry. Ben told me everything before you arrived. I’m going to take good care of you.”

“Okay,” you chuckle nervously.

Don drives you into the city of Quantico where there is a line of small houses. These houses don’t have driveways so people are forced to parallel park on the street. The house is small length-wise but has what looks to be three stories high. It’s white with three steps leading up to the front door. It’s small, quaint, and quiet. Everything you’ve wanted for the past year. Only recently were you able to actually go after what you wanted. Don takes your bags inside, and the inside is even more beautiful than the outside. Right off the bat, there is a slim staircase on the left side by the wall. The front door opens to the living room and behind that is the kitchen. The only thing separating the kitchen from the living room is a half-wall. It keeps the floor plan open while still separating the distinctive rooms. There is a door presumably to a basement underneath the staircase but with a padlock on the door.

“So, here’s what’s going to happen now.” Don sits on the staircase at eye level with you. “You’ll introduce me as your uncle who you’re staying with. Your parents are out of town and won’t be back for a while due to work.” You nod in understanding. “I’m working on getting your documents ready like a new birth certificate and a driver’s license.”

“I don’t know how to drive a car.”

“You don’t need to. Everyone carries a license here.”

“Oh, okay.”

“I also got you a job at the new coffee house down the street. It’s within walking distance so you don’t have to worry about using public transport or driving. It doesn’t pay well but it’s not meant to. I’ll pay all the bills here. This job is just meant for you to blend in for a while.”

“When do I start?”

“Monday.”

“Thank you for everything you’re doing for me. I know it can’t be easy.”

“Don’t mention it,” he waves you off. “I’m going to make it an early night but feel free to make this place like home.”

He gets off the stairs and heads to the second floor where the bedrooms are. This is nothing like what home is like. This entire house is the size of your bedroom back home but you’re going to make the most of this situation. After all, you asked for this. You take both suitcases upstairs to your bedroom which is also small. There is a small book corner where the window juts outward. A small bench rests below the window, making the room appear bigger than it normally is.

You start to unpack your things and see some of the items you took from home. Your parents must be worried sick about you but you needed this change for yourself. Both your parents were arranged to be married back then like tradition, but you didn't want that for yourself. You love them with all your heart but they didn’t understand when you told them you wanted more from life than luxury and marrying for politics.

Your past will come knocking eventually, so you’ll get as much as you can from this new life as you can before you’re sucked back into it.

Come Monday and you’re standing outside the sleek and modern coffee shop named “The Coffee Shop”. The place is already busy but you hear that’s normal for this type of establishment. You walk inside and feel slightly overwhelmed by the amount of people. The only way you could be around this many people back home is if your mom or dad and your bodyguard were in the room.

“Can I help you?” a woman asks.

“Um, I’m looking for Cindy?”

“That’s me. How can I help you?”

“My uncle, Don, said to come in for work on Monday. Is that right?”

“Yeah, he said you’d stop by.”

“Thank you for this opportunity.”

“Don’t mention it. Follow me.”

Cindy takes you behind the counter and to her office to give a bit of training. Since The Coffee Shop is slammed, she can’t give you proper training. For now, you’ll be stocking stuff and cleaning what you can until it starts slowing down. You wrap the black apron around your waist and immediately get to work. You watch everyone work like a well-oiled machine. Everyone has a part to do and a place to be in. You’re kind of in the middle of everyone’s way.

“Sorry,” you mutter when someone knocks into you.

That work is becoming your new favorite since you must have said it at least twenty times in the first hour alone. You try not to be in anyone’s way as you restock the items and clean the countertops. You pass by one of the machines that has a drink set up to it but no one is around to take care of it. How hard could this be? You press a button on the front of it and thick fluffy cream comes squirting out the machine.

“No!” You press some more buttons to make the machine stop. “Stop. Just stop.”

“Push the button on the side to turn it off.”

You look at the man who spoke to you. Your hand slips off the machine and into the pile of cream on the counter. You quickly turn the machine off and give the stranger a shy smile.

“Can you tell it’s my first day?” One of your coworkers gives you a scowl when she realizes the mess you made.  “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. I get feeling overwhelmed,” the man says.

“Spencer?”

The man gets up and walks to the pickup counter to grab his order. Instead of leaving, he walks right back over to you.

“I’m Spencer Reid,” he smiles.

“Y/N.”

“I have to go but will I see you here tomorrow?” You can’t find the words so you nod. “Good.”

You watch Spencer go with a slight smile on your face. Something clicked for you when you first looked into his honey-brown eyes. You felt something that you have never felt before. Not even when you were forced to be with Henry. What’s the saying? Love at first sight? You’re not sure if it’s real but you definitely felt something for Spencer. 

You just hope you don’t ruin it before it has a chance to be something real.

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[soleilceirinen]

I LIKE THE WAY YOU KISS ME | Tyler Durden x fem!reader

Summary: you find Tyler in the most unexpected place, your cousin's wedding. Of course, with him there things couldn't be easy. Warning: nothing besides smut, don't read it if you are a minor. A/N: English is not my first language, sorry if there are mistakes and thanks for reading! Words: 1.9k

MASTERLIST

After dating Tyler for over eight months, your cousin’s wedding seems like the perfect occasion to introduce him to your family. They know you are seeing someone but they have no idea of what kind of person he is. It is not like he is the worst human being in the world, but he is kind of weird. You are not quite sure about how your grandmother is going to take it when she meets him. Perhaps she finds him charming, when it comes to Tyler you never know what to expect.

“That day I have to work, I can’t go,” says Tyler when you suggest him to be your plus one at the wedding.

It is okay, not the end of the world. Usually, he works at night. Sometimes at the local cinema, other times as a waiter. There are nights when you are almost certain that he is not working at all, nevertheless you don’t want to ask where he is or what he does. It is none of your business. All you know is that he comes home covered in bruises.

So you decide to end the conversation before he starts rambling for minutes or even hours about how weddings are social constructs imposed by today’s society and bla bla bla. You don’t feel like you have the mental strength to listen for who knows how long to another one of his speeches. According to Tyler, they won’t even last two years married and then they will have to pay again to get divorced. You know that it doesn’t have to be that way but he has his ideas and you are not going to be able to change his mind. 

-

The wedding turns out to be beautiful. You even get emotional and cry a bit during the ceremony. After all, your cousin and you have grown up together - almost like siblings - so seeing him marrying the person he loves so much, with the intention to spend the rest of their lives together moves you deeply inside. 

It is celebrated outdoors, in a lovely place. The restaurant is surrounded by beautiful gardens and a pond in the center. There are fishes and turtles swimming as if nothing is happening around, oblivious to the atmosphere of celebration and happiness that surrounds them. As night falls, the place is lit with small lights scattered among the vegetation, it looks like a setting straight out of a fairy scenery. 

