#so it won’t get so sopping wet in one easy step like before -_-

[tauforged]

in a tragic turn of events, the rove beetles i purchased specifically with the hopes that they’d help control the fungus gnat problem in my terrarium have decided to completely forgo their intended purpose and are instead feasting on the plates of food that i set out for my isopods and snails. the upside is they’re really fucking adorable

[ameagrice]

Capsize

chapter thirteen | the lotus casino

percy jackson x fem reader

Clothes irritating the skin under your arms, your shoes sopping wet, you walked back the way you came, looking like a drowned rat. Upon reaching the car park of the diner, you saw a tall man leaning against his Harley. Ares.

You practically saw red.

The man smirked and clapped sarcastically as you approached. “Well, well. You didn’t get yourself killed.”

Stepping forward, Percy spat, “You knew it was a trap.”

Ares gave a wicked grin. “Bet that old blacksmith was surprised when he netted a couple of stupid kids. You looked good on tv.”

Percy thrust his shield to him. “You’re a jerk.”

Annabeth and Grover caught their breath. You glared, humiliated.

Ares grabbed the shield as if it were a piece of paper, spinning it easy as anything. It changed form, into a bulletproof vest that he slung across his back.

“See that truck over there?” He pointed to a long-haul truck. The letters spelt out ‘Kindness International: Humane Zoo Transport: WARNING WILD ANIMALS’ . “That’s your ride.”

“You’re kidding,” said Percy.

Ares snapped his fingers and the latch on the back doors unlocked. “Free ride west, punk. Stop complaining. And here’s a little something for doing the job.”

That perked your interest. Ares tugged the strap of a blue nylon bag from the handlebars of his bike and chucked it over to Percy. At his side, you watched as he pulled the drawstring top and dug around. Inside were clothes, twenty dollars, a bag of drachmas, and and Oreos. And, at the bottom, a circular bottle containing a baby-blue glinting liquid, and a pure gold cap. You held it like it was a newborn baby.

“Hey, I don’t think—” Annabeth started.

“This is the perfume I was talking about, isn’t it?” You interrupted, turning it carefully in your hands.

“It is indeed. She says it’ll come in handy.”

“So she’s just doing it for entertainment?” You voiced.

Percy shuffled awkwardly. “What are you talking about?”

“We should go, right?” You looked up finally, into Percy’s eyes. He furrowed his brows, but nodded slowly.

Grover’s timid voice came next. “Thank you, Lord Ares. Let’s get going, guys.”

You turned to leave, to start walking, but was pulled back by a hand on the strap of your backpack. Percy.

“Hang on. You owe me one more thing. You promised me information about my mother.”

“You sure you can handle the news?” His thick-soled boot hit the stand on his bike. “She’s not dead.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, she was taken before the Minotaur could kill her. There was a shimmer, right? Gold colour? That’s metamorphosis. Not death. She’s being kept.”

“Kept? Why?”

Looking between Ares and your friend, you watched the former’s growing smug expression, and the latter’s heartbroken one, waiting in anticipation.

Ares shrugged his shoulders, grinning like he had a secret to withhold. “Leverage?”

-

Despite the bad smell, and the fear chewing at your stomach of the lion by your side, you found that sleep took over you quickly. You had an awful dream, where you felt your stomach drop and your body become weightless. All was dark, and your heart thrummed in your chest like it knew something you didn’t. 

“Time to go.”

“Are you alive? Oh my God, guys, she won’t wake up.”

“Give her a shove, she’s a deep sleeper.”

You blinked one eye open, looking up at Grover’s too close and panicked face. “Get away from me right now.”

“Come on already!” Annabeth snapped. “They’re coming!”

You scrambled to sit up as Percy pulled on your arm desperately. You tried to blink the sleepiness from your heavy eyes. “Who’s coming?”

Banging on the side of the trailer jolted your senses to wake up. “What do you want, Eddie?”

“Maurice?! What’d ya say?”

“What are you banging for?”

Despite your tough exterior, you panicked. “This is it!” You fretted, “we’re done for! They’ll send us to jail for life?”

“Nah,” Percy shook his head and exhaled. “Not life, just a few years probably.”

You almost screamed as Annabeth literally popped up in thin air. As if this was normal, she said, “This transport business can’t be legal.”

You flicked your eyes around the trailer, at the zebra in the corner chewing on bars. “You don’t say.”

“The lion says these guys are animal smugglers! We’ve gotta free them!”

And, without another word, Percy raised his sword in the air and brought it down on the latch of the cage. Instantly the zebra ran, barging through the loosely open doors and over the head of one of the guys in uniform. It took off down the street, over cars like something from the ballet, and the two guys in uniform took off after it. A cop car sounded and pulled up on a curb before its inhabitants began to run after them. 

“We gotta go,” you urged, looking out at the crowd of slowing vehicles. 

“Free the animals first,” Grover instructed firmly, and despite you beginning to walk towards the exit, the sound of Percy bringing his sword down on chains didn’t let up. An antelope galloped on by you and off through the street. The sunlight you stepped out into hit you with warmer air, easily into the hundreds. 

It was going to be a long day, and you knew it. 

With Annabeth and Percy leading the way, you walked what felt like miles. Your watch told you it had only been thirty minutes. You passed the Monte Carlo and your nose scrunched; a pyramid caught your eye and you wondered. It wasn’t a very boring trip perse, but it definitely tested your feelings. Worn out and too damn hot; you prayed in your mind to whoever would offer help to do so already and save your sorry self from this form of torture. 

And then...

“What about this place?” You slowed to a stop, looking up at the entrance and the gleaming neon lights:

THE LOTUS CASINO

Instantly, the others stopped too a few steps away from you. The entrance was a huge neon flower, with petals bright pink and lit up. Nobody was going in or out, but the glittering, reflective doors were pulling you in, and before you knew it, you’d already made it nearly to the doorman, Percy calling behind you to wait for him. Your heart leapt with childish love; any attention from Percy was good attention, and maybe this was how you could redeem yourself in their eyes. Up close, the building almost seemed to smell of something pretty, sweet. 

“Hey kids, you look tired. You want to come in and sit down?”

“Depends on what’s in there,” you folded your arms across your chest. The sound of the others getting closer almost pulled you away from the desire burning in your chest. This place looked and smelled amazing. And you were going in there no matter what your friends said.

“Refreshments, an all-you-can-eat buffet, arcades and rides. Trust me, you’ll never want to leave.”

You turned on the spot and clasped your hands together, beaming excitedly at Percy. “I don’t see why not.”

He looked a little sceptical, but he sighed. “I mean, it’s the closest we’ll get to relaxing for a few minutes, right?”

“I don’t know about you guys, but those doors are shi—ny.” Grover sighed.

You turned again and began to walk forward, sharing a smile and a nod to the doorman. “You, sir, are a legend.”

Hands on the doors, you gave a hard shove. They opened with a flurry of fresh air and that sweet smell, and the sound of rollercoasters on tracks, the sound of air hockey, and a lot of laughter. The whole room, as the doors shut behind you, was bathed in neon lights of pinks, oranges and blues, with video games and interactive ones lit up flashing and playing music. The place was massive, with a ceiling so tall you had to lean your head back to see it completely. To your left was a glass elevator, big enough to fit at least twenty or so people, and it went up as you watched. An indoor water slide snaked around the room. 

“Hey!” A man in a brightly coloured Hawaiian shirt appeared, smiling. “Welcome to the Lotus Casino! Here are your room keys. There’s a single on the blue card and a double and single on the green. Take your pick, kids.”

Percy spoke first. “Um, but...”

“No, no,” he said, laughing. “The bill’s taken care of! No extra charges or tips. Just go on up to the top floor, rooms 4008 and 4001. If you need anything just call the front desk. Here are your LotusCash cards. They work in restaurants and on all the games and rides.”

Your head was starting to feel a little fuzzy, but you took the green card anyway. Hungry and with your sights set on that waterslide, you started to walk off from the others in search of these restaurants the guy spoke of. Pure happiness, that’s what this palace was made of. 

Before you knew it, you’d lost your friends, and you were sitting in what looked like an expensive food place with neon, light up signs on the walls shouting things like ‘yeah, dude!’ and ‘can’t beat the music!’. Ironically, music played in the background, some kind of upbeat lofi music. You ordered a triple cheeseburger and fries with a strawberry shake, and after that, chocolate fudge cake and ice cream. And then you took to wandering the place. After a good few minutes on a Pac Man game, a round of clay pigeon shooting, go-karting with some random boy named Jonathan wearing a waistcoat, and five go’s of the water slide (which didn’t take that long to queue for, you felt), you decided to make your way up to your room and check it out.

The elevator was packed, with a guy in uniform manning it. You didn’t really see the point, but as two kids at the back argued and shoved one another into the sides, you sort of got the gist. Finally you reached the top floor, and didn’t have to walk far as your room was the very first on the left. The floor was quiet considering how busy the place was, but maybe, you thought, everyone must have been downstairs still. After all it was still early in the day, right?

So why did you feel so drowsy all of a sudden?

You slid the keycard along the scanner and the door clicked open.

Inside was your own personal heaven.

“Ohh, what a beauty,” you muttered to yourself, giving the door a good kick behind you until it clicked shut and the scanner beeped locked. Before you was a huge flat-screen tv, a mini fridge under a desk, a double bed with thick, fluffy white pillows and covers, and to your left a brightly-lit bathroom with both a tub and a walk-in shower. Outside the window you faced when you walked in, the sky was pink, and you briefly wondered for a moment how it could be the colour of morning when morning had already been. You threw your bag down on the floor by the door and sauntered to the curtains, pulling them shut. The wardrobe at the end of the bed was sleek and shiny and white, and upon opening it you found three different fluffy bathrobes and slippers, complimentary pyjamas, and a dozen bottles of shampoo and conditioner and soap.

Tv on in the background, clothes strewn everywhere, you took the best shower of your life. With four different settings (you settled for tropical waterfall) and vanilla shampoo and conditioner, you felt like a new woman stepping out and into the thickest towel you’d ever touched.

You weren’t shocked to fall asleep soon after with the room service number scrawled on a crumpled piece of paper in your hand.

No dreams. You really thought you had gone to Heaven.

Waking up was peaceful. Somewhere on the landing somebody laughed loudly and another person hushed them, but you ignored it as best you could. The tv had turned off automatically, which made you try to think of how long you’d spent sleeping.

It took a long time to persuade yourself to actually get up, but it happened. Eventually. You dug out a denim skirt you’d stolen from Cora and a turtleneck and tights, ordered breakfast with room service, and start to head back downstairs.

Out on the landing, hand behind you pulling close your room door, you stood still for a second. Weren’t…your friends on this floor, too? And if they were, where the hell were they? And come to think of it, you hadn’t seen them in maybe an hour or two. You should definitely go find them.

Footsteps loud in the otherwise quiet corridor, you looked left and right at the gold numbers on the doors. Far down on the right-hand side, sat room 4008. You planted your feet in front of it and raised your hand to knock firmly, listening carefully. No sounds came from inside, so after knocking again—harder this time—and waiting a few more seconds, you sighed. Downstairs you went.

In the elevator, a woman excitedly told you in a western accent all about how her wedding was tomorrow. She wore the strangest looking bell bottom jeans you’d ever seen—seriously, the pattern was hideous, you thought, and she needed to buy a fashion magazine. Still you congratulated her, watching the room come into view, neon flashing lights and rollercoasters whizzing by.

It didn’t take long to get back into the groove of things. Game after game, food, more food, a rollercoaster that tipped you upside down fourteen times, and some more food to settle your stomach.

You stood up, straightening your skirt, and left the restaurant. The place was booming now, even busier than a few hours ago, and you practically had to shove your way through people to get to the shooting game you’d been dying to get to again.

Near the entrance now, you were ready to beat some kid up if he didn’t get off the gun you wanted—it was your turn after all. The doors you remembered walking in through flung open as some tall guy in a white suit and a woman in a purple dress—very modern and sleek—sauntered in, looking around in wonder. Rain dripped from the woman’s hair.

You couldn’t look away from the doors. How was it thundering? You could have sworn it had been bright sunshine all day. Just this morning you’d been sweating walking here, skin warm and beginning to tan. And now the world was trying to tell you it had done a 360° in just a couple hours?

You let the boy take the gun from your hands, you practically gave it away. Another guy carrying a backpack and headphones around his neck came in next, pushing the door open wider than the couple before him. Bright sunshine.

A chill settled over you, you made eye contact with the doorman, and he looked away as the door slowly closed again. Something wasn’t…

“Hey!” You yelled, tripping over. “Watch it moron!” You lifted your head and scowled. The blond boy in front of you laughed wickedly and ran off, much older than you.

Suddenly you remembered what you came over here for.

“Give me that, stealer!”

And the game began again.

Taglist:

@bl6o6dy @embersparklz @lilyevanswhore @rottenstyx @hawkeye12 @rory-cakes @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual @marshmallow12435 @luckydragontriumph @lantsovheiress @distinguishedmakerpandapatrol @bugsys-bubble

-

Thoughts are appreciated for this one! I wasn’t sure where to go with it with work and motivation and ideas for a few months butttttt here it is, and the next one is already planned.

For the lofi music mentioned, think Gucci Louis Rapbeat 2.

[ushidoux]

Good Teacher - Sugawara x Reader

Summary: You meet Sugawara on an online dating app expecting something tame, but get more than you expected. (~3.1k words)

Warnings: fem pronouns, fem!reader, some features are described ***, dom/sub dynamics, collaring, daddy kink, breathplay, dacryphilia, spanking, edging, toy use, restraint use, sub drop

A/N: Again, this was a commission so some features are described!! Otherwise, please enjoy my first longer BDSM fic.

---

Being alone in your bedroom at 9pm on a Friday night may have felt like a loss on any other day, but today, with your phone buzzing non-stop and every neuron in the sexy parts of your brain firing, you could not think of anything else you would rather do.

Well, actually you could think of a few, and most of them involved slipping out of your pajamas and slipping under your new flame.

Sugawara Koushi.

A name like that sounded sweet. Maybe even bland. Safe.

When you’d swiped right on his profile on the tamer of your social media apps, you’d expected someone mild-mannered and easy to speak to. He was an elementary school teacher with soft features, white hair and a cute mole under his left eye. He couldn’t possibly be as forward as the other guys you’d dealt with over the years. A tame, responsible choice.

You’d started texting back and forth quickly, with polite, formal introductions which progressed to cute messages and long phone calls, and you’d even managed a very chaste first date where he’d picked you up at 8pm on the dot and taken you to a fine restaurant on the water.

You normally would have expected to be dicked down that night, and had paired sexy lingerie under your silky mauve dress for exactly that, but you weren’t too surprised when he left you at your doorstep with a peck on the forehead.

The only unsettling thing about the kiss was the way his eyes had lingered on your lips, just as his fingers trailed the curve of your jaw as he tucked your hair behind your ear. It was too practiced, too… dominant.

You suspected he was holding something back.

And he was, because once you’d ventured to call in the middle of the night, a little bit tipsy and yearning for a little bit more than a smile and a gentle touch from him, you’d broken some sort of dam.

He’d called you a needy, desperate, pretty little slut, desperate for Daddy’s cock but needing to prove herself that she was willing to ride with Daddy’s very, very strict set of rules first, and you’d practically cum at the sudden turn of his voice.

Now anything was fair game.

I have… particular taste. Are you sure you can keep up, princess?

The warmth between your legs and the image of full balls and a weighty, rigid cock told you, you would absolutely be ready for anything he had in store for you. 

Yes, daddy. I’m up for anything you want.

You, of course, couldn’t see the wide smile spreading across his face on the other end, as he palmed his cock slowly while reading your texts and admiring your nudes, and texted back:

We’ll need a shit ton of rope.

---

Sugawara’s hands are much larger than you’d anticipate, and rougher, and you wonder how much of it is due to high school athletics or from the fact that he’s quick to slap or spank you at any chance he gets. Your skin is sometimes red, sometimes bruised, and always marked, and it’s exactly the way you like it.

The first time you have sex, he starts you off as though you are the most shy of virgins even though you claim that you’re not exactly inexperienced.

“I wouldn’t want to break you, pretty girl,” he teases, as his hands worship your body, tracking down your waist to the center of your legs, and patting your cunt softly. Today, he’s promised to focus on your pleasure only because he wants to “break you in.” You wonder how many he’s “broken in,” then you realize you don’t really care. You’re his one and only princess right now, and you intend to be for quite a while. 

The pleasure of being a good dom is that he can choose to serve - he can choose to be doting and he can choose to be harsh with punishment. Since it’s your first day since you’ve entered this contract with him, he’s decided to focus on the catering part of his personality, and familiarize you with his desires.

The rose-gold Turian collar on your neck compliments your skin well, he takes note, as he takes one of your nipples in his mouth and leans you against him while you are seated on the edge of the bed and he’s kneeling just so before you, fingers deep in your cunt.

“You’re gonna keep that pretty little thing around your neck, aren’t you, pretty baby?”

His fingers move so fast that it’s hard for you to speak, and the arm that’s wrapped around your waist and keeping you flush against him is tightening the longer he continues. He’s a lot stronger than he looks, you know from every heavy spank he’s given you.

“I-I will, daddy, every day and every night,” you pant out, your tongue lolling as his fingers curve upwards and his lips leave your nipple with a soft pop and make their way to your quivering mouth.

“Good,” he whispers as he bites your lower lip. “You’re so obedient… I like that in a little one,” he affirms.

---

He’s kind when he teaches, patient even. 

He’s also generous; he gifts you with your first corset, a dark, lacy and tight thing that almost takes your breath away initially, especially when he tightens it onto you himself. Even if it’s constraining, you feel empowered from the very moment you look in the mirror. Your breasts sit high, and you spin once in a gesture of delight; he kisses down your neck as you admire yourself.

“This is only to get you used to a little bit of restriction,” he reassures, as he pulls you into his lap. “But I can’t deny that you look breathtaking.”

---

Since you’ve been so bold as to take his breath away, it isn’t too long until he decides he wants to see what you look like when you’re truly struggling for air. After all, the little shiny thing around your neck catches his eye way too often for his comfort, and his pants suddenly feel too tight for a casual grocery store run.

Your safeword is red, like the blood that courses through your veins as his fingers tighten around your throat.

He thumbs your pink, puffy lips, and it would be loving if he wasn’t calling you a stupid little cocktease.

“Pretty little bambi, prancing around like you’re free to be with anyone other than me.”

The breath that tickles your face is a taunt, because you’re slowly getting lightheaded, barely able to focus on the long index finger he’s commanding you to suck. 

The pressure he puts on your neck is varying; for moments you can draw a single staccato breath, which encourages him to press his lips to yours and absorb you in a kiss before he reapplies pressure; his naked body presses against yours, rolling painstakingly slow. He hasn’t even entered you yet.

Breathplay, he calls it.

You gasp as his cock slips into your wet entrance just as fast as his hand leaves your throat, and he too draws a deep breath as he fills you to the hilt. 

He lets out a soft laugh as he caresses the hair that is sticking to your face, and readjusts himself yet again - of course, he’s also better endowed than you’d expect him to be - before he picks up speed and chokes you again.

---

“I… Kou-”

“Daddy,” he stresses, unphased as he continues to press a small clitoral stimulator to your tender, overworked bud.

“D-Daddy~” you cry out in a soft, drawn out whine, and you shift a little bit because the ties that keep your ankles attached to the legs of the chair, your pussy exposed and vulnerable with your crotch wide open, are starting to dig into your skin. But you can’t move all that much, there’s additional rope around your waist that keeps you against the back of the chair and you think the soft satin that keeps your wrists behind you is probably overkill, even if you have to admit you like the color.

“Yes, sweetheart~” he whispers in a voice accented with assertive sweetness, his eyes still lowered and focused on the heave of your chest as he watches you drip before him.

“I-” 

You scream.

He’d angled the toy upwards, and somehow within the small bundle of nerves he’s targeted an even more precise cluster of endings - there’s a flash of white you see before you cum practically violently, lurching forward so rapidly that he has to keep the chair steady so that you won’t fall over on the pretty little face he adores.

It’s possibly the fourth time he’s had to ground you in the past hour, and it’s an act of mercy because he had been edging you repeatedly, forcing your pussy to clench desperately around nothing but air.

The way you gush and spray so lewdly onto the chair, onto the floor, onto the hand he plays on your sopping wet pussy reminds him he chose very, very well.

---

It’s nearly silent and it’s dark now, far too dark for you to see. 

Your Koushi has prepared you for this next step lovingly, sometimes not so lovingly over the past couple of weeks to build up to this.

The blindfold that obscures your vision is soft and slightly sweet smelling, as though spritzed with a floral scent about a day ago prior to this. Again your hands are bound, but he’s used lined handcuffs instead of ties, and your wrists are before you, not behind you. 

But you’re lying on your belly, a spreader forcing your thighs apart. He must really love the way your pussy looks staring him in the face.

“You seem to be a glutton for punishment, princess,” he says, accenting his words with a hard slap on your inner thigh. You gasp, but his hands linger tighten, and are then followed by what can only be the press of his tongue against the stinging portion.

“Daddy, I’ll behave, I’m so sorry,” you moan as his hand grips a generous portion of your asscheek.

But you won’t behave, because you’ve learned that Suga likes just a touch of bratty behavior and that gets him quite physical with you. He knows this just as much as you.

He slaps your ass fervently, the slight jiggle drawing a pleased sigh from his lips.

“You’re a silly little slut, though…” he starts, rubbing a hand along the length of your thigh, “how can I trust any of your promises?”

His finger travels to your open center, and when he sees you tense up, he stops.

“You need a firm hand to guide you always…”

His right hand curves again around your cunt and his middle and ring finger finds its way into your slippery hole, while his index taps your clit and his little finger (he’s dexterous like this), taps ever so lightly around your asshole. 

You shudder.

“Arch your back, you little cumslut. Make it easy for daddy.”

As you inch backwards slowly using your elbows and knees to rise up, his right hand continues to move with you, but then his other hand lands heavily on your other asscheek.

It breaks your concentration and you almost fall because it takes quite a lot more energy than you would expect to move this way with your hands bound and your legs spread, but you persevere. 

For him.

Before you can whine once you’ve gotten into position, he withdraws his hand from your cunt.

“No!” You find yourself shrieking before you realize. You can’t have him edge you again, he’s absolutely cruel, you can’t…

“Oh, I thought I called the shots here, princess,” Sugawara reminds you, voice honeyed and cruel. You can feel his fingers weave into your hair and the warm tip of what must be his cock prod at your entrance.

“Sir, please~”

“Beg.”

He spreads you open with a hand massaging your ass, again tapping teasingly all around your vagina, but he won’t push in to give you the pleasure of having his cock inside you.

Your heart is pounding with desire.

“Please!”

“Please what?”

“Please fill me up, daddy!”

That statement of desire earns you an inch, an inch that makes you swallow saliva hard and your muscles tense with need and want.

“M-more, more please!”

“You’re so demanding. I would say your eyes are bigger than your pretty little pussy, but you can’t see, can you?”

He laughs, but he pushes in further another inch, than another, moving painstakingly slow, slow enough that you’re biting your lower lip until blood is drawn. The stretch is achingly delicious but it leaves you starved for more.

You’re begging and whining, and soon you’re trying your best to sink onto him further but he’s got you restrained for a reason.

“Greedy little bitch,” he murmurs, but he kisses your neck lovingly as he fills you to the hilt.

The unmistakable noise of flesh hitting flesh and minimal friction fills the room but you care less about sound, only about the slap of his balls against your cunt as he thrusts into you from behind.

More. Deeper. Faster. Harder.

He’s a master at drawing desire out of you, you wonder if you even needed these toys and ties and other accoutrements. You’re already so utterly wrapped for him. 

---

There’s a movie playing on your screen that you had both been pretending to watch, cuddled together on the couch, your legs resting across his lap. You had barely gotten through the opening credits before he pulled you onto him fully and had you straddle him.

“You want a snack, pretty baby?” He whispers, as though it weren’t just the two of you staring in each other’s eyes.

Your eyelashes bat and you nod.

He doesn’t break eye contact while he reaches for a strawberry, fresh from the farmer’s market you’d strolled through this morning, from a bowl set on the table. 

This one is drizzled in chocolate, and he runs it along the length of your collarbone, eye contact still heavy and unflinching before he dips down to catch it in his mouth.

It hangs out halfway from his teeth and he cues you to take it from him mouth to mouth. You split half of it, letting the sweet tartness permeate your senses.

His arm hooks around your waist and pulls you in close as he presses his lips against yours. You weren’t aware of the glob of strawberry-flavored saliva he’d collected until he draws away, tilts your head back and tells you to open up wide so he can spit directly into your mouth.

---

“Swallow.”

Suga’s relentlessly pounding an erect, frustrated and thick cock into your mouth, past your teeth and down your poor throat, and he’s close to his release now, you can tell by the way he’s now pressed your face so far against him that his carefully cropped pubes prick your face.

He’s warning you beforehand, and you’re thankful for the warning because when he cums with a soft, almost angelic moan, his penis jerks inside your mouth ever so slightly, and there’s a gush of hot, slippery liquid that slides down your throat.

You breathe through your nose. He tastes sweet, maybe it’s because of the strawberries from just earlier today, but nevertheless it’s a pleasant liquid you gulp down around his cock.

He loves the way your throat feels when it clamps around him, especially when you initially gag once accepting his cock.

You’re perfect.

“Come up, darling,” he bids you, pulling you up from your position on your knees.

“Are you gonna fill me up, daddy?” You mewl softly as he lifts up and carries you before laying you on your back.

“Yes, pretty baby, but let me taste your juicy little cunt first,” he says before he dives in between your legs.

---

“You’re so good for me, you know that, don’t you?”

He kisses your neck softly as he holds you close to him while you lay in bed together. It’s close to 1am and he’s focused on aftercare, caressing your arms and waist and the curve of your hip gently. You’re facing away from him, not because you’re upset, but because you’re exhausted.

He’s worried you’re having a sub-drop; after all, he’s spent the last two hours slapping your face and calling you disgusting. He wonders if you forgot to use your safe word.

You’re new to this and he’s put you through a lot in the past few weeks.

“Sweetness,” he whispers, directly into your ear. “Look at me?”

You turn, cheeks still flushed from particularly hard slaps. His heart aches a bit for you, because those sweet lips are pulled downwards into a frown and he’s not sure if those are fresh tears that wet your eyelashes. 

He kisses your eyelids then rests his chin on the top of your head.

“Are you doing okay, my princess?”

You nod and reach for his face with your fingertips. Your dom softens under your touch because you are so precious to him. His fingers close around yours and he kisses your forehead.

“The most important thing is your comfort,” he asserts. He taps the collar around your neck that suggests in some way that you are his and he is yours. “You can take this off at any time.”

You wrap your arms around his waist and bury your face into his chest. It’s been fun and it’s also been freeing to have him take care of you. There’s a soft haze that wafts around your brain lately as you surrender to him. You are in love with him, deeply, in such a short amount of time.

“I would never,” you say, finally. 

His heart skips a beat.

“Unless you want to buy me a nicer one, of course.”

He chuckles. 

“You’re a feisty little one, aren’t you?” He remarks. He’s glad to look down at you and see you smiling again, eyes bright and brown. He reaches for your ass cheek, then raises your leg so that it lies across his hip. 

Your eyes twinkle with mischief.

“Well, that’s why you picked me to teach, isn’t it?” You raise an eyebrow, and the cheeky grin on your face is enough to make him get absolutely hard again.

Of course, only if you’re up to the task.

Suga bites gently on your lip again, his hand on your thigh. 

“I didn’t expect you to learn so quickly.”

“Maybe you really do have the gift of teaching,” you reply, as you stick your tongue into his mouth.

[greenygreenland]

What I'd Do For You:

-imagine Roy as your adoptive father

-he'd be so flawed but he'd try his hardest

-I write for females because that's what I'm most comfortable with, but it's not too prominent (please don't be offended! It's only what I'm comfortable with!)

Summary: You're feeling down. Roy's here to help.

Today was nothing short of a bad day. It poured as soon as you stepped out of the house, and before you could grab your umbrella, you realised you were going to be late. Not long after, you ran straight into Ed and Al, who both ignored you in favour of chasing some guy down the street.

Whatever, you told yourself. Not like I needed a 'hi' from my best friends anyway.

Not long after, a car zoomed by and splashed muddy water at you. If it weren't for the rain, you'd be caked in the stuff. As you continued down the street, some guy thought it would be fun to mug you. Of course, when he found out you were a state alchemist, he made a run for it. But that didn't make you feel better, not when there were people staring at you like you were a nuisance.

What did you ever do to them anyway? Maybe it was just the fact today was a terrible Monday afternoon.

When you got to Roy's office, your clothes were sopping wet, your hair a matted mess, and your heart, very much hardened and cold. You softly closed the door behind you. There was no point in slamming it when you didn't have the energy to be angry in the first place.

"(Y/n)?" Roy stared at you incredulously. "What happened to you?" You pointed to the window.. The pouring rain and gray clouds were enough of an answer. "Everything happened, that's what." He raised a brow with a short sigh. "'Everything' is quite vague, don't you think?" He stood and made his way to a cabinet. From seemingly nowhere, he found a towel and threw it at you.

"Thanks Roy." You ran it through your hair and placed it on the couch to sit on. It was just as wet as your clothes, but it wasn't like anyone had a blow dryer on hand. Roy took a seat across from you on the opposing couch. "Care to tell me what happened today?"

You thought back to the Elric brothers, then the mugging and everything else you had to go through today. Roy listened intently. "Why did you leave the house so late?" he inquired. "You could have been here at eight o'clock sharp if you hadn't been up all night reading. Then you could have avoided that mugger, the rain, and everything in between." You huffed. "So what? Changing one thing wouldn’t change the day. And besides, it was a good book. What else was I supposed to do?"

"Put it down." Roy plainly offered. "Save that 'last page' for tomorrow, or better yet, sleep before three in the morning." You didn't like the way he was looking at you, as if he were deciding on whether he should be disappointed, frustrated, or annoyed with you. But bad habits died hard. It wasn't easy to break out of those cycles.

You leaned back into the couch. Defeat crossed your eyes, and that was when Roy realized how tired you looked. It wasn't because of your constant travels, or the fact that Edward and Alphonse ignored you completely (he'd give them a piece of his mind later on), but because you were burnt out.

And maybe feeling a bit down.

"You've been studying a lot." Roy stated. You didn't need him to point out the obvious. It was no secret you were doing your best to help the Elric brothers on their journey towards finding their bodies. "Have you found anything useful?" You shook your head with a tight frown. There was so much you needed to work out, so many variables that didn't add up, and so many frauds you needed to uncover.

"Whenever we're close," you mumbled, "our goal keeps getting farther away. Sometimes I feel so useless while Ed and Al go off on their own accord. I just...I don't know." Your shoulders slumped and Roy's heart began to ache. "It's so hard, and I'm really..." A sigh escaped your lips.

"Tired?" Roy finished. He knew that look well, the one where your eyes darkened with clouds and you looked like you wanted to scream when you couldn't. Long ago, he had the same look. Silently, he swore he'd never do it again. At least, not when you were around.

Seeing that same look on your face made him sick to the stomach. "Take a day off," he started. "The Lieutenant is here so don't worry. As for the Elric brothers, I don't think they'll need your help now. They’re fine as is if you ask me." Roy winced at his words. He didn't mean to make it sound like you were unwanted. In fact, he wouldn't do that even if he was paid.

"Maybe I'm not needed by them anymore.” you concluded. “They're busy anyway, so they won't miss me. It’s been weeks since we last talked actually. And besides, Ed’s really great at everything he does. Same with Al. They’re skilled, smart, everything I’m not." You smiled and it was a bit watery.

Roy's lips parted. No, no, no, that wasn't what he meant. The urge to punch himself in the face was overwhelming. Why was he so bad at wording things?

You stood and folded the wet towel. "I'll take the day off. I'm not sure what I'll do though."

"Wait--"

"If you need me, I'll be around the block somewhere." You looked like you were about to cry, and all Roy could do was watch. He wanted to say something, but what if he made it worse? Saying 'Don't cry!' wasn't exactly comforting, and by the looks of it, you weren't in the mood to talk anything through.

A forced smile made its way to your lips. "I'll be back later Roy."

And just like that, you were gone. The door closed shut with a small click, leaving Roy alone in the quiet office. He stared at the phone on his desk tensely. Hughes was good with people, and he knew how to talk to (Y/n) better than most. If Roy called then maybe...

No. Why should he have to rely on Maes? This was (Y/n). He could deal with his daughter just fine. "Teenagers." He found himself making his way to the phone "Why are they so hard to understand?” The familiar beeping sounded on the other end as he dialed the number.

“Hello, could you connect me to Maes Hughes?”

-----

The lone bench you took refuge on was lonely. But you were fine with that. Here, no one could see you through all the pouring rain and darkened clouds. As your tears mixed in with the cold droplets, you stared into the far off distance. The trees swayed in the occasional breeze and you shivered.

Maybe you should have brought a coat.

Suddenly, the rain stopped pounding against your head. Your dampened hair had rivers flowing down it, and the tears that quietly came to a stop left your cheeks with stains.

“So this is where you’ve been,” a voice calmly said. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Why, after an hour, did he come looking for you in the rain? It wasn’t like it mattered. Roy settled by your side, the umbrella hovering above. “Here,” he handed you your coat, “you’re shivering.”

You pushed the coat away with a shake of your head. “I don’t need it.” There was a crack in your voice you covered with a cough. If Roy noticed or not, he didn’t show it. Instead, he helped you put on the coat. “It would be inconvenient if you were sick,” he decided. “How are you supposed to help the Elrics with a cold?”

That didn’t matter. The Elrics were busy for all you cared, and it wasn’t like they needed you anyway. “I’m dead weight, dad.” The words made your eyes sting again. “They don’t-t-they don’t need me.”

“And why is that?” Roy’s gentle tone made the tears fall fast. “Because, dad, I’m useless. Edward’s so much better at everything. He--he’s always saving the day and figuring out all of this country’s problem’s. And...and when I try to help, I always mess it up.”

You thought back to earlier today, where you bumped into the boys spontaneously. They might’ve been busy, but they blatantly ignored you. And the fact that they hadn’t called all week made you worry. Had you done something wrong? No, maybe they didn’t care for you anymore because you were so useless.

“I...I don’t know what to do.” With the umbrella over your head, Roy saw every tear as clear as day. He watched your shoulders tense and your fists clench into tight fists. You were trying to stop crying, but the tears kept coming and coming like a river.

How useless of you.

“Come here.” You didn't want Roy to see your face. “Come here,” he repeated. You hesitantly scooted closer to him on the soaking bench. He held the umbrella in his left hand and pulled you close with his other. When was the last time he actually hugged you like this? He couldn’t remember, and that made him feel guilty.

Was it his fault that you thought so lowly of yourself? Maybe he should have been more adamant on showing how proud he was of your accomplishments. Becoming a State Alchemist at this age was more than a simple privilege. It was a precedent that no generation had ever seen in their lives.

“Why do you compare yourself to Fullmetal?” he inquired, rubbing your arm comfortingly. “He’s not you.”

“But he’s better than me and I can’t measure up to him.” Roy shook his head dismissively. For a moment, you wondered you disappointed him. “It doesn’t matter what Fullmetal is, (Y/n). He’s strong, I admit, but the most hot-headed kid I’ve ever met. Unlike him out, you never let emotions blind your choices. That’s something Fullmetal can’t do. As for strength, you don’t need that.”

He smiled a little and it was so warm. It wasn’t everyday you got to see this side of Roy. He was always caught up in paperwork, plans, and looking after what he worked so hard to accomplish. “You have enough wits to outsmart me. Remember that time Fullmetal challenged me to a match?”

You nodded. “I joined because I didn’t think he could handle it. Ed didn’t want my help, but I ended up coming along anyway.” A smug smirk made its way up Roy’s lips. “And who lasted the longest?”

“Me.”

“And why was that?”

"Because I read your attack patterns?" You uncertainly replied. Roy frowned. "Say it like you mean it."

"Because I read your attack patterns." you repeated. An approving look made its way up your dad's face. "Exactly. Fullmetal has wit, but you are a much more terrifying opponent." You sniffled with a huff. "I'm not--I'm not even close to your level."

"You don't have to be." Roy turned his gaze to the pouring rain, as if he were thinking about how useless his alchemy would be. "If you believed in yourself more, then you will advance farther than you've already come."

That wasn't true. How could you believe in yourself when you felt like an absolute failure? It didn't matter how many successes you've had in the past, because what if they were all flukes? Some day, your luck would run out. Then you'd let your dad down, along with Ed and Al and Hawkeye and Uncle Maes and everyone else you knew.

"You're not a failure, if that's what you're thinking." Roy blurted out. "I couldn't be more proud of how far you've come. The day I met you, I thought I'd fail you. Look where we are now." He laughed a little and it made you relax in his hold. "If you were a failure, you wouldn't have become a reowned State Alchemist. You wouldn't have survived in the most dire times either, and you wouldn't have made me so proud of you."

