#like velvet to match the gloves more

[moonstruckdraws]

okay- yeah- okok look- yes- alright- okaaaay @hellishgayliath

This. This is my favorite outfit.

I figured I wouldn't be able to make the dress look like the flower & then I stumbled upon a dress that had a rose on the hip with fabrics flowing out of it. Then it hit me & I made this draft

I love how the band & top of it kinda looks like petals & the heavy and light materials over the actual dress!!

I do think it might be too light? like I could've made the colors deeper, but i color dropped from the flower so. I was also going to make the gloves white, but the darker color fits more, I think so.

It's giving prom dress to me which I'm not entirely sure if I like or not. But I still think it's my favorite.

[peachylynnie]

the cat butler

word count: 2.4k synopsis: in which sylus is eager to please you, as always. but this time, as a cat butler. contains: sylus x mc!reader (they're not dating, but sylus is down bad), references to the cat butler trailer, sylus with cat ears and a tail, suggestive themes, mentions of alcohol, cussing, making out, and stalking(?). a/n: i wrote this after reading somewhere that the upcoming memory might be our first-ever kiss with sylus. so consider this a prediction of some sort (probably not gonna happen). also, sylus' cat ears suit him so well. do not plagiarize or copy my work. sylus would not endorse plagiarism. enjoy!

“my lady,” a rich yet sultry voice calls. you shift uncomfortably in your sleep, wanting to rest a bit more.  

“my lady,” the voice repeats firmly. still, you dismiss it by grumbling and refusing to open your eyes. 

“my lady.” huh, that's weird. why does that voice sound like…

“my lady.” sylus?!  you burst open your eyes upon recognizing who was calling you. though, not without a startled "oh, god" because sylus was mere inches from your face.  

immediately, you sit up, rubbing your eyes and trying to process what was happening. where were you? how long were you out for? and most importantly, why was sylus calling you "my lady?" not that you had any problem with it, but still. your eyes widen as you find yourself on a velvet sofa in a sleek lounge of some sort. extending your arms in front of you, you stare dumbfoundedly at the tight leather gloves enveloping your hands. confusedly, you look down as you pat your body. a silky red, a-line dress hugged your figure, and you couldn’t help but admire the strings of shimmering pearls that hung around your waist and neck.  

hoping for answers on how you got here and why you were dressed so nicely, you turn to look at sylus, who was kneeling on the ground next to the sofa to meet you at your eye level. you can’t stop the gasp that leaves your mouth. are those cat ears?!

nevermind the fact that sylus was dressed in a neat, scarlet tuxedo that matched the shade of your dress. nevermind the fact that he looked good in a tie—so good to the point you wanted to tug on it. nevermind the fact that he was wearing a clean pair of white gloves that outlined his fingers so nicely. what was with the cat ears?! and a tail, too?! 

"uhm" you start. "what’s with the…?" you point at his head, hoping that he would understand. you couldn’t care less about formulating proper sentences. right now, you wanted answers. where were you? why were you dressed so nicely? why the fuck is sylus wearing cat ears and a tail? and why did the caracal set suit him so well? 

sylus' crimson eyes move up cutely as if he was trying to see the ears for himself. then, they fall back down to you, but not without a chuckle. "they're cat ears, my lady," he answers teasingly. "isn't it obvious?" with that, the ears twitch excitedly. yup, you saw that right. they actually twitched. 

"holy shit," you mutter as you reach to stroke the ears. "can i?" 

sylus smirks as he gives you a single nod, closing his eyes to convey that you are more than welcome to touch him.  

the ears felt incredibly real. the fur was super soft, and you could feel the skin vibrating beneath your fingers. your eyes widen as you pinch the ears gently. they didn't just feel real. they are real. the sheer warmth you felt from touching the exposed skin in the ears told you so. fascinated, you move your fingers to the back of one of the ears to scratch at the fur. sylus purrs and leans into your scratches. you can’t help but giggle at the sight. "who's the kitten now, sylus?" you jest, lifting your free hand to scratch his other ear, causing the man to part his mouth and rest his head against your knee. fuck, your touches felt so good.  

wanting to get actual answers from him, you stop scratching and let your hands rest on your lap. before you can even speak, sylus hisses at the loss of your touch, his brows knitting and a scowl growing on his lips. he grabs both your hands and places them back on his ears. understanding his message, you continue your ministrations, trying to remember certain spots that cats tend to like. 

"as much as these ears suit you," you coo. "this is really weird. want to tell me what's going on, sylus?" you don't remember him contacting you for a new mission where cat props and formal wear would be involved. heck, you don't remember how you even got here. what exactly was going on?  

sylus sighs and raises his head back up before answering, "you purchased me, my lady." his amused gaze meets your bewildered one. “we signed a contract where i would be your cat butler as of today. perhaps you forgot because as soon as you signed the contract, you drank excessively from the bar over there," he juts his head towards the bar behind you. "then, you passed out." 

what in the actual fuck? did he say purchase? what contract? you don’t remember signing any contracts. and since when did you ever drink? no, this can’t be right. you don't even recall coming to this fancy place. let alone dressing up so nicely.  

"you're lying," you nervously say. "there's no one working at the bar, and i don't see any glasses either." for a moment, a look of pride flashes on sylus' face. you always were so observant. one of the many things he loved about you. if only you were more observant of his affection for you instead of being so oblivious all the time. "besides, what's with our outfits? i don't remember putting this on. let alone coming here..." 

sylus laughs endearingly. his signature, billionaire laugh that constantly stirs up butterflies within you. "trust me, my lady, you drank," he insists, grasping your wrist and pressing a fond kiss. flustered by his actions, you try to pull back, but sylus' grasp remains strong. his sharp gaze locks with yours as he continues. "the dress code here is formal. thus, our attire. you walked in looking like this. a wonderful choice, i must say. you look ravishing, and i am honored to have been sold to you because..." sylus leans in next to your face, his hot breath fanning your sensitive ears. "i wouldn't have anyone else as my master."  

you stand up immediately, uncontrollably blinking and blushing from what you just heard. unfortunately, you don’t realize that you are wearing heels, causing you to stumble backward. sylus swiftly stands up, pulling you to him with an arm around your waist, effectively and attractively saving you from your fall. you place both hands on his broad shoulders, trying to balance yourself and catch your breath. noticing that the two of you were basically conjoined by the groin, you avert your eyes away from him.  

"t-thanks," you stammer as you try to get some space by pushing at his shoulders. "you can let go of me now."  

sylus tilts his head, looking down at you mischievously and trying to meet your avoidant gaze. "is that a command, my lady?"  

puzzled by his question, you finally meet his eyes. sylus sighs a hum of satisfaction, relishing in your eye contact with him. "what do you mean command?" you ask. you were too occupied by sylus’ accusations of you drinking to fully capture his previous answers.  

"it's part of the contract you paid for. i am to obey your every command as your one and only cat butler." the man answers eagerly, as if what he had just said was completely normal. almost as if he was enjoying this.  

you blink once. then twice before asking, "i paid for this?" you did not like where this was going.  

"indeed, my lady. five million dollars to be exact. i am quite the expensive cat butler," sylus grins. normally, you would've found his grin cute. some fangs would peek out, and a slight dimple would show. moreover, he was wearing cat ears. which only added to his playful demeanor. but right now, you were mortified because FIVE MILLION DOLLARS?! WHERE DID YOU EVEN GET THAT MUCH MONEY?!

"what?!" you struggle against his embrace. "what do you mean five million dollars? not even a rare protocore is worth that much!" you panic as you think about your savings. did you seriously spend all your savings on a cat butler contract and put yourself into years’ worth of debt? oh god, if so, you were fucked. say goodbye to all your years of hard work and saving. 

sylus frowns at your last statement. "are you not satisfied, my lady?"

with your jaw dropped, you look at the man towering over you as if he had said something, for lack of a better term, dumb. which he technically did because who would be satisfied after spending five million dollars on a cat butler contract?! (me). "yes?!” you say incredulously. “who in this situation would be satisfied?! you just told me that i blew all my savings and probably even more for a stupid contract!" 

sylus sighs, pinching his nose bridge with his free hand. while it was one thing to have something related to him get called stupid, it was another to see you so rattled. he had to ease your mind, knowing it would spiral if he didn't act soon. "now, now my lady. there is nothing stupid about this contract. you'd be surprised by the numerous benefits that come with it. which are but not limited to me obeying your every command." 

you don’t know which is worse. the head of onychinus telling you that you spent a sickening amount of money just to see him in a suit with cat features. or the head of onychinus telling you that you were actually benefiting from spending a sickening amount of money just to see him in a suit with cat features. as much as the idea of sylus following orders sounded like heaven, being broke in a matter of who knows how long, or in this case, little, and for a stupid reason at that, was not great. not great at all. your gaze shifts rapidly, distracted with coming up with a solution. "are there any refunds by chance?" you ask meekly. 

a dangerous look passes over sylus’ crimson eyes. with no ill intent, of course. he could never harbor any feelings of malice towards you. but the idea of you wanting a refund bothered him greatly. he was not going to let you get rid of him so easily. his arm around your waist tightens, bringing you even closer to him. lifting his free hand, sylus curls a finger under your chin, tilting your face upwards to meet his burning gaze. you shiver, forced to drown in his deep pools of rubies. feeling a rush of pleasure from finally having your attention on him, sylus moves his hand from your chin and reaches behind you to caress the blade of your shoulder. you can't help but shudder at the sudden intimacy. why did this dress have to expose your back? 

"even if my services were terrible," sylus doesn't cease his feather-like touches on your back, causing you to twitch and pant from sensitivity. "there are no refunds," he rasps as he traces a finger down your spine, prompting a whimper from you. enjoying the small yet addictive noises that leave your pretty lips, sylus smirks. yes, this was how it was supposed to be. you, in his embrace where only he could make you feel good and only he could hear your sweet, sweet sounds.  

"sylus..." you try your best not to moan. "s-stop it." you hide your face in sylus' chest, wanting to muffle your sounds and smother your embarrassment away. "i-i got it. no refunds."  

liking what he hears, sylus ceases his ministrations. he brings his hand back to your chin, gently pulling you away from his chest and slowly tilting your face so that you meet his gaze once more. "i'm glad you understand, my lady," sylus closes in on you, his lips millimeters apart from yours. "you won't be returning me anytime soon."  

sylus smashes his lips against yours, earning a moan from you. with the hand that was on your chin now cupping your face and the arm that was around your waist tightening some more, the two of you fall back onto the velvet couch. you gasp at the impact, causing sylus to slide his tongue in, capturing your own in a heated dance that he seemed intent on leading. you shakily wrap your arms around sylus' neck, trying to keep up with his relentless kisses. out of the corner of your eye, you see sylus' tail desperately swaying left and right. an idea flashes in your head. as sylus continues to swirl his tongue in your mouth, you raise your hand from his neck and gently tug at one of his cat ears. sylus jerks violently, mewling filthily into your mouth. taking that as a sign of encouragement, you continue playing with his ear, causing him to lose himself more and more in your lips, your scent, your everything. 

when the two of you grow in need of breaths, sylus pulls away, panting the same rhythm as you. you had no idea how gorgeous you looked right now. splayed out underneath him in tempting attire that was of his signature color. hair disheveled, cheeks rosy, lips swollen, eyes teary—god, you were going to be the death of him. tenderly moving a stray hair out of your face, the silver-haired man speaks.  

"so, what is your first command, my lady?"

extra:

you inhale sharply as you jolt out of bed. what the fuck was that?  you breathe rapidly as you take in your surroundings. sighing a breath of relief, you find yourself back in your room and your comfy pajamas. tiredly rubbing a hand over your face, you start to agonize over the fact that you dreamt about making out with sylus. not only that, you dreamt about making out with him in cat ears. why? you're not sure what this says about you as a person, let alone your growing attraction to him. did you have a thing for pet pla—you don't let yourself finish that last thought. ruffling your hair in frustration, you fall back onto your pillow, determined to recover from that dream. you decide that you are going to avoid sylus for a few days. 

shifting into a comfortable position, you shut your eyes and wait for sleep to find you, causing you to miss the mechanical crow with glowing red eyes flying away from your window and into the night. sylus, viewing the surveillance screen back at his grand residence, tilts his head in curiosity, a subtle smirk appearing on his lips.

 "what did you dream about, kitten?"

[polychromaic]

🌸 when the Hindriarch banished Eskhind and her kin from Bey Lah, Neelahind would follow her heart into voluntary exile. To abandon a surefooted life, as well as a coveted spot among the Fellowship, is nearly unheard of among both hindren and Wardens, but Neelahind was glowing when she took her leave. I hear the pair are quite happy together, practicing arconautics in the ruins to the west—at least, that's what the kendren bring news of when they come back to trade.

back at it again w more caves of qud deer gals 😏✨ i'm kind of enamored with the ending to the Bey Lah quest where Esk and Neela both take off, so i wanted to see what they'd look like as a matched set of lesbian pariah-arconauts. geez, i can’t believe it’s been almost two years since i drew them last

image descriptions under break!

img desc: A drawing of a hindren deerfolk girl from "Caves of Qud". On the left a title card reads "Pariah Neelahind (she/her)". Some of the details are labeled. Her fur is a rich cedar red, with a lighter heartwood underbelly curling under her arms and on the inside of her legs down to her hooves; her curly hair is dark mahogany, tied back in a ponytail with a sky-blue bandana; her antlers are a pale heartswood, deepening to a rich velvet at the tines. She’s smiling, looking up and off to her right; she's poised upright, her arms spread to either side of her as she grips the haft of her war-scythe Yal, which is laying across her shoulders. She’s wearing shining steel platemail—a breastplate over a nanoweave surcoat patterned with pale lemon slices over pink (called "Pink Lemonade"); her armor is incomplete, but well taken care of. She’s wearing leather braces, a steel gauntlet on her left hand only, and a woven blue sash and bedroll across her back.

img desc: A drawing of a hindren deerfolk girl from "Caves of Qud". On the right a title card reads "Pariah Eskhind (she/it)". Some of the details are labeled. Her fur is ashen, with her pale undercoat spotting through on her forearms and flanks. Her messy hair is a greenish bleach-blonde, and one of her ears has a hole in it; her antlers are pale and their velvet is darker grey, and they're covered in little tied-on charms and brass tine hornaments. She has an eyepatch over her left eye, and a gap between her front teeth. She's grinning, slouching in a relaxed fashion, pulling back her hood with one hand and flashing a rock-on with the other; her front two legs are crossed, while the back two are spread like she's posing for a picture. She's wearing a well-worn chainmail hauberk, which extends down over her back; a ragged cowl, with buttoned slots along the hem of the hood for her antlers to fit through; a leather bracer on her left wrist, a steel pauldron on her right shoulder, a fingerless elastyne glove on her right hand, and two pairs of croccasins on her hooves. A pocketed saddle is slung over her back, along with a backpack and bedroll; on either side, the pockets are full of tools and bits. Tucked into her swordbelt is a sheathed folding carbide longsword and a gaslight kris; slung across her chest is a bolt-action rifle called "Peashooter" (it has a lesbian flag on its stock). Around her legs are several beaded bracelets and charms; one of them is the rightfully reclaimed Kindrish, complete with its carved deer charm.

[wistfulnightingale]

The Night That Changed an Angel (or, why does Aziraphale still wear that shabby vest?)

Mini-Meta Musing (#4)

I've been brooding for a long time about, of all things, Aziraphale's worn velvet vest and the long cream jacket he's kept in "tip top condition for over 180 years now." I love the sweet familiarity, but this is the same angel who popped across the Channel and almost lost his fluffy-topped head in 1793 for dressing like an aristocrat.

"I have standards!"

He's the height of elegance, extravagance even. A dandy. We've seen the same at the Globe Theater 1601, Edinburgh 1827, and even as a Knight of the Round Table in 527 Essex, where he's wearing a glorious pelt across his shoulders! However, sometime after Edinburgh 1827, Aziraphale's stylish extravagance ends. He adopts the dress of distinguished but modest gentility. No seamstresses strain their eyes for days hand stitching ruffles and trims for him any longer. When we next see him in 1862, his clothing is refined, simple, and serviceable. It becomes his uniform, with only minor replacements. Why? What happened to change him?

Edinburgh 1827 happened. And his encounter with tragedy ran over his sensibilities like a locomotive.

Aziraphale had, we were told, saved his earnings over time and had bought land, invested wisely, and became quite well off. He used real money, not miracles, to build the bookshop, paying the builders well and taking care of bills honestly. He built himself up to a more than comfortable lifestyle, from nearly nothing. And his clothes are real, not miracled from nothingness like Crowley's. (source: original showrunner)

Aziraphale's wealth allows him to afford luxurious tailoring and fancy shoes and ruffles and trims. He'll certainly pay the cobblers and tailors and seamstresses well for their labors. It will be a substantial expense for the era. (The linked post gives a wonderful perspective on 1793 lifestyles and costs.)

https://agoodflyting.tumblr.com/post/753227014283083776/why-aziraphales-white-satin-pumps-are-ridiculous

The angel's Edinburgh multilayered and trimmed top coat, soft leather gloves, matching scarf, jacquard vest, silk cravat, etc., look entirely out of place in the back alleys where the poor huddle. Walking the clean, gas-lit avenues with Crowley and Elspeth, Aziraphale is oblivious to the privilege he has in this world.

As he strolls along in philosophical banter with Crowley about the "blessing" of poverty, the angel spouts trite pontifications created by the rich to justify poverty. He genuinely believes Elspeth has more opportunities for goodness.  After all, look at Wee Morag.  He respects her goodness tremendously.  It proves to him his “rightness.”  And so he sabotages Elspeth’s attempt to sell the body she dug up in her attempt to support Wee Morag.  Dalrymple gets no body, Elspeth gets no money, and Aziraphale believes he’s saving her soul.

It’s a poignant moment, though, when Aziraphale cradles the jar containing a tumor from a seven year old child who died because there wasn’t enough medical knowledge to save him.�� Turning point number one.  It becomes Real, not a philosophical debate.  Selling stolen bodies puts good in the world.  He’s all for it now, and goes back to encourage Elspeth.  Good heavens, he’s even willing to help this time!

But, as we know, it all goes wrong.  Wee Morag is shot by a grave gun, and dies of her injuries.  Elspeth steals laudanum, and plans suicide.  Crowley drinks the laudanum, saves her in a compassionate Scottish frenzy, and is stolen away by hell because of his kindness.   And it is All. Aziriphale’s. Fault.

Turning point number two.  Another watershed moment where Aziraphale’s world changes again.

One of Crowley’s last earthly acts, before getting plunged into hell, is to have Aziraphale give Elspeth all of his pocket money.  What is pocket money to the angel is a fortune to her, one that can set her up for a better life.  I have no doubt that in the aftermath of the traumas of that night, missing and worrying about Crowley, Aziraphale thinks about all of this.  He considers all of the money he casually spends on fine clothing and expensive tailoring.  He wonders how many lives could change if that money was better spent on helping to relieve the poverty that surrounds him.  He wants to help, and to try to make amends for the harm he caused.  What would Crowley do, if he were free to be kind? And so Aziraphale changes.

I’d love to know the story of how it all played out.  Did he sell his fine clothing and donate the proceeds?  Did he become involved in charitable foundations?  Did he buy the clothing of a simple gentleman and decide to preserve it, however worn it became, as a reminder to himself of his past blindness and vanity?  We see in Season 1 how important it is to him to preserve that coat. (Sure, it's also a fantastic opportunity to flirt and flutter those angelic eyelashes... But, nonetheless!)

By Season 2, the angel who took too long justifying a life-saving miracle for Wee Morag, and who hesitated to give Elspeth his 90 Guineas, willingly and freely gave Maggie forgiveness for thousands of pounds of debt. I'd love to know what else he's done over the last 180+ years!

Whatever happened, it began that night in a graveyard.

[gurugirl]

Dress up

sugardaddy!harry x yn | An extra for The Arrangement

Summary: Y/n dresses up in diamonds and jewels and thinks she looks sexy so she secretly makes a solo video of herself. But then she goes out on a limb and sends the video to Harry while he's working.

A/N: Sorry it's been so long since I've given you an update for these two! This was requested! Here

Word Count: 4,548

Warning: 18+ only, smut, use of toys, spanking, sharing of a solo sex tape

The Arrangement Masterlist

. .

Y/n remembers a time when she’d wear clothes that were slightly unkempt. Clean but perhaps maybe a little wrinkled. Shirt hems and collars would be folded funny, buttons misaligned, sweaters and dresses not fitted properly…

Back then she relied on the drier to de-wrinkle her clothes. Nowadays a professional service delivered her freshly cleaned and pressed items to her door. All of which were tailored to fit her perfectly.

So it wasn’t unusual for Y/n to play dress up with herself when Harry was away at the office and she was at home alone. She enjoyed having such nice clothes and things filling her closet. It’s something she never had before.

She’d layer on a silk Chanel dress with her Ferragamo belt, a Hermes scarf, and the expensive custom disk hat with silk roses Harry bought her when they went to the Kentucky Derby. She’d watch herself in the long floor-length mirror and practice walking like a woman who owned the kind of clothes she was wearing.

But sometimes she focused on the jewelry. The pretty shiny rocks and jewels, delicately woven precious metal bands and chains… Harry had bought her more jewelry than she’d ever seen in her life. Diamonds, gold, platinum, rubies, emeralds, pearls, silver… Rings, watches, brooches, necklaces, anklets, earrings, belts, and bracelets. You name it.

And on this particular evening, Harry was at a dinner meeting that was going to run late. She’d bathed and put on her perfumed moisturizing balm and then walked naked into her massive walk-in closet where she opened up her lingerie drawer and spotted the elbow-length velvet opera gloves. She’d only ever worn them once but she remembers the way they felt on her arms and how luxurious it made her feel.

Watching herself in her mirror she slid each glove up her arms and posed, raising her arms over her head to lift her tits and make her tummy appear more svelte.

She grinned as she turned and then she had a sudden idea. Opening up her jewelry armoire she was presented with shiny, sparkly bobbles and jewels.

“Siri… shuffle music by Sara Vaughan to the master bedroom speakers.”

When the jazzy slow music began to play she traced her gloved fingers over the diamond necklace she often wished she could wear every day. It was littered in diamonds, the drop cutting down to just above her cleavage. Lifting it up she placed it gently over her head and laid it over her bust. It was spectacular. Heavy and twinkly and chilled on her skin. She smoothed her hands down her body and stared at her figure in the mirror wearing nothing but gloves and the ridiculously expensive necklace Harry had bought her.