Surprisingly, you are having a great time as you laugh with your family and friends. After a couple of glasses of wine you feel relaxed, a smile plastered on your face and your cheeks in a lovely rosy color. 

As the food is brought to the table, something catches your attention. Or rather someone.

Even though it is dark already and all the waiters are dressed in the same white and black uniform, Tyler is quite unmistakable. You stare at him dumbfounded for a moment, then he glances in your direction and smiles as if he were the devil himself before disappearing with an empty tray.

Finding him here is the last thing you expect. It is as if the universe is conspiring against you, or working in your favor so that your paths cross. Still, something makes you uncomfortable. A pang of nerves make themselves present in your stomach as you look at the soup in front of you. It is kind of creamy but you haven’t tried it yet, you just stir it with the spoon.

Everyone around is eating it, saying that it is really good but all you can think about is Tyler. At this point you know him too well to not trust it. He hasn’t smiled at you that way because he was excited to see you, he has done something to the soup. You have no proof but no doubts either. It is not the first time he does this sort of thing.

So you get up from the table and excuse yourself, going to the back of the old building on one side of the gardens, looking for the restroom. It is dark and far enough so nobody can see you from the tables. Without entering the building, you pace back and forth for several minutes until a figure dressed in white appears from behind the bushes and wraps his arms around you, lifting you off the ground.

“Tyler, put me back down! You’re going to ruin my dress…” 

He pulls you closer before setting you down. When your heels touch solid ground again you give him a little push and grab the lapel of his jacket to pull him towards you. Your lips meet in a hungry kiss and his hands rest on your waist. A soft moan scapes your mouth.

"I like the way you kiss me, I can tell you've missed me," he whispers when you break the kiss looking for some air.

You make a tiny affirmative noise and stare at him with your big eyes, changing your expression to a serious one. “And I can tell you’ve done something to the soup, am I wrong?”

Tyler bits his lip playfully and nods, amused. You punch him in the chest again.

“You’re disgusting!” you shout at him through an angry whisper. “My grandmother is eating that soup, you know? And my mother. And my whole family. What have you put in it?”

“Have you tried it?” he asks with a raised eyebrow. You shake your head. After a pause he adds, “then it’s better if you don’t know.”

“Tyler…”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

"Disgusting!"

It makes Tyler laugh in that way of his, like a maniac. And before you can control it, you're laughing too.

Eventually, your laughter fades away and it is replaced by a dark glint in Tyler’s eyes. He looks so handsome tonight. Without hesitation, you reach to grab the back of his neck to pull him closer to you once again, pressing your lips together. Instantly, his lips and yours seem to find the perfect rhythm. That is all that exists until you feel the wall behind you give way.

He grabs you so you don’t end up on the floor. It wasn’t a wall, you realize, it was the restroom door and it was him who opened it without you noticing during the kiss. With a quick glance around you notice that the bathroom is quite big and clean enough, so you relax. Also, it is far away from the guests. You hope they are all too busy eating or too lazy to want to cross the entire property just to pee. 

His hands move to your thighs, you can feel the warmth emanating from them through the thin fabric of your dress, as he bites his bottom lip. You can’t wait any longer. You need him.

You tangle your fingers in  his hair, messing it up even more if that is even possible. In seconds, his mouth is covered by yours. This time you catch his lip between your teeth and give him a gentle tug. Tyler moans against your mouth. With a subtle movement of your hips you feel his erection pressed against you.

“Wow…” you murmur with a soft giggle while rolling up your dress. 

Almost as if it were effortless, he grabs the back of your thighs and lifts you up, pushing you against the wall. With the cold tiles pressed against your bare back and your legs wrapped around his strong waist, you dig your nails into his shoulder through his clothes as his tip teases your entrance, sending shivers down your spine. 

With a single hand Tyler rips your underwear off in one go, tossing it casually on the floor. He never takes his eyes off your face, your body driving him crazy. Then he thrusts inside of you, without warning, and the feeling of being so full with him is overwhelming and delicious. Through a chorus of moans and sobs Tyler fucks you hard. 

You lose track of time, your family must be wondering where you are, what is taking you so long. You just hope they don’t decide to come looking for you. Nothing else matters. In this moment it’s just you and Tyler, it isn’t romantic, you are like two beasts fighting to dominate the other in a primal dance and it is starting to feel really good.

Tyler feels your walls clenching around his length, you are close to cumming. So he keeps up the pace while stroking your clit with his thumb until you fall against his shoulder with your eyes closed, panting and covered in a thin layer of sweat. He cums too. Still not letting go, he turns his face and leaves a small kiss on the side of your head. 

When your heels finally touch the ground once again, you feel like your legs are made out of jelly. 

You sigh and stretch your back. “Time to go, handsome,” you say as you look around. Your eyes linger on your torn underwear discarded on the floor. Tyler follows your gaze and bends down to pick up the lacey fabric. He stares at it for a few seconds before burying his nose in it. “Tyler! What are you doing? Don’t!”

“It smells like you” he states simply, shrugging and putting the fabric in one of his pockets. “I’ll keep it.”

“You do you, but you broke it. It’s kind of useless now. Can you tell that I’m not wearing any underwear?” Tyler stares at your ass shamelessly, with half a smile. Then he shakes his head. “Good.”

As you try to fix your hair as much as possible in the bathroom mirror, Tyler runs his hands over your sides a few times in an attempt to smooth out the mess of wrinkles your dress has turned into. Finally, you ran your fingers under your eyes to remove any smudged mascara. Is it very obvious that you just fucked like an animal in the bathroom? Giving Tyler one last peck on the lips, you walk back to your table, hoping that it doesn’t show too much. 

-

You smell Tyler before seeing him. 

He stands behind you, placing the desserts in front of each guest. When he leans down to place yours, his arm brushes your shoulder and his face rests only a few inches from yours, too close to go unnoticed by everyone. When you look around the table, you notice that they are too drunk to even care. 

Your heart beats fast, even though initially you thought of introducing him to your family at the wedding, now you don’t feel prepared at all. It feels so abrupt. So you remain impassive, trying not to let any small gesture give you away although Tyler is not making it easy.

He winks at you before turning to who he supposes must be your grandmother, smiling charmingly. He looks good and he knows it. Sometimes you envy him for it, for that self confidence that exudes from every pore of his skin. “Was the soup good, ma’am?”

She starts complimenting all the dishes, with special interest in the soup, and you roll your eyes while biting the inside of your cheek. 

Your eyes focus on the dessert and Tyler alternatively. He looks at you out of the corner of his eye, still talking to your grandmother, and smiles even more. It looks like a harmless ice cream, covered with fancy decorations and a suspicious whitish sauce that could be nothing. But what if…?