Your eyes widened. Had you heard him right? You had to be hearing things. Roy met your gaze and smiled warmly. "Yes, I'm proud of you. Why wouldn't I be?" For a moment, you remained still. The gears in your head churned like clockwork, dissecting and rewinding the words Roy had spoken. You tentatively wrapped your arms around Roy's middle.

Yes, I'm proud of you.

You buried your head into his shoulder.

Why wouldn't I be?

And then you cried. Today was nothing short of a bad day, but if you hadn't forgotten your umbrella, gotten ignored by the Elrics, nearly mugged, or showed up late, then you wouldn't have been able to hear those words and the silent I love you's.

IF YOU LIKE THIS, PLEASE REBLOG (IT HELPS ME OUT SOOOO MUCH AS A WRITER!)

[secondhand-trash]

To Build a Home

A/N: I started this at 11pm 7/3 my time so it probably won’t go up on his actual bday but... happy birthday yuutaaaaaaa :excitedmeow:

Pairing: Okkotsu Yuuta x f!reader

Description: He had been gone from home for far too long and he realised he couldn’t stand leaving you all by yourself anymore

Warning: pwp written by someone who is tired out of their minds, breeding talk, vaginal penetration, creampie, fingering

Word count: 2215

-

Okkotsu Yuuta did not approach you immediately when he realised you hadn’t noticed him yet. The tightness in his chest suffocated him as he leaned on the doorframe of the kitchen where the crisp noises of chopping seeped into his ear, the tiredness he had not pick up in his body suddenly collapsing on him in full force when he was finally back at the comfort of his home.

And you were there, with your back towards him, humming some sort of tune he was sure he knew but couldn’t think of the name just now. Yuuta had experienced a long period of time being away from home and from everyone he knew, but it had only gotten harder to stomach now that he knew there was someone waiting for him to come home. 

He thought of you often when he got sent away on a mission far too long for his liking. In his dreams, in his wake. Waiting to hear your voice from the other end of every call became the one thing that kept him going as the weight of his sword got heavier and heavier with each night he spent alone. Yet, the silence and void in his head were always the most obvious the moment his temporary moment of joy ended and he was left with nothing but your phantom voice in his ear.

But he was back now, he had missed you so badly.

His eyes first landed on your exposed neck, the beautiful arch of where it connected to your spine catching his stare with your head dipped down. You shifted your weight from feet to feet with the rhythm of the song you were humming, swaying your hips gently to the beat. Your hands never stopped, the sharp knife landing on the chopping board neatly with each push and lift of your arm. 

It was a sight he would never get tired of, and he almost felt like he did not want to disturb the peacefulness for a split moment.

You squealed in shock when you felt the sudden tightness around your frame, the knife landing on the counter with a clang. Your heart skipped a beat until the beating steadied as the blankness in your head faded, being filled with the gentle breaths behind your back instead.

“Yuuta!” you twisted back, eyes widened in delight. Your husband buried his face at the crook of your neck, biting back a sigh from the way you said his name. It had been long since he last held you in his arms like that, it almost gave him the same rush as it did the first time he ever held your hand. 

Gingerly and blushing like a fool, yet you still looked at him like he was the most charming person in the world.

Your body was warm under his hand as you pulled him down for a kiss you had both been waiting for far too long. His lips were a bit chapped, slightly paler than always and you saw the bags under his eyes when he pulled away. You wanted to say something but he did not give you the time to, closing the gap between you once more before you could even make a sound. 

Eyes shut as he pressed his forehead against yours, he finally let out the heavy breath he had been holding in. 

“I miss you...”

“I miss you too,” you whispered, the warm exhales fanning against his lips with each sound that rolled off your tongue. You leaned closer, letting the tip of your nose touch, “so much,” and then a lingering kiss on the arch of his cupid’s bow, tugging at the softness when you pull away, “so so much...”

He held you closer against his chest, one arm around your waist and the other holding onto your shoulder. Each dent and swell of your body fitted against his perfectly like you were moulded after each other. Yuuta allowed himself to greedily inhale more of your scent, the faint whiff of your shampoo tickling at his senses.

It had been a while since you shared the same scent.

“Yuuta...” you protested weakly when his large hand trailed down from the front of your chest until it stopped at the swell against your shirt. He did not budge when you gave a useless wiggle of your shoulder, his much firmer form pressed up tightly on your back. “I was cooking...”

He mumbled something inaudible against your neck before his hand groped at the softness of your chest. You whimpered when he kneaded the flesh, pushing yourself back against him as your hand went to grip at his wrist for leverage. Your knees threatened to buck when his tongue traced along the pulse at the side of your neck, leaving a wet trail on the patch of skin. Your head rolled back, laying on him as a firm palm covered your lower stomach.

“I had been thinking,” he murmured, his finger hooking under the elastic of your shorts, “about how lonely you must be, all alone in this house whenever I got sent away.”

You squirmed when you felt a hardness poking at your behind, your face heating up at his voice in your ear and the chills on your arm when he rubbed your nipple with his hand fondling you above your shirt. The warmth that was just on your stomach was inching lower and lower until you let out a lewd whimper when his hand cupped your clothed sex.

You shivered when you felt the warm huff of his breath at your earlobe, feeling the electrifying numbs shooting down your spine as his fingers rubbed against the dampened spot on your underwear.

“Wouldn’t it be nice to have a tiny one keeping you company while I’m gone?”

“Yu- hm!” your voice came out as a broken moan when he pushed your panties to the side. His finger brushed against the wet slit, back and forth until he could feel your leaking juices gathering at the pad of his middle finger.

“Yeah?” he asked like you had just given him a reply, biting the soft swell of your ear as he hoisted you up on his arm, “you’d like that, right? You’re so wet already...”

Your nails dug into his arm when he plunged a finger into your cunt, throwing your head back at the burn that elicited where he brushed past. You had touched yourself while he was gone, with and without him. But your fingers or any toy could not even go near to the effect he was having on you. You felt another rush of heat rushing to your core when he buried his finger in you until his knuckle was touching your folds, his other hand working to push down your pants altogether. 

He worked his way with you patiently, cooing and muttering about how he kept thinking about giving you a baby when he was away from you as he stretched you out with his finger. He was all pressed up on your bare ass, the friction of your cheeks against his cock making him harder by the second. He had stolen a glance at the beautiful curve of your hips, the way your hip bone jutted at before blending into the plush swell that would fit perfectly under his grip. 

Your joints hurt from how hard you were gripping down on him, your jaw slack and lips parted as his name slurred off your tongue. He kissed the blade of your shoulder when he crooked his finger inside of you, earning him a buck of your knees. He chuckled at your reaction as he caught you with his hand on your stomach, the thought of this being where your child would be after he was done with you sending a flush of heat down his veins. A shaky whine slipped past your lips when he gave a few more pumps before pulling out of you. The warmth that had wrapped you up fading as he took a step backwards.

The sound of zippers coming undone was far too similar in your brain, sending anticipation down your core at what he said he would do. You bent down, planting your face against the kitchen counter as you pushed your ass back. He groaned at the gesture, his throat bobbing as he gulped when you parted your cheek with a hand digging into the flesh.

He nearly lost control at the sight of you presenting yourself to his eyes. “Please Yuuta,” your hole spasmed around nothing as wetness tinted your skin, folds glistening under the warm light of the kitchen as you spread your legs wider, “I want your baby-”

Your voice melted into a whimper when you felt fingers digging into the sides of your ass before a hard tip nudged at your entrance. He slid his cock between your sopping folds, watching as your slick wet his length. He pulled back just slightly, watching the clear bead of pre being spread all over your cunt as he swirled his hips, pushing his tip teasingly against your folds.

The sound that you made when he sunk into you was like music to his ears, honeyed and soft like you were about to melt in his hands. The heat of his hard cock stretching you out almost felt foreign with how long it had been, sending white to your vision and your back arching in reflex. 

The first thrust of his hips came with a loud squelch, making your face burn. Yuuta moaned at how easy it was for him to bottom out inside of you, his length coming out of you with a sheen from your wetness before slamming down on you again. He watched with intent as your ass jiggled under his force, the sound of his balls slapping against your skin bouncing off the walls. 

“I’ll work so hard,” he said, breathily but still unwavering even though you were already out of your breath under his force, “gonna fuck you well so you’re sure to be pregnant by the time I have to leave again...”

You whimpered at the thought of him filling you up every day relentlessly, an animalistic desire to be stuffed fueling the coil in your stomach as he drove up his pace. He was so hot inside of you, the crown of his cock dredging along your walls with each roll of his hips and sending tingles of pleasure down to the bone.

“Yes yes yes-” you weren’t even sure what you were saying, incoherent babbling flowing from your lips as primal lust took over your head. Your eyes shut tight when you creamed yourself on his cock, legs shaking as you pressed your head against the cold marble of the counter you were helplessly holding onto.

Yuuta’s mouth parted in a silent moan when you clamped down on him, his hands shifting downwards to hold you by the root of your thighs and keeping your legs open for him. Wetness dripped down from where your bodies were connected, the sight basically begging him to keep on and don’t stop.

He pulled you up so that your back was flush against his chest, “I can’t wait to see how you would look with your tummy swelled up.” 

You could feel the vibration of each word, hitting you in full force as his thrusts got sloppier and more frantic. A kiss to your forehead had you soft like putty in his hands, your body collapsing on his as he held you still in his arms. You felt a shudder of his hips when he shot his load inside of you, your mouth parting into an “o” as spurts of thick cum coated your insides. It left a warm blaze in your system, together with the lingering heat of where his fingers were digging into your skin.

He gave a few humps to ride out the high, making you whimper weakly before he pulled out of you. The spasming of your sensitive walls pushed the beads of white out of your hole and the mixture threatened to drip down your legs.

“Yuuta...” you purred, trying to push yourself off the counter with your palms and latching onto him. He caught you in his arms immediately and with your chest against his, you realised this was the first time you had looked at him properly since he came back. Smiling lazily when he held your hands that had gone up to cup his cheek, you buried your face in his chest and closed your eyes, allowing yourself to drown in his comforting presence. 

The arm that was snaked around your back shifted, and you giggled when he bent down to tuck it below your hips before lifting you up with ease. “What are you doing?” you asked, wrapping your arms around your neck.

‘Your Yuuta,’ you wanted to coo, toying with the hair at the nape of his neck.

He smiled, the one that warms your heart and you had missed, before kissing you square on the lips.

“Taking you to bed,” he darted his tongue out to wet his lips, “I hope you know I mean it when I say I’ll work hard.”

[party-gilmore]

...well, I managed to get to literally JUST BARELY before the actual smut starts, so please enjoy this unbetaed 2k word teaser prologue of "demi/grayace Parker doesn't feel like she's Enough for Eliot without Hardison around, so he sets the record straight."

Set during The Hurricane Job, because who gives a damn if the ep is even OUT yet, am i right? XD

“Room 236.”

“What was that?” Eliot hums. His voice is muffled beneath the heavy, sopping weight of his jacket as he tugs the damn thing over his head. His shirt peels off right along with it, so he just shucks the whole shebang in the generic direction of his luggage. He’ll have plenty of time to see to it properly tomorrow - the storm will have them trapped at least another day. With a groan, he stretches out his bad shoulder. It’s not quite dislocated again, but it’s not quite right either. Two nimble hands sneak up from behind and flit their way over the shoulder blade, one bracing against the wet neck of his white tank top while the other presses swift and hard on the joint - and ‘pop’ goes the weasel.

Eliot flashes Parker a pained but soft smile through the old dresser mirror, but it falters when he catches her eyes peeking over his shoulder. There’s a look in them he isn’t familiar with, but doesn’t think he likes.

“Park-” he starts to turn around, but she manhandles him back away from her and shoves her hand into the back pocket of his jeans. No small feat tonight, they way the rain has soaked and damn near suction cupped them to his ass. “H-hey, woah, alright there darlin’, slow it down a bit,’ he chuckles, reaching back to feel for her, but she’s already hopping back and flashing a small, colorful rectangle at him.

“Room 236,” she repeats, flipping it around her fingers like a coin. Eliot frowns. They’re in room 225, just down the hall. They’d found what the crooked cops were after with time to spare, so there was nowhere left to search. Why then, would he still have a room key for-

Oh. He reaches back and pats the offending rear pocket, flushing as he remembers Marshall Shipp’s parting flirtatious wink and accompanying gentle smack on the ass as they’d parted ways a half hour ago. He hasn’t exactly been… discouraging her interest. It's felt good that women are still interested in him even as he’s put a few more miles on, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like the attention - especially from someone as 'his type' as Maria.

Well, what used to be his type, at least.

He shoots a sheepish, apologetic grin at Parker. Maria’s ‘interest’ was quickly becoming ‘intent,’ and now Eliot needed to find a way to nip that in the bud sooner rather than later.

“Damn, I should’ve noticed the reverse lift,” Eliot clears his throat, toying with the edge of the pocket absentmindedly. “She must’ve slipped it to me after we completed the radio broadcast. I was uh, distracted by our success I guess.”

“Bet that’s not all she’d like to slip you,” Parker’s voice takes on a bit more of a playful tone for a moment. Cheeky, teasing. It feels like solid ground.

“Hey now,” Eliot teases back, starting to undo his belt, slow and deliberate, as he begins toeing out of his boots. “I can’t help that I still ‘got it,’ darlin’. I can think of a couple folks I know offhand that might like to, uh… 'slip me a little something' right now, 'specially since I'm properly alone with one of 'em for the first time since-” The only problem is, he forgot how damn difficult these boots are to get off on a good day, let alone when soaked through with salt water. Swearing under his breath, he abandons his attempt at being suave to sit at the end of the bed and fumble with the ties. He should know better than try to look cool for either of his partners nowadays. It never works out quite right, and he’s starting to get to the age where he doesn’t even see the use of that kind of posturing anymore himself. They’ve seen him at his worst already - mentally, physically, emotionally - so what would be the point, really? On top of that, he may make a fuss about his ‘cool points’ in front of Breanna, but he knows Hardison’s sneaky ‘dorkification’ process he's been slowly contaminating Eliot with over the last decade is almost complete. He's still drawing the line at DnD, but he doubts that'll last much-

“...or, if you wanted, you could go let her slip it to you.”

Eliot is too caught up in his own head to really register the suggestion at first. He's busy ruminating on how differently his younger self would be handling this whole situation - all smooth moves and hot edges, shucking off clothing with a kind of casual grace.

‘Yeah, those days have long passed,’ he thinks, hunched over and fighting the waterlogged leather of his boots with fumbling, aching fingers. He gets the first one yanked off his foot less than gracefully, wincing at his ankle’s unsubtle protest, before what Parker said finally processes.

Slowly, he sets his singular boot the side and shifts enough to face her. Parker’s tone didn’t hold any bitterness or bite, just nervousness and a bit of resignation. She isn’t looking at him, but out the window, arms wrapped tight around her midsection in a way he hasn’t seen her do in a while. She bounces restlessly on her heels. There’s a clear energy inside her looking to get out. The thunder rumbles lowly through the suddenly silent room, murmuring a warning through the curling reverberation in Eliot’s gut.

He starts out gentle. Easy.

“...now why would I wanna go an’ do somethin’ like that?” Sometimes it’s easiest to bring things to Parker head on, and she’ll respond in her usual stark, frank manner. Just lay it all right out in the open to be picked apart. This isn’t one of those times. Eliot can read that much in every restless tap, every rapid twitch of her eyes to some place else in the room, any place that isn’t him.

“She’s your type, isn’t she?” Parker’s voice is a higher register than it should be, but not quite into her panicking zone yet. That’s a start. “She’s badass, sexy… passionate.”

Eliot notices her leaning heavy on that last word, and frowns.

“So are you, Parker.”

“Not in the same way!” She turns a bit, still looking outside, but her arms unwrap from herself to gesture between them. “Not the same way you and Hardison are!”

It’s quiet for another beat. The white noise of the hissing rain against the window settles into the room with a steady, thrumming tension. Eliot doesn’t jump to demanding clarification like he might’ve done a decade ago, doesn’t snap and tell her to stop beating around the bush. He’s learned that Parker tucks away all the information he needs to understand in every phrase, no matter how inane or incongruent it may seem. So Eliot holds his tongue and chews on the words for a while.

“Me and Hardison, huh?” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and rubs his jaw in a performance of pensiveness. The movement draws Parker's attention and she finally looks over to him, following the back and forth of his fingers. He presses on, carefully. “Thought we were talkin’ bout me and the marshall. What’s Alec got to do with this?”

“Because he isn’t here!” Parker breaks, not enough to falter or crumble but enough to say what's on her mind before she can overthink it. "He isn't here and it's different! I can feel it! I'm not-" she fumbles her words for a minute, just waving between them again. "-all passionate about the whole sex thing like he is!"

There's that word again. Eliot knows where to go from here, at least. It's all about that word. He stands up, albeit a little awkwardly with one foot still in an inch high boot.

"Sure it's fun and I like it sometimes, but not like you two do! Alec balanced me out, could give you what you needed! I'm not… by myself, I'm not enough for… for y-..." Parker cuts herself before she can grow any more manic, bunching her face up and looking away again like she does when trying to stave off any waterworks before they can start.

Eliot can see her closing up again as her words fail her, but that's alright. What needed to get out made it out. He can take it from here. He hobbles over in his awkward, single-socked gait until he's close enough to take her shoulders in hand, but he doesn't pull her in for the hug. Not yet.

"Now I want you to listen to me, and listen good." Eliot makes sure his tone is firm, but gentle. Parker responds the way he'd hoped - still not looking, tilting her head down, but leaning toward him. Into his space. Receptive, and ready to hear him. "Yeah, it feels different. That's cause you and me? Are different from me and Alec. We're always gonna be. 'That makes us, us,' remember? Just like that's different from you and Alec. It's all part of 'us,' yeah, but it's… we got our own thing, Parker. And sure, we might like it best when it's all three of us, just because we love him so, so much, yeah?"

He lifts one hand from her shoulder and tucks a bit of hair back behind her ear, giving her a chance to respond if she wants. Parker murmurs a quiet "yeah," and steps in a little closer. Eliot tugs her in the rest of the way now, assured that she's open to the touch. She pillows her chin on the shoulder she fixed, and Eliot lays a light kiss to the outside of her ear before continuing in a lower voice.

"So… we miss him, when he's not here, and we don't have the 'all three of us' thing right now. That doesn't make our thing, the you and me thing, any less good. It doesn't- Parker, you're so much more than just enough for me. You're who I need... especially when we don't have Hardison. Don't ever doubt that."

"I'll try," Parker turns her head and mutters it into the crook of Eliot's neck, and he loves her all the more for it. It's better than any empty promise of 'I won't,' because he knows the honesty of it. Knows it's not just an empty platitude of 'I'll do it,' but the vulnerable admission of 'I want to, but don't know if I can.'

"That's all I ask, darlin'."

Because it is. That's all Eliot ever asks of her. To try. Never demands that she change, never insists she should be thinking of herself differently or more kindly than she does. Just that she tries to.

"Now. About this whole 'passion' thing," Eliot sighs, pulling back so he can do that thing he does to Hardison that Parker loves to watch him squirm under, but likes it a lot less when it's turned on her. That thing where he ducks his neck and tilts his head and looks up at her through his hair with that serious, intimate look that makes her want to run because he for sure can see all of her secrets like this but also want to sink deep into that comforting gaze and never leave it. "I don't know where you got this idea that you're not passionate from, but-"

"Yeah, but it's not-!"

"The same?" Eliot cuts off her half-hearted attempt at argument. "Course it's not the 'same' as us, Parker! You aren't us. So, you… you don't lose yourself in it the same way me and Hardison do, okay? Him and me, how we get high off each other, the way we act... so you don't do that. That's fine! That’s only one type of passion, darlin'. You can't tell me,” he lets his hands skim down Parker’s arms until they meet her own palms. “That the way you focus so damn hard on taking us apart - taking me apart…”

Eliot brings Parker’s hands to his hips, and her fingers start to fidget with the hem of his shirt. Anchoring herself with the ribbed texture of the tank. Starting to explore up his stomach the way Eliot knows that Parker knows he likes. She’d ferreted that one out of him ages before they’d even thought up this whole ‘you and we makes three’ train. He lets his voice go a little breathy, a little raspy, makes sure she notices how she's affecting him. “-the way you always know exactly how to do it, piece by piece, single-mindedly pulling me apart like a damn puzzle, Park… you can’t tell me that ain’t some kind of passion.”

“Yeah, but that’s just the same way I steal stuff,” Parker giggles a little, the familiar flutter of Eliot’s sides under her deft fingers grounding her and soothing some of the unease. He’s right about this. How she knows what to do with him. How good she is at it. But that’s not anything special, it’s just-

“Exactly, Parker,” Eliot is trying to walk them back toward the bed, but it’s not really working out well. Between his having only the one boot on and Parker actively seeking out the ticklish bits of his belly that make his knees go all wobbly when she scrapes her nails down them, it’s comical enough to startle another giggle out of her. Or it’s a sob. Or it’s a hiccup. Or it’s some weird combination of all three, she isn’t really sure, but it doesn't seem to really matter either. The sound is whatever it was, just like she is whatever she is.

“It's just like that. Just like how you plan your next score. And that’s your Thing. Like me and food, Hardison and his nerdery... Do you realize how that makes me feel? Knowing you treat me like a heist? Like the thing that you let define you?”

“Yeah but that’s not a sex thing, it’s just a me thing.”

“It doesn’t matter that it’s not a sex thing, Parker, it’s your passion. Your Thing. Yours.” Eliot finally makes it back to the edge of the bed and drops, pulling Parker into his lap. He guides her wandering hands to his chest so she can feel the rumble in his voice as he growls.

“Darlin’, you treat me like damn masterpiece. Like I’m standing smack under a spotlight in the middle of the Louvre, and the only thing in the world that matters to you is how you’re gonna pick through my security piece by piece until all that’s left under your hands is a canvas stretched tight as it’ll go and a picture meant only for you and the people you choose to see it."

Parker’s nails scrape against the skin of Eliot’s collarbone as her fingers instinctively curl in, wanting to grip take steal hold climb, and he barely restrains himself from throwing his head back in a moan. He needs to make sure Parker’s in the right place first, before he gives himself over to his own wants.

“Wow,” she whispers, damn near reverent now as she looks down at him. There’s a dawning in her eyes that tells Eliot they’re alright. That they’re gonna be good. That it’s okay to pull her tighter and ask her to go ahead and steal him again tonight, since he knows her rigging is secure.

"I can't imagine anything more passionate than that."

“Uh-huh, ‘wow' is right,” he laughs breathlessly, and reaches up to take hold of her chin. It’s a light grip, barely any pressure where he between his thumb resting on the front and the rest of his fingers curling around under her jaw, but she lets Eliot guide her down until their lips touch. Not kissing, yet, just touching. His mouth moves against hers as he speaks, tongue briefly darting out to wet two pairs of parched lips. “-so tell me, why the fuck would I want to go to anyone else?”

“Maybe if you got some bad advice,” Parker murmurs, voice strong and confident again for the first time since they wrapped up the con. “From someone who didn’t realize she made you feel that way?”

“Hmmn, that could make sense,” Eliot hums back, resisting the urge to roll up against her in wet jeans that would only serve to chafe rather than provide any of the friction that having Parker in his lap always makes him crave. “If someone could help me get this damn boot off, maybe I could get to work making sure she’ll never forget it?”

[bullshxtvixen]

can u do some oikawa or bokuto getting kinkyyyy in public like in the bleachers or smth 🥴🥴🥴

I’m sorry it took a while to post these, i’ve been setting up a haikyuu discord server so we can all thirst together so i’ve been slacking on requests :( but i really hope you enjoy them! ALSO I DID OIKAWA AND BOKUTO BECAUSE I COULDN’T DECIDE >.<

Public sex Headcanons - Oikawa and Bokuto

Warning: 18+, smut, public sex(duh) and a little bit of degradation.

Oikawa

- He’s had the whole thing planned since you’d agreed to come to the game with him. You’ve usually been pretty open to trying new things with him but he knew that if he’d warned you about his plan you would’ve chickened out.

- So when you’re sat at the back of the bleachers looking down at a particularly boring match and his hand find its way beneath your skirt, you couldn’t help but tense up and look at him with wide eyes.

- “What do you think you’re doing?” You’ll hiss at him but he’s just going to carry on watching the match as if his fingers weren’t caressing your inner thigh and inching dangerously close to your core.

- Fucking tease.

- Your eyes would be darting around checking to see if anyone had noticed what was happening but he’d chosen a secluded spot right at the back so the nearest people were at least 5 rows in front. It’ll click in your mind then that he’d planned this.

- “ Tōru , this isn’t funny, someone coul-“ you won’t get to finish your sentence before two of his slender fingers easily move your panties to the side and slip between your folds, sliding into you with ease.

- “Someone could see, huh?” You wanted to wipe the shit eating grin off his face. “If you were so worried about that then why are you already so fucking wet for me when I’ve barely even touched you? I think you love the risk of being caught, don’t you, you slut?”

- His words would have you shuffling in your seat as his fingers pick up their pace, his thumb now circling your clit, making that familiar ache build in the pit of your stomach.

- Gripping his thigh and digging your nails in won’t dissuade him, he’ll just continue to watch you from the corner of his eye with a smirk. He loves seeing you squirm.

- “T-tooru, I’m g-going to...I’m gonna...cum.” The words were almost incoherent, but he knew what you meant.

- “Ah ah ah, we can’t have that now, can we? You wouldn’t want to do something as dirty as cum all over my fingers in a public place now, would you?” He’ll pull his fingers out like the fucking tease he is, leaving you empty and unsatisfied.

- Annoyed and flustered, you’d get up and go to make your way past your idiot boyfriend but before you could get around him, he’s pulling you down into his lap, one arm firmly around your waist, securing you to him.

- “Don’t make a sound, don’t move unless I tell you to and don’t close your eyes. If you do any of those things I’m going to bend you over that seat in front of us and fuck your sopping little cunt right here for the whole gym to see, do you understand, sweetheart?”

- You wouldn’t even be able to process what was happening before for he growls “Answer me.” as his hand palms your ass. The only thing you could do was nod.

- That’s all he needed. In seconds he’s lifting you up ever so slightly so he can free his cock from the confines of his trousers, before pulling your panties to the side and easing you down onto his throbbing length.

- His cock isn’t the longest but his girth makes up for it, stretching you in the most delicious way possible.

- Your eyes would almost roll into the back of your head at the feel of him filling you but you couldn’t risk them closing, though the thought of him fucking you in front of a large group of people as they watched does spike your arousal.

- Your pussy is going to be clenching around his cock so tightly that he knows it won’t take much for either of you to find your release.

- “God, your cunt feels fucking amazing wrapped around me like that,” he’ll whisper in your ear, “but let’s get those hips of yours moving so I can fill you up with my cum.”

- Then his hands are on your hips, moving you back and forth against his cock as your nails bite into your palms.

- “That’s it, I can feel how close you are. Cum for me, cum all over my cock while we’re surround by all these people, you dirty little slut.”

- Then you’re both coming undone, you almost biting through your bottom lip in an attempt to stay silent while his hands have a death drip on your hips.

- “Fuck, you’re such a good girl. Now let’s get out of here, we wouldn’t want my cum dripping out of you and ruining these seats now, would we?”

- Make no mistake, as soon as you get home he’s going to absolutely destroy you.

----------------------xxxxxx--------------------

Bokuto

- Bokuto has never really thought about fucking you in a public setting before, but seeing you in a skimpy swimsuit for the first time as you slowly test the water of one of the tide pools at the far end of the beach is too much temptation for him to resist. As lust begins to take over, it’s almost like he becomes a completely different person.

- He’ll watch as you lower yourself into the crystal blue water, slowly submerging yourself until your feet hit the rocky bottom. Luckily the water just comes up to your chest so you’re still able to lean your arms on the side of the smooth rock as some of the boys begin a new match on the sand a little further up the beach from you.

- Bokuto’s going to use the fact you’re distracted by the game to silently slip into the far side of the pool before dipping under the water and making his way towards you, fully submerged.

- When he surfaces he’ll put a hand over your mouth and his other around your waist, pulling your body flush against his in a flash.

- As you start to struggle his breath is going to brush against your neck before his familiar chuckle finds your ears.

- “Easy now, little bird, it’s just me.” He’ll say before removing his hand and pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder, causing you to shiver against him.

- ‘Little bird’ is only something he calls you when it comes to sex so you immediately know something’s going on.

- The hand that was covering your mouth will snake down the front of your body, making it’s way between your supple thighs that he loves burying his face between.

- When you tense up he just smirks against your skin, his breath fanning against your neck.

- “What are you playing at, Kou?”

- Another chuckle. “Do you have any idea how easy it would be for me to just slip these to the side” his fingers trace the fabric covering your now throbbing cunt, “and take you right here and now, while our friends are just over there?”

- He’ll grind his hardened cock against your ass as he says it, causing you to arch into him, your head falling against his shoulder.

- He’ll use that to his advance and cover your lips with his own.

- And you know he’s going to take that moment of distraction to hook his fingers into the material of your swim suit and tug it to the side so he push the entire length of his cock into you in one quick thrust.

- It’s a good thing his mouth is covering yours because the feel of him stretching your walls is going to have you moaning against his lips.

- “Geez, would you guys get a room, you look like you’re about to fuck!” Someone who sounds suspiciously like Kuroo, calls from the direction of where the teams were playing, but the only thing you could focus on is the slow rock of your boyfriends hips against your backside.

- You should be embarrassed, maybe even ashamed that your boyfriend is about to fuck you while your friends aren’t even 10 meters away from you, but the risk of being caught is only making you that much more turned on.

- “You better say something to him before they come over here and investigate, little bird or they’re going to see what a cock hungry little devil you are.” He’ll whisper in your ear, his cock continuing to throb inside of you.

- From where the boys are positioned it would just look as though Bokuto was innocently cuddling you and being a doting boyfriend, but if they came any closer they’d see that beneath the surface of the water he was buried inside you as his hand made lazy circles around your clit.

- “~ahh, umm-fuck you, rooster boy. You’re just j-jealous because i’d be getting some.” Yeah your voice isn’t going to be stable as you say it but luckily Kuroo doesn’t question it and returns to the game.

- “Mmm, that’s a good little bird.” He’s got your fingers gripping at the rocks in front of you as your orgasm starts to build faster, his hips trapping yours against the hard surface in front of you as he slides his cock into you over and over again.

- “Fuck, Kou. You feel so fucking good, I’m close.” You’d whisper, knowing he’s a sucker when it comes to being praised.

- Even though it’s not the usual crazy sex that you’ve grown accustomed to with Bokuto, the slow build up of your orgasm has you covering your mouth as it finally washes over your body.

- Within seconds you’ll feel him release inside of you as your walls clench around him, filling you with his hot cum and his arms tighten around you.

- “Holy fuck, y/n. That was...so hot. I can’t believe we just did that.” Immediately he’s back to his usual self.

- He’s going to spend the rest of the day walking round with some extra bounce in his step and he’ll probably even blush whenever he looks your way. He really can’t believe he did that.

-------------------x-----------------

Ngl I’m not 100% happy with them but then again I never am 😂 I hope you liked them! If you have a request, feel free to send it in! ^.^

[jimlingss]

I love you. I love your work. That's it. I'm binge reading your fics. But I really had this dream that taehyung was trying to seduce me at work and I refused to give in because I'm professional. I went home and cried for rejecting him. Please write a fic about this for me. Why do I never get the guy even my dreams 😭 I'm a loser.

LMAO this is hilarious. I actually had a dream similarly like this too. I’ve always wanted to go to a fortune teller but the me in my dream was also a cheapskate and ended up not going ahahhaa so I feel you, anon. Hopefully this drabble can grant your dreams.

↳ The Office Trip to Pound Town

2.5k || 70% Smut, 30% Fluff || Kim Taehyung

You’re neck deep in work.

Your hands flurry across the keyboard before you’re saving the document and grabbing your pen to look over the Jeon’s contract that needs to be prepared by tomorrow. There’s barely a moment to breathe, much less look up when there’s a quiet knock at the door and it opens.

“Go ahead with lunch, Wendy. I’ll eat after I finish this.”

“She already left,” a deeper, huskier voice says and your eyes finally flicker up.

Taehyung enters, shutting the door behind him. He’s without his blazer, simply in a white dress shirt tucked into his slacks that you remember you picked out for him a few months ago. His blonde hair is styled so half of it is pushed back to reveal his arched brow and the other half falls in front of his forehead to frame his face. It should be illegal to look this good, but you’re not complaining. It’s always nice to have eye candy around the office. It cures your fatigue. 

You smile at him, putting your pen down. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d visit. We’re supposed to be on our lunch break, you know. But of course, you’re always hard at work.”

“How else are the bills going to be paid? Unlike someone, I can’t just dilly-dally.”

Taehyung grins and comes behind you. You learn forward in your office chair, already knowing what he’s about to do. And the moment, Taehyung’s hands lay on your shoulders, a sigh escapes your parted lips. His thumbs dig into a particularly sore muscle, but he massages it out within seconds. You hate how easy it is to melt into his touch. 

“Hey, I work hard too.”

You hum. “Not hard enough. I’m coming for your job, Kim. I’m going to get promoted to director of the department and you’ll get demoted to just being the manager.”

Taehyung scoffs. “I’d like to see you try, Mrs. Kim.” 

He digs harder into another sore spot and you jolt with a pained moan. You pull away from him and turn your head around. “Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

Suddenly, he licks his lips and your eyes flicker to the movement. Taehyung’s voice drops an octave — it’s never good when that happens since he knows what that does to you. “Do you know what today is?”

Your eyes are rounded. You quickly scour your mind, but come up empty. “What is it?”

He sighs and starts to roll up his sleeves to his elbows, showing all forearms and the popped veins spiraling up his arms. “I’m disappointed,” Taehyung says in a husky tone. “But then again, I’ve always been the one to pay attention to the details. It’s the first day of your fertile window.”

“Oh. Okay.”

The two of you stare at one another. 

He stares at you. You stare at him.

“No. Taehyung, no.”

His mouth starts to twitch and it slowly quirks into a smile. “Come on.”

“It’s unprofessional!”

God fucking dammit. He’s giving you bedroom eyes. And it hits you that the top button of his dress shirt is popped open. Oh god. He came in here just to seduce you, didn’t he?!

“Don’t you want this baby?”

“Yeah, but last time I checked, we have a perfectly good bed at home. King size actually, thanks to someone’s instance.”

“I’m working a late night tonight.” Taehyung comes closer, crowding you with his larger frame and you move back until the office chair can’t even wobble and your side is trapped at your desk. “We can’t waste any more time.”

“Taehyung,” you say his name in a scolding voice, but it’s already weakening by the second. He knows it too.

“You’re not going to make me beg for you, right?” he asks, caging you in with his arms. One of his hands curls around the chair’s armrest and the other is gripping the edge of your desk. “Unless you want me to.” 

You swallow hard, resolve crumbling. It’s not like you don’t want to….

You look over his shoulder towards the door that’s shut and the blinds that have long been pulled since your online conference a few hours prior. A beat later, your attention is directed to him and his sly smirk. 

Taehyung whispers, “Please?”

With a sigh, you close the distance and you feel Taehyung’s massive grin as he kisses you. He leans down as your mouths are still connected and you fall back into the office chair. Taehyung looms over your frame and he tilts his head, deepening the kiss. 

His hot tongue licks into your mouth, eager and impatient. At the same time, his hands cup your jaw and he coaxes a whimper from you that’s muffled at his lips. 

You’re supposed to be the strict, no-nonsense manager on this floor overseeing the rest. It’s pathetic that you can be reduced to a school girl by your husband. Taehyung loves it and truthfully, you don’t mind so much, but if anyone else knew, they’d be shocked.

The pair of you pull away to gasp for breath. The strand of saliva between your mouths break. Your lips are swollen while his are stained with your red lipstick. 

“This is so unprofessional,” you whisper to him between pants.

Taehyung smiles sweetly, forehead pressed against yours. “A lot of people already left for their lunch break.”

“That doesn’t mean there aren't people on this floor and right outside the door.”

“That’s what makes it fun.”

“It won’t be fun if we lose our jobs.”

“Not if we get this done quickly.” He steps back and starts pulling at his belt. It clicks, unbuckling with ease and your core starts to heat in anticipation for what’s to come. Taehyung doesn’t miss the way you rub your thighs together. He smirks and then gestures to you. “As your superior, I command you to bend over.”

You scoff, but turn around anyhow to lean your front onto the desk. You wince when the papers underneath your hands start to crinkle, but it’s much too late to move them when he roughly shoves up your skirt.

“I could report you to HR for that,” you quip.

“You’d never,” he retorts with a thick voice.

He doesn’t move for a few seconds. You wonder why he hasn’t done anything, if there’s something wrong, but then it occurs to you what he’s eyeing your ass in. “Taehyung. I swear to god—”

The sound of ripping follows. 

The bastard’s torn into your black, sheer stockings.

