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prettyboykatsuki · 4 months

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I LIKE IT BETTER WHEN YOU CAN'T KEEP WARM | ODXNY

✮ tags ; heavy themes, gender neutral reader, mentions of past suicidal ideation, getting together, romantic tension, angst to fluff, extremely lovey-dovey ending, some implicit and suggestive content (lit one paragraph n non descript), themes of touch starvation, small height difference (reader is shorter)

✮ wc ; 6.3k (this is so shameful bye forever)

✮ a/n ; every time a semester ends i lose my mind and me writing this in several hours straight is evidence. if i had a nickel for every time i wrote a character study with the central theme of loneliness, i'd have two nickels - which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice.

i will spare you the insane rambling for the authors note at the bottom of this fic.

✮ synopsis ; he wants something. to live maybe. and if he could be a little selfish, to be with you. he wants that, too.

Bright.

Could just be the dark room he keeps himself in talking. His computer system and encrypted Internet browsers are all in dark mode - and his desktop set-up doesn’t have any L.E.D. strip lights to keep him company. He prefers it that way, the ambiance a better environment to work in when he’s doing his usual rounds. Down to the programs U.I. - Odxny spends most of his time in perpetual darkness. Cozy and familiar - totally safe and secure. Nothing but the low whirrs of a computers fan and the faint blinking of routers to keep him company.

You’re the brightest thing he’s had on his screen in a long time. You’ve got white walls and no precaution, really. You’re sitting at your own desktop - and he can see everything of your life in the background of where you sit. There are photos of you graduating high school, being around unnamed friends, vacations and trips, and head shots like the kind you take for a resume. It’s all so personal. Bookshelves, trinkets, poorly made clay sculptures. Posters of musicians you like and Studio Ghibli movies. Evidence of life surrounds you like a halo.

Awful. Angel comparisons to someone he’s only known for a day make him wonder if he’s more pathetic than he thought. He probably shouldn’t think so hard about a stranger, a real stranger. Thrim generated randomly, though he thinks it sounds like a name. Finds it fun to say, for better or worse.

Natural light pours in from a window nearby, casting shadows in your room. He already knows you, in a way. He did the background search. Where you were born, raised, grew up. The schools you went too, the career you seek. Bits and pieces of you are all scattered in his memory and are not at all thorough. He wasn’t really trying for that at the time, just needed to know if you were dangerous. There’s a cognitive dissonance. To know a life so thoroughly and to witness it is completely, and utterly different.

There’s miles between you. Must be thousands. He can’t remember the last time he’s really met someone, though. It’s hard not to notice that this feels akin to that. Like the embers of a campfire, glowing but not burning. A comfortable warmth.

Bright. His screen is very bright talking to you. Even obscured behind the mask, it’s a little difficult to look at it and leaves him on edge - restless and mildly painful.

When his vision adjusts though, there’s clarity. A person, a stranger - with an exceptionally nice laugh and who is exceptionally trusting. Odxny tries not to think too hard about the feeling of warmth that flutters at your overflowing sincerity.

The conversation is easy.

“Does that mean you trust me now?”

Odxny pretends to think on it. “Enough to keep you around.”

“See you later.”

“See you.”

You accompany your last words with a wave - short and sweet. Darkness pulls him in, back where he started. He has a mild headache from all the light.

You pick up on the language better than he thought you would.

He underestimated you. Can you blame him? Your choice is language is ArnoldC, for fucksake. Sure, he has limited knowledge on esoteric languages but can it really be in-depth enough to show you the basics.

(It can. Or at least, Od presumes this to be the case because you’re rather helpful in Incri’s hacks and Incri is hardly helpful to anyone in the world, no less the server.)

You pick up on things quickly with little guidance - always to the point and not usually making many errors. He has to commend your abilities and give you credit where it’s due. It’s not a hard language to learn, but for anyone with no familiarity with coding at all he’d expect there to be a learning curve. Even if you had coding language, it’s not like you knew SQL coming in.

You fit strangely well into the server somehow. You’re happy to learn and nonplussed about helping with small things, though you don’t know these people at all and have no reason to participate in their nonsense. You talk to Incri fine, and manage to get Pep to accidentally reveal telling information. Odxny finds all of this rather… entertaining maybe. More than impressive, really.

He has a hard time making sense of the feeling. He would hope you don’t think you’re under duress - given the fact your relationship in two days has been pleasant. Then again - maybe he’s missed some social cue and you do think that. It’s possible. After all, he doesn’t actually remember the last time he’s spoken verbally to anyone with very, very few exceptions.

He manages to call you again after the fact - opens the call with sincere and heartfelt congrats and feels pleasant seeing you take the compliment in stride.

You land on the subject of programming again, inevitably. He interrogates you a little more over your choice in language - almost like he can’t help himself. It’s basic curiosity. You had said you were the best in ArnoldC. A little research proved that to be true, presence of you in the forums of various esolang pages. He landed on many things. You’re the best at ArnoldC, but you also know Brainfuck for some ridiculous reason.

He thinks you’re a little ridiculous in general.

“It’s really for the love of the game, huh?”

You nod when he asks this. Smiling, bright and unbothered with a soft edge of smug pride that makes the muscles of his face twitch up. “Mhm. I like my little collection.

Odxny doesn’t doubt it for even a minute. He’s seen the proof, but perhaps he doesn’t need to mention that. “Your trophy case of ridiculous language?”

Your eyes come to life all of a sudden. “Wait. A real trophy case would actually be so cool.”

He pauses, blinking as the words sink before a smile breaks onto his face helplessly. “That was not to enable you.”

“Too late. I’m already looking up the ugliest wood trim display cases I can find.”

The laugh comes naturally. “You really are just like this?”

You look proud again. “What? Fun?”

Yes, Odxny thinks but doesn’t say. “Baffling.”

You ask Odxny to elaborate and he does. The conversation flows with frustrating ease. So easily that he mouths off about his plans to you without a second thought. He doesn’t know why he does it. Not really. He’s thought it through over and over - so it’s not like he needs to disclose it. He made his choice.

He thinks about moving it along. About ending the call or simply brushing past without going into any detail.

When he glances at the screen, you’ve got a pillow in your lap and your eyes completely focused on him. There’s that feeling again, alarming clarity in your gaze and brightness that causes him immense unease in the world he’s made of nihilistic, apathetic darkness. There’s a plan, always has been. He’ll do this and disappear and the world will soon forget him. If it happens that way, than at least this loneliness is a choice he’s made for himself and not something the world has cruelly decided for him.

His lips move faster than his head, than even his heart. Compelled by a nameless and brilliant force. “I don’t have any reason to stay. I’m just — tired. Of everything.”

“No reasons? Nothing makes you happy here?”

His response is measured. Quiet. It’s not secret. He finds his voice crumbles around the words anyway as if they’re a confession. “Not for a long time. I don’t feel much of anything, really. It is what it is.”

You frown. He’s seen it all before. Heard it all before. “That’s…”

He cuts you off quickly.

“We just met. And we’ll be strangers again soon enough.” He says with as much conviction and resolve as he can possible manage. Who he’s convincing remains unclear. “So, not to be cold but..you know.”

The disappointment in your face leaves an impression, but you relent. He tries to make amends for the depressing conversation of talking again and you perk up so genuinely it makes want to cry, in a distant and foreign way.

“Catch you later, then.” He says, and closes at out the call. The room falls dark for the second time. He blinks a few times to get rid of the light clouding his vision.

Wnpep is eager to teach you on the third day.

You’re eager in reply - matching energy with sharp wit and enthusiasm. Wnepep is a better teacher than Incri by several miles. Evident in how much faster everything falls into place for you. Not that you really need too much help in the first place. You break down the crumbling walls of an insurance scam with ease and come out of the other side more accomplished.

It’s a noble last hack, Odxny thinks. Not unsurprising from Pep - unofficially the most sane and likeable member. He figured it’d be something like this less than a matter of personal vengeance.

You go back and forth for a bit in admin chat. Od types an apology about winding you up and tries not to read too much into the innuendo of it as you reply back with your own faux offended replies. He insists he’s somewhat sorry, and you’re far from believing him.

He finds himself grinning at his screen while he texts you mid conversation. When the realization hits, he almost curls into himself from embarrassment - a hand covering his mouth like it’ll do away with the grave sin.

The inneundo happens twice in one conversation, before you get to call under the premise of a victory toast.

A brief conversation about the last hacks barely leaves room for much else except Odxny plans of total isolation.

“Mm. I should’ve known it would come back to this. Why do you care what I choose to do with myself?”

That baffles you in a terribly genuine way. “Am I not allowed to care about another person?”

Odxny speaks honestly. “You are but I mean…” He trails off. He knows how he feels. “I’m not really a person anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m no one. I’m going to be no one. You have other things to fill your life with.”

There’s a vulnerable edge to his voice that he winces at when he hears it. It’s true isn’t it? All of it is true to Odxny, but especially where he says you have other things to fill your life with. You might share the same hobbies, but he’s seen it. He’s seen how different you are - your livelihoods, your existence. You’d be missed if you suddenly disappeared. Odxny knows the same isn’t true for himself. It’s been like that for a long while now.

(It’s crushing. That’s what makes your very ephemeral existence feel like a burden. Why it casts the shadows of doubt on choices he made, about how he would live so long ago. You care, don’t you? At least, more than anyone else in his life in the present. You care so undeniably, and so obviously and it is all so simple to you.

He almost envies it. Almost resents it, too. It’s such a small shred of humanity, the barest forms of sincerity but it is painfully raw. A split nerve. An open wound It’s not like the server, all of whom have accepted this distant fondness. It’s a delicate thread - spider silk accuracy and just as much strength. There’s conviction in your missing him and it haunts him.)

You think of what to say for a long time before landing on it. “I do. But I can care about multiple things at once,”

It sounds like I care about you too closely. He finds himself shivering. He’s truthful with you, unsure of how else to be when it comes to these conversations.

“That sounds burdensome.” He says. “Isn’t that exhausting?”

You don’t lie to him either. “Sometimes. But it’s worth the trouble.”

“Why?”

“Because I like your company,” You reply. Soft sincerity in your words. More clarity. More painstaking light.

“It can’t be that simple.”

“Why not?”

“If it was that simple then -“ Then it makes it seem like things could be different. He doesn’t say that. Stops himself before it can happen. “I don’t know why I’m bothering to argue. Why do I feel like I need to prove this to you?”

He’s almost afraid to look at your face, wincing when he sees how knowing you look. Not in a condescending way - but genuine, full blown understanding. Like you see through him.

He wonders if he knows you as well as he thought he did.

Your face is so sympathetic. “Are you sure it’s me?”

He cuts the conversation short on his own - making an awkward transition from the topic at hand into whatever he can manage. It’s an awkward fumble - a poor attempt at distracting both of you from this line of thinking. You’re kind enough to let him have it. He asks about your hobbies. You tell him about how you like to try the weirdest things and combinations you can find in a restaurant.

He finds it suits you.

A lot of things suit you. Even your piss poor attempt at the Terminator that he quickly mimics - possessed by god knows what.

You laugh when he does. Brilliant and bubbly and characteristically warm. You say the words through giggles.

“That was so bad!”

“It was a lapse in judgment,” He replies back defensively, smiling against his will. He finds himself laughing too.

“I like your laugh, by the way.”

He pauses caught off-guard. “Oh? My laugh. Oh, uhm. Thank you.”

You make a face that he can’t read. Knowing. In a different way than the last. He feels nervous.

“I have been laughing quite a bit, haven’t I?”

You grin. Smug and deliriously happy. “Sure have.”

He looks away from you. “Ha...Odd.”

You giggle again. Your eyes crinkle at the corners, nose scrunched in genuine delight. It’s a pleasant sound but not because it’s particularly wispy or floaty or delicate. But it’s real. Pleasant in the way the white noise of park during summer. Pleasant like the varied playlist overhead in a record shop. Pleasant like a moment of humanity tucked between everyday. He clears his throat.

“I like your laugh, I think.”

You laugh again, gasping with faux offense. “You think???”

He tries not to feel so grounded by that sound and fails. “Yeah. I think. Laugh again.”

He tries not to add please. You shake your head like you’re reprimanding him.

“No, no, you have to earn that. Make me laugh.”

“Nevermind. Shut up.”

You do laugh again that time. He joins you soon after. “And now you laugh? At me?”

The conversation moves again, comfortable like a tide. You ask about his favorite language and he tells you as much. You’re quiet and growing cheeky, listening to him talk.

“So you do like coding.”

“Maybe a little.” He replies, not giving in. “You remember far too much of what I say.”

The conversation comes to a close again. He thanks you for how nice its been and you make an off-handed attempt to get him to change his mind. You could always talk more. The implication delicate beneath it.

We don’t have to forget each other. Odxny brushes past it - but says he’ll see you tomorrow anyway.

Extorting Elimfs childhood friend (?) is an easy enough endeavor. Odxny texts you through out - to ask advice on what things to take when he leaves.

He calls you again when its over too. He can’t find a reason for it - nothing that makes sense. He just wanted to call you. He hasn’t wanted something like that in a while, but he tells himself its fine. This is the last time you’ll ever know each other.

So its fine. He won’t waver.

He’ll just.. call you.

He asks you on your weed habits, mildly surprised when you tell him you smoke and take edibles sometimes too. The conversation loops back to the fund at one point. You don’t hide your displeasure about the whole thing today.

You’ve talked about it already. No need to keep bringing up. But you seem to feel so strongly and Odxny can’t figure out why. Can’t shake the feeling of wanting to know why every single time.

“Is it really so hard to believe I’ve come to like you in a few days?” You ask, after probing.

“In a way that matters, yes.”

You frown at him when he says that. It’s the most upset he’s seen you look, if he can call it that. You’ve never been upset when he’s been rude or insulting - but this is bothering you. It doesn’t help him pull away from you.

He says it again. Reinforces how temporary this all is. He’s trying to convince one of you. Both of you, maybe, of his unimportance.

“I don’t think that little of you.”

He finds it hard to reply to that. It’s that feeling against. It makes him uncomfortable. It’s not empty platitudes or some vague sense of responsibility for his life. All of it is real, and all of it is meaningful in how plain it is. You make it seem easy.

“It’s life. It’s normal. People come, people go.”

You shake your head. “Not for me. I can’t forget you that easily.”

He wishes you would. He’s painfully, painfully relieved that you wouldn’t it. He voices neither thought.

“Then- try! You’re putting so much on yourself, and for what? You don’t stand to gain anything.”

You shrug. “Peace of mind. Knowing you’re still out there.”

It’s heavy. The implication is heavy. He’s not going to kill himself. He doesn’t want that anymore, though he thought about it. At the beginning. Loneliness is more painful when you have memories of what not being that way was like - he thinks. At the start of all that loss, the hollowness bared an almost painful gravity inside of him.

It’s like being told to breathe or blink - becoming conscious of what was once a natural function, how full life was once when it’s escaped. He doesn’t want to kill himself, but living is meaningless.

These things aren’t paradoxical to him. They haven’t been for all this time.

(They weren’t until he met you at least. A mirror of wanting. Odxny looks at you and sees life reflected back. Despite it not being his, its moving. It’s beautiful in a human way, reachable. Tangible. Earned.

Wherever you are. Whenever you’re together, the black hole inside of himself seems to fade back into average planetary darkness. He becomes cruelly human again, feeling warmth and laughter.

He’s tells himself he’s not afraid of dying and that’s mostly true. He’s most afraid of living. Afraid he won’t be able to learn it again.)

He manages to tell you some of what he’s thinking. He has no clue how to start over. He doesn’t know if it’s possible. You don’t feed him any false hope, but he tells you how he sees it. You’re feeling pity for him right? And you should figure that out sooner rather than later.

“Is it really that easy for you?”

You shake your head. You’re smiling but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “It isn’t. But I have to try.”

“Is that what you’re doing with me?”

“What?”

“Is this…?”

He cuts the call off when he hears himself, unsure of what answer he’s hoping for. The realization dawns on him too much, too quickly. The feeling of hope is loud in his chest but there is another feeling, embarrassing in it’s swiftness that follows shortly after.

Oh.

The servers shuts down after a mildly sappy adventure to close up shop. The closest Odxny has gotten to flirting with you in his own way. He’s sad to see everyone go, despite there being no other choice.

It’s easier than he thought it’d be. To give you his number he means, even after shutting the entire server down. After leaving everything behind. He gives you the choice to make. Call me if you still want it - a silent promise.

Maybe because deep down - some part of him always wanted to make this choice. Just maybe.

Your voice is different over the phone line. A little clearer, spoken softer. Just as lovely as it was the first time he heard it. Maybe more. Maybe.

The city beneath him is bright. So bright. It doesn’t hurt to look at, he thinks.

You call him every day.

You’ve been doing it for months.

He thought, at some point, you’d let up or start to forget. He’s been waiting on it to happen as horrible as it sounds. Like some self-fulfilling prophecy, he’d slip back into the background as is natural. A proof of his nonexistence, if you will.

You don’t forget though. He almost wonders if he’s dreaming when it happens. There’s a routine between you two, these days. You have your own life that you’ve been living the same as normal. When it’s night time for you, though - you hop onto your desktop and call Od like you’re two very average people.

There’s nothing solid to define your relationship aside from friendship as is. This is less frustrating than he expected it to be. Getting to know you better has only made him like you more. Your relationship is solid in a strange way. It’s been about six months total, and as corny as it sounds - Odxny feels like he’s known you for his entire life. You understand him in an intimate way, with vulnerable tenderness and radical acceptance.

He kind of misses the privacy of his old stomping grounds, but he doesn’t mind speaking though discord. It feels… normal. In a not displeasing way. You mostly talk to talk about whatever comes to mind. Sometimes it’s your job search, other times it’s your part-time or friend drama. You’re vibrant as always. Without the wall of anonymity, Odxny gets to know of you like he’s just your average person. He finds he really, really likes that.

You play games together frequently. He’s never been interested in cozy gaming, but you play Minecraft and Stardew Valley together per your request. Odxny streams himself playing Ocarina of Time for you on Discord in the background sometimes too, and you keep it on when you’ve got work to do or you’re cooking or something else. There’s something very mundane to it.

You’re not doing anything with him today though. You’re calling him on facetime, rather than at your desktop. You’ve made the executive decision to laze around and Odxny has no problem joining you though you speak less than usual as a result of being sleepy. You had a long shift yesterday so perhaps Odxny can’t blame you.

“Need to get better shoes. For walking and stuff.” You say thoughtlessly. The corners of his lips twitch up.

“Yeah?”

You nod. Your face is smushed against your pillow at an unflattering angle. He smiles a little.

“Yeah. I’m on my feet for like nine hours when I serve and it hurts wearing flats. Need something sturdier even it diminishes my drip.”

He laughs at that. “Please never say that again.”

You continue onwards. “Decreases my aura, even. But alas, utility comes first.”

He snickers as he glances at you through the phone. You’re propped against one of his monitors as he does work on his computer. He’s getting back into programming for the love of the game, just seeing what he can do.

“Want help looking?”

“Feels a little ridiculous asking a super pro-hacker to shop Sketchers with me.”

“You seriously thinking of buying Sketchers?”

You laugh lightly. “Maybe I’ll get tipped more if I get the light-up ones.”

“Please don’t.”

“Hater.”

You break out into genuine laughter as Odxny shakes his head in despair. It’s something you’d do, no doubt. You sigh.

“I really do want a break from work.” You roll around on your mattress. Odxny can hear your rustling but can’t see you much. “The chains of capitalism shackle me in place. Woe is me.”

Odxny thinks on what you’ve said for a long while in silence. The question comes up every now and again though he’s never brave enough to ask it. His ludicrous amount of disposable income however is still sitting in his bank, collecting dust. It’s been six months and he’s hardly made a dent in it.

“Do you want to come visit?” He asks, cringing at the sound of his own voice. The words are strained and a little too eager. “I can pay the difference for expenses for wages and stuff. And, uh. Uhm,”

He loses his train of thought trying to speak, worsened by the way you pop onto his screen when he says that. Your expression is unreadable to him, comfortable and even. You smile a little as you lift the phone so he can see what you look like laying in your bed. Your face is in full view.

“It’d be a little weird to visit you before we start dating officially, no?”

His eyes go wide at the implication. You grin, mischief and mirth making your eyes practically beam. He can feel a blush crawl up his neck as soon as he registers it.

“Excuse me? Why are you saying that like it’s already been decided?” He bites back, not sure what else he could say.

“So you don’t want to date me?”

“I didn’t- you - damn it,” He groans at his own bluster as he giggles on the other side of the line. So cheeky. Damn him for liking it and damn you for being cute. “…You are saying you like me right?”

Your face softens. He can feel his heartbeat quicken. “Uh-huh. Just wanted to take it slow. But I’ve liked you for a long time.”

“How long is that, exactly?”

You shrug playfully and the fact he can’t be within reach to kiss you feels especially harrowing. “A secret.” You smile again, all trouble. “So. Wanna date?”

“Terrible confession. Zero stars,” He says petulantly. He leans back in his chair and finds himself smiling uncontrollably. “Fine. I guess.”

Your laugh fills his room. He doesn’t get tired of hearing it. His face hurts from smiling.

He manages to stave off on the anxiety of you coming to see him for a lot longer than he thought possible.

Making arrangements proves to be a little difficult. You have to tell your roommates that you’ll be gone for a while but promise to still pay rent and explain to your boss where you’re going. You have a good enough relationship and have been working long enough for them to agree to keep a spot open so you can start working when you come back.

After that, there’s the matter of Visas. Odxny goes out of his way to make that process go much faster than normal, though he doesn’t actually tell you. Once all of that’s sorted, there’s living arrangements. Try as you might to insist to live somewhere else, his place is too spacious for him to let you stay anywhere else. You can take the guest room.

He pretends that all of this is just happening in his imagination. He doesn’t even know the last time anyone came over, let alone lived with him. He does his best to make things presentable, and makes a guest room for you to live in should you desire. He even buys more decor (plants and things) to make it look… less like a cave and more like a home.

Nothing really feels real until the day arrives though. It’s a long flight and difficult trip. You refused to let him pay for the tickets so he moved it around to get you into first class both ways through other methods.

You text him the terminal, the arrival time, any and all delays. Still. None of it feels real until he’s already waiting for you near the bags. He can feel his heart race, his lungs short of air. He’s never experienced something so ridiculously contradictory in his entire life. He wants to run away while feeling stuck in place.

The anticipation nearly kills him.

He would recognize your voice anywhere though. Like he did for so many days alone in the dark. A hand waves high, shouting as loud as it can.

“It’s you!”

The sound of sneakers skidding across tile floors make his breath hitch. His eyes go wide as you stand still in front of him, luggage in hand and a million-watt smile on your face. He feels his heart beat so loud, he wonders if he’s going to throw up.

“Hey.” He says, dumbly.

“Hi!”

The adjustment period to living together isn’t what he expects.

It’s been a long time since he’s been so close to another human being. It becomes clear that you’re really living together though when your things end up in the bathroom completely incidentally. There’s something about finding your sleep shirt on a towel rack that makes reality settle in. You’re living together.

He’d be stupid not to notice the purposeful distance between you. An attempt to be thoughtful and not overwhelm him. It’s never awkward when you’re together. You eat together, watch movies and play games while sitting too close on the couch. You’ve been on a date in the two weeks you’ve spent, and it barely took any convincing on your end to make him go along with you.

Isolation aside though, Odxny is not clueless to the conventions of modern dating. You avoid touching him too casually. He doesn’t blame you, but he can’t help but crave your presence with a little more bittersweet longing as the days pass. He has to get past it or bring it up eventually, but it feels like something he’s never going to get over somehow.

The opportunity to do so gets thrown at him all at once. You’ve been living together for sixteen days. A conversation about love languages is what undoes it.

“Whats your love language, Od?”

He gives you a quizzical look. “Dunno actually. Never bothered to look.”

“I’d guess… hm. Quality time maybe? Or words of affirmation.”

He shrugs as he sits next to you on the couch, glancing at your phone as you read through the different ones. “What’s yours?”

“Physical touch. I’m super touchy. With anyone who will let me, honestly. Bad habits.”

Odxny gives you a long look as you say it. He debates if he should bring it up.

“You don’t have to be so careful around me, you know?”

You look up at him, startled by the comment. Several things pass over your face before you settle on an apologetic smile. “Sorry. It’s not like I don’t want to. I just don’t want to be too much for you.”

“That wouldn’t happen.” He says automatically. You laugh good-naturedly.

“Your confidence is assuring, but you underestimate how touchy I am. I’m afraid of I get my hands on you, I’ll never let go again,”

He thinks he wants that more than is normal. He shakes his head. “I don’t mind.”

You give him a long look, seeming struck by an idea, before humming and standing up. You turn around with your hand out towards him. His brows furrow in bewilderment.

“Have some faith.”

He takes your hand and stands up with you. He likes that he’s taller than you. Staring at you, he feels your fingers clasp around his hand and his heart thuds - loud and messy.

“Your room or mine?”

“What?”

You laugh. “Get your mind out of the gutter. Or don’t actually, but I don’t bear lewd intentions.”

He crinkles his nose at the word usage and laughs. “Shut up.”

“Just trust me, okay?”

He concedes with embarassing swiftness.

“Okay.”

You lead Odxny to the guest room you’ve been living in for the last two weeks. The bed is well-made and all the new furniture he bought is occupying so many of your belongings. It makes him dizzy. You shut the door behind him as you lead him in. It just feels especially surreal.

Wordless, you let go of his hand and hop up onto your bed. Once you’re laying down, you prop up on your side with your elbow and pat the empty space next to you, smiling at him as you do. Once it clicks what your asking, he can feel his face grow hot. He can’t refuse it though, and he doesn’t want too.

The sheets you bought together smell like you. Between there’s practically no distance between you at this angle. He’s gotten to look at you plenty through these few days but it’s different. You scoot impossibly close to him until there’s nothing separating you.

Your breath is warm - a soft exhale leaving your lips as you inch closer.

“What’re we doing?” He asks in a murmur, stone stiff. You smile, coyly.

“Touching each other.”

He frowns at the joke. Your expression goes a touch serious right after. The sincerity is debilitating. “Can I touch you?”

He nods. Can’t do much more than that.

He stares at you with impending, long-suffering longing as you bring a single hand to his face and cradle his neck. He flinches unintentionally, but pulls your hand back when you try to move it. He wants this. You relax a little when he does that.

Your hands are softer. Softer than a heartbeat. He can feel the various cuts and scars from years of working against his skin but they’re still so soft. He can feel how warm you in such a brief touch his chest aches. Your hands cradle his face tenderly, thumb brushing across his lip with a smile brighter than thousands of lights. Something in your expression wreaks havoc on his heart. Something so raw and so gentle and so full within it - all directed towards him.

It’s been so long. So long. He’s never wanted something so bad he couldn’t remember needing. He’s never wanted to be closer to someone than he does to you in the moment.

“You’re handsome,” You say, so sweetly. Not a confession, but gentle appraisal. It’s rare he cries but he wants too. “I like looking at you. Can I kiss you?”

“Please.” He rasps, gravel in his voice unfamiliar.

You hum a little. Closing the space between you with a press of lips. It’s not chaste. Odxny is grateful for how long and how deep you linger. He wants it so badly. He wants you in some damning and unforgiving way. How could a human being feel so warm? Feel so pleasant with so little?

You press your foreheads together. His hand trembles when they grip onto your waist but you encourage him just a little. It’s just a kiss. His heart might beat out of him. It’s just a kiss. He thinks he loves you.

Your hand moves away from his face. You let it go underneath his loose shirt to touch his shoulder, running your palm down the plane of his chest. You squeeze his waist, and wrap your arms around his back and pull him to you until your bodies touch somewhere in the middle.

You guide his face to your neck and chest as you hold him. He grips onto you tight in response, a gasp in the back of his lungs at the sudden sensation. You coo above him, soft and light - your fingers threading through his hair and nails massaging his scalp.

Your voice sounds above him, despite how deep in a haze he is. He can’t do anything but cling to you with impossible longing. You speak softly as you pet him. Your heartbeat soothes his.

“I’m glad you’re here.” You tell him. There’s that familiar clarity that makes him want to cry. “I’m glad you let me come with you.”

He can’t think of anything to say back. It’s a soul-shattering emotion. “I love you.”

You laugh wetly above him. “I love you, too. So much.” And then much softer. “Let’s be together for a long time.”

You lay in each others arms until sunset. In small talk and silent murmurs. It takes him hours to work up the courage to kiss you again - but only minutes to take it further.

It’s desperate. Terribly. Inevitable. You’re beautiful in a way that is undescribable, best expressed through his teeth on your neck and his hands all over where he can reach - each grip and thrust and bite a reminder. You’re pretty when you’re pleased, warmth reaching up inside of him whenever you make the right face.

He buries himself in you. You’re soft and warm and beautiful and he wants to stay with you. Time is a thief. He damns the sun when it tears you from him come morning.

He decides to make breakfast when you wake up. Nothing complicated. You go to shower after him and he plates up toast and eggs and other various things. It’s half done when you come downstairs.

Your skin is still damp, and you smell of vanilla and soap. Your coffee sits in a cup on the table as you pad over to him. He turns to look at you as you reach your hand up and cup his face. You pepper a kisses along his cheeks stopping at his lips for the last one before you’re satisfied.

He fails in his attempt not to blush.

“Morning.” You grin. He tries not to be sick at the domesticity of it all and fails.

“Yeah. Morning.”

You sit at the counter and drink your coffee, glancing outside the window. “It’s bright outside.”

Odxny can’t tear his eyes off of you. “Yeah...” He agrees. He’s not torn his gaze away. “Very bright.”

✮ a/n ; i want all real life compsci men to kick rocks but odxny sweeped me off my feet in a way i can only describe as humiliating. he is a bit like astarion for me in that i see a lot of myself in him at least in the past. he is also incredibly babygirl and uhm . other things (fine. he's very gorjus.) but i truthfully was most compelled by his idealized idea of isolation. as the fic will show it resonated with me as a fellow compsci dork who also tends to isolate like crazy LOL

this fic was like a demon that possessed me. literally no meds, no caffiene - just balls to the wall demonic possesion of needing something out of my system LMAOO. and adhd of course. im working on all the other stuff too i promise. consider this a short interlude 👍🏾

#seekL x reader #odxny x reader #seekL #odxny #girl how the hell am i meant to tag this #normal fandoms tagging ettiquette means no fic but i dont think it applies here #what is my problem so genuinely

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romaritimeharbor · 6 months

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FAMILY, OF SORTS. — in which kafka, blade, and silver wolf are an odd but quite special found family to be a part of.

— trigger & content warnings. mentions of unspecified injury.

— pairings & notes. fluff, found family. kafka & teen!reader, blade & teen!reader, silver wolf & teen!reader. 1.3k words. reader is a stellaron hunter. reader is gender neutral (they/them pronouns used).

— author's notes. the sillies <3 APHE POSTING???? APHELION POSTING REAL AND TRUE????????? i had a request for this on my old blog (from my dear beloved moot @starryshinyskies <3) so i decided to finish it 💪 nd tagging @www-brontide since i know you were excited for this post HEHE anyways how are we feeling about this formatting? if you guys don't like it i'm very open to changing it back. i'm just experimenting with my post format is all 🫶

kafka seems strangely motherly to me. caring and doting in her own unique ways, but also quite strange and odd in those same ways. an enigma of sorts.

she is the kind of person to always send the stellaron hunters' youngest member texts throughout the day; these texts range anywhere from silly and inconsequential to sweet messages letting [name] know that she was thinking about them.

(her doting nature is not dissimilar to how she thinks of and regards the trailblazer... hm.)

KAFKA

My coat got stained again :(

Won't you help me clean it when you get home, little one?

[ 1:22 PM ]

KAFKA

I saw a new movie today.

It made me think of you. It was quite to your tastes.

Perhaps we should go see it together sometime, hm?

Ah, but you're probably asleep by now...

That's fine. You do need it more than the rest of us.

Sleep well, darling.

[ 11:34 PM ]

she thinks of her little one quite frequently and has been known to pick up little trinkets from different planets that reminded her of them. a phone charm, a set of rings, something more practical like a new weapon... she once returned with a nice coat that matches one of hers. her gifts are always unpredictable but nonetheless very thoughtful.

and when or if they get injured, she is the one who treats their wound(s) with a tender hand.

she does chide them, however.

"you are a stellaron hunter, little one," she reminds, pulling the bandages wrapped around their wound a little tighter, making them wince. it is akin to a slap on the wrist—not enough pain to seriously harm them, but enough to force them to take her words to heart. "if it is not a part of the plan, try your best not to get caught or injured, hm? silver wolf doesn't like to see you this way, and it causes a unique stir in bladie. your getting injured causes quite the unrest among us all! do be more careful next time."

if there is ever a night during which they are struggling to sleep, they are more than welcome to seek out kafka's company.

she would be willing to read them to sleep, if that is what they desired.

however... a far easier method that would ensure they would stay asleep? her spirit whisper ability, of course.

they know kafka would not use it to harm them.

kafka finds their earnest trust beyond endearing. the trust of a little one like them is quite an important gift! the least she can do, she thinks, is assist them when her assistance is needed.

and sometimes, that just means lulling them to sleep.

blade is quite a difficult person to read, regardless of whether he intends to be so or not.

some days, he is distant and prefers to keep to himself. others, less so.

this, though, should not be mistaken for a lack of care. in fact, he cares quite deeply. his care is simply very quiet and he desperately, earnestly, truly does not wish to cause [name] harm.

he is also most likely the one who spars with them and trains them in the ways of combat, which... he isn't exactly the gentlest at doing. training sessions can be quite frustrating in that they often emerge sore and with new cuts and bruises (but really, these injuries are small and insignificant; they are confident in saying that blade would never truly hurt them, nobody in their family would). he does mean well in his tough methods, though.

the universe is not kind or gentle. it will never treat them that way. therefore, he does his best to prepare them so that they can effectively handle the universe's cruelty and defend themselves from it.

one of the ways in which his quiet care manifests is through his treatment of the small wounds he gives them during training. kafka has said many times that she can treat them, but blade always insists on doing it himself.

out of all of their coworkers, blade becomes the most restless when they're away. he gets particularly antsy when they've been gone for a long period or when they're out there alone. kafka always giggles and points out to him how utterly restless he becomes when such circumstances occur.

(he should be assured that they can handle themselves, given that he is their mentor—there is surely nobody else who would know their skills as well as he would—but somehow he simply isn't.)

blade is also, generally speaking, the most protective.

should they come back injured... if it is anything other than a shallow scratch on the cheek, a rage hotter than the brightest star burns under his skin. in those moments, he almost does not dare to touch them, for fear that he might harm them unwittingly... but he does. his hands are somewhat rough when he snatches their face and tilts their chin around to get a better look at the blood (is it theirs? he hopes not) and grime dirtying their face. there is a terrifying threat present in his voice when he demands, not asks, "who did this to you?"

(if kafka was not present in these moments, he might worry that his mara would get the best of him. thankfully, kafka is intentional and present in such situations.)

unless the ones responsible for the wound have already been adequately... taken care of, he will do so himself. there is nowhere in the universe that the perpetrators could hide from him.

it's about protecting them, but it is also about sending a message.

something along the lines of "anyone who lays hands on them will suffer a fate worse than death," perhaps.

death is anything but a terrible fate to blade, but he knows that it is the worst imaginable to some. he will be certain to deliver something infinitely worse, something beyond imagination, to those daring to hurt his younger teammate.

silver wolf is perhaps the least enigmatic of their little family. she isn't an open book, per se, but she's easier to read than kafka or blade... at least, for someone like [name], anyway.

she never fails to harrass them to play a few rounds (which tends to spiral into many, many rounds...) of a game or two with her. why them, specifically? she insists that blade isn't good at them and kafka is kafka. really, it may very well just be that she enjoys spending time with them, but she—of course—will not simply say that.

however... she bullies them terribly about how bad they are. it comes from a place of affection!

she is also the type to win them every single prize at carnivals, just because she likes the joy it seems to bring them. when she encounters rigged games, however, she becomes all the more motivated by her unadulterated annoyance to beat them.

what do you mean she of all people can't beat this awful and horrible rigged game? her???? the silver wolf????? seriously????????

unfortunately, it does not always end in her victory, even when she is infinitely motivated by her anger.

...and she really isn't above just taking one of the prizes when the stall's owner isn't looking. she has done so multiple times for [name].

she would definitely try to teach them hacking (keyword: try) if they aren't already familiar with it. since it has come in handy for her, she figures that they might also find use in it. it's her quiet way of looking out for them.

(her more obvious way of looking out for them is often seen when she is on missions with them. most commonly, it manifests as her snatching their arm and pulling them out of the way of an enemy before obliterating said threat.)

silver wolf is totally the sort of person to pinch their cheeks (to different degrees, kafka and blade also do this!). they are very cute to her.

overall they are a weird but very special little family to be a part of <3

please consider supporting your writers by reblogging and leaving a kind tag or comment. it really helps me out!

#✧— aphe's creations.#divider by @/cafekitsune ♡#bonus: elio is your weird uncle that shows up on holidays gives you credits and tells you enigmatic secrets /hj /lh #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #kafka x reader #blade x reader #silver wolf x reader #platonic hsr #platonic honkai star rail #hsr platonic #platonic x reader #platonic kafka x reader #platonic blade x reader #platonic silver wolf x reader

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hazashiovo · 6 months

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Remember in "Sleeping Beauty" the live action how Maleficent had a crow? That's what we're doing now,but with Malleus.

Malleus x crow shifter!Reader

Genre:Fluff, master and loyal servant trope.

Little bird

You always had a thing for shiny,pretty things. No matter whether it was some trash on the ground or a nice ring in a pawn shop.

Shiny objects never failed to grab your attention.

Malleus is shiny and definitely pretty, and you, being you, got attracted to him. Naturally of course.

Malleus is a shiny,pretty fae.

It was near impossible for him not to attract your interes.

Once he realized a certain bird was stalking him, the fae started leaving small amounts of food for you. It always brought a smile on his face when the mysterious bird tilted its head,its dark eyes filled with curiosity. In his eyes,it was such a cute action to do.

He must admit,the bird got his attention,and soon enough it became a habit.

Like crows usually do, you started leaving small trinkets that you personally found pretty, at his window.

It might be a flowery metallic hair clip that attracted you,or maybe some bottle cap with a pretty color.

He appreciated neither less ,it was a curious habit the fae and the animal picked on.

So malleus started reading. About crows,their habits and soon enough he found stories about them.

Those little creatures are quite interesting,it's what he would think while reading a particular sentence that made him think about the bird,once again.

Some say if a crow is fond of somebody they leave gifts as a sign of appreciation and sometimes, loyalty.

When this little black feathered animal chooses a person to grow attached to,it's quite the view to other people. And it means that you, as a person,are enough to gain one animal's trust.

Dark, beautiful creatures of the night, growing attached to complete strangers.

What Malleus didn't know was that inside the dark bird,there was a human soul.

Free to transform whenever they pleased, not really.

You can't shift whenever you want to,unless you want to be seen bare by other students,and you definitely do not want that.

When you're in your animal form you feel free, peaceful to do as you please,fly wherever you want.

Even if you're not truly a crow,the tendencies to behave like one are real besides eating worms and insects. That's not you.

Bleagh.

Before Meeting the tall guy,you used to collect the shiny things you found,but now that he's here, most of the objects you pick up are for him.

He leaves outside his bedroom window bread crumbs,cookie crumbs and whatever the indulging boy thinks is good for you or that you would enjoy.Even if you don't need it,you take them. Mostly to show him you trust him with.

They taste better when somebody gifts them to you. It's a fact.

Soon,Malleus allows himself to touch your head. A gentle rub on your black feathery small head. His green eyes whiden when you push your head in his hand, practically telling him to keep going.

He smiles,as he rubs below your dark beak. Malleus notices the way your eyes close affectionately. He could even imagine a ghostly smile on your beak.

It's one truly cute interaction.

Malleus's friends soon started to notice a particular bird on his shoulder, always watching.

Silver even had a feeling that you understood what they were saying,simply by your body language.

But most of the time crows and ravens are smart birds,some reaching the level of understanding of a 5 year old child.

It's very interesting,you are interesting, especially in Silver's eyes.

But he doesn't pay much attention to you,more busy to focus on Malleus.

You like Silver,he cares about Malleus a lot.

The first time Lillia has met you,he knew that you're not what you seem.

His age isn't a young one, therefore he's been through stuff,and learned things in his life.

Like now,he knows that you're not just a bird. You couldn't fool the older fae even if you tried.

So he silently watches,and he's not ashamed to make comments when you're alone, which isn't often since you're with Malleus most of the time,but still.

This man has you sweating,even if you don't particularly hide yourself on purpose.

Even if you're most comfortable around Malleus in your shifter form,the truth can't be hidden from him forever.

At the same time,you can't just shift in front of him back in your human form.

Meeting him with no clothes on,for the first time even, doesn't really seem like a good first impression.

Unfortunately,that is exactly how it happens. Not the naked part,but let's just say you're not clothed either.

Almost 6 months of constantly being on Malleus's shoulder taught you his schedule. So seeing him in his dorm room,eyes wide open watching your form,that's covered by his blanket.

Your original plan was to shift in his room, quickly change in some clothes that belong to him,and tell him the truth about who you truly are.

Simple as that.

It wasn't simple as that. Malleus arrived in his room earlier than he usually does, barely giving you time to cover yourself up.

Now this situation is exactly not the kind that you wanted to land in.

It's not like you could've brought your own clothes in Malleus's room. Your animal form can't carry that much weight,after all it's a small bird.

"Who are you?" Malleus's voice breaks your line of taughts,all thinking of your failed plan and the embarrassment of being in such a situation.

"This isn't what it looks like." The fae holds a curious expression,after all not every day he's met with a naked person in his chambers. Now that he thinks of it,you do white look familiar,but he just can't figure it out from where.

"Malleus,I swear I'm not a creep or anything of the sort." His silence allows you to continue explaining yourself,the blanket around you getting squeezed tighter around you, praying to whatever God was mocking you that this blanket remains on your naked body.

"You know my name?" You watch as the said boy moves closer towards you,now more curious than before.

You squint your eyes, focused on the floor,trying to find the right words to explain yourself.

How do you tell the boy you're completely loyal to,that you're actually a person with the ability to shift forms.

Exactly,you try explaining it.

"I know everything about you, not in a weird stalking way,don't get me wrong." Swallowing the lump in your throat,you meet eyes with the dark haired fae.

This situation is less than comfortable for you.

"Then do explain,what are you doing in my bedroom and why are you bare?"He leaves out the part where you mentioned knowing him,and focused on the important matter.

"Well,I wanted to tell you the truth,or rather show you the truth but..." A sigh leaves your lips at the failure of your oh so great plan, "I didn't have enough time."

He watches as you follow his steps with your eyes,the deja Vu clear as day.

Just who is this interesting person who claims to know Malleus Draconia?

"Say, child of man, what might the truth be? The one you desired to tell me so bad that it was necessary for you to be bare in my room. Enlighten me." Malleus speaks,voice steady and calm,unlike yours. Shaky and anxious.

"I will gladly talk to you...mind if I ask but, can I borrow some clothes?" The question leaves Malleus a bit shocked,only nodding in agreement.

What shocked him even more was that you knew from where to take the clothes.

Excusing yourself to change,you don't miss the unusual expression on Malleus's face. Not so often do you get to see him expressing such an emotion, especially one you caused.

Finally dressed,you dare to properly meet eyes with Malleus. Ready to explain yourself properly.

"Now,I owe you an explanation." The boy takes a few seconds to take in your new appearance,his clothes looking quite nice on you.

"That you do,child of man. Starting by why you were in my room?" He doesn't take his eyes off you,instead fixates them in your eyes. There it was again,that sense of familiarity. Like he's known you for a long time.

"I came to your room, because I wished to show you who I truly was." A deep breath in,and an exhale. It's time to break it to him,that's the whole reason why you came here , right?

Your eyes dart around the room,a singular object catching your eye. A shiny silver ring you found on campus a couple months ago.

Making quick effort,you move towards the table to pick up the ring.

Malleus realizes it,and before your hand could make contact with the piece of jewelry his palm wraps around your wrist, stopping you immediately.

"How is you touching my belongings going to answer any of my questions? Are you perhaps here to steal,human?" His green radiant eyes narrow at you,gaze burning into your own. This ring could never be worn by the fae. Unfortunately you learned that one of Malleus's weaknesses is silver.

If you had known before you would've kept the ring to yourself. Even with his condition,Malleus still kept it, because it was a gift from his loyal little bird.

"Allow me," your soft eyes break contact with his narrowed ones,just for a second. He allows you to pick up the ring,his gaze fixated on what you're trying to show him.

"I brought this to you 3 Months ago,you fed me candy bits,even if it's unhealthy for a bird,I accepted them." Malleus's narrowed eyes widen he seems to be doing it a lot nowadays,or is it just the effect you have on him? Maybe.

"Now how could you have known that,and why would you refer to yourself as a bird?" He's not quite getting the hang of the situation,in his defense,this has never happened before.

You sigh,maybe the best thing to do is just show him,but then when you'll turn back you'll be naked again. Ugh...this is a curse.

"What if I just show you instead?" This was more a question towards yourself rather than for him,even so,Malleus nods. Carefully watching you as you back away.

You take a deep breath in,and there it is. The clothes you just borrowed from the tall male in a pile on the ground.

His brows furrow, was this a trick? Did you wish to play a prank on him?

He doesn't get to drown to deep in his thoughts,the sudden movement in the pile of clothes draws his attention.

The boy slightly bends down, trying to get a glimpse of whatever might be there. And out of the clothes,a crow emerges, a black feathered beautiful crow.

Not just any Crow,but you.

Now it's clear,why you were so familiar in the boys eyes.

Even so,the realization hits him hard, especially when you take your designed place on his shoulder.

Malleus's eyes link with the bird's,your eyes."It's...you?" Voice questionable,you knew he wouldn't have an extreme reaction. The time spent with him taught you that.

From your beak, the ring lays securely gripped. The fae's hand extends, allowing you to drop it in,only for a few seconds. The metal burning his porcelain hands. The ring quickly lands on the table, remaining as nothing more than a gift,and a decoration to his dark room.

You cow,like Malleus could understand you. It feels good to show yourself to him,not having to carry what felt like a horrible lie in your chest.

Once the shock wears off, he smiles. That warm beautiful smile that warmed your heart every time you saw it.

Fortunately,most of the time it was directed to you,after you brought him something nice from one of your trips outside the school.

"You're quite the interesting one,little birdie." He takes the liberty to adjust your position, setting you on his wrist.

"You never fail to surprise me." His white,large hand gently pet your little head,right above the beak. He swears he could hear you purr,like a cat.

Maybe it was only his imagination,but the way your head once again leaned into his palm,that wasn't his mind.

You two make quite the pair.

I had this little idea and I just had to write it. Maybe I'll make a part two to it, depending on what ideas I get next.

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inky-duchess · 9 months

Text

Fantasy Guide to Royal and Noble Jewellery

Royal and Noble jewellery is a staple of their life, a statement of the who is person is, their rank and their wealth. Jewellery simply isn't a accessory, it's an exercise in showmanship and a way to link to a past.

(Disclaimer: Many stones in pieces often have a bloody past, usually stolen or worked from the earth under the reign of Colonialism. It is best to always take this into account when admiring real world pieces)

Providence

Jewellery like this is usually inherited buy can also be bought or even given as a gift. There is three kinds of jewellery in this instance: private, owned by the crown or owned by the state.

Private jewellery is owned by a single person and worn or lent at their own descretion. Private jewellery can be no less grand than state owned jewellery. This jewellery can be inherited by anybody the owner chooses.

State jewellery is not privately owned, it belongs to the country itself. It is not inherited but used by royal family. If a royal family is deposed, the jewellery remains with the state. Such as the French Crown Jewels.

Owned by the Crown means that it can only pass monarch to monarch, worn only by consorts or the monarch and lent to anybody they choose.

Noble jewellery is not quite the same. Much of it is owned privately but there may be one or two pieces designated as official jewellery for the title such as a specific tiara.

The Rules

Jewellery like this are not just trinkets to be borrowed by anybody. Usually the monarch (or titled noble) or sometimes the spouse, is in charge of designating who can be lent which pieces and for what occasion. Even if you are a super close member of the family, you still have to take what's on offer. Sometimes certain jewellery is worn exclusively by a certain rank say the Queen or the noble themselves and would not be offered to anybody else. For example, you will note that into today's royalty you will see certain royals repeating the same tiaras such as Kate Middleton who has only worn the Cambridge Lover's Knot, the Strathmore Rose Tiara, the Lotus Tiara and once, the Cartier Halo Tiara. These would be the tiaras available to them, which usually number only a handful. Certain pieces are designated by for the monarch/Consort as well, the Vladimir Tiara & the Girls of Britain and Ireland Tiara only graced the head of the Queen in her reign. Other pieces such as earrings or bracelets would also be distributed accordingly, more elaborate and expensive pieces would be worn by the higher ranking members. Certain collections are meant to be passed on, such as the Consort's jewels but many Dowager refused to pass on their jewels such as Empress Dowager Maria Feodorovna after the death of Tsar Alexander III.

Treasure Trove

Now, just because a family has a throne or a grand title doesn't mean they have caches of jewels. Many noble families sold off their pieces to pay death duties, most only have a few pieces left today. As for tiaras most noble families would not have access to large quantities, usually only affording one or two. The Spencers for example own two, the Spencer Tiara and the Spencer Honeysuckle Tiara. This is an inaccurate protrayal in Downton Abbey, as the family have at least 6 but then again Cora is a Dollar Princess so it could be possible to own as many but it never made sense considering just how many times they almost loose the estate and never sell any off. Royal families are not exempt from this either, some families have vast stores of jewels such as the British Royal Family (I wonder where those all came from...) while the Greek Monarchy (discontinued) has only a few pieces. The Romanov collection is of course legendary and we may never know it's full extent.

#Fantasy Guide to Royal and Noble jewellery #Royal jewellery #Noble jewellery #Jewellery #Fantasy Guide #writing #writeblr #writing resources #writing reference #writing advice #writer #writers #Writing resource #Writing research #Writing guide #Writing royalty #Writing royal characters

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wilteddreamsofbaldursgate · 9 months

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Girl dad Astarion who is mourning the times when his biggest problem was coming up with more or less child-friendly excuses to not read yet another bedtime story. Or to fix the dress of a shabby old doll that gave him the creeps. Or to kiss some scratches better, even though the minuscule wounds usually troubled him more than they did the damn child.

Nobody ever told him that children grow up this fucking fast, okay?

But now he has to watch his darling little girl grow into a beautiful young woman, and he is—quite frankly—terrified for her.

Because wherever he looks, he can see that strangers are watching her, too.

It doesn’t even bother him that they notice his daughter’s beauty, no, you would have to be blind not to see it. She’s stunning—obviously. She's his child after all…and Tav’s, of course, but that’s not the point.

It’s the way they're looking at the girl that disgusts Astarion to his very core. Leering eyes following her every move. Ulterior motives buried under layers of false niceties. Seemingly innocent little touches stolen as if those filthy hands were entitled to her body in any way.

And for all their obnoxious gawking, they don’t even see her. They seldom care for his daughter’s talents, her sense of humour, or her intelligence. Her heart.

Those heads are only turning for a pretty face, and for all the small privileges that might afford her, they always come with a price—a price Astarion has paid once upon a time; a price he doesn’t ever want his daughter to even consider accepting.

But the world is not kind. It’s already leaving scratches on his child that neither he nor Tav can kiss better any longer.

And Astarion hates it because the last time he felt this helpless was when his own pretty face was all that kept him, well, as alive as he could be. A thing to be used for other people's gain. Selling himself out for crumbs.

And then, one day, he notices a new bracelet on his daughter’s wrist.

She happily hands it over to him so he can take a look. Then she tells him some stranger gifted it to her. Just like that!

All they wanted for it was a little smile—isn’t that so great, father?

It’s not. Far from it. Astarion is fuming inside.

How dare some random nitwit think that ugly trinket worthy of his daughter’s wonderful smile? The audacity. The nerve. Unbelievable!

“Darling, it’s not a gift if they’re expecting something in return,” a forced smile tugs at his lips, trying to soften his scolding tone.

It doesn’t work.

“But it’s so pretty, I had to have it!”

The girl sulks, her little nose scrunched up as if he just sent her to bed without her fairy tales. Astarion supposes, in a way, he has.

“And what do we do when we see something we want, dear?”

She rolls her eyes at him in a way that always has Tav cackling up. Maybe it's because, in moments like this, she looks a little too much like her father.

“We just pocket it.”

“Exactly, my darling child, we just pocket it,” Astarion nods approvingly. “And if they ask for a smile next time?”

“We stab them,” she sighs.

“Absolutely, we do. Now, off with you, lest your daggers get all rusty, you lazy duck.”

Ending the discussion with a gentle smile, Astarion watches the girl go before he produces the offending bracelet from his sleeve.

It’s always out of sight, out of mind with pretty things, isn't it?

He takes another look at the bracelet, scrunching up his nose as if it gave off a particularly vile smell. In a way, it does.

In fact, it’s giving Astarion the creeps. And it's not even made from real gold, by the way.

Astarion scoffs at the cheap trinket. This child still has so much to learn.

#astarion #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #dadstarion #astarion x tav #astarion headcanons #baldur's gate astarion #astarion ancunin #to the best worst dad #astarion father of the year every year #being perceived is pain #girlhood in a nutshell

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meo-eiru · 15 days

Note

I'm thinking a bit about Silas and a more artistic reader, and how he'd try keeping us entertained in the house.

Obviously, babies need some form of toys and play. But even in his worst babifying of us it's a touch difficult to ignore that we're past colorful letter blocks.

And it's increasingly obvious the lack of things to do is straight up bad for us, even excluding the increasing deranged fervor towards escape attempts.

(Did you know, that ripping your own hair out is a real action liable to be taken in stress, even if it's accidental tugging too hard? Silas may well find out, depending on our temper throughout. Boredom in the extreme is objectively stressful)

But there's only so much at the market that he isn't worried can be pointed at him, certain locks in the house, or even our-self. In increasing order of priority to not have happen.

Still, he's bringing things home. Trinkets mostly, some do-dads that can at least make interesting ticking noises or other responses. This is better than nothing, he reasons.

Recently there's a set of charcoals for drawing, and some loose paper. It wasn't for you though. Locked in a drawer behind one of the locks you're not supposed to get behind, to be fished out when a friend of a friends friend (provided the first 'friend' could be considered one) finally started seeing people after the baby.

There's some actual baby stuff in that drawer for it too, because goodness knows he's been so busy since you. Something that young, and small... No time for the parents, and he knows the parents are pretty artsy as hobbies.

He was really trying. Don't be envious (don't... don't... don't.), be nice, get something for the parents to be kind.

But they're keeping it close friends only for much longer, they'd decided.

Perfectly reasonable, there's a whole list of reasons they were ready to spew at him.

But being told "Go away" wasn't new, so the preparation to make him leave was deeply unnecessary. Even as he eyed who was being let though, people arguably less acquainted with them than he, it just wasn't new.

it was tempting to toss the whole lot through the kitchen window into the garden and deal with it the evening after, but you'd started up again and after a hasty slam on the kitchen counter it was forgotten.

The morning after there was no garden mess to clean, and he'd had plans for the weeks food shopping. it just wasn't important to think about and remove.

It's a nice day out, but as always its best to be fast to get back.

And then you're in the kitchen with the box contents strewn out.

A moment of processing. You got into the box, not for you. Does he punish? Such things do need to happen in raising children, but...

Well, it's not like the box was for anyone now, so worthless he'd' have tossed it through the window if not for a quirk in events. So no, you didn't ruin others things.

And you're quiet, you're relaxed. You haven't seen him yet as you're trying to get the lines down on a morning glory.

It's another moment before he backs up some and pretends he only just got in. Whatever your reaction is, he knows some paints are probably on the lookout list now... do you even like paints? Well, he'll find out. Eventually.

I loved it! Silas' struggles with motherhood are always a joy to read🥹🥹

#asks #silas #yandere elf #fanfic

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mo0nfairy · 1 year

Text

ᥫ᭡ . # ۫ , ⸺ UNCHAINED MELODY, PART THREE !

summary :: surviving raccoon city together, you catch the affections of leon kennedy, ada wong, jill valentine, and carlos oliveira. six years later, you reunite with them and realize their obsession with you has increased tenfold.

chapters :: the masterlist.

word count :: 6.4k

content warnings :: mdni! yandere!leon, yandere!ada, yandere!jill, yandere!carlos, suicidal themes, grief/death, weapons, violence, blood, maladaptive daydreaming, implied masturbation, drugging, kidnapping, unhealthy & unrealistic religious themes.

carlos oliveira's yandere traits are . . .

worshiper, delusional, & nurturing

──── Carlos Oliveira hates the scent of ink. Yet still, his hands are covered in the excess of the relentless use of such.

It stains everything. His ragged clothes, his fingers, the top secret documents he couldn't be bothered to care after. Despite his loathing of the material, it somehow seems to follow him with every step he walks. It doesn't take away the sheer relief he feels when he uses the same ink to jot down everything in his journal. While Carlos is far from home and occupied with his position as a Corporal, he fills pages upon pages of entries assigned to you. From how he swore he heard your laughter at lunch that day to obsessive hours spent writing your name over and over again, he finds it soothing, in an odd sense. Everything the ink touches revolves around you in some shape or form.

Y/N L/N. The name he will never forget.

Carlos remembers your aromatic sweat, your intoxicating breath, your perfumed skin; he will never forget how you ended his life in Raccoon City. It was persephonic, the last day of his life. Through the maze of chaos and gore, he found you, his little taste of heaven before he would face his demise. However, he is still shamefully alive. And selfishly, Carlos wishes that he had died that night. He should be grateful, as insinuated by the thousands of innocent lives lost and his family thanking the universe for sparing their boy. But, he just isn't. He can't, as much as he tries.

Even though his heart still beats, something within him has been dead for these past five years. He tries to heal his soul which decomposes with every day that goes by, but his efforts are brought to no avail. As much as he attempts to write out the fairytale he desperately wishes would materialize into reality, the truth sits and rots beneath a canopy of pretty lies.

You are dead and there is nothing he can do about it.

If Carlos thinks too much about it, he'll be brought to tears. And he can't afford another days-long meltdown filled with unruly sobbing and staggering guilt. He just can't. Instead, he defiles his brain with dreams of you that he deludes himself into believing are real. Writing his sweet spouse letters while he is away from home, buying you trinkets and clothes from foreign places, and leaving behind warm plates of food for you to enjoy. The truth of your well-being dances in the back of his head like a ghost in an attic. However, fully acknowledging you are gone would just about kill him. Carlos will prolong it as long as it can, no matter how fast the inevitable truth gains on him.

"My honey, My sweet, My lover. I will be home soon. Please wait for me, my bumblebee." Ink stains Carlos' fingers as he jots down yet another letter to you. He wonders if you also hate the way ink stains your fingers when you finally write back to him. His heart swells when he imagines you receiving his letter all safe and cozy in the home you share together. One day, he'll receive a letter back from you. The ghost of the truth lurks in the mind, but he turns his back to it. One day, he'll receive a letter back from you.

Five years without you and all that sunshine and wit he used to possess has depleted. Now, it's impossible to know when the ticking time bomb that is Carlos Oliveira may explode.