You sigh. Damn Tyler and his terrorist food tendencies.

[mackjlee9]

Mammon x Demon!Male!Reader [Smut]

Warning; stuck-in-a-wall trope, overstimulation, mind-break, master kink, fwb au.

Masterlist.

Game; Obey Me: Shall We Date?

Requested by Mister "A" on AO3.

(M/n) was a well-known demon in the Devildom, whether it was because of his looks or magic it didn't matter that much. He was powerful, almost as powerful as Lord Diavolo, why? No one knew, but they knew not to mess with him.

Everyone knew of the unspoken rule, but did Mammon care? Not one bit, that's for sure. Even so, it brought him so much fun and... a good fuck every once in a while.

The way they met wasn't extravagant or anything, Mammon was working in Hell's Kitchen after he fucked up and Lucifer scolded him for it, taking his dear Goldie away until he learned from his mistakes... kinda useless, Lucifer should know by now that Mammon would always be Mammon. He met (M/n) there, a man that looked rich, even if he didn't try, his demeanor and behavior screamed "rich bitch" everywhere you looked.

And Mammon just took the chance.

That chance took him to (M/n)'s bed, ending with him thoroughly fucked and almost unable to move on his own.

He kept encountering him, and with time, they just turned into friends with benefits.

But now, Mammon is really questioning the reason he came over, watching through the invisible wall how (M/n) walked closer to him, unbuckling his belt.

I'm fucked...

//////

(M/n) had received a text from Mammon telling him he had been gambling and lost a lot of money, so he needed to hide from Lucifer and the people he owned money to for a while, just until he was able to get the correct amount, or have someone else pay for it.

He doubted for a few seconds, painfully aware of how Mammon would take someone's expensive belongings to sell and continue gambling, he has a really bad habit of stealing and losing it all, so, even if he's not used to using his powers unless he absolutely needs to, (M/n) went around his apartment, placing spells around anything that could catch Mammon's eye, specifically leaving the expensive stuff in plain view.

He trusted Mammon would never steal from him, he's never done it before, but this time, he was hiding from Lucifer and who knows how many other people, so he couldn't be sure.

The most valuable stuff was in his room, and leaving a good amount of money on the desk, he placed the biggest trap on it. The other spells would only zap him or create a wall of protection, but this? This was gonna trap Mammon until he decided to break the spell.

A few minutes later, the bell rang and Mammon's voice could be heard through the door.

"(M/n), open up~!" He said in a cheerful voice, making the male show a small smile as he rolled his eyes.

He opened the front door, being greeted with a hug from the white-haired male before he made himself at home.

They didn't do much, they watched a movie, a few chapters of a popular series, and talked a bit, unusual behavior for them, since they only met up to have sex, but not this time.

"I need to use the bathroom, excuse me," (M/n) muttered setting his beer down, standing up, and going to his bathroom.

"Sure~ I'll wait," Mammon said looking down at his phone. He heard the bathroom door close and he stood up, searching around to find anything he could take without (M/n) noticing, "Nope, that's too obvious," he whispered while looking at the big black vase holding a bouquet of flowers, "Well... it looks really expensive-"

He bit his tongue and turned around before he decided to take that, and he kept swiftly looking around, soon spotting (M/n)'s bedroom door open. His mind flashed with all the small but valuable things he has seen in there while getting his brains fucked, and taking a deep breath to steady his speeding heartbeat, he walked in.

Mammon didn't have to search around for long, because on top of the desk, very obviously in plain sight, there was a small pile of cash. He didn't think much of how it was placed, it was almost as if it had huge arrows pointing at it, and a megaphone repeating 'Money! Right here, Mammon!' over and over again.

Everyone knows that Mammon isn't the brightest of the bunch, and he's aware of that, and tries to be better, it just... never works.

Rushing without a care in the world, Mammon placed his hands on the money and grabbed it, but before he could react, the trap had been activated, the money disappearing as it was never there, he tried to move closer to look around to find it, but as he bent over the desk, he got trapped in a spell. A magic wall.

Now he realized he fucked up.

(M/n) came out of the bathroom, and saw the living room empty, so he knew his plan might've worked, he just had to find Mammon, and by the sounds coming through the slightly open door of his room, he didn't have to look for long.

There, he saw Mammon struggling to try and break free from the grip the magic wall had on him, but it really wasn't working, even more, since the spell (M/n) used disabled the abilities of who it catches, so Mammon really wasn't getting out of there. And while trashing around, Mammon had seen over his shoulder through the invisible wall.

And that takes us to the present.

"(M/n), how nice it is seeing you! Could you please help me?" The (h/c) haired demon stayed silent for a few seconds, enjoying the flustered look on Mammon's face after being caught, and soon a smirk grew on his face, reaching his hand down to unbuckle his belt.

"You need punishment, love."

//////

"M-master, please... I-I can't cu-cum anymore~," Mammon's words were slurred, his eyes rolling into the back of his head with every hard thrust inside him, hitting and stimulating his prostate endlessly, his hands gripping the desk, leaving the scratch marks of his nails on the dark wood.

(M/n) kept a tight grip on Mammon's hips, using his magic to create a phantom hand that would grip his white hair, pulling it and keeping his head up.

"You should've thought twice before trying to take my money, darling," (M/n) slowed down his thrusts, his hips flushed against Mammon's, every inch of his cock buried deep inside him.

"Fuck~!" Mammon's voice came out an octave higher, his legs trembling, his dick twitching and oozing cum, "I'm sorry, please! I won't... I won't do it again, Master~"

(M/n) made the phantom hand turn Mammon's head a little toward him, their faces almost pressed together through the wall, "You mean it?" Mammon nodded frantically, tears filling his eyes and drool slowly dripping down the corners of his mouth.

"Please, I'm sorry... please please I can't-" his words were mumbled, sounding almost like a babble, and (M/n) was enjoying the view of an overstimulated Mammon, maybe a little too much.

"You want me to let you go?" Mammon whimpered and nodded, whining a small 'yes~' as his hands desperately gripped the desk harder, his legs were trembling so much he was glad (M/n) and the wall was holding him up, "Make me cum then."

(M/n)'s words were followed by hard, deep thrusts, filling every inch of Mammon's pulsating insides, making him cry out with pleasure, cum just leaking from his cock and his body shaking from the feeling of his prostate being pounded. He was fully crying now, tears sliding down his face and neck, some drops falling to the ground he was standing on.

Mammon's mouth was wide open, releasing lewd moans and whines, his eyes closing every few seconds, his eyelashes soaked with his tears.

