#or simply taffy ! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

after-witch · 2 months ago

Text

Points of No Return [Yandere Geto x Reader]

Title: Points of No Return [Yandere Geto x Reader]

Synopsis: You run into someone from your old life and it shakes you into making a decision you might regret. Companion piece to Bait, Fever Pitch and Bus Stop.

Notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, Stockholm syndrome; mentions of physical and mental abuse, mentions of pregnancy

The town is hustling and bustling. It looks a little different every time you visit. New banners, new shops, an endless sea of revolving faces that you barely remember once you’re back home.

Here, in the outdoor market, there is a sense of thrumming aliveness that keeps your thoughts dancing from one step to the next. Should you go to this stall, or that one? Stop for a bite to eat? Check out new wares? A dress for yourself, bracelets for the girls, a book for him–or not? There’s too much. Too many people, too many choices. It makes it hard to concentrate.

But then a squeeze to one your hands--Nanako and Mimiko on either side of you, the three of you making quite the trio on a trip--brings you back the ground.

“We’ll go look for our gifts,” the girls say, smiling. “You should look for something new to wear to the party.”

You smile and wave them off and turn towards the nearest stalls with fabrics and kimonos hanging up for sale. The outfit should be elegant, but understated. That’s what the girls told you, which means that’s probably what Geto told them.

An outfit appropriate for his birthday party.

You’ll find something here, that’s certain. With this many stalls, and the amount of money allotted for the trip.

The city was shocking, the first time you were allowed to visit again. You didn’t stay long–a panic attack took care of that. It was too much in a horribly overwhelming way, and you’d buried yourself against his chest and asked to leave.

Of course, Geto had been with you then. It took a year for the girls to convince him to let you come only with them–a girls’ trip. And here, now, years down the line, you didn’t even need to beg and plead. It was a matter of fact: the girls were taking you shopping, and you’d go home to Geto, and that was that.

Sure, it’s still overwhelming; but not in a way that leaves you breathless. It does make you long to go home, to sweep into Geto’s private quarters, to relax in that space which has finally become warm and inviting to you. A sanctuary, away from his followers, away from any sense of the greater world out there.

It would be nice, to go home later today. To be with him. To have him hold you and kiss you, to simply sit quietly at his feet while he reads. He was kinder, now. In his own way. Long gone are the days of punishments, of scoldings, of that awful bitterness that kept you from truly feeling alive.

And–just when did that happen? That sense of normalcy–happiness, even?--with him. With your life.

Your fingers fumble with the fabric you’re holding and there’s a few awful moments where the world wants to spin, but simply stands stationary instead and makes you feel its terrible crushing weight. You want to take it back, those thoughts; want to simply go about your day like everything was normal, and fine, and–

Someone calls your name. Someone close.

It’s not the girls. It’s a man. A man’s voice, but who, and why, and how long has it been since anyone has said your name that hasn’t been Geto or the twins or one of his followers?

Your name, again. Spoken softer, but breathier. Like he’s shocked. Surprised. But pleased?

You turn slowly, your brain whirring into action, putting forgotten puzzle pieces back together as it pulls from deep within the foggy recesses of your memories.

The voice. The mole on his cheek, the curve of his jaw. The color of his eyes. It’s yanked from deep within your mind, sticky taffy that barely wants to come up–but it does and he does and you know this man.

“Kenji?”

It tastes sour, this man’s name on your lips–a name that isn’t, for the first time in years, his.

The muted shock within you is like wet sand, being scooped and patted firm by a small hand.

He says your name again, and takes your hand in his own–your heart begins to beat more rapidly, knowing that this is wrong, that Geto will know, somehow, that another man’s touch has been upon you.

He says more things. Things that barely register. That your family has missed you. Your friends have missed you. He’s missed you.

It shouldn’t be surprising. He was–after all–your boyfriend. Was. Had been. Once upon a time, when the world was different.

“What happened to you?” He asks, and you don’t answer. You can’t. Not fully.

“I…” How do you tell him, exactly? Where do you even start? And where would you end? By telling him that gosh, you were just thinking about how you’d like to get back home to the man who kidnapped you years ago. The man who’s held you hostage and hurt you, but the man who–who loves you, too? Who saved you, who is kind when he can be.

“Your parents are going to be so happy,” Kenji says, quietly, filling your silence. They hadn’t been on your mind in some time, and isn’t that awful of you? But it was too hard to think about them. It hurt too much. So you put them away, like old things in a drawer, to be avoided like a painful memory.

But… they had been hurt, of course, by your disappearance. They missed you. Did others miss you? And had you been missing them, all along? Only for that pain to be glossed over to protect yourself. A selfish sort of trickery.

Pangs in your heart begin to puncture that heavy shock. Your mother. Your father. Your best friend. Your dog. Neighbors, the friendly woman at the grocery store who always stuck a pack of gum in your bag before you left. And–Kenji. Kenji, too.

Tears prick at your eyes and you know they’re threatening to spill. Just when had you forgotten all of them? Set them all in that dusty drawer, to avoid the pain, to indulge in the comfort of increasingly familiar days inside Geto’s compound.

“Listen,” Kenji says, soft, slow. As if you were wrapped in a silver emergency blanket and perched on the end of an ambulance after fighting off a monster. And–have you been?

Confusion blurs your thoughts, your memories. You haven’t been… unhappy in a long time. Haven’t thought about those unpleasant days, when you fought. When you ran. Instead, you’ve thought about how comfortable you are; how nice it feels when Geto puts aside his duties now and then, and spends more time with you.

When did you stop trying to get away?

Kenji seems to sense your thoughts, somehow; sense your inner turmoil which must surely be written on your face as clear as day.

“I’ll help you,” he continues, as his words seem to grow louder and louder in your ear. Like a siren–like a wake up call. “Meet me at the park around the corner. Tonight. Whatever’s going on… whatever’s happened, I can help you.”

I can help you. And you need it, don’t you? Help?

Your mouth opens stupidly, like a fish, but before you can say anything, two familiar presences are by your side.

Kenji drops your hands, and you find yourself staring down at them.

“Who is this?” Mimiko asks, a shopping bag tucked over her arm. She takes one of your hands in hers, gives it a firm squeeze.

“Do you know them?” Nanako’s hand is in yours just as swiftly as her sister’s, and this time, you recollect yourself–you give her hand a squeeze first.

“I don’t know,” you lie, the first time you’ve lied to the girls in what seems like forever. “He was just apologizing for running into me.”

The girls look at each other, leaning forward, with you in between. You feel the weight of their stares glancing by you, like they might just brush your cheek.

But–

“Let’s go home,” is all they say together, and begin to lead you away. You don’t dare answer Kenji, but as they turn you away, you dare it–

You give the smallest of nods.

You’ll meet him.

–

“Did you behave?” Geto murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your forehead. Every muscle in your body seems to lock in at once, the thought pattering against your skull–He knows he knows he knows he knows–before he pulls away and laughs a little. A melodic sound that pulls you down from your tense height, though it feels like your feet skid the entire way.

“Only a tease,” he says, almost airily, before he looks at the girls. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

Nanako and Mimiko exchange a look, and there, an awful thought–They’ll tell him–before they dutifully pull the sides of their shopping bags closer in near unison to hide their gifts.

“You’ll find out at the party,” they say in unison, and you can’t help the cold wash of relief that runs through your stomach. They must have believed you, and they know mentioning the man to Geto will only spoil the party they’ve been planning for weeks.

It will definitely spoil it, you think, once he finds out you’ve run away.

–

You’re not very poetic, as a general rule of thumb. Oh, sometimes you try. You take pen to paper and scribble out lines about your feelings, about the way the trees look in the garden you’re allowed to roam, the way Geto’s empty side of the bed feels in the morning.

It never amounts to anything satisfying, you can’t quite seem to make the words stick. But here, now, in this moment, maybe you could write something worth remembering.

The moonlight brushes against Geto’s hair as daintily as your fingers, which skim the strands on the pillow, not daring to get anywhere close to his scalp, to the softness of his cheek. He might wake up. He might wake up and realize that he’s let you go in the night, his arms tired and slack, and you’ve slipped out of bed–

But you’re not gone yet, are you? No. Now, you’re leaning next to the bed, watching the way the moonlight through the window makes half his face glow in the darkness. He looks like a sculpture, with only a hint of his chest rising to tell you that he’s a living being, and not some piece of marble in the garden.

And oh, how lovely he looks. How serene.

Maybe you should stay. Maybe this is an awful idea. Maybe it will simply lead to trouble and upset and you’ll topsy-turvy everything in your world again, and it won’t be worth it.

But then you remember Kenji’s hands squeezing yours and those thoughts, whirling and long repressed, of the world outside. The world you left behind. A world waiting to welcome you again, you’re sure, if you just make that first move to leave.

So you do leave–swiftly and with dread and hope fighting for space in your stomach.

–

Meeting Kenji in the park is surreal. Being truly alone in some outside place, away from attendants, away from the girls, away from Geto. It is only you and Kenji and the moon above, watching silently.

You don’t tell him about this out of body feeling; there is an embarrassment that overtakes you all too suddenly at the thought of letting him know everything.

Instead, you tell him about the kidnapping. The training. The ups and downs with Geto, the highs and lows of what has become of your life. The escape attempts, the fights, the slow descent into accepting that you won’t be able to leave.

You don’t tell him what he doesn’t need to know. How it feels when Geto strokes your back on nights you feel lonely, how it makes your stomach flutter when he kisses you with a quiet warmness instead of hunger; how you no longer dread his presence, but normalize it, welcome it–invite it, even.

“We’ll go to the police,” he says, and you feel bad for the barking laugh that pushes its way out of your throat. He didn’t mean to say something stupid. Pointless. You know that.

“He would find me,” you say, quietly. “Find us. He’d kill anyone involved. He’d kill you.” Would he kill me? You wonder, and don’t ask aloud. This should make Kenji give up. Run away, and protect himself.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he grips your hand again, squeezing it like he’s been the one to hold you all these years. He waits until you turn to look at him, and you can see the glossy tears in his eyes, the way he looks so frazzled–but determined. Hopeful. Kind.

“Please let me help you.”

These words hurt your chest.

“Is there a day you can slip away like this again?”

You don’t answer right away. You chew on the words, heart pounding.

How sick it feels that some part of you wants to say no. Wants to be Cinderella hiking up her ballgown and calling out that she has to get back to her kidnapper’s compound by midnight or she’ll turn into a pumpkin.

But–

It’s not just Kenji that you left behind, is it? It’s your parents, your friends, your family, your neighbors. The world itself.

And something small inside you, louder and louder, knows you want to get back to that world.

“The party,” you murmur, almost without thinking. “Tomorrow night. Can you meet me at the gate of the compound?”

Kenji’s smile breaks your heart and you feel tears slipping down your cheeks. He reaches up to brush them away and you almost flinch from the intimacy.

“Tomorrow night,” he repeats.

Tomorrow night indeed.

The giddiness of it all carries you all the way back to the compound, sneaking through the shadows, stumbling through the gaps in security that the girls taught you one evening so they could take you to see a movie in town.

It even carries you through the hallways back to Geto’s bedroom, where he should still be sleeping–

Where he is, instead, sitting in his chair and staring right at you as you come through the doorway. He stands, when you enter, and you don’t move as he bridges the gap between you.

"Where did you go off to?"

A lie passes your lips as easily as air. "I was just helping with the decorations for the party. S-Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you.”

He pauses, pulls you closer and leans in, kisses your neck. “Ah,” he hums, “And here I was worried you were trying to escape again.” He sighs into your skin, warm and tickling. “You’ve been so good. But I still wonder, now and then…”

It feels impossible for your muscles to lock in so tight, but they do, even as he pulls you back into the bedroom towards your shared bed.

“No,” he says, almost a murmur. “You’ve been so good to me these past years, haven’t you?” He gestures towards the bed and you climb onto it, no need for instructions, and begin to disrobe. Your chest is tight–everything from your head to toe feels tight–and you’re waiting for something to snap. Him–or you?

But he doesn’t. And you don’t. Instead, he lets his robe drop to his shoulders, then lower.

“I think I’d like an early present,” he says, low. And the sound of his voice, the sight of him disrobing, brings a familiar heated flush–a familiar pride. A familiar feeling of usefulness that he has cultivated in you through careful training.

You don’t protest as he climbs onto the bed, as he hovers over you and begins to take what is his–but as your head hits the pillow, you wonder how much emptier the bed will be tomorrow night. –

It’s like you're not in your own body. Can Geto tell? Can the girls? You take another pretend sip of champagne so they think you’re just drunk, high on the alcohol and not the thought of freedom. What an elusive thing, freedom. Something you’d given up on grasping yet here it is, dangling in front of you, held by Kenji’s warm hands.

Geto is too busy for most of the night to stay near you. There are too many people, too many speeches, too many moving parts. It’s glorious, really, for the opportunity it gives you–

Because when he’s crowds-deep into the room, and the girls have run off to start gathering the gifts, you are able to slip away. It feels sickeningly easy. No one pays much attention to you anymore, not like they might have a few years ago, keeping you on a tight and perhaps literal leash.

It wasn’t practical to pack anything, so you try not to regret leaving a few treasured items behind as you shift through the shadows, keeping yourself in the darkness. Though it hardly matters. Most everyone is at the party, desperate for a glimpse of Geto; desperate to please him. Like you are, sometimes. Or were, you think. You’re going to leave all that behind. Aren’t you?

Kenji is standing at the gate like he isn’t seriously risking his life to help you. Like this is a game. He even smiles when you make it, as he pushes open the unlocked door and grips your hand to pull you through.

It makes your heart feel a bit strained–how stupid he is, how little he knows about Geto. How much more you know about him, how cruel he can be–How he looks when he sleeps contentedly by your side, how his smile gets a little higher when you do something he finds cute, how his fingers feel against your cheek.

Your feet skid against the ground. Oh, oh–

Kenji looks back when your gravity pulls against him.

He says your name, and your chest tightens.

“What’s wrong? Did you forget something?” A touch of annoyance in his voice. No wonder, he is afraid to get caught, after all.

“No,” you say, voice cracking, throat dry. But haven’t you left something behind? No, not something. Someone. (Not just him–not just him, but the girls, too.) “It’s just–I just–I don’t know if I…”

If I can leave him.

You shouldn’t feel this way. You shouldn’t. But you do, and it keeps you rooted, keeps your shoes digging into the ground even as Kenji gives you a tug.

“Come on,” he says, more of a hiss. “We don’t have much time.” He gives another tug, and this time you actually pull against his grip.

“I can’t!”

The shock registers on his face as quickly as it registers in your heart, plucking hard like a taut string.

Kenji’s surprise turns to something else, an emotion you haven’t seen for some time. Irritation–no. Stronger. Harder. Something meaner mixed with disbelief.

“What the hell–” He says your name in a way that makes it sound like an awful thing. “Don’t tell me–” His lip curls, his eyebrows furrow. “Don’t tell me you love that bastard. Think of what he’s done to you!”

Your tongue snakes out to lick your dry lips and you know what might be said here. What Kenji wants to hear. That you’re just confused, you’re scared, you don’t know what to do.

But you do know what to do. And what you can’t say. What you don’t want to say to him.

It doesn’t need to be said, anyway. It’s clear as day on your face, on the way your shoes are planted in the ground. Kenji’s expression turns awful and you can tell he understands that truth of yours; a truth that feels so much uglier when you’re outside the compound.

You do love Geto. You do, and maybe it’s wrong and fucked up and–

Geto is here–somewhere. You can feel him, although there’s no sign of him anywhere, no sound of approaching footsteps. But it’s something innate in you now, this ability to sense his presence.

“You have to leave,” you say, quickly, words hopping out of your mouth like a skipping stone. “Before it’s too late. He–he’ll kill you.” And despite the way Kenji looked at you, you don’t want him dead. You just want him gone and out of your life, back to his old world, even if he will no longer be ignorant–happily?--of your whereabouts.

For a moment he keeps a grip on your hand, and you wonder if he’ll plead with you to come with him. Convince you that your life here is terrible and you need to leave. He’ll try to convince you for so long that Geto will come and kill him, and you’ll sob over his dead body.

None of that happens. Instead, he lets go, abruptly, like your hand is electric.

He says your name and when you look up at him, he merely shakes his head.

“I don’t know who you are anymore. You’ve… changed.” Changed. Said awfully, like the word was spoiled milk in his mouth.

“What do you mean?” And you ask this, despite perhaps not wanting the answer.

It doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t give one.

Instead, he turns, without so much as a goodbye, and leaves you standing alone at the gate in the darkness.

Alone–and clutching the string of your heart that kept you from leaving in the first place.

–

Everything is wrong. The compound should be lit up, all sound and music, the din of people inside the party. But instead, it’s like the world has been snuffed out–there is only darkness. Not even the familiar glow of candles in hallways or electric lights snug inside the maze of rooms.

There’s only one light and you follow it, moth to flame, all the while a knot in your stomach ties itself tighter and tighter. The world is quiet and dark and you’re going to the only thing you can see–the temple where Geto and his followers meet.

A temple of light, now.

You don’t see anyone inside as you cross the threshold, but you’re not stupid enough to think that you’re alone.

And you aren’t–you aren’t, and when you sense Geto behind you, it is with the same familiarity as the feeling of someone presenting your winter coat to be put on at the long end of a weary evening.

Only instead of being enveloped in warmth, Geto stands behind you–and his hand shoots out to grip your neck.

It’s nostalgic, in its own way. The press of his fingers against your neck, the slight squeeze. A warning, but this time, you think it will be more than that. A blown last chance, perhaps. He’ll kill you. Or throw you out, and that might just be worse.

“It was quite stupid of you,” he says, slowly, as if you need time to process his words, “to think that I wouldn’t find out what you were planning.”

How awfully nostalgic, too, when he pushes you against the hard stone of one of the statues in the temple. It connects with your side in a flash of pain, and Geto turns you around with ease. If he notices the way your body has begun to tremble, he doesn’t show it.

“Humor me,” he murmurs, curling his hand around the front of your neck. “Why didn’t you leave with him?”

His expression is cold, you think. You’ve gotten so much better at reading him, and yet, you haven’t done anything particularly displeasing in so long that it feels like wading into unfamiliar territory.

“Not that you would have gotten far,” he adds, a slight sneer in his tone. “Not with that fool.”

A sneer in his tone, yes, but also–is it jealousy? How could Geto be jealous of someone like Kenji? Geto, who is smarter, and stronger; Geto, who always seems to know what you need, even when you don’t. Geto–the man you can’t imagine being without, despite it all.

The thoughts come like dominos, clicking together with precision.

“I didn’t leave because… because…”

Despite his grip on your neck, despite your trembling, despite the fear that he might kill you–

“I love you.”

You reach out and caress his cheek with one hand, and reach forward, his fingers pressing into the soft tissue of your neck, to kiss him softly on the lips.

The surprise that registers on his face does not meld into disgust like Kenji; instead, it seems to freeze, and you’re keenly aware of the fact that you know he prefers to initiate any intimate contact himself. You forgot, in your haze, in the blurry anxiety of this evening.

“I’m–”

Sorry, you were going to say, but you don’t say; because his lips are suddenly on yours, hungry and warm and unrelenting. The hand on your throat grips the back of your hair and keeps you in place as he presses himself closer against you.

And what trembling you had from before is replaced with anew, but from warmth this time, from the buzzing that begins low in your bellybutton and spreads as Geto’s kisses travel from your mouth to your neck; as his fingers begin to work at your clothes.

“I want to hear you say that again–” He bites your neck, lapping at the mark. “And again–” His fingers undo the last belt holding your outfit together, and the fabric drops to the ground. “And again.”

You whimper as he guides you further into the temple, onto the space where he might normally greet his followers. The tatami presses against your bare skin as he begins to undo his own clothes, not bothering to order you to do it for him in his need.

“Until you’re screaming it,” he murmurs, his hair tickling your face as he looms over you.

And you know his words are nothing short of a promise.

–

You are sometimes a stupid thing, he thinks. Yet you are undoubtedly still his–stupid, yes, on occasion. But his.

You proved that to him, on the night you chose not to run away. You wouldn’t have been able to, of course. That moronic monkey that called himself your “boyfriend” had neither the intelligence nor stamina to get you farther than the gate. He didn’t even sense the guards watching him the entire time.

He didn’t sense Geto, either, early the next morning, when he came to kill the fool who thought he’d steal something from a far superior being.

If he hadn’t been still basking in the bliss of the night before, it might have been more excruciating. Oh, it hurt. Kenji’s eyes had gone wide and he’d choked on blood and tried desperately to get some final words out. But it might have been more entertaining to drag it out for hours–days–perhaps longer.

Ah, the things you make him do, without even realizing it. Unintentional mercy was just another thing to add to the list of things you’ve placed on his shoulders.

He’d come here to tell you just that; to tell you how Kenji died, and why he died, and how he’s glad you’ll never have to worry about him bothering you again.

Only you’d surprised him. Something you don’t often do, even when you try.

Surprised him with a shy smile and your hands behind your back, holding something apparently quite precious.

It was–it is.

A positive pregnancy test. No doubt procured by one of the girls.

The full weight of it doesn’t hit him yet, won’t hit him, he thinks, until much later on. A child–with you. There is much to consider. Legacies and heirs and all that.

But for now, he focuses on you. You, not leaping for joy but smiling at him, an almost nervous sort of expectation on your face. He can see the thoughts dancing inside your head–Is this okay? Is he angry? Will he be happy? And he can never quite describe how it feels, this knowledge that he has so much power over you.

That he can make you smile shyly and look down with a nervous little glance and ask if he’s happy.

It’s endearing, truly. You’re endearing.

And ah, that unintentional mercy strikes again. It is enough to make him slip Kenji’s bloodied watch into a fold of his robe.

For now–he’ll let you plan on how you’ll share the news with the twins.

You can learn about the fool’s death another time.

#yandere geto #yandere geto suguru #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere jjk #yandere #afterwitch writes

556 notes · View notes

hayatoseyepatch · 8 months ago

Text

═════════ ❀•°❀°•❀ ═════════

Description: Kaji would never eat another lollipop again if he could have his mouth on you at all times. Basically just oral with Kaji Ren.

Featuring: Ren Kaji x Reader

Word Count: 1.1k

Tags: smut, afab!reader, reader has a vagina, tried to make this one as gender neutral as possible, oral fixation, cunnilingus, face sitting, dirty talk, Kaji being a menace, written with a curvy reader in mind (but no indication of size)

═════════ ❀•°❀°•❀ ═════════

a/n: This honestly was supposed to be one part of a headcannon fic but then I got carried away writing this. So enjoy some Kaji lickin’ ya like a lollipop lmao.

═════════ ❀•°❀°•❀ ═════════

Kaji tries so hard to regulate his emotions. From his lollipops to keep his sharp tongue on lock, and the music he uses to drown out the world to keep his temper under control. He hated the way his rage over took him, made him feel like a wild animal, incapable of controlling his actions or avoiding hurting people.

But you had become an outlet for him. In most cases it was the way you were able to calm him with just your mere presence. The feeling of your nails scraping his scalp as you carded your fingers through his hair. The way the soft tone of your voice was able to snuff out his raging anger better than any melody. He’d always have his mouth busying itself with you. Whether it was the both of you cuddled up on the couch his mouth absent mindedly trailing kisses along your shoulders up to your neck. The way your lips pressed against his in sweet kisses that put his mind at ease.

However, there were times, times where you offered a different outlet for his raging emotions. Kaji could get lost in your body, the way it made him feel, the way he would drown himself in the feeling of you. His lollipops long forgotten, the taffy paling in comparison of the sweetness of your cunt’s juices that coated his tongue, always eating your cunt like a man starved. He dives down, burying this face into your folds. His nose bumps your clit as his tongue invades your entrance, curling inside you. He collects your juices on the wet muscle, withdrawing from inside you he pushes himself up. Tongue lolling out of his mouth, allowing your juices, mixed with his own saliva, to drip down on your neglected clit.

He watches, enraptured, as the mix of your juices and his saliva drip down, coating your cunt in the both of you. He ducks down once more, licking a fat stripe up your cunt. Collecting your wetness on his tastebuds. “C’mere baby” He groans, his large calloused fingers entangling your waist. Using his strength, he easily maneuvers you both, now laying flat on his back with you straddling his waist. His eyes bore into yours as you look down at him. “I want you to sit on my face, sugar.”

Being a grade captain and constantly reeling in his emotions, being careful with every choice he makes is exhausting. Sometimes relinquishing his power to you is the best form of soothing, he trusts you fully and wants you to have your way with him. Just letting him encapsulate himself in the moment with you, just focusing on you both. As if the world outside and the one in his mind doesn’t exist, here its just you and him and the way you make each other feel.

Your cheeks flush a bright pink at his request, one said so simply it was as if he was asking you to pass him something. “But Ren.. What if I…” Your words are cut off, a heated kiss placed against your lips. He pulls away after a moment, breaths panting against your lips. “But nothing angel, sit on my face and let me eat your pretty pussy like its one of my lollipops” His words send a shock to your core, cheeks flushing a deeper red at the filthy words that leave his mouth, but also extinguishing any further arguments you had for him.

Shakily, you crawl up on the bed, throwing one leg over his face to sandwich his cheeks. You hover your cunt over his face, lifting the material of his oversized t-shirt to expose yourself to him. You exhale a breath, preparing to lower yourself onto his face. Before you can, however, his large hands grip your hips pulling you down to be flush to his waiting mouth.

A shocked gasp leaves your lips, and Kaji takes this opportunity to nuzzle his face in between your folds once more, tongue swiping out of his mouth to glide against your clit. “Oh, Ren, baby, fuuuck~ ” You moan, throwing your head back, losing yourself in the pleasure he’s providing. Your earlier worry and fear being tossed out the window as you grind your hips against his face.

Kaji lets one hand leave your hips, moving to grip the plush fat of your ass. He releases the soft flesh only to give your ass a harsh smack, the sound echoing throughout the room. He soothes the area, tongue never stopping its ministrations against your sensitive nub. Kaji devours you like a man starved, if you didn’t feel his shallow breaths against you, you would wonder if he was even breathing. He pulls away, hot breaths fanning against your clit. “That’s it angel, that’s my baby, go ahead and ride my face sugar.”

You don’t need to be told twice, sinking down until his nose bumps your clit, hips grinding down on his face. Kaji lolls his tongue out of his mouth to lick at your clit, breaking only to playfully nip it from underneath you. He grins against your cunt when you heed his words any hesitancy from earlier long gone. Your hips pick up speed, practically riding his tongue. He flattens the muscle, letting you do just that. The words that tumble out of your mouth are nothing more than incoherent calls of his name mixed with pleas and curses. Kaji feels your thighs spasm, both hands now gripping your ass, to pull your cunt further onto his face.

Your hips bucking against his tongue, as you cry out a mix of curses and his name. You can feel the coil inside you about to break. “Ren, Ren, please…fuck!” He mumbles something that sounds like approval against your heat, and that’s all it takes for the dam to break. You release with a scream, thighs trapping his head between your legs, only releasing once you’ve come done from your high.

With the last bit of energy you can muster, you remove yourself from on top of him settling into his chest, nose nuzzling into the crook of his neck. His arms wrap around you, pulling you close, lips pressing against your forehead in a gentle kiss. “So proud of you baby, did so good for me, I love you so much.” He says softly meaning every word. When your breathing had evened out, your joint actions from earlier lulling you to sleep, Kaji thinks about how no song would ever compare to the sound of your contented breaths as you sleep, tucked safely in his embrace.

═════════ ❀•°❀°•❀ ═════════

Thought Kaji deserved some attention since he wasn’t in the last one. I’m thinking of writing for the loml Tsubaki next~ Hope you enjoyed, see you in the next one!

#windbreaker x reader #windbreaker smut #kaji ren x reader #ren kaji smut #ren kaji x reader #windbreaker x you #windbreaker (satoru nii)#wind breaker #ren kaji #windbreaker anime #sam writes

500 notes · View notes

christiangeistdorfer · 10 months ago

Text

favourite pictures of WOLFGANG "TAFFY" VON TRIPS

#our beloved wolfgang alexander albert eduard maximilian reichsgraf berge von trips #or simply taffy !#he will always be our taffy !!!#the more i learn about him the more i love him #he seems like a real gentleman. spoke many languages. studied agriculture. wanted to establish kart tracks around germany.#he would have won the 1961 championship...............#wolfgang von trips #1960s #classic f1 #formula 1 #f1

25 notes · View notes

riality-check · 1 month ago

Text

It comes to him in pieces. The slight scratch of worn cotton sheets. The steady whirrs and drips next to his head. The too-clean smell of too-dry air in a too-cold room.

Viktor opens his eyes to the expected sights of a blank ceiling, a too-narrow window, and a smoldering little fireplace too far from his bed to do much good. He has rarely been in hospitals - only when his health was exceptionally poor were they ever deemed worth it - but the few he has seen have all had the same blank, interchangeable features.

He laughs slightly, a brief exhale through his nose, when he realizes that this, the sterility of hospital rooms, is the only constant he has recognized between the Undercity and Piltover.

“Viktor,” someone says from beside him.

He turns his head. It is a slow process, one that feels like wading through honey. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, gritty as sand.

“Is there anyone you’d want me to send for?” Professor Heimerdinger asks before Viktor can begin to consider forming words. “I would have done so earlier, only… only I didn’t know if you wanted anyone to see you in this state. Or who you wanted. Some people can be sensitive about this sort of thing. I’ve had some students in the past who certainly were. But I can certainly send for your parents-”

“You would be sending for ghosts,” Viktor rasps.

A tool belt and a spoon sold for stale food. Snatches of faded songs in the language most familiar to me. Care in the form of sacrifice, in deprivation for my sake. Holding my hand, pinning me down, propping me up.

And no address to locate any of it.

“Oh.”

Rain begins to patter against the windows.

“I didn’t know,” he follows, after a moment.

Viktor disguises his bitter laugh as a cough.

“Is there anyone-”

“No.” Another beat. “But I appreciate the offer, Professor.”

There are people, back below, that Viktor owes for being here. To say that he is alive completely of his own merit would be a lie. In the years after his parents passed, in the nebulous period before he could completely get his bearings, cooks gave him meals at the end of the day. Shopkeepers permitted him to sleep in their back rooms. Tailors taught him to mend his clothes, clockmakers taught him more about the intricate workings of their machines, and the women at the brothels taught him how to defend himself against stronger opponents.

It was a lonely existence, no doubt, but to pretend it was a solitary one would deny the fact that Viktor owes a thousand small debts. Most of these, he will never have the opportunity to repay.

A thousand people helped him stay alive long enough to make it here. But none of them ever saw him delirious or incapacitated. To them, he was simply the tenacious, crippled child who required assistance every so often and repaid them by constructing little machines or fixing mechanical problems.

And he has no intention of changing that for them.

Heimerdinger nods distractedly. His nose twitches, and the silence stretches like taffy - distorting the longer it goes.

Viktor knows this feeling. Not well, but enough. It has been confirmed with the slowness of his thoughts, his movements, and his speech.

“They sedated me,” he states.

“Yes,” Heimerdinger says, visibly relaxing at the opportunity to give a certain answer. “You were-”

A mess. A nuisance. A member of the rabble making far too much of a scene for our comfort.

“In a tremendous deal of pain, I’m sure.”

Every conversation with a topsider feels like balancing on ice. The moment Viktor convinces himself that he is confident in the direction, it changes underneath his feet.

“It was bad,” he admits when the silence stretches again. “I could barely walk to class. I was delirious, I suppose, when I finally arrived. I was not in my right mind, and I foolishly thought that I could solve the problem of my knee locking in place if I used my cane for leverage behind it and… yanked it bent.”

As he talks, he twists his hands in the coarse sheets of the bed, focusing on their scratch instead of the way that describing it all feels like gargling glass.

Ashamed is not the word. Viktor is not less than due to his ailments. He has never been something to pity, and he has never, of his own volition, wanted to hide. He did not care before crawling up, before Heimerdinger opened this door and beckoned him inside. Only after blinking aside the glaring topside sunlight and taking in the entirely foreign world in which people still want but rarely need did he consider that these people with their gilded smiles and full stomachs might think differently.

They think Viktor is something to pity. They consider him an oddity. They wish he would limp back down to where all the other trenchers go to die, down to a place without family names or clear air.

He is not ashamed. But he is frustrated, embittered, and a hundred other emotions he must swallow back because he is not allowed to be any of them.

Instead, he must be grateful.

“It was foolish of me, and I apologize for disrupting your lecture,” he concludes, swallowing back anger and bile.

Heimerdinger all but gapes at him. Briefly and ridiculously, Viktor wishes the pain medication would lose its efficacy, and he could lose consciousness again. It would rescue him from this conversation.

“My boy, I don’t care about the lecture,” he says slowly. “I care if you’re alright.”

Bullshit, Viktor cannot help but think.

“How much do I owe for this?” he asks instead, gesturing down at his legs, covered by the sheet.

Heimerdinger’s fluffy eyebrows furrow. “Nothing. It’s included in tuition.”

“I do not pay tuition, Professor.”

I am here on your whim. I am here because you offered an opportunity to me, and I grabbed it with both hands like the greedy creature I am. I know you can take all of this away from me if you wanted.

I know this. Why do you not?

“Don’t worry about it,” Heimerdinger dismisses with a small wave. “You have more important things to worry about, like resting.”

“Absolutely not.”

Viktor throws the sheets off his legs. Through the haze of the medication, the pain simply throbs, a dull ache akin to hearing sound underwater. It is manageable and distant. Without the medication, he knows it would be agony. Sharp. Consuming.

He could manage it. He has managed it before, without this cushioning, and he can do it again.

Bite down.

His right knee has been heavily wrapped and splinted, neatly and professionally immobilized.

“Viktor,” Heimerdinger says firmly, “you dislocated your knee and sprained two ligaments. Plenty of students have missed for less.”

“I am not the same as other students.”

Heimerdinger frowns. “Of course you are.”

“I am not,” Viktor snaps. “No other student is from the Undercity, and no other student is a cripple.”

When Heimerdinger’s jaw drops open in shock, he recognizes that he has all but abandoned the rules he has set for himself to be polite and adherent and grateful.

Jump when they ask how high and bite down against the pain. Outwork them for a fraction of the recognition. Be their example, their photograph, their comfortable little abstraction brought to pallid life.

There is only the work until there is not. Until there are unfamiliar rules in a language second to his tongue. Until loneliness wraps its chilled arms around his ribs and squeezes. Until his leg screams in protest of being forced into normalcy. Until his body reels from the adjustment from near starvation to plenty, until the tapping of his cane is all he can fucking hear inside his skull, until it is the only sound they ever associate with him, introduction and trail in every space he will ever occupy.

And they punish him for it, for his habits and his inadequacies, in a thousand small, cutting ways, until he bleeds out and crumples. When he inevitably does, they will step over him like they do every other sump rat.

At least, until he pushes himself to his feet. Again, and again, and again, he stands. Damn the pain. He will hold his chin up and stand on his own two feet, cane firmly planted on the ground. Because fuck this place and what it has done to him.

Viktor knows what he is: a crippled trencher. Simple and absolute. Resilient with rough edges. This glittering, smooth place was not designed for him.

Resultantly, he was not designed for its rules.

“I am not the same as the other students,” he repeats coldly. “None of them have ever starved or slept using trash to keep warm. I highly doubt any of them ever breathed in fumes smelling of hell itself, or that they had to be held down by their parents when they tried, again and again, to fix a leg that simply refused any and all intervention.”

“Viktor-”

“No,” he snaps. “No, Professor. I listened when you met me for the first time and told me of the Academy. You told me it was somewhere perfectly suited for me. The Academy, you said, was somewhere I could flourish. It would be good for me. I was wasted where I was. I deserved to be there. All of that is what you said. So, now you will listen to me.”

Heimerdinger’s face shutters. After a long moment, he asks, “Did I lie to you?”

“What?”

“Was anything that I said untrue?” Heimerdinger inquires. “You were wasted in the Undercity. You have flourished at the Academy, so it’s been good for you. And you absolutely deserve-”

“I know I deserve to be here,” Viktor snaps. “But the Academy is not suited for me.”

Heimerdinger frowns, clearly upset at being interrupted, but Viktor seizes his opening regardless.

“I experience pain, daily, that would send most students to the infirmary in tears. I have missed classes because they are in locations so inaccessible to me that it is better for me to make up the work than risk the pain of attending them. I had to fabricate my own keys to the library and to classrooms so I could arrive early for comfortable seats.”

“You did what?” Heimerdinger says, missing the point. “That’s against the rules.”

Viktor waves him off. “I am from the Undercity, Professor. We are not known for following the rules.”

“You’re more than that.”

“Correct. I am a trencher, and a cripple.”

Heimerdinger freezes, much like he did that first day in his office, when he noticed Viktor’s cane for the first time. His eyes shift side to side, and he swallows uncomfortably.

“If you tell me that I am not a cripple,” Viktor says slowly, “I will lose every ounce of respect I ever had for you.”

This is not an empty threat. He learned early in his life that empty threats were often violently challenged, and so he never makes them.

The professor is… on thin ice already. Viktor is one semester away from graduation. He lays in an infirmary bed, half-sedated. He has already been incredibly rude.

He has very little left to lose.

“You are not only… your leg,” Heimerdinger finally ventures.

Viktor chuckles, a mixture of bitterness and amusement at Heimerdinger’s discomfort. “That is the first thing everyone sees. It will take a miracle to convince them beyond it.”

Heimerdinger quiets again, but this time, his brows furrow in contemplation, not anger.

Outside, it rains harder. The little fireplace still smolders uselessly. Viktor watches it, and in the time it takes for Heimerdinger to speak again, he nearly falls asleep.

But only nearly.

The professor says, “I’ve been teaching for more than two centuries, Viktor. I have never met your equal. If anyone can make a miracle, it’s you.”

He puts his hand on Viktor’s shoulder. Viktor musters all of his will to not shrug it off.

They remain like that for a few seconds. Then, Heimerdinger rises from his chair and totters out of the room with a kind look over his shoulder.

A week later, the staff release Viktor with a set of well-made crutches and strict instructions for care. They would have released him earlier if he had not, immediately after Heimerdinger’s departure, broken two fingers as he punched the stone wall of the infirmary.

The rest of this series, if you're so inclined: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

#ria writes #arcane #arcane fic #viktor #viktor arcane #piltover and zaun #arcane piltover #undercity #the undercity #arcane league of legends #character study #canon disabled character #studying the blorbo like a bug #ableism #classism #heimerdinger #arcane viktor #arcane heimerdinger #heimerdinger arcane

164 notes · View notes

idyllicwillowtree · 1 year ago

Text

God Eddie, You're So In Love With Me.

Genre: Eddie Munson x Henderson!reader, fem!reader, angst/fluff, hurt/eventual comfort, friends to lovers

Summary: Being in Hellfire, you’ve been exposed to your fair share of bullying. One day, Jason takes it a step too far.

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: bullying, anaphylaxis, poisoning, no physical descriptions of Y/N so you don’t have to look like Dustin, reader wears makeup, reader uses she/her, reader has a peanut allergy, reader is called princess, swearing

Author’s note: I got this idea from an episode of Freaks and Geeks (which is an awesome show I totally recommend). Peanut allergies weren’t so common in the 80s so that’s why Jason is so ignorant and dismissive about it.

Sorry I haven’t written in a while, I was hibernating.

Enjoy!

Main Masterlist

Part 1:

Eddie proudly sauntered into first period with his head held high and a smirk on his lips. His mouth was watering in anticipation. He plopped himself down in the seat next to yours, wide eyes and a wicked grin plastered on his face, an eager hand open towards you.

“Wow Eddie. It’s 7:29, you got here with a minute to spare,” you said as you leaned over to grab the bite size Laffy Taffy from your backpack to place in Eddie’s hand. “I think this candy reward system is really working.”

“Of course it worked, it was your idea after all. But today’s a special day, I was definitely not going to not be here,” Eddie said with too much energy for this early in the morning. He stuffed the yellow taffy into his mouth and chewed it like a happy 5 year old, wiggling in his seat with excitement.

“Are you talking about the photo?”

“Yeah! Hellfire finally gets a spot in the yearbook. We shall finally leave our mark on this cesspool we call a school,” Eddie said through the glob of candy in his mouth. He swallowed the treat harshly as he got a good look at you, “you look great by the way.”

“Yeah?” you said shyly, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. You started fiddling with the hem of your Hellfire shirt, “I thought I’d go with a bit more eyeliner today.”

“Yeah, you did a great job princess.” With the excuse of admiring your eyeliner, Eddie was able to take a moment to study your features. Your gaze stayed on your hands, picking at a loose thread.

“God, Eddie. You’re so in love with me,” you said with a teasing smile.

Eddie barked out a laugh, dimples on full display as he tried not to let your words affect him too seriously.

“Great, the flirting freaks are back at it again.” Jason remarked from a few rows behind you. Both of you turned around in time to see Andy dramatically fake gagging.

Before you could hurl an insult back at them, Eddie took notice of what Jason was snacking on.

“Hey asshole, you can’t eat peanuts in class.”

“Yeah? And who’s gonna stop me, Munson? You?” Jason said through a full mouth, spitting out chunks as he laughed obnoxiously with Andy.

You simply rolled your eyes at Jason, annoyed with the jocks and their willingness to tease and fight so early in the morning.

Eddie’s grip tightened on the back of his chair. His white knuckles caught your eye and you reached out to sooth him, hoping he wouldn’t start a fight he couldn’t finish. The second your hand landed on his, the tension in his shoulders deflated and the fire in his eyes was snuffed out as he sent you a reassuring smile.

Jason waved around his ziplock tauntingly, “Seriously freak, let’s see if you can actually take these from-”

“I’ll take those,” Mrs. O’Donnell said as she walked in behind Jason and snatched the bag. “Mr. Carver, you know you’re not allowed food in my class, let alone peanuts.”

“But coach said we have to protein-load before the game tonight,” Jason wined.

“Too bad. Some allergies can be very serious,” You shrunk in your seat as the other students turned to stare at you, knowing you were the one she was referring to. “You can get these back after class,” Mrs. O’Donnell said as she rounded the corner of her desk to address her students. “Now, everyone, please open your textbooks to chapter six.”

You, being the diligent student you were, immediately followed orders. Eddie on the other hand didn’t even remember to bring his book bag to school, but at least he got his candy.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I’m serious guys, I might have a crush on Mrs. O’Donnell now,” Eddie said to his bandmates as they sat in their unofficial assigned seats in the cafeteria.

“Just because an older female authority figure agreed with you and shut down Carver, doesn’t mean you should crush on your teacher dude,” Gareth said, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all.

“Besides, you already have a crush,” Jeff added with a teasing smile, the metal on his teeth catching the fluorescent lights.

“Are you guys talking about my sister?” Dustin said while throwing his lunch tray on the table, taking a seat next to Eddie. The rest of his sheep following close behind.

“No-”

“Yes,” all three of the older Hellfire members said in unison.

Eddie shot them a look that would’ve shut them up if the metalhead’s pale cheeks weren’t tinted pink.

“Gross,” Dustin added.

Mike’s brows did their signature furrow under his dark bangs, “I don’t get it, why doesn’t he just ask her out?” he said, purposefully ignoring Eddie’s presence at the table.

“GROSS,” Dustin repeated, hoping the subject would change.

Eddie was right there with him, picking up a pretzel and hurling it at Mike’s head, “I’d rather not share the complexities of the friendship-to-relationship pipeline with a baby freshman. And I. Don’t. Like. Her.” He growled, punctuating each word with a pretzel.

The metalhead’s angry scowl melted off his face at the sound of your laugh echoing through the high ceilings of the cafeteria. You were standing near the entrance with your Wonder Woman lunchbox in tow, tilting your head back as you chuckled at something Robin Buckley told you.

That was until Jason and his entourage of goons followed him in.

He had that damn bag of peanuts in his hand, swinging it around mockingly. Eddie watched as you became tense, eyes wide and glossy. You are practically hiding behind a fuming Robin.

Before the blonde could hurl her trumpet case at the jocks, Eddie stepped up behind you both, placing a ring clad hand gently on the small of your back to let you know he was there.

With his hand grounding you, you finally found your voice, “seriously Jason, if I come into contact with a peanut I could die.”

“Oh come on,” Jason said through a chuckle, “you’re that much of a freak that a little peanut is enough to kill you? I think you might be overreacting just a little.”

“Actually,” Dustin said as he came over to stand next to Eddie, “Anaphylaxis is incredibly dangerous. Allergic reactions to the proteins found in peanuts are cause by immunoglobulin E antibodies and can trigger severe inflammation and-”

“Dude, even her brother is a fucking dork,” Andy spat.

“Hey, don't talk to him like that,” Eddie said, stepping forward. You have always admired his fierce determination when defending your brother and the other freshmen. It’s part of what drew you to him in the first place. But this time there was no snarky comeback to Jason’s bullying. The severity of the situation on top of the jocks’ disregard for your safety was just pissing him off, making him uncharacteristically no-nonsense.

The group of letterman jackets erupted in a chorus of ‘oooohs’. The leader just licked his lips, eyeing Eddie before smirking at you.

"You know, you might be pretty if you actually tried."

It doesn’t have the effect on you that Jason had hoped, you could care less if he thought you were pretty. But before your athletically inexperienced friends could take on the basketball team, you plastered on your best fake smile.

“Thanks Jason, see you guys later,” you said as you pulled your friends away leaving him confused and unsatisfied by your reaction.

“What the hell, you’re just going to let him talk to you like that?” your brother protested.

“He’s never going to change, Dustin. I might as well play into it since he’s just trying to get a rise out of us.”

You wave bye to Robin as she went to sit with her band friends, all of them decked out in their extravagant green and yellow uniforms. Eddie slid Dustin’s tray away from the spot next to him so you could set your lunchbox there and sit at his left hand side. Dustin was muttering something about losing his seat but still scooched down, knowing there was no use in fighting it. Eddie always had you right next to him.

The next few minutes of lunch went by rather smoothly. Groups of students were taken out sporadically to go to the photo room and get their yearbook club photo taken with Nancy. Occasionally, you’d catch Jason sending you angry glares but you just ignored him in favor of listening to your fellow Hellfire members. They were rambunctiously throwing out theories about tonight's campaign while Eddie just sat there with his version of a poker face, not willing to spoil anything with a teasing grin plastered to his mouth.

His eyes connected with yours, feeling you staring at him. The moment he looked at you you bashfully lowered your eyes to the cup of applesauce you were stirring around. Eddie kept his gaze on you until Nancy walked up behind him.

“Alright Hellfire, you’re up,” Nancy said with a smile.

This was the first year Hellfire club was getting any sort of recognition in the yearbook. Previously, the teachers and students didn’t want to draw any more eyes to the alleged cult and their leader. Now that Nancy worked for the school, she played a big part in securing a photo for her brother’s club in the yearbook. Even though Eddie never liked conforming to frivolous High School expectations, he still felt honored. It was his last year after all (hopefully) and he wanted to make his mark.

You and the rest of the Hellfire members left your things at the lunch table and walked out of the cafeteria for the yearbook room down the hall. Your open applesauce was forgotten about as you followed Eddie out.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Your shoulders were still buzzing after taking the photo. Eddie had thrown his leather clad arm around you, pulling you closer to him, while his other hand did the sign of the horns. The smell of his cologne and the texture of his battle vest overwhelmed you so much you hoped it didn’t show in the photo. Although, the smirk Nancy sent you tells you it might have.

You and the rest of Hellfire sat back down in your original seats, besides your leader. As expected, Eddie had a lot of things to say in honor of your club getting recognized so he opted to stay standing.

“Hear ye, hear ye! Rejoice, for this day shall be etched in the annals of history as a testament to our unwavering spirit and valor!”

Going back to your lunch, you scoop up the velvety applesauce to resume eating. Expecting the familiar taste of sweet and tart, you flinched at the salty crunch and swallowed it on instinct.

“Let it be known that we have weathered the raging storm of schoolyard bullies, and emerged victorious! Our banners flying high, unfurled in the winds of destiny,” Eddie continued, not noticing your trepidation.

You frowned at the tickle in your throat that only continued to build as you tried coughing discreetly. The rest of the boys grinned, believing this was your way of hinting at Eddie to wrap up his speech.

“Let us raise our voices in jubilation, for today, we have proven that nothing is insurmountable to those who believe in their cause!” Eddie looked to you, hoping to see you looking up at him and smiling that way you do whenever he uses his renaissance voice. Instead he met your panicked eyes.

“Hey Henderson,” Jason called from across the cafeteria. “What happens now? Should we call an ambulance?” Andy shoved at his shoulder playfully and chortled alongside Jason.

Panic gripped you as you connected the dots.

“Yeah,” you wheezed, “call an ambulance.”

Part 2

603 notes · View notes

bunny-jpeg · 4 months ago

Note

can I pls have a spice pie and maple taffy… with drinks of dark roast coffee and a martini? Served Lance stroll? THANK YOUUUU UR THE GOAT

bakery menu

want to submit your own order? then hit up the menu! i'd love to see what you come up with! and thank you to all of those who have sent prompts, i am working really hard to get them all done. so thank you! i hope you enjoy this, to the twenty lance stroll fans who are all in my inbox (ily) <3 (also picking maple taffy for lance stroll is funny as hell)

edit: i realized that i horribly misread this prompt and got sub!character mixed up with sub!reader, so where ever you are anon. if you wish to submit another prompt, i am more than happy to write it properly for you. (it's been a long writing session tonight!)

spice pie: "i didn't know it was possible to be a liar and a slut." + maple taffy: "oh my god you're stupid." + dark roast coffee: sub!character reader + martini: mafia au served by lance stroll (formula one)!!

cw: smut/pwp, mafia au, mafia boss!lance, dom/sub, sub!reader & dom!lance, jealous!lance

maybe bringing you to las vegas was a bad idea. sin city wasn't the type of place that a girl liked you belonged in. you belonged in the lovely apartment that you and lance shared back in montreal. bundled up in your thick winter coat while you went to go pick up a bottle of wine for dinner or a late night snack run only to whine when the corner store was closed.

sin city was a whole other demon, one that you had never seen. that was what lance chalked it all up to, you trying to fit in, as you tried to leave your hotel room dressed on par with a nighttime slut.

"where are you going?" he asked as he rolled up the sleeves of his button up. he looked good in it, the fabric of the shirt clung to his arms perfectly, only slightly outshone by how it fit his shoulders.

"seeing the other girls, it's not every day we're in the same city." just as the heads of families kept in contact with each other, the significant others of said men in power also kept in contact. except your conversations were a little less business oriented. more casual and fun.

lance eyed you up and down. you were wearing something very revealing, very slutty. he gave a nod of his head, "and you're going dressed like that."

you looked down at your outfit. it was a satin baby pink slip with straps that crossed in the back. it was cut well above your knee and paired with strappy heels. you looked back at him, "why wouldn't i?"

"do you not see what's wrong with it? you look like you should be selling sex on the strip. like a whore!"

you pouted, "i don't look like a whore!" then stamped your foot down like a child. you watched lance roll his shoulders before he closed the space between you two and had you pressed against the door of the hotel room.

he grabbed you by the chin and made you look into his dark eyes. he said lowly, "oh my god you're stupid, i bet i could sell you on the strip tonight. maybe shove you in a stall at the casino and let you put those whorish lips to work." he rubbed his thumb across your bottom lip before he rubbed the lip gloss between his thumb and pointer finger, "you seem ready to be used in a glory hole."

your bottom lip wobbled, "i'm not a whore." you could feel your knees grow into jelly and lance simply pulled you in for a kiss. when he kissed you, you moaned into it and pressed yourself up against him.

when he pulled away and said, "i didn't know it was possible to be a liar and a slut." before he grabbed you by the ass and pulled you against him. his cock twitched in his slacks.

you pouted further at him before he pulled you into another searing kiss. it was excited you in a way that you felt almost pathetic when you moaned loudly against him. there was something about your mafia boyfriend that made you simply melt. you were twisted between his fingers, which was why it was so hard to disobey him.

he looked at you for a moment before he roughly patted your cheek, "yeah, you're not going out tonight. tell your girlfriends that we made other plans tonight."

"what do i say?"

he took you by the hand and pulled you away from the door. you were pressed against him for a moment which made you feel warm between your legs. he replied, "lie." and it wasn't before you were on the large hotel room and you were looking up at your boyfriend.

there was something domineering about lance's strong, dark features. there was a mystery about him that lured you in. that was probably why you were initially drawn to him. he was slowly unbuttoning his shirt and eyed you up and down.

it wasn't hard to get you out of the dress, it was barely a scrap of fabric that covered you. if lance pulled on it hard enough he could probably tear the seams. but if he did that, you'd probably cum on the spot. you weren't wearing a bra and the panties you wore barely covered anything.

"i could've sold you for a pretty penny tonight." he chuckled as he took off his belt and wrapped it around his hand for a moment, but then unwound it. you were a glutton for punishment and lance wasn't going to quench that thirst.

you looked at him, naked on the bed. you were seated on the mattress with your legs stretched out. you pouted, "i'm sorry, sir." and that licked something in lance's brain.

it made him drop his belt to the ground and he chuckled, "someone really is sorry, huh." he leaned forward and cupped your face for a moment. he could almost feel your racing pulse under his fingers, "next time, i get to pick what you wear. so i know that you're being safe out there. this city would eat you alive, sweetheart. if i lost you, i don't even want to think what i would do. rip the city in half."

you felt something swim in your guy. you licked your lips, tasting the bubblegum of your lip gloss. you pulled away and laid out on the bed. eventually you inched yourself up into the pillows and reached your arms out for him.

lance quickly got his slacks and undergarments off before he got into bed with you. he got himself between your legs, his chest pressed against yours. your legs hiked up around his waist and his hard cock against your slick pussy.

"fuckin' hell." he groaned as he kissed at your neck, "you feel like a dream. i know it. i know you so well, every inch of you." he sank his cock into you and your toes curled a little. you tensed for a moment before you relaxed enough to slot himself into you.

you held onto his shoulders and let out a soft moan.

lance admired your expression for a moment. he felt a shudder of pleasure through his body as he held onto your hips. he made sure that you were more comfortable with his cock inside of you before he started to move. he rocked against you, gaining momentum with each of his movements.

"i've admired you every day since i met you. you are the most beautiful woman in any city were in. no one holds a candle to you." he gripped onto you tighter and you did the same. the two of you were soon kissing deeply, the kisses were heavy and muffled the noises that you two made. but not the sounds of the hotel bed creaking under you.

"mmm, lance." you whimpered as he moved against you. you could feel the heat across you body. your cheeks flushed with sexual heat. this was how you two always ended up, tumbled in the sheets together, rutting against one another like animals.

"see, you look much better like this. better than any club. if you wanted to get drunk, we could do that here. and then i'd make sure your hangover wasn't too bad. fuck the drunk out of you." he chuckled lowly as he continued to fuck you.

you felt the pleasure continue to course through you. you held onto him tighter as you tried to pick up the pace. the moans were loud and sweet, "please, sir." you were lance's everything. from a lover to a sexual submissive. you drove him wild.

the pace between you two was quick as the two of you fucked with a heat between the two of you. the kisses continued, they were messy just like your pace. it wasn't long before you clutched onto lance tightly with your head on his shoulder as you felt so close to him. sweaty all over.

"beautiful." he hissed as he felt the pleasure hit its peak. you both came at the same time. you thought you could feel his heartbeat as he finished inside of you. you both were panting heavily and the sweat covered your body. you laid out there under him while he pulled away a little bit to admire your naked form. he licked his lips at the sight of you and said, "mine."

you nodded dumbly and said, "yours, always." before lance had you on your elbows and knees with your hips raised. you'd text the others later about why you couldn't meet up with them. but it was hard to do that when your phone was in the living area and lance was rearranging your insides. <3

159 notes · View notes

ataraxiaspainting · 5 months ago

Text

Morningstar's Road.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader x Yan Feitan.

Synopsis: Your routine is average, to say the least. But due to Chrollo’s orders, Feitan cannot snatch you up yet – so he simply mirrors your behaviors instead for self-satisfaction. His boss does so too.

Warnings: Yandere themes, stalking, kidnapping, a few suggestive actions, manipulation, some descriptions anxiety/depression for the reader, animal death, and violence/some gore.

Word Count: 4.4k.

*~*~*~*

Feitan is so close to you that he can just about hear your beating heart. He could only see the back of your head, hair loose and surely will be knotted by the morning sun, but he can smell you whenever he is this close.

You always smell so nice, but for some reason, you smell even better – of that floral-scented oil you put on your neck and wrists before you go to bed. Maybe you added extra because it is the weekend.

You are on your right side – the fetal position was always your favorite – and hugging a plush that resembles your childhood cat. This was typical behavior for you; you had cried for days when your older sister called to say he had passed from old age. You weren’t weeping anymore, but you were when you saw the stuffed animal near the window of that dollar store you pass by daily on your way to work. You named it Silky, the same as the real thing, and tuck it in whenever you are in and out of bed. Feitan somewhat wished he could get the same treatment, to be in your arms as you sleep and to feel just a hint of your comforting warmth.

Feitan brought his own blanket.

It isn’t pastel pink like your sheets or your pillowcases or your pajamas and it has holes from moths and years of being stretched as he grew and his fights came to have higher and higher stakes.

If he had recalled correctly the bloodstains from the first time he was stabbed were just under the giant white skull pattern, although since most of the blanket is black it wouldn’t show even in the brightest of lights.

If he had recalled correctly the bloodstains from the first time it was stolen are still there too; on the bottom right corner.

“This type of nen won’t last forever, Fei.”

Feitan turns his neck, his bandana doing little to hide the slight scowl on his face. “I know.”

“Now, now… I never said you did not.” Chrollo responds while giving a small smile, still having the Bandit’s Secret in his right hand while your diary is held in his left. He turns to the next page while Feitan goes back to snuggling up beside you.

If Chrollo had a third arm, he could have the rest of your coffee you didn’t finish and left in your fridge. There is a lipstick stain, the color of that tint you often sport when in your office space. A light taffy color, he muses.

Very fitting.

“I simply wanted you not to fall asleep too slow or too deep, we do have to leave by dawn after all.”

Feitan said no answer. Chrollo is used to that – a little too used to it, maybe, but Feitan has always stood out from fellow people from Meteor City even by the Phantom Troupe’s standards.

“Same oil?” He asks, and on cue, Feitan gives a loud sniffing sound.

“Yes.”

“Cute.”

Around your waist Feitan’s left arm lays, and his right hand holds the blanket tighter than a noose.

If Chrollo were to guess, if Feitan had a third arm he would put two of its fingers on your lips to feel how soft they were. Chrollo had done so before, but his friend hadn’t. He almost chuckles at the irony. The member of the Troupe the most intimate when it comes to matters of anatomy and torture felt that his fingertips having pink on them was a line he could not cross. It’s almost funny in a way. It’s adorable.

“Boss.”

“Hm?”

“For just a while,” Feitan starts. His tone is shy, like a little boy about to ask his classmate crush for their hand in marriage. “Can you read it to me?”

“‘It’?” Chrollo teases slightly, yet he knows what Feitan is talking about.

“The thing in your hand.”

“‘Thing’?”

Feitan huffs a bit and follows it up with a sigh.

“The… diary. Please.”

*~*~*~*

I think I’m getting worse and wondering if I have ever been happy with myself.

There is this girl that sits at the desk across from mine, Lyra is her name, and I don’t hate her by any means.

I just wish I was her, you know? She gets along with everyone in our office, Her hair is always nice. She has only been here since February and has already been promoted to the status it took me three years to get.

Don’t get me wrong, she is incredibly nice and I always have a few laughs with her from time to time. Maybe it’s just my insecurities getting to me.

I wonder if sometimes she has similar thoughts when with other people, or even me if that were possible. I know she has a habit of procrastination and has a record of not handing in her work until a few days or weeks later – those are qualities I don’t have, but maybe she doesn’t feel anything negative about herself.

I’m known as the quiet and sweet girl at my job.

I’ve always had a bone to pick with the title, in a way. All my life that is what I was labeled as. People come to me for advice, and it does make me feel good, but I wish I could be a jokester like Lyra too.

That’s all I have… at least for now, I guess. I’m going to drink tea with honey and go to bed.

May 8th

*~*~*~*

The duo entered through the front door this time. You were gone tonight, as evidenced by the messy pile of umbrellas and house shoes that flooded the entrance, so they could break in without much sneaking around. They know where you headed to – and for now, Chrollo orders Feitan not to slit the man’s throat and gouge out his eyes. Your boyfriend, the only one of your past romantic interests not yet dead. Francis.

He’s quite the simple fellow as Chrollo had noted. Feitan was only focusing on where his organs started and ended when they both saw you with him near midnight months before.

“Not yet.”

Chrollo turns his head and looks down at Feitan as they walk down the hall.

“I know you’re still thinking about it, but your actions may cause our plan to fail.”

No verbal response, though Chrollo notices how Feitan’s steps get slightly louder.

“Fine.”

“Are you saying you’re fine? Or are you still agreeing to not go haywire on the man yet?”

“New one.”

“Hm?”

“New word.” Feitan’s nails retract slightly from your walls as he rolls his eyes. “Hay… wire.”

His hand stops at a photo of your dead cat framed on the wall – he’s a kitten in this one, with his first collar and teenager you hugging him – but your face is cropped out.

He moves the hand away from it for just a few steps. Chrollo finds it polite of him – as polite as Feitan can be with others, anyway.

At the same time, they consider bringing the photos you took off your walls and onto whatever penthouse walls Chrollo has rented out for the next few months or so. It would be cute seeing smiling pictures of you all over, especially since you’ll be switching locations soon enough, and in turn, that expression will soon enough become rare.

But when Chrollo thinks about the idea further, a problem arises. Your photos aren’t focused on you. They’re focused on your friends and family. You are always in the corner or hidden behind someone else. It’s of your own volition. Chrollo is sure of it. Perhaps he can get Shalnark to work his magic on them and ignore the teasing. Feitan would do nothing more than threaten to bash in his teeth, as with friends he is nothing more than a ‘grumpy wet cat’ – those are Shalnark and Uvogin’s own words. Not Chrollo’s.

“No.”

“Hm?”

“I’ll cut ‘em,” Feitan suggests while putting his sharp nails on your bedroom’s door frame.

“How do you intend to do so when there’s near nothing to cut out?” Chrollo asks. Feitan goes silent until he sits on your bed.

It’s still unmade. You must have ignored that chore list of yours again and opted to work extra hours instead.

Chrollo sits down at the small part of your room that is clean; your desk. It’s mainly used for just reading and video games, hence why the only two things not neatly in piles are a book and your computer. Shalnark told them both the password, but neither of them had decided to tread into that territory for multiple reasons. Firstly, neither of them knows a single thing about the internet and simulations. Secondly, Shalnark can just get whatever information they need without them looking inside it themselves anyway. Thirdly, they already know you enjoy wholesome things on there – the opposite of what you’re reading, if the books on your unfinished read pile mean anything to Chrollo – so there is no point in venturing for unneeded facts about you.

You’ll surely tell them yourself one day.

Eventually. In maybe weeks. Months. Years.

Eventually.

It’ll feel like forever and a day if you decide not to talk to either of them. Chrollo and Feitan have agreed without any argument that if you want something, you will ask them. Nicely, of course.

Broken fingers aren’t necessarily something people flaunt.

You wouldn’t brag about being forced onto a lap for hours out on a balcony either.

You’ll eventually tell them. You have to. For your sake.

Eventually. Nothing lasts forever, after all.

“Fei. I promise you that this will be worth the wait.”

Feitan shakes his head, scoffing. “Will it? It would have been easier to just grab her and run.”

“I know,” Chrollo leans in a little, putting his elbows on his thighs. “I know. But you’ll lament it. I would have too if I had agreed with you to go down that route.”

A stare is the response.

It isn’t anger, Chrollo knows that much.

No.

In all the years Chrollo has known Feitan, Feitan has never gone back on his loyalty to him and the Troupe.

But. But.

Chrollo hasn’t ever seen him have such a concurrence when there is still such division in his eyes.

“Are you sad?” He asks.

“No,” Feitan replies, looking at your cat plush instead of his leader of the full moon outside.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

*~*~*~*

Francis lives outside the city in a farmhouse. It’s up a tall hill with no pathway aside from little rectangular stones here and there – and if you ignore the animals and their housing, people would think that the place is deserted.

Feitan and Chrollo make their way to the white picket fence surrounding the chicken coop. They continue to bite down into the soil for worms or leftover grain. All female. Only three were brown; the others were smaller in frame and white.

“I’ve heard his eggs go for high prices in markets,” Chrollo grins a little. “Maybe I’ll raise some chickens of my own in my later years.”

Feitan raises an eyebrow at him.

“I was joking, Fei.” He clarifies.

“Ah.”

Feitan continues to walk with his hands still stuffed into his coat pockets.

Chrollo looks at the farmhouse up at the top of the hillside. The lights are still on, meaning you were most likely still up and about in there.

The rooster resting on top of the mailbox makes eye contact with him for a few moments.

“Don’t scream,” Chrollo murmurs, his words sweet as sugar.

“What?” Feitan asks, not even bothering to turn around.

“I’m talking to the rooster.”

“[First]’s rubbing off on you too much.” His friend rolls his eyes and makes sure not to step on a twig.

“Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed how these animals look at us.”

“They’re animals now. What came before… that doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Maybe to you – but I find it intriguing.”

“Talk later,” Putting his hand on the fence gate that leads to Francis’ garden, Feitan turns his head for just a moment. “Near. Quiet. Look.”

For once, Chrollo is the one that does the nodding.

The gate gives off a little squeak as it is opened. It reminds them of Francis’ prized pet pig Annie – though she is only allowed to be inside.

There are all sorts of vegetables and some fruits back here. Cucumbers, chili peppers, watermelons, corn, tomatoes, peaches, pears. They’re all in pristine condition, and so are the flowers growing in pots near the far-off window sills.

Feitan considers giving you the daisies.

Chrollo considers giving you the marigolds.

They both look at the pig’s head hastily buried under the soil, her ears still popping out and facing the moon. Despite the interment being new, perhaps even being dug today, flies have already spread to the top part of the head and ears. They’re happy you didn’t see her because that would be quite an awful gift from your boyfriend.

Francis is probably happy too, not that they care.

From what Shalnark was able to gather from someone who barely has any social life, Francis moved here from another country about four years ago. He acquired this farm and its land almost immediately afterward.

From a lottery, Shalnark had explained to them. Or an inheritance. Either way, man’s life is going pretty dang good. Too good, actually, because my senses are tingling too much.

Shalnark was right in that regard. Francis may adopt animals from time to time from farmers’ markets, but a majority of them suddenly appear a few days or weeks apart. There were three white chickens he had purchased. Then after a month or so, there were twelve. The three brown ones came all at once one day.

“Where’s Annie?” They hear you ask as you open one of the windows to get some fresh air. “She usually runs to the door to see me…”

Using hatsu to conceal their presence, the pair aren’t detected among the plants.

“She ran away.”

Feitan almost snickers at your boyfriend’s answer, looking down at the flies and corpse rotting beneath his feet. He didn’t mind the smell of rotting flesh – he has almost always enjoyed it since he was in his teenage years.

Chrollo’s feet don’t dig into the soil – he has opted to instead stand on the few pieces of stone that are by the cucumber plants. He makes a note to go to the laundromat after this; even though it has already been the third time in a row this week alone.

If he can convince Feitan, they’ll steal some things from your place to wash up too – Francis has always been touchy, after all.

“That’s weird,” You say worriedly, not looking into the garden anymore but instead inside; to Annie’s little bed huddled next to the window. “Did you leave the gate open?”

“Yes, I’m still rather upset about it but I’m sure she’ll be found soon.”

Soon. Chrollo grins a bit as he closes his eyes, imagining the moment he’ll save you from this man. Soon isn’t enough. No. This…

This is the moment.

This is the day.

This is the time.

“Feitan.”

“Hm?”

Francis will die today. Or tomorrow maybe, Chrollo isn’t completely sure.

“Don’t make it too bloody,” He instructs, getting off the stones and onto the dirty tiles of the garden’s path to the back door. “I’ll focus on her. We’ll leave the others alone.”

“Fine.”

“Thank you, Feitan.”

Feitan looks confused for a moment. If Chrollo were someone who hadn’t grown up beside him, he wouldn’t have noticed the small millisecond of his friend showing emotion. ‘For what?’ He wants to ask.

Chrollo knows it. He knows it so he answers the silent question. “For being more vulnerable with her and I. [First] seems to have rubbed off on you too much too, huh?”

“I don’t like your jokes,” Feitan replies as he stuffs his pockets even more – perhaps to hide his balled-up fists. Whether they were made from the hatred of Francis or the annoyance of everything else is up to interpretation. No one will be getting an answer anyway, even Feitan himself. “You’re very happy lately.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Chrollo’s grin widens just a smidge more. “We’re about to rescue a princess.”

From that look, he knows Feitan agrees with his reasoning and is happy as well.

*~*~*~*

“You’re beautiful, darling.”

You’re laid out on Francis’ bed. It’s rather large for a room this size, but it is comfortable to undress on. You picked a periwinkle blue dress today with buttons on only its top front side. Francis wanted to help but you declined. You don’t decline a lot of things, especially when it comes to him. Francis is annoyed by that but he tries not to let it show. He hides a lot of things from you.

“Thank you.” You sheepishly smile, a light flush on your cheeks as you start to undo your buttons.

“Of course,” You’re his favorite by far. You aren’t stuck up or are with him just for his money. You’re so nice to him. You’re so sweet to him. “I wouldn’t lie to you, honey.”

You aren’t like those whores, those sluts, those fucking cheap little bitches.

“I’ll take it slow since it’s your first time and all.” He promises.

You look up at him.

Your frown is just barely noticeable – but noticeable enough for him to see.

“What’s wrong?” Francis asks.

“Lyra’s still missing… I’m worried.”

“Why?” Francis asks, getting more annoyed the more time you spend covered up. “Why are you so worried about her right now? It’s not the time for that.”

“I don’t know,” You look at the open window, cool air still blowing in along with the slight scent of flowers. “I really don’t, I just… have suddenly gotten a little sad just now.”

You’re shivering a little.

“Ah, you must be cold.” He deflects. Having only his shirt on now, he walks up to the windowsill and looks at the vegetable patch. With both hands, he pulls the window closed. “Better?”

You must not have heard him, because you keep playing with your buttons instead of being fully undressed already.

“Could you…”

Ah. You did hear him, but you seem concerned for something else. That’s fine, as long as you aren’t playing with him and will soon attempt to run away.

“Close the curtain? Please? I’d really… appreciate it.”

“Sure,” Francis replies, his smile returning to his face. “Anything for you. Just get comfortable, pumpkin.”

The wicked thing came all at once before either of you could blink. Shards of glass flew into Francis and into the bedroom walls. Francis screams as his bleeding hands are quick to go to his eyes, his fingers attempting to get the glass shards out of them before his vision is gone for good. In front of you was a stranger in a suit – he pushed you out of the way in a fraction of a second and onto the floor. The bed had shielded you and him.

“Are you alright?”

You’re too shocked for words, peeking from behind the bed to where Francis is still screaming.

In front of him was a man in all black stepping on the back of his head with one of his feet. The soles of his boots seemed lodged into Francis’ scalp, and it takes you a moment to realize why. There were spikes on them; not that you could see them much because of how hidden they seemed to be right now. They’re silver judging by the color of their slight sparkle, but the rusted kind. No. Maybe that’s just the bloodstains.

The feeling in your chest is so horrible like you’re very sick. There’s pressure on your heart. It’s strangling you, despite the taller stranger’s grasp on your shoulders being so pleasant. So tender.

“What are you doing?” You screech. The sound doesn’t make either of the intruders flinch. Francis does instead. “Let go of him!”

The shorter man doesn’t look at you, opting to wedge the spikes of his shoes further into Francis’ brain. You try to get up but the man in the suit pulls you back down, shushing you as you protest and cry. “Don’t… it’ll be over soon. I told him to be gentle, you see.”

“Gentle?” You repeat.

“Yes, my dear.” One of his hands rises from your shoulders to where your eyes are. You struggle some more and the stranger whispers something in your ear. “Behave – I can always tell Feitan to torture him the amount he deserves if I wanted to. I know he wants to.”

You deflate and your eyes are forced shut by his palm. “Please stop… I don’t know what we did, just please-”

“You didn’t do anything,” The other man – Feitan if the taller man had named him right and he wasn’t just some assassin he hired; he said his name so tenderly too like he is an old friend – interrupts you. “He did.”

You feel like you’re about to throw up all the wonderful food you just ate. Chicken pot pie, beef tenderloin, roasted pork belly – it all feels like it is about to release from your throat and onto the wooden planked floor below.

“Oh dear,” Another hand covers your nose and mouth. Instead of blood you now smell cologne – sandalwood and amber. “Can you please hurry up, Fei? She looks like she’s about to collapse.”

*~*~*~*

“It’s a wonderful time to be alive,” Chrollo says as he puts the key into his car’s lock. It’s embedded with little multicolored jewels – he had commissioned some artist to customize it for him a week or so ago while Feitan went into your home on his own. “Or at least a wonderful night. Wouldn’t you say so?”

You’re in the passenger seat. You fell unconscious after Francis’ barely alive body got its fingers broken one by one. Some of his blood got on your skirt, but Chrollo is sure that the laundromat will fix that just like the workers will fix his clothes. As long as he pays them enough or threatens them enough. The latter would be more fun for Feitan but the former would let him be seen as a kind patron. Whichever way the coin flips.

He doesn’t blame you for fainting. If he hadn’t been born in Meteor City and hadn’t been raised in a constant state of fear and a constant battle for power over others, he would most likely do the same.

Feitan is in the back, silent. His hands now have gloves on them and are now brushing through your hair.

“Should we make the pit stop or go straight?” After the second question, the car’s lights turn on.

“Bed.”

The car starts moving into the barren street.

“Alright,” Chrollo chuckles a little at the insistence in Feitan’s tone. “We can get some of [First]’s clothes tomorrow then. She’ll probably sleep throughout the day.”

He doesn’t explain why because they both already know the reason. There is a short chain attached to the main bed. Depending on your behavior early on, it will either lengthen or become briefer.

There are also some syringes in the mirror vanity that Feitan asked him over and over to keep in case of an emergency. He doubts there will be any real threat where they would have to use them.

Feitan doesn’t. Feitan doesn’t doubt many things.

“Blankets too.”

Feitan doesn’t ask for many things either, much less demand them.

“Ah,” Chrollo makes the left turn as his fingers tap on the steering wheel. It’s a song you enjoy listening to on your avenue home. He knows you aren’t listening to it but that doesn’t matter right now. He’ll continue to do so until your mind associates the tune with small controlled adventures to and fro and not you having a life of your own. “All of them?”

“Yes. Please.”

“You don’t say that word very often,” He teases, looking at the flat glass mirror overhead.

“Hmph.”

Putting his hand on your thigh, Chrollo continues to drive while still glancing upward now and then.

*~*~*~*

Your heartbeat has calmed down. Feitan is now able to look at your face as you sleep.

You look at peace now. When he had placed you on the bed, your eyebrows furrowed for a moment – perhaps your subconscious being afraid – or disgusted – by him.

The flowery scent of your perfume vanished long ago and has been replaced by a stinging one. Feitan doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind a lot of things when it comes to you.

Unlike the bodies of those who have died by his hands, Feitan places the white blanket on top of you gently like you would shatter if he was just a tad bit rougher.

Well… Body bags don’t really count as blankets, do they? They are meant to be ripped open and stuffed full of parts no wandering soul hopes to find.

Chrollo decides to break the silence. “After she adjusts a little, we’ll leave. Or you can stay if you want. I can carry her things on my own.”

Feitan turns to look at him.

“Pictures.”

Chrollo sighs. “Alright. But we’ll get Shal to edit them. No cutting.”

“...Tch. Fine. Silky too.” A thumb is pressed against your lips. After it is lifted, there is a light pink that covers its print.

“It’s a pretty color, isn’t it?” Chrollo muses, hanging his suit jacket on the edge of his sofa as he holds his book. “I’ll try to get the same shade for her when she runs out of it. Though I suspect it will be a while before then, huh?”

“It’s fine,” Feitan states, rubbing his thumb against your lips more. “She will always be pretty to me.”

“Never took you for the romantic type, Fei.”

“Hmph.”

292 notes · View notes