You curse and turn your head around to glare right as he tears down your underwear. “It’s fine. No one will notice. Faster this way.” You suspect he just wants to fuck you while you’re still in stockings, bent over your own desk, but you don’t call him out on it. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

“Easy for you to say—” You yelp when your left heel is suddenly lifted off the floor. He props your bent leg on the desk and plops down into your leather office chair as if he owns it.

Before anything else can be said, Taehyung dives straight between your plump ass cheeks. He holds your hips in place, fingertips sunk into your skin as his tongue laps at your hole and he moves his face from side to side. A gasp breaks from your vocal cords and you bring one arm back to grab his hair.

“T-There’s no time, Taehyung.”

“It’s fine,” he murmurs, moving to suck a bruise into your right ass-cheek. Taehyung really gives another definition to kissing someone’s ass but rather than feeling like the superior one, you’re keening into him, crumbling at his touch. It’s turning you on how much this is turning him on, with the way he groans into your skin like he’s fully enjoying this, how he’s eager and happy to be on the giving end. 

Unintentionally, you push his face closer into your ass and his slender fingers begin to gently caress your slit. Your mouth seals to suppress another moan when his warm tongue licks at your hole again. You can feel the heat of his warm breath against your cunt, so close yet still so far. 

A minute later, he comes out panting. “Damn. This is better than any lunch.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s going to be your fault if you don’t get to finish.”

“Relax,” he sing-songs and you can practically hear his grin. “We’ll get there.”

Without much warning, Taehyung plunges his two fingers into your already wet cunt. You keen, failing to silence your whine and your back arches. You don’t see his smirk, how he’s fully enjoying the view while sitting back in the chair. He simply starts pumping his index and middle finger in and out of your heat. Taehyung stretches you out, curling his fingers at a particular spot that has you gripping the edge of your desk until your knuckles have turned white. You try your best not to make a sound, but it’s almost like he’s trying his best to get you to break and be noisy.

“Fuck,” he moans. “You’re leaking all over my pants.”

Even when he’s behind you, you can feel his intense gaze that’s watching you closely.

It feels degrading to be bent over your own desk like this. You’re practically dancing in the palm of Taehyung’s hand, giving into his every whim without being able to control yourself. But at the same time, all of this, the thought of him claiming your spot and taking you right here was turning you on. You don’t want to admit that you’re enjoying this as much as he is.

“T-Taehyung,” you gasp, cheek pressed to your paperwork. 

He chuckles lowly. “Alright, alright.”

He pulls his two fingers out of your sopping cunt and sucks on them till they're clean. Then Taehyung stands and lowers his pants just enough to remove his hard cock from his boxers. He pumps it twice and positions the red, leaking head to your swollen entrance.

You’re about to ask him what’s taking so long, but you choke on your words when he enters you with a single push of his hips. Your cunt stretches to accommodate Taehyung’s big cock that’s practically nudging at the entrance of your cervix. Your fingernails curl into the edge of your desk while you fail to stifle the whine that comes out, even when your teeth have sunk into the bottom of your lip.

“S-Sorry,” he groans. “Couldn’t help it. Don’t want to run out of time. Already at twelve forty.”

You turn your head around. “What?!” 

But there’s no opportunity to react more. Not when Taehyung grabs your hips, eagerly fucking into you. Like a man on a mission, like he’s making sure he’ll get you pregnant no matter what. He withdraws his cock and then plunges as deep as he can inside your tight cunt, his hips slamming against your ass. Taehyung bends your leg to get at an even deeper angle and you turn back around, trying your best to keep in your moans and quiet the whines of his name. 

The urgency of time presses on your minds, but it also fades with the onslaught of pleasure. All the papers underneath you are sure to be crumpled beyond belief, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. 

The pens and pencils fall over to the carpet. Your eyes sting. He’s filling you up so well.

“F-Fuck, this is so hot,” Taehyung groans, watching his cock disappear inside of you with each rapid jut of his hips. How you’re trying to still hold yourself together. The way your stockings have been torn and his underwear and yours are barely pushed away. “You’re so hot.”

“Hurry, Tae!”

He hums and you start to squeeze around him. Taehyung’s hips sputter. His pace falters before quickening urgently and impatiently. “W-Wait, wait.”

Taehyung licks his thumb and finds your clit with ease. You gasp as he rubs circles on the swollen bit and your toes curl. “Tae, Tae—” You’re afraid you’re being too loud, but the concern is overridden when you cum. There’s white flashing beneath your eyelids, a wash of pleasure that renders your knees weak.

Taehyung follows a few seconds later. He plunges in as deep as he can go with brute force and a pitched cry leaves your throat, making him slap his hand over your mouth to keep quiet. 

The picture frame of you and Taehyung in Malta on your honeymoon is knocked off. 

And then cum paints your velvet, warm walls. It fills your cunt, leaking past his cock. Taehyung pants on top of you and thrusts twice more in spite of your oversensitivity and his own. He holds you still for an intimate moment as you both catch your breaths. Then, he withdraws.

You shakingly get up as he tucks himself back in, buckling his belt again after he snags it off the ground. You try to fix the mess of your hair and he grins, cheeks flushed. Taehyung comes close and his thumb lifts to wipe the smudged mascara at the corner of your eye.

He can’t hold in his smile and giddily hugs you. His face affectionately nuzzles into your hair while you wonder if he knows that his cum is still leaking out of you and dripping down your thigh. 

Sometimes the duality of Taehyung is jarring. You wonder how this can be the same man who just bent you over your own desk and pounded into you until there were tears in your eyes. But you suppose that’s what makes him so charming and why you married him. One second, he’s throwing you over his shoulder and spanking you till you call him daddy and the next, he’s pouting and begging you to call his dad for him because he just stubbed his toe against the door and it hurts and he needs advice on what to do.

“Sorry about the ripped stockings.”

“Uh-huh. You better buy me new ones.”

“I will.”

The pair of you pull apart and he pulls a tissue for you to wipe yourself with as you sit down and peel off the stockings once and for all to throw into the trash. If someone asks, you’ll tell them it ripped on its own.

“Well, at least that was fun, right?” Taehyung smiles as you put yourself back together.

You eye him. “What time?”

“Pardon?”

“What time are you done with the meeting?”

Taehyung blinks, not sure where you’re going with this. “Probably at eight.”

“I’ll be at your office at eight ten then,” you state plainly. “It’s only fair. I can’t be the only one having my office destroyed.”

Slowly but surely, an enormous grin spreads into his face. Taehyung leans in to kiss your cheek. “It’s a promise then.”

[wisteriashouse]

I saw percy jackson au! one the troupe's list and i never tap the ask button this fast/no. Maybe a drabble where kyo and his team lost against gn reader on capture the flag because reader keeps distracting him when they're facing each other so reader's team can take the flag? (Let's say that kyo is the strongest opponent since he can wields sword better than anyone else 😂)

Also who do u think kyo's immortal parent is? I can picture him being an apollo's son since kyo always reminded me of the sun itself hshshs -✨

pairing: rengoku kyoujurou x gn!reader

genre: fluff; pjo!au

word count: 1899

a/n: rip word count and the word drabble but here it is!! might do a pjo! au headcanon one day... this event really is no good for my soul... i hope you enjoy it!!

“Do you think we can win?”

It’s Tanjirou’s first Capture The Flag game, bless the sweet kid’s innocent soul, you think. Both of you are crouched behind a line of bushes near Zephyrus’ Creek together with the rest of your team - Blue, for this round - your weapons in hand as you wait for the scouts you’d sent out to return. 

“Well, it’s hard to say.” You try to be positive, waving your hand vaguely. Tanjirou’s eyes are fixed on you, wide with curiosity. It’s only his first week here, so he hasn’t had a chance to meet most of the older campers that have been away on missions. Lucky for him that Sanemi is probably still somewhere out in the strait of Messina with Tomioka hunting Charybdis, you think. The poor kid would have been scared off in seconds. “There are some people who could probably change the tide, but most of those people are off doing solo missions away from Camp Half Blood, so our teams are pretty balanced at the moment-”

“He’s back!” You rise to your feet at the noise to see Zenitsu (a son of Zeus), one of the scouts your team had sent out earlier, splashing his way back across the river. “Rengoku is back in Camp Half Blood!”

All around you, a collective groan rises into the air, the Athena campers behind you grumbling about how their strategies are all messed up now and they need to regroup. 

“Shot at me, the second I breathed in the flag’s direction. Missed me on purpose too, just to show off.” Grumbling when he finally reaches your team’s side of the river, Zenitsu gratefully accepts Tanjirou’s outstretched hand, the younger boy pulling him into the shelter of the bushes. “Guess we’ll be doing clean up duty for the whole of next week.”

“Now, now, Zenitsu, don’t give up so fast.” You nudge the younger boy in the side encouragingly. He’s sopping wet from his little swim in the river. “There’s still a chance! We still have Muichirou and Shinobu on our team, don’t we?”

Zenitsu lets out a whine. “But they’re not Rengoku.” He complains. The entire time, Tanjirou glances between the two of you, confused. 

“Who’s Rengoku?” 

“He’s head counselor for the Apollo cabin.” Zenitsu explains, wiping the river water off his lightning spear. “He’s one of the best fighters in the entire camp, on par with even the head counselor of the War God’s cabin, Shinazugawa Sanemi! Not to mention that he’s handsome and cool and half of the Aphrodite kids can’t help falling over themselves every time he walks by, asking him to teach them how to write love sonnets.” He gags at the words. "As if they aren't just waiting to take a piece out of him, the damn piranhas."

You cover your mouth with your hand to stifle a laugh. “Well, he does write very good love poems,” you supply helpfully, and Zenitsu rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, of course you would know, since-”

“[last], we have a new plan!” Shinobu calls airily from behind you, interrupting Zenitsu. Turning around, you see the daughter of Hecate striding up to you with a smile on her face. It’s one that you’ve seen all too many times when she’s plotting something, and now that you’re on the receiving end of that smile, you’re not quite sure that you like it.

You squint at her suspiciously. “What is it?”

“You,” Shinobu answers with her usual smile, pausing for dramatic effect, “will be in charge of distracting Kyoujurou!”

You stare at her for a moment before you shake your head furiously. “No, no, no, there’s no way I’m doing that. I’d be shot full of arrows like a porcupine before I so much as touch the flag - I’d rather clean the Pegasus stalls for a week.”

“Oh, come on, have a little confidence in yourself!” Shinobu hums, the expression on her face practically radiating nefarious intent behind her sweet smile. “There’s no way he would hurt you, he’s your boyfriend, after all.”

To your side, you see Tanjirou’s mouth form a silent ‘o’ of realization, piecing together everything you and Zenitsu had been conversing about earlier. Flustered, you shake your head again.

“This isn’t going to work!” You insist, even as Shinobu tugs you to your feet and steers you in the direction of the river. “Shinobu, you know what Kyoujurou is like! He isn’t going to be distracted by me at all!”

“Oh, I know Rengoku very well,” Shinobu’s eyes curve into little crescents. “I think you’ll find yourself surprised, [last]. All you need to do is distract Rengoku, we’ll do the rest. Our entire team is counting on you!”

Helplessly, you turn to the two boys crouched behind the bushes. Zenitsu looks like he’s trying his best not to burst into laughter, and Tanjirou, the pure hearted boy, only gives you an encouraging thumbs up.

With a sigh, you turn around and march into the Red Team’s territory all alone.

It doesn’t take you long to reach the flag.

Although not quite as talented in direct combat as some of your fellow campers are, you’re skilled in your own ways as well, moving silently through the underbrush and disabling any traps that you’ve found - products of the Hephaestus cabin, no doubt. After narrowly avoiding springing a Greek fire trap, you manage to make your way to the location of the flag completely undetected.

Sidling up behind a tree, you glance around the trunk to observe the battle ground. And just as you do-

Thunk!

You barely dodge out of the way in time, a blur of gold embedding itself in the wood of the tree you’re taking cover behind. So Zenitsu was right - he really is back from his mission, and although the two of you are on opposing sides for this Capture The Flag match, you’re happy to know that he’s back safe and sound, uninjured enough to participate in this game.

“Is that you, darling?” He calls out, and you have to hold back your smile at the pet name. You haven’t seen him in a week, and hearing his voice after so long makes you want to just rush out to give him a hug. “I know it’s you, love.”

“It’s been a week since you’ve seen me last, and an arrow to the face is how you greet me?” You call out from behind the tree, slightly teasing. “I’m hurt, Kyo.”

“I knew you’d be able to dodge it.” Kyoujurou laughs. When you peer behind the tree again, you see your boyfriend standing there in his orange Camp Half Blood tee and jeans, leisurely nocking another arrow into his bow. “I won’t go easy on you if you attempt to steal the flag.”

“I’m not here for the flag,” you answer, and it’s only a half lie when you continue. “I’m here because I missed you.”

If you were even a little less observant, you would have missed the way Kyoujurou’s hands falter ever so slightly in the midst of nocking his arrow, before he covers it up with one of his usual booming laugh. “You’re not going to distract me like that!” He declares, and you stifle a quiet laugh of your own, your heart beating a little faster in your chest. “But,” his voice softens, “I missed you too, when I was away. One week felt like forever to me.”

Warmth touches your cheeks, but before you can smile too much, you smack your cheek lightly. Get it together, you scold yourself, you’re supposed to be distracting him, not the other way around!

With that, you take a deep breath and rise to your feet. You could never hope to beat Kyoujurou face on in combat, but you don’t have to - all you need to do is to distract him so that Shinobu can do... whatever she has planned.

You step out from behind the tree, and immediately Kyoujurou’s golden eyes lock onto you. You take the time to take in his handsome features, the warmth in his eyes, the fresh band-aid on his left cheek, did he get injured while on his mission? 

“Changing strategy, love?” Kyoujurou calls out, looking amused. He tightens his grip on the bow when you take a single step forward. “Ah, ah, stay right there, or I’ll shoot.”

A frisson of excitement runs through you at the words, and you halt your steps, looking up at Kyoujurou with a smile. At this range, Kyoujurou has no chance of missing - you’ve seen him strike targets from yards away. “You won’t shoot me,” you hum, and with that, you take another step forward. True to Shinobu’s words, he lifts the bow, but makes no move to draw. 

“I missed you very much, Kyoujurou. I did read all the poems you left for me, but it doesn’t feel as nice when it’s not your voice reading them to me.” You lower your voice to a soft, longing tone. It’s not hard, considering just how badly you’ve yearned to see him over the past week. “It just made me miss you even more.”

You see a tinge of pink touch Kyoujurou’s cheeks. “I’ll read them for you tonight, if you want.” Taking another step forward, you gesture at his cheek. “Did you get hurt on your mission?”

“No, I got it while shaving today morning. I was distracted because I was too excited about coming back.” Kyoujurou lets out a sheepish laugh. Out of the corner of your eye, you see some bushes rustle behind Kyoujurou. 

“Well, you’re home now.” You’re almost within Kyoujurou’s reach now. If he decides to tackle you to the ground, you’d be out of the game even before you can so much as say ‘Zeus’. “With me.”

“Now!”

All of a sudden, a weighted net falls out of nowhere onto the both of you, and you’re sent falling by its weight. Before you can hit the ground, however, Kyoujurou wraps you securely in his arms, taking the brunt of the impact as you end up on his chest.

“Kyo!”

“Very well done, [last]!” Shinobu’s voice chirps from behind you, and you turn around to see Shinobu striding up to the both of you, the Mist melting off her. From beneath you, Kyoujurou laughs loudly, his chest shaking from amusement.

“This was your doing, wasn’t it, Kochou?” Kyoujurou shakes his head, a smile still on his lips. To the side, another figure slips out of the darkness, fingers wrapping around the flag Kyoujurou had been guarding before his entire body leaves the shadows.

“You just had to use [last] as a part of your plan.” Obanai says accusingly, jabbing his finger at Shinobu. The daughter of Hecate only shrugs innocently. “I had to watch all of that flirting, I don't think my eyes will ever recover. I'll need to wash them out with bleach,” he shudders in disgust. “I’m never going along with your plan again.”

“Now, now, there's no need to be such a drama queen." Shinobu tilts her head to the side, her smile still perfectly in place. "We won, so there’s no harm, is there? I’ll be sure to do the same for you when Kanroji returns from her exchange with Camp Jupiter.”

“You’ll do no such thing, you-”

With a shake of the head, you turn back to Kyoujurou, who’s still fighting to keep down his laughter. Gently, you let the pads of your fingers trace his face, his cheekbones, his defined jawline, before you tap at his lips, the corners of his mouth quirking up into a smile as he looks up at you.

“Welcome back, Kyo.” You whisper, and lean down to kiss him. 

[honeymoonjin]

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ot7 x reader || ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 7.3k || ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: smut - rated 18+

sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:

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Congratulations! You’ve been accepted as the Lady in the first season of The Gentlemen.

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ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: filmed sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism, unprotected sex, edging, orgasm denial, teasing, dirty talk, dom!yoongi, use of sex toys, cumplay, multiple orgasms, creampie, oral (f receiving) face riding/sitting, use of the words slut, cumdump/cumsleeve and degradation in an entirely consensual context, also they drink in this episode so it involves sex under the influence of alcohol, but once again entirely consensual, overstimulation, cumeating (it is a yoongi chapter after all)

dedicated to my sfhs girls, everyone in the villa discord, and everyone who submitted truths and/or dares. i apologise if yours didn’t get drawn, there were over eighty of them

DAY SEVENTEEN

Waking up on Wednesday is the calmest you’ve felt in a while. Even though it’s not the start of the week, it still feels fresh, and you slept far better last night than you did before elimination.

That being said, fate apparently gives you very limited time to breathe, because the second you open your bedroom door you get a fright that just about stops your heart.

Min Yoongi, fist falling awkwardly in the open space, blinks at you. “Good morning.”

“Jesus,” you curse, hand pressed to your sternum as your heart races beneath it, wordlessly stepping back to let him in.

Yoongi slips past you smoothly. “I know the resemblance is startling, but we have been living together for two weeks, Y/n. I’m hurt.”

You scoff as he makes himself comfortable on the edge of your bed. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He shrugs, looking more casual than usual in a faded red tee and a pair of jeans rolled up at the ankles. His hair, newly mint, sticks up at odd angles like the first thing he’d done this morning was tip out of bed and come down to your door. It just makes him all the more endearing. “I have a proposition,” he announces vaguely, pulling out a sleek black object from his front pocket and resting it on the duvet beside him.

You narrow your eyes at the foreign object. Made of what must be matte silicon, there's the slightest hint of silver that circles an on-button at the base of it. Although it's not particularly long, it's wide and rounded, and it doesn't take much brainpower to work out where a toy like that might go.

Yoongi grins as your eyes rove over the toy. "Perhaps less of a proposition, and more of a challenge," he drawls slowly. A single graceful finger runs up and down the length of the black egg, keeping your gaze locked on it. "I'm gonna fuck you now, sweetheart, and if you can keep my cum inside you all day, I'll give you a reward. How does that sound?"

You suck in a breath, eyes flying up to his again. You're nodding before you even really process the implication of his words, but he's already quirking a finger to beckon you.

"Come sit," he commands breezily. He's already hard when you straddle him, your knees braced on the duvet and arms linking around his neck. Glancing up at you, you're taken by the honeyed way his eyes blink up at you with bemusement. "You're very obedient this morning," Yoongi quips, "is this why people like morning sex?"

You scoff, rolling your clothed core against him. "Hurry up and put your dick in me if you're going to, Min."

"Never mind, then," he sighs, but happily slips open his belt buckle with one hand, the other gripping the flesh of your thigh as he frees his cock from the confines of his jeans.

Still in a loose oversized sleep shirt and panties, it's easy enough for Yoongi to just tug the fabric over your core to one side, fingers sliding through your already-sodden folds.

"Didn't take much, did it, sweetheart?" he asks with a wry grin, and your cheeks heat, burying your face in the crook of his neck even as his deft fingers spread your wetness over you.

"Stop making fun of me," you whine, breath hitching when he slips a single finger deep inside you.

"Oh, but I'm not," he murmurs, voice just as languid as his pumping motions. "It's fucking hot."

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, Yoongi beginning to relax your muscles with a second finger, hooking and twisting and curling them in all the ways that make your legs weak.

"Does it feel good, sweetheart?" You can feel more than see Yoongi's smirk when you nod hastily, grinding against his fingers. "But it doesn't sound like it. Why can't I hear you, hm?"

A free hand presses lightly but firmly at your jaw, lifting your face away from him. You swallow down another moan as his thumb brushes just once over your sensitive clit.

Held up across from Yoongi, you can't avoid the way he frowns. "That won't do," he decides, before his fingers tug down your bottom lip. Without a single falter in his other hand fucking you, now three fingers in, Yoongi hooks his index and middle fingers behind your bottom teeth to keep your mouth open wide for him.

The next time he swipes your clit, you can't hold back the wanton groan that escapes. Yoongi's eyes positively light up at the sound as he fucks you harder, jostling you on his lap and making every little noise from your throat magnify.

When he eventually removes his sopping fingers from your core, you whine unabashedly at the absence. The heat that had built up, the beginnings of an orgasm, quickly dissipate.

“Patience,” Yoongi chastises in a voice thick with humour, before lining himself up at your entrance and swiftly pushing you down onto him.

You groan as he fills you, unable to stop the drool that’s begun to spill over onto his fingers. Yoongi doesn’t seem to mind the messiness, however, using the leverage to keep you steady once he starts to fuck up into you.

Your hands fly from the back of his neck to his shoulders, stuttered cries punched out of you with every bounce. Certainly not the biggest member in the household, Yoongi did know how to use his cock to make you melt around him and he quickly makes your fingers and toes curl with pleasure.

Even as he maintains his dominance with the unspoken ease he always carries, it’s undeniable that he’s close with the way he beings to lose his composure. Whether it’s his freshly-dyed hair curling at his temples with the sweat of his exertion or the grunts that slipped past gritted teeth, you love those little glimpses of the animal that wrecked you last week.

When his pace stutters into a desperate jackhammer that leaves you breathless, you know it’s only a matter of time before he spills inside you. Close yourself, you slip a hand down seeking your clit for the needed stimulation to push you over the edge.

The second you feel a glimmer of hot pleasure, however, a hand snakes around your wrist and pulls it away. Your eyes widen, drool spilling messily down Yoongi’s other hand as you babble. “Ngo, ‘o, p’ease,” you slur out, “‘oongi, wan’ cum.”

Your whine gets louder as Yoongi responds to your complaints by slowing down to a deep grind, breathing heavily in his chest. “What are our rules, sweetheart? You have to keep my cum inside you all day to win your reward, don’t you? Now be a good girl and let me fill you up.”

Unlike you, Yoongi has clearly still retained that edge of orgasm, and it doesn’t take much before he’s shuddering with a groan, painting your insides white. Finally lifting his fingers off your bottom teeth, he pushes them further in your mouth, instructing you to suck them clean of your own saliva.

Wrapping your lips around them with a dissatisfied whine, you grind your hips fruitlessly against him as he slowly begins to soften. No hope of cumming this morning, you resign yourself to the challenge he’s set you and let him tip you gently onto the bed, standing himself at the edge still inside you.

You blink up at him, licking your swollen lips once he retracts his fingers from your mouth, picking up the small black egg you’d almost forgotten about. “Is it games?” you ask blearily, sniffling when he pulls out of you.

With one of your legs held up to keep you at a good angle, Yoongi starts to push the rounded vibe inside you, aided by your arousal and his own release. “Is what games?” he asks softly, an airy chuckle leaving his mouth when the toy slips inside you, making you moan at the pressure.

“The prompts,” you explain, clenching around the intrusion that’s plugged Yoongi’s cum inside you. “Work hard, play hard. Are they different games or something?”

Yoongi pauses. “I- I’m not sure if it’s beneficial for me to confirm or deny that,” he admits slowly, before clearing his throat and backing up, letting your legs dangle off the side of the bed. “Can you stand? I’m just about ready for breakfast. Nothing like a good orgasm to build my appetite.”

You send him a scowl as you stand on wobbly legs. “Now you’re just rubbing it in,” you accuse, “this reward better be something special.” Even as you adjust your panties back over you, you’re expecting the silicon egg to come out at any moment. As it is, you feel like you might go crazy before the day’s out.

The doctor makes no effort to hide his satisfaction, eyes shamelessly running over you as you squirm in place. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you today,” he announces lowly, buckling his jeans back up. “If you want your reward you better not take it out or get yourself off. Your pleasure belongs to me today, sweetheart.”

“Yes, sir,” you mouth off sarcastically, even as the wetness between your thighs increases.

While Yoongi may have refused to confirm your theory about the prompts being games, it seems games are the theme of the day regardless.

By the time you get dressed - gingerly, like any wrong move would send the egg slipping out in a torrent of cum - and meet the others downstairs, you see the lounge has been cleared to make way for a misshapen pile of packaged snacks and a bowl full of slips of folded paper.

Taehyung, Namjoon, Jin and Hoseok are already surrounding the offering, cross-legged on the carpet. Yoongi, who’d come down before you, haunts the coffee machine. Just as you do a headcount and wonder where Jimin’s gotten to, the man himself approaches from the shadowy depths of the walk-in pantry, two bottles of wine held in one hand by their necks, and a six-pack of soju in the other.

Jimin jumps in surprise when he looks up to see Yoongi just in front of him, sending the older man a small smile. “Good morning.”

Yoongi eyes up the liquor suspiciously. “I suppose it must be.”

“Sejin dropped them off.”

“The bottles?”

“The games,” Jimin emphasises, pointing with a hand laden with bottles. “Jungkookie, Jin-hyung and I just thought we should make it more fun. Didn’t they tell you?”

Yoongi grumbles but doesn’t answer, cradling his coffee like it’s a lifeline and hobbling over to sit on one of the couches, pushed back to give more space.

Wary of your every step, you sit yourself down in a gap between Jungkook and Namjoon. The youngest perks up and turns to you, looking comfy yet stylish in a modern hanbok, black to make the red in his hair pop.

“It’s drunken truth or dare,” Jungkook declares, feet tapping the carpet in excitement. “Sejin said the audience wants more sexy games.”

Jin clicks his tongue. “He never said sexy.”

Jungkook doesn’t bat an eye, still grinning at you. “The ‘sexy’ was implied.”

“I’m sure it was,” you allow with a chuckle. It doesn’t take long for everyone to find their places, Jungkook turning to his other side and tugging on Yoongi’s trouser leg until he sits on the carpet with the rest of you.

Following the circle along, Jimin sits to Yoongi’s left, then Jin, Hoseok, Taehyung and finally back around to Namjoon who’s on your right.

“Alright, how is this supposed to work?” Yoongi asks reluctantly. “And how can I rig this to retain at least a modicum of my dignity?”

“Here’s the deal,” Hoseok announces, “we take turns picking truths or dares from the bowl. If you don’t want to do it, you take off a piece of clothing. Questions?”

Taehyung hesitantly lifts his hand, staring at the dom to his right. “What if we run out of clothes?” Though he’s moderately dressed in thick sweatpants and a long-sleeved tee, Taehyung doesn’t really have any layers, and he’s already barefoot.

Hoseok shrugs. “Then you play the rest of the game naked, I guess. Stripping is the whole raison d'etre of slutty game nights. What part of that don’t you get?”

Taehyung pauses. “The raisin part.”

“He’s saying the whole point of games like these is stripping,” Jimin explains quickly, clapping once to get everyone’s attention. “Okay! Let’s start. I didn’t have hands free to bring glasses so unless someone else wants to help out, we’re drinking from the bottles. Who wants what?”

It doesn’t take long for the alcohol to be dished out. Taehyung and Hoseok both scamper around like children and end up mixing plain soju with Fanta or sprite, sipping at the fizzing mixture as they giggle away. Jimin is making his way through one of the two wine bottles himself, a pretty moscato rosé that matches the baby pink lip balm he’s wearing. Namjoon has the other bottle, though he pours a full glass in a sturdy-looking coffee mug and pawns the rest off back to the middle. Jungkook and you wordlessly split a flavoured soju, something sweet and fruity with the classic burn at the back of your throat, and Jin sticks with an original one, leaving Yoongi the only one without alcohol.

The man himself takes a long swill of coffee. “Someone better pick a dare then.” Making no effort to actually help himself, he waits for Hoseok to wiggle on his knees to the centre of the circle to grab the bowl, keeping it secure on his lap as he blindly roots around for a slip of paper.

His subconscious grin of excitement fades the second he picks one and reads it. “My fucking luck,” he curses, before changing his voice to a monotone drawl. “Allow Jimin to give you a makeover. If Jimin draws this, pick another member.” He glances up in pain. “Can I pick someone else anyway?”

“That’s not the dare, Hobi!” Jungkook protests in an excited squeal. “Are you gonna let him do it?”

Jimin remains perfectly poised, simply arching an eyebrow when Hoseok sends him an accusatory glare. Like he’s disappointed with the calm reaction from his rival, Hoseok huffs and silently tugs off a sock. “He’s not getting anywhere near my face,” the dom insists, “I just know he’d make me look ugly on purpose.”

“The only way I could do that is by using no makeup at all,” Jimin petulantly responds. “Anyway, now that you’ve contaminated the air with your bare foot, can we move on?”

Hoseok huffs, but thrusts the bowl to his right, handing it to Jin. The therapist sighs like the discourse personally drains him, then picks a slip from the top, opening it with one hand. Immediately, he breaks out into a pealing laugh, shoulders shaking as he slaps his knee with his free hand. “Do a cartwheel.”

“What the fuck?” Hoseok shrieks. “Why didn’t I get one like that?”

“Can you do a cartwheel, Hoseok?” Jin questions calmly.

Hoseok’s mouth gapes. “I- no.”

“I guess you were doomed to be one sock down either way, then,” Jin consoles. “I, on the other hand, made it onto my high school cheerleading team.” He steps away to a patch of open carpet. “Well; I was the reserve. I never actually did any games.”

That’s the only warning you get before Jin is launching his torso to the ground, legs flying up and flailing as his hands meet the ground. On landing, his feet come down awkwardly, sending him sprawling onto the back of the couch. “Fuck,” he gasps out, catching his balance, “that was way easier when I was small.”

Jin returns to his place with a smug smile, leaving the room in startled silence. “What? Next person.”

Jimin takes the bowl and pulls out a piece of paper before passing it to his right in front of Yoongi. “Alright, I have…” His eyes rake over, plush lips moving. “What do you hope you can do most before you have to leave the house? Uh… I’d like to try something for the first time.”

Taehyung pouts. “Isn’t that a bit boring, Min?”

Jimin shrugs. “I guess I’m on the other end of the spectrum to Namjoon-hyung. It’s hard to find anything I haven’t done before. I’ve been working for Bangasm for years, and doing porn for even longer. Eventually it feels like everything is the same. I’d like to have something completely new, that I can look back on as special.” He clears his throat loudly and nods his head at Yoongi. “Your turn.”

Yoongi places his now-empty coffee mug on the carpet in front of him, rooting around carelessly for a piece of white. His eyebrows lift past the overhanging swoop of mint. “What sex act have you done that you’ll never do again?” Taking a second to think, Yoongi pushes his tongue to the side of his cheek. “Mm, my best friend and I once experimented with each other just before high school graduation. We were both well over 18 by then, but going to a catholic all boys high school, we were pretty repressed and dumb about those kinda things. He tried to suck me off and threw up right on my dick.”

You cringe violently, the sips of soju you’d already drunk sitting sour in your stomach. “Fuck, that’s so gross, Yoongi. Did he like, say sorry?”

Yoongi grimaces. “Ah, not at the time. He started crying and I had to comfort him while I was still covered in- yeah, I’d honestly kinda blocked that out until this question reminded me. Fuck. Okay, next person, I need to re-forget about that.”

None of you can blame him once he reaches for a straight soju and takes a few deep gulps, throat bobbing.

Jungkook’s next in line, looking a little green in the face from Yoongi’s anecdote. “Right, okay, lemme-” With his eyes scrunched shut, he selects his slip of paper and opens it up. “Get the person to your left in the pool within the next minute.”

Yoongi, too preoccupied with chugging as much liquor as he reasonably can, doesn’t pay attention until he’s deftly snagged around the waist and thrown over Jungkook’s shoulder, the half-empty bottle splashing out onto the carpet.

“Hey! What do you think you’re- Jungkook, where are we going?”

Jungkook races out through the back door faster than any of you can keep up with, Taehyung and Hoseok jogging after him to watch from the doorway.

Even from your spot on the floor, you can hear an almighty shriek followed by a splash, and some watery yelling. By the time Yoongi stomps back in, drenched, Namjoon has some towels from the linen closet.

Without the usual sexual tension of a truth and dare game, Yoongi strips off his wet clothes and wraps himself grouchily in as many towels as possible, the final one over his head and tucked under his chin.

Looking like a drenched cat, Yoongi scowls and shivers. “Can I at least go upstairs and get into some dry clothes, or do I have to risk a second dunk?”

Jungkook shrugs airly, passing the bowl down the line. “The risk of me dunking you again is pretty low, hyung. But never zero.”

The plastic bowl now rests in front of you. You eye the folded slips inside warily, before picking one roughly in the middle of the pile. Unfolding the small rectangle, you let out a week laugh once your eyes scan the neatly handwritten words. “Trade shirts with the person on your right.”

“That’s you, Joonie.” You rake over Namjoon’s getup with a wary eye. Luckily, he’s wearing a forest green tee over some chunky camo pants. You think he’s probably going to be worse off than you having to put on your own thin sweater. “Let’s swap.”

Slipping it off, you shiver in the cold air and feel the hairs on your arms stand up on end. Ignoring the rapt eyes of the others, you chuck it into Namjoon’s lap and watch his stomach and biceps flex as he lifts his own shirt over his head.

The fabric is cotton, but feels so silken against your skin, still warm from his body heat. While the hem of his shirt pools in your lap, your sweater on him strains around his waist, a solid two or three inches above his waistband.

You can’t help but let out a chuckle at the corded body, thick chest and meaty forearms barely being restrained by the slightly fuzzy pastel yellow sweater. “Looking good, Joon,” you jibe, poking him right where the skin of his hips is exposed.

He winces, carding a hand through his grey-silver hair, now ruffled from the closet change. “I’m sorry if it gets stretched out of shape after this. Is it my go?” Without waiting for an answer, he shakes up the bowl and retrieves a piece of paper from the bunch. “Jin’s cooking or Yoongi’s cooking.”

The colour drains from Namjoon’s face at the two men staring him down impassively, one of them sitting poised with an expectant glare, the other shivering slightly through layers of damp towels, round face poking out of the terrycloth with a warning frown.

“Um… I-” Namjoon gulps, and begins to undo the strap on his watch, leaving his wrist bare and slightly pale. “Tae, you’re up.”

Even without either man receiving the victory, they both seem mollified, Yoongi taking the opportunity to gather the towels and rush upstairs quickly. A small wet patch is left on the carpet in his place, Jimin and Jungkook on either side laying some fresh towels on top to soak it up.

Before you even notice Taehyung getting a slip, he’s hooting in excitement, jumping up to stand. “Design an outfit for a member in the house with random clothing in the villa!” He eyes up the people in the circle before gasping. “Wait! No! I’ll go do Yoongi while he’s changing!”

Like an excited puppy, he’s off up the stairs, chasing after the doctor.

“Do we...wait for him?” Jungkook asks uncertainly. His chest jerks with a hiccup, having finished most of your shared bottle of soju.

Leaning forward with a shrug, you snag another bottle, cracking open the lid and taking a sip of the refreshing green apple taste. Not your favourite, but you were just tipsy enough to not care all that much.

As the rest of you mind your time waiting for the absent two to return, some of the others begin on the snacks. Although Jimin has passed halfway on his moscato, he seems perfectly composed as he and Jin share a packet of rice snacks. Jungkook nibbles on the ends of a handful of Pocky sticks, wobbling slightly on the spot. Hoseok’s face is bright red even though he’s just been sipping at his fizzy soju concoction, so he gets a bag of Doritos and begins crunching madly.

Namjoon is holding his mug of white wine in both hands, so he stays snackless, shifting and sneaking glances at the stairs. Still looking comically beefy in your fitted sweater and camo pants with a million pockets, part of you thinks perhaps he was put out that he wasn’t the one to get an opportunity to change clothes again into something that fit a little better.

It doesn’t take long for a frantic thud-thud-thud echo through the room as Taehyung comes bounding down the stairs. “And introducing…!” he shouts cheerily. “The newest dom of the Red Room, Min Yoongiiii!”

When Yoongi comes down, the reaction he was expecting probably wasn’t cooing, but you can’t help it. Taehyung has done well to pick out glossy leather pants, thick-soled black boots, a white shirt and even a leather harness around the top of his chest, all the things that spoke to a professional dom, but on Yoongi it just looks like a sheep in wolf’s clothing.

Hoseok, clearly the original owner of the clothes judging by his gobsmacked look of recognition, is far taller than Yoongi, so the shirt drowns his torso and the pants are rolled up at the ends. All in all, he looks so tiny and sweet, hair still damp and tangled, that you imagine the dom clothes just served to make him appear cuter in contrast.

He scowls as he sits down, plump bottom lip sticking out, and reaches for his near-empty bottle of soju with a huff. “I hate this game,” he declares before taking a swig.