What a pretty sight~

The phantom hand released Mammon's hair, sticking its fingers in his mouth instead. Mammon moaned around the digits in his mouth, and with slow motions, the hand started finger-fucking his mouth, making the demon choke on his moans and drool.

Knowing about Mammon's small oral fixation was a nice detail (M/n) casually found out, and hearing Mammon's muffled moans, getting louder and louder just made him feel accomplished, especially when he felt Mammon clenching around his cock every time the fingers went to far back in his throat.

He really liked this fucked dumb Mammon, so maybe he'll start leaving money out everywhere where the greedy demon could try and take it. Just maybe.

(What the fuck did I just write 💀 this is the worst)

(I ran out of ideas, if you didn't realize 🙃)

[mj-dev]

Long Post

Someone said Rhysand is too perfect to be morally grey and I almost laughed. So, let’s dissect him a little.

Rhysand is the second villain in TAR who torments and abuses Feyre. In the end, he reveals his true nature and his intentions of breaking free from Amarantha’s curse. He saves Feyre from Tamlin when their relationship turns abusive and offers her a home where she heals and grows to love him. Along the way, he does many unspeakable things which has earned him the ‘morally grey’ label. But I disagree.

Before we get into this in-depth, first we need to talk about what makes a character white, black or grey.

When is a character grey?

Morally grey characters are interesting and have more facets to them which make them more relatable than a perfect hero or an absolute villain. But the problem is modern media and literature are so cluttered with them these days that no one even knows anymore what distinguishes a hero with a flaw from a villain with a virtue from the characters in between. Everyone is morally grey as long as they make one mistake or they have ‘a reason’. 

There are key aspects when fleshing out a character without which they don’t have a leg to stand on—goals, morals and choices. It’s complicated and not a fixed scale, but for brevity, let’s simplify.

Goals: Greater good vs self-serving. These characters have their own agenda which doesn’t root in the common good or evil, although they may indirectly result in a bigger impact. The more these goals lean towards one’s personal gain, they fall farther into the grey area.

Morals: Defined vs None. Almost all characters (except villains) come with a set of defined morals guiding their choices, which when aligns with the general ‘good’, the character lies close to the hero and if they are self-imposed, the character slides along the darker greys.

Chosen path: Ethical vs Malicious. Finally, if they choose honourable methods to achieve their goals, they are closer to being a hero.

(Yes, I made a damn chart. That's how dedicated I am to my hatred)

So, a basic grey character should have a set of self-imposed values that guide them and should be willing to take ethically ambiguous steps to achieve a personal goal that may or may not align with the common good.

How does Rhysand fare in all this?

In MAF, Rhysand opens up about his dreams for the first time. He wishes to live in a free world where the higher and lesser faeries can coexist peacefully. He even named his counsel as Court of Dreams to signify this. Throughout the series, he’s the icon of fairness, justice and autonomy, and it’s his vision of a better future that apparently drives his actions in the plot.

The entire foundation of his growth and redemption relies heavily on the argument that all his vile deeds have been for ultimate peace. Though his values are reiterated over and over again to support the good guy narrative, his actions contradict every single one of them. It’s a lot to explore in detail, so let’s pick the most obvious ones.

Peace

Rhysand claims to wear the mask of a villain for the sake of Night. Despite his grand dreams, he never allies with the other courts. He holds a grudge against Autumn for a personal reason which doesn’t even include him. When Summer extends an olive branch and is the first willing to trust Night after centuries, he steals an artefact from them. He isolates Spring because of what the previous High Lord did to his family during a war, and he continues this rivalry after the fall of Amarantha until Feyre destroys it completely, and some after that. He often breeds hostility with other courts, seeks them out and ruins any chance of peace, all because he wants to keep his facade up which beats his vision to build an eternal utopia.

And under Amarantha’s reign, he claims to attempt to dismantle her from within but when the opportunity is presented, he’s the first to sabotage it. Feyre is the key to breaking the curse and when he reads her mind and knows her feelings, if he truly cares for peace, he could have made a truce with Tamlin and helped him. Or he could have influenced Feyre to confess her true feelings sooner. Instead, he is the cause of Tamlin and Feyre’s capture which leads to…well, everything. (Honestly, I can go on and on this alone.)

Equality

Hadn’t Night been in tatters, his ‘bad guy’ act to protect his people would have had more credibility. Instead, Rhysand actively encourages the segregation of Illyrians and the subjugation of Hewn City. Despite his experience in the Illyrian camps and being a first-hand witness to the atrocities, he continues to allow the military abuse on children and has done little to ban wing-clipping.

His life Under the Mountain for 50 years is similar to that of his people in Hewn City, yet he rallies for their imprisonment solely based on his prejudice. When Keir is willing to settle for limited freedom, which is a moment of vulnerability from the big bad guy and quite a selfless request, Rhysand shuts it down instantly. He then pretends to grant that wish when he secretly orders Velaris to discriminate against them on their visit. Moreover, he allows the oppression of women in this city.

Rhysand isn’t a commoner fighting the system in his court. He’s a ruler. He sets the law, he is the law. And yet, he has abandoned any notion of reform as ‘change takes time’ when he’s been a High Lord for 500 years. For a man who dreams of eliminating discrimination, he actively enforces it himself. He doesn’t even wish to fix his court but wants other courts to get behind his vision of building a better world. This contradicts his dream of fairness among all species when he can’t even extend it to his own kind.

Justice

Rhysand refuses to hold himself or his IC or Feyre accountable for their atrocities. And yet he’s the first to judge someone and execute their punishment right away. He slaughters the remaining of the Illyrian bands who sided with Amarantha when he and IC abandoned their court, while he was playing her lackey for 50 years. He villainises Tamlin for the crimes he didn’t commit and constantly uses his powers to antagonise him. He also disrespects the laws and authority of other courts. During the High Lords meeting, he refuses to accept the possibility of Tamlin spying for Prythian but expects his excuses to be believed for the crimes he committed under Amarantha’s rule or before that. He’s heavily biased on which deeds are forgivable and who are worthy of his benevolence.

His sense of justice is askew and it’s obvious with how he views Feyre’s imprisonment against Nesta’s, or villainising Eris when it’s Keir who brutalised Morrigan, or IC’s treatment of Nesta in contrast to Elain.

Freedom and Autonomy

Rhysand uses the word ‘choice’ quite liberally emphasising the importance of freedom in his life. He fights against Amarantha for the same. But he allows agency to others only as long as it benefits him or doesn’t get in his way. He violates others’ minds whenever it pleases him, especially when he feels threatened. He often uses it to establish his control or dominance over others rather than out of necessity. He exploits his High Lord’s powers as well, like with Nesta and Azriel forcing them to submit to his will, especially in matters that don’t concern him. After the war, he imprisons Nesta because of her ‘uncontrollable’ behaviour while still condemning Tamlin for doing the same. He takes away Feyre’s bodily autonomy during her pregnancy.