Which then gave her the idea to add on the pretty rainbow jewel body belt. The thin chain was loaded with various colored diamonds, emeralds, rubies, topaz… The end of the chain draped down her back, laying just over her bum with a pretty pearl at the end. Then she put on the drop diamond earrings that matched the necklace. The bottom diamond was so big it nearly reached her shoulder when she shrugged.

She layered pearls and opals and her diamond bracelets over her gloved wrists and then slid on her black high heels, doing a dramatic twirl and bending to see her backside with a giggle.

She swayed her hips to the sexy music crooning through the speakers and then grinned at herself in the mirror, “Look how pretty… Daddy would love this.”

Feeling her naked skin under her gloves was a dream. The way the velvet ran smoothly over her flesh felt sexy and the more jewelry she layered on the prettier she felt. All sparkly and fancy with soft skin and perked nipples.

Sitting her video camera on its stand next to the mirror she hit record and began dancing slowly with herself, all decked out in diamonds. Running her hands over her curves and up to her tits she bit her lip and looked at the camera, “There isn’t anyone that wouldn’t want to have this…” She spun around and laughed to herself before bending at the waist and spreading her thighs just enough that the camera could catch the view of her pussy from behind.

Peeking over her shoulder she stared into the lens and drew a hand down her back and over her bottom before swatting a cheek and moaning softly, “Not so bad with the glove,” she spoke aloud as she lowered her fingers until she could feel the velvet sliding over her pussy, back and forth.

Humming she looked at herself in the mirror and then pressed her finger over her other tight hole, “Needs a little sparkle, doesn’t it?”

She stood up and pulled open her toy drawer to select the plug of the night. It was an easy choice. The anal plug with diamonds. Real diamonds. Another thing she didn’t often wear because it was the least practical of her plugs. But it was pretty.

Stepping back up to the camera she held the plug up and drizzled lube over the tip then repeated the words of the song Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets…

Bending at the waist, ass aimed toward the camera she took her left hand and pulled at her cheek as she began to push the plug into her hole with her right hand. Y/n had become quite the expert at putting in her own plugs. She was used to it now. Even though Harry always told her to not do it when he wasn’t present, she often did it anyway. They had fun with it every time he found out she disobeyed him (but she knew he secretly loved it).

“Oh!” She squeaked when the cool metal fit into place and stretched her out. “Feels so good…” she swayed her hips as she spread her ass cheeks for the camera and hummed to the music.

Turning around to face the camera she tutted at herself, “Beautiful… So sparkly. Think I deserve a treat,” she grinned at her reflection and brushed her hand down her torso to her hips, and raised the other arm over her head as she toyed with her clit and gasped.

Of course, she was putting on a little show. Something to watch later on in private. She’d gotten in the habit of making little videos of herself dancing naked or masturbating. Or just talking about nothing really. She’d started to feel so confident and happy with herself thanks to Harry. And the videos were her naughty little secret. Sometimes, with the extra sexy ones, she’d even touch herself as she rewatched them later on, loving the way she looked.

This time was no different. She was stunning with sparkly jewels and velvet gloves. Long stretched of bare skin, breasts bouncing as she swayed and twirled.

Reaching for her breasts she squished them together with a moan and then jiggled them at the camera before swiping her thumb over each nipple, “Get those nice and hard. We know how much I like hard things don’t we?” She laughed to herself.

Reaching into her toy drawer she found her tiny pink vibrator and turned it on, “Gonna feel so good,” she ran the small toy down the center of her body, between her breasts, over her belly button, and then circled it over her pussy with a sharp inhale.

Moving to the music she kept her eyes on the camera and continued pressing the toy against her clit, “Oh… I’m getting so wet.”

Her breathing picked up and her nipples tightened more, goosebumps covered her skin as she felt the yummy sensation of arousal fill her veins.

“Mmm… I do it so well. Always get myself off. Don’t need Daddy every time, do we?” She chuckled and then gasped when she pressed the toy harder against her bud.

“So wet already. Such a dirty, horny girl…” she bit her lip and turned off the pink toy before placing it on the counter and running her velvet-covered fingers up and down her swollen, wet pussy, “So messy… mmm… Gonna get in so much trouble doing this. I think Daddy’s gonna have to spank me.”

The more she stroked her pearl the wetter her gloves got. She clenched her empty hole and moaned, “Need more. Like all my holes stuffed,” she spoke breathily as she peeked into her drawer and pulled out her clear silicone dildo. The extra long one that was ridged thickly and made her come so fast. She needed to get on with the show. Harry would be coming back soon.

Pulling her soft chair in front of the mirror and the camera she gently sat and cooed at the feel of the plug shifting under her bum, “Oop! Fuck that’s feeling really good.”

Y/n lifted her legs, planting her heeled feet on the seat cushion and spreading her thighs so there was an excellent view of her plug and her pussy.

“I’ve gotten myself all wet,” she drew a finger over her inner thigh and licked at the velvet-gloved finger, “Mm! I know why Daddy says it tastes so good. So yummy,” she sighed as she spread her legs wider and placed the dildo against her pussy lips, running it through her slippery folds before finally pushing it in slowly.

She parted her lips and stared into the camera as she began to work the silicone toy in and out until she could push it in deep and it pressed into the shared wall where her anal plug was. The toy tucked in her ass bobbed every time she thrust the dildo in deep and she moaned at the sight, “Oh my god… that’s so hot isn’t it? Look at how both holes take everything I give them so well.”

Fucking herself with the dildo and rubbing her clit with her gloves she stretched her neck back and whined loudly.

The slick sound of her cunt around the silicone toy filled the spaces between the notes and the music playing, just loud enough for the camera to pick up the sound. Going in faster she lulled her head forward to keep her eyes on the camera but she was in a bit of a daze. She always tried to keep her eyes open for the camera when she came because that was her favorite.

“Good girl, baby… Taking your toys so good. Fucking look like a goddess right now. Oh shit… that’s it… doing it so good…”

Her chest was rising and falling and she heard the chime of an incoming text, which she was sure was Harry, “Daddy’s trying to reach me,” she laughed playfully, “But his little girl is busy fucking herself, isn’t that right?”

It wasn’t long before she was shaking and her body was covered in a light sheen of sweat. Her velvet gloves were ruined with her arousal as she fingered her swollen clit and clamped down on the dildo and the plug with a soft cry, “Oh god! Right there… Fuck…”

Her orgasm had wiped her out. She tried keeping her eyes on the camera but her whole head was swirling with pleasure and lust as she trembled and moaned, creaming all over her dildo.

She heaved and pulled the toy out, dropping it to the floor, and leaned back into the cushion to recover for a moment, “So good. You always do it right. Even better than Daddy sometimes,” she snorted a laugh and sat up to look at the camera teasingly before wobbly legs took her across the space to turn off the recording on her camera.

.             .             .

Y/n had watched her newest home video at least four times. And she was so turned on every time she watched it, she’d make herself come in record time, rubbing her clit and feeling so proud of how pretty she looked and how brave she’d become since she’d been with Harry.

And the recent video with all the jewels was her best work yet. She really loved it. So much so that she was thinking about sharing it with Harry. She wondered what he’d think about it. She was positive he’d just go nuts over it like she did. He’d act all upset and stoic. Probably give her a good spanking (at least) but she knew he’d adore it.

So, in a moment of sheer insanity or bravery (she wasn’t sure which) she tucked her top row of teeth into her bottom lip, attached the video to a text message for Harry, and squealed when she hit send. She couldn’t believe she’d sent it. All of her solo videos had been her little secret all this time but now she was bringing Harry into the mix by showing him.

It was 2 pm on a Wednesday. He was at the office and probably just getting out of his most recent meeting. And she knew he’d see it shortly after she sent it.

She kept her eye on the screen of her phone, waiting for the message to say ‘read’. It only took a few minutes. She giggled to herself as she snuggled into the couch with her laptop and watched the video, trying to time it so that she was watching it at the same time he was. Wondering what he was thinking with every minute that drew on.

Her heart was racing in anticipation of his response. She knew she’d be in for a bit of punishment but she didn’t know exactly what to expect from it.

But then minute after minute drew on. The video had ended and there was no word from Harry. No bobbing dots to indicate he was texting. No phone call. Nada.

She felt heat creep over her skin as she thought about all the ways Harry would teach her a lesson. Y/n knew Harry was making a plan. Surely he was devising some kind of punishment for her misbehavior. She couldn’t wait.

Less than an hour later Harry was walking through the front door. Y/n peeked over the back of the couch toward the foyer entry and she saw him pass through but he didn’t look in her direction. He breezed by cooly and went into the kitchen.

Y/n scrambled off the couch to follow after him. He was pouring a glass of water for himself silently when she rounded the island and put her hands on his shoulders, “Hi, Daddy.”

He grunted and moved away, making her hands fall from his back as he put the water pitcher back into the fridge before taking a long gulp of his water.

Waiting silently for him to award her a glance she watched her man place the empty glass into the sink as he sighed, placing his palms flat onto the marble countertop, “So you think you can take care of yourself better than I can? Is that right?”

She knew that line would stick out to him.

���I was just teasing. You know no one does it better than you, Da–“

“And you disobeyed me. Looked like you were having the time of your life, Y/n. Did you enjoy wearing all the expensive jewelry I bought you? Enjoyed getting yourself off while I was working hard to keep a roof over your head?” He turned and looked at her. Stern and serious.

Now she knew he was being dramatic. The whole keep-a-roof-over-your-head comment was a bit silly. Harry could retire right then if he wanted to.

“I did enjoy it, actually,” she quipped back before biting her lip.

“Well now at least you’re being honest with me. When did you make the video? Was this today?”

Shaking her head she leaned into the counter, “A week ago.”

He nodded slowly, his green eyes trailing down over her body. She was only wearing one of his t-shirts.

“And what were you up to today that compelled you to send me this one-week-old video?”

 She gulped, “Nothing really. Um… I just wanted to share it with you because I liked it. Thought you’d like it to.” She said blinking her eyes innocently at him.

Harry sniffed, “It was very pretty to look at. But you went against my explicit rules. Does Daddy not give you enough orgasms every day? Every morning and every night I work to keep you satisfied. Are you so desperate for an orgasm that you can’t wait a few hours until I get home?”

She breathed shallowly and looked down, “I just sometimes like to do it myself. And I felt so pretty.”

Y/n felt Harry’s touch on her arm, “Come.”

She followed him upstairs to her closet where he opened up her drawers until he found her toys and then her gloves and opened up the jewelry armoire.

“Put everything on that you had in the video. Meet me in the bedroom when you’re ready.”

Y/n felt her nerves bubble as she put everything on. The jewels, the gloves, the plug, and her heels. She sighed as she gave herself a once over in the mirror before stepping out into the bedroom where Harry was seated at the end of the bed facing the TV. Her video on the large screen paused at the beginning. He had his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, ready to get to work.

“C’mere,” he patted his lap. He kept his eyes focused on her body as she neared him and placed her hand on his shoulder to sit down but he pulled her over his thighs, tummy down, and ass up where he gave her a very swift smack and then massaged at the meat of her bum, pulling her plushy cheeks apart and tapped her plug, “Good. Looks like we’re all set.”

Her head was hanging down and the weight of the necklace was especially heavy in her new position, the earrings pulling at her lobes as she rocked over him to stabilize herself. She imagined she was going to need to hang on to something.

“Watch with me. Lift your head. Let’s see this dirty little video my spoiled girl made.”

She scoured the screen with her eyes, her body in view and the jewels glinting off the light from above her. Y/n had to strain to keep her head up. She leveraged herself up with her hand on the bed next to Harry’s thigh.

She had seen the video enough times that she had the whole thing nearly memorized. The music, the moment she bends and shows the camera her plug, the lines she spoke…

Harry spanked her ass, two stinging open palmed swats to each side and she winced at the pain and gasped as she slid down, losing her balance when she kicked a leg up.

“Stay still for me and keep watching,” he spoke gruffly as he grasped the front of her neck and tilted her head back up so she could watch with him.

Gulping into his palm she arched her back when he spanked her bottom again, “Look at how pretty you are in my lap, baby,” he ran his hand down her spine to the little jeweled belt where the pearl hung at the top of her crack, “All these expensive things on your body, ass up for me,” he twisted the plug, “Pussy wet.”

She moaned when he ran his fingers between her crease and pressed his middle finger inside of her cunt before pulling it out and wiping it on the back of her thigh, where he then gave her another smack.

“Who bought all this for you, baby? Hmm? Who made this whole thing possible?”

“You, Daddy!” She didn’t hesitate to answer him.

“That’s right. This video wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for me. This pussy wouldn’t be wet if it weren’t for me.”

She nodded against his palm and moaned when his fingers circled her clit.

“Always my desperate, needy little girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she gasped when he pinched her bud and she wiggled her hips but he gripped her neck tighter, “Don’t wiggle. You got yourself into this mess. These are the consequences.”

She squeezed her eyes closed as he swatted her again before he continued speaking, leaning down to groan into her ear, “Do you know how hard I got the moment I opened up that video at work? Walking down the hall to my office I had to hide my boner and click the volume off.”

She felt him pinch at her inner thigh, giving her clit a moment of respite from his fingers, “Had to calm myself down and lock the door. But then I finished watching your little video and I had to excuse myself to leave work early. Do you know how disruptive that was?”

She grunted as he pressed over her plug, “Right now, I’m supposed to be in a meeting with a potential investor. This was a big deal, Y/n. But I physically wasn’t able to stay at the office for a moment longer, and it’s your fault. Every time I thought about the way you came with your legs spread and this little plug flicking around from the dildo you were fucking yourself with… had to calm my cock. Was gonna burst in my pants.”

His fingers slid back into her cunt, two this time as he pumped into her walls and continued gripping her neck, “Look.”

She shifted her eyes to the screen and her voice filtered through the room, her gasps and moans as she began to come. And just as he described, her little plug was twitching in time with the way she was pressing the dildo into her cunt. It was a pretty sight.

She moaned when he kissed the back of her ear, “Fucking gorgeous when you come, baby. But this video? S’like a work of art. But you were still naughty. Didn’t get permission to do any of that did you?”

“No, Daddy. I’m sorry.”

His fingers were filling her up and squelching with every thrust, “You look so proud of yourself too. So confident. Like a big girl playing dress up with Daddy’s things. And if my cock weren’t throbbing right now I’d really teach you a lesson but I need to come inside of this little pussy. Been aching for it.”

She felt his legs shift and her body was moved, heels on the floor as he steadied her hips before he stood up and began to undo his pants, “Bend over the bed, spread your legs.”

She wanted to watch him pull his cock out. Wanted to see how hard he was but she knew better than to hesitate. She laid herself tummy down on the mattress and spread her thighs apart.

One of his hands was on her hip, lifting her slightly when she felt his thick cock drag against her pussy and then his chest was pressed into her back, “No one does it better than, Daddy.”

The moment he finished his sentence, lips against the shell of her ear, he slammed his cock inside of her. He took both of her hands in his, the velvet gloves keeping her from feeling his palms, as he pulled her arms behind her back and took both wrists in one big hand as he continued rocking into her.

She felt a sharp smack on her ass again and he grunted, thighs flexing as he worked into her. Her shoulders burned as he kept her arms held down at the middle of her back, one hand groping her ass cheek.

The view he had was gorgeous as always. Her plug pushed and pulled with every thrust of Harry’s cock and he could feel the press of it gliding over his cock through her tight warm walls.

The necklace was digging into her chest but she welcomed the way it felt on her skin as well as the burn of another swat to her bum because her body was giving itself over to him.

“My spoiled girl just keeps getting whatever she wants. Even when she’s naughty she gets all these pretty things; gets Daddy’s cock inside of her, gets all the orgasms she can handle. Guess you’ve got me wrapped around your finger, don’t you, baby?”

“Umph!” She croaked, her cheek smushed into the comforter, letting go of her ass as he leaned over, palm on the mattress, and drove into her with the kind of force she loved. It felt so much better than anything she could do to herself with her meager dildo. Harry’s cock was exactly what she needed.

“Yeah? Didn’t hear you make that noise in your little video.” He buried himself in, bullying another lewd sound from her throat as his hips rutted against her ass.

“Can’t help those pretty little noises can you? Daddy’s cock will always feel better won’t it?”

She was jolted forward, her mouth open with drool pooling over the blankets, “No… your cock… aoohha!”

Harry grinned at her inability to answer properly as he continued pounding into her, still holding her wrists together at her mid-back.

“Squeezing the fuck out of me baby. There you go… fuck…”

Y/n’s orgasm wiped her body out. The way the plug was stretching her out and Harry’s big cock was slamming into her guts she couldn’t hold on for a second longer.

She heard Harry panting between grunts and then felt both of his hands on her ass as he pressed in deep and unloaded himself, filling her insides with his come.

“My pretty baby. Love seeing you dripping in diamonds and all fucked out of your mind. Does it make you feel good baby? Wearing all these expensive things?”

He had his chest pressed into her back as he spoke quietly into her ear, hips pasted to her ass.

“I love it. It’s so nice, Daddy.”

He moved off of her, reaching an arm under her waist to pull her up to standing, and turned her in her arms, “Look at this,” bringing her gloved hands into his, he lifted them upward, “Ruined. Need to buy you new gloves it appears.”

She realized the cleaning job she’d done on them after making the video had been shoddy at best and now the tips of the fingers were steaky and lighter than the rest of the material, “Maybe dry cleaning?”

Harry pursed his lips as he began to take off her bracelets, unhooking each clasp, “Maybe. Not sure these can be salvaged, though.”

When he pulled her gloves off he reached around her neck to undo the necklace and then her jeweled belt before running his hands up and down her arms, “Gorgeous with or without all the diamonds,” he smirked.

“I like the diamonds, though. Fun to play dress up.”

He raised a brow and brought her left hand up to his mouth pressing his plush lips over her ring finger, “Thinking about what you’d look like with a pretty diamond right here.”

Y/n parted her lips and kept her gaze locked on Harry’s, “Like a… ring?”

Harry laughed at her shocked expression and pushed his fingers between hers as he cupped her cheek with his free hand, “Yeah. Like a ring.”

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[daydreamteardrop]

Girlhood - Sylus x Reader Drabble

Note: Hello! This is a drabble Ive started, maybe I'll continue it. I thought about how Sylus would be so up for helping MC be more confident in a girly style, because her whole life she wasnt allowed to present girly for her safety. (im massively projecting). Grandma Josephine is carrying the brunt of that LMAOOO, idk, is not being a Josephine fan controversial?

Not beta read, we explode like Josephine.

Spoilers for Sylus' Story!

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• °.•

Girlhood wasn't really something you got to grow into.

Middle school introduced the full throttle of make-up, accessories and hairstyles onto the girls your age. And you found it fun, in fact, you always wanted to join the bandwagon.

But your dear gran was just so worried. She'd hold your hands tight and tell you that presenting so feminine can be dangerous. You will be stared at, perhaps even talked to by strangers, god - it would hurt your dear Grandma's heart should you walk outside while presenting in a girlish way. She'd be worried sick.

‘The boys would stare…’

‘Think about the way home, it gets dark so quickly during fall and winter.’

'It's unsightly.’

‘You are way too young.’

‘You’d get unwanted attention.’

And you didn't want to worry her.

So with a sad smile you were always the odd one out. You'd wear big T-shirts and pants. The girls in your class looked at you with such a pitiful yet mocking expression. One time they even ‘accidentally’ cut your hair and when Caleb picked you up from school that day, your silent begging to just go home was the only thing that stopped him from acting against the bullies. Grandma saw it as an opportunity to keep your hair short. It stayed the same even in highschool, where you were mistaken as Caleb's little brother once.

In the Hunter Academy, you were able to loosen the insistence of your grandma and managed to grow your hair to just above your shoulder again.

When you first wore the official Hunter's uniform, you couldn't be happy. The only thought that crossed your mind was ‘Grandma would worry if she saw the bare stomach.’.

When Tara would try to convince you to do anything girlish, you'd decline with a sour smile. Too scared, too constricted.

Even when the explosion took her, you just couldn't free yourself of the shackles.

-

Now, the dress Sylus made you wear for the auction was…gorgeous. The black and velvet felt so nice on your skin, it was practical to move in. The accessories glittered and reflected the dim lighting of the hallway. You didn't dare touch your hair, not knowing how, so the matching black claw-clip was in your hand. You didn't have any make-up you could use. And so it felt sinful to walk along this disgustingly expensive carpet in heels you weren't used to.

He held his hand out for you to take and wore that smirk. Black gloves met his calloused hand and he observed you. Looked you up and down and there was no way to tell if his gaze was scrutinizing. Red eyes met your face and then your hair, then to the claw clip in your hand.

“...not to your taste?”

“That's not it…”

Fingers clenched around the material of the hair accessory. He raised an eyebrow, urging you to continue.

“...I don't know how to put it in. I mean, it's kinda obvious how to, but-”

Before you could bring a finished sentence into the room, he grabbed the clip from your hand and spoke “Turn around.”

“Huh?”

He sighed. “I'll help you.”

With a bit of hesitation you turned around. Something about turning your back to the Onychinus leader was unnerving, an inner part of your brain scratched that it was crazy, but the moment his hands pulled your hair to the back with an uncharacteristic gentleness, the scratch stopped. He left a bit of hair out on purpose, letting it frame your face, and clasped the rest in place neatly by the claw clip.

Your hand traced over it carefully and you turned around and met his eyes. He huffed, satisfied with himself and put his hands in his pant pockets.

You recall the sentence that left him earlier.

‘No one can stay wary, when there's a beauty walking around.’

You're not used to being described with that adjective.

-

After the auction, Sylus waved you off when you wanted to return the dress and its accessories to him.

‘It was tailored for you. It's yours now.’

His way of using his money was…questionable to you. The dress was miles outside of your budget range and you hung it straight and neatly, in order to not even get a hint of a wrinkle in the luxurious fabric.

Closet doors were open and you stared at it, like it was some sort of glorious painting in a museum.

‘Maybe I should frame it.’ you thought as you sighed dreamily. When the tips of your hair slide over the back of your neck, you shudder, because it reminds you of Sylus' fingertips in your hair when putting it up with the clip.

Your poor pillow is the target of your suppressed squeal. A dress was in your possession.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

DaydreamTeardrop2025

[fel-09]

10 psychological pressures on you which he likes to use on you

Words 1,300

Reader x hannibal

1. Watching you look away when his gaze lingers too long

Hannibal loves to catch your eyes, only to watch you shyly look away. For him, this moment is like a hunt. He knows his piercing gaze unsettles you, makes your heart race.

Every time you try to hide your embarrassment or fear, he sees the fragility in you—something he longs to hold and… break. But instead of frightening you, he lets his gaze soften, adding a playful hint of tenderness to this game. It keeps drawing you back to him, again and again.

