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edenesth · 4 months ago

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01. The Captain — By Order of the Black Pirates

An 'Ice On My Teeth' Comeback Special Series

Pairing: gang leader!Hongjoong x fem!reader

AU: gang au

Word Count: 18.1k

Summary: The Captain of the Black Pirates—respected, feared, and unmatched in strategy—lives by his sharp mind and unshakable resolve. But his carefully constructed world begins to crumble when a grave mistake leads him to torture an innocent suspect nearly to death. Haunted by guilt, his quest for redemption takes an unexpected turn, awakening a part of him he never thought existed: a desire to protect and care for someone.

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Trigger Warnings: violence, torture, abuse, blood, scars, mentions of murder and SA, language, contains dark themes in general

SERIES MASTERLIST | ATEEZ MASTERLIST

The dim glow of lantern light flickered across the room as the gang leader held the letter between his fingers, turning it over with a scrutinising gaze. His brow arched slightly, the ivory wax seal bearing the unmistakable insignia of the White Serpents—a gang notorious for their cunning and deception, their pristine image masking venomous intent. Silent but deadly, serpents poised to strike. And Hongjoong knew them well.

"Well?" His voice was calm, almost amused, as he studied the coded message in his hand.

Yunho exhaled sharply with a shake of his head, frustration etched across his face. "She's stubborn. Won't admit to a thing. Twenty-four hours, and still nothing."

The Captain's smirk widened, dark amusement playing in his eyes. "Really? Even with this treacherous letter in her possession?" He tapped the envelope lightly. "Twenty-four hours… that's impressive. No dog has ever lasted that long." His tone was laced with mock intrigue. "Perhaps she's an especially loyal one. How interesting."

He leaned back, nodding toward the heavy iron doors leading to the basement, his voice low and confident. "A tough one to crack, no doubt. But they all crack… eventually." The distant echo of chains rattling and the creak of the doors opening sent a chill through the air. The game had only just begun.

Let's see just how long you can last.

The room was dim, suffocating in its silence, the air thick with tension and the metallic scent of damp stone. Your breath hitched as consciousness clawed its way back, and the cold, unforgiving chill bit at your drenched skin. You blinked through the sting of icy water clinging to your lashes, your trembling gaze rising to meet the source of the voice that shattered the oppressive stillness.

"Congratulations, miss!" The sudden, mocking boom made you flinch, fear coiling tighter around your chest. "You're the first to last a full day in these chambers. How very impressive!"

The man before you was smaller than the one who had been 'questioning' you earlier—a tall, lanky figure whose blows you could still feel—but this one's presence was far more terrifying. Cold authority radiated from him, his smile a twisted mockery of warmth. He stepped closer, his sharp eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "I trust my boys have treated you well."

A shiver tore through you, body wracked with uncontrollable tremors—whether from the bitter cold or the malice in his voice, you couldn't tell. His grin widened, and the false politeness only made it worse. "Fear not, my lady," he purred, his tone soft and deadly. "I'll treat you even better… until you decide to be honest, of course."

Your heart sank into the pit of your stomach, despair crashing over you. You tried to shake your head, but your body was too weak and cold to offer feeble resistance. And yet, you knew—this was only the beginning.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you wished for the thousandth—no, the millionth—time that this was all a nightmare. The cold seeped into your bones, but it wasn't just the chill that made you tremble. It was the gnawing fear, the hopelessness that clung to you like a second skin.

How did it come to this?

You replayed the events over and over in your mind, searching for an answer, but all you found was confusion. Just a day or two ago, you had been weaving through the bustling port, arms laden with imported goods for your employer. The crowded streets were alive with noise—merchants shouting, sailors hauling cargo, smugglers slipping through the shadows. You had only wanted to return to work, unaware that fate had already marked you.

Then it happened. A sharp turn into an alley. The sudden grip of rough hands. Black-clothed men cornering you like wolves circling their prey, eyes sharp and merciless. Their accusations—espionage, treachery—made no sense. You tried to explain, voice trembling, but they didn't listen. Not until they tore through your belongings and fished out a letter—one you had never seen before.

The blow came swiftly, a fist to your face, and the world went dark.

Now, here you were. Broken. Bleeding. Trapped in a nightmare you couldn't escape.

"P-please… I d-don't know who the Wh-white Serpents are," you stammered, forcing your swollen eye open to meet the man who seemed to command the room, his presence suffocating. "I s-swear…"

Hongjoong's tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, his irritation barely concealed behind a mask of feigned calm. "You know," he said, his voice laced with a dangerous softness, "I was really hoping you wouldn't say that again." He exhaled in a mock sigh, his patience wearing thin. "Now you've left me no choice."

With deliberate steps, he moved toward the glowing embers at the far side of the room. The fire crackled, and your breath hitched when he wrapped his hand around a hot branding iron, its tip glowing ominously.

No, please...

Panic surged through you, and tears spilt uncontrollably down your cheeks. You didn't even have the strength to sob anymore. You could only watch in frozen terror as he turned back, the iron in his grasp radiating heat and menace.

"Come on," he cooed, voice deceptively gentle. "I'd really hate to ruin such pretty skin. All you have to do is be a good girl—tell me what this blasted letter says. Tell me the name of your boss." His grin was sharp, dangerous, but beneath it, you sensed his patience was threadbare.

The White Serpents. The name alone ignited his fury. Their faces were always hidden, their identities a mystery. Even their leader remained a ghost, a phantom in white. And that infuriated him more than anything—an enemy he couldn't see, couldn't predict.

And now, you were his only lead.

The room seemed to shrink under the weight of his frustration. The dim light flickered over the cold stone walls, shadows dancing like spectres of every soul that had suffered here before you. His grip on the branding iron tightened, the metal searing hot in his hand, glowing with menace. He didn't want to take this step—truly, he didn't. But the memory of how they found you replayed in his mind, solidifying his certainty.

You were guilty. You had to be.

He clenched his jaw, recalling the chaos at the port. The Black Pirates were in the midst of a crucial covert operation, tensions strung taut like a wire. They had been waiting for the White Serpents to make a move, for the elusive spy to slip through their defences. The streets were crowded, the perfect cover for deception.

Then there was you.

A simple girl, or so it seemed, navigating the busy market with unsuspecting ease. Unbeknownst to you, the real spy—the one they had been hunting—moved silently through the crowd. In a calculated move, the informant slipped the coded letter into your bag and vanished into the sea of bodies before anyone could catch him.

Hongjoong's men, sharp-eyed and vigilant, saw the handoff. They reacted swiftly, believing they had caught the elusive spy. You were cornered in the alley, fear etched across your face as you begged for understanding, your confusion only cementing their suspicions. The letter was damning enough. Evidence was evidence, and the Captain trusted his crew's intelligence.

But now, staring at you—broken, trembling, tears staining your bruised cheeks—he felt the edges of his certainty fraying. You persisted in your pleas, clinging to innocence with a desperation that should have crumbled by now. And yet… you hadn't.

"Last chance, woman," he said coldly, his voice like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. The heat from the iron radiated, the threat palpable. "There will be no going back from here. I'm sure you know that."

He meant the words as a warning for you, a final offer before he left mercy behind. But deep down, perhaps they were a warning for himself, too—a foreshadowing he didn't yet grasp.

You shook your head weakly, trembling from exhaustion and terror. Still no confession. Still the same maddening persistence.

Hongjoong raised the branding iron, holding it close to your battered face. His eyes burned with something dangerous, something teetering between anger and frustration.

"Well then," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, the finality in his tone sealing your fate—or so he thought.

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The air in the torture chamber hung heavy with the acrid stench of scorched flesh, mingling with the damp chill of the stone walls. His cold, calculating gaze never wavered as he watched you, unconscious and crumpled on the floor, your body trembling even in unconsciousness. The mark of the Black Pirates seared into your back, raw and angry, a testament to the brutality you'd endured.

"That'll scar for life," one of his men muttered, a mix of awe and amusement in his voice.

Hongjoong let out a low, humourless chuckle, his eyes dark with unrelenting resolve. "For life?" he echoed, tilting his head slightly. "How optimistic. I doubt she'll live long enough to see the next sunrise if she continues to be this stubborn."

His voice was void of emotion, laced with a chilling indifference that sent a shiver through even the most hardened of his men. He didn't enjoy this—not exactly—but he had no patience for weakness. If you wouldn't talk, you were nothing but a liability, and liabilities were dealt with swiftly.

He turned away for a moment, tossing the branding iron back into the fire with a careless flick of his wrist. Embers exploded in every direction, but he paid them no mind. "We've wasted enough time on her," he said, voice cold and final. "If she doesn't confess after this, end it. Finish her."

The room fell silent, save for the crackling of the fire, the finality of his words hanging in the air like a death sentence. One of the guards nodded, his expression stoic. "Of course, boss."

Hongjoong motioned toward the bucket of dirty water beside you, its murky surface rippling with the slightest movement. "Wake her," he commanded, his voice devoid of mercy, anticipating the agony that would soon follow.

The guard lifted the bucket with ease, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim as he approached. Without hesitation, he tilted it, the filthy water cascading over your battered body. The moment the contaminated water hit your wounds, especially the fresh burn, your body convulsed violently.

A scream ripped from your throat, raw and guttural, piercing through the oppressive stillness. It wasn't the kind of scream that came from fear—it was the sound of pure, unfiltered agony.

The Captain didn't flinch. He stood tall, arms crossed, watching with a detached curiosity as you writhed on the floor. "That's better," he muttered, almost to himself. "Now, let's see if you're ready to talk."

He crouched down beside you, his face an unreadable mask. "Final chance," he said softly, almost tenderly, as if mocking your suffering. "Who sent you?" His voice dipped lower, dangerously calm. "Or would you prefer to die in this filth, unloved and forgotten?"

The only response was the ragged sound of your breath, broken sobs wracking your body. His patience was wearing thin, and though he was a man known for his control, he was ready to end this.

A shuddering breath escaped your lips, each gasp searing through your lungs like fire. The icy water clung to your battered body, every drop seeping into your open wounds, amplifying the unbearable pain. Your vision blurred, the dim room spinning into shadows and smoke, but you clung to the fragments of your thoughts, the last remnants of who you were.

This is it, you thought, the realisation settling over you with a strange, hollow calm. This is how it ends.

You didn't know why these monsters had dragged you into their nightmare, why they believed you were a spy. You didn't understand the cruel fate that had brought you here, only that it had. And now, there was no escape. The man before you, with his cold eyes and cruel smirk, had made that clear.

Your body trembled violently, not from the cold but from the acceptance creeping into your heart. Death will be a mercy, you thought. Better this than more agony.

Closing your eyes, you let the numbness wash over you, a strange kind of peace taking root beneath the layers of fear. You thought of your friends—the laughter shared over simple joys. You thought of your family, their faces blurred by memory but still holding warmth. And you thought of your employer, the one person who had seen worth in you when the world turned away. You prayed they would not grieve too long. You prayed they would find solace.

I'll watch over them, you promised silently. From wherever I'm going.

The wet, acrid air filled your lungs, heavy and suffocating. Every second stretched into eternity, and you waited for the final blow, the one that would release you. Your heartbeat slowed, the frantic rhythm giving way to a dull, distant echo.

And then, the room grew deathly quiet.

Hongjoong remained crouched, studying you, his iron grip on control unwavering. He didn't speak immediately, and that was almost worse. The silence pressed down, a suffocating weight, as if the world was holding its breath.

"Still nothing?" His voice was soft now, eerily gentle, like a predator savouring the last moments before the kill.

You didn't respond. Couldn't. There was nothing left to say. You were ready for the end.

And then, with a slow exhale, you heard him murmur almost to himself, "What a shame."

The gang leader let out a long, slow breath, his head shaking slightly, a humourless smile curving his lips. His eyes lingered on your broken form, slumped over, trembling and soaked, but utterly still, as if you had already crossed into death's grasp. Your eyes fluttered shut, the last spark of defiance extinguished. With a heavy sigh, he rose to his feet, dusting off his coat with deliberate care, and with a curt nod, gestured toward his men.

"Finish it."

The words were cold and final, slicing through the room like a blade. One of the guards stepped forward, the metallic click of his gun cocking echoing in the dim space, followed by the low scrape of his boot on the wet floor. Hongjoong turned his back on you, jaw tight, waiting for the shot to ring out, waiting for the moment to pass so he could move on from this wasted effort.

But then— footsteps. Quick and urgent, echoing down the stone stairway.

"Wait."

The voice was calm but firm, cutting through the tension like a sudden gust of wind. The room froze, the guard's finger hovering over the trigger as all eyes turned toward the stairs. Yeosang emerged from the shadows, his usual cool composure replaced by something unsettled. His sharp gaze darted toward your barely conscious form before locking onto his captain, his face unreadable, but his unease unmistakable.

Hongjoong's brow lifted in mild curiosity, though his patience was wearing thin. "What is it, Yeo?" he asked, voice clipped as the Phantom strode forward, his expression grave.

Yeosang leaned in close, his voice low but firm as he murmured something into the gang leader's ear, too quiet for the others to hear. Whatever he said, it landed like a blow. Hongjoong's entire posture shifted. His jaw clenched, his fists curling and uncurling at his sides as he processed the whispered words.

The room held its collective breath.

After what felt like an eternity, the Captain straightened, his eyes dark with a new kind of frustration, though there was no mistaking the glimmer of something else—regret? Anger? It was impossible to tell.

His voice, when it came, was sharp and decisive. "Release her."

The room erupted in a flurry of confusion, but no one dared question him. The guard with the gun hesitated for only a second before lowering it, stepping back. Another moved to untie the chains binding your wrists, the cold iron clattering to the floor as your limp body crumpled forward.

Hongjoong's gaze never wavered, his face carved from stone as he watched you collapse. His men obeyed without question, though their confusion was palpable, the tension still thick in the air.

As you slumped to the ground, barely conscious, he let out another breath, slow and controlled, his eyes narrowing in thought.

"Take her to the infirmary," he commanded, voice icy but steady. "And keep her alive."

His men exchanged uncertain glances but quickly moved to obey, lifting your frail body with care as they carried you out. He remained rooted, his eyes lingering on the bloodstained floor, his fists clenched once more as Yeosang watched him silently.

"I hope for your sake," Hongjoong muttered under his breath, "this wasn't a mistake."

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The heavy oak door to his office slammed shut behind him, the echo reverberating through the grand but cold space. Hongjoong paced across the dimly lit room, the fire in the hearth casting flickering shadows on the walls, but offering no warmth. His hand shook slightly as he poured another shot of whiskey, the amber liquid splashing over the rim. He didn't care. He downed it in one swift motion, the burn doing little to drown the bile rising in his throat.

Wrong person.

His brother's words replayed in his mind like a curse, each syllable a dagger to his pride.

"Hyung, we got the wrong person. She's not the spy—the real one escaped. This woman was just... there. A scapegoat."

He squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. The whiskey glass slammed down on the desk, the sharp crack of glass against wood making his men just outside the door flinch. But none dared to enter. They knew better.

His fists balled at his sides, trembling with suppressed rage—at Yeosang, at his crew, at himself. The sight of your bloodied form flashed in his mind, the raw agony in your voice as he pressed the searing iron into your skin. He could still hear the echoes of your pleas, the desperate, broken words you had whispered over and over: I'm not who you think I am... please...

He should have known.

How could he have missed it? The way you had looked at him, not with defiance or guilt but with pure, unfiltered fear and confusion. He was Kim Hongjoong, the Captain of the Black fuckin' Pirates—his instincts had never failed him before. Yet this time, he had been blinded by rage, by the need for control, and it had led him to commit an unforgivable mistake.

His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the desk, the polished surface groaning under the strain. No amount of wealth or power in this city could erase the image of your battered, broken body lying on the cold floor. The branded mark he had burned into your back would scar, not just on your skin but in his mind, forever.

The Black Pirates were ruthless, yes, but not reckless. Innocents were not meant to be collateral unless there was no other choice. This... this was different. It was unacceptable.

He let out a low, bitter laugh, hollow and laced with self-loathing. "How could this happen?" he muttered to no one, his voice cracking. "I'm the one who doesn't make mistakes."

But this was a mistake. A fatal one, if Yeosang hadn't intervened.

The storm inside him raged on, unrelenting. No amount of whiskey could drown it, no fire could warm the cold knot in his chest. For the first time in years, Kim Hongjoong felt something foreign and unwelcome searing through him.

Regret.

He sank into the leather chair behind his desk, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His hands covered his face, shaking as if he could scrub away the guilt, the shame. But it was branded on him now, just as deeply as the mark he had scorched into your skin.

After what felt like hours, he remained in his office, standing by the window, the golden light of the waning sun casting a sharp contrast against the deep shadows in the room. His gaze pierced through the glass, locking onto the tall, black gates of their mansion—gates that symbolised power, control, and security. Yet today, they felt like bars of a prison. He imagined how those gates must have looked to you, cold and foreboding, as you were dragged inside, far from the life you knew, thrust into a nightmare you hadn't earned.

He clenched his jaw, fists curling at his sides as the weight of his guilt continued to press down on him. One mistake. One mistake. That's all it had taken to bring you here. A mistake from his men, from him, and it had led to your torture. His throat tightened as those cruel memories clawed at him: your ragged pleas, your broken body, and worst of all, his voice—cold, detached, ruthless—demanding answers you didn't have.

Remorse surged through him, an agonising tide that refused to ebb. His own words echoed in his mind, venomous and unforgiving: "Be a good girl and tell us what this blasted letter says." His stomach twisted, the taste of bile bitter on his tongue.

He turned away from the window, squeezing his eyes shut as he clutched his head, fingers digging into his scalp as if the pain could drown out the memories. But it only intensified the haunting vision that consumed him: his mother's lifeless eyes, staring into nothingness, wide with fear and betrayal. She had died for nothing—used, discarded, and left to rot by men who saw her as collateral damage. All for debts that weren't hers to pay.

He had been just a boy—useless and powerless—as he watched her lifeblood seep into the dirt, all because of his degenerate father, who had left them behind with nothing but mountains of debt. The loan sharks had spared him, a mistake they didn't live to regret. Hongjoong had spent years rising from the ashes of that helpless child, becoming the monster who hunted monsters, the leader who swore to tear down anyone who preyed on the innocent.

Yet now, here he was, no different from the men who had taken his mother from him.

He slammed a fist onto the desk, the sharp crack splitting the heavy silence. His breathing was ragged, uneven, as his mind spiralled into the past. He had sworn not to harm the innocent.

But he had failed. He had repeated the very sin that had shaped him.

They weren't heroes. The Black Pirates were thieves, smugglers, outlaws. But they lived by one code: never harm those who didn't deserve it. They stole from the corrupt, the greedy, those who exploited the powerless. They were not saviours, but they were not supposed to be butchers either.

And now, because of his blindness, you lay broken and scarred—an innocent woman caught in the crossfire of his rage.

His hands trembled as he dragged them through his hair, staring blankly at the dark wood beneath him. His reflection in the glass across the room looked unfamiliar—haunted, lost, and consumed by a regret that would never fade.

How can I ever make this right?

The oppressive silence in the room was broken by a familiar deep voice, one he always sought when the weight of leadership became too much. "She's stable," Seonghwa said, his tone calm yet sombre.

Hongjoong exhaled a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, relief flooding through him like a tide that couldn't quite wash away the guilt. "Stable," he echoed, the word offering little solace.

His brother stepped closer, the soft creak of the floorboards the only sound between them. "They've patched her up... but I don't think some of the scars will ever go away." His voice dipped into something quieter, almost apologetic. "Especially not that mark."

The gang leader winced, his fingers tightening into trembling fists. The brand—his brand—seared into her back, a permanent testament to his cruelty. "The mark," he muttered, voice hoarse with regret. "She'll carry it because of me."

Seonghwa leaned against the edge of the desk, folding his arms, watching him with a measured gaze. "Because of us," he corrected, though the words offered no comfort. "But this isn't like you. You don't make mistakes like this."

Hongjoong let out a hollow, bitter laugh. "And yet, I did. I fucked up. She begged, Hwa." His voice cracked, raw and ragged. "She begged, and I didn't listen."

The eldest's face softened, but he didn't look away. "Regret is pointless if it doesn't drive change," he said quietly. "We can't undo what's been done. But maybe... maybe we can still make it right."

Hongjoong looked up, his eyes hollow but desperate. "How?"

Seonghwa met his gaze, steady and unwavering. "By giving her a choice. Her freedom. Protection if she wants it. You can't erase the scars, but you can make sure she's never harmed again."

The Captain's jaw clenched. "And if she wants nothing from us? If she wants nothing to do with the Black Pirates?"

"Then you let her go," Seonghwa replied simply, his voice steady. "With the assurance that she'll never have to fear us again."

Hongjoong leaned back in his chair, tension coiling in his shoulders. "I don't deserve forgiveness."

"No," the Gentleman agreed softly, his voice firm but kind. "But it's not about what you deserve. It's about what she does."

The words hung in the air, heavier than any weapon, cutting deeper than any blade.

Hongjoong dragged his hands through his hair, the tremor in them betraying the turmoil within. "Tell them to keep her comfortable," he whispered, voice barely audible. "And... let me know when she wakes up."

Seonghwa inclined his head, moving toward the door but paused before stepping out. "You may never forgive yourself, Joong," he said, his voice softer now, "but that doesn't mean you can't try to do better."

As the door clicked shut behind him, the leader was left alone with the echoes of his guilt—and the faintest, most fragile glimmer of hope.

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The quiet hum of the infirmary filled the air, broken only by the soft rustle of sheets and the faint crackle of the oil lamp on the bedside table. Hongjoong stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes locked on your still form lying on the cot. The sight twisted something deep inside him, the sharp pang of guilt slicing through him once again.

"Hyung?" Jongho's voice pulled him from his reverie, soft but laced with surprise. "Why are you here?" His brows knitted together in confusion as he stepped closer. "Seonghwa hyung said to only inform you when she's awake. She's not—"

The gang leader cut him off with a subtle shake of his head. "I had to see if she's okay... for myself." His voice was low, almost a whisper. "You're dismissed. I'll take over."

Jongho hesitated, his eyes searching his leader's face, filled with concern and something unspoken. "Hyung..."

"I won't..." Hongjoong's voice faltered, his throat tightening. "I won't hurt her any further, Jongho."

The youngest sighed softly, the tension in the room heavy between them. "That's not what I—"

"I know," Hongjoong interrupted, closing his eyes and swallowing hard. "It's fine. Just... go thank the doctor for me."

Jongho lingered for a moment, his gaze lingering on the Captain's worn expression. Finally, he gave a respectful bow of his head. "I'll be nearby if you need me."

With that, the Anchor left, the door clicking softly shut behind him, leaving Hongjoong alone with the stillness once more.

He stepped forward, the floor creaking beneath his boots, and sank into the chair beside the bed. His hands trembled as he clasped them together, resting them on his knees. He could barely bring himself to look at you, the bandages wrapped around your body stark against your pale skin, the ghost of the agony he had inflicted still lingering in the air.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words breaking like fragile glass. "Fuck, I'm so sorry."

The apology felt hollow, inadequate, but it was all he had. He sat there, staring at you, hoping that somehow, even in sleep, you might hear him. But the only response was the steady rise and fall of your chest, the rhythmic proof that you were alive.

Alive, but not whole.

He leaned back, his head tipping against the wall, the weight of everything crushing down on him. For the first time in years, Kim Hongjoong—the feared Captain of the Black Pirates—felt utterly powerless.

His eyes, unwilling to linger any longer on the bandages covering your wounded body, drifted downward. There, beneath the cot, something caught his attention. A crumpled, dirt-streaked tote bag sat neglected, its once vibrant fabric marred by careless fingerprints—his men's fingerprints.

He furrowed his brows and leaned forward, retrieving the bag with careful hands as if it might break apart at any moment. The stitching was amateur but charming, the drawings simple yet endearing. Scrawled in bright, cheerful lettering at the centre were the words Marigold Gift Shop.

It looked so out of place here in the dim and sterile infirmary, like a splash of sunlight drowning in shadow.

He set the bag on his lap and gently pried it open. The contents were jumbled, chaotic, but it was clear that everything inside once held meaning. Trinkets, small souvenirs from the port—a handful of seashells, a hand-painted keychain, and a delicate glass charm in the shape of a flower. These were not the belongings of a spy.