“You have had bad luck, hyung,” Hoseok admits, “I’m sure it’ll turn. And speaking of turns; it’s mine now!”

As Hoseok begins digging around for his, taking a dramatically long time just to make everyone groan, your pocket vibrates. Reaching down to check your phone, you suck in a breath when you see the text from Yoongi. It displays a single arrow pointing up, followed by an unambiguous now.

You clear your throat just as Hoseok picks a slip. “I’m just going to the bathroom, you can keep going without me.”

Apparently not concerned about subtlety, Yoongi just stands up and follows, his eyes dark on you.

Hoseok lets out a wolf whistle that makes your cheeks heat, before apparently giving up and returning to the game. You manage to make it upstairs with little fanfare, but Yoongi’s hand snakes around your wrist and his body cages you against the wall in the upstairs hallway before you can make it to your room.

Your breath hitches as his eyes burn into you like twin furnaces. “Have you been a good girl for me?” he asks in a low voice, lip quirking when you nod. “Let me check.”

Your eyes widen. “Here?”

Yoongi jerks his chin towards the sturdy metal banister that runs across the edge of the landing to the top of the stairs. “Bend over, sweetheart.”

You obey before you even realise just how exposed this position makes you. Gripping onto the metal like a lifeline, your face and upper body are well in view of anyone that came into the entrance foyer downstairs. As Yoongi slips down your panties and jeans in one go, your core throbs around the plug. “Please, Yoongi,” you breathe without thinking.

He slips a finger inside you without warning, hooking around the top of the plug and slowly dragging it closer to your entrance.. “Please what?”

“I- ungh.” Your mind comes to a halt as your walls stretch, the plug slipping out into his palm with an obscene noise. You don’t have to feel empty for long, as you feel the blunt head of his cock replacing the silicon toy, reaching much further depths to keep his cum from this morning buried deep inside you. “Fuck.”

Yoongi chuckles, using one hand to steady himself on your hip as he begins to fuck you in earnest, hips smacking your ass. “Well, that wasn’t a very articulate answer,” he teases, “it’s only been a couple of hours and you’ve already become a dumb little cumdump, haven’t you?”

You gasp at his sudden degradation, but you can’t hide the way you clench around him, biting down harshly on your lip to muffle a moan.

“Fuck, you like that?” he curses with a satisfied growl, picking up the pace so that his every thrust jerks your hips forward against the banister. “Spread out in the middle of the hallway for anyone to see, just here to keep my cock and my cum warm?”

You shiver. “Y-yes, Yoongi, fuck me harder, gi-give me your cum, wan’ it!” Denied from an orgasm earlier in the day, it’s no surprise that your dignity drops away so soon, your mind morphing into a desperate organ that needs relief. Doing your best to fuck yourself back on him, you let out a whine. You’d lose your balance if you took a hand off the banner, and you both know it. Something in you doesn’t think Yoongi would do it for you, either, if this morning was anything to go off.

“Such a slut, sweetheart,” Yoongi pants out, but instead of the hard edge of degradation, his voice is honeyed with praise. “So fucking good for me, my little cocksleeve.”

Your eyes begin to prickle, so close yet so far from the orgasm that he deftly dangles in front of you. Uncaring of who could hear you downstairs, or the fact that Yoongi probably wouldn’t listen anyway, you start to mindlessly beg him, letting out a weak stuttered moan with every plunge inside you.

As expected, he just shushes you and tightens his grip on your waist, his pace picking up impossibly fast until he suddenly goes stiff and spills inside you, catching his breath. “That’s a good girl,” he gasps between gulps of air, “still so tight, mean Yoongi not letting you cum.”

You whimper as he slides out slowly, pressing a hand on the small of your back to keep your ass arched up as he slips the still-wet egg back inside. Your legs tremble and your core clenches in dissatisfaction at the second denial, but the pleased smile on his face as you keep two loads of cum inside you is enough to make your heart soar.

He hands you a tissue to wipe the slick off your thighs before lifting your jeans back up, and he cleans off his hand, using his mouth to suck away the creamy mix of your arousal and his cum that had gotten on it from the silicon egg. “Did so well, sweetheart,” he coos, “not much longer now.”

Yoongi ends up returning downstairs first again, if only to give you some time to lose the wobbliness in your knees, but by the time you sit back down, it’s clear a round or so must have gone by without you.

There’s a near-empty glass in the middle of the room, a layer of sludgy green around the sides and gathering at the bottom. Hoseok bears a disgusted frown, swishing lemonade in his puffed cheeks. Jungkook isn’t wearing any pants, Taehyung has lost another sock, and Jin has a stripe of wetness running up his cheek like someone’s licked him. Namjoon doesn’t meet his gaze.

Yoongi glances up and runs his eyes over you as you sit back down gingerly. “Good timing. Your turn, sweetheart.”

You let out a sigh, take a gulp of the closest open soju bottle near you - this one sickly sweet - and pick a piece of paper at random. “How long are we even going to- Oh. What is your ideal sexual scenario.” Your cheeks are on fire. “I- Surely I shouldn’t answer, though, because then you’ll all just do it to try and stay in the game.”

“If it’s your ideal scenario, wouldn’t you prefer to experience it multiple times?” Jin questions, his eyes burning with curiosity even as he keeps his expression neutral.

Jungkook shrugs, the motion lifting his shirt to reveal grey boxer briefs. He seems totally unbothered about his state of undress. “You don’t need to be embarrassed, either. If it helps, I’ll tell you mine.”

You narrow your eyes. “Seriously? Fine, you go first.”

He shrugs again, shaking his head so the strands of red fall away from his eyes. “I’m in a five-star hotel. They gave me like the President’s suite or something because I’m super rich and super important, and it has a whole bunch of video games. I enjoy room service and play video games for an hour, only I didn’t come alone. I have a bunch of hot people, like at least five, and they all wanna fuck me.” Like he’s telling a perfectly innocent yet incredibly interesting story, Jungkook gestures and speaks emphatically, the other members of the house listening in with a dumbfounded silence. “I definitely wanna fuck them too, you know, but I’m busy. Playing games and stuff. So they do everything they can to get my attention, until eventually either I take pity on them and wreck them, or one of them decides to shut the game off and make me pay for ignoring them. I guess ideal would be some of both. And then we all fuck, and I’m right in the middle because it’s all about me. The end.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “Why does it sound like you’ve thought this through in great depth?”

“Because I have,” Jungkook answers simply. “Look, one time my friend and I got a fancy hotel room together and I thought it would be totally perfect if there were video games or something fun to do in the room, you know? And also I had a massive crush on her so my mind was also in the gutter and everything just came together.”

You blink. “Well… Okay, I don’t think mine will be so elaborate because I haven’t really… I don’t know. I guess mine would be renting a cabin or a chalet somewhere super remote for like a whole week with someone, knowing that we can basically have sex all day and all night without worrying about anything else.” Your cheeks flush, and you clear your throat awkwardly, staring at the fibres of the carpet.

“Sex retreat,” Jungkook summarises knowingly, “that’s a good one. Anyways, Namjoon’s turn again.”

Over the next few hours, the eight of you get consistently more tipsy, and eventually replace the alcohol with some steamed rice and leftover soup to sober up a bit. Taehyung had to do a blind taste test (apparently Hoseok’s elbow tasted like pork), Namjoon stripped off your stretched-out pink sweater to avoid answering a truth that made him blush so hard he wouldn’t even read it out, and Jimin theorised on who the biggest dick in the house was (guessing Jin, the eldest strutted around like a smug peacock for the rest of the night).

You’d gotten off decently lightly; answering a few questions about Sejin, music, and even Mango, then taking off your pants to avoid a dare that asked you to strip entirely. Though you wouldn’t admit it, you didn’t want to part with Namjoon’s shirt that soon.

Every time you managed to forget about the egg-shaped toy inside you, you’d laugh or change positions or reach forward for a drink and feel it shift inside you. You felt full in a way you’ve never really experienced before, and you couldn’t work out if you liked it or not. Another thing you couldn’t decide if you liked or not was the constant worry that your underwear would betray a dark patch or trail of cum that had escaped you, and the whole rooom would know exactly what Yoongi had done to you. The thought made your heart thud.

By the time Jin started to stack the dishwasher and Jimin - still the most sober one though he outdrunk most of you - cleans up the lounge, you feel equally tired and horny, desperate to get the reward that Yoongi’s been dangling in front of you.

He doesn’t even have to text you or command you; you quite happily trail him to his room like a needy pet, hoping your eyes convey your want.

“Can I help you?” Yoongi asks with a shit-eating grin, finally slipping out of the leather chest harness he’d been grumbling about all afternoon.

You narrow your eyebrows, feeling the toy shift inside you with every movement. “I think you can,” you pout.

His gaze glimmers with bemusement. “Come sit, sweetheart, let me make sure you’ve been good.”

He doesn’t even speak as he pushes lightly at your shoulder, guiding you to lie down on his bed, legs dangling over the edge. With his quiet demeanor of authority, much like you imagine he’d use in his clinic, he slides down your panties and parts your legs, humming in approval at what he sees. “You have been good. Keeping my cum warm for me, what a well-behaved slut you are.”

You suck in a breath at his words, tilting your hips up. “Yoongi, please.”

“I do want to give you your reward now,” he begins, and your heart sinks into your stomach at his reluctant tone. “Really, I do. But if you really want to please me, why don’t you let me fill you up one more time, hm?”

You have the rising urge to bite down hard on your knuckles, teeth grinding as you whine. “Yoongi,” you protest, but the need to please is too great to ignore. “Yeah, fuck me again, Yoongi. Please be quick, I want it.”

Yoongi laughs, a warm grumble in his chest. “Oh, sweetheart, you’ve already milked me dry twice today. I won’t be lasting long.”

Quicker than your arousal-addled mind can really process, Yoongi is tugging the plug from you and driving his cock in in one smooth motion. You cry out, a hand flying out to latch onto his arm to ground you as you tighten around his intrusion. “Fuh-fuck, oh god,” you make out through a tensed jaw.

“Shh,” the doctor coos, “are you sensitive? Poor sweetheart, Yoongi’s been so mean not letting you cum, keeping you plugged up all day.”

Your eyes tear up as he jackhammers his hips into you, brute force to achieve a quick and desperate orgasm. Though you doubt he’ll let you cum, you’ve been aroused so much today that heat already curls thickly in your stomach. You can barely respond with no air left in your lungs, so you just garble wordlessly, clutching at him for dear life.

Yoongi doesn’t seem to mind your inability to hold a coherent conversation. As he mercilessly seeks out your wetness, he continues to spew filth with a grin exposing his teeth. “Gonna fill you up so well, huh? Fill you right up to the brim, you’ll be leaking for days. Taking this cock so well, sweetheart. Just like that, fuck. My perfect little cumdump, only been a day and you’re so well-behaved, yeah? Just drooling for it, look at you.”

You’re out of your mind, holding on to his words and the shared contact like they’re your only lifelines. When Yoongi lets out a guttural groan and comes inside you for the third time that day, you feel totally boneless, unable to do more than whine and shiver on the duvet.

Edged yet again, the only energy left in your body is singing out for an orgasm, and so when you feel his hand cupping your heat, you rock into it mindlessly, warranting a quick and stinging swat to your thigh.

“You’ve been so patient, sweetheart, don’t be greedy now,” Yoongi chastises. “I need you to move for me, okay, on your knees on the bed. Clench hard; I don’t want my cum going to waste on the bedsheets.”

You groan weakly but follow his instructions, bleary-eyed as you watch him walk around the other sie of his bed before getting up and lying down on his back, mint hair splayed out on the pillow. He grins at you, tongue darting out to lick his lips. “Come on, then,” he lures, “take a seat.”

You moan out loud before you can even think to swallow it down. “Are you serious? Fuck, okay.” Feeling breathless but vibrating with excitement, you gingerly position yourself above his face, knees either side of his head. It takes a lot of energy to hold your walls tight together, but still his seed runs down your thighs.

He doesn’t seem to mind. Without a moment’s hesitation he mumbles, “let go, sweetheart,” and buries himself between your legs.

You cry out at the first swipe of his tongue, right over your entrance. Your muscles naturally flex, releasing more of him, but you remember his words and let yourself relax.

Yoongi laps up his own cum from you like it’s the sweetest nectar, driving his tongue sharp and deep inside you, then switching to broad, shallow strokes, before flicking the tip against your clit. Although you try to avoid squashing him, he hungrily grabs the flesh of your ass and tugs you down to meet him more fully, making you let out a broken moan and grip the headboard for support.

As he devours you, his hands encourage you to rock against his face, seeking out more pleasure. Whenever he dips his tongue lower to lick you clean, his nose rubs against your clit, and once enabled you can’t help but grind into the long-awaited stimulation, a constant stream of breathy sighs and hiccuped moans slipping from your lips.

The sensation of his cum leaving you is one that takes some getting used to, but it seems to go on forever, unbelievably wet against Yoongi’s face as he eats you out like a silver-tongued god. Your mind is filled with the visual of his eyes, clenched shut in focus, and the mental image of his cum filling your insides, an endless stream with how deep and full he’d fucked you today.

It’s no surprise that it takes you almost no time at all to reach that edge again, and you could cry in relief when, instead of edging you again, he pushes you over it with a sharp tongue, fingers digging into your ass as you rode it out on his face.

What does surprise you, however, is that once the pleasure turns to needling oversensitivity, and your muscles go lax, his grip only tightens, and his tongue just speeds up, ruthlessly pitching you long past the point of your orgasm.

“Yoongi, ah, ‘s too much!” you hiss, trying to wriggle away. Your knees are too wide to give you any leverage, however, and he lifts his forearms up and over your thighs, locking you against him.

You feel rather than hear the vibration of him grunting his response, but he doesn’t let up; not when you sob and writhe above him, not when you go totally silent, mind-blown at how the sensations are beginning to cycle around back to pleasure, and certainly not when a second orgasm is forced upon you, wracking through your body. More violent than the first one, you shudder against him and go slack against the headboard, moans weak and stuttered.

As your body continues to convulse and twitch with the aftermath of your back-to-back orgasms, Yoongi takes the wheel and gently maneuvers you to the side of his bed, head heavy on the pillow.

When he cleans you up, your pussy feels positively raw, and you hiss, locking your thighs around his hand and the damp facecloth he’d used. Mind hazy and floating, it seems like no time at all before he’s tucking the both of you under the covers, snagging you around the stomach and pulling you flush against his back.

Still in Namjoon’s soft shirt, you can nonetheless feel the heat radiating off Yoongi’s skin and his heart thudding in his chest. “Was that okay?” he asks, pressing a single soft kiss against the nape of your neck to punctuate his question.

“Fuck, more than okay,” you pant out.

You feel him smile against your skin. “I’m glad. Sleep well, sweetheart.”

You hum in response, getting yourself comfy, feeling secure in his hold. “Night, Yoon.”

[tothemeadow]

Commissioned by @oozyhxney​

Tanjiro x Reader x Kanao

- You’ve been such a naughty brat, haven’t you? Too bad Mommy and Daddy don’t plan on being easy on you... -

warnings: NSFW, Mommy/Daddy kink, oral sex, leash and collar, degradation, slut shaming, spanking, ass play, choking

words: 1.5k

(a/n): It was specifically requested that this be a AMBW/AWBW, so this is for all my black beauties out there!

-

How does one beg for forgiveness?

Get on your knees, cry out for mercy, kiss your masters’ shoes? What about being positively broken and left a shuddering, crying mess?

“Fucking slut,” Tanjiro says, tone low, gravelly. Normally, he’s chipper and bleeds kindness, but when he gets pissed… Well, his bright personality throws itself out the window and gets replaced by this. You choke on a breath as he yanks on your leash, the tightly fit collar around your throat digging into the skin. “We literally pay you to give us all of your attention, and this is how you respond? Tsk.”

You want to bite back, argue that it was nothing more than mindless flirting at a nightclub, for fuck’s sake. The whole point of going out with your friends Mitsuri and Shinobu was to have fun, and you’d be damned if you didn’t take the chance to kick back and relax. However, as the late-night crowd usually goes, people become bold, wild; before you even know it, you were on the dancefloor, swaying your hips enticingly to the heavy bass reverberating throughout the club.

Vague memories flash through your mind; blaring music, the sweaty crowd, a sea of blue and pink lights filling the heavy atmosphere. There was a guy grinding against you, grabbing your hips and murmuring about how he wanted to take you home. You barely remember what he looked like, much less what his name was. Iggy? Iguana? Iguro? You don’t know, and frankly, you don’t care.

“She’s biting her tongue, dear,” Kanao murmurs. You wince as she lifts her foot and presses her heel into your back. “You want to say something, right? Don’t give us lip.” The pressure of her foot increases, making her heel dig in even further. “Admit you like to whore around, and we can all get on with our day.”

“I never said anything,” you hiss. “And I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Tanjiro chuckles. Craning his neck back, he glances to the ceiling, sucks on his teeth. “Not only are you a slut, but you’re a mouthy bitch.” Dropping his head back down, he looks to you with dark, hungry eyes. “Two people aren’t enough for you, huh? How do you think that makes us feel?”

Okay, okay, so maybe Tanjiro and Kanao do pay your time and your wonderful body. They’re a disgusting rich married couple who had too much free time on their hands, plus they were open to the idea of having an open marriage. That being said, they took an interest in you and decided to make you theirs. It’s all a part of this little “relationship” you have, and, if you’re being entirely honest, knowing that spending time with others makes their blood boil has you tingling with excitement.

“Oh, so having others drool all over you is perfectly okay?” Kanao drawls. Removing her foot, she steps around you, her heels clacking against the floor. Standing next to Tanjiro now, it’s easy to see that they’re the epitome of a power couple: dressed to the nines, clear skin, luxurious jewelry hanging from their ears and wrists. Their very aura screams wealth and power, and it’d be wise to tread lightly around them.

However, you like to give it back as much as you like to take it.

“If this is the reaction I get from Mommy and Daddy, then yes,” you purr. “I love it.”

Tanjiro scoffs. “Everybody wants to take a ride on the black horse these days, huh? Stupid slut. You won’t be happy until you have everyone’s cock inside you and fucking you stupid, huh?” Again, he tugs on your leash, but this time, he does it hard. You’re left sputtering for a breath, your eyes nearly bulging out of your head. “Kanao, I say it’s about time we teach our brat some manners.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Kanao says, a slight sneer coming to her face. Taking the leash away from Tanjiro, she tugs you to a stand and directs you over to the oversized bed. “Get on your hands and knees,” she barks. “Mommy is gonna teach you what happens when her precious baby decides to act like a fucking slut.”

Before you have a chance to say anything in return, Kanao abruptly brings her hand down on your ass. The sharp smack rings throughout the air, leaves you entirely breathless. Despite her small stature, she’s strong, and she isn’t afraid to remind you of it. So she does it again and again, switching between your asscheeks and making you cry out in pleasure filled pain. Your entire body jerks at her ministrations, your fingers digging into the duvet, your back arching.

“Well, why won’t you look at that,” Tanjiro hums. “Not so mouthy now, huh?”

In that moment, you’re grateful that your dark skin doesn’t give away your blush. Heat bubbles in your belly, travels to the tips of your fingers and your toes. Your whole being is on fire, and both Tanjiro and Kanao know it. They know the effect they have on you, and goddammit they’re so smug about it.

Shuffling onto the bed, Tanjiro casually takes his place before you. Fingers hooking onto the O ring of your collar, he forces you to gaze up at him. The look in his eyes is dark, intense. The set of his jaw makes his muscle tick. He’s practically bleeding with controlled anger, but little amounts of it are spilling. “Since you want cock so bad, take it for yourself,” he sneers.

Glancing downwards, a lump grows in your throat at the sight that greets you. Tanjiro’s cock strains against the sleek fabric of his slacks, looking almost downright delectable. The fact that he’s already hard over your misbehavior sends delicious tremors down your spine.

Tanjiro tugs on your collar. “What, are you just gonna sit there and stare? Choke yourself on my cock, you filthy slut.” With a huff, he undoes his pants and yanks out his cock. The head is already flushed a pretty shade of red; precum oozes from the tip from your prolonged attention. Flicking your eyes upwards, you’re met with an utterly sinful look on Tanjiro’s handsome face. “Well, what are you waiting for? Suck Daddy’s cock.”

You don’t have to be told twice.

Surging forward, you eagerly take his cock into your mouth; you moan at his heady taste, the pleasant weight of his sex against your tongue. Oh, as much as you love being a brat, you adore having Daddy gaze down at you like this, eyelashes fluttering and bottom lip tucked between his teeth. Oh, fuck, does he look so damn good like that. Slipping further down his cock, you lap at the vein underneath, hollow your cheeks.

“Shit,” Tanjiro hisses. Fingers abandoning your collar, they wrap around your neck instead. “Like that, you damn slut. Come on, gag yourself.”

“Don’t tell me that you’ve already forgotten about me,” Kanao suddenly murmurs into your ear. Her soft hands shamelessly grope the swell of your ass. “You really are that eager for cock, huh? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s a shame I can’t rail you whenever, huh? I bet you’d fuck yourself silly on my cock.”

Kanao’s words leave you dizzy. Moaning around Tanjiro’s cock, you arch even further into her touch, silently begging for more. What’s more, Tanjiro’s grip around your neck tightens, directing your attention back to where it matters. He’s got his cock down your throat, inching his way further down with each bob of your head. Before long, he’s muttering curses under his breath; placing his other hand on the back of your neck, he holds you still as he bucks his hips into you, a loud moan ripping itself from the depths of his chest as he fucks your throat.

Behind you, Kanao sucks on her teeth, obviously unamused with her husband’s behavior. Now, she isn’t competitive, unlike Tanjiro, but when it comes to sharing you, her attitude can take a surprising turn. A squeal erupts from your throat as her fingers dip into your sopping cunt. You haven’t really realized just how wet you were until that very moment. Spurred on by your reaction, she quickly thrusts her fingers in and out, the sinful squelch coming from between your legs stoking the fires inside your belly.

“Fuck, fuck, baby,” Tanjiro groans. “Just like that for Daddy. Your mouth is so hot, oh my god-“

“I wonder what would happen if I do this,” Kanao purrs. Without saying another word, her tongue swirls around your asshole. You keen around Tanjiro’s cock, your pussy clenching around Kanao’s fingers. A fat drop of slick pushes its way past her fingers, coats the insides of your thighs.

“Our filthy slut likes this a lot, huh?” Tanjiro pants. “Dammit, I wish I had a camera…” Moaning around his cock, you catch his eyes, sending him a silent taunt. Tanjiro has the audacity to chuckle. “You’re in no position to be bratty, slut. Now be a good girl and let Mommy and Daddy have their fun.”

“That’s right,” Kanao mutters. “Be a good slut and take it.”

[the-darklings]

—𝒊 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒆 𝒖𝒑;

—PART XVI. | I WILL RISE UP

pairing: john wick x f!reader x santino d’antonio

word count: 23.4k+ (yes, the clownery truly never ceases)

summary: “Don’t disappear.”

warnings: PTSD, discussion of child abduction, panic attack, death all around, ANGSTTTT, swearing, strong violence.  

notes: You all know this one was very hard and a long time coming. I sincerely hope you enjoy. :’) Welcome to the concluding part of Chicago. 

children of ares series: 01 | …. | 14 | 15 | . . | 17 |

gif credit (x)

There is blood under your nails.

Water falls over your hands but it won’t wash away.

These hands capable of so much damage.

You wonder if John would be proud of you. If he would feel some semblance of satisfaction that you have become someone so dangerous. Or maybe he would hate you. He left you, didn’t he? Lied to you, tricked you—

But his eyes had seemed so sad during the wedding. Almost like his own heart was breaking and he didn’t even realise it but…

You rub your hands again.

The skin of your palms feels raw and tender from the scrubbing but you ignore it. Hot water slides down your neck and hair and you find that you…can’t…move.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been in this shower. How long since you rushed into it, so desperate to get all the blood off you, only to practically collapse once the stream of water fell over you.

So weak, Kishi hums beside you, patting your cheek and you jerk away from the touch, did you see what you did to him? That was you. You and your hate.

It wasn’t the blade that did the killing.

With your vision blurry and muscles frail the blade had sunk into Rafael’s collar more so than his neck. Too far away from anything vital. He would have lived. Even when he pulled out the blade, throwing you off him, even as blood stained his shirt as he came at you with the same knife you had used on him.

Murderous expression, an unfaltering grip on a blade stained with his blood—

Then, a flicker of pure agony. A soundless scream of pain as his expression came apart. Raw anguish had locked his knees, knocking him clean off his feet.

Your poison had raged through him like wildfire, destroying everything that Rafael was from inside out.

The poison you had so painstakingly created over these last several months—your crowning, awful jewel made just for Tarasov—had eroded Rafael Conte in a matter of minutes.

First, his smooth, healthy skin had turned purple, and the tiny veins in his eyes ruptured as they turned blood red. But the worst had been the sounds he made. Agonised, pathetic noises of a man whose lungs were collapsing and filling up with blood.

Rafael Conte died choking on his own blood, no doubt experiencing the same agony you went through in Tokyo.

The Drowning

Just like Kishi had done with you. You had returned the favour.

Then, silence. Just awful silence and the rushing of water in your ears as the sink continued overflowing.

Through the haze there had only been Santino with his arms around you, practically ripping you off the ground and pulling you out of the bathroom.

With your dress sopping wet and clinging to your legs, you had stumbled after him. He had paused only long enough to drape his suit jacket around your shoulders, his phone already pressed to his ear as he spoke in clipped, harsh Italian into it.

You can’t recall a single word he had said.

The only sound in your head had been the rushing of water and the cracking of the mirror.

Over and over.

Over and over.

His arm around you, he had pressed you tightly to him but his steps had been measured, deliberate. He didn’t want to appear panicked though you felt the tension stiffening his muscles.

Santino had paused just before you entered the main hall, busying himself with undoing his shirt even more, his eyes moving subtly over the hallway walls. Checking for cameras.

He had turned towards you then, his expression inscrutable as he sank his fingers carefully into your hair, tugging the strands aside gently. After, he used the very same pocket square you gave him to dab under your eyes quickly, wiping away the mascara smears and the tears. Not one word was exchanged between you as he continued cleaning you up and making himself messier.

Ruffling his hair forcefully, he had pulled you to him when footsteps drew nearer, touching one side of your face and leaning close. Moments later an older couple had appeared around the corner, pausing at the sight of you both. Nothing more than a man touching a woman with a lover’s familiarity. You no doubt looked like you’ve either just kissed or were about to.

Always so good at playing the part.

Santino had given them a facile, cool smile and tugged you after him, his stride confident, relaxed. His fingers were flying over the phone screen though, and the slant of his eyebrows betrayed his unease, irritation.

You haven’t felt this adrift since Tokyo, clinging to him because there was no way your legs would have carried you out of the hotel where a car was already waiting for you.

It was only when you got inside, and the door slammed behind you that you had turned to him, your lips trembling.

“The b—”

“Already handled.”

And that had been it.

He spent the ride to the hotel with his phone pressed to his ear while you sat beside him, shivering and clenching his jacket closer to you.

There was still blood on your hands.

You had used the back entrance of the hotel and had encountered no one on your way to your room.

Such easy control. Such power.

You couldn’t help but wonder why he had needed you at all.

Santino had left you inside the room after leading you to the bed and checking your head. He kept talking but nothing had stuck inside your mind, every word fleeing the moment it registered.

He lingered at the door, his phone already against his ear but the look in his eyes had been reluctant.

He didn’t want to leave but you doubt he had much choice after that mess.

By the time the door clicked shut, you wanted to crawl out of your skin and disappear entirely.

The noises Rafael made, all that blood bubbling past his lips—

You’re so good at making people choke on their own blood, Kishi had whispered against your ear, wrapping his arms around you, awful, vicious viper. How could anyone ever love you?

You had barely made it to the toilet before throwing up, curled over it and dry sobbing for a number of minutes.

You were so desperate to get the dirt and the grime and the blood off you that the shower had seemed like the obvious choice.

Something beautiful torn apart and stained needed to be cleaned.

But the shower had only frozen you in place, dragging you towards the ground and locking you there.

That sensation of water sliding down your skin has unmade you, and suddenly it’s like no time has passed at all. Still in Tokyo. Still drowning. Still dead to the world.

Opposite to you, hiding in the steam, Kishi grins at you, his crooked teeth on display.

Your eyes drag back towards the hands in your lap. They lay there, two useless lumps of flesh and you try to move, try to gather strength but fail.

That tiny ember in your chest is doused and you claw for it desperately, willing it to come back.

Please, I don’t want to be this.

Footsteps.

The bathroom door gets thrown open and a figure appears through the mist.

Still dressed in a white shirt and those mirror shoes gleaming.

“There you are, amore, I had thought—”

Santino’s voice breaks off, his lips pressing shut at the sight of you.

You’re still wearing the dress from earlier. You loved it so much. It made you feel so beautiful—like yourself—no matter how briefly only hours prior.

It’s ruined now though.

The beat of water echoes through the silence between you and you rock in place slightly, still slumped on the floor.

“I—I thought I would get the blood off my hands but…” you breathe shakily, not looking at him. “It never comes off, does it?”

Santino steps closer, ignoring the shower as he squats down before you, his eyes dark.  

“Are you hurt?”

Honesty works your tongue.

“Yes.”

His expression pinches and he raises his hand as if to pull you from under the stream but hesitates, watching your expression.  

“Where?”

You can only bring yourself to choke out a strangled, “The water.”

His eyebrows furrow into an even heavier line. He doesn’t get it. He knows nothing about it so how could he? But his head slants lower and he tries to catch your eyes.

“Tell me about it.”

You blink the water from your eyes, trembling, and watch as he rises to his feet but instead of walking away, he moves to your right. He sits down with deliberate slowness. A part of you wants to tell him to stop but he ignores the water sinking rapidly into his trousers, spreading his legs out in front of him.

He only glances at you once before looking out towards the rest of the bathroom.

The faded light washes over his drawn features as he waits and it hits you then that it’s not a demand like it usually is with him. It’s a request, an offering, and something tells you that even if you don’t tell him, he might still stay.

He might stay.

Even when you’re...this.

The self-obsessed man who is not worthy of loyalty or trust might just stay.

He won’t stay, Kishi insists from in front of you and you flinch, he will leave just like your John did. They will all leave you. You will die alone.

Slumping, you stare at your hands again, ignoring the cut of water against the back of your neck.

“In Tokyo—I—” you begin and every word is agony. You haven’t talked with anyone about what happened to you in that pit—not even John. You hated the idea of him seeing you as broken, tarnished, weak. “He drowned me. Over and over.”

Santino’s sharp exhale is loud enough to hear even over the water.

“You do not have to—”

“And the room...the room with no air,” you choke out, ignoring his words and Kishi glares at you, his face full of hate. This is your dirty little secret after all, and he despises you for sharing it. “I—I prefer the beatings. That pain...it was easy. Electricity was...worse. But water. The water.”

A pained sound bubbles from the back of your throat and your chest hurts.

It hurts.

And there is never any relief for this pain. Like a wound that won’t stop bleeding.

You wait for Santino to get up and walk away. Wait for him to say that he always knew you were pathetic but he’s silent.

Your head feels heavy but you turn it towards him anyway to get your answer.

Be it disgust or pity or indifference.

You find none of those things.

No—Santino D’Antonio glares at some distant point on the wall with enough furious intensity to crumble concrete.

His clenched fist rests in his lap too, his knuckles popping, and his heir ring seems to glow in the light and the water.

He draws his legs to him, and there is something slow and harsh about the motion, as he rests his arms over his bent knees.

Like he’s trying to contain whatever it is that’s ravaging through him.

“So all those times you avoided water…”

His voice is hoarse as it trails off but he still won’t look at you. He sounds like he’s talking through clenched teeth and your head dips in a slight nod.

All those times when you were staying with Camorra and avoided water. Pools, the sea—anything involving a body of water. How you always avoid it even now. Now, at least, his old curiosity has an answer.

You can still recall how much it had surprised you that he noticed your avoidance in the first place. You didn’t think he could see beyond himself long enough to notice a damn thing about anyone else.  

“It just makes me feel like—”

“Like you’re still there. Still trapped. Drowning.”

That gives you a pause.

Blinking owlishly, you look towards him, considering his tone, his body language. The heaviness, the strain on his face that he tries to rope back. You can tell because it’s familiar to you—this conflict of not wanting to show weakness.

He turns towards you briefly, his eyes narrowed, his mouth twisted into a disconcerted line as he gazes at you. An inner conflict rages behind his eyes but you don’t have enough energy to ask. If he wants to—

“The first time I was taken I was five.”

Something settles inside the pit of your stomach. A weight that distracts you entirely and pins your attention on the Camorra heir.

Santino’s lips pull back in a smile but it is not a kind thing—it’s like all the warmth such a gesture could bring has been ripped away. “Hm, yes. I don’t recall much of that first time. But my father’s methods of ruling meant that Camorra had plenty of enemies,” he explains, his voice empty like he’s reciting a manual and not facts of his own life. “I was his only male heir. An assurance that D’Antonio name will continue governing Camorra after he’s gone. By the time my father’s Four tracked me down…”

His words are soft, hateful, and your stomach churns as you observe the way his body curves. He swallows—a forced, heavy thing—his lips parting as he stares towards the wall and speaks his next words with stark bitterness.

“I was naked, strapped to a table,” he continues, his words empty, and your heart stutters in your chest. Despite the heat of the water, you suddenly feel cold to the bone. “They, ah, had no intention of killing me, you understand? They just planned to...remove certain parts. A male heir who can’t produce heirs. A mockery to my father’s legacy. The D’Antonio name would die with me. Fine irony to that, no?”

He glances towards you then. You’re not quite sure what he finds on your face when your eyes meet but his lips twitch again.

You—

You have never seen him like this.

You’re not sure you ever want to again, either.

“It was a rival family,” he continues after a beat, but the roar of the water is so loud that you have to lean closer towards him to hear. “My father had his heirs killed in front of the man. One by one. Three sons and a daughter, too. Then he let the head and his men burn alive in their pretty little house.”

For several minutes there is just more water.

You’re shivering but it’s for a different reason this time, even if hearing this doesn’t surprise you. There is a very good reason why Giovanni is so feared, respected. Why Camorra bloomed under his years of ruthless forging.

You’ve seen his methods firsthand.

“There were other such incidents over the years,” Santino carries on and his head inclines in your direction again. Every word digs into you painfully. “Few with Gianna as well. Each as bad as the last. It is simply a price to pay for what we are. That’s what my father always told me. Hm, power demands a price, cara mia. Always. I know what it is to be a trapped thing. Dependent on the goodwill of others. Never again, I told myself. They would learn to fear me. I care not for how hated that will make me.”

His words rattle through you with enough intensity to wipe away all else. You never thought that Santino of all the people would ever make you speechless.

This vain, awful man.

A monster born in a family of monsters.

They would learn to fear me.

So very similar to your own mantra.

I want him to fear me and he will.

Every time you have to grit your teeth and face Tarasov—the man who robbed you of your family and took your freedom—you tell yourself those words. One day, one day, one day, he will die afraid and alone.

A choice to be hated to keep yourself safe.

You don’t sympathize because you understand.

But not in a million years—not ever—would you have expected for Santino D’Antonio to understand what it’s like to be trapped and hurt. Held captive and damaged.

But it makes so much sense.

You’ve heard of territory wars, perhaps none more bloody than those waged by the Italians.

“I did not choose this life but I have made it my own,” he tells you after several minutes of silence and you blink. He exhales quietly and licks his bottom lips, pensive. “Oh, bella, you wonder why I abhor the rules so but the truth is simple. Rules have robbed me of more than you know. I’ve been trapped by my title as much as I’ve been set free by it. I do not mind it anymore—the trap that is my expected existence. I will claim all the power one day and that will be my freedom. I will be the one to set the rules.”        

Steam blinds you as you squint at him.

His head is tilted backwards, resting against the tiles of the shower. His white shirt is getting wetter by the second from the spray of water raining between you. His styled hair sits in a heavy mess atop of his head from dampness and heat, and you watch him swallow, his adam’s apple bobbing. His forearms rest on his bent knees and you want to comment on how his Rolex will get soaked at this rate but can’t bring yourself to do so.

In this light, he appears—

“But you should,” you whisper slowly, your words a rasp. “You should mind it.”

A smile twitches his mouth to one side as he continues staring up towards the ceiling.  

It makes you uncomfortable.

It makes you uneasy.

It makes you—

Santino D’Antonio tips his head in your direction, his eyes empty of all bravado you’re so used to seeing, and you can’t help but think that he looks—

“Ah, cara mia, I do,” he breathes, still smiling that awful, hollow smile. “I just pretend that I don’t.”

—sad.

You look at each other for several moments before he blinks, his expression clearing. He’s retreating and you realise that this moment—this miniature fragment of himself he has unexpectedly shared with you—he has likely never shared with anyone else before.

You can tell.

Because the lingering discomfort is so known to you.