2. Trying to catch your scent among thousands of others

Your scent is his drug. He can pick it out in a crowd, faint and mingled with other aromas. Sometimes, he moves closer under the pretense of a casual gesture, just to take in a deeper breath.

He doesn’t need to say it—you can feel it in the way his breath lingers near your neck when he stands too close. For you, it might be unsettling, but that delicate balance between comfort and unease keeps you both locked in a strange, unbreakable dance.

3. Giving you small gifts that remind you of his control

Hannibal loves giving you things—books, gloves, rings. But every gift carries a message. You know he doesn’t give them without intent. It’s his way of showing he sees right through you, that every detail of your life is no mystery to him.

You find a ring that perfectly matches the dress he once casually complimented, or a book you’ve been searching for but never mentioned. It’s both enchanting and unsettling—he knows you as if he’s reading an invisible map etched into your soul.

4. Leaving traces of his presence so you remember him

He leaves his scent on your coat, his book on your desk, his shadow in your thoughts. Hannibal loves to ensure you feel his presence even when he’s not around.

You notice how his handkerchief somehow ends up in your bag, though you’re certain you didn’t take it. It’s no coincidence. It’s his way of saying, “I’m always here, even when you don’t see me.”

5. Noticing how you unconsciously try to please him

Hannibal notices everything—the way you adjust your hair when talking to him, how you choose your words more carefully than with others. He knows you’re trying to anticipate what might please him but never mentions it aloud.

He delights in your attempts to understand him without words. For him, it’s a game: how far will you go to earn the approval of someone who plays your emotions like a violinist plays their instrument?

6. Listening to the sound of your voice until it falters

Hannibal listens with unnerving intensity, as though dissecting each syllable you speak. His questions come gently at first, coaxing you into comfort, but his gaze—too still, too knowing—turns the conversation into something else. It feels like he’s searching for a crack in your tone, the faintest quiver of unease.

When he finds it, the air thickens. He speaks then, not of the surface-level topics you’ve brought to the table, but of you—your fears, your contradictions, the things you try so hard to bury. His voice is velvet, but the precision of his words feels surgical, as if he’s peeling back your skin without ever touching you.

7. Leaving marks that are invisible to the untrained eye

His touch lingers longer than necessary, but never enough to be obvious. Later, when you’re alone, you notice faint impressions: the trace of his hand pressing into your wrist, a sharp scent clinging to your collar. These remnants seem almost accidental—until they happen again.

You begin to realize they’re deliberate. The marks he leaves aren’t wounds; they’re whispers, subtle reminders that you’ve been claimed in ways no one else can see. And as much as you try to brush it off, the weight of his presence doesn’t fade—it sinks deeper, like ink spilled beneath your skin.

8. Turning your habits into pieces of himself

He watches you so closely that your habits—those small, thoughtless gestures—become his. You see it in the way he stirs his coffee exactly as you do or pauses mid-conversation to tilt his head in a way that feels eerily familiar. It’s not mimicry, not flattery. It’s possession.

Over time, these reflections of you in him grow sharper, more deliberate. It’s as if he’s absorbing you, rewriting himself with fragments of your existence. And when you catch these echoes in him, the sensation is disorienting, like staring into a mirror that’s begun to think for itself.

9. Placing you in situations where escape is an illusion

Hannibal doesn’t trap you with chains or bars; he constructs prisons out of circumstance. A dinner party filled with strangers who speak in riddles, a moment where you realize too late that every choice you make has been anticipated. He orchestrates these moments as if composing a symphony, and you’re the instrument in his hands.

You sense the layers too late. The compliments that felt genuine now taste of manipulation. The seemingly innocuous conversations twist back on themselves, revealing a web you never saw being spun. It’s not that you can’t leave; it’s that you no longer know how.

10. Planting his presence in your sanctuary

Objects begin to appear in your home—subtle at first, easily dismissed. A knife in your kitchen drawer, heavier and sharper than the rest. A book resting on your nightstand, open to a page that feels too specific, too intimate. These things feel wrong not because they don’t belong, but because they do.

You never see him place them there, but they carry the unmistakable weight of him. Each item whispers that he knows where you are, what you need, what you fear. And no matter how you try to rationalize their presence, they remain, weaving his shadow tighter into the fabric of your life.

[perfectsunlight]

I BET YOU THINK ABOUT ME - JISOO

kim jisoo x reader

word count: 3.5k

warnings: implied age-gap, class disparities, isolation, belittling, emotional manipulation, mentioned breakup.

synopsis: despite being broken up, you bet your wealthy ex-girlfriend still thinks about you.

there were many things you enjoyed about dating kim jisoo. the way her laughter could light up a room, soft but knowing, like she was in on a joke no one else understood. how her touch was always delicate—calculated, even—as if everything she laid her hands on was an extension of the control she had over the world around her.

but her wealth and status? no, those were never the reasons you stayed.

even now, walking down the narrow, cobblestone streets where red and gold leaves scattered beneath your feet, you couldn’t help but be swallowed by memories of her. the crisp autumn air bit at your skin, a sharp reminder of the past, tugging at your thoughts like the wind tugged at your coat. it was in this season that jisoo had always seemed to glow brightest. her beauty matched the fall—effortless, rich, like a vintage painting come to life. she was untouchable.

however, she was just as cruel.

you just didn’t realize it at the time. how her perfectly manicured fingers—always cold to the touch, always adorned with rings that shimmered in the dying autumn light—had dug deep, not into your skin, but into your spirit. each time she mentioned your "quaint" lifestyle, your "charming" lack of understanding about the finer things in life, it had been wrapped in a velvet glove of affection, so you hardly noticed the sting at first.

it had felt like walking through the falling leaves, admiring the beauty, unaware that winter was creeping closer, ready to strip everything bare.

she had always made sure you knew she was from another world—one where silk sheets were the norm, where every meal came with a waitstaff and a glass of wine you could hardly pronounce. her apartment had been like a showroom, sterile and pristine, with floor-to-ceiling windows that stretched out over the city like a kingdom she ruled from above. and you, standing in the middle of it all, had felt small.

but now, in the aftermath, you could see how she had looked at you, like a pet project. an amusing distraction.

you remember the last dinner you shared at some restaurant you couldn’t pronounce, where the chandeliers above flickered against the dim light and the leaves outside the window swirled like some gilded snowstorm. she had ordered for you without asking, her voice as smooth and cool as the autumn breeze that crept into the cracks of your jacket.

"it’s adorable," she had said, waving her hand dismissively at your confusion when the plates arrived, "how little you know about this. really. it’s sweet."

at the time, you’d laughed it off, sipping the wine that burned your throat more than it soothed. but now you realize how sharp her words had been, each one a blade wrapped in silk.

the holiday parties were even worse.

you’d always felt out of place, like an actor in the wrong movie, wandering through rooms filled with people who looked like they belonged in some old-world painting. there were always murmurs of stocks and art auctions, people in tailored suits that hung off them like armor. you, in your off-the-rack blazer, had felt like an imposter. but jisoo, with her arm linked loosely through yours, had moved through the crowd effortlessly, her smile cold and practiced, like she knew every secret and every face in the room.

the air inside was thick with perfume and candlelight, but it never warmed you. outside, through the towering windows of the penthouse venues, you could always catch glimpses of the world you belonged to—the same city, but miles away, where people didn’t wear silk scarves that cost more than your rent or talk about vacation homes in hushed, reverent tones. the autumn leaves that still clung to the trees seemed desperate, the last few hanging on in the icy wind. much like you had been, clinging to jisoo’s side, pretending not to notice the subtle, cutting remarks she’d make about your clothes, your taste in music, your background.

"you know," she’d say in that breathy, disinterested tone of hers, eyes scanning the room like a queen surveying her subjects, "maybe next time you could wear something… a little more appropriate for the occasion?"

the words had stung, but you’d smiled, nodding like you hadn’t just been dressed down in front of people who already looked at you like you were her charity case. you’d downed your drink, hoping the burn of it would distract from the ache in your chest, while jisoo had already moved on, laughing airily at some joke from a man whose name you couldn’t remember, but whose disdainful eyes stayed with you long after the night was over.

at those parties, she’d always introduce you the same way: “this is y/n.”

nothing more, nothing less. like you were just another accessory—another piece of her perfectly arranged life. your name alone always hung in the air, stiff and formal, with no affection behind it. 

it was a title, not a connection.

but the way she spoke about herself was different. she was kim jisoo, daughter of one of the wealthiest families in seoul, a woman who everyone admired but no one truly knew. she never missed a chance to remind people of her lineage, of her success, of the places she’d been that you could only dream of. you’d stand there, smiling politely, the outsider in your own relationship, as she charmed the room with stories of her luxury trips to europe or some exclusive party she’d attended.

you used to tell yourself that maybe this was just her world—one you didn’t quite understand but could learn to navigate. after all, you thought, love was supposed to be about growing, about adapting to each other. but now, looking back, you see it differently. you hadn’t been adapting. you had been erasing yourself.

you remember the first time you’d seen her living room—everything about it had been a display of understated opulence. the couch, soft and inviting, had been custom-made in italy, a piece of furniture that cost more than you’d make in a year. the kind of thing you wouldn’t even dare to sit on without an invitation.

she’d caught you staring at it once, your fingers brushing lightly over the velvety surface, as if afraid you’d leave some permanent mark on it.

“do you like it?” she’d asked, her tone casual, almost playful, as she kicked off her shoes. organic shoes, she’d said—handcrafted by a designer who only used sustainably sourced materials, each pair worth thousands. she’d tossed them carelessly to the side, as if they were nothing more than an afterthought.

“it’s beautiful,” you’d breathlessly answered, unsure of how to respond. what else could you say? the couch was more than a place to sit. it was a symbol of everything that separated you from her.

the older woman had smiled, that knowing little smile of hers, and settled onto the couch, curling her legs beneath her. “it should be,” she’d replied, her voice laced with a subtle arrogance. “it cost a fortune. but you can’t put a price on comfort, can you?”

at the time, you’d nodded, sitting beside her, careful not to spill the coffee you’d brought from a café that seemed almost comically out of place in her world of curated luxury. but now, looking back, you realize how much weight that moment held.

the couch, the shoes, the apartment—it was all part of the same narrative. jisoo’s life was meticulously designed, every element perfectly placed to reflect her status. even her so-called love of organic, sustainable products wasn’t about caring for the earth; it was about showing the world that she could afford to care. it was another layer of the image she presented, another way to remind you that you didn’t quite belong.

the shoes—those ridiculously expensive shoes—had been one of the first things you’d noticed about her. how she would glide through the city in them, effortlessly chic, while you tried to keep up in your well-worn sneakers. how she never seemed to care about the price tag, because to her, money wasn’t something you worried about. it was something you had. something you displayed.

you remember asking her about them once, marveling at their craftsmanship, at the intricate details stitched into the leather. “they’re nice, right?” she’d said, almost bored with the conversation. “made by a small artisan. i like supporting brands that are more...conscious. but it’s not just about the shoes, you know? it’s about a lifestyle.”

at the time, you’d nodded along, impressed by her philosophy, thinking there was something admirable about her commitment to sustainability. but now, with the clarity that only distance can bring, you see it differently. it wasn’t about responsibility or caring for the environment—it was about exclusivity. 

jisoo didn’t just buy things; she bought status. and as a result, she never let you forget where you came from.

she didn’t need to say it outright; her silences were louder than any words. the way her gaze would graze over your simple gifts, a flash of disappointment quickly masked by a too-sweet smile. the way her laughter, always so soft and melodic to anyone else, would carry a sharp edge when she’d point out how "cute" your attempts to impress her were. every look, every gesture, had been a reminder: you would never be enough.

and the holidays only magnified the divide between you. her family gatherings were a spectacle—elegant, with a quiet kind of opulence, but they were colder than the snow beginning to fall outside. conversations were distant, sterile, filled with politeness and half-meant compliments. you’d watch as jisoo’s mother raised an eyebrow at you, a polite but questioning smile on her lips, while her father barely acknowledged your presence at all, too engrossed in conversations about business acquisitions and real estate.

you remember the first time you had brought her home to meet your family. the warmth in the room had been undeniable, even if the house had been modest. the table was small, the plates mismatched, and the wine was cheap, but there had been laughter. real, full-bodied laughter, the kind that left your cheeks flushed. but jisoo had sat there, stiff and out of place, a polite smile frozen on her lips as she delicately picked at her food. she had said all the right things, but you could tell—she didn’t belong in your world, just as you didn’t belong in hers.

and after that night, she’d never come back. not once.

"it’s not my kind of environment," she’d said, as if your family home was some quaint little corner of a forgotten world. but you hadn’t pushed it. you’d just smiled, hoping that love would eventually smooth out the rough edges between your lives.

but it never did.

your image of her entirely changed once she launched her own dior collaboration.

the transformation was undeniable. jisoo had always been poised, elegant, and out of reach, but when her dior collaboration was announced, it was as if she ascended to another level entirely—a world you never truly belonged to. the moment you saw her in those campaign ads, draped in luxury from head to toe, with that distant, unreadable expression in her eyes, you realized something had shifted. it wasn’t just the clothes or the brand—it was her.

the once subtle differences between you were now glaring. she’d always had a way of making you feel small, of making the simplest moments feel like they were being measured against some invisible standard. but now, with the world’s eyes on her, she no longer had to hide it. she wore her superiority like couture, and her status was no longer just an undercurrent in your relationship—it was the defining feature.

you remember scrolling through your phone that first day the campaign was released, seeing her everywhere—billboards, social media, magazines. her image was iconic, flawless, unattainable. the woman in those pictures wasn’t the same person you once loved, or perhaps she was, and you had simply refused to see it. the jisoo in dior was the one the world adored: polished, elegant, and untouchable. and the jisoo you had known—the one who laughed with you on lazy sundays, who curled up next to you in bed with soft whispers—felt like a figment of your imagination.

that night, you sat in your apartment, surrounded by the faint scent of coffee and fallen leaves, watching her face appear on the tv during yet another interview. the host praised her for her taste, her grace, and asked how it felt to be a global ambassador for such a prestigious brand. jisoo smiled that small, practiced smile, the kind that could melt an audience but had always left you feeling cold.

“it’s an honor, truly,” she said, her voice as smooth as ever. “i’ve always been drawn to the finer things in life, and working with dior is the perfect alignment of that vision.”

drawn to the finer things. those words echoed in your mind long after the interview ended. it wasn’t that she loved the finer things—anyone could—but the way she lived for them, the way they seemed to define her, made you realize just how different you were.

the last time you saw her in person, it was the tail end of last fall, the leaves almost entirely stripped from the trees, the sky a muted shade of gray. you’d met for coffee, though it felt more like a final performance than a reunion. she had walked in, dressed head-to-toe in dior, effortlessly chic in her monochromatic outfit, the click of her heels on the hardwood floor echoing like some distant reminder of all the ways she had outgrown you.

she hadn’t even taken off her sunglasses, those oversized black lenses that concealed any hint of vulnerability. the moment she sat down, you knew—this was the end.

“i’m heading to paris for fashion week,” she had said casually, as if she were talking about a trip to the grocery store. “things have been busy.”

you remember nodding, unsure of what to say, feeling the weight of the unspoken words between you. there was no warmth in her gaze, no familiarity in her voice. the woman sitting across from you was a stranger, more concerned with her schedule, her image, her empire, than with you.

when you finally found your voice, all you could manage was, “i’m happy for you.” it sounded hollow, even to your own ears.

she had smiled—an empty, fleeting gesture. “thanks. it’s good to hear you say that.” her leaving behind the scent of her designer perfume felt more symbolic than it probably should have,

that’s when you knew—there was nothing left of what you once had. 

the girl you had fallen in love with was gone, replaced by someone who only cared for power, prestige, and perception. and as the autumn wind howled outside, rattling the windows of the café, you realized you weren’t mourning the loss of her, but the version of her you had once believed in.

jisoo wasn’t just a woman anymore. she was a brand. a symbol. a masterpiece crafted by the very world she belonged to. and you? you were simply a chapter in her rise to the top, forgotten as soon as the ink dried.

you didn’t date kim jisoo for her wealth. 

you dated her for the way she seemed to know the world in a way you never could—confident, poised, above it all. you thought that maybe, by loving her, you could somehow touch that world too. but love wasn’t what had tied you together. not really.

it had been power.

she loved the way you looked at her, like you were eternally trying to catch up. the way you stumbled over the names of her favorite designers, or blinked in confusion when she mentioned some art exhibit you hadn’t even heard of. she loved the control. and you—god, you had loved her for it. back then, you thought it was awe. now you see it for what it was: submission.

but there, in the middle of the bustling autumn streets, as you watch the leaves scatter across the pavement in a dance as fleeting as your relationship, you find yourself wondering—does she think about you?

does she ever sit in that apartment of hers, surrounded by luxury and untouched by the season, and wonder what it would be like to be less than perfect? does she ever close her eyes and picture the messier parts of love, the parts she could never let herself fall into?

you smile bitterly, pulling your coat tighter around yourself. maybe she does.

maybe, even now, as you wander through the city you had once explored together, her mind drifts to you—the one person who had never fit neatly into the frame of her perfectly curated life. maybe she remembers how, despite everything, you were never quite small enough to be molded. 

and maybe, just maybe, in her moments of silence, with her designer bags and high-rise views, she thinks about how she’ll never find someone quite like you again. someone who saw her for more than just the polished surface she presented to the world. someone who, despite it all, had loved her—flaws, cruelty, and all.

the wind howls, scattering more leaves into the air, and you watch as they swirl and disappear. there’s a certain beauty to the way things fall apart, you realize. a kind of freedom in it.

jisoo might not know that, but you do. however, your mind refused to let you rest.

it was 3 am, and you were still wide awake. the cold light of your phone screen cast shadows on the walls of your tiny apartment, worlds away from the penthouse where jisoo was probably fast asleep. you imagined her there, wrapped in those luxurious silk sheets, her breath steady, undisturbed by thoughts of you. in her city. the one that always felt a little brighter, a little shinier than yours. a place you never quite belonged.

your mind wandered, picturing her with someone new. someone from her world. the kind of girl who knew all the right names to drop at fancy dinners, who could wear those thousand-dollar organic shoes without feeling like an imposter. a girl with a perfect pedigree, someone who her friends probably thought was “better” than you. you could almost hear them whispering it, their voices low but full of certainty.

it wasn’t long ago that you had tried to fit into those circles. you’d been the outsider, awkward and out of place in jisoo’s world of high-society dinners and private parties. but you tried, back when love made you brave, when you thought if you just held her hand tight enough, the rest would fall into place.

they let you sit at the table, once. out of courtesy, or maybe because you were still attached to her arm like an accessory she wasn’t ready to give up. you’d laugh when they laughed, your smile tight as they sat around talking about the meaning of life, throwing around names of philosophers and books you’d never heard of.

“the book that just saved me,” one of them had said, casually, like it was a known fact that certain books saved people. you’d smiled and nodded, even though the title flew right over your head, another reminder of how little you belonged.

jisoo had glanced at you then, her eyes softening in the way they sometimes did when she noticed you struggling. she squeezed your hand under the table, like she used to when you were still hers, when you thought her world was one you could live in.

but that was before. before the doubts crept in, before the weight of her world pressed down on you. now, it felt like she’d moved on, maybe even found someone who fit in effortlessly where you never could. someone who didn’t have to pretend.

you rolled over, the silence of your room closing in, and you couldn’t help but wonder if she was asleep now, completely at peace. and if the girl in her bed had the right name, the right look, and could keep up with her friends when they talked about art and life and all the things that always seemed just out of your reach.

the thought made your chest ache, that deep, familiar loneliness that always seemed to come with thinking about her. about them. those nights when you sat in the background, silently wishing you could be enough. but no matter how much you tried, you could never quite silence the feeling that jisoo’s friends were always comparing you to someone else, someone better.

and tonight, even though you knew it was pointless, you couldn’t stop wondering if they were telling her that the new girl was everything you never could be. or maybe jisoo was out at one of those cool indie concerts she dragged herself to every week, trying to feel young, trying to prove she was still part of the scene, even though she didn’t belong there any more than you did. it was always about feeling cooler than she actually was, pretending she wasn’t inching further from the age of the crowd around her.

but even with her friends laughing by her side, pretending to be someone else, you knew the truth. 

“i bet you think about me.”

[yandere-romanticaa]

The soft scent of fresh roses lingered in the vast room as several candles grew more dim by the second, their overly sweet scent overwhelming your senses as the Obsidian prince made himself comfortable on the plush, velvet chair. He poised himself as a gentleman, a delicate smile on his pretty, pale lips as he crossed him legs and weaved his fingers together, the fabric of his dark, leather gloves shining ever so gently underneath the flickering candlelight.

For a brief second, he looked beautiful. Ethereal even.

His military uniform which he wore daily gave him a regal air, as is fitting for a prince, the fine fabric hugging his body in all the right places as his cape scrunched up ever so lightly on the side of his makeshift throne. He tapped the floor with his boot, the pattern consistent and ear piercing due to the suffocating silence you were surrounded with.

No one in their right mind would go near the man. He was a beast, a creature of the night ready to pounce onto any unsuspecting victim, rip into their flesh with his sharp claws and fangs - perhaps even blow their brains out with the gun he fancied. You could already picture him reaching out to his weapon, his movements lazy but determined as he held you at gunpoint, his finger not even twitching one bit on the trigger. Like lightning, the sound of the bullet would roar across the room as it would come into contact with your head, crimson blood splattering all over the perfect white walls. Your body would lay lifeless on the ground, blood oozing all over, the color matching with the red roses he so fancied to have whenever you were together, the splatters almost looking like the delicate petals themselves.

With the sound of an airy chuckle you broke out of your trance and accidentally looked Gilbert in the eye, the gleaming ruby shining brightly at you, challenging you to make a move.

Do you stay? Do you flee?

That was the true terror of Gilbert von Obsidian. However, what made him so awful was precisely what drew you in the first place.

Upon first meeting him in the palace gardens, you could not help but to blush fiercely with how delicate he was, how he so carefully placed a single red rose in your hair. Everyone around you gave plenty of warnings, telling cautionary tales as if he were some storybook monster rather than a man of flesh and blood.

But oh by the heavens, it was horrible how charmed you were by him. He was odd but kind, cruel but somehow merciful at the same time, a contraction manifested in a single man.

Perhaps he was some sort of devil because why else would you be so utterly enchanted by him? Why else would you keep on enduring his madness, this agony of not knowing his next move?