Compassion and Empathy

He’s quick to distrust someone and never gives them the benefit of the doubt but he expects understanding from others. Despite his Daemati powers and often taking control of others’ minds, Rhysand refuses to believe their intentions. He’s been terrorising other courts since he claimed his title and yet, he wishes everyone to take his words for truth (Winter children massacre). He can’t forgive a man who made terrible choices to protect the woman he loves and yet he expects everyone to believe he abused Feyre for her safety. He can’t forgive a woman who made a mistake as a child and is misunderstood by everyone when he claims to have endured it all his life and longs to be seen. Even after 500 years, he doesn’t offer sympathy to Eris. Feyre is the only one to have received his true compassion to some extent, and it’s not proof of his morals—she is the exception.

Morals and Goals alone are not enough when all the characters are morally grey

A morally grey character still needs…well, morals. But in the case of Rhysand, they are malleable and ever-changing depending on how he feels at the moment or what the plot requires of him. He’s a dreamer but wouldn’t make a change in his court. He’s a feminist who wouldn’t free the women in his court. He’s a sexual abuse victim but sexually assaults someone to rile a man up. He’s a child abuse victim but allows it to continue for his army. He contradicts his own values so much that they are not just inconsistencies anymore.

For the sake of argument, let’s assume they are his internal conflict in upholding his morals or his hypocrisy because of his upbringing. In that case, his struggles to go through his decisions and the aftermath of the events give us an insight. Here are the four criteria a character must meet to be grey.

Recognition of the harm: Rhysand is aware of the consequences of his actions at all times.

Remorse: He expresses it on certain occasions when it directly impacts him or people close to him. However, his actions don’t support this as he rarely hesitates to carry forward with his plans.

Redemption: After the harm is done, Rhysand never changes his ways. He only apologises when the outcomes serve a purpose—like convincing Feyre, making up with Winter, or shutting Morrigan up about Keir. He never atones for his sins, not for forgiveness from others but for his conscience which is vital for a morally grey character.

Reasons: They are BS. His actions don’t truly amount to anything and definitely don’t lead him towards his said goal.

The ‘bad guy’ act may not be an act after all

In TAR, Rhysand does a lot of outright evil things to keep his facade. At no point in the series, does he pay the price for his actions, feel burdened by his choices, or strive to clear his name.

Instead, he’s excused with his backstory. None of his past truly explains his drive for his present actions, they don’t motivate him in any way but every good deed he’s praised to have done is a deliberate insertion to counteract the wrongs he committed. He assaults Feyre but he was exploited by Amarantha, harassed by Ianthe, and he saved the priestesses. He terrorises other courts and carries out Amarantha’s orders but he’s the martyr who sacrificed himself for his city (which is already protected and a secret from his own citizens). He only cares about the people of Velaris, but he saved Morrigan from Hewn City. He’s deeply prejudiced against Illyrians but he took in two beaten down bastards of that race.

Moreover, Rhysand enjoys all this—belittling Illyrians, degrading and imprisoning Hewn City, tormenting Tamlin when he’s at his lowest, and vilifying Eris. Why would someone playing a role out of necessity enjoy doing terrible things? Even after revealing his ‘true self’ in WAR, he still hasn’t changed his ways which begs the question, why does he still need that cruelty or control? There’s a difference between deploying questionable methods to achieve one’s cause versus actively undermining it. Rhysand definitely falls in the latter.

In the end, Rhysand fails as a character

The only thing Rhysand has in common with a grey character is that he pisses off a lot of people in the series, and that doesn’t make him a misunderstood hero. He is not a complex character. He lacks the internal struggles that come with making the impossible choices for his goals and also the self-reflection to right his actions or even be remorseful of them. At this point, he is just an object to carry out sexual fantasies in Feyre’s story and a general pain in the ass in Nesta’s.

On the surface, he is morally grey whom SJM, later, chose to paint white in her narrative. He is neither. Instead, he has all the bones to be a great anti-villain or a villain, but he falls short in every way to be even a decent character.

[monayen]

"Ku-Ku." | Randal Ivory

➷ Paring - Randal Ivory x Fem!Reader [Randal's Friends / Ranfren]

➷ CWs - Noncon, Master/Pet play, cunnilingus, fingering, slight bloodplay, unsafe sex, pain

a/n - randal brainrot, i adore this lil freak :3 first fic on this blog btw !! requests open (check my pinned) also ignore any mistakes

Luther Von Ivory scans his options presented to him, there are many animals, but he's looking for something specific. A human. He actually didn't know what his brother preferred in humans, but he's sure Randal wouldn't question Luther’s wonderful taste.

The employee gets to you, “She just came in.” He sees you kick around in the cage you were in, “Let me out! I’m not an animal!” Luther sticks a long finger through the bars of your enclosure. He winces when he feels you chomp down on it, quickly drawing it back.

“Are you sure this isn't a dog? I much prefer cats if that's the case.”

“She's a full blooded human! Trust me, found her hitchhiking on the side of the road myself.”

“Hm, okay then. I’ll take her.” Luther’s lucky he kept a sedative in his car. You’ll get trained later.

Randal basically squeals when he sees you, immediately pulling you out of the box and into his arms. For however drugged up you were, you could make out what they were saying perfectly.

He shook you, “Brother, you really didn't!”

“I did. Isn't she pretty?”

“Yeah! I like the way her eyes droop, the drool is a great touch too.”

“That's not permanent, Randal.”

“Oh.” He pauses, “Well, her name is (Y/N).” You can barely mumble as you make out blurry beady eyes staring at you through thick rimmed glasses, “I want…to go… h…home.”

A bizarre giggle escaped his lips, ku ku? “Don't be silly, you are home now.”

You decided to just sleep.

Soon, you had to wake up. And when you do, you see you’ve been put in a frilly, black dress. It’s short sleeved with a white bow on the v-neckline, lace detailing follow the curve of your waist. You notice matching thigh-high black socks on you as well, though you didn't have on any shoes.

You are sober enough to note the room. Posters hang on the wall, all odd anime things, along with creepy dolls littering around that stare. It then hits you that you are sitting in a cushioned coffin.

Holy shit. This is some freak shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Before you can fully get up, the door slams open. “You’re awake!” It's the boy, Randal. You scream and jump back, falling back onto carpeted floor. Suddenly, he’s on top of you.

“Nyon reeeaaaallllyyyy got you in some cute clothes! You look like a doll! Very lifelike.” He seems to hum out the words as he straddles your hands to the side of your head.

“I want to go home! Let me go home!” You thrash beneath him, but he's freakishly strong for someone so lanky. His grip tightens on your wrists. “Nuh-uh. We bought you. Legally, you are mine.”