“Tell me,” he begins wilfully, his eyes focusing on your face. “Tell me how to stop this.”

That lingering rage. The bitterness.

Your mouth twists. A flicker of anger suddenly nipping at your senses. “You can’t fix me,” you spit out, your breaths strained, and your fingers twitch. “There is no fixing this.”

His reply is immediate, tart. “I have no intention of fixing you,” he says simply, almost irked. “It’s not my job to do so, carrisima. But there has to be a way to help…somehow.”

Oh.

Just like that, you suddenly know what this is about.

Seeing you like this must be like seeing himself.

How desperately must he have wished for someone to be there for him? He was just a boy expected to brush off every terrible thing that has happened to him because he had to be strong. Did he seek out some way to alleviate whatever scars those childhood incidents left?

His thirst for power and control, that selfishness and greed that’s so inherent to him. Suddenly, a lot more makes sense about Santino.

It’s like you’re seeing him through a completely different lens.

Perhaps he can understand that certain scars never heal.

Tokyo will be a part of you till the day you die.

But speaking about it—whatever little you did divulge—did wipe Kishi from your sight.

Not for the first time, his ghost has been chased away.  

Maybe that’s what you need. A distraction. A way to forget he haunts you.

A way for both of you to forget your demons. Just for a little while.

“Tell me,” you plead, your voice soft. “Tell me a story with a happy ending.”

Santino’s parted lips press shut lightly as he peers at you for a beat. His head lowers for a moment, and then he shakes his head slightly. He stares at the drain where the water disappears continuously and a sound escapes him; a mix of amusement and some woeful emotion.  

“I can’t,” he replies, equally as soft. “People like us don’t get happy endings.”

Swallowing weakly, you mutter a quiet, “Try anyway.”

The Italian beside you remains quiet though. He peers at you and you can’t quite tell what he’s thinking. For once, he’s not easy to read. His damp curls stick to his forehead and you watch him rise to his feet, lacking his usual grace. He steps towards you and lowers himself before you for a second time, his gaze drifting over your features.  

He hesitates before providing you with a simple, guarded, “Imagine you and me—and everything we’ve ever wanted.”

As simple as that.

And with those hard, emerald eyes boring into you, a part of you does.

You imagine you both find a way to get out of this situation dry.

You imagine John coming back and telling you that he loves you more. That he simply loves you. That he wants you as much as you want him.

You imagine Tarasov dead at your feet and your freedom in sight.

Freedom.

To be whoever you want to be.

Santino would become head of Camorra—his lifelong goal, his shield of power—and then…

Life.

Sunshine.

Happiness.

A dream that you will likely never achieve.

Even if you want to, so badly.

People like us don’t get happy endings.

Isn’t that right?

“Tell me this wasn’t for nothing,” you utter, almost breathless from a dream you wish you could cling to as it slips from between your fingers. “Tell me why we’re really here. Make—give me a reason to trust you.”

Santino’s mouth tightens, his previous open expression hardening under your prompting.

A different kind of conflict rages behind his reticent stare now.

No one has come for you yet, and you wonder if Santino has found a way to bury the very dead Rafael Conte without being found out. But being hopeful is not something you’re very good at—not anymore.

“Get on your feet, amore,” he says after a long moment of charged silence between you. “Change out of that dress and meet me outside. Then I will tell you.”

He stands and walks out without a backwards look, leaving you alone in the shower.

He didn’t have to say it out loud for you to know what this is really about.

A show of strength.

Get on your feet.

You don’t want to.

You can’t.

Imagine you and me—and everything we’ve ever wanted.

Blinking the burn of water out of your eyes, you raise your head towards the shut bathroom door.

Imagine.

You can’t do that slumped on the floor.

Sliding onto your knees after a few laboured breaths, you stay there for a bit. The water continues roaring in your ears and you tell yourself to stand though a voice at the back of your mind hisses for you to stay put. What does Santino know of your struggle—

I know what it is to be a trapped thing dependant on the goodwill of others.

He does know.

At least to some degree.

It takes over thirty minutes to stand up and get the soaking dress off your body. Long minutes of trying to locate the bathrobe and wrap it around your shivering frame before turning off the shower. You had to take breaks often, gasping for breath and trying to fight back your panic.

But you did it.

You did.

Leaning your shoulder against the wall, you hug your arms around you and tug the door open.

You find Santino sitting in the same seat he found you in last night before he dragged you into an unexpected dance. It had been the first moment of normalcy you had tasted in months. The memory of it fills your veins with warmth and works your legs.

Santino has changed from his wet clothes as well. He’s donning a combo of clean pressed pants and a looser, faded blue sweater, a fluffy towel sitting wrapped around his shoulders. His curly, wet hair is a messy mop and you can tell he’s been running the towel through the unruly strands.

His head tilts in your direction when he hears your indistinct footsteps approach. He doesn’t smile like usual—no smirk, not even a glimmer of one. For once, he’s completely earnest.

It’s exceedingly difficult to look at him now that you know what you do about him. You don’t feel pity. You’ve heard far worse and more harrowing tales from the underworld. But it’s still unpleasant, still painful.

You try to imagine him as a little boy of five. All ruddy cheeks and wild, curly hair with bright, mischievous eyes.  

You wonder if he cried as you did—

“Does anyone know?”

Santino doesn’t respond right away but his eyes track you as you move closer with sluggish, awkward steps. Lowering yourself in the seat he sat in yesterday, you meet his stare evenly. He doesn’t make a comment on your presence.

He expected you to stand up.

He expected you to make it—to overcome yourself.

Outside, the Chicago skyline and Lake Michigan are both swallowed up by a blizzard raging outside. Despite it being the middle of the night, it gives the room a sickly, greyish sort of tint that forces you to focus on him and nothing else.

“No,” he says after a lengthy pause, still staring at you. He’s thinking hard about something, you can tell—here, now, his guard is completely and utterly up. “I had two of my men remove and dispose of the body before anyone found it. No time to clean the scene up, so, hm. As you can already guess the news has spread. The High Table associates are looking into it already.”

Your breaths slow at that and you lift your legs, curling in the plush seat. “The Adjudicator?”

Santino shakes his head once. “No, bella, not yet. But if Conte is not found—which he won’t be—then eventually, yes.”

Your eyes lower and you lock your fingers together, trying to keep your hands steady. “Can your men be trusted?”

This time, the man does smile and the treacherous edge of it chills you. “Ah, no one can be fully trusted, cara mia, especially not men for hire. Remember that,” he warns but his voice lacks the demeaning edge that usually accompanies his words. “But no, they could not be. Which is exactly why I put a bullet in each of their heads before I returned here.”

Silence.

You stare at each other without a word and that says everything.

You did what you had to do to save him.

And he did what he had to do to try and save you both.

“They are Camorra men,” he adds eventually, his smooth voice flat, matter of fact. “No one will look for them.”

“Cameras?”

“No cameras in the bathroom. But otherwise destroyed.”

“Fingerprints? Witnesses?”

Santino’s brows furrow but a slight smile lingers across the seams of his lips. If you didn’t know any better, you would say that he’s proud.

“I did not touch anything aside from the door,” he reveals and drags the towel down his neck, leaning forward so he’s closer. The damp material rests in his lap and his elbows dig into his thighs. His feet are bare and it’s an odd thing to notice now of all the times. “You don’t exist, cara mia.”

You’re dead to the world.

You bite on your inner cheek and lower your head in a nod, picking at your nails.

“So we just need to use the panic to find Andre Boutin—”

“No.”

Your head lifts and your fidgeting fingers still in your lap as well at the look on Santino’s face.

The heir of Camorra looks out towards the blizzard, his eyebrows pinched and shoulders curved downwards. His fingers are interlocked too, and you examine his frustration silently.

“The mission failed,” he remarks bitingly, his words quiet. “If Boutin is not out of Chicago already, he soon will be. Our advantage is gone. We will be flying back to New York tomorrow.”

His rises to his feet then, throwing the dampened towel aside. A hiss of breath—of pure, simmering rage—bubbles past his parted lips and he marches ahead only to be caught by his elbow.

His attention snaps to you, his breaths ragged. His stare is a storm but he keeps it contained and your grip on him constricts.

“What did he do?” you whisper in the space between you, weary but determined. “Tell me.”

Santino grins, cold and venomous, his eyebrows quirking as he turns his body towards you, leaning close. “Oh? Is this how this works, bella?” he wonders but doesn’t shake your touch off. “You demand answers and expect me to bend to your will? Was I not weak enough for you earlier, hm?”

You regard each other wordlessly. Him brimming with agitation and you so tired you want to collapse. But this is important. It nags at you constantly—this need to understand what’s really going on.

“I don’t think you’re weak,” you tell him calmly, and it surprises you when you realise that you mean it. Whatever earlier was, weak is not the word you would use to describe it. “I just want to understand. Why are you risking everything to kill this one man? Tell me that saving you and killing Rafael on the neutral grounds was not done in vain, Santino. That this has some meaning.”

The soft material of his sweater lingers against your fingertips when you release your grip on him. But Santino doesn’t step away, he reaches out, brushing a strand of your wet hair away gingerly. This time you are the one to jerk back. Sucking in a deep breath, you see his mouth twist and he moves away, giving you space to breathe.

It isn’t that the touch was unpleasant. Or even unwanted.

It’s the fact that your heart had fluttered but it whispered John’s name.

Your John.

But he isn’t, is he? He’s married and happy. He left. Why shouldn’t you allow yourself this? He wants you. At least he does.

And that might be true. Physically, at least, you imagine moving on from John would be easy, simple even. You imagine that if you initiated, Santino would not deny you. In fact, after your little moment during the poker game earlier, you think he won’t need much convincing at all.

He had looked so torn at the edges from just a few touches and wanders of your tongue and lips.

But what would be left of you? What point would you prove by sleeping with Santino?

That you can move on as John did? Maybe. But John is out and married. He won’t care.

No, this would only be selfishness and impulse. It would only ruin everything further.

Down the road, you would only be more miserable for it.

Even if you are so very, very lonely.

Even if you miss that tingle of desire, of being desired back.

Maybe that’s why you allow these brief moments with Santino to continue. Because you are selfish and just want to cling on to that fire of his because it almost reminds you what it is to be normal. Adored. Alive.

His footsteps halt next to the large bay windows, and the storm outside still rampages in a hale of ice and wind.

His hand braces against the glass, his head bowed and you watch his rigid frame.

“He killed my mother.”

Your breath hitches at his vicious, faint declaration.

His—

Santino chuckles; a low, lilting sound but you catch the resentment and the hurt there before he smothers it.

“Have you heard of the Bloodbath of Camorra?”

Who hasn’t? Even if people like to pretend like they haven’t out of fear they might attract the attention of the family itself.

Who hasn’t heard about the humid, peaceful night in Naples over twenty years ago when Giovanni D’Antonio ordered the execution of two families that made up the Camorra ranks. Alario and Cipriano families were wiped out in a single night. No one was spared; children, the elderly, even the servants. It was the single deadliest and bloodiest event in Camorra history. It was the event that put Giovanni on the map as someone who was not only to be respected but also feared. More than feared. Dreaded.

No one knows to this day what exactly the reason for the bloodbath was, though there is no shortage of theories. Most seem to believe it was a consequence of a failed coup. Others say it was revenge.

You do know one thing: Giovanni slaughtered two families, several generations of people who likely had nothing to do with whatever crimes he thinks they were responsible for, and the High Table only gave him a slap on the wrist for it.

“Yes,” you choke out, your voice thin as you take few unsteady strides towards him. He’s still not looking at you. “Why?”

There is no reply, only his forcefully slow breaths. Has he ever been this with anyone else? Has he ever struggled to tell them what’s on this mind?

“Do you recall what I told you earlier?” he wonders but doesn’t wait for your reply but you see how his back muscles coil under his sweater. Hear the discomfort in his voice, too. “A day after my eighth birthday someone attacked our home.”

You risk another few steps closer, your arms wrapping around your chest. You try to fight back the sinking feeling in your heart but you already know how this story ends; it’s now simply a question of how bad it will get before you arrive at the conclusion of it.

“It was just my mother and me at home, several servants, and guards,” Santino goes on and you hear the torrent of emotions he tries to contain as he continues speaking. “Father was away on Camorra business. Gianna at her private violin lessons. They, ah, attacked in broad daylight.”

Your eyes squeeze shut but you let him talk, ignoring the way your heart is thudding harder and harder in your chest.

“Their numbers were...vast,” he exhales and pauses for a long time. His fingers scrape against the glass before he pulls back abruptly. He doesn’t turn around but you see his fingers clench into fists. “They studied the house layout. Knew when it will be the most vulnerable, you understand? Our guards didn’t stand a chance. My mother tried to hide me but...”

He turns towards you at last, and in the dim light, you can’t see the green of his eyes, just shadows and darkness and rage.

“She told me to hide,” he breathes, low and strained. “Nascondi, piccolo sole.”

Little sun.

His face screws like he can hear the words even now and you swallow thickly your own expression wavering.

Santino opens his eyes after a moment, exhaling a huff of air before he continues, “Hm, but I heard her scream. So I ran after her. I...couldn’t let them hurt her, bella. I was a foolish boy who was scared and wanted his mother. But that’s exactly what they wanted. Both of us. We were drugged and taken. We were to be their bargaining tools.”

His eyes lower towards the ground and his profile reveals how he keeps clenching and unclenching his jaw. He lifts his hand, staring at the golden ring for a breath before rubbing the skin there, his fingers constricting like he’s trying to feel something.

“It was a collaboration between Alarios and Ciprianos...and Andre Boutin.”

Your expression creases and you close the remaining distance between you, coming to a stop before him. He’s still holding his hand but he looks up at you as you come to a stop before him.

“Why?”

Why risk going up against a powerhouse like Camorra? A family rooted in the old ways, and who is known for always returning any blood of theirs spilt tenfold.

“Power,” is his straightforward, sickening reply. “It is rather simple, really, they wanted to rule Camorra. To become the new ruling family by merging. And Andre Boutin always hated my father because he had the one thing that man always wanted.”

Noting your confused frown, Santino cocks his head and grins, “My mother, bella. It always comes down to love of a woman.”

Your lips part, understanding filling you. You’ve never heard of this side of the story. Never knew there was such a tangled web of connections involved in all of this.

His hollow grin fades and he gazes at you wordlessly.

You’re not quite sure what he finds on your face this time, either, but something in your chest aches for him.

Just how much more can he surprise you in a span of a single day?

You’ve been so convinced that he has never seen hardship or pain. That he’s grown up on a mountain of blood money and a silver spoon in his mouth, content in the idea that the rest of the world is less than him.

Perhaps you’re not wrong to think that though. Perhaps there is simply more to him than just that though.

This is hard for him, you can see that, so you lift your chin, press your lips together in a strict line and say, “What happened after they took you?”

His eyes latch onto your own.

Because you need—want—to know.

But also because you would like to think that the man before you needs to tell it. Even if he may never admit to it. Or even realise it himself.

“Drugged, for most of it,” he reveals quietly, his voice frayed. “Some rough handling. But Boutin...he would come to see my mother.”

Your teeth clench together, a boiling feeling suddenly erupting in your stomach. “Did he...?”

He exhales loudly but shakes his head. “No, amore, he was obsessed with her but he wanted her willing. My mother hated him though. She just tried to keep me safe. By whatever means necessary.”

His fingers fidget and you reach on instinct, wrapping your own trembling digits around his.

His attention jumps to your face again, cautious. He doesn’t push you away but he doesn’t pull you closer, either.

This moment is simply compassion.

Simply your personal desire to have someone hold your own hand manifesting here and now.

“My mother...ah, she was the strongest person I have ever known,” he pushes on, and despite the fact that he looks ready to burst at the seams, his voice barely wavers this time. “And she was smart. She used his desperation against him. She got loose. Took two of his fingers off for touching both her and me. Kicked him a few times, too, telling him that she would never love someone like him. That she had a family she loved already.”

This time the quirk of his lips is more genuine, proud, and you feel your own features relax for a bit.

But then his brief smile crumbles away, and your fingers tighten around his in response. The metal of his ring presses into your skin and you know that what’s to come next will not be easy to hear.

“She tried to get me loose,” his voice creaks and your expression contorts, trying to blink away the burn you’re starting to feel behind your eyes. “He got a drop on her while she was soothing my crying...”

A tear rolls down your cheek and something fitters over his expression when he notices it.

He’s never seen tears from you but you don’t feel ashamed of them. Not this time.

“She fought back and I listened—I heard as he choked her to death. My screams did not matter to him.”

A weak wheeze escapes you and you bow your head. Your grip on his hand is so tight that you’re no longer sure if it’s entirely for his benefit.

“My father and his men found us shortly after but it no longer mattered. Boutin was long gone by then and my mother’s corpse was cold.”

“Why wasn’t he punished?” you snap, practically bristling with fury, and try to swallow the lump in your throat but it goes down like a wad of acid. “Why was it only the rival families and not him? Why?”

Santino lifts his free hand and swipes at your wet cheek with his thumb. This time, you don’t flinch away from his touch.

His mouth stretches but once again, it’s not even close to a smile. Those narrowed, heavy eyes focus on you but you don’t understand the look on his face.

You do feel something boiling in your chest though.

Rage.

On his behalf.

He was just a little boy and he had to listen as—

You’re not sure which you feel more acutely, then—blinding sort of fury or sadness. Both.

Swiping at your face, you turn your face away from him. The wet rattle of your laboured breaths fills the silence between you.

It’s like being transported back to that tiny, cramped Moscow flat years ago. The piercing scrape of metal spoon echoing against the pot of soup as Tarasov detailed how he killed your parents, how you are now his property. By choice, of course.

That or death.

“Boutin is the head of the Black Dragon which granted him the Table’s favour,” Santino voices and your attention swings back towards him. He runs his fingers through his curls roughly, his long digits tangling in the silky strands and he looks and sounds so hateful at that moment. Unmade, somehow. “He was smart, too, bella. There was nothing to pin him to the accident.”

“But you were a witness—”

“I was a little boy who was drugged for days,” he cuts you off, his words resentful, bitter. “It was my word against the man who has served the Table for years. Ah, cara mia, but we both know that the face of your tormentor never quite fades from memory, does it not?”

No—no, it doesn’t.  

Your lashes still feel thick with tears but you force your vocal cords to work, “Then why leave you alive?”

The heir grits his teeth and you peer at him.

It’s still hard to think that he’s baring these family secrets—his secrets—to you right now. His pain is real and raw and it’s surreal to see him like this.

Where is the arrogant prince of a criminal empire you’re so used to seeing?

This, now, makes you feel like you never knew him at all.

You’ve never caught so much as a whisper of this—no indication at all—but you do understand the reason for it.

It’s so that no one ever sees him like this.

Vulnerable.

And vulnerability is not permitted for someone like him.  

Giovanni would never allow it.

Santino himself would never allow it.

He’s too proud.

“Because he panicked. Because my father was on the way. Because he’s a fucking coward.”

You agree.

And finally understand why he wanted this man to suffer. Why he planned so meticulously for this for years.

Only for your instability to ruin those plans.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, devastated. “I’m so sorry.”

He understands what you mean without clarification.

He glances towards the blizzard again, and his hands slip into his pockets, his shoulders hunched.

“Get some rest, bella. I will handle the rest.”

His accented words lack accusation, even his previous rage, and somehow that’s worse.

You almost miss that narcissistic man you’ve known for years.

But not really. Because despite how agonising this is, this is also the most real you’ve ever seen him.

Like an open nerve bared before you.

“I have waited for years, having to act like that man did not murder my mother right in front of me,” he notes, thoughtful, his words clipped, his expression removed, and he takes several steps past you. Your head rotates after him and he pauses. “I can wait a bit longer.”

No.

No.

All those years…

Whole decades of waiting and biding his time. You know what it is to have to live with that.

The murderer of his mother will not get away with this.

Not like Tarasov gets away with the murder of your parents every single fucking day.

“I will help you.”

He stiffens.

Ignoring it, you go on, “Be it tomorrow, a week from now, or five years,” you tell him, hoarse and choked, pathetically weak in your flimsy bathrobe but more determined than you’ve been in months. “He will die, Santino. I promise you that.”

He straightens, a leisurely rotation of his limbs and muscles before he turns to look at you over his shoulder.

That fire rages despite his calm, composed expression.

His lips curl upwards and you share a long, frenzied look.

You have no idea what passes between you but something does.

“Oh, amore,” he intones icily. “Of course he will.”

You don’t sleep that night.

There is only a few, febrile nightmares that chase you back to wakefulness before you can fully rest.

Curled up in the extravagant covers, you try to listen for any signs that Santino is still awake in the other room but hear nothing.

The storm keeps lashing against your windows throughout the night, filling the eerily soundless space with howls of wind.

Better than the silence of your mind.

Better than Santino’s story tearing and shredding through your mind on repeat.

You nod off again sometime around dawn, your sleep as restless as before but it’s still better than nothing.

This time you dream of being stuck in the pit with Santino beside you, an inky profile of a figure sinking its fingers into your hair—

You snap awake covered in a thin layer of sweat, your throat dry and head pounding.

Getting out of bed takes another hour.

Fatigue lingers in your limbs and you feel listless and dazed, still haunted by events of last night.

The rush of water, the blade in your hand, Rafael Conte choking, gasping for breath as your poison destroys him—

There is no regret in your heart. Not after what he almost did to you, not after you found out what kind of man he served.

You make it to breakfast late, and find Santino absent, only Ares there for company.

She scrolls through her phone as she indulges in a cup of Earl Grey and you greet her with a brief, forced upturn of your lips. Her bright blue eyes take you in critically but she mercifully doesn’t comment on your terrible state.

You’ve just barely managed to brush your hair and teeth, pulling on a random pair of dark jeans and a thick cream sweater.

The hotel is comfortably warm but you still feel cold despite that.

“Santino?”

Ares sneaks a look at you and her response is simple, Handling the fallout. There is quite the uproar and he has to be seen.

To avoid suspicion.

To shield you.

To shield you both.

As much as you wish you could help, there is little you can do now. This is not your crowd. These people are at the very top of the power pyramid and you have no power of your own.

Guilt at your own failure festers in your chest despite the fact that you know that you made up for it by taking Rafael’s life.

Santino knows it, too.

A part of you wonders if this is why he’s trying so hard to bury this.

Despite the fact that you would likely lose your head, and he would be severely punished if anyone found out.

That does not, however, explain why he doesn’t simply throw you to the wolves and save himself. You’ve seen him do it plenty of times. Someone fails and they become expendable, useless. Failure once is failure always.

Maybe he does have some sort of moral fibre in him after all.

The breakfast proceeds mostly in silence. There is little energy in you for anything aside from chewing and swallowing of your food. Still, at least there is hunger in you, and you’re grateful for that if nothing else.

Ares doesn’t bother you, almost like she can sense the discomfort clinging to you. But she, too, appears preoccupied, her thoughts further away than usual.

Frankly, you can’t wait to go back to New York.

Maybe there is some other job Santino needs doing in the meantime. This job was a failure but you still need that money he offered.

Finishing your meal, you leave with a slight nod in Ares’ direction but don’t have the energy for anything more than that.

Time crawls by as you sit in your chair, staring out towards the now peaceful Lake Michigan. A deep layer of fluffy white snow has covered Chicago overnight, and with the sun occasionally peaking past the clouds the landscape seems to glow.

Somewhere between hour two and three, you end up on the floor, your eyes examining the ceiling with silent intensity.

This reminds you of the night John left. Back then, the ceiling of the Continental had been your only companion, too.

John, John, John.

One part of you hopes that he’s the happiest he’s ever been. While another part of you...

The door to your room opens and you recognise the owner of that silky, accented baritone anywhere.

Santino is speaking in French again but it muddles in your mind into a string of noise.

The conversation ends and his footsteps draw closer with increased speed.

“Cara mia?” he calls out and appears above you, his expression tight. “What happened?”

You sigh gently, blinking, “Nothing,” you mumble and blink again. There’s still that insistent pressure against your temple and everything is growing fuzzier. “Just...admiring the ceiling. It’s very good at giving one...perspective.”

The man above you regards you through narrowed eyes, deadly silent, which is unusual. Santino likes to run his mouth. He’s different from last night, too. His cast is back—every inch of him as immaculate and as groomed as always and it almost...disappoints you.

The man you saw last night—the one weighted down by personal pain and cracked around the edges was one you could relate to, maybe even like.

This man—the heir—is just a cold, distant remnant of him. An arrogant prick you have little patience for.

He considers you friends but you see how he watches you.

But perhaps it’s for the better.

That side of him from last night is far, far more dangerous. That side of him you could see yourself growing to care for, see yourself being able to share in moments of loneliness with.

“Dance with me.”

It’s a demand and he doesn’t even bother to try and mask it as anything other than that.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re...an infuriating, domineering asshole?”

One of Santino’s eyebrows arches and he shrugs off his suit jacket, throwing it on the seat not too far from you. “Yes, cara mia, you have,” he points out mildly and extends his hand, loosening his patterned tie. “Dance with me.”

You don’t move.

He doesn’t drop his arm.

Exhaling loudly, you raise your head, sitting up with a muted glare. His expression is as aloof, as effortlessly arrogant as always, and you slap your hand into his, gripping firmly only for a slight smirk to flicker over his features when he hauls you to your feet.

He wastes no time, moving closer to you as his arm slips around you, his attention drilling into you.

Turning your head pointedly away from him, you sway in silence.

This close, you can see the subtle signs of exhaustion on him. The ashiness of his skin and the darker smudges under his eyes. It’s an effort to ignore the stab of guilt you feel at those observations.

“Don’t disappear.”

Blinking slowly, your head inclines in his direction. “I’m right here.”

His arm tightens around your waist and you ignore his heated touch.

“No, amore, you are slipping away again,” he remarks, his voice hushed and leans his face closer towards yours. “Stay here, in this moment, with me, yes?”

Your throat closes up, a shiver racing down your spine at his words, at the gleam in his green eyes.

You feel, then, terribly seen. Exposed.

You’re ashamed of what he might be seeing right now.

There’s more to you than this.

“I’m—“

His expression doesn’t waver. His grip on you like a chain around your being. But for once, it’s not a suffocating thing, not a burden. It’s an anchor.

His story rings in your ears like a broken record.

“Does anyone suspect?”

He knows what you’re asking and mercifully lets you divert the conversation. “Not yet, which perhaps makes the whole fiasco worse,” he points out but doesn’t seem concerned. “We will wait till afternoon to leave. Many have departed already.”

Avoiding the tension in the air, you allow your eyes to drag over his features. There is one thing that has been plaguing you since you heard his story last night.

“Why didn’t Giovanni go after Boutin? Why are you not telling him now?”

Santino’s eyes snap to you, searching.

This is both curiosity and an attempt to stay...present.

He seems to recognise it as such and after an uneasy moment, his lips part, “Because I spent years hounding but constantly came up empty, bella,” he divulges stiffly, his hold on your hand constricting. “Because it kept bringing my father shame in the eyes of the Table, and he has forbidden me from going down this path again. He warned me that if anything is to ever happen to Boutin, and he learns that I had anything to do with it, he would strip me of my title. Rules, yes?”

That’s why he needed you.

Why he didn’t want this attached to his name.

If Giovanni is to ever find out that he did anything to Boutin, he would lose the very thing he’s always desired above everything else.

The title as the next head of Camorra.

But more importantly, this festering hatred for rules finally has an explanation.

Rules have robbed me of more than you know.

His words from last night suddenly make a lot more sense. After the last 48 hours you shared, an awful lot more makes sense about him in general.

“Well,” you begin, meeting his gaze. “I meant what I said last night. I will help you.”

Santino hums and his face softens a touch. The corner of his mouth quirks upwards and you’re not sure what he finds so funny. “Such promise, no?” he wonders idly. “I might hold you to it, and that is not a position most people enjoy being in.”

You know that well.

Shuffling your feet clumsily, you let him turn your interlocked bodies, and can’t help but silently wonder why this is helping.

Why he is helping.

“I won’t have offered if I didn’t mean it.”

Something shifts through his eyes; a weight, an emotion you have never seen before but it’s gone with a blink.

His feet halt but he still holds you to him.

“Come away with me.”

“Where?”

His exhale is barely audible. “Anywhere, cara mia, anywhere you want,” he says urgently and then a sly light enters his eyes as something seemingly comes to mind. “You still owe me a trip to Paris.”

This again.

Trying not to roll your eyes, you answer with a dry, “I’ve been to Paris before, Santino.”

His hot palm folds around yours more snugly, his touch lingering. “Not my Paris,” he argues but it’s the most carefree you’ve seen him since Rome. Ever since your reunion in New York, he appears calmly furious every time you see him but not right now. Not in this light, not with this minimal distance between you. “You haven’t experienced the food and the art and the music. There is more to life than this, and it’s out there, waiting for you. I could show it to you,” he adds the last part in the faintest of murmurs, peering at you intently.

No pride, no demands, or ego.

There’s such lightness to his voice, to his eyes, that a part of you can almost imagine it, taste it, like you’re in Paris with him right now.

He almost looks hopeful; an emotion you’ve never associated with him before.

But—

John.

His dark eyes and his raspy voice haunt you.

Accuse you of betrayal.

“I can’t.”

The light gutters out.

He studies you for a grim moment, unblinking.

“I can’t,” you repeat again, and your words tumble out in a rushed, dejected mess. “Tarasov will—“

“Ah, bella, the Russian can be paid off. We both know that,” Santino interrupts, his voice slipping towards coldness. “What is this really about, hm?”

You gape at him for several moments, stumped.

“Is my company truly so revolting to you that you rather slip back into isolation?” he demands, attempting to control his slipping anger. But this anger is different from the one you witnessed last night. “Lock yourself away. Let that beautiful fire be doused again by memories of him. Snap out of it. He’s not coming back. You need to let him go before he destroys you.”

“Shut up.”

It’s a feeble mumble of words and you pull back. He lets you go but his words are like a torrent.

He’s been holding back for years.

He likely wanted to spill these words to you the moment he realised the amount of damage the wedding did.

He’s been trying to leash this for your sake but no longer.

“When will you realise that if he truly loved you, he never would have left you,” he snaps, seething, his vocal cords distorting with sharpness. The lines on his face deepen with his stubborn scowl as he continues, stalking closer. “When will you realise that you deserve so much better than this misery, hm? When will you just let him go and be happy? When will you realise that his care was nothing but a brief fancy to soothe loneliness? You were simply there. An easy choice. The moment another came along he left you behind like an unwanted pet. When he came to me for help, he didn’t even bother asking after you. He didn’t care, amore. He doesn’t love you and he never will.”

Silence.

You’re not sure if you’re still breathing.

There is just a vague sound of blood rushing in your ears and the sight of the man before you blurs.

A soft wisp of air slips past your trembling lips and you see Santino falter. His explosive temper drains away in a blink. His jaw sets as he, too, seems to conclude that he has gone too far.

You know he’s right.

You know that.

Every action John has committed before leaving only confirms it.

He did feel something—he’s not the type of man to fake something like that, he’s so kind and gentle deep down—but you’re not Helen.

You’re not a normal, happy life, either.

You’re none of those things.

Because your life has become an act of brutal transformation. Soft skin to hard skin; gentle voice to cruel voice; good heart to black heart. That’s what it is to be alive, to survive—an act of cannibalising oneself till there’s only bits and pieces left behind that appease others. Tarasov, Kishi, this life of blood and death. They have all ate alive a girl that could have been and spat back something awful and terrible out instead.

Your feet carry you past him wordlessly.

Santino turns after you, his fingers brushing over your elbow, “Amore, I—”

You jerk your arm away like his touch physically hurts you, disgusts you. Your mouth contorts in a snarl and your attention snaps towards him, a well of hostility and hurt exploding outwards.

“Yes, I do find you revolting,” you bite out loudly, every word as cruel and as abrasive as you can possibly make it. “Because you are nothing more than a selfish, spoiled, murderous little man who feels entitled to the world. You hide behind your pathetic bravado but I see right through you.”

Gasping for breath, you ignore his frozen expression, and practically hiss your next words at him, “Yeah, Santino D’Antonio is nothing more than a scared, miserable boy overshadowed by everyone in his life but so desperate to be heard, feared, respected. It’s pathetic, really, how hard you try because you will never succeed. No one will ever care or love a lying, cheating, backstabbing bastard like you.”

Your words hang between you, stripping the room of air.

The space crackles with aggression as you stare at each other but neither of you speaks.

His face is blank, his stare glassy.

You’ve thought that maybe he—

You’re such a goddamn idiot.

Pivoting on your heels, you march away, not caring if he will order your death for such disrespect. You’ve seen him order hits for less.

But there is just emptiness.

A gnawing pain in that hole John and Tokyo have punched right through you.

A hole that a weak, pathetic little ember in your chest has whispered could be soothed by the man you leave behind you with a slam of the door.

You stagger down the hotel hallway as tears blind you and Kishi falls in step beside you, grinning brightly.

You’re dead to the world.

Your tears only come harder.

The silence inside the car is chilly.

Neither of you speaks though you’re sitting beside each other, no more than an arms-length away.

Ares found you hours later at the hotel bar, nursing a lemonade in your hands and lost in thought.

She had tried to make a joke about it only for it to fall short when you remained unresponsive. Her own expression fell after that, and in that action, you knew Santino has told her what has transpired between you.

You had followed her back to the lobby silently. Everything was already packed and ready to go, she had informed you. The nightmare that’s been this trip has finally come to an end.

She had to go ahead and secure the jet, and with Santino’s dwindled guard numbers, Piero was the only one to greet you by the large, black SUV.

The stoic, muscular man had nodded at you once, a touch stiff, before pulling the car door open for you.

Santino, much to your displeasure, was already seated inside.

Dressed in a fresh khaki suit and white shirt and with his eyes guarded by tinted sunglasses, he hadn’t even turned in your direction.

And so the painfully awkward drive to the airport began.

Even now, fifteen minutes in, the only tell for his turbulent thoughts is the way he keeps winding the golden ring around his finger repeatedly.

There is a buried pang deep in your chest which warns you that you have taken your comments too far.

It’s not that you don’t think what you said doesn’t apply to him to a degree—both past and present—but...

But you’ve seen so much more of him during these last few weeks. Days.

A completely different side.

Your own pain—a heinous, thick, rotting thing—had been too desperate to burst out and cause similar torment.

You’ve been selfishly unwilling to be alone in your suffering.

He was right. Everything he said. But it hadn’t hurt any less to hear the truth you’ve already known since John walked out of that hotel room, leaving you alone.

There is a lump in your throat that refuses to leave as you survey the snowy Chicago streets while the car speeds down the streets.

“The money will be transferred to your account when we land in New York.”

The declaration rips through the otherwise quiet car with a loudness of a thunder crack.

Licking your lips, you turn your head in his direction, a frown pinching your features, “I don’t need your charity,” you inform him frankly. “The job fell through.”

Santino’s own head slants in your direction lazily, the gesture effortlessly disdainful and you almost bristle. He’s playing up the worst of his character traits on purpose.

“Charity, cara?” he echoes, unimpressed. “Hardly. You will be getting 500k for your work here and 1mil will be earned back whenever you work for me next.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I have a preference for you breathing,” he says bluntly before glancing in your direction. Behind his sunglasses, you catch only a glimpse of those sharp eyes before he turns away again. For a brief second, the vision of him now and the man who sat beside you in the shower blur. “Which you will not be if you don’t pay the Russian, no? Consider it a future investment into our wonderful, revolting partnership.”

The golden ring keeps twisting around his finger.

Even now he would still—

You’re so focused on the heir next you that you don’t see it coming.

The impact practically throws you off your seat and your hands snap outwards on instinct.

The SUV goes sliding down the road before another car slams into it from a different direction. Your body slides towards Santino and you throw yourself at him, shielding his body as glass rains down over you both.

Tires screech against the icy asphalt while the car spins, and your face buries against Santino’s hair for a brief moment as the car drags itself into a standstill.

“Stay down.”

You don’t hesitate, pulling a pistol from under your sweater and heave yourself towards the front of the car where Piero is already pulling out his own gun. Blood trails down his split brow but he appears otherwise fine.

Count. How many?

Following John’s stern advice inside your head, your eyes sweep over the intersection. The highway is ahead, no more than half a mile out, and you flip the safety off your pistol, keeping low as you reach for Piero’s shoulder.

“Get do—”

The bullet hits the dark-haired man right in the temple, splattering his blood all over your face.

Your grip on him loosens and you fall back towards Santino who is staring at you with grim sort of understanding.

His sunglasses are gone and his green eyes meet your own.

Yes, you suppose he would find and ambush a quite routine turn of events.

You’ve been in this situation too many times to count as well.

Even if there is a distinct, prickling discomfort at the knowledge that you are now effectively alone facing against an unknown number of assailants.

Tangling your fingers in his expensive suit, you pull him closer and he goes rigid in the seat, your eyes still locked.

Stay on me.

Reaching past him, you wipe at your face, and lock your fingers around the door handle. Another five shots hit the SUV but you ignore it, pushing the door open.

Five shots, three-second delay, at least two shooters. Not aiming to kill, just to draw you out.