Deep down, you knew that you might just be a little crazy as well. Maybe even more so than the prince. That did not matter though, it was not worth pondering on about.

Right there and then, all you wanted was for Gilbert to steal you away and wrap you in his embrace, his lips on your own, scorching your soul down to the core.

You were his the moment he put that bloody rose in your hair. It just took you a little time to realize that as well.

[o-hora-o]

Happy Valentine's day!

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

The grand ballroom of the Imperial College was a breathtaking sight to behold, draped in rich velvet and adorned with twinkling chandeliers that cast a warm glow over the elegantly dressed attendees and the quiet timeless gazes of historical figures peering down at them from the portraits. The air was filled with the soft melody that seemed to weave through the laughter and chatter of students celebrating the winter ball. 

Lieserl stood at the edge of the dance floor as she caught sight of Welt, his tall figure cutting through the crowd with an air of confidence that made her pulse quicken. Tonight was special, it wasn’t just a celebration of their academic achievements but also a night that held the promise of something more. 

Welt was striking in that tailored black suit, god bless Tesla for dragging him to that atelier in the nearest district. The fabric shined subtly under the ballroom lights and the snow-white shirt beneath added a classic elegance to him. A small light-blue delicate flower was pinned on his chest, perfectly matching Lieserl’s dress and hairpin of flowers tucked in her hair. The contrast between the rich blue, white and the dark fabric created a stunning visual harmony that made them look like a pair destined to dance together that evening.  

Welt approached her, his eyes sparkling with mischief and affection. “May I have this dance?” he asked, extending his hand toward her.  

Lieserl, dazzling in her gown that hugged her figure just right, was a pure vision of elegance. The dress’s layers cascaded to the floor, her usually messy hair were styled in waves (not without Emma’s help, of course) making her features look even more of a delicate doll.

With a smile that lit up her face, Lieserl took his hand, feeling the warmth of his touch seep into her skin through the gloves. As he led her onto the dance floor, the world around them faded away, leaving just the two of them in their own little universe. Lieserl felt a shiver of anticipation as Welt’s hand found its place on the small of her back. It was a gentle yet electrifying pressure, grounding her, guiding her, and sending a wave of warmth through her entire being.  

The music tempo grew, and they began to move together, their bodies gliding across the polished floor. Every step and every turn felt effortless. Wrapped in the warmth of the embrace, Welt guided her through the waltz with grace as if they had been dancing together for a lifetime.  

With every turn, Lieserl felt a rush of joy bubbling up inside her, so bright and overwhelming it threatened to spill over. She wrapped her arms around his neck, laughter escaping her lips as they twirled, the layers of her gown swirling around her like a mist of starlight. Welt’s soft gaze was fixed on her, brimming with a tenderness that made her heart skip a bit and she couldn’t help but smile wider. Lieserl closed her eyes, savouring the feel of Welt’s hand on her back, the heat of his breath against her skin, the steady rise and fall of his chest. 

As the music slowed, Welt brought her to a gentle stop, their bodies mere inches apart as they caught their breath. “Ich liebe dich” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the fading strains of the music. Lieserl’s heart swelled with love, and she reached up to cup his face in her hands. “Ich liebe dich auch.” 

Lieserl turned around, her eyes sparkling with joy, looking for the dear faces in the crowd. Their expressions were a blend of happiness and something else - anticipation? She frowned, confused by the tears glistening in Emma and Tesla’s eyes and the way Erwin covered her mouth as if holding back a secret of what was about to come. Turning back to Welt, she found him standing close, a strange look in his eyes that sent a thrill through her. 

Don't mess this up. Don't mess this up. Welt thought to himself as he lowered himself to one knee. He had imagined this moment a hundred times and rehearsed the words a thousand times and now all he could think of was how she’d mapped constellations into his soul, tracing patterns of light he hadn’t known existed until she saved him, it felt like the universe had whispered her name into his bones long before he’d known her face.

“Ein,” he began, his voice trembling, “from the moment we met, you’ve filled my life with light and purpose. Every moment we’ve shared has been a treasure and I can’t help but dream of a lifetime filled with more.” He paused and took a deep breath. “You’ve been the promise I didn’t know I needed that brought me back to life when I was drowning in silence. You’ve shown me what it means to truly live and I want to spend every day of my life making sure you feel as loved and cherished as you’ve made me feel.”

Then, with a small, nervous smile, he pulled out a tiny box, opening it to reveal a delicate ring that sparkled under the chandelier’s glow. “Will you marry me? Will you let me be by your side, not just now, but always?”

Lieserl’s breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding so loudly as the time stood still. She looked into Welt’s eyes in disbelief, and in them she saw everything - love, hope, and a future she had only dared to dream of. It was a fragile thing, this moment, as a myriad of thoughts collided in Lieserl’s mind. For the first time in her meticulously ordered life, Lieserl Albert Einstein stood paralyzed, drowning in the chaos of her own heartbeat.

It was a wishful fantasy she’d cradled in the quiet hours: stolen nights under the stars, piano keys whispering secrets only they understood, the million times her heart stopped from the radiating warmth of his smile. Yes, Lieserl dreamed of this moment so many times. Yet she never expected this moment would become real one day. A part of her always believed it wouldn't last, that it was too good to be true. The lost boy she took in so long ago now became the one showing her how beautiful the world could be.

Her heart had known the answer long before her mind could catch up. It had been whispering it to her for weeks, months, years. Yes. Yes. Yes. Tears welled up, blurring her vision for a moment before spilling over. They traced paths down her cheeks as she stared at him, kneeling before her.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “A thousand times, yes.” 

A radiant smile broke across his face, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears as he slid the ring onto her finger. Lieserl laughed through her tears trying to brush them away. As if sealing the moment, Welt lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the ring. Then he rose to his feet and before Lieserl could react, he scooped her up into his arms, lifting her off the ground. She let out a surprised gasp as he spun her around.  

Lieserl’s hands moved to cradle his face as she leaned in, her lips brushing against his in a kiss that was filled with the promise of forever. The ballroom erupted into cheers and applause. Emma was sobbing, clutching to Erwin’s arm while the latter grinned from ear to ear. Tesla thought about this moment long ago, watching Welt and Lieserl’s story unfold like a beautifully written novel. And now, as she stood there, her heart swelled with a mix of pride and joy, knowing she had witnessed something extraordinary from the very beginning. And, this time, she let the tears fall, her smile widening as she whispered, “I knew they were long-lost lovers."

[sugawhaaa]

SAN DRABBLE

🌙▪︎[Damn those eyes]▪︎🌙

Warnings//genre:: violence, knives mentioned, San is in love with you bc he's insane....

Pairing:: rich!San x fem!bodied!hitman!reader

A/N:: okay we got part two of the masquerade series and I think Yeosang will be next and possibly the last of this series 💪 I did have a Hongjoong one planned but idkkkk

Atz masterlist::🗡

Taglist:: @saddeneddimple @leo-seonghwa

🎧::

You were a hitman hired by a big shot of an internationally famous company. You were ordered to kill a man named Choi San. Why did the company want him dead? None of your business. You got a photo of him, nice and clear, 4k quality yet when you arrived at the exact location the company said, he was well hidden. A masquerade ball. Choi san would be at this ball on May 17th, arriving roughly at 7 pm yet the grand clock showed it was a quarter till eight and you could not spot this man. It would be hard to find a man you've never met behind a mask and feathers among nearly a near hundred people. Time to move on to plan b.

You started getting friendly, but not too friendly so as to not draw attention. You silently started to hint at your interest in a good man named Choi San. The groups of people seemed surprised you didn't know of this man.

“Oh Mr. Choi?”

“He's new money but he is so famous,”

“You should really look into him,”

All the women seemed giddy about the concept of San and this piqued your interest.

“New money you say? How did that occur?” You ask, trying to keep up your curious little lady vibe.

“His father passed away tragically, however, his father insisted he take the money,” a woman wearing a deep satin blue gown informed you. She held her mask up with the convenient handle on the side. The mask's blue matched that on her dress and there was a gold trim around the eyes and outside of the mask.

“Oh, what a shame,” you sigh with a shake of your head. “I would love to meet Choi san, passed off of all your positive judgment on him,” you say politely, slightly hinting to them that they should introduce you or something of the sort.

“Ah yes, he is just in the back corner by the drinks,” a younger woman in deep magenta points out. Her eyes are full of youth and innocence, a spark that has been missing from your eyes for far too long.

“Why thank you for pointing him out,” you bow slightly before making your way over to him. He stood close to the bar of drinks and held one hand behind his back, the other in front holding red wine, a dark clash to his white suit with a snake tongue-like ending to it. You take a deep breath before coming up to him. “Excuse me, are you choi san?” You ask politely and he turns to look at you, his eyes are mainly hidden beneath his white mask.

“That would be me,” he smirks slightly. “And you may be?”

“Ah, Y/N L/N, sorry for my rudeness,” you put a hand to your chest, drawing sans eyes to the black choker on your neck holding a deep ruby charm on the end of it.

“No apology necessary,” San bows slightly, almost like a nod in a modern conversation. "What is it you wanted to discuss with me?" He asks, assuming that you wanted more than friendly conversation.

"Ah, yes," you look down at your hands for a moment, taking in the dark velvet red gloves that wrap up to your elbows. "Perhaps we should discuss it in private," you suggest and San chuckles, that rich laugh that makes your blood heat up. San eventually leads you to a deserted hallway with rows of doors. He takes you to one of the rooms and explains that these are guest rooms used by people who wish to stay the night at these balls rather than go home after all the drinks and dancing. San had already booked himself a room so there would be no interruptions in here.

San closes the door behind himself before making his way to stand in front of you. A perfect opportunity...

"What is on your mind Ms. L/N?" He smiles politely and through his mask, you can see the purity in his eyes. You swallow hard, your hand tightening around the handle behind your back. San's eyes flicker down to your hand hiding behind your back and he sighs softly. He sits down on the bed in his room, leaning back slightly and holding himself up with his hands. This is the perfect opportunity to pull out your knife and kill him off. You grip the handle harder and swing it out from behind you, now revealing the weapon to San's eyes.

You pin him down to the bed, ensuring he can't wriggle away, before raising the knife above even your own body. Your eyes are locked right on his neck, your aim perfect. However, as you bring your hand down you down feel the knife make contact with his body. You avert your gaze to look at his neck, which should be covered in blood, you see his eyes looking up at you. "Can you really do it?" His expression is blank and you raise the knife again, attempting your strike again but now your hands quiver. "It's much harder to kill someone when they're looking right into your eyes huh?" There isn't an ounce of fear in his voice or expression, almost as if he knew this would happen and he mentally prepared for this beforehand.

You sigh, questioning yourself; could you really do this? Kill a man who is looking up at you with those eyes. Damn those eyes... "before you kill me," San starts, drawing your attention back to him. He raises a hand to your face and you pull back. "Could you let me see your face?"

His request leaves you momentarily speechless, however, it is quite frankly his last wish.

"No," you state and you can see the hurt in his eyes. "Because...I'll let you live. But you if you saw my face, I'd be severely punished," you put the knife back into its hidden pocket in the back of your dress. You stand up and turn to go to the door but San quickly follows, placing a hand on your shoulder. You turn to look at him and he pulls the mask off your face, the mask falls to the floor as you finally feel the warmth of him on your face. He looks directly into your eyes, for they are most familiar to him.

"I didn't plan on snitching either way, I know you're just a puppet,"

[phyx-m]

Beneath The Silk | True form Sukuna x Reader

🔗 Masterlist

Chapter 25: Something Wicked This Way Comes

Content warning: Angst, smut, fingering, Sukuna's cocks, private exhibitionism (?).

🔗 Songs for this chapter:

Clown - Switchblade Symphony Slut - Velvet Acid Christ The Space Between - How To Destroy Angels

Chapter 24 | Chapter 26

This is a mistake.

Staring down the first half of the corridor, a heavy weightlessness hums through your body, feeling foolish for choosing this path. You’re certain you’ll lose all sense of yourself and topple over at any moment.

But you don’t.

It takes two of Sukuna’s fingers prodding firmly between your shoulder blades to set your feet in motion.

Moving one foot, weight forward, then the other.

One… two… three… four…

You count each step like a chant you’re afraid to forget while your heart slams audibly against your ribcage.

Tonight, the banquet takes place in the main hall of the compound—a vast room that honeycombs into numerous corridors and side passages. More importantly, the main corridor you are about to enter leads directly to it. With everyone already gathered, your entry will not go unnoticed.

Keeping your strides long to maintain some distance from the beast at your back—not that it does much good, as one of his steps easily swallows two of yours. Reaching the bend, you round the corner and stop.

Chaos consumes the thoroughfare. The sight hits you all at once. There are so many people.

Lower-ranking guests and clan members cluster along the edges of the corridor, engaged in drunken conversations or indulging in other pleasures. Some slide open doors, drifting in and out of rooms where muffled sounds of fucking seep into the air, while others wander along the passageway or toward the expansive garden stretching along the perimeter to your right.

All the noise cuts against dusk as a soft murkiness settles over the space. An attendant begins lighting the stone lanterns along the walls, their flames throwing masses of light and shadow and, with it, the earthy scent of smoke.

But it’s the eyes that unnerve you most. There are too many of them, all at once.

Standing at the mouth of the passageway with the King of Curses’ impressive form at your back, garments perfectly matched, and your chin lifted high, your pulse suddenly dips. Gazes swing your way, faces barely hiding the disgust directed at you both. Some hands drop toward the weapons at their sides, fingers twitching. A silent itch they all long to scratch.

You can only imagine what they must want to do to him, your husband…

Suddenly, all the isolation, etiquette, and propriety drilled into you growing up flood your mind, yet here you are, about to—what did he say?

March in there like you own the place.

“I can’t do this...”

Your foot creeps backward, retreating, until your back bumps against the solid wall of Sukuna’s abdomen. His lower hands slide to your hips, holding you firmly in place.

Your heart dips again—but for all the wrong reasons.

“Let’s play a game,” his low, dark voice blows softly into your left ear, prompting you to turn your head slightly. His body curves over your back, bending so close that the ridges of his ruined mask hover beside your cheek, the two red eyes within fixed on you.

“A game?” You clasp your hands together, fidgeting with the soft, new leather gloves he gave you. 

They’re not broken in yet; leather is rare, and you own only one pair. Your fingers trace the spot where the seams feel stiff, picking at the tightly stitched threads.

“A game,” he repeats, grinning—a flash of teeth and canines, the tattoos on his face pulling up with a mischievous smile.

Despite the earlier warning in your mind that screamed wrong, something playful in his tone makes the corners of your mouth attempt to lift slightly. If he’s trying to distract you in this strange and cavalier way, it’s working.

“Let’s see who can collect the most death glares by the time we reach the end of the corridor—you.” The hands engulfing your hips give a tight squeeze. “Or me.”

You huff out a small laugh.

“Easy for you to say. You’re guaranteed to win.”

Looming over every man here, his extra limbs, there’s no way you’re winning. 

“So?” he scoffs.

“Lord Sukuna, the fucking heinous crimes you’ve committed to these people… to my clan. I’m honestly surprised they haven’t rushed you all at once by now.”

The crass tone slips out, and you chew the inside of your cheek, surprised when his smirk only runs further up his mouth. He straightens, and you tip your head back to follow, watching his four eyes widen with a feral look as if he’s savouring that idea.

“Ah, but don’t forget, wife,” he drawls, fingertips tracing slow circles over your hips. “Every man here, despite his hatred, has a measure of respect for me. You, however, are merely a woman—a creature with no purpose beyond the expected. To be bred, bear unsightly humans, grow fat, wither away, and simply die.”

Your face collapses at his words.

Is he provoking me?

Sukuna’s grin widens.

The bastard’s provoking me.

You lift your chin again, eyes fixed straight down the corridor.

“Fine,” you declare, squaring your shoulders, though your feet remain stubbornly rooted in place.

“Well, then.” His lower hands begin to release you, palms turning outward, hands unfurling in a wide gesture that frames you. “Lead the way.”

Pulse hammering uncomfortably, your fingers hook and lift into the hem of your kimono. Then, pulling away from the warmth of Sukuna’s body, you step forward, moving toward the belly of the beast.

Doors pass, people pass, parting for the two of you—or rather, for him. To your right, the garden stretches open, offering a perfect view of the sun sinking below the yew trees, stirring their branches into colours of red. You lose yourself in the sight for a moment, until the first hateful mutterings reach your ears, pulling your gaze forward once more.

“Demon clothed in human skin.”

One point for him.

“Cunting whore.”

There it is—one for you.

Daggered eyes come next, eyebrows raising, corners of mouths twitching. The occasional scoff, a curse uttered under breath.

Almost imperceptibly, Sukuna starts chuckling gleefully from behind, and you can only imagine the sick look on his face.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you murmur quickly over your shoulder.

“I am, actually,” he hums, his heavy footsteps cutting through the jarring noise of the crowd flowing around you. “But we’re still even.”

As you approach the corridor’s midpoint, the gravity of the stares shifts. At first, they flick between you and him, balancing the game. But gradually, more and more eyes focus not on you, but above you.

You’re definitely losing. Thinking otherwise would have been stupid.

But that’s fine.

“Did you know—” Sukuna suddenly begins, voice pitched, drawing more attention, “—that I originally preferred eating your clan’s livers?”

You falter to a stumble. More heads angle and swivel.

“Soft and creamy under my teeth. But over the last seven years, I noticed something peculiar.” There’s a wicked lilt tangling into his tone. “Many I butchered had damaged livers—likely from drinking. Perhaps they drank because they knew I’d be returning, that their time was running out.”

He pauses. Your ears strain, bracing for what you know is coming.

“So, I switched to their hearts instead… did you know, wife, that the heart has an entirely different texture? Firmer, richer. Each beat against my tongue—alive one moment, still the next. It’s a muscle that clings on as if it understands its own end is near. Quite the... intense experience.”

There’s no food in your stomach, but if there was, it would be dripping down the front of your kimono right now.

“You’re fucking vile,” you hiss loudly.

He grabs your shoulder, forcing you to stop and look at him.

“I know, brat,” he growls into your face, leaning close while he digs his thumb into your collarbone. “And I couldn’t care less what these mindless animals think of me. But you do.” He smacks his lips, giving your hair a light tug—taunting you, goading you, something he seems to enjoy. “And it looks like you’re losing right now.”

How can you be losing a game this absurd, in your own home, drawing sharper ire? Well, you know the answer, but still.

“Then I’ll lose gracefully,” you state.

He rolls his eyes at your response.

You push his hand away, inhale deeply, and turn to continue walking.

Step after step, the main hall’s door draws nearer. Inside your gloves, dampness grows as more stares fall on Sukuna. Low and mocking, he starts chuckling viciously to himself.

The last of the sun slips away, plunging the corridor into a deep indigo night as the flames of the stone lanterns sputter and flare, guiding your steps.

Sudden inspiration strikes.

No.

Sukuna keeps laughing.

Fine.

If he wants to force you to endure the scrutiny of this public eye, to shame you and make you embrace the disgust of these people—your people...

Then fuck it.

Trial by fire.

Without hesitation, channelling something your sister might do in moments when she reached for you, you turn sideways, reach back, and slide your gloved left hand into his lower one.

Sukuna’s laughter falls away.

The King of Curses’ hand twitches, his large fingers flexing under yours, and for a heartbeat, there’s only dead weight behind you. 

How is it that he has lavished your cunt twice, yet this feels far scarier than both times combined?

Without daring to look back, you give him a slight tug, your arm stretched between you, and continue forward. He follows, and this time, you can sense he’s walking closer. A quick glance at the wall to your left, where your shadows stretch, confirms it—his head held high as he strides just behind you.

One… three… seven… ten…  

More.

You’re winning now, no longer counting steps but tallying the sharp stares that seem to slice you in half. The corridor seems to narrow, leading you toward a single purpose. You raise your head higher and regal, allowing your face to fall to nothing.

You’ve never felt strong before, never compelling before.

But now...

They can all look at their stupid, useless girl all they want. 

Hooking your arm behind you, you bend it fully, feeling the pull of his as the space between you shrinks.

At last, his fingers relent further, sliding forward in a slow crawl until they wrap around yours, his hand completely engulfing your smaller one. Heat unexpectedly rises to your cheeks as the intimate grasp settles, leaving you feeling consumed.

But fuck, it feels addictive to know you have the power of Sukuna at your back.

Even after the terrible things he said, there’s something unsettling in the simplicity of this moment—a dangerous comfort.

Still, the barrier of your glove keeps the tide of emotions at bay. If you could touch his skin, you think you might be lost entirely.  

Funny how that had been the point of all this. Now, it feels strangely wrong, as though practicality and self-preservation have become distant, forgotten things.

Shaking away the last strands of hair that have fallen across your face, you square your shoulders, ignoring whatever Sukuna might be thinking behind you. You’re shocked he’s even allowing you to do something like this publicly. Maybe he’s deciding how to punish you—but he stays silent.

Then, as his thumb rolls lazily across your knuckles, you begin to doubt it.

More heat crushes into your body.

Don’t look back.

Keep going.

By the time you and Sukuna reach the end of the corridor, the stares no longer divide—they burn into you alone. You allow yourself to grin when you finally reach the main doors, where a waiting attendant bows deeply before carefully sliding them open, revealing the grand hall.

Polished wood and lush cushions. Chatter and the musk of poured sake.

The central space is large and open air with a seamless view of the gardens. Low, dark tables sit in neat rows, where guests and clan members lean forward, eating, drinking, laughing, and talking as though the world beyond this place doesn’t exist.

For now, it hasn’t fully descended into debauchery, but it feels close.

No one acknowledges your entrance, but at the very far end of the room, your father kneels before a screen partition and a table, with Onishi at his left and Yuna positioned off to the side. One by one, their gazes lift. One by one, they find you.

Your sister gives you a secret smile while your father’s eyes sweep over you, lingering too long on where your arm hooks back. The weight of his eyes makes you subconsciously wiggle your fingers loose. Slowly, you slip your hand free from Sukuna’s, even though it feels like neither of you truly wants to let go.

Dangerous. And stupid.

“Lord Sukuna, my Lady, you will be seated here.”

Your eyes retreat, and the attendant gestures to a table tucked into a shadowed alcove at the far end corner of the hall, away from the central bustle, hidden like some inconvenient secret.

Out of sight and out of mind.

Slipping off your footwear, your tabi socks whisper against the floor as you make your way to your seat. Sukuna lowers himself onto a cushion, sitting like a man who caters to no one. His gaze picks apart the room, four eyes ghosting from each individual. One of his fingers taps as if he’s counting something. You step forward and settle beside him, folding your legs neatly beneath you.