He keeps that toothy smile on his face, “Anyways, you were on the side of the road. You really didn't have a family, did you?” Randal laughs his weird laugh again while you stare at him with wide eyes, “Exactly what I thought!”

He doesn't loosen his grip as he brings his mouth down to lick your ear. You clamp up, “Don't… don't do that.” It comes out meekly, and though Randal isn't that intimidating in size, you feel dwarfed.

“Ah, I can train you however I want. I’m your master, remember?” Randal’s breath feels hot on the side of you before he licks you again, this time on your neck. “How about you say it? Say that I’m your master.”

You choke on a sob you didn't realize you were holding in as he murmurs into your ear, “Hey, listen to me.” Randal’s noticeably becoming more aggravated, his gloved nails are digging into your wrists now. He still keeps that terrible smile on his face.

With burning skin, you whisper, “You're… you’re my master…” Randal twists your wrists, “Louder for me.”

You cave in, “You're my master!” Finally, the pressure on your wrists is gone. He laughs again, moving one hand down to your waist while the other rests on your thigh. “Ku-ku, I like that!”

He fiddles with the side of your dress, slowly hiking it up to where your thighs and panties are fully exposed for him, the red on his face deepens. “You really are so so pretty! Soft, like a human pillow, so soft. I just wanna eat you.” He breathes heavily, “I just might.”

There's something prodding at the fabric on your thigh, he pulls them apart without much hesitation. “Please, don't.” Again, it’s quiet. He coos at your small plea, “Pets have to listen. Now, lift your ass.”

Finally, you're exposed to him. The dress is discarded next to you, along with your underwear. You want to curl up, hide, cover, anything. You can't. His grasp is too firm, and truthfully, you are scared. He doesn’t care to hurt you. He sees you as a pet, his human. That is your biggest flaw

Gloved fingers find your cunt, prodding at your entrance. Randal fiddles with the fly of his pants, pulling himself out. He strokes himself lazily, eyes glued to the sight of his fingers sinking into your pretty pussy. A small moan forces it way out of you, he has long fingers– like his brother. Soon, he’s knuckle deep, face inches from your slick heat.

“Hah, you're dripping!” You can't bare to look at him, head tilted in the air as you huff at the good

feeling. You aren't prepared when he suddenly sticks his tongue between your thighs. Oh. That gets a long moan out of you, “Nooo–”

Randal smirks, savoring your taste as he sloppily laps his tongue around his fingers and against your cunt. He can't help himself but jerk off his aching cock, getting off to your noises. He’s tasting you, but he wants more.

It feels like hours, but it's probably only been a few minutes that he’s been eating you out. It's creditably sloppy, drool drips down between you and you know he isn't great at it– but the eagerness makes a knot build in your abdomen. A loud moan mixes with your pleas when that knot snaps. You let go a pitched breath when he finally separates his tongue and fingers from you, moving to hover atop of you.

“I was right, you taste amazing.” He’s catching his breath, grabbing his cock as he aligns it between you, “You’ll feel amazing.” You want to beg but you know he wouldn't listen, why would you? You're just a pet. A pet he can do whatever to.

He rubs against you, teasing his tip at your entrance. “You want it? You want me to fuck you?” The shade on his face is heavy, his glasses are foggy but you can still see the glint of lust behind them, staring right at you. He grabs your face to look at him, “Say it. Tell your master you want it.” Again, he digs his nails into your puffy cheeks.

“Please– please master…” He roughly ruts against you, the side of his length rubs against your clit as he groans, “Fuck yeah!” Randal pitches, loud moans pull out of him, grabbing your clothed legs and angling them to rest on his shoulders, finally sinking his whole length into you.

You swear you see blood drip from his nose when he forces himself in, but you can't focus on it, he’s already moving in and out.

God, he's loud. Louder than you even, he can't keep himself together, clearly in bliss with his mouth hanging open slightly. “Ooooh– perfect, perfect pet!” Randal folds you, positioning roughly. He's trying to reach the deepest parts of you, he isn't concerned how your legs sting at the stretch. He's too focused on the way your tits bounce up and down, hypnotizing him to go deeper, faster.

You really are perfect, tight and wet around him. He wants to keep staring into your big, teary, eyes. It all aches him to get closer to you. He wants to fully consume you. For him to become a part of you. No, scratch that. You become a part of him.

“Hah, hah, you make your master feel soooo good.” He licks your tears, making you attempt to pull slightly from him, but he doesn't allow that to happen. Instead, he makes sure to fold you more, knees pressed against your chest in a way that makes you even tighter around him.

He’s speeding up, babbling about how good you feel. You feel like you can't even get a breath in now, it's hard to expand your lungs with your legs and Randal’s weight so close to your chest. Red blood drips onto your face and you look to see the pure lust Randal has spread across his face. You want to reach and wipe the blood so badly, feeling how it drips so closely to your mouth. Randal beats you to it first, gripping your face again and wiping his blood around with his thumb.

He laughs, smearing it across your face. Then, he tightens his grip again, his blood covered thumb rests on your quivering bottom lip, “Open up, doll.” You grit your teeth, trying to turn but his grasp locks you in place. “Ah, you should listen to your master.” You relent. “Good girl, ku-ku. I know you bite– don’t even try.” Then, he sticks his whole thumb in your mouth, rubbing it on the back of your tongue to make sure you taste the iron. You want to gag and bite, but you know you can't.

Randal finally draws his gloved thumb from your mouth, his blood replaced with your saliva. “Fuck– you feel so good, you me to come outside or inside? You– ah, tell me.” He’s twitching inside you, and quickly you shake your head, “No–”

“Kidding, I'm coming inside!”

Your stomach turns, and you hate the knot in your abdomen that makes you tighten around him, helping him come undone inside of you. He’s pumping white before you can even refuse, snapping his hips against you so hard you're sure you might bruise.

It's hard to tell how long it's been when Randal finally pulls out of you. You feel him drip down your sore legs, dampening your thigh-high socks. He eventually gets off on top of you as you both catch your breath. You lay on the carpet, a sticky and full sensation swallows you whole.

Randal has the nerve to snuggle next to you, wrapping his arms around your bare waist and burying his face into your neck. The smallest sob gets stuck in your throat, there isn't any way to get out of this, is there?

“Sh, just go to sleep. You have more training later.” Ku-ku.

[nicholaschavezobsessed]

I Need a Doctor pt 3

part 1 and part 2 "I Need a Doctor" linked at the end !

word count: 2,221

warnings: cursing, lots of fluff, suggestive language.

1 Day later.....

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It's 11:00a.m.; time feels as if it's moving at the rate of molasses. You pace around your room, constantly stepping over the pile of outfits thrown to the ground. You knew you needed to be ready by twelve, but your nerves were making you a complete wreck. You didn't even fully understand why you were so nervous; he's already seen you naked, so what's the worst that can happen with your clothes on? Still, you paced around, picking up each piece of clothing and staring at it, not really knowing what to wear, suddenly being stirred from your daze as your alarm filled up the silence that was consuming the room. Shit. How did thirty minutes even slip by? You drop to your knees, shuffling through the pile until you settle on a knee-length long-sleeve black dress that hugged your curves just right. You slip your shoes on, rushing out the door.

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You arrive at the hospital, nerves jumbled even more than before if that was possible. You step out of your car, fixing your hair one last time as you head for the doors. You walk in, immediately greeting the lady at the desk. "Looking for Dr. Mayhew, I assume?" A small smile on her lips as she raises her head to look at you. You had been there the past month, day in and day out, to be there for your sister, but as the days went on, you also looked forward to talking with Charlie. "That would be correct." You mumble a bit flustered as she points her finger to the right. "Down the hall, take a left, and his office is the third door down there." With a quick nod and a quiet thank you, you slowly make your way down the hall, your stomach in knots as you make the turn, his office coming into view. You stand in front of his door, contemplating driving right back home. What if this was a mistake? No. You weren't going to back down; if this didn't work out, you wouldn't regret it; it was the best thing to happen in a while, and you wouldn't let your own doubts get in the way. You knock on his door; a small "Come in." calls out from behind the door. You slowly peek in his office, glancing around curiously. His head perks up, a smile immediately flashing on his lips. That damn smile that lights up the room. You suck in a deep breath as you step fully into the room, the door softly shutting behind you.

"I was getting you worried you weren't going to show." He slowly stands up, stretching before walking over to you. "Trust me, I debated it.." You laugh nervously as his eyes scan over you, taking in the black dress you put on in a hurry. "You look absolutely beautiful for someone who was planning on ditching me." He shoots you a wink as his arm snakes around your waist, his other hand reaching for the door. "Well, I did promise you lunch, so let's go before they stick me with more paperwork." You both make your way down the hall, the buzz of people frantically moving all around the both of you filling your ears. He says his goodbyes to the ladies at the front desk, leading you out of the automatic doors and into the parking lot. The gust of wind hits your face, sending your hair flying back. As you pull your hair from your face, cursing yourself for wearing lip gloss on such a windy day, the feeling of his arm pulling away pulls you out of your thoughts. You glance up at him, his white coat now being shed and tossed over his shoulder. "Who are you and what have you done with my doctor?" You gasp dramatically as he rolls his eyes, his arm finding its way back around you. "Ahh, out here I'm just Charlie, but a little begging and I'll be your doctor anytime." A smirk tugs on his lips as you gently smack his arm. You both resume walking, curiosity filling your head as you wonder where he's taking you. The howling of the wind and the soft sounds of your shoes hitting the pavement are all that you can make out as you make your way to his car. This was getting too real. You could still run for it, although he might chase after you. You both stop as you approach his car, the passenger door already being held open for you. "A doctor and a gentleman? Wow, how did I get so lucky?" You tease as you slide into the car, your back hitting the warm leather seats. While the door closes behind you, he opens the door to the backseat, slipping his white coat in and trading it for a black leather coat. He slips in the driver's seat, fiddling with the AC as he backs out of the parking lot.

Your hand rests under your chin as he drives you both to the mystery lunch. Your eyes trailing every inch of him, truly taking the time to admire him. The way the leather jacket fits around his arms, those big arms there were above your head just the other day. His deep brain hair slicked back and tussled at the same time from the wind just moments before. His dark brown eyes focused heavily on the road. You wondered just what could be going through that head of his as you sit back in your seat, hands falling onto your lap as you stare out the window.

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The drive there was short, although it felt like ten years. The two of you enjoyed the silence, listening to the hum of the car as it made its way towards the restaurant. It was a small dinner, which didn't bother you. It's not like you expected a steak dinner on the first date. The parking lot was empty, which was surprising but also relieving as it gives you a bit more privacy. Your nerves slowly untangle as the door next to you opens, his hand already sticking out for you to take. You graciously take his hand in yours, carefully stepping out of the car. "It's nothing fancy, but it's my favorite place to unwind." Without thinking, your hand rests against his chest, you lock eyes with him. "Charlie, its perfect. I'm just happy to be away from hospital food." You lean into him, laughing softly as he shakes his head at you. You both walk in hand in hand, big smiles radiating off the two of you. The waitress smiles as she greets the both of you, directing you to a table in the back corner. "I'll be with you two cuties in a minute." She winks playfully as she walks away, causing you to blush as you take your seat across from Charlie.

Music played softly in the background as you stared at each other, both too nervous to speak. The waitress comes back, setting a cup of coffee in front of Charlie and a glass of water in front of you. "The usual for you, doctor; hope you don't mind." He shakes his head, his hand reaching out for his mug. "Never a bad time for coffee, Dolores." She pats his shoulder gently before heading in the direction of the bell ringing from the front door, signaling another customer finding their way here. "I don't really do dates..." You trail off for a second. "I'm more of a stay at home with a book and my dog." His eyes never once leave yours as you speak, curiosity plastered on his face. "I can't really say I do dates either; it's usually either saving lives or being buried in paperwork." Your eyes briefly scan him; how could this man not already be taken? He's fucking godly... and fucks godly. You didn't really want to tell him that you're sure the only reason dates don't happen for you is due to you being on the bigger side. Even though you have complete confidence in yourself, doubt still creeped in and seeped through the cracks. You push those thoughts out of your mind, not wanting to sour the mood. "Did you always want to be a doctor? Not that there's anything wrong with the profession; I just personally could never do it." Two plates get set down in the middle of the table, a burger and fries for him, tenders and fries for you. Quiet thank you's spoken at the same time. "Not always; I wanted to be a personal trainer, but I settled on being a doctor. Which I know isn't the thing you really settle on, but I wanted to save people. It was my calling." You raise a french fry to your mouth, listening attentively as he spoke. The passion oozing from his words, he really did care about his job. That much you observed this last month watching him care for patients and their loved ones each day. "But tell me about you; what was your calling?" You pulled out your phone, pulling up your camera roll, the endless pictures of your sketches popping up. "I am a fashion designer, not a big one but local. I work with a boutique near my house. As you can tell, I am definitely not a size two, and that makes it harder to find clothes. I know others struggle as well so I help make and design plus-sized clothes." You ramble on, flashing him a few of your sketches, your nerves melting further away as you talk about your job. "I think that's really fucking cool. In a way, you help people out on a day-to-day basis. Though honestly, I didn't expect you to be a fashion designer; you look more like a writer with those hot glasses." You felt your cheeks flush as his eyes focused on your glasses. "They kind of give off sexy librarian vibes, especially with your hair down." He laughs to himself as you bury your face in your hands. It wasn't a comparison you were used to hearing, but you didn't mind; you'd probably agree with anything that came from those angelic lips.