He reached deeper and pulled out a tiny notebook, its edges worn from use. His fingers brushed over the cover before flipping it open. The pages were filled with neat, dainty handwriting—simple lists:

Small wooden carvings

Candles (lavender & sea breeze)

Handmade bookmarks

Seashell jewellery

It wasn't just a list of purchases—it was a routine, mundane, innocent.

Hongjoong's throat constricted, and his hands trembled as the realisation struck him anew: you had been working. You had been on an errand for your job at the Marigold Gift Shop when they dragged you into their nightmare.

His vision blurred, his breath catching in his chest.

You had no idea who they were. No idea what danger you had stumbled into. You were just there, in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it cost you everything.

Hongjoong squeezed the notebook shut, resting it against his forehead as though it could somehow absolve him of the crushing guilt. People must be looking for you—your friends, your family, your employer. The ones who had sent you on this errand, trusting you would return safely.

And now, what could he give them? A broken, scarred version of the vibrant soul they had lost. How could he face them? How could he return you to them like this?

He sat in silence, the only sound in the room the steady rhythm of your breathing and the occasional drip of water from the infirmary's ceiling. His gaze lingered on the crumpled tote bag resting on his lap, its cheerful colours muted beneath the grime. His fingers traced the fabric absentmindedly before he noticed the bucket of clean water and a spare rag near your cot.

For reasons he didn't fully understand, he stood and reached for the rag, dipping it into the water. The cloth came away damp and cool, and he squeezed out the excess with slow, deliberate movements. It was a strange sight—Kim Hongjoong, feared leader of the Black Pirates, bent over a bag, carefully wiping away the dirt and grime.

He worked in silence, the world narrowing to this singular task. Each stroke of the rag against the fabric felt like an apology he couldn't utter aloud. Slowly, painstakingly, he cleaned the tote, rubbing away the stains until the bright colours began to peek through again. The cheerful drawings and stitched patterns reemerged, fragile yet resilient beneath the care of his steady hands.

Piece by piece, he began to arrange your belongings. The trinkets were cleaned and carefully set back in place—each seashell, the delicate glass flower charm, the hand-painted keychain. He smoothed out the tiny notebook, the pages no longer crumpled but straightened with the same precision he reserved for the most critical of plans.

As he worked, he felt a strange lightness settle over him. He hadn't noticed the small smile tugging at the corners of his lips until it faded, replaced by the weight of reality as his gaze shifted back to you.

The bag, now pristine, sat neatly on the table beside you, a quiet testament to his care—a care no one, not even his brothers, had seen in years.

He stood there for a long moment, staring at you, at the bandages wrapped around your broken body, and the regret clawed at his chest again. His smile had vanished entirely, replaced by the grim determination that only guilt could bring.

How could he make this right? How could he even begin? Would you ever be able to forgive him, or himself, for what he had done?

The questions lingered unanswered in the stillness as he sat back down, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together.

He didn't know the answers. All he knew was that he had to try.

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The world swirled in an agonising haze as your consciousness began to claw its way back. Every inch of your body screamed in pain, each bruise, cut, and wound making itself known like fire crawling beneath your skin. It was almost impossible to grasp the full weight of the agony—how could anyone describe the sensation of pain this overwhelming? It was a deep, suffocating thing that made every breath feel like a battle.

You tried to open your eyes, but even that small movement was an assault on your senses. The brightness behind your eyelids was too much, the pressure of it sending a wave of dizziness crashing over you. When you managed to blink, your eyes watered uncontrollably, the effort alone nearly too much to bear. The burn on your back, the curse of that mark—his mark—lingered like a red-hot brand, the pain compounded by the memory of it being tainted with filthy, contaminated water. You couldn't even tell if the pain had dulled or if it was just the agony of everything else making it seem like the worst of it. Even if you didn't die from your injuries, you were certain that infection would claim you before long.

Slowly, with a whimper that barely escaped your cracked lips, you arched your back, instinctively trying to relieve the burning pain from the mark. The movement was weak, your body screaming in protest, but the sensation was a small reprieve. As you forced your eyes open again, blinking over and over to get your bearings, your vision began to sharpen, and the haze of confusion began to recede, bit by bit.

The white ceiling above you was a sharp contrast to the hellish basement you had been trapped in. A sterile smell filled the air, the kind that only came from a medical facility. You were no longer in that filthy, oppressive place. Were you safe now? Had someone rescued you? Was it the authorities? Or perhaps your friends, your family, or your employer had noticed you were missing and raised the alarm? Had they found you in time?

You desperately hoped for any answer that could bring you some sense of peace, but the sight before you shattered that hope in an instant.

Turning your head slightly, you froze. The tears that had started to retreat at the thought of safety now rushed back with full force. There, sitting in a chair beside your bed, was the man who had nearly ended your life.

His face was shadowed in exhaustion, his posture slumped slightly as if he'd nodded off in his seat. His presence hit you like a blow to the chest, a knot of raw fear twisting in your gut. The man who had tortured you, who had burned you, who had broken you was right there. The man who was responsible for every inch of pain you'd endured.

Your breath hitched in your throat, and despite your body's desperate need to remain still, the fear surged within you. You couldn't help but tremble, a silent cry of terror rising in your chest.

But even in your panic, something else stirred—a strange, foreign confusion. He was here. In this room. But he wasn't hurting you. Was he... watching over you? Was this some new kind of torment? A psychological game? The thought made your head spin.

Tears fell down your cheeks as you tried to shift, but your body refused to obey. You were broken in every sense of the word, and now, trapped by your own fear and pain, you couldn't make sense of anything. All you knew was that the man who had caused all of this—the man who had dragged you into this nightmare—was right there, inches away from you.

And you had no idea what it meant.

Your attempts to keep your sobs quiet failed, the soft, broken sounds escaping against your will. Each tremor in your chest seemed to echo in the sterile room, and despite the pain, your body recoiled in fear as you saw him stir. His brow furrowed, eyes fluttering open slowly, the grogginess of sleep fading as he registered the sound—and then, his gaze locked with yours.

Panic surged through you, your breath hitching violently as his dark eyes met your own, wide and trembling, your irises blown out with terror. You wanted to scream, to run, but your body betrayed you, too weak and broken to do anything but sink further into the thin blanket covering you. All you could do was shrink back, the ache in your body drowned out by the overwhelming fear coursing through your veins.

Hongjoong froze, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat. Then, he sat up straighter, slowly, deliberately, as if trying not to startle you further. His jaw clenched, and for a second, the silence stretched unbearably between you. He raised his hands carefully, palms facing you in a universal gesture of peace, his movements measured and cautious, like one might approach a wounded animal.

"Hey," he began softly, his voice low and careful, as though it might shatter you further. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you."

You didn't believe him. How could you? The fear in your eyes deepened, your body curling instinctively beneath the covers, though every movement brought fresh waves of agony. Your eyes darted around the room, seeking escape, seeking anyone else—but it was only him.

He sighed, a heavy sound filled with something that almost resembled regret. He stayed seated, keeping his hands up, as if showing he was unarmed would make any difference to the scars he had already left on you. "Nobody will hurt you again," he said, and his voice trembled, just barely. "That... that includes me."

You watched him, breath ragged, your body trembling with the effort to stay still. He swallowed hard, the guilt written in every line of his face as he continued, his tone thick with something you couldn't name—shame? Guilt? Desperation? "I know this is all very confusing, and you have no reason to trust me, but we made a mistake. I made a mistake."

He paused, his throat bobbing as he swallowed again, struggling with the weight of the words. "You're not who we thought you were. And for that—for everything we... I put you through—I'm sorry."

His apology hung in the air, but it did nothing to ease the terror in your heart. It sounded sincere, but sincerity didn't erase the pain, the scars, the nightmare that still lingered in your mind. It didn't change the fact that this man, who now sat before you looking so remorseful, had been the one to destroy you.

Tears continued to stream down your face, and all you could do was stare at him, disbelieving and broken, the word sorry echoing hollowly in your mind. He had taken everything from you, and now he expected that word to make it right?

The silence stretched between you, fragile and suffocating, as you lay there—shattered, terrified, and unsure of what came next.

As if your body had decided to break the unbearable silence itself, your stomach let out a loud, insistent growl. The sound was jarring in the stillness, so absurdly out of place that it caught both of you off guard. You gasped, clutching the thin blanket tighter to your face, cheeks burning despite the pain radiating through your body. Humiliation and fear clashed within you. Would he be disgusted? Would he regret sparing you? Was this the moment he'd change his mind?

You couldn't help but brace yourself.

But instead of anger or disdain, he simply blinked in surprise before his lips parted, and he mumbled softly, "Oh, right. Stupid me. You must be starving." His voice carried a gentleness that was almost foreign, as if the words were meant more for himself than you.

The wooden chair scraped lightly against the floor as he pushed it back, the sound startling in the quiet room. He stood slowly, the motion casual, almost hesitant. "I'll bring you something to eat," he said, the words so ordinary, so kind, that they felt unreal.

And then, just like that, he walked out of the room, the door closing quietly behind him.

You lay frozen, staring at the spot where he'd been moments ago, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Your mind spun in confusion, trying to reconcile the man who had tortured you with the one who now spoke softly and promised food. Was this some twisted game? Was he really going to bring you food—or was it laced with poison, a final, cruel trick?

But if he wanted you dead, why not just finish it when he had the chance? Why tend to your wounds, only to kill you later? The questions swirled relentlessly.

You bit your trembling lip, tears pricking the corners of your eyes again. He could have killed you. You had seen it in his eyes that day—the moment he gave the final order. You had accepted it then, surrendering to fate, your body succumbing to the darkness.

Yet here you were. Alive.

Still shaking, you turned your head to the door, trying to comprehend the reality before you. Was this real? Was he truly changing—or was this a prelude to something worse?

The confusion and fear gnawed at you, but beneath it, a glimmer of something unfamiliar lingered.

Hope.

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"Here," he said softly, holding out a spoonful of chicken soup to your lips. The aroma was heavenly—rich and savoury, exactly what your starved body craved after days without food. Your stomach clenched painfully in response, desperate for sustenance. Yet, despite the temptation, you frowned and turned your face away.

He sighed, his hand lowering slightly but not withdrawing entirely. The bowl in his other hand trembled ever so slightly as if he wasn't sure what to do next. Finally, he set it gently on the table beside you, the warm liquid inside rippling quietly.

Eyes trailing after his movements, you caught sight of your bag resting there. It wasn't in the state you remembered—no longer a crumpled, filthy mess. It had been cleaned meticulously, every stitch visible and tidy, the fabric now free from dirt and grime.

His voice interrupted your thoughts, soft and almost hesitant. "Oh yeah, your bag. I... got busy while you were sleeping and cleaned it up."

You clutched the blanket tighter, sceptical. Him? Cleaning your bag? It was absurd.

"Everything inside too," he added, a small smile pulling at his lips. "You have some pretty cool stuff."

Your eyes widened, heart racing. He touched your things? Against your better judgement, you reached out, wanting to verify the state of your belongings, only to let out a sharp cry as pain flared through your body with the movement.

He was beside you instantly, his hands hovering, unsure whether to touch or retreat. His face twisted in something that looked suspiciously like hurt when you recoiled, sinking back into the bed to avoid him.

Clearing his throat, he asked, voice soft, "You want your bag?"

You nodded timidly, watching him closely. His small smile returned, gentle and relieved. "Let me help you," he murmured, pulling his chair closer. He placed the bag on the bed between you both, unzipping it carefully for you to see inside.

For the first time since waking up, your eyes softened. Everything was as he said—clean, neatly arranged. Trembling fingers reached out for the glass flower charm nestled inside, your favourite trinket. But before you could touch it, your stomach betrayed you again with a loud, desperate growl.

Humiliated, you drew your hand back, shrinking into yourself.

He chuckled softly, reaching for the bowl again. "I know you don't trust me, and you shouldn't," he admitted, his tone gentle and sincere, "but I can assure you, this is safe to consume." To prove it, he scooped a generous spoonful and took a bite himself, letting out an exaggerated hum of satisfaction.

You swallowed hard, the sight and smell tormenting you. Still, you hesitated when he held out another spoonful.

"If you won't eat it," he said with a sigh, "then I'll finish the rest." He raised the spoon toward his own mouth as if to follow through.

Before he could, you opened your mouth quickly, and his grin softened. Gently, he fed you, the warm broth sliding down your throat like liquid gold, soothing and comforting. The flavours were simple, yet after days of deprivation, it felt like the most luxurious meal you'd ever had.

He remained calm, every action slow and deliberate, offering care despite your fear and mistrust. His patience was unsettling, yet... somehow, in that moment, the terrifying man you had known felt like a distant memory.

But the pain in your body lingered. And so did the scars.

Hongjoong felt a warmth he couldn't explain swelling in his chest as you finished the final spoonful, the empty bowl resting between you both like a fragile truce. His eyes softened as he watched you, vulnerable yet still defiant, the faintest remnants of tears glistening on your lashes. He reached forward, hand poised to wipe the corner of your lips, but before he could, a sharp knock on the door shattered the moment.

He blinked, and it was as if a mask fell into place. The softness in his gaze vanished, replaced by the cold, commanding demeanour you knew too well. He set the bowl on the table, the clink of ceramic against wood too loud in the heavy silence. Straightening in his seat, shoulders squared, he uttered a firm, "Come in."

You shrank back into the bed instinctively, your body curling as far from him as your injuries would allow. The door creaked open, and another man stepped inside—his brow raising slightly when he noticed you were awake.

"Hyung," he said, his tone both respectful and urgent, "you're needed at the meeting. To discuss our next steps, now that the..." He hesitated, casting a brief glance your way, as if unsure how much to say in your presence. "The actual spy remains at large."

Hongjoong nodded, the authority in his posture unwavering. "I'll be there. Thank you, Jongho." His voice was clipped, businesslike, a stark contrast to the gentle tone he'd used with you only moments before. "Summon the doctor. Have her checked thoroughly and ensure she's comfortable."

The man named Jongho gave a short nod and left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.

For a moment, the Captain remained seated, his back straight, tension radiating from him. Then, as if reminded of your presence, he turned to you once more. His expression softened, just for a second, as he offered the faintest smile—fleeting but genuine. "It's okay," he murmured, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. "No one will hurt you again. I won't let them."

Before you could react, the smile vanished, his face hardening once more as he rose to his feet. Without another glance, he strode to the door and exited, the soft thud of his boots fading into the distance.

You lay there, staring at the closed door, heart racing, mind spinning. The man who had nearly destroyed you had just promised your protection. And despite everything, a single, terrifying thought whispered through your mind:

I believe you.

The room felt unnervingly quiet after his departure, the air still heavy with the remnants of his presence. You stayed frozen for a moment, listening to the silence, your pulse still thundering in your ears. Slowly, cautiously, you shifted beneath the blanket, every movement sending fresh waves of pain rippling through your battered body.

But you endured it, your gaze locked on the bag resting beside you. Trembling fingers reached out, brushing against its fabric, now pristine compared to how you last remembered it—torn, dirtied, ruined. Carefully, you pulled it closer, clutching it to your chest like a lifeline, tears welling up as you stroked the surface. Your fingers traced over the familiar stitches and doodles, remnants of happier times, of days spent working, laughing, living.

Were your loved ones searching for you? How frantic must they be, wondering if you were still alive, hoping, praying for your return? The thought broke something inside you, and you wept silently, the tears streaming down your face as you reached inside the bag.

Piece by piece, your belongings greeted you, neatly arranged—your keychain, your tiny souvenirs, even the little trinkets you'd collected on that ill-fated day. None of them bore the grime and cruelty you had last seen, each one painstakingly cleaned, cared for. Despite yourself, a hollow sob escaped your lips, and you hated how much it affected you.

At the very bottom of the bag, your trembling hand closed around the familiar worn edges of your notebook. You pulled it out, your tears falling freely as you held it close, opening the cover with a sniffle. Flipping through the pages, you found the list you had written, the innocent to-do list that had led you into this nightmare. Your thumb traced the ink of your handwriting—dotted with tiny stars and hearts—and you almost smiled through the pain.

But it wasn't your handwriting on the newest page. You froze, blinking through your tears as you stared at the words, scrawled in a neat, unfamiliar script:

I'm sorry. I will make it right again, I promise.

Your breath caught in your throat, a sob escaping that you couldn't suppress. He had written it. The very man who had branded you, broken you. And yet here, in this quiet, fragile moment, his apology was inked into your most personal possession.

It wasn't enough. It could never be enough.

But it was something.

The notebook fell from your hands, landing on your lap as you curled around it, weeping not just from pain, but from the deep, agonising confusion that tangled with it. You didn't know what to feel anymore. Hatred? Grief? Or some terrible, unbidden hope that his words weren't just lies?

As the tears blurred your vision, you whispered brokenly to no one, "Why does it hurt more now?"

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The days stretched into a haze of silence and uncertainty. You hadn't seen him since that moment when he fed you soup and scribbled his apology into your notebook. In his absence, Jongho became a constant presence—a quiet sentinel, always bringing what you needed but never lingering too long. Aside from him, the kind doctor, with her gentle hands and soothing voice, tended to your wounds, her care meticulous and soft. But it was always just Jongho and her. Never the Captain.

At first, you felt like a prisoner, wondering what the end of this strange hospitality would bring. Would they let you go? Was this kindness a façade before some darker fate awaited? But as the days went on, your thoughts turned inward, your hands finding comfort in writing. You filled parchment after parchment with letters—letters to your parents, your best friend, your employer. They were full of reassurances you weren't even sure you believed. I'm alive. I'm safe. I will come back. But the ink soothed you, even if you knew they might never be sent.

Today was no different, except for the soft murmurs between you and the doctor as she changed your dressings. Her hands worked deftly, the cool air brushing against your skin as she peeled away the layers of gauze and replaced them with fresh, clean bandages. You let your mind drift, thinking of the promise he had scrawled in your notebook. He said he'd make it right. But how? Will I get to leave? Will I ever see my old life again? And if I do… will I ever be the same?

The faint creak of the door interrupted your thoughts, and you looked up instinctively, expecting Jongho's usual unhurried entrance. But it wasn't the Anchor.

It was him.

Your breath caught, and you froze, eyes wide as you met the gaze of Kim Hongjoong. He, too, stilled in the doorway, his expression unreadable, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something—guilt, perhaps? Regret? His gaze fell to your back, to the horrid brand etched into your skin, and you saw the way he flinched.

He wasn't the only one.

Your body trembled involuntarily, an instinctive recoil from the man who had caused you so much pain. The doctor, blissfully unaware of the tension thickening the air, glanced up with a warm smile. "Oh, you're here! I'm almost done, just give me a minute."

The gang leader nodded stiffly, but he didn't speak. He quickly averted his gaze, turning away as if the sight of you was unbearable. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it should be.

But not for the same reasons as before.

You watched him from the corner of your eye, clutching the edge of the blanket as the doctor finished her work, her hands light on your skin. She hummed softly, her presence a soothing balm to your raw nerves. But your focus remained on him—on the way his shoulders tensed, on the way he refused to meet your eyes again. When he did chance a glance, he caught your gaze, and you saw it clearly: shame.

His lips parted, but no words came. You wanted to demand answers. Why are you here? What do you want from me? But your voice remained trapped in your throat.

The doctor stood, packing up her supplies with a satisfied smile. "There we are," she said brightly, glancing between the two of you. "I'll leave you to rest now." She nodded respectfully to Hongjoong before quietly excusing herself, leaving you alone with him.

The door clicked shut, and the silence between you thickened. You stared at him, your heart pounding, as he stood there, still and unsure. He finally spoke, his voice low and rough, as if it hurt to say the words.

"I didn't mean to... interrupt." He looked down, hands clenched at his sides. "I only came to see how you were."

You didn't know what to say. Under normal circumstances, perhaps a thank you would have been appropriate—but this wasn't normal, and he didn't deserve that. So you kept quiet, your lips pressed into a thin line, your hands fidgeting with the edge of the blanket.

He sighed softly, the sound barely audible, before clearing his throat and moving to sit beside you, just as he had that day with the soup. He settled into the chair with a quiet grace, attempting a small, hesitant smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. His gaze flickered to the books, papers, and pens scattered across the nursing table beside your bed.

"I hope Jongho managed to get you everything you asked for," he said gently, his voice low and careful, as if afraid to startle you. You nodded, but kept your eyes downcast, focused on your wringing hands.

His gaze followed yours, landing on the letters you had written—the stack of parchment covered in your careful handwriting. For a moment, you tensed, waiting for the inevitable backlash. Would he order his men to burn them? Would he scold you for daring to think of leaving, for daring to hope?

But instead, his voice was soft. "Would you like me to deliver them?"

You froze, lifting your head slowly, your wide, disbelieving eyes meeting his earnest gaze. He gestured toward the letters with a slight movement of his hand. "The letters," he clarified. "I could send them for you."

Your disbelief must have shown on your face, the way your brow furrowed and your lips parted slightly in shock. He saw it. He felt it. And it cut deeper than he expected. Of course, you still saw him as a monster. Why wouldn't you? He had given you every reason to believe that. If he wanted to change that, he would need to do more—much more.

He closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself, before looking at you again with an expression that was raw and unguarded. "Look," he began, voice heavy with something that felt dangerously close to regret. "You're not trapped here, in case you're wondering. You're free to leave whenever you want."

You blinked, your heart racing at the words. Could you believe him? Could you trust that freedom was within your reach?

"It's just that…" He trailed off, searching for the right words. "After everything we—I've done to you, the least I can do is help you heal. To nurse you back to health, to give you what you need. I need to make it right. That's all I want. For you to get better, to return to yourself. And if there's anything you need to make that happen… just say the word."

His voice dropped to an almost pleading tone. "So tell me—do you want those letters delivered? Is that it?"

You stared at him, searching his face for any trace of deception, any hint of insincerity. But all you saw was honesty. Whether or not it was real, you didn't know. But the sincerity in his tone, the earnestness in his eyes—it was undeniable.

And you couldn't lie to yourself. The letters were what you wanted. To set your mind and heart at ease. To reassure your loved ones that you were still alive, still here, even if only barely.

So you nodded.

He exhaled slowly, as if relieved, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw a glimmer of something softer in his expression. "Okay," he said simply. "I'll make sure they're delivered."

You struggled, the words stuck in your throat like stubborn stones, not fear this time—but something else. Something unfamiliar and unsettling. You nodded again, the gesture small and hesitant, and to your surprise, he seemed to find it… endearing. His smile softened further, and though you wanted to resent him for it, there was something disarming about the warmth in his expression.

Noticing the way you hesitated, as if wanting to speak but unsure how, he shifted in his chair, intertwining his fingers and leaning forward, careful in his every movement. He stopped just short of your space, close enough to offer comfort but far enough to avoid overwhelming you. His eyes, soft and patient, held yours, and the corners of his lips tugged upward in that same gentle smile—a silent reassurance: I won't hurt you. It's okay.

He seemed aware of how much he was smiling, almost as if surprised by it himself. His eyes glimmered with something that felt out of place in a man like him—genuine kindness. It struck you then, how foreign that smile must have been on his face, as if it had gone unused for too long. You wondered who he had once been, before this life of cruelty hardened him. And you hated that part of you, the part desperate for softness, wanted to know.

"It's alright," he said softly, his voice gentle and warm. "You don't have to be afraid. Just tell me—what do you want?"

The tenderness in his tone felt unreal. This was the same man who had once stood over you, cold and unyielding, ready to snuff out your life. And yet here he was now, speaking to you as if you were fragile, precious even. It was maddening. Confusing. And yet, damn you for being nothing more than a frail human aching for kindness, your guard cracked, just a little.

You didn't know why you asked it, why this question had been sitting in the back of your mind, waiting for its chance to escape. But when you finally spoke, your voice was soft, barely above a whisper, trembling with vulnerability. "Your name."

He blinked, caught off guard. For a moment, silence stretched between you, his expression shifting from surprise to something softer, almost regretful. And then, in that quiet space, he realised the truth: from the very beginning, through everything he had put you through, he had never once told you his name.

He sat back slightly, exhaling a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "Hongjoong," he said, his voice steady but tender, as if offering you something sacred. "My name is Hongjoong."

Your lips parted, and though you had imagined feeling hatred for this name, it didn't come. Instead, all you felt was the raw ache of everything left unsaid.