The room continues to buzz with a frenzy of noise, though not a single eye turns toward you two. Not that they could—the way you’re positioned leaves you staring at the backs of everyone’s heads.

“So,” you whisper to Sukuna, smoothing out your dark kimono as seasonal food and drink are placed at your lonesome table. “I think I won our game.”

“Mhm.” The sound he makes is more a grunt than a word, followed by a low grumble about cheating.

You fight a smile, then pick up the bottle of sake and pour him a cup. Tonight, you’ve decided not to drink, though it would probably help ease your nerves.

Sliding the cup to Sukuna, you both settle into a quiet rhythm as the night crawls forward, marked by every grating burst of laughter. He continues scanning the room, while you sit, picking at your food, trying to stomach as much of it as possible.

About an hour into the evening, across the room, dark grey eyes, raven hair, and a strikingly handsome face snag your attention.

Zen’in Kaito.  

His eyes lock onto yours, narrowing in acknowledgment, and he rises to his feet, making his way over.

“Shit,” you huff under your breath, dropping your chin as if that will somehow deter him. It doesn’t. He’s one of the last people you wish to speak with.

He stops in front of your table, positioning himself squarely between you and Sukuna, the eccentric-looking katana strapped at his side.

“My Lady,” Zen’in bows, his tone perfectly cordial where last time he was threatening you. “It’s lovely to see you again, and so soon.”

Against the side of your face, you feel the weight of one of Sukuna’s eyes boring into you.

“It’s nice to see you as well,” you lie, sitting up straighter and mustering your most charming, although fake, smile.

The dark-haired man smirks faintly.

“I hear your father will be making a decision regarding Lady Yuna’s betrothal this evening.”  

Your posture stiffens. Already? This is the first you’ve heard of it.

He notices your reaction and perks up at that.  

“I have a feeling it will be me,” he adds, the barest hint of a grin tucks into his cheek.  

“What the fuck do you want, Zen’in?” Sukuna drones, his tone flat, as though the entire interaction bores him.

Zen’in’s eyes cut to the King of Curses. 

“Ah, and this must be your husband. My soon-to-be brother-in-law.”

Oh, sweet fuck no.

He offers a deep bow. Sukuna doesn’t respond. Zen’in’s jaw pulses.

A moment of silence passes.  

“You know,” Zen’in begins, his voice light but sharp-edged. “I heard an interesting rumour recently. They say the King of Curses has a taste for women’s kimonos. Surely that can’t be true?”

More silence.

Horrible silence. 

You shift uncomfortably, trying to decide whether you heard him correctly.

Against your better judgment, your eyes flick downward. For the first time, you notice what you hadn’t fully considered until Zen’in’s pointed comment: Sukuna’s robes do bear certain details—wider sleeves, softer cuts.

You feel the briefest of the King of Curses’ energy shift, but only for a moment.

The silence stretches.

Zen’in, finally unnerved by the lack of response, clears his throat and dances his attention back to you.  

“Forgive my curiosity, my Lady. It’s not every day one encounters such a… unique figure.” He gives a slight, condescending bow before turning on his heel and making his way back to join what you assume is the rest of the Zen’in clan.

Once he’s gone, you glance at Sukuna, who watches the man’s retreat. For some reason, before you can stop yourself, your mouth moves.

“Is it true? About… your kimonos?”  

Sukuna rests his right elbow on his knee, shoving his fist against his face.  

“Of course it’s true,” he replies dryly, squinting at you as if you’ve asked something stupid. “These so-called ‘men’s’ robes are sewn for people with fewer limbs and smaller bones. They’re made for bodies the size of children compared to mine.”

“I see,” you mumble, looking away. The sudden urge to move closer to him claws into you, so instead, you focus on studying the room. A safer choice.

Many unfamiliar faces filled the room, mostly men, though a few women stood among them—rare, but present nonetheless. As expected, a retinue of concubines lingered nearby, occasionally joining a group of men for entertainment or sauntering off with one trailing behind.

But movement at the far end of the room, where your family sits, catches your eye, and you lift your chin for a better look.

Your father rises to his feet, followed by Onishi, a few elders, and then your sister. Together, they file through the door at the back left side of the hall. Your gaze follows Yuna’s retreating back.

A thick, uneasy warmth rolls down your spine.

A decision is being made tonight. That must be what they’re doing now—deciding her fate. Her path. Who she will marry. The man who will be adopted into this family and become the next clan lead.

Because of what I did.

A curse from the past that keeps on fucking taking.

Your body tightens, anxiety winding through. You tuck your hands below the table, folding them tightly in your lap to resist the urge to pick at them. But your fingers find a stiff seam on the leather, and you start to scratch at it anyway.

Please let it be someone good.

Please let it be someone good.

Please—

“You’ve gone tense again,” Sukuna states dryly, lifting his cup of sake and taking a slow pull of the liquid.  

From the corner of your left eye, you watch the way his throat works, the ridges of muscle moving as he swallows. As his head tips back, the rose gold of his hair glints, framing his profile in a soft glow. His bottom right eye rolls toward you, catching you mid-study and freezing you in place.

“I’m not,” you lie, hesitating for half a heartbeat before quickly dragging your focus back to the room.

Another pick at the seam.

Your careful gaze flits from the backs of people’s heads to a man drunkenly sloshing sake on the floor, then to a woman whose garment barely conceals her body. Her unfettered black hair falls over her shoulders, partially obscuring the swell of her breasts.

“You are,” Sukuna counters, leaning on his upper left elbow as he angles closer, cutting into your space. Your attention snaps back to him, leaving the room behind.  

“You’re also a shit liar.” 

Arrogant. 

Your mouth presses into a thin line.  

“I am not.”  

He grins as he sets down his cup.  

“You’re right. My apologies,” he says smoothly, pausing just long enough to make your brow furrow. “You’re a fucking terrible liar.”  

You roll your eyes and shift your focus back to the room, attempting to discern which faces belong to what clans. But from the corner of your eye, you catch the movement of Sukuna’s lower right hand.

Boredom seems to have made him bold—or perhaps he simply enjoys pestering you—because his fingertips find the hem of your kimono. He tugs the silk gently into a fold, lets it fall loose, and then repeats the motion as though testing the texture.

A second tug.

Your attention shoots to him, to his hand. You watch as he presses lightly, smoothing out the garment before pinching the fabric between forefinger and thumb, pulling until the hem lifts just enough to reveal a sliver of your ankle.

A prickle of warmth spreads through you.

Turning your head, your eyes find his. He doesn’t meet them right away. Instead, his gaze stays fixed on the fabric, his lips curving into a faint, amused smile as his fingers continue their torment.

A third tug. More this time.

“My Lord,” you murmur, your voice taut with a mix of irritation and something deeper. “You’re giving me a look.”

His head tilts slightly as though feigning confusion.

“What look?”

Just like all those other times. The heated ones, where his eyes reached onto you with a ravenous, hungry intent.

The corner of your kimono shifts, and at last, his fingers slip beneath the silk, brushing against the lining with a heavy slowness, testing how far he might go—whether you’ll stop him or surrender. And he seems to know which because when his red eyes finally lift to meet yours, they’re heavy-lidded.

“This one,” you whisper, the tension in your voice mirroring the tightness pinching your chest. He toys with the fabric again, the barest graze of his knuckles against your skin sending a shiver through you.

“If you notice the look,” he says, his voice dropping into a deep, rough timbre that makes your core clench desperately. “Perhaps you should wonder why you’re drawing it.”

Warm fingertips find the soft curve of your calf, tracing careful patterns that draw a flush to the surface. His crimson orbs burn, pupils darkening with every second.

“My Lord,” you warn in a small voice, trembling as your breath stutters. You feel his hand move to your knee, and slowly, his fingers begin to spiral higher, etching paths along your inner thigh.

Your lungs expand. Your pussy starts to soak itself.

“No one will see,” he murmurs. His touch trails upward—light, soft—the opposite of your racing heartbeat. “They’re all consumed by their own little worlds, while we…” He leans in closer, shielding your view of the room. “…can lose ourselves in ours. One far darker and more pleasurable.”

The knot in your stomach constricts.

Damn him. Why did he have to be so disarmingly charming? It hurt, to be drawn to something so inherently evil and vile.

But you were.

You raise your eyes, and all you see is him. In the confined space of the alcove, he’s completely engulfed and hidden you away using his body.

Unbidden, under all the layers of fabric, you part your knees—a silent invitation meant only for him. For once, it’s not part of some scheme to end his life. This time, it’s because, gods, you want this. You’re burning for it.

The corners of his mouth curve into a devious grin. That look stirs something in you, pulling a smile of your own, feeding your desire, making you want him even more, making more heat pool between your folds.

Without warning, his fingers flex, and he moves. His lower right arm slides around your waist as his hand withdraws from your garment, while his upper hands rise to your shoulders. In one fluid motion, he lifts you, pulling your knees off the floor and guiding you toward him.

The sudden movement collects all your breath, your eyes widening as your weight shifts effortlessly in his grasp. He maneuvers you across him with ease, the layers of your kimono cascading down as he settles you onto his left thigh. Angled slightly, you feel the firm balance of his hold—his upper right hand steady at the small of your back while his lower hands rest possessively on your hips.

Intimate.

Leaning over, his upper left hand reaches for the single lantern resting nearby. You watch as he extinguishes the flame with his fingertips. A soft, spitting hiss echoes, and the alcove is plunged into shadow. His hand returns, replacing the one on your back before it slips into the layers of fabric again.

“There.” He presses the tip of his nose into your hair and inhales deeply, as though you’ve landed exactly where he intended. “Now, focus those eyes on me.”

Looking up into his face, you nudge open your knees, and his hand slips up to your thighs and between. Embarrassment demands you close your legs, but one cruel fingertip lightly traces your soaking folds, and you melt into him.

“So soft,” he mumbles while fixing his stare on your lips and collecting the wetness that pools before dipping into your heat, opening you up fully.

The next breath you pull in is tight, and your teeth find their way to your tongue to stop a moan from slipping out. He smirks, watching your features distort into pleasure.

“Keep all those pretty noises in,” he tuts before pumping in deeper. Your body trembles at the pressure and pleasure. “Or everyone will know how much you actually enjoy having my hands on you.”

If only he knew.

He suddenly pauses as though deep in thought, brow creasing heavily in the dark.

“Or maybe I should. Then everyone will know that you rightfully belong to me and should keep their fucking hands off.” His eyes thin as he twists his finger smoothly, making sure it slides deeper into your pussy. Your mouth falls open on a silent moan that you wish you could let him hear, your head falling toward his chest, making him grunt.

With that, another finger nudges up into your folds, finding and flicking at the nub of your clit once, and you almost lose it. Sliding one gloved hand to his back to fist his kimono, you push the other into your lap. Sukuna’s mouth twitches smugly, eyes following your attempts to keep your face neutral.

“And you’re soaked.” Sliding his finger in and out, the pace is a slow, torturous drag. “All from a look. Pathetic.”

You clench your teeth to hold back, body softly arching helplessly against his, trying to close the space.

“Touch my clit again,” you demand softly, words feeling sticky like honey in your throat. Shifting your position closer to his body, you push your face into the fabric of his kimono, heart beating wildly.

And there.

You can smell him faintly—not the cypress, but blood and ash. You inhale. The scent snakes its way down your throat, making you dizzy.

“Please…” Your soft voice muffles into his clothing.

Somewhere deep in his chest, he growls, the sound vibrating into your body.

“It’s interesting that you think you can tell me what to do, wife,” he hisses against your hair, ignoring your plea and shoving a second finger up inside your wet cunt before sliding them both in and out.

Hypnotic and enthralling, you feel everything, the pressure he applies, how deep he sinks all the way to the knuckles. Tight.

“F-ffuck,” you exhale, lifting your hazy gaze to his face. He tips his head, peering down at you with a lustful look in his eyes.

The two of you stare into each other, your lips parting—his following in response. You breathe in unison, so close, watching each other. Just as he said, you’re lost in your own world because the room fades entirely from your mind. The intimacy is intoxicating, and whatever this thing is between you feels like the only thing that matters—the only thing you want.

“More,” you mouth quietly, wanting to toss your head back, fold into him and cry out. But you can’t, so you start to move your hips, a soft back and forth, seeking out the pleasure, your pussy clenching around his plunging fingers.

“That’s it.” His lower hands, gripping your waist, both tightens and begins to guide you, pulling you along his thigh. “You missed this, didn’t you?”

“Yes, my Lord,” you say breathlessly, nodding and rolling your head.

You could get used to being touched like this. No longer shying away but swallowing it down greedily while you can. Gluttonous. Yet somehow, it’s not enough.

“Touch me more.”

There’s another vibration in his chest, more animalistic.

“Sick little slut, fucking look at you!” he hisses quietly as he continues to slide his fingers inside your tight hole, moving faster and harder so it soaks the inside of your shaking thighs. Mouth at your ear, his tongue flirts with it, then licks its curve only to graze a canine against it after. You moan a little louder. The soles of your feet tingle with heat rising into your face, and nervously, you peel your eyes away, dipping your chin back over your left shoulder.

No one is looking at the alcove, the debauchery finally settling in the room. A drunken hum, a clouded feeling that settles on your aroused mind. So you keep moving, keep grinding, feeling the way he finger fucks you, the layers of your kimono, the table, the dark, all hiding your hips and everything the two of you are exploring.

Sukuna gives you a nudge of your jaw, guiding your attention back to him, and on a backwards roll along his thigh, your ass pokes and presses into hardness.

You still.

Sukuna’s mouth curls into a wicked smile, and on a thrust in then out of your pussy, his fingers stop, only to lightly trace against your dripping seam, dragging and coating your juices messy and all over.

Gaze falling into his lap, you realize he’s aroused. You feel your softness pressing against the jutting bulge sitting under the fabric of his kimono and hakama. Knowing how hard he is, the knot in your stomach winds tighter.

Not daring a look at his face, you glide a hand up the muscled expanse of his leg towards his cocks. Gods, you need him. You want him, want to see what lies between his thighs and finally, you allow yourself the pleasure of touching your husband for the first time.

Softly, your fingers tease lightly over the curved cloth, hugging the bulge of what you assume to be his upper shaft. It’s rigid and thick.

So thick.

When you make contact, you feel it twitch, and even through the fabric and your gloves, you find the swell of the tip. Making an exploratory pass against it, Sukuna hisses through his teeth, his hips coming up slightly from the cushion.

A thrill rolls through you.

Another slow glide, but this time, you tuck your fingers into the fabric of his garments, only to feel the lower one. Pressing harder, you hear a sound resembling a deep groan get caught in his throat, but he doesn’t allow it to escape. You're about to make another pass when suddenly, he grabs your wrist. Your eyes sweep up to his face, where his gaze narrows over his broad nose.

Your heart thunders inside your chest.

“You don’t seem surprised,” he growls, his chest heaving and swelling.  

Realizing he’s referring to his extra appendage, you shake your head faintly, recalling that day when you first asked about his pleasures. 

“You knew?” Cocking his slitted eyebrow, he releases your wrist.  

You nod this time.

“Women talk,” you reply, trying to suppress a grin. His mouth twists into a rigid pout, looking almost disappointed, and your lopsided smile escapes anyway.  

“Tch. Course they do.” He smacks his lips. The sharp sound makes you instinctively withdraw your hand.

Before you can pull away completely, his upper right hand snatches it again while his lower hands slide to the small of your back, pulling you closer until his abdomen presses firmly against your chest.

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” he says, his voice low and pointed a bit of irritation pulling at it.

You watch him, feeling vulnerable in your lack of experience.

His jaw flexes, and slowly, he draws your wrist toward him. His lower left hand moves to pinch the tip of your leather glove. Holding your gaze, he tugs gently, the material sliding over your knuckles before slipping off completely. Your throat tightens as you swallow softly, watching him handle it with care before tossing it on the table.

“Go on, then.” He nudges his chin toward his thighs.

The hand inside your kimono pulls free as he leans back, his upper palms sinking into the cushion. His hips shift upward, presenting a deliberate invitation of where his cocks are, while his lower hands settle firmly on your hips.

“Continue,” he purrs deeply.

So cocky it’s almost charming.

A breath pushes past your lips.

Collecting yourself, your bare fingers trail along the surface of his dark kimono, tracing the fabric until they reach his obi. As your hand brushes against his abdomen, you feel the dips of his muscles, your touch lingering before moving lower—passing where you assume his stomach maw lies—and continuing along the path to his clothed members.

Sukuna shifts his hips again, kimono loosening and allowing you to part the front panels and thread your hand down to his hakama. You wrap your fingers around his upper cock as best you can. It’s big. The heat of it seeps through the fabric and into your palm. You give it a slow, experimental stroke from the base to tip, and he groans gutturally but quietly, dipping his head back in pleasure. And just that noise alone, fuck, you want more. You need to hear him.

You pump again, the same response. His cock twitches.

“Good?” Your cheeks bloom red.

"Yes…” he exhales, control slipping ever so slightly. An upper hand covers yours, guiding your movements, and atop the cushions, his legs widen. “Slower… but tighter.”

Your hand slows, grip tightening around his shaft while you rub against the fabric. 

What you wouldn’t give to have your bare hand wrapped tightly around his dick, pumping it. Feeling the warmth of his skin, his girth, wanting to trail your tongue up and down just to taste it.

Fuck…

“That’s it, more,” he rasps in a throaty breath, rocking up toward you. In response, you’re growing more and more aroused. Your hips move, tilting into his hardness, grinding your pussy into his thigh as you tighten and stroke him.

“Careful,” he breathes through his teeth, nostrils flaring as he squeezes your waist and hand. “Keep doing that, that little swivel of your hips and I’ll drag you out of here and find somewhere dark to sink my cocks deep into you.”

Your breath deepens at the thought—the fullness that would come with it, with having him and him having you in that way.

He leans back and watches your face as your mind turns over the idea, picturing it, examining it, longing for it.

“You want that… don’t you?” His smirk widens. “Is that what my wife wants?”

“Maybe…”

He arches his eyebrow, and the air between you sharpens.

“Maybe?” he spits harshly. “Maybe you’ll finally give me the truth. Unless you’d rather, I take care of that lying mouth of yours.”

“Yes,” you admit hastily.

“Hm,” he grunts, “so you do want to feel the weight of me as I fuck your tight ass and cunt at the same time?”

At the same time.

You wet your lips, his eyes following the movement.

“Is that how it works?” you ask quietly, your hand resuming slow strokes, hips rounding in tight circles.

His answer is a feral grin.

“Among other things.”

You start to feel a hot warmth seeping through the fabric where the tips of his cocks are pushing. You run your thumb along it, circling it until his hand on yours urges you to stop. 

You look up.

His face grows serious.

“Last time I had you, I asked you to admit something to me.” His voice grows serious. “Now, I want to hear you say it.”

I want you.

So simple.

That felt like a lifetime ago when his head was between your shaking thighs, mouth on your pussy, your hands on his head preparing to end him.

But now.

"I want you.” Your heart climbs into your throat and grows a second pulse.

So simple.

“Again.” His lower hands slide up your back, fingertips digging to hold you in place as he leans closer. “Tell me again.”

Your chest heaves, almost painfully, as you lean in, mouths so close that you can offer him your breath.

“I want you. I’ve been wanting you,” you urge softly, your body teetering on the edge of madness to please him. “Sukuna, I need you.”

Beneath you, his entire body goes taut and straining. His eyes roam your face, searching, taking in every detail, while his fingers trace the neckline of your kimono.

“There’s my winter flower,” he whispers, his touch moving to tuck a fallen strand of hair gently behind your ear before his face dips close to yours.

The world flickers. You flinch—confused, aware of him, of his words. Cool grass. Night and darkness. The scent of resin and earth. Blood, smoke, and death pressing close.

Then… nothing.

The King of Curses leans in, resting his forehead against yours, inhaling sharply, deeply. All four of his eyes close, then reopen, locking onto yours.

All of a sudden, he grips the back of your neck roughly, forcing you to look at him.

“You have no idea how much I’m going to enjoy ruining you…” he says, his voice calm and threatening, his eyes burrowing painfully into yours.

His grip begins to tighten, becoming uncomfortable. You squirm, and his face darkens.

Wrong.

Your mind screams again.

“I’m going to enjoy watching you while I take everything away, all at once."

Sssfft!

Somehow, you manage to tear yourself away from him.

An attendant slides one of the garden doors shut at the back of the room, then moves to close another.

At the far corner, your family reappears. Yuna trails behind, her head tipped toward the floor, her face stamped in an expression of stone.

Your eyes shift again.

In the opposite corner, Zen’in exits the room, disappearing into one of the dim corridors, his shoulders squared.

Another door rustles.

Something feels wrong.

A third garden door slides shut, and the sound makes you jump.

Your eyes snap back to your sister. She suddenly peels away from your father, dashing out of the room.

The final garden door slides closed, sealing off the world.

“Excuse me, my Lord.” You bunch your hands against Sukuna’s chest and push yourself away, abruptly rising from his lap. Gathering the glove he took off and your hem, you slip away without a glance back, even as you hear his sharp hiss, a command to return.

Stepping into the corridor, you grab your sandals, shove them on and move hurriedly, ignoring everything—even the woman with the long black hair you noticed earlier. She bumps into you almost on purpose, and an afflicting girlish giggle follows.

“Excuse me,” you mutter, not stopping.

You can’t think about her or anything else. Your focus is fixed on the blur of white—your sister’s garment disappearing ahead of you.

Pushing through the doors, you follow her into the darkened garden, both of you falling away from the crowd, deeper into the secluded night.

“Yuna! Wait!” you call, your voice desperate as you try to match her retreating strides, both of you plundering deeper into the shadows.

The scene feels familiar but reversed.

The darkness deepens. The stone path beneath your feet becomes harder to see. You stumble, catching yourself just as Yuna turns. Her face is streaked with makeup smudged by bleeding tears that cut dark lines down her skin.

“What’s happened?” you ask, brow furrowing in concern as you close the distance.

“He’s chosen,” she chokes out, her throat working as if the words are stuck.

You take another step, your sandals clattering against the path.

“Father’s chosen a husband for you,” you say. It’s meant as a question, but it comes out flat, a statement.

Her face falls inward, its weight folding her expression.

“Yes.”

Your stomach twists painfully at her admission. It’s rare to see Yuna like this—panicked, upset. Afraid.

“Is it Zen’in Kaito?”

As insufferable as that man is, she had shown interest in him the last time you spoke. If anyone deserved a chance at love, it was her.

She shakes her head, her painted lips trembling.

“Then… who?”

There’s a heartbeat.