Unbeknownst to his peers, every emotion expressed is a manifestation of you, whether good or bad. After working the day away, Carlos becomes agitated after such treacherous hours without being able to bathe his mind in the light of you. The anger suffocates whatever room he walks into, causing the people within to recoil from the energy alone. No one has forgotten the time when a few colleagues had poked the bear after a single day Carlos spent unable to return to the thought of you. This inevitably caused an hour-long outburst of broken bones, furniture thrown about, and an eruption of unconsolable tears and horrifying threats. The memory still sends goosebumps across the skin of witnesses and no one has dared to cross the man ever since.

All Carlos needs is to venture back to the lustrous haven within his head. Just you and him, together in extraterrestrial bliss. It's all he needs, please let him have it.

All he needs is indulge in the heavenly sights of you at this moment. Instead of the blood-stained reality that is his life, let him spend his days out in the wild with you. Breezy Summer days where the sun beats down and soaks you in its golden, empyrean hues. Carlos sits with his back against the trunk of a willow tree and you lay on a blanket with your head resting in his lap. The enchanting, peaceful state he has found himself in is almost enough to lull him into a slumber. But, how could he dare shut his eyes when the astonishing sight of you sits right before him? Carlos traces his fingers among the tracings of sunlight that peek through the branches and rest upon your face. Beautiful. How irrevocably, indubitably, catastrophically beautiful you are.

A picnic out in an empty field where the day would be spent letting the world fall away as he looks down on the love of his life. Your lips, ever-so appetizing, are dusted with sugar from the numerous treats Carlos made for this exact date. His hand cups your cheek and he caresses your cheekbone with his thumb, your smile growing in response. And the way it tugs on his heartstrings is almost as if your mere happiness was playing him like a string instrument. He gazes at you with so much wonder, it's practically baffling how in love a man could be. You offer him a bite of the pastry in your hand, but he declines. The heat of the season's temperatures and the burning love within Carlos is more than enough to keep him satiated.

Safe, content, and alive with love. There couldn't be a more perfect way to describe this precious moment with you. Safe, content, and alive with love.

A hand waving in his face brings him back to his unforgiving reality. No more sunshine, no more birdsong, no more you. The dread that permeates his entire being could rival the pain of being stabbed in the heart. Carlos jumps in surprise and casts his eyes upward to find Tyrell, whose worried eyes peer at him through the glasses perched on his nose. His body is tense, terrified of treading over a boundary and causing another outburst. Only this time, he fears the several guards with syringes that were able to make him comply before would fail this time. And Tyrell wouldn't be able to escape Carlos' wrath with his life.

However, in the head of Carlos, he can't fathom why his colleague was suddenly so afraid of him. Maybe it was the way his expression was entirely unconscious. Maybe it was the way his eyes were wide and distant, in a completely different world. Maybe it was the way his lips would twitch into a smile that would be deemed creepy or maybe it was how he whispered unintelligible sentences under his breath. All of this remains unknown to Carlos, as he was far too busy in la-la-land to pay attention to his surroundings. Tyrell then motions to the ground, where Carlos finds how his pen had managed to roll across the floor and how his journal was now sitting face-down against the concrete. When did he drop those?

"Are you okay, man?" The question echoes as if he was standing miles away from him. Is he? Is he ok? These days, it never really feels like it. Only when he can escape to his paradise does he truly feel okay.

"You kept saying something. Over and over again." Carlos can barely render the words spoken by his friend.

"Y/N. Who is that-?"

Something snaps within Carlos. The fireworks you have ignited inside him have been snuffed out like a cigarette; the skipping of his heart trips over itself like a child sprinting down a jagged sidewalk. Your name alone sitting on someone else's tongue is more than enough to send him spiraling into an envious frenzy. You've never even met this poor man, but Carlos' brain infests his thoughts with visions of you and Tyrell together. This parasite paints images of you in the same field, in each other's arms, hopelessly devoted to one another. Happy with one another. And the stifling jealousy practically makes Carlos maniacal. It should be him, it should be him. He doesn't deserve it, but it should be him with you. Not Tyrell, never him, please not him please choose me please just choose me I will do anything baby please-

Carlos doesn't even think before he's swinging his right arm back and surging it forward to Tyrell's face. He can't win, he can't win, he can't. Permeating pain flashes like a flickering light and it courses through his entire arm. This sudden flare of weakness grants Tyrell the opportunity to block the attack before it lands. He now just stares at his friend in complete horror. Carlos falls to the floor of the infirmary and inspects the source of pain, finding that his right bicep has been covered in thick gauze. What was once white and clean is now tattered with blood-red stains. The memories hit him like a train. How could he have forgotten? Was he so caught up in his fantasies that he failed to recall what happened mere hours ago?

One of the most prominent and more so realistic fantasies (in his opinion) Carlos has is of you in heaven, watching over him like his own personal guardian angel. To finally accept your death would shatter him entirely, but to think of how your soul has lived on and is now living in promised eternal bliss calms his stuttering heart. His relentless acknowledgment of this fantasy has caused disastrous side effects, however. Behind the scenes, he has caught himself on many occasions contemplating death. To indulge in his demise and to see you on the other side, Carlos knows it shouldn't make him this exhilarated. Still, he continues to wallow in the celestial phenomenon of joining you in the clouds.

He refuses to fulfill these suicidal tendencies for the sole reason of how you'd perceive him afterward. You had ever so bravely lost your life to the wreckage of Raccoon City; you died a fucking warrior. Whom would Carlos be if he simply ended the torment by slitting his wrists? The echo of your voice barking of how much of a coward he'd be for killing himself over such dramatic, puny reasons makes Carlos recoil in shame. This obsession of his has accelerated to a degree where he'll purposely slack off during missions, hoping that he'll be fatally caught in the crossfire. A bullet through the brain and he'd wake up beside you, where you'll praise him for his bravery and how he died a hero.

To reunite with you — that is the only thing Carlos could ever want.

Today was no different. Yet, while his comrades shout for him to take cover and question why he is being such an idiot, it finally happened. Barrelling through the air is a bullet, which buries itself into the flesh of his right arm. The force sends Carlos to the ground. When others try to take hold of him and drag him to safety, he swats them off like they're nothing but pesky mosquitoes on a humid July afternoon. And he laughs so loudly and so manically, it could almost convince the enemy that the Corporal is secretly the Joker.

It all makes sense now. You had broken your right arm five years ago and now, Carlos has been shot in the exact same arm. This must be you! This must be your way of lending your hand through the sky, guiding him to join you in heaven! You are here with him and Carlos can't restrict the genuine smile and streaming tears from forming on his face. Now, however, the wounds your tender heart left have now been cared for. These doctors have defiled your mark on him; they have sullied the gift you have so kindly given him. And the fury that bubbles inside of Carlos in response is nothing short of harrowing.

Through the heaving breaths of the man he once considered to be his friend, Tyrell finally speaks up with a waver in his voice. "You-You need help, Carlos. I don't know who Y/N is, but-"

"YOU SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH!" Carlos' outburst explodes and the ringing of it settles like a blast wave. It bounces off the walls and reverberates through the ears of both men.

The anger is practically palpable. What Tyrell failed to notice through that rageful veneer was the pieces of Carlos' broken heart that lies beneath. With every passing second, this phantom within him reminds him of the state of your well-being. You're dead, you're gone, I won't see you ever again. With naivety Carlos excuses as the truth, he continues to ignore this voice. He has been stuck in a five-year-long chase with his logic and will continue running for five more if he needs to. And slowly but surely, this endless race is tearing him apart.

Tyrell leaves without so much as another breath. One question stays heavy on his mind, though. Whoever you are, Y/N, what the fuck have you done to him?

The patient must be given PTO to avoid another breakdown that could potentially accelerate into lethal violence — that was the "excuse" the doctors gave to the Sergeant regarding Carlos' wellbeing. This leaves him here. Alone and driving back to his estate. Meanwhile, his brain is blooming with iridescent fantasies he claims to be memories. Driving home to you after a long day of work and bringing you all the money and love you could ever ask for. He wonders, would you wait for him to come home? Would he find you asleep on the sofa, succumbing to your drowsiness before he'd be able to open the door? Or would you be in the bedroom? The soft glow of the lamp light framing your face as you peel back the covers, welcoming him into your idyllic embrace?

The tires of his car begin to skid off the road. Carlos is brought out of his imagination, where he then jerks the vehicle back into its proper position in the lane. You may just be the death of him, he muses. And when he finally arrives home, he tries to ignore the love letters he sent to you piling in the mailbox, the trinkets and clothes he bought you collecting dust, and the dinner he left for you that is now putrid and overwhelmed with mold. He tries to avoid how much it actually kills him. But still, this aching sense of dread rots in the pit of his stomach. It isn't until he glances at the calendar pinned on the wall does the devastation finally settle like fresh snow.

The date today was September 28th, 2004.

Six years.

It's been six years since he survived Raccoon City; it's been six years since he met you and lost you on the same night. This isn't the first revelation that comes to mind, though. Instead, he feels absolutely mortified by his own negligence. It's your sixth-year anniversary, how could he have forgotten? What kind of person, boyfriend, husband is he to forget this day? He should have brought home chocolate, flowers, shit, maybe even taken you on a month-long vacation to a resort across the world. God, how could he be so fucking stupid? You two could have been at each other's side during the most important day of the year (besides your birthday, of course). But no, he just had to get so caught up in his head that he forgot the anniversary of the day that made him the man he is today.

Another epiphany, one of the much more luminescent standards, hits Carlos once again. This must be why you had never written back to him. You aren't dead, you're simply upset with him! All the letters, all the gifts, all the plates of food, everything you have neglected — it was just your way of expressing your anger. Ha, take that, brain! And despite the circumstances, Carlos imagines the scowl on your face and is absolutely giddy from the vision alone. You're upset with him, yes, but you're alive. His sweet lover is here with a beating heart and an angry head. And God, does it make Carlos practically shiver with glee.

He then storms through his house, looking into every nook and cranny in search of you. "Y/N? Honey? Honey, it's me! Look, I know you're upset, but I promise I will do everything I can to make it up to you!"

"Where would you like to go? Hawaii? Paris? Shit, Italy? Wherever you'd like, Y/N!" With each room left devoid of you, that wrenching misery returns piece by piece and yanks on what is left of his heart. His voice begins to crack as he continues to shout for you. "Y/N, please! Please come out, honey! I'll do anything, Y/N... Please..."

Carlos then collapses to the hardwood floor, his body crushed with the sobs now protruding from his chest. Tears pour down his cheeks with uncontrollable force before landing on the ground beneath. And he cries so violently that he fears his ribcage may shatter from the force of it alone. He can't accept it, he can't, he can't, he can't. Even if this is what the rest of his life looks like, just veiling the truth with delusional fantasies, Carlos will never face the honest conclusion. He just can't.

"Please, bumblebee... I need you..." It's a final, desperate prayer. For your presence or for mercy, Carlos isn't exactly sure which.

He then digs beneath the collar of his shirt and fishes out the necklace he has worn for six years now. Swung upon a rusted chain is the charm of a bumblebee, the yellow and black shades now decayed with age. Carlos (as forgetful as he now realized he is today) will never forget when he first received the necklace. It was right before you had boarded the subway train that would eventually lead to your departure from life. How you enveloped him in your sugar-sweet hug and the way your natural musk sat on your skin still drives him nuts after all these years. The memory brings him great comfort on restless nights spent tossing and turning in bed.

At that moment, however, he never realized how constricting his hold was on you until he hears something snap. Opening his eyes and awakening from the stupor of his cartoon-esque infatuation, he finds how he had underestimated his strength and crushed the clasp of your necklace. The state of your beloved jewelry piece is left oblivious to you. Carlos wasn't given a second to process what had happened before you're peeling your arms off of him and boarding the train. In his hands are the remnants of the necklace you left behind.

The insect symbolizes perseverance, which he finds is a perfect way to describe his life today. Persevering through every day until he can finally let his body rest six feet under; persevering through every day until he can join his honey, his bumblebee through the gates of heaven. Carlos presses another kiss of millions to the pendant as he sits in his lonely house, pretending it is your skin beneath his lips instead of the rusted metal. His heart is shattered, his body is weak, and his brain is infested with every kind of mayhem he has ever known, but he will push through it. He will push through any and all kind of chaos knowing you are at the end of the finish line. Waiting for him.

The quick tune of an email alert brings Carlos out of his lovesick, grief-burdened daze. Suddenly being torn away from the thought of you makes rage flood through his veins. He stomps over to shut his computer off, maybe even throw the monitor against the wall in the process. When he catches a glimpse of what is on his computer, he hesitates. A loud gasp then escapes from him.

On his computer is an email from an old friend.

Carlos is able to fly into the country in less than twenty-four hours. He has to take several deep breaths in order to eradicate the black dots dancing in his vision as he races to Jill's apartment. Seeing her face and the present relief in her expression, the all-too-overwhelming revelation settles. Carlos is surprised he hadn't blacked out right there on her doorstep in response. It's time to finally get you back.

And just like Jill and Carlos had orchestrated after two weeks of planning how they'd release you from Umbrella's clutches, one sip of the cup of tea in your hands and you were out like a light. Your collapse was harsh, evident in the loud thud that permeated when you landed. Fortunately, you had your blanket-cape there to cushion your fall. It doesn't stop the two from bursting the bathroom door open and rushing to your aid, however.

Without your knowledge, Jill and Carlos then proceed to take you far, far away from the place you had once called home.

"What the fuck?"

Despite knowing you were sleeping soundly just several rooms over, your sudden presence still manages to have their breath locked in their throat. The way you look at one another contradicts each other in such discrete ways, it's almost comical. You're hyperventilating, staring at the scene in front of you with eyes blown in crazed shock. Six years of grieving through the most traumatic night of your life, why is it now you find out they have been alive this whole time? These two, however, stare into your soul with so much wonder, you're almost convinced they thought they were looking at some sort of mythological creature. It's almost as if they're hypnotized. No movement, no response — just pure amazement at the sight of you alive and looking at them with eyes full of life.

It isn't until you take a cautious step back does it trigger them to escape their state of captivation. You venturing further away from them, even just a pace — they can't let it happen. Never again. While Jill resorts to calmly approaching you as if you were a stray cat, Carlos makes an abrupt dash for you. You take several more steps backward before the man you presumed to be dead became inescapable. With another onslaught of tears brimming in his eyes and a whimper fleeing from his throat, Carlos practically tackles you into a tenacious embrace.

The hold he has on you is ridden with disbelief and desperation. He's shaking against your body like an Autumn leaf drifting through the wind. Burying his nose further into your neck, he inhales the musk that sits on your skin as if he had been trapped underwater and you were a pocket of air. God, Carlos wasn't even able to look at you for more than one second before he started blubbering like a baby. The man is so absorbed in the moment of finally reuniting with you, he almost misses it when Jill smacks him on his arm and growls through clenched teeth for him to "get his fucking shit together." But, Carlos refuses to budge. He is ready to beg Jill to let him stay here, to please let him revel in the fact that this isn't another fantasy someone will wake him out of.

He somehow nestles his face further into the crook of your neck and brings your body closer to his, almost as if he was trying to mold you together as one. And at this moment, Carlos has yet another revelation. Years upon years of imagining what heaven looks like, he was entirely incorrect. There are no clouds, no birdsong, no vibrant gardens. This. Right here in this moment, this is what heaven is. To have you, the partner of his dreams, so close to him is nothing short of heavenly. For six years, he has dreamed of this moment. And if he were to die at this moment, Carlos would be elated to know he died the happiest he has ever been in his whole life.

Meanwhile, you're thrashing in the tight hold of his constricted strength. It's almost hard for you to breathe with how hard he’s squeezing you. The woman you see over his shoulder is collected, but only a fool would miss the way her shoulders tense and nostrils flare with rage (and a sliver of possessiveness, too). She receives your silent plea and grabs a fistful of his mop-head of hair, using all the might in her arm to pull him away from his own bear hug. Carlos reluctantly loosens his grasp on your form. However, he then resorts to checking you for any and all signs of life.

The past six years have been spent dodging the logical answer to your disappearance. Now, however, the sight of you alive is just too good to be true. He begins thoroughly checking your body for a pulse, listening intently to any irregularities in your heartbeat. Anything to assure him you are actually alive and breathing. When every sign and question points to 'yes' over if you are here, Carlos can hardly contain it. Finally seeing you walking, looking, talking, alive — it's like the crescendo of a beautiful song.

Jill, as collected as she is, does not differ from Carlos' state of emotion very much. She has thought of this moment at least a million times, rehearsing every syllable and breath to make the moment all the more perfect. Now, however, every perceivable thought in her head was robbed the second you entered the room. How desperately she wishes to reassure your safety, inform you of the lies you were told, and vow to never let another soul lay a single hand on you ever again. But, with her racing heart and this grizzly bear of a man latched to you like a leech, her idea of the perfect reunion has been spoiled. Still, for six years she has longed for this. Whether it's a steamy kiss beneath the moonlight or caught in Carlos' mess of tears, she couldn't be more elated to finally have you again.

Much to your dismay, your empty stomach then grumbles its frustrations into the silent air. In response, your face grows warm in embarrassment. You had been so occupied with the current events and battling your shock, the dinner you had missed out on the night before had gone overlooked. The two, however, react much differently to your perceptible hunger than you. Without a mere second to waste, they're fawning over you as if you were some powerful deity and they were your humble, loyal servants. Their infantilizing treatment of you makes your skin burn with even more heaps of humiliation.

"Oh? Are you hungry? I've almost finished breakfast!" Carlos breaks physical contact to return to the stove and you have to restrain yourself from expressing your perceptible relief.

"I... I didn't have dinner last night." With an exhale of dry laughter, your attempt to lighten the mood only does the opposite. How could they have let you go hungry? They brought you here to care for you the way they deserve and they have already failed!

A gentle hand on your lower back causes you to jump in startlement. You find Jill beside you, who helps guide your trembling legs to the kitchen table. Though, it doesn't take a genius to notice the way her hand lingers. Finally free of any unsolicited touch, you sit down at the end of the table. The only way you can bring yourself to any state of ease is to ignore the relentless cooing of the woman beside you and the furious scraping of a spatula against a pan. Almost as if Carlos was speeding through the process of cooking in order to get back to you sooner. Jill then sits beside you, taking your hands into hers. Being free of physical contact was good while it lasted, you joke to yourself.

"You're real... You're real, my butterfly, you're real." Jill indulges in the reality of your genuine touch, before shaking her head as if to wobble her rationality back in place.

A plate is soon served before you. And it is easily the most delectable dish you had ever seen; it looked like something straight out of a magazine, despite the frivolous efforts made by the chef. A gourmet omelet sits in front of you, steam pervading the air in invading your nostrils with its mouth-watering aroma. Adorned with spinach, tomato, and feta cheese, you could have easily downed the delicious serving in one gulp. Nausea swaying in your stomach like a boat on sea prevents you from doing such. You thank Carlos through stuttering breaths and almost miss the way his body softens from receiving your gratitude.

Always so possessive, Jill reverts your attention back to her. "There is so much you are unaware of, Y/N. But, we're here to help. You don't have to be afraid a second longer." Her reassurance does little to calm your nerves. "Right, Carlos?" He only nods weakly, completely dazed as he stares at you in adoration. Had he even heard what she said?

"We will not let anything happen to you." The gravity of her statement practically touches your bones with its weight. It scares you, the severity of the declaration.

Terrified of angering them (even though there is not a single thing you could do that would ever irritate them), you grasp the fork laid out for you on the pristine table. Your efforts are halted by Carlos, who sits down beside you, opposite of Jill. To satiate his gnawing need for you to be close, he pushes his chair to touch yours until you are both shoulder-to-shoulder. After all, you must be so terrified upon being kidnapped by such an evil corporation. It is his touch and comfort you need to lull you back into a place of tranquility, he's sure of it.

Carlos then takes the fork from your hands, nearly passing out when your thumb grazes his hand. To your horror, he plucks some food onto the utensil and holds it up to your lips, ushering you to let him feed you. Almost as if this was some romantic anniversary or something. Reluctantly, you open your mouth and let him place the bite of food on your tongue. And you would be a liar if you said this wasn't the most delicious meal you have ever eaten. Your tastebuds adorned in succulent food and flavorful seasoning, you joke that this dish is compensation for all the turmoil this morning has brought.

Slowly, as Carlos was painfully milking the moment for as long as he could, your hunger is satiated. The joy he garners from merely feeding you radiates off of him like a campfire against the dark night brume. Once the plate is wiped clean of even the smallest crumb (despite your assurances to him that you were full), Jill then wipes the corner of your mouth with her thumb. Your holy attention is reverted back to Carlos when he pokes your lips with a straw, once again, ushering you to let him nourish your stomach. "To wash it down" he excuses, with far too much exhilaration hanging heavy in his tone.

Indulging in the cold, fresh water as it cascades down your throat, you miss how Jill brings her thumb, now adorned with bits of food and your saliva, into her mouth. And she just relishes in the absolute taste of you. Her vision goes hazy and her eyelids droop from the ecstasy. She would have let herself completely fall into the arms of enrapturing oblivion if it weren't for the fact you were right beside her. Carlos takes notice, however, and a sneer forms on his lips as he looks at her in disgust. Jill bites her tongue, holding herself back from pointing out how he is no different. So easily, she could inform you of how after your intimate bath together, she found him inhaling your sweater with his eyes rolled back into his skull and his hand stuffed into his pants. If she were to voice this, however, the man would easily throw himself over the table and attack her like a feral animal. She can handle him, but you don't need even more stress.

Upon being thrust into the middle of this mess, the only thing you can do is watch as the obsession of Jill and Carlos play out before your very eyes. And the physical manifestation of your return has caused disastrous consequences. Six years and you're ashamed to say you have forgotten what their facial features looked like. The memory remains as a blurred, distorted mess of blood and grime. An expression of all the trauma you all have endured. Now, however, you'd be damned if those were two expressions you could ever forget.

Carlos and his dark goo-goo eyes, adorned in overwhelming heaps of drowning devotion that could swallow you whole with one glance. They're affixed with teardrops, adding onto everything cherubic, holy about the way he looks at you. Despite the sheer display of sadness leaking from his eyes, his lips exhibit the biggest, most genuine smile you have ever seen in your life. The way he looks at you, it's almost as if God himself had descended from the heavens and graced Carlos with his presence. All from just the mere act of feeding you. It was deranged, you thought to yourself.

His smile vanishes, eyebrows raising as something seems to click in his head. He then takes your right arm gingerly into his grasp, fingers treading amongst the field of goosebumps blossoming on your skin. "Your arm, you poor thing... Are you okay, honey?" The worry in his voice makes you shiver with convulsion. It takes you several seconds to compute that he was referring to the injury you endured six whole years ago.

Jill and her cheeks that are blazon in hues reminiscent of two ripe cherries, appending a sort of childish innocence to her always-stoic expression. The way her eyebrows furrowed and eyes narrowed displayed a sense of fury — presumably toward the man clinging onto you like a lifeline. When she looks at you, however, her features perceptibly soften as if beams of sunlight had enveloped her after years of being in the depths of Winter. It was deranged, you thought to yourself.

"You... You kidnapped me..." Even through all the violence and torment these two have endured, nothing had cut deep than those three words. The waver in your voice, the emotions brimming in your eyes, the trembling frown plastered on your lips. God, it killed them right then and there.

They begin to ramble and deny your accusation. All as if it wasn't a lie coming out of their mouths. And in their heads, it was anything but a lie. They truly believed that they saved you as if it was a genuine fact. Somehow, they manage to inch closer to you. The empty air around you becomes suffused with their waving hands and panicked explanations. All to convince you that they would never hurt you. Never.

"You're upset, Y/N, we understand. But you have to know that this was for your own good!" Jill remains the voice of reason, if that's what you would name it. Meanwhile, Carlos throws shambles of assurances such as, "It's not true!" and "I need you!" your way, hoping that something, anything will mend your fears.

And poor you. So confused, so terrified, so bewildered. All you could want at this moment is to go back twelve hours ago. To leave with your friend the second they entered the room, to scrutinize what in your home had caused you to black out, to burst down the front door and beg the the surrounding security guards to save you. Even though the truth of your “home” simmers just beneath the surface, itching to claw its way out, you still find yourself aching to go back to the way things were. Even if it is all just a fat lie. Anything is better than this.

Miles upon miles away, the three of you are completely unaware of the fourth presence treading closer to their secret. Suspicions high, Tyrell can't help but use some of his free time to venture into why Jill and Carlos had suddenly vanished. For the umpteenth time, he looks through more footage from the security system Jill was so insistent on receiving. And what he finds is horrifying. The two people he had once considered his friends were seen climbing through a window, to where they escape moments later with an unconscious body.

A flare of guilt spreads through him. Unwillingly, he had actively played a part in this. Whoever you were, he felt inclined to take full responsibility for helping these two take this innocent life away. To be kidnapped, murdered, he doesn't know. What Tyrell does know, however, is that he feels to be partially blamed for this. When he does further research, his heart sinks even deeper into the pit of his stomach. Reports of a missing patient were sent around the establishment. Y/N L/N, a potential runaway was actually the body nestled tight in Carlos' arms. He remembers how he had spoken that name and the reaction it garnered from Carlos; he remembers seeing the name on the door of the room Jill relentlessly paid him to receive footage of.

With that, Tyrell reports the incident. An investigation commences and two major clues are found. A shattered mug that had been filled with sedation-induced tea and specks of blood on the bathroom floor that have been tested positive for matching one of the assailants. Now, a manhunt is in play for Jill Valentine and Carlos Oliveira.

At his desk that was overwhelmed with littering documents, Tyrell eavesdrops on a conversation between his two colleagues.

"You won't believe who they've gotten to take over Carlos' spot for this mission!"

"Who?"

"Leon Kennedy."

⁺ 🎧 , 🪷 ۫ you are currently listening to . . . ⁺ 🪺 , 🎵 ꪆ

THE BONUS TRACK !

❝ WE WERE WILD AND FLUORESCENT

COME HOME TO MY HEART . . . ❞

this is what i imagined the necklace carlos stole borrowed from you to look like. however, you can imagine it as whatever you'd like!

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andcars · 15 days

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# 𝗚𝗥𝟲𝟯 ─── STUPID IN LOVE WITH YOU BON APPETIT FICS . . . MASTERLIST . . . TAGLIST . . . AO3

GEORGE RUSSELL IS HOPELESSLY in love with you. a few headcanons on how he acts when he's with you. this is part as an extra of the bon appetit series but can be read without reading it.

TAGS . . . # female reader, pining george, reader may or may not be oblivious TYPE OF FIC . . . # headcanons, imagine, bon appetit; extra LENGTH . . . # ten headcanons/imagines, 779 words

pining!george where he tries to act casual when he invites you out, saying that he's bored and you're free. he's attempting to be real subtle about the way he texts, 'Yeah no, I don't have anything to do :/ Wanna hang?' but really he's pacing back and forth seeing if you've responded

pining!george saying that he's not needy or clingy. but it's in the small things like brushing up against your shoulder. guiding you by the shoulder when walking somewhere. random pictures or texts in the middle of the day; sometimes it's his wheels and the other times the helmet's marks. he can't stand not talking to you.

pining!george always tries to learn everything you like. 'What's your favourite band? Oh, the Cannons? Oh I'm pretty sure I've listened to their songs a few times before' and lies for a little bit about not remembering the song and is glad when you autofill the information for him. the next day he tells you he listened to them again and you talk about their music. it's these things he always want to impress you.

pining!george invites you out for the race weekends. weekends. multiple. he invites you to practically each one that everyone calls you the newest wag on the paddock. he never denies the rumour, just saying that it's not the media's problems to meddle in your relationship. but he lives for that attention, for people thinking you two look great together. he never brings it up in fear that you would think it's weird.

pining!george isn't the best guy at DIYs. however, friendship bracelets have been all over his feed lately and you've liked them all. he's never seen you with one on despite your interest. he buys an entire kit and with it multiple trinkets of different designs. when he gifts you your first friendship bracelet, it spells out his nickname for you designed with trinkets that resemble racing. he's obsessed with making them when your reaction to that one was absolutely golden.

pining!george is a fashion icon, everyone knows that. but when he's with you he's learned to adopt to your style instead. grunge? he's sporting a beanie and a spiked belt for the first time in his life. dark academia? bring back the long dark brown coats and sweaters. rockstars? you don't believe your eyes when you see george russel wearing a low tank top and patterened pants. he expanded his closet just to match your taste

pining!george is very much interested in your job. it doesn't matter whether or not you really like it, he makes it so that you enjoy it and is in awe of the things you do. oh, you travel around for catering services? he asks you to come over to cater for mercedes instead, saying that your cooking is probbaly the best thing that could come into the paddock.

pining!george of course loves your cooking. it doesn't really matter how good your cooking really is, it's like you make everything taste good. he feels like eating in your presence just makes everything taste like it's a godsent meal. no restaurant compares to you, though. he keeps saying it after he tasted your food, 'They added too much salt into this one. I ordered it because you cooked this for me before but it's a shame they can't really cook it like you do.'

pining!george 's favourite date location is probably yours or his house. he invited you over to his hotel room on a media day because the hotel was swarmed outside and he wasn't really thinking about going to papparazi. so you and he hang out there and honestly, it was fun. the both of you cook together, him miserably failing and you're effortlessly amazing. he watches local tv with you, nevermind if you don't know the language. it's entertaining to see a woman yell and slap a man across the face while everyone else is shocked. drama doesn't need a language barrier, after all. he even invites you to stay in his bed while he goes to the couch. you want to retaliate but he's already making himself comfy on the couch. you feel bad but oh well, you give him a blanket for his effort.

pining!george doesn't know that you are very amused by his behaviour. whether or not you are actually aware of his flirting, it makes you laugh everytime. you watch him change clothes, buy albums, make friendship bracelets, complain about restaurant food all with a smile on your lips. he doesn't really see himself in your eyes, and he looks so good loving you.

🗒 𝗣𝗔𝗣𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗥𝗔𝗜𝗟 . . . did this during classes and i only got to make a few TT. but i plan to do a smau or a fic on the weekend, so look forward to it! and lmk any feedback on the graphic if you have any. i'm always never satisfied but god i just want a template to be able to use when i'm quickly posting ˎˊ˗ ᝰ.

──── 📨 @delululeclerc @coconut-dreamz

you support me best on tumblr with reblogs and comments ! ── by andcars ⟡

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ivysangel · 7 months

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jason whimpering in your ear. you’ve been teasing him all day, trailing touches and lingering looks, leaning in and getting into his space until he can’t help but breathe your perfume in. he’s finally got you split open on him, and now he’s whimpering and panting from the effort of not coming immediately.

(hi ro ily)

sunnie (@fic-over-cannon)

(hi sunnie ily more, wasn't ignoring this just had a bad case of writer's block)

did someone say jason lost puppy agenda? big wide eyes, a bit melancholy because you're out and about, and he can't have you the way he wants. and he wants you in a very. very. nasty way.

alas, you're making no effort to get home. instead, dragging him all around gotham city during rush hour, where he has to be pressed into you to keep you safe. and oh boy, is it driving him insane.

the scent of your perfume is so hypnotizing to him, and he bet it would be even better if you were skin-to-skin on your shared bed back at home, but nope. no, you're pulling him close to you in public "so you don't get separated," then running off when you see something you like, leaving him to chase after you. and then you get real close to him again, holding a little trinket in front of his face, innocently saying "look, isn't this cute?" as if you're not the reason he's half-hard in his pants right now.

he's whispering in your ear, "baby, can we please just-" voice strained because he's trying to suppress diabolical levels of horniness that threaten to seep out into his words. "can we please head home."

the moment you step into the apartment, he's on you like a dog, damn near tearing your clothes off because he's you've got him so worked up, and he needs relief now.

you've got him underneath you, hands on his chest as you ride him slowly, barely moving, savoring the feeling, teasing him even more. and he's grabbing at your hips, trying to make you move a little faster, but you keep stopping him, leaning over and swallowing his whimpers and gasps, telling him, "you need to learn how to slow down. let me help you."

it's agonizing for him but in a good way. he wouldn't want to be mercilessly teased by anyone else but you, so he lets you have your fun, let's you be in control this time around. will 100% get payback tho, like, let's be for real.

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd smut #jason todd imagine #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood smut #red hood imagine #jason todd lover #★ sunnie ★

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moonsaver · 7 months

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Moonsaver… may I ask for any hc’s, scenarios, thoughts, or opinions on a rivalry between Sunday and Aventurine for reader’s affections…

Ohh... tension... let me see what I can do!

Regardless of whoever had their eyes set on you first, it's undeniable that neither of them are backing out just because they now know they have competition.

Sunday's always masking a polite, tight smile whenever Aventurine is around with you. Makes an effort to sneak in jabs, and sometimes doesn't even hide them. He may even pull you aside and subtly ask (or directly, considering how much frustration would build up in him), if you really want to appear with someone like Aventurine. Oh, yes, he's aware. Yes, that gambler with the generous mark on his neck from the Amber lord. The.. signoian who can't seem to keep his sleazy hands off of you. Yes,he's aware. Oh, you think he's a sweetheart? Well, Sunday believes he can be so much more sweeter than that. Follow along, now. You have much better things to be doing than.. going around with that peacock.

Aventurine is getting a kick out of this, mainly because he doesn't believe he'll not have you. So he treats it like some toddler trying to steal candy from him, a lazy smirk on his lips, poorly hidden remarks about touchy subjects like the.. real dreamscape that his family has worked oh so hard on. Seems he's ruffled a few feathers, hm? How delightful. Another gamble and another round to win. Easy. A lazy hand drapes itself across your shoulder, and a know-it-all smile is plastered on his face as he informs Sunday he has you booked for the entire day. You swear you can see a vein pop out of Sunday's forehead as Aventurine emphasizes it's a usual occurrence between you two, and how delighted he is that you've chosen solely him time and again for.. collaborations.

After a few more chance encounters with the other as you hang out with one, the frustration between them starts to rise. Sunday insists on taking you to the most beautiful sceneries in the Dreamscape, gifting you all sorts of luxuries and helping you to the most beautiful hotel rooms Penacony has to offer, even gifting you expensive and sought-after items that he commissions personally from high-ranking representatives from other worlds, that are eager to get on his good side. He insists on helping you with putting of the gifts on like jewelry, compliments you well, and guides your hands to his soft wings, telling you all about the newest champagne bottle he's just been waiting to try out with you, his hand now ungloved, gently tracing circles in the inside of your wrist as he listens to you with half-lidded eyes, pressing gentle kisses into the middle of your palm as he lists all the reasons why he's just better. He doesn't feel the need to insult Aventurine anymore, he just needs you to see that he's better.

Aventurine, on the other hand, is almost desperate. His smug smile is still on, of course, and doesn't let his mask slip for a second, especially around that chicken boy. He buys you all sorts of unique things, mainly matching trinkets like sunglasses, keychains, bracelets, and if he's feeling bold, rings. Takes you to casinos with him, betting on extremely risky terms, and winning flawlessly. To him, this is basically like showing off just how much more happy and fun it would be to have him around. Ugh, Sunday's too much of a stickler, isn't he? Isn't it so much more fun with him? Sunday can't make you laugh the way he does. Takes you out on many, many adventures, too, making your heart rush for the nth time, laughing at the end before dropping you off with care, making sure there's no bruises or scratches on you, and kissing your hand, trying to squeeze his way into your hotel room to try and elongate his stay with you.

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whatifyoulivelikethat · 14 days

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getting sick of this noise, m | myg, jjk

misfit toys au continuation of intro >> don’t play >> this game >> those graves

pairing(s): yoongi x reader, jungkook x reader

summary: You won, Min Yoongi. Isn't this what you wanted? You ran away from it all and now lose yourself in the forbidden passion of your stepsister's body day and night. Closer to her than ever. Careful now. The monsters that hide in the dark could tear you apart.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; warning! graphic sexual abuse of a minor — please do not read further if you are not comfortable; reader is the victim, mentions of hard drug use; shitty wealthy parents that abuse their adult children in the name of filial piety narcissism; toxic relationships; angst; stepsiblings; intense smut (fem reader, D/s (sub!JK), restraints, forced orgasm, cum eating, f and m-receiving oral, semi-public m-masturbation, edging, cock-and-ball torture (self + received), hair-pulling, nipple play, cumming on reader's face + chest, anal shower sex, choking, fingering, blindfold usage, heavy bruising / scratching, spit kink); non-idol!AU - orange-haired!Yoongi x savage, bad bitch!reader, ft obsessive, security guard!Jeon Jungkook; shifts between Yoongi’s, yours, and JK’s POV

Once again, be warned. This chapter details abuse of a minor, notably sexual as well as physical and mental. Reader is the victim. Although she is aware of how such abuse has warped her psyche, it is apparent that she uses dissociation as a coping mechanism from the worst of it. It is still awful. You are responsible for what you choose to consume. Please do not proceed unless you are in the headspace for monsters that do, sadly, exist in real life.

I do not condone this behavior. For storytelling purposes only.

He sat down on that black leather couch.

Spread his legs for his own comfort. His jacket was tossed to the side, out of the way. The living room was dark. All blinds drawn. Breathe out. He pushed his hair back, getting it out of the way. He set an arm on the back of the couch and raised his head. His skin prickled, warning him.

An icy itch slithered down his spine.

Min Yoongi looked up.

His stepsister smiled, a vicious image, and then she let her black lace dress slip down her body to step out of it.

He knew there was wrong in this world and Yoongi knew he was part of it. There was better than him. There was worse than him. Hell, his closest family was the epitome of the worst. He was definitely one of the wrong ones, by blood and by the path he had chosen to take. He had always been a runner, an escape artist, a bad son. He didn’t give a shit. The definition of insanity was doing something over and over again expecting a different result. Why continue being frustrated with something he couldn’t change? Why continue being berated and beaten repeatedly for not copying his father’s obscene behavior?

Why not do one better and take the one his father wanted most, over and over again?

Yoongi lifted two fingers ad curled them inward, beckoning his stepsister to him.

Life was about getting there.

This was true from the very beginning. You did what you had to do to keep living. It did not matter how you felt about it, and you did what you had to do so often that you forgot to feel something about it. Run. Hide. Cry. Be humiliated. These actions became second nature. The more you did them, the more detached you became. And so you did what you needed to do and felt nothing, just to retrieve your mother’s unconscious body back from whatever she had put herself though. That was the game. She counted on your part in the game. You fulfilled it. She rewarded with trinkets, a little treat, or something equally meaningless that meant everything to an impressionable child. Back then, it was easy. It was easy not to know better. It was easy to be a deceitful heart when nothing was wrong. Like your mother said, nothing could be wrong when you were born to play.

It had to become a game for it to be bearable.

You played the game.

What your mother didn’t count on was you becoming a slut to gain your own freedom. After teaching you to trust no one, she really thought she could make you dependent on the fragile bond of mother and daughter. After all, it was you and dear mother against the world, right? She never thought you would have the guts to make your own terms. Never thought you too could manipulate the people around you.

She wasn’t sober enough half of the time to stop you either.

The world around you was so, so fucked up and dear mother was the one to throw you to the wolves.

At some point, you had your revelation.

The first one was a son of some old guy.

Definitely older than you. Definitely should not be touching you. Didn’t want to either because he was repulsed by pussy. He did what he had to do so his dad wouldn’t know. You happened to be the easiest target in his line of vision. He had cornered you to do the deed, but was too terrified and too limp to do anything. You had been prepared to fight, steak knife behind your back, but the man ended up breaking down and crying. A first. Saying all kinds of things that you didn’t really understand, such as I can’t do this anymore and I have to and I’m sorry, they can’t know, who knows what, and you were looking down at him wondering how someone could have so much money and not be entirely selfish.

“Why don’t you?”

It was like a light bulb turned on in that vacant little brain.

Tear-stained face of a cowering naked creature under your narrow, barely-clothed body. He was bigger than you but, in this moment, he was small in the grandeur of your delicate, adamant defiance. You held up the knife, observing the way the low light gleamed off the blade, knowing you would have used it without hesitation. There was no fear in the desire for survival. You had tilted your head.

And you had felt it.

Power.

“W… W-What?”

You had smiled.

“You can keep a secret, right? Let’s make a secret.”

Your mother had no idea at the time that you were the one to provide the leverage she needed to leave that marriage. She just thought she had gotten lucky stumbling on her stepson in the middle of a gay orgy. Alimony and a quiet split as long as the shameful truth wasn’t revealed to the public. It had taken some time, but not as much as you had originally thought. You had simply copied what she did – created an addiction. Eventually, the addict went out of control. So what if you had to sleep with a few people? So what if you had created a cultish circle of rich kids fucking each other to get the curiosity started? It got you out of the house, away from hungrier eyes always straying from your mother.

Dumb bitch.

“It’s not so bad.”

A couple of men later. This one had been younger than your mother. Cutting lines of white right in front of you. Your mother was passed out. You weren’t worried. She wasn’t that pale. The man had offered you some but oddly accepted your declining. He did not accept you leaving his lap and his half-hard dick though. He snorted a narrow strip of few centimeters and sniffed hard.

“I bet you think all this sucks, doncha?” His satoori and drug habit had corroded his voice. His other hand was on your thigh. He squeezed. “But it isn’t so bad. I see you. You’re different. You’re not all here. And I bet you think people like me are dumb as rocks.” He tapped the side of his head, his pupils expanding like black holes. “But I ain’t dumb. I know your mother is here for money. That’s fine. I like dumb bitches who like getting face-fucked and think they’re making money by playing nice. She’d be making a lot more if she actually became a hooker. But you. I see it in your eyes.”

You had shrugged.

“Heh. I knew it. I knew you weren’t just a dumb little girl. Tell you what. I like you.”

You had stared at him. He offered you an obscene amount of money to suck his dick. But not only money. A safe box at the bank with your own key. It would take years for you to legally have your own assets. It was pointless to give you money that your mother still had access to. He promised to keep the key and give it to you when you came of age.

“I don’t trust you.”

He had grinned.

It was manic.

“Okay. Then you choose how I get off.”

You had frowned. You would always remember his face. Inviting. Sickly. Unfocused and ravenous like a hyena. His pupils had looked as if they were swallowing his irises. Ironically, his dark hair had been bleached, but the strands were turning a sickly orange due to poor upkeep. He would have been handsome if it wasn’t for the drug habit.

You also remembered how impressed you were at how he had played his game.

Then put your palm on his still-hard dick, leaning your weight on it. Gripped hard, as hard as your smaller hand could, crushing his balls into the seat, watching his features contort in pain.

And glee.

“You’re a liar,” you had said slowly, confirming it by digging your blunt nails inward. “You don’t like dumb bitches.”

He had been telling the truth about giving up a whole lot of money for what only you could give.

Jeon Jungkook was a security guard for a gentlemen’s club.

He also had a particular obsession with his boss. Not the old Master. Fuck no. The young Master, her daughter. And, although he doubted the feeling was mutual, they now shared a secret. It had to be intentional. She would do no such thing without purpose. Whether that purpose was in his best interest remained to be seen, but Jungkook didn’t really care. The world was fucked anyway. Might as well do some fucked-up things.

He was at work when he received the notification that the young Master was at her condo.

This was not uncommon. There was no need for the Masters to be here to constantly oversee operations. That was why they had managers and supervisors, after all. As for why Jungkook received the notification, well, he had begun to pay the security at that particular building a bit of money to let him know who was going in and out of that particular condo.

Not to do anything.

He just wanted to know.

A few nights ago, she had blindfolded him in the basement. Handcuffed him to a metal bar, naked, and done all sorts of things to him with ice, vibrators, and her pointed manicure. He still had scabbed lines over his back from where she had broken skin. His favorite part had been when she orgasmed while sandwiching the wand vibrator between his balls and her pussy. Holding his cock out of the way, of course. He could feel her cum seeping onto his inner thighs and her hot breath on his chest as she did it. He especially liked it when she scooped up her cum and shoved her slick fingers into his mouth and almost made him choke. Jungkook hadn’t liked it when she stimulated him with a vibrating silicone sleeve rather than her hand. He had begged to at least cum on the stone floor. She only let him if he spit in her hand first and then she used that as lube to jack him off to completion. He wished she had made him lick it up, but the basement floor wasn’t exactly clean.

She did, however, let him get on his knees and clean up her pussy.

Jungkook had an obsession.

He wanted to know who came in and out of the condo. He and the young Master shared a secret. He was a security guard. Hers. He wanted to protect. The best way to protect was to have information. The more information, the better. Spending a bit of money was not going to prevent him from protecting.

On his break, he was in his car when he checked his phone.

The people who had entered the condo were the young Master and her stepbrother.

This was no cause for alarm, but it did greatly piss Jungkook off.

Not for any good reason, he knew. He was in no place to think he was entitled to anything. Nor did he have any delusion about what his relationship was with the young Master. She had the body. She had the money. She could do whatever she wanted as long as she still cared enough to keep their secret. But Jungkook was still mad, because Min Yoongi was an asshole who couldn’t even see who was on his side.

He was also pissed because this information didn’t curb his hunger.

Jungkook sat back in his car and ran his fingers over his erection throbbing in his work pants. His left hand followed the side of his pants, to the slim pocket that held the black switchblade with the engraved tiger motif. It took some effort to unzip his pants. Even more to lower his boxer briefs. His hard cock sprang out, suddenly exposed in the cool air. He stared straight ahead, keeping his breath steady. Glanced at his rearview mirror to make sure his expression didn’t change. No one was coming to the employee parking lot anyway, but there were still cameras. He doubted any of them had the correct angle to see inside his car, but he also didn’t care. He ran the fingertips of his right hand over the head, smearing the pre-cum. Shivered, but otherwise didn’t let the pleasure show. He traced the hard lines of the tiger and stroked himself all over, his swollen cock throbbing uncomfortably, almost unbearable.

Remembered the way his Master touched him and made him sore.

Perfect.

Jungkook knew what the young Master was doing with her stepbrother.

He told himself he didn’t care.

But, still, sometimes he would miss the feeling she gave him. He kept his left hand on the knife she had given him and gripped his balls, squeezing hard. Delicious pain shot up his core. He kept his eyes open, staring straight ahead, aware of the movement around him, imagining her torturing him as he tortured himself, right in the open. Smacked his cock so hard that it hit his pant leg, the slap resounding in the confides of his car. He had to bite his tongue to avoid letting the illicit ecstasy show on his face. He did it again, louder, harder, squeezing his balls again right after to prolong the suffering, and none of it showed on his face even as his lower half vibrated with craving. He wanted her to tell him to stop. He wanted her to punish him. The edges of the switchblade cut into his palm as he hooked thumb and forefinger around the base of his cock and tightened.

The throb of pleasure was so powerful that his hips threatened to rise.

He used all of his willpower to prevent himself from doing so and instead smacked his abused cock once more, his toes curling inside his shoes to maintain the tension of staying upright and appearing unemotional so no one would even suspect how desperately and deeply he wanted to be tied up and used by his Master.

He needed it.

Needed it.

He loved having this secret with the young Master.

He carefully corrected himself. Zipped up his pants and, in doing so, noticed the faint white stains along the inner thighs of his pant legs. He let it be and returned to work. He received a few interesting looks from the working girls but Jungkook only thought about one person. Only one. He finished his shift with his underwear soaked in his pre-cum. The first thing he did when he left work was check his phone.

No new notifications.

He went straight home.

The last thing Min Yoongi knew was the right words to say.

It was one thing to be sure of something and another to hear the outward, sickening proof of it. It was one thing to know his own father was despicable and deplorable, but another to hear his own stepmother saying, what is the big deal? The shameful anger flared within him once more as he remembered. The suggestion itself, vile. The way it was presented even more so. But the anger came from somewhere else. From nights of tangled hands and skin-to-skin. From his teeth sunk into flesh, from his hands around her throat, from his cock buried deep inside his stepsister’s pussy. His. His, because she wanted him, because she willingly toyed with his emotions and pushed all his buttons and coiled around him like a viper, her saliva a venomous aphrodisiac. And the shame, well. The shame didn’t come from the wrongness.

No.

“Strip.”

The shame came from jealousy.

Jealousy from her reaching back so confidently and unhooking her bra, so casual and unbothered by his spiteful order. Her shoulders dipped, left, right, the straps smoothly sliding off as she held the lace cups. Too practiced to be accidental. Too graceful to be a novice and Yoongi was ashamed, ashamed for the way he watched her every move, ashamed at himself for how deeply it affected him, ashamed not at his cock twitching but at his chest tightening, his heart racing, the tremble in his own breath.

She slowly let the bra fall into her hands and tossed it aside, letting him look at the shapely curves and stiff nipples.

He had none of that.

And Yoongi was angry, so angry at his own father for trying to take her from him even though he had no right and no claim over this woman, but all the same, she is mine, mine, and you are a shitty father and took away any hope I had in this life so it is about time I take something for you too.

An eye for an eye.

She paused a few steps away. Hooked her finger over the sides of her black lace panties and bent forward, sliding them down, down. Her breasts fully exposed and, as she stood up, her pussy as well, the low light catching a hint of glistening slick. The blinds were all drawn, but it was still daylight outside, allowing the seeping bright cracks to light up the living room.

He breathed in and was greeted with the potent scent of sex.

One hand on his bare knee. Then the other. Yoongi was still wearing his charcoal, paint-stained jeans. The large rips in the knees allowed for the skin-to-skin contact. He didn’t say anything as she lowered herself to her knees. Didn’t dare breathe under that serpentine gaze. He was still wearing his designer t-shirt and made no move to take it off.

She smiled, her pink tongue tracing the edge of her smirk.

His cock throbbed, stretching out his boxer briefs.

Yoongi cocked his chin and stuck his tongue in his cheek.

Then he shot out his hand and grabbed her by the throat, pressing his fingertips inward. Dragged her neck towards him, growling in his chest, his pulse quickening at the sound of her gasp, his blood racing at the feeling of her hands sliding up his thighs, the now-familiar, ravenous desire coiling as her body slid up against his legs.

“How many times you get on your knees for a man?” he hissed, low and violent.

Her chuckle was so dark that he almost let go.

“Very kind of you to think of them as men, brother.”

Her fingers were at his zipper, yanking hard to pull it taut so she could unbutton his jeans. As if she had done this hundreds of times. He hated them all. He hated them and he had no idea who they were but he hated them all.

Yoongi narrowed his eyes, letting his seething anger command him.

“I’m not your brother.”

He threw her back, unzipping his pants and shoving them down, underwear and all. His cock snapped out, bouncing slightly from the force and its stiffness. He didn’t bother to give any warning. Simply seized her shoulders and pushed her down, shuddering from seeing her slide down so readily, and he thrust into her already open mouth.

Fitted his palms to the back of her head, pushing her hair out of the way, and began to fuck her face.

Soft lips, rubbing tongue, tight throat. He didn’t care. Deep, rolling his hips, not moving too quickly on purpose so he could last. So he could feel his girth stretch out her muscles, so he could savor the wet constriction, so he could stare into her eyes gazing back at him from below and tell himself I don’t care, clenching his jaw to avoid moaning, I don’t care, the harsh pleasure eating up his thighs and sliding up his spine, I don’t care, sucking in a stinging inhale as her tongue teased him, stimulating the thin skin under the head, burning heat searing the back of his neck.

She stared into his eyes.

Somehow, Yoongi felt as if she was seeing all of him. But that was impossible.

His shoulder blades pressed against the back of the sofa and he smacked his hips into her lips over and over again, one hand on the back of her head and the other bunching up his shirt, his labored breathing meshing with the lewd sound of her sucking him off, his legs shaking badly, threatening to collapse from the sinful delight tearing at to every nerve of his body.

He kept going.

Her hands spread over the couch, steadying herself as he built the pace, her naked body under him.

Her tongue flicked over his balls.

Mine.

He bit back his groan and snapped his head back, gasping as he felt his core lurch, the high shooting though him like an erotic bullet ricocheting through his ribcage. Hips driving forward, shoving her head down, tightness in his chest as he pumped his release into her throat in thick uncontrolled streams. His lips parting. Her name leaking out in a weak snarl.

He should have said something.

Yoongi wouldn’t know what to say but this, this happening between his legs right now, this was not what a good person would have done. Not that he had any grasp of what the concept of good could be. He just knew it wasn’t this.

The pulse rippled through him and he shivered, tightening his grip on her hair.

Pulled her mouth from his cock.

She leaned back, following his hold, and opened her mouth, displaying a wet pool of saliva and milky cum trickling down to a black hole, her pink tongue flattening out so he could see everything. He watched her swallow. He watched her savor his taste without guilt.

His dripping cock jerked, still hard.

“Play with your tits.”

He kept his left hand twisted into her hair and wrapped his right around his wet length, forcefully pushing himself to the edge as she squeezed her breasts. Pinching her hard nipples, pulling at them, unapologetically sighing in lustful satisfaction, flicking them. Large, swollen, stiff. His eyes shifted to her face. She watched him through lashes. The corner of her lips curved upward, amused. He cocked an eyebrow. Slid his ass forward to the edge of the leather sofa, gripping himself tighter, faster, using the base of his palm to shove down the crown of her head so she was forced to crouch.

She didn’t seem surprised.

He curled his fist downward, pulling on her hair hard enough to be painful.

Her head whipped back, plush lips parting, smokey gasp escaping.

Yoongi stared into her eyes.

They reflected his face, glassy and dark.

“I… I fucking hate you.”

Those dark eyes glittered with glee.

He came on her face.

Her eyes instantly snapped closed as he raised his hips and shot a streak of white over her cheek and onto her open lips. Thrust into his hand a few more times, hissing at the sensitivity, dribbling more down her neck, over her collarbone, and finally shoving the hot, pulsing head against the top of her breasts, pressing into the softness and growling, feeling flare after flare of feral pleasure. Her hands came up and cupped her breasts, pushing them together. He shoved his softening cock into the crevice, smearing his orgasm into her skin, the heavy, strong scent mixing with the honey still wafting up from below.

His entire body shuddered.

He unclenched his fingers from her hair and wiped his cum on her cheek into her mouth, shoving two fingers into the hot wet warmth. He pushed them in and out. His exhale shivered as her lips closed around them and she sucked, sensual and wrong, sucked all the way up to his knuckles as he lightly thrusted into the pocket of her breasts that she was pressing together.

Yoongi didn’t say anything.

He couldn’t.

He leaned down and replaced his fingers with his mouth, kissing his stepsister roughly, his own cum sticking to his face and tongue.

Back then, lying was so normal that the concept of truth became foreign.

“You look so pretty when you cry with my cock in your mouth, babygirl.”

You didn’t even have to think about it anymore while it was happening. You just did what you needed to do. You already knew the timing. Intoxicated and pissed from that younger guy turning her down, your mother would come home early, storming into the master bedroom without knocking. The entire scene laid out. No mistaking the situation. Instant incrimination. Immediately screaming her head off, hitting her current flavor-of-the-month boyfriend with her clutch, yelling about how it was over, and that argument would drag on with your body lying face-first into the carpet, your mascara tears soaking into the white shag, and the ache of your wrists tied behind your back with a men’s tie.

Inside, you would be laughing.

Your mother would then force yet another man to pay her a lot of money to keep her mouth shut. She always played her cards right. She always knew too much. She knew what kind of men to target. She knew what truths to say to render them speechless and so deep in the fog that they simply did whatever she asked. These men stood no chance in the wake of her manipulation. It was a talent, really. She would look at you and you would look back. Not saying anything. Slap you too, perhaps, if she had thought she could get more money out of the rich fucker. She probably assumed you were jealous or suspected that you wanted her spotlight, maybe.

Didn’t matter.

Because the night before that younger man that had turned down your mother at the bar, he had paid you even more money to be in your lap dressed in a lacy nightie with his own wrists tied behind his back, violently riding your large strap-on while you pulled on the leash around his neck, and you had whispered behind his back.

Low and dark.

“You gonna cum for your daddy, babygirl?”

Your mother really was a dumb, dumb bitch.

She made sure you were stuck in a world where everyone shot everybody. And so you did, although you only had one true target. Slowly, delicately, precisely. Needle by needle. Man by man. Old, young, in between. Sick fantasies and voracious greed in the shadows. Each conquest without remorse, creating a cyclic lifestyle your mother became so used to that it became an unbreakable habit. An addictive drug with soaring highs and explosive lows. You could have used a gun. Of course. How easy it could have been to ruin the life of the one who gave birth to you by exposing time after time she had exploited your youth for her own gain. But that would have been too quick of an end. Too merciful.

She didn’t deserve that.

Did your mother know? Probably. Did she want to stop it? Of course not. A constant flow of hush money and a revolving door of rich dick, oh, how could she refuse? The luxurious benefits were too fruitful to resist. And when she got bored, she could make your life insufferable until you pulled out that get-out-jail-free card. Most of the time, though, you simply sensed when she was over it and ended things to move on to the next best thing.

Searching.

Hunting.

You just had to be patient.

And then Min Yoongi came along.

Everything falling into place.

Bored, frustrated, agitated with having to play this part for so long and wanting to use you again to get her out of it. A small snag. If your mother was the one to ask for the divorce, she would get nothing. Prenuptial agreements were a bitch. He was disgusting person, but unfortunately not an idiot. And Papa wasn’t giving up yet. After years and years of relying on someone else to do the dirty work, and then being silently refused by that same someone, well, who was going to help her now? Still, she tried to manipulate you.

Your mother was too much of a narcissist to see that you had already surpassed her.

In addition, at this point, she had too much pride to change tactics now. It was a matter of principle. A matter of exercising her power over you, vain was it was. The perception of control. She thought she had won all the battles but she had already lost this war. No. No, she would not allow it. It didn’t matter if it was becoming clearer and clearer each day that she was stuck in a cage. So, your mother did what she always did. Drink. Seek out the high in others. Run. And, at the end of it all, kicking and screaming, getting dragged back to be Papa’s good, obedient wife.

Heh.

Revenge was delicious.

His fingers wrapped around her left wrist, around the chain bracelet with the black glass beads.

He was already inside.

His right hand was around her neck, pulling her head back to force her spine to arch as he shoved his hips forward a little more, making them both hiss. Him from the tightness. Her from the fullness. It must have hurt, but Min Yoongi was fucking his stepsister and he didn’t have time to care about things like that.

“Your ass is much tighter than your pussy,” he growled into ear, pushing back her wet hair.

The raining showerhead thundered down. Warm droplets splashing against burning skin. She had both palms against the vertical, smooth white tiles, using the leverage to push her body back into him, squeezing his length. He didn’t care. The grimace rippled down his body, his core tightening, his hard cock twitching. Not moving yet. He would be damned if he moved right now. Kept his grip on her wrist and neck, feeling pulse after pulse race through his blood, his erratic breath against her ear, not looking up from the curve of her tense neck.

Yoongi just stood there in the opulent shower, his fully erect cock buried into his stepsister’s tight asshole, clenching his pelvic muscles to make it throb inside her.

It was wrong. It was demeaning. He hadn’t even asked. She had left him on the couch and walked past him, still painted with his cum, and said nothing as she entered the bedroom. A few seconds later, he had heard the running water. Yoongi had sat there, pants still undone, dying in the weight of this watery silence, feeling both the sting of pain and blind anger. He didn’t care. He didn’t care, and the lies he told himself were second nature at this part, something so lived-in that they became real, even as Yoongi flung himself off the leather sofa and yanked his clothes off, throwing them on the floor. All the way to the bathroom, laying false claim on this condo, seeing himself in the mirror for a second before entering the shower.

His gelled, orange-dyed hair in disarray and his lost expression.

His dark eyes misty.

It must have been a trick of a light, a result of the steaming air, that his vision blurred unexpectedly.

Without another thought, Yoongi had opened the glass door of the shower and let himself in, pushing her body against the tiles and not letting her see his face because even he didn’t want to look at it now.

She moaned under him, not moving away.

I hate you.

He let go of her left wrist and reached down, sliding his fingers between her open legs and tracing the slick, wet lips of her pussy.

“Must be awful for you to have this hole empty.”

A wicked, dark snicker flowed out from her open lips, more telling than any words.

His chest to her back. His hand around her neck, tightening, and he pressed his rough fingertips to her swollen clit, relishing in the depraved satisfaction of her hips shivering, bucking back against him in response. He pressed down, sliding back and forth. Slow, with pressure, and moving his own hips. Drawing back, almost, her tight ring of muscle clutching around the base of the head. He hoped it tortured her. He hoped it felt good to be denied, hoped she felt the empty ache as he rutted the engorged tip of his cock in and out, in and out, then he shoved his cock back in, all the way.

The pleasure flared, burning all of his nerves and making his legs scream in tension.

He hoped she could feel the hurt, because Yoongi could.

Choked her harder and began to fuck her ass.

Close, his breath into her wet hair. Water streaming down his shoulders. Thrusting up and with effort, slow at first, but forceful, suffocating his arousal with the depth. He bit his lip, hard, letting the pain eat through the pleasure. So tight around his hard length, so soft along the sensitive, throbbing head, sucking him in, her thin moans echoing throughout the bathroom along with the slapping of hips to ass. Her body shaking under him. He let go of her neck suddenly, gripping her hip instead, driving his fingertips into her folds and rubbing tight circles, flicking his blunt fingernail over the packed nerves.

She hissed, her shoulders caving in, and growled his name, the tendons of her hands popping out.

“Fuck, Yoongi!”

There was an abrupt convulsion around his buried cock and passionate electricity radiated all over his inner thighs, up his stomach, to his throat, turning him viciously breathless, her orgasm slick on his fingers, and his hand on her hip gripped tighter, pausing to feel the aftershocks.

He hoped he left bruises.

On her body and in her memory.

So tight, uncontrolled now, chasing the wicked pleasure. He thrust in, again and again, loud and lewd and wet, her back arched, lower torso nearly parallel to the ground, and Yoongi sank his hold into her lush hips, dragging her to him and his unforgiving cock, his vision blurring, his hair sticking to his face, fuzzy smears of dark orange eclipsed with droplets clinging to his lashes, and he closed his eyes, pretending there was nothing but this, nothing but tightness and pleasure and her cries for him, wanton and unsatiated. The water tumbled, down, down, splashing over the tiles. He was drowning, drowning in lust, and the water drowned out his sudden hungry moan.

Smack!

She gasped sharply, on the edge of pain.

He groaned, violent and possessed, spilling into that soft clenching hole, and he could feel every jerk, every shiver, every twitch that shot a little more. Could feel even the way the choked head of his cock was being squished up against his own cum, the delicate rubbing sending a fresh wave of piercing pins and needles tearing through him.

Couldn’t breathe.

Staggered back, slipping out, and it was obscene. His orgasm wasn’t as much, of course, but even in the hazy falling water he could see his own cum dribble out of her ass and stick to the curve, clinging there for a violating millisecond before being washed away, dragged down the drain along with his sins.

Yoongi panted, the back of his throat feeling as if an animal had clawed at it.

He looked up.

Her head was turned, hair flat against her cheeks, one eye seeing him, and the fingertips of her right hand toyed with the chain bracelet with the black beads. There were red marks on her left wrist, underneath the jewelry. The edge of her lips raised in gratification.

The water fell down, down.

He didn’t say anything.

Reached forward and smeared what was left along her hole, then remained tight-lipped as he shoved his finger in, sucking back a breath. She gasped, but it was faint and not a whimper. It was lustful and carnal satisfaction. He pushed in and out. In and out. Still tight, still gripping him, pulsing around his finger, learned behavior, and Yoongi wanted to scream.

Mostly because he knew this practiced response was most likely not from instances like this, but much crueler, hateful moments.

He placed his palm along her jaw and turned her face more to face him. Leaned in without another word, sliding his tongue into her open mouth and slowly thrusting his finger into her ass. All the way to his knuckle, slow and deliberate. Gentle pleasure. The water rained down, down. It washed away all sins. He pulled his finger out. Turned his back to her, taking the soap.

Couldn’t look.

Yoongi told himself he didn’t care. Cleaned off his hand. Covered himself in the soap, rubbing the sweet lather into his skin while staring at the white tiles. Told himself there was nothing to say. Told himself the tingling left on his skin was just from the physicality of it all and nothing else. Nothing else.

He stiffened as he felt her hard nipples ghost his skin.

“I’ll wash your back.”

He tightened his jaw.

“Brother.”

Her full breasts pressed against his back. Her hands on his shoulders, caressing them. All over, body to body, slippery, fragrant. He bit back his sound, killing it. His chest vibrated, the snarl inside fighting him. Snapped his head around, knocking her hand away, his wet hair over his eyes.

Couldn’t quite catch her expression from behind the dripping curtain of red-orange.

“Stop calling me brother.”

He didn’t care.

Didn’t care.

He was no different from anyone else who touched her. Yoongi reached out, closing his grip around her shoulder. Pulled her to him, their bodies colliding, his heavy breath on her face.

Avoided her eyes.

“We are alone. Stop pretending,” he mumbled, leaning down to those lips, bruising them with kisses to avoid any more slip-ups.

You awoke to silence.

Turned your head and Min Yoongi was staring at you in the semi-darkness. Shirtless. Arms crossed, looking down, with the duvet pooled around his lower waist. His dyed, dark orange hair hung down, slightly frizzy and unkempt. Not styled. Air-dried from the shower. His pale skin seemed even paler than usual, the pallor reflecting the grim expression on his face. Narrowed, guarded dark eyes. Frigid tension between his lips.

A slow breath weaved through the tightness in your chest that was slowly dissipating due to now being conscious and in control.

You could feel your nakedness under the duvet.

The curtains were barely open, allowing a strip of moonlight and city light to illuminate the dark bedroom. You gazed back at Yoongi but said nothing. He must have witnessed. You inhaled again. A slow, measured breath. Held it. Exhaled. It was almost unnoticeable, barring the fact that your stepbrother was staring right at you.

“You had a nightmare.”

His lips barely moved. Each word came out deliberately and impassively, trying to avoid the true intention behind such words, and, in doing so, revealing everything. You almost expected the low edge of irritation. You could tell he regretted not adding it.

You almost lied.

Almost.

“I always dream,” you whispered back with no emotion, desensitized.

Complete and utter stillness.

A single shift and tilt of his head, not accepting your response. You looked up at him from the pillow, the images flashing in your head, but they quickly disintegrated, leaving only the crawling sensation of distorted parasitic desires forced upon you at one point in time. You ignored it. They always came in dreams because they couldn’t reach you without the shackles of sleep.

“You mean you always have nightmares,” Yoongi corrected you.

Inhale. Inhale. Exhale.

You had no reply to the truth.

Maybe it was the surrealness of the dead of night. Maybe it was the unholiness of what happened in your bed with your stepbrother earlier. Maybe it was the used condoms on the floor and the torn wrappers all over the nightstand. Maybe it was the scent of sex and sin weighing heavily in the air. As close as possible and yet so far away. His dark brown eyes flickered to the empty easel on the other side of the bedroom. Then back to your form coiled in the sheets, serpentine, and yet in a rare moment of calm. Hunger satiated, at least for now.

Yoongi asked you a question with no notable inflection. Perhaps it was the low volume of his voice, raspy and dreamlike.

“Am I ever part of your nightmares?”

You almost twisted the truth.

“You are related to one of many monsters I have encountered,” you breathed, staring into the shadows of his eyes.

Loathing flared within in at the mention.

Your stepbrother looked away.

“I know.”

You closed your eyes, not wanting to see any more.

“There are always monsters,” you whispered to the surrealness of the night.

Yoongi said nothing.

He had never seen you sleep before. Even on so-called family vacations, you had never shared a room with him. More often than not there would be a mix-up and you would end up having a sleepless night in the same hotel room as your stepfather and mother. That or running off with a local to finally get some sleep. It was safer to be in a stranger’s home than in a hotel room with those two. That was the truth. Those vacations were only for show anyway; there was no meaning to them other than a chance at coercion. You knew Yoongi knew that.

He hadn’t known about your nightmares though.

You had grown so used to them that you had forgotten. A strange slip-up for you. No, you concluded, not a slip-up. You didn’t have them every night. Just most nights. You knew there could have been a chance the moment you closed your eyes while in bed with him. You hadn’t planned for him to know, but this was not a mistake. Making plans was for novices. Plans never succeed. Capitalizing on the moment and turning it into an opportunity at the right time, why, that was what constituted a villain.

And, sometimes, one had to become a villain to survive.

You waited.

Min Yoongi didn’t move for a long, long time. He stayed where he was, not laying back down and not adjusting. You would feel and hear his actions if he did. He did not. There was nothing but his calm, nearly inaudible breath and soon it became a lulling rhythm, swaying your consciousness between reality, nightmares, or total blackness.

You hoped it would be total blackness this time.

Deep, deep down, for yet another countless night in a row, you wished for the total blackness to become eternal despite knowing full well that you would never be that lucky. That was the funny thing about wishes.

Even the most unworthy cling to them.

On the cusp of falling asleep, you felt the weight on the bed shift. Yoongi left.

A few blocks away, Jeon Jungkook stood shirtless in his bathroom and locked eyes with his own reflection.

The hot sweat along his shoulders was drying. He savored the way his heart raced in his chest, thud-thud-thud, matching the click-click-clicking of the images flickering through his mind. He closed his eyes and he could almost feel it again, once again, the crawling sensation of forced desire, her slick tongue sliding over his collarbone and then her spit hitting the back of his throat, his mouth open and already primed to receive. In his dreams, there was no blindfold.

In his dreams, Jungkook could see her face.

In his dreams, he could relish in the power thriving in those downcast eyes, watch her nails sink into his stomach as he whimpered, witness her delicious body roll as her slippery pussy rubbed against his hard length trapped in an uncomfortable and unbearable position, the dark purple head leaking against his lower belly. The young Master would not give him what he wanted and Jungkook would cry. He would beg.

And he would hate and love hearing the denial.

Jungkook breathed in slow, recalling the dream and committing it to memory.

Inhale.

The ache within him grew and grew.

Inhale.

He knew exactly where she lived. The building. The number on the door. He even knew how to bypass the security. He had memorized their schedules and gathered enough damning information. It was always good to have ammunition, after all. The young Master had taught him that.

Exhale.

Then again, she was most likely fucking her stepbrother right now.

His eyes snapped open and Jungkook growled at his reflection, tension creeping all over his body.

It took him a moment to calm down. There was nothing he could do about it. He breathed out again, his shoulders falling. His reflection observed him as closely as he did. His black hair fallen over his forehead, tangled from sleep. Eyes sharp, brows furrowed. His hands gripped the edge of the sink. He could see how wound up he was by how white his knuckles were. He let go. She shared a secret with him. He had to trust in that. He was confident in that secret.

He had to be.

He worked for her. He was of service. He took that very seriously, regardless of what an outsider might think, because he had chosen to be a man of loyalty. Jungkook knew where his loyalties lie, and he was not a man who could be swayed by irrefutable truths because he could always recall that look in her eyes. That poisoned guilt, that vacancy, the look of a child begging for someone to help, and he had made a silent promise that even she didn’t know about.

To those eyes.

To her.

In a world there everyone backstabbed everyone else, Jungkook had chosen to be the knife to be wielded by one who still believed she had no one by her side. Of course, it was stupid. Of course, she was not faultless. Of course, everything was all wrong.

But they shared a secret.

He turned his head, not quite facing the mirror, but instead in the direction of the location of her condominium, and spoke to the air, to the dead of night, across the distance of many heads in between reality and dreams. She could not hear him but that did not make his declaration invalid.

“I will protect you.”

And perhaps his loyalties would eventually turn the young Master against him. He hated that that could be true, but such was life. And maybe he definitely couldn’t save anyone, but he would die trying. Did she not deserve such loyalty? Even the most unworthy didn’t deserve to be abandoned.

After all, there was always some awful truth to villainous behavior.

He missed her.

He wished he could hold her, someday. He wished for that to be possible, even if it was the slimmest of chances. He hoped she had understood him back then, hoped he had conveyed how serious he was every time they interacted. I like it with you. It’s different. That was right. She said so herself. And so, Jungkook promised to play with game with her, no matter what it looked like, no matter how much he wanted to punch that self-centered Min Yoongi right in his stupid pretty face, no matter how much he hurt because his hurt meant her happiness and eventually she would come back to him.

Of course.

Jungkook bit his lower lip, inhaling slowly.

Right?

Held it.

“Come back to me,” he whispered to the surrealness of the night and he knew damn well she couldn’t hear him.

Min Yoongi sat on the couch in the living room of his stepsister’s condo with only his underwear on after his business with the bathroom. He had gone to the kitchen to wash his hands because he could not stare at his own reflection in the mirror.

He inhaled a shaky breath.

The proper thing to do would be to go back to the bedroom. Well, proper was the wrong word considering he was sleeping with his own stepsister. Perhaps the better word for it was… ethical. Fuck, even halfway decent. He couldn’t get the image of her distress out of his head. Waking up suddenly to her hands clutching the pillow, her knuckles white, her breathing rapid and labored. At first, he thought his brain had made up the sounds. Nonsensical muted cries. Pained noises trapped in her throat. Her entire body tense, on the verge of thrashing but not. Rigid.

Couldn’t.

Paralyzed in fear.

Yoongi tried to gulp down more air. Shuddering. Swallowing. Feeling like it wasn’t enough, falling forward and running his hands through his hair, his elbows on his knees.

He had never seen her afraid. Truly and utterly terrified, and it only appeared because she had been asleep. The moment he hesitantly touched her shoulder, she startled awake, instantly vigilant. The transformation had been seamless, and then she was herself. Calm, collected, calculated. Only now did Yoongi realize it was a caricature. A front so practiced that it had become second nature. Not intentionally but out of necessity. It frightened him, because now Yoongi had confirmation that his father was just another in the long line of self-centered assholes that attempted to take advantage of her and he was no better.

He was no better.

He shakily exhaled, torn and in tatters.

There are always monsters.

Of course, there were always monsters and Yoongi was one of them.

He wanted to run. Throw on all his clothes and run to his studio, locking himself in there and not coming out until he couldn’t stand being alone anymore. He wanted to scream and drown himself in alcohol. He wanted to pick a fight with some hapless stranger and feel powerful. Even if just for a second. Anything. Anything but this. An awful crawling sensation travelled all over his bare back. He shivered even though it had no physical basis. He wasn’t stupid. Yoongi had seen the way men looked at her – as if she was a thing to be used. He had convinced himself not to care. Why care? She didn’t. He had vowed himself not to get involved like that but now he was sitting in her living room wanting to tear his skin off thinking about the probable shit she had been though in her childhood and having the horrifying realization that the truth was probably beyond his imagination. Attempted to take advantage of her? He was lying to himself again.

He wanted to go home.

Except he knew damn well he never had a home.

Yoongi had lived his life in the shadow of a greater man, or so he was led to believe. Even if this didn’t turn out to be true, he could not undo the paradoxical thinking of overwhelming self-importance and the constant struggle of trying to reach an unattainable goal. He was never enough for his father. Eventually he just stopped trying to be. Every achievement was met with the accusation, a need to be more. More ambitious, more strategic, more intelligent. It was impossible. He had long stopped giving a fuck, or so he thought.

And yet.

Like her nightmares, his own personal hell came back to haunt him all the time.

He dug his fingernails into his scalp, on the cusp of screaming.

The only reason he didn’t was because he didn’t want to wake her. Or perhaps it was because he didn’t want her to know. There was nothing he could do. He could do nothing. He never could, according to his father. Lacked resolve, or at least that was what Yoongi had been told over and over. You are a disgrace. There was at least solace in knowing that he wasn’t his father, right? He didn’t know. Was that even true, considering all of this? I always dream. She was so used to them that nightmares were simply considered regular dreams to her. How fucked was that? Shit, her entire life was a goddamn nightmare and she didn’t even know. Or maybe she did, and had adapted accordingly, something he could never do, something Yoongi could never admit to himself, at least not unless it was times like this, trapped in the surreal depths of the dead of night.

He tried to breathe but it seemed impossible.

He knew deep down that he was worthless, but even the worthless had desires. And he wasn’t stupid either. She was using him. He was using her. She wanted him for her reasons and he wanted her to get back at his father. Shit. She was afraid and she showed no one, not even herself, dealing with it in her sleep. Didn’t trust him. Why the fuck would she? He was her stepbrother, they were having an incestuous affair, and not once did she rely on him.

But he did.

Yoongi shuddered.

That was true.

He relied on her to want him so he could feel better about himself.

I am so fucking vile.

She didn’t even make him feel guilty about it. There are always monsters. She could have. She could have emotionally manipulated him, she could have said something to get a rise out of him, but all she did was tell him the truth of how desensitized she was to malignance. She had options. He did not expect to be so shaken by the one she chose. His fingernails dug into his scalp some more, causing stinging pain. Yoongi dared not look up because he knew her paintings were hanging on the walls around him. Multiple canvases painted black all over with thin lines of dark blood-red drawn onto the murk like arteries. He had found them unsettling and rightfully so. Underneath them were secrets. “I love you, so I act this way.” “You should accept love. It’s not that easy to be loved in this world.” “You can keep a secret, right?” “Let’s make a secret.” Scrawled underneath and then covered with heavy layers of paint, almost certainly hundreds of secrets, and the awful crawling sensation travelled up and down his spine like hot acid.

He didn’t want to know.

Yoongi knew that he should go back to the bedroom if he was even halfway decent of a man.

But he was terrified.

He could not be like her.

He couldn’t deal with it.

He had to make a decision. He forced himself to take a breath. Then another. He forced himself to stand, to exhale, to walk. What was not supposed to be ingrained in memory already was. All he had to do was follow the trail of discarded clothes. Vile. He stepped between darkness and light, but the faint glow was artificial, bleeding into the windows from the city below, and Yoongi knew he could not be like his stepsister but he wanted to believe that he could. He wanted to believe he could play the game. He did not want to believe he was just another discarded misfit toy. Couldn’t. And so he chose not to believe the irrefutable truth, turning the corner to see her eyes closed. Her lustrous hair draped over her pillow. Her facial expression not in distress but, instead, nothing. A mind trapped in total blackness.

Dreamlessness.

Yoongi had never been so grateful to see nothing.

He stepped to her side of the bed.

In some ways, she resembled a child, or at least the peacefulness of one in slumber. His hand lifted. Each strand of her hair, the curve of her cheek, the line of her closed eyes. From moonlight to memory, although at the time he didn’t know it yet. He reached out. His fingertips hovered above the crown of her head and Yoongi realized, with a tightness in his chest, that he would be perhaps the first and the only person to do this for her.

His palm touched the top her head.

His stepsister remained fast asleep. Yoongi stayed like that for a moment. He knew damn well that she would never feel the sensation of someone patting her on the head but he did it anyway.

You left before your stepbrother woke up.

To be more precise, you didn’t confirm or deny if he was faking his deep breathing. You simply accepted it as truth. Dressed in your closet, picked up your purse, and stepped out of the apartment, heading for your car. Not looking back. Purchased a light breakfast, spending some solitary time in the hotel restaurant. Headed to your appointment with Valentino, where you absentmindedly picked a few pieces for work, thinking about the word nightmare.

Dreams.

You called them dreams. Yoongi had called them nightmares. The correct word was memories. Ones that you did not acknowledge. The times you were the prey before you became the predator. The times you were weak before you were strong. The first time you felt power was the first time. Not all those other times where you hid and prayed not be found before the drugs or drunkenness set in. Not those other times you were approached, despising it not because of learned morality, but because the touching placed you in the same category as your mother, something you loathed more than the wrongness. Misery was something unnecessary and meaningless. Pain was something you could acclimate to. Death was something you could aspire to. But being known as your mother’s spitting image was a fate worse than death.

You had a nightmare.

You made your luxury purchases. You window-shopped at a few other spots, all while questioning your humanness that you had thought you had lost long ago. You could sense the judgement in the eyes of the other patrons. The employees were sincere because you were holding your black card, but not a single one dared to ask you about your personal life. It was not about whether you seemed stuck-up in your long structured black wool cape, nor the subtle sensuality of your fitted, slinky black dress with the high slit, studded Valentino black pumps, and small black handbag.

There was just something not quite right about your presence.

You slipped into this persona when you didn’t want to be bothered. Natural, but perhaps not. The eyes felt louder than usual today. You had dreams. Everybody had dreams. You had a nightmare. You had heard the word before, and yet the way he said it. You placed your shopping bags in your car and drove away with no destination in mind. Flashes of memory. Whiskey and a hand on your wrist. You waited for the light to turn green and ventured forward. Nights in private rooms in bars you were too young for. You stopped at a nice restaurant in a high-rise, sitting at by the window with a nice view, slicing into your steak in silence as you pondered how it would feel to throw your body against the glass and plunge into free-fall, wondering if you would have the life-flashing-before-your-eyes-moment, if you would recall all the countless hands and the whispered placations and being awake for all of it, so much so that you caged those memories into dreams.

You patted your lips with the cloth napkin before paying the check.

A man said something to you as you were leaving and you looked at him with such hollowness that he took a step back, visibly shaken. You forgot about it. You shopped for a little longer, purchasing another pair of nice, wickedly tall heels. There was one final errand to complete before heading home to fuck your stepbrother. You took your time.

Days passed.

And then, elation.

Jeon Jungkook stood in front of the door of salvation. He raised a hand to the heavy wood. Held his breath. Savored the sensation of his need crawling up from his insides, rearing its ugly head and shaking his heart to a rapid, telltale pulse. He knocked.

“Come in.”

His breath hitched at the familiar voice.

He opened the heavy door of the office on the highest floor of the gentleman’s club and the young Master looked up from the other side of the desk. Hair swept back in a graceful updo with a few tasteful strands framing her face. The dark silver blouse clung to her curves. Silk. The fountain pen in her hand paused.

Her eyes roamed all over him.

He almost collapsed in desperation.

She said nothing. She did not stand up from behind the dark-stained cherry wood. He stepped in cautiously, placing his body on the other side of the door. It was a large office of black floral wallpaper, large black filing cabinets, and chairs positioned along the walls. The floor-to-ceiling windows behind her desk were bulletproof glass. One-way view. This was one of the areas that had no cameras. Even the bathrooms had cameras positioned outside the stalls to catch any nefarious acts. He knew all of this. The chandelier diffused cold-blooded white light in reflected fragments all over the room.

The look in her eyes pinned him to his spot.

His spine tingled as an n icy itch slithered down to his groin.

“Lock the door behind you,” the young Master commanded him.

He did as he was told, with every cell in his body vibrating for the pain. Turned around. Like a snake, she had already risen, gliding around the desk. Her hips were tucked into a skin-tight pleather pencil skirt. The wicked high heels were silent against the vintage Persian rug. She was probably standing on over a hundred million won. She stopped in front of her desk.

Unfastened the button of her left sleeve.

Casually looked down to smoothly fold it back to her elbow. Jungkook remained rooted, not crossing the distance without an order despite his growing erection already fighting against his pants. Golden light glistened along her periphery, highlighting every line. Hell turned heavenly. She completed the left sleeve and paused, raising her right hand to waist height.

Tilted her head back and beckoned him with two fingers.

“Come forward.”

With each step his own heart beat against the confines of his ribcage. With each step Jungkook knew his arousal was becoming more and more obvious. He deliberately kept his hands by his sides, not hiding anything, and her eyes flickered down as she folded her right sleeve back. There was a ripple of knowing across her features. He stopped at a respectful distance. They were alone. The door was locked. This room was soundproof. He was in the middle of his shift when he was called up, which never happened unless one had committed a grave mistake. He knew this, and yet he was still inappropriately, obscenely, violently turned on. She finished rolling up her sleeve to the elbow and reached back to an object that was behind her, tucked by the computer monitor in between papers.

A black leather blindfold.

She tilted her head. He was taller than her, but that meant nothing. She ticked the blindfold in her hand, wordlessly telling him to come closer. He did so, his face frozen, on the cusp of falling apart. He was in his full uniform. Cap and all. It was as if none of that mattered. He tried to search for some kind of emotion on her face but she remained impassive.

“On your knees.”

He obeyed so quickly that they both heard the heavy sound of his weight hitting the floor under the carpet. She did not even smile. She stared down at him. He looked up at her. He wanted to say he needed it. He wanted to say do anything to me, anything you want, please do it now, and yet all she did was hold the blindfold in one hand with her ass against the edge of her desk, gazing down at Jungkook’s spread knees and trembling body.

He was so hungry for it that he was shaking.

Her eyes stopped at the obvious bulge in his pants and she declared in a noncommittal tone, “I am going to hurt you. Right now.” His breath froze in his throat. “On my dime, I’m going to hurt you. And then you will go back to work, hurting, and you will not let a single person know.”

No explanation about what happened the past couple days. Jungkook knew she had left her apartment and always gone back. He also knew her stepbrother had not left with her during those outings. That meant when she went back, she was most likely fucking him. Jungkook knew that. But she came back here. Here, to the gentleman’s club she owned. Where he worked. She came back, and probably not for him. And yet.

Yet he was on his knees right now because she forced him to.

She owned him.

That was all he ever wanted.

“Yes, Master.”

Her line of vision raised. She stepped forward, and placed her right shoe on his thigh. He gasped, feeling the pressure in the toe of her heel and then the tip of the stiletto. His cap was removed from his head and delicately placed on the desk. Her face lowered. For a single, hovering second, they were eye-to-eye.

“Close your eyes, Jungkook,” she whispered against his lips.

He did and she slipped the blindfold over his eyes before buckling it tightly in place.

You straightened.

Looked down at him.

You had never done this before. Not in the middle of the day, in this office that used to be your mother’s. These walls had seen a lot of fucking, you knew. Your mother used to be notorious for it. This place was tainted. Festering with immoral intent. You removed your shoe from his leg. Heard Jungkook’s small gasp of relief whisper past his quivering lips. You previously used the basement because it was the place where horrible acts were meant to be committed, the place your mother refused to go because it was beneath her to do such nasty things. You had turned the basement into your safe space. This office was her space. Her space to use her sexuality as her power, and therefore you had only used it to conduct official business. Until now.

You placed your shoe on top of his pant-covered erection and put pressure on it.

He whimpered, locking his knees and taking it.

You violated your mother’s space with Jungkook’s pure, ravenous need to service you.

“Have you been wanting me?” you asked, placing a hand on the edge of the desk so you could rub back and forth while stepping on his cock.

“Y… ah, y-yes…”

“Craving me?”

“Yes… oh, f-fuck…”

You shoved the tip of your stiletto in between the dip of his thigh connecting to his crotch, digging into that soft part without remorse.

“Touching yourself thinking only of me?”

His voice shook but his resolve did not.

“Only you.”

Jungkook made no move to hide or conceal himself. You removed the pressure and stepped around him, admiring the angles on his body. His hands were fists, knuckles pressed into the carpet. The clip of the tiger switchblade was visible from the side pocket of his uniform pants. You stopped behind him. Laced your fingers into his short black hair and yanked, hard, making him gasp to the ceiling. You leaned down, breathing out just above his open mouth. He inhaled greedily, his broad shoulders vibrating with need. You stared straight down his chest, to his exposed crotch, and whispered into the black hole of his throat, “Take your cock out and show me.”

He whined as his hands left the carpet. Centimeter by agonizing centimeter. His belt unbuckled, flopping to the side. Time slowed down despite his haste to undo his pants, nearly ripping the zipper, but you did not relieve him of your grip, staring straight down as he pushed down his pants. Pushed down his black boxer briefs, and then pulled out his stiff, leaking length. The head was dark red and glistening. He moved his right hand closer to the base of the shaft. You pulled on his hair, making his lower lip brush against your chin as he moaned, immediately backing off.

“Your balls too. Out.”

He reached again, but only to scoop his balls out, leaving his genitals fully exposed to the air.

You breathed in, savoring his unique scent.

His hard cock twitched, bobbing.

You let go of his hair.

Backed up, saying nothing. Stayed silent, admiring everything about him. He could certainly hear the movement of your skirt, but he remained head back, his hands hovering by his hips, and you sank to your knees between his.

And slapped his cock.

His head snapped to the side and he cried out.

“Louder,” you ordered, and slapped him again.

His screams radiated throughout the office.

You gripped his balls and squeezed, listening to the effect of your assault ravage his lungs. His torso writhed. You released and dug your nails inward, making his shoulders flinch strongly. You smacked the shaft again, watching it bounce from side to side from your force. His deep voice cracked. You wrapped your hand around him and his cock was hot, pulsating, needy. Again and again, you slapped his cock, reaching up with your free hand to unbutton his shirt.

One.

By.

One.

His naked chest was exposed in a deep v-line. You reached in and dragged your nails down as you ghosted your palm around his sore, abused cock, delicately rubbing the length against your skin as you tore him up. Jungkook couldn’t help himself. He reached up and unfastened the rest of the buttons, pushing his shirt past his shoulders and exposing more of his body to your nails. His nipples were already hard. You pinched one and made him yelp. The result was instant, rippling throughout his body, even making his cock jolt against your hand, smearing pre-cum onto your wrist.

You collected saliva on the edges of your teeth.

Leaned in and placed the flat of your tongue onto his shivering collarbone, leaking spit down his pecs.

“O-Oh my god…”

Closer.

You kept a hold onto his cock until your skirt was pressed up in between his thighs, and then let go. There was an audible, visceral smack of his thick length hitting the pleather against your thighs. He moaned deeply. You grabbed him by the hair and pulled, relishing in his groan of discomfort, and pressed up against his aching body, thrusting your tongue forcefully into his mouth.

You made sure the blindfold was in place.

His hips bucked, desperate for friction, and you kissed him roughly, demandingly, uncaring to his plight and him grinding his balls into the hem of your skirt. Your other hand slid down the nape of his neck, scratching up his back too as you tongue-fucked him. Your lipstick smeared all over his lips, a blue-scarlet dark as blood.

You pulled back, wiping the back of your hand over your back and seeing red.

Then you wrapped your hands around his throat and closed in on his blood supply.

“Touch yourself.”

Jungkook gasped, whined, and reached for his abused cock, slowly stroking the length as you toyed with his blood flow. Tighter. Letting him have a breath before pressing on the sides of his neck once again, and from your shoulder blades the prickling began, a nebulous want surfacing as you choked him and watched him stumble towards orgasm. Closer. The pad of his thumb grazed over the dripping opening of the head and his entire body flinched, writhing, his Adam’s apple straining against the underside of your thumb.

You released him and dove down.

Almost burned your knees from your speed. It required an almost uncomfortable folding of your body, but none of that mattered as you descended, closer and closer, your tongue cupping the tip and sliding down. Immediately, Jungkook removed his hand, letting out a string of nonsensical moans that only intensified as your teeth closed in around the shaft. Deliberate, pulsing pressure. His cock throbbed in response, relishing in the attention as his familiar heavy scent penetrated your throat.

Possessiveness laced int your veins as you tasted him.

You forced your head down and took him all the way to the base. One hand on his thigh and the other locked around his balls. You pulled. You squeezed. You raked your nails over that soft, supple skin, and sucked him off in deep, expansive thrusts, filling your mouth over and over again. Until your muscles strained. Until your body shook with tension. Until he was half-crying, half-groaning to the ceiling, vibrating in your mouth. He came. You swallowed. And kept going. His body twisted and he begged to be let go and you ignored him, coaxing his softening cock to swell again. Despite your knees protesting, you kept going until you could tell he was about to orgasm again, and you pulled back.

Silent.

Wrapped your hand around his jerking, spit-covered cock, and pumped him hard. Intense. He was falling apart, shaking his head from side-to-side, and thrust his hips into your hand. You did not stop him. He came again, and cum began to pool, so you pressed his length back and let him continue, the hot milky streak streaming down your fingers. It was clearly uncomfortable.

He did not complain.

You closed the distance as his head lolled back, whispering to his face as you casually wiped your wet hand onto his shuddering chest.

“Something for you to keep close to your heart as you work for me.”

With the same hand you gripped him by the hair, stilling him, tasting his erratic breath, and you found yourself entranced. Strands of black stuck to his forehead and against the leather blindfold. His cheeks flushed pink with effort, hollowing slightly with each heavy pant. His lips swollen and covered in red lipstick. His tan skin gleaming with sweat. The muscles of his neck and chest tensed, reddened from your scratches, and he was.

Was…?

You opened your mouth, but all you could think was how beautiful and perfect he looked just like this.

You released him and caught his jaw with your palms, pulling him towards you.

“I am your only one. Don’t you dare desire anyone but me,” you hissed, and then kissed him deeply, suffocating any response he had.

“Open this fucking door!”

He didn’t bother using his knuckles. Min Yoongi used the heel of his palm, slamming it against the heavy wood door. The zippers of his leather jacket flapped with weighty clinks. The security guard behind him bristled. They hadn’t wanted to let him in. He hadn’t cared. He growled under his breath and narrowed his eyes, glaring over his shoulder.

“Fuck off.”

Despite his professionalism, the guard let some of his distaste show in his face. It quickly disappeared, but Yoongi flung his arm anyway, making him take a step back.

“I told you to fuck off,” he snapped. “Let me talk to my sister alone, prick.”

There was some hesitation, and then the guard stepped away with his line of vision travelling upwards. Yoongi’s eyes followed, seeing the round lens of a small camera perched high above. He snorted. Instead of bowing to him as one would to the other guests, the guard simply kept his eyes on him as he backed up, as if Yoongi was a delinquent off the street and not a filthy rich grown man. Asshole. He quickly turned back around, his messy dark orange hair swinging by his eyes. He didn’t care about that. Under the leather jacket, he wore a white t-shirt with a monochrome graffiti print and torn slate-blue jeans. A suitcase of his stuff had appeared after the first night. He hadn’t questioned it. It was obvious his stepsister had brought it somehow. He kicked the door with his black boot in frustration and was disappointed that he hadn’t left a dent.

It opened.

There was a faint click and the heavy wood swung open so fast that Yoongi stumbled back, surprised at the abruptness, and then the stern glare of his stepsister was directed right at him.

An icy itch skittered down his spine, prickling at his vertebrae.

She was backlit from the back wall of windows. The sun was lowering, turning her outline a ghostly orange. The sleeves of her gunmetal silk blouse were folded back to her elbows. Her sharp eyes glanced past him, presumably to the retreating back of the security guard. Her tight pleather pencil skirt caught the light, accentuating her hips. But what Yoongi noticed was her face. Her smokey eye makeup was intact.

Her lips, although flushed dark mauve, were bare.

Her hair was swept up, but there was something off about it. As if the intentionally messy strands framing her face were not intentional after all.

“Hello, brother.”

Her voice was crisp. Almost icy. His brows furrowed. She smiled at him, with the same hospitality as a snake would greet a rat.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Yoongi hissed.

She did not invite him into the office. He could see the grand room behind her. Dark wallpapered walls, large solid wood desk, high backed black leather chair. Locked cabinets along the walls. He didn’t know what they were for and he didn’t care.

Her eyebrow raised. “Working. I assume you’re familiar with the concept.”

He scowled. "Why do you even bother working? Your mother put you up to this?"

A hostility darkened over her features so quickly that he involuntarily flinched, preparing for her to strike him. But it was gone as soon as he saw it, causing him to question if it was ever there at all. She answered him with a small, soulless smile.

"People depend on me for their livelihood."

He snorted in disbelief.

His stepsister’s gaze sharpened.

"I am immoral, not unjust," she coldly stated, dropping the façade.

Before Yoongi could say anything more, he noticed the looming darkness falling into her shadow. Recognition burned through him like hot fire.

“You,” he spat, locking eyes with those black-brown ones looking down at him from under the black cap. He knew that face. From the hotel room back then. Sharp jaw, broad chest, younger than him, and the disapproving look of seeing something he would rather not. “You bastard. The fuck you doing here?”

A flutter of satisfaction gleamed from those shaded eyes.

“He works for me.”

For some reason, intense anger flared through his ribs, seeping into the depths. Oh, he heard what she said. Yoongi glanced from his stepsister to the security guard. She regarded him with head held high. Unfazed. The guard stood behind her, but there was a possessiveness in his stance. Hands behind his back. Yoongi slowly looked back to her.

Inhaled.

A whiff of her sharp, decadent perfume.

And sex.

Yoongi curled his hands into fists.

He had spent days in her condo. Sleeping away the daylight and rising at night. Tangling his fingers into her hair, pulling her down to his level, his blunt nails carving half-moons into her skin. Constantly seeing the black paintings on the walls while knowing what was behind them. Somewhere between dying and living, feeling like shit when he was alone and losing himself in aching bliss of her tightness. And now this. This. Right in front of his face. The rage seared tension into his muscles, the bites and bruises on his skin still tingling with soreness, and the corner of the guard’s lips raised, so slightly that maybe Yoongi was imagining it, but nonetheless the snarl in his chest bubbled upwards.

His hand shot out and grabbed her shoulder, yanking hard to push her aside as he raised his other fist to the face of the man behind her.

She let go of the door and caught his hand in the air, stopping him.

He put his shoulder into it but his stepsister dug her stiletto heel into the hardwood floor and shoved back against him, knocking him out of the momentum. Yoongi whipped his head to her, so fast that his hair lashed him in the cheekbone.

Her lips pursed. “You hit him; he sues me for workplace violence.” She moved slightly more in front of the guard, blocking Yoongi’s path. “Don’t make trouble.”

He stared at her.

And suddenly it hit him all at once. All those times his father not only directly beat him down, but every snide remark that chipped away at his wholeness. Every adult in his life seeing him as a hopeless problem, polite enough to not piss off his father but otherwise ignoring his existence, feeding his inner worthlessness with every avoided eye contact, every step back, every look the other way. And then, her. Her, flitting just out of his father’s grip. Her, sending those sneaking glimpses his way and making him uncomfortable with the attention. Her, whispering against his lips, hot and alluring, so stop yourself, her, coiling around him in the dark, soft skin, lush hips, wicked tongue all around him, her, his stepsister he now knew that was tortured by nightmares from a past that would kill most people. And now Yoongi in front of her, her pointed stare slicing through him as she stood in front of this other man, both of them reeking of sex, and the only one inherently wrong was himself.

The sun was sinking fast. Night bled into the red-orange sky, turning it purple and bruised.

Don’t make trouble.

She might as well have driven a hot knife in between his ribs, right into his beating heart, and twisted it.

Yoongi took a step back, his expression frozen into indifference.

Something changed in her face.

But he didn’t spare any time to figure it out. Yoongi simply turned, and did what he did best. It was how it always was, in the end. It was what it always was. Pointless. Pointless to fight against everything his father said he was. Not aiming high enough. Never good enough. A disgrace. He could not outrun his fate, but Yoongi did what he did best and he ran, ran down the hall, down all those stairs, out of the building, onto the streets, into the bleeding sunset with a sinking void in his chest and blurred wetness stinging at the edges of his vision.

He ran.

He had asked before if she was fucking that security guard. She said that she was. At the time, he hadn’t thought he cared. He didn’t. It was futile to give a shit. She was a whore. He always said she was a whore. It would be easier if she was a whore. But he saw the way she stood in front of that man, even if she didn’t notice. He saw the way that guard stoically stayed in her shadow, protecting something he couldn’t.

Never could.

Min Yoongi ran and ran and ran until his legs collapsed.

masterpost

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