John’s voice recites the observations in your ear, and you push Santino through the door, your gun raised. His phone is in his hand already but it doesn’t matter what help he calls for.

Ares is at least another twenty minutes away. Your numbers are slim as they are already.

It’s up to you two to get out of this alive.

Your hands keep trembling. Far, far too much for a balanced aim and you grip the gun tighter between your clammy fingers, willing the stability to return.

Don’t let it consume you.

Clinging onto Winston’s steadying voice, you slide out after Santino, another series of shots hitting the car after you. The pinging of the metal pierces your ears painfully but you ignore it.

One two, three and then four.

One two, three and then—

Locking your muscles, you jump upwards and fire two shots in the direction of your attackers.

One of the figures falls to the ground from the impact and you throw yourself down as an explosion of lead follows in response.

Santino’s arm wraps around you as you both hunch into a compact ball of limbs on the floor. At any moment a stray bullet could hit you, but the car is your only cover. You’re helplessly exposed and out in the open.

“How many?” his laboured inquiry tickles your ear but you don’t answer him.

You’re not sure you can stomach the ugly truth yourself.

Just a glimpse and you saw at least three dozen darkly dressed figures, all armed and ready to—

Not kill you, John reassures from beside you and you look up at the Italian.

“Too many,” is your tepid conclusion, and you press him closer as more bullets hit. A too familiar smell of gasoline registers in your nose moments later and you bite back a frustrated yell. What’s next?

Cursing under your breath instead, you cut your attention back to him. “I can cause a distraction. Draw their attention—”

“Have you lost your mind—”

“Your life matters more than mine!”

His mouth snaps shut but the look on his face—

Bullets hit the car once again, cutting off any potential reply, and the gunfire draws closer in a regular hit of metal against metal.

Either this car will blow or they will corner you.

So you make the choice for him.

Raising your arm, you fire blindly—a deterrent—and lift your head briefly over the back bonnet to check—

You pull the trigger immediately and again, and again—

Two bodies drop against the car, now dead, and you shove Santino roughly to the side.

Shit.

They used the covering fire to mask their approach.

And their uniforms.

They’re the Black Dragon’s men which means—

The chamber clicks empty and you hurl the gun at the face closest to you.

Two blades greet the next two men and you throw yourself at them.

“Run!”

You don’t risk turning around to see if he obeys your order.

Flipping the polished metal between your fingers, you sink it into a struggling man, ignoring his flailing.

This isn’t about winning.

You’re far too exhausted and outnumbered for any illusions of that.

This is about buying Santino time to get away.

If Ares hurries—

You throw another blade, smashing your leg into another man’s knee with enough vicious intent that you hear bones crack.

Another dies with a snap of his neck.

Another with a blade right in the jugular.

Next one with a blade in his face.

Skin, muscle and tendons all rip and it’s still not enough.

Black, black, black everywhere you look.

This has dissolved into a fistfight. You’re not sure how many you have managed to take down using speed and agility but your strength is disintegrating by the second. Any and all gunfire has long since ceased as if to give you a fighting chance. Like whoever is behind this is testing how long you will last.  

Just like—

The butt of a semi-automatic flies towards your face and—

.

You come back to life with a violent jolt of your entire body and a gasp of pain.  

You’re somewhere poorly lit and damp. Cold.

Something about those few observations causes your entire being to go into high alert.

Scrambling, you shake your head to clear the fuzziness from your vision as well as the tang of blood that lingers on your tongue.

“Shh, bella. Don’t move.”

Your eyes fly open, your head spinning as you squint at the too-familiar figure in front of you.

“What—” your voice splinters and you force down the raspiness away. “I told you to run.”

To know that you’ve been taken is bad enough but to know that you failed, again, simply because—

“They would have killed you.”

That’s the only explanation Santino D’Antonio offers you before he extends his hand in your direction.

His suit jacket is missing, leaving him in nothing but a white shirt that’s smeared with dirt and dried blood. This is easily the most dishevelled you’ve ever seen him. He hates getting his own hands dirty.

He looks relatively unharmed though the way his dark curls clumps with blood on the left side of his head tell you exactly how he ended up here with you.

“Where are we?” you force out as he helps you to sit up, his fingers still holding your own. “How…how many?”

Your speech slurs and you groan, shaking your head again, trying to bottle and throw away the pain. Your hands are still shaking and Santino’s hold constricts briefly. It’s almost comforting. Almost.

Right now, you don’t have the time to be upset or angry with him.

Right now, you’re perfectly aware that the only chance you have to get out of this alive is to work together.

“I’m not too sure. I woke up only minutes ago,” he reveals, his voice hushed and spotting your bewildered frown, he subtly indicates towards the ceiling where you notice a blinking red light. Cameras. “We were alone when I came around.”

It’s then, with your vision finally settling, that you are able to fully take in the space around you.

The blood in your veins promptly turns to ice.

No.

No, no, no.

From the bottom of your stomach, you feel a swell of raw, numbing sort of panic spread, spiking your pulse.

“Cara mia?” Santino calls out, no doubt noting the way your face has slackened with terror. His fingers sink into your shoulder gently but even the heat of his palm does nothing to quell the uncrackable ice suddenly encasing you.

You’re underground.

A large, dark space.

A single, swinging lightbulb illuminates the dirt you sit on and a large metal door—

Just like Tokyo.

Just like that endless pit of blood and torment and pain.

You can’t breathe.

“No—please, no,” you gasp and yank yourself from Santino’s grip, scrambling to stand up. “No, no, no.”

The surprise that you’re not bound barely sinks in as you stumble towards the metal door frantically.

Santino’s confused voice sounds behind you but you don’t understand a single word he says.

No—

Please, please, no.

The quake in your hands is so bad that it takes you three tries to grasp onto the handle, your nails scratching against the rusted metal. The noise is jarring in its familiarity but you try to ignore it.

Despite your best efforts to battle down the spreading panic, your barely calm breaths slip into something more frantic, terrified.

You try to wrench the door open but it won’t budge—

“The door is locked, cara, I tried—”

Your fist slams against he metal cutting him off, and you gasp for breath before crashing all your strength against it again.

And again.

Again, again, again—

“Stop!” Santino shouts over the deafening bangs, trying to haul you away from the door by the waist. “Stop, you’re hurting yourself!”

Ignoring your bloodied knuckles, you try to kick your way out of his grip, disregarding his grunts of pain. He holds you to him tightly despite the way you scratch at his arms, and twist in his hold. “Don’t touch me!”

Your voice is not your own, your body is not your own, either.

The darkness presses in on all sides and you ignore Kishi’s laughter ringing from the inky shadows surrounding you.

“Let me out!” you scream from the top of your lungs and a sob breaks free from your chest; a wet, broken toll of pure terror. “Let me out, let me—”

“Breathe, cara, breathe—”

Santino’s voice reverberates like he’s underwater, and you let out a wail of pure pain.

Pressure builds against the back of your head and—

“Let me out, let—me—please—let me out!”

Your begging falls to deaf ears, and your shouts of fright echo back at you like a nauseating lullaby.

It’s like being squeezed through a tube, nothing but blackness filling your sight.

You can’t breathe—

then

nothing.

.

Humming.

Peaceful, soothing humming laps at your senses, filling the holes and the crevices.

This time, you don’t come around forcefully but with a melody in your ears and delicate fingers against your hair.

A thumb strokes lightly against your temple to the beat of the little song.

Your eyes ache when you blink them open, still stinging from tears. Softness cushions your head, and it takes a little while to grasp the fact that your head is nested in Santino’s lap as he holds you to him.  

A whimper slips free and the humming cuts off, his touch retreating at once as he peers down at you.

Another deep line has formed between his crinkled brows. Even worse is his usually vivid gaze that now appears black.

“Count with me,” he urges in Italian, his words insistent but quiet, before you so much as open your mouth. He seems to be making a conscious effort to not touch you more than necessary. “Uno, due, tre.”

He repeats it. Next time he goes up to five. Then back down.

Each time with more urgency.

Your heart beats like a resoundingly drum inside your chest but you force yourself to obey, force yourself to mouth with his counting.

He holds your stare as you do.

Panic retreats gradually one mumbled number at the time.

You’re shivering, unmoving, curled up against him. Leeching off his warmth.

It’s deafeningly quiet here. You can’t bear to look around you, less you be reminded of where you are, so you focus only on him.

You feel so weak. Pathetic.

You recall Tarasov’s disgust at your weakened state in his office but there is no disgust now.

A tentative touch grazes against your hand and you jump, curling tighter into yourself as you drag your hand back.

Santino grimaces at your rough movement and it’s then that you catch the sight of his hands.

Red, inflamed lines mar his tanned skin. Some deep enough to draw blood.

A memory of you trying to tear out of his grip—

“Your hands...” you whisper, horrified, ashamed. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The man huffs a breath.

“Stop apologising,” he deadpans. “It’s rather irritating, you know.”

His response is so frank and unexpected you only blink. Sniffling slightly, you let a faint snort escape you, your eyes fluttering shut with a fragile smile.

“There we go.”

He sounds pleased.

Your eyes open and in this shadowed space, his cast has once again cracked. “Why are you being so...”

“So?”

“Not you,” you breathe weakly.

Santino chuckles. It’s a pleasant, silky sound that doesn’t seem to belong in this horrid place. His head tilts back, hitting the wall with a muted thud. The cords of his neck move with his amusement and his palm settles briefly against your hair. It’s almost playful. Fond. “Ah, and has it ever, perhaps, crossed your mind that you don’t really know me, bella, hm?”

He glances down at you, awaiting your answer but you don’t offer him one for a long time.

You thought you knew him.

You do.

It has simply become abundantly clear that not all parts of him like you initially assumed.

For the second time in your life, you’re glad that you know him.

That he is here with you.

That you’re not alone.

Truly and wholly.

You never thought you’d live to see the day.

“I know you’re not a good man,” you murmur faintly. “I know that I shouldn’t trust you.”

Only a twitch of his lips. Indulgent. Dangerous.

“No, I am not,” he admits easily, unabashed. “And no you shouldn’t.”

A glint of something that’s gone too quickly for you to decipher in the darkness. “Even if I would like you to.”

You don’t feel like lying to him that you do trust him, so you say nothing.

The silhouette of him shifts—careful not to jostle you—and you know that he wants to say something but there’s some internal battle going on inside him.

“Cara mia, I—”

You’re not sure how you know what he’s trying to express but you do.

Maybe because you’re thinking the exact same thing.

Your fingers lace around his cautiously, avoiding the scratches cutting into his skin.

“I’m sorry, too.”

Before he can respond, there is a groan of metal behind you.

Your fingers clamp around his, your momentarily ease fracturing.

“Santino—”

He squeezes your fingers once.

“We’ll get out of this.”

You hate the promise, the resolute belief, in his accented voice.

Unlike him, you feel drained of hope.

“Get them up.”

Footsteps stomp against the ground as figures pour inside the darkened room. The order was given with leisurely authority, and the owner of the voice is familiar with weaving command like his native tongue.

Santino doesn’t wait till someone manhandles either of you though. He stands long before that and you’re surprised that his fingertips linger on you, helping you as well.

He straightens as figures dressed in black gather around you, cutting off any escape routes.

You force your shoulders to rearrange, ramrod straight, and tilt your chin up just like the Italian.

Through the group of Dragon’s men cuts a man.

He’s shorter than you both, well in his sixties, and sporting grey slicked-back hair. He wears an ordinary black suit and you can tell from one look that it’s likely half the price tag of Santino’s.

The man’s face is unremarkable, too. A slightly crooked nose, deep-set eyes that look darker due to the dim light of the room, and deep wrinkles lining his face. Two fingers are missing on his left hand just like Santino told you and your eyes narrow on him.

Across Andre Boutin’s thin lips lingers an impersonal smile.

It sets your teeth on edge.

He halts in front of you, his head lifting a touch to look up at the heir and he hums, inspecting him with a shrewd, cold look.

That gesture almost reminds you of Winston except it feels insulting to compare the manager to this scum of a man.

You try to envision him younger, try to imagine what he would have looked like the night he killed the Lady of Camorra right in front of her child.

That rage you felt last night when Santino told you his story licks at your senses again, chasing the exhaustion and the fear away. At least for the moment.

You almost entertains he idea of leaping at him right now but you doubt you’ll make it before the men surrounding you kill you.

“Here we are again,” Boutin speaks thoughtfully, his voice more nasally than you would have expected. “Santino D’Antonio...you have grown, boy.”

The Italian beside you is rigid.

God, you can’t even begin to imagine what he must be feeling right now, faced with the murder of his mother after all these years.

“And you have taken after your mother,” Boutin continues, seemingly unconcerned with the thick, suffocating enmity filling the air. “Those hateful eyes and foul temper...they remind me of Emilia.”

“Don’t you dare speak her name,” is a hiss of such unbridled fury that the man beside you practically shakes with it. “Do you have any idea what my family will do to you now? I will tear your little company to pieces.”

This Santino you do know.

Serrated, vicious edges and pure venom.

Boutin looks unmoved by the threat, however, just mildly aggravated.

“Arrogant just like your father,” he concludes dispassionately and you hear Santino exhale at that. “Do you think I did not plan ahead, boy? No security footage, no witnesses. I made sure no one would know where you are or who took you. Do you believe your title makes you invulnerable? I am the head of the Black Dragon. I’ve been serving the High Table before you were even born.”

Shit.

Shit.

This is—

This is Tokyo all over again.

No one knows where you are. There will be no help here.

Even if Ares knows, even if she contacts Camorra—which you know Santino would have warned her not to do unless there’s no other option—it’s unclear how long it may take for them to track you.

Step could potentially do it but even then...

“I always knew that you would not let it rest,” the man carries on, folding his arms behind his back and something changes in his regard then. Hardens. Prickles your senses. Something about this man reminds you of— “Letting you live was the biggest oversight on my part. But then you had to go ahead and come here, didn’t you? So, if you would like to avoid being sent back to Giovanni in little pieces, I will ask you only this: where is my son?”

Ignoring the quake in your legs, you risk a peek towards the heir. His features are bathed in half-light and half-shadow but his expression is cold, sneering.

“Am I suppose to know who that is?”

Boutin’s thin lips flatten into something more cutting; a subtle promise of violence that you know how to recognise even if Santino may not.

Kishi and Tarasov have taught you well.

So cracking your lips, you speak for the first time before this can escalate, “You’re Rafael’s father.”

It’s in the eyes.

Always in the eyes.  

Beside you, Santino goes very still.

He understands what this means.

Just like that, Boutin’s attention slides towards you, his eyes narrowing in consideration. He takes a step towards you and the Italian next to you slips closer, his arm brushing against yours. The Dragon’s men move into a tighter circle around you.

The silent warning is clear.  

“That’s right,” Boutin confirms, expressionless. “It seems I have almost forgotten all about our guest of honour. The Vipress.”

Confusion and disbelief fill you.

You hadn’t expected that.

“You know who I am?”

Yes, your name has spread far and wide, especially after the Hunt. But you were under the belief that Boutin never involved himself in the dramas of your world, staying completely secluded unless forced otherwise by the High Table. His fear of Camorra, of retaliation, has driven him to a half-life.

The older man almost looks amused by your reaction.

“I reassure you,” he begins coolly, another aloof smile ghosting over his worn features, and there is something in his intonation and scrutiny that makes your skin crawl. “I know a great many things about you. You’ve been a subject of interest to us for some time now. How do you like it here? I had hoped you would find it...familiar.”

Your composed expression strains.

Familiar?

“We have no idea what happened with your bastard son.”

Santino’s words cleave through the air and Boutin’s keen appraisal comes to an end with them. His eyes drag towards the Camorra heir.

“Do you take me for a fool, boy?” the man questions calmly but there is a sharpness to his words that makes you wary. “I know you had something to do with my son’s disappearance. I will rip the truth out of you, but I’ll start with her. Let’s see how long your resolve holds when you are faced with a choice between her life and your own.”

A barrel of a gun digs into your skull, making the cut against the back of your head ache.

You calculate the trajectory and the distance between you and the figure behind you.

Disarming the man would be easy enough if you could get your muscles to obey and move fast enough.

The issue is another ten men in the room and Boutin himself.

Not to mention Santino.

An open target for them to exploit.

As if confirming that thought, a gun gets levelled on his head, too.

Another warning.

No, this is about biding your time—

“Oh, I will kill you for this,” Santino vows, low and icy, as he glares hole into the older man.

Boutin appears curious though. Pensive.

“I was under impression that you D’Antonios don’t have hearts,” he points out mildly. “Yet she elicits such a…response.”

His hand lifts casually and the pressure against your head lessens but doesn’t drop entirely.

“Fear not, boy,” Boutin starts, his tone wooden, and grasps your chin between his fingers. His skin is dry and leathery, his touch just as subtly unpleasant as the rest of him. “I have different plans for the viper,” he states calmly and you jerk out of his grip, glaring.

The man gives you a thin smile.

“Separate them,” he orders. “Let’s see which one breaks first.”

You knew your weapons were missing from the moment you first woke up.  

When you train yourself to be so aware of everything about your own body and every advantage available, you begin to track the smallest of details.

Survival is decided in moments. Find them.

John’s voice whispers against your ear and you walk at a steady, orderly pace.

Which one breaks first.

Boutin’s words have burrowed under your skin and you know he meant them.

You have no intention of sticking around long enough to find out the answer to that.

They split you up before they removed you from the room, dragging you both in different directions. You count your steps, track every turn. The most important thing is not to let them lead you too far away that you can’t find your way back to Santino.

The Italian’s reaction to Boutin’s words has been the exact opposite of your apathy.

Santino has always been a raging volcano; volatile, dangerous, and quick to erupt. He has sworn vengeance. The bloodshed that Camorra will soak the Dragon in with pleasure.

His words held promise and power.

Perhaps that’s why Boutin’s complete lack of reaction struck you as so...odd.

Initially, you had chalked it up to arrogance—there is certainly an abundance of it found in just about every male you have ever encountered in this business—but this had been different.

Boutin knows what Camorra is capable of. He fears them, or at least fears Giovanni. Otherwise, he won’t have chosen seclusion the way he has for decades.

So why is he so sure that there will be no consequences for taking the heir of an Italian powerhouse? This goes so much further than just Camorra’s wrath, too. This is a family with a great many powerful allies on its side. Not to mention the startling amount of control and presence they have at the High Table.

Something about all of this doesn’t make sense.

The lack of fear, the preparation that has gone into this—they all point to more than just an attempt to torture answers out of you.

How will Boutin react if the truth about Rafael comes out?

They will torture and kill you both. Slowly.

Swallowing at that desultory, cool assessment inside your mind, you slow your gait.

“Move it,” a muffled voice grouses from behind you in an accent that makes you think Eastern Europe. “You know we will hurt you.”

Shocker.

Your hands have been bound but the guards are still alert.

It made you feel queasy to have the roughness of rope cut into your wrists once again.

But it had not been the time to act. Not yet.

“I feel...”

You drop to the side.

The guard reacts on instinct, grabbing you by the forearm to slow your descent to the ground.

Your elbow smashes directly against his temple, numbing it enough to make your arm droop. Other two guards react at once, pulling up their weapons but it’s too late. You drop against the guard that was leading you, yanking the gun from his hand and planting a bullet in his face and the two guards behind him.

Only one dies immediately due to your shaky aim, and it takes another bullet each to finish off the other two.

The spike of adrenaline drains too quickly and you slump to your knees, breathing one harsh breath after another.

Your muscles twitch under your skin but your ears strain.

Two bullets too many.

But the gunshots had sounded muffled when they fired, dampened by the dirt and the flesh. A small mercy but one you’re not quick to thank for. It’s still no guarantee that someone hasn’t heard or will come to check soon enough.

Move, John orders sternly, or they will kill you. Move.

You start with your hands.

After Tokyo, after it took weeks for the skin of your wrists to heal, you made sure to practice getting out of binds constantly. With enough time most binds can be broken out of.

Time, however, is one thing you don’t have a lot of right now.

Still, doing more damage than you wanted, you manage to rip your wrists free. The skin already looks abused and scratched from loosening the ropes but you ignore it, wrapping the length of it around your right hand instead.

A good weapon to use.

The pistol only has two bullets left in the magazine—it won’t take you very far.

The other guards only have a knife between them. Still, you grasp the unfamiliar, heavy weight in your hand. Balancing the metal between your fingers, you try to familiarise yourself with the shape and the feel of it.

Wiping the back of your hand over your forehead, you dig deeper and deeper into yourself to find the strength to go on. Your earlier panic still lingers in your veins but you ignore it, clutching onto that clinical set of instructions inside your head.

Either you get it together or you die.

Your eyes press shut and you stand, shaky, mumbling all the turns and twists you took to get here in this far away tunnel.

Now, more than ever, you wish you could find that stillness John sometimes mentioned.

The sensation of perfect clarity that allows you to slip into nothing but pure instinct. Where there is no pain, no exhaustion, no limits.

But you’re not John.

As everyone is always so quick to remind you.

Fingertips tracing the walls and relying on nothing but touch and memory and sound, you move through the tunnels.

For at least five minutes there is nothing but the beat of your heart.

Then—

Dull footsteps ahead and you pause, your eyes opening.

The rope in your hand loosens and you wrap the other edge around your left palm. The rope stretches and you relax your muscles, waiting, ready.

The soldier rounds the corner and you land a quick, brutal kick to his knee, making him double over. The rope wraps around his neck and you cross your arms, slamming against his body and pulling the rope taut around his neck.

The man splutters, groaning, trying to pull the rope away from his throat but you press closer, digging your elbows into his back. The man twists, attempting to throw you over his body but you wrap your legs around his waist from behind, clinging to him. The splutters grow weaker by the second and you breathe harshly against his ear as he falls over, your body weight keeping him pinned down.

Time seems to crawl as he stills. You wait for another twenty seconds though.

You’re not about to take any chances.

Loosening the rope, you slice the blade against his neck for good measure, too.

Pushing the heavy body to the side, you leave it in a shadowed edge of the tunnel.

Wherever here is, it’s an old but sturdy premise.

You encounter another three soldiers before you manage to track down Santino. Shadows and silence are your best weapons and you don’t waste your precious bullets.

Rope and a knife.

Not quick and not clean but still effective.

The metal door is shut but hovering your ear over the door, you can still make out the voices inside.

“You know, I’ve heard about you,” a man speaks and you crack the door open centimetre by centimetre after undoing the latch; no doubt a way to stop Santino from getting out in the event he manages to get loose. “D’Antonio. The Smiling Shark. I’ve been waiting for a chance to cut up your pretty-boy face.”

This holding room is a smaller version of the one you first woke up in. Though you can’t see his face, you spot Santino seated on a chair in the middle of the room, a bright light illuminating his lean frame.

“Oh? You think I’m pretty? I’m flattered.”

It’s an effort not to roll your eyes.

Crouching low, you stalk closer, your steps silent.

The guard grabs a knife from his hostler. An ugly, crude thing meant to scare and do damage.

“Forget waiting—”

You jump on him from behind, driving your own blade deep into the unguarded flesh of his neck.

“Guess you’ll have to wait a little longer,” you rasp into his ear and slash the knife horizontally, not wasting any time.

The man barely has time to gasp before fresh blood rains across the dark dirt and you push his body to the side. You slow the descent just enough to void any loud noises as you wipe the bloody blade on the guard’s clothes.

Your eyes lift towards the Camorra heir but Santino is already staring at you.

The look in his eyes is not one you have ever seen. He has bestowed you with plenty of intense, heated looks before but this is something else.  

“You okay?”

“You’re incredible.”

That’s genuine and it almost makes you smile. Instead, you arch an eyebrow and approach him, readying the blade. Your arms feel like lead and he no doubt notices your shakiness as you hack at the binds holding his arms tied behind him.

There is a fresh smear of blood against the corner of his mouth but other than that he appears the same.

The binds loosen and you rip them off. Santino lifts his hands at once, rubbing his wrists with a scowl all while he peers at the dead guard.

“Come on,” you prompt when he stands to his feet. “We need to get out before someone notices we’re gone.”

You step past him, listening for any sounds outside. Your time is limited before someone finds the dead guards and calls for a search.

“Wait.”

Your head snaps in his direction in disbelief.

“Wait?” you repeat, bewildered. “Waiting is the last thing we should be doing right now.”

Santino’s eyes find your own and he cuts the distance between you but his expression—eager, wild—is one that spells danger.

“They talked with me, bella,” he begins, a note of urgency in his accented voice, and leans so close you’re practically face to face. “I goaded them into revealing some interesting things about this place. It is rigged to blow. A security measure.”

A beat of hushed silence.

“Tell me that you’re not that stupid and reckless.”

The disbelief in your voice makes him sigh and press his eyes shut briefly before he turns his attention back to you.  

“We blow this rotting pit to hell and bury Boutin and his men inside.”

He says that like it’s so damn easy.  

You pull back, your eyes searching over his features only to realise that yes—yes, he is indeed that reckless and stupid.

“I don’t know what kind of delusion you live under, Santino,” you hiss quietly, leaning closer as well. “But I reassure you, I am no superhuman. I’m barely standing and have a knife and some rope on me. You’re no fighter, either—a liability as far as combat is concerned. And you really expect to blindly go into this, knowing what I do about your thirst for revenge when it comes to this man, and no exit plan when you blow everything up while we’re still here?”

Santino’s exhale of frustration almost equals your own. He drags his palm over his face, wiping the blood staining his skin. His body stands straight and you see the stubborn set of his jaw.

“I lied. Inside the room. I knew that they were watching and listening, cara mia,” he clarifies hurriedly, and the insistence in his voice makes your eyes narrow. “I woke up when we were still in transit. I memorised the path, bella. I know how to get us out of here,” he says with a meaningful stare, and adds a pointed, “This is nothing new to me, remember?”

Is this a skill he had to learn over the years? Being able to track where he is being taken to?

“And you expect me to just believe that?”

His eyes flash.

He hesitates for a breath.

“Yes,” he whispers and reaches for your face. His fingers brush over the arch of your cheek and you find yourself frowning. “Trust me.”

You shouldn’t.

He’s out for revenge.

Your strength is failing.

You have no exit strategy other than his word that he knows the way out.

But—

His petulant stare as he ate the fruit crawls back. That burgundy suit he wore.

His unspoken belief that you are stronger than this—that you deserve better.

He could have dangled you like a prize in front of Rafael and while he did, he never allowed the other man to touch you. Santino tried to keep you safe even when it was potentially compromising his own self-interests.

He could have thrown you under the bus the moment you killed Rafael. He could have used you as a scapegoat. He has certainly done so plenty of times before.

But he didn’t. He’s been doing everything in his power to keep you both safe.

He didn’t leave you even when you told him to run, either. He’s here, right now, because he made that decision—to take that risk.

And maybe—

Maybe you know a thing or two about that smouldering, never-dying need for retribution.

For revenge.

It’s those realisations that open your mouth. “Fine. Just so they don’t follow us.”

You both know that you’re lying.

But he doesn’t point it out.

Wasting no time, you move towards the dead guard, ransacking his body for any other weapons.

Your fingers wrap around a well-loved Beretta 92 and you almost snort at the irony of it all. The magazine is full though and you grip it firmer. Your hands are trembling so hard, you almost bite your tongue to stop yourself from cursing.

Long, burning fingers wrap around your hands and you flinch.

Santino’s gaze is cautious.  

“Let me.”

“Do you even know how—”

His fingers are gentle while he peels your fingers away from the handle.  

“I’m the son of Camorra, cara mia,” he points out flatly, almost peeved. “I will endeavour not to be insulted by your implication.”

Under different circumstances that might have gotten a smile or even a laugh out of you but right now you only step closer to him.

Santino pauses in checking the pistol, his eyes roaming over your features, taken aback by the closeness.

“When we’re out there, I will need you to have my back,” you tell him, low and solemn, and he matches your sombre stare, unblinking. “Or we both die. Stay behind me. Shoot only when the situation is dire.”

“I have no intention of dying here,” he informs you flatly, his voice as supercilious as you’re used to hearing it. “Do you?”

You give him a stony look.

“Let’s bury that asshole.”

You march past him but still catch a glimpse of a smirk on his face as he turns to follow you.

Both knives you’ve stolen weigh heavily in your hands. One is larger than the other, too, which will be an issue. Fighting is always made harder when there is no equilibrium between the blades.

Ignoring that, you dig deeper and deeper—

Shouts ring in the distance and you freeze just as you both exit the holding room.

The tunnel is empty on both sides but a bolt of urgency shoots through you at the commotion in the distance.

“They know.”

Santino says nothing but this is probably the most serious you have ever seen him. He nods his head left and you move ahead of him, both knives gripped securely.

There is urgency in your steps as you occasionally turn towards him to check where to go next. The further you go the more sounds of unrest grow.

They’re searching for you.

At this rate, it’s a matter of time only until they find you. Unless you beat them to it by blowing these tunnels.

Your arm snaps out.

Santino bumps against it, halting at once. His green eyes meet yours and you shake your head, nodding for him to get behind you. For once, he listens wordlessly but sticks close. You can feel the faint heat of his body tickling the back of your bare neck as you lower yourself into a crouch. The man behind you hesitates but then follows your lead.

You’re in front of a fork in the tunnels but—

Count. How many?

A phantom of John crouches opposite to you, his expression merciless. Icy. A manifestation of that hunter instinct he worked so hard to instil into you.

Your eyes flutter closed and you strain your senses.  

Five.

Barely audible tremors against the ground. The rhythm. The shuffling of boots that’s too substantial to mask fully.

You don’t know if you can take five of them—

You’re not strong enough.

Focus. Hesitation will kill you. Go for the veins. Don’t give them time to react.

He’s right. There is no room for fear or doubts now. Too much depends on the next two minutes.

Stay with me.

Your shadow, your beloved ghost, gives you a too kind, I will.

That’s how you know he’s not real.

But that hurt—a blistering, swelling thing—rips through your heart and washes away all else.  

And then—

tip backwards,

nothingness,

and finally,

—stillness.

A step in the dirt just around the corner.

Your eyes open.

A crunch.

You go straight for the femoral vein, severing it in one stab before you slice upwards through the thigh, the man’s blood spilling immediately as you jump to your feet.

The second blade lands in his neck.

You yank mercilessly, and the figure right behind the first—now half-dead—soldier doesn’t react fast enough before you throw the blade right at his chest.

The blade sticks and the soldier grapples for it with desperation fuelled by agony.

You allow him the luxury of pulling the blade out for you before you drop the first soldier, and throw your spare blade at the third man further away.

It hits his shoulder like a bullet.

You leap at the second soldier at once and grabbing his arms, drive the bloodied blade back into his chest, harder this time. You slam the heel of your palm into the hilt twice, ramming the metal even deeper, and kick the soldier’s feet from under him just as bullets hit his body. The shield holds and the slight pause in the rapid-fire gives you an opening to rip the blade from the man’s chest. You sprint at the third soldier who just about got the second blade out.

Your legs wrap around his chest and a wicked slash is all it takes to finish him off.

Rolling over, you slip yourself under the dead soldier’s body as more bullets hit. Your fingers dig into the soil as you wait.

Click. Click. Click.

Pushing the body away at the sound of empty chambers, you throw dirt at the fourth soldier’s face, followed by a slippery blade. It lands in his thigh and the man yelps in pain.

The coppery stench of fresh blood finally coats the back of your throat but you ignore it, leaping to your feet.

The fifth soldier backs off, desperately hurrying to reload—

Watch your flank, a mix of John and Cassian warns and you tuck yourself to one side, distributing your weight evenly as the fourth soldier charges at you.

A punch flies towards your face.

Too slow.

Spinning on your heels, you duck, looping his arm in the noose of the rope you have fashioned, wrenching his arm backwards. Slamming your foot into the back of his leg, you let him fall to his knees, whirling around to hurl a blade at the filth soldier. The man you’re holding pulls on the rope, throwing your aim off, and the blade pierces the tunnel wall instead.

Shoving your knee against the fourth soldier’s spine, you crack his neck—

BANG

You still.

The body of the fifth soldier falls to the floor behind you with a groan. Your head turns and Santino lowers the gun slightly, meeting your stormy stare.

The haze lifts and you gasp a breath, loosening the rope till the fourth soldier drops to the ground as well.

You dip your head in a grateful nod.

Santino steps closer, his gaze searching. “Bella?”

“I’m fine.”

You’re trembling so badly, he doesn’t look convinced by your words. He extends his hand to touch you but you stumble past him, kneeling to stick the blade into the final soldier after removing it from the wall.

Santino got him in the chest but not in any vital spots. Still, you know you would be dead if he hadn’t fired that bullet.

“That must be the room,” he speaks from in front of you and you glance up to where he’s looking. “Come on, bella.”

Now the presence of these soldiers makes sense. They were guarding the control room. Gripping the gun in his hand—and it is admittedly a sight that unnerves you because you’re not used to seeing Santino handling weapons—he points it at the door, nodding at you.

Your attention lingers on him for a second before you retrieve your blades and stagger towards the door as well. It’s worn, cheap metal and you hear the creak of hinges as you push it open cautiously.

There is no one inside.

You check twice before entering with Santino behind you.

The camera feed focuses on the giant room where you first woke up with several screens showing different angles. The room itself is dark and smells musty and old with just enough cool dampness permeating through the air. Both of you ignore everything else as you busy yourselves with finding any form of a detonator.

Your movements are sluggish but you compel your body to move through gritted teeth.

“Cara mia,” Santino calls out after few moments of searching and your attention snaps to him. He’s standing in a darkened corner next to the control panel and you walk towards him. “I do believe I found it.”

Yes, besides the camera controls and light controls, sitting at the very edge of the platform and enclosed in glass is a button that only reads Emergency Exit.

“They say that this is what it was called,” he reveals before you can ask, and you share a brief look. He reaches for the glass encasement, using the back of the gun to smash the glass and hovers his hand over it. “After all these years…”

His voice fades off and you listen to his unsteady breaths for a few seconds.

“Boutin may not even be here,” you point out lightly.

You haven’t seen him since your separation after all. You have no proof he’s still here.

Santino exhales, his shoulders curving. “I know.”

His hand smashes against the button.

At first, there is nothing.

Then, a splitting screech of a siren rips through the air and the camera footage cuts off, every available screen switching to a countdown instead.

00:05:00

00:04:59

00:04:58

Wincing, you grasp Santino by the crook of his elbow. “Run,” you say and realise a second later that your voice is lost in the blare of the siren. You tug him to you, his eyes meeting your own. “Run!”

You both do.

Pushing out of the room, you react just fast enough to stick your blade in a soldier’s gut, throwing him off you unceremoniously. Santino fires two bullets over your shoulder, the sound swallowed by the earsplitting warning chime.

One hits in the neck and another in a shoulder but you finish off anyone alive with your blade.

Your knees knock together as you try to rise and Santino is suddenly there, his large hand around your forearm as he helps you stand.

He doesn’t try to speak over the deafening sound simply leading you in whatever direction you hope the exit lays.

Stumbling side by side, you hurry through the tunnels, taking turn after turn. With each new opening to another seemingly endless stretch of darkness, you start to feel your hope waining.

The Italian wears a muted glare on his face, his expression pinched, focused. His bright eyes tracking over every turn and you see him muttering under his breath.

You’re wasting too much time.

“Santino—”

You both round another corner and you feel it.

A shift in the musty, damp air.

Something colder and more biting stings through your throat with every inhale and you gasp, a puff of visible air exploding from your lips.

Santino looks triumphant and raises his eyebrow at you when your eyes meet—

You push him out of the way.

The bullet hits just where his head was moments ago and you fall on top of him, covering him as he drags you both backwards, firing two bullets at the target behind you.

A tunnel wall finally covers you as bullets hit the dirt overhead. Dust and soil rain down on you both. Risking a peek to the left, you catch a glimpse of a metal door in the far distance. The exit.

So close.

But you still have at least another minute and a half on the clock and the soldiers are drawing closer.

Grabbing the heir by the shoulder, you take the gun from his hand. “Go!” you shout from the top of your lungs and even then your voice sounds faint when compared to the gunfire and the warning sirens. “Get out of here. I’ll cover you.”

“No—”

You shrug off his grip. “Get your hands off me and get the hell out. Run!”

You shove him away but he lingers. His glare is dark, biting.

A bullet hits near your feet and you round the corner shooting the first black-clad figure right in the face. At this proximity, it’s impossible to miss, and you fire the remaining bullets at the swarm of soldiers before ducking back around as more lead pelts the tunnel walls.

The siren continues blaring.

Santino is gone.

The soldier lays dead at your feet and you reach for his semi-automatic but you’re too far away. Gritting your teeth, you wait for split-second pause that means someone is reloading or trying to rearm.

A second and you leap ahead, rolling across the floor, grabbing the semi-automatic as you go. Dirt sprays around you and your grip slips for a second—a few breaths of silence that cost you—before you unload the mostly full magazine onto the approaching soldiers.

It shreds through them ruthlessly and you duck for cover and fire.

Duck and fire.

The magazine is almost empty by now but you have John’s training on your side. Most shots are not even headshots. But it’s enough to slow them down. You spot one soldier turning around and running back into the tunnels as if realising that this is pointless and this entire place is about to blow anyway.

Which makes you so much more aware of your own time—

A boom in the distance almost makes you fall over.

You grip onto the wall and ignoring the few remaining soldiers, pump whatever little strength you still have left into your legs, dashing straight ahead. The soldiers don’t fire, no doubt realising that they don’t have time for that, either.

Soil rains down on your head and you sprint ahead as earth trembles beneath your feet.

More tremors and another explosion tears through the air.

You don’t need to look behind you to know that the tunnels are collapsing right behind you.

The door ahead is wide open though. The dark, frigid night beckons.

Which means that Santino got out.

You stumble as the ground cracks beneath your feet, throwing you.

Don’t stop.

It’s a roar all around you and in your head.

Dirt falls over your shoulders and fills your lungs—

Swallowing a shout of frustration, you sprint ahead and throw your body in a leap.

Hitting the ground roughly, you roll several times, throwing your arms over your face as destruction shatters the tranquil night air.

Dirt and soot fall onto you in heavy bursts.

You remain curled on the ground, trying not to choke.

Destruction, crumbling soil and metal and then��

Quiet.

Just as quickly as it began, it falls eerily quiet.

Your ears ring and you cough, shuddering in your spot as soil slides down your cheek and shoulder.

Twitching, you roll onto your back and gasp for breath, savouring the torment that’s the bitter Chicago air filling your lungs.

You’re not quite sure where you are. It appears to be some sort of middle-of-nowhere industrial estate, except there are no other buildings around.

You see no stars above, either. Thick, rolling clouds cling to the sky instead.

No matter how hard you try to move your body, you can’t. Whatever was left had been sapped away. You’ve given too much and your body has hit its limits. Once—before John and his wedding—you would have been able to walk away from this with your head held high.

Before he abandoned you. Before you allowed the spectre of him to cripple you further, clinging onto him like a hopeless, lovesick fool. Before you let him and the pain caused by him diminish your strength.

Enough.

The knot in your throat suddenly tastes like hatred.

No matter how hard you try, you can’t quite swallow it down.

You’re not sure how long you lay there, simply breathing and staring at the sky.

It’s so cold. You’re both cold and numb and…

Footsteps crunch against the gravel.  

Oh, you’ve almost forgotten. Santino.

Your head slants slightly to the side, trying to spot him.

You can’t believe you feel an actual pinprick of relief—happiness even—at the thought of seeing—

The kick to your stomach is strong enough to jolt your entire body to the side.

A scream of pain doesn’t quite escape but you curl into yourself with a whimper.

A weight drops on top of you, bony fingers sinking into your hair and jerking your head till you’re on your back.

Boutin’s furious face appears above you. A deep cut runs across his left temple, spilling blood all over his weathered, dirt-smeared face.

“The Viper.”

His gnarly fingers wrap around your throat and you try to beat his hands back but your own barely obey.

“I will destroy you,” the man whispers. “If not me then the one after me.”

Your fingers release his, trying to reach for the gun under your clothes that you held onto as a failsafe. There are still two bullets—

His palm slams against your cheek and you choke out a pained cry.

His fingers rip at the hard lump under your dirty and bloodstained sweater. He grasps the gun in his hand, looking down at you as his other hand remains wrapped around your throat.

“No—”

Boutin smiles. “Do not worry, viper,” he says mildly, almost mocking. “This would be too quick. I’m old-fashioned. I prefer seeing life drain from someone’s eyes.”

He throws the gun away and you almost sob.

You try to find that clarity again, try to grasp onto any shred of strength still left in you but—

But there is nothing.

Your mind is barren.

No Cassian, no Winston, no John, either.

You’re alone.

Boutin’s fingers grip your throat and he squeezes as your eyes fill with tears.

Tighter, more painfully tight.

Darkness fills the edges of your vision.

I don’t want to be alone—

“Let her go.”

The pressure lifts.

Santino.

Boutin is frozen on top of you. The heir stands beside your bodies, his arm raised and your gun gripped in his hand as he presses the nozzle into Boutin’s temple.

“The Table will have your head for this,” the older man hisses, his eyes dark. “You have no idea how much power I have. Or my purpose. Do you, boy? There are things out there that are more frightening than even the Table. Don’t be foolish like your father.”

Santino’s expression is empty though.

“We killed your son,” Santino reveals, his voice cold, mocking. Boutin goes so still you’re not sure if he’s still breathing. “He died begging for mercy. I wanted you to know that.”

“Do you have any idea—”

Santino doesn’t let him finish. “You will never take anyone from me ever again.”

“Boy—”

BANG

Boutin falls to the side, his weight disappearing as he slumps dead.

It’s quiet again.

“Amore? Can you hear me?” Santino’s urgent, silky voice speaks from above you, and his hands cup your cheeks as he carefully turns your face towards him. His familiar, round features register in your mind and your expression crumbles. “I got you, hm? Look at me. You’re safe now. I will never let anyone harm you again.”

He wraps his arm around you, carefully pulling you into a sitting position. Your cheek rests against his shoulder for a second before you pull away.

Silent tears drip down your cheeks and you don’t try to wipe them away.

Your throat hurts.

Everything hurts.

All those years of pain and abuse.

Tarasov.

Kishi.

John.

Rafael.

Boutin.

Something deep down crumbles to nothing.

A flood of grief and pain so powerful follows that you tip your head towards the inky, vast sky above you and let out a scream.

You roar at the sky, letting loose every shred of repressed anger and pain you’ve been bottling up. Every scream you’ve ever held back rips right out of you.

Your throat feels raw and bloody by the time you choke on a sob, your body slanting till your forehead is practically pressing into your knees.

Santino is silent beside you as you cry; a few, muffled sniffles escaping you. He doesn’t touch you either and you’re grateful.

Tranquil night air keeps you company for a long time.

It’s so cold.

Eventually, your cries subside, growing fainter.

Another few minutes pass before your head lifts slowly.

You reach for the scratched hand beside you. “H-help me…stand.”

He does.

His arm wraps around you and he pulls you to him. Your legs feel numb.

Santino touches your cheek and your eyes find his own, your vision blurring as he grips you around the waist. Ashamed, you try to turn away from his probing stare but his grip tightens. His fingers flatten against your cheek and he scrutinises you intently, transfixed.  

His expression feels like another kick.

Torn and bloodied, he holds you to him with security that almost makes you feel safe.  

“The…body.”

He understands.

Those green depths finally slide towards the dead man—no regret there—and then towards the only car in your line of sight.

He knows what he has to do.

You’re too weak to help but you watch as Santino drags Boutin towards the car. He dumps the body inside, slamming the door shut behind him. He stares inside for a while and you wonder what’s going through his mind before he stalks to the side and opens the fuel cap.

He hesitates again, pensive, but begins his trek back towards you.

If this gets out—what you just did and the people you killed—you will both be killed for it.

The Black Dragon is an extension of the High Table and you just killed its leader and heir.

Santino might get out of it alive. His title, however, would be stripped from him which you know for him would be as good as death.

That means that you have to destroy the evidence.

He halts before you, peering at you silently as he offers you the gun.

You reach out and squeeze his fingers around it weakly.

“For Emilia.”

For a second—just one—his expression wavers before he controls himself with a forceful swallow and a tilt of his chin, all arrogance.

His wild curls flutter in the air as he comes to stand beside you and raises his arm, aiming.

One bullet left.

He doesn’t miss.  

This time the explosion that follows and the open, hot flame that devours the car are things you welcome.    

You and Santino stand side by side and watch as Andre Boutin turns to ash.

New York skyline is a sight that makes you chest ache.

With relief instead of dread.

You never thought you will see it again.

From Santino’s penthouse apartment terrace, you gaze out and towards your city with a thoughtful frown.

You’ve spent the night at Doc’s clinic. That’s how long it took for the man to patch you up. He’s the only one you could ever trust to do so and keep his mouth shut about it.

It’s been a little over a day since you’ve come back from Chicago.

It took an hour of trekking through dirt roads and snow before you and Santino managed to find your way back towards civilisation. Additional two before you were reunited with too pale Ares who had looked at you both and not asked a thing.

You were lucky that a homeless man at the gas station had enough change for a quick call on the payphone. By the time the black SUV rolled into the station with its tires screeching, you were practically comatose with only Santino’s arms keeping you upright. Your last memory before you lost consciousness had been of Santino paying back the homeless man with a check for 40k.

You don’t remember the flight back to New York, nor the emergency care you received.

The window in which you were both unaccounted for was far too substantial not to draw suspicion.

So it’s been your idea to suggest that if anyone comes sniffing to give them a simple answer.

You were fucking and dining and drinking.

Most already assume you warm Santino’s bed. Why not give them a confirmation, especially when it’s the easiest and most effective way to get rid of any unwanted attention?

It will come back to bite you.

But if it helps to dispel the suspicion that will fall onto you at some point—

“Ciao, bella. How are you feeling?”

You turn around, glancing behind you with a blink.

Santino strolls towards you with a fresh, crisp three-piece and black overcoat while his hands stay in his pockets. Sunglasses on and his hair neatly combed, he looks exactly like he always does. A man of wealth and status. Not a curl or seam out of place. But when he stops beside you, the sun reveals the faint traces of bruises dotting his skin, only masked by an expert layer of makeup.

Everything to deter suspicion.

You haven’t seen him since you landed.

Both due to him needing to do some recon and you needing urgent care.

You wonder how he feels now that Boutin is dead. If he feels relieved and happy that it was by his hand. One day, you will do the same with Tarasov.

“Like I never thought I will see this city again.”

His head slants towards you with a thoughtful hum and the breeze ruffles his clothes. His styled curls stay in place and you’re not sure why you feel a faint stab of disappointment at that.

“The news has reached the High Table,” he informs you calmly and you swallow, your skin crawling. “They know Boutin and his men are dead.”

“And?”

“And?” he repeats with a cutting grin before removing his dark shades and looking towards you. His eyes seem even more piercing in daylight. “I reassure you, cara mia, if they knew my father would have crucified us both by now,” he explains and you know he’s right. “The site was completely demolished. Hm, they were unable to find anything except Boutin’s burned skeleton,” he adds with a pointed look in your direction.

You stare at each other for a beat.

“So no one knows,” is your low, disbelieving assessment.

Santino only dips his head, his attention sliding towards the city.

“No—and it’s in our best interest to keep it that way, no?”

It’s a leading statement. A poke at a question that’s no doubt been on his mind just as much as it has been on yours.

Can you trust one another to keep this secret when betrayal could mean the destruction of the other?

Shifting on your feet, you ignore the twinge of discomfort you feel through your body, and grip the railing, levelling him with a solemn gaze.  

“What we did, we did together,” you say, your words hushed, frank. “The blame is as much mine as it is yours. I will not betray you.”

Santino doesn’t react.

It takes another minute at least before he finally turns to face you.

His eyes rove over your features. Hard, searching.

He’s still the same as he was before but…there is something different now. You can taste it and feel it. A new layer of something sits snugly between you.

You relied upon and protected each other.

Saved each other from death.

That binds people for life. You just never expected it to be him.

“Just so we are clear, bella,” he begins and steps closer, adjusting his overcoat. “Your life does not matter less than mine, do you understand? Don’t ever say something like that to me again.”

That’s not exactly the response you expected.  

“You’re the heir of Camorra.”

His life will always outweigh yours. It’s not that yours doesn’t matter but—

“And you are the woman who saved my life,” he states lowly and watches your from beneath furrowed brows, something simmering in his eyes. “That is not a debt I will be quick to forget.”

This time, you take a step towards him as well.

“You saved my life, too,” you remind him, squinting at him in the sunlight. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re even.”

A playful slant of his mouth greets those words.

“Oh? Well, that’s what friends are for, no?”

You make a small sound at the back of your throat—still tender from all you’ve been through in these last few days—and shake your head.

“Friends. I have seen how you treat your friends, Santino,” you point out knowingly, casting a thoughtful look his way. “Knife in the back the moment they stop being useful to you. I’m not here to play that kind of game.”

He leans close like his next words are for you alone; a secret just between you.  

“Then perhaps you can be my exception, hm?” he wonders in a murmur but the look in his eyes is…unusual. Warm, almost. It makes you shift in discomfort. Just for a second, his eyes flicker towards your lips. “My first real friend. No games.”

Your throat feels dry, your next words a whisper, “And is that what you really want from me? Friendship?”

Friends don’t look at each other the way he looks at you.

A taunting twitch of his lips is your reply but it doesn’t have the same effect it used to. Before it was irritation at his nerve.

Now—

“For the sake of transparency in our newfound friendship,” he admits quietly and his hand comes to grip the railing. Sun dances over his tanned skin and your eyes latch onto those bruises again. His scratched skin. “I will admit that no, that is not what I truly desire.”

Shameless and blunt as always. But it’s better than lies. You almost find his directness refreshing.

Face-to-face, Santino D’Antonio regards you with obvious longing, not even bothering to hide the sultry note in his next hungry words. “What I desire, amore, is to take you back to my home back in Naples and make love to you in my bed till we both forget our own names,” he purrs gently, slanting his head as he watches you, and those words hit you like a brick. The simplicity of them, the ease with which he admits exactly what he wants. You. “I want to adore every inch of you till you forget the world exists. Till I see you smile and laugh. Till I know every sensitive spot in your body. Till you realise that you do not have to be alone anymore, hm?”

His eyes narrow, his expression almost devilish, before he continues. “Ah, what I really want is every last bit of you that you’re still unwilling to part with. But that’s fine, cara mia. For now, I will take your friendship.”

You consider him for a tense moment, reminding yourself to breathe. “And if I choose not to give it?”

He leans back a touch—just barely.  

“Ah, as it so happens a very beautiful and incredibly smart woman once told me that I can be...irritatingly persistent.”

A small snort escapes you and you shake your head again, wishing he wasn’t so…him. So capable of getting under your skin—and so easily.  

“She sounds like she knows what she’s talking about.”

His eyes gleam. “She does. She’s wonderful company, really.”

“Even when she calls you a pompous asshole?”

A grin that’s all teeth and genuine amusement. You wish he didn’t appear so delighted by your reluctant wordplay.

“Especially then.”

Your eyes lower.

You can’t do this to him, or yourself.

You can’t give him hope where there is none.

It would be too cruel to allow this to continue further.

“It wasn’t real,” you tell him, firm and prompt, and allow your eyes to jump back to him. “What happened between us during that poker game. I was just playing the part.”

His demeanour changes subtly. A tightening of his shoulders, an unhappy press of his lips, and complete drainage of that fondness you saw only moments ago.

But you continue despite it. “I love him. I still do,” you confess in a fragile, pained whisper. “I think that I hate him, too, but I also think that it will always be him despite it. I can’t give you what you want.”

It surprises you that you feel genuine remorse sting your heart at those words.

You reach out, running your fingers over his silken patterned tie, fixing the crooked lines for him.  

“Thank you for all you did,” you utter softly, meeting his sombre, dark gaze. Your words are sincere despite it. “Thank you for proving me wrong. Thank you for showing me that you’re not as bad as everyone thinks that you are, you sly, conniving bastard,” you tease with a slight, frayed chuckle and press your palm briefly against his chest. “But how long before you start resenting me for that?”

He doesn’t answer you, his expression stony. He won’t betray whatever he does feel. He’s too proud for that.

That’s what you thought.

Giving him a faint but genuine smile, you pull back, turning to walk away.

You need to go back to the Continental. Transfer the money you made to Tarasov before he comes knocking.

Santino’s voice halts your feet though.  

“You didn’t give me an answer, bella.”

Your lips part and you look back towards him.

He stands where you left him, still gripping the railing. His head tilts in your direction, and you’re surprised to find that the insistent, mischievous gleam is still present in his eyes.

He’s not going to give up.

It’s an odd realisation to come to. But you can see it on his face.

A friend, huh?

“I suppose we’ll have to see if you’re worth the bother, Santi.”

He actually laughs at that, his teeth gleaming even at this distance.  

“Have dinner with me.”

It’s not a demand.

With everything that you two have been through, this much you can give him.

“Fine,” you grouse, and make a point of sounding like he’s being a bother but he sees through it, his grin widening. “Tomorrow night. I hope you don’t expect me to be cheap.”

His warm laugh follows you out of the terrace.

.

For the first time in a while, you feel happy.

The Continental feels like a welcoming embrace you desperately needed. Alongside a lot of sleep and food. Doc’s very strict and unamused instructions. You’ve lost weight and muscle mass. Amongst other things but you will regain those, too.

For the first time since the wedding, you feel strangely lucid. Filled with a purpose that you have no name for.

But you suppose that’s how it works. Things have to be completely torn down before they can be rebuilt.

And you will.

Enough letting others destroy you through their actions.

Enough letting others dictate how you should feel.

Enough clinging to the past, to John.

He’s happy and you will be too.

Your hotel room door appears in front of you and the sight of it almost makes you smile.

Home. Finally. Mercifully.  

Both Charon and Winston were absent when you turned up at the reception—a rarity—but you were looking forward to catching up with the manager later.

Even if you could never tell him what happened in Chicago.

Winston is a man of rules and principle. He would condemn you for what you did. Or at least could not excuse something as foolish as what happened.

But Winston also doesn’t understand what you and Santino now share.

The heir needs time, but one day you will ask him about Boutin again.  

Your hand touches the cool metal of your room handle and you freeze.

Your other hand snakes behind your back and you pull out a pistol, clicking the safety off.

You can always tell when someone has been in your room.

Scratches and marks and little traps you have set up.

Charon knows how to leave the place undisturbed.

He and Winston are the only ones who do because you’ve told them.

Not bothering with the key, you thrust the door open with a loud bang, raising your pistol to find one pointed back at you.

“Wait!”

Two men stand inside your room but neither of them is familiar.

Dark skinned and dark-eyed, they watch you with polite caution.

They don’t appear hostile though.  

“Who the hell are you?” you snarl, tracking their every twitch.

The one with lighter, golden skin raises his hands in the air slowly, a placating gesture.

The one aiming the pistol at you doesn’t lower it though.

“We mean you no harm.”

His accent is lovely. A gentle roll of vowels and syllables that most certainly points to Middle East.

Your focus doesn’t slip though, and you take two deliberate steps into your room.

Your work is locked away as usual but the fact that they managed to get in—

“Then why are you in my room without permission? The Continental rules—”

The one with darker skin and a gun interjects, his words low and monotonous, “You have been summoned.”

You almost bristle at that. “By whom?”

“The Elder.”

You don’t make it to dinner with Santino.

In fact, you don’t see him for seven months.

. . .

an: wow, I don’t think I have ever been more nervous about a chapter and the reception for it lmao. I’m so sorry about the wait and thank you so much for supporting this story. Sorry if this wasn’t as good as usual ahhhh. 

Also, a quick note: Santino’s backstory is not here to make people go “aww, poor baby” because nah. It’s there to highlight the very grim reality of this kind of world. Santino doesn’t pity himself. His story is more to show the “this happened to me but instead of doing nothing, I chose to be terrible back” angle. I always felt like there had to be a very deep reason for his hatred for tradition/rules so this is my take on it. I also hope this finally explains why Chicago so fundamentally changed them both. Thank you for reading <33  

[morgana-ren]

  hi I’m here to thirst.

shigaraki makes his gf fuck a joystick. discuss.

——————————————–

Hhhhhhh yes fuck yes oh babey yes. So, dating Shigaraki can’t be easy, right? He’s temperamental, easily irritable, and disappears for long stretches of time on quests with his League. If something goes wrong, he’s going to be an insufferable asshole for a while. He’s one of those types that when he’s in a mood, he either won’t leave you alone or he won’t even look at you. He might use you as his personal stress relieving fleshlight until your thighs are chafed and you’re leaking cum from every orifice, or just flat out refuses to touch you for weeks at a time. 

Now here’s the kicker. You’re his, and no one is allowed to touch you, and that includes you. If it’s not some part of him that’s inside you, there better be nothing at all. If he’s not satisfying you, you’re not getting off.

That presents a problem, especially when he goes through one of his month long mood swings where any time you try to coax him, play with him, seduce him in any way, he just shoves you off and tells you to leave him alone. The more persistent you are, the meaner he gets. See, the rule doesn’t go both ways. He’s allowed to pump his cock whenever he wants, but if he catches you with your hands inside your panties, he gets pissed and you are fucking in for it, and not in a fun way. 

Well, that doesn’t mean you’re not tempted. You have needs after all, and if he’s not going to fill them, you’ve got to do something about it. 

He hasn’t touched you in ages now. He’s too busy angrily ranting at Kurogiri down in the bar, leaving you in his room alone. You can hear him even, something something All Might, something something heroes. There must have been another public appearance that set him off this time. 

He was already gone before you woke up, game still sitting on the same pause screen it was before you fell asleep. You doubt he’ll be back before the sun goes down, since he rarely ever is in times like this. That leaves you with a little free time to relieve yourself of some stress. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right? As long as you’re quiet, no harm, no foul! So you slither your sinful little hands beneath your underwear, grinning like a maniac as you rub yourself. It’s been so long, so it’s easy to work yourself up into a slippery mess and slip your fingers inside, grinding your palm against your hand. If it’s any consolation, you tell yourself, you’re thinking of him when you do it.

Well, as it turns out, Shigaraki doesn’t settle for consolation prizes. You swear to God the guy has a sixth sense for your pussy clenching because when you open your eyes for a brief second, he’s standing in the doorway looking pretty displeased.

You can try to stumble over excuses or pretend that you weren’t just fucking your own fingers, but your splayed legs and soaking panties are a dead giveaway. All you can really muster is a the same look a scolded kid gets when it’s been caught stealing from the cookie jar, and Shigaraki is a very angry daddy. 

“I leave you alone for a few hours and I come back to this.” He gestures to the bed you’ve so licentiously spread yourself across, raspy voice barely above a whisper. He steps inside the door frame, angrily kicking the door shut with the back of his heel. “What have I told you?” You could try to explain to him that it’s been well over a month since he last touched you, but you highly doubt he cares. You’re proven correct because even though he asks the question, he doesn’t wait for an answer before continuing his little tirade. 

“Such a slut that you can’t wait to stuff your greedy cunt with whatever you can the second I’m not looking.” 

He looks livid, but the hardness tenting at his pants says otherwise. Maybe the dry spell has been hard on you both. 

“Fine. You want something inside you so bad?” He takes something from his desk, chucking some corded item your way. It lands hard and heavy on your lap, and it takes you a second to process what he’s telling you to do.

It’s his fucking joystick. 

He loves this thing. It’s one of the few things he treats with respect. And now he wants you to… fuck yourself with it? It’s still plugged in for fucks sake. 

You look at him waiting for him to say he was kidding, but he doesn’t. Just gives you that stern, blank look he gives when he expects something done and isn’t accepting any arguments. 

It is oddly phallic. It has enough ridges along the length that you can tell it’s meant for a hand, but honestly, it probably wouldn’t be half bad. It’s long and thick, could probably stretch you in all the right places. Maybe that’s just your muddled horny brain talking. You wouldn’t look at this thing twice if you were in your right mind. 

But you’re not. And he doesn’t seem to be either. 

“Quit stalling. Grind on it.” 

He’s not accepting any suggestions, it seems, and when he gets like this, it’s best to just do what he says and hope no one ends up hurt. So tentatively, you slip your underwear down your legs and kick them onto the floor before pushing yourself up onto your knees. His eyes flick to your discarded panties for a second before switching back to you, watching behind narrow lids as you tilt his beloved accessory at a diagonal angle and rub your wet pussy along what is clearly not meant for it. 

The bulbous head of the handle brushes just right against your puffy clit, spreading your lips out around the toy as it stimulates you, and you can’t help but bite your lip as pleasure begins to pulsate once again. You’re already sopping wet, drenching his prized controller in your juices the more you rub against it. It’s not long until you’re sliding yourself up and down on it like some frenzied bitch in heat, working your hips against it and mewling with every hit against your swollen nub. 

You risk a peak at Tomura. Surely, he’s got to be furious. He wasn’t expecting you to enjoy this, and you clearly are. This was supposed to be a punishment, but you can’t help it if you’re that needy. 

But he’s not furious. His eyes are glazed over and drifting shut, palming his cock through the thick of his pants, watching you ride his paddle like it was made for you. Seeing him worked up only gets you that much hotter, the rolling of your hips intensifying until you’re openly moaning. 

“Fuck it.” 

You slow only slightly when you hear him speak, looking at him through heavy lashes. It takes a minute, but you process the words. You don’t question it. As you readjust your body, he slips his swollen cock out from his jeans, slowly stroking two circled fingers up and down. Your mouth waters seeing those pearlescent beads of precum weep from his aching head, but you’ve got another task to focus on at the moment.

With a little preparation from your fingers, you sink down on the makeshift prick, humming from the pleasure and pain as it stretches your walls. Even in your heated state, it’s thick and hard, contrasting your soft, squishy insides that try to contract around it even as it pushes further and further inside you. It only hurts for a moment, slipping deeper with less and less resistance the further it goes. 

It isn’t until it hits the jelly ceiling protecting your cervix that you feel it. Some soft tap deep inside you and then a rumbling that knocks the wind from you. Something happens on the TV screen but you can’t focus on it. The controller vibrates.

It takes you a second to regain your bearings, but when you do, you begin to bounce gently up and down on the joystick, lifting yourself up by the knees only to descend on it again and shiver when that little red button pushes down against your lining and it hums deep into your core. Shigaraki giggles as your head throws back, a filthy, lustful moan escaping your throat. He’s pumping himself in time with your movements, breathing heavy as he watches you fuck yourself for his amusement on his second favorite property. 

Using one hand to steady the base of your improvised fucktoy, your other comes down to your aching clit, rubbing in circles as your hips gyrate and your cunt sucks it inside your needy hole only to reluctantly release it again with each movement. You’re panting, sweaty and feeling the pleasure crest deep in your abdomen. If this was supposed to be some sort of punishment, the joke is on him, because between the fullness in your throbbing core, and the way it purrs just right in your sensitive heat, you’re going to cum, and soon. 

Just to drive the point home, you whine his name, high pitched and pathetic. 

You’re close, you’re close, you’re so close, you can feel yourself clenching and fluttering. You’re going to cum, you want it, you want it, you need it-

Before you can finish, a strong hand pushes you onto the bed by your shoulder. You yelp as you fall onto your back, your temporary plaything slipping out of you as you do. The pleasure ebbs downward and a frustrated cry is all you can manage.  Something hits the floor with an undignified plunk and you realize Shigaraki has thrown his controller off the bed, taking its place between your legs instead. He’s already yanking your ankle down, positioning himself between your quaking thighs with a flushed face and dilated eyes.  “This isn’t over.” He manages to slur, plunging himself inside you where cold plastic once was.  He’s lost this round. But you have a feeling the game isn’t over. 

[sceptilemasterr]

Defenders of the Flame (TE Rewrite) Act 3, Scene 1 - Identity Crisis

Title: Defenders of the Flame (A CIU Screenplay)

Main Pairings: Shreya x F!MC, Beckett x F!Atlas

Other Pairings: N/A

Genre: Full Rewrite (The Elementalists, Book 1)

Rating: PG-13 for violence, blood, swearing, alcohol, and sexuality

Summary: Atlas helps Beckett, Fiora, and Shreya practice the first step of their Combat Forms.

Previous Scene: Surprises All Around

Masterlist: Link

EXT. PCSA MAIN QUAD - LAKE - MORNING

It is a frigid winter morning on Penderghast’s campus. The quad is completely deserted, save for a single figure: Atlas stands on the shore of the lake, running through some warm-up exercises on her own. Despite the fact that she is dressed only in thin athletic pants and a t-shirt, she does not appear to be bothered by the cold. Several times, she glances back in the direction of the main campus as though waiting for someone.

ATLAS (muttering): “Beauty rest” my ass. If I have to drag you out of bed myself, I will--

She stops talking abruptly when she hears the sound of footsteps in the snow. Looking back toward Fletchly Hall, she spots Fiora, Shreya, and Beckett all approaching the lake, Shreya apparently regaling the other two with a story of some kind. All of them are dressed for the weather, unlike Atlas. Atlas waves stiffly in their direction as they get closer.

ATLAS: There you are. Let’s start.

BECKETT: Yes, excellent. Straight to business.

The three of them assemble side-by-side, with Atlas standing between them and the lake. She claps her hands together and addresses the others.

ATLAS: Right. So, Stoicheal Gather.

FIORA (muttering): Well, hi to you too, Atlas...

Atlas either does not hear her sister or chooses to ignore her as she plants her feet comfortably apart, crosses her arms in front of her chest, and starts to concentrate. Within a few seconds, glowing blue wisps of Water Stoichi begin forming around Atlas, swirling faster and faster in a vortex with herself as the central point. Shreya and Fiora look around in surprise while Beckett calmly observes. The vortex of energy grows tighter around Atlas, until it finally flows all at once into her body with a thunderclap. Fiora lets out a soft shriek at the noise.

SHREYA: Wow. Nicely done!

BECKETT: An impressive display!

Atlas opens her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides. Her skin glows a faint blue.

ATLAS: That was a Stoicheal Gather. It’s not gonna be easy; took me a year to learn it. And another year to master actual Combat Form.

Fiora frowns.

FIORA (panicking): But we’ve only got a few months!

ATLAS: And you’ve got a teacher. I was completely solo. Don’t worry about it.

She nonchalantly flicks a hand back toward the lake, unleashing a torrent of water pouring from her palm into the lake’s surface.

ATLAS: Anyway. Gather isn’t too different from what you’ve done before: sensing your innate stoicheal energy and all that. The difference is maintaining the kind of focus needed to draw up this much energy at once.

SHREYA: I’ve tried this on my own. I always lose it at the vortex. How did you get it to rush into yourself like that?

ATLAS: They call it the “foundation point.” And it’s honestly all mental.

She taps a finger to her head.

ATLAS: You need to keep your mind fixated on a single, strong concept that’s connected with who you are as a person. The way you think of yourself. Something that won’t waver or fade--that’s key! The foundation point is what’ll keep you from going feral once we get into actual Combat Forms.

FIORA: “A single, strong concept...” like what?

ATLAS: It’s unique to each of us. Mine, for example, is justice. My whole life I’ve been fighting against Raife and his damn cultists. Instead of using my hatred for Raife--which will just falter after he’s defeated--I focus on my sense of justice so I can maintain it even once he’s dealt with. That’s the most important part: it has to be a constant!

BECKETT: Ah! So, myself, for instance... I could use my identity as a Harrington and the sense of duty that comes with it. That is something that will be with me all of my life.

Atlas smirks.

ATLAS: Sure, that’ll work. As long as you think that’s strong enough.

SHREYA: Beckett, that gives me an idea! But instead of my path as a Mistry, I’d like to focus on my own path. My desire to step out from my family’s shadow and find my own future.

ATLAS: Kinda vague if you ask me, but sure. Fiora?

FIORA: Who, me? I... uh... I’ll think of something.

Atlas frowns but chooses not to comment.

ATLAS: Alright, everybody might want to spread apart a little. You saw how big my vortex started out--that’s how much space you’ll need.

Beckett, Shreya, and Fiora all exchange a glance before spreading out to allow enough space between them.

ATLAS: Right! Now, everyone try it! Focus on your foundation point and start drawing on your innate stoicheal energy!

The other three adopt similar poses to the one Atlas had done at the start of her demonstration, closing their eyes and focusing. For the first few seconds, nothing happens. Then, shining orange wisps of fire stoichi begin circling around Shreya.

ATLAS: There it is! Great, Shreya!

Fiora opens her eyes and looks over at Shreya. A few more wisps of energy steadily add themselves to her vortex as they grow faster and faster. Silver stoicheal energy starts appearing around Beckett, as well, though these are slower and fainter than the ones around Shreya.

ATLAS: Good, Beckett. Keep going!

Beckett visibly falters and his wisps of energy start to fade. He increases his concentration, bringing them back. Fiora closes her eyes and tries again, concentrating hard... but still nothing happens.

FIORA (frustrated): Ugh... come... ON!

The camera focuses on Fiora’s face, and we hear her voice, echoing in internal monologue:

FIORA (inner thoughts): Shreya... friends... Pend Pals... no, my old friends... Hartfeld... Penderghast... Shreya... Atlas, my sister... Shreya... school... justice? No, that’s Atlas’s...

ATLAS: Nice, Shreya! Now!

Shreya’s vortex is swirling furiously, fire stoichi surrounding her and almost touching her skin. Shreya opens her eyes in surprise at Atlas’s shout.

SHREYA: Wha--!

But that is enough to break her concentration. The Fire Stoichi around her dissipates, swirling off into the air and casting a brief warmth across the otherwise chilly campus.

SHREYA (frustrated): Zut alors! I was so close!

ATLAS: Not bad for your first real try. You’ve just gotta open your innate stoichi, allow it inside. It’s the opposite of what you’ve learned in class. You’re not releasing your innate stoichi, you’re letting it flow back in.

SHREYA: Ah, right. That makes sense.

Beckett’s own vortex is swirling still, but it is patchy, incomplete... large gaps in the side reveal he has not gathered quite enough Metal Stoichi yet. After another moment, the vortex starts to slow before dissipating into the air much like Shreya’s had.

BECKETT: It would seem I am struggling with this task.

ATLAS (nods): Your foundation point. Do you have anything else?

BECKETT: What, a replacement for my identity as a Harrington? I cannot possibly--

Atlas shakes her head.

ATLAS: Not a replacement. Alongside. A foundation point can be made up of more than one concept.

BECKETT: A second foundation point? Hmm...

ATLAS: Think about it. Shreya, why don’t you try again. You almost had it.

SHREYA: Okay, Atlas.

As Shreya focuses once more, Atlas walks over to Fiora.

FIORA: Sorry, Atlas... I can’t do it!

ATLAS: You barely summoned anything. I think I spotted one or two wisps, but...

FIORA (sighs): I knew it. I’m never gonna--

ATLAS: Alright, enough of that crap. Listen, Fiora. You’ve got the raw power: I think the whole birthday cake incident was enough proof of that. So that’s not the problem.

FIORA: Then what--?

ATLAS: The foundation point. What’s yours?

FIORA: I... uh... well, there’s a lot of things, but I’m not--

ATLAS: Then there’s your problem. You should have one, single answer for me when I ask you.

FIORA: I... I don’t.

ATLAS: Then find one! Fiora, tell me this: who are you?

FIORA: ...Huh? I’m, uh, your sister?

ATLAS: No, no. Who... are... you?

FIORA (thinking): Um... a Light-Att?

Atlas rubs her forehead in exasperation.

ATLAS: I’m really bad at this. It’s just... I think you’ll need some time to think on this. Maybe Shreya or Zeph could help. I’m probably the wrong person for this part. Sorry.

FIORA: No! It’s not you! I’m just... well...

There is a sound like a thunderclap, and Atlas and Fiora turn sharply in its direction to see Shreya, glowing with orange light and smiling broadly at them.

SHREYA: Atlas! Atlas! I did it! Look!

Atlas nods and walks over to Shreya.

ATLAS: Nicely done. Now, the next step is to--

Shreya’s skin starts glowing brighter. She looks down at herself nervously as Atlas begins summoning a swirl of water stoichi in her hand.

SHREYA: Uh... Atlas? What do I--

ATLAS: Let off the excess! Straight into the lake, launch the biggest blast of flame you can!

SHREYA: I--!

Shreya thrusts her arms out toward the lake, sending twin bursts of flame into the water. Steam billows up around them all... but Shreya is still glowing.

ATLAS: Bigger!

SHREYA: What?!

Flames start erupting around Shreya’s feet, lighting the grass around them on fire despite the snow. The flames grow bigger and bigger, before--

ATLAS: Deluge.

The energy in Atlas’s palm unleashes a torrential wave of water that washes over Shreya--and the fire--before flowing into the lake. Though Shreya stands sopping wet, there is no longer any trace of the fire at her feet, and her skin is back to normal.

SHREYA (shrieking): Atlas! Do you have any idea how much I paid for these clothes?!

ATLAS: Then why’d you wear them to a training session? Anyway, you’re not on fire anymore. You’re welcome.

BECKETT: I believe I understand. Once we’ve performed a Stoicheal Gather, that energy must go somewhere, correct?

ATLAS: Exactly. Energy can’t be created or destroyed. Once you’ve gathered that much stoichi, you’ve got to use it or else... it’ll “use” you.

She gestures at Shreya’s feet, where the flames have left a neat circle of melted snow behind.

ATLAS: Since we’re not ready for Combat Forms yet, that means letting it out in a huge blast of energy. That’s why we’re practicing by the lake. Build it up, and launch it--metal, fire, doesn’t matter--straight into the water.

SHREYA: Well! You could have told us that before we began!

ATLAS (sheepishly): ...I forgot.

BECKETT: Hmph. Perhaps, if your memory was as impeccable as mine is, you wouldn’t have--

ATLAS: Shut up and keep practicing, Harrington.

BECKETT (irritated): Very well, Luxen!

FIORA (innocently): ...What did I do?

BECKETT: Not you. I meant--oh, right. Same surname. I'd forgotten.

ATLAS (sarcastically): What was that about “impeccable memory?”

BECKETT: I... erm...

A short montage ensues of several more practice attempts, as Fiora struggles to think of something to use as her foundation point. Shreya is the first to perfect her Stoicheal Gather, but she struggles with releasing her energy; Atlas has to extinguish her flames on more than one occasion. Beckett eventually performs a Gather, which is followed by a massive cube of metal which he creates and launches into the lake, letting out a splash that drenches himself, Shreya, Atlas, and Fiora. Fiora, for her part, continues struggling, still unable to maintain her focus.

ATLAS (shouting): Alright! Enough!

She claps her hands together to get everyone’s attention. In the distance, a few students can be seen walking across the quad, now that it is a little later in the morning. Fiora stares down at her feet dejectedly, and Shreya walks over to her, wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulders.

ATLAS: Today was a great start. I don’t know how often we’ll be able to do this--you’ve got classes and all--but we’ll find time. Class dismissed, or something.

FIORA: Thanks, Atlas.

Shreya and Fiora start walking back, away from the lake, while Beckett starts talking with Atlas. Fiora sighs in disappointment.

FIORA: Shreya, you looked so cool with your Stoicheal Gather! I’m a Light-Att and everything, but I couldn’t even manage this.

SHREYA: Fiora. It’s okay! It isn’t exactly a competition... besides, we still have months before they expect us to have Combat Form ready. Plenty of time to practice!

FIORA: I know, but still... Shreya, how did you do it? What’s the secret?

SHREYA: It’s like Atlas said: you need a strong foundation point.

FIORA (sadly): That’s exactly what I’m stuck on.

SHREYA: Here’s an easy one: why are you here at Penderghast?

FIORA: Uh... because I fell in a lake and ended up here?

SHREYA: Right. Bad example. What about the school you used to go to? The Tuneless one, I mean?

FIORA: Not really sure there, either. I was just there because it’s what people do after high school, I guess. I never really thought about it--

SHREYA: Then that’s your assignment for now: finding out what motivates you! And there’s no better person to help with that than myself, naturally!

As they continue walking, Shreya thinks for a moment, pondering how best to help Fiora with her problem. Then she catches sight of a glimmering poster affixed to the outside of the Fletchly Hall entrance.

SHREYA (excitedly): Oh! Fiora, look!

FIORA: What? Is it about Stoicheal Gather?

SHREYA: No, no, nothing like that. I’d forgotten! The Amorelia Day Gala is coming up soon! Oh, this is so exciting--my sister’s told me all about them, of course, but this will be my first chance to go to one myself!

She points to the poster, and Fiora follows her gaze. The poster is decorated with colorful silhouettes of dancing couples, all moving around the center. In the middle of the poster, the words “PCSA AMORELIA DAY GALA 2018 - MARCH 17, 7:00 PM” have been written in glimmering golden letters. Shreya beams at Fiora, who simply stares in puzzlement.

FIORA: Okay... but what is it?

SHREYA: Only the biggest social event of the school year! It’s a dance that’s held each year, celebrating the coming of spring. But mostly it’s an excuse for everyone to relax, enjoy themselves, and maybe... spend some quality time with a special someone!

She says the last few words while looking pointedly at Fiora.

FIORA: Oh. Wow. I, uh, didn’t even know about this!

SHREYA: That’s alright! It is rather exciting. And so much fun to prepare for--

FIORA: One thing at a time, Shreya... I’m too worried about this Combat Form thing to even think about a dance right now. I’ll worry about it later.

Frustrated, Fiora pushes open the doors to Fletchly Hall and steps through. Shreya frowns at the poster and sighs before following her inside.

_______________________

Notes: Here begins Act 3, and it seems like Fiora's got a ways to go to figure out this Combat Form business. Hmm...

_______________________

Next: Back in Session

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[grayscalegirlsclub]

i’m gonna hide it, boy won’t cry.

summary: hawks comes home, eager for a distraction from his latest mission.  a/n: dubcon, breeding kink, yandere, lemon, angst, marking, creampie. i don’t know, man, i went to write a fic about hawks facefucking his darling for stress relief after the events of chapter 266, and instead this came out. also, this is my first time writing le smut, so go easy on me. word count: 2k

“Keigo,” you sighed, voice heavy as the man entered through the doorway of the small studio apartment. In the dim lighting, with only the illumination of the television on, you couldn’t see his face. Yet, from what you could make out, he did not look good. His red wings, normally bright, were drooped as a result of his hunched shoulders. Large chunks of feathers were missing and some of the redness, you noted, was from bleeding follicles where he had been plucked. There was no magnificent coat along his arms. Rather, they were bare. His black bodysuit was covered in smoke and soot, some of it falling onto his pants as he finally stood to attention in the entryway. And when his face finally hit the light, you gasped. Along his left side, a burn radiated from the top of his hairline to the apple of his cheek. His left eyelid stayed closed, swollen shut, as he saw what-he-assumed-was horror grow on your face. You finally stepped forward to meet him, the chain attached from your ankle to the leg of the table letting off a small chime as you wrapped your hands around his injured face. “What happened?” you stuttered, pinky fingers tracing along both sides of his jawline, “Your visor –” “Broke in the fight,” he scoffed, pulling his head away from your hands so you could only see his right side, “That’s why my damn eye is shut. I’m pretty sure there’s glass in it.” “Keigo,” you sighed again, trying to pull him back to look at you. He refused to budge, “We have to get you to a hospital right away: you could lose your sight. You have to tell me what happ–” His head snapped sharply then, both eyes opened wide as his strong hands gripped your wrists and ripped them from his face. “This again?” he sneered, not letting go of your wrists, “I rush home to my darling after almost dying and the first thing they want is for me to leave?” “To get help, Keigo!” “You’re all the help I need! Fuck, why don’t you ever understand that?” His voice broke as he shouted the question, grip on your wrists feeling as if he was a movement away from breaking the bones under your skin. In reality, he probably was. He had neglected your nutrition for the first year that he had brought you home, resulting in bones that easily fractured and skin that easily became discolored. It had been months since either had occurred. Tonight, that would change.

Before you could ask him another question, Hawks had moved you backwards. Your chain followed your feet as your legs dragged along the floor, balls of your feet losing skin as they scraped against the laminate. In an instant, Hawks had you against the dining room table, the edge of the cold marble tucked perfectly between where your thighs ended and the curve of your ass began. His hands slammed your wrists against the tabletop, and he laid his body between your legs, kisses beginning to land on your neck. Some of your hair got caught in his teeth as he ravished you, but he didn’t seem to care.  “Keigo,” you grunted, bucking your hips under him to try and get him off you, “Please.” “I’m sorry, baby,” he breathed, breath hot against your ear, “but I need it.” As he spoke, you realized you felt another sensation along your body. His tears stained your cheek as he continued to suck on your earlobe, neck, and then collarbone. You heard him swallow a lump in his throat as he descended his kisses lower, wet lips landing on the fabric that was against your sternum. Your body went limp under him as you realized that tears were continuing to pour from his eyes. Hawks stopped at your sudden complacency, looking up to meet your gaze for the second time that evening. A lump formed in your own throat as you realized that one of his pupils, the one closest to the burn, was now completely white. At this realization, you reached down, wrists tearing from Hawks’ grasp, and pulled his blonde locks hard. “Then give it to me good,” you whispered before you pulled the man to your face, crashing your lips against his own. The kiss was more tears and teeth than anything else, desperation pouring from the man above you as he worked his hands to your raised shirt, pulling it over your head as he moaned into your mouth. Your lips broke momentarily, a string of spit between them before he dived back in, using his tongue to finally push past your teeth and into your hot cavern. Your felt yourself pulsate underneath him as he began to dig his crotch down against your own and you broke your mouth open in a gasp as he started to move his hips in fast, sporadic circles. “Fingers,” you cooed, a pink blush overcoming your face as you took shallow breaths, “Kei, give me your fingers.” Your thighs rub together beneath you, feeling the slick that has formed trickle over your most sensitive areas. Hawks feels it too, a wet spot forming against your bottoms, and for the first time that night, he smiles. He pulls away from you to stand tall, both of his hands gripping the top of your leggings, and his lean fingers grip your panties, as he pulls everything from your body. The only thing left covering you is a black, lace bralette that pushes your breasts so far up your chest, they touch your chin as you stare at your lover. “Too slow,” you whine, and Hawks moans as you sit up suddenly and grab his left hand, plump lips sucking his index and middle finger slowly and rhythmically. He hisses when you move your lips away from his knuckles, your spit cold as you trace down to his cuticles before thrusting the digits back deeper into your mouth. In retaliation, he sinks a single finger from his other hand into your cunt, causing your mouth to fly open as he curves it in pursuit of the spongy spot inside you he knows so well. “You’re so tight,” Keigo gasps, a thrust accompanying each word as you continue to suck on his fingers, moaning around the digits as you feel your slick surround the man inside you. Your pussy gave the intrusion inside it a violent squeeze and Keigo whined like a schoolgirl, causing you to let go of him as your clit throbbed, so close to the touches they craved. “That’s because,” you hissed, laying back down against the table and looping your legs around Hawks’ torso, “you’ve been out and about on so many missions when your sole mission should be to fuck me senseless.” You saw a flash of something go across your lover’s eyes, but it didn’t stay there long as Keigo suddenly ripped his fingers from your sopping cunt, causing you to release a whine of your own. “God damn it, baby” Hawks swore under his breath, unbuckling his pants so that they fell to his knees before he moved his hands rapidly to rip off his top, “God damn it.” Hawks’ dick was as pretty as he was – trimmed blonde pubs nestled next to a cock wide enough to split the average person in half, a purple vein on its underside that left an indent against your walls once he was done using them, and its head tilted ever so slightly to perfectly crash into your g-spot. You were feral at the sight of it. “Put it in, put it in, put in, put in in,” you plead, unable to stop your hips from bucking against the table and Hawks does as you beg, sheathing himself into your core in one, sharp thrust. The moan you release as a result causes the head of your lover’s dick to twitch inside of you, but Hawks never falters. His strong arms move to lift your legs above you, his chest against your own as he begins to ram mercilessly into your tight, little hole. Your thighs burn and his fingers against them are sure to leave bruises in the morning. The thought causes your eyes to roll into the back of your head and you close your lids so Hawks can’t see how badly he’s ruined you when he’s only been in you for less than a minute. “You said to fuck you good, baby,” he breathes, a piece of his hair falling forward to land on your forehead, “but my girl has been so naughty.” Hawks pulls himself out suddenly, rubbing his head against your clit. Your head is dizzy at the weight of it and as you feel the coil in your belly begin to burst, he pulls away without warning and shoves himself back inside you. Your mouth breaks open into a silent “O” at the reintroduction, but Hawks doesn’t seem to notice as he maintains his manic rhythm. His pubes are rubbing against your clit so perfectly, the drag of his cock’s vein against your walls feels overwhelming, and the sharp thrust of his head against your cervix begins a tingling sensation in the tip of your toes. “She always wants me to leave, but I’m gonna make sure she can’t,” Hawks sighs, talking more to himself than to you at this point at his hips continue to piston into you, “Gonna pump this pussy full of cum so you can’t leave me…pump you full of cum so we’re together, so we have a reason to stay together, so I can’t lose you like I lose everybody else!” Your eyes shoot open at that, and see that Hawks is bawling now, his eyes full of love and fear and emotion as he keeps thrusting into you. He smiles when he realizes you’re looking at him and, in immediate response, you lift your arms up to wrap them around his neck. “Keigo,” you breathe, rolling your hips against his as you sit up to sink your face into the crook of his shoulder, “please, cum for me…c-cum inside me. I need it.” Hawks lets out a violent sob at your request, fingers weaving from your body to your clit, determined to make you feel as good as you make him feel. And he did, the coil in your belly beginning to wind up again as his hips rocked into your own, ass stuck to the marble of the table due to your sweat and juices, unable to move as you felt your body tense up around the large cock filling up your needy hole. With one, large thrust, Hawks slammed your body back against the table, your head bobbing against the hard surface, as your orgasm ripped through your body. Your vision blurred as you cried Hawks’ name, velvet walls spasming around Hawks as you milk him for all he’s worth. You continue to call out Hawks’ name as he fills every inch of your cunt with ropes of hot, heavy cum, surely coating the entrance of your fertile womb. Deep pants fill the air as you both finish, jizz still pushing out of each of you with each heavy breath you release. Hawks stays inside you, and on top of you, as he lays his head down against your chest. Despite your session, you can still feel small teardrops falling from Hawks’ eyes onto your breasts. Instinctively, you reach your hands up to comb through his hair, cooing to try to relax the man in your arms. “I still don’t want to talk about it,” he grumbles. You don’t push the subject. You want to walk tomorrow. “How about we talk about the fact that you marked me? Again?” The question is posed to implicate guilt, but Hawks hears the laugh in your voice as you ask it, and you feel his mouth pull into a smile against your skin. “In more ways than one,” he whispers, and you feel your mouth go dry as he begins to rub circles into your hip bones, before moving his hands upwards to the parts of your belly he wasn’t already smothering. 

[unsteadygalaxy]

all is soft inside chapter 12

a miragehound multichapter fanfiction

Also posted on Ao3, my username is the same there!

previous | next

12. give me a piece of your heart

A quick note: I have the Pathfinder's Quest book and I finished it today (Feb 2nd 2021)! It was mind-blowing and amazing and SO, SO GOOD. Unfortunately, this fic can no longer fit into canon because of what we find out about Bloodhound. Don't worry, I won't be spoiling! I had a story set up for them before I read the lore book, and that's the story I'll be sticking to. Maybe one day I'll write some canon things, but for now, this story is no longer canon-compliant. Part of me is sad to have all the answers, but hey! That's what makes canon-divergent fics so fun :)

Elliott practically flies down the street towards the Legends’ apartment complex, bursting with nervousness and energy as he goes. The torrential downpour of rain doesn’t even manage to dampen his mood; he’s got a heavy-duty umbrella and an upbeat attitude that could make the skies clear up in moments. Bloodhound’s proposition hangs in his head, and he clings to it with an embarrassing neediness. ‘Would you like to visit me in my apartment later this evening?’ they had asked, and he thought his heart would burst out of his chest. He feels like a dumbass for the way he had reacted- god, he was so lame. Falling over his words, making the simplest mistakes… What fourteen year old in the area had reached out and possessed him? Whoever it was, he’d have to have a strong talk with them later.

After arriving back to his apartment above the bar, he’d scrubbed himself clean and very meticulously arranged his hair. He’d eventually chosen a deep purple sweater over a light blue button down, a pair of his nicer dark jeans, a black belt, and sneakers to wear for the evening. He’d hemmed and hawed in front of the mirror for at least twenty minutes, rolling and unrolling his sleeves, second guessing each outfit choice he made until he settled. He had decided to keep the sleeves rolled up, but the easy confidence he usually has in himself has chosen to take a pointed leave of absence.

Elliott really does feel like a teenager obsessing over their first date all over again, but he has to remind himself it’s not a date, it’s just a talk. A nice evening in. A nice evening alone with Bloodhound. His cheeks blaze, and the enormity of his crush on them plummets onto his head all at once. 

Ahh, shit.

He finally lets his thoughts race and wander while thinking about them. For the first time in days, he lets himself linger on his memories of their face, though the quick glimpse he had gotten had not left him with much to remember. Their gorgeous red hair, their piercing green eyes, the striking contours of their face… They are so beautiful, and he would do anything to see their face again.

A giddy smile crosses his face when he thinks of all the times they’ve touched him on the arm or on the shoulder, or held his hands so softly. They had exuded kindness and compassion in those moments, the genuineness of which Elliott has not truly felt in a while. Bloodhound’s quiet vulnerability in the bar the other night had struck him as both odd and humbling; their increasing trust in him is something he definitely doesn’t want to take for granted. 

The complex comes into view and Elliott’s heart starts to pound harder in his chest. It takes a great deal of effort to not run all the way to their door… until he realizes he doesn’t know which floor is theirs, much less which door.

Bzzt! His phone vibrates in his back pocket, and he jumps a little before retrieving it. A message from an unknown number is emblazoned across the lock screen:

Second floor, number 14.

-BH

Excitement and happiness surges through his veins, and he immediately saves their contact information. God, is he really that pumped about having their number? A big stupid smile stretches across his face, and he wants to smack himself. Chill, Elliott, chill. You’ve gotta get ahold of yourself before you get up there. He takes a deep breath and sends a quick reply to Bloodhound as he continues down the sidewalk, valiantly avoiding the puddles. 

Nearly there! How’d you get my number?

A reply flashes through faster than he thought it would.

Renee owed me a favor. I hope it is all right that I asked her.

Oh, yeah, that’s fine! No problem :)

He has to physically restrain himself from adding a little heart; Renee or Octavio or Makoa were used to his nonsense, but he figures Bloodhound would only find it strange for him to be adding those things to his texts right off the bat. He’s busy smiling off into space when his phone vibrates again.

I am looking forward to seeing you.

Elliott’s heart practically explodes in his chest, and he steps right into a puddle.

------

Bloodhound can’t stay still.

Ever since those traitorous words had fallen from their mouth, they’d been on red alert, their brain and body a hopeless torrent of conflicting emotions that hadn’t quite settled. They think it’s fitting that it is raining; it seems the Allfather is showing his sympathies in the smallest of ways. The rain patters against the windows in a steady rhythm, and under any other circumstance it would have been very calming. They would have shed the mask and goggles and snuggled into the couch with a book and a cup of tea, but tonight, that isn’t an option. Instead, they’re wandering aimlessly around their apartment- cleaning corners that don’t really need to be cleaned, tending to Artur, and sipping at a glass of water every time they walk by the kitchen.

They’d hopped into the shower immediately after arriving home and cleaned every inch of their skin with an annoying attention to detail. Their anxiety had mounted in their chest until they had had to sit on the cold tiles of the shower with their head between their legs. Everything is going to be fine, they’d repeated to themself over and over again. Elliott would never hurt you.

The thought is ironic because of the stubborn headache at the base of their skull- Boone’s pain medicine had done little to abate the throbbing in their neck. As they think back on their day, they feel a surge of pride for Elliott. It seems that he is finally allowing himself to succeed, instead of limiting himself like he had before. He had truly surprised them today. Where they had once seen hesitation and worry, it had been replaced with deadly precision and focus, and Bloodhound would not change the outcome of the match even if they could. Elliott had been a wonderful sight to behold.

The frantic fear is nearly gone, but it lingers just enough to make them a little self-conscious. Opting not to wear their Games attire, they’ve picked a thick turtleneck, fitted cargo pants, woolen socks, and a slimmer pair of gloves that will hide their hands but not hinder any movement. The mask is laid on the table, ready to be put on at a moment’s notice. They’re already wearing the helmet, their goggles, and the leather cap. They’ve always hated having to pile wet hair under the hood, but their plans left them no choice. Bloodhound hasn’t cared much about their physical appearance in years, but for some reason, the idea of being alone with Elliott again makes them want to hide away in embarrassment.

An eager knock at the door startles Bloodhound, and they very nearly knock over their glass.

Their heart starts pumping in their chest, and their fingers fumble a little as they clip the respirator to the cap. Immediately, their breathing comes easier, and they scold themself for going so long without it this evening. Bloodhound makes their way to the door and opens it, revealing an absolutely drenched Elliott holding a broken umbrella in one hand and a pair of sopping wet sneakers in the other. 

“Hey! I, uh, definitely stepped in a ton of puddles on the way here. I usually watch where I’m going but these ones were sac- ski- scattered everywhere, so I couldn’t see them at all, and then of course the wind picked up and shredded my umbrella, so I’m totally soaked.” He shrugs helplessly and shakes the bent umbrella off a little, showering Bloodhound’s feet with droplets of water. “Ah, shit. Sorry!”

They shake their head at him and sigh, and a shiver goes through their body as they think about being drenched in this weather. “It is of no consequence, Elliott, I can very easily change socks. Please, come in,” they say, and they lead him into their apartment.

They try not to look at him as he takes in their apartment, suddenly insecure about how simple and bare it looks. The apartment had come furnished, but it is not quite to their tastes. Bloodhound prefers a more homey and warm feel, not the modern, sleek look that is so popular these days. The windows in the living room are quite large. Bloodhound had had a tinted effect added to them immediately- for their anonymity and so the light coming in would not be quite so harsh on their sensitive eyes. The furnishings are a combination of aesthetically pleasing colors and fabrics, all tones of white or grey or brown. A couple of plush blankets are draped over the back of the couch, and minimalistic frames are hung on the walls, great white voids containing typeface quotes and old cliches. The fireplace is an inordinate monolith of dark stone, and if Bloodhound had thought of it, they would have started a fire to make it seem less dull and boring. The thought occurs to them that they should have made this place more welcoming, but they are not vain enough to care in the long run. After all, will Elliott even want to return after he receives the answers to his questions? Bloodhound thinks not.

“Wow,” Elliott remarks, leaning his umbrella against the wall by the door. “It’s so clean.” He strips off his socks and rolls up his pants a little so the soggy ends aren’t rubbing around his ankles. The cuffs fit tightly around his very sculpted calves, and Bloodhound blushes before looking away pointedly.

“This space is not to my tastes,” they reply, watching him walk around. “My real home is much more notalegt- cozy- and warm. Not cold and unfeeling like this place is.” 

“Your real home?” he asks, glancing at them. “You don’t live in the Legends complexes full time?”

“I stay in the buildings during the on season, but during the off season, I retreat to a modest cabin in the woods,” they explain, and they realize they’ve made their first confession of the night. That... wasn’t so bad. “There are bookshelves from floor to ceiling, a large fireplace, plenty of furs to keep warm, and a view that would take your breath away. I quite enjoy it.” 

“That sounds amazing,” he grins. That smile… Bloodhound has to take a deep breath.

“Maybe I will show you one day,” they say, surprising themself with how easily they offer. “It is a beautiful place, and I think you would like it.” 

“Really?” he asks, surprised. “You’d, uh… you’d let me go with you?”

“Perhaps,” they murmur, and their heart starts to beat hard in their chest again. They notice he’s still carrying his wet shoes and socks, and they move to take them from him. “Here. Let me start a fire. Your shoes and socks will be dry in no time.” 

“Oh, thank you!” he replies cheerily, and the smile he gives them makes their heart skip a beat. They take the soggy items from him, cringing a bit at the questionable texture, and set them on the mantle for a moment. Overly aware of how closely he’s watching them, they kneel down, turn the gas knob, and light the fire quickly. In moments, a rosy glow emanates from the fireplace and Bloodhound pulls the screens over to eliminate any chance of Elliott’s things going up in flames. They reach up and place the shoes and socks on a small rack in front of the fire, and then they stand and retreat to their room for a moment.

Before long, they return to the living room wearing a fresh pair of socks and carrying a pair for Elliott. “Here,” they say, holding them out to him. “So your feet are not cold. It can be drafty in here when it rains.”

A pink tinge comes to his cheeks, and he accepts them hesitantly. “You’re way too nice,” he grumbles quietly as he sinks down onto the couch. He puts them on and then pushes his floppy wet hair out of his face. “Hey, can I borrow your hair dryer?” he asks, giving them a questioning glance.

“I… do not own one,” they reply, face burning. “Mine gave out a few weeks ago and I have not yet had time to buy another.”

To their surprise, he grins widely and looks away, suddenly very focused on the fire. “That’s all right,” he says, and his voice is curiously flustered. “I can just sit in front of the fireplace for a bit. You’re about to see the fluffiest hair the Outlands has to offer.” He laughs and rolls his eyes, raking his hands through his messy mop. 

The thought of Elliott with an untamed mess of curly hair makes them smile like a lovesick teenager, and they’re so, so glad they’re still wearing the mask. “So your hair is not perfect all the time?” they tease, sitting down on the couch next to him. They leave a respectable distance between them, but the distance is smaller than it would have been two or three weeks ago. “Ah, so he does have a flaw. Artur, can you believe it?”

They look to Artur’s perch where the bird has been sleeping peacefully throughout all of this. The bird shakes his beak and gives a soft caw before shuffling along his branch, completely ignoring Bloodhound. They shake their head at him. Unhelpful creature, they think affectionately.

Elliott scoffs and says, “Psh, no! I’m absolutely fal- flo- fu- perfect. My hair just has a life of its own sometimes.” He flips his hair to the opposite side and gives Bloodhound a ridiculously goofy expression. It takes everything in them to not burst out laughing, and they would have given him a deadpan expression if they could.

“Like your aim with an R-99, then,” they reply, keeping their voice as even as possible.

His mouth drops open, but he’s smiling. “Wh-What? Was that a joke? Did you actually just tell a joke?” A huge, incredulous laugh escapes his throat and he grabs his chest, and Bloodhound almost loses it. “That’s a little unfair though, considering how I absolutely lasered you today.”

It’s Bloodhound’s turn to laugh, and their face hurts from how much they’ve smiled lately. “You are correct, Elliott,” they admit, holding their hands up in a placating gesture. “I was very impressed with your skill this morning. Your precision and focus made you a formidable opponent, and I was honored to fight with you.”

Instead of the cocky, arrogant response they have come to expect from him, Elliott actually blushes. It is a welcome change; his cheeks turn a lovely shade of red and he looks away, biting his lip. “Thanks,” he says simply, and his voice is… bashful? 

Bloodhound does not quite know what to make of that.

------

His face burns fiercely and he can’t meet their eyes. He loves getting praise from his fans and from his friends, but getting praised by Bloodhound somehow means so much more. Maybe it’s because they’re so skilled, or maybe it’s because he respects them the most out of any other Legend, but such high compliments coming from them renders him a little speechless. 

“Hey, I know this is dumb since we’re paid to kill each other, but, um… Sorry about today,” he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. “Taking an entire clip of ammo to the head always gives you a nasty headache.”

Bloodhound huffs quietly, and Elliott takes that to be a soft laugh. “Do not worry, vinur minn. I am perfectly fine. It was simply the Allfather’s will for me to lose today, and I am not offended.”

Elliott lets out a small chuckle, relieved. “Well, that’s good to know. I was worried I might have broken your mask.”

They tap their mask firmly, and it makes a solid thunk sound. “You see? Perfectly fine,” they reply, and Elliott can hear the smile in their voice. “It is quite solid and substantial. Unlike much of your humor.”

Elliott stares at them open mouthed. “I’m wounded, Bloodhound, truly!” he rebutts, scandalized. He flops back against the couch dramatically, the back of his hand pressed against his forehead. Bloodhound, making multiple jokes in one night? The world must be ending, he thinks, and he doesn’t even care that the jokes are coming at his expense.

Bloodhound laughs, and God, he’s missed that sound. The gentle lilt, the soft breathiness of their voice… Elliott blushes even as he giggles, and he treasures the noise they’re making. 

“I have been known to be humorous now and again,” they say, still chuckling. 

Elliott can only smile and shake his head in wonder as the two of them laugh, and soon, he’s wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “Wow. Okay, out of all the things I expected tonight it definitely wasn’t that.”

“And what have you expected for this evening, Elliott?” Bloodhound cocks their head and leans back into the couch, folding their arms.

A thrill of joy runs its course throughout his body when they say his name, and he finds it strange. Bloodhound has surely said his name hundreds of times, but this feels different. Elliott is sure he’s overthinking it, but the way they had said it feels like they were humming a song. 

His entire body glows with warmth. “You promised me answers,” he says carefully as the giddiness starts to drain away. “You don’t have to go into specifics but… still, you promised answers.”

Bloodhound is silent for a moment, and their hands fidget lightly in their lap. Then they nod. “Yes. I do owe you answers, so please, ask whatever you would like.” Their voice is guarded and serious, and the shift in attitude is sobering. 

Elliott notices how discomfort begins to creep into their posture, and so he resolves to not push them any further than they are willing to be pushed. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, the air hissing between his teeth as he leans back and begins to think. “Okay, um… Well, I was worried about your mask breaking because I don’t know how it works or how it helps. Can I ask why you need it?”

The question only makes Bloodhound’s body language tighten up more. They are silent for several long moments, seeming to ponder and consider his question. Was that too much right out of the gate? he thinks frantically, and he’s about to redact his question when they let out a big breath and begin to speak.

“When I was a child, I was… in an accident,” they say, but something about their admission feels shallow, as if they have more to tell. “No. I made a grave mistake.”

Elliott takes a deep breath and readjusts himself on the couch. He can tell this story will be a long one, and he intends to listen to every word.

“In my culture, young warriors must endure a rite of passage that shows our strength and our transition into adulthood,” Bloodhound explains. “My test was to slátra a prowler beast. I was afraid, but... I knew the Allfather would guide me.” They pause for a moment, and Elliott hangs on to their every word. “I followed its tracks to an abandoned IMC facility deep in the woods, but what I found there was far more hryllilegur. Horrible,” they add when Elliott raises an eyebrow. 

“A jötunn had made its home there. It is a terrifying beast, all horns and teeth and claws. It is as large as some of the buildings in Slum Lakes, if you can recall. I began to run away, but I found a prototype Charge Rifle and shot the beast. I thought it was dead. I collected its horn to present to my uncle, but he was... disappointed in me.” They sigh deeply as dread begins to pool in Elliott’s stomach. “I had rejected the sacred laws of the Hunt by using a gun in order to defeat this beast. Artur was steadfast, immovable in his convictions, and no matter how hard I tried to convince him of my victory, he would not validate it.

“I left in anger. I was a child, only fourteen years old, but if the other village elders knew what I had done, they would have exiled me. I was... so ashamed.” Bloodhound swallows, and it sounds like it takes a lot of effort. “I retreated to the forest to be alone, as I often did, and… the jötunn was there. It was not dead, as I had hoped. It sought revenge.

“I tried my best to fight it off. My uncle was alerted to my cries, and came to help, along with many other villagers. They fought, and…” Their voice tightens, and Elliott’s heart breaks. “Many died. Including my uncle.”

Their voice has become achingly vulnerable and soft the longer they’ve spoken, and Elliott wants nothing more than to reach out and take their hands again. He shifts closer to them on the couch, closing the gap ever so slightly. His eyes stay glued to their mask, and the lenses of their goggles reflect the flickering light of the fireplace. He’s always found the mask to be either intimidating or expressionless, but Bloodhound’s sadness speaks for them, and the mask seems to be considerably more morose than usual. 

“I sought the beast out,” they continue, and Elliott is surprised by how quietly angry and low their voice is. “It had returned to the abandoned facility. The halls had been equipped with coolant lines in case of an explosion or other emergency, and I broke them in order to immobilize the beast. But I breathed too much of it in, and… it dehydrated and froze my skin and lungs, leaving me scarred. Fortunately, I was able to find an oxygen mask just before I succumbed to the cold. Once the beast was frozen, I killed it with my uncle’s axe, fulfilling my test.”

Bloodhound is quiet for some time, and it takes Elliott a moment to realize they’re done talking. He knows he’s staring, and he knows he looks like he’s pitying them, and he fights to find an adequate response. “I’m so sorry, Bloodhound,” he murmurs, and he reaches out to them hesitantly. He takes their hands ever so softly, giving them every opportunity to pull away. “I’m so sorry you had to deal with such horrible things when you were younger. That sounds really tra- tor- traumatizing.” He’s struck by an incredible urge to pull them into his arms and hold them close, and a wave of embarrassment runs through his body as he presses that urge down.

Bloodhound’s hands begin to tremble in his, and he’s alerted to their discomfort immediately. Their breathing comes quicker and shallower even through the mask, and he holds onto them tighter. “Hey, are you okay?” he asks, worried.

“I-” Their voice breaks and Elliott’s heart clenches in his chest. “I- I am sorry, Elliott, you do not want to see me like this-” Bloodhound makes an attempt to pull away and stand, but Elliott holds on tight, keeping them right where they are.

“Hey, hey,” he soothes. “It’s okay! It’s all right. I’m not bothered by you being emotional. It’s actually pretty refreshing, honestly. Makes you feel more normal, like the rest of us.”

They laugh weakly, and Elliott sighs in relief. “T-Thank you, vinur minn. I just- I am prone to anxiety attacks, and…” They suck in a huge lungful of air, but they’re still shaking. “That is why I left the other night. When you asked me about Artur, I was overcome and needed to leave as quickly as possible. Please do not take any offense- it was not your fault.”

Elliott’s chest fills with a strange sense of compassion and guilt, and he squeezes their hands comfortingly. “It’s okay, Bloodhound,” he reassures them. “I’m not mad. Just… worried.” The admission makes him feel exposed and overbearing all at once, and he really hopes he’s not making them uncomfortable.

An idea comes to his mind. “Hey,” he says quietly. “Breathe with me.” 

Bloodhound stiffens, and Elliott hopes to God he hasn’t somehow offended them. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, and after a moment, he hears Bloodhound inhale greatly as well. He finds himself rubbing his thumbs back and forth across their rough gloves, just like they had done to him a few nights ago. He lets the air calm him and settle his racing heart. He still doesn’t really know what he’s doing, or if he’s even doing this right, but to his delight, Bloodhound’s breathing begins to slow and even out. They gradually stop shaking, and he smiles. 

Elliott opens his eyes. “Better?” he asks, and he gives their hands a quick squeeze. 

They are quiet for a moment. “Nearly,” they murmur, and they pull their hands away. Elliott’s face falls, and rejection begins to rise in him, but they take off their gloves and reach for him once more. He eagerly closes the gap between his shaking fingers and theirs. The place where they make first contact with his skin- a small place near his thumb- tingles pleasantly, and the warmth of their hand settles in his. He inhales sharply, and beams as their fingers curl into his own. 

“Better.” They are so quiet and soft as they speak, and Elliott almost misses what they say. “Your kindness is a blessing to me, kæri vinur. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he smiles, trying to find their eyes beyond the lenses of their goggles. Despite his happiness, he finds himself wishing that he could search their face for meaning, for emotion, for clarity. He knows why they need and wear the mask. He knows why he will likely never see their face again. But, damn, does he desperately want to gaze upon them just one more time. He doesn’t know what kæri vinur means, but he can’t help but notice the similarities between it and what they usually call him. 

He doesn’t dare to hope it means anything.

...does he?

“Do you… do you want to talk about it, or…?” he trails, attempting to do what they had done a few nights ago. 

“No, Elliott,” they reply, but their voice is not unkind. Their grip on his hands tightens for a moment, then they loosen, and it sends a thrill down Elliott’s spine. “Your help was more than enough to calm me.”

He adjusts himself on the couch, and his knee brushes against theirs. The only light in the room comes from the quietly crackling fire, and it highlights Bloodhound’s features with a silhouette of warmth. His heart starts to pound in his chest once more, and every sense heightens. Elliott suddenly becomes aware of how intimate and vulnerable this little bubble of space is, and his shoulders tense in anticipation of something he knows will never come. He wants to pull them close. He wants to lace his fingers in theirs. He wants to…

“Can I trust you, Elliott?”

They sound so… exposed. So afraid. His breath catches in his throat for a moment. “O-Of course, Bloodhound. You can trust me with anything,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumbs across their knuckles reassuringly. He’s surprised by how rough their hands are, and it’s only then that he remembers the silvery spider web scars stretching across their skin. 

“Then… there is something I wish to share with you,” they reply, and their hands begin to tremble in his again. They let go of him, and to his utter shock, their hands go to their helmet, edging towards the many clasps that fasten it to their goggles and respirator.

“W-Wait, hold on,” he stutters, and he reaches for their hands again. “A-Are you- hey, you really don’t have to do that if you don’t want to, I mean- I mean, are you absolutely sure?” He stares at them in confusion and worry, and his stomach is an unintelligible knot of emotion. Elliott searches their mask and their body language, trying desperately to figure out what the hell they’re thinking.

“If I was not sure I would not be doing this,” they chide gently, and they remove their hands from his grip. “Please, just let me do this. Ég er svo- I am so tired of hiding.”

Elliott can’t argue with that. 

“Okay,” he says, still very unsure. His hands fall back into his lap.

------

The child inside them shakes and trembles horribly as they raise their hands to their head. Part of them screams and begs for them to stop, and it’s only in this moment that they realize that part is the terrified twenty-five year old that had had their mask shattered in front of all those people so long ago. That crowd had been so cruel, but Elliott could never share their vitriol, their hatred. Bloodhound has seen into the man’s heart more than they ever thought they would, and no trace of cruelty exists inside him.

How long has it been since they willingly showed someone else their face? Five years? Ten? Ajay seeing them had been a complete and total accident- one that they had learned not to mind. Boone had grown up with them, of course, so he does not count. But Elliott… At the beginning of this night, they never would have dreamed of doing what they’re about to do. But Elliott is so kind, so thoughtful and accepting that their heart yearns for him greatly, and they can ignore that fact no longer.

Their fingers fumble with the straps of their helmet, but something drives them forward. It drives them to be vulnerable- to be open and take a risk. Elliott has seen their face already, so why are they so nervous? He has seen the scars they bear- why are they trembling like the young one they used to be? They do not know, but they hope that the price of them being so vulnerable is a price he’s willing to pay. 

There is no turning back now, they think. 

With trembling hands, they remove the helmet, cap, goggles, and finally, the mask.