"To be fair, at some point I did want to be a librarian... I love a good book." You flash a cheeky smile as he lowers his head, laughing. "I don't think I'd ever leave the library if it meant I got to see you every day." You bite the inside of your cheek, holding back a smile as you roll your eyes. "You know, this is probably the most fun I've had in a while. I really do want to thank you for everything you've done." His voice lowers as he leans towards you. "Oh? I think you've done plenty to thank me, Y/N." The words leave his lips in a hushed tone. My god. How can one person be so fucking hot without even trying?

You laugh to yourself, definitely not forgetting the moment you two shared yesterday. "Trust me, that wasn't anything. Treat me right, and I'll rock your world." His head cocks to the side, curiosity glimmering in his eyes. Before he can say anything, the bill gets placed down in the middle of the table, and you both reach for it, fingertips gently brushing against each other. "I've got it; you've been too good to me." He shakes his head in disagreement, the check already being passed back to the waitress with his card stuck in. "I asked you to lunch, my treat, no if's ands or buts." You toss your hands up in surrender as he slides out of the booth. You follow behind him, a big goofy grin on your face as your hands slip around him, leaning against him as his arm rests around your shoulders. He just has this energy that pulls you in; it was hard to explain. You both walk up to the counter, his card being handed back to him. "See you tomorrow, Dr. Mayhew!" The waitress calls out as the door closes behind the two of you. Once again, you find yourself back in the passenger side of his car, feeling euphoric as you watch him slip into the driver seat.

He positions himself to look at you, but you're already looking at him. A glimmer of mischief in your eyes as you gaze at him. "Why don't you let me treat you, yeah?" You move yourself closer to the middle, your thighs pressing against the center console that separates the two of you. His hands reach over, cupping your cheeks, your head spinning as his hands grip tightly, possessively pulling you towards his lips. You break the gap between the two of you, your lips crashing against his hungrily, your hands wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer to you. Shit. The effect Charlie had on you needed to be studied, especially when in public. Before things get too heated, you pull away, taking his bottom lip between your teeth, a groan escaping his lips. "Let's take this somewhere else." He quickly starts up the car, backing out of the parking lot with ease. His lips red and swollen from just moments before, and it was only just the beginning.

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Taglist: @eddieslut69 @dzsr77 (you mentioned wanting a part 3 so I hope the wait was worth it!)

[edgeray]

One Hell of a Butler Pt.1

Encounter (Arlecchino x Fem! Reader Blurb)

A/N: Guys. I am so sorry. I don't think that Arlecchino oneshot is being posted tomorrow. 😿Trust that it will be posted this weekend. Take this as an apology (I am fr spoiling y'all Arle fans) for the pushback. This is a repost to something I submitted as an anon to @/megistusdiary so there's a chance you've already seen this. It was written a while ago so quality is not up to par. This is the Black Butler inspired demon au! that I talked about in my poll, check it out if you want a little bit more on this concept. (Thank you guys for voting in it! :33 I'm looking forward to writing the oneshots). Series Masterlist Content Warning: Semi-graphic descriptions of violence

Everything hurts. It burns, burns, burns, and you can't feel your limbs and your vision fades in and out. Your broken form twitches on the ground, and as your assailants approach you, ready to wrench the remaining life out of you slowly and painfully, with your final burst of energy and concentration, you let out a guttural screech, a summoning spell spewing from your raspy throat and bloodied teeth. 

At first, you think nothing happens. They stalk you, unfaltering despite what you have just called for. Wearing teeth-baring grins and depraved intentions, they near your crumpled body, with their dirty, despicable hands reaching out towards you. Your half-lidded eyes shut fully, and you heave out a sigh of resignation, giving up the futile struggle of staying alive. 

You hear it first before you actually see it. A sound distinct only to stilettos clicking against the ground. It jerks your attention immediately, and you twist your head slowly to face the oncoming figure. Black heels with gold adornment catch your eye, and then--

"Well, well, looks like I found the doll that called me," you hear a deep, feminine voice sibilates, voice reverberating throughout the chamber. Your gaze slowly trails up the newcomer's figure, and the white clothing, snow-white hair, and feminine features cause you to mistake her as an angel. Red-crossed pupils meet with yours. A shiver works its way up your spine but you stare in awe regardless. What kind of human was this?

One of your tormenters inquires rather rudely about the woman and storms towards her haughtily, ignorant of the fact he has just sealed his fate. There's an audible, irate click of her tongue, then a snap echoes the room. For a brief moment, your sight is filled with just red, and then your eyes widen as the aggressor bursts into a beautiful explosion of blood and guts. She walks past where once the man stood without pause, now just a puddle of blood, tutting at the blatant disrespect of the formerly alive human. Her feet stop just before you and her shadow looms over.

"A-arle...cchino?" You croak weakly as your hazy gaze sets on her. She looks so handsome, beautiful like a guardian angel, even when she's covered in red. Her lips curl up slightly and she crouches down to hook an arm behind your back and knees, lifting you bridal-style. Heat radiates from her cold-blooded being and it is so much more comforting than the icy hardness of the floor. You immediately bury your face into her shoulder while your needy hands grip onto her coat out of desperation and fear. Beneath the intense iron smell of blood, she smells of something floral, you noted with dulled surprise. 

"That is me, the Knave. And what have you called me for?" She purrs from above, repositioning you in her arms so she could support you with one arm instead of both. 

You give one single glance behind your shoulder towards the now cowering group of people, their behavior reminding you of feeble sheep rather than the bloodthirsty pack of wolves. You think that you'd like lamb chops after all of this. 

Turning your head back, you suck in a steady breath, your voice unwavering and clear despite being muffled into her clothes. "Kill them." 

"As you wish." 

Even as she draws out the sweetest, most revolting of screams from the remaining alive people, you find peace in your arms. You don't watch, instead, opting to rest your head against her and try to fall asleep to your former captors' begs of mercy. A hand combing through your hair wakes you up. You admire her sharpened red nails and her black hands, so contrasting against her unblemished and perfect skin but pretty all the same. It looks nice, sifting through your hair, it feels right, it feels perfect, even if they're dipped in blood.

"Well, I suppose we can work out the contract at a later time. For now, rest, my dear," her voice is soft and it lulls you to sleep in her arms. She tucks your head underneath her chin and walks away from the bloodbath, her darling wrapped tightly close to her.