It’s gone so quiet out here, the two of you alone.

Her shoulders tremble, drawing inward. She’s shaking.

More dread leaks into your stomach. You take another more cautious step.

“Yuna?” you prompt, your voice softening.

“Onishi.” The name is a hiss as it leaves her mouth.

“What? No.” The words burst out of you as if the air has been knocked from your lungs.

Not him.

Not with him.

She dips her head, eyes becoming lifeless, glassy as fresh tears build and spill over, tracing the lines of those before.

“It’s true,” she whispers, and with a blink, more droplets fall, pattering into her kimono.

Your instinct is immediate. Protective. Comforting. You grip the slope of her shoulders gently, searching her face.

“I don’t want this,” she confesses, her voice breaking. “I can’t marry him. That will trap me here. I’ll never be able to leave.”

Never escape.

Your throat thickens.

“I know... I know you don’t want this.”

She looks at you then all at once. Whatever pain she’s been keeping inside, she allows it to rip free.

“This shouldn’t have happened to us!” she cries, her voice cracking under the weight of her anguish. “You shouldn’t have had to marry that thing in there!” She points toward the compound. “And I shouldn’t have to marry fucking Onishi!”

You’ve never seen her unravel like this before. The perfect facade she always wore is crumbling before your eyes.

She sinks to her knees. You follow her down, huddling close on the cold stones. Your dark kimono presses against the pale fabric of hers as she cries.

“I miss her,” she gasps, strangled and raw.

You know who she’s talking about. You feel her grief. It mirrors your own.

Mother.

“I need her here. She should be here.”

Her voice.

So sad.

So gentle.

So angry.

Every time she looks at you, you think she must see a murderer. Someone who took something she loved. Took it and fucked it all up.

Yuna’s sobs intensify. The cage in your chest tightens, and the tears standing in your eyes fall.

I killed her. I did this.

For a heartbeat, you can’t breathe.

I couldn’t control any of this.

But Yuna’s shaking shoulders snap you back.

But I can stop this. Amend this.

Maybe…

“I can change this,” you state. “I’ll fix this.”

Her red, tear-filled eyes meet yours. Hope and exhaustion tangle in her expression.

Drip, as a tear falls from her eye.

“How?” she sniffs.

You swallow, looking at her, truly looking at her sister to sister.

“I—” The words refuse to leave your mouth. “Don’t make me say it...”

Her lips tremble, an understanding dawning in her soft features before it hardens them.

“No,” she murmurs, shaking her head, disbelief wandering into her face. “You’d unleash him on our own clan?”

Mouth gone dry, you swallow.

“If it’s the only way to save you from this, then yes . Onishi is a fiend, and I won’t let him touch you. It’s our best option—”

“He will kill everyone!”

“Only those who deserve it!” you snap.

Father. Onishi.

You’re certain Ryomen Sukuna would gladly tear apart both. Why he hasn’t done so already, you’re unsure. But persuading him shouldn’t be difficult. The rest of the Kasai clan can be spared. Then, this nightmare would end. Yuna would be safe. You’d both be free. That elusive sense of freedom might finally be within reach—a life wholly your own, something you could touch, grasp, and hold onto.

Yuna sniffs and shifts closer. Her white kimono brushes against the velvety night, her presence fragile yet steady. She takes your hands from her shoulders, clasping them gently before slipping her fingers over your leather gloves. Her touch moves past your sleeves to your forearms, her fingertips pressing firmly into your skin for support.

A pressure.

Deeper than flesh. Deeper than bone.

Her dark lashes tremble over her eyes.

“You cut off one head of the serpent, and another grows in its place. You know as well as I do—it has to be everyone.”

A whisper. Quiet, calm.

The thought lodges in your mind, taking root and spreading, hooking in so deeply it’s impossible to dig out.

“Then—” Your jaw clenches, teeth creaking from the pressure. No. “It shall be everyone.” 

“Then we leave,” she adds softly, “tonight. Just the two of us.”

You nod.

This, at least, you can do—this one thing you can make right. A way to mend what you once shattered.

“Go to the stables. Take a horse and ride west. I’ll meet you,” you whisper, your voice steady, though your heart is anything but.

Yuna’s hands slide upward from your sleeves to cup your face. Her gaze clamps onto yours, not simply looking at you but through you, as if she sees all the fractured pieces you try to keep hidden.

“I’ll finally be able to take care of you, as I should have all along.” Her voice no longer cracks with emotion. It flows as smooth and cold as silk. “Just promise me.” Her fingers press into your cheeks, firm, insistent. “Promise me that after it’s over, you’ll come find me. No matter what.”

You nod.

Kill my clan. Take Ayana. Find Yuna.

“I promise I will.”

She presses harder, indenting her fingertips into your skin.

A pressure, harder this time.

Deeper than flesh. Deeper than bone.

“You will find me after the King of Curses destroys our clan.” Voice low and sweet. “Then you will leave him.”

Leave him.

Your heart stumbles at her words.

“I will.”

Harder.

Her soft mouth twitches into the barest smile, but her grip presses further. Until nails bite, and sting. Until a ringing begins in your ears, rising steadily, like a swarm of insects buzzing. Until the world flickers, memories bleeding through.

Your gloves coming free from your hands.

Your mother’s haunted expression, the trembling in her face as you touched her swollen belly. The ravaging of her body as she slipped into rot.

The moment you took everything from her.

The darkness in the grove. The burning.

Stop!

But the images keep coming.

Sukuna, not as he is now, lowering his head to you, both your bodies drenched in blood, like the mouth of a hungry red flower.

More pressure, not just from her grip, but from something deeper, heavier.

Stop it, stop it, stop it—

Pain buds and grows behind your eyes. Swelling and pushing against your skull until it feels like it might burst. You squeeze your eyelids shut, and tears trace down your cheeks, tapering to your chin before dripping into the folds of your kimono.

You feel sick. So sick. The bile rises, clambering its way into your throat as wetness pools across every groove and curve of your face.

“What’s happening to me?” you choke, curling inward as nausea overtakes you.

“Shh, it’s okay. No more tears, sister.”

Her voice.

So soft.

So gentle.

So persuasive.

You look at her, desperately searching her face for answers. Her jaw flexes, and a bead of hot blood slowly trickles from her nose and traces over her top lip. Her tongue peeks out to lick it away.

More pressure.

Her hand moves through your hair, soothing, and the tears in your eyes dry.

“Sister—”

More.

“Don’t let the past hurt you. Forget it for now. Do what needs to be done. When this is over, find me, and everything will be as it should—with me as—”

“My, my, my. What do we have here?” A male voice interrupts. “Is everything alright, ladies?”

Yuna’s hands slip free from you in an instant. Without a word, she turns away, the blood from her nose staining her pale garment as she walks off.

You suck in a harsh, desperate breath, the confusion scattering what little clarity you have left.

Something—again—is torn away from you.

Do what needs to be done. Because you must stay, you have to do this.

Kill my clan. Take Ayana. Find Yuna.

Blinking, you watch her pale kimono flutter like a quiet apparition in the dark. Her hands tense, rolling into fists, then unfurling as she disappears.

Slowly, you turn your head toward where the voice materialized. A man stands at the garden’s edge, his black hair pulled back, his hands tucked casually into his kimono sleeves. 

Wiping at your face, you step off the path, slipping past him without a word.

“I only asked if all was well, my Lady,” the stranger chuckles, enunciating each beat in his chest. He steps closer to you, threading his hands deeper into his sleeves. “No need for rudeness, but I digress.”

Your gaze shifts between him and the place where Yuna just stood. Sweet and lovely, Yuna. 

Subtly, you incline your chin.

“I apologize, my Lord. I’m fine.” You bow shallowly. “Thank you.”

Turning, you head back toward the main hall, his presence lingering behind you.

“I was disappointed,” he continues, stopping you mid-step as you glance back over your shoulder. “To have missed your wedding. I heard it was quite the event. Do tell your husband I intend to make it up to him soon.”

Your eyes lock briefly with his. For an instant, you catch a glint of silken thread spanning discreetly below his hairline—an illusion you quickly dismiss.

“Well, goodnight, my Lady.” Mouth curving into a smile that spreads bumps down your spine, he turns down the corridor you and Sukuna traversed earlier and without further thought, you’re moving again.

Kill my clan. Take Ayana. Find Yuna.

Heart slamming into your ribs, you move quickly back into the main hall. The raucous laughter and raised voices only heighten the tension in your chest. But despite the noise, the room feels smaller—emptier.

Ignoring the task of removing your footwear, you hurry to the alcove, where Sukuna waits with a rigid posture and a dark expression.

“I must speak with you,” you say quietly, hurriedly.

He arches his eyebrow.

“Then speak.”

You shake your head.

“Not here.” You nudge your chin tentatively to the door. “Outside. Somewhere private.”

Without waiting for his response, you turn and walk away. The heavy tread of his footsteps behind you tells you he’s following.

Kill. Take. Find.

You know where to go.

Gathering your hem, you retrace your steps, pushing past the garden until you reach the limestone barrier. With a firm shove, the gate creaks open, revealing the grove beyond.

You rush to it and wait.

Then, you turn, pace, and turn again.

A breeze tosses your hair.

Under your skin, lies your heartbeat. It pounds loudly, racing up your arms, into your chest, and into your head.

Louder.

Kill. Take. Find.

Too loud.

A twig snaps, sharp as a crack of thunder. Your head jerks toward the sound.

From between the yew trees, Sukuna steps into view, his silhouette rigid against the moonlit backdrop. His presence is dark and cutting, like cloth torn from night.

Red eyes meet yours, and both of you freeze. For a moment, the world stills. 

Here. There’s something you’ve forgotten—a sense of repetition.

His upper right hand twitches. Your gaze jumps to it, the two fingers eager to extend in subtle, restless motion.

A single heartbeat passes.

Then, he steps forward.

“You look like you want something from me,” he murmurs, his face a mask of nothingness.

You hold his stare, watching him as he approaches slowly, cautiously, as though you’re a wild animal poised to bolt.

“Yes, my Lord.” Voice barely steady.

He tilts his chin. The movement is almost lazy.

“Spit it out, then.”

You take a breath and take a step toward him. Your heart crashes into your breastbone.

Say it, and your chance of freedom is ever closer. Say it, and this nightmare can end. Say it, and you can leave him…

“I want you to kill everyone in the Kasai clan. Here, tonight.”

The words sting, a thorny stem poking into your tongue until it’s bleeding.

Silence.

The King of Curses only stares at you—eyes empty, emotionless red stones, mouth twitching, pulling up.

He doesn’t respond.

Your heart beats faster, hammering against your skull, drowning out the grove’s stillness.

More silence.

It’s too much.

“Say something!” you snap, your voice a hiss through gritted teeth.

Still, he doesn’t.

He only stares, red eyes bright.

Then, finally, his grin unfurls, and he hangs back his head toward the night sky and laughs.

🔗 Chapter 26

[jossamology]

⸻ until dawn halloween headcanons!

in honor of halloween here's a halloween-themed headcanon set for each until dawn character.

samantha giddings.

sam chooses a diy nature-inspired costume like a woodland fairy, using biodegradable glitter and repurposed fabrics. think leaves, twigs, and soft, earthy greens.

she insists on going to a local pumpkin patch to pick out the perfect pumpkin and spends hours carving designs.

while the others plan for parties, she hosts a low-key gathering with candles, cozy blankets, and homemade pumpkin spice lattes.

loves classic horror but gets super into psychological thrillers. hereditary is her top pick, and she’s the one pointing out foreshadowing before everyone else catches it. josh washington.

josh goes all-out building a haunted maze in his backyard, complete with hidden speakers, fake cobwebs, and scare actors he hires just to freak his friends out.

dresses as something horrifying, like a blood-streaked serial killer. full commitment to fake blood and smudged makeup.

has a camera ready to capture each friend’s reaction when they’re scared out of their minds. keeps a scare montage video just for fun.

he's surprisingly good at carving pumpkins, but his designs are intricate horror scenes, almost like horror movie posters in pumpkin form.

ends halloween by watching obscure, disturbing horror movies that leave everyone else uncomfortable. mike munroe.

shows up dressed as a suave vampire or some other classic monster, aiming to look cool and a little dangerous.

takes his friends to a haunted corn maze and enjoys it way more than he lets on, constantly teasing the jump-scare actors and testing his bravery.

organizes a frat party bonfire in the woods with s’mores and ghost stories. he’s the one lighting sparklers and throwing on extra wood to make the flames bigger, he drinks to much and forgets he's the host of the party.

pulls classic halloween pranks, from fake spider webs to jumping out of dark corners. the type to keep a scary mask in his bag just to mess with people.

after a few drinks, he’s belting out rocky horror picture show songs around the bonfire with zero shame.

jessica riley.

jessica’s costume is elaborate, trendy, and slightly dark, like a glamorous vampire or a witch in haute couture. she’s all about looking spooky-chic, she went shopping early for the best costume.

stays in to watch mean girls with a couple of her girl friends referencing every qoute.

spends half of halloween snapping aesthetic photos of her outfit, snacks, and décor, making everything look flawless.

gets her halloween nails done a week before and flaunts them on her social media platforms.

matt taylor.

he’s the guy bringing pumpkin spice lattes and fall-flavored treats for everyone, unapologetically embracing the season.

suggests doing a couples costume with emily, probably as a famous horror duo. secretly excited about how they’ll look in photos together.

convinces emily(and maybe the whole group) to go on a haunted hayride, keeping a brave face while sneaking glances to see if she’s scared.

volunteers to help with halloween décor, placing spider webs and fake spiders around. he’s got a collection of led bats and ghost lights.

emily davis.

dresses as a chic witch, complete with a designer hat, intricate lace gloves, and knee-high boots. halloween is just another reason to look flawless.

sets up a dark, enchanted photo booth with crystal balls, black roses, and velvet. her instagram feed is a whole halloween masterpiece.

makes sure to get billions of stunning couples photos with matt, each one more perfect than the last. their matching costumes and chemistry are on point, making everyone else a bit envious (and they know it).

emily hosts a halloween themed sleep over with velvet pillows, and black satin sheets for an ultra-cozy but gothic sleepover vibe. the girls chat and laugh till they fall asleep, each secretly keeping one eye open.

chris hartley.

dresses as a ghostbuster or some iconic horror nerd costume, complete with all the gadgets. he’s fully committed to the nostalgia factor.

brings his gear and talks about doing a "ghost hunt." sets up his phone to record “paranormal” activity around the bonfire.

insists on watching horror classics with everyone, pausing every now and then to geek out about the movie effects or the backstory.

after everyone else goes to bed, chris and ashley stay up playing with the ouija board, half-joking but also half-believing they might make contact. they end up spooking themselves and get so scared swearing to never use it again.

ashley brown.

dresses as a character from classic gothic literature, like mina harker from dracula, complete with vintage lace and dark, dramatic makeup.

she knits little ghost ornaments and diys her own creepy decor, like mason jars filled with “witch’s brew” and spiderweb doilies.

loves telling ghost stories, candle in hand, with just the right amount of dramatic pauses and eerie expressions.

ashley, catching her breath and laughing nervously, gives chris a playful whack on the arm for scaring her so bad. “not cool, chris!” she says, but she’s grinning as he pulls off the mask, clearly proud of his successful prank.

insists on having a stash of halloween candy just for herself. she’s all about chocolate, especially reese’s and kit kats, and jokingly guards her stash from the others, even hiding a few extras in her bag.

hannah and beth washington.

hannah and beth take turns posing in different eerie setups around the cabin, snapping dramatic photos of each other in candlelight, near fog machines, and with props like antique lanterns. they especially love capturing a few shots that look like something out of an old haunted portrait.

both love the idea of exploring the mountain at night, so they plan a late-night “ghost hunt” under the full moon. they bring flashlights and spooky stories to tell along the way, daring each other to walk just a little bit farther into the woods.

beth and hannah sneak into the room with a giant rubber spider and place it right on josh’s chest. when he stirs and opens his eyes to find it staring back at him, he lets out a yell that has the girls stifling laughter from behind the door.

they have a slight obsession with candy corn and will spend halloween night indulging in it, trading their favorite types of candy and making candy corn-themed treats, like popcorn balls or cupcakes.

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Private Dances [2]

Club!Blue Jones X F!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? • ko-fi • request info • series masterlist •

A/N: A massive thank you to the amazing @midgardian-witch for being the best and proofreading this nonsense and another huge thank you to the wonderful @lonelyisamyw-0love for tipping my ko-fi, this series is especially for them💚

Warnings: overuse of italics, sub!Blue, choking, biting, hand job, there's some power dynamics in here because reader is a dancer (but like Blue is getting his ass handed to him), swearing, Blue crying, p in v sex (Blue fucks another dancer at the beginning), please let me know if I've missed a warning.

There are 5 main ‘stars’ in the club: Peach, Trixie, Songbird, Sweetie Pie, and Crystal. Crystal is usually the favourite but is currently in Blue’s bad books for reasons unknown to the reader. Reader is a backup dancer.

Word Count: 2679

Rouged Lips in the Gaslight

Trixie was bent over the arm of the velvet sofa in Blue’s office, sharing its colour with the name of its owner. 

He hadn’t even bothered to fully undress himself or her. Just hiking up her short skirt (the same one she had been wearing for her routine half an hour ago) and pushing her underwear to the side while he unzipped his fly. 

She felt good, she always did. Warm, tight, and the sounds she was making alone, enough to make a porn star blush, should have been doing it for Blue. 

But they weren’t. And it was the fucking seventh time in barely two days. 

Every time he tried to get off it just didn’t work. He’d tried all the classics, combinations of his personal favourites, different dancers, different positions, different times of day, anything he could think of. 

He got hard, sure. Hell, that was the problem to begin with, he was horny. Fucking desperate to come. It just never happened. 

“Blue, fuck, please!” Trixie’s moans increased, getting louder as she neared her high. 

He picked up his pace, thrusting harder, tightening his grip on her hips and slamming her back to meet his; trying to satisfy that itch that just would not be scratched. 

He snarled, closed his eyes, and -  you with one hand on his throat and the other wrapped around his dick squeezing as you bit his lip until it bled. His blood on your mouth as you kissed him possessively, laying claim to him as he came; ruining him for anyone else. 

Trixie screams as she comes, snapping Blue annoyingly back to reality. 

It feels good, the way her cunt squeezes and flutters. Usually, that would be more than enough to bring him to his peak, to make him pump her pretty pussy full of him. He just can’t get there. 

He sighs in frustration, sweat on his forehead as he pulls out and quickly stuffs his painfully hard cock back into his trousers. 

Trixie breathes hard, a little dazed and shaky as she stands. There’s a little frown of confusion on her face, any hope that she hadn’t noticed Blue’s lack of orgasm quickly dissolving. 

He doesn’t know why it bothers him so much. But it does. 

“Get the fuck out.” 

His voice is hard and cold and Trixie doesn’t need to be told twice. 

He sits on his desk when the door closes and runs his hands over his face. This was getting fucking ridiculous. He was Blue fucking Jones for god’s sake. He couldn’t let anyone, especially you, one of his dancers, his property, do this to him. 

He breathed out roughly and stood again, his mind made up. It was just a little blip, nothing more than that. He just needed to show you who was boss, bend you over and fuck you until you begged him to stop. That would fix all of this. 

.

You sigh loudly as you finally find the correct gloves. They’re a deep scarlet, the only remaining matching pair that goes with the outfits of the seven other backup dancers. When Gorski told you they were in the tiny storage closet on the upper levels you had to bite your tongue to stop the groan that had threatened to escape. 

The storage closet was a mess to put it politely, random junk just dumped in there when there was nowhere else to put it. It was only because Blue had wanted Song Bird to have eight backup dancers for the routine, when for the past three weeks it had been seven. 

The gloves are a little battered, but nothing that would be noticeable to the patrons of the club, not when you were up on the stage anyway. 

You catch your reflection in the full length mirror that is jammed a little haphazardly in the corner. For a second the gloves in your hand look like blood. 

You put away the things you pulled out as best you can, not such an easy task in the mayhem mess, and turn to the door. 

Your hand barely grazes the cool metal of the handle before it’s wrenched out of your grasp as it’s flung open. 

Panic grips your heart and you visibly jump back just about managing to keep the little yelp of surprise that wants to escape quiet. 

And when your eyes land on the figure in the doorway, you’re more than glad you did. 

Blue glares at you, his eyes dark and shining in the dim light. He has a small, tight smile on his face. One of those practised expressions he wears at the club when he’s charming customers. 

He closes the door behind him, not taking his eyes off you and stalks forward, expecting you to back away. 

You hold your ground, annoyance fizzling in your blood at the gall he has to try to intimidate you and for a second you forget yourself. “What the hell are you doing here?” 

He pauses mid-step, blinking before he tries to pull that mask of superiority back on. “That’s not a very nice way to greet me now, is it?” He spits. 

“What are you doing here?” You repeat, your tone firm and fierce, unimpressed by how he bristles and tries to square up to you. 

“I own this place, and everything and one in it.” He leans close, his hot breath hitting your face. “I can go wherever I like.” 

You hold his gaze for one long moment before you swallow and step ceremoniously to the side, planning to walk past him. 

Blue matches your step, blocking your path. “What are you doing in here?” 

You hold up the gloves. “For Song Bird’s routine.” 

He stares at your hands for a moment, picturing you in the backup dancers' outfits. His throat bobs as he swallows before he grits his jaw. He had to focus. Had to get you out of his system. 

“What do you want, Blue?” Your voice is firm and sure, covering up the spike of uncertainty that has settled in your chest. 

He pauses, finally glancing up from the gloves to your face. Though now that he is looking directly at you it feels worse, blistering to be under the intensity of his gaze. He licks his lips. “You.”  

You stay quiet. 

“Just you.” He repeats, taking a step forward and placing a hand firmly on your shoulder. He pushes you back into the row of hanging clothing forcefully and leans close as the gloves slip from your hand. “You know, I thought you were just a scared little Bunny I could have some fun with, but you’re not.” He growls.

You swallow, fear swimming in your stomach, mixing with a dizzying haze of emotion. 

“You’re… dangerous. A Lion in rabbit’s clothing.” He mutters, tracing his fingers lightly along your jawline. 

Instinctively you smack his hand away. 

He grins at your gall. “You know… I’ve hurt people a lot more important than you for less.” He whispers. 

“Then why don’t you?” 

Blue pauses, his expression frozen on his face like a tableau, a tiny spark of uncertainty flickers into life behind his eyes. “I don’t… want to right now.”

“Liar.” 

He scowls. “Listen-”

“No, you listen.” You grab a hold of him, placing your hand firmly over his mouth and pinching his cheeks. 

His eyes widen, darken as arousal burns along his veins. 

You have no idea what’s gotten into you, why you’re doing this again. He could kill you on a whim, a snap of his fingers and a flick of his head would be all it took for his goons to empty their clips into your chest. 

Still, it seems like you’re in too deep now to change directions. 

You push him back a little, giving yourself some breathing space. “You don’t want to hurt me because you want me to hurt you.” 

He swallows, his throat bobbing. His hands still at his sides, making no effort to even wriggle out of your hold. 

You lean a little closer, echoing his teasing tone from before. “You like it.” 

There is the tiniest hitch of his breath and it’s all the reassurance you need. 

When he doesn’t respond quickly enough for your liking you squeeze a little tighter, feeling the imprint of his molars through his cheeks as you nod his head up and down. 

“There we go, did no one teach you it was rude not to answer a question?” You loosen your hold on him, revelling in the red impressions left on his skin. It shouldn’t thrill you, shouldn’t excite you. 

You trail your fingers along his jaw, running your thumb over his plump bottom lip and he shudders, closing his eyes for a second as he fights the urge to grab your arm and pull you closer. 

Instead he darts out his tongue, swiping it lightly over the tip of your thumb and groaning. 

“Did I say you could do that?” 

The snarl in your voice makes his eyes snap open, makes him open his mouth for a frantic apology. 

The second his lips part you push your thumb inside, pressing down on his warm tongue to silence him. 

He startles, eyes going wide for a second as he grabs hold of your wrist instinctively. But the second his mind catches up with your actions he doesn’t pull back, only presses closer. 

He groans around your thumb, running his tongue along the length as he pushes his body flush against yours, grinding his aching cock against your leg. 

He’s so hard, throbbing as he rubs against you. A small whimper echos from his throat. 

You bite your lip, a wave of arousal washing over you at the sight. “You’re so pathetic, you know that?” 

He moans louder, frantically nodding his head as he thrusts his hips, sucking on your thumb for all he was worth. He squeezes your wrist, wrapping his other arm around you to hold you in place. 

You pull your thumb from his mouth suddenly, smearing his salvia on his chin and grabbing hold of his throat as you push him back away from you. 

Blue whines, his forehead pinched in distress and hips bucking aimlessly, trying to seek out that delicious friction again. 

“Can’t keep your hands to yourself, can you?” You growl, loosening his tie and roughly pulling it free as you undo the top three of his shirt buttons. “Fucking pitiful.” 

“S-sorry.” He mumbles, biting his lip as he gazes at you. 

You smack his cheek lightly and he groans, the sensation striking down to his cock like lightning. He’s dazed for a second as you manhandle him, too wrapped up in the feel of your fingers digging into his skin to even have one coherent thought. 

You twist his tie around his wrists, binding them harshly before you gather the last of the material and wrap it around your right palm. 

He gasps as you step behind him, your chest pressed against his back, and grab hold of his neck, pulling his wrists up in the process. The material digs in, makes his skin sing and fingers throb. It’s like he’s died and gone to heaven. 

Blue bites his lip again, trying to keep some of the obscene sounds to a minimum. He feels dizzy, lightheaded as you squeeze his neck and use your free hand to slide down his chest to his trousers. 

The amount of times he’d tied up others, whipped and beaten until they’d crying and begging and pleading. It had felt so good, so right. But this… god it was nothing compared to this. 

You sink your teeth into the side of his neck and he keens, his back bending. He gasps, shivers and tries to breathe deeply through the wonderful pain, but your grip on his neck tightens, pulls him back further under your control. And he nearly comes on the spot. 

You bite harder. Niping and sucking at his skin, only soothing with your tongue for the briefest moment. 

He squirms under your hold, pressing up against your mouth and whimpering nonsense. 

He cries out when you unbuckle his belt, unbutton his trousers and unzip his fly. His heart thuds under your hand as you let his trousers fall to the floor and push his boxers down his thighs. 

“Please, oh god,” he whines when you squeeze especially hard on his neck and then gasps when you wrap your hand around his leaking cock. “Lion,” he stretches the word, rolls it around in his mouth desperately as you jerk your hand, your pace hard and brutal. He follows with his hips as much as you let him, tightening around his neck and pulling him back against you if he moves too much. 

“Lion, please!” He sobs. 

You break your mouth away from his bruised skin to hiss in his ear. “Look at yourself, look at how pathetic you are.” You tug his neck, forcing him to look at himself in the floor-length mirror. He lets out a sob as his own reflection stares back. How flushed his skin is, how desperate his eyes look. The way he barely struggles. How hard he is, leaking and throbbing under your hand. 

“Lion,” tears build at the corner of his eyes, “please.” 

“You’re wretched, despicable, barely worth the energy it takes me to make you come.” You sneer. 

And Blue screams. 

The knot in his stomach twists, liquid fire running along his spine as your words push him violently over the edge. He comes hard, spurting all over the floor. The force of it even hitting the edge of the mirror as he jerks and bucks and cries under your hold. 

For a moment it’s like he’s floating, light and far away from himself. Warm and safe under your touch. 

You loosen your grip around him instantly, worried for a second that he’s passed out and then silently hating yourself for enjoying that idea so much. 

He stumbles a little without your firm hold, but you guide him back to sit on the edge of a large box. 

He breathes deeply, spaced out as you slowly unwrap his tie from around his hands. His wrists are red, fingers off colour. He shivers slightly, his trousers still around his ankles. You pause, questioning if you’d be able to get him standing to do them back up without Blue falling over. 

Instead you turn to pull out a long, fluffy coat that had been used in a dance months ago to drape around him. 

He softly grabs your forearm as you turn, the touch a stark difference from earlier. 

“Please,” he looked up at you, his eyes hard and voice weak. “Don’t go.” 

The silence seems to hang for a long second. 

You swallow and take the coat off the hanger before wrapping him up. You squeeze his hand and move closer to him, intending to just stay a moment, but he grabs hold of your arms, pulls you closer still and buries his face into your stomach. 

He stays still for a moment, his fists tight as he hangs onto your shirt. 

You don’t know what to do, your hands hover in mid-air and… then his shoulders start to shake as he cries. 

“Hey, hey,” you lightly touch his head, running your hand through his short hair. “Hey,” you soothe and he looks up at you weakly. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles between sobs. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” you squat down to his level and stroke his cheeks. There’s a whirlwind of emotions fighting in your chest. 

He shakes his head. “Did I… Did I make you angry?” 

“No, no.”

“Did I disappoint you?” His voice breaks at the last word, fresh tears streaming over his skin. 

You lean forward, kissing his lips gently, then his cheeks. 

He swallows, hiccuping from the sobs he’s trying to fight back. He kisses you back softly, reverently, his hands warm and gentle on your arms and back as he holds you close. 

What the fuck had you got yourself into? 

Thank you for reading!

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[trashmouth-richie]

Eddie x Fem! Reader

master list

w/c: 7k

A/N: this chapter is a little bit shorter than the last few but I hope you enjoy it regardless! huge s/o to @blueywrites + @jo-harrington for beta reading and helping me with parts ♥️

tw: 18+ no minors, depression, acts of depression, drinking excessively etc

Granules of brown sugar melt against heaping creamed rolled oats, nestled into the crisp white second hand vitrelle made Corelle brand bowls. The pattern of dainty brown flowers skim around the outer surface, one that Eddie is now rubbing softly with the pad of his thumb. 

He had never noticed them before this very moment. The guitar string callouses skid along the cool surface of the bowl. The familiar feel reminded him of the soft skin on your back as he held you while you slept, strumming along your body to the tired tunes of your breathing.

A song he’d listen to forever if he could. 

Eddie found himself noticing many new things he hadn't noticed before in the early daylight hours of the morning. He didn’t want to stir you, didn’t want to disrupt the beautiful sleepy angel next to him. Wrapping you tighter against him, pressing light kisses to your hairline, he soaked up the warmth of your skin against him. Drinking in your smooth breathing and matching it to his own. 

Fluttering heart beating wildly in his own chest, he can’t believe you are here with him. Last night felt too good to be true. All these months of lonely pining, unsure if you felt the same, only for it to be true that you wanted him as much as he had wanted you.

He was elated, heart overflowing and spewing candy hearts from his eyes and mouth at the weight of your body tucked into him, fitting like a glove against the bend in his arm. 

He was head over heels for you. 

A wave of assurance washed over him when he woke this morning and found you curled in on yourself, the cotton sheets wrapped tight up under your chin, slack lips open and your eyelashes laid sweetly against your cheeks. A breath of relief leaves his muscles— you’re still here. 

The rise and fall of your naked form when he pulled ypu into his side had him breathless upon first opening his eyes this morning. The sunlight basking through peaks in his bedroom curtains and providing enough light for the dust mites to dance their daylight waltz amongst the stuffy air and crowded surfaces in Eddie’s room. 

Cotton sheets dipped into your curves. The smooth skin of your cheek pressed into his own chest. The steady whirring noise of your breathing in and out of your nose with your lips closed delicately.  

Beautiful. Radiant. A thousand other adjectives he could use to describe you but there was only one he wanted to call you: his. 

The toaster erupts with a metallic clunk, bringing him back from his day dreaming and focusing again at the task at hand. 

Grabbing a knife from the silverware drawer, he smears cold butter against the warm toast, the knife scraping gently as the warm crusted pockets flood with butter and sweet grape jelly.

He finds himself daydreaming again. He pictures the corner of your lips coated in jelly, he’d reach forward and brush his finger against it, maybe his lips would kiss the crumbs away. You’d giggle at his stupidity and he’d melt like the butter into this toast at your warm smile. 

You were perfect. Everything he had wanted and more. And years of being friends, then enemies, then roommates and now lovers. He was giddy, stomach filled with snowflake flurries resembling a winter storm. 

He balanced the bowls of oatmeal in large hands, the toast cut in diagonals and stuffed like rabbit ears into the cooked oats. A pep in his step, he practically floated to his room, back to you, snug in his sheets, his pillows. He’s carried by the wings of the butterflies in his stomach. 

A tickle on your cheek has your eyelids fluttering slow, the cool feel of unfamiliar sheets twisted by your chin have you jumping in your skin, but the warm velvet voice in your ear whispering good morning greetings and a peck against your ear tames your heart and softens the goosebumps on your skin. 

The same calloused palms that held you in a protective manner last night now gently stroke the underside of your chin in a lazy pattern. Up the rounds of your cheeks, and circling the plump of your lips. Eddie’s hands are unusually warm against your skin, the heat from the bowls hot on his palms.

The mattress bends beneath his weight as he sits with one leg on the bed and leans on a hip over you. The bourbon colored ends of his curls sweep feather-like against your bare chest, like the white tufty pappus of a dandelion head.

You titter softly when his lips slide down your neck and blow a softened raspberry against your skin. 

“Good morning, baby,” he sighs beneath your ear. The pearls of his teeth graze your neck because he can’t stop smiling. The silk of your hands wrap around his arms, fingers gliding over the carve of his muscles. And your eyes finally flutter open. 

A halo of sunlight breaches his frizzy curls and pull every bit of amber from them, his smile cozy and familiar the warmth seeping through you as his blackened honey eyes drink you in.  

His eyes trail your sleepy features, caressing your skin with each slow drag across your face. Taking in every inch of you he can. 

“Sleep okay?” he purrs gently, planting a rose petal kiss on your lips. 

Last night was perfect, everything you had hoped for and more. 

You didn’t know sex could be so intimate, so passionate.  Feeling how much he cared about you with every kiss, every touch of his molten fingers on your skin. He gave you the love and adoration you had yearned for. And it felt good. 

So, so good. 

Something that delicious should be enjoyed again and again. An indulgence, a finger swiping into the edge of a frosted cake for temptation deemed too strong. But unlike the taste of frosting melting away on your tongue, craving more and wanting another taste, you couldn’t. 

Peering into his eyes, you can see how much he loved you. But the feeling sat sour on your tongue, and burned your belly in a lonely way.

But why? 

You could push through this right?

Didn’t you want this?

Want him?

Heart hammering for Eddie, all green flags and sticky love, kicking feet and giddy heated cheeks, but your brain was screaming another sound, ringing bells of unworthiness loud in your ears. 

You don’t deserve him. 

His love won’t last. 

A quick smile that doesn’t reach your eyes implants on your lips. Insecurity is evident among them when the twinkle of love is replaced by dark brooding agony. And if Eddie sees it he is blinded to it. So wrapped up in bubbly love for you he thought you hung the stars. 

The way his brown eyes are gazing at you hurts your heart. Before hot tears can fall down your cheeks you blink rapidly. Wells of salt stinging in your eyes as you swallow them down. 

Answering his question in a hushed almost whisper, you push yourself up on his mattress, clutching the sheet around your chest, suddenly aware of how naked you are. Bare beneath the sheets a once welcomed coziness now feels like shards of glass embedded into your skin. 

Your knees tuck up beneath your chest, in a small attempt to shield yourself more from the man you wanted to love but couldn’t. 

Eddie is all adoring dimples and pinked cheeks. His voice is laced with flowing sweet words of pleasantries. He places a pillow behind your back, so you can be comfy,. 

The act cracking your heart deeper waiting to be split like the thin shell on a peanut m&m. 

“I didn’t ask, but do you like oatmeal?” 

You’ve never known a single smile burrowing into your soul deeper than his does. But it aches and burns. Nose tingling bringing up another wave of tears, you simply nod, you wipe your eyes hastily with the back of your hand as Eddie turns and grabs the bowls. Oblivious to your turmoil. 

He brings the warm bowl of oatmeal to the bed and places it in your hands. Jelly having slid down the toast and snuggling with the brown sugar and oatmeal. Joining you on the bed Eddie sits beside you, his long legs stretched out in front of him as you sit shoulder to shoulder.   

You don’t deserve him. 

His love won’t last. 

Lead filled arms hold the metal spoon to your lips, a warmth in your mouth that has no taste. For you are not hungry. The beast inside spreading its ferocious wings and sucking any amount of joy from you. 

But he said he loved me. 

He doesn’t. Don’t fool yourself. 

Staring ahead you are trapped in your mind. A hostage to your demons. The sunshine of happiness is replaced with heavy thunderstorm clouds of acidic rain, eating away your insides like maggots on a carcass. 

Eddie is talking between mouthfuls of his breakfast but you don’t hear him. The words unable to make sense against your ears as you stir your spoon around and around the bowl. A hypnotizing motion. 

Unaware of the state you are in, Eddie is floating high on cloud nine. A pinky cheeked cherub shooting arrows of lust below him. He’s giddy and cheerful, a light of beckoning hope next to your brooding steel trapped mind. 

He’s too good for you. 

The voices shout louder in your ears and you fight tears away. 

Just another notch on his belt, silly Tooty. 

Run, before he does. 

“Sweetheart?” your breathing is erratic and complacent. Sweat is trickling down your hairline. Wet beads in the space behind your ears and forming on your upper lip.

Run. 

Choking down the bile of panic cradled in your throat, you croak a smile. “Sorry, what?” 

-

The rest of breakfast is void of noise besides the ominous clinking of spoons against bowls and the gulping slide of oatmeal down Eddie’s throat. Chewing your toast to humor him you still taste nothing, barely registering your teeth are grinding together against themselves until Eddie asks if you’re alright. 

Fine, you lie, easy on your tongue, the forced smile is harder, painful. Settling an unease in your bones that creaks and groans like a worn porch door batting against the frame in a windstorm. 

Pulling hard to untuck the sheet from the one corner of Eddie’s bed that didn’t manage to come undone during the passion of last night, you wrap it around you fully, and scoot down the length of his mattress. The walk of shame gown held tight in your grip. Doubling as a shield of comfort around you, a flannel sheet of armor. 

Not announcing where you are going in fear of breaking, you scamper from the room, quick feet on the carpet and shivering in the cool air on your shoulders. Eddie’s hot desperate eyes burrowing into your back as you lock the bathroom door. 

He’s everywhere in this house, and your mind is suffocating. Lungs punched of any oxygen as you struggle to stand using the knob as a crutch. 

What makes you think you’re deserving of his kindness?

The daunting demonic voice laughs mercilessly in your head, bouncing off the pinked brain matter and echoing lol against the hollow marble of your skull, scribbling along it in permanent marker. 

Unworthy 

Undeserving

Hot tears stream down your cheeks and you shed the cloak of flannel armor, reaching for the silver knob of the shower and turning it to the hottest temperature the small water heater will allow. 

The stream of the scalding water sears your back like steak in a skillet, you welcome the burn with open arms. 

Thinking of Eddie’s doting and how sweet he was to you made your stomach splinter. All he was doing was exactly what you had hoped for, wished for, stayed up long nights aching for. 

But it wasn’t simple. 

You were terrified. Scared shitless of his love for you. But you knew Eddie and you knew he loved big, and cared in ways that most people couldn't fathom. 

Hot water rolls down the front of your shoulders and flows over your softened nipples, mixed with salty tears. 

The tears only stop when there’s a soft knuckled bang on the door. 

His endearing voice is small against the closed door, “hey babe?” 

You don’t answer. Unable to free your mind from the double hell of feeling inadequate and petrifying anxiety of being loved by someone you can’t love back. 

But you do love him. 

You always have in one way or another.. even when you shouldn’t have. You did. 

But the overwhelming feeling of his affection is too much, you don’t know how to feel, or act. Not as if Chad ever made you feel loved. Somehow the feeling of being loved is almost the same crushing feeling of being choked out. 

Because you’re not good enough. 

You don’t deserve him. 

The bathroom door opens and Eddie’s calm voice breaks through the void. Makes its way through the silent sobs that are causing your body to shake violently. 

His shadow is blurred against the shower curtain. Coy hands peel the cream plastic and blue fabric away slightly, opening the threshold to the shower and the steam rolling out, thick in his vision. 

“Tooty?” 

Back to first names. 

Back to the basics. 

Eddie wasn’t an idiot. He knew something was wrong. And he had spent the last ten minutes walking back and forth along the carpet, wracking his brain. Pulling his hair in frustration when tears stung his eyes and collected like puddles in his lashes.  

Trying to figure out the solution to a problem he didn’t have the equation for. 

No one did. 

This was a fight within yourself, solving for x when Eddie barely passed basic algebra. Nobody could fix this.

Broken goods, sold at a discount and marked down. 

Trash. 

When you don’t answer he says your name a smidge louder. Reaching his fingers out to touch your shoulder and almost breaking on the spot when you coil away from him. 

His touch once so protective and undeniably reassuring in your blood now threatens to make you react with bared teeth and steel eyes. 

But you refrain, pushing yourself further away from him. Deeper into your sorrows of a life of despair, a valley of dread. 

Relentless, Eddie won’t give up easy. His voice is meek and breaking with each cold shoulder of avoidance you offer. 

You’re nothing. 

“Baby,” he pleads, a tear running down his cheek, collecting in the column of his throat. “Talk to me.” 

His cheeks return to normal color, his eyes don’t dance with twinkles, the corners of his mouth turn flat. He's beside himself. 

The voices deepens now, roaring loudly like a river. A familiar tone. One that has terrified you for almost a decade, Chad. 

You think someone could love you like me? Better than me? 

Take it, fucking whore. 

Yeah, cry for me. 

“No.” 

Eddie’s brows turn inward. Concern painting his face. “Tooty?” 

Who would want you? 

You’re nothing. 

A hand on your shoulder makes your spine twinge with icy cold resentment causing you to flinch unexpectedly, shivering away from him. A wounded animal, protecting yourself. 

“I said, no!” 

When you turn to face him you are met with wet eyes, and the saddest expression you’d ever had the displeasure of seeing. 

One that would bury itself in your mind and haunt you at night. More horrifying than a scary movie because it was real, right before your eyes. 

Eddie doesn’t give you time to think before he twists his mouth into a question, “what’s going on? What did I do?” 

This is not a conversation you want to have. You can’t. 

Plain and simple. 

“Leave me alone,” you beg, salt in the skinned wound. You turn the water off and shove past him, your warm wet skin sliding against his dry bare chest. 

Unlovable 

Undeserving Tooty. 

The terry fibers of your robe cocoon you in a hug. And you’re reminded of the memories this fabric holds. The first night Eddie had moved in, and him wearing it with pride. 

The night he defended you against the twins, when you were piss drink and he wrapped you up tightly to cover you up. 

He was a good man. 

And you were a bitch. 

An unlovable shrewd, forcing someone to open up and then cutting them off because you couldn’t handle the thought of someone loving you when you couldn’t love yourself. 

You deserved what Chad did to you. 

Eddie is talking a million miles an hour trying to explain himself as you leave him in the bathroom. His throat aches from swallowing back tears and his heart is breaking. 

Turning in a swift jerk of your head you face him when he begs you to look at him. 

“Please, goddamnit please just talk to me. Help me understand what I did wrong!” 

“There’s nothing to understand Eddie! We fucked! So what? No big deal.” It was the biggest lie you’d told yourself. It was a big deal. It meant everything to you, but you couldn’t do this. 

He’s stunned, mouth hung open and his pink bottom lip starts to quiver. The same lips that kissed you so delicately and made you cum so hard it was like the Fourth of July behind your eyelids. 

Not having any of it, his sadness turns to anger on the drop of a dime, his shaky lip flipped to a snarl, “Don’t you dare do this, don’t you dare turn this around as just some one night stand bullshit.” His eyes search your face for any tell on a sick joke. But he knows you better than that.  

He can’t contain the fueling rage inside of him and he almost shouts in your face. “I know what it meant to you!”

“Really?” you voice in a shaky tone, crossing your arms across your chest in a manner that suggests you couldn’t give a single fuck about his feelings, but barely below the surface you were screaming for help. “If you got all the answers then enlighten me.” 

His voice is softer, gentler. He timidly reaches out to hold your clothed shoulders, the tips of his fingertips grip them softly, thumbs rubbing small circles. Hoping his touch could bring you back to him, bring back the angel from his dreams and coax you out from this hellish nightmare he had fallen into. 

 “Don’t act like this baby, please.” 

Your head hangs in defeat and you’re ready to give up. A sigh escapes you and he lifts your chin with a ringed finger. He licks his lips and he says the three words you couldn’t hear. 

The three small words that confirmed the anxiety in your chest and made your heart crumble. And it kills you. 

It kills you to hear the words come from the man you’ve been yearning for.

It kills you to know you won’t ever be able to say them back to him. Even though you’re dying to.

And it kills you to know you don’t deserve to hear those words from him. 

His fingers feel like talons against your shoulders and you're caught in his grasp. A hawk swooping to catch a field mouse. You can practically feel the blood pouring from your skin by his nails through the robe. The sharpness squeezing your lungs and attacking your mind. 

And like a bullet from a gun, you fire back. With hateful words and a dead tone, fire lit behind your pupils and your caged self inside of them begging to be let out. Begging to be let free and loved by Eddie. Slapping his hands away from you, you pull away from him, your back hitting the wall with a thud, the same wall you leaned on last night when he kissed you for the first time. 

The word is final. And so full of venom it feels like poison on your lips. 

“Don’t.” 

Wounded like an animal he defends himself. His slapped hands are red and stinging as he hangs them limply at his side. He shakes his head and his lips glow with how hard he’s pressing them together. 

“Tell me I don’t mean anything to you,” he yells, hurt and unable to contain his building desperate pleas to win you back, “Go ahead! Use your words Tooty. Tell me last night meant nothing to you.”  

He’s a fiend for your poisoned drug and you are his dealer, giving him what he wants, directly to his vein of choice. The veil of hatred falling in your vision and coating your stone still features. A single tear welled into your eyes. Falling the exact time you tell him words you knew weren’t at all true. 

“It meant nothing to me.” 

He chuckles in a hurt tone trying desperately to hide his own tears, a sick smirk of dismay is displayed on his quivering lips. And he’s fighting like hell to stay standing on two feet. 

“So now what? Huh?” His voice breaks and he clears his throat, hands on his hips and looking towards the popcorn ceiling, desperately blinking tears back, and once they’re hiding again he nods his head forward, one last attempt to have you break with him. To admit you were lying to yourself. 

Crossing his arms he’s trying not to shake with fury and grief. Through gritted teeth he misters up enough courage to ask you something he doesn’t wanna hear the answer to.

“Tell me what you want since you’re so big and brave. Don’t be a coward now sweetheart, tell me what you want.” 

You almost vomit on the spot. But choke it down long enough to spill the last lie from your pretty lips.

The nail in the coffin. The big finale. 

“I want… you to leave.” 

—

JANUARY 

It took three hours and all the boys from Corroded Coffin to help Eddie move his things out. He took a few days off from work to get his affairs in order. Filling out the proper paperwork to change his address back to the light blue trailer in Forest Hills for the time being. 

You weren’t home when it happened. He had made sure of it. 

When you closed your eyes at night you could still hear slam of metal connecting to metal when he slammed his van door and the crunch of ice and snow beneath his van tires as he sped away. 

You didn’t cry anymore when Metallica played on the radio. And nobody but you knew that every glass you had owned had been shattered against the front door when you came home to his empty room. 

A reality that had your eyes swollen for days. 

It took you two weeks to see the envelope on the table. A scrawl of shitty handwriting with your name on it. 

Tucked inside the pristine white envelope was more than twenty $100 bills, fresh from the bank. And a small note: 

“If you need more let me know, 

take care of yourself - Eddie 

That night you wept. Clutching onto the handmade shirt Eddie had given you, the night before the concert. The only thing remnant of him living in the house. Not counting the newer jar of pickles in the fridge, like the last— the lid was missing. 

Hot tears slid out of your eyes faster than a tub draining. A call to Robin is broken with blubbering hysterics and honking noises of your nose being blown into a wadded Kleenex, and in ten minutes time—she manages to drop everything to come and look after you. 

Countless hours slip by of her rubbing your back and even crying along with you, she swore Eddie and you were meant to be. Her words were blankets of comfort on you as she tried her best not to bring him up. 

She had promised both Steve and Eddie to not tell you where he was staying, for your own good. 

And like the kind hearted friend she was, Robin stayed for a few days. Taking off work and cooking meals for you even though you refused to eat. 

On the third day of not eating and refusing to leave your bed, she put a call in to Steve. He was hands on his hips disappointed in you. Lecturing you about how your actions hurt people and how you couldn’t be a brat forever. He threatened to dial the Wheeler’s to have Karen step in. 

But you wouldn’t budge. 

When Nancy had shown up on a Wednesday morning, she immediately went to work. Making a schedule for you to follow, and taking absolutely no bullshit when you told her you were a grown woman and could deal with things on your own. 

When she blacked out Eddie’s name from the calendar, silent tears fell down your cheeks. 

Seeing his name brought you both solace and pain. A reminder that you had done this yourself. That he wasn’t coming back. And it was because of you.

You moved with the motions of each day.

Shower 

Brushing your teeth 

Eating breakfast 

Getting ready for work 

Going to work 

Eating lunch 

Working

Driving home 

Eating supper 

Brush teeth 

Bedtime 

You sat in silence when you weren’t at work. Finding little to no enjoyment in anything anymore. Avoiding everyone’s calls. Staring at the 4 walls in your bedroom like a prison cell. Eddie’s stupid jar of pickles tucked snuggly between your crossed legs, your supper for weeks now. 

The only thing on your mind was him. He stuck with you in everything you did. He was everywhere. You even started drinking orange juice from the jug just like he did.

His laugh. The small giggly one he’d had since boyhood and the deep belly laugh he’d generate when you would roll your eyes at him, all of his teeth showing. 

His smile seemed to stretch across the Milky Way. Wide and pearly, ear to ear. His cheeks prickled with deep dimples. Somehow getting cuter with age. 

The darkest eyes full of mischief and wonderment. You could get lost in the Wonka chocolate river pooling in his eyes. Changing with his emotions like a mood ring, they gave him away.  

—

Corroded Coffin hadn’t played a gig since A Merry Corroded Christmas. Hard to play a show when the lead singer couldn’t pull it together during practices or remember to show up to them. 

Steve had stayed up with Eddie the first few nights, talking him off the edge of a violent end he didn’t see a way out of. 

He wouldn’t allow himself to forget that night. The passion was cosmic. And he knew you felt it too. Whether or not you would admit you were lying to yourself didn’t interest him. 

He was used to rejection. 

Used to feeling like he was nothing. 

What was breaking him was the ghost of you in his arms. Your sleeping body haunted his dreams, made the demons escape from hell and flood his vision. 

When he woke and you weren’t there the pain surfaced tenfold. And no amount of whiskey or Rick’s finest trees would fix it. 

The cycle never ending

He cared about you more than he cared about himself. 

The day you asked him to leave was a blur. He woke up at Gareth’s apartment a day later, no recollection of how he had gotten there. 

Your words etched into his skin like a tattoo. 

I want you to leave.

FEBRUARY

Still Loving You by Scorpions is playing on repeat between Nothing Else Matters by Metallica again in the guest house behind the lavish empty pool of Steve Harrington’s new home on Cornwalis St. 

Thirty some odd days had passed and Eddie Munson was nowhere near the man he used to be. 

Where his skin was once smooth shaven was now replaced by a prickly sparse beard. His once sparkling chocolate eyes were now dull and almost ashen. Dark circles rim his eyes from lack of sleep and poor nutrition, a diet of Marlboros, whiskey and pretzels giving him enough energy to work and come back to the same space he had called home for a few months. 

Throwing himself into working long hours at Boom’s he slept very little at night. When he did close his eyes he’d be jarred awake by a nightmare, one he hasn’t had since he was a kid. And he’d lay awake for hours replaying the same day over and over again in his mind. 

Each time ending the same way.

Shreds of notebook papers cluttered the floor, each littered with blue and black ink, all different but entirely the same subject: you.

Poems, songs, haikus and even a poorly written sonnet he had attempted while drunk at 2 AM sitting in a lounge chair he had drug out from the pool shed to sit along the edge of the frozen pool cover. 

His hair hadn’t been brushed in weeks. Leighanne offered to help comb out the tangles and mats but the burden was too much for him to handle. He denied her kindness, brushing it off with mumbled ‘m fine ’s and don’t worry ‘bout me ’s.

But in reality the thought of another woman’s hands in his hair only made the tears fall harder. 

When Eddie first moved in, Steve and Robin were still in the apartment, and Eddie’s things were moved to a storage unit across town. 

When the lease was up at the end of January, Robin moved into Vicky’s apartment over Surfer Boy Pizza and Steve purchased a house, along with an expensive diamond ring he would be anticipating on giving to an eager Leighanne, holding off until her birthday for the right time to pop the question. 

The Harrington/Buckley apartment was then subleased to Eddie. A sublease that didn’t last more than a week before he was booted out by the landlord for destruction of property when he accidentally started a fire in the kitchen. 

He was only trying to replicate your lasagna. 

Steve graciously invited Eddie to move in. and Eddie kept to himself for the most part. And on nights when sad music was blaring from the small guest house, Steve knew better than to ask if his friend wanted to play cards or kick back with a few beers. 

-T-

January came and went and close to the end of February  Josie told you she was cutting everyone’s hours, the salon would no longer be open on the weekends. The envelope Eddie had left for you was thrown into your night stand and you refused to use any of it. 

No one in town was hiring for another hairdresser so you opted to driving fifteen miles out of town to find another job. 

The job you had gotten was bartending at a rundown shithole bar worse than the Hideout. But the tips were good and your boss was sweet. A pot belly old farmer who only played country classics and served warm beer and peanuts, the shells making curved mountains on the filthy splintered wood floor.

It was refreshing to get out of Hawkins, but most importantly, it was the best chance you had at not running into someone who looked like him. 

Your body started to ache at all times, tender in places that never hurt before. Exhaustion thick on your features 

Months had passed and you hadn’t seen your friends. Nancy would call every now and then and check in. Jonathan and her were seeing a couples therapist for intimacy issues. She said Mike was hinting at proposing soon to El. 

Eddie’s shadow lingered on your skin and you swore you could feel his breath in your ear. Whispering how he loved you.

Some days were better than others, but most days you would get so worked up you would vomit from the pain. Betrayal splayed in your guts. Your mind was working against you.

His teary eyes and hurt expression were all you saw when you closed your eyes. And every night you cried yourself to sleep, cocooned into a pile of too many blankets, dreaming that Eddie was holding you tight against his chest, never leaving…never letting you go. 

MARCH

Eddie worked more than twelve hours a day, acting as two full time mechanics with how hard he was throwing himself into projects. Boom, although grateful for Eddie’s help and go-getter attitude, worried about him. Especially when he noticed the other two knot head mechanics he couldn’t afford to fire, helping themselves into his office flipping through personnel files. 

“Sean told me he makes more money than me! I was just checking to see how much more you think he’s worth! 

Aaron chuckled when Boom tossed him out of the office by his collar. 

A secret motive snug on his Copenhagen smile. The Information he was seeking: found and a reward would be granted for his loyalty to a long time friend.

…

“… alright fine, I guess pineapple is pretty good on pizza.”

“Told ya, Harrington, ” licking his lips, Eddie reached into the cardboard box and grabs another slice, the melting cheese stretching for what seemed like miles,  “I know good pizza.” 

Steve rolls his eyes, taking it easy on his friend who finally is looking like his normal self again after two months of becoming almost unrecognizable. 

The sad music didn’t play anymore. And his fingers didn’t bleed from writing songs about you. 

He was accepting what happened. Still sad, a little depressed but moving forward with his life. 

The date was approaching, Steve knew it and so did Eddie, neither wanted to talk about what he was going to do yet but Steve held his tongue for far too long. 

“so.. that Metallica concert is coming up… you still g—”

Before Steve could finish muttering, Eddie was already finishing his sentence, chewing along with his explanation. His fingers twirl the rings on his other hand. A nervous fit settling in his stomach.

“—already sold ‘em. Gonna drop the money I got for them in her mailbox tonight.” 

Steve shifts uncomfortably in his chair, threading fingers through his coiffed hair. “So that’s it huh?” 

“So what’s it?” Eddie questioned, nonchalantly standing suddenly from the table with a scratch of the chair's legs  against the tiled floor. Throwing his paper plate and napkin away, he stops at the trash can. Doubling back he almost cracks under the scrutiny of Steve’s eyes. 

“Steve, she doesn’t wanna be with me, we’ve been over this. I fucked up, came on too strong.” 

“I’m sorry man,” Steve apologizes, a drag of his large hands down his face. “I really thought she felt the same way—,” he huffs out a breath, “fuck, we all did!”

A shake of Eddie’s curls silences Steve’s words, the whirring noise in his ears, “I’m fine man, really. I’m gonna keep doing what we said we would all those years ago.” 

Walking towards the front door and stomping louder than he should have, Eddie thrusts his arms into his leather jacket, the silk inside cozy along his faded cotton shirt. 

His keys are hanging on the little hook by the door, Steve’s decorator thinking of every detail, he lets the brass teeth dig into his palm. 

“Even if she hates me Steve,” one hand on the silver doorknob, rings clicking against it in his tight grip, he turns his head and looks into pitiful moss colored eyes, as he delivers the only truth he’s ever known, “I still love her.”

Slamming home the driver’s door to the van and turning his key into the ignition, Skid Row’s I Remember You plays gently through the speakers. Eddie hums along and pats his thumbs against the steering wheel. 

It was true he was doing better.

His hair was combed through after using copious amounts of the cheapest conditioner Melvald’s had to offer. And he didn’t need the whiskey anymore to make it through the day. 

He yearned to see your face. 

Even if it was a glare his way or a raised eyebrow at something stupid he had to say, he’d do just about anything to see it. 

Would you be smiling? 

Were you happy without him? 

He hoped you were doing well, and maybe would want to be friends again. 

Turning onto Cherry Lane is pure nostalgia. It had only been a few months but everything looked the same. He felt different and maybe expected everything else to change along with him. 

And there it was. Your house. 

The house he had lived in, learned life skills he should have learned years ago, and most importantly shared the deepest love he’d ever felt with someone in his life.  

The windows were dark, except for a small light in the kitchen, a candle he assumed. The smell of vanilla warmed his nose as he thought of the familiar scent you had kept burning.

The driveway held your car and another he didn’t recognize. By first glance he thought maybe it could be Nancy. But she had just brought her old station wagon into Boom’s last week for a tire rotation. 

The license plates on the fancy BMW were not from Hawkins, housing the wrong number for the county on the Indiana plates. 

His ears heated with jealousy. Throat closing tight trying to hide a choked sob. 

How could you have moved on from him so quickly? The thought of you hooking up with someone while he was practically a dead man walking made him weak in the knees.

A punch to the gut. He had never felt so low in all of his life.

He couldn’t help himself when he jumped out of the van. Foregoing slamming the door. Stomping on cold concrete with shaky legs all the way to the front door. He fumed as he blinked back tears. 

He was prepared to make an ass out of himself. He’d announce himself the same way he had when he opened the door the day he has moved in all those months ago. 

A loud boisterous, HONEY, I’M HOME 

With knuckles raised and his heart hammering in his chest like a bee trapped in a tin can, he was ready to knock. 

Ready to see your shocked face with some faceless guy probably with a better job and stupid suits when Eddie’s wild hair and goofy grin was on the other side of the door. 

But he is stopped short when a muffled shrill scream vibrates off the walls and finds his ears.

see you in volume 12

🐑 (sacrificial for readmore)

[eringobragh420]

♣️ Pairing — Dexter Lumis ♥︎ f!Reader (no use of y/n) ♣️ Summary — Reader catches her panty thief in the act. ♣️ Word Count — 1.6k 🛑 Warnings — NSFW. Panty-sniffing, violation of privacy, slight dirty talk, oral (f receiving), cum 18+ ♣️ Taglist — If you’d like to be added, please click here!  ♣️ Requested By — @laserpointeronasubmarine. Hope you enjoy! ♣️ MASTERLIST, KINK LIST

She’d never been so pissed off in her life. Having her match pulled from the show at the last minute to make more room for more mindless, repetitive Judgment Day drivel. She’d worked her ass off in The Dungeon with Natalya and TJ, per Triple H’s request, and she’d improved by miles, per Triple H’s compliments. But here she was—no match to speak of, per Triple H’s decision. As she headed down the hall toward the locker room, she glanced down at her gear, blood boiling to near combustion. A deep emerald velvet two piece that left as little as possible to the imagination—the bustier cups were cut low on her breasts, and the seat of her shorts were hemmed up to accent her trim hips and an ass she’d killed herself to build—that now may never be seen by anyone other than the people milling about backstage. She’d made the damn thing herself and had been excited to show it off, but no—thanks to Triple fucking H. Rolling her eyes, she began to remove the matching green velvet fingerless gloves from her hands as she shouldered open the locker room door. She stopped dead in her tracks, eyes widening, fingers freezing.

A man was squatting beside one of her duffel bags, the one she kept her dirty clothes in. Most of his head was shaved save for the long blonde dreads on top, which were pulled back in a thick bun at the crown, and she didn’t need him to turn around to know exactly who he was. An elbow on his knee, he held a lacy, red material to his nose, sliding his eyes to her over his shoulder seemingly in slow motion. His intense crystalline irises met hers, ominous black X painted on his forehead, and it was almost like an invisible force shoving her back, warning her do not enter, go back the way you came, point of no return. But her mama didn’t raise no quitter—she’d never backed down from anyone in her life, men included, and she wasn’t about to start now. 

Suddenly it all made sense. For the past few weeks, after unpacking following a trip, she’d discovered she was short exactly one pair of panties. Chalking it up to being clumsy or miscounting, she hadn’t thought much about it. Now here sat Dexter Lumis—or was it Mercy?—a pair of her panties, used panties, she might add, pressed to his face, those sharp sapphires drilling a hole through her soul. He ascended to full height slowly, gaze never leaving her, and her panties leisurely came away from his nose, though he maintained possession of them at his side. His transgression hung heavily in the air between them, and she had to make a quick decision about whether or not it was a big deal, and if it was, how big of a deal was it?

Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside the locker room and leaned back against the door until it closed. She reached across her chest to turn the lock. “So you’re the panty thief,” she said. Dexter’s head tilted just a bit. “You thought I wouldn’t notice my underwear missing?” She started toward him, his icy gaze examining her entire body from head to toe, stopping on her eyes. “It’s no big deal,” she shrugged, “I own a ton. Most girls collect shoes, I collect lace and satin and thongs.” Dexter remained quiet, still, the aforementioned lace hanging from his hand. “But now I have to wonder …” She was within inches of him now, and he towered over her in a tight black t-shirt, equally tight gray jeans with a black belt, and black combat boots. She hadn’t been familiar with Dexter’s game until he was right in front of her, a pair of her unmentionables in his grasp. His muscles were huge, toned, tattoos decorating his arms, and fuck, he smelled so good for someone who looked like they hadn’t showered in days. She bit her lip. “… what you do with them?”

Dexter’s lucid eyes searched her face, head tilting the opposite direction. The atmosphere was heavy around them, the air conditioning hummed from a nearby vent, and there were a few broken bulbs in the overhead lights, causing a few of them to flicker on and off. He sluggishly lifted the panties in question to his nose again, inhaling long and deep, eyes closing, and the much smaller woman in front of him briefly lost her breath. As he audibly sniffed her lacy underwear, the fingers of Dexter’s free hand deftly unbuckled his belt and opened his jeans. She watched his eyes open and her panties descend from his nose to his jeans, disappearing within, and then he started stroking himself.

“Oh, you’re a dirty boy,” she purred, casually closing the space between them, hoping he didn’t notice her knees wobble or her thighs quiver. “Do you do this with other girls?” Dexter shook his head, still lazily jerking his cock. “Just me?” A redundant question, but something inside her just wanted the validation that this fearsome, yet undeniably provocative, man was evidently obsessed with her. He nodded in response.

“Well, I think it’s your lucky day,” she whispered. She met his eyes briefly before sauntering over to her designated locker at the end of the row. “My match just got canceled for no good goddamn reason,” she went on, taking a seat on the bench so she could remove her glittering white boots. “And since you owe me for all the underwear you’ve been stealing—”

Dexter was suddenly standing directly in front of her, and he removed his hand from his jeans—only his hand—before dropping to his knees, his bones quietly thumping on the hard floor. His radiant eyes remained locked on her, weighing her down, filling her pussy, and suddenly she was fighting for oxygen again. A pair of coarse thumbs grazed along her satiny thighs, and she was too enchanted by his gaze to notice when he hooked his thumbs under her shorts or when she lifted her hips to assist him in pulling them leisurely down her legs, over her boots, and then over his shoulder. Her heart hammered and adrenaline shot through her veins, and she couldn’t for the life of her figure out why until Dexter began to lower. 

Abruptly coming back to herself, she watched as he pushed her thighs apart, and she felt a cool rush of air along her bare, soaking slit. He finally severed their eye contact, focus falling to her dripping pussy, and she gasped when he licked his lips a mere second before lunging at her cunt like he would devour her whole, but stopped short of actual contact. She heard him sniff her, the tip of his nose kissing her sensitive skin, and she leered down at him with a bite to her bottom lip, watching him swipe his nose between her folds. His hot tongue slithered out of his mouth—she would swear later that it was forked in two—slipping inside her, and her head fell back as warmth spread throughout her body.

“Fucking hell,” she whispered, lasting only a moment before she had to look down again. Those beryl eyes were once more fixed on her face, but his tongue was absolutely unhinged against and around her clit, sinking inside her pulsing opening. He ate like he hadn’t in days, indecent sounds coming from both his mouth and her pussy when he snuck a finger deep within her heat, pumping in and out several times before adding a second.

“Christ,” she whimpered, rolling her hips, riding his face. “I’m gonna cum … don’t you fucking stop. Don’t stop …” She clutched his dreads, driving his tongue further into her cunt, and she erupted into his mouth, body wracked with shudders as Dexter drank every drop of her sticky cream.

When he finished, he pulled away, sitting back on his legs, and his hand coated with her cum disappeared inside his jeans where he’d left her panties. His eyes fell closed briefly, muscles twitching, tattoos dancing, as he jerked his cock.

“Take it out,” she whispered wantonly. “I wanna watch.”

The cerulean irises blinked open, and they weren’t so much sapphire anymore as they were obsidian, and the dirty boy also happened to be a good boy—he lifted his thick cock out of his jeans, no underwear in sight, her panties wrapped around his length. He resumed stroking, the red lace moving with his hand, and she had no choice but to dip her own fingers within her drenched pussy because Jesus Christ, this was the hottest thing she’d ever seen in her life. His hand sped up instantly, and she actually heard a moan resonate from deep inside his chiseled chest. She was sensitive enough and not far removed from her previous orgasm, so it wasn’t difficult getting there again as she played with her clit while watching her own personal jerk off show.

He yanked her panties off his cock without warning, aimed, and came all over the dainty lace, painting the crimson material in his pearly essence. He strangled the head of his dick to be sure every drop of cum had been spent before standing. He glanced at her, fierce gaze flashing over her half naked body, and he turned, heading for the door. He dropped the soiled underwear into her bag of clean clothes, likely contaminating other items, and he was buckling his belt as he strolled out of the locker room, having never spoken a single word.