"Hongjoong," you repeated, tasting the name on your tongue like a fragile thing, and the way you said it felt like the start of something neither of you could yet name.

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Hongjoong had made it a point to visit you every evening, just before the world outside your room fell silent for the night. At first, you dreaded those moments, unsure of his intentions or what he might say. But as the days turned into weeks, those visits became routine. He would sit beside your bed or across from you at the small table, his demeanour always calm, his tone soft and steady, and slowly, piece by piece, he unravelled the mystery of who he was, what this place meant, and how you had been drawn into their world.

His name, you learned, was more than just a name. He was the leader of this place, a sprawling mansion that served as the heart of a powerful syndicate—a gang, as you quickly realised. The people here, the ones who moved with deadly precision and cold efficiency, were his crew. Not just criminals, but men who had pledged their loyalty to him and each other in the face of a world that sought to destroy them.

You had been caught in the crossfire of a feud between two factions, mistaken for an enemy spy in a moment of chaos. It explained the brutality with which you had been treated, the mistrust that lingered until the truth emerged too late. "You weren't supposed to be hurt," he told you one night, voice thick with regret. "I didn't know who you were. If I had known..." He never finished those sentences, leaving the unsaid to hang in the air like a bitter aftertaste.

And now, the pieces fit. The puzzle you had struggled to solve finally made sense, but with that clarity came an unsettling reality: you were surrounded by criminals. Even if Hongjoong had promised safety, you were in a den of people capable of murder, of violence, of unspeakable acts committed in the name of survival and loyalty. It went against everything you believed in—your sense of morality, the honest life you had led until now.

Yet, despite your fear and discomfort, you knew you had no choice. What had happened could not be undone. The only hope you clung to was for a swift recovery, a chance to leave this world behind and return to the life you had once known.

As your injuries healed, you grew stronger. The sharp, constant pain dulled to a distant ache, and with the doctor's meticulous care, you were soon able to move around. Hongjoong had a proper room prepared for you—one more fitting, spacious, with large windows that let in the light. It was more comfortable than you dared to expect, but you knew better than to interpret it as anything more than a gesture of atonement.

Still, you couldn't deny the strange, unspoken connection that had formed between you and him. You wouldn't call it friendship—you couldn't. He was still the man who had brought you to the brink of death. But there was something. Something fragile, a bond woven through shared guilt and reluctant trust. You found yourself relying on him in ways that shamed you. You hated it, hated how you felt a strange sense of calm when he was near, as if the very person responsible for your suffering was now the anchor keeping you steady.

It was complicated. Confusing. And worst of all, it made you question whether the lines you thought were so clear—between captor and captive, between right and wrong—had begun to blur.

Unbeknownst to you, Hongjoong wrestled with the same confusion—especially about the emotions that had begun to surface lately. He couldn't shake the persistent need to be near you. It gnawed at him like an unrelenting tide, wearing away the walls he had built over the years. He told himself it was duty, responsibility. After all, he was the reason you had nearly lost your life. If he hadn't acted so quickly on false information, none of this would have happened. He reasoned that it was only right to take full responsibility, to ensure your recovery—physically and otherwise.

That logic gave him something to hold on to, but it didn't explain everything. It didn't explain why his eyes instinctively sought you out whenever he walked the halls or the strange calm that washed over him when he saw you safe. It didn't explain the warmth that bloomed in his chest when he heard your voice or glimpsed your rare, hesitant smiles. No, it wasn't just responsibility anymore. It was something deeper, something he wasn't ready to name.

After another gruelling meeting filled with discussions of crisis management and strategies to track down the elusive spy, the Captain's head buzzed with tension. His face remained a mask of cold authority, his steps measured, his shoulders squared. He passed his men without sparing a glance, his thoughts elsewhere. Always on you. The dining hall was empty, your room vacant, and the painting room—where you often sat doodling, lost in thought—was deserted. A strange, unwelcome worry tightened in his chest.

Relief only came when he pushed open the heavy library doors and saw you standing there. You stood in a sunlit aisle, the golden light streaming through the tall windows, bathing you in a soft glow. The light illuminated your features—now mostly healed, the bruises reduced to faint shadows, the cuts mere whispers of what they had been. You were beautiful, he realised, and the realisation ached in a way he hadn't anticipated. He closed the door quietly behind him, the sound muted, careful not to startle you. His steps were slow and deliberate as he approached, his heart inexplicably racing.

You were focused on a pressed flower bookmark tucked between the pages of a book, your head tilted slightly as you admired it, your fingers gently brushing the fragile petals. The scene was simple, ordinary. Yet it stirred something in him, an unspoken truth he wasn't ready to confront.

"Marigold," he said softly, his voice low to not disturb the tranquillity. "That's my favourite flower."

You looked up, startled at first, but your expression softened when you saw him. "Really? It's mine too," you replied, your voice steady, though a hint of curiosity lingered in your tone.

A small smile tugged at his lips, softer than usual, though it carried the weight of everything left unsaid. "It is? Then you should keep it," he said, nodding toward the bookmark, surprising even himself with the offer.

"But—" you began, gesturing toward the marked page.

He chuckled quietly, shaking his head. "I never had time to finish the book anyway. Can't even remember what it's about. Just take it. It's yours now."

Anything you want, it's yours.

For a moment, the silence between you stretched, fragile yet profound, like a delicate thread holding more than either of you dared admit. Hongjoong didn't know what this feeling was, only that it was growing. And being near you eased a part of him he hadn't realised was broken.

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The evening air was still, and the faint glow of the lamp in your room cast a soft halo beneath the door, a beacon that drew him to check on you one last time before retiring. He knocked gently, expecting the usual soft response or even a brief acknowledgement, but there was only silence. His brows knitted in concern, and he knocked again, the sound a little firmer this time. Still, no answer.

Then he heard it—a muffled yelp.

Panic surged through him. He couldn't wait. "I'm coming in," he called, his voice urgent but not harsh, and without hesitation, he pushed open the door.

The sight that met him stopped him in his tracks. You were sitting on the edge of your bed, your shirt halfway unbuttoned, exposing your shoulder and part of your back. The fresh bandage you had been attempting to wrap around yourself lay unravelled on the floor, a tangle of gauze mocking your efforts. Your face was flushed with embarrassment, and the moment you realised he was there, you scrambled to pull your shirt back up, your movements frantic and clumsy.

He didn't look away, not out of disrespect, but because he couldn't ignore the mark on your back. That cursed brand. Every time he saw it, it felt like a punch to the gut, a cruel reminder of his failure. If he could change one thing in his life, it would be that—undoing the moment that left such a permanent scar on you. He swallowed hard, his throat tight, before finally speaking, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it.

"Do you need help?"

Your immediate response was a firm shake of your head. "I'm fine," you insisted, though the tremble in your voice betrayed you. He could see it all: the mess of your hair, the exhaustion etched into your face, the slight tremor in your hands. You had been at this for a while, stubbornly trying to do it alone, and it was clear that you were anything but fine.

Hongjoong sighed quietly, stepping closer, each movement deliberate and gentle, as if afraid he might scare you away. "You're not," he said softly, without accusation, without pity, only quiet understanding. He knelt in front of you, eyes level with yours, and held out his hand, palm up, an unspoken offer. "Let me help."

You hesitated, biting your lip, your pride warring with the exhaustion. But eventually, you let out a shaky breath and nodded, your eyes downcast. He reached for the discarded bandage on the floor, his movements slow, deliberate, as if trying not to disturb the fragile air between you.

Carefully, he unbuttoned your shirt just enough to reveal your shoulder, his fingers never straying more than necessary. The moment felt intimate but not in the way that made you feel vulnerable. It was gentle. Respectful. As he wrapped the bandage around you with practised precision, his hands were steady, careful not to brush against your skin more than needed.

"You don't have to do everything alone," he murmured as he fastened the bandage, his voice like a balm. "I know you're strong, but you can let someone help you."

You didn't respond immediately, the warmth of his words sinking in as you sat in silence. Finally, you whispered, "Thank you."

He gave a faint smile, one you didn't see but could hear in the softness of his voice. "Anytime."

You finally turned to face him, your breath catching when you realised just how close he was. His face, so much softer now than the man who had once been your captor, was mere inches away. As if more modest than you, he quickly moved to help button your shirt, his fingers deft but gentle, avoiding your gaze as if giving you privacy in a moment that was anything but private. Your eyes, however, couldn't stop following the sincerity etched into his expression, hating the way it made your heart race. How could your body betray you like this, reacting to someone who had once been so cruel?

You swallowed hard, trying to banish those thoughts, and lowered your gaze. That's when you noticed his wrist peeking from the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. It was the first time you saw them, the scars that twisted from his elbows to his wrists like angry, jagged reminders. Your brows furrowed, curiosity—and something deeper—propelling you forward. Without thinking, your hand reached out and grasped his as he pulled away, holding it gently.

"H-how'd you get these?" your voice trembled, more from the vulnerability in the air than any fear.

Hongjoong stilled. The small smile on his face faded, replaced by a haunting stillness. He pulled his hands back gently, as if realising for the first time he had no right to be near you, no right to touch you. He placed your hands carefully back in your lap, almost reverently, and turned toward the window, the fading sunlight casting shadows across his face.

A humourless chuckle escaped him, low and bitter, as he glanced at the scars on his arms before shifting his gaze to the darkened horizon. "Let me tell you the story of a boy," he began, his voice void of emotion but heavy with pain, "who had everything taken from him. Not that he had much to begin with—only a mother who loved him more than anything." His voice cracked, almost imperceptibly, but you caught it. "Even that wasn't enough for fate."

He didn't look at you, eyes fixed on the darkening sky, as if it held all the answers. "My father was a worthless drunk with a gambling problem. He left us with nothing but debts, and my mother… she worked herself to the bone, trying to keep us afloat. But it was never enough. The loan sharks came one night." His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I was too young to understand what they wanted, why they were shouting at her. But I remember… I remember watching them beat her to the ground."

His voice dropped to a whisper, but it cut like a blade. "I watched them strip her, violate her, and when they were done, they slit her throat as if she were nothing." He exhaled shakily, his jaw tightening. "They left me there with her body. Taunted me. If they had known what they created that night… maybe they wouldn't have left me alive."

You sat motionless, your heart aching at the raw truth of his confession. Suddenly, everything made sense—how he had become this way, hardened and cold. You could understand now, even though it hurt to. Perhaps you would have become the same if you had endured such horrors. No one is born evil. We are all blank canvases, shaped by what we experience, by the pain life forces us to endure.

His eyes fell to the scars on his arms, and a bitter smile tugged at his lips. "These," he murmured, flexing his fingers as if feeling the memory burn anew, "are souvenirs from that night." His voice grew colder, distant, as if reliving the moment. "I remember their nails clawing at my arms, desperate to cling to life. But it didn't matter. Those bastards were never going to escape."

Despite the chilling edge in his words, you felt no fear. Instead, you saw the boy hidden beneath the armour, a boy the world had broken too soon. He turned back to you, his eyes no longer cold but filled with a deep, aching regret. "And that's why," he said, voice trembling with emotion, "I wish I could undo what I did to you. I swore I'd never harm the innocent, never become what they were. But I failed." His voice cracked. "I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry. Nothing I do will ever make this right."

To his surprise, you reached out, your hand resting gently on his shoulder, offering comfort where he expected none. He turned to you, his eyes glistening with tears he refused to let fall.

"It's okay, Hongjoong," you said softly, your voice unwavering yet gentle. "Everyone makes mistakes."

And then you smiled—a small, genuine smile, brimming with forgiveness. It shattered something within him, but it also healed something far deeper, a part of him he thought was long dead.

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Things had shifted significantly between you since that fateful night when he first bared his soul, revealing the shadows of his dark past. Your understanding unlocked something in him, and in turn, you also began to open up. Little by little, you spoke more, smiled more freely, and allowed yourself to be vulnerable in his presence. Hongjoong, too, had changed. What once were brief visits to check on you became shared meals, quiet conversations, and the gentle ritual of him changing your wound dressings daily. It had become a routine—a comforting rhythm filled with tender moments, lingering touches, deep gazes, and countless almosts.

Almost kisses. Almost confessions. Almost something more.

Just a little longer, he told himself, fighting the constant urge to feel your lips against his. He needed to earn your trust fully before daring to take that step. He knew he didn't deserve you—but the heart wants what it wants.

But of course, just as he allowed himself to believe things were finally settling, reality reminded him otherwise. He should have known better than to think peace could last in his world. You and he had grown closer, but the life he led was never one to offer tranquillity for long. Conflict loomed on the horizon. An important meeting was fast approaching—a meeting arranged long before you had entered his life.

The Black Pirates, an organisation that had always operated with an exclusively male force, had struck a delicate negotiation with the Red Room, a renowned spy training facility specialised in producing elite female operatives. Though both syndicates had thrived independently, they saw mutual benefit in an alliance, especially as the shadowy threat of the White Serpents continued to grow. A treaty was in the works and was supposed to be one of Hongjoong's top priorities.

Yet, things had changed. You were here now, and part of him refused to leave you. The thought of being away, of leaving you vulnerable even for a moment, gnawed at him. So he made a decision: Seonghwa would attend the meeting in his place. The eldest, the Gentleman, was their best negotiator, and if anyone could secure a favourable outcome, it was him.

"It's set then," he said, his tone final. "Seonghwa will represent me for this." He leaned back slightly, eager to conclude the meeting and return to you.

But he should have known better than to expect it would be accepted without protest.

The moment the words left his mouth, Mingi's hand slammed onto the table, the force reverberating through the room. "Really, hyung?" he spat, his voice heavy with frustration. "You're going to send someone else on your behalf for something this important? I was already fed up with this nonsense, but enough is enough!"

The screech of the temperamental member's chair echoed as he shoved it back, rising to his feet, the fire in his eyes blazing. Yunho reached out, gripping his arm in warning, but Mingi shook him off, his glare fixed on their leader.

"No!" he growled, his voice rising. "When will this madness stop?! I'm sick and tired of you being distracted by her. At first, I understood—you felt guilty, like you owed her something. But now? You're letting it go too far! You've been wasting precious time hovering around her, growing soft! And now you're putting our work at risk. When does it end, huh?"

The room fell into a tense silence, the air thick with the weight of Mingi's accusation. Hongjoong remained seated, his fingers interlocked on the table. He met the taller man's gaze with a cold, unwavering stare.

"Sit down, Mingi," he said quietly, his voice calm, but the authority in it was unmistakable.

Mingi didn't move, his jaw tight, defiance radiating from him. "Answer me," he demanded. "When does it end?"

The room seemed to hold its breath.

"You think I'm neglecting my responsibility," Hongjoong said, his voice low, even, and far colder than before. He rose slowly, pushing his chair back with a deliberate grace. "You think I'm growing soft. Maybe you're right." His eyes, sharp and cutting, bore into Mingi's. "But everything I do is for this gang's survival. Including ensuring her safety."

Mingi scoffed, disbelief written across his face. "Her? She's not one of us. She's a—"

"Enough," Hongjoong snapped, the steel in his voice cutting through the room like a blade. He stepped closer, towering over Mingi now. "You question my judgement again, and it won't be this quiet." His voice softened, but the danger in it was palpable. "I trust Seonghwa to handle this. And I trust you to remember your place."

For a moment, it seemed as if Mingi might push further, but his best friend, the Enforcer's hand tightened on his arm, a silent plea. He growled in frustration and, after a tense beat, finally sat down, seething but silent.

Seonghwa's calm voice broke the heavy quiet. "I'll handle it, Cap. You've made the right call." He shot a glance at Mingi. "We all want the same thing: to be stronger, united. Let's not lose sight of that."

Hongjoong's shoulders relaxed slightly, though his eyes never left Mingi. "Good," he said, his tone final. "Then it's settled."

As the others filed out, Mingi lingered near the door, shooting one last glare at his leader before leaving without another word. The Captain remained behind, letting out a long breath, the weight of the confrontation pressing on him.

He should have known peace wouldn't last. But as his thoughts turned to you, one question echoed in his mind.

How much more would he have to sacrifice to protect you before it all fell apart?

Fortunately—and unfortunately—you had already found the answer to his unspoken question.

"Hongjoong," you whispered, your voice trembling as it cut through the stillness of the dimly lit library.

The soft glow of the lamps cast gentle shadows over the shelves, wrapping the room in an intimate quiet. Across from you, he sat, his eyes warm and attentive, watching you with that familiar, close-lipped smile—the one that always made your heart stutter. His expression was gentle, full of a quiet tenderness that you both craved and feared.

But tonight, that smile felt like a dagger. It broke something inside you, making what you were about to say hurt even more.

"Yes?" he responded just as softly, his voice a soothing balm you didn't deserve. He leaned forward slightly, the care in his gaze evident, as if you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

You swallowed hard, your fingers trembling as they clutched the delicate bookmark he had given you, your lifeline in this moment of unbearable heaviness. "I'm… I'm all better now," you began, the words sticking in your throat. "I wish to leave. I want to go home."

The change in him was immediate. His smile vanished, and his hand shot across the table, grasping yours before you could pull away. His touch was warm but trembling, desperate. "Wha—where is this coming from?" His voice cracked, panic threading through every word. He hadn't known how long he'd have you by his side, but he never imagined losing you this soon. He wasn't ready. "Was it Mingi? Did he say something to you? I swear to god, if he—"

"No," you interrupted, shaking your head firmly, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. "He didn't do anything." You squeezed his hand, trying to draw strength from the contact. "I just… I think it's time. Time for both of us to return to our own lives."

His grip tightened, his eyes wide with disbelief. "No," he whispered, shaking his head as if refusing to believe your words could make them untrue. "You don't have to do this. You don't need to leave yet. The doctor—I'm having her work on something for the mark. You're not healed, not really."

You bit your lip, his raw emotion tearing through your resolve. You wanted to stay—God, how you wanted to stay—but the memory of that argument was too fresh. You had stood outside the meeting room earlier, waiting for him to finish, only to hear Mingi's voice raised in anger, accusing him of neglect, of weakness. And you had heard Hongjoong's silence—heavy, burdened. You couldn't be the reason for his pain. You couldn't be the weakness he couldn't afford.

"I heard it all," you confessed, voice trembling. "The argument. I know how much I'm complicating things for you." Tears blurred your vision, but you blinked them away. "It's not fair—to you, to them. We're from different worlds, Hongjoong. You and I… we were never going to work." Your voice softened as you finally named what had been unspoken: the feelings between you both.

His face crumpled, the pain etched into every line devastating to witness. "Don't do this," he begged, his voice breaking. "Please… don't."

You closed your eyes, trying to steady your breathing. "This is how we make things right," you whispered. "You wanted to fix what you did, to give me a chance at freedom. This is it."

Silence engulfed the room, thick and suffocating. Slowly, he let go of your hand, as if releasing it would break him entirely. His head bowed, shoulders slumping under the weight of your decision.

"Oh…" It was all he could manage, and the raw pain in that single word nearly undid you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The quiet of the library, once a sanctuary, now felt suffocating. You had made your choice, and you believed it was the right one.

So why did it hurt so much?

"I'm sorry," you whispered, standing from your chair. You hesitated, wanting to offer some kind of solace, but knowing it would only prolong the pain. "Goodnight, Hongjoong."

With every step you took toward the door, it felt as though pieces of your heart were left behind. And when you reached the threshold, you heard it—his broken, whispered plea.

"Don't go."

But you didn't stop. You couldn't. Because sometimes, love wasn't enough.

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As if running from you could change the inevitable, Hongjoong buried himself in work, pouring over plans and strategies like a man determined to forget. Meetings stretched longer, tasks multiplied, and he worked late into the night, ignoring the hollow ache growing in his chest. But no amount of work could silence the truth—or erase the memory of your soft, breaking voice.

He could only run for so long.

One day, the quiet was broken by Jongho's hesitant knock on his office door. The youngest cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably under the Captain's tired gaze. "What is it?" he sighed, leaning back in his chair, trying to mask the weariness in his voice.

Jongho straightened, his eyes darting to the barely open door behind him. Hongjoong followed his gaze and froze. There, framed by the narrow gap, was the unmistakable outline of your back.

"It's her, hyung," Jongho said softly, his tone more hesitant than usual. "She... she asked the doctor to give her one final check. To make sure she's fully healed." He paused, as if reluctant to continue. "She expressed her desire to leave."

The words struck like a blade, sharp and final. For a long moment, Hongjoong said nothing, his eyes locked on the empty doorway as if he could will you to return. But deep down, he knew there was nowhere left to run.

He had been a fool to believe that anything could make you stay. He put himself in your shoes for a fleeting moment, imagining what it must be like. You had a life beyond these walls—a life waiting for you to return. And even if you chose to stay, how long could he truly keep you safe in his dangerous world? How long before the life he led consumed you, too?

And even if, by some miracle, you stayed—would your loved ones ever accept him? A gang leader with blood on his hands and sins too deep to cleanse?

No. The answer was clear.

As much as it tore him apart, he knew this was the mercy you deserved. He couldn't chain you to his darkness, couldn't selfishly hold on when letting go was the only way to truly love you.

"You're right," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "You have a life of your own. I can't ask you to stay."

The Anchor remained silent, watching his leader with a rare softness in his eyes.

Men like him were never meant to love. Not after all the sins he had committed, all the lives he had taken, all the wrongs he could never make right. He didn't deserve you—not your kindness, your laughter, or the warmth you so effortlessly gave.

No matter how much he wished otherwise.

With a heavy sigh, he turned away from the door, his voice steady but hollow. "Thank you, Jongho. I trust you to make the proper arrangements for her departure."

The youngest hesitated for a moment, but when he met the finality in Hongjoong's eyes, he nodded and left quietly, the door clicking shut behind him. Silence settled over the room again, heavy and oppressive—until the door creaked open once more. The gang leader's head snapped up, irritation flashing in his eyes, but it melted away the instant he saw who it was.

You stood hesitantly in the doorway, peeking in like you weren't sure you belonged there anymore.

He shot up from his seat, his movements hurried. "O-oh, it's you. Come in..." His voice softened, and you offered a small, tentative smile as you stepped inside. He gestured toward the worn leather couch. "Please, have a seat."

But you shook your head. "No, I shouldn't stay long. I just… came to thank you for respecting my decision."

He exhaled, a bitter sound escaping his lips. "Don't thank me for that." His voice was low, laced with frustration, though not at you. "It shouldn't have taken me this long to agree. You were right." His lips curved into a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. The pain there was unmistakable, and it clenched your heart painfully. "This… it has to end eventually. After all, I'm the one who did this to you. I can't possibly expect you to return my feelings—"

"Stop," you whispered, closing your eyes, shaking your head as if to ward off the self-loathing in his voice. Too late. You already had returned those feelings, and hearing him like this shattered you. "No, Hongjoong, don't say that. I just..."

He stilled, his gaze searching yours as you opened your eyes and met him, resisting the desperate urge to reach out and cup his face, to pull him into the comfort you knew he craved. But you couldn't. So instead, you smiled, soft but trembling, and extended a hand toward him.

"I'm feeling a little hungry," you said gently, your voice trembling just enough to betray your emotions. "Want to have dinner together?"

For a moment, he simply stared at you, as if unsure if he had heard correctly. But how could he possibly say no? Besides, this could very well be your last meal together. Everything else could wait—damn it all.

Until the moment you were safely returned home, you were all that mattered to him.

Just until tomorrow.

Jongho had arranged your ride back tomorrow.

Hongjoong couldn't pretend anymore. He knew this would likely be the last time he'd have you like this, in this fragile peace. So, tonight, he let the walls fall. He no longer resisted the urges that had haunted him for weeks. When he reached out to feed you, gently wiping a stray bit of food from the corner of your lips, you didn't flinch. When he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips brushing your skin with a tenderness that made his chest ache, you didn't pull away.

And you didn't say a word. You just let him.

By the end of the meal, when he saw the glimmer of hesitation in your eyes—knowing you were preparing to retreat to your room—he acted quickly, grasping your hand before you could leave. His touch was firm but not forceful, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, almost pleading.

"Would you like to… walk with me?"

You looked at him for a moment, your eyes searching his as if trying to memorise everything about this moment. Then, wordlessly, you nodded. He led you through the grand halls of the mansion, out to the sprawling, maze-like garden, where the soft glow of lanterns illuminated the paths.

Your hands remained entwined the entire time.

The garden was silent except for the rustle of leaves in the breeze. He guided you to the centre, where a marble fountain stood, the gentle sound of water trickling into the basin adding to the quiet serenity. Clearing a spot on the cold concrete, he shrugged off his blazer, laying it down carefully before gesturing for you to sit. You did, settling beside him as the horizon stretched before you, bathed in soft, silver moonlight.

"This is nice," you murmured, breaking the silence, your voice almost lost in the cool night air.

He smiled, his gaze softening. "It is, isn't it?"

For a while, neither of you spoke. The dim lanterns cast a golden glow, wrapping you both in a warmth that felt almost unreal. Slowly, as if afraid you might slip away, he placed his hand over yours once again. This time, your fingers intertwined naturally, effortlessly, as though they had always belonged that way.

No words were necessary. Every touch, every glance, spoke of everything you felt but couldn't say.

Your heart raced as you turned toward him, only to find he was already watching you. His eyes were dark, filled with emotions you didn't dare name. He leaned in, bit by bit, closing the space between you. Your breath hitched, trembling, but you didn't move away.

"Just for tonight," he whispered, his voice rough and raw. "Can we be together? Just for tonight."

Your eyes burned with unshed tears, your heart aching with the weight of the unspoken goodbye. You nodded, your voice barely above a breath.

"Please."

And then, there was no more distance between you.

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The morning light streamed softly through the curtains, painting the room in golden hues. Hongjoong stirred awake, the weight of sleep heavier than usual, but a comforting warmth grounded him. Instinctively, he snuggled closer, burying his face into the inviting scent that had become his solace.

It took only a moment for the realisation to hit him. The feminine scent, delicate and intoxicating, filled his senses. His heart skipped a beat as he opened his eyes to find you still in his arms, your back pressed against his chest, your breathing soft and even.

For a long moment, he stayed still, simply taking you in—the way your hair spilt over the pillow, the peaceful rise and fall of your shoulders, the warmth that radiated from you. Leaning closer, he pressed a tender kiss to your bare shoulder, the memory of last night rushing back like a tidal wave.

Kisses. Endless, intoxicating kisses, your lips against his as if you were trying to fill every unspoken word between you. His fingers tangled in your hair, your hands gripping his shirt, neither of you willing to let go. The clumsy, desperate stumbling through those kisses until you landed on the expanse of his king-sized bed—so often feeling too big, too empty for just one.

Articles of clothing had been shed piece by piece, carelessly scattered across the floor. And then… pure, unrestrained bliss. The feel of your skin against his, the soft sighs and whispered names, the way your bodies moved together like they were meant to fit. It was a night he would never forget, and one he knew he could never have again.

He swallowed hard as reality settled in. It was bittersweet, finally knowing what it was like to have you this close, only to face the cruel truth that he would have to let it all go soon. His gaze fell on the mark on your soft skin, the one that started it all, and he sighed deeply.

It was the right thing to do.

He repeated the mantra in his head, clinging to it like a lifeline. You deserved more—someone who could give you the kind of life you were meant to have, one without fear, without shadows. Someone who wasn't him.

But for now, just for this fleeting moment, he allowed himself to be selfish. He tightened his hold on you, his arm curling around your waist as if he could stop time by keeping you close. He etched every detail into his mind: the way your warmth seeped into him, the way your presence calmed his restless heart, the way this morning felt like a fragile dream he never wanted to wake from.

Because soon, it would all be over.

And he would have nothing left but these memories.

His temporary haven shattered with a jarring intrusion. The door to his bedroom flew open, and Jongho rushed in, his expression a mix of concern and urgency. "Hyung, she's not in her room—"

The Anchor's voice faltered mid-sentence as his eyes landed on you, curled up in his leader's embrace. The man sat up quickly, pulling the blanket to cover you to your neck, his glare sharp enough to cut steel. Jongho froze like a deer caught in headlights, his usual composure obliterated by the scene before him.

You stirred at the commotion, blinking yourself awake. It didn't take long to realise what had happened. Your cheeks flushed a deep red as you scrambled to free yourself from the blanket and darted off to the attached bathroom. "Excuse me," you mumbled hastily, your voice barely above a whisper, before closing the door behind you.

Jongho stood awkwardly, visibly cringing under Hongjoong's icy glare. "I didn't mean to—"

"Out," the Captain growled, his voice low and dangerous.

The youngest didn't need to be told twice. With a quick bow, he fled the room, muttering apologies under his breath.

Hongjoong exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples as the weight of the morning settled on his shoulders. Deciding to give you the privacy you needed, he rose from the bed, grabbed his robe, and slipped it on before leaving the room.

As he stepped into the hall, he was greeted by none other than the Firestarter, leaning casually against the wall with a smirk plastered across his face.

"Had fun, Cap?" Mingi drawled, his voice laced with mockery. "Hope that pussy was worth everything."

Hongjoong's expression darkened instantly, his eyes narrowing into a glare that could rival a storm. "Speak for yourself, Song," he shot back, his voice steady but laced with venom. "Come mock me when you don't need an exiled noblewoman to save your ass time and time again."

Mingi's smirk faltered as Hongjoong took a step closer, his words cutting like daggers. "Don't think I haven't heard about your multiple near-failures. At least I haven't fucked up anything critical. Also," he added, his tone dropping into something bitter and final, "she's leaving today. I hope you're happy."

The weight of Hongjoong's words left Mingi speechless, his cool façade crumbling. His jaw tightened as he struggled to muster a response, but nothing coherent came to mind.

Clearing his throat, he straightened and forced a shrug, attempting to reclaim his composure. "About damn time. Good riddance," he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual edge. Without another word, he turned and stalked off, leaving the gang leader standing there, his chest tight and his mind racing.

As much as he loathed the confrontation, he couldn't help but feel a bitter sense of satisfaction. At least now, Mingi might think twice before throwing careless words around. But the victory was hollow, his thoughts quickly returning to you.

With a deep sigh, he leaned against the wall, his fingers tracing the edge of his robe. The hours ahead loomed like a storm on the horizon, and he knew they would be some of the hardest he'd ever faced.

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The air was thick with the weight of unspoken emotions as the black car idled behind you, its engine a soft hum against the gloomy backdrop. The overcast sky seemed to mirror the heaviness in both your hearts, the grey clouds threatening rain at any moment. You stood before Hongjoong, your trusty tote bag slung over your shoulder, dressed simply but beautifully, your hair pulled into a messy yet endearing style. You tried to smile, but it trembled at the edges, betraying the storm within.

Neither of you spoke right away, the silence filled with everything you wanted to say but couldn't. Instead, you reached into your bag, pulling out the glass flower charm—the delicate token you had cherished for so long.

"Give me your hand," you murmured softly.

He stepped closer without hesitation, his hand extended between you. The roughness of his palm contrasted sharply with the fragility of the charm as you placed it gently into his hand. His fingers curled around it instinctively, the same hand that once had only known destruction now cradling something so delicate with utmost care.

"For you," you said, your voice steady but laden with emotion. "It's no marigold, but—"

He cut you off with a bittersweet smile, the pain in his eyes unmistakable. "I'll cherish it," he promised, his voice quiet but resolute, as though the words themselves were a vow.

He didn't let go of your hand, his grip warm and steady. You nodded, returning his smile. "Good. Treat it with care," you said, stepping closer, your proximity making his breath hitch.

The scent of his familiar cologne wrapped around you as you leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek. Your lips brushed against his skin as you whispered, "You did it, Joong. You made it all right."

His eyes fluttered closed, savouring the moment, the warmth of your presence etching itself into his memory. But then, as much as he wanted to keep you there, you pulled away gently, slipping out of his grasp.

Your backward steps toward the waiting car felt like a slow unravelling, each step tugging at the threads of his heart. He fought every instinct to run to you, to pull you back into his arms and beg you to stay, but he knew he couldn't.

As you slid into the car and shut the door, he stood rooted to the spot, his chest tight, his fists clenched at his sides. He watched helplessly as the car began to roll forward, taking you further and further from him until you were nothing but a distant blur.

"It's for the best," he whispered to himself, though the words felt hollow. "You did the right thing."

The sound of approaching footsteps broke through his haze of sorrow. Turning, he found one of his men standing hesitantly nearby. "Boss," the man said carefully, "we received an update from Seonghwa. His visit to the Red Room is going to be extended due to... undisclosed circumstances."

And just like that, Hongjoong was thrust back into the chaos of his world. He nodded, his voice cold and detached. "Got it. I'll speak with the others."

He turned and strode back toward the mansion, his steps purposeful despite the turmoil inside him. His men watched him carefully, unsure if the heartbreak would erupt into anger, but he remained composed, his demeanour unreadable.

Once inside, he glanced down at the delicate charm still resting in his palm. It caught the dim light of the hall, glinting faintly like the remnants of a dream. His grip tightened around it, not enough to damage it, but enough to ground himself.

It hurt—god, it hurt—but he found solace in the fact that he had been able to love again, even if only briefly. He didn't know how long it would take for the ache to fade, perhaps it never would, but one thing was certain: he would never forget you.

ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

The dim light of the room cast long shadows across the walls, the flickering of a single desk lamp providing the only illumination. The figure leaned back in his chair, his gloved fingers tapping rhythmically against the polished wood of the table. Before him lay a folder, its contents an intricate web of intel painstakingly gathered. At the very top, clipped securely, was a photograph of the Black Pirates.

The leader's face was circled in white ink—a mark of vulnerability disguised as power.

"Seems we've secured the Captain's weakness right from the start," the figure murmured, a sinister grin spreading across his face. His tone carried a disturbing mixture of amusement and certainty as he flipped the folder shut, the sound of paper against paper breaking the tense silence.

A subordinate stood nearby, his posture stiff, his eyes darting to the file with barely concealed curiosity. "Should we proceed then, sir?" he asked, his voice low but eager.

The figure chuckled, a sound devoid of warmth, and shook his head. "There's no hurry," he replied, his gloved hand resting atop the closed file like a predator savouring its next move. "Time is what we've got. Let them believe they've found their footing. Let them think they're safe."

He pushed the file to the side, leaning forward, his grin widening as his eyes gleamed with cruel intent. "We'll gather them all, one by one. No need to rush—it's always better when the prey doesn't see the trap until it's too late."

The subordinate nodded, though a hint of unease flickered across his features. "Understood, sir."

The figure reached for a glass of whiskey sitting untouched on the desk, swirling the amber liquid as if it contained the answers to every question. "Patience," he said, almost to himself, his voice low and reverent. "Patience wins wars. Let's see how far the mighty gang can go when their carefully constructed world begins to crumble."

He raised the glass in a mock toast, the light catching the golden liquid. "To the Black Pirates. And to the beginning of their end."

The room fell silent again, the only sound the faint creak of the leather chair as the figure leaned back, eyes fixed on the file. Somewhere, far from the machinations of this dark plot, Hongjoong might have felt a shiver down his spine. But for now, he was blissfully unaware, the weight of his loss still fresh, the memory of your departure his only torment.

And so, the game began.

Would you believe it? About 90% of this was drafted in a sleep-deprived state HAHA the first thing I do as soon as I get home from work is write this, so I genuinely hope this met expectations!

Are you or are you not surprised by the lack of a happy ending? If you know me well (especially readers who have been here since TWTHH), you probably saw this coming🤠

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

General ATEEZ Tag list:

@aurasblue @marievllr-abg @itsvxlentine @minghaoslatina @huachengsbestie01

@evidive @weedforthoughtz @minkiflwr @cheolliehugs @ho3-for-yunho

@the-kpop-simp @itstheghostofmypast @vantediary @green-agent @skzline

@sharksandminhos @writingwieny @heyitsmetonid @tinyteezer @hollxe1

@pandabur666 @vampzity @tournesol155 @lilactangerine @oddracha

@haven-cove @idfkeddieishot @vic0921 @vnessalau @apriecotte

@bangtannie7 @vtyb23 @khjoongie98 @scuzmunkie @anxiousskylar

@bunny4yungi @zl-world @quailbagutte @astudyoftimeywimeystuff

By Order of the Black Pirates Tag list:

@bethelighthalazia @tsunchani @starboyyoongi @soulphoenix1618 @dimeb29

@naps-over-degree @uniq-tastic @baeksofty @hanoishere @star-my

@skteezcursed @soocore @mountiiny @londonbridges01 @lemon-sage17

@ffenjoyerdazme @frequentlykit @callmeagardengnome @side-angel @byeolttongbye0l

@cotton-candycloudz @foxinnie8 @atinyreads @iwishiwasrichasfuck @sansaurora9904

#edenesth #by order of the black pirates #the captain #ice on my teeth #ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #gang au #kim hongjoong #hongjoong x reader #ateez fic

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myfandomprompts · 1 year ago

Text

Unhealthy Addiction

(drugdealer!Aemond x Reader)

Synopsis: Your sister is a drug addict, at the mercy of a dreaded drug dealer group led by a mysterious man. When you decide to save your sister from this life that kills her, you didn’t expect to build a whole other addiction to a perfect stranger.

A/N: Just some illogical & weird moderndark!Aemond smut in the October mood.

Words: 5.6k Masterlist

Warnings: dirty talk, dom, oral , vaginal, fingering, manipulation, possessive, begging, light bdsm, slight mention of drugs, praising

Your sister was at her lowest.

She kept screaming at you, scaring the neighbours, alarming the entire street when she went into one of her tantrums and you didn’t know what to do. She was hurting, a pain that only something chemical could ease and you refused to indulge her. This was all she had in mind, getting that fix, and she didn’t mind doing the most violent things, saying the cruellest things to you in order to plead her case.

She kept screaming how she could not be done, how she bought all the drugs from this scary guy, that he convinced her to sell for him. That she couldn’t refuse.

She had no control over herself anymore, but you didn't back down, you had to get her clean.

So you decided that you would take care of it for her.

You made her tell you where she got it from, a shady little place on Silk Street with shady people going around all day and night with business even the police didn’t even dare looking into as you forced her down to the ER. If it was the last link that tied her to this life and her addiction, you would cut it, and, as she dozed off in her hospital bed, you rushed to her flat in apprehension, grabbing the bag full of those terrifying substances and heading down to Silk Street.

You knew it was a bad idea, but you knew you had to do it. You just had to give the bag back, explain to them that your sister wanted nothing to do with them anymore, pay up whatever amount was necessary to make them forget about her and leave.

How naive you were.

You knock on the scruffy-looking door with a trembling hand, the chilly night already settling around you as dogs barked in the distance.

The door creaks open, dim light filtering through a slim screen of smoke that comes out of the messy room. The few people inside look concerningly calm, the soothing electronic music making their head bob inconsistently as the smell of weed slowly reaches you and tickles your nose.

“What?” the huge man at the door says in a flat tone, tattoos on his face but alert eyes strained on you.

“I… have stuff to give back to you,” you courageously state, staring back at him with all the fierceness you could muster and only earning an unimpressed look.

You owed it to your sister, you could do it.

He gauges your appearance mercilessly, unfit for this place and only when you take out the heavy plastic bag out of your purse does he nod silently and step aside to let you in.

You retain a cough, the scent of smoke becoming much stronger as you enter and making your eyes sting. Several pairs of eyes which weren’t hooded and gazing into the void looked lazily at you, eyes so dark there was no more colour in them, swallowed by the blackness of their centre. Two or three men stared at you like they would jump at you at the first false movement while the few women present were half laying on the couches, mouth open in what looked like delight, but you knew better.

A chill goes up your spine, hearing the door close behind you in a sharp snap while you feel the air shift around you.

You did not belong here.

“Who are you?”

The man came out of nowhere, brown skin and brown eyes, luxurious dark hair falling to the side of his face and all dressed in white with a heavy chain hanging around his neck. He scrutinises you, looking you up and down with a judgmental frown.

“It doesn’t matter,” you state after a difficult swallow. “I’m here to return this.”

The man eyes the bag you extend to him, a flash of recognition passing through his features but he doesn’t take it, rather deepening his frown. “Where did you get this?”

You bite your lips, growing uneasy under his gaze. All that you wanted was to leave this place as quickly as possible, even if you had to lie to achieve that. “Maria doesn’t want to do this anymore, and we don’t want any problems. So I’m doing the right thing, and returning it to you.”

The man sneers, an amused smile dancing on his lips and you tense. “Yeah, I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, sweetheart. You’re her sister, aren’t you?”

You don’t have time to answer as the man at the door approaches him with a serious look on his face, ignoring you. “Cole, the boss is back.”

“Perfect timing, he’ll want to see this,” the man named Cole answers without taking his eyes off you. “You’re coming with me, sweetheart. We’ll sort this out, don’t worry.”

You could feel it, the trap closing in on you as he takes the bag from your hands and turns away for you to follow him. “I just want to give you this and leave. Please.”

He gives you an uninterested look over his shoulder, shrugging. “It’s not up to me.”

You shiver as panic starts to fill your nerves, the desire to flee, to run becoming stronger but you make the sensible choice and do as you’re told.

He leads you into a cold-lighted room where the sole wide window is draped with a thick grey curtain and blocks your view of the humid night. The carpet floor is dirty, rendering you uncomfortable as you advance further into the room, chairs and stools stacked along the walls and an old looking desk standing at the opposite side. Even the huge couch below the window isn’t welcoming, the mess on the low table in front of it is filled with objects you don’t recognise.

You shouldn't be here.

Cole throws the bag on the table unceremoniously, the sound startling you as he commands you to wait. “Don’t touch anything.”

You try to settle your breathing, the room suffocating you as you realise that you are stuck, led there by a fool’s hope of coming to an understanding with these men, with dangerous people. You recall the frightened look on your sister’s face as she yelled at you, saying that she couldn’t fail them, couldn’t upset them.

Maybe you should have listened to her. Maybe you should have been scared too.

Muffled whispers filter through the door over the faint music, making you turn around with renewed anxiety as you recognise Cole’s voice. You know your time is running out, and you have no idea what’s going to happen. But then the door opens and you freeze.

It isn’t Cole, but someone much taller, leaner, terrifyingly attractive.

He has long silver hair, silk cascading down over his shoulders that are wrapped around a dark green vest. He wears black trousers, matching with his tee-shirt that clings to his form and contrasts with his skin, fair and white. He effortlessly radiated an unsettling confidence, which you could feel even from a distance, making every muscle in your body tense, and you don’t know where to look. He hasn't even spoken yet.

His eyes are fixed on you, a perverted glow shining within them but you can’t meet it, too focused on the angular features of his face, on how flawless his marble skin and thin red lips look under the dim light. Everything about him is captivating, from his collarbone that peaks from under his shirt to the long scar that runs across his left cheek and further up his eye.

At this moment, you understood why your sister had been scared.

He stares at you for a while before finally smiling briefly in unconcealed satisfaction and closing the door. You don’t move, too stunned to utter a single word as he slowly walks towards the table to pick up the plastic bag and examine it closely, humming to himself. You watch, speechless, noticing the red marks over his knuckles, the bruises that stain his fist and you swallow the taste of iron in your mouth.

The bag is carelessly dropped again as he reaches for a cigarette within his vest without a word, fingers enticingly coming to trap it between his lips and you’re hypnotised, desperate for him to acknowledge you, to say something. But then he flicks the lighter, casting an orange flame on the upper side of his face and you can’t help but gasp.

Unnoticed in the dim light, you can see it now, see how one of his eyes shimmers an icy blue, while the other one shone darker, deeper.

Blue as the night sky.

“You’re Maria’s sister?”

His voice makes you jump, his deep and velvety tone making the hair stand at the back of your neck and your heart race in your chest.

“Y-Yes,” you stammer, words coming out of your throat in strained sounds. “Yes, I am.”

He nods, one corner of his lips curving upwards slightly as he takes a drag, making a thin curtain of smoke escape his sharp nose. “And you’re here because…?”

You manage to swallow the lump in your throat as he draws closer, intelligent eyes searching your features, making you hyper aware of how small you are compared to him. “I… just want to give the drugs back, so she can leave this part of her life behind. We won’t cause any trouble, I-I promise.”

He stops inches in front of you, his body going rigid as his eyes turn a shade of black, making you take a step back in reaction. “And what makes you think I can let that happen?”

You widen your eyes at the soft-spoken threat, freezing as you cower under his gaze.

He sees this. It makes him smile.

“Relax, kitten. I'm not going to hurt you…” he says in the same unsettling tone as his blue eye lowers to the way your chest heaves under your shirt. “It’s just… not how we do things. When you take my stuff, you make a commitment, and you have to go all the way through with it or you get punished. There is no return policy.”

You could see it now, right beneath the scar, the gemstone shoved inside of his eye socket, as blue as the starless sky. It glowed softly, beautifully, and you were left to wonder how a man like him could be so dangerously pretty.

You urgently chase the thought away, slapping yourself internally as you feel yourself shrink under his gaze. “She can’t-,” you try uselessly, feeling the noose slowly constricting around your neck. “I understand, but I’ll pay for you to take it back. I beg of you, it represents almost nothing for you. Please…”

Something noticeably shifts in his eye at your last word, his nostrils flaring as he takes some time to compose himself before asking. “What’s your name?”

You hesitate, thrown off by the question and unable to come up with the simple answer and he grows impatient at your silence. He takes a firm step forward, making the back of your knee hit the chair behind you as the faint heat from the tip of his cigarette reaches your sides somewhere over the skin of your hand.

“What’s. Your. Name?” he repeats slowly, a hint of darkness in his voice.

“Y/N,” you finally blurt out, barely hearing your own voice as he claims your space like it’s his own, prowling.

His lips form silent syllables as he repeats your name to himself, finally satisfied. “And do you know mine, kitten?”

You silently shake your head, feeling excitement rise at the prospect of knowing, shameful eagerness taking hold of your mind, not thinking for a second that it might anger him.

But he only clicks his tongue in disapproval, watching you like you’re nothing more than a nuisance. “I’m Aemond, and if you had known that, kitten, you wouldn’t be here. Because everybody fucking knows I don’t take things back.”

Your nerves stir in renewed fright as his words ring like a death sentence in your ears. You have to find something, anything that would suit him, please him, but your mind draws a blank, the intensity of his gaze holding you in place. You remain silent as he takes a drag from his cigarette, not tearing his eye from you and when he suddenly turns away, it leaves a cold trail of chills along your spine.

You let out a quiet sigh of relief, your lungs burning from your previous lack of air as he wanders around the room.

“I take it you don’t use?” he says unexpectedly as he crushes his cigarette in the ashtray before taking the bag again on the table, drawing a round white pill out with his usual soft tone.

“No…” you answer weakly as he rolls the pill between his fingers, your eyes following the movement, transfixed.

“Mh… You’re one of those… The ones that don’t take wrong turns, the good girls.”

The stress that had settled between your ribs turns into something warmer at the calling, his tone inexplicably making the last ounce of courage you have left emerge.

“If I didn’t take any wrong turns, I wouldn't have ended up here.”

He stills, his eye darting towards you like a single-eyed hawk and you bite your lips in instant regret, almost drawing blood as teeth sink into the thin flesh. His eye lowers to it and you instantly let go with a bashful expression.

He chuckles darkly, a devious smirk appearing on his features and you blink. “See, this is where you’re wrong. I don’t think you’ve realised the opportunity you just walked into… Y/N.”

You feel your stomach turn as reality hits you, your worst fear taking shape right in front of your eyes. Whatever he wanted with you, you could not let it happen, you could not fail your sister and get into the system like she did. She needed you. “Please, Aemond, I only want to be square with you and-”

There was a loud sound, plastic being crushed under immense force as his hand wrapped around the bag and violently squeezed. He took a deep shaky breath, his flashing gaze fixed on you as his knuckles turned white under the pressure. But it was gone seconds later, acting like it had never happened as he dropped the bag and started walking towards you.

“I used, once. This is how it all began,” he stated, a single slender finger brushing the edge of the table as he advanced. “I wasn’t really addicted, but I knew it was enough to cloud my mind, to make me believe that I needed it. But do you want to know what I really need, kitten? Why I stopped?”

You tried to hold his gaze when he lifted a single heated eye at you, excited by his little story, excited by something. He was in his element, he had the upper hand, he knew he was in control. You were only a slave to the fiery blood in your veins.

His finger had reached your arm by the time you registered his question, looming over it like a reverse magnet, untouching. He smiles when he sees chills prickle over your skin there, right before his pupils spread wider, an ink drop in water and you hold your breath.

“I like people begging me. I like the desperation in their voices, their scared little expressions as they mutter pathetic excuses, their pleas as I beat them…” You can feel the thrill in his tone, the pleasure that radiates off him, and you gasp when his finger finally touches your skin, burning. “I like hearing them beg me when they realise there is no escape, when they realise I’m the only solution, that I alone can give them what they want…I like this sensation of control, and I need to feel it on my own terms. Without any substances."

His hand has travelled down your arm, finding your pulse and you feel the thrumming of your heart meet his fingertips, pressing the delicate vein there. You wonder if he can feel your blood running within it, hot and wild.

“You know, when Cole told me there was a lost pretty girl that wanted a refund, I laughed and could not wait to scare that girl. How naive she must be, how foolish. Coming here, wanting nothing more but to protect her poor little sister, asking what I cannot grant you, thinking you’ll get out of it like it’s nothing and not realising the mess you’re in. Just… perfect.”

You want to talk, argue, but you had stopped breathing altogether when his face leans slightly closer to your shoulder and you hear him breathe in your scent, humming within your neck.

“But then, here you are… Pleading me, not once, but three times, kitten, with your sweet little tone of yours and I just-” he inhales brusquely, his pupil now completely blown out as you tremble beneath him. When he manages to talk again, his voice has dropped several octaves lower, guttural. “And now, let’s say that scaring you is not the only thing I want to do to you.”

The air feels sucked out of the room as tension fills it, palpable within the silence and you retain a whimper. His hold on your wrist turns stronger, as if to mark it, your pulse constricted beneath his fingers and you suddenly feel dizzy, gravity pulling you backward as you lose balance. You drop in the chair behind you like a stringless marionette, overthrown by him and his overwhelming presence.

He doesn’t flinch, neither does he comment as he leans over you, strong arms resting on the armrests at each side of you, trapping you as if he had planned everything. You huff when the tip of his hair grazes the skin of your cleavage, a silver curtain dropping under his face.

“So we're going to try this once…. Say please to me again, and I might reconsider your sister's situation.”

A ray of hope cuts through your foggy mind at his words, determination spurring within you as your treacherous tongue already rolls to form the words, eager to please him despite the lack of air in your lungs. “Please...”

The wood at your side cracks as he tightens his grip on the armrest, a repressed hiss dying within his throat as he composes himself again, hooded eye fixed on you, smothering.

“Hm… Yes,” he breathes, content visible on his features. “But the thing is, kitten, your sister was useful to me. She had access to people I didn’t, people like you. I’m sure you can see why it’s difficult for me to let her go.”

You know he is taunting you, dragging out what he wants from you and you know you have no choice but to indulge him, you need to indulge him. “She won’t survive if she keeps on, please.”

You can feel it, the pleasure he takes out of it, the delectable sensation he draws from your words as he licks his lips, a devious smirk tugging at them as he speaks slowly. “And what about you… Kitten?”

The near whisper makes your spine go rigid, his nose coming to loom over the junction of your jaw and you truly try to answer. “I- I don’t understand…”

He is the first to notice as his eyes are drawn to the sudden movement of your body under him: how tightly your thighs are clenched together, how tense you are as you shift, muscle tenses.

You blush shamefully, untying your legs to try to soothe the ache there as well as the heat pooling between them. He lifts a knowing eyebrow, observing you with excitement. "Hm�� Not such a good girl after all, are you, kitten?”

He slowly lowers himself, broad hands coming to stroke the length of your thighs from your knees to your hips, the heat of his palms scorching you through your jeans and you repress a whimper, failing. “Did begging me turn you on, kitten?”

His voice is hoarse, playful. You notice his own arousal pressing against the fabric of his pants and it makes your legs widen, watching helplessly as your body responds to your primal urges. “Do you need me to touch you? Is that what you want?”

You struggle, trying to fight what had been evolving since he had entered the room but you find yourself overpowered by your desire, submerged by it. "Yes…"

He arches his eyebrow higher. "Yes, what?"

"Yes, please."

He almost groans as he slowly comes to unbutton your jeans, a warm hand sliding under it and your stomach tenses when he connects with your dampness. "Fuck, kitten. Do you want to say please to me again?”

He rises, giving himself a better angle as he comes to close his face over yours, suffocating as he waits for an answer out of you. When you give him none, he proceeds to grab your chin, pressing your cheeks between his fingers as he continues to stroke the heat between your thighs.

His face is close as he breathes your ragged breaths. “Lost your tongue?”

His gaze is unforgiving, his lips parted in delectation as you moan under him, and you suddenly feel the need to taste them, to chase them.

The movement makes him pull back, tutting as he grips your cheeks tighter. “That was bad. Very bad of you.”

You let out a plaintive whimper when he steps away, his hands departing your wet core and mouth as he comes to stand before you, jaw hanging low, slightly panting. His gaze is fixed on your glistening skin despite the harshness of it, a punishing glare within his eye as he lowers his jeans and briefs in order to free his bulging girth. You feel your mouth salivate as he starts pumping himself in wide long strokes, gaze transfixed on your face.

You’re unable to look away, heaving and hands gripping the wood of the chair tightly. You don’t realise the grinding of your hips against the surface of the chair, unconsciously chasing for what he robbed you of, wanting.

“Stop that,” he commands in a strained voice as precum starts leaking from his tip. You immediately obey, your body stilling as he comes closer, a pang hitting your core at the sight of his continuous movement over him. “You want a taste, kitten?”

One of his hands reaches for your hair, fingers tangling in them softly as he continues to stroke himself steadily, looking down at you with parted lips and he almost purrs when you nod bashfully. He guides you on the floor, eyes blown wide as he makes you kneel before him by a slight pull of your hair. You lick your lips in expectation, soothed by his hand within your strands and feeling the heat radiating off of him.

You feel warmth spread within your cheek as you approach but he suddenly yanks your hair strongly, holding you into place in a hiss. “Then beg for it.”

He has stopped his ministrations over himself, rather squeezing the base of his shaft and making the already swollen tip inflate with blood as he watches you with a harsh and wild blue eye. You have to swallow the saliva that has accumulated in your mouth to talk. “Please, I want you in my mouth, Aemond.”

He groans as he lets go of his throbbing cock and loosen his hold over your scalp, allowing you to finally run a playful tongue along his length and wrap your hands around him, appeased by the sounds you draw out of him. “That’s it… Good girl.”

You try to go slow, hollowing your cheeks while you take him deeper and deeper, but as the minutes pass you feel the pressure of his hand in your hair tighten. The next moment he is claiming your mouth, making his tip hit at the back of your throat in loud lewd sounds as well as gag several times before he lets you go with a low growl.

You try to settle your breathing again as he wipes the single thread of saliva that connects you to his cock before probing you up by your chin, chest heaving in lust. “Do you even know how good that begging mouth feels? Do you even realise?”

You only feel the aching inside of your lower stomach heighten through your daze, and your mouth forms lazy words you don’t know the purpose of, blinking weakly. “Please, Aemond…”

“Fuck, kitten. Are you going to ask me to fuck you, is that it? Is that what you want to say?”

His thumb grazes the side of your jaw and you barely acknowledge his length against your hip, hot against your flesh. “I- Yes.”

A low grumble escapes his mouth right before you’re pushed on the sofa without warning, his hands rushing to get rid of his vest and pants before tugging at yours, forcing you to dig your hands into the cushions as he bends you over.

You quiver as your skin is met with the cool air but the next moment he moulds his chest against your back and you freeze, his mouth coming to position inches from your ear as a rough hand grabs your throat from behind, squeezing.

“From now on, kitten, you beg me for everything. You want to be touched? You beg me. You want to touch me? You beg me. You want my cock? You say please. You want to cum? You fucking ask permission. You’re gonna be extra polite for me, you understand?”

You let out a strained sound against his fingers he takes for an affirmation before taking hold of your hips, not wasting a second to align himself near your entrance and you exhale in want as he lets go of your neck. Your fists clutch the fabric of the sofa as he runs his length against your folds once, twice, and you can’t help but close your eyes in frustration, feeling his pleasure growing at what he knows you’re about to say. “Please…”

You hear his satisfied growl as his fingers presses deeper into your flesh and you let out a quick gasp as he plunges into you in a swift stroke, quickly replaced by needy moans as you feel the ache in your loins sharpen. He fills you, his thrusts growing from controlled to erratic, faint praises whispered through the sounds of smacking flesh as he roams his hand over your back, and soon you feel your muscles pulse around him in building tension.

It makes him tighten at once behind you, fingers bruising the flesh of your ass as he suddenly withdraws and with a few last strokes, spills onto your back with a ragged groan.

“Fuck, look at the mess you’ve made…” he tuts while you whimper from the sudden loss, feeling your walls pulsating over nothing as he watches his cock glistens with your fluids. “You don’t care about being dirty, do you? You just like being a good girl.”

You whine again as he spreads his seed over your lower back soothingly, not caring for the stains but rather snaking a hand under your shirt, cupping one of your breasts to squeeze it as you wiggle under him, his name on your tongue.

“What is it, kitten? Do you need to cum?” he purrs as he caresses your breast firmly, hoisting you up against him.

“Yes please, please…”

His hold tightens, his face coming close to your neck and you can feel his hot breath on your cheek as he coos. “Prettier.”

The heat in your stomach thickens, heart racing against your ribcage in nervousness and you melt into his embrace. “P-Please, I need to cum. I need you to make me cum.”

He hums in satisfaction as he turns you around, flattening you against the back of the couch and yanking your shirt over your head as he spreads your legs, his jaw dropping in elation when he slides two fingers inside of you, making your head fall back with a loud moan. Your legs barely hold you as he rubs his thumb over your clit at a consuming pace, his long fingers finding the rough spot within you as if he had known it all of his life, and you’re soon panting heavily.

His gaze is fixed on your face, enjoying every moment, every painful expression as you’re closing on your high, waiting for you to say exactly what he wants and when he feels your walls clenching around his fingers, he stops, violently squeezing your inside between his three digits.

You wail at the sensation, meeting his harsh gaze and fascinated eye and soon you let out a strained sob, your inside muscles constricting painfully. “Aren’t you forgetting something, kitten?”

You swallow with difficulty as he smiles, his grip on you merciless, unmoving and you feel your legs tremble. “Please, don’t stop, I want- I need to cum. Please, I beg you.”

“Good girls ask permission, remember?” he grunts as he starts his movement again, rough digits now too slow on your wetness. “Try again.”

“Can I please… cum,” you plead in a strained sob, gripping the back of the couch more tightly but when he starts stroking your insides again, you see nothing but white, the coiling sensation within your core finally snapping and he doesn’t stop until you’re a puddle under him, letting you sink on the couch in a ghosting embrace.

“That’s it,” he soothes, grazing your waist and breast before gently making you suck on his fingers after the last shockwaves of your climax, tasting yourself through your heavy breaths. “Such an obedient little kitten.”

You slowly start to get the control of your legs back as he wipes some sweat out of your hair, but his gaze is nothing but soothing. “Fuck, look how hard you made me again, with you begging me so sweetly…”

He slowly runs one of his hands up your thigh, his hardening state hitting your flesh briefly before he lifts your knees up, positioning his weight over each of your thighs and you blink in anticipation, too dazed to utter a word. You angle yourself better against his body, the only confirmation he needs before he plunges into you again, this time his desire is too strong to wait for you to find your composure back.

It burns, vividly so, your swollen flesh barely recovered from your previous climax and you start moaning loudly, your hand rushing to your mouth to stop the embarrassing sounds from escaping your throat.

Two hands come to snap it away, lacing them over your head in a secure hold and you sink your teeth in your flesh when you meet his fierce gaze, the roll of his hips unfaltering. “No no no, kitten. Let them hear you, hear how desperate you are for my cock, how much you like begging for it.”

“Kiss me.”

He recoils slightly, his thrust slowing gradually as his single eye widen, the black of it taking over. “I don’t kiss my pets.”

“Please...”

Your voice sounds broken, a hint of determination within it that makes him blink and you can clearly see him battling himself for a moment before he crashes his lips against yours. The suddenness of it makes you moan against him as he devours you, the roll of his hips starting again deeper, needier.

It hits every right spot despite the overstimulation and soon you feel a numbness take hold of you, goosebumps spreading over your body. “Aemond, I’m going to-”

He grunts against your mouth as his hand comes to play with your breast again, freeing one of your own in the process that you bring to his face, stroking the smooth skin there along with the scar that marks his cheek. “You’re not cumming yet, I need you to wait a little while longer, alright kitten?”

His thrust slows again and you feel the pleasurable pain of being denied once more, filled by the need to obey him. “I can’t-”

“Don’t you dare cum before I say so, be a good girl and wait for my fucking permission, you understand?”

You close your eyes in a tremendous effort not to let the stretching sensation of him rocking inside of you overcome you too fast, your back arching under him and you feel his free hand flatten against your stomach to immobilise you, shushing you in a husky tone.

You beg one last time, feeling your guts heating up with the way he is chasing his own climax with deep thrusts and you dig your nails in his shoulder.

“Fuck… Come on, kitten, come for me, you can let go.”

Your vision blurs, your eyes rolling back as you cry out, your body going numb under the shattering pleasure and you don’t register anything, not how he follows you minutes later as you clench around him nor where he spills himself. You just feel like your limbs don’t obey you anymore.

You huff, feeling Aemond’s scent and sweat envelop you and when you open your eyes he is looking down at you with a hooded eye.

His thumb massages a spot over your shoulder and a sorry expression passes on his feature as he sets a strand of your hair aside. “I can’t grant you what you asked for.”

You feel cold all of a sudden, the air biting your damp skin as his warm fingers graze your cheek, feeling your disappointment.

“I’ll leave your sister alone, as you wished, but I’m not taking the drugs back. You’ll have to find a way to sell, as Maria promised she would.”

A wave of relief runs through you, happiness for your sister but an odd sensation takes place within your chest as the man next to you watches you with fierceness. “Because you… you’re going to be very useful to me, kitten.”

You don’t glance away, you don’t recoil.

Because you’re not sure you want to leave anyway.

Tagging @watercolorskyy and thanking @babyblue711 for the beta reading. We cannot disappoint.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #usermyfandomprompts #aemond x reader #dark aemond #dark!aemond x reader #modern au #modern!aemond #drug dealer au #aemond smut #aemond targaryen smut #Modern aemond #Dark aemond #Aemond targaryen x you #Aemond x you

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celestialprincesse · 1 year ago

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I’m not sure if you’ll write for Nikto or maybe even angst? Need to feel something, ignore if you’re not comfortable!

I was thinking neighbor!Nikto x civilian hyper fem!reader she just wants to get close to this masked, mean older man but he doesn’t want to hurt this sweet lil thing that’s always so loving towards him and the thought is scaring them away because of the way he looks TERRIFIES the poor man :(

Always down for when you write König. Love your lil wrinkly brain and all its ideas and words. Mwuah! Smooch!

how have I never written him before omg? I need to write more Nik & König💖 I cannot write angst for shit but pls enjoy n e ways 💕

You're on his doorstep again. Another plate too. Nikto knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he should try and ignore you - maybe pretend that no one's home, not that he'd really be able to get that by you when his car is parked in the driveway and the lights are on. With a sigh, the front door is opened, and you're faced with the unmoving presence of your new neighbour, a balaclava covering most of his face, a black hoodie pulled on over top just for good measure.

"You are here again." He observes flatly, unable to contain the way his eyes widen as you bounce from foot to foot in your frilly little skirt. "I bought sharlotka!" You chirp, having practised the Russian pronunciation as you baked the cake, and on the short walk over to his home. Nikto observes the cake with a scrutinising eye before hesitantly inviting you into his home. Shame burns his features when he can't help but to stare at your ass as you make your way inside. "Yes. I can see that."

You refuse to let his indifferent tone deter you as you place the plate down on his table, before just sort of lingering awkwardly in his kitchen, holding the plate of cake out to him like an offering. "I will bring you back the plate tomorrow." Is his obvious dismissal, which has you scurrying back to his front door, waving a clearly disappointed goodbye.

You're not so easy to get rid of.

The next time you see him is in the grocery store, an ideal location for your flawless plan to unfold. Kind of flawless. Not really very well thought out but you're desperate to win his attention. If that means baking so many Russian desserts that they're up to your ears, or conveniently cornering him in the store, that's what you'll do. "I'm so sorry!" The sound of your squeak rings in Nikto's ears as he turns around with lightning speed to steady your shoulders. You like the way his hands envelop your entire pink-clad biceps as he frowns down at you. "Hello, again." The way your ears perk up at his thickly accented voice doesn't go missed by Nikto, and he allows himself to wish, just for a moment, that he could have you as his. He wonders what it would be like to shop for groceries with you, to go home and stock the fridge. He wonders whether you'd let him bend you over the kitchen countertop or fuck you in nothing but the frilly pink apron he's seen you wear through your kitchen window. You're far too precious for that. Far too pretty for a man like him. So why do you keep coming back, stupid girl.

"I made stroganoff." You chirp, shooting him your best puppy eyes, trying to find a chip in the armour that must be there somewhere. He is, after all, just a man. "That is nice." He grunts, handing you back your basket, taking a step back. Maybe if he stays away from you physically, his mind will follow suit. "I was wondering if you'd like to come over for dinner. With me."

God, he'd love to come for dinner with you. He'd like to help set the table, and eat a hearty meal prepared by someone who cares for him enough to learn to cook the meals he ate as a child. He'd love to spend the evening with you, bring you a nice bottle of wine and wrap his arms around your waist as you tidy up, press kisses down the back of your neck and smell your sweet perfume up close.

"I am busy tonight."

#cod mwii #cod mw2 #cod #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare #modern warfare #Nikto #cod nikto #Nikto x reader #nikto x y/n #nikto x f!reader #nikto x you #call of duty nikto #mwii nikto #angies asks!#say goodnight n go

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supernotnatural2005 · 2 months ago

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Just like the movies.

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Based off of the Imagine: Dean taking you to prom.

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: Cuteness overload, sweet young!Dean, so much FLUFF!!!

Song Inspo: Fade into you - Mazzy Star

AN: Just something that came to me and for the fact i wish Dean got to experience some normalcy in his life. 🥲😭 Also for the sake of this fic the reader is Bobby’s daughter… I hope you enjoy 💕

Masterlist

You stood in front of your floor-length mirror, repeatedly smoothing your hands over the invisible wrinkles in your dress, examining your lightly curled hair and the little makeup you’d applied with a scrutinising eye and a nervous pulse in your chest.

You looked okay, right? Nice?

Your pink-beige dress sat strapless on your chest, cinched complimentary at your waist, and floated softly at your ankles. It wasn’t anything expensive; in fact, you’d felt a little embarrassed when you purchased it from a thrift store, eyeing solemnly as some of the girls in your year confidently walked into the classy boutique across the street.

It wasn’t like prom was a huge deal to you. To be honest, you hadn’t even planned on going at all. Although you attended high school, your heart was never fully in it. How could it be when your life outside of it was a living nightmare? Being the daughter of a hunter, you knew and had seen things only the kids in your school had watched in the movies. Because of this, you could never truly fit in, never speak of this heavy weight on your shoulders to anybody, and be believed or not called “crazy” or a “freak”.

The only person you could talk to about it was your best friend, and that’s because he’d grown up in the life too. However, he only came to stay with you and Bobby twice, maybe three times, out of the year. Ironically, he was also the person who had convinced you to go to this stupid dance too. He’d only attended the last few weeks of school and already had the place swooning. Guys wanted to be him, and girls wanted to date him. Which is why you had been taken by surprise when he’d asked you to prom.

At first you thought he was joking; you knew he’d had a load of offers already from much more capable candidates, but when he told you he’d turned them down, you then thought he was just being nice because no one had asked you, which bothered you more somehow. A pity ask was worse than not being asked at all. But then you remembered Dean would never be so cruel; he was genuine and kind and had been your best friend for years. His ask was bonafide, and it terrified you.

You’d never had the opportunity, or at least the untainted desire, to be like all the other girls. It was just mentally impossible. Knowing what you knew, boys, proms, and which skirt went with which shirt were all a farce in comparison to what was really out there.

But because you were still a teenager and not a robot with no emotions, and maybe due to the devastating fact you had developed a teeny tiny crush on your best friend, you had said yes, and now here you were.

Dean had wanted to do it all properly too, and even though he was technically staying with you at Bobby’s, he’d left the house and given you a time of 6 o’clock to be ready by. He was a dork, but a sweet one at that, and a part of you believed even he wanted to experience some normality for once.

You heard the knock at the door from your room upstairs, and your pulse quickened and hands grew clammy. Not long after was the call of your name from your father, and you took one last look, deeming yourself presentable enough; Dean had seen you in much worse conditions, and you made your way to the stairs.

You could hear Dean and Bobby’s muffled voices below, as well as Sam’s, chiming in every now and then. Of course John was absent; he dropped the boys off and would disappear for days, weeks, like he had done this time, at a time leaving it up to you and Bobby to entertain them. Not that you minded, of course; you loved the two brothers like they were family.

With one last deep breath, you took your first steps. The sound of your heels clicking loud enough against the wood to draw the attention of the three of them. Sam’s smile was instantaneous, whilst Bobby and Dean looked on in shocked surprise. You could detect a glimmer of pride in your father’s unusually watery eyes as you made your descent, yet Dean remained motionless, almost in a trance-like state. It made you nervous. Did he think you looked ridiculous? He was only accustomed to seeing you dressed as your usual rugged, rural-looking self.

Though you could say the same for yourself. Dean was dressed in a simple black tux, but it fit him like a glove. He’d even gelled his hair to the side, accentuating this more dapper appearance. He looked amazing. Handsome.

“Y/N, you look stunning darlin’.” Bobby said once you reached the bottom step, his voice cracking with emotion. Dean still stood unblinking just behind.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting all soppy on me now, old man.” You teased, but your heart was swimming with warmth at his words. He huffed out a chuckle and shook his head, but you took his hand in yours and settled him with a grateful look. Not only for his words but for him allowing you this.

“You look amazing.” Came Sam’s response as he stepped up beside Bobby. You were beginning to get a little flustered at all of the attention and compliments, not used to receiving so many in the space of a few minutes.

“Thank you, Sammy.” You ruffled his hair, to which he batted your hand away with a grumpy frown. It was still crazy to you that he was almost at eye level with you now, despite being 4 years your senior. Then the clearing of another throat had you looking in their direction. Ah, he was alive.

“Wow. I mean. You look beautiful.” Dean finally stumbled out a little breathless. You felt your cheeks flame and prayed to God it wasn’t too noticeable. You bit your lip and ducked your head shyly, but also covertly to stop yourself from smiling so wide.

Bobby gave Dean a pointed nudge, eying the corsage he’d purchased whilst you got ready, subtly hinting at him to give it to you. Dean’s eyes widened briefly, and then he took a step closer to you, making you look up.

“I got you this.” He began and pulled the beautiful, pale pink flower, similar in colour to your dress, from its packaging, and your heart skipped. “It’s tradition, right?” He chuckled. “At least it’s what they do in the movies.” He mumbled, more so to you, and you giggled as he smoothly slipped it on your wrist.

You admired it for a moment before looking back at him. “Thank you, it’s perfect.” Your words seemed to appease him, as the smile he gave you was dashing.

“Alright, you two.” Bobby announced, forcing you to look over at him. “I’m not really worried about a curfew. I know you two are smart and wouldn’t do anything stupid.” He pointedly looks at Dean when he says that part, more so as a warning. “But be careful and, more importantly, have fun.” Now that was aimed at you.

You and Dean both nod before you give Bobby a hug and Sam another teasing ruffle of his hair.

“C’mon!” You hear him whine as you turn and make your way with Dean outside. Thankfully, he helps guide you in your heels with a hand on the small of your back as you walk the short distance across the rocky gravel toward Bobby’s car.

“Ah! Allow me.” He intercepts your attempt to open the passenger side door, his voice mockingly posh as he gives you a curtsey and an amused grin. You can’t help but laugh and echo him before you slip inside, mindful to tuck your dress in before he closes the door for you as well.

He’s quick to round the bonnet and slide in behind the wheel. When he looks over at you, his eyes are alight and shining with something you can’t decipher. But it warms you in a way you’ve tried so hard to ignore.

“You ready?”

“Let’s do this, Winchester.” Your grin mirrored his, and no sooner was he putting the car in drive and peeling out of the driveway.

Despite your initial nerves upon arrival, the idea of seeing your peers, and them seeing you with one of the most sought-after boys in school, was terrifying in itself. Yet, Dean had quickly made you forget all about them and instead you found yourself actually enjoying the night.

You’d danced until your feet were sore and laughed until your stomachs hurt, all the while forgetting your individual demons and the dark reality that awaited you beyond the doors of the gymnasium. For a moment, you were just a teenager attending your senior prom with the boy you liked. Even if he didn’t know that.

The lights in the room suddenly dimmed as a slower song echoed from the DJ set up on the stage. So far it had been mostly the pop hits of your generation, along with some 80’s throwbacks thrown in there, meaning there was minimal touching between you and the green eyed boy. Just wacky dance moves that had sure given you some odd looks and disapproving stares. Not that you took any notice.

However, assuming Dean had had his fill, you made a move to sit back at the table you’d commandeered at the beginning of the night, only to be stopped by his hand on yours.

“Where you goin’?” Dean asked with a glint in his eye and a teasing smile on his lips. You fumbled slightly with your words, the look in his eye intense as he watched you, having your stomach doing somersaults and your heart fluttering uncomfortably.

“I didn’t think… It’s a slow one. Kinda boring.” You pointed out with a nervous chuckle, as if that were obvious.

“Maybe so. But don’t I at least get one slow dance at my prom with my date?” He raised a brow, his expression serious. You gaped at him dumbly for a moment before a giggle bubbled in your chest.

“Dean, you barely attended a full two weeks, and you hated this school. What’s gotten you so dedicated to its traditions?” You teased, and then, with a gasp of surprise, you were suddenly twirled into his arms. You were toe to toe, faces inches apart as you slowly looked up into his eyes. You felt the warmth of his hand spread across your lower back, your own instinctively gripping onto his shoulder as his left hand remained clasped in yours off to the side.

“What?” He questions your shocked expression and leans in close, his lips beside your ear. “Just doing what they do in the movies.” Dean mumbles with a smile in his voice, and you bite your lip at the scent of his cheap cologne, which somehow works with his own musk, invading your senses. His closeness releasing a swarm of butterflies of nerves and excitement.

“Just like the movies.” You repeat as you pull back to look at him. He smiles down at you, not teasingly so, and void of any humour. It’s soft and warm as he begins to gently rock the two of you in time with the gentle melody of Fade into You. You feel your cheeks burn at the intensity in his eyes, wondering if he felt it too. The spark of electricity conducting through his touch, the buzzing in your mind anytime he was close, and the flutter in your chest whenever your eyes connected.

You decided to ignore the warnings in your mind, the protector of your heart, and the insecurities battling to take over. Instead, you slid both of your hands around his neck, stepping impossibly close, the subtle action not lost on him as he rested both hands on your waist, guiding you into a slow circle on the dance floor.

When you looked into his eyes, you saw adoration, but you also saw conflict, a brief moment of uncertainty flickering in his jaded eyes before he defeated his inner battle and slowly leaned down to press his lips to yours.

Your eyes widened in surprise at the initial contact but were quick to flutter shut at the softness caressing your own, slowly, experimentally, as if this had been something he’d wanted to do for a very long time. Everything around you seemed to disappear, fading into a blur of stillness, leaving just you and him in a moment you knew you would treasure forever.

When he pulled away, his cheeks were slightly pink and pupils blown, eyes filling with doubt and apology.” I'm sorry.” He worried, seemingly shocked by his own actions, and you shook your head in dismissal, your grin unstoppable as it spread across your lips.”

“Don’t be.” You told him and watched as he relaxed a little. “Just like the movies.” You whispered, and the two of you lit up with laughter, only to come back together in the sweet moment of something unspoken but with a mutual understanding.

AN: I hope you guys enjoyed this one, just a little something sweet for the end of the week lol 😅 Let me know what y'all think?

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kingkatsuki · 2 years ago

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He just wants to be good enough for you always🥺

Warnings: fluff, reader has a mum and dad.

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x f!reader.

Word Count: 1.1k.

You know how he feels.

It was the same feeling that bubbled inside your tummy when you were meeting his parents for the first time. Feeling silly for being so nervous the minute you stepped through the door as you were welcomed into a fierce hug by Mitsuki. A large photo album strewn over both your laps as Masaru offered you some homemade dorayaki.

“It ain’t the same thing,” He scoffs, staring at his reflection in the mirror as he pulls his tie out of its loop to start all over.

“How is it not the same?” You laugh from your position at your vanity, stroking your clear gloss against your lips as you watch him struggle with his tie again.

“They need to know that I can take care of ya,” He pushes, cursing under his breath when he looped the tie.

There’s something that convinces him that he’ll somehow never be good enough for you. The self-doubt and insecurity that’s plagued him since childhood rears its ugly head for situations like these— situations that have your usually strong and confident boyfriend reduced to that same terrified little boy.

“They know you take care of me, baby.” You turn in your chair to face him.

“I ain’t even number one yet, and they need to believe I’m good enough to look after their little girl?” He drops his tie in exasperation as it sits around his neck.

Standing up from your position at his vanity as you make your way over to him. Cupping his hands in your smaller ones as you lace your fingers together at your sides. Squeezing reassuringly as you practically feel his heart pounding against his ribcage, brows furrowed as you smile up at him.

“They won’t care about any of that, Katsuki.” You coo, feeling how sweaty his palms have become from preparing to meet your parents, “All they’ll care about is that you’re treating me well, and that you’re a good man.”

“A good man that leaves you for weeks at a time.” He scoffs.

It’s always a sore spot in your relationship when Bakugou has to leave for work. The best missions always seem to be the ones that take him further away from home than either of you would like. The biggest boosts to his hero ranking always seem to mean the longer trips, phone calls and FaceTimes at unsociable hours the things that keep you both close. But he always keeps his promise to return back to you safely, little gifts from the destination that reminded you of him.

“You do what you have to do, and I understand so they will too.” You reach your hands up to his forgotten tie. Slowly wrapping the fabric around to begin to loop it, pulling it through as he keeps his crimson gaze on you, “There’s no one else for me, Katsuki. Never will be.”

Bakugou would steal the sun in the sky for you if he could, submerge the entire world into darkness if it meant that only you could see it’s glow. There isn’t a single thing he wouldn’t do for you, and if only everyone could see that. The scrutinising tabloid articles and online posts still attack his character, wondering how a man as bold and brash as Dynamight could ever love anyone. But he proves it to you daily, through his words and actions.

You’d found a good one in Bakugou Katsuki, the perfect man. And you’d spend every day fighting his corner if you had to.

“Do you think I should bring that award I got last week? I think it might show your parents that—”

“Katsuki,” You cut off his rambling, shaking your head, “They don’t need to see that to know you’re successful. And I’m pretty sure my mum’s shown an article about that to all of her friends already.”

“I just want them to know that I can look all after ya,” He continues, “Even though my last mission ran over.”

A three week mission had turned into six after Bakugou had discovered the villain he had been tracking down was at the centre of a huge drug ring, the extra three weeks had meant taking down the entire operation but it had meant leaving you alone for Christmas— when he was first supposed to meet them.

“They understood, Kats.”

“I think your ma was pissed.” He scoffs.

“Not as pissed as yours,” You laughed, “She spent the entire evening complaining about it when I dropped off our gifts for them.”

“That old hag,” He shook his head, “She still goes on about that, you know. Doesn’t matter that I jumped up fifty points because of it.”

“No matter what happens— I love you, so they will too.” You smooth your palm along his chest to lay his neatly tied tie down flat against his dress shirt. His hand reaching up to try and tug at the uncomfortable collar as you grin up at him. Standing up on tiptoes to steal a kiss before wiping your gloss from his lips with your thumb, an action that’s halted by him licking his lips to taste the sticky sweetness as he pulls his head back.

“You’re such a dork.” You laugh, shaking your head as you turn around to check your face in the full length mirror.

“Yeah, but I’m your dork.” He hums, wrapping his arms around your waist as he settles his chin against your shoulder.

“Yeah, you are.” You smile, resting your hands on his arms as he sways you side to side, “But I hope you’re ready for my mum to grill you about when we’re having kids.”

“Our ma’s together are gonna be a fuckin’ nightmare.” Bakugou groans, hiding his eyes in the curve of your neck as you start laughing.

“I’d expect nothing less for our relationship.” You smiled, “I’m still recovering from your proposal.”

“Oi,” Bakugou’s arms tightened around your waist, “It ain’t my fault that villain ruined the perfect fuckin’ proposal.”

#I never had a nuclear family so I tried😂#soft bakugou #bakugou x reader #bakugou fluff #katsuki bakugou x reader

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finniestoncrane · 6 months ago

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BTAA!Scarecrow x GN!Reader, word count: 2k commission: jonathan experiences the joys of getting to be the victim for a change, and you are more than happy to oblige if it means getting to test out your theory that nothing can actually scare him 🎃🧡 commission me here! request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: roleplay, bondage, sensation play, impact play

It was a willing ‘kidnapping’. For all that Jonathan had studied film and screen, scrutinised and admired the various acting techniques of the horror star he loved so dearly, his acting skills were below par. But it hadn’t stopped him from insisting that there had to be a theme, a plot, to your change in the scheduled programming.

If he was going to relinquish his position as the father of fear, it was still going to be under his terms.

“You know, I always found myself tutting at those scream queens. Who falls over that often? Let alone when you’re being chased by a nightmare beyond your imagination…”

Jonathan’s eyes flitted to you quickly. Even now, there was still a predatory glare in them. That natural inclination towards control and dominance still lingering a little, despite the situation he, very willingly, found himself in.

“... Now I understand. They wanted to be caught. To be the victim. It’s quite delicious, actually.”

His gaze fell to his wrists, bound to the chair he sat on, the soft, specialty rope equally tight around his ankles. He looked the perfect victim. Dishevelled, sweating, shirt on but unbuttoned exposing his soft stomach and chest, lightly peppered with greying hairs. Only his underwear covered the bottom half, giving you a glimpse of the obvious bulge at the front where his semi-erect cock stole the stage, twitching each time you came closer to him, fear and excitement ruling his reactions.

“Or maybe that’s just me. Maybe it gets boring being the big, bad, villain. And maybe I needed a little subversion of expectations. Either way, this is a very interesting twist.”

The quieter you were, the more he spoke, filling in the silence with his rambling, a nervous trait, or perhaps just one that signified how impatient he was, how badly he wanted the real fun to begin.

“I’m so used to every convention, every trope. But this? This is something new. This is how I felt when Pamela Voorhees was revealed to us. When we saw Norman in his mother’s dress and that terrible wig. When Kramer stood up from that bloody puddle in the middle of the bathroom floor. This is a genre defining moment.”

You lifted the satin scarf from the table where you had laid out your instruments slowly and carefully, allowing Jonathan a glimpse at what was to come, setting the scene, allowing the tension to build. His heartbeat was almost audible from where you stood in front of him, the steady thuds louder as you leaned in to him, tying the scarf around his head and adjusting it over his eyes until his vision was completely blacked out.

“Ah, heightened senses? Or intentionally taking away an important one that allows for security in unfamiliar environments? Either way, I’ve got goosebumps!”

He was giddy, an almost childlike glee lilting in his words as he wiggled excitedly in the chair. Of course, the aim of the session was to please him, but you wanted to scare him too, and that still seemed like an impossible feat.

Despite that, however, he still seemed enthusiastic about his lower position on the food chain. The moment his vision was rendered useless, his skin began to prickle with a warmth that started deep in his core, the slight twitch of his cock as he listened carefully for your movements was a dead giveaway of his obvious excitement.

“You know, this is often why horror movies are so dark, at least modern examples. Darkness is terrifying, what’s hidden there is left to our imagination. It’s a cheap and easy way to conjure terror without doing much.”

With your fingers hovering over them, dancing with delight, you tried to decide which of your tools to use first, eventually settling on the pinwheel. Something sour to begin, you could always soothe him afterwards if need be.

“Not that I think you’re looking for the easy way out, it’s more of an observation, a chance to educate you on- ooooh!”

Jonathan’s lecture was cut short, mostly of his own accord, as he felt the sharp points of the pinwheel begin to cross over his bare thighs in light tracks. You were careful to keep the pressure light as you pressed it towards the inner, softer areas, and back out again.

“Actually, you could be a little rougher with the- ah, ah, ah…”

“Jonathan.”

“Yes, my dear?”

“Be quiet. I’m not asking you. I am telling you. Keep your mouth closed from here on out…”

You lifted your free hand to his cheek, a smile curling up on the corner of your mouth as he flinched at first then settled into the caress.

“... or you’ll really suffer, ok?”

“Y-...”

He silenced himself, immediately obeying your instructions, and nodded his head, hair falling loose from the tidy parting and falling in front of the silk scarf.

Pleased with his ability to take an order, you increased the pressure of the pinwheel as a treat, finding yourself far more excited than you imagined by the small dots it left in Jonathan’s skin. He hissed a little, but never uttered any of the safe words you had agreed on, and each time you ramped up the pain, testing his limit, reaching his threshold, his smile only grew wider in response.

When you finally stopped, deciding to move on to the next implement of torture, as Jonathan had called them, you could feel him arching his back in an attempt to keep you near him, his wrists straining against the ropes until he sat back down in the seat and made an effort to be patient.

As far as his preferences went, it was becoming clear that Jonathan wasn’t a soft person, and his lack of pain threshold had begun to intrigue you. So the next item you picked up was the riding crop. You’d felt the pleasure of it before on your own flesh, Jonathan’s fist clenched tight around the end as he brought it down against your rear. He’d smiled as you yelped, a cruel satisfaction in coaxing any kind of animalistic sound from you. You wondered if he’d like to know what sounds he might make.

With the end of the crop hovering just over his bare thigh, you swatted down quickly, not touching his skin, but letting the woosh of the cool air give him a hint at what was to come. And, as predicted, as hoped, Jonathan’s body twitched and he let out a quiet exclamation.

“Oh… are you tricking your audience into believing that this is a thriller? Offering up suspense before the true horror follows? Is that the twist?”

Despite the smug tone he was trying to convey in his words, you could hear his voice trembling ever so slightly. There was worry behind it. Excited worry, but worry all the same. You wondered how soon you might be able to get terror out of him, if at all.

It was all well and good keeping up the slow build. Easing him into what was to come for him. That was what he wanted, after all. You’d seen his eyes widen when the third act of a film opened up, the tense but manageable pace of the first hour giving way to a thundering and panic-inducing climax. That’s what he wanted for his body. To be ravaged, hunted, terrorised. You could see it now in the way his fingers scratched at the arms of the chair, how his stomach tensed as he let his imagination run wild. Anticipation built, and it would hopefully give way to the delicious adrenaline rush of fear. You wanted to give him that, a good scare.

With a quick movement, snapping through the air, you brought the crop back down again, pulling it back with a creeping grin as you watched the red welts form almost immediately on his legs, almost magical in the way they were created from nothing but the impact. Knowing it would smart, you sat down on his lap, watching him wince as you put pressure on his newly bruised flesh.

Closing in on him, listening to his breath hitch and quicken as you dove into his neck. With your tongue pressed out, you let it drag up the front of his throat, watching the veins and tendons pop as he tensed against the surprisingly gentle touch. It was what he needed, but not what he wanted. The contrast was sweet, but only for a moment. And then you were both back to needing the blood lust.

Your teeth sank into him, sharp and tight, a force he hadn’t expected, and his wince, the sharp mewl that followed it, only made you bite down harder. And as that surprise fell away, you offered him another, raising your hand and placing your fingertips to his throat, increasing the pressure little by little, watching his gasps become shallower, more strained. The more he choked, the more he struggled, the harder he seemed to get.

Below the blindfold his eyes were widening, pupils dark and sparkling with excitement. His mouth hung open in abject terror as what was left of the air in his lungs finally expired, and his life flashed before his eyes as he tried to refill them. You eased up, watching him take a deep, panicked breath, enough for him to be able to answer you, then you closed your fingers again, speaking quietly, so soft in comparison to how you were treating him.

“Tell me you want me to hurt you, Jonathan.”

His choked response was filled with enthusiasm.

“I do, I really do.”

You leaned in further, lips touching, teasing, the shell of his ear.

“Are you scared?”

There was a pause, long enough that you realised he was purposefully avoiding the question. You tensed your fingers against his throat once more, watching his fingers scratch against the chair. He might not actually be all that scared, but he knew what you wanted to hear. And with a conniving little smile at the corner of his mouth, he answered.

“Oh, I’m just absolutely terrified.”

It was dripping in sarcasm, the kind of disingenuous statement you’d heard him make to his victims when they pleaded for mercy and he was stringing them along. Infuriating, almost. Of course, you’d set out with the main goal of pleasing him, and you’d succeeded. But you both knew that what you really wanted, almost equally desiring it, was to have his heart racing, chest pounding, as he let fear find him.

Beneath you, you could feel his cock throbbing, desperate for a release, the tension ramping up. Incomplete. No grand finale. No closing scene, not even a cliffhanger.

The monster was always scarier when left to your own imagination. When nothing was given away.

Without a word, you stood up and away from him, listening to his whimpers as he gathered his breath. He waited, breath hitching, for the next act. But it wasn’t coming. Even as he spoke your name, a quiver on the third or fourth time he asked for you, you refused to let him know where you were. You’d kept your footsteps imperceptible as you made your way to the corner by the door, content to find a good spot to watch him lose his mind in sensory deprivation.

There he was, tied in place, blind to the room and so blind to where you were hiding from him. He called your name once more. Never the safe word, he wasn’t about to admit defeat. But you could hear the desperation in his words.

You were going to let him worry. He knew that, deep down, even despite his pleading.

It wasn’t fair, to resort to jumpscares, to torment him. But it was the only thing that seemed to work. Deny him the pleasure, deny him the happy ending he wanted.

And it was working. He could feel himself edging closer to the end, core tightening as he wondered when you would jump out at him from the darkness, like the monster he hoped you were.

#finnie writes #batman #scarecrow #jonathan crane #scarecrow imagine #scarecrow smut #scarecrow x reader #rogues gallery #batman rogues #btaa scarecrow #scarecrow x you #fanfic #x reader

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exaltedfuzz · 9 months ago

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hiii! this is really random but i was looking at your pinned comic again and what do you think gant meant whenever he would talk about swimming? idk if it's because there was so much going on while playing the case, but i could never really figure out if there was more to it and im curious about your interpretation if you dont mind !!

Well, honestly, I think it's threatening enough if it's just swimming. (Speaking as someone who can't swim, haha.)

Seriously though, I think it's a combination "let's be better friends and have fun" with an undercurrent of "you know I could hold your head under water at any time and everyone would think it was a freak accident". Because swimming can be brushed off so easily as simply something fun, there's a sort of gaslighting there too. Like "Now loosen up... why did you think I'd drown you? We're just having a good time, aren't we?" This sense of constant threat in something so supposedly happy. Just like Gant himself.

As for swimming with Lana, although he never proposes this in game, it's what I had in the comic, so I'll put some of the thoughts behind it here.

I'd imagine it as a purposeful disarming tactic again. Lana's design, I feel, is a collection of things to keep her looking strong, and importantly, to cover up her weak points. Her shoulders need squaring up, so she wears military style epaulettes. She's shorter than Gant, so she wears heels. She can't have her throat vulnerable, so she wears a scarf. One that's interesting is the medals. Firstly, her heart is the reason why she was able to be manipulated so entirely, since everything she did was to protect Ema, but the medals are on the wrong side of her chest to keep her heart locked behind her achievements. And Gant knows this, he flat out says it in game - that he "knew Lana" and knew that if Ema was implicated, she'd do "anything and everything he wanted" (don't remember who says this, think it might be Nick), despite being someone who "hated anything corrupt" (Angel). Second, I think this means Lana is a bit insecure. None of the other King of Prosecutors winners that we see (Edgeworth, Manfred) have any desire to show off the medals they presumably have (and though I know this is partly because they didn't exist when they were being designed, I also think it's interesting from an in-universe standpoint) so I think Lana is clutching at the things she can tangibly show off. (Interestingly, this actually makes her slightly like the other Chief Prosecutor we see, [Blaise] Winner. He's covered in the badges... I won't spoil AAI2 for what they are, but... The means by which they each obtained their medals and what they point to about them is, now that I'm thinking about it, a really interesting parallel. But that isn't the point.) She does the same thing with her grades, tells you she was the best in her class. I think that without these accolades she'd feel completely useless, so, this brings me to swimming.

Obviously, swimming, you're half naked. I propose that Lana's insecurities extend to this. Seems the sort to be arms folded in a T-shirt and jeans at a pool party. So, I think an invitation to swim with Gant would be something designed to unsettle her and make her uncomfortable, make her lose all her neatly put together armour. I'm not keen to read potential sexual motives into it, for Lana's sake. That poor woman has really been through enough with what's contained in the canonical text. But certainly, Gant would use it as a means of preying on her insecurities and pushing her buttons re: covering up vulnerabilities. The threat of being scrutinised, without any shields (chipped or not) under Gant's uncomfortably long stare, would be terrifying. I think with Gant, it's always the threat of how entirely unknowable he is. Of course, that unknowable-ness leads to him murdering two people as almost a reflex action, and all he seems to care about is making pawns and raising himself up.

Also, since it's water, it's a sort of washing the blood away style thing. Actually, now that I write that, when you look at Gant's design, he's got a huge cross on him. (And parts of his design went into Strongheart, who has a sort of clergyman-style coat) Maybe there's a bit of a baptism/washing away sins Christian style thing going on there. Not to mention the massive church organ in his office. (On Gant's cross tie, actually, something I noticed and found really interesting was that there's so much "red around neck" in RFTA. Gant's tie, Lana's scarf, Ema's bow, Jake's neckerchief, Angel's little octopus hotdog thing, the suit of armour in Gant's office even has a red scarf style thing. Something about the chains heavy around all of their necks. Naturally the most assertive red is Gant's, since not only does it branch out like a marionette controller, but at the center of it is his big badge. So having the chief position has given him control over all these other "red around neck" people, ready to tighten up the noose at any time. I'd say Angel gives credence to this too. She has the least red going on, and she's the only one who doesn't work there anymore. It's also not actually the thing around her neck, which is a black choker, but an accessory that she's attached to it. Emblematic of her really choosing to go back into this world however she can, and that includes emulating the "red string of fate", as it were. Neil's tie is pink (which is light red) so it's faded into memory, and Bruce's is blue with white spots. Now, this doesn't seem like red, but blood is red too, and the luminol reaction is blue. So this is the discovery point, if that makes sense. Where the red has been revealed to be blood under the blacklight, and things start to become undone. Ultimately, as well, the "white spots" become the holes in Gant and Lana's plan, so I think there's something there! But that isn't the point of the post.)

One thing I find interesting about "swimming" in particular is Gant's theming. His damage sprite is him going completely nuts electrical style. So maybe...

youtube

Thanks for your ask, sorry for going off on one. Hope I answered your question, haha!

#ace attorney #exaltedfuzz #thoughts #damon gant #lana skye #rise from the ashes #rfta #pwaa #ema skye #angel starr #jake marshall #neil marshall #bruce goodman #sl9 crew #sl9 #smart thinking

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sheriffgrimes-archerdixon · 1 year ago

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Practice makes perfect

Request: please could you write one where Rick helps inexperienced reader shoot a gun and he also teaches her how to defend herself? Thank you!

A/N: hope this is okay!! Would you all like to see a daryl version of this??

Rick grimes x fem! Reader

You were new to the prison environment, you had stumbled upon the prison when you had lost your people to the dead. It was terrifying but thankfully Rick grimes and his people welcomed you in with open arms— or… well. Held at gunpoint. But that’s beside the point. You had been here for almost 18 days now and you were fitting in just right. You had found comfort within Hershel the kind man who seemed to be incredibly loyal and genuine. Not to mention his kindness towards everything was gratefully accepted during times like these. Beth too was a sweet girl but there were a few of the group who seemed a bit rough around the edges. Not that you minded of course, you were just glad you could say you had some kind of “friends.”

Here you were positioned near the gate where walkers were pressing themselves against, ruthlessly clawing at the metal structure desperate for the taste of flesh. You stood silently staring and listening to their groans and moans your hand numbly gripping onto the pistol that dangled by your side. It might’ve seemed stupid but you had never shot a gun in your life. And now that you were in this situation you wished you had accepted the many times family members offered to take you to the shooting range when the world was still normal. You exhaled shaking your head before you pointed your gun at one of the walkers heads, squinting your eyes slightly your finger resting upon the trigger as you tried to figure out how to do it, footsteps slowing just behind you— ricks scrutinising eyes examined you thoroughly before he cleared his throat. “The safety’s one” his thick accent touched your ears and you quickly glanced at him “what?” You murmured nervously “the safety’s on. That’s why you can’t pull the trigger.” He vaguely explained taking steps towards you before stopping beside you, slender fingers grasping onto the metal of the gun as he stood side by side with you his arm brushing lightly against yours “look,” he tilted the gun your way his thumb brushing against the metal before a click was heard “safety’s off now.” He spoke before slowly handing it back to you. “Try now.”

He took a step back giving you room to try but now under this much pressure you felt your nerves kick in. You were worried that because you didn’t know how to shoot a gun without looking like an idiot you’d be seen as someone lesser and be kicked out the group. But really that was just your over thinking. You hesitantly pointed the gun towards a specific walker Rick remaining silent as he observed you fingertips lightly brushing against the handle of his own gun it was just engraved into his mind to constantly do just in case he had to pull it on anyone or anything at any point. You couldn’t ever be too careful… you glanced back at him momentarily he was hard to read, you then looked forward again steadying your breath as you attempted it. And with one last deep breath you pulled the trigger the bullet flying through the air and zipping straight past the walkers a silent cuss leaving your lips as you shook your head embarrassed. “Not bad.” Rick spoke calmly, as if noting your anxious state and how you seemed to be slightly apprehensive about shooting the gun. He took a step towards you stopping beside you “have you ever shot a gun before?” He questioned and you glanced at him before shaking your head “no. I didn’t like using guns when the world was normal…” you murmur nervously and he only nods. “That’s understandable” he soon comments “I was a sheriff in Atlanta before all of this.” Rick began talking, your eyes snapping back towards him as you listened to him silently admiring him his jaw slightly clenching every now and then his baby blue eyes holding many memories within them. His eyes moved to look at you “so I was all involved in guns and protecting myself and my people.” He spoke as if trying to make you more comfortable. Opening up little by little…

“My wife…. She hated the thought of our son using guns. She refused to let him near them. Even when I offered to train him up for if anything ever happened she wouldn’t let him… even when the world went to shit… she wouldn’t let him touch a gun…” he analysed you as he spoke “until I convinced her enough… I wish I had held back slightly..” he swallowed thickly glancing down at the ground as he remembered the thought of Carl shooting his own mum. If Rick hadn’t of taught him how to shoot a gun then would Carl of shot Lori? It was a question left for speculation. No one truly knew. But Rick did feel guilt when he thought on it really hard… that’s why he tried to push it all down. Keeping it all at the back of his brain. “So I get where you’re coming from. But knowing how to shoot a gun now is… something we all need.” He spoke simply turning his back to you momentarily before he pulled his own gun out the sun reflecting off of the metal slightly making it glint every now and then “just copy my stance alright.” He spoke and you nodded watching as he put one foot forwards the other foot remaining in place almost as if he was bracing himself before he held the gun with two hands— one on the handle and trigger the other cupping it slightly as if to keep it stable. “Holding with both hands isn’t absolutely necessary but holding it with both hands keeps your focus and hands from shaking.” Rick explained and you nodded watching as he shot the gun the bullet immediately piercing the skull of the dead as it collapsed onto the ground. “Your turn.”

He spoke before backing away, and you exhaled shakily breathing in sharply as you attempted to copy his exact positioning slowly raising your gun until it was eye level with you both your hands steadying the gun “like this?” You murmured nervously Rick moving to your side his hands grabbing onto your elbow slightly “tilt” he suggested calmly making you tilt your arm ever so slightly before he moved behind you resting your hands on your shoulders knowing the force of the gun was far too powerful sometimes. He kept his hands on your shoulders “focus…” he advised gently and you nodded focusing as hard as you could. You inhaled sharply lining up the gun more straight before pulling the trigger the bullet piercing through a walkers shoulder “good. You’re getting there.” Rick praised before he reached forwards grabbing onto your hands as he positioned your hands more correctly “just remember they’re dead. Okay?” He spoke almost as if reading your mind. Knowing that you were struggling with the fact that these were once human beings. Just like you and him. “But they…” you swallowed thickly not knowing how to describe it, Rick maintaining eye contact with you “look at it this way y/n…. They don’t feel anything. They only have one job and one job only. Successfully get the food they’re constantly searching for. It’s a cycle… a painful cycle. If you shoot them you’re putting them out of their misery right?” He was right and eventually you nodded. You still needed to detach the people from the actual walkers and whom they once were but that would be a learning curve. “Alright shoot.” He spoke and you took a deep breath before squinting your eyes and once steadying your hands you shot the gun the smell of gunpowder growing stronger but you didn’t mind. You watched as the bullet pierced into the dead’s skull as it collapsed to the ground,

“Good. Again.” He spoke. The sun was starting to set and Rick knew it wouldn’t be long before more walkers started arriving. You then lined up the gun again before shooting the bullet again successfully hitting the Walker square in the head. You continued doing this over and over again until the clouds had turned a deep orangey colour rain specs starting to fall upon you and him “you did great.” Rick spoke with a faint smile “you’re going to be a pro at this soon enough. Gonna put us to shame.” He murmured nudging you playfully and you couldn’t help but smile slightly “thank you… could we do this again tomorrow?” Rick nodded slightly “sure. I’ll get you up at 7 am sharp.” He spoke and you nodded smiling as you began walking back towards the main area of the prison with him. “After all practice makes perfect.” He chuckled out lightly you could tell that helping you practice had alleviated something off of his shoulders and mind… and the same was said for you.

You walked inside with him some people eating some food and others already sleeping “I’m going to go to my cell.” You murmured and Rick nodded “goodnight. Sleep well. If you need anything just shout.” He spoke and you nodded watching as he began walking away. “Rick..” you spoke, making him stop as he turned to look at you Judith being handed to him as he held onto her securely his free hand skilfully putting his gun back onto safety “thank you. Seriously. Uh… you saved a girls life.” You spoke, Rick looking slightly confused but appreciative. “I lost my people. To the walkers…. I was close to just waiting for another herd to come take me down… you and your people gave me a reason to live.” The look on ricks face was difficult to read but he looked grateful, happy and somewhat relieved all at once. “Glad you’re still with us, y/n.” He gave you a nod lips curling up into a small smile. “Go get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.” He gave you another curt nod before turning around tending to his daughter and you silently watched him before retreating back to your bunk a small sad smile forming on your lips— grateful for him and his people who had given you a reason to survive. You got into your bunk laying down as you began getting comfortable until you heard a slight creek before the familiar teenage boy was hanging over the top bunk “hey y/n” Carl spoke cowboy hat barely staying on and you smiled tiredly at him “hey.” He then disappeared momentarily before coming back continuing to dangle off the bed “don’t fall…” you warned with a tired smile and he only smiled holding out a red packeted chocolate bar for you to take. “Just in case you were hungry.” He spoke not letting up until you had taken it from him before he laid back down on the top bunk “thanks carl.” You spoke hearing the sound of pages turning and you smiled knowing he was reading his comic… what a thoughtful boy… a thoughtful group whom you didn’t deserve in the slightest. But you knew they’d continue over and over again giving you a reason to live.

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cluelessbees · 2 years ago

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Hi hello, I really wanna talk about how crazy together is such an important moment for Mike. So--

Up until this point, Mike's depression and his struggles have been brushed off by everyone around him.

For one, his parents don't really try to listen to him. Instead they sort of guilt him for not moving on or feeling better fast enough.

They don't give him a chance to talk about his feelings. They just berate him. And we also see the same thing with his friends. For example, the way Dustin sort of questions why Mike is on the different channel.

And we can see how this really affects Mike. He already feels stupid for even believing she might be alive, and Dustin's comment is just a reminder of that insecurity.

The Duffers are such little shits for this because they have Dustin and Lucas's convo in the next scene play over Mike looking sad to draw your attention away from it, but you can see how much this is affecting him.

He feels stupid and weird for holding on, for not being able to let go.

But then there's Will, who gives Mike the space to talk.

Who listens to him with no judgment.

Who hears Mike call himself crazy, and rather than judge, admits that he feels crazy sometimes too.

This moment specifically is so fucking crucial. Because two things happen.

1- Mike starts to brush off his own feelings. He pulls himself away because he feels like he was weird for admitting that. He's ready for Will to judge him and agree. For him to say "yeah, you're being crazy."

2- Mike calls himself crazy. Like, this is the 80s. A time where the subject of mental illness was a huge taboo and highly stigmatised. Mike is implying he might mentally ill. And that's both such a vulnerable and terrifying thing to admit.

He's prepared for Will to agree with him. For Will to make him feel even more crazy. And he's scared of getting scrutinised, but none of that happens. Will willingly admits he feels the same (which is equally vulnerable) so that Mike knows he's not alone. And it works.

Mike's no longer alone in this. He has Will. They're in this together.

#byler #byler analysis #mike wheeler #will byers #mike wheeler analysis #there is a theme in their relationship #that Will makes Mike feel less alone #that I did make a post about when I first started but it was ass so Im gonna redo it-#my gifs #crazy together

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theoneandonlysemla · 3 months ago

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WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @hircines-hunter and @skyrim-forever

Tagging: @did3lphis @dirty-bosmer @elavoria @illumiera

@ladytanithia @pocket-vvardvark @thequeenofthewinter

@rakaiawriter @sheirukitriesfandom @vanilleeistee

My Plan was to post some snippet of my newest smut shenanigans Crawl, dear but unfortunately it no longer is a WIP but up on the archive. Will start with chapter 2 this evening, but nothing for now is written. All the dirt still in my head! :P

Anyway, next Saturday is upload day for Dealings with Deadra and so you're getting Morotar being fucking terrified of Elenwen. Just know, he has his reasons.

Read under the cut, because 800 words.

The courtyard was deserted; the scattered guards on the fortifications the only living souls around. His gaze wandered, controlling. Everything seemed quiet, far too quiet for his bad gut feeling. Deep inside he knew, that his agitation was not rooted in rational reasons. He was safe in here, safer than anywhere else in this forsaken province. No one sought after his life just for being an Altmer or because of the dark robes that clothed him. Still, the uneasiness stayed. Sweat wetted his palms despite the biting cold and made the leather of his gloves stick to his skin. As he made his way closer to the main building, the smell of burning wood spread in the crisp air. A column of smoke rose from the chimney, swirling and fading into the crimson dusk. Morotar watched it, hesitating to raise his fist to knock on the door. Pressing his eyes together, he gathered his strength. All these worries that plagued him would not become true, he told himself. Finally, his knuckles met the wood. The sound blared in his ears, spurring on the nausea. He sucked in a deep breath through his nose and let it out of his mouth again. It brought him little calm, but at least it was better than nothing. A key turned and the door swung open. A Bosmer woman stood in the frame, her dress of simple colours and her dark hair braided into an updo. From magenta eyes she examined Morotar, then stepped aside.

“The ambassador is awaiting you, please come in,” she uttered, her voice low and her head bowed, avoiding any eye contact.

Morotar did as she said and entered. A short corridor led him into the reception hall. The high room was dominated by the thick pillars of the arcades the carried the upper story. Massive black banners adorned by the golden emblem of the Thalmor hung from the walls. In-between two of the columns the ambassador stood. Amber light from the lit candles illuminated her figure and gave her face even more of a golden sheen. A motherly smile graced her lips, as soon as she noticed Morotar stepping into the hall. What must have awoken a sense of safety in others, just stiffened his shoulders. He halted in the middle of the room, standing tall and breathing low. Gleaming orange eyes scrutinised him from top to bottom, her expression ill-fitting with her simper.

“My prodigal son has returned,” she spoke slow, breaking the crushing silence.

Morotar bowed his head and thereby evaded her penetrating stare. The wetness on his palms grew worse and the little hairs in the back of his head rose with goosebumps running down his spine. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her approaching him as silently as a wild cat. A cloud of sweet, heavy odour engulfed him long before she reached him. Jasmine, her signature scent. Even fifty years ago, she had always applied a touch too much of it. Dizziness spread through his head, which didn't help his nausea. He forced himself to lift his glance. Elenwen was standing in front of him. She hadn't aged a day since his last visit to the Embassy. He knew that she was doing her best to maintain her youthful appearance, but crow's feet were forming in the creases of her eyes, which even her bright, flushed eyeshadow and the kohl that rimmed her lids were unable to conceal.

“Some suspected you would never return.” She paused. “But I knew you would reappear. I never doubted you for even a second.”

“I didn't expect anything else from you,” Morotar said, trying to hide the trembling in his voice as best he could.

Elenwen brushed her fingers across his cheek as if to praise him for his satisfying answer. One corner of her mouth lifted a little higher, a pleased smirk now gracing her lips. At that moment, Morotar wanted nothing more than to pull away from her. She was too close; her pungent perfume was giving him a headache. But he didn't dare to move. His thoughts raced, searching for any kind of distraction.

“What have you arranged for the evening? I'm here earlier than I'd planned and I assume that supper isn't ready yet?” he gushed.

Taking a step away from her, he approached one of the windows. Night was falling, swallowing the daylight like a dark abyss. Massa was already visible in the firmament and a lone star twinkled towards him. Elenwen had followed and was now standing next to him. His breathing grew shallow once more, in order to catch as little of her scent as possible.

“As we always do on the joyous occasion of your visit, we have planned a multi-course meal. However, we were actually expecting you to arrive later. You can take some time to recover from the stresses and strains of travelling, your room in my solar is ready and waiting for you. If you want to freshen up a bit, I can have a bath heated up for you,” she explained, now in a much more monotone voice.

“I’d be grateful for a bath. It is unusually cold for this time of season up here, isn’t it?” The weather, he thought, what a great distraction.

#dealings with daedra #OC: Morotar #altmer oc #altmer #thalmor #thalmor oc #tesblr #the elder scrolls #elder scrolls #fanfiction #ao3 writer #skyrim fanfiction #ao3 #my writing

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renlyslittlerose · 5 months ago

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Kinktober Day 31 - Demon Summoning

For anon who asked for Demon Anakin~ 😈

Nature of My Game - 4,386 Rating: E Content: Alternate Universe / Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic / Demon Sex / Succubi & Incubi / Demon Summoning / Demon Anakin Skywalker / Anal Sex / Oral Sex / Bottom Anakin Skywalker / Top Obi-Wan Kenobi

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Everyone always said that Obi-Wan was a curious man, so it should have come as no surprise to anyone when he summoned a demon.

It was strictly out of an academic based curiosity, stemming from his desire to know about the worlds that lay beyond his own plain of existence that called to him like some lurid neon sign. At first he was contented with just reading up about what others said the demon dimensions were like, such as those that resembled the stereotypical visions of Hell with brimstone and fire that reigned down on the poor souls who inhabited the region, or others that were exactly like the normal mortal realm only there was no such thing as shrimp.

But recounted tales could only do so much to satiate Obi-Wan’s curiosity. He knew as well as anyone that a story, no matter how well written and rigorously scrutinised, was still just a story, liable to over-inflation of truths and ingrained biases.

No, Obi-Wan had to go to the source in order to get the truth.

He had to talk to a demon.

Picking one was no easy feat. Some demons - in fact, most demons - had no interest in interacting with a lowly human such as himself. Many would probably literally chew him up and spit his bones down on the ground before he could get so much as a ‘Hullo there, how do you do?’ out. Others still would use Obi-Wan’s curiosity against him in order to entrap him, mortals making good pets or slaves for their amusement and pleasures. And still others wouldn’t know what to say or do when summoned, demons, just like humans, liable to be scared by social situations and the expectations placed upon them.

And then Obi-Wan had a brilliant idea: he would summon an incubus.

Incubi and succubi wanted to please humans - they wanted to give them all that they desired. Sure, they also would kill you at the end of the transaction, but Obi-Wan was certain that if he just explained to the demon what he was doing, and that he’d be willing to give a small piece of himself in exchange for information, that the demon would see reason. Besides, Quinlan once said he survived an encounter with a succubus, and Obi-Wan was not one to be outdone by his peers.

Especially when they told their story so smugly like Quinlan did.

So it was in the dead of night locked away in his office that Obi-Wan opened a book on demon summoning. He’d bought all he needed - incense, candles, a large amount of black sand that he was supposed to scatter about the floor to make a summoning circle - and set it up around the room. It was already unbearably hot and stuffy in the room when he got to work but he refused to unbutton the top button of his collared shirt, or take off his sweater vest, lest the incubus get the wrong impression about why he was summoned and what was expected of him.

Sitting at his desk, he opened the book to the appropriate page. On one side was the summoning spell written in Latin, while on the other was a woodcut depiction of a large breasted woman with horns and a forked tongue sitting astride a man who looked equal parts terrified and aroused. He glanced at the small dagger he’d brought just in case, momentarily soothed by the glitter of the metal in the candlelight, before he turned back to the spell and began his chant.

“Spíritus N. quod fácias appare mihi hic ante hunc Circulum in pulchro figura humana, sine ulla deformitate vel tortuositate. Et per hoc ineffabile nomen, Ananke, tibi mando, quo audito subruuntur elementa, aer concutitur, mare currit, ignis exstinguitur, terra tremit, et omnis exercitus coelestium. terreni et infernales simul contremiscunt et turbantur et confunduntur.”

Obi-Wan looked up from the book and glanced around the room. For a moment nothing seemed out of the ordinary, save for perhaps the excessive sweating and the lit candles that threatened his entire library.

“Did I say something wrong?” Obi-Wan mumbled into the lonely room.

“Your Latin was impeccable.”

Leaping up from his chair Obi-Wan whirled around, knees unsteady beneath him as he came face to face with the person in the corner. He was tucked away in the shadows, most of his form hidden save for the terrible height of him, almost monstrous in stature. Gripping the edge of his desk Obi-Wan stilled himself from reaching for the blade, even as the adrenaline coursing through him bayed him to act.

“Who are you?” Obi-Wan asked quickly.

“You’re the one who summoned me…” The demon’s voice was soft like silk, wrapping around Obi-Wan’s heart to squeeze it. “You know, it’s not very wise to summon a demon if you don’t even know their name.”

“I need to confirm,” Obi-Wan said, trying to keep himself steady when the floor felt as if it were about to give way. He hadn’t expected summoning a demon would come with so much back-talk. “Tell me your name.”

“Is that what you desire?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

When the demon laughed it sounded like the fall of petals against marble floors, and when he moved it was with such grace that Obi-Wan immediately felt a bumbling fool. Stepping out of the shadows the demon revealed himself to Obi-Wan in full. He looked a mortal boy of no more than nineteen, youth still hung on his tall frame, muscles soft and supple beneath bronzed skin speckled with beauty marks and freckles. Golden brown curls hung across his brow and along the sides and back of his neck, the ends tickling his jaw and his straight brow. Lips the colour of roses parted in a small grin, canines flashing in the dark. Though naked he was still covered by the shadows, as if he commanded them to keep his modesty, though why an incubus would want to do so remained a mystery.

If Obi-Wan had seen him on the street he’d have thought him a mortal boy - beautiful and arresting, no doubt, but nothing otherworldly. If it weren’t for his eyes.

They were black like pitch and speckled with white that glittered like stars across the night sky. When he blinked it seemed as if worlds changed with him, the galaxies contained within moving decades and centuries with a single brush of his lids.

“I am Ananke,” the demon replied, his voice still soft and warm. It soothed Obi-Wan, and he loosened his grip on the desk even as he continued his approach. “Though you may call me Anakin.”

“Ananke - it’s Greek, is it not?”

Anakin shrugged and tilted his head to the side. He stopped just short of Obi-Wan. He was impossibly hot, reminding Obi-Wan of days spent in the fields of the countryside on a brilliant summer day, the sun shining down on the back of his neck as he drank sparkling wines and dined on candied fruits.

“Do you really desire to speak to me about my name, Obi-Wan, or is there something else you’d like more?”

Hearing his name spoken before he’d introduced himself should have alarmed Obi-Wan, but he couldn’t even think beyond how good it sounded slipping from between Anakin’s plush lips. He knew he ought to step away from Anakin - put some distance between him and a demon that was made to root out the deepest desires of mortal men and women - but he couldn’t find it in himself to rip himself away. Not when Anakin smelled like salt and earth and cinnamon tea. Just like the backyard of his childhood home.

“Yes, of course,” he mumbled, his tongue feeling heavy and fat in his mouth.

Anakin smiled and ducked his head, lashes fluttering against his high cheekbones as he blinked away another century. “You seem like a man who likes to be stretched apart by a pretty boy’s tongue…”

Obi-Wan swallowed thickly. “Yes,” he said quietly.

The candles in the room flickered then, darkness enveloping them before they flooded the room with their warm light.

Obi-Wan was now on the floor of his office, trousers pulled down to the middle of his thighs while Anakin hovered above, hot and heavy on top of his groin. Anakin grinned then, canines once again flashing, and fear and arousal curled up in Obi-Wan as he lay prone beneath the demon. Anakin licked his teeth, his tongue long and pointed, and Obi-Wan whimpered when he thought about Anakin’s pretty boy tongue stretching him apart.

“It’s not often someone so handsome summons me,” Anakin purred.

His voice had changed slightly, deep layers added to the light lilt that reminded Obi-Wan that he was under the mercy of a demon that was very old, and very powerful. It was only in that moment that Obi-Wan remembered why he’d summoned Anakin in the first place.

“Wait,” he said quickly, and he tried to push Anakin away only to have his wrists locked above his head. His cock twitched with arousal, but he staved down his desires. “I didn’t summon you to lick my hole.”

Anakin quirked a brow, his grip relaxing slightly around Obi-Wan’s wrists. “You do know what I am, Obi-Wan, do you not?”

“Yes, of course I know,” Obi-Wan replied. “You’re an incubus from the demon dimension known as Tatooine, on the lower levels of the outer plains. And that’s why I’ve summoned you.”

“You summoned me because… I’m from a demon dimension?”

“Yes!”

Anakin blinked. Another century passed for some unsuspecting civilization. “You don’t want to have sex with me? All you desire is knowledge?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that I don’t want to have sex with you, but I summoned you to talk to you about your world - where you come from, what it’s like.”

“I… I don’t really do that,” Anakin said slowly.

He relaxed his grip entirely, giving Obi-Wan space and enough time to push him away. But Obi-Wan made no move to remove the beautiful demon from his lap. In fact, he quite liked him being there.

“But you fulfil mortals’ desires, do you not?”

“I suppose.”

“And this is what I desire. Truly desire.”

Anakin sat back, his underside pressing against Obi-Wan’s very obvious erection. He smiled then, a slow, seductive thing that made Obi-Wan’s cheeks go even redder. “And what do I get in return?”

Obi-Wan licked his bottom lip and swallowed down his anxiety. He knew he really shouldn’t have been bargaining with a demon, but the thought of Anakin actually going through with his desires was too tempting to give up. If he could just learn about a world he’d never get a chance to explore through the words and expression of a creature that inhabited it, Obi-Wan could die a happy man.

Even if he did die tonight after getting his life force sucked out of his cock.

“Name your price,” he said.

“Let me pleasure you the ways I know how,” Anakin whispered as he slid his hands along Obi-Wan’s arms and down to his chest. “Let me touch the tight cords of your body, lick the sweat from your thighs, spill your seed across my tongue, and pull you apart stitch by stitch until your desires and agonies are mine and mine alone. And once that is done… then you may ask me your questions.”

Obi-Wan held back a whimper. “Okay.”

Anakin let out an easy sigh as he hovered above, his breath hot across Obi-Wan’s lips as he nuzzled their noses together. The scent of him was still oddly familiar, cinnamon and green tea mixed with the dense musk of a man’s arousal. It made Obi-Wan’s hips thrust upward slightly, pushing his cock against Anakin’s taint. Anakin grinned again.

“Do we have an accord?” Anakin whispered.

The demon didn’t say how long he wanted to fuck Obi-Wan, didn’t say if he’d let him go after he’d had his supposed fill, didn’t promise that he’d answer Obi-Wan’s questions once he’d asked them. And yet knowing all of this Obi-Wan still agreed, because his humanity - his very soul - meant very little to him at that moment.

“Yes, we have an accord,” Obi-Wan mumbled.

“Good. Now… let me have a taste.”

Anakin kissed him then. His lips were impossibly soft, the taste of him like the sweetest treats, the sound of him more primal than the rush of the ocean and the crackle of fire. He licked inside Obi-Wan’s mouth, whimpering softly as he gained easy access, hands bunching up in Obi-Wan’s sweater as he deepened the embrace. Lost in Anakin, Obi-Wan tentatively wrapped his arms around Anakin, pulling him in closer before—

Pulling away, Anakin looked down at Obi-Wan with a sparkle of surprise in his galaxy eyes.

“What?” Obi-Wan asked quickly.

“I’m just surprised,” Anakin replied. “When I kiss a mortal I read their soul - find what they most desire and make it manifest. Normally they crave the unattainable - the otherworldly, the dangerous, the depraved. But you… you wish to only experience a connection with a peer. With a boy made of flesh and bone, who craves only the sound of your voice and the presence of your company. A boy who will allow you to devote your time and patience to. A boy who will love you.”

Obi-Wan shifted. The room was suddenly too hot again, and he tried to look away from the black ink of Anakin’s terrible eyes but was locked in place, unable to escape the careful scrutiny of the demon above.

“I’m not—”

“You’re lonely,” Anakin interrupted. “This is why you desire to know another world - another people. You fear you cannot find companionship here, in this plain, and so you seek our your destiny in another land with those different from your kind.”

“I didn’t summon you to psychoanalyse me, Anakin, I summoned you to—”

“I find it familiar.”

Obi-Wan snapped his mouth closed and looked at Anakin. For a moment he debated trying to shove Anakin off and flee to the safety of the streets outside just to escape Anakin’s scrutiny - trousers down to his ankles and all. But something compelled him to stay; more than the call of Anakin’s body above his own, the heat of him, the weight and taste of him.

Before Obi-Wan could make a decision - remain or flee - the shadows swallowed them up once more, light bleeding from the space until Obi-Wan was swaddled in darkness and heat. When he opened his eyes again he was staring into the blue eyes of a mortal.

Though still beautiful, the ethereal quality of Anakin’s form had been wiped away. A scar slid along the side of his face, long since healed but still striking. He was smaller in stature, still tall and broad but not quite as imposing, and the shadows that concealed his waist had been stripped away, revealing an average sized cock that bounced between two supple thighs that Obi-Wan yearned to touch.

So he did. Reaching up he grasped Anakin’s thighs, squeezing down on the firm muscle and rubbing the soft skin, causing Anakin to moan. Anakin’s cock pulsed, precome beading up along the pink head that glistened in the candle light, a stream of it falling down to land on Obi-Wan’s stomach. Obi-Wan was still mostly dressed but couldn’t find it in himself to take his hands of Anakin, too caught up in his warmth and strength.

“You’re such a beautiful creature,” Obi-Wan mumbled.

“It’s what I was made to be.”

Anakin shoved his hands up Obi-Wan’s shirt and sweater, pushing it up with greedy, broad hands that slid along his skin and pushed into muscle. With a sigh he was enveloped in another heated kiss, his lips parting as Anakin tilted his head to the side and rubbed their tongues together. He tasted as a mortal did, the vestiges of peppermint toothpaste mixing with black tea that reminded Obi-Wan of the mundane and all its comforts.

Continuing to rub Anakin’s thighs, Obi-Wan thrust up, shoving his cock harder against Anakin’s underside, sullying his taint and balls and the swell of his ass with his seed. He felt the curve of Anakin’s smile in their kiss, and he pulled away to stare up at him.

“You’re so big,” Anakin murmured as he leaned back to rock along Obi-Wan’s length. His hands were firm along Obi-Wan’s chest, kneading into the dense muscles of his pecs, the pads of his thumbs brushing his pert nipples. Tossing his head back he continued to grind down on Obi-Wan, chasing his pleasures as his cock continued to leak across Obi-Wan’s belly. “Can I have you?” he asked after a time, voice hitching. “Can I take your cock inside me? Please. I just know you’ll spread me apart like I want to be - pull me apart and fuck me like I need to be fucked.”

It had been some time since Obi-Wan had been propositioned - even longer since he’d had someone beg to let him fuck them.

His response was muffled by the layers of fabric shoved against his throat and mouth.

“Help me get my sweater off,” he growled.

Anakin laughed and darkness swelled once more, cocooning Obi-Wan before he blinked back the light. He was now naked on his office floor, back coated in the black sand he’d bought to summon Anakin, with Anakin curled between his legs, his hungry mouth wrapped around Obi-Wan’s leaking cock.

“Bloody hell,” Obi-Wan cried out as wet, hot heat enveloped him.

Anakin’s lips were impossibly soft, his throat both tight and smooth, his tongue firm against the underside of his length as he bobbed his head up and down. The sound of slick suction filled the room, mixing with the heavy thud as Obi-Wan tossed his head back and knocked his skull against the carpeted floor. Anakin’s hands were relaxed across his hips in silent permission, his muffled moans goading Obi-Wan on, and with little lead-up he gripped the back of Anakin’s head and started fucking into his mouth.

He met no resistance. It was like fucking against a toy that had been made to take Obi-Wan’s length and girth, no grimaces and requests to ease up. Instead Anakin took all of Obi-Wan with ease, burying his nose in Obi-Wan’s bush before sliding back up, tongue flicking along the head to coax out more precome before he went back down. Tangling his fingers in Anakin’s hair he pulled at the knotted curls and pressed his feet against the floor, hips snapping up as he continued to abuse Anakin’s throat, enjoying the freedom of being knowing that he wouldn’t hurt the boy between his legs.

“Gods, Anakin - you’re miraculous.”

Anakin lifted his head, his mouth releasing Obi-Wan’s length with a slick pop. Obi-Wan stared down his body at Anakin, ignoring the softness to his own belly and the unkind reminder that he was a middle-aged researcher and not an immortal demon with a throat made for fucking. Anakin smiled up at Obi-Wan, coy and sweet as he kissed along his thigh and iliac crest, tongue darting out to tease the line of muscles before he continued his journey up further. His lips were soft and warm, his attention thorough.

Almost doting.

Obi-Wan bit back the swell of comfort that coursed through him, and instead rested back on the floor as Anakin settled once more up above. He kissed him, the taste of himself flooding Obi-Wan’s palate. He groaned as Anakin nipped his bottom lip, and delved his tongue inside Anakin’s hungry mouth, dominating their embrace for the first time. Anakin seemed to purr into the kiss, his hands steady along Obi-Wan’s sides before they dipped down lower to tug at his length.

Sitting back up, Anakin hovered above Obi-Wan’s cock, hand bracing his length as he shifted his weight and rubbed the head against his hole. Obi-Wan bit his bottom lip and was about to suggest that Anakin might want to be prepped before he remembered that Anakin was quite literally built for this. But still, he couldn’t help himself from muttering a word of caution.

“Take it slowly, Anakin - don’t hurt yourself.”

Anakin paused then, his head lifting to look at Obi-Wan. Something shifted in his gaze then, lust and determination giving way to something Obi-Wan couldn’t name but felt all the same.

“How could a man as beautiful and kind such as you live without companionship?” Anakin asked quietly.

Before Obi-Wan could dig further into what Anakin had said - to know whether it was a compliment or an insult, or maybe a little of both - Anakin sank down on his length in one easy motion, catching all thoughts save for one.

“You feel so good,” Obi-Wan panted out, his hips twitching as Anakin’s walls closed up around him.

“I try,” Anakin said. He sounded just as breathless as Obi-Wan felt, his hands unsteady as they gripped Obi-Wan’s bent knees, holding on to him as he leaned back and relaxed around Obi-Wan’s cock.

His walls were tight and hot, rim loose around the base, thighs firm against the sides of his hips. He leaned back to show off the plains of his youthful body, his stomach still soft with youth trembling with each unsteady breath. His cock was leaking between his legs, long since neglected but still aching and hard, and Obi-Wan reached out to take him in his hand, groaning as the velvet softness rested in his palm.

Anakin let out another cry and thrust his hips up, shoving his length into Obi-Wan’s touch as he started rocking back on his cock, the two sharing in a moan as pleasure flooded through them. Anakin started at a brutally fast pace, hands gripping Obi-Wan’s knees until they ached from the pressure, rim tightening with each upswung as if to wring every bit of pleasure from Obi-Wan that he could.

“Keep touching me,” Anakin panted out.

Obi-Wan kept one hand wrapped around Anakin’s length, letting him fuck into the circle his fingers made, while the other gripped his hips and held on to him, stabilizing Anakin as he continued to fuck himself on Obi-Wan’s length. Pretty little sounds that reminded Obi-Wan of rain on a windowpane spilled from Anakin’s parted lips, swirling with the sounds of flesh against flesh and Obi-Wan’s deeper grunts.

“Kiss me,” Obi-Wan said, desperate to feel Anakin’s pants and gasps against his lips and the flat of his tongue.

Anakin fell forward then, curling in on top of Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan chased his warm, bracing his feet on the floor as he shoved into Anakin, their tongues rubbing in a messy kiss. He wondered briefly what those who had delighted in Anakin before him had asked for - what sort of depravity they’d inflicted upon Anakin and asked for in return, and if Anakin felt anything other than raw hunger at their request. After all, mortals were just cuts of meat for a demon such as he, meant to be fed upon until the demon had its fill.

And yet Obi-Wan couldn’t help but feel as if maybe Anakin was different.

Or maybe he was different.

Anakin pulled away from the kiss and pressed his face against Obi-Wan’s neck, his arms curled beneath him as he rubbed his swollen cock against Obi-Wan’s stomach. He tightened his walls once more, making Obi-Wan hiss as pleasure and pain skittered through his cock and pooled in his belly.

“Come for me,” Obi-Wan whispered against Anakin’s temple.

Anakin came with a desperate cry. The sound was like nothing else, his voice both captivating and terrifying, coursing through Obi-Wan like venom in his blood. He bit into Obi-Wan’s shoulder, canines sharper than any mortal, cutting into Obi-Wan’s flesh as if he were actually something to devour. The way in which Anakin gave into his release was liberating, Obi-Wan desperate to follow him into the abyss with no question, no fear.

“C’mon, Obi-Wan. Give me your everything,” Anakin mumbled against the corner of Obi-Wan’s lips.

Obi-Wan thrust up one last time before he came, shoving his cock in as deep as he could. His orgasm ripped through him, stripping his mind of all thought and all worry. Squeezing his eyes shut he writhed on the floor, pressed into the wood and the sand by Anakin’s weight, his presence coaxing him through a volley of releases that never seemed to end.

And in that clarity he saw it.

Shoals of sand across a barren landscape, cast in dark blues and purples as twin suns slipped past the horizon, taking their warmth and safety with them. Voices carried out across the dunes and between massive rocks the colour of blood, their language unknown, their intentions unclear. The smell of dust and sour wines mixed with the taste of honey and come, thick and dense and overpowering. And in the centre of a cave in the middle of the desert, a boy curled in on himself and slept until the next feast was found.

Obi-Wan opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling of his library. His body was sticky with dried come and sweat, muscles aching from exertion, the back of his skull bruised and tender to touch. Sitting up he glanced over at his clothes that had been folded neatly and placed carefully on top of his desk. The book he’d used to summon Anakin was gone, and instead there was a single sheet of paper with a note written on it.

Standing with a groan, Obi-Wan stumbled over to the note and picked it up to read.

‘Next time I’ll summon you,

A.’

#obikin #star wars fanfiction #lemon fanfiction #lemon does kinktober 2024 #we did it #phew #another one done and dusted #happy halloween!

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your-divine-ribs · 5 months ago

Text

Showtime

Words: 5k

This one has been sat unfinished in my drafts since the summer - I’m sorry! // Van’s feeling nervous before his big comeback show so you take matters into your own hands to help him relax // smut 🤭

Imagines Masterlist Main Masterlist

Three years. Three long years... well two years, 9 months and 5 weeks to be precise. 1040 days. Not that you've been counting. You didn't need to. The fan blogs online had taken care of that for you. A smile stretches wide on your lips as you tilt your phone towards your boyfriend to show him the Instagram story that you've just clicked on.

"Look at this... they've even got a little countdown clock on this one! They can't wait to see you, I'm telling you. The atmosphere's going to be incredible, it'll be the best show yet, you'll see."

It was the moment that you'd both been waiting for, but you'd be lying if you told your boyfriend that you'd always known it would finally come. There were days where you didn't think he'd even pick up his guitar again, let alone stand in front of a crowd of 32,000 adoring fans all chanting his name. Those were dark days full of pain and grief and regret. You'd had to watch your usually exuberant boyfriend get eaten away slowly by a crippling self-doubt that had plagued him every time he'd attempted to put pen to paper, the lyrics that usually flowed so easily drying up like a shallow well on a scorching hot summer's day. It was hard to think about now and to be honest you tried not to, the memories of spilt tears and sleepless nights and heated exchanges fuelled by both your frustrations starting to fade as hope had finally emerged like the dawn of a new day.

But now the insecurities were back. You can see the tightness in his jaw, his lips red and sore where he's been gnawing at them, the tension in his frame as he shifts where he sits.

"Had the dream again last night." His voice is all pinched and tight with anxiety. He barely looks at the phone screen in your outstretched hand, eyes darting away quickly as he fumbles in his jacket pocket for his cigarettes. "It's the same every time. I open my mouth to sing and nothing comes out. Nothing at all. Nada. Not even a squeak."

He sighs, slipping a cigarette between his lips and sparking up his lighter, but you don't give the flame a chance to ignite. You reach forward, snatching the cigarette clean away.

"You might well lose your voice if you carry on chain-smoking like that. You've only just put one out!"

You tut playfully at him, ignoring his obvious dismay as you reach over to also take the half empty cigarette packet from him.

"But babe... it's good for the nerves," he protests, holding out a hand palm down, fingers spread. "Look at me, I'm fucking shaking!"

It's hard seeing him like this, riddled with obvious nerves and apprehension, his normally confident demeanour decimated by the long absence from performing. With only half an hour to go until showtime you know Van has to snap out of it and fast. You're terrified of him stepping out on to the stage and freezing up. The cutting comments and cruel observations about him being 'past it', 'off his head on drugs' or just plain incapable of carrying out his usual brand of lively performance had cut deep after the band's headline Reading set just under three years prior. You know he has to get out of his own head and into his usual energetic stage mode. Rehearsals had gone perfectly but it's different when you're up there under the stage lights and the scrutinising eyes of the fans, some who you know from bitter experience will pick apart a performance just as well as praise it.

"I keep telling you, there's no need to be nervous. Rehearsals have been great, Kai and James have got it all down perfectly." You rise up on to your feet, stepping over to look down on him. "Soundcheck was fine. You just need to go out there and let it flow, don't overthink it. How many times have you played these songs before? It must come as naturally to you as breathing by now."

"I know what you're saying love and I wish it was that simple." He lets out another sigh, frustrated with himself, his head falling back on to the sofa where he sits, his eyes screwing shut. "I don't know what it is, I never used to care about the critics, but now it's all I can think of. There's so much riding on this gig. If I go and fuck it up..."

"You are not going to fuck it up," you cut him off sternly, reaching for his hands and entwining your fingers with his. Your legs are pressed into the edge of the sofa in the space between his spread thighs and you have the sudden urge to be even closer to him, clambering up until you're straddling him, a knee on either side of his hips. His eyes flick open in an instant as he feels the pressure of you sitting in his lap, but he doesn't react, little creases of worry still crinkling his forehead. You decide to carry on with your pep-talk, on a mission to soothe away his concerns.

"What could possibly go wrong? You've sold out practically every show on this comeback tour so you know the fans are excited to have you back. You've been rehearsing like crazy and you know the setlist inside out. The fans are gonna go wild when they see you. You look amazing tonight..."

"Oh I dunno about that," he huffs quietly, face scrunching in disagreement. "It's not like I'm in my twenties anymore. I wish I still was, I didn't give a fuck back then. Not sure if I've still got it. Don't know if I look the part anymore."

"What are you talking about?" You laugh, pulling his hands into your lap, squeezing them in encouragement. "You're turning 32 in a few weeks, not 62! You're not exactly past it yet. You're still as gorgeous as the day I first laid eyes on you... even better in fact."

Sometimes it exasperates you how the niggling little insecurities about his appearance that manifested in his awkward teenage years still afflict him. Not even hordes of adoring fans spouting their devotion all over social media are enough to chase away the self-doubts. And no one else gets to sees this vulnerability except you, his confident on-stage presence often viewed as some kind of cocky arrogance that he doesn't care what people think of him.

"You would say that," he finally cracks a grin. "You're biased. You're my girlfriend after all, you gotta be nice to me."

"But I'm not just saying it, I mean it." You smile down on him and he looks right back, stunning blue-green eyes over-flowing with love and affection as he hangs on your every word. "You're gonna wow 'em like you always do. You look every inch the cool rockstar... especially now with this..."

You raise up a hand to brush his hair back off his face, letting your fingers rake through his long locks, your fingernails gently scratching at his scalp. He lets his head lol back against the sofa, lips quirking into a satisfied smile as he basks in your adoring attention. If it wasn't for the loud thud of the bass from the support act on stage filtering through the thin walls of the trailer you swear you'd be able to hear him purring.

"Mmm... I don't know... maybe I should have had it cut short after all," he muses, smirking at your overdramatic look of faux horror at the suggestion.

"Nuh-uh," you shake your head emphatically. "You're never cutting it, not now. I absolutely love it long like this, I really do... and besides..." now it's your turn to smirk, your voice taking on a playful tone "... if you do cut it short again I wouldn't be able to do this then, would I?"

As you speak you bury your hand deep into the roots of his hair, twisting it through your fingers as you wind it tightly into a fist, a firm tug to tip his head even further back, elongating his neck.

A soft growl emanates from the back of his throat, an involuntary reaction to your playful teasing. You'd never realised you were such a fan of long hair on guys before your boyfriend decided to grow his out, and that revelation had come hand in hand with another more surprising one... an accidental but very welcome discovery of one of Van's hidden kinks. He got off on having his hair pulled.

You catch your bottom lip in your teeth to stifle a giggle at his reaction, loving the dusting of colour that springs to his cheeks and the glaze of lust that clouds his eyes. You just tug even harder, exposing more of his throat which you waste no time in pressing your lips up against.

"Babe..." he whines in a strangled tone, his hips pressing upwards as you gently grind down on his lap simultaneously. "What d'ya think ya doing? You can't get me all fired up right now before I go out on stage. I can't perform with a massive boner, can I?"

You chuckle against the skin of his neck, not letting up the subtle but insistent rock of your hips, relishing the way you can reduce him to malleable putty in your hands within minutes.

"Definitely not... not with these skin-tight jeans on anyway."

You slip your free hand down between your bodies as if to demonstrate, cupping his crotch through the denim and rubbing firmly until he releases a throaty groan full of need.

"I'm serious love, I've got enough to worry about remembering the words and timings without trying to conceal a raging hard-on. Much as I'd love to fuck you before I go on we haven't got time for this."

He doesn't stop you though, addicted to your tempting caresses, eyes fluttering shut in bliss as he succumbs to your wilful seduction. The cool scent of his cologne fills your nostrils as you take the sensitive skin of his neck between your teeth and suck a small bruise, all the time kneading his ever-growing bulge.

"Who said anything about fucking?" You whisper into the shell of his ear, nipping his ear lobe as you pull back to press hot, wet kisses down the line of his lightly stubbled jaw.

"Then what are ya... oh... oh shit... you really wanna do this... now?"

His voice takes on an intonation of understanding as you shift your position, your movements slow and measured as you push yourself off his lap to rise up temporarily, only to sink down on to the floor at the foot of the sofa. You maintain eye contact with him the whole time, letting your tongue run over your bottom lip as your hands work on the zipper of his jeans.

"Just wanna get my man feeling all confident and hyped up ready for his big show, that's all," you tell him, sultry sweet combined with a wide-eyed coyness that he won't be able to resist. You know that the best cure for his untimely stage fright is a big distraction, and you just happen to know the most effective way to deliver it, a sordid method that will transform him from a shaky bundle of nerves into the relaxed and confident, charismatic frontman that the fans know and love so well.

"Shit... this is much better prep than vocal warm-ups," he grins mischievously, fully on board with the idea as he lifts his hips up off the seat to assist you with tugging his jeans down. "But what if someone comes in?"

"Don't worry I'll be quick," you smirk up at him devilishly, fingers already hooking under the waistband of his boxers to ease them down. "I'm very... efficient."

"You bloody are love," he chuckles in agreement, sighing in appreciation as his thick cock springs free and your fingers immediately wrap around it. "You know exactly what I like... fuck... how can you be so goddamn hot?"

You smile at his praise, leaning in but not taking him into your mouth just yet, brazenly meeting his hungry gaze as you extend your tongue to slowly kitten lick the tip of his cock. He watches your every move like a hawk, entranced by your sensual display.

"You're a fucking dream," he murmurs, swallowing thickly. "Can't believe I'm just about to walk out on stage in front of all those people and you're in here right now doing this to me."

"If only they knew," you grin, pursing your lips to let a gob of saliva dribble down over your bottom lip and drip on to the head of his cock, spreading it around with your thumb. You know you need to be quick but you don't want to be too hasty. You can't bear to rush things with Van, he just looks too good when you're pleasing him, he sounds too good, the way the pleasure creases his gorgeous face and his delectable little sighs and needy moans, it sets your blood alight.

He squirms where he sits, the fingers of one hand gripping on to the arm of the chair as if to ground himself, the other finding its way to the back of your head where it tangles in your hair.

"If only they knew what a dirty girl yer were eh?" He mutters, teeth digging into his plump lower lip as your tongue laps at his slit, fingers slowly and deliberately pumping his spit-slicked length. "Christ you're amazing... but you're too good at this... fuck..."

"Too good?" You pull away temporarily to look up at him with wide innocent eyes, playing dumb even though the sultry curve of your lips tells a different story. "You complaining about my technique huh? Maybe you want me to stop? Give you a breather?"

"No way," he's quick to reply, long fingers flexing in your hair as he attempts to guide your head back down. "Please don't stop... not now... you got me so fucking hard... I need ya... you know how much I do."

His need for you is intoxicating, the way his hips twitch upwards and his grip tightens in your hair as you gently suckle on his tip. You're holding back from giving him exactly what he wants though, knowing your calculated hesitance will ramp up his desperation and in turn light the fire that's needed to stoke his confidence.

"Babe..." he pleads, low and drawn out, his jaw clenching tight as he struggles to maintain his composure. You reward his need with a swirl of your tongue, your free hand reaching up to cup his balls whilst you steadily caress his length with the other. The strangled sounds drifting down from above tell you he's almost forgotten how to breathe.

"Love... please," he murmurs, his voice thick and strained with want, his eyes hooded and dark.

He's so expressive when you tease him it's hard not to lose control yourself, your thighs clenching together as he lets out another stifled moan. If both your hands weren't occupied right now you'd be slipping one inside your panties to quell the ache that's pulsing there. There's plenty of time for that later though. You know all too well the adrenaline will still be thrumming through his veins when he comes off stage and you've been on the receiving end of his post-gig passion enough times to know that he'll certainly be more than happy to return the favour then.

"What's up?" You say sweetly, looking up at him with an impish smile, fingers never stopping their slow, teasing dance up and down his length. A little firmer but not quite firm enough. Not giving him that delicious friction that he's craving so badly.

"You know damn well what's up," He groans, cheeks flushed and rosy as he gazes down on you. "Quit teasing me would ya? I'm on in just over twenty minutes! You said you were gonna be quick!"

And this is the plan. Despite his obvious enjoyment at your attentions you can clearly see the tension still lingering in his frame. The air of the trailer is thick with it, that pre-performance anticipation that frazzles nerves and shakes up confidence still drenching him in self-doubt. You need him to forget all about it, you need him clear his head and lose himself in the moment. You want him to feel that heady power that comes from being thoroughly desired.

"Well you'd better tell me exactly what you want then," you say, nuzzling into the soft flesh as you press a lingering kiss to the underside of his cock, scattering wet kisses all over his length.

"Shit," he hisses, his shaky voice almost a whine. "I want... I want... uhhhhh fuck..."

He's struggling to get his words out, choked with need, shuddering as you tighