#silver price manipulation

[siliconpalms]

Unraveling the Silver Market: Investigating Claims of Price Manipulation

The financial markets are a complex web of transactions, investments, and speculation, where the interplay of various factors determines asset prices. Within this intricate landscape, the silver market holds a unique position due to its dual role as both an industrial commodity and a financial investment. However, it has been the subject of intense scrutiny and speculation over the years,…

[yeyinde]

victory lap

“Got a proposition for you, Simon,” the man says, and Simon snorts. He reeks of the same brand of cheap cigarettes as always—stale smoke, day-old tobacco; acrid and unpleasant. It makes his skin itch.  “an’ I told you already, Price. I ain't interested in a team—” “Not a team, Simon.” The look he levels him with is nothing short of malicious. Dangerous. His hackles raise on instinct, everything inside of him hissing to back away. “Got something else in mind.” Then through the door was you. Pretty as a picture— And all his for the night. or: John strikes a deal with young Simon Riley. his cooperation on a team they're putting together in exchange for a night with you. naturally, it goes awry.

18+ SMUT. implied noncon, dubcon. under-negotiated kink. bondage. overstimulation. size difference. size kink. messy, sweaty gross sex. rough sex. unsafe sex. mean Simon. smitten Simon. bullydom!Simon. spit kink. degradation and humiliation. young!Simon (pre-mw2019-2022 when he was still a Seargent; 25-28ish). manipulation. attempts at taming a stray dog that goes as well as you'd expect.

It's John who takes his muzzle off.

Dangles the key on his finger when he kicks open the door, letting his Lieutenant glimpse what lay behind it. Giving a gruff, like what you see? when his eyes finally adjust to the low light flooding in.

It takes him half a second. Enough time to commit the scene in front of him to memory.

It's you, of course.

good dogs get rewards, don't they, Simon?

Waiting for him. Pretty as a picture in sleek silk chiffon ribboned in intricate shibari around your chest, stomach, and thighs. Legs spread on the table; ankles tied down to the sides in nude jute rope. Hands clasped together, fingers laced; wrists tied above your head. The blindfold wrapped around your head is a pale pink ribbon, thicker than the silk on your body. Wrapped twice over your eyes, and tied in a pretty bow behind your head, he imagines.

In the split of your thighs, he finds you already slick. Wet. It drips down onto the table, puddling beneath your ass. The spread of your pussy, glistening in the flushed light; the small, pink vibrator taped to your clit makes his cock twitch. 

"All for me?" He rasps, eyes fixed on your cunt. On how pretty it looks. How inviting. A soft, ripe peach offered in the heat of summer, and he wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into you. Her. "'ow sweet o'you."

And Price, he thinks, eyes slanting sideways as he glances at the man sliding into his chair. It stands to reason that this whole thing, you on a silver platter for a starving wolf, wouldn't have happened if he hadn't seen the look on Simon's face when you first met him. The hunger.

Simon's not stupid, of course. He knew you were off limits the moment Price put his paw on your nape, squeezing once. Owned, claimed. The intention, the message, clear. Mine.

Don't touch.

And the way you lit up, stammering out something about how good it was to meet him, told him everything he needed to know how your willingness to be shackled to his Captain.

But even so—

He couldn't take his eyes off of you.

(and in his intense cataloguing of everything you did, he couldn't help but notice how you kept touching your neck when Price was dragged away for a conversation leaving you all alone in a room rankled down his spine. almost as if you were reaching up to fix a collar—)

The memory alone makes him shudder.

"All yours, Simon," Price drawls from his perch on the throne. Between two fingers, a cigar sits, unlit. Ghost huffs.

The words are a vicious bite to the want pooling low in his belly. "That so?”

The room seems to shake when he steps inside. Floor creaking ominously under his weight. It makes your mouth drop, heavy breaths spilling out between dull teeth. Chest rising and sinking shallowly with a wild sort of nervousness that flits across the expanse of your cheeks, in the tremble of your lower lip. 

Despite your unease, your legs stay open. Held aloft by the rope, he knows, but also—

A testament to how trained you are. 

He prefers his pets wild. Unpolished. Vicious little things that he gets to bring to heel with a sharp bark and rough hand glued to the back of their skulls, pushing their head into the dirt, to the floor, where it belongs. 

Fine china broken at his feet. 

But you—

Manicured. Groomed to perfection. Save for the harsh breaths and the shake in your joints—both an indication of just how new you are at this. A novice. One slowly being crushed under the leather boot of a man who reeks of smoke and whiskey. 

But knowing his captain and the furious need for control, he imagines you're better than some of the seasoned ones he'd come across in his lifetime. No room for errors.

And certainly no forgiveness for them, either. 

His cock twitches again—a heavy, aching weight against his thigh—and he reaches down to cup the thickness of it, crushing the flesh in his palm to stave off the need burning in his loins. The urgency to sink inside of your pretty little cunt rewiring the part of him that likes to mess his pets up first. Ruin them before he takes them. Fucking them to the point of unconsciousness—and sometimes, beyond it. 

But you—

You've been a phantom taste in the back of his throat for months now. A tease between his teeth. Sinking his jowls into you is the only thing on his mind. 

And when you're offered up so enticingly—

Well. 

Price can't blame him much for how badly he's going to ruin you. 

He reaches out, fingers pressing cruelly into the slim, thumb-sized vibrator Price has locked against your clit. A mindless, incessant torture, he's sure. Pushing you over the edge on a constant, unrelenting loop. 

“Messy girl,” he rasps, the starchy fabric of the mask glueing to his balmy skin. 

The reprimand makes you flinch in shame, but the flutter of your cunt belies the contrition that drapes over your brow in a shallow mimicry of sorrow. He can see why Price latched onto you so quickly, and doesn't bother fighting the stab of envy that brims in his chest. 

“Didn't your old man ever teach you any manners?” He mocks, dry and derisively. Quietly amused by the soft mewl you let out, one that only just eclipses the snort from Price. “Daddy's been slackin’, ‘asn’t he? Let his little girl turn into a messy fuckin’ slag.” 

You try to close your legs to no avail, the rope keeping you spread. In part, he thinks, from shame—blistering, burning, and vibrant when it streaks across your face—but mostly from the slick gush that leaks out of your drenched pussy at his foul words. Trying to hide it from him. To keep him from knowing just how much the brassy roll of his ugly words makes your empty little cunt ache. 

“Look’it you.” He rumbles, enjoying the shiver in your joints. The way your head rolls to the side, nose pressed tight to the skin of your arm. “Messy pussy just achin’ to be fucked.”

He adds more pressure until you choke. The scream lodged in your throat. Your toes curl. He hears the soft pop of your joints when you arch your back like a cat in heat yowling for attending. 

“Want it bad, don't you?” He taunts. “Daddy must’a spoiled you too much—” another scoff from Price. The creak of leather. The clink of ice against glass. “Didn't teach you any manners—”

He wants you to beg. Wants to hear the peal of your voice—rough and ragged and begging him to sink inside you; fuck your little cunt until you can't walk anymore—but that's not what he's here for. Not why Price dragged him up to the room. Gave you to him. 

And with the silk gag in your mouth, he knows he won't get it, anyway. Tied in a pretty bow behind your head. Wet with your spit already. 

Simon's fingers slide down, dragging over the folds of your cunt. You're wet. Soaked. Drenched in a way he's never seen before; folds glistening. Thighs wet. Sticky. He licks his lips. Tastes the brine of his sweat. He wants to eat your pussy. Spread you wide on his tongue and make you beg Price to let Simon make you cum. 

The thought roots in his head. Burrowing deep. He can already hear your sweet voice pleading with his captain—please, please let him make me cum—but he pushes it down when Price makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat. 

He knows why he's here. 

And wonders, then, when he steps back and drops his hands to the button on his trousers, how many times you've been punished like this. The thought is a sour smoulder in the back of his head. An ugly, foul thing unfurled over the soot-stained walls of his skull. 

(he'll ask later. get the names of every man Price let see you like this, and pluck the memory of you right from their skull—)

“So needy,” he drawls, dragging his cock out of his slacks as they fall low on his thighs. “Even after this pussy���s been spoiled so much?”

It makes you keen, and the noise is a searing knife to his guts. He groans with it—low and rough, the noise scraping over the flesh of his throat until it hurts. 

“Gonna have to punish you, ain't I? Needy fuckin' thing—” so he says, but his cock is just as sticky as your thighs, weeping a steady stream of pre-cum that pools in the tangle of hair at the base, dusting over his heavy, fat balls. 

He shuffles closer, and reaches out to your knee, slipping his fingers behind your shin. The squeal of naked flesh against the metal tabletop shouldn't make him throb but it does. Cruel man, he thinks, and drinks in the way you wince. 

He presses his cock against your slit, mouth dropping in a harsh pant when he takes in the hideous sight it makes. Your pussy is covered up by his girth. The tip of his cock bobbing over your belly button, dripping pre-cum into the divot. 

Simon pulls his hips back, letting his cock glide over your silken flesh. The wet squelch it makes when he thrusts forward, cockhead tapping on your belly, has him grunting like an animal. It's obscene, this. The way he can't even see your folds over the wide spread of his cock. Pussy tucked neatly under him. 

He can't even begin to imagine how you'll take the full length of him inside of you when his cock nudges past your belly button when he lets his balls rest on your molten slit. Poor thing. 

He doesn't know if Price stretched you before this. Got you ready for him. But the man makes no move to intervene when Simon pulls back until his head slips down your seam, bracketed between your plush, swollen folds, tight against your entrance. All he has to do is—

Push

And the tip of his cock slips in. 

You make another noise at the sting, and he thinks you might be crying but his eyes are riveted to the spot where you open for him. Pussy so small, so tiny, compared to his cock in a way that's sickening. Garish. But your little cunt drools on him. Rim fluttering like a heartbeat on his glands, pulling him deeper. Enticing him to sink inside. All the way. Until he can feel the hitch of your breath on his cock. 

He leans back to get a better view, the motion forcing another inch inside of you. The noise is slick. Giving as your silken flesh parts around him, eagerly taking him in. But as wet as you are, as pliant, the stretch is unbearable. It chokes the air from his lungs when you tighten up around him—

“Fuckin' hell—” he snaps, his upper lip curling up beneath the mask. Your cunt makes him angry. Suddenly, viciously. The fury drips down his spine, pools at the base of his cock. His hand slips out from between your thighs, roughly grabbing your waist. Holding on tight as he jerks his hips harshly against you. 

You feel good. Perfect. Wrapped snugly around him. A hot, wet embrace. And he huffs at the bitterness that clots in his lungs; the surge of pleasure so blisteringly intense, it nearly makes him gag. Makes him sick. 

Price has this every night. 

The thought alone is a poison. It needles in deep, lashing at him with foul, rabid teeth. Cruelly, he pushes deeper, sinking his cock in another inch, another, another—mindless in this pursuit to tear you apart well before you're ready for it. 

He wants it to burn. To ache. Wants to be the worst fuck you've ever had; cock too big for you to take, but he feeds it to you in full. Gives you all of it. Every inch. Until your stomach churns with every press of his cockhead against your cervix, his glands sliding over that spot inside that makes your knee jerk and your eyes roll. 

Wants you to remember him as a beast. To think of his cock and feel nauseous. 

To sink deep inside of you—brutal and savage—until you can still feel him in your pussy for days. Each step causing a sharp pang in your lower belly. 

It's awful, he knows. Terrible. But he forces himself into you anyway, feeling your flesh split around him. A blunt, unyielding pressure until his balls tap against your ass, pussy spasming around the fat length he punishes you with. He's sure he's deeper inside of you than anything—any man, cheap silicon—has ever dreamed of being. Kissing places in you that nothing has ever touched. Feels it in the nervous flit of your muscles pulsing around him—this foreign thing bludgeoning into uncharted territory, stretching you wide. Almost virginal all over again. It makes him groan. 

Your pleasure is a muted ripple down his spine. The vibrator forcing you into enjoying the sharp sting of your rim pulled taut around the plug of his cock, skin blanching from the strain. He wants to stay just like this—grinding his hips into the backs of your spread thighs, cockhead chiselling into the molten seal of your womb with every gyration until the line between pleasure and pain begins to blur. Until you gag from how badly having your walls battered burns, hurts, but the bloom of pleasure deep inside your groin keeps you in place. Makes you arch your back, wanting more. 

Desperate for it. 

But this isn't what Price wants, is it? 

No—

He voices his impatience with a muffled grunt. Get on with it, Simon is pinched out between the silver of space between his teeth, the butt of a burning cigar keeping his jaw unhinged. The heady, sour-sweet stench of smouldering tobacco, nicotine, staining the words. 

You clench at the sound of Price's voice, pretty pussy drawing all tight around him. Perfectly trained. Sweet thing, he thinks, pulling out of you slowly. Just a few inches. Feeling your skin glue his; the glide of your walls over his shaft sickeningly good, nauseatingly so. He holds it for a moment, staring down at you through the eye holes of his mask, breathing heavily. Sweat drenches his skin. Tacky, hot. The starchy fabric clings to his flesh, peeling away each time he moves his head. 

The exertion of fucking his cock into you shows through the muted pulse of his joints, muscles aching from the strain of pushing forward. 

(Holding himself back.)

You blink at him blearily, eyes misted with tears. A smaller puddle sits on the table near your temples. 

Up close, he can see the full detail of the intricate shibari binding you tight. The sleek pink ribbon weaving over your chest, your breast, stomach—hishi karada, Price said. At the base of your neck is more silk in a mockery of a collar. And he wonders if you miss it, then. The solid weight of leather on your skin. If your hands weren't tied up, he imagines they'd be there. Holding firm. 

Just like the night he first met you. 

The silk rope, the loss of your collar—

“Your dad's a cruel man, ain't he?” He mocks, sliding his fingers over the delicate trim of silk bound tight under your heaving breasts, peppering across your nipple, down the slope. Resting at the base of your throat. The thin slip of fabric is not enough to give you what you need. The pressure, the friction. The sense of being owned. “Didn't even give his little girl a collar.” 

More of that tantalising shame rake over your expression. Tears dribble out in hot drops, spilling down the side of your face. 

He hums, slips this fragility into his back pocket. “Want me to give it to you, little girl?” 

He spits the words out like they're wrong. Awful. Takes in your flinch, the downward twist to your lips, and shoves that, too, into his pocket. 

Simon has no intention of waiting for an answer, for permission—he reels back, hand still splayed wide over your sternum, and pulls his cock out more until only the flare of his glands peaks out. He's soaked—glistening with your slick. So wet that it drips out of your plugged hole, gliding down the cleft of your ass. 

He wonders if you always get like this—

Bites that thought clean through with an angry groan, and pries his fingers out from the back of your knee, dragging them to the end of his mask. Rucking it up over his skin, bunched against the bridge of his nose. 

If the mess of his mouth, chin, the crooked, angular slope of his nose horrifies you at all, you don't let it show. Content to quietly sob on the table, eyes flickering between the thick plug of his cock between your thighs and the Price. 

He hates you, he thinks. And then he spits on your pretty pussy, right over your taut rim. Watches the foamy mess bubble, drip down to the skin behind his mushroomed head. When it pools there, he pulls back until the widened flare of his glands slips free. You whine—a noise of bright hot disgust, humiliation—and he lets it burrow under his skin, trickle down his spine. Then he pushes forward, popping the head back inside of you. 

The spit—his spit, too. 

And he does it again. The same thing. Pulling out, spitting. Feeding it to her. Letting it rub against the slick, wet (wetter now) walls of her cunt. 

Price doesn't say anything about this claim. Schoolboy possession—childish and immature when you're used to fine leather gripping tight around the slope of your neck.

Still. 

He pulls on your proverbial braids until it burns. 

The hum of the vibrator takes some of the sting away when he shoves inside of you again, cockhead bullying into your cervix with an unmatched cruelty. Leaking slick, steady, over your seal. Drooling, thick and viscous, against your walls. Staining you. 

Ruining you.

Each breath is punched out when he bottoms out. Forced from your lungs. Winded. He knows it hurts almost as much as the thick bludgeon of his cock pressing deep, but as he scrapes and claws at the rot concealing over his humanity, morality, he finds nothing inside of him left to care. 

He stops looking. Stops searching. 

Simon fucks into you with vigor instead, laughing mockingly at the lewd, sinful squelch of your cunt. “Think that's the sound of all my spit, birdie? Or is your sloppy little cunt always this fuckin’ messy?”

Each piston makes his pelvis slap into the vibrator; he can feel it through the tangle of coarse hair spooled above his cock. Buzzing incessantly against his skin. The spike of sharp pressure has you yowling beneath him, hips twisting, turning, trying to flee from the brutal onslaught. Pleasure and pain balancing on a knife's edge. 

He holds you there. Dangles you above the precipice just because he can—

A lazy flick of his waist. The savage grind of his hips. The softened bulge of his lower belly tapping against the plastic toy—

And it breaks you. This careless, effortless attention he pays to you has you tightening up around him like a knot, a vice; cunt squeezing, squeezing, before you shatter. Wave against a cliff; you spasm on his cock in a series of shallow, tight throbs pulsing along to the rapid fire of your heartbeat. 

His eyes are locked on your face. Pretty, lachrymal. Tears bleed down your temples, soaking into your hairline. Puddling underneath. 

His own little sea of your miserable pleasure. 

Eyes rolled into the back of your head. Toes curling. Hips jerking, twisting. Trying to run from the ugly, awful way he makes you cum. Makes you gorge yourself on pleasure. Force-feeding you pain with each sloppy, brutal thrust into your sopping, messy cunt—swollen, bruised; battered. And his—

—ice clinks against glass. A clicking swallow follows. The hollow thud of glass on wood. Scraping over the veneer as it's pushed back into place. Tobacco is chewed up by flames, popping and sizzling; smoldering with each inhale as the playwright watches the show he weaved together unfold—

—his. 

The silk around your neck comes loose with each thrash of your head rolling from side to side, shaking with quick, successive no, no, no’s that go unheeded, ignored. Every animalistic rut of his hips makes you change your mind, anyway. Turning those devastating no’s to yeses so eager, your teeth clack with every thrust. 

As it slips, sliding down the sweat-slicked column of your arched throat, he finds a stripe of red. A scab. Right at the knot where your collar would sit. A pretty gem in the middle. Your name, or maybe something that would amuse Price more than the perceived idea of your autonomy—bitch in glinting gold. His name and number etched into the back. 

if found, return to John Price. 

A foldhold, perhaps. Tailor-made for his boot. 

He hunts, Simon knows. Walked in reeking of leather and smoke when they first met and casually mentioned how good he was at Big Game hunting. A threat, then—however thinly veiled and erring on the side of mordant humour it was. But he wonders if Price personally made the collar you mourned the night he swung you into Simon's path. 

Your neck was bare, then. Blemishless. 

A collar too small. Tightened too much. Punishment, he supposes, and feels a sick sense of satisfaction roll down from his nape to the bottom of his spine where it pools in his groin—hot, molten oil—as he wonders just how much convincing it took you to agree to this. To spread your pretty legs for the ugly brute Price dangled you in front of. Who watched you all night from the corner of the room, chest heaving and eyes wide, wild, and furious. Reeking of rot. Want. To let him rut you like an animal while Price watches from the corner of the room—

A bead of sweat follows the phantom trail. 

“Fuck, birdie,” he's rasping, voice uttered wrecked. Mangled in his throat. “So fuckin’ tight f’me, ain't you? Must want me to cum inside this pretty cunt—”

You shiver. Knee jerking. There's a real sense of panic in your eyes when they dart over to Price, silently nursing another glass of scotch. He follows your gaze, catches Price glaring at him with his chin dipped low to his chest, peering out through his lashes. Brow furrowed. A flat line. 

Simon doesn't stop thrusting. Keeps a steady pace despite the anger brimming inside of him as the pleasure grows. Festers. 

Then—

Barely discernible: a nod. 

Shadows fall over his cheeks. He brings the glass back to his mouth with a surly mm between the mouthful. An irrevocable fuckin' get on with it. 

And Simon does.

The look he gives you pure predatory hunger. Victory in the potent stench of charred bones. He lifts his chin, stares down at you—all spread out like a gift to a god—and surges forward with a rabid hunger brimming in his guts. Unquenchable. Horrific. 

—wants you to eat you alive. Consume you whole. Leave nothing for Price to pick at, to mourn over,

settles instead for ruining your pussy. For fucking you raw. Cumming deep inside of your quivering cunt even when he knows you don't want that. Are silently begging Price to reconsider. To get this ugly fucking mutt off of you—

It churns his guts. Makes him viciously excited over the image that brims in the back of his head, tears raining down your cheeks as you bring a shaky hand to your aching, swollen cunt, feeling the thick, viscous glob of his cum leaking out.

Or before that, when you have to lay there and take it. Feeling his cock throbbing, pulsing as it spits cum inside of you. When he pulls out, and a milky trail follows, dribbling down between your cheeks. At his mercy the whole time, too, because Price won't get up right away to untie you. You'll have to lay there in his filth, feeling it ooze out of you—

He wants it. Badly. Feels it scorching his hindbrain, burning him up from the inside out. 

Later, he thinks, he'll fuck you with more finesse. Make you cum on his fingers—stuff them inside of your sore, aching cunt to the last knuckle; give you three of them to squeeze around, to cling to, and watch the ink on his bruised, scabbed skin disappear inside of you over and over again, pulling them out all slick, pearlescent with a mix of his cum and yours. On his tongue, too. Keep you in this pretty frogtie, unable to push him off—or pull him closer. Forced to take it. To let him lap at your pussy until he quenches this uneasy hunger festering inside of his stomach, growing bolder, greedier at the sight of you splayed out like this, exhausted already even though he's only just begun. 

Fuck you again, too, just because he can. 

all yours for a night, Price had said, sealing your fate with a sharp, decisive nod. 

He plans on making the most of the twelve hours until sunrise that he has. 

This, then, the appetizer—

It curls over his shoulders, tar-stained fingers digging into the tight coil of his muscles, easing the tension in increments. Soothing out the fear that still clings to him of missing out. Still, very much, that hungry little mutt on the side of the street, peering into the bakery at the family's milling about, smiling happily. Content to ignore the brat in rags glaring at them from an alcove with bruises on his chin, and a black split on his lip. Diving for scraps because the alternative is going to bed with an empty stomach in a house that reeks of flat beer and stale piss. 

There's nothing to miss out on here, it reasons, when he has you all night. All his. 

“Beg me,” he huffs, sniffing through the balmy, damp mask when it slips down his crooked nose. “Beg me not to cum inside you.”

All you can do is make a small, keening oomph behind the loose gag, words muffled by wet silk. His head rolls back, eyes narrowing down at you in mocking delight—catlike, leonine, in the dwindling glimmer of sunlight spilling through the crack in the curtains. 

“C’mon,” he taunts, rolls his hips into you just to hear the loud, wet squelch of your pussy taking the full, fat length of his cock. Lets the noise box through his ears in a vicious, heavy punch. “Or I'll cum inside you—”

He's already there. Edging toward the precipice. 

Simon grabs the tops of your thighs, digging his fingers into your skin, and pulls you closer to the edge of the table until your ass lifts. It opens you up wider for him, knees notched wide, nearly level with your ears. The new position lets him push in deeper, fucking you in full now. Balls slapping against your ass with every brutal stroke. 

He leans down, knee lifting to the table as he climbs on before dropping the full heft of his weight onto you. Forearm braced above your head, the other catching the column of your bare, scratched neck in the wide spread of his palm. 

The size difference before was intoxicating. A rush that pooled in the back of his head before rocketing down to his spine, filling his cock, but this—your knees bracketing around his waist, spread so wide they're forced down flat to the table below in a split that lets his cock sink in deeper, head tucked against his collarbone, swallowed whole beneath him, is his undoing. 

Arched over you like a beast, he grunts. Ruts into your sopping cunt and feels the whines that spill from your throat at the rough way he batters into you. 

The softness of his lower belly grazes the vibrator humming on your clit. The pressure makes your eyes widen, and roll into the back of your head. Neck trapped in his hold as you thrash beneath him, sobbing in earnest. In dismay. 

He's sure it hurts. The pleasure careening into overstimulation—the kind that burns, bellows too much, no more. He huffs out a derisive snort, and eats your misery from your parted lips, dipping his head down to catch the seam of your mouth in a mockery of a kiss. The silk wrapped around your head, tucked neatly into the corners of your mouth, keeps it from being anything more than a messy smear of his scarred, torn lips and your muffled gasps. The band prevents him from really tasting you, and he makes do with curling his tongue over your teeth, catching the drool running down your chin. 

It's gross. Messy. He slurps you up, and hums in pleasure when he tastes the brine of your tears. 

“Gonna cum,” he grunts into the silk before catching it between his crooked teeth, nibbling on the wet hem, sucking on your spit soaked into the fabric. 

Your pussy spasms around him. Eager, he thinks—pulsing like a heartbeat and starving for it. It blooms under his skin, burning hot like a fever. His tongue slips under your gag. Eyes glued to yours, listed in quiet, merciless delight when you grimace as he slides it along yours, nearly gagging you on it. 

It's almost sweet. A pastiche of loving making—as close to the real thing as he's ever come. The thought is a bludgeon to his head, making his ears ring—

And he runs from it. Rears back from the sloppy kiss, eyes creasing, brow furrowing, as you stare up at him with wet, glossy eyes, rheumy with tears. Silently pleading for something he can't discern. He feels that trail of anger coiling in his guts again, sitting low in his belly as his hips stutter to a slow, softer roll. 

His finger lifts, settles on the corner of your unhinged jaw, holding your head steady. There are lines, he thinks. Walls, divides. Protective armour—

And some shouldn't be crossed. 

Simon spits on your gag. Squeezes the huff of disgust from your throat when he feels your chest expand with it. Bullies himself closer, smothering you under his weight. Owned, then. Claimed. 

You can't close your mouth around the gag, or fingers digging into the muscle of your jaw. He keeps you like that, degraded. Dehumanised. A vessel for him to use as he likes—

Nothing more, nothing less. 

Sinks into your bruised cunt again, hips slapping meanly into yours in a way he knows must ache. Sets a choppy, deep pace; humps your pussy and grinds the weeping, swollen head of his cock into your battered cervix. Loses himself in the messy, plugging rolls of his hips; the wet, tight slide of your skin—flushed and clenching around the thick of himself he feeds to you, over and over again. Mindless in the pursuit to ruin you further. Stain you with his cum—

The problem is:

You feel like heaven. Pussy wrapped tight around him. Silken walls hugging his aching cock until it feels like he's melting into the hot, wet squeeze of it. So good it hums inside his head like a purr, rattles his thoughts around until the ugly, bitter anger is turned inside out. Flipped. 

He thinks about lines again as his sticky, wet balls glue to the slick skin of your ass, peeling off in a way that has pleasure peppering along his spine, spooling in his lower back. He did that, caused it. Made you so fucking wet that his knees slide in the messy spill of it leaking all over the table. The loud squelch of him slamming into your cunt echoes in the room—shrill and bone-melting. Ego-feeding. Enough to gorge his pride on it until its belly threatens to burst at the seams. Overfull. 

Simon grunts. His face is soaked. The damp fabric of his mask is too drenched to even mop it up, sticking to his skin as sweat rains down from his shorn hairline, misting over his eyes. His upper lip. The dip of his chin. He's more water than man. Liquid. Melting into you. 

The heat is unbearable. “Gonna cum in this pussy,” he snarls, and it sounds like a threat. Is one. He's going to burst inside of you, molten and thick. Been a while, he thinks, and feels his balls draw up. Tightening in a promise as he fucks himself into a syrupy stupor above you. 

The inside of his ears are wet, and he thinks it might be his fucking brain leaking out—

The tight coil of his body snaps before he does, giving out in a heavy groan. He catches himself before he crushes you beneath him, still mindlessly thrusting into your cunt, cock pulsing, throbbing. Growing thicker, thicker, as he heaves into your temple, breathing in the pine scent of your skin. Loam, sea. Sweat. You smell like Price beneath it all—leather and smoke; scotch and wood—and his lips curl into a vicious snarl, teeth bared at the man in the corner, silent observer to this blasphemous confessional where he spills his guts inside of you, and you eat them up like they're made of gold dust. 

It rushes him. A kick to his soft stomach, a boot crushing his ribs. The force of it hurts when it hits, surging up from the base of his spine, too fast for him to brace for. Tensing, coiling. The pressure knocks the air from his lungs, makes his hips stutter. Joints whining, twinging with pain. 

He moans low and brassy, mangled deep in the rot of his chest, and cums deep inside of you. Sloppy, mindlessly rutting into the spread bracket of your thighs as pleasure burns across the back of his neck, his spine. His hips roll, shaking. Melting as he spills, spits thick globs of cum out, cockhead bullied tight against your plug. 

All you can do is heave beneath him, whining at the molten spend he pours into you. Poor fuckin’ thing—

His lips are sticky, slick with sweat. He rubs them against the tacky skin of your temple, your cheekbone, babbling nonsense out on a purr—

Breedin’ this tight little pussy right in front of your old man, birdie. Got ‘im watchin’ his little girl take my thick fuckin’ load inside o’her. Fuckin’ hell—

—things that leak out between the cracks in the armour. The thick veneer. Made worse, his personal hell, when he feels your hips bump into his, taking his cock deeper inside as you squirm under the heavy weight of him. With your thigh flexing, squeezing his hip, it almost feels like you want more. All of him. For him to crawl deep inside of you, cocooned in the bracket of your ribs—

“Needy fuckin’ thing,” he rasps, words slurring. Eliding into mush. Nonsense he'll come to crush between his teeth later when he buries himself back inside of you over and over again, feeding blood to this vicious seedling inside of him. 

Through the pounding in his head, your gasping little hitches in his ear, the undeniable silence from Price weighs on him even as the aftershocks of his release mute the noise in his head. A dense, hazy fog clouding over all thoughts. 

It doesn't feel angry. Jealous. If anything it reeks of victory—

He grasps through the blanket, the murk, with lazy hands until he finds what he's looking for, and—

Oh. 

Right. 

(“Got a proposition for you, Simon,” the man says, and Simon snorts. 

He reeks of the same brand of cheap cigarettes as always—stale smoke, day old tobacco; acrid and unpleasant. It makes his skin itch. 

“an’ I told you already, Price. I ain't interested in a team—”

“Not a team, Simon.” The look he levels him with is nothing short of malicious. Dangerous. “Got something else in mind—”)

Then through the door was you. Pretty as a picture—

He stares down at you now. The base of his cock is soaked with your slick, flesh throbbing, pulsing, as he cums inside of you. 

It's this—you, crying over the feeling of him spilling so deeply inside of you while your old man watches from the sidelines, unable to do anything but sit there as Simon fills his baby girl up—that he wanted. Wants. Needs, he thinks, more than the stale, humid air he breathes. A place of his own. Home. Even if it's made of paper mache, carved inside of someone else, someone who already has a collar. A brand—

But that's the point, isn't it?

A sick feeling curls over his shoulders as he thumbs the slim vibrator off of your clit, staring down at the swollen nub at the apex of your mound. Sore and sensitive and flushed bright. Bruised like an apple. Abused for hours. Poor thing, he thinks, even as he rubs the flat of his finger over it. 

His cum seeps out around the softening plug of his cock. But it's still thicker than anything you'd ever taken before, he's sure. Sick with the deep sense of satisfaction that rolls over him at the thought. 

It's worth it, then, even as the dawning realisation trickles over him like hot oil—

“What d’you like, Simon?”

A pretty bird in pale pink chiffon. Too good for the likes of him. Afraid of him, too. Cowerin’. Cryin’ somethin’ awful when he sinks his ugly, fat prick into them—

Price hummed. Curled his index finger over the top of his cigar, tapped the thick wrap twice with the tip of it, and then brought it to his lips. A flash of teeth beneath his beard—nicotine-stained; crooked in the low light—before they sunk into the butt. 

There was something measured in his stare. Predatory. 

Victorious. 

And—

He gets it. You were a dangling lure in the deep, dark of the abyssal layer. A glimmer of light in thick murk. Iridescent. Dazzling. He was always meant to sink his teeth into you, wasn't he? Always meant to take a bite—

hook. line—

—sinker. 

Or—

It would be if the fish Price caught wasn't a leviathan. 

—in the scorching trail the oil leaves behind, something bestial, primordial, inside of his cocks its head in consideration. he can make a feast from this, it says; and so, he does—

“Need my help, Price?” Simon drawls, arms crossing over his chest as he stares down at him, quietly amused, and John feels the pulse between his temples starting up again the same way it had all those years back when he bumped into the man with you on his arm. 

He grunts. “Sendin’ you to Mexico.”

“Tha’ so? I might be busy.”

He sucks in a deep breath, reaches for his cigar. The itch claws behind his eyes, in his gums. There's a headache, too. One he knows won't be soothed over with the numbing bliss of nicotine or a shot of scotch. Not when he'll have to slink home afterwards, this massive behemoth nipping at his heel, and deal with the aftermath of what happens whenever he sets Simon loose on you:

an icepack pressed tight against your aching cunt, a glare fixed on your face as he dotes on you after you made him clean up the absolute mess Simon left behind with his fingers and tongue—

“never again,” you'll hiss, wincing with each pull of his knuckles on your sore, bruised walls. “I mean it—”

(you always say that but the look in your eye whenever he pulls out the silk—the new assortment that Simon bought for you himself—tells him otherwise—)

He presses the heel of his palm into the crease between his eye and bone, rubbing until he sees phosphenes spark behind his eyelids. 

“She'll be in silk,” he grouses, sucking his teeth in irritation. “And you'll be on fuckin’ plane to Mexico the next morning, Riley. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, sir,” he draws lazily with a half-hearted shrug, but Price can see the mutt inside of him panting with glee. He pretends to huff. Then: “I want her in white this time.”

The fuckin' prick.

—Price’s gamble of using you to lure the big, bad dog in works. but maybe a little too well. because now his sergeant expects one every time he's sent on a mission. and they send him out a lot. 

—he now has a key to his captain's house. lets himself in whenever he wants. finds you exactly how he asked for it. usually tied up in silk, crying, and struggling to get away when he stalks inside the room. on your knees, begging him so sweetly not to fuck your throat too hard. you have work tomorrow. or fighting him off as best as you can until he pins you down, works his cock inside of you. 

—in full view of the cameras, of course. non-negotiable. Price gets to see everything his brutish sergeant does to his pretty bird. everything. 

—Simon is the one who keeps you company when Price is sent off to work with the CIA. keeps you stuffed full of his cock in the bed you share with Price, his little girl sobbing into the pillow that reeks of smoke and leather and sex as Simon forces every inch of his stupid fat cock inside you

[cherienymphe]

Teenage Dirtbag XI

JJ Maybank x Reader x Rafe Cameron

Warnings: NON-CON, DUB-CON, abusive relationship, domestic violence, violence (+ gun violence), gun kink, dacryphilia, attempted murder, mentions of blood, public sex, jealousy, manipulation, infidelity, underage drinking, drug use, canon ages, kook!reader

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | ➥ divider by @firefly-graphics

➥ series masterlist

summary: You’re charmingly spoiled. You’re too kind for your own good. You’re the princess of Figure 8 …and you’re way out of JJ Maybank’s league, but when he realizes that Rafe Cameron’s pride and joy is actually a bruised and battered damsel, he’s determined to save you.

Your rescue just comes with a price.

⭑

You gasped when Rafe tightly squeezed your wrist, pinning it down beside your head as his other hand trailed down your sweaty frame. It was only the evening, but after hitting a few balls at the country club, he came back in a mood that resulted in him reaching for you the moment he made it to his room. Any other day, and you would’ve gone played your role perfectly.

…but JJ was right downstairs.

All of Sarah’s friends were congregated in the living room, so you made yourself scarce no matter how much you actually wanted to stick around. It’d been hard to avoid JJ’s watchful eye every time you went downstairs, recalling the feel of him on top of you and his hands on you. It was something you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about for weeks—even while lying next to Rafe.

You were so conflicted…and not just because you were cheating on your boyfriend.

The whole situation with JJ felt…off. You hadn’t really wanted to go that far, and when JJ kept pushing, you were still unsure if you regretted giving in or not. Was he right when he said you were just scared because Rafe had mentally fucked you up so bad? Had you really just been afraid of the unknown? After all, up until that night, Rafe was the only guy you’d done practically anything with. Those things were very true…and yet you wondered if you should’ve forced yourself to go along with things you weren’t ready for like you had.

…because the truth was that you did enjoy lying underneath someone you felt safe with. When sleeping with Rafe and letting him touch you and returning the favor…you had never not been afraid. Your first time had been a drunk and bloody and violent mess. You didn’t know what it was like to be with someone you trusted and felt wholly comfortable with.

It was an entirely different experience.

Your conflicting feelings were too much, and it was something you wanted to talk to JJ about, but you could just never find the time. Rafe had been especially clingy as of late, and on the off chance he wasn’t, the rest of JJ’s friends happened to be around to where you couldn’t get him alone without arousing suspicion.

Like today.

Unable to get JJ alone, you were forced to basically do nothing but wait for Rafe.

Your boyfriend had been insatiable for almost an hour, twisting his hand into your hair and pulling your face closer the moment he walked into the room. Lying on his bed, you hadn’t had much choice but to slide your lips along the length of his cock, the only silver lining being when he returned the favor. You’d hoped that he would be quick…

“You’re so quiet,” he murmured into the crook of your neck, hips snapping against yours. “What’s wrong?”

When your boyfriend pulled back to look at you, you only shook your head.

“Nothing…”

There was a slight furrow between his brows, and you didn’t like the look that passed over his features.

“You know I like hearing you,” he said, pulling his lip between his teeth. “…and it’s not like we’re at Topper or Kelce’s.”

You swallowed, and his hand tightened on your wrist.

“Is this about Sarah’s dumbass friends downstairs?”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“No…I…” you licked your lips. “Not really.”

Rafe had stopped moving, holding himself inside of you as he looked over your face.

“Not really…?” he repeated, eyebrow raised.

Glancing around the ceiling, you sighed.

“I’d just feel embarrassed…”

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. You would feel embarrassed about Sarah’s friends hearing you, but you especially didn’t want to think about JJ hearing you. Obvious reasons aside, JJ was the only one to know about what your relationship with Rafe was actually like. You didn’t want to imagine what he’d think.

Rafe scoffed.

“Who gives a fuck about them? This is my house,” he said, tone cocky as he leaned in to kiss you. “Besides…”

He slowly pulled his hips back before thrusting back into you just as slow.

“Let them hear what I do to you.”

His tone was sinister, a mocking lilt to his voice as he started to snap his hips against yours again. When you bit your lip, his movements grew rough, and you sharply inhaled. His hair brushed your forehead as he leaned in, and you couldn’t avoid his eye.

“I’ll fuck you all night if I have to.”

The warning was clear, and when he pushed his cock into you again, you didn’t swallow down your moan this time. As embarrassing as it was, the shame eventually left you when Rafe started pounding into you, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. At some point, you found yourself on your knees, fingers clutching the sheets and the pillows as he thrust into you from behind.

His hands were tight on your hips, and a mewl climbed out of your throat with every push of his hips.

When he leaned over you—chest pressing against your back—his hand snaked its way around your throat. His grip was tight, making you gasp and making your eyes roll. You reached up to cover his hand with your own, flinching when his teeth grazed your ear.

“You like that?” he wondered, and at your nod, he leaned down to nip at the skin of your neck. “Who’s making you feel this good?”

“You,” you gasped.

He hummed, a question in his tone, and he only seemed satisfied when you moaned his name. Pushing you down, he had you pinned, hips slapping against you as he repeated the question. Understanding what he wanted, you moaned his name again. And again. And again. Rafe only seemed satisfied when you were practically screaming his name, hand tight on your throat while the other dug into your hip and thigh.

When you came, you were shouting his name, and you heard him groan yours into your ear when he came too. You shuddered at the feel of him filling you up, shuddering at the stickiness between your thighs and the cum dripping around his cock and onto your folds. Laying you completely down, Rafe kissed down your back as he pulled out of you, telling you he was going to take a shower.

You wanted one too more than anything, but Rafe had a habit of commencing round two whenever you joined him under the water.

Instead, you took the time to roll onto your back, staring up at the ceiling as you pulled the sheet over your chest. As great as the sex was with Rafe—when it was consensual—you couldn’t help but to compare it to your time alone with JJ. Thinking back, you’d always thought your former friends were lying when they talked about other things being better than sex depending on the guy.

…but JJ’s fingers and his lips had sparked more excitement than anything Rafe did.

You knew why, and it made you sigh. Resigning yourself to everything with Rafe had been so much easier when you didn’t know what you were missing. You did now, though, and you weren’t sure how you were going to continue to pretend with no problem. Dealing with Rafe’s abuse didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world when you didn’t know how much better ‘better’ could be.

The fact that the ‘better’ was right downstairs had your heart skipping a beat, and as much as you wanted to go downstairs again just to see his face, you weren’t quite ready to face him after he’d so clearly heard Rafe fucking you.

“I’m sorry, okay?”

You wiped your face, crossing your arms over your chest as JJ pleadingly gazed at you. The pool house was quiet save for your occasional sniffle, and you were still when the blond reached for you—not quite rejecting him, but not quite accepting his advances either. There was still some dried blood under his nose, and the skin under his eye was already beginning to bruise.

All of it was evidence of his actions not even an hour ago.

Against your better judgement, you went along with Rafe to a small party on the beach. You’d texted JJ to see in advance if he was going to be there, seeing as the answer to that would determine your own actions, but you’d gotten no response. Hence, your own slight shock at seeing none other than a familiar blond talking to Kie.

You’d looked away the moment his eyes met yours.

Rafe—and you by extension—had kept his distance, but you hadn’t exactly anticipated JJ to be the one to start trouble tonight. Rafe had been talking to some friends that weren’t Kelce or Topper, his hand tight on your waist as he held you close. Per usual, you’d been quiet, just sipping on a beer you didn’t even like as your gaze roamed over the beach.

Your boyfriend had been shoved out of nowhere.

Before either of you had time to react, JJ was on him, throwing punches and taking you by surprise. No amount of yelling could get him to get off, and even when Rafe eventually got his bearings and started fighting back, blood was already smeared under his nose and on his lips. While Rafe’s friends tried to join in and make it unfair, John B. and Pope only tried to break it up.

You didn’t understand what happened, only able to look on in horror as your boyfriends fought.

When JJ slammed Rafe’s head into the sand, your heart jumped. There was a look on the younger blonde’s face like he could kill, and for a moment, you thought that he could. You hadn’t forgotten what he’d said to you in Rafe’s kitchen that day, and you didn’t want to acknowledge the way a brief bout of relief filled you at the thought of him actually killing Rafe. The feeling scared you, so much so that it made your stomach turn, and all relief was gone the moment you imagined JJ in jail.

You only wanted Pope and John B. to get him off of him.

When they did, they struggled to hold him back, and Rafe’s friends fared no better, your boyfriend determined to get his hands on JJ. You’d only been able to look between them, eyes lingering on JJ as he was pulled away. You hadn’t missed his brief glance towards you and the venom you saw there. You were only pulled from the trance by the feel of Sarah grabbing your arm.

“Are you okay? You didn’t get caught up in that, did you?”

You’d shaken your head, and she’d angrily tucked her hair behind her ear.

“Kie will drive you home,” she’d said. “I’m sure Rafe won’t take much convincing.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Your boyfriend was huffing and darting his eyes every which way when Sarah proposed she make sure you get straight home. Even if your boyfriend hadn’t said it, you knew what he was thinking. He still had a fight in his eyes, and you knew that whenever he made it to The Cut, if he didn’t find JJ, he would settle for either of his friends.

That was exactly what you told the blond the moment you walked through the pool house, positive as to where he’d found refuge.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I don’t know why…”

JJ trailed off, running his hands through his already messy hair.

“No…”

He chuckled to himself, shaking his head.

“I know exactly why I did that.”

He moved closer to you, jaw clenched as he gazed at you.

“I hate that everyone thinks he’s such a great boyfriend,” he sneered. “I hate that he can just walk into a party with you on his arm like he doesn’t treat you like absolute shit!”

Your face fell, and your gaze found the floor.

“God, seeing you standing there…? Like his little accessory or something? Just hanging on his arm without even being acknowledged like you aren’t even a person?” he wondered. “It made me angrier than expected.”

You sighed at that, some of your own irritation dissipating.

“JJ,” you exhaled, sadly looking at him. “You can’t let that bother you.”

“…but it does!”

His voice bounced off of the walls.

“It’s not fucking fair,” his voice was quieter, now, hand coming up to rest on your arm. “It’s not fair that he gets to treat you like that…and have you too.”

You could see it then—there in his gaze—that this wasn’t just sparked by tonight.

Closing your eyes, you sighed again.

“I can’t exactly…refuse to have sex with him JJ,” you softly whispered, slowly meeting his gaze.

You could see that it bothered him, disgust and anger flitting over his features.

“The rest of them were making jokes and pretending to gag,” he gradually replied. “…but all I could think about was him giving you a black eye…and then having sex with you weeks later.”

You wrapped your arms around yourself.

“So you fought him?”

“What else can I do?” he seriously wondered, giving you a look. “…until I can figure out how to get you away from him…I have to settle for kicking his ass.”

You couldn’t even focus on everything JJ said, lips parting as you blinked at him.

“Get me away from him? JJ,” you lightly scoffed. “I…”

Of course, you wanted that, but Rafe was…Rafe. Rafe Cameron, son of Ward Cameron and equally as rich as you. You didn’t want to imagine the things he could get away with considering what he’d already gotten away with. You recalled Ward’s convincing tone that day you’d called the cops on your boyfriend, telling you everything that you already knew. You especially remembered Rafe’s hands on your throat one night, threatening to kill you if you ever left him.

You’d long accepted your fate of walking on eggshells around Rafe forever.

“Are you telling me you don’t want to get away from him?” the blond wondered, fingers grazing the skin of your cheek.

“I do,” you told him, shaking your head. “You know that I do, but… I have no way of…”

Your words trailed off as JJ shushed you, his other hand coming up to rest on the other side of your face. His nose brushed against yours as he leaned in, foreheads touching too. His thumbs traced circles into your cheeks as he closed his eyes.

“Don’t you worry about that,” he whispered, lips brushing yours as he spoke. “I’m going to get you out.”

He pressed his lips to yours, and you thought about Rafe on The Cut looking for JJ, none the wiser to the fact that he was with you.

“I promise you.”

Ward and Rose’s party was in full swing, and yet you found yourself on your fifth drink of the night on the back porch. Rafe was especially irritating, going on and on about JJ, and unable to take it anymore, you’d slipped away to find comfort in your solitude. Since Topper and Kelce weren’t privy to what went down the other night, Rafe had to let them in on all the sordid details, and you couldn’t stand it.

That same night JJ had kissed you for what felt like hours, eventually letting you go once you reminded him that Rafe wouldn’t be out looking for him forever. It was reluctant, but he eventually kissed you one last time. It was still on your mind when Rafe finally came back, still angry at JJ and choosing to take it out on you, kisses rough as he pulled at your clothes.

He’d only seemed satisfied when you came around him for a second time, exhausted and milking him dry.

This feud or whatever between Kooks and Pogues had always been ongoing, but your relationship with JJ only added another complicated layer to it all. While Rafe thought the other blond was just being an asshole, you knew better. You knew that JJ was angry with Rafe’s treatment of you and saw himself as defending your honor or something.

You would’ve found it flattering if it didn’t worry you so much.

You were pulled from your thoughts by a familiar hand on your elbow, and you hadn’t even heard Rafe come outside. When you looked at his face, you could see the boredom all over it, and so you weren’t shocked when he said:

“We’re heading to Top’s.”

It wasn’t a suggestion, and you didn’t have any choice but to follow along as he pulled you through his house. The two familiar guys were already in his truck when you made it outside, and you could only stare out the window when you slid in next to Topper. You tried to ignore the way Rafe’s words slurred as he got behind the wheel, sipping on your own drink.

You could faintly hear him complaining to the other two about Rose’s ‘awful party’ and needing to ‘hit a few lines’. You rolled your eyes, not enthusiastic to be with Rafe and his friends while they snorted whatever up their noses. Despite his inebriation and irritation, Rafe still helped you out of the truck once he arrived. However, you figured out why when his lips immediately covered yours.

“Maybe you can cheer me up, hmm?” he wondered against your lips before pulling you along.

You almost tripped over the end of your dress, and you watched Rafe loosen his tie as he followed the other two inside. The atmosphere was immediately different, Kelce looking for something on his phone to play while Topper headed to the kitchen for more drinks. If you were going to halfway stomach the three of them at once, you’d need another.

While you went to the bathroom, you resisted the urge to text JJ.

Rafe was drunk—and was about to snort a line or two of coke—so his behavior was going to be extra unpredictable. The last thing you needed was for the blond to inquire about why you were on your phone so much and snatch it from you. You really didn’t want to imagine how that would go, shuddering at the thought, and you pressed your hands to your forehead.

Gazing into the mirror, you thought to yourself that you would’ve never thought this was your life a year ago—hell six months ago.

There was a time where you barely even knew JJ Maybank’s name, and now…now he was…what? Your second boyfriend? Your lover? Your guy on the side? Never mind the fact that you’d been too terrified of Rafe to even entertain the thought, but… There was a time where the thought of cheating on Rafe would’ve made you sick.

You felt your eyes burn, and you pressed your hand to your mouth.

You and Rafe were so far from how you’d started out, and while the abuse had certainly made you realize that, your recent actions only drove it home. You’d been sneaking around with someone that wasn’t your boyfriend. You’d been spending the night with him and kissing him and letting him touch you. The reality of just how far your relationship had fallen made you want to cry…

…and now JJ was talking about getting you out.

The thought was terrifying because…how? How was JJ—with his limited resources—going to do what you couldn’t? The thought of not being with Rafe anymore felt so relieving…but equally as scary. Rafe was all you’d ever known, although, you supposed that was no longer the case, and you reminded yourself that JJ told you not to worry about it.

It was easier said than done.

When you made it back downstairs, music reached your ears, and the sight of Rafe snorting a line off of the coffee table met your eyes. Ignoring him, you made your way to the kitchen, quickly finding yourself a drink. The night was going as it usually did, and for once you were happy to be ignored until Rafe remembered your presence.

You had too much on your mind.

You were on your third drink since coming to Topper’s when you finally found a seat on the couch. You tried to ignore how you stumbled, resisting the urge to roll your eyes as Rafe’s words reached your ears.

“…and the piece of shit just pushes me,” he scoffed. “For no reason.”

“What else can you expect from Pogues, man,” Kelce chimed in, shaking his head.

“The next time I see JJ, I swear to God, I’m going to make him swallow his fucking teeth.”

At that you did huff…and Rafe noticed.

The room grew quiet, but you figured that all the alcohol in your system made it hard to notice.

“Problem…?”

When you glanced up, Rafe’s familiar blue eyes were on you. Kelce and Topper were conveniently looking anywhere else, and you gave a humorless chuckle at their cowardice. You didn’t miss how blown your boyfriend’s pupils were.

“I just think it’s stupid…all of this fighting and back and forth,” you took another sip. “You find him and beat him up? Then what?”

You shrugged.

“He starts another fight the next time he sees you, and so on?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to get it.”

“You’re right, I don’t,” you agreed. “It’s stupid.”

At that, Rafe’s face twitched, and you watched him sit his drink down.

“You almost sound like you’re defending him…”

You were way more drunk than you’d intended, but his tone and the glint in his eye warned you off—your inebriation not making you lose your common sense.

“I’m not defending anyone,” you said after a tense pause. “It just seems unnecessarily violent.”

You thought about how angry JJ had been the other night, the look in his eyes, and you shuddered. You really didn’t want to see JJ and Rafe fight again—ever again if you had any say. Rafe only scoffed at your words before standing and making his way over to you. When he reached for your drink, you held it out of reach, and it was his turn to huff this time.

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” was all he murmured when he leaned in.

“…because I think it’s stupid to not just let this go?” you wondered with a frown. “God forbid you decide to act your age.”

His hand was circling your chin before you realized it, and you heard Topper lightly murmur his name. Your boyfriend stared you down, both of you just holding each other’s gazes as his fingers pressed into your skin. The room felt too quiet and too tense, and you searched his eyes, almost daring him to do something in front of his friends.

Listening to Top, Rafe let you go.

“Maybe I should take you home,” he sneered. “You’re ruining the mood, and nobody wants to hear your Kumbaya bullshit.”

His hand was on your arm, yanking you up, and he paid little attention to how you swayed. Rafe only cared about pulling you along, telling his friends he’d be back. You stumbled a few times in your heels, almost tripping over your dress, but Rafe just continued to force you outside. He practically shoved you into his truck, uncaring if you even pulled your dress inside of the vehicle all the way.

The moment he was next to you, you were unsurprised by the feel of his hand digging into your arm.

“What the hell is your problem? Huh?”

“I don’t have a-.”

“Bullshit!” he spat, shoving you away and starting the truck. “You’re practically defending JJ—telling me to let this go when he’s the one who snaked me.”

You knew that he wasn’t entirely wrong to want retaliation against what he believed to be an unprovoked act of violence, but you just couldn’t get that image out of your head. That glint in JJ’s eyes. If Rafe and JJ fought again, you were worried that someone was seriously going to get hurt, and if it was Rafe, there was no doubt in your mind he’d make JJ’s life hell.

Despite the alcohol and coke in his system, Rafe managed to safely pull into your driveway.

“You should probably drink some water when you get inside,” he mockingly said. “Sloppy drunk isn’t sexy.”

“Fuck you,” you sighed.

The slap was loud in the truck, and your cheek burned beneath your hand when you touched it. You didn’t know if the alcohol made the pain less or worse, and you blinked away tears. Some still escaped though, and you pulled your lip between your teeth as you sniffed.

“Hopefully you’ll have pulled yourself together by the morning,” Rafe murmured, unlocking the truck. “You know I hate when you get like this.”

Stumbling out of the vehicle, you made sure to slam the door behind you.

Rafe didn’t even wait around to watch you go inside, backing out of the driveway just as more tears fell. Your face stung more when the air hit it, and you sniffed, searching in your purse for your keys. Your parents were still at the Camerons’, and considering it was actually still pretty early in the night, you figured they would be for a few more hours. When you dropped the clutch, you cursed, and you were just about to bend down to get it when another hand beat you to it.

“Jesus!”

You might’ve fallen if he hadn’t reached out to grab you.

“No, JJ,” he teased, but his face fell as he really looked at you.

His hand tightened when you swayed, keeping you from falling, and his other hand reached out to hold you too.

“Hey…hey, are you okay?”

You touched your forehead.

“I’m fine,” you sighed. “Just the average night with Rafe Cameron.”

You wiped your face again, and JJ pulled you against him.

“Did he hurt you?”

The question made you laugh, and you reached for your purse again with a shrug.

“I don’t even know if a slap counts anymore,” you choked out with a bitter smile. “Ending the evening with only a slap is considered a good day.”

You could feel yourself crying again—you blamed the alcohol—and you didn’t protest when JJ took your keys. Rafe was long gone, so you let JJ guide you inside, a hand on your waist as he closed the door behind him. When you stumbled in your heels, it was a reminder that you were wearing them, and JJ bent down to help you take them off. You swayed when you put your foot down, and JJ steadied you as he rose.

“Let’s get you upstairs…”

You let him lean you on him, moving towards the staircase.

“It takes almost nothing to get him mad,” you murmured after a few moments, recalling his ire. “I don’t even know what I was thinking drinking so much tonight.”

You always had to be on high alert with Rafe—always had to be hyperaware and hyper focused on every single expression and word and change in body language. There was no relaxing around Rafe ever, and the thought made more tears fall. When you made it to your room, you immediately sat on the floor, dropping your face into your hands.

JJ softly called your name.

“You know that he grabbed me tonight…and Topper and Kelce barely did anything?”

You looked up at the blond as he sadly looked down at you, jaw clenching at that.

“…and I’d like to think that they would do something if he did much worse,” you slowly said. “…but the truth is…”

You shrugged at him.

“I don’t know,” you confessed. “They never speak out against him, so I don’t know why I’d ever expect that where I’m concerned.”

JJ moved to sit down next to you.

“Especially since they barely even acknowledge me on a regular basis.”

“Y/N…”

“I’m sorry,” you tearfully told him, shaking your head when he protested. “I don’t…”

“Don’t apologize for talking to me about this—any of this,” JJ firmly told you, taking your hands. “I wanna hate him for leaving you alone this drunk, but…”

JJ pressed his lips to your cheek.

“He’s probably the last person you should be with,” he whispered, pulling away slightly.

His blue eyes searched yours, and you blinked at him. You could see so many emotions pass over his features, anger being the most prominent, and JJ’s gaze hardened.

“I should kick his ass again-.”

“JJ,” you admonished.

“I should,” he said with a smile, kissing you. “I should do to him exactly what he does to you.”

Your drunk brain knew that JJ was in your bedroom and kissing you, but you couldn’t quite make sense of it. Your face still stung, and your chest still felt heavy, but all you could really focus on was the kiss. JJ kissed you like he missed you, and you supposed that you missed him too. When one of his hands rested on the back of your neck—the other on the zipper of your dress—you touched his chest.

“JJ…”

He gently shushed you, leaning in towards you more.

“It’ll be okay…”

“I don’t… I don’t think this is smart,” you told him, pulling away. “Rafe could easily decide to come back, and I…”

You bit your lip, eyeing him.

“I don’t want this going too far.”

JJ brushed his thumb along your bottom lip, pulling on it a bit.

“Trust me,” was all he said, kissing you again.

You did, but you knew that this wasn’t something you were prepared to handle yet. You wouldn’t be able to take anything back, and you weren’t mentally nor emotionally ready to walk around looking Rafe in the eye and pretending like you hadn’t had sex with someone else. You were already cheating on him, this was true, but sleeping with JJ just felt like the point of no return…and not just because of Rafe.

Rafe was unfortunately the only man you’d ever been with, and you weren’t able to get past that mental barrier.

“JJ,” you protested, words slurred. “Wait…”

Your back was pressed to the floor, JJ’s frame pinning yours down as he kissed you. Your movements were sluggish and weak, the alcohol in your system hindering them. It was hard to tell if you were actively trying to push him away and was just failing, or if you simply weren’t trying, at all because you didn’t want to.

Everything was so confusing.

The sound of the zipper on your dress was loud in the otherwise quiet room, and you shuddered when the air hit you. When JJ kissed you again, your thoughts halted momentarily, and you blinked up at the ceiling when his lips trailed down to your throat. The room was tilting, and you squeezed your eyes shut. The feeling of his lips on your chest and then your stomach made you shudder, and you pressed your hands to your forehead when you felt him yanking your underwear down.

Your next protest was forgotten when he tasted you.

Your chest arched, and you gasped, wide eyes on the ceiling. JJ’s tongue slid between your folds and across your clit while his hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place. His mouth on you was making your head spin, and too many thoughts were racing around in your head. You wanted to push him away…but you also wanted to pull him closer. You wanted to moan, but some part of you also wanted to swallow down every sound that threatened to come up.

Alcohol completely settled in your system, your vision went in and out, and the next time you blinked, JJ’s lips were touching yours. You could taste yourself on them, and you drunkenly hummed. The blond was saying something to you, but you could only halfway focus, slowly blinking at him.

“You’re okay,” he softly repeated.

You realized why when all of your senses came back into focus, and you felt yourself pushing against his chest. It was weak, anyway, positive that JJ could bat your hand away if he wanted to. Instead, he only kissed you again, deeply inhaling and reaching between you. When you felt the tip of him grazing your thigh, a shiver crawled up your spine.

You turned your head when he pressed open mouthed kisses along the expanse of your throat, shifting as he completely got rid of his pants, now. One hand kept himself hovering over you while the other reached behind his head to pull at his shirt. You shuddered again when his bare chest met yours. It was only just hitting you that you were about to have sex with someone that wasn’t Rafe…

…and there wasn’t anything you could do about it.

JJ was slow when he entered you. He took his time in pushing his cock into you inch by inch, and you didn’t know if he was giving you time to adjust or simply savoring the moment. Maybe both. You heard him sigh—you did too—and your nails pressed into his arm. When his hips firmly rested against yours, he held himself there, pausing and just basking in the feel of you wrapped around him.

You were also getting used to the feeling.

While he seemed to be just as long as Rafe, you weren’t prepared for the stretch, and you involuntarily moved your hips. The action made JJ hiss, and he pressed his forehead to yours. His breathing—like yours—was uneven, and he only started to move once he calmed himself down a bit. Pulling his hips back until only the tip of him remained, JJ swiftly thrust into you.

You softly yelped, hanging onto him, and JJ adopted a slow and steady pace. Your dress and the carpet beneath you were soft against your back, and JJ hummed as he sank into you. Your entire body felt abuzz with energy, and it fought with the alcohol in your system. Every push of his hips had you gasping, and when JJ lifted his head, his blue gaze held yours.

You were still really confused—the room tilting around you—but you trusted JJ way more than you ever trusted Rafe. Despite the fact that this was not what you wanted for your evening, your body slowly relaxed underneath his with every thrust. Despite everything, you weren’t scared, and those feelings heavily conflicted with your uncertainty surrounding this.

You hadn’t wanted this…but now all you could think about was JJ’s smooth thrusts and his efforts to push you both over the edge. You hadn’t wanted this, but you forgot why when JJ trailed his lips over your throat, sighing when you threw your head back. Your lips parted, a choked moan escaping as he curved his hips against yours.

JJ was being so gentle with you, and it was what stood out to you the most.

Then again, maybe everything felt good because you were drunk. You felt so light, like you were floating, and your lashes fluttered. JJ’s hand curved against your waist, holding you as he continued to fuck you, while the other ran up and down your side. He was saying something to you, and it took you a moment to focus.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured against your lips, kissing you again. “Do you feel okay?”

When you gave him a nod, he smiled against your lips.

“I told you,” he whispered, cock stretching you out and sliding along your walls. “It’ll be okay.”

You moaned his name, chest arching up into his. He cursed as he held you tighter, and you wrapped your arms around him.

When you came around him, JJ kept moving against you, fucking you and plunging his cock into you. You clung to him as you shuddered, gasping and toes curling. When you squeezed your eyes shut, you saw stars, and JJ murmured soft praises into your ear. His movements prolonged your climax, the overstimulation making you shudder, and JJ only slid his hand under you to fist the hair at the nape of your neck.

When he forced your head back, his teeth grazed your neck, head drifting towards your collarbone.

“I want you to think about me every time you’re with him.”

[xfgpng]

𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐚 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞

— : [ nsfw ] smut, pet names, unprotected sex, teasing (pov changes from 1st person to 3rd so just be prepared for that but it’s nothing too crazy)

— wc : 1.7k

your entire household was in a frenzy the minute the knews of ciel phantomhive’s arrival came. you didn’t understand what the fuss was about, having met the young earl just a few months ago at a charity fundraiser for the queen.

“hana would you please relax” you say dryly, “if you break another vase, father is going to fire you and this time i’m not going to speak up in your defence”

and it wasn’t like that was your first official meeting. you’re a writer and a journalist. it’s not as if your talents aren’t recognised by even the likes of the queen and you do find yourself in strange places more than you’d like to admit.

“but my lady” your maid sighs, “your father requested the place to be spotless and you know he checks twice”

“oh please” you roll your eyes, “father is just being ridiculous, prepare my bath, i’ll speak with the old man”

“yes my lady” she bows and hurries off in the direction of your private quarters just east of the house. you supposed your father wanted to make up for his absence with all the lavish gifts and the overly priced mansion. it would have to do, you weren’t really up for all the unnecessary bonding. you were far too old for that now.

“father..” you sigh, “is all this necessary?”

“of course it is!” your father frowns, “it’s very important to make a good first impression and then keep it that way”

you refrain from refrain your eyes.

“i’m surprised the earl didn’t ask to stay in a private hotel” you scoff, “is our home open to just anyone now?”

“y/n dear, go and get ready and stop being a pain in my ass” he shakes his head, “you’re more than welcome not to join us for the evening or tomorrow’s outing but remember, you’ll be disappointing me in the process”

“how very manipulative of you” you deadpan, “whatever, i’ll be down before dinner”

“that’s my girl” your father grins and this time you do roll your eyes.

if you take extra time getting ready, it’s not because you care about making an impression. you’ve met the young earl and his rather … interesting.. butler on multiple occasions. you’re an investigator yourself and often find yourself at the same scenes as them.

you do your best to avoid them as much as you can but you’re quite popular yourself. you have run ins more often than not, not that you’d share these things with your father.

“my lady” hana calls, knocking twice and waiting a moment before entering, “the guests have arrived”

“thank you hana” you sigh, “i’ll only be a moment”

“my lady would you like me to assist with your attire for this evening?” she asks, “your father thinks a dress would be lovely—”

“i’m wearing the pretty silver grey suit i bought last week at the boutique” you cut her off smiling, “the one you insisted i get 4 other colours to go”

hana smiles excitedly before collecting herself.

“well that’s a lovely choice” hana bows, ignoring the way you frown at her formality when it’s just the two of you so the other maids your father likes to order around must be just outside.

“ridiculous” you mutter before turning back to your vanity to finish off your makeup.

“she’s just get— ah, there she is!” your father says, “y/n dear, come down”

you keep the fake smile as you make your way down the stairs. you can feel eyes on you but you don’t give them any attention until you’re standing beside your father.

“miss y/n, how lovely to see you again” sebastian says

“ciel… sebastian” you say, “welcome to our home, father seems to have a thing for inviting guests to stay over like we’re a hotel so i do hope you enjoy your stay”

you can almost feel your fathers eye twitch but he doesn’t say anything.

“always a pleasure” sebastian chuckles

“dinner will be served in just a moment so please make yourself comfortable in the dining room” your father says and you know that’s his way of breaking the awkward tension or he’s just worried you’re going to embarrass him.

dinner is less awkward than you thought it would be. they discuss their business in town and why they’re here. you already know it’s because of the random elderly women in the area going missing.

your father works close with the mayor of your town as well as the police so it works in ciel’s favour.

bored?

you jump, almost dropping your fork. your father hardly notices but ciel looks over at sebastian.

“get out my head!” y/n glares at sebastian. the demon liked to mess with her any chance he could get because her reactions were always his favourite.

he smirks and makes a show of licking his lips when they make eye contact. she squeezes her thighs underneath the table but refuses to give him the satisfaction.


it didn’t matter how attracted she was to him. he was trouble.

the first brush of sebastian’s tongue against her own sent a shiver up her spine. as if they had minds of their own, her arms reached up and wound around his neck and his hands slip up her dress and squeezed her ass.

she moaned into his mouth and she could feel him smirking into the kiss. he was so cocky but it didn’t do anything but turn her on even more.

“i want to be inside you” he whispered, “right here”

they were between two abandoned buildings and she could still here people walking around and talking. they had been on a case and the police weren’t far from where they stood.

“let me” he kissed her softly, “i want to feel you”

“yes.. okay” she nodded, pressing up against him, “but we have to be quick”

“i’ve never been one to be quick darling” he chuckles, “but we have time”

“sebastian, please” she whined, ���touch me”

“i am touching you” he grinned, slipping his hand inside her panties, “is this what you need?”

“you know what i need” she frowns, “unless you’re all bark and no bite?”


she smirks when she sees his eyes turn a darker red and he stops smirking.

“mark your fucking words sweetheart” he grips her neck, “i’ll make sure you never forget me”

and he wasn’t joking. it had taken weeks, if not months, to stop thinking about him and his stupidly long tongue or how big his—

“y/n, is everything alright dear?” her father asked

“yes” she lied, “i’m fine, please continue”

she could feel his eyes on her again only this time he was smirking. it’s like he knew exactly what she was thinking about and he was so good at getting under her skin even if they hadn’t seen each other for a while.

his long fingers slid inside of her as he watched her face carefully. he never took his eyes off her and as she moaned, biting her lip to keep her voice down, he knew he’d never get enough.

he needed to possess all of her. he wanted to hurt her so good that she’d never want anyone else but him. no human would ever compare to what he could give her.

she stands to excuse herself once the table has been cleared. she still had things to do and being around him would only distract her.

she wanted to get ahead of it so they’d leave sooner.

her body tenses when she felt someone following close behind her. from the dining hall, she could still hear her father talking and laughing and it was clear the elderly man was intoxicated. she would feel sorry for ciel but then again, he chose to stay.

“going to bed so soon?” sebastian asks, “you barely had any dessert”

“i’m not hungry” she says, not looking back but she knows he’s still following her up to her bedroom.

“that’s a shame” he sighs, “i quite liked the creamy texture”

“go have some more” she says dryly, finally facing him, “your rooms aren’t on this floor”

“i’m aware” he tilts his head sideways, “are you not happy with this arrangement?”

“.. it’s my fathers house” she tells him, ignoring the tiny little voice in her head telling her off for being so rude in the first place, “i have no say”

“i suppose” he shrugs

“do you.. want to come inside?” she asks once they’re outside her bedroom and she sees the maids hurry off somewhere else. it was going to be a long night, her father was a heavy drinker when he wanted to be and he could talk for hours.

“the pleasure is all mine miss y/n” he bows, hiding his grin, “thank you”

she expects it so she’s not surprised when he grabs her wrist and pins her against the wall beside her bedroom door.

“i’ve been thinking about all the ways i want to have you” he whispers, leaning closer to kiss her cheek but keeping his hands firmly on her waist.

“is that so?” she laughs softly, “that’s too bad, I barely thought about you”

“what a liar” he chuckles, “you can’t hide from me even if you tried to darling”

“you think too highly of yourself sebastian” she sighs, “it’s a shame really, the way you—”

she never gets to finish her sentence when he presses up against her body and grips her jaw. she’s a pretty thing, with her wide and curious eyes.

if he could, he would devour all of her but that would be boring and sebastian wasn’t a boring kind of demon.

certainly not when it came to his prey.

“tell me sweetheart, what is it that you really want?” he asks, “and don’t lie to me, i’ll know”

“if you already know so much, why ask” she whispers, “just do whatever you want with me”

“careful” he warns, “you might regret those words”

“then make sure i won’t be able to speak” she smirks and he would definitely enjoy wiping that grin off her face.


he just hoped ciel would keep the older man busy for the evening until he was done.

[flowerandblood]

The Price of Pride (14/?)

[ canon • Aemond x Royce • female ]

[ warnings: kind of fingering, targcest stuff, smut, the angst, sexual tension, imprisonment, abuse of power ]

[ description: Prince Aemond finds a solution to the disproportion in the number of dragons between Dragonstone and King's Landing: he decides to find dragon blood and, like his half-sister, train dragon riders. He takes as his target the daughter of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce, whom he abducts and imprisons in the Red Keep. Slow burn, darkish, insolent, arrogant Aemond. I have combined several requests here: (dragon blood female & prisoner female). ]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

"Tell him the truth. Lying to my grandfather serves no purpose anyway. He's a skilled player. You have to win his trust." Said her betrothed, walking around her chamber with his hands folded behind his back as if it was simple, while she sat on her bed, looking at him in horror.

Lord Hightower had many reasons to doubt her loyalty, starting with her treacherous bloodline to the fact that, in all probability, Gwayne had convinced him that she had forced her way into his grandson's heart through his bed like a simple whore.

She lowered her gaze, fiddling with her fingers in nervous reflex – her lēkia approached her and knelt before her on one knee, taking her hands in his, slightly rough from holding the hilt of his sword.

"My grandfather is loyal to our family. I trust him. Do it, zaldrītsos."

Otto waited for her in the royal gardens in complete solitude, under one of the beautiful ancient arbours overlooking the sea. The day was sunny and hot, so she was dressed in one of the gowns of fine, thin fabric that she had ordered with her Prince's permission – she could have worn a garment belonging to his daughter, Queen Alicent, but she feared he would perceive it as an attempt of manipulation.

She was to be honest with him, as her betrothed demanded.

She sighed quietly, seeing his seated silhouette in the distance, silver trays full of lemon and apple cakes, caramelised dates, grapes and strawberries on a small white table in front of him. She blinked, coming closer with a rattle of stones under her feet, standing in front of him, feeling her heart stop in her throat.

Otto gave her a gentle, reassuring smile and held out his hand in front of him, pointing to the empty chair across from him, seeing how tense she was.

"My Lady. Thank you for agreeing to speak to the grumbling old man and listen to his concerns." He said lightly and she swallowed hard, sitting down, placing her hands on her thighs.

"Treat yourself. My daughter loves caramelised dates." He said and reached for one himself, taking a bite of it.

He chewed it and swallowed, nodding appreciatively, as if indeed their flavour appealed to him too.

"Do you know what my grandson's – and your betrothed's – favourite dish is?" He asked, looking at her curiously, as if he was challenging her.

She raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders, involuntarily grinning with amusement.

"I don't think such considerations occupy his head. He rarely delights in food, and if he does, it is more in the privacy of his own mind." She said calmly.

Otto hummed under his breath, as if her answer satisfied him, and nodded.

"Our Prince is a man of principle and loves simplicity. Deliberations on trivial things bore him and arouse his frustration, just like the romantic courting of women." He said, spreading out comfortably in his chair, placing his hands on the armrests, asking her the obvious question between his words.

How had she managed to seduce him?

She huffed under her breath and turned her gaze away, looking out at the sea stretching around them, the pleasant fresh breeze and shade cooling her sun-warmed skin.

"Like any man, he is not fond of empty words. He chooses his own deliberately and expects others to do the same. Unless he becomes enraged – then his fury erupts like a volcano." She said lightly, for some reason feeling no fear at the thought.

She had ceased to fear him long ago.

She knew that even if he wanted to, he wouldn't be able to truly hurt her.

"The letter you found in your chamber was sent to you on my command." He said calmly.

She froze, staring blankly ahead, feeling her heart begin to pound like mad.

It was a trial, she suddenly realised.

He wanted to see if she was trustworthy.

For some reason, a wave of sadness and disappointment rippled through her heart.

She naively believed for a moment that her person could occupy her father's mind.

Otto continued, hearing her silence full of disbelief.

"I need to know what you want, child. I need you to put your desires into words so that I can understand what kind of person is sitting right in front of me to become my grandson's wife." He said slowly, as if carefully choosing every thought that left his lips – his voice was gentle and soothing, as if he was trying to reassure her that what she was going to say would remain their secret.

She lowered her gaze, feeling her heart pound like mad in terror – not because she was afraid of him, but because his question startled her.

She didn't know what to answer.

She had never thought about it.

Until now, she had only been the fulfilment of his desires, she thought with shame, playing with her fingers, feeling certain Otto would take her silence as a bad sign, proof that her intentions were not pure.

"I am what he wants me to be." She finally muttered, feeling tears of embarrassment under her eyelids burning as much as if they were living fire.

Lord Hightower looked at her in silence and twisted in his seat with a creak of wood, as if surprised by her answer.

"Do you wish to marry him?" He asked, and she nodded without thinking.

"I want to be by his side. His presence fills my soul and heart with a strange peace. When he is beside me, I am no longer afraid. Of my father, of war, or of what will happen to me. I am not afraid of death or dragon fire. Sometimes I think it would be better for me to die in battle than to live to see the moment when I realise I have lost his affection." She choked out in a trembling voice, feeling the heavy tears one by one run down her cheeks – she was wiping them off the warm skin of her face with her hands, but they flowed anyway.

Why had she said that?

Why was she letting him know her weakness?

Maybe because deep down she hoped that he would kill her one day, she thought.

That he would not let her live to see the day when her husband would love another woman.

"Our Prince holds you in a respect and esteem that he has never bestowed on any woman before. He allows himself to be vulnerable and weak in your presence. Men, dear child, experiencing physical fulfilment without a soul bond, feel an emptiness after the act. Their desire is like a cry of desperation for purely childlike attention and tenderness – then, in his chamber, seeing him in your embrace, I saw a boy who feels protected and comforted. I'm afraid that my grandson fell in love with you."

She swallowed with difficulty, choking on her own tears, looking at him in disbelief, her heart pounding in her chest like mad.

I'm afraid that my grandson fell in love with you.

She shook her head, feeling that she could not accept those words.

He desired her, he enjoyed her, he was fond of her, but he did not love her.

"I dearly loved my late wife. She was my closest confidante, my beloved friend, the most beautiful of women. She was strong, and my grandson is weak. Filled with complexes, he lives to prove his worth, power and strength, not seeing that he is crushing the efforts of many years, made by me and his father. He needs guides, trusted advisors who love him and who want him to prevail. I know that it was because of you that my grandson told his brother about his plans regarding Rook Rest's. I know that you advised him against plotting behind Aegon's back and sought to rally them. You advise our Prince wisely and I wish you to be his wife. As the daughter of the Lady of Runestone, you are the blood of the Kingdom of the Mountain and the Vale, which will be crucial to us when the siege of Harrenhal begins. Your task to the Kingdom will be to rally the Lords against Lady Arryn's will and to stop my grandson from acting recklessly and violently. Do you understand what I have in mind?" He asked calmly, and she nodded quickly, wiping her hot, swollen cheeks with her hands.

"Yes."

As she was fitting her wedding gown, letting the servants and seamstresses check the length of the sleeves, she thought about Otto Hightower's words and how much they surprised her.

He was a shrewd and enlightened man, of that she was convinced – he also let her know that he did not see her as an enemy or a threat, but as an opportunity for them and the Kingdom as a whole.

For some reason, something in his words and the way he said them comforted her – she felt that, at last, the burden of the war and the Crown would partly fall off the Prince's back, allowing someone more experienced to advise him on difficult and complicated matters that would have overwhelmed the wisest of men.

She shuddered as the door to her chamber opened and her betrothed stepped inside, searching for her with his eye.

"No!" She squealed, fleeing behind the light-coloured three-door screen standing nearby. "It brings misfortune. Leave."

He shouldn't see her in her wedding gown before their nuptials.

She heard his sigh of impatience and his lazy footsteps on the other side – when he stopped the servants bowed to him and left the chamber, leaving them alone.

"What did he say?" He asked calmly.

She sighed quietly, stepping closer to the wall of thin material behind which she could see the shadow of his tall figure.

"That he wishes me to win the support of the Lords of the Vale for you. That I would help him control your impulsive nature." She said, and he snorted, frustrated, turning his head to the side.

"Is that how he sees me? As an uncontrollable animal to be tamed?" He asked with a regret that made her swallow hard, her fingers touching the fabric as if she wanted to touch his chest.

His heart.

"No. But he and I know what your anger means and how dangerous it can be. That it is only when its first wave passes that your coolness and common sense returns to you. There is a fire running through your veins – that is your nature. We do not want you to burn in the heat of your own fury, regretting later the deeds done in a sudden burst of rage." She muttered and heard him draw in a breath, as if her words pained him.

"He is disappointed in me, then." He said coldly and she closed her eyes, feeling helpless against his low self-esteem.

"No, brother. He wants your victory, exactly as I do. If you craved sweet lies, you would allow Larys Strong to pour poison into your ears, surrounding yourself with lords who would praise you and your greatness. You, in your wisdom, sent for your grandfather, who is sincere, who cares for you and your family."

"Ours." He corrected her, and she smiled involuntarily with gratitude.

"Ours."

She heard him take a step towards the screen, his forehead pressed against the material – she did the same, on the other side, hearing his quiet breath.

"– I desire you –" He whispered, and she sighed, feeling his words in her nipples, her lips, the tips of her fingers and her throbbing, swollen cunt.

"– let's last until our wedding – let's make this the night we've waited and longed for –" She said in a breaking voice, feeling that she was losing the battle with herself, his scent, his presence, his closeness making her grow hot.

"– what are you suggesting? – that you won't spend upcoming nights in my bed? –" He exhaled, placing his hands on the screen wall, and she felt a wonderful shiver of pleasure run down her cheeks, along her breasts and down her spine.

"– lēkia –" She gasped and they both sighed as the door to her chamber opened and Lysa stepped inside, holding in her hand the jewellery casket she had ordered for the occasion.

"– leave us, brother –" She whispered in a trembling voice, feeling her womanhood pulsing greedily around nothing, a drop of her wetness running down the inside of her thigh.

"– visit me tonight –"

"– I can't – for at least a few days let me pretend I have dignity –" She mumbled and heard him swallow hard, as if her words caused him pain.

She knew he hesitated, that he wanted to say something more, but resigned – she saw him turn and move towards the door, Lysa bowed to him as he left the room without a word.

She exhaled loudly, stepping out from behind the screen, and Lysa gave her one warm, comforting smile.

She was her only friend.

"They have arrived, my Lady – hair adornments, a dagger and a necklace, matching your instructions in every detail." She said, tilting the lid open.

She smiled broadly as she came closer, seeing the objects lying on the cushion – a thin, delicate golden chain with sapphires framed so that they looked like three water drops – two small and one large that was lying between them – her hair pins in the shape of forget-me-nots, also made of sapphire stones, and a long, beautiful dagger, her gift for her future husband.

She had chosen her jewellery deliberately – her wedding gown was sewn from fabrics in light blue tones and browns – she wanted to show her future husband her devotion to him and her own allegiance to Runestone at the same time.

According to what she had heard, King Aegon began to slowly awaken, but he was dazed and was merely babbling, fed with the milk of the poppy by the Maester – they wanted to spare him the pain, which must have been immense anyway, looking at how much of his skin had been burned in the fire.

However, the fact that he was regaining consciousness worried her Prince, who pushed for the nuptials to take place as soon as possible – he was afraid that his brother, as soon as he found out about it, would forbid the Septon to marry them out of sheer spite.

They renounced grand ceremonies and processions – their subjects were starving, and they did not want them to think that during their great suffering they were drinking wine and dancing, mocking them.

"Thanks to my spies, we were able to prevent great misfortune – a dozen inconspicuous boats arrived under cover of darkness from Dragonstone to King's Landing, filled to the brim with food. They were to be passed on as gifts from Queen Rhaenyra to her subjects. Instead, the food will be distributed on the streets of the city just before your nuptials, so that the whole Kingdom can rejoice with you." Said Otto during the Small Council meeting – her future husband had dismissed his mother in revenge for her affair with Criston Cole, thus freeing up a seat at the table.

As she was a dragon rider and would be participating in the war, she needed to know what was happening, so she was specifically assigned a seat in the Small Council, right next to the Prince Regent's grandfather.

She threw her cousin a quick glance and saw that he was looking at her as well, his grin indicating that he was more than pleased.

"Excellent." He said.

Her betrothed, in keeping with her wishes, had allowed them to spend the nights before their nuptials apart, she knew, however, that he was frustrated and made that known whenever he could.

"No. You stay, hāedar." He said when he closed the meeting and she stood up as did everyone else gathered.

She swallowed hard when she heard the door close – she saw out of the corner of her eye that he stood from his seat and approached her with a lazy, unhurried step.

She gasped as she felt his large hand on her waist, wandering up and down, his other hand without any warning slipped under the fabric of her gown from above and squeezed softly her silky, plump breast.

She pressed her lips together, suppressing a quiet moan of pleasure when she felt his parted, moist lips run over her neck, leaving a wet, sticky trail on her skin, his hot breath making her cunt, swollen with desire and longing, clench greedily around nothing.

"– stop –" She muttered, grabbing his wrist as his hand from her waist and hip slid down between her thighs, closing on her womanhood.

"– are you touching yourself? – hm? –" He asked coldly and she shook her head, panting heavily as she felt his hard manhood pushing against her buttocks, a drop of cold sweat dripped down her back.

"– no – I suffer just as you do, lēkia – please –" She mumbled and cried out, tilting her head back as his fingertips began to gently tease what was under the material of her dress, a wonderful wave of heat surging through her loins.

"– mmm –" He hummed and let her go, leaving her alone, thirsty and quivering with desire, walking out of the room without even giving her a single glance.

Contrary to what her cousin thought, it wasn't just for him that the wait for their night together was agony – her betrothed demanded that since he couldn't touch her, she couldn't either.

She knew that he also did not satisfy his urges in any way, which made him more mischievous – he would lurk for an opportunity for them to be alone and put his hand between her thighs to caress and tease her, whispering in her ear.

"– beg, and maybe I'll fuck you –" He hissed, her hand clenched on his arm.

"– n-no – please, please, stop –"

He let her go then, his jaw clenched in annoyance and some kind of awe, as if he didn't think she could really stand it – her whole body screamed before his eyes that she wanted it, and yet she still refused him.

It was a sign of strong will for him, proof that her words were not empty and her decisions were final.

On the day the nuptials were to take place, the entire Red Keep was put on its feet – Otto feared an attack from all sides, including poisoning, so guards personally chosen by him went to the Sept, as well as to the kitchens, to keep an eye on the cooks and make sure they didn't add anything to the food.

She was surprised by this, but she felt relieved that her future husband's grandfather was watching over everything.

From the morning, Lysa and the other servants had been helping her put on her gown – it fitted her body perfectly, revealing her cleavage and shoulders – the sleeves of the bottom dress clung to her arms, while the sleeves of her top dress, the blue one, was slit at the elbows, falling all the way to the ground.

Some of her hair was pinned up in a bun at the back of her head, decorated with small sapphire flowers, while some fell in waves down her back.

A necklace completed the look – it adorned her long neck and accentuated the colour of the fabric of her gown, however, she actually hoped that this and her sapphire hair adornments would be the only things left on her body during their wedding night.

She shuddered as the door to her chamber opened and she saw Queen Alicent before her – she stepped down from the small dais and bowed to her as did her servants, whether she wanted to or not having to show her respect.

The Dowager Queen stopped before her and sighed, folding her hands in front of her.

"Do you know what kind of man you will marry? Who my son is?" She asked, and she swallowed hard, wondering how a mother could know so little about her own child.

She thought she was simply afraid of the answers to the questions she was asking herself and didn't want to know them, separating herself from who her son was in her mind.

"Yes, Your Grace." She said calmly, looking her straight in the eye. "Our Prince holds you in deep esteem and hopes to earn your praise."

She saw Alicent's lips twitch, her eyebrows arching in an expression of regret, as if her words had caused her pain, her large brown eyes filled with nothing but sadness.

She nodded, as if accepting her words in her heart, and gestured to her servant, who held a small chest in her hand.

"I wish to offer a blessing to you and my son. I ask that you accept this small gift from me, along with my desire for you to be protected by the gods themselves." Said the Queen and opened the lid – she saw a fine gold chain with a small pendant in the shape of a seven-pointed star.

She nodded, looking at it, wondering if, when she went to see her son, she would find at least a few warm words for him.

The journey in the carriage through King's Landing seemed to last for ages to her – the streets were full of happy people – Lord Hightower, according to his plan, began handing out food to the people, leading to a sudden outburst of joy.

The smallfolk, in keeping with his desire, saw this event as a sign, recognising that the gods had supported the marriage between the Prince and his relative by sending them revelry, putting an end to their hunger.

However, for how long will the supplies stolen from Princess Rhaenyra last?

When will their suffering begin anew?

She swallowed hard at the thought that the war had to end as soon as possible, but both her future husband and Dragonstone knew that neither of them had enough advantage to bring the other to its knees.

When she arrived before the Great Sept and the carriage doors opened in front of her, she froze, feeling panic – the people around her were shouting her name, throwing flowers, reaching out to her as if she were some kind of semi-divine being, a symbol of the life they would never know.

She felt overwhelmed and stunned, alone among the crowd, small without her dragon and bow, dressed in a long gown like a doll.

For some reason she wanted to cry.

"My Lady." She heard a voice in front of her, then saw Otto Hightower walking towards her between the guards. "My Lady, give me your hand."

She swallowed hard and did as he asked, placing her palm on his, rough and large. With his help, she walked down a few steps to a small wooden platform, and from it to the ground, feeling that her legs were trembling with fear.

"I am not your father, but I will be more than happy if you do me this honour. It is a difficult journey and no young woman should have to walk it alone." He said calmly, and she looked at him with big eyes, noticing something in his gaze that could have been sympathy or simple concern.

She had always dreamed of someone looking at her like that.

The way a father would look at his daughter.

She nodded, thinking in the back of her mind that if she let go of his hand she would just fall, her legs soft as cotton wool.

As she walked with Lord Hightower into the Great Sept, she heard the sound of trumpets, young girls, daughters of lords and knights throwing flowers at her feet.

It all seemed unreal to her – the temple around her was so gigantic that it took her breath away, the great, tall statues of the Seven Gods towering over those gathered to form a circle, enclosing the entire structure.

At the very centre, on a raised platform stood the altar at which stood the Grand Septon and her betrothed, a sweet emotion squeezed her throat as she looked at his face.

Though he stood erect, with his hands folded behind his back like a statue, she could see that his gaze was hot, vulnerable, his eye large, his lips parted in a heavy breath as if he longed to cry at the sight of her – the fact that she had chosen not the colour of his or her lineage, but his colour, the blue of his sapphire, something only he could understand, the expression of her devotion, her understanding, her affection.

When they stopped at the steps Otto let her go, but she, seeing her cousin's face felt more confident – she grabbed the front of her gown and lifted it, not wanting to step on it, climbing slowly upwards, her steps echoing loudly around her.

She sighed quietly as she stood in front of them, not daring to look at his face, feeling that if she did she would cry for some reason.

It was really happening.

She was to become a wife.

She looked at him and it was a mistake – she felt a squeeze in her throat when she saw him draw in the air loudly when his gaze met hers, as if he felt something deep inside himself that frightened him, his lips slightly parted in a shuddering breath.

"You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection."

Her cousin swallowed loudly, looked at the Septon and then behind him, nodding – Gwayne Hightower approached him with a long black cloak embroidered with green threads from which the figure of a three-headed dragon was formed at the very centre.

The crest of their family and the colours of the Hightowers.

She bowed humbly as he threw the cloak over her shoulders with a sweeping gesture, making sure the material did not slip, and she closed her eyes.

He took her under his protection.

"We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife: one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder." Said the Septon – her betrothed extended his hand to her, standing proud and upright, so she placed her palm on his – the priest entwined their joined hands with a wide, bright ribbon.

"In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon one another and say the words." He said, and they looked at each other, her heart pounding in her chest once before they both opened their mouths and their lungs left the words spoken surprisingly confidently and calmly.

"Father,

Smith,

Warrior,

Mother,

Maiden,

Crone,

Stranger

I am hers | I am his

and she is mine | and he is mine

from this day, until the end of my days."

They fell silent, and though she thought he would not do it, that it would be beneath his dignity, he took her hot cheek in his hand and leaned down, looking at her as if he held the entire heritage of Old Valyria in his fingers.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love." He whispered, only a quiet sigh escaping her throat as his full, fleshy lips pressed against hers in a deep, warm, moist kiss, so tender and soft that she felt a single, lonely tear run down her cheek.

My love.

When he broke the kiss he didn't move away for a moment, just looking at her, and she smiled in a way that must have made him happy, because he smiled too, shyly and sweetly, like a little boy.

They were husband and wife.

[heizlut]

The Price To Pay

ꕀ cw: dubcon

ꕀ tags: switch fem!reader, switch!aalto, manipulation, power-dynamics, oral m!receiving, creampie, riding, nipple play m!receiving, mostly proofread

ꕀ nsfw under the cut

ꕀ m!list here

From what you had gathered, Aalto was the man to see if you needed information. Of course, any information comes with a price, you knew that. You just didn't expect him to ask you to pay him by selling your body to him...

His brown eyes and all-knowing smirk seem to taunt you as look up at him all wide-eyed and with a scrunched nose, "What's the matter, darlin'? Price too steep for ya?" You let out a scoff that has him chuckling, "Aww, come on now. Promise I'll make ya feel good~" You roll your eyes and turn around, ready to walk away from the white-haired man, "I'll just find someone else. This is too much."

But Aalto is too quick, already standing in front of you with your jaw in his grasp, "The information you're looking for, only I can provide it..." He leans down to your face, "Just say yes to my offer and the information is yours, sweetheart."

You run your tongue across your teeth, annoyed by his proposition but also desperate for the information you sought out. With a heavy breath, you relent, "Fine. Let's do it." Aalto's smirk widens as he straightens up and pats your cheek, "That's what I thought."

⌖⌖⌖⌖⌖

Drool trickles down your chin through the little space between your lips and Aalto's cock that is being thrusted in and out of your throat. His fingers are tangled into your hair, his head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut in utter bliss, "Yeah, just like that, darlin'... Just like- ngh!"

His words were cut off by your tongue swirling around the head of his cock, making the sensations even more overwhelming for him. You smirk around his length, taking delight in how weak he was to your ministrations. If he was going to demand your body as the price to pay, then you'd make the most of it by making him squirm for you.

You do your best to relax your throat and push forward, taking his length down your throat til your nose is tickled by the trimmed silvery coarse hair on his pelvis. Aalto's eyes roll back at the feeling and the most high-pitched moan comes out of his mouth when you tighten your throat around the length, surprising the both of you.

Aalto is quick to release his grip on you to cover his mouth, eyes wide at the fact that he could produce a sound like that. You pull off his cock, a line of saliva connecting from his tip to your lips as you give a cocky grin, "Don't hide your moans from me... You wanted this, darlin', so move your hands and let me hear how pretty you sound for me~"

Blood rushes to Aalto's cheeks at your words especially when you threw his nickname for you back at him and he hesitantly removes his hands, only to grumble under his breath about how you weren't in any position to be so full of ego. His breath hitches and his brown eyes flit down to where your hand was now grasping his pale cock, your tongue slowly prodding at the slit of his rosy tip.

He scrunches his nose, not in disgust, but in sexual frustration and with the need to take over once more. Aalto grips your hair again and forcefully pulls you away, "Easy there, sweet thing. You've got the lower end of the bargain, so act like it."

You grimace slightly from his forceful grip, but quickly smirk and spread your legs salaciously, exposing your soaked cunt, "Then why don't you take over, huh?" A low groan slips from his throat and he pushes you down against the cold floor. His sweet, yet minty breath fans across your lips, his silver hair tickling your skin. His voice husky and low as he speaks, "Careful what ya wish for, sweetheart."

Breathing out a laugh, you spread your legs wider, keeping your grip underneath your thighs, "Tough talk for a guy who just moaned like a little bitch in-NGH!" Your taunt was thrown off by Aalto pushing his throbbing length inside of you to the hilt with a sharp inhale. He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, his cock twitching inside of you in anticipation for more, "Sorry, I didn't catch that. What were ya saying about me again?"

You bare your teeth at him, but it hardly looks as threatening as you intend it to be. Your eyes are too glossy and your pussy squeezing his cock too tight for him to see you as a threat. A low chuckles comes from him, "All bark and no bite, aren't ya, darlin'" Leaving you no time for a witty retort, he begins to pull out, only to thrust in hard.

Your pretty lips form a "O" in a moan you can't even let out. You wrap your legs around his waist and move your hands to grip his shoulders. Your nails dig into his skin, making his nose scrunch from the pain, but it wasn't enough to stop him from starting a rough pace as he fucks his swollen cock into your wet, squelching cunt, "F-fuck, that's it. Takin' my cock so well..."

Your face screws up in pleasure at the feeling of his tip pressing against your cervix with each thrust. It was uncomfortable, but at the same time brought overwhelming pleasure. You felt as if you were losing yourself to him and his stupidly big cock. You couldn't let that happen. You take advantage of your position with your legs around his waist, and with a push of your shoulder against his, you had him underneath you.

Aalto blinks up at you, his cock involuntarily throbbing at your display of dominance. You sit upright, the position making his cock feel so deep inside of you, but you bear with it and smirk. Your fingers run down his chest and pause at his pink nipples, pinching them between your fingertips as he lets out a sweet sounding moan. You can't help but chuckle at the sight, "You're just too pretty for me to let you have all the control..."

He bites his lip, but with a particularly sharp pinch to his nipples again, his mouth falls open in a whimper. You show a bit of mercy, leaving his sensitive nubs alone as you lean back and press your palms against the floor beneath you, "Just lay back and relax~" With that, you begin to bounce on his cock at a slow and torturous pace.

The view Aalto has of you now in this position has him fighting not to cum inside of you right then and there. He can see the way his cock moves in and out of your pussy, your clit that's just begging to be touched. He reaches forward and presses the pad of his thumb against your clit, making you gasp. Your eyes refocusing on his now cocky smile as he rubs furiously at your sensitive clit, "I'm not lettin' ya have all the fun~"

Your groan of annoyance turns into a sweet sounding moan as you pick up your pace on top of him while the pad of his thumb makes you see white. You cum hard around his cock, squeezing it over and over as clear liquid spurts out down his length, your thighs, and his abdomen. Aalto's eyes have a crazed look in them as his smile widens, "Hah! What a pretty mess ya made all over me..."

You can't even get annoyed at him at this point, still coming down from such an intense high. You start to falter in your movements, prompting Aalto to grab onto your hips, his voice raw from all his moaning, "My turn~" Your balance is thrown off as he bucks his hips up into you, your palms landing hard on his toned chest as you catch yourself which makes him chuckle, "Sorry, darlin'. Looked like ya needed a bit of help."

Your eyes roll back at he fucks his cock up into you, chasing his own orgasm that was soon to come. His grip tightens and he adjusts his feet on the floor to give him more leverage to fuck you harder and faster, "Gonna cum~ O-oh fuuuuck, wanna fill ya up so much it'll leak outta ya for days~"

With a loud moan, ropes of thick white cum fill your cunt. His cock pulsating to the beat of his racing heart with each spurt. You collapse on top of him, chest heaving against his and your face buried into the crook of his neck. Aalto does his best to catch his breath as his cock softens inside of you, twitching every now and then, "That wasn't so bad now was it, sweetheart?"

Released from your lust-filled haze, you bite down on his tacet mark on his neck, making him hiss and groan, "F-fuck was that for?" You get off of him, his cum leaking down your thighs as you stand and gather your clothes. He props himself up on his elbows, leaning back as he watches you curiously and with some weird sense of satisfaction, "Guess I deserved that, huh..." You narrow your eyes down at him, only for him to give you a cheeky smile and then sigh exasperatedly, "My right pocket."

You raise a brow at him, "What?" Aalto just looks amused, "The information ya want is in the flashdrive in the right pocket of my jacket. Go on, take it. Ya earned it anyways~" You go to where his jacket was haphazardly thrown on the floor, reaching into the right pocket, your fingers wrap around the cool metal of the flashdrive.

You turn to leave after pocketing the drive, only for Aalto's cheeky words to make you briefly pause, "Maybe we should make this a regular thing. I think we got somethin' special, darlin', don't ya think?" The only response you give is your middle finger over your shoulder as you push the doors open and leave. Aalto sighs and runs his fingers through his silver, messy hair, "Such a feisty little thing..."

He smirks as he speaks to himself, "I'll make sure ya come back for more... seeing as I never said that flashdrive had all the information ya wanted~ Our deal isn't over yet, sweetheart~"

⌖⌖⌖⌖⌖⌖⌖⌖⌖⌖⌖⌖⌖

a/n: aalto is so bbygurl, truly the kaveh of wuthering waves

[sl4sh3rsub]

patrick bateman hcs (nsfw: mdni)

patrick bateman x reader (AFAB, AMAB, FtM, MtF)

warnings: overall pretty toxic, homophobic and misogynistic, there's a lot of infidelity/cheating and drug usage/alcohol too. there is also shaming of sex work - this is purely fictional and i do not condone this behavior in real life. i wrote in these elements because they appear in the original source material, not because i hold these opinions/views. mentions of extreme kink/fetish (knife play, blood play), p in v + anal (all unprotected - pls stay safe irl), oral sex (giving + receiving), handjobs, cockwarming, implied dom/sub dynamics (patrick is a top + sugar daddy/dom/slight sadist + is entitled, reader is more submissive + sweet), lots of cum + precum/arousal, reader sometimes treated as sex object, marking (bruises, bite marks, hickeys etc.), dubious consent? (overstimulation, he can be manipulative, reader flashes someone in afab section), reference to past rough sexual encounters, lots of sexual tension, patrick is sociopathic(?) + gets hard a lot + is possessive/slightly domestic but still rough, canon colleagues (schrödinger's judgement + they're horny), nipple play, voice kink/voicemail sex, threats/mentions of canon (?) violence (not towards reader), exhibitionism + public settings, consensual filming of sexual acts, gun play/fear play, cigar gets extinguished on reader (research risks properly before trying irl, please stay safe), hired sex worker, mentions of surgery in ftm + mtf sections, rip jean + evelyn's emotions

a/n: i'm a massive fan of the broadway musical (bootleg available on youtube) and i've seen the film twice, but i still need to read the book!! i've listened to this youtube audiobook (ai voice patrick reading it - part one) and it kinda goes hard. anyway, peeb ateman is soft with reader in this one, so it could potentially be a little ooc.

order: general hcs first then amab + afab then ftm + mtf, different sections = different content n tried not to repeat much

_ _ _ _ _

general hcs

patrick is already engaged to evelyn when he meets you. he's very well aware that she's seeing timothy price, so he might as well have his own fun - divorce isn't in fashion this year, so being prepared for that potential outcome might turn some heads and patrick hates judgmental attention

if you're already in a relationship with someone, he'll whisk you away immediately. you deserve so much better than some chump who can't afford to spoil you, he'll prove his superiority with his shiny silver card

show him genuine affection and take interest in his music taste!! if you listen to him and take time out of your day to participate in conversation, he'll abruptly stop mid-sentence to process that you're invested in his recap of his day :( you'll have no issues with him from then out - you respect him and he'll respect you. he's quietly thankful for how kind you are to him

if patrick has a yearning to dabble in a certain kink or fetish - such as knife play or extreme blood play - that you're not willing to participate in, he'll just find someone who can satiate his needs temporarily. no harm done, patrick just wants to make sure he's not taking complete advantage of you - he'll pay for you to have a delicious dinner and fancy hotel for the night, don't worry. he still wants to take care of you and reassure you that no one is taking your place, and that you'll still have him in the morning... he just needs to let out his extreme urges throughout the night

his way of showing affection is brushing his nose against you, whether it be your temple, ear or cheek as he whispers sweet nothings to you. he longs for subtle contact and the gentle warmth of your skin. he's also addicted to burying his face in your neck or pressing his lips against your crown when he fucks you from behind or squirming in his lap, the small puffs of hot air tickling your flushed skin and his lidded eyes rolling at your scent

he digs his fingers into your lower tummy while he fucks you, feeling his cock ram deep inside you - he's shamelessly using you as his own fucktoy, massaging his length to get himself off. the extra pressure against his tip has him shuddering at the delicious sensation

yeah sure, patrick might be a weirdo and a loser but he can fuck you like he loves you (maybe he does) and spare cash to dry-clean your cum off his expensive suits... fair trade, no?

he practically becomes your sugar daddy - you're his personal doll to dress, provide for and parade around proudly. he wouldn't trade the satisfied glint in your eyes, or the rhythm of your glistening arousal dripping on his wood paneled floors for anything. after a long day of spoiling you, he becomes a little selfish in the bedroom and chases his high with no regard for how overstimulated you might get :(

he is obsessed with dressing you to match his personal perception of you - that is to say, have you dressed in a manner that would make atheists reconsider and have the faithful herald you as their new deity. he wants to ensure that everyone know why he worships you the way he does. even if you don't feel confident in your skin, he quietly reassures you that your bashfulness only adds to your charm

you're his personal model and his precious doll - plaything, if you will. after you return to his place from perusing the designer shops, he lounges back with a whiskey in hand and patiently watches you show off your latest purchases on his card. he'll ask you to spin or swap shoes to match the outfit every so often, even asking you to bend down towards him just so he can adjust your collar or hairstyle. if he gets taken aback by how stunning you look in a certain outfit, expect him to get carried away and start panic rambling - he'll explain the specifics of the material, cut or brand as his fingers roam your body with devotion and his eyes greedily drink you in. his voice gets progressively huskier throughout the show until he gets to the expensive undergarments hidden in matte bags and tissue paper - he fucks you in front of the mirror, reveling in the way the material hugs your skin and how your skin shifts as your muscles clench with every thrust

after he warmed up to you, patrick slowly realized how emotionally taxing your early encounters were on you and that you were left feeling used and roughed up afterwards. if he still makes you feel that way after he first admits his affection, definitely let him know - he might want to leave physical marks on you that linger for a week or so after, but emotional damage is the last thing he wants marring your relationship

something that resembles quiet devotion lingers in his gaze, the glint of chandeliers flashing as he quickly shakes his head and denies he was ever staring :( sure, you might not be the stereotypical 'hardbody', but you're more worth his time than all of the other whores that his cock stirs for - you're leagues better than the sluts turning tricks and actually deserve a place in his home, his bed, unlike the simple chicks he picks up from clubs. he actually respects you (though, not enough to acknowledge your independence away from him) and his silent approval - pride, even - of your actions sometimes slips through his mask

whenever you're in the room with him, there is an invisible yet tangible tension that tugs you together. the warm, compressing feeling always hones your vision onto patrick - it drowns out all of the noises and movement around you, grounding you in the all-consuming gaze of your lover. his eyes snap to yours whenever you enter the room and he instinctively feels a bulge growing in his slacks, his pupils dilating as his tongue darts out to dampen his lips. no polite conversation or mundane styling drivel is worth his time when you are in his field of view

patrick genuinely feels his blood thunder in his ears whenever the men at the table make snide remarks about your appearance or belittle you. he is absolutely disgusted at their attitudes and lack of understanding - you are his darling and you deserve to be treated as his equal, at a minimum. however, if the table murmurs about how sexy you look, he's more than willing to show you off a bit - he's proud of what's his, obviously! just don't let the boys get too bold with their 'polite' touches or they won't have fingers in the morning :<

he'll buy you a ring. not to propose, oh god no - he doesn't want to do the whole evelyn debacle again. patrick wants to simply state his territory and claim so that others would be less inclined to approach you (plus, it helps that he doesn't have to vividly daydream about it anymore - it saves brain power)

if he rushes home with dirty, damp gloves and a missing button on his overcoat, he'll forever be indebted to you if you pour him a stiff drink and prepare to call jean to postpone all events the next day

your head gets all fuzzy when his tongue drags along the line of your collarbone and his soft lips ghost down your chest - circling your nipple and threatening you with the edge of his teeth makes the edge of his mouth twist into a smirk. if you meet his gaze, his lidded eyes give away how content he is in this position, with you on top of his lap. his lips sheened with spit and your buttoned shirt yanked open make for an arousing sight

patrick is a big fan of smoking his cigars while you sloppily take his cock down your throat - he gets some sadistic pleasure from putting them out on your spit-soaked thighs, the drool hissing under the scorching heat. it's coincidentally also one of his favourite things to reminisce, running his fingers over your thighs while replaying those memories during boring social events. the scent of his expensive smoke, wafting around him in a saloon, has him drifting back to the sight of his hefty cock resting on your face - the length throbbing with every heartbeat, pearls of salty precum seeping into your soft skin and trailing in thin rivulets down the contours of cheekbone

he is a fan of sneaking a dab of his yves saint lauren perfume onto all of your formal wear, a little mark of him and something to keep you company whenever you're out at functions he's not attending

he drags you out to clubs just to dress you up and show you off under the bright, colourful flashing lights. you have his eye the entire time you're feeling yourself on the dance floor, tempting him your sensual movements from across the room - don't expect him to act on it immediately though, he's more than content to hold your gaze and sip his glass from the bar. if some sleaze dares to get handsy with you, he'll step in and guide you towards the bathroom as his fingers glide down to your lower back - he needs a bump to loosen up and not hurt every single chump eyeing you up. you're his plaything, after all.

if you spend a night at patrick's place, he'll secretly love taking showers with you - only because you help him rub in his cleansers and soaps into his skin, no other reason. certainly not that your devoted, admiring gaze make him flush and whisper his timid thanks under the steady stream of water, the noise lost in the pounding around your ears. ignore his building arousal, it'll stay there and grow even harder when he pleasures you with his tongue on the counter of his stainless-steel kitchen. you're the only one he'll kneel for, and you bet that there's a steamed-up outline of your ass on the countertop when he's done :3

despite his incessant need to fit in, he's never going to blend in while you remain by his side. you bring out that rare smile of his and that soft chuckle in public settings. you far outshine all the other, dull plus-ones at the dinner parties

you are patrick's trump card - everyone he knows either wants to be you or fuck you, they'll do anything to impress (especially if there's false hope of ending the night in bed with one or both of you)

if you're confident enough, you could be his personal little pornstar!! it makes you so giddy, the knowledge that he could show the snippets of the videos to his coworkers (who dream about getting you naked) and make them jealous of the fact that you've cum numerous times with patrick's name on your lips. the video is recorded on the best equipment of course - he can't have you on video while looking anything less than godlike on camera

he orders your favourite dishes at every restaurant, combs and brushes out your hair when you arrive at his apartment, then fucks you roughly while whispering how thankful he is for you. his babbling pleas for you to stay and praise of your existence echo in your mind for hours after, especially as he rests next to you with steady breathing

patrick leaves hickeys and bite marks all over you and while he might apologise while handing you anti-bruise supplements, know that his mind's eye is stuck on the sigh of your skin blossoming under his lips - specifically, the feeling of his teething nipping your skin and the small hum of satisfaction as he pulls away to inspect his work. if you've been good lately, he'll let you leave a hickey or mark on his chest - it's only fair after he leaves you bruised and aching in his arms the next morning :( if you've behaved to his liking, he'll share some of his japanese pear and kiwi for breakfast. you need some sugar to recoup anyway

if he's been snappy or pent up all day, he'll guilt you into taking him with minimal prep - he will snap and go feral if he's had to rein it in at work, plus the stretch feels heavenly around his thick cock

patrick had once ordered a prostitute for the two of you to experiment with - making sure they were a fair balance between your ideal types, bodywise. this plan went a little off script after the foreplay when you and patrick ended up exploring your exhibitionist sides, passionately kissing and languidly exploring each other's bodies while the hire slowly touched themselves at the sight. that precious hour or so was the easiest pay that person had ever made (you and patrick were far from unattractive), plus that champagne that you poured out was heavenly

patrick has you suck him off during skincare routines in the morning and evening, making sure to cum all down your throat. he insists it's good protein for you!! kneeling in front of the bathroom countertop has become second nature to you, the divine sight of your rugged lover above you routinely making you feel at ease

you had better be friends with his secretary jean because you'll see her a lot. if she gets jealous and her failed attempts at sleeping with him affect her capabilities, patrick will simply hire a different secretary. sure, he'll love to flaunt you and taunt them about how they aren't fucking either of you, but that's just part of his fun. he might use the empty threat of fucking you in front of the secretary as a way to keep you from acting out, but he's too possessive to have someone in a different tax bracket see you laid bare

get him spa day gift cards!! you can both spend time in private saunas or pools simply enjoying each other's presence and use the time to caress each other's bodies. use the opportunity to get a full body massage - when patrick has had a rough week, you're more than likely going to end up with a couple bruises and a few sore muscles

while he's never been the most domestic man, the image of you flitting back and forth in his pristine kitchen flicks a switch in patrick's brain. your earnest efforts of making him his breakfast bran muffins and churning his apple butter has him daydreaming of keeping you in his apartment like a pet - at his beck and call constantly, dusting his expensive furniture and preparing his meals whenever he comes home... not to mention how you'd willingly bend over or drop to your knees in a heartbeat if he so desired

if patrick is riding an adrenaline (or cocaine) high when he returns to you, be very careful and tread lightly. he may have an itch to clean his axe or handguns, polishing them until the late hours of the night. when he's in a jittery and frantic state, he isn't above having you spread out on his polished floor as something nice to look at while assembling the firearms, and he's certainly not against fucking you roughly while holding the gun to your head or body. he's even aroused by the though of you sucking off his uzi, spit-slicked metal knocking your teeth as your glistening eyes widen in fear

when you sleep next to him, he might jolt awake at night before realizing your shifting movements pose no threat to him, especially when you're locked into his arms with your soft breath brushing against his skin. when he gazes at you in these dimly lit moments, his mask slips until he feels a semblance of happiness - there's no discomfort, jealousy or boredom, he's content with you against him like this. after a long while of his breathing filling the dark room, his mind forces his walls back up and reverts him back to his usual self just as he drifts to sleep. no one can ever see him like that, see what your presence does to him... not even you

he has a penchant for fucking you infront of his toshiba 30-inch television, a porno tape or horror movie often playing. he loves the way screams - either of ecstasy or pain - fill his ears as you moan beneath him, the colours of the screen dancing on your skin. his cock always pulses just that little bit more whenever you bite his thumb and take his dick deep inside you as the film plays in the background. red is suck a sexual and raw colour after all, why not have the bright screen fill your vision as you cum on his cock? the vibrance drowns out all other stimuli, forcing you to focus on his presence in and around you

imagine the shock on evelyn's face when she shows up unannounced at patrick's place one late afternoon- he's swaying to heuy louis and the news, hands on your hips as you giggle and pour him a glass. his silk shirt loosely buttoned just covers your modesty as he soothingly rubs circles on your thigh, soft grin fading as his gaze frosts over at the sight of his betrothed. she sniffs, scandalized at the sight infront of her, and tells patrick to not bother contacting her - tim price's phone will be unplugged the moment she arrives at his place. to be honest, patrick could not care less. you're in his arms and he knows for a fact that evelyn will be over it soon - if not, there's a more suitable marriage candidate right in front of him. if you feel bad or guilty after evelyn leaves, patrick will do his best with his hands, thick cock, tongue and credit card to soothe your worries

expect patrick to leave desperate and vaguely threatening voice mail messages - his heavy, stuttered breaths echoing in your ears as the slick sounds in the background get you more and more worked up. the depraved ramblings deepen and get hoarser with each passing minute, so you'd better pray jean doesn't walk in - she isn't worthy of seeing him in such a disheveled and flushed state

_ _ _ _ _

amab hcs

luis is the most understanding of patrick's work bunch - he isn't shy to defend you and be seen in public as your friend, once you are comfortable telling him your secret of course. just make sure everyone knows you're not a part of that yale thing and you'll be fine

although he isn't keen on being open about his relationship with you - for fear of his colleagues and fellow acquaintances of wall street making derogatory comments towards him, or worse, you - majority of the men already have some closeted urge to spend the night with you, yearning to take bateman's place in your bed. let's face it, the cocaine, competition and firm handshakes can only do so much to hide the growing homoerotic tensions between the coworkers. your appeal is wider than you realise, as the compliments and lingering gazes at events would have most outsiders questioning if carruthers was the only gay man present in the social circle

in large social gatherings - such as big dinner parties or company events - patrick is able to hide his hand under the table and keep a poker face while unbuttoning your fly, untucking your shirt and slowly palming you for his own amusement. his bragging of designer clothing, company roles and mentions of a nice house he procured - for you to move into, of course - easily distract the other people on the table from what's happening in their vicinity

if his j&b on the rocks isn't hitting the spot or the cigars his colleagues are smoking feel heavy in his lungs, he'll drag you into the men's room - assuming there's no one in the other stalls, of course. his fly is halfway undone by the time your knees and expensive slacks hit the tiles, his hands mussing your slicked back hair. you'd better take his cock down your throat to the best of your abilities - you don't want an audience to witness you choking and spluttering on bateman's length, do you? of course not, they'll ostracize you in a heartbeat (or so patrick says), so you had better not complain or splutter when he pinches your nose shut and shoots hot ropes down your throat

whenever patrick fucks your ass, he ensures that his mark is left on your supple skin for days later - whether it be a handprint-shaped bruise, crescent nail marks or scratches along your thighs, he needs to have you remembering how well he fucks you. as you sit down, adjust your pants or even just accidentally back into something, patrick is suddenly at the forefront of your mind

_ _ _ _ _

afab hcs

patrick buys you the finest jewelry and nicest accessories that money can buy - the deal is that you give him handjobs with the sparkling rings on and kisses with the expensive lipstick, luxurious material framing your figure like a dream. he is especially a fan of you wearing jewels that match your eye colour or makeup - when he lifts your hand to press a polite kiss on your fingers, the glittering in your eyes matching his gifts makes his heart skip a beat

when you cockwarm him, his length is so hefty and makes you feel so stretched - the weight grounds you as you struggle to gain friction against your poor neglected clit. you always feel so full when you're perched on his lap, the girth enough to turn off your brain and make you drool. sometimes when patrick is feeling bold, he prepares your outfit for the day and ensures that you're wearing a cute little skirt for easy access :( he can be selfish sometimes, on the occasion that he solely thinks with his dick

patrick loves pushing your knees up to your chest as he fucks you deeply in missionary - the feeling of your swollen pussy lips brushing against his veiny base and your clit grinding against his pubic bone gets him more worked up than he'll ever admit

it's fairly normal to have patrick's hand drift towards your chest in the back of a taxi, his face buried in the crook of your neck. keep your noises quiet or the driver might be curious about what's happening in the backseat. his cold fingers harshly pinching and tugging at your nipples make you abruptly moan into the brisk air in the back of the car, patrick subtly palming himself to the tortured whines leaving your lips. if you make eye contact with the driver, mouth that you're sorry for patrick's behaviour and try to save your dignity by biting your lip to avoid any loud noises. if they make direct eye contact with patrick first, however, expect him to pull a smug grin and flash your breasts to the angled rear-view mirror. he might even hike up your skirts to show off your soaked, borderline see-through panties. sneak the poor driver a tip on your way out because he nearly caused an accident, losing all brain function as his blood immediately drained from his head and rushed to his cock :<

patrick buys you two little platinum charms with a necklace chain, his initials engraved on the back of the heart shaped pendant. the other little shape is an axe, the edge of the blade set with tiny red garnets!! he is main motivation for having you wear it constantly is the fact that it makes a small clinking noise as you bounce on his cock, breasts swaying and your glimmering skin making the necklace a truly beautiful sight to patrick

_ _ _ _ _

ftm hcs

patrick will pay for any surgery you could every want - with the small caveat that he must be the first person to see and touch you once you're all healed. his lightly concealed wonder at your altered appearance and his admiring hums as he carefully traces the remaining swelling definitely help with your mood, breathlessly marveling at the miracle of modern medicine. he's praying you're happy with the outcome, it really was the best money could buy :(

if you're only just getting into wearing masculine clothing, you bet your ass that patrick is guiding you through the more expensive stores. no awkward phase, just the nicest clothing and most put together outfits to go out on the town!! as much as he understands how tough your body image issues can be, he's not having you look sloppy out in public - you're his man and you'll always be looking like you belong by his side

you're lucky his designer boxers are easy to clean! every time he catches sight of your muscles tensing, he's undoubtedly leaking into the material. when you're stretching and your shirt rides up, when you grab something from the top shelf or even when you crouch to tie your shoelace - his cock doesn't discriminate so you'd better expect a small, darkening patch. the musk at the end of the day has such a heady rush when you kneel in front of him, his sweaty underwear mere inches from your lips. patrick swears you give his dick a heartbeat whenever you make out with his bulge and especially when you sloppily give him head :3

bateman is a huge fan of quickies with you before meetings with your mutual colleagues - he's booked for lunch after, there's no other time in his schedule to empty his heavy, full balls into you :( his favourite way to spend those precious moments is with you bent over his polished desk, expensive pants crumpled at your ankles and your precum dripping onto the carpet. he is a massive fan of teasing you by pushing his cockhead into your slick boycunt and stroking his cock, edging his length until you're whimpering from the need to be filled. he mocks you for being needy and massages his balls when he finally fills your warm hole with thick, potent ropes of cum. he leaves you unsatisfied and leaking his load for the whole meeting :( splash your face with water and try not to squirm too much in your seat - patrick's classic shit-eating grin might give away the events that transpire mere moments before you both walked into the boardroom

mtf hcs

patrick will pay for any surgery you could every want - with the small caveat that he must be the first person to see and touch you once you're all healed. his lightly concealed wonder at your altered appearance and his hums as he carefully traces the remaining swelling definitely help with your mood, breathlessly marveling at the miracle of modern medicine. he's praying you're happy with the outcome, it really was the best money could buy :(

patrick keeps himself well put together and likes to treat you to manicures on shared days out. he'll ask his friend's girls for the best nail salon in the area and insists taking you. after he comes along to pick you up and pay after the set is finished, sometimes he'll immediately take your hands and hum his approval at the colour or design. other times, he'll give you his overcoat and hide your nails until you get in a private area, bathroom or the back of a car - the reveal of your new nails when you slowly stroke his cock, spit slicked hand glistening, makes his eyes roll back in pleasure. your heated gaze and slightly flushed face makes him grin, happy that you're willing to drool on his cock and flaunt his money proudly. the perfect girl, in his opinion :>

if you're only just getting into wearing feminine clothing, you bet your ass that patrick is guiding you through the more expensive stores. no awkward phase, just the nicest clothing and most put together outfits to go out on the town!! as much as he understands how tough your body image issues can be, he's not having you look sloppy out in public - you're his girl and you'll always be looking like you belong by his side

patrick's favourite evening activity is fucking you in a mating press - his cock filling you and hitting that deep spot inside you, your eyes rolling into the back of your head. he loves the sight of your girldick bouncing on your tummy and the shine of your dribbling arousal smearing on your skin. nothing beats a relaxed evening with your tight hole warming his throbbing length

_ _ _ _ _

thanks for reading. lmk if you liked it. if i got anything wrong, don't hesitate to tell me.

stay safe.

[ghoststyles]

Casanova

HIIIII 🤍 Here is a little piece I've been working on for a while! This is inspired by the song Casanova by Rayland Baxter. Harry is a manipulative little twat in this, so bare with me 🤍

7.5K words;

TW: SLIGHT mommy kink. He doesn't call her mommy but he calls her mama and Miss/Missy. P in V sex, oral sex, phone sex. FACETIME SEX <3 Slight mentions of suicide. EXTREME drug and alcohol abuse. Arrests, jail. the works.

ENJOY AND GIVE ME A BOOP IF YOU LIKE IT :D

______________________________________________________________

Money, all I ever want is money But I never wanna work for the money So I borrow the money from a woman

Harry Styles knew who he was from a young age. A charmer. A flirt. He uses his wits and his good looks to manipulate the people around him until they have no choice but to give in, conning them and infiltrating their lives for his own gain.

His days are simple; He sleeps until 11, combs his hair into a perfect swirl of chocolate curls, brushes his perfectly white and straight teeth, spritzes his neck with his ridiculously priced Tom Ford cologne, climbs into his Porsche Cayenne to hit the gym, and grab an $18 smoothie for the ride home. From there, he lets the day unfold how it pleases, until it’s time to go to the club with his friends. Here and there, he’ll meet up with his dealer and his bookie to spice it up. 

Rinse. Reuse. Repeat. 

As a child, Harry was dirt poor. He’d never let anyone know that, however. His perfectly curated image blossomed the minute he got to college, leaving any ounce of mediocrity behind. His friends were none the wiser, assuming Harry was there blowing his trust fund like the rest of them, when really, he was a charity case.

Every day, he’d walk to the corner store for cigarettes for his dad and cans of tuna fish, stealing a small item to try and feel something. The owner, Mr. Abbott, knew Harry stole from him, but never said a word. He’d return to their one bedroom apartment, flicking the light on, only to find the electric bill hadn’t been paid. 

His parents are not addicts or criminals, by any means. If they were, he’d at least have a touching back story. Neither of them have the drive or the desire to succeed like he does. They lived their simple lives, worked paycheck to paycheck to support him and his siblings and never worked for more. 

On the day he left for college, he vowed to himself to never let anyone see him as the poor, pathetic boy he was. He’ll put his own silver spoon in his mouth, if he must. 

So, as he sits high and mighty on his throne after doing a few lines off a pretty girl’s tits in the VIP section of his favorite club, The Viper, surrounded by his fellow socialite friends, he thinks of one person.

You.

Harry isn’t unemployed, per se, but, he doesn’t exactly have a job, either. Two years ago, at the ripe age of 21, he graduated magna cum laude from university, with top marks in all of his classes. But, he knew he didn’t want to work a traditional job. He wanted to travel, he wanted to live lavishly, and he wanted to party.

That’s where you come in. The gorgeous, alluring and kind-hearted woman that feeds the beast that is his lifestyle. He wouldn’t change it for the fucking world.

Swiping aimlessly one day on the dating apps, he stopped his scroll abruptly to study your profile. You’re perfectly curated - the collection of photos reflecting your outgoing personality and beauty. 

38. Looking for some fun. Dog mom. CEO. Let me spoil you <3

Seeking a male ages 21-28.

His eyebrow quirks. A sugar mommy? Is that a thing?

He swipes right, hoping deep down you match. This could be it. This could be his way in. The funds from his financial aid are quickly dwindling, and he’d be sooner caught dead than with a part-time job. 

He dawdles around his apartment for a few hours, pacing the room to see if you matched with him. The possibility of this arrangement is scratching an itch he’s been desperate to quell. 

He readies himself to meet his friends at the club, placing cologne on his neck and wrists. For good measure, he adjusts himself in his trousers to get a little blood flowing down there. 

As he plucks his keys from the door, he hears the familiar ping from the dating site ring out from his laptop. Stopping in his tracks, he pivots to stand at his desk. He swallows thickly before entering his passcode.

Congratulations, Casanova94, you matched with BabyHoneyxo

A dazed smile makes its way to his lips, his dimple popping significantly. This is going to be good.

Can you believe I never met her? Can you believe she never met me, too? But she calls me everyday, telling me to behave And no I never listened

Now, almost two years later, you and Harry have still never met in person. But, that’s by your request. You want a companion. A call boy. Someone who will always answer the phone when you need it. And ever since you inherited your family’s wealth and company, you want someone to spoil.

It started off slow; texts asking about one another’s day, learning about hobbies and interests. Then, the wire deposits came in. Harry wasn’t sure if he had hearts in his eyes or dollar signs. You don’t tell him how to spend the money, but you definitely drop hints.

“Get yourself a new outfit, baby. Then send me a picture,” you smiled lazily on FaceTime one night. “Maybe you can find something to match the Porsche.”

Harry chuckles boyishly, “You’re too good to me. I just went shopping last week!” 

He has you eating out of the palm of his hand. 

“I know, I know. I just want my baby boy to be happy. Can you pull yourself out for me, baby? Wanna see you,” you purr, making yourself comfortable on your king sized bed in your quiet penthouse. You’re winding down for bed, even though your lover is just getting ready for the night. 

“Mhm,” Harry responds, voice an octave higher and desperate sounding. He slides himself out, letting his cock harden slowly in his hands. “My friends will be here soon, Missy.”

“That’s okay, bubba. We’ll be quick. Mmm, look how big and gorgeous you are,” your sultry tone sends shivers up his spine. He adjusts the camera so you’re looking at his abdomen from below his thick cock. 

“My perfect boy,” you moan out as you touch your clit for the first time this evening. “Always so good for me.”

“Yes, Missy. Wanna be good for you. Can I touch myself harder now?”

“Yeah, baby, go ahead. Squeeze that big cock. Tell me when you’re close.”

At this point, you’re furiously rubbing your clit, and gently teasing a finger inside. His breaths are becoming more labored as he pumps his cock at a faster pace. You pause just before your climax, sending your heart rate to a thunderous pace you can hear the ringing in your ears. 

You look over at your phone propped up next to you to find your little love sweating and fisting himself hurriedly. The whimpers coming from the other end make the hairs on your arms stand up. After a beat, you continue the assault on your clit, starting off slow in order to reach that peak again. 

“I-I’m close, Missy. Please let me cum. I f-feel so good,” at the tail end of his begging, he moans deeply. 

“Uh-uh. Who always cums first, baby?”

“You, Mama. You cum first,” he pants, his eyes making panicked contact with yours. 

“That’s right. Good boy. I’m so close baby,” you squeak out as you stick two fingers in your cunt. You cry out, at your release, gently tweaking your nipple with your other hand.

Harry isn’t far behind, taking one last swipe over his tip, using his other hand to cup his balls. He cums all over his fist, small specks of white littering his belly. He whimpers again, barely able to open his eyes. 

“Let me see, baby,” you whisper, waiting for him to show you his load. He pans the camera silently, the haze already leaving his head. But he’d never tell you that. 

“Thank you, Missy. I feel so good.”

“Mmm, bet you do, baby. Now go clean up and have fun with your friends. I’ll talk you tomorrow. Behave!”

“Okay, I will. Goodnight.”

The minute Harry presses ‘end’, an ounce of remorse bubbles in his chest. Just an ounce. He rises from his bed to jump in the shower, ridding him of his guilt and shame. 

Sure, you’re gorgeous, and nice. But you’re not what’s getting him off. Or so he likes to tell himself. Throughout your sessions on FaceTime, Harry’s mind wanders to the girls he’s hooked up with the weekend before, and the countless drugs he’ll consume on a night out. That’s what gets his rocks off. 

You’re the means to his ends. The gateway to his wildest dreams. He’s going to hold onto you for as long as he can, even if he has to get off over the phone a few nights, or pretend to care about the philanthropy you’re supporting that week. 

Harry should be your only philanthropy, he thinks to himself. This is the easiest job he’s ever done. And it only makes it better that he can do whatever he wants, with no consequences.

As he gets out of the shower, his prick still swinging in the air, he picks up his phone to see a Venmo payment from you.

Y/N L/N paid Harry Styles - $2,000.00 - 😘

Without even hesitating, Harry, heart rate rising a bit, opens up a text field  - to his club promoter. He ignores the dozens of texts from family members over the last few weeks. He’ll make his yearly obligation call to his mother at some point.

Hey, Mike! Can we upgrade to V.I.P tonight? I can put $2K down now.

He’ll thank you later. Tonight, he’s the hero of his friend group. A slight nervousness prickles on his neck. Harry isn’t naive - he knows he should be smarter with his money - your money. But you haven’t given him any reason to believe the well will run dry any time soon. 

So far, despite your generosity, Harry still lives paycheck to paycheck. He blows his money on extravagant trips, nights out at the club, and plenty of booze and coke. It’s times he hopes to look back on one day and smile. He swears to you he’s saving the money and working towards investing and buying a house. 

Scout’s honor. 

I got a real bad feeling, I'ma let her down Got a hole in my pocket and I'm running around Spending all of her money on drugs and things To keep my mind from runnin' Back to the hole that I came from

Every night that he steps out of his apartment, he shakes the nagging feeling in his gut, the embodiment of the life he left behind. He calls his Uber Black to take him to the Viper, his little white baggy in the breast pocket of his Burberry overcoat. 

He nods to the driver when he opens his door and proceeds to pour a small line of the substance onto the screen of his phone, but not without seeing another text from you.

Mrs. Robinson 🤍: Enjoy the night, sweet boy! Be safe xo

Harry smiles to himself at your contact in his phone. You all but had a fit when you found out he’d never seen The Graduate. Once he saw it, his world changed.

Swiping away your message, he plugs up his nostril, inhaling sharply as he moves his face over the surface of the screen. He grunts lightly, throwing his head back and shaking it out. That should hold him over until they’re in their secluded area of the club. 

The car pulls up to the club around 11:45, the house music already bumping. The line looks brutal. He scans it to see if he spots any 10s waiting that can keep him company later. Miles, Marquise and Jade are already inside at their table.

The bouncers greet Harry, bumping his fist and patting him on the back. He can feel the eyes of the nobodies in line glaring at him enviously. When you spend the average person’s salary in one night at the club, you eagerly reap the benefits. 

As he’s escorted through the crowd by the five-foot-nothing hostess, his senses are on high alert. He can hear his heart beating over the music and can feel the bass shaking the floors. He smiles tightly at the girl as she leads him to his table and scurries back into the crowd. 

Marquise and Miles, his best friends from undergrad stand to greet him, as Jade greets him from the lap of her catch of the day, a burly, bearded dude already glowing from sweat and the 8-ball they’re about to dig into. 

Taking his first swig of the Don Julio his regular bottle service girl, Tasia, pours into his mouth, he cracks a wicked smile, convincing himself there’s no where else he’d rather be.

Back to the hole that I came from Back to the hole that I came from Back to the hole that I came from And I don't ever want to go back

~

“So,” you start quietly on your daily FaceTime coffee date. You’re perched in your home library’s windowsill. “I was thinking of flying you in for my 40th. It’s going to be pretty chill. I’ll probably hire a chef and have a dinner at my place. Maybe 15-20 people.”

Harry is cocooned in a blanket on his bed, his iced coffee you had DoorDashed to his apartment slowly melting on his bedside table. His eyes had slowly drifted shut as he listened to you talk about everything and nothing. That’s how these things went — you talk and he listens. You’re after his companionship, after all.

At your words, his eyes shoot open, causing him to try and sit up gently so he can hear you better, not believing what you’re saying. Inhaling, he hesitates before he starts to reply. 

“Uh, um,” he bites his lip and looks at himself in the corner of the screen, trying to gauge if he looks as shocked as he sounds. “W-when are you thinking? I have a couple trips coming up and plans with my friends.”

He decides to play it cool. You have to know this is a huge development in this arrangement, right?

“Well, my birthday is the 27th, obviously.”

He scoffs, “I knew that part, Miss. When is the party?”

“Watch the ‘tude, baby. I was hoping for that Saturday, maybe. But I’d be willing to work around what you have coming up.”

He’s lying through his teeth. He doesn’t have major travel plans until the summer, when his friend group will jet off to Greece. He’s been saving up your pennies to charter a private plane.

“Don’t agree to it now, but please think about it. I love spending time with you and I’d love to finally meet you. We can tell my family that you’re part of one of my philanthropy groups. I’m your largest donor, after all,” you stick your tongue out at him.

“Okay, let me get myself together for the day, and I can see what’s going on,” Harry grits out, trying not to let you down. 

“Okay, baby. Have a good day. Let me know if you get up to anything fun,” you say with a mild hurt in your tone. The least he can do is make an effort to finally meet you.

“Will do. Bye, Miss,” He says quietly, swiftly hanging up the call and chucking the phone towards his pillows. 

“Fuck!” 

Hm, Casanova You know that I'm a casanova Throw my pennies in the well Waking up in jail 'Cause I never paid attention Do you remember all the good times? Do you remember all the bad times too? She reminds me everyday, telling me to behave And no I never listened

~

You didn’t let him off the hook that easily. Every day that passes as your birthday party looms, you mention flights, or activities you can do once he arrives. Harry laughs them off, distracting you by touching himself or telling a story from his gatherings with friends. 

It’s not until you’re barking orders at him over the phone, 1 week before your party, denying his orgasm that he finally relents. 

“Miss, please, I-I need to cum,” he whimpers as he has a ghostly touch over his angry, red cock. “P-please, I’ll do anything.”

“Anything, hm? I want my pretty baby at my birthday party. Wanna show you off and whisper filthy things in your ear and feel that pretty cock under the table. Agree to fly out to me and I’ll let you cum, baby.”

“Miss,” he croaks out, his stomach in shambles trying to stop himself from coming for the third time. “Okay, okay, Mama, I’ll go. I-I’ll come for your birthday! Please let me cum.”

You all but squeal in delight, instructing him to finally let go. Talking him through it, he keens from your praises for following the rules. A nervous heat travels up his neck, realizing what he agreed to in his post-nut clarity. 

“Good boy. Take a picture before you clean up, okay? I’ll talk to you in the morning and I’ll have my assistant send over your travel information.”

He nods, unable to make eye contact. You’re oblivious and overjoyed, thinking he’s just too fucked out to look at you. 

“G’night, Missy,” he chokes out. 

“Goodnight, sweet boy,” you hum before hanging up.

Harry snaps a photo of his messy left fist and cum-covered stomach before cleaning himself up and returning to bed. He eagerly picks up his phone to check his dating apps for his matches. He’d been talking to a new girl, Madelyn, for the past week, so excitement bubbles in his stomach. 

She’s meeting him and his regular group at the Viper tonight, so he’s excited to show off to her. Maybe she’ll even be down for a romp in the back seat of his Porsche.

His phone pings, signaling another deposit from you.

Y/N L/N paid Harry Styles - $5,000 - Can’t wait to see you 😘

He smiles, his right thumb picking at the skin of his ring finger. The guilt he feels from abusing your kindness starts to eat at him. But he didn’t get this far by being nice to people. You can’t possibly have feelings for him, right? You haven’t even met, for god’s sake. He shivers, shaking the feeling so he can focus on the night ahead. 

Pushing you far, far in the back of his mind. 

~

It’s now the night before your 40th birthday party, and you’re buzzing with excitement. Your penthouse is decorated in pink and floral frill - almost like your Great Aunt Gertrude exploded - but it’s chic and will be a hit amongst your New York City socialite friends. Your party planner floats around the room, puttering with the florals, candles and gem stones scattered around. 

You anxiously check the time, counting down the hours until Harry boards his flight from LA. He’s jumping on a red eye, so you’ll greet him with coffee and donuts when he lands. A pang of nervousness hits you as you remember how distant he was this week, saying he was busy with friends or doing god knows what an unemployed 23 year old does in Los Angeles.

Monday, 3:31 PM

Mr. Gladstone 🤍: Sorry, missy. I’ve been at Miles’ art showing all day.

Wednesday, 11:27 AM

Mr. Gladstone 🤍: Sorry! At the gym with Do Not Disturb on. Hey, can you send me some cash? Last min car maintenance 😢

Friday, 5:58 PM

Mr. Gladstone 🤍: Hi missy. My friends want to go to the opening of the new Carbone out here. Think your friends can get us a table? It’ll be 9 of us. 

Hope your dad’s chemo appointment went okay.

You can’t be mad at the little monster you’ve let him become. You are always an after thought as his only priority is making sure the cash cow is alive and well. He extends effort just enough to make the butterflies in your stomach reappear when he does give you the attention you crave. 

Inhaling deeply, you ascend up the grand staircase in your Upper East Side brownstone and begin your pampering routine, sending photos to Harry of the hydrating eye patches on and curlers in your hair, blowing kisses and sticking out your tongue. 

Typically, Harry answers relatively quickly to your silly messages, but, tonight, he’s gone radio silent. Maybe he’s trying to conserve his phone battery for the flight? 

You open your medicine cabinet to examine your fast-acting anti-anxiety pills, hoping you can will away this uneasy feeling. Padding over to your bed, you pop your pills before tucking into your silk sheets. Before putting your phone on the charger, you send Harry one last message.

Mrs. Robinson 🤍: Safe flight, baby ♥️ I’ll be tracking you, but tell me which terminal when you land. Can’t wait to see you 😚

Flicking out the light, you close your eyes with the hopes of finally meeting your lover in just twelve hours.

~

I got a real bad feeling I'ma lose my cool Everywhere that I go, everything that I do Stop me using the money on drugs and things To keep my mind from runnin'

Back to the hole that I came from Back to the hole that I came from Back to the hole that I came from Back to the hole that I came from And I don't ever want to go back

Ping!

Harry, Delta airlines can’t wait to welcome you aboard Flight 0723 to JFK, departing 18:35

Ping!

You may now board Flight 0723 to JFK, departing 18:35. Welcome aboard, Harry.

Harry’s leg is bouncing uncontrollably as he watches the busy bodies move around him. Despite his social butterfly nature, his social anxiety rears its ugly head every once in a while. Or, it could be tonight’s concoction of pills.

He places his phone on Do Not Disturb, just as he gets a text from you. Closing his eyes in defeat, he comes face to face with the awful, shameful and downright despicable choice he’s made.

He’s not going to New York.

Instead, he’s standing booth side at a club next to John Summit, his favorite DJ, as he passes around a bottle of 1942. The pills he’s on are plastering a wide smile on his face as the throng of bodies around him jump around, despite the absolute panic and guilt he feels in his veins. 

He’s wondering when you’ll realize he’s not coming. The lack of texts? The empty escalator to the pick-up area well after the flight has landed? He can picture your cherub cheeks reddening with embarrassment, fighting back hot tears.

To distract himself, he leans down to capture the blonde girl to his left in a kiss, despite not even making eye contact with her prior. When she peers up at him, her pupils are just as dilated as his as they sway back and forth.

He kisses her once more, just as Marquise offers him another baggie.

~

The panic sets in about 30 minutes after his flight landed. Surely that’s enough time to grab his bag and meet you here, right?

Your eyes urgently scan over every person that walks by probably sending them into fight or flight as a deranged woman looks them over in search for her boy. 

You look down at your phone, the background a photo of your dog, completely clear of any notifications. With vigor, you throw out the box of donuts and his iced black Americano. Swallowing your pride, you skulk back to the parking lot to cry in the safety of your car. 

You feel like a loser. A pathetic middle-aged woman who got fooled by a man half her age. The mental gymnastics that takes place as you drive home with white knuckles on the steering wheel should have you committed. 

Your dating life wasn’t easy. It started in high school, where you were invisible to the boys, always deemed not good enough to date. Extending through college, you were still nearly invisible, working over time to find just one guy to have any interest in you and take your virginity. Just to get it over with. 

As the dating scene expanded in your 20s, you still struck out with men your age. It wasn’t until your late 30s when your hopes and dreams of a family came crashing down on you that you’d made that godforsaken dating profile. 

You still remember how your heart skipped a beat when you saw Harry’s photo for the first time. His boyish charm was palpable, followed by his incredibly witty prompt answers. He was your solution. If you couldn’t earn someone’s love, you could at least buy it. 

The lump in your throat is preventing you from calling him and leaving the fiery voicemail you so want to do. You assume he’ll ignore any calls from you anyway.

Pulling into your private garage, you let out your frustrations by wailing and smacking the steering wheel of your Bentley. To prying eyes, the cops should be called. You allow yourself to flip for 5 minutes before putting on a brave face and going inside to begin getting ready for your birthday party, ringing in another year of heartbreak and disappointment. 

~

3 glasses of a 1982 Cabernet Sauvignon. That’s how much alcohol it took to have you crying in front of your friends and family. 

You couldn’t tell them what was really wrong, of course. They have no idea about your and Harry’s arrangement. They’d call you an idiot if they knew how much money you’ve sent him.

Everyone is shooting you sympathetic looks as you cry on your best friend’s shoulder. For all they know, you’re stressed with work and your dad’s cancer diagnosis. It’s a lot of pressure on a single woman. 

Rubbing your back, Candice whispers all the affirmations she’s been telling you since college. It’s incredibly annoying to get advice from someone whose life is perfect. 

You quietly thank her, clearing your throat of the lump that’s formed. Looking around the room, you make a break for it, grabbing your phone as you lock yourself in the guest bathroom.

Tears blurring your vision, you dial his number for the first time all day. It rings and rings, finally sending you to voicemail, as you’d suspected.

You’re silent for a beat after the beep. 

“I-I don’t even have words for how I’m feeling right now. I was so fucking excited to see you…feel you….kiss you. And instead I’m locked in a bathroom at my own birthday party, calling you like a fucking loser,” you start, snot threatening to drip down your face. 

“I give, and I give and I give, and yet you still let me look like a fucking idiot in front of my friends and family. You couldn’t do one fucking thing for me? You…You didn’t even have to put any effort. I paid for a car service, paid for a first-class seat, bought you a wardrobe…”

“I just hope whatever the fuck you’re doing right now is worth it. I don’t ask questions about what you do with my money, since I’m the one who started this. B-but I thought you were a decent person. I feel so fucking stupid right now,” you are talking to yourself at this point. You shakily inhale and stare at the ceiling. 

“We’re done. I’m done with your bullshit. I’m not gonna let some ungrateful brat take advantage of me anymore. Have a nice life, Harry. Hope you have to move back to bumblefuck and lose all the friends you’ve been lying to this whole time,” you end off the message with pure venom leaking through your words.

You press end, feeling slightly better that you’d used his deepest darkest secret as ammunition. The mirror in front of you shows a shocking picture; running mascara, watery, red eyes, and disheveled hair.

Patting some toilet paper under your eyes, you clean up the best you can before returning back to the party. If you were strong, you’d block his number. But you can’t help but wonder what his response could be.

~

He deserves it. It’s 4:40 AM and he just mustered the courage to listen to your message. His under eyes feel heavy as he listens to your words, hitting him where it hurts. His hands are shaking as he lowers the phone to his lap, drowning out the sound of your sad, heartbreaking voice. 

5 years ago, he was a decent person. Now, he looks in the mirror and sees his slightly gaunt face and tired eyes staring back at him. He even notices a few gray hairs every once in a while. 

His lifestyle takes a toll on him — He’s well aware of that. But for now, he has no reason to stop. Harry lightly smacks his head back on the seat of the Uber back to his apartment. Cracking the window, he lets the sounds of the early morning deter him from vomiting.

The car arrives at his apartment — a guest house in Hidden Hills, the only place he can afford with the zip code he desires so badly. He never brings anyone to his place, too paranoid of his secrets getting out. Vision doubling, he struggles to stick his key in the lock. He knees the door has he twists the knob, sending him tumbling flat on his face. 

Smacking his head on the tile floor, he recoils, lifting his hand to feel droplets of blood on his nose and bottom lip. The metallic taste is leaking into his mouth, sending him into a spiral. His front door is still wide open, allowing him to see the sun peaking over the hills in the distance. 

He crawls over to the threshold, slamming the door shut with his foot. He lays back down on the cool floor, exhausted from his efforts. His breathing evened out, lulling him into a comatose state before succumbing to the darkness.

But before he passes out, all he can picture is your gorgeous, disappointed face.

I'm back in the hole I got nowhere to go La la la la, la, la Spinning around In the cold dark hole deep down in the ground Back to the hole that I came from Back to the hole that I came from

The thing about rock bottom is that you don’t realize you’ve hit it until you’re clawing your way back to the top.

In the days following your fallout, Harry’s experienced enough misfortunes to last a lifetime. It started off with his credit card declining on a $6 breakfast sandwich, only to come back hungry and sad to his car being repossessed in front of all the Hidden Hills housewives out and about. 

The panic rises in his chest, and it’s taking everything in him not to call you and beg for forgiveness. He’s come to realize how fucked up his actions towards you became. He misses the butterflies and longing he felt when you first started your arrangement. 

He stomps back inside, miserable and feeling like a loser. If it wasn’t for Marquise’s birthday party later, he’d be sure to go dive in the ocean in hopes of never resurfacing. 

His closet is taunting him — full of the clothes you’ve bought him. He can remember every single piece he tried on for you, and the praise you were so quick to give him. He never reciprocated when you’d show him new pieces and showing off your incredible body. But, you hadn’t called him out on it, so he continued on. 

The all black outfit he chose reflects his mental state. Filled with dread and remorse, he pulls out his kitchen drawer to peruse the substances he has left. His stash is dwindling as fast as his bank account, so he has to be strategic until he figures out his next move. 

Grabbing the baggies, he situates them in the breast pocket of his jacket to conceal everything. They’re going to a new club tonight, so there’s no being saved by the bouncers if shit goes south. 

The party goes off without a hitch. Bottles pouring, dancers hanging from the ceiling, and an influx of out of town girls willing to do anyone and anything. Harry has nearly pushed you completely out of his mind, but he does something completely out of character.

~

Mr. Gladstone 🤍: I’m sorry.

You’re at a wine bar with your girlfriends in the Village, and the message you receive shakes you to your core. You haven’t heard from him in days. Not even after you repossessed the car and canceled his credit card tied to your account. You thought for sure that would smoke him out of his foxhole. But, he’s Harry. He’s selfish and too full of pride to ever come forward and apologize.

Your friends notice the faltered look on your face, but opt to ignore it as they bitch about their husbands and kids. Despite your fleeting dreams of having a family, most of the time you’re thankful you can’t relate to them. 

Turning off your phone, you throw it in your new Kelly bag — a little treat to get over the heartbreak — and return to the conversation.

~

He doesn’t even remember how it went down. 

The last clear memory he has is being escorted out of the club to go back to Marquise’s. The combination of coke and alcohol, plus this week’s tumultuous events had him on edge, so when the unfamiliar bouncer at this mediocre club grabbed him wrong, it sent Harry into a frenzy. 

To match his bloody nose and busted lip, his knuckles are now decorated with crusty amber smatterings of blood — his own, and the bouncer’s. His jaw and wrist were aching, still mouthing off like a rabid animal as the cop read him his Miranda rights. 

So now, he sits in a cold cell in the county jail awaiting his arraignment — a seemingly straight forward assault and battery charge, now amplified by the 40 grams of cocaine and Adderall in his coat pocket. The bastard cop smiled to himself when he patted him down. Harry will give him this one, the rinkydink small town cop who is used to giving out traffic violations. 

Tired, in dire need to piss, and on the verge of a mental breakdown, Harry’s head snaps up when the officer notifies him of his bail — a measly $75,000 — and lets him know he has one phone call. Balling his fists, he looks up at the ceiling.

“Fuck!”

The cop assists him in standing up. His wrists are chained together behind his back, after all. Releasing him from the confines, Harry rubs his wrists where the cheap metal chafed him.

“You have 5 minutes to make a call. Do you know the phone number or do you need me to access your cell phone?”

Harry scoffs. Who the fuck still memorizes phone numbers?

“Phone,” he replies, a clear edge in his voice. 

“Whose contact am I looking for? Mom, Dad?”

“Fuck’s sake. No, I need the number of,” Harry pauses suddenly as he remembers your name in his phone. 

“Mrs. Robinson,” he finishes quietly.

The cop raises his eyebrows, but says nothing, and reads the number aloud to him. It rings, and rings, diminishing any hope that you’ll answer. It’s in this moment Harry is at his rockbottom.

“Hello?”

~

“This is a collect call from the Department of Corrections for the City of Los Angeles. An individual is trying to contact you. Do you wish to answer?”

You gasp as the automated voice informs you of your worst nightmare.

“Hello?” you say quietly. It’s 8:15 AM, and you’re at the cafe on the corner for a latte and reading, trying not to disturb those around you. 

“M-missy?” His voice sounds broken. It sends a stabbing pain straight through your chest. 

“Harry, what happened? What did you do?”

“I-I fucked up. I fucked up so bad. N-not just with you. I know I fucked everything u-up,” he’s starting to sob, unable to catch his breath between words.

“B-but I got into a pretty bad fight last night, and I had some,” Harry pauses to look over his shoulder to make sure the officer isn’t listening. He wipes the tears in his eyes with his thumb. “I had some stuff on me, so now I’m in a lot more trouble. A-and I know I fucked everything up and I don’t deserve anything from you, but I don’t have enough money for bail.”

You sigh, not really even sure where to begin. Tears are threatening to spill over as you hear his clearly broken sobs. 

“How much do you need?”

At this point, Harry hung his head at your silence. He snaps his head back up when you agree to help him.

“It’s $75,000.”

“Jesus, Harry, what the fuck did you do?”

“I don’t even know, I barely have any memory of—”

“Five minutes, inmate!” the officer interrupts him.

Harry rolls his eyes and continues. 

“I’m not sure what happens next. B-but thank you, Y/N. I know I don’t deserve this in the slightest.”

You shiver at his use of your first name. Closing your eyes, “I know you don’t. Just tell me who I need to call.”

~

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you mutter as you hear your incessant doorbell ring. It’s 6 in the morning, just a few days after you paid Harry’s bail. You’ve been laying low, unsure if you’ll even hear from him again. 

Your doorman, Paul, informs you of a visitor. A visitor? At this time? Unable to even comprehend what’s going on, you press the button to confirm opening the door, and wait. 

Your bunny slippered feet tap your coffee table anxiously. Is it your mom? Here to inform you of someone’s death? Or is it your best friend from college who couldn’t come to your party? Or is it —

You’re broken from your racing thoughts as a timid knock on the door echoes through the house. You shuffle hesitantly over to the door, unable to even bring yourself to look through the peephole. 

Closing your eyes while pulling open the door, the absolute wind is knocked out of you as you eye up your waiting guest. 

He’s tall, tanned and gorgeous as his photos. It’s unfair to look like this after stepping off what she assumes was a red eye flight. He looks exhausted. His lip and nose are busted, and he has a yellowing bruise on his left eye.

“W-what?” you flounder in disbelief.

His hands fold together at your reaction, unsure if he should hug you or keep a respectable distance. He opens his mouth to say something, but stops himself. He’ll play by your rules.

“What the fuck is going on?” 

You look adorable. The sleep barely wiped from your eyes. Slight bed head and disheveled silk pajamas. Harry is in disbelief that this is the woman he’s come to realize his feelings for.

“I know this is so fucked up,” he trails off. “Coming here. I don’t deserve even a minute of your time, but I needed to come here and tell you how fucking sorry I am. How deep into the superficial bullshit I got. I took advantage of you and your kindness and I lost myself in the process.”

You must look flabbergasted, because he inches closer, placing his hands gently on your arms. His touch is searing, but the first reminder that he’s actually standing in front of you and not an extremely lifelike apparition. 

“I-I,” you stumble.

“We don’t even have to talk right now. You can send me away, if you need. But I’m here, I’m here in New York and I want to change. I want to be better for you. These last few days— when I had absolutely nothing — made me realize something.”

His eyes are now earnest and starting to tear up. Your reflection is so clear in his tide pool green irises. 

“I had nothing, and it made me realizing you’re my everything.”

His profession had you clutching your metaphorical pearls. Your heart is racing, sending your central nervous system into a tizzy. You know he’s not lying, because he’s looking dead in your eyes waiting for your reply.

“H-Harry, I don’t even know what to say,” you stall. Your body knows what it wants to say.

“I know and like I said, if you need time, I underst—”

“If you’re here and you’re not bullshitting me; you really want to change. Then, you’ll fuck me like it.”

If Harry’s jaw could drop to the basement, it would. Instead of word vomiting, he lunges forward, guiding both of your bodies back to the hallway and placing a panty-dropping kiss on your lips. He doesn’t even have time to admire your beautiful home.

You break the kiss, grabbing his wrist to lead him to your room. The sheets are mussed, your clothes are all over, but you can’t even begin to fucking care. You all but dive back onto your bed, pulling your nightgown up to reveal your bare, perfect pussy. 

Harry drops to his knees, wrapping his hands around your thighs. The photos and the FaceTimes don’t do any justice to the sight in front of him. You’re complete and utter perfection. 

He waits for your approval before leaning forward to lick from back to front. Your back arches slightly, throwing your ankles over his shoulder. His fingertips dig into your skin deliciously, so you grab onto your blankets for dear life. 

“Give it to me, Missy. I’ve been waiting two years for this perfect cunt. What the fuck was I waiting for?”

You laugh, not expecting his sense of humor at this moment. For the last few months, it’s been like talking to a robot. It was an exchange of goods and services. But here, in front of you, is a man. A man who’s willing to change his ways for you. The man you’ve waited all your life for. 

“Always here for you. It’s yours,” you purr, placing your hands on top of his. 

He growls, vigorously licking into you. He removes his right hand to insert his two middle fingers into your center. This has you howling, unable to even remember the last time a man did this for you. 

“Baby, baby. I’m gonna cum. Gonna cum for you, finally,” you whine, focusing on the immeasurable pleasure stemming from your legs. 

“Mhm, I can feel you, Mama. Let go for me,” he begs, making direct eye contact with you. 

It’s the moment you lock eyes that you’re letting go. All the stars are aligning and symphonies are playing in your head.

“Ah, ah! There, Harry!”

Harry keens at hearing his name roll off your tongue. He slides up your body to kiss you, allowing you to taste yourself. You grab at his under shirt, insinuating that you want it off.

He peels it off and cheekily pulls your tit out of your nightie. He winks before connecting his lips to your nipple, rolling his tongue around the bud and sucking gently. 

“Please, want you inside me. Gimme my big cock, baby.” 

“It’s yours, Mama. All of me.”

Harry slides his briefs down his legs, revealing the main event. His dick swings slightly before hitting him in the stomach. You moan, unable to wait even another minute for him.

“Please,” you cry out, scratching down his chest. 

He lines himself up, moaning in ecstasy as he pushes in. Your mouth falls open, a silent whine escaping. 

“So big, baby. I should’ve flown out to you the minute you sent me a dick pic. Like a fucking middle schooler.”

Now Harry is laughing. He’s in disbelief that he would ever treat you the way he did. The clarity from the last few days is damning.

His pumps are getting faster and longer, bottoming out every other thrust. He looks down to where you’re connected, your pussy lips wrapped around him deliciously, a slight white substance leaking out of you. He leans down to kiss you, wanting this connection he’s subconsciously wanted since he met you. 

“Want you to cum with me, Missy. Cum with me. Want to show you I mean it. I mean everything I said.”

You gently put your hand on his cheek, to which he immediately nuzzles in at the touch. 

“I know you mean it, baby. It’ll be okay. We’ll figure this out.”

He nods, leaning down to kiss you again, his thrusts slowing but still ramming you to the hilt.

“You close?”

“Yes, baby boy. Cum with me, I’m cumming now.”

Harry’s cock twitches as he bumps your walls before releasing long and deep into you. You push your noses together, lips ghosting over one another’s. 

Harry is finally home. 

“You’re gonna fucking pay for this, little brat.”

He flashes a shit eating grin, kissing you again.

“I expect nothing less.”

And I don't ever Back to the hole that I came from Back to the hole that I came from And I don't ever want to go back

[deadsetobsessions]

Danny Phantom Writing Prompt:

When she comes to, a silver haired man with a matching goatee greets her. Kind of. He’s disappointed.

She’s surrounded in neon green and she is so, so, so confused.

——

Her name is-

Well. It was something else.

What matters is that Vlad doesn’t call her by anything other than “Danielle” and “you.”

She thinks if she wasn’t who she is- if Vlad hadn’t ripped her out of her own life, poured her tattered soul into this imperfect body- she’d believe the father like figure he’s poorly pretending to be. But she knows. This is a show she’s watched many times. Vlad, even if she hadn’t had years of actual life and the foreknowledge of Danny Phantom, she’d eventually clock him as a villain.

“You can do it, Danielle.” He says.

“Obey, or suffer the consequences,” she hears. She knows manipulation when she hears it. Vlad thinks it’ll work. After all, little pod baby Danielle would know no different than the confining walls of her room. But she does know, and the voices of her loved ones bolster her in this delicate balancing act.

So, she pretends to let him mold her. Let him shape little Danielle into a puppet he could pilot as he wishes.

To act like her body’s template, but to be obedient in ways Danny would never allow himself to be. To turn trusting blue eyes up towards the drawling billionaire and pretend to take his word as gospel.

In return, he gives her more freedom. He thinks it’s control, that she returns even when he gives her ample chances to leave. She knows it’s a test, and she’s always been good at those.

She collects evidence, slowly. Because Vlad might have overshadowed people and signed their companies over to him, but he was sloppy. He was sloppy and she was a paralegal.

——

Vlad gives her the mission she’s been waiting for. She goes to Danny with a neutral mask and acts like a person who knows nothing of normal social cues.

It’s what Vlad expects of her.

The time is not yet right.

——

So when the time comes, Danielle makes a decision. She was never the baby Dani. She will never be. When she punches Vlad, she tears into him with everything she has. She makes him bleed and she breaks him and she slaps the anti-ghost belt on him to lock his ability. And she breaks more, just to make sure he might not heal all the way, all the while Danny watches in horror.

And then she starts the process of legally beating him up. Danielle bankrupts Vlad in two months with legal fees, and she takes vicious pleasure in rendering him destitute.

Hah. Try creating clones of your one sided love now, you creepy motherfucker.

——

She’s melting. She makes a joke, because Danny looked terrified and she got attached. Well, it’s hard not to get attached, considering he risked his neck for her even after learning she was there to…

Well.

He saves her. She knew he would.

She’s whole again. Stable. But something in her breaks, because she knows, with a sense of unfathomable knowledge, that she will never rid herself of the name Danielle again. She’s bound to this world. The price for her life was an eternity of imprisonment in a realm where she will never see the people she loves again.

——

“I’m not… I wasn’t always Danielle.” She admits to Danny, Tucker, and Sam.

“What does that even mean?”

She sighed, leaning against the window sill.

“The reason I was stable and my… siblings weren’t was because Vlad ripped my soul out from my body and shoved it into the body of a clone. He killed me.”

Danny stuttered to a close. Grief. She smiles at him.

“Technically, I’m older than you and Jazz.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, head buried in her hands. Tucker just stares at her.

“Yeah. Me too. But you shouldn’t blame yourself, Danny.” Danielle knows that look on his face. “I hate him, yeah. But… I can’t change it now. So, I’ll see what this world has to offer.”

“I’m sorry,” Danny says to her.

“I get it.”

And she does. Because Danielle knows what it is to die, now. So does he.

So she flips off the window sill, enjoying her always novel powers of flight, and laughs.

“I’ll be Nellie. You can call me Nellie.”

[xi-vz]

I have this Shang Qinghua hc where he’s an actual all-out BAMF. Like, he knows how to kick ass and take names. He can fight better than everyone, he’s powerful af, and he’s practically perfect at anything he does. He created the PIDW world, and he bends it to his will. Like, he’s legit a God™️. And he keeps that tidbit to himself, but sometimes he has trouble hiding it.

One time he beat Liu Qingge in a brutal training fight (one that SQH didn’t even want to participate in), but accidentally-on-purpose trips and hurts himself afterwards, making everyone believe it was a one-off thing.

He’s a better cook than Luo Binghe, although no one knows that until the chef for A Ding gets sick and SQH has a bunch of starving kids to deal with.

SQH is also super charming and naturally flirtatious. He’s on the logistics peak, meaning he has to talk to merchants and negotiate prices and deals. He has a fucking silver tongue. Not in a slimy way, but in the same way as Binghe. (LBH got his personality from somewhere.) SQH’s charm was partially what got Mobei Jun to be interested enough not to kill him when they were teens.

SQH can use The System to his advantage and become omnipotent if he wanted to. He doesn’t, because it takes a lot of work, but he could. In fact, he hacked The System when he was still an infant, it does whatever he tells it. Including giving him infinity points. Sometimes it’ll give him a mission, but SQH treats it like an annoying pop-up ad.

SQH is ruthless, manipulative, and can crush anyone like an ant mentally, physically and emotionally. He actually put a lot of himself into LBH while writing the book. And he kind of regrets that because the two really can’t stand each other due to how similar they are. Although LBH doesn’t realize it.

His cultivation is top tier. He’s actually the strongest cultivator in the world—but it wasn’t because he worked his ass off. He just rigged the game.

I can see him acting pathetic and dramatic to deflect because then he’s underestimated af. Also, the fake tears? His son does the same exact thing. But SQH on the inside is highly amused by everything. Especially Binghe. He loves his son, and knows what LBH is capable of, but it only makes him laugh. Internally, of course. Like, this whole world is hilarious to him.

SQH is smart and because these are his creations, he can outsmart any of them. It’s lonely though, being a God among men. So, instead of using his actual abilities, he doesn’t. Why would he interfere with anyone’s lives? Why do anything for people who were cruel towards him at times, not realizing they should fear him. He has an ego, but at the same time what was the point? He’s a selfish and lazy God™️.

When Shen Yuan transmigrates into SQQ he becomes the only person Shang Qinghua doesn’t know how to read. And it’s refreshing, it makes SQH feel human for the first time in decades.

TL:DR - HC that SQH is a literal God™️ but keeps it a secret. He prefers being an underestimated dude.

[soaps-mohawk]

Sacrifices

Kyletober Day 12: Gunplay

Summary: You took a chance. Now you have to pay the price of getting caught.

Pairing: Witch hunter!Kyle x witch!reader

Word Count: 1,912 words

Warnings: NSFW, dubcon, coercion, manipulation, gunplay, giving a blowjob to a loaded gun (don't do this), magic, witchcraft, religious themes, lots of fear and anxiety, language

A/N: Yeah, so this one is quite the change of pace but I'm not sorry for it.

MASTERLIST

This is not where you want to be. It’s not where you’re supposed to be. You were sloppy and reckless and now you’re paying for it. You have one job on nights like tonight, and that’s to not get caught. Now you’re sitting here on your knees, staring down the barrel of a gun. You’ve never been caught before. Never. Looks like that streak has been broken. Not that it will matter in a few moments. 

You glare up at his face, those dark eyes shining in the light of the full moon, reflecting its light down on you. You’ve seen him before in passing. It's hard not to miss him. You knew what he was immediately the first time you saw him on the street. A dedicated member of the church, always there, always watching. He's one of the ones that puts the targets on suspicious looking individuals, blending in with the crowd so well no one looks twice. 

Well, almost no one. 

The thought makes you chuckle. 

“Not going’ to beg for your life, witch?” He spits the title from his lips like it’s a curse, a slander upon his very being speaking that word aloud.

You suppose it is, for a witch hunter. 

“I wouldn’t beg even if you tortured me.” You spit back, unafraid. Your life will end regardless tonight. You’re not going to give him the satisfaction of begging for it. 

He hums, shifting forward to press the barrel of the gun against your forehead. The silver cross around his neck glints in the moonlight as he moves. “You’re a lively one. Not like the one last night.” 

Anger bubbles in your core. You know who he took last night. That was why you were out here in the first place. “You bastard!” Your eyes flash, your body shifting forward. You want to turn him to ashes, melt him down until he’s nothing but a corpse feeding the earth.

“Ah ah ah,” The safety of the gun clicks, the fire in you settling as you sit back on your knees again. “Not so fast. You’re forgetting who’s in control here.” 

You smirk. “You think you’re in control, witch hunter? Our mother is watching us all, and she will cast judgment upon you when you meet your end.” 

He matches your smirk, leaning down slightly. “Your false gods don’t scare me. I know what awaits me when my time comes.” 

“Some promise of paradise for killing innocent people?” You growl. 

“A promise of paradise for wiping the devil's worshippers off of god's green earth. It's a far better place than you will go.” He smirks, pushing the barrel of the gun harder against your forehead, just to the point of being painful. You’ll have an indent of it later, if he doesn’t leave a bullet hole there instead. “Such a waste.” He says, looking you over. “It’s always the pretty ones.”

Your glare deepens as you stare at him, his handsome face tarnished by the truth of what he is. “Wish I could say the same about you.” 

He huffs out a laugh, lightening the pressure of the gun against your forehead. “You're a fiery one, aren’t you?” His teeth sink into his lip as he stares at you, his eyes roving your body.

“I could turn you into ashes to prove it.” You retort, skin crawling from the way he’s looking at you. 

“I’m sure you’d love to.” He says, sliding the gun from your forehead down to your cheek. “You're a fun one, not like the others that beg and plead. I’d hate to waste such good fun.” He clicks his tongue, staring down at you for a moment before shifting on his feet. “I’ll cut you a deal. You give me what I want, and I’ll give you what you want.” 

“What is it you think I want?” You ask, starting to grow a bit uneasy. You knew there was a possibility that it might not just be your life that you lose tonight if you got caught. 

“The location of the witch we took last night.” He traces your lips with the barrel of the gun. “That’s why you risked coming out here tonight, isn’t it?” He clicks his tongue. “You want her back, you do as I say.” 

So she is still alive...

Or he’s toying with you, playing you like a deck of cards. 

“How do I know I can trust you?” You ask, your instincts telling you not to believe him for a moment, yet you can’t help that tickle in the back of your brain. What if he is telling the truth? What harm is there really in taking that chance? You’re going to die tonight regardless. 

“You don’t.” He shrugs. “You’ll have to decide whether or not you want to gamble.” 

Do it.

You feel that familiar tickle in the back of your mind. Your intuition is on red alert, picking up something in the back of your mind. What is there really for you to lose at this point? He holds your life in his hands regardless. There’s no escaping, but if he is telling the truth...

“Fine.” You say, shifting on your knees in the dirt. “What is it you want?” 

He smirks, pushing the barrel of the gun against your lips again. “Open up.” 

Your stomach clenches at his words, your eyes dropping to the gun. You know what he wants. You’ve heard horror stories from those that witnessed, the lucky few that managed to escape. 

“You sick fuck,” You sneer, trying to move your head away. 

“The choice is yours,” He shrugs, clicking the safety. 

You exhale through your nose, staring at the gun again. What really are your choices? Say no and die, letting the reason you came out here die with you? Or, bravely face the shame and possibly get a clue towards what you were seeking. If he’s lying he’ll kill you anyway. Better to take the chance and face the shame for the good of your coven. 

Mother forgive me.

You close your eyes, sucking in a breath before pushing yourself up onto your knees so you’re level with the gun again. He drags the barrel across your lips before you part them, your tongue darting out to lick across the tip. It’s metallic and bitter on your tongue but you push past the disgust at the offending flavor. You hold his gaze, your eyes sharp as you stare up at him. He looks far too satisfied as you open your mouth wider, taking the barrel into your mouth. 

The sharp metallic flavor coats your mouth, the taste of it nearly making you gag. He’s used it tonight, the grit of gunpowder sinking onto your tongue as you close your lips around the barrel. Shame burns hot in you as you take the gun deeper into your mouth, his hand pushing it forward until there’s nothing left to take. You want to gag, you want to vomit, but you won’t. You won’t give him the sick satisfaction of your weakness and struggle. 

Instead you pull yourself back, dragging your lips along the barrel until you’re nearly at the tip. His tongue darts out, licking his lips as you start to take it into your mouth once more, wincing from the way he pushes it against your tongue. 

“Not used to sucking, are you love?” He smirks, pushing the gun as far as he can into your mouth. 

Tears burn your eyes as you make a choked sound. Your breaths are sharp, in and out of your nose as he finally allows you to pull back, the taste of metal and gunpowder tainting your mouth. 

“Suck it like you mean it.” He commands, holding the gun towards you still. 

You swallow your pride as you take it back into your mouth, bobbing your head as you suck on the barrel. His finger isn’t on the trigger, yet you can’t shake that lingering fear that he could shoot a bullet right through your throat if he wanted to. 

If he wanted to kill you, he would have already. 

No, that’s not true. Witch hunters take far too much pleasure in torturing witches to waste opportunities like this. 

Sick fucks, the lot of ‘em. 

You suck the barrel of the gun like your life depends on it. In a way, it does. You doubt he’ll let you go free, but the thought that you might have a chance keeps you going. It’s not for you, or your life. You have nothing to lose, but by doing this, there is something you could gain. 

You take the gun as far into your mouth as you can again, tears gathering in your eyes as you stare up at him. He’s hard from this, the bulge in the front of his pants visible at this proximity. The fear that he might take this further still lingers in the back of your mind. 

Better the gun than him. 

You drag your tongue along the top of the barrel, staring up at him through your lashes. He licks his lips again, his other hand dropping to adjust his pants. 

Nausea churns in your stomach as you pull back, flicking your tongue across the tip of the gun again. You squeeze your eyes closed as you continue to suck on his gun, unable to stare at his smug face any longer. You take the gun deep into your mouth again, drool sliding from your lips and down your chin. 

He licks his own lips before he pulls the gun free, your body nearly falling forward. He drags the tip of the gun down your neck to your chest, smearing your own spit along your skin. He pushes your shirt down just slightly until the top of your breasts peek out, the tip of the gun pushing between them. Your heart is thudding, chest heaving. You can't stop the fear making your heart race. The knowledge that he's pointing a loaded gun right at your chest is overriding your expectation to die. All he'd have to do is pull the trigger and it would be the end. 

“Such a waste.” He murmurs, staring down at you for a moment before he moves the gun away. “The Old Mill.” He says, holstering the gun. “I'd move quickly though, if I were you. Can’t say how long she'll last.” 

He grips your chin before you can rise, tilting your head up. He stares down at you for a long moment. You wonder what it is he’s thinking, what’s going through his head. The conflict of whether or not he should have given you that information? The conflict of whether or not he should kill you anyway? The conflict of his desire that pushed him to commit such an act? Is he regretting not doing more? There’s nothing to stop him, even now. 

His fingers dig into your cheeks, forcing your mouth open. It hurts, your head being forced back until he’s looming over you. 

A glob of spit drops onto your tongue. 

“For next time.” He smirks before releasing you, taking a step back. 

As much as you want to reduce him to ashes, you know he's right. You'll need every ounce of power you still have if you're going to be successful. 

The Old Mill. 

You half expect him to shoot you as you dart through the trees and into the darkness. 

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[lovings4turn]

୭ 🗝️ ✧ ˚. 🪩 puppy love . . . (l.h.)

— the last thing that you expect to find when wandering around monaco is a lone dog also exploring the streets. your search for his owner proves far more successful than you could have imagined.

+ requested by a lovely anon! this idea was so so cute so thank you sm for sending it in, i hope you enjoy! banner from cafekitsune!

+ pure fluff, roscoe is the ultimate match maker here.

monaco was truly everything you could have dreamed it would be, and then some.

for the past few days, you and your friends had frequented the glorious larvotto beach, explored the overly lavish stores and casinos, and had even been convinced to walk the length of the famous race track that encircled the streets.

meanwhile, your nights were spent in fancy restaurants and expensive clubs, the over-priced champagne giving you a real taste of the opulent lifestyle of those who lived there.

months and months of extra shifts at work had finally paid off, and so you were determined to make the absolute most of every last minute of the trip. not a moment was to be wasted, which was exactly why you and another friend were wandering around the city whilst the rest of your group slept off an awful hangover.

it was as you lifted a hand to adjust the sunglasses that were slipping from your face that you caught sight of a flash of brown in your peripheral vision. confusion prompted your brows to furrow, a feeling that only heightened as you realised what the flash actually was.

seemingly on his own was a large bulldog, pink tongue lolling out of his mouth in a display of happiness. a brief survey of your surroundings confirmed your suspicions that the dog was unattended, and your frown deepened. 

unable to leave the poor thing by himself in the middle of such a busy place, you began to walk over, taking slow, tentative steps in an effort not to startle the animal.

“hello,” you cooed, voice heading up an octave as you held out a hand in a gesture of friendship. “oh you are gorgeous, aren’t you?”

your friend stifled a laugh at the sight of you, crouched down and offering your hand for the random dog to sniff, an experiment to decide whether or not he would deem you worthy of his companionship. 

“what are you doing here, hm?” you continued, more to yourself than the dog. “where’s y’parent?”

as the dog tilted his head in search of gentle pats, he had also inadvertently revealed the collar sitting around his neck, complete with a silver tag that, thankfully, appeared to be engraved.  

still cooing and fussing over the animal, you gently plucked the tag between your fingers. you manipulated the metal away from the sun in order to make out the letters printed there, and sighed in relief as you read.

ROSCOE. IF FOUND, PLEASE CALL XXXXX-XXX-XXX.

bingo.

“don’t worry, roscoe,” you hummed. “gonna get you home.”

your fingers danced across the keypad of your phone. as the familiar sound of the dial tone rang out, you gnawed at your bottom lip, anxiously awaiting an answer.

not wanting to let him out of your sight, you remained in a squat position despite the burn building in your thighs. the feeling of soft fur against the palm of your hand turned out to be one hell of a motivator. 

“hello?”

the voice on the other end of the line was, undoubtedly, male, and also undoubtedly breathless. a pang of sympathy struck you as you noted the worry in the stranger’s voice, as if he’d been hunting for the dog for a while before your call came through.

“hello! sorry to bother you,” you started, tongue poking out to wet your lips before you continued. “but i think i’ve got your dog with me. he’s a bulldog? roscoe?”

“oh thank god,” the stranger rushed out, a thankful chuckle rumbling through your phone’s speaker. “i’ve been all over looking for him, i was starting to get worried.”

“he’s okay, i’ve got him here and he seems… pretty happy, actually,” you assured, unable to keep a smile out of your voice as roscoe’s tail began to wag a little faster. 

scanning your surroundings in an effort to find some way to mark your location, you noted a café with a name emblazoned above their doorway.

“i’m right next to a roca, the little café?” you explained. "i don't know if it would be easier for you to come to me. not sure how i'd get him to follow along with me, is all," you laughed.

"a roca," the man mumbled, an affirmative tone in his voice. "give me five minutes, i'll be there as fast as i can. thank you so much, seriously. i don't know what i would have done if you hadn't found him."

your face flushed a little at the appreciative tone and high praise, and you struggled to keep the smile out of your voice as you replied.

"it's really no problem. i'd want someone to do the same for me."

after exchanging quick goodbyes, and not before being thanked another three times, you and your friend managed to coax the dog a little closer to the café, wanting to find the quietest spot possible on such a busy street.

"he said he was coming?" your friend confirmed.

"in about two minutes."

"did he sound cute?"

"seriously?"

your friend only laughed, shrugging her shoulders in nonchalance. in her eyes, the question was fully justifiable, and you would have happily answered it if the answer had not been yes.

a few more minutes passed before a familiar voice met your ears, prompting you to look up in search of roscoe's owner.

what you weren't expecting was to meet the eyes of a man who was downright beautiful. he was practically divine, his deep, tattooed skin glowing under the sun as though it had been crafted purely to highlight his biceps.

his braids were pulled back into a ponytail, and as he smiled at you in thanks, you caught sight of the slightest gap between his bright teeth.

you'd stumbled across the dog of a fucking god.

"hi!" you greeted, hoping that your cheeks didn't look as warm as they felt.

judging by the smug look that your friend was giving you, it seemed that pure hope wasn't enough. luckily, the man was far too preoccupied in attaching a lead to the collar of his dog, enthusiastically stroking him as he gently chastised him for running off.

"thank you again, seriously. i swear this has never happened before," he said with a chuckle, hand scratching at the back of his neck.

"really, there's no need to thank me." you dismissed his praise with a wave of your hand, though your smile was practically splitting your face into two. "anyone would've done the same."

"maybe, but it was you who did, so thank you..." he trailed off as he spoke, a clear prompt for you to give your name.

"y/n, i'm y/n," you responded, cringing as you instinctively provided a small wave with your name.

"y/n," he repeated, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "i'm lewis. 's nice to meet you."

before you could say anything else, the man began digging through the pockets of his trousers, clearly hunting for something.

"i almost forgot. let me repay you, thank you, whatever you want to call it," he mumbled, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth as he hunted for his wallet.

"stop, really, it's okay!" you assured, not needing money for the simple act of being a decent human being. you hadn't exactly done anything heroic. just kept a cute dog company until his even cuter owner arrived to reclaim him.

"fine," the man, lewis, agreed, laughing slightly as he took his hand from his pocket. "at least let me take you out to dinner?"

if you were in a cartoon, you're sure that your jaw would've hit the floor in shock. a soft, subtle nudge from your friend was a sharp reminder that you should actually answer the man instead of simply staring in surprise.

"i'd like that," you responded, biting back the wild grin that threatened to spread across your features.

"great. tonight, maybe?"

"sounds perfect to me."

"i'm looking forward to it," lewis said, the corner of his eyes crinkling playfully. "give me a text. you already have my number."

he shot you a wink and, thankfully, decided it was time for him to depart. though you were sad to see him go so soon, it served as a blessing in disguise. you were allowed to keep your cool, as he didn't get to see the sight of you and your friend freaking out, crazed grins and loud laughs escaping you at the absurdity of the situation.

you'd gotten a date with the most gorgeous man you'd ever seen, and it was all thanks to a dog.

monaco truly was a magical place.

🏷️ : @faerieroyal @starriesworlds

add yourself to the taglist here !

[jessamine-rose]

˚♱ଘ Faustian Bargain ଓ♱˚

Welp here we are with the fourth entry in my Yandere Church AU. Let’s fall into depravity once more, this time with Demon! Pantalone x Contractee! Darling (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ )

Tw:: yandere, manipulation, blood, violence, slight self-harm for summoning purposes, spice, mention of nsfw, MDNI

Note:: fictional depictions of religion, guest-starring Demon! Scaramouche <3

♡ 2.5k words under the cut ♡

♡ Since their creation, humans have ruled over the mortal plane under the influence of spiritual beings. But while angels are venerated as divine saviors, demons are fallen sinners who corrupt humanity through temptation and curses. It is for this reason that humans live in fear of demons, with the Church condemning all forms of unholy covenant. But time and time again, that warning has fallen on deaf ears.

♡ Throughout history, several individuals have formed pacts with demons in exchange for divine favors. Favors vary across demons but in all contracts, the price is clear: The human gives up their soul and any chance at salvation. Once the pact has been made, the human is granted the ability to summon the demon as their lifelong companion. But upon the human’s death, the pact is broken and the demon is free to seek out new souls.

♡ It is through these contracts that the Harbinger of Fortune rose to prominence. He is a “young” demon in the sense that his earliest records only date back to three centuries; but in that short amount of time, Pantalone has tempted many fools and heretics with the promise of material wealth. And it is through this tactic that he attained power, recognition, your soul.

♡ In your defense, you had no other choice. Born to an elite family in Liyue, you had enjoyed a life of luxury until your parents squandered their fortune. After a failed attempt to flee to another nation, they were murdered and you were told to repay their debts lest you meet the same fate. It was a hopeless situation—you had no assets to pawn off and even then, your remaining days would be spent in poverty. So when you recalled the local stories about the demon who deals in prosperity, you were desperate to summon him.

♡ It is difficult to find authentic records of his summoning ritual, but you manage with what little time you have left. There is an illustration of his sigil, to be copied on the floor with blood from your own palm. A table is arranged with incense, gold coins, freshly-brewed tea, a mirror, and the dagger used to extract your blood. Once everything is in place, you clasp your bloody hands together and utter the sacred incantations.

♡ As soon as Pantalone’s true name leaves your lips, the incense sticks emit a dark fragrant smoke. The summoning circle glows violet and within it, a brilliant figure emerges. Dark horns, adorned with silver, curve back along his raven hair. His garments are styled with violet jewels, serpentine motifs, an iridescent cape embroidered with a scene from the Garden of Eden. He is beautiful, so beautiful that you feel unworthy when his bespectacled gaze meets yours.

♡ Before you can look away, he is already onto you. In a polite voice, he introduces himself and asks for your name. Next, he tells you to disable the barrier of the summoning circle; he prefers civil negotiations. It takes some reluctance on your part but eventually, the two of you are seated together at the table. There is a critical look on his face as he surveys his offerings and explains his contract in detail.

♡ Aside from the general rules, there are clauses specific to Pantalone’s pacts. He can only be summoned twice a week, and never on Sundays. Contracts with other demons require his permission. Any attempt at breaking the pact will incur severe consequences. All of this is said with honeyed words and a kind smile.

♡ So perfect is his facade that you fail to notice an undertone of condescension. A glimpse into your soul was all it took for Pantalone to regard you as a hopeless fool hindered by your worldly upbringing. But that is fine—fools are easier to deal with, and you’d make a pretty addition to his collection of souls. Plus, it was only yesterday that his previous human died, and he is always quick to move on to the next pact. With that, Pantalone tells you to make a choice.

“A fair exchange, don’t you think?” he asks. The smile on his face is deceptively angelic. “In return for your soul, I will provide you with wealth, prosperity, everything your heart desires. Do you believe it is worth the price, ______?”

♡ You say yes. That is when Pantalone takes off his rings then his gloves, revealing multiple scars slashed across his palm lines. Gracefully, he picks up your used dragger, draws a new line, and clasps his wounded hand in yours. Then he wraps the same hand around your neck, staining it with a mix of your blood.

♡ There is a burning sensation followed by a burst of pure ecstasy. Once the euphoria subsides, Pantalone lets go of you and holds up the mirror. The front of your throat is branded with his sigil while a diamond pattern encircles your neck. It glows violet before disappearing altogether, a sacred collar invisible to mortal eyes. Thus, the pact has been formed.

♡ The next few minutes are calm. Pantalone’s scars are concealed once more. The two of you finish your tea. He takes a coin from his offering, now magically engraved with his sigil, and explains that you need only flip it to summon him. Then he offers one last smile, says he will look forward to your partnership, and disappears with the remaining coins.

♡ In the morning, you wake up to find bags of coins and jewels on the table, the exact amount needed to pay off your debts. Once the money has been given, you eagerly summon Pantalone to thank him. He merely smiles, leads you to your parents’ office, and tells you that the next step is to rebuild your family business. After all, while he can create material riches out of nothing, a mysterious source of wealth may attract the suspicion of your fellow humans.

♡ Soon enough, the company is flourishing under “your” authority. In reality, it is Pantalone who instructs your decisions and eliminates competitors. During meetings with clients, he attends in his invisible form and whispers to you the necessary responses. With success comes your return to high society, and Pantalone is all too happy to escort you to galas as your plus-one. His human form attracts several admirers, but his attention remains on you.

♡ He is also pleasant company. You can’t help but summon him often—your house feels empty without your parents. As for friends, you refuse to trust anyone after they turned their backs on you during your financial crisis. Pantalone is always nice about it, listening to your woes and participating in your hobbies. Once in a while, he will activate your pact mark and comment on how needy you are.

♡ He even fulfills your carnal desires. Over the months, Pantalone has toyed with your physical attraction towards him, teasing you with light touches, seductive whispers, sinful smiles…and a deep kiss when you shyly proposition him. That kiss is soon followed by heavy makeouts, long nights in your bed, physical marks all over your body. Greedy as he may be, he always makes sure to repay the pleasure you’ve given him.

♡ One night, you ask him about his divine nature. He confirms the popular belief that all demons are fallen angels; in his case, he was created for the Ninth Order, the lowest rank in the angel hierarchy. For the first century of his life, he could only settle for the inferior powers and duties assigned to his status. Neither could he enjoy the freedom which humans were born with.

♡ Thus, he set his sights on Hell. For angels are not created equal but demons can earn their powers through individual efforts. But leaving God always comes with a price, and Pantalone’s was paid in blood and tears.

⬩◈⬩

“Is that how you lost your wings?”

In the dark, your demon’s scars remain apparent. A pair of rough, featherless, ugly lines which you are careful not to touch, lest he flinch—from pain or shame? During your first night together, Pantalone refused to talk about it and you took the hint.

Even now, he flips over in your bed to hide his imperfections from you. When he answers your question, his voice takes on a light tone.

“Yes. It was God who ripped out my wings, and He even had the ‘mercy’ to cast them out of Heaven after me. But that was a long time ago, and I’ve since put my old feathers to good use.”

His capes, he means. They are his signature accessory, all crafted with sheer fabric, tiny jewels, and iridescent embroidery. Each cape is its own masterpiece, bearing fantastical images of God’s creations. It was during a casual conversation that Pantalone told you the threads were sourced from his old feathers.

He looks past you, and you know his gaze is on the coat rack. Tonight’s cape depicts a celestial paradise filled with winged figures. Beneath Heaven, separated by dark clouds, demonic figures descend into a fiery sky.

“Still, it must’ve been painful,” you tell him. Hesitantly, you add, “I mean, you didn’t only lose a body part that day. You also lost your former appearance, your ability to fly, your siblings—”

At that, a smile makes its way to his face. A large, genuine smile that isn’t directed at you.

“My former brethren were not dearly missed,” he replies. He sits up, combing the strands of hair tangled around his horns. “After I landed in Hell, I was taken in by an older demon. Let’s call her Jiejie, since she does not appreciate needless declarations of her true name. She is the one who treated my wounds, the one who cared for me using her own resources, the one who welcomed me into her home with open wings. And for that, I am eternally grateful.”

A soft breeze rustles the cape, threads glittering in the moonlight. Some threads, however, lack the iridescent quality of Pantalone’s feathers. Instead, they are silvery shades of black and gray.

His tone softens. “I will confess that I had an easy start in Hell thanks to her influence, as did Scaramouche who fell before me. But everything else—my contracts, my current status—are the fruits of my own labor. Perhaps someday, I may even reach Jiejie’s level of power.”

“I see…” You look into his eyes this time. “So what do she and that Scara demon specialize in? They sound nice; am I allowed to form pacts with them?”

“No.” He says it firmly, with no room for argument. Bare hands pull your body closer to his. “Even speaking as their brother, that sounds very unconscionable. Don’t get too greedy now.”

“Oh, I…okay!” you squeak. A faint violet light takes up your peripheral vision—your pact mark? “I’m sorry for asking. I’ll remember that.”

“Good.” His hand moves to your throat, tracing your sigil. When your eyes meet, his are bright with desire. “Never forget, you are mine first and foremost.”

⬩◈⬩

♡ In the following years, Pantalone grows more fond of you. Gifts begin to appear in your hands, from violet jewels to stylish garments. He accompanies you to more meetings with your fellow humans, his arm wrapped around your waist in a possessive gesture. His physical affection intensifies. On a few occasions, he even visits you despite not being summoned.

♡ It’s a nice change, but an overwhelming one. As time passes, you meet new friends and suitors, only to reject them after Pantalone claims to have glimpsed malice in their souls. Neither can you summon other demons, not when he is confiscating your demonological texts under the pretense that you’re too “impressionable” for another pact. And who can forget the time you were caught looking for information on the Tree of Life?

♡ It wasn’t your intention to seek a way out of your debt. It was by pure coincidence that you ran into the heretic who sold you the grimoire with information on Pantalone; and the conversation naturally shifted to the topic of your eternal damnation. Unsurprisingly, many humans have attempted to go back on their deals; and according to your “friend,” the best solution is to become immortal through the Tree of Life. You only asked them to contact you if they ever find the mythical tree, but that was enough to anger Pantalone.

“Do not lie to me, ______,” he snaps. His smile appears calm, but his tone sounds absolutely venomous. “I glimpsed your memories of last night, and I know you tried to violate our contract.”

“I…” You fearfully shake your head, only to cry as your throat constricts. It hurts, as though his sigil is burning your flesh, and your knees hit the floor. “I didn’t mean to…”

Your voice trails off. A gloved hand tilts your head upwards, forcing you to meet his death glare.

“Speak up, darling. My time is precious.”

♡ After that, you apologize and make no attempt to evade your fate. The next time Pantalone becomes angry, you at least have the luxury of not being the target of his emotions. It is a seemingly normal day, and you are served tea by a long-time servant. Suddenly, Pantalone appears and pulls you away from the individual, not bothering to hide his true form. When he tells the servant to “drop the act,” there is an indigo glint in their eyes.

♡ And that’s how you learn that the Puppeteer specializes in demonic possession. The servant’s body falls to the floor, unconscious, and it is Scaramouche’s turn to make himself known. He has asymmetrical horns, a single skeletal bat wing, and an expression which is far from friendly. A silvery black-and-gray feather dangles from the brooch pinned above his heart.

“Tell me, Scaramouche, what are your reasons for spying on my precious jewel?”

“Hmph, as if you need to ask. I just wanted to see if your little pet is worth Nee-san’s blessing. If you still desire them when that time comes, you’re on your own.”

♡ You don’t understand what they’re talking about, but it’s clear that you have no part in the conversation. After a few insults, Scaramouche leaves, but not without telling you to “know your place” in the future. That is when Pantalone sighs, pours a cup of tea for himself, tells you that it is none of your concern. Don’t worry, darling, he has it all under control. So just sit down, drink your tea, talk to him about anything under the sun. You still have a long life ahead of you, and he shall give you Heaven on earth until the day your heart ceases to beat.

♡ And perhaps if you are good enough, he will act on his desire to keep you as his pet in Hell. It’s been centuries since Pantalone has tortured a sinner, but he does know the best ways to break your mind. And is eternal suffering in his home not preferable to another demon laying their hands on you? At any rate, it’s not like you have any other choice.

“In the name of love, I will respect the contract between us and the fate you put in my hands.”

♡

More Church AU here!! Dottore ๑ Capitano ๑ Arlecchino ๑ Pierro ๑ Dainsleif

Note:: Please do not send me any Church AU asks/ requests involving characters or dynamics not included in my masterlist.

Aahhh I hope y’all enjoyed my take on Demon! Pantalone!! He ended up with the most tame + lore-heavy fic, and I swear that the character of “Jiejie” will make more sense when I write the remaining stories for Church AU. Also, fun fact, Pantalone’s capes are inspired by Rusly Tjohnardi and Hieronymus Bosch’s triptychs~

Moving on, thank you to @diodellet for beta-reading this and supporting me through every step of writing hell. Now if y’all excuse me, I’m must avenge myself and whack Pantalone with the biggest cross I can find o(^▽^)o

Tag a Pantalone enjoyer!! @navxry @beloved-blaiddyd @leftdestiny-posts @meimeimeirin @euniveve @lychniis @teabutmakeitazure @stickyspeckledlight @mochinon-yah @zhongrin @harmonysanreads @oofasleep @theinnerunderrain @ddarker-dreams

[snail-migraine]

Requested by: @elysiumrealms

Sure! I did think some fleshing out on how the rest of the family acts around them would be cool to write. Sorry this took so long btw, my inbox gets stuffed pretty quickly and it was finals week. Anyway thanks for the ask!

-

Anon-Yan 💌‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

Platonic Yandere Malleus

Pt.3

For you, the time before your punishment was nothing but a blurry mess.

Genuinely you don't remember all your horrible habits and manipulative tactics, you just remember acting on your insticts and not really thinking before you acted.

The few things you do remember is the interactions you had with your other family members.

The most memorable were the ones with Grandpa Lilia, when you were younger he loved cuddling you upside-down. Even if his grip was iron-strong it still felt so warm that you didn't want to leave.

When you got older he would allow you to play with some of his video games, he was always so sweet and helpful. Making sure you never got too frustrated at one certain part before taking the controller from you and completing whatever challenge had you stumped.

Lilia just loves babying you in a way he never got to with either of his original children.

He never failed to make you feel like the spoiled little brat you were.

"Ooh! Don't cry Darling, there's no need for that. Here, do you need Grandpa to help you? Okay sweet-pea. Don't worry, grandpa's here for you"

Then there's uncle Silver, who whose probably the most boring person to hang out with out of everyone in the family.

Don't get me wrong, you enjoyed his company but nothing even vaguely interesting happened whenever you hung around him.

He always really apologetic about it though, even going as far to bring you a little toy everytime he was allowed alone time with you. Typically is just a teddy bear, so that at night when you fell asleep you would think of your uncle Silver.

"Sorry we weren't able to play today. Here, have this. It's so when you fall asleep at night, you'll always remember your uncle Silver."

Your uncle sebek on other hand, he was hard to forget.

He was always loud, his voice commanded battalions after all. So a voice like his would definitely need for job like that.

You and him never played together, in his own words "WAKA-SAMA'S CHILD DESERVES A MUCH BETTER PLAYMATE THAN A LOWRANKING OFFICER SUCH AS MYSELF!"

Or whatever that was supposed to mean. You never really understood his way of thinking. While he was screaming his head off about not being good enough for you, you had sit and listen to him whilst daydreaming of all the video games Grandpa Lilia would play with you later.

It was boring, and eventually as you grew older you learned to tune him out.

Though I guess that wasn't the greatest idea, because within a week of learning how tune out his voice he came to you sobbing on his hands and knees begging for forgiveness.

"PLEASE FORGIVE ME WAKA-SAMA'S CHILD! WHATEVER SLIGHT HAVE DONE TO YOU, I BEG FOR YOUR FORGIVENESS AND MERCY! JUST PLEASE STOP IGNORING ME MY LEIGE!"

But I guess that all leads you to where you are now. Stuck in a boring old rickety tower. Stuck studying and doing chores all day. At least Father allowed for your family to visit from time to time.

Their faces and voices make the endless cycle you've been going through day-to-day slightly more bareable. But to be perfectly honest, with every passing moment that you're stuck here; in this damned tower made to be your prison, you lose a small peice of your sanity.

A peice of your mind that can never be returned to it's owner.

Trully a cruel thing to do, especially to your own child. Isolating them from everyone and everything they've ever known to prove a point, when it wasn't even truly their own faults that caused such a mess? Foolish, and downright cruel if anyone asked you.

Ah, but what can you do?

You did do this to yourself after all, might as well own up to your mistakes and pay the price.

[biteofcherry]

Just reread Room with a View and I loved it the second time just as much as the first. Just wanted to tell you ❤️. I've always wondered where/how Bucky and Steve find their assistant? And does she know that she's signing up for from the beginning? If you're feeling inspired, I'd love a drabble. If not, any fragmented thoughts?

Fringe Benefit

pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader x Steve Rogers

summary: Steve and Bucky wanted to start looking for an assistant right after their visit to Ari, but unexpected business complications limited their time to organize a search. Luckily, the opportunity presented itself to them on a silver platter… You presented yourself, begging to squeeze in a ten minutes meeting in their busy schedule

warnings: dark Steve Rogers dark Bucky Barnes; dub-con; manipulation; forced orgasm; blowjob; deepthroating; power imbalance; explicit sexual situations; praise kink; breeding kink;

You came to their building - a forefront to businesses that you know are more illegal and dangerous than exclusive properties they deal with - five times, before a stuffy desk clerk written down your name in the calendar.

A small window for a very short meeting, possibly a dismissal, two weeks in the waiting.

You were patient, but in this case time was sensitive. Because money was sensitive.

A part of you wanted to drop it, not clean your younger brother's messes once again. Sense of responsibility made you cave in. As well awareness that if Noah can't pay his debts the sharks would turn your way to settle it, anyway.

You preferred to get ahead of things. Maybe your readiness to cooperate and a solid plan you've made would help you save life.

Barnes and Rogers were businessmen. Lethal mob bosses, but that was a sort of business too. And you knew how to deal with difficult clients as well demanding bosses.

So you poised yourself in calm, controlled demeanor as you sat down on a leather chair in front of a huge desk, holding your head high as two pairs of blue eyes settled on you.

Those eyes were more lively than you expected. Instead of sleazy, older men you thought you'd see, stinking of cigars, with greasy stains on their chins; you faced two men in their prime.

Handsome, to express it chastely. Fucking hot, if you'd describe them to your friends.

In their late thirties, maybe early forties; one with neatly trimmed beard, the other with some scruff. Perfectly tailored suits on lean, muscled bodies. They both had blue eyes; one an icy shade that cut through you, the other the depths of ocean that swallowed you whole.

They were watchful. Assessing your every gesture and tick.

Predators in vigil.

It's been a long while since anyone studied you so intensely. It made you feel uneasy, but also sent a hot wave through your bloodstream.

For a second you dropped your gaze to the folder you held on your lap, your hands gently clasped over it. Somehow you managed not to shiver.

You lifted your head up, meeting their gazes evenly. You weren't dumb enough to throw them an open challenge, but you hoped to look confident.

You wanted to introduce yourself, but Mr Rogers was faster, greeting you in a way that suggested they already knew a lot about you. More than just your first and last name. Probably did a background check on you. For the meeting purposes, you assumed.

After taking an encouraging breath, you began presenting your idea for a solution regarding your brother's debt.

All summed up and divided into regular payments, with extra interest included of course. And a big deposit right away, all your savings ready to give to them.

"You're very thorough." Mr Barnes commented, taking the folder from you when you pushed it forward, but not opening it.

"Indeed, she is." Mr Rogers nodded, rubbing his lip in thought. "A dedicated, hardworking girl, aren't you, doll?"

You frowned at the sweet, condescending nickname. You considered reminding him you had a name, but letting it go was a small price for leaving this meeting victorious.

"It's a good proposition," Rogers continued, "but has a few disadvantages. The main one is that there's a small chance your brother finds a job with decent salary to match yours, so you can pay us in the time you promise."

"Shitty brother at that," joined Barnes, "to burden his sister with this kind of debt. You sure want to take it up on yourself?"

He didn't sound as if he was only mocking Noah. No, there was an undertone of displeasure and annoyance, like he truly couldn't imagine causing a sister any grief or trouble.

"Me not taking it won't change the fact it falls on me anyway if Noah fails to deliver."

You weren't naive to think their wrath would skip Noah's family, if he failed. Or that you could go to the police with it. You were quite sure they had many high-ups on their payroll.

Rogers and Barnes exchanged looks. Something passed between them, though you weren't sure what they debated on silently.

"Since you have the spine and honor to come to us on your own and propose something actually smart," Rogers opened a drawer and pulled out a printed document, "we want to give you a counter-offer."

"Which is?" You narrowed your eyes as he slid papers across the desk towards you.

"As it happens, we have an open spot for a personal assistant. For us." Barnes smiled. It was as charming, as lethal.

"Long hours, including after hours if we wish. But we'd pay you double what you earn now. Also provide paid vacation and sick days, medical care. Bonuses of various kinds." Rogers' smooth voice tempted to trust their offer.

"That- that makes no sense." You shook your head, trying (and failing) to take your eyes away from his.

"You'd be paying me and I would be paying it back to you as compensation for my brother's debt. Your own money returning to you. Where's the gain?"

"Oh, doll," Barnes licked his lips as he leaned forward, "we will reap many benefits from your service."

"Benefits?" You swallowed hard, trying not to react impulsively to the implication behind his words.

Your mind instantly flashed with sinful images; indecent demands and harassment that should outrage you.

But then you reminded yourself that these men probably had stunning girlfriends, or even had a different beauty in their beds every weekend. They could afford the most exclusive escorts, if they wanted to. They wouldn't hire an assistant just to fuck her dumb.

Instead, you thought of all the other ways businessmen and businesswomen benefited from having a personal assistant. You vaguely remembered that from the time you worked as one right after college - not only assisting in the business area, but picking up laundry, buying coffee, buying gifts for girlfriends because they forgot to.

"Yes." Rogers smiled for the first time. "We'll make certain what you do for us is worth every penny of your brother's debt."

They allowed you twenty four hours to think on their offer.

Considering what you would gain, not only in your own payment, but with their proposed salary your brother's debt could be payed much much sooner, lifting the heavy burden from your shoulders.

Money wise, it was a gift like a star from the sky.

You feared participating in the other side of their business, but you told yourself they wouldn't take a meager assistant to a crime scene.

Though maybe you'll have to wash the blood off their shirts. That you could do, you supposed.

So you agreed.

In the first few days your work passed just as you predicted - long hours of trotting between their office and various places they sent you on errands.

But you were a quick learner and memorized their coffee and snack choices after three days; as well the fact Mr Barnes liked to sit in the armchair after a tougher negotiation and listen to music, and Mr Rogers went to the old boxing gym that was rarely frequented by anyone.

You ordered lunch for them if they were in the office. Twice they came back from whatever business they've been dealing with in the field, with pastries for you. Which was thoughtful and sweet, you thought.

Yes, the work was tiring and sometimes hectic (keeping up with their long strides proved to be a little difficult for you), but not as awful or blood-filled as you feared at first.

It was after about two weeks when you entered their office, pen and pad in hand, ready to take more requests for the rest of the day.

"Anything particular for lunch that you wish?" You asked, walking right into the center of the room.

You smiled - not only a false, practiced grimace, but their handsome faces and the crinkles in the corners of their eyes when they smiled in return always made you content.

Focused on Mr Barnes leaning against the desk watching you like a hawk, you didn't notice Mr Rogers closing the door behind you and locking it.

"As a matter of fact, I've been craving something for many days now." Barnes said, curling a finger at you and motioning for you to step closer.

You felt a rush of heat wash over you. His words, spoken in that low, seductive voice, and his beckoning weren't that subtle.

"Um," you bit your lip, feeling your cheeks flush. But you made little steps forward. "I- I can order anything you wish, Mr Barnes."

"No," he chuckled and suddenly grabbed you by the hips, pulling you close. "We will be ordering. Anything we wish."

"That's inappropriate, sir." You laughed nervously and tried to step away, though your resistance wasn't as fierce as it should.

"If you consider that inappropriate," Rogers' voice resounded in your ear as he slid behind you, caging you between the two of them-

"I wonder what you'll think of all the things we're going to do to you."

"S-sir," you trembled as Barnes traced your lips with his finger, as Rogers' tongue flicked your earlobe. "You shouldn't- I shouldn't-"

You shouldn't want it.

A part of you didn't, the scared part that feared awful things being done to you. Those two men killed without blinking, they made people disappear and suffer. They could break you.

The rest of you roused with thrill and anticipation. Your skin pebbling with goosebumps where their hands started roaming.

"You can use our first names, doll. And may I remind you of paragraph seven, point five of our contract." Rogers whispered, rolling the fabric of your pencil skirt up.

"Assistant will also fulfill requests and see to the well being of employers in matters regarding health and body."

"But-" a gasp interrupted your own words when Steve sucked on your earlobe at the same time that Bucky slid a finger past your lips.

"And our bodies really need your assistance right now." Bucky chuckled, slowly pulling his finger from your mouth.

He replaced it with his own lips. Soft, but demanding. A kiss that went deeper and rougher than you ever experienced before.

Then Steve's mouth was on your neck, licking and biting. And they both chuckled when you made a helpless sound as they began pulling your panties down your legs.

Everything was a haze of sensations and chaos of adrenaline buzzing through you. The world slipped from your grasp, as did your control over yourself. Your body was pliant in their hold. You wouldn't stand a chance even if you tried to fight them off, they were much stronger. Bigger. Dangerous.

And for some insane reason it made you wetter.

They pushed you onto your knees. Cold floor harsh under your knees, pressed suit pants and shiny shoes appearing in your vision.

Steve forced your legs to part wider and slipped his hand up your thigh, right over to your slick folds. He had his other hand weaved into your hair, holding a fistful in a strong grip.

Bucky's fingers were in your hair, too. Only slightly gentler in their hold.

They both moved your head back and forth over Bucky's cock.

"For someone who says they shouldn't do it, you enjoy it a lot, doll." Steve laughed cruelly, pushing two fingers into you.

Your whine resonated on Bucky's dick, a pleasant groan falling from his lips at the sensation.

Your hands clawed at Bucky's thighs, nails scratching his skin, but he didn't seem to mind it.

"And you look like you're loving every second of it, too." He patted your cheek.

Your started tearing up - from gagging every time Bucky pushed deeper and deeper into your mouth, and from the growing tension Steve's ministrations provoked.

His fingers inside you curled and his thumb rubbed merciless circles over your clit, pushing you steadily toward the precipice.

"That's it," Steve rasped in your ear. "You're going to cum with a cock down your throat."

Your moan sounded gargled as you choked on Bucky's dick when the head of it bumped the back of your throat. Tears streamed down your cheeks, smudging your make up.

"You'll learn to love it, dollface." Bucky cooed at you, pushing right back in after giving you a second to catch your breath.

"Learn to associate having our cocks in your mouth with ultimate pleasure." Steve mouthed on your shoulder, his fingers never ceasing in their torment.

And he was driving you towards climax expertly.

Your sounds pitched higher, your body shaking as you felt tension coiling in your belly. Steve kept urging you on, murmuring dark, filthy promises of breaking you.

Bucky slowed his movements, but each time he drove his hips into your face, forcing his cock down your throat.

He withdrew partly, keeping his dick on your tongue as he held your head in place, when Steve growled - "She's gonna cum now."

You don't know if it was his command, or maybe you really were right on the edge, but you shattered right after he spoke those words. A loud, pitiful keen, partially muffled by the dick in your mouth; tears falling freely.

Your body seized, but Steve quickly let go of your hair and wrapped a strong arm around you, holding you to him. His fingers were still buried in your soaked cunt, thumb giving your pulsing clit some reprieve.

Your head throbbed with white noise, your lungs burned. Everything slowly settled down, your consciousness falling back into your body.

Before you had a chance to calm down fully, Steve's thumb on your clit started moving again. In wicked eights this time.

"N-no-" your weak objection was cut short by a cock pushing back into your throat.

Bucky gripped the sides of your head harsher, pushing his hips forward. He forced you to swallow him to the root, his balls slapping your chin.

He didn't withdraw fully now, only rocked against your face, keeping himself at the back of your mouth. Each push forced strings of saliva to dribble out of your lips and down your chin, smearing on his sack.

Steve set a different rhythm on your clit now, somehow managing to arouse it all anew.

One of your hands tried to blindly grab his wrist when he thrust a third finger inside you.

"Take it, doll." He ordered, moving his digits ruthlessly despite your attempts to stop him.

"It's only three fingers. My cock will stretch you wider when I take your tight cunt."

You didn't know if Bucky finished first and that's what set you off again, soundlessly screaming as he spilled down your throat; or if Steve pushed you over the edge and your helpless, choking sounds made Bucky burst.

He groaned loudly, rutting his hips against your face as he came. Then withdrew slightly, keeping his still spurting cock on your tongue.

His icy gaze turned warmer as he watched you from above, admiring your ruined state and the pool of white cum sliding down the back of your tongue.

Steve pulled his fingers out of your sopping pussy at the same time that Bucky finally eased out of your mouth completely. The squelching sound of your cunt flushed you with embarrassment.

"Kiss the tip," Bucky's voice was soft, but you knew it was an order nonetheless.

You hesitated only a second, mostly due to tiredness. Steve slapped your puffed pussy in reprimand, causing you to squeak and lean forward instantly, placing a kiss on the head of Bucky's softening cock.

"Good girl." Their praise made your head swim. Or maybe it was the post-orgasmic exhaustion.

"You're perfect." Steve kissed your temple.

He was surprisingly gentle as he helped you up. Your legs slightly wobbled as you straightened and Steve quickly slipped an arm under your knees, picking you up bridal style.

You snuggled to him as he moved around the room. You heard some shuffling, items being moved away.

Then you were being lowered down, cool, solid surface beneath your back. A sound of chair being moved and a telling jangle of buckle belt being undone.

Steve's face appeared above you as you blinked your eyes open. He tapped your cheek a few times, rousing you back to consciousness.

Someone's hands moved up your legs - Bucky, you realized. He spread your thighs open, his hot breath puffing over your swollen, wet folds.

Steve gripped under your chin and forced you to tilt your head back.

"Ask me to fuck your mouth." His fingers wrapped around your throat.

He didn't clench them; his hold merely a reminder of who was in charge, and how easily he could hurt you.

"P-please, Steve, fuck my mouth." Your voice cracked.

You weren't sure there was enough air in your lugs left to survive another cock down your throat.

"More." Steve demanded. "I know you can beg prettily, doll."

Bucky nipped on the sensitive skin of your folds, making you yelp.

Seemed one would always punish you, if you didn't obey the other one.

"Please!" You babbled. "Please, Steve, feed me your cock. Fuck my mouth and fill my belly with your cum."

"Oh, we will." There was a dark undertone to Steve's chuckle as he guided the tip of his dick toward your parted lips. "We'll fill your belly plenty, little doll."

You thought he meant coming down your throat.

He did. But he also meant more.

Soon you'd find out.

[devotedlypinkpeanut]

An Eternal Cycle: Fire, Blood and Venom — Curse

SUMMARY : In a world where fate seems cruel, you are condemned to relive an existence marked by suffering and the repetition of tragic encounters with your lovers who, although loving you deeply, always abandon you in the end. This curse binds you to them through several reincarnations, where, in each life, they forget your past ties, just like you. However, despite this collective amnesia, an intense passion is born with each encounter. But this flame of love is doomed to failure. In each cycle, your love for them is forbidden, a transgression of an ancient order, and the punishment is inevitable: they kill you at the end of each life. This is the price you must pay for defying fate, for succumbing to a love deemed impious. In this endless cycle, you are caught in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions: the hope that you can change the course of things and the terror of knowing that there is no escape from this curse. Love, no matter how beautiful, is doomed to destroy you again and again, until any possible redemption, or liberation, seems like nothing more than a mirage.

PAIRING : non!idols enha hyung line x fem!reader

GENRE : Dark romance, obsession, drama, slow burn, psychological tension, historical romance, reincarnation, fantasy, reverse harem, 18+ (MDNI).

WARNING : Upsetting and uncomfortable scenes, ancestral curses, violent deaths of the main characters, sacrifice of a main character, use of supernatural powers, psychological manipulation, passionate kisses mixed with desire and control, cruel betrayals, extreme emotional and physical suffering, deep despair, implacable fatality, forbidden love, transgression of rules, painful reincarnation, devastating consequences of destiny, oppressive and devouring atmosphere, crushing guilt, devouring obsession, suffering due to the transgression of destiny, relationships marked by domination. No explicit sex scene, but a strong emotional and psychological charge present throughout the chapter.

FINAL WARNING ‼️ Some scenes may be extremely disturbing or uncomfortable for sensitive readers. Mature audiences only (18+).

Number of words : ~ 25k

Hello or good evening! Don’t hesitate to like, share, and comment if you enjoy it! Your support is precious and means a lot to me!

Series Masterlist

Not read over, and English isn’t my first language, so please close your eyes 🙏🥺.

You found yourself in House Astraviel, the one you had always belonged to, the one that had seen you born and grow up. The emblem of this house, a starry circle, was much more than a simple symbol: it embodied your heritage, your identity. The spiral constellation it represented seemed to twist and intertwine in an eternal movement, an infinite celestial dance. A bright star sat at the center of the spiral, shining with pure light, symbolizing the origin and convergence of souls, like a beacon in the darkness. Around this star, threads of gold wound, subtle and complex, weaving delicate patterns resembling invisible chains, a web woven by destiny, but also by the actions and choices of beings.

Beneath this constellation, a silver hourglass rested, its horizontal position suggesting the suspension of time, as if, at this precise moment, the flow of time was frozen. The sand did not flow; it floated, imprisoned in this perfect balance that House Astraviel aspired to maintain. This image symbolized the ability of the members of Astraviel to defy the natural laws of time. Their particular power allowed them to adjust and reshape the thread of destiny at will, aligning the lives of those who crossed their path according to their vision of a fragile cosmic balance. The central star embodied both the beginning of each existence and the end of a cycle, an infinite loop, that of reincarnation, where souls returned endlessly, to renew themselves, to purify themselves, or sometimes, to lose themselves.

This emblem, much more than a simple motif adorned with jewels or embroidery, was a mark of power, an invisible but indelible imprint. It was embroidered on the clothes of the members of the house, like a pride. It was engraved in ancient and precious stones, each engraving a silent prayer for future generations. And in their sacred temples, the most precious artifacts were adorned with this symbol, giving them a divine aura, a sacred protection.

House Astraviel was tied to the stars, and those stars themselves were tied to souls. With each birth, a new star appeared in the sky, illuminating the darkness, bearing the promise of a new life, of a soul awakening. But when the soul left this world, the star went out, like a candle blown out by an invisible wind. These stars, bright and mysterious, were the guides of the members of Astraviel. They allowed them to read the destiny of each one, which they wrote on a "leaf of life": a finely decorated, almost living parchment, detailing the lines of life, the choices, the ruptures, the rebirths.

You stood before the great sacred tree, a thousand-year-old oak with deep roots, a symbol of ancient wisdom and knowledge. The tree seemed to breathe with you, each leaf quivering in the breeze, like an extension of the entire universe. In your hands, you held one of these leaves, your own leaf of life. The lines drawn on it were clear, sharp, but… strangely broken. In places, breaks seemed to freeze the thread of destiny. As if, at times, life abandoned you, suspended itself, broke. With each break, a new line appeared, identical to the previous one, as if the universe was trying to repair what was broken, but the pain persisted, as did the fear of these inexplicable interruptions.

Troubled, you tried to get away from this disturbing vision. With an almost instinctive gesture, you took another leaf from the thousands that rested under the tree, without really knowing why. This one was marked by another soul, that of Park Jongseong. He belonged to a prestigious house, the House of Asphodel, mysterious and captivating, with close ties to the realm of the dead. Their emblem, an asphodel flower surrounded by thorns and topped with a silver moon, symbolized the passage between life and death, the passage of wandering, lost, and sometimes condemned souls. Their members were known to be spiritual guides or masters of curses, exercising a power that went far beyond the simple material world.

As you looked at Jongseong’s lifeline, a shiver ran through you. His destiny seemed strangely similar to yours. The same breakups, the same twists and turns. You suddenly felt connected to him in an inexplicable way. Your hands shook slightly, and you tried to control the anxiety that was rising inside you. But before you could think further, you felt a presence behind you, a gentle but firm pressure against your waist.

A hand, almost translucent pale, touched you. It seemed to belong to a being from another world, a soul suspended between life and death. A cold shiver ran through you, as if you had just felt the embrace of a ghost. The cold that emanated from this hand had the effect on you of a breath of lost souls, wandering in the darkness, without end.

You turned around abruptly, and your eyes immediately fell on hair as black as night, but a deep black, almost supernatural, with silver highlights sparkling under the light that filtered through the trees. His hair seemed to move by itself, carried by an invisible breeze, as if it were in perpetual motion, animated by a strange, vibrant energy. This hair, as dark as the night sky, reminded you of the ashes of an extinguished fire or the glow of a sky dotted with distant stars. It was magnificent, but at the same time, it seemed to speak to you of the inaccessible, the ephemeral.

His eyes, a deep silvery gray, pierced you like icy blades. They were filled with ancient wisdom, as if they had seen the rise and fall of entire kingdoms, as if they held the secrets of the universe. At times, flashes of icy blue lit up his gaze, a blue that pierced the soul and seemed to resonate with a frightening power, especially when he was moved or when he exercised his power.

Jongseong stood there, tall and slender, a ghostly figure in the shadow of the sacred tree. His movements were graceful, fluid, like those of an unreal being, and his appearance reinforced this impression of intangibility. His face, with its perfectly sculpted features, seemed almost too perfect to be true: a fine, well-defined jaw, a straight nose, lips of an almost supernatural pallor. But behind this beauty hid a deep melancholy, a sadness that you perceived in the softness of his gestures, in the intensity of his gaze. It was as if he carried on his shoulders the weight of all the lives he had condemned or lost over the centuries.

He wore the sumptuous dark robes of the House of Asphodel. His garments were cut from fine, dark and mysterious fabrics, embroidered with silver patterns representing asphodels, symbols of death and resurrection. A long, flowing cape draped over his shoulders, adding to his spectral allure. Around his neck, an asphodel flower pendant set with onyx shone with an eerie, almost supernatural glow. On his finger, a silver ring adorned with an hourglass, one of the key symbols of the House of Asphodel, was a reminder of his unbreakable bond with time and the cycles of souls.

Every detail of his presence seemed a contradiction: a living being yet dead, a guide yet a prisoner, perfect beauty yet silent pain. He was everything you had learned to fear, everything you didn't understand, and yet he seemed as familiar as your own reflection in a broken mirror.

You knew this wasn’t the right place for you, or the right time. Yet an invisible force seemed to draw you to him, like a magnet devouring everything in its path. “You shouldn’t be here.” Your voice barely trembled, the tension palpable, but it was a whisper that slipped into the night like a broken promise. “If anyone sees us together, we’ll be in trouble, you know?”

Your gaze drifted to the figure before you, your dress sparkling in the dim moonlight. It was a celestial dress, almost as if it were part of the universe itself. The light fabric caught every ray of light, every sparkle of a star. Silver, midnight blue, gold… each color seemed to weave a new web around you. Patterns of constellations and shooting stars intertwined on the fabric, symbolizing your belonging, your destiny, an invisible thread connecting you to the heavens. But despite this almost unreal beauty, a feeling of vulnerability invaded you, as if you were an ephemeral star ready to extinguish itself under the weight of his gaze.

He stared at you for a moment, a smirk on his face. “I just wanted to see you.” His words, heavy with meaning, slid through the air like a caress, as gentle as it was dangerous. Before you could react, he grabbed your hand. His icy skin closed around yours, pulling you roughly out of your thoughts. A shiver ran through your body, but it wasn’t simply physical. It was a much deeper sensation, a mixture of terror and desire that made you sway.

His grip on your hand was firm, unrelenting, and you felt like prey caught in an invisible web. “What if I showed you something more fun than that old tree?” He chuckled softly, a low, raspy sound that sent shivers through parts of your body you didn’t want to acknowledge. He tightened his grip, his fingers squeezing your skin in a possessive, almost brutal gesture.

The ground beneath your feet seemed to wobble for a moment, and you straightened up, more indignant than anything else. “Jongseong! This tree is older than you, have some respect.” You tried to pull away slightly, but he didn’t care. In the blink of an eye, he pulled you closer to him, and you didn’t have time to understand what was happening before his body was against yours. You felt the pressure of his chest against yours, a hot, heavy breath against your neck, and your legs faltered under this proximity that was too intense, too intimate. Every fiber of your being seemed to tense, a palpable tension between you, as if the air itself was charged with this invisible force.

His mouth came closer to your ear, his breath dancing on your skin. “A little respect, princess. I’m 400 years older than you.” His voice, low and raspy, rang out like a clap of thunder, a cruel reminder of the power gap between you. He gently brushed his finger over your nose, a gesture both tender and possessive, as if everything about you already belonged to him, even your annoyance.

Before you could react, a violent dizziness seized you, as if the ground had no consistency anymore. You understood that you were already far from everything you knew. The teleportation… he had taken you away without you even having time to understand what was happening. A nausea rose in you, but he caught you before you collapsed. His arms wrapped around you, pressing you against him, his body surprisingly solid and cold against yours.

“Still fragile as I see it, princess.” He whispered the words against your skin, his tone almost mocking, but there was something darker, a veiled threat that made your heart beat faster. He held you tighter against him, his silver eyes, now an icy blue, fixed on you. Behind his mask of amusement, you perceived a worry, a desire to understand something that even you couldn’t define.

You stepped back slightly, not paying attention to your surroundings, nearly knocking you off the cloud you were standing on, but he caught you effortlessly, his grip unwavering. “Be careful.” He growled, his voice deeper, more intense, and his eyes hardened. The tension between you was palpable, a taut thread ready to snap.

You wanted to answer, but your gaze involuntarily turned towards the sky. Shooting stars, streaks of light in the darkness, seemed to dance before your eyes, a silent symphony that captured you entirely. You fell silent, lost in the beauty of the moment. The stars traced graceful curves, bright flashes following one another, their light creating visions in your head, fragments of lives that you could not understand.

“It’s beautiful…” you whispered, your voice breaking with emotion. Tears shone in your eyes, as if the stars themselves were reflected in your gaze, as if your soul were floating, suspended in the universe. Those little stars that were born in your eyes, imperceptible to anyone but visible to him, began to shine brighter, like a reflection of the stars dancing in the sky. But it was also a reflection of your own inner chaos: a mixture of desire, fear, confusion, everything you could no longer repress.

The night was enchanting, almost supernatural. The deep night blue sky seemed to melt into the darkness, dotted with thousands of stars, like pearls suspended in the infinite void. There was something magical about this moment, an atmosphere charged with electric energy, heavy with promise, where each second seemed suspended, uncertain, almost unreal. And you, there, in this celestial dress, you shone under the soft light of the moon, like an apparition from another world. The silver and gold threads of the dress mingled with the darkness, clinging to the darkness as if you were destined to be swallowed up by it. But it was not the dress that dominated you, it was the man before you. Jongseong.

His eyes never left you, heavily fixed on you, analyzing every little gesture, every breath. There was an infinite expanse in his gaze, a sort of silent hold that gave you no respite. When he approached closer to you, his gestures were measured, almost calculated, as if he were savoring each movement. With a cold and imperious finger, he pushed back a lock of your hair that had escaped behind your ear. This simple contact, yet so light, made you shiver. You felt his gaze slide along your neck, brushing your skin with an almost palpable intensity. He invaded you with his attention, making you feel every part of your being as if he were devouring you with his gaze.

“Yes… beautiful,” he finally said, his voice low and caressing, but with a darker undertone. He paused, his eyes still locked on yours, before whispering, “Make a wish.”

You weren’t sure what you felt, or what you wanted. Maybe a part of you was still unsure, but another… another part of you knew that this wish could mean so much more than you were willing to accept. There was something in the way he looked at you, a silent form of domination, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking before you could even articulate it. There was also an implicit promise in his words, a warning that you felt deep in your flesh.

“What could I possibly ask for… and most importantly, who could grant my wish?” You felt almost insane for asking the question, but you let it slip out despite yourself. He wasn’t just a man, he wasn’t even a human being. He was more, much more than you could understand.

He let a smile stretch across his lips, a smile that wasn't warm, but rather predatory. He leaned in closer, until he could feel his warm breath against your skin. "I will..." he said with frightening certainty. "I will bend the earth and the sky to do it if I have to." His words hit you hard, echoing in your mind like an ultimatum. It was a challenge, a promise of infinite power, but also a threat, a demand. He expected more from you, he wanted more.

His hands rested on your waist, firm, but almost disturbingly soft. You could feel the tense muscles beneath the cold skin, the raw energy he gave off. He didn't need more to make you feel vulnerable. In one movement, he pulled you closer to him, his body against yours, forcing you to feel the magnitude of his presence. The contact of his skin against yours was almost suffocating, and you had trouble breathing. The tension, the electrification of the air around you was becoming unbearable.

“Now make your wish. There aren’t many shooting stars left.” His voice was softer now, but with a piercing insistence. His fingers slid slowly over the bottom of your stomach, brushing the material of your dress. The gesture was intentionally light, but each movement sent a shiver up your spine, waking you to a feeling he knew he was awakening in you. A feeling you didn’t want to confess, but which flowed through your veins like sweet poison.

You didn't need to think any longer. A part of you, a dark and eager part, knew exactly what it wanted. You closed your eyes for a moment, searching for strength in the solitude of your mind, your fingers joining in a silent prayer. And as you formulated your wish, you felt his arms, like chains, holding you back. His hands were on you, but in a gentle, almost provocative gesture, as if he was giving himself permission to possess you a little more each second. But all this remained silent, within the framework of this invisible pact that you sealed without words.

When you opened your eyes again, he was there, in your field of vision. He hadn’t moved, not for a moment. His eyes were darker, more intense, as if he were waiting for an answer. But he knew, deep down, that you weren’t going to give him what he wanted right away. He moved closer, his hands sliding under your dress, a firm and assured grip. He waited for your reaction. His eyes hardened, almost impassive, but there was no pity in that look. You were in his clutches, and he was savoring every moment of it.

“So what did you wish for?” He leaned in close, his breath against your ear. His question was a challenge, a power play, a test you couldn’t avoid. He wanted you to give in, to push you to reveal what you were trying to hide. He waited, with the patience of a predator.

But you kept some semblance of control. A small smile slid across your lips. “I’ll tell you when it comes true.”

His lips curved into an unreadable smile, but he wasn't one to accept uncertainty. He pulled you closer to him, without any warning, and placed a kiss on the corner of your lips. It wasn't a tender kiss, but one filled with tension, defiance, and desire. A kiss that spoke louder than words, that told you that you were no longer free to make your own choices. You were no longer in control. He was already in your mind, in your thoughts, in your body. And you knew that you had no escape.

He straightened up slightly, his fingers gently resting on your chin, before tilting your face towards his. “Let’s do this, then.” He murmured, his tone deeper, more serious. “It’s a deal.” And without waiting for an answer, he sealed the deal with a deeper, more demanding kiss. His lips pressed against yours with an insistence that made you lose all sense of direction, erasing the reality around you, drowning you in the darkness of his desires. The beating of your heart echoed in your ears, just like his, perfectly synchronized in this dangerous game where there was no winner, no loser. Just two souls ready to burn together.

Sim Jake is a prominent member of House Feralis, a mysterious and ancient organization dedicated to protecting the wilderness, maintaining ecological balance, and preserving the ancient traditions of survival in harsh and beautiful environments. House Feralis not only defends nature, they honor and cherish it, viewing humanity not as a dominant force on earth, but as an integral part of the natural balance. They firmly believe that when man respects and preserves this fundamental connection to the land and its creatures, he can truly live in harmony with the natural world.

The primary goal of House Feralis is to protect this sacred bond by opposing outside forces, whether they be corporations greedy for natural resources or civilizations that, in their expansion, disrupt this delicate balance. These protectors of nature wage a ceaseless struggle to defend the fauna and flora, but also the mystical and legendary creatures that inhabit the most remote corners of the world. It is not simply a matter of preserving nature in its raw state, but of protecting the ancient wisdom written in the roots and the skies, a wisdom that modern civilizations have too often forgotten or ignored.

House Feralis also fights against those who, driven by the desire for power or profit, seek to exploit the land and its creatures. Members of the House are warriors, but not in the traditional sense. They are both guardians and teachers, ancient souls bound to deep and secret knowledge. Their mission is also to preserve ancestral skills, such as the art of survival in the harshest terrains, tribal rites, and the understanding of complex ecosystems. Each member carries within them the wisdom of the ancients, and their honor is tied to their ability to defend nature against the forces of destruction. It is a sacred trust.

Loyalty and cohesion are the core values ​​of House Feralis. They firmly believe that a close-knit community is like a wolf pack: each member is an essential part of the whole, but each wolf remains free, independent, and able to survive on its own. However, it is this same independence that guarantees their collective strength. They act together when necessary, and in unity they are powerful. This philosophy extends to the daily lives of each member, who must be able to keep their distance from others when necessary, while remaining deeply connected to the pack.

Their emblem is a representation of their deep respect for nature. The symbol of House Feralis is a silver wolf, powerful and elegant, standing against a dark backdrop of deep forests, with eyes shining like stars. The wolf, symbol of the predator, is depicted in a pose ready to pounce, signifying both vigilance and swiftness of action. The natural elements surrounding it, such as gnarled roots and swirling leaves, reinforce the connection to the land and the forest, an ode to wilderness in its purest form.

Sim Jake embodies this philosophy perfectly. Like a lone wolf, he often prefers to keep himself away from human and celestial society, wandering alone in dark forests or rugged mountains. His independent nature is evident in the way he moves and hides in the shadows. He is a master of camouflage, able to blend into his surroundings with almost supernatural precision. Whether under the thick foliage of a dense forest or among the rugged rocks of the mountains, he becomes an integral part of the landscape, invisible to outsiders. When he hunts, he makes no sound. Every movement is calculated, every breath controlled. He is a shadow among shadows, a predator that leaves no trace.

His skin is lightly tanned, marked by the passing of the seasons and hours spent outdoors, exposed to the elements. It is thick and sturdy, bearing the signs of many trials: subtle scars betraying his past battles, scratches left by bushes or sharp stones, deeper marks from clashes with dangerous creatures or storms. His features are strong and distinct, with high cheekbones and a square jaw, a face sculpted by time and trials, and an expression both hard and charismatic, commanding respect.

His hair, a deep black, falls in sparse, disordered strands around his face. Its slightly wavy texture and dense thickness add to its wild and untamed appearance. Sometimes, when practicality prevails, he ties it into a simple ponytail, but even then, a handful of rebellious strands escape, testifying to his free and unruly nature. During rituals or moments of contemplation, he adorns his hair with finely woven braids or leather ropes, a constant reminder of his belonging to nature and the tribal traditions that govern his life. These details are not only aesthetic, but carry a significant symbolic weight: each braid, each rope is a tribute to his connection with ancestors and primordial forces.

Jake's eyes are perhaps his most hypnotic feature. Deep amber, almost otherworldly, they glow with a fierce and wise light, an ancient flame that seems to catch the light with every movement. His eyes reflect the wisdom of the forest, the intimate connection with animal instinct and the mysteries of nature. Penetrating, they are able to see beyond appearances and discern lies. These eyes, although calm and measured, can transform into a sharp and ferocious gaze when Jake feels threatened or angry. When he is hunting or in danger, his gaze becomes almost animalistic, a light that seems to pierce the soul of anyone who dares to challenge him.

His face is carved from the harshness and discipline of the wilderness. His lips, thin and closed, rarely relax into a smile. He wears a serious, sometimes even somber expression, for he is constantly on alert, ready to react to any threat to his world or those he protects. His gaze is often distant, marked by an introspective nature. His eyes constantly scan his surroundings, as if analyzing every movement, every rustle, every breath of wind, always on the lookout for what might emerge from the shadows.

He stands nearly 6'3", with dense musculature sculpted by years of rigorous training and survival in harsh environments. His body is that of a man forged by nature: strong, resilient, but also incredibly agile. His arms are powerful, his legs long and enduring, adapted to long runs in the forests or mountain climbs. His silhouette is athletic, but functional: he has no useless muscles. Every part of his body is adapted to survival and hunting. His agility often surprises those who observe him. He moves without noise, silent as a predator prowling in the shadows, each step measured, each movement precise.

His gait is feline, elegant and silent. He moves like a shadow among the trees, light but relentless. When he walks, he seems to float, his feet barely touching the ground, as if he were always ready to pounce, always ready to react to the slightest threat. This agility is not only physical, it is also mental: Jake is always ready to analyze his environment, to assess the risks, to choose the moment and the place to act. He embodies the man who has learned to survive, a warrior shaped by years of struggle and solitude.

Jake often wears functional and practical clothing, made for survival in the wilderness. He favors sturdy materials, such as tanned leather, fur, or the hides of animals he has hunted himself. His clothing is often designed for camouflage, with natural colors that blend in perfectly with the forest or mountain scenery. The leather chains and ropes that hang from his shoulders or belt are more than just accessories: they are tools, weapons, or symbols of his connection with nature. He always wears an animal pendant, a protective symbol, or a talisman that reminds him of the wisdom of his ancestors and the sacred mission he carries on his shoulders.

The dim afternoon light filtered through the branches of the trees, casting dancing shadows on the ground. Sim Jake sat there, sitting on a rough trunk, his body absorbing the tranquility of the forest, despite the pain of the wood against his skin. He was in complete harmony with nature, every rustle of the wind, every murmur of the water against the stones, every bird call melting into his mind like a familiar melody. His eyes were closed, his face impassive, but his senses were alert. Slightly tense, he knew he was not alone. He had sensed movement, a brushing, a quickening of the air.

The sweet, sugary scent of vanilla, mixed with the rich scent of honey, brushed past him then. A scent he would recognize among a thousand: yours. His heart, hardened by the years, skipped a beat, like a crack in his mask of calm. He knew it well, this scent, he had engraved it in him. Slowly, he smiled, a smile that first formed on his lips before being cleverly hidden. He didn't need to turn around to know it was you. He could almost hear you approaching, your hesitant steps, the tension palpable in your body. Fear, excitement, all of it mixed in the air around you.

He waited a moment, savoring the closeness that consumed him from the inside. Then, when you froze, unsure of your place, he slowly opened his eyes, staring into your gaze. It was more than just an exchange of glances, it was a silent duel between two souls in confrontation. He pierced you with his amber eyes, their almost hypnotic glow, filled with barely contained desire, and the tension rose instantly. Your eyes widened under his piercing gaze, but you couldn't look away. You felt trapped by that gaze, by that invisible hold he had over you.

“I didn’t know you were here,” you whispered hastily, unable to hide the nervousness in your voice. A slight backward movement, and you lost your balance. Before you could even fall, he was there. His arms, strong and sure, grabbed you by the waist, steadying you effortlessly. A shiver slid down your spine. Even once he had you back on balance, he didn’t let go. His hands tightened around you, a deliberate, almost possessive touch. You could feel every muscle of his body beneath your skin, every pulse of his desire. His eyes never left yours, unforgiving, almost expectant.

Your heart was beating faster, each beat resonating in your temples. The stars in your eyes were twinkling with an uncontrollable brilliance, capturing the embarrassment, the excitement. He was almost amused by it. He watched you, saying nothing, delighting in the fragility of this moment, like a predator stalking its prey.

“Come,” he said, his voice low and authoritative, almost an order. He guided you to his makeshift chair with a sudden but controlled movement, as if there was no doubt about where you were supposed to be. You sat down slowly, your body still a little shaken by the embrace he had given you. He settled himself next to you, his body close to yours, his warmth brushing against you with every breath.

“Thanks… you didn’t have to do that,” you whispered, the words barely coming out, like a shy confession. You didn’t know where to look anymore, your hands moving nervously in your lap. The silence grew heavy, punctuated by your panting breaths and his, deeper and more controlled. Then, in one fluid movement, Jake reached out his hand to yours, grasping it gently but firmly. His touch was reassuring, but an unbearable heat was slowly rising between you. He wrapped his fingers around it, as if to anchor you to him.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he said, his voice deeper, more relentless, like a warning. He stroked the back of your hand gently with his thumb, each movement slow and measured, but each touch electrifying. The tenderness of his gesture contrasted with the harshness of his words, and you felt a wave of desire wash over you, uncontrollable. A moan held itself back in your throat, stifled by the tension. You didn’t even dare move, so intense was the intensity of his gaze anchoring you to his will.

Silence stretched between the two of you, a silence heavy with unspoken words. Only the wind blew, the leaves rustled softly. Then a majestic eagle flew near you, landing on Jake's forearm. He greeted him with disconcerting familiarity, holding out his arm as if the animal were a brother. You watched, fascinated, the silent exchanges between man and creature, and a shiver ran through you as you realized the intimacy of this moment. The animals were listening to him, had always listened to him. It was the magic of his clan, this mystical bond that you had always believed to be nothing more than a myth.

“So your clan really talks to animals?” you whispered, intrigued. You had seen these creatures interact with him, but seeing him in action, so natural, so sovereign, electrified you. A smile touched his lips as he looked away from you.

“Yes, but we avoid doing it. It takes a lot of energy,” he replied calmly. He pushed back a few strands of his hair, but even that gesture failed to quell the intensity emanating from him. His hair fell over his face again, creating a stark contrast to his fierce gaze.

A light laugh escaped you, unconscious, amused by the contrast between the ruthless man and the gentleness of his gestures towards the creature. Jake growled under his breath, a muffled but powerful sound. You gave him a teasing pout, and the dynamic changed. This tension between you, which had become almost unbearable, erupted in a moment of new intimacy.

“Let me help you,” you said suddenly, a shaky breath escaping your lips. You bit your lip, hesitant. Then, with a delicate but confident movement, you slid behind him, your fingers brushing his skin. His hair, thick and silky, slipped beneath your fingers. A shiver ran through him, and you felt his body tense under your touch, a low moan escaping his lips. Each movement of your fingers on his scalp seemed to break him a little more, and each gesture was a silent promise.

As you parted his locks to begin braiding his hair, you took your time, savoring the contact, the constant brushing of your skin against his. He let you, but you felt the tension growing, almost palpable. You felt his breathing intensify under your fingers, his skin burning. The gestures were simple, but the desire that emanated from them was heavy, almost suffocating. Each braid you made was a small victory over his discipline, a gradual disintegration of his reserves. And you knew it. Each movement brought him a little closer to the inevitable.

You had barely finished braiding his hair when Jake suddenly moved, with that precision and force that took your breath away every time. His hands, rough and powerful, grabbed you firmly, without care. Your body lifted as if you weighed nothing and he made you slide onto his thighs. The movement caught you off guard. You rocked against him, and a soft, almost involuntary moan escaped your lips. You felt the reassuring pressure of his hand against your back, preventing your head from hitting the wet, muddy ground. This contrast between brutality and this subtle protection destabilized you every time, as if he was perpetually dancing between primal instinct and total control.

You stood there for a moment, your hands instinctively seeking support on his broad, strong shoulders. Beneath your fingers, you could feel the warmth of his skin despite his clothes, the tension in his muscles contracting slightly under your touch. Your breath became erratic, uncontrolled, as you were forced to look up at him. His gaze literally pierced you, his amber eyes shining with an almost predatory intensity. He said nothing, but his eyes spoke for him: they were greedy, possessive, as if he was silently claiming this moment and your entire person.

He was scrutinizing you as if he wanted to dissect you, analyze every detail of your face, every imperfection that you thought you had, but which, under his gaze, became treasures. His hand, still placed on the small of your back, began to move, drawing lazy circles with the tips of his fingers. A gesture both tender and possessive, almost distracted, but which caused a wave of heat throughout your body.

He finally broke the silence with a hoarse, vibrant, almost animal voice.

“You are perfect.”

His tone was raw, without artifice. Those three words were a declaration, an immutable truth in his mind. Your heart clenched, pounding so hard in your chest that you were convinced he could hear it. Your face burned under the force of his words, your lips trembled slightly, and without thinking, you bit them. A nervous gesture, but one that didn't escape him.

Without warning, he reached out with his free hand, gently grasping your bottom lip between his thumb and index finger, extracting it from the prison of your teeth. The contact caused an uncontrolled shiver to run through you.

“Don’t,” he whispered, his voice lowered to a raspy breath that made you shudder. He didn’t look away, captivated by the way your eyelashes fluttered, your gaze oscillating between embarrassment and desire. His fingers gently brushed your lip, as if he were enjoying tasting it through his touch. Then, slowly, they slid down your cheek. The caress was so gentle, so careful, that it contrasted brutally with the force he had used to sit you on his lap. The paradox completely disarmed you, and a small noise escaped your throat—a mixture of surprise, confusion, but mostly pleasure.

You swallowed hard, searching for words to break the suffocating moment. “What if… what if we were seen?” you finally breathed, your voice weak, trembling, almost inaudible. The words sounded strange to you, as if they were coming from another version of you, one less overwhelmed by the warmth of his body against yours.

He hears you, of course he does. Jake always hears you, like he’s connected to you in a way you don’t fully understand yet. But his answer, when it comes, is a low growl that resonates in his chest. “It’s not a problem.” His deep, vibrant voice cuts through you, awakening something primal within you. It wasn’t a promise or an assumption. It was a certainty, an absolute statement. Nothing and no one mattered when it came to you.

Without giving you time to answer or object, he slowly leaned towards you. His warm breath brushed your skin, sending shivers down your spine. You felt his gaze linger on your lips, then your eyes, perhaps seeking implicit permission. Then, his lips met yours.

It was a disconcerting kiss, as gentle as it was intense. His lips brushed yours with an unexpected, almost experimental delicacy, as if he were trying to hold back all the passion and rawness that burned beneath the surface. But you felt it all, every shiver, every hint of repressed desire in that touch. His hand on your back tightened slightly, anchoring you against him, while the other moved up along your jaw to frame your face.

You hesitated at first, but the warmth of his touch and the energy emanating from him consumed you. You let yourself go, responding to his kiss with awkward shyness. It seemed to encourage him. The kiss became more insistent, his lips pressing yours with more force, demanding this time. You felt the urgency in his gestures, this almost desperate desire to have you all.

The atmosphere around you seemed to thicken. The sounds of the forest faded, replaced by the sound of your intermingled breaths. The tension was palpable, suffocating, but you couldn't detach yourself from it. A part of you, as frightened as it was by the magnetic force of this man, couldn't help but succumb to it.

You stand before the temple of the House of Aerolis, a celestial place atop a windswept mountain. This house, deeply connected to the air, the heavens, and the element of wind, is in perfect harmony with nature. The members of the House of Aerolis are renowned for their innate grace, their keen intellect, and their free spirit, capable of breaking free from the constraints of the material world. Yet behind this freedom lies an unwavering discipline, imposed not only by ancient traditions, but also by the very nature of their connection to the winds. They seek to maintain a constant balance between freedom of spirit and responsibility, between endless mobility and inner stability, between outer chaos and inner calm.

The House of Aerolis is located in a majestic landscape, on high plateaus beaten by the winds, overlooking the cliffs that plunge into the immensity of the ocean. The temple, with its airy and light structure, seems suspended in the air, blending harmoniously with the surrounding skies. Its translucent walls capture the light of day, folding it into subtle and shimmering nuances that dance on the surface of the stones. The architecture of the temple, made of soft and sinuous lines, recalls the fluidity of wind and clouds.

The large openings allow fresh air to flow in, giving a feeling of freedom and lightness, as if the building were floating above the ground. The interior of the temple is both minimalist and rich in symbolism: feathers carved into the walls, patterns of wind and light subtly integrated into the stained glass and decorations. Their emblem — a golden eagle feather crossed by a swirling current of air, on a light blue and gold background — adorns every corner, symbolizing lightness, precision and perpetual movement.

It is in this place of calm and beauty that you find yourself, lost in your thoughts. You were thinking about the rigor of the House of Aerolis, their discipline, the purity of their connection with the air and their ability to achieve perfect balance. Then, without warning, you hit something soft, almost ethereal. A sensation as light as silk, but endowed with an unexpected strength and resilience. You step back abruptly, preparing to apologize, but your words freeze in your throat when you see wings in front of you.

Bright white wings, almost supernaturally pure, spread majestically. Under the dim candlelight, they shine with a silvery sheen, as if woven from threads of moonlight and heavenly breeze. The tips of the feathers have golden or pale blue hues, capturing the light of the sky and the sun, shimmering with a soft, luminous intensity. These wings are not just beautiful; they embody a symbol of absolute freedom and divine purity. They seem to emerge from the wind, like a heavenly message.

The person wearing these wings turns around slowly, and you feel an aura of calm and mastery surrounding him. He gives off an impression of perfect control, like a calm sea whose depths hide a power ready to be released. His presence, far from being imposing, is of a silent nobility, like a breath of fresh air. He seems to belong to another world, as if he were never affected by torments or storms, whether internal or external. But in his calm, you also feel a discreet force, a contained energy that could, if necessary, transform into an irresistible gust.

His face, delicately sculpted, is marked by an obvious serenity. The defined jaw and slightly high cheekbones accentuate the elegance of his features, emphasizing a timeless and natural beauty. His lips are thin and slightly pink, often curved in a discreet smile, but filled with sincerity, like the one he displays at this moment. He does not need to speak to impose his charm: his beauty emanates from him like a soft mist, invasive and captivating.

Her hair, pale white, evokes the clarity of dawn, as if illuminated by a clean, soft, and almost unreal light. It falls in light waves on her shoulders, subtly curling to the rhythm of the wind that makes them play. A few strands frame her face, bringing a fluidity and lightness to her entire silhouette. Her eyes, a light gray almost translucent, capture the light in an almost supernatural way, diffusing silvery flashes that make her gaze piercing and captivating.

Every time he stares at you, his eyes seem to see beyond the surface, as if he were peering into your most secret thoughts and emotions. There is nothing intimidating in his gaze: on the contrary, it is like an open window onto a pure soul, capable of piercing the invisible.

His skin is almost translucent in its clarity, as if shaped by light itself. It captures the reflections of the sun, returning soft bursts, reminiscent of the first glimmers of dawn or the silvery light of the moon. He exudes an aura of quiet perfection, a natural beauty that is reflected in every detail, every movement. His body, slender and harmonious, has a discreet but present musculature, sculpted by the winds and the rigor of his education. His upright posture, noble and elegant, adds to the fluidity of his gestures, reinforcing the impression that he moves with the lightness of a breath.

He wears a bright white silk jeogori, fitted perfectly to his slender figure. The fine texture of the silk subtly catches the light, creating a luminous aura around him. The collar and sleeves of the garment are embroidered with silver and gold threads, forming airy patterns that recall the movement of the wind and the fluidity of clouds. The embroidery, depicting feathers, bursts of light, and waves of wind, symbolizes his deep connection with the air.

The sleeves are slightly loose, with thin edges that mimic the graceful movement of the wind, while the bottom of her outfit consists of a chima, a long, flowing skirt in silver and pale blue tones. This light and shimmering fabric accentuates her silhouette and follows each of her steps with perfect grace. At the front, the skirt is slightly shorter, revealing elegant boots, but it remains long at the back, creating a feeling of fluid and airy movement.

Celestial patterns, stars and wind waves, are embroidered on the bottom of the chima, adding a divine dimension to the entire outfit. At her waist, a feather-shaped norigae, a traditional decorative pendant, symbolizes her lightness and freedom, completing the entire appearance.

“It’s nothing, it’s just me.” Sunghoon’s voice is soft, almost whispered, but each word resonates with a firmness that touches you deep inside. He speaks with such tranquility that the air around you seems to hang, his tone warming the atmosphere in a delicate, yet overwhelming way. When he speaks, his words glide like a light breeze, but their weight lingers in the air, settling on you, enveloping every fiber of your being with a presence that doesn’t dissipate.

“Just you.” You answer, your lips whispering the words almost without thinking, but your body doesn’t lie. A warmth settles inside you, a tingling sensation that starts at the tips of your fingers and slowly moves up your arms, like a soft, irresistible burn. Your hands itch, an uncontrollable need to touch, to brush him, to grab him, but you hold yourself back. Not here, not in this temple. This is a sacred place, too many people around. The fear of transgression prevents you from giving in to the urge.

His smile is discreet, but piercing. He says nothing, but his lips curve slightly, as if he knows exactly what you feel, as if he perceives the desire that floats between you, as tangible as the air itself. He looks at you for a moment, but in a heavy silence, you see his eyes slowly detach from yours, as if, suddenly, you become insignificant, lost in the immensity of the room. And before you have time to react, he turns away from you, his back facing you in an almost supernatural fluidity.

Then, a gust of wind suddenly brushes your face. It is not a simple breath, but a caress, warm and effervescent, which seems to invade you, brushing your skin with an intriguing softness. This wind heads straight towards your ears, carrying an almost inaudible murmur, a word, a place, a secret meeting place. The air around you seems to thicken, to be charged with a promise, an invitation that you do not yet dare to understand.

You look up at him, but he is already far away, his silhouette disappearing into the crowd, in perfect harmony with the movement around him. Every gesture, every movement is astonishingly light, as if it were made of wind and air. His body moves with a captivating fluidity, a perfect sequence of calculated gestures, but with an almost magical ease. It is as if he is not walking, but floating, barely touching the ground, each step a silent dance. His grace is incredible, almost hypnotic, and each movement you observe seems more natural than the last. As if everything, in his gait, in his way of being, was governed by a law that only you can still understand.

And yet, this approach, as fluid as it is, carries a certain heaviness. He is not light by simple choice; he is a silent force, a calm wind ready to turn into a storm. Each gesture echoes a contained power, an energy ready to be released. And in this perfect self-control, there is something that draws you irresistibly. Each movement, each gesture seems to be an invitation, a silent promise that, perhaps, he is waiting for you to lose yourself in the intensity of this tension that is woven between you.

The urge to get closer becomes unbearable. It's as if you were suspended in an invisible thread, stretched between him and you, quivering with each step he takes, bringing you ever closer to this border that you dare not cross. The tension is palpable, vibrating, like a rope ready to give way. He is there, and you know that he knows what you feel, what you desire. And he lets you, gently, slowly, sink into this torpor of repressed desire, all the while controlling every second, every breath, every quiver that passes through you.

You are caught in this subtle and dangerous game that he plays effortlessly, and yet, every movement, every word of his brings you closer to the moment when you will know that you will no longer be able to hold back. When you will know that everything you desire is within reach, but that the moment has not yet come. And in this waiting, in this suspended tension, he leaves you there, panting, eager for more, without ever breaking the silence.

The lake before you stretches as far as the eye can see, a sea of ​​black ink that only the silvery shards of the moon touch timidly. The air is heavy, saturated with this strange sensation that no wind will break, a stifling and icy heat at the same time. You feel the humidity on your skin, this nighttime freshness that sticks to your clothes and seeps under your skin, but that's not what bothers you. It's him. Sunghoon. He's there, right next to you, and you feel every micro-movement of his body like a pressure, an invitation, a threat. He has this insidious power of not needing to touch you to invade you, to penetrate every corner of your being.

He's so close that you can feel the warmth of his body mingling with yours. Not close enough for his fingers to brush your skin, but close enough for each second spent by his side to seem to stretch time. His arms are folded behind him, his wings folded in an almost divine silence, but you know he's attentive to every detail: to the way you stand, to the tension emanating from you. You feel his gaze on you, burning and insistent, like an invisible caress. It's a piercing, almost intrusive observation that destabilizes you, reduces you to prey before his eyes.

You sit there, at the front of the boat, your eyes fixed on the black water, trying to focus on the darkness rather than on this presence that seems to engulf you. Your fingers brush the icy surface of the water, tracing almost hypnotic circles. The biting cold seems to penetrate your bones, but it does not reach the burning core inside you. This contrast between the outside and the inside makes you nervous, quivering. What disturbs you is not the cold, but the intensity of the situation. The weight of the air, heavy and suffocating, between you.

You feel his gaze, even when you refuse to meet it. His eyes, deep gray, are fixed on you with icy precision. You know he is scrutinizing you, trying to read every micro-expression on your face. Every quiver of your body, every press of your lips, he captures everything. And that is what irritates you. He watches you like a predator, ready to seize every movement, every misstep. His silence, heavy with meaning, is more intimidating than any words. Because he does not need to speak to make you understand that he knows all your secrets, all your desires.

You feel your heart beating faster in your chest, and you force your expression to remain implacable, to not let it show how much he affects you. But inside, each second of silence makes the heat grow, more and more burning. It's like a tension that strengthens with each moment, an inner pressure that you can't push back. His calm, his apparent control, plunges you into a state of nervousness, as if you were about to crack.

You finally break the silence, your voice cutting through the air with a barely concealed coldness.

“Are you going to stare at me like that all night, Sunghoon?” The question is more of a taunt than a real inquiry. But deep down, there’s a silent defiance. Because you know he likes it. He likes it when you try to push him away, when you try to draw out the emotion he knows he stirs in you.

Time stretches between you. An almost unbearable silence. He doesn't answer immediately, of course. He likes the wait, he likes to see how long you can hold out without giving in to this desire he awakens in you. Then, finally, he tilts his head slightly, his pale white hair moving gently in the nonexistent breeze, catching the faint light of the moon. The movement is of a calculated slowness, almost divine. He smiles then, slowly, a smile that hides no warmth, but that makes you feel as if the warmth itself has died down, giving way to a biting coldness.

“Maybe,” he finally whispers, his voice as deep as the whisper of a cold wind. It’s a simple word, almost innocuous, but you know every syllable weighs, every word calculated. “Watching you struggle with yourself is a fascinating sight.”

His words hit you like electric waves. A shock that runs through your body, but you ignore it, you force your mind to remain impassive, to not show how much he affects you. But deep down, a part of you knows that what he says is true. You fight. Against him. Against yourself. Against this desire that consumes you, and he knows it. He sees through your attempts to control, he sees the burn under your skin, the desire that rises with every look he lays on you.

You straighten up a little, clench your fists to keep your composure, and you answer, more curtly: "I'm not fighting."

A quiet chuckle escapes his lips. He leans back a little, his wings folded behind him in a studied gesture of relaxation. But you know he hasn’t let up. He’s testing you, waiting to see how far he can push you. You know every movement of his body is carefully considered, every word he speaks a strategic move in this silent game, and he loves it. He loves seeing how hard you try to stay in control of yourself while being utterly vulnerable under his gaze.

Suddenly, he moves. One of his wings spreads slowly, majestically. The movement is fluid, hypnotic. You can't take your eyes off his silhouette, the way his wings open slowly, like an invitation, a trap. Before you know what's happening, he slams the wing down on the water.

The impact is brutal. Water splashes everywhere, crashing against you with icy violence. You don't even have time to react before the water hits you in the face, overwhelming you with cold. The shock is instantaneous, brutal. Your muscles contract under the impact, your breathing stops, and you feel your heart racing. An icy coldness invades your body, each drop of water hitting you like needles. And your dress, thin and light, becomes transparent under the water, immediately sticking to your skin.

You sit up abruptly, caught between anger and cold. Your body is tense, everything inside you is electric, ready to explode. “Park Sunghoon!” Your voice pierces the silence of the night, sharp, furious, but also full of this frustration that is rising inside you. He provokes you, pushes you, and he knows it.

He doesn't answer. He lets the water trickle down from his wing, the drops slowly hitting the wood of the boat. He seems detached, almost serene, as if this is all a game. He looks away, feigning innocence with an infuriating nonchalance.

But you know. You know that every move he makes, every word he says, is meant to test your limits. And it burns you. This power grab he has over you is so carefully calculated, so subtle, that you can no longer tell if you're losing yourself or winning this game. The line is blurring.

In an almost imperceptible gesture, he looks down at you, a predatory smile slipping across his lips. He moves closer. You instinctively back away, until your back hits the edge of the boat. You are trapped. He moves closer slowly, his wings spreading around him, cutting off any escape. And in his gaze, you see a new light. Darker. Hungrier.

The wind blew around you with an icy bite, making your already damp skin shiver from cold water, but no cold could penetrate the armor of warmth that emanated from Sunghoon. His eyes, dark and piercing, did not leave the quivering silhouette that you had become under his gaze. Every movement of your body, every tremor, seemed to attract him more, like a prey that he observed from afar before capturing it, slowly, inevitably.

You shivered more, but not only because of the cold. It was him, his presence, the intensity of his gaze on you, almost burning. You had never had the impression that someone could see you so deeply, pierce your most secret, most hidden layers. And yet, it was not just a look. It was a promise of possession, a veiled threat.

“You’re cold.” His soft, yet firm voice struck you like a barely grazed blade. He knew you were cold, he knew everything, and he was there, in that heavy silence, studying you with disturbing precision. But he didn’t wait for an answer. There was no need for words. He stood there, dominating, ready to destroy whatever independence remained in you.

Before you could even react, he stepped closer, a quiet strength emanating from him, and in an instant, you found yourself against him, glued to his muscular chest. The heat that emanated from his body enveloped you immediately, but there was nothing comforting about this heat. It was a devouring heat, a heat that seized you, that consumed you, and yet, you had no desire to get out of it. His skin, warm and firm against yours, made you close your eyes for a moment, an uncontrollable shiver running through your body.

He didn’t let go of you. His arms wrapped around you in a firm but not rough grip, pulling you closer to him, as if you were a part of him, as if he were claiming you for himself, without embellishment, without return. There was a dominance in the gesture, a claim that you felt deep in your gut. But this dominance wasn’t simply physical. It was in every word he spoke, in every silence between you, in the very air you breathed. It was a pressure, a palpable tension, that forced you to abandon what you thought was your will.

“Let me warm you up.” The words escaped his lips with a softness that contrasted strangely with the harshness of his gesture. There was no tenderness in the gesture. Only raw power, a need to possess you, to pull you closer to him. His wings, large and majestic, folded around you, a shield, a cage, but also a promise. Their warmth enveloped your body like a blanket, but there was something much darker in that embrace.

The feathers of his wings brushed your skin, but they weren't just soft. They were alive, almost organic, reacting to every movement of your body, your breathing. You shuddered at every brush, every furtive caress, as if they were tasting you, testing you. This contact, both tender and threatening, made a dull heat rise in your veins. Each movement brought you closer to him, but also pushed you into a form of submission that you could no longer ignore.

You didn't dare look up at him, but you knew he was watching you, every little shiver that ran through your body not escaping him. He felt you, he read you, and you were aware of it. His arms held you tighter, but it wasn't enough. He wanted more. He wanted you more.

You let yourself go for a moment, your whole body pressing against his, seeking a more intense, deeper warmth. Your face nestled against his chest, and you felt the vibration of his heart beating, slowly, strongly, like a reminder of the life that bubbled in his veins, of the life that was happening in this proximity.

A soft sigh escaped your lips, a sigh that you couldn't even hold back. He immediately took advantage of it, his hands sliding over your skin, making you tremble even more. He knew exactly where and how to touch you to provoke this response in you. He didn't say anything. He let the tension rise, slowly, inexorably.

“You’re so mean to me,” you breathed, your voice cracking, your breath short. It was a complaint, but also an invitation, a form of resistance disguised as submission. You clung to him, your hands clenching on his clothes, as if to mark your territory in this embrace that consumed you.

He leaned in slightly, his breath warm on your ear. “I’ll be gentler with you then.” His voice vibrated with a desire you could almost touch, and you shuddered at the impact of his words. But his arms didn’t loosen. He held you close, forcing you to feel the heat he radiated, the dominance he imposed. There was a latent danger in all of this, a threat that hovered between you. It was an intricate dance, between control and loss of control, between what he wanted from you and what you desired from him.

The wind that had previously blown with an icy bite had turned into a surprisingly gentle warmth, like a burning caress that was slowly drying you, erasing the moisture from your skin still struck by the icy water. Each quiver of the breeze against your body only amplified the tension that was forming between you, as if the air itself was charged with this inescapable attraction. The wind brushed your skin with an almost sensual softness, making you shiver insidiously, but it wasn't the cold that was invading you. No, it was him. Sunghoon. His presence was omnipresent, a suffocating heat that was slowly gaining on you.

You didn't have time to think about what was happening, your whole being prey to this wave of contradictory sensations. You felt his hand, warm and possessive, slowly slide over the small of your back. The contact of his fingers against your skin was as intrusive as it was delectable, each movement controlled, each caress increasing the pressure of his hold on your body. You didn't have to see him to know what he was doing. When his hand moved down slightly, lingering on the curve of your buttocks, his fingers brushing the delicate skin before gripping it firmly, you made a movement of recoil, indignant, short of breath. A dark look, filled with defiance, escaped your eyes, but Sunghoon didn't flinch. On the contrary, he seemed to savor every fraction of a second where you tried to push him away, to resist the irresistible attraction he exerted on you.

He said nothing. No words left his lips. He was much more comfortable in this heavy silence, the one that filled the space with this palpable tension. His lips finally approached yours, slowly, with total assurance, as if the simple fact of doing so was his way of marking his territory, of making you understand that you had no escape. And before you could even make the slightest move to move away, he pressed his lips against yours in a merciless kiss, without warning, without the slightest gentleness. This kiss was an order disguised as a gesture, a silent affirmation of his power. He kissed you without any embarrassment, his lips imposing themselves on yours, forcing you to respond, to yield.

His body pressed against yours, harder and harder, as if every inch of space between you was unbearable. He had never touched you like this, so rough, so possessive. His arms held you so tightly that you couldn't move, a cage of bone and muscle that allowed you no escape. And his wings, those majestic wings, pressed slowly against you, the feathers brushing your skin, bringing a soft but threatening warmth, like a burning blanket.

You were trapped. He held you against him, his body pressed against yours, forcing you to feel every muscle, every breath, every beat of his heart in his chest. Every movement of his lips on yours bewitched you, besieged you, forcing you to lose yourself in this kiss that had nothing tender about it. It was a silent war, a battle of wills, where you were at the mercy of his domination, his absolute mastery.

Lee Heeseung wandered through the enigmatic garden of the House of Liraelle, a space where the boundary between reality and imagination seemed to dissolve. This garden was a suspended world, frozen in a forgotten era, every inch of land imbued with the secrets of the House, a dwelling marked by obsession, all-consuming passion, and the unfathomable mysteries of the past. The ground, covered in a carpet of dark leaves and faded petals, seemed to be absorbed by the shadow of the gigantic trees, which swallowed up everything under their canopy. Heeseung advanced slowly, his step measured, his gaze lost in the beauty of the place, all the while remaining deeply aware of the threatening aura that enveloped him.

The garden paths, lined with black roses with deep purple petals, were both sumptuous and fearsome. These flowers, of a macabre beauty, seemed to suck in the light, as if the night itself was hiding in their shadows. Their scent, both sweet and pernicious, floated in the air, causing a slight dizziness. Bewitching and almost intoxicating, it also awakened a sense of unease, a scent of forbidden desire and obsession. This scent wrapped itself around the skin, impregnating the soul of those who dared to venture into this garden. Heeseung stopped for a moment, staring at the roses as if trying to decipher their secret language. Each flower seemed to tell a part of the history of the House of Liraelle, a story woven of passion, suffering, pleasure and pain throughout the ages.

The black vines, twisted and tangled around ancient statues, formed hypnotic patterns. These sculptures, frozen in time, seemed to silently observe the young man's every movement. Some represented human figures, others mythological creatures: nymphs, chimeras, half-human, half-animal beings, immortalized in gestures of suffering or ecstasy. Covered in moss and lichen, marked by the wear of centuries, these statues had a strange glow in the eyes engraved in the stone, a glow of sleeping life. When the light filtered between the trees, it rested on these frozen forms, and dancing shadows seemed to come to life on their surface, like ghosts from the past, ready to emerge from their sleep.

The stone fountains, decorated with mystical carvings, gave off a constant murmur, a hypnotic melody that filled the air. The water, clear but dark blue, rushed into deep pools, lined with unfathomable patterns that seemed to transform under the reflections. These symbols, similar to the ancient runes of the founders of the House, carried within them occult secrets and forgotten knowledge. The steady sound of the water echoed in Heeseung's mind, a reminder of the permanence of time, of the inexorable flow of centuries. 

At the heart of the garden, a pond of inky black water seemed to scrutinize intruders. The smooth, still surface of the water seemed magical, as if the pond were a door to another world, where natural laws no longer applied. Black lilies, imposing and majestic, floated on the surface, their petals bursting with mystery and danger. The thin stems bent slowly under the weight of the water, but their beauty, fascinating and obscure, was undeniable. At times, a slight ripple crossed the pond, as if something was hidden in the depths, an invisible being, a ghost waiting for the right moment to emerge. The air around the pond was cold, impregnated with a strange humidity that made breathing difficult. The shadows under the water moved slowly, like nameless shapes, ready to emerge at any moment. The atmosphere of the place, both calm and threatening, reinforced the impression of mystery that reigned there.

With each step Heeseung took, the garden seemed to close in around him. The shadows of the trees and statues increased this feeling of confinement, while enhancing the haunting beauty of this place. He advanced with a slow, thoughtful pace, absorbed in contemplating the wonders and horrors of the House of Liraelle, his gaze gliding over each detail with intimate knowledge. His black clothes, made of velvet and satin, absorbed the light, just like the petals of the black roses. He moved with the grace of a being of shadows, the silver and crimson embroidery of his tunic representing black roses intertwined with brambles and vines, a reflection of his belonging to this enigmatic house, marked by danger and prohibition.

His figure, long and slender, seemed unreal in this setting, a solitary specter among the shadows. The tight but fluid cut of his tunic emphasized his majestic figure, while allowing him to move effortlessly, like a shadow among the shadows. The long, slightly flared sleeves floated around him, creating a hypnotic effect. His appearance evoked that of an ethereal being, both divine and demonic, depending on the eye that looked at him. The contrasts between the dark velvet, the satin and the delicate embroidery in silver and crimson added an almost sacred dimension to his appearance. Every detail, every fold of his clothes seemed designed to maintain a subtle balance between nobility and danger, beauty and menace.

His eyes, silvery white tinged with carmine, shone with an icy intensity. They captured the light in a strange, almost supernatural way, like mirrors capable of sucking the soul out of those they stared at. That piercing gaze seemed capable of penetrating the very essence of things, of revealing the secrets buried in hearts and stones. There was no warmth in his eyes, just a distant coldness, but that coldness was in reality an abyss, a well of desire and devouring passion.

Her face, with its sharp features and delicately defined jaw, exuded an icy nobility, a rare and almost frightening beauty. Her lips, perfectly drawn, remained motionless, betraying neither smile nor anger, but a controlled serenity, as if every gesture had to be measured, every emotion contained. Her nose, straight and perfectly proportioned, completed her impenetrable face. And her hair, an almost black burgundy red, was carefully styled, slicked back, falling lightly around her shoulders. Their fluid texture seemed made of living tissue, like the extension of a complex and profound soul.

Heeseung walked slowly, each movement weighed down by the weight of his thoughts, as if he were irresistibly drawn to the inevitable. Then, suddenly, he felt it before he could even see it. A vibration, slight but piercing, passed through the air around him, disturbing the eerie calm of the garden. It was as if the air itself was contracting, suspended in infinite expectation. A shiver ran down his spine, and he suddenly found himself unable to look away. He turned his head slowly, his body reacting instinctively to the silent call. There, in the dense shadow of the black roses, your silhouette emerged. At first blurred, a fragile form lost in this hypnotic setting. But there was something more than your mere presence: a dense energy, a magnetic force that seemed to make the space around him vibrate. It was like you weren't just a person, but a living embodiment of everything this garden represented: danger, desire, and pure beauty.

He finally stopped, frozen by the intensity of what he felt. His eyes fixed on you, anchoring themselves to every detail of your silhouette. Each movement seemed slow, almost calculated, as if you were making sure that his perception of you was as precise as possible. He could see the shadows playing on your face, accentuating your skin and the finesse of your features. The rays of light that filtered between the trees grazed your skin, creating bursts that danced on your body with an incredible sensuality. Your silhouette, wrapped in dark clothing, seemed to merge with the surrounding shadows, giving the impression that you were neither entirely real nor entirely spectral. An illusion from which he could not escape.

Heeseung took a step forward, almost unconsciously. The heady smell of the garden mingled with your perfume, a fragrance that wasn't simply floral, but seemed to belong to something more primitive, more carnivorous. A scent of decaying flowers, of raw sensuality, of an insistent and secret desire. He could feel your warmth, even from this distance. It was a silent invitation, but clear. He didn't hesitate to answer this call, his fingers brushing your arm, delicately at first, then more firmly, as if to mark his territory, to anchor you to him. The contact between his skin and yours produced an electric shock that made your entire flesh vibrate, a shiver that went up your spine and made your heart beat faster. You tensed under his touch, your breathing more jerky, more burning, as if his simple contact activated an uncontrollable physical reaction in you.

He spun you around slowly, his fingers squeezing your arm a little tighter, making you shudder under the gentle yet authoritative pressure. He wasn’t just looking at you. He was probing you, trying to read every detail in your eyes, every micro-expression on your face. The tension between you two was palpable, almost tangible. “I didn’t know you were interested in flowers…” His voice, low and caressing, brushed your ears like a whisper of promise, but also of warning. Each word was loaded with innuendo. His fingers slid gently along your arm, a light but striking caress, as if touching you belonged to him and he was slowly making it his own, with a delicacy that was only a shadow of the brutality hidden within him.

You stood there silently for a moment, your gaze lost in his eyes, as if listening to something deeper than words. Then, a barely perceptible smile played on your lips, a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “They’re pretty… and smell good. Besides, this is the only place I can find them.” Your voice was soft, but it carried an underlying weight. There was no simplicity in your answer, just a veiled invitation, an implicit challenge to want more. There was nothing innocent in your words. Each syllable was a silent promise, an invitation to a dangerous dance he couldn’t ignore.

A soft chuckle escaped Heeseung’s lips, a low, guttural sound, almost animalistic. There was no joy in the laugh, just a palpable intensity, a burning desire that was just waiting to be expressed. “Are you talking about me… or the flowers?” His eyes, burning with desire, fixed on you, and he applied more pressure to your arm, hard enough to remind you of his presence, to mark your body with his imprint. He leaned towards you slowly, the warmth of his skin mingling with yours, the scent of your skin mingling with that of the black roses that surrounded you. His lips brushed yours, but he didn’t stop there. He waited. Every movement of your body, every heavier breath, every quiver of your lips was an invitation to him to go further.

The closeness between you was suffocating, each movement more charged than the last, each breath more burning. The tension, pure and raw, seemed to twist the air around you. He knew you felt that same pull, that you were struggling as much as he was not to give in to the temptation that hung in the air. But he was stronger than that. He was far too powerful to be ignored, to be pushed away. His hand slid slowly up your arm, up your skin to your shoulder, where his fingers rested with authority, but with an unexpected gentleness, a perfect contradiction to the brutality of his thoughts.

He was waiting. Every move from you, a gesture, a word, a sigh. All he wanted to know was what you were going to do next.

“What if it was… for you?”

Your voice, deeper, almost slides over your skin, like a hypnotic whisper that caresses each syllable. There is a bewitching softness in your tone, an apparent lightness, but beneath that surface, hides something much darker, a subtle threat and a silent promise. A smile brushes your lips, furtive, enigmatic, a touch of mischief that seems almost innocent. Yet, you know, just as he does, that this smile hides much more—a deeper, more troubling desire, that engulfs you both. It is not a smile that one shares without measuring the consequences.

Heeseung doesn't take his eyes off you. His dark pupils, like endless abysses, leave no room for escape. Every detail of your face, every micro-expression, every movement of your body is observed, recorded, as if every gesture betrayed you. He knows, he feels everything you can't hide, and he waits. You see that mischievous glint in his gaze, and once again, you feel like prey facing his predator. Slowly, patiently, he gets closer. He's playing with you, and he knows it. You too.

He leans closer to you, and every move becomes a test. Every inch that separates your bodies seems to become an abyss. The air around you fills with a tension that becomes almost suffocating, heavy, electric. He barely brushes against you, but the space he leaves between you is saturated with desire. His eyes stare into yours, observing every flash of light, every nuance that makes your gaze shine. He captures every movement of your body, aware of everything you feel, of what you can no longer hide. Seduction becomes a more tangible, almost palpable game, more captivating with each second.

“Then I should prove myself worthy of your attention.”

His voice becomes softer, almost a caress. But his eyes remain icy, uncompromising. They don't let go of you, scrutinizing every movement, every reaction. He waits, he watches. He is on the lookout, ready to seize the slightest weakness, to exploit the slightest hesitation. Everything is calculated. He gets closer, and you feel his hot breath against your skin, the electricity in the air. The world around you seems to freeze as he stops just millimeters from your lips. Time stands still. Each second seems more unbearable than the last. His touch is almost too light to be real, but it is saturated with unbearable promises.

You know what he's looking for. You see in his eyes what he's waiting for, and despite everything, you can't help but give in to this game. Each breath you take becomes shorter, more rushed. Your heart beats faster, harder. The intensity of his gaze warms your skin, makes you shiver. You feel suspended between him and the fragile line that separates surrender from resistance. The slightest of your gestures, of your words, could tip everything over.

“Are you satisfied, or… do you want more?”

He whispers, his voice sweet as poison, a suspended challenge. It’s both an invitation and a test. He waits to see how far you’re willing to follow him, how many steps you’re willing to take in this dangerous dance. You shudder under his hot breath against your lips. Your body reacts before you can even think. A soft, devouring heat spreads through you, a warm, dizzying mist. You feel every fiber of your being trapped by desire, something more powerful, more unfulfilled, pushing you ever further.

You bite your lower lip, trying to hold back the moan that threatens to escape, a sound that would betray your fragility. The slightest noise, the slightest movement could push him to cross this invisible border that he has placed between you. And you know that once this line is crossed, there is no turning back. However, your body has already taken the lead. It anticipates every shiver, every reaction. You no longer have control, or at least, you no longer want to.

Each breath becomes harder, more panting. The air seems to thin around you. It becomes heavy, burning. An intimate heat spreads in your belly, cruel, insatiable, like a fire that only his presence can stoke. 

“You know it’s never enough. I can never get enough of you.”

The words leave your lips in a shaky breath, your voice betraying your vulnerability. But you don’t even try to hide it anymore. You know it. He does too. And this is what he’s waiting for. You don’t even try to fight this desire anymore. You give yourself over to him, to this need that devours you. He smiles, a cruel smile, almost satisfied with having driven you to the brink of breaking.

His fingers slide slowly, almost lazily, from your shoulder to your chin, following every curve of your body with an almost unreal precision. With a possessive gesture, gentle but firm, he takes your face in his hand, straightening your head like a puppeteer. He forces your gaze to plunge into his. The intensity of his eyes mixes with the burning heat of his breath, and you feel your heart accelerate. The air between you is saturated with tension, heavy with unspoken promises, pleasure and pain.

He whispers against your lips, his voice husky and warm, a shiver running over your skin. “I know… I’m just having fun with you.”

The words barely leave his lips when his grip on your chin tightens abruptly. It's unexpected, almost violent, but with a violence that makes you shiver with pleasure. He finally presses his lips against yours. This kiss, you've waited for it, desired it, but it takes you by surprise, like a thunderbolt. His lips are hot, insistent, and you feel totally overwhelmed. This kiss is merciless. It devours you, takes you whole, prevents you from breathing, deprives you of everything except his desire. He gives you no respite.

Your hands, as if guided by an instinct you don't even understand, slide into his hair, squeezing it with desperate urgency. It's a last call to the illusion of control, but you know, deep down, that you've already lost it. The softness of his hair contrasts violently with the violence of his kiss. He dominates you, takes you in this merciless kiss, feeding on your desire. Every movement of his lips captures every shiver, every breath you lose.

And the more he kisses you, the more you want it. The more you lose yourself in his embrace. It's this contradiction that consumes you: every fiber of your being screams to escape, to run away, to regain some semblance of control, but every beat of your heart screams at you to give in, to abandon yourself completely to him.

This is a fight you can't win. And maybe, in reality, you don't even want to win it.

There you were, immersed in the stillness of a moment that at first seemed insignificant. Your fingers slowly traced the sacred characters on the parchment, each movement measured, each syllable carefully inscribed in the mystical flow of your task. Nothing could have prepared you for what was about to happen. A tremor. A subtle shudder beneath your feet, barely perceptible at first, an almost inaudible vibration that made your senses jump. You pause for a moment, a shiver running down your spine, trying to anchor yourself, to ignore the unexpected irruption. But the ground becomes unstable. Slightly at first, then more and more violently, as if the earth itself were trying to throw you into the void.

Your heart skips a beat. A crushing dizziness invades you, your body reacting with an instinctive jolt, a last effort to remain stable. But the ground is slipping away from under your feet. You are no longer in control of your body. Like a puppet detached from its strings, you fall forward, your head spinning, your gaze blurring in a whirlwind of light and darkness. Nausea invades you, tearing away all your grip on this dizzying fall. The world around you distorts. Then, suddenly, the intensity of the trembling ceases. An oppressive silence settles, heavy and absolute, as if the world had frozen. But this is not the end of the ordeal. It is the beginning of something much more terrible.

Short of breath, you open your eyes, trying to understand what is happening. The air here is strange. Thicker, colder, a feeling you can't ignore, as if the atmosphere itself is judging you. You slowly straighten up, the ground beneath your feet too cold, too hard to be natural. An icy shiver runs through you from head to toe, paralyzing you for a moment. This place is nothing like the one you knew. A feeling of unease tightens your throat. 

Where are you?

Around you, shadows dance, forming indistinct outlines that dissipate into the suffocating mist. The walls seem to close in, their gigantic stones, worn by time, with a rough surface. Dust floats in the air, a faint, dreary glow coming from nowhere barely lighting this hostile setting. Your eyes begin to adjust to the gloom, searching for landmarks. And that's when you see it. The engraving. The emblem. It hits you with such intensity that a scream of terror catches in your throat, repressed by a panicked fear that spreads like a burn.

On the stone wall, the image of a black flame, twisted and deformed, shoots out from the center of what appears to be a circle of chains, these metal links intertwining around the flame like an inescapable cage. The flame, deep black, almost empty, seems to quiver in the darkness. It is there, tangible, like a living entity, ready to devour everything in its path. The impression that it is staring at you, that the emblem is devouring you with its gaze, paralyzes you. It is as if you can almost feel the heat of this flame, burning and overwhelming, without it touching your skin. This heat melts all logic, all coherent thought, enclosing you in an invisible trap.

Your heart races as waves of anxiety wash over you. You feel your legs give way beneath you, a crushing pressure washes over you. This flame… it is not just a symbol. It signifies destruction. The end of all that exists. You recognize it. The black flame… the flame of Ignis. The House of Ignis. The relentless unity. The justice of fire. Destruction. Purification through annihilation. The truth of a world burned.

A cold shiver runs through you. Your eyes remain fixed on the emblem, but your mind screams to flee. Every fiber of your being screams to escape, to break free, to abandon everything. But there is nowhere to go. You are trapped in this place, this other world, this world of flames and chains. And you know that at any moment, the House of Ignis, or what is left of it, will judge you. Their flames will burn away your sins, but they will consume everything. Even your soul.

Memories hit you in devastating waves. The House of Ignis. You had heard of them, whispered in dark alleys, in disreputable taverns. But now, rumor turns into reality. A burning and threatening reality. Bloody rituals, sacrifices, executions by fire. Their justice is not that of the other Houses. It does not seek to rehabilitate, to reform. No. Their justice is absolute. Evil must be erased, eradicated, consumed by flames so that purity can emerge. There is no going back. Only ultimate pain can bring redemption, a suffering etched in the flesh and the soul.

Fear overwhelms you. But it is not just a physical fear. It is a deeper, more essential terror. This House, these beings who compose it, believe that evil can only be destroyed by absolute pain, by fire. You see them, the Executioners of Ignis, the arms of flame, terrifying beings, trained to inflict pure suffering. They are not here to punish. They are here to purify. To annihilate. Their flames do not discriminate, they consume everything in their path, without mercy.

A feeling of nausea rises inside you. What if you were their next target? What if you were judged by that merciless flame? Just thinking about it twists your insides. Images form in your mind: bodies burned, souls erased, justice served by incineration. And that black flame, that cold and violent abomination, stares at you, ready to devour everything you are.

Your breath catches. The world around you blurs, your legs tremble beneath you. You want to scream. But no sound comes out. The air is heavy. The space, confined. You feel trapped, the symbol on the wall staring at you with a morbid intensity. There is no redemption here, no escape. The only path open to you is purification by fire. But can you bear what that entails? The black flame, the chains… all of this is the end of one cycle, and the beginning of another. A cycle you did not choose.

The black mist that surrounds you doesn't just seem to envelop you, it slowly swallows you, a dense, cold mass that tightens around you like an invisible vice. It creeps into your lungs, mixing with your breath, weighing down each inhalation, each exhalation. Your lungs swell painfully, as if an iron weight were pressing down on them, forcing them to contract under a stifling heat, an inner fire that keeps growing, ready to explode. You try to breathe deeply, but the air is lacking, the space around you compressing, narrowing each breath. Your throat tightens in an uncontrollable spasm, the walls of your trachea burned by the heat, a painful acid rising inside you, devouring your will.

The air itself, laden with this oppressive presence, seems to grow thicker, heavier with each beat of your heart. Each pulsation, throbbing and brutal, vibrates in your eardrums, a dull and menacing echo that reminds you that you are no longer master of your own body. Your heart beats faster and faster, its cadence frantic, a war drum in your chest, both reassuring and terrifying. This agitation is only the reflection of your growing terror, a terror that distills itself in every fiber of your being. You know that you cannot flee, that what awaits you is inevitable. Yet you cannot help but try. Your legs, trembling and heavy, barely carry you. They collapse beneath you, and you fall, but your body refuses to land completely. Your arms instinctively reach out to support you, although the pain that crosses your wrists makes you scream inwardly.

The walls of this place, invisible but omnipresent, repress you, pushing you closer to nothingness with every step. The ground beneath your feet rumbles, as if it were a living entity itself, a creature of iron and stone that threatens you. Every movement on the ground brings forth a sharp creak, a broken alert, a promise of imminent destruction. You want to stop, but your body, in a last instinct for survival, pushes you forward. Pure, animal terror motivates you, but it does not allow you to flee. It is an invisible, twisted force that keeps you here, forcing you forward with no escape.

You feel a growing pressure, as if the ground itself were becoming heavier under your weight. Your joints crack under the tension, your muscles tense to the limit, but the inertia of terror makes you remain frozen, like prey under the gaze of a predator. The silence around you is oppressive, heavy with this indefinable anguish. Nothing dares to break this silence, except your irregular, panting breath, each breath seeming to be a fight in itself. There is no sound of nature, no wind, no sound of water, only the creaking of the ground under your feet and the jerky sound of your breathing.

Slowly, the door behind you, invisible but omnipresent, closes with a metallic screech. A heart-rending crash, a screech of rusted metal. The sound echoes through the heavy air like a bell of judgment, an irrevocable condemnation. You jump, your heart skipping a beat, a cold shiver of fear running down your spine. Your throat tightens as panic overwhelms you, invading every fiber of your being. A dull ache strikes your skull, each beat of your heart seems more painful, more furious. The air seems to grow colder, denser, almost icy.

You want to scream, but your throat is too tight, the walls of your windpipe on fire, your vocal cords choked with pain that refuses to release. There is no room for the scream. There is just this terrifying silence, this emptiness. All around you, the pain is palpable, a constant pressure that crushes you relentlessly. And there, in the middle of this suffocating darkness, you see them.

They are there, motionless in the shadows, menacing silhouettes that seem to be outlined in the flickering light of an invisible fire. Their eyes shine in this darkness, fixed on you like merciless predators. Their presence is a weight, a heaviness that pushes you to crush yourself even more under this invisible burden. The stench of sulfur, of burnt metal, of rusted scrap metal floats in the air, invasive, suffocating. Each inhalation is a struggle, each breath a poison. The metallic taste of fear, of danger, invades your mouth, burning you inside. You want to back away, but your legs no longer carry you, as if your whole being was already on the verge of giving way under the pressure, under the terror. Their gaze, merciless, icy, penetrates you, pierces you. You feel them on your skin, each glance a burn. You know it is too late. That it is all over.

The voice rises then, cold, devoid of all humanity. It cuts the air like a cleaver. It pronounces your name, but it is not you that it calls. "Y/n, of House Astraviel, we are waiting for you." It is a whisper from the shadows, a malevolent breath that makes the air vibrate around you. This voice has nothing human. It is only a snake, a venom that slithers into your head, slipping, crawling, devouring. The cold that surrounds you becomes more intense. The air itself seems to shudder under the voice, as if the whole world were rebelling against you.

You want to answer, but you can't. The weight of fear petrifies you. Your throat is a prison, a trap that leaves you speechless. You don't even have the strength to open your eyes fully, to look any longer at this silhouette silhouetted against the shadows. You don't have the strength to do anything. Helplessness is all you feel. And that sentence, those words, echo in your head like a death knell, a promise of infinite pain. "We're waiting for you." They're there, and you're there, on the edge of the abyss, too weak, too broken to run away.

The silence in the courtyard is oppressive, almost palpable. It is heavy, thick, like a lead weight that weighs on your shoulders, on your lungs. Each breath is a struggle, each movement an ordeal. You have the impression that the air itself is too heavy, that each breath is flaying you from the inside. The silence becomes a prison, a space that oppresses you, presses you, squeezes you until you suffocate. Each sound seems foreign, distorted by the intensity of the moment. Even the chains that resonate, their metallic quivering, seem to come from another world, from another time. It is as if the noise were too small for this universal suffering that invades them. The chains are a distant echo, a threat that never ceases to grow, reverberating in your bones, in your mind, like a promise of infinite pain. And yet, here, the pain knows no limits. It is tangible, raw, an endless reality.

You turn your head slowly, and your eyes land on Sunghoon. What he has become hits you like a blow to the gut: he is nothing more than a shadow, a tragic relic of the majesty he once embodied. The chains that encircle him seem almost alive, deep black snakes that wrap around him, squeezing his skin with relentless cruelty. These chains do not just bind him, they sink into his flesh, fusing with it, like a curse that has become one with his body. With every tiny movement he attempts, the metal bites deeper, tearing his skin, leaving gaping wounds that will never heal. Open gashes, red and bloody, run across his arms, shoulders, torso—indelible marks of pain beyond imagining.

Blood trickles slowly from his wrists, dark and thick, drawing sinister lines down his arms before dripping to the ground. It falls silently, drop by drop, each burst of sound amplifying the horror of the scene. A crimson pool spreads at his feet, its depth seeming to reflect the depth of his pain. The chains, meanwhile, vibrate slightly, as if they feed off him, as if every ounce of his energy, every fragment of his mind, belongs to them. They glow faintly, a dark and cruel glow, amplifying the contrast between their perverse beauty and the torture they inflict.

You can’t help but notice his wings. Those wings, once bright and majestic, are now folded, broken, crushed against his back by the weight of the metal that imprisons them. The feathers, once so white they seemed to catch the light itself, are now blackened, crumpled, some torn, others hanging, as if they have given up all will to resist. They shudder slightly, but it is not a movement of life; it is a spasm of pain, an uncontrolled reaction to the suffering that consumes them.

Sunghoon stands still, almost frozen in a pose of silent defiance. But it’s just a facade, and you know it. His features, as rigid as they are, betray the agony that eats away at him. His lips, pressed together until they turn white, tremble slightly, and his gaze, though filling the space with a cold intensity, cannot mask the darkness swirling within. His eyes pierce you, not with arrogance or superiority as before, but with a mixture of distress and desperate dignity.

Beside him, Jay offers a brutal and equally heartbreaking contrast. Curled up on himself, his body seems to want to instinctively protect itself from the pain that assailed him. His arms are pulled back, fixed against a pillar of black stone by chains thinner than Sunghoon's, but infinitely crueler. Their surface is bristling with sharp points, each link biting into his flesh with surgical precision. With each flinch, each attempt to adjust his position, the chains tighten like living traps, digging in a little deeper, until they split the muscles and expose the flesh.

The skin on his wrists is a chaos of cuts and tears, blood leaking from them in endless streams. The wounds are fresh, open, and yet they already seem to be festering, as if the metal itself were impregnated with an insidious poison. The red liquid flows in a stream that, though slow, shows no sign of stopping. It stains the black stone, creating a scene where suffering takes on a physical, almost palpable form.

Jay moans, a hoarse sound, barely audible, but it cuts through the air like a blade. It’s a restrained cry, stifled by exhaustion and pain. His jaw is clenched, his teeth grinding with the effort of containing a scream he doesn’t want to let out. And yet, even in this state, he still fights. His eyes, heavy with pain, meet yours, and what you see there breaks you further. They are filled with unfathomable distress, but also with a spark, fragile but tenacious, of determination.

His body is on the verge of collapse. His muscles tremble under the pressure, and his breath is ragged and uneven, each breath seeming to tear a piece of his soul away. Yet, despite everything, he refuses to give in completely. He fights against the inevitable, against the pain, against this relentless force that seeks to break him. But you see the truth in his jerky movements, in the way his torso rises laboriously: he is already broken, just like Sunghoon, just like everyone else caught in this cruel trap.

The atmosphere around you is heavy, suffocating. The air itself seems saturated with despair and pain, every breath an almost insurmountable effort. You feel helpless, crushed by the scene before you, unable to look away despite the horror that overwhelms you. It is a sight you will never be able to forget, a vision that burns into your memory. And deep inside, a nagging question gnaws at you: How much longer before they give in, before they are completely consumed by this infinite pain? How much longer before you, too, are broken?

And then Jake catches your eye, and in that moment, the unbearable magnitude of his pain overwhelms you. He’s crouched, his back hunched, almost folded in on himself, in a position reminiscent of a wounded predator, cornered and deprived of any escape. His arms are drawn up around his torso, his fingers clenched to the point of whitening his knuckles, as if he’s trying to contain a pain too immense to be expressed. His muscles are tense to the limit, every fiber of his being seeming on the verge of giving way, like a rope ready to snap under the strain. He remains silent, but it’s a silence that screams, a silence that weighs, that oppresses.

His face is bathed in sweat, each drop tracing furrows along his cheeks hollowed by anguish. His half-closed eyelids barely hide the flickering light in his eyes. That look… It is marked by a pain so deep that it seems to have consumed everything he was. His pupils, dilated, stare into space as if he were trying to mentally escape this hell, but reality catches up with him with every breath, with every shudder of his bruised body.

The crystal chains around her glow with a deceptively soft, almost ethereal light, but their beauty masks an unrelenting cruelty. These chains are not mere physical bonds: they seem alive, vibrant, pulsing in time with her pain. Each burst of light that emanates from them penetrates her flesh and mind, inflicting pain both bodily and psychological. With every movement, however small, they tighten further, their glow intensifying as if feeding on her despair. The crystalline metal bites into her wrists and ankles, leaving clean, deep gashes, from which dark blood slowly flows, almost black in the flickering light.

His hands, so strong, tremble slightly. The skin on his fingers is torn, raw, and each drop of blood that falls on the floor resounds like a death knell, amplifying the suffocating atmosphere of the room. You feel that he is struggling, that he is still resisting despite everything, but this resistance is silent, almost invisible. Jake does not moan, does not scream. He has passed this stage, crossed a limit where pain has become an omnipresent companion, a weight that crushes his mind as much as his body. His jaw is clenched to the point of breaking, his teeth clenched to contain a cry that will never come.

And yet, this silence is not a sign of strength. It is a forced capitulation, a resignation to the inevitable. He no longer fights against the chains; he fights to maintain a semblance of dignity in a situation that has ripped everything from him. His shoulders sag little by little, as if the invisible weight of this torture were added to that of the chains. It is an unbearable spectacle, a suffering that goes beyond words, that hits you like a blow. You want to look away, but you can't. You are frozen, caught in the horror of this scene.

Finally, your eyes slide to Heeseung, and the impact is even more brutal. He stands there, straight as a statue frozen in a mixture of pain and resilience. But it is not a noble force that emanates from him. It is a forced immobility, imposed by the massive chains that encircle every part of his body. These chains, deep black, almost seem to absorb the light around him, creating an oppressive aura that crushes all hope. They wrap around his arms, his torso, his legs, like voracious snakes, penetrating his flesh in several places. Where the metal comes into contact with his skin, black burns appear, marks of pain forever etched on his body.

The symbols that were once the source of his power glow faintly on his skin, like embers that have nearly died out. They are the remains of a past glory, reduced to a dying glow, unable to push back the darkness that surrounds him. His face is a mask of suppressed pain. Every feature is tense, frozen, as if he is forbidding himself to let any weakness show. But you see the shadows in his eyes, the darkness that betrays the state of his soul. He is broken, drained, reduced to a shell of what he once was.

His breath is irregular, short, almost imperceptible. Each breath seems to cost him a monumental effort, as if the air itself were a blade tearing at his lungs. His lips, pressed into a thin line, are pale, devoid of all color. And yet, even in this state, he remains still, refusing to give in to the chaos that reigns within him. But this stillness comes at a price. His muscles, tense to the limit, tremble under the pressure, and you know he is on the verge of collapse.

Around you, the space closes in. The walls seem to come closer, the air becomes denser, more stifling, leaving you barely enough to breathe. Each second stretches into an unbearable eternity. Here, only pain speaks. It swallows everything, consumes everything. It takes you, breaks you, tears you apart. Fear, insidious, grows in turn. It throbs in each heartbeat, infiltrates each panting breath. It is a voracious fear, fueled by pain, a fear of the inevitable, of this endless suffering. And all you can do is wait. But waiting is already suffering. To wait is to abandon oneself to anguish. And the suffering, relentless, continues to grow.

You don't have time to comprehend what's happening. The next moment, the brutality of the head of the House of Ignis hits you. He grabs your hand in an unrelenting grip, his fingers like clamps digging into your skin with such violence that you feel almost every bone break under the pressure. A dull cry of pain escapes your throat, but it is muffled by the brutality of his grip. The heat of his hand burns your skin, but the pain goes beyond the physical, running through you like an electric shock. You try to free yourself, to struggle, but each movement amplifies the pain in your hand, your wrist, and your entire arm. The violence of the grip is such that you feel the tendons in your arm tense, ready to give way under the pressure.

You don't even have time to breathe. The air seems to be getting thinner, as if your body can no longer take in oxygen. He pulls you roughly, forcing you to move too fast, too brutally, and your feet slip on the rough ground. Your body twists under the effect of his pull. A dull pain runs through you as you hit the hard wall, the sharp angle of the wall cutting your rib. You want to scream, but the pain in your hand, in your ribs, in your head, paralyzes you. You are nothing but pain, a continuous, unbearable suffering, of such intensity that you feel like you are no longer anything but a part of the suffering itself.

“I am generous today. Tell me, who do you want me to kill first?” The voice of the head of the House of Ignis is serious, filled with a palpable threat. His words hit like hammer blows, echoing in your ears like a condemnation. Each syllable is a tear, an additional pain that you feel in your belly. The world around you becomes blurry, as if your senses are blurred, drowned in terror. You do not even have the strength to respond. Your entire being screams silently for it to stop, but nothing moves. You shake your head frantically, your gaze pleading, desperate to avoid this decision he awaits. But he does not care. He sees your fear as a weakness to exploit.

“Please… not this…” you whisper, your voice breaking in your throat. Each word a desperate plea, a begging that dies before it even reaches his ears. Tears pool in your eyes, but you can’t even let them fall. Fear grips your chest, making it hard to breathe properly. You bite your bottom lip so hard you can taste the metallic taste of blood, but it doesn’t stop the wave of terror that engulfs every fiber of your being. Your heart pounds so hard in your chest it feels like it’s going to explode. The pain in your hand, the pain in your body, the pain in your soul is unbearable.

He laughs, a cruel, guttural sound that seems to dig its way into your bones. “You don’t want to choose? Fine, I’ll choose for you.” His words are spoken like a sentence. He nods at Sunghoon, an almost innocuous gesture, but the gesture changes everything. It’s as if the ground is giving way beneath your feet, as if the air is tearing apart around you. He doesn’t just want to make you suffer, he wants to break you, push you to the limit, make you pay for your indecision. You see Sunghoon there, in front of you, the chains holding him gleaming with a metallic sheen in the harsh light. He’s captive, just like you. And he too is suffering, he too is in pain. But you know that it’s you he wants to make suffer. It’s you he wants to destroy.

The leader's subordinates approach. You hear the sound of chains dragging on the ground, the clatter of footsteps on the hard floor, and it chills you. Their presence seems to crush the air around you, and you feel every fiber of your body tense, ready to explode under the strain. Terror pierces you, burning, like a fire in your belly. An uncontrollable shiver runs through you, and you can't help but scream, to plead again.

“No… no! I’m sorry, I’ll choose!” you scream, your voice strangled, torn by fear. Tears roll down your cheeks, hot and heavy, but they don’t relieve anything. They only add to the pain of the moment, like a confirmation of your weakness, your helplessness. You’re shaking so much that your knees buckle, threatening to make you fall. But he pushes you even harder, a blow that makes you stagger. You feel weak, faint, like an animal caught in a trap from which it can’t escape. You lack air, the pain lacerates you, and you feel lost, caught in an endless spiral.

He shoves you violently in front of Sunghoon. The impact almost makes you lose your balance, but you collapse to your knees on the hard ground, the palms of your hands hitting the ground with a thud. The contact with the ground hurts, but it’s the pain in your soul that is the most unbearable. Sunghoon looks at you, his eyes filled with a consuming anger. He’s there, but he’s far away, out of your reach, just as you’re out of his reach. His wrists are bound with an inordinate force, the chains that hold them bloody, and you see the blood slowly trickle down, beading on his wrists, but he doesn’t give in. He grits his teeth, he fights against his chains with a determination that tears him apart.

Desperate, you scream again, your voice cracking, torn by terror. “I said I would choose! And I choose myself!” The words come out with new strength, a conviction born of pain, born of the fear that devours your insides. It’s a final act of resistance, a heartbreaking cry to take back some power over your own destiny. But deep down, you know it’s a lie. You’re not choosing anything. You’re simply surviving.

In a burst of frantic courage, you lean forward and bite into his hand with all the force of your terror. The metallic taste of blood fills your mouth, a harsh, acidic taste, and you feel the flesh of his hand give way under your teeth. He groans in pain, a sound that tears a shiver of morbid satisfaction from you. But no sooner does that shiver touch you than the pain returns, infinite. In a movement of pure rage, he slaps you. The shock is so violent that you lose your balance and fall to the ground. The pain explodes in your head, a blast of heat and dizziness. Your head hits the ground hard, and the impact is so brutal that you see stars. Your vision blurs, a throbbing pain erupts in the back of your skull, a pain that makes you scream internally, but your mouth is too dry to let out a sound.

Blood begins to trickle from your temple, warm and thick, slowly sliding down your cheek. You feel the warmth of your own blood, but there’s nothing comforting about it. It’s just a reminder that you’re still here, still alive, still hurting.

Sunghoon is a broken man, but he has no intention of surrendering. His chains, thick and blackish metal, bite into his skin, his flesh tearing under the pressure of the bonds. He pulls with all his might, his entire body tense in a desperate struggle. The metal straps tear at his skin, leaving deep trails of blood that trickle down his muscular arms. The iron bites into the flesh, each movement rekindling a throbbing pain that he ignores, focusing only on one goal: to save you. The pain seems to crush him, but he pushes it back deep inside his being, each internal cry drowning under the rage that boils inside him. He is helpless, a caged beast. His mind drowns in frustration, his gaze fixed on you, on your body that is at the mercy of this man.

The leader, on the other hand, seems to be savoring every moment of this scene, as if his cruelty were an art he’s mastered to perfection. He lets out a cold laugh that tears through the air, a laugh that, with each echo, makes your soul ache a little more. “Fucking little bitch,” he sneers, a sly grin forming on his lips, as if he’s made a decision and nothing is going to make him change his mind. “I understand better why they all care about you so much.” He approaches you, his gait slow and calculated, savoring every moment of control he exerts over this situation.

Each step echoes heavily in the room, a sound that sends shivers down your spine, reminding you of how trapped you are here. His bloody hand rubs against his pants, glistening with macabre violence before sliding into your hair. He grabs them roughly, forcing your head up, your roots tugging violently, tearing at your scalp. The pain is immediate, sharp, a clean tear through your nerves. But that physical pain is nothing compared to what pierces you with every movement he makes.

The chief's fingers wrap around your locks with such force that you feel like he's going to rip them out. He slowly tilts your head back, forcing you to look him in the eye. Each strand that comes loose from your scalp burns, a sharp pain that makes every muscle in your body tense. You want to scream, but a painful knot tightens your throat, preventing you from making a sound.

The ground beneath you is hard, cold as stone, an icy abyss that devours you with every passing second. It's not just the cold of the ground, but a cold inside, as if the earth itself is rejecting your existence, as if everything is ganging up on you. Shame mixes with pain, engulfing you in a whirlwind of suffering. Every fiber of your being screams at you to get up, to run, but your legs are paralyzed with terror, your body rooted here, trapped in this situation. Suffering is a surging wave, it overwhelms you, crushing you under its weight, but there is this visceral fear of collapsing, of breaking you even more.

You bite your bottom lip until the taste of blood fills your mouth, trying desperately to hold back your cries, to not give in to the pain. You know that if you let out a single cry, it will be even worse, you will give this man exactly what he wants.

“Look at her, your little female dog,” he continues, his voice a cruel hiss, like a snake toying with its prey. “She wants to sacrifice herself for the four of you.” He lets out a short laugh, then leans closer to you, like a predator feasting on its prey. “I guess it will do a lot more harm than killing you now.”

Each word is a stab in your soul, an invisible wound that leaves an indelible mark, a sweet poison that slowly spreads through your veins. It is more than a threat, it is a judgment, a cruel verdict. He speaks of your sacrifice as a mere diversion, a method to inflict more pain, more suffering. All you see in his eyes is a pure desire for destruction, to control your pain, to make it last.

Sunghoon looks at you, his eyes filled with fury, his jaw clenched like pincers. But more than anger, it is an unbearable pain that pierces his gaze. You see his consuming rage, but you also see the agony, the distress of knowing he is stuck there, without being able to intervene. Each jolt against his chains is an additional tear, each movement, an act of desperation. His wrists bleed because of the chains, but he ignores all of that. 

“I will find you, and I will kill you,” Sunghoon growls, his voice cracked with hatred and the promise of merciless vengeance. The sound of his voice is that of a man willing to do anything to get back what he holds dear. He grits his teeth so hard he could break his jaw, but it is his pain that you feel through him. He screams in frustration, each word escaping his lips like a contained explosion. He pulls and pulls at the chains, the metal squeaking with the effort, his wrists split open in large wounds that bleed onto the floor. But for all his strength, for all his rage that could reduce this place to ashes, he remains trapped in these chains.

The leader shrugs, a mocking pout on his lips. “The dead don’t think about revenge,” he says, his tone detached, almost boring. His words resonate, cold, cruel. He leans even closer to you, his hot breath brushing your skin, his lips sliding over your temple, licking the blood that beads. The contact is icy, like a poisonous caress. Nausea rises in you, and the urge to push this monster away burns within you, but your body no longer responds. He raises his head, a burst of psychotic laughter in his eyes. He straightens, scanning the others behind him, as if waiting for their approval.

“Don’t touch her, you bastard!” Jake yells, his voice vibrating with pure rage, broken by helplessness. He pulls violently at his crystal chains, but they don’t give. The metal resonates in the room with a shrill sound, a metallic cry of pain that mixes with human suffering. The chains bite into his skin, but he doesn’t seem to care. The muscles in his body tremble under the force he exerts. Every fiber of his being is tense to the limit, like a spring ready to burst. The walls shake under the impact, threatening to crack, as if all the space around you will collapse under the pressure of his rage. But despite all this violence, he can do nothing. He is helpless, and the pain of his own helplessness touches you as deeply as his own rage.

“Look at yourselves. The four of you are so miserable because of your affection for her. It’s one of the reasons why crime of the heart is forbidden.” The leader speaks slowly, each word slipping from his lips coldly, calculated and relentless. He clenches his fists, every muscle in his arm tensing under the pressure, then abruptly unclenches them, fingers trembling with an energy he can barely control. His lips are pressed into a straight line, an expression of absolute coldness marked by the hardness of his convictions. He continues, without an ounce of compassion, “That is why I will cleanse your souls and bodies of this abominable sin, so that you may once again become the perfect beings you once were.”

His words hit like a whip, the steel of his voice ringing through the air, tearing through the silence with icy authority. The weight of his words seems to suspend the air around him, saturated with menace, with a palpable presence. The silence that follows is heavy, oppressive, almost suffocating.

“Don’t make fun of us!” Jay bursts out, his voice cracked with rage but vibrant with defiance. Anger explodes in his throat, bubbling like lava ready to pour out its violence. “The love I have for Y/n is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever felt! Before her, everything was pain and despair… But thanks to her, I was able to hold on, to cling to this miserable existence! So don’t you dare say it’s a crime!”

Jay's words tremble, fury mixed with a deep, heartbreaking vulnerability. He searches your gaze, a silent plea perhaps, as if he were searching for meaning, for truth, in your eyes. He drowns in your gaze. His eyes fill with tears, a raw, devastating, uncontrollable emotion. His pain hits hard, a nameless pain, but you also see the fragility that comes from it. His heart bleeds, and you feel that pain invade you too, devouring you from the inside. Your eyes fill in turn, but they are not tears of fear. No. They are tears of love and sadness, a devouring, heavy sadness that crushes you. Your heart clenches, crushed by the intensity of the moment. You offer him a weak smile, a desperate attempt to comfort the one who looks at you as if he would collapse under the weight of everything he carries.

But the leader doesn't react. He sneers, a dry, contemptuous, almost reptilian sound, before advancing slowly, his steps echoing in the room like a sentence. He drops his words with an implacable harshness, like stones he throws into a bottomless pit. "Everything you just said is an illusion, Jay. A perfect facade, but only a facade. It's not love. Love is a painful betrayal. It's a twisted emotion that breaks and destroys. What you feel, what you call love, is only a mirage, a decoy that your senses have created to lie to you."

He turns to you then, his gaze sliding over your body, slumped on the cold ground, broken and scarred by pain. Your body feels like an empty shell, skin bruised, and you know that everything is going to get worse, that the pain is going to intensify. He approaches slowly, a cruel smile stretching his lips, almost sadistic. He holds out his hand, a black and purple flame dancing in his palm, crackling with an unhealthy energy. The air around him seems to warm, as if reality itself is bending under the pressure of this power. The stifling heat begins to make itself felt, as your breath catches in your throat.

“Don’t do this…” you whisper weakly, terror strangling your voice. But his eyes shine with a senseless cruelty, devoid of pity, and he brings his hand to your thigh, a slow, inevitable gesture.

The contact is immediate and devastating. As soon as his hand brushes your skin, a searing pain washes over you, as if your entire body is being torn apart by an invisible force. A wild fire devours your muscles, your nerves, your flesh, each filament of the black flame etching a web of pain across your skin. You throw yourself back, trying to escape, but it is too late. The pain spreads like poison, invading every fiber of your being.

A primal scream tears through the air, a scream that is born in the depths of your soul, a scream of pure pain. The flames bite into your skin, burning it, eating away at it like hot iron, sinking into every pore of your body. You feel yourself losing your footing, sinking into an endless abyss of pain, of unconsciousness. Your muscles contract under the heat, unable to fight. Every movement, every breath worsens the burn, every breath becomes a torture, an endless agony.

The smell of burning flesh, of pain incarnate, rises in the air. It is suffocating, stifling, almost implacable. It is your smell, your body slowly burning, and there is nothing you can do about it. The contours of your being become blurred, unreal, engulfed in heat and pain. Your nerves, broken, no longer respond. You are nothing more than a soul in the grip of suffering, lost in an endless whirlwind.

The flame, sweet and cruel, seems to feed on your pain, amplifying it even more. It spreads, infiltrating every corner of your body, slowly engulfing you in an implacable fire. The skin on your thigh shrinks, blackens, deforms under the heat, transformed into an unrecognizable mass. But the pain does not weaken. It continues, inextinguishable, devouring. You want to scream, to howl at the injustice, but your voice is lost in the whirlwind of suffering.

If only you could die… If only this pain could stop. But there is no escape. It gives you no respite. The leader, smiling, observes your suffering with an unhealthy pleasure in his eyes. The flame grows even bigger, spreads, invading every part of your body, every area of ​​your being. The pain becomes so sharp, so deep, that it erases everything around you, until you are nothing more than pain, infinite suffering. Everything mixes together, everything collapses.

You finally collapse, your body inert, unable to react. The world dissolves into a sea of ​​suffering. The heat, the smell of burning flesh, the pain all around you, everything merges. The silence weighs heavily, heavy as a coffin. Only your short, panting, piercing breaths break the silence. A flickering flame that fights against the inevitable.

“No! No… no!” Heeseung’s scream breaks through the air, a hoarse, piercing howl that vibrates with pure terror, echoing in your ears, amplified by the roar of the fire. His eyes, filled with tears, are fixed on the leader of the House of Ignis, his pain and helplessness piercing the atmosphere. The flames, like raging snakes, twist and writhe in the leader’s palms, screaming and crackling as they unfold with blinding speed. There is no respite. No escape.

The leader leans in slowly, each movement calculated and methodically precise. His hand brushes the already black and charred skin of your thigh, and a shiver of disgust runs through you, intensified by the unbearable sensation that follows. The skin, hard and cracked, seems ready to shatter into fragments under a simple pressure, while the pain tears your body from the inside. When he removes his hand, it is glacially slow, but instead of relief, a new wave of pain invades you. The skin, left behind, is devoured by the fire, the inside of your flesh continues to burn, the muscles contracting under the relentless effect of the heat. The pain is so sharp that it takes your breath away, transforming into a suffocating sensation, an unbearable heat that devours you from the inside, engulfing every part of your being. His cold hands come to rest on your skull. The temperature difference sends chills down your spine before the heat slowly seeps in, invading every fiber of your body.

A crackling noise is heard, too calm in the face of the horror that unfolds. You feel your hair heating up, turning to ashes under the flames. The skull, so solid, gradually gives way under this extreme pressure. The scalp tenses, retracts like a drum skin, before slowly burning. The fire penetrates from the inside, attacking each root, each follicle. The first hairs burn instantly, falling in a shower of black ashes. But that is nothing compared to what follows. The soft skin of your skull turns into a mass of charred flesh, stuck to the bone. You can no longer move. You want to scream, but your voice is swallowed by the pain, a suffocation that paralyzes you. It is as if your skin, your flesh, and your soul were swallowed by hell.

Your skull is on fire. Your brain seems to be boiling. It's as if flaming needles are being driven into every cell, every nerve fiber. Every thought becomes an unbearable burn. You feel your mind melting, diluting in this heat, slowly escaping in an endless whirlwind. The pain is total, unstoppable. Every millimeter of your head is slowly decomposing. But you can't do anything about it. The fire is too powerful, too relentless. There is no respite.

The heat spreads, spreading through your neck, your shoulders, your back. The flames slip into the cracks opened by their passage, penetrating deep, reaching your bones. Your muscles tense under the burn, forcing you to withdraw into yourself. But your body, already burned, no longer responds. Each movement becomes an act of pure suffering. The heat is so intense that the air itself becomes torture. You feel like you are suffocating, the ashes and the heat burn your throat. Your lungs, too, seem to be on fire. Each breath is a titanic effort.

The flames spread, growing, spreading like poison throughout your body. Your muscles contract under the burn, your heart beats violently in your chest, as if to remind you that you are not yet dead, that the end has not yet arrived. But deep down, you know that it is only a mirage. One last spasm before the inevitable.

The flames engulf everything, your arms, your stomach, your torso. The pain becomes denser and denser, more inhuman. The skin tears, the flesh melts and turns into a black and bloody mush. The bones, too, begin to give way under the extreme heat. Every movement, however small, tears a silent scream from you. The space around you shrinks, saturated by the sound of the flames, the incessant crackling of the fire, as if the whole world were nothing but pain and heat.

You are no longer aware of your body, nor of your mind. The pain has taken over, devouring every thought, every memory. There is nothing left. Just a silent scream, a silhouette, a specter of what you were. The flames continue to destroy you, consuming you from the inside. All you feel is this emptiness that settles in, an absence that grows greater and greater, as the end approaches. Relentless. Inexorable.

Eventually the heat dies down. The flames recede, but the pain remains. They leave only the echo of a lingering pain. Even after they are gone, you remain there, in a heavy silence. An emptiness infinitely heavier than the pain itself. There is no more physical pain, but there is also no more you. No more body. No more existence. Just ashes, a vestige of what you were, an imprint of life erased in the suffering of a moment.

After your death, silence had fallen like a leaden blanket, stifling anything that might have resembled a cry. They remained there, frozen, their empty gazes fixed on your ashes that swirled in the air. These ashes, light, almost unreal, mixed with the wind, slowly dissipating as if your existence itself had been only an ephemeral breath. None of them could breathe normally. The weight of the irrevocable crushed them, their chests barely rose under the desperate effort to find air, but each breath seemed insufficient, painful, as if the whole world had closed around them.

Anger mixed with pain, an unbearable mixture that they could only express through their faces distorted by horror. No screams passed their lips; it was a deafening silence, even more terrifying than the roar of the flames that had taken over their entire being. They tried to understand, but nothing made sense. The void left by your absence lacerated them, an invisible blade that cut relentlessly, digging again and again into their hearts until there was nothing left but a gaping chasm.

With each passing second, the atmosphere grew heavier. The pain didn't just burn, it consumed them, it invaded them, even in the deepest recesses of their being. It wasn't just the physical flames that licked their skin and charred their flesh, but an inner, relentless fire that reduced their will to ashes. Their bodies screamed in agony, but their souls were already collapsing under the weight of despair.

Before them, the head of House Ignis watched with icy satisfaction. He stood tall, his imposing figure silhouetted against the flickering light of the flames, a victorious smile stretching his lips. To him, every stifled cry, every breath torn away by pain, was proof of justice. He regarded their end as a triumph, convinced that he was restoring a form of purity to the world by purifying the souls corrupted by their sins.

But his victory was not absolute. He knew that this was only a step, that a cycle had yet to repeat itself. These souls, deemed too impure to be freed, would return. They would be reborn, inevitably, drawn from the ashes of their bodies like cursed phoenixes. But this rebirth was not a gift, nor an immediate redemption. It was a curse, a torture intended to shatter every fragment of humanity still clinging to their essence.

The real punishment was not their death in those flames, but what would come afterward. They would be brought back to life, stripped of all memory, condemned to relive a carefully orchestrated tragedy over and over again. And this time, their ultimate test would be love, the insidious corruption that had led to their downfall. Each time, they would fall hopelessly in love, drawn inexorably to you, who would mean everything to them. And each time, they would be forced, by circumstances they could never control, to take your life into their own hands.

They wouldn't understand why their souls would bleed every moment. They wouldn't remember the previous cycles, but the pain would remain embedded in them, an invisible scar etched into their essence. They would fight against their own instincts, against their own hearts, until there was nothing left but total submission to the order imposed by the Houses.

The leader knew that this suffering was necessary. In his eyes, there was no redemption without pain, no purity without the total destruction of the individual. These souls had to be broken; every fragment of love, every trace of attachment or desire had to be reduced to rubble. Only after they had passed through the flames of their own torment could they become the perfect, devoted beings they were meant to be: unfailing servants, free from all human weakness.

And as he watched their bodies crumble beneath the onslaught of flames, he saw not deaths, but imminent rebirths. To him, it was a cycle, a promise that sinners would find the way, even if it were paved with their own suffering.

©️devotedlypinkpeanut, do not copy, translate or repost any of my works. Thanks for taking the time to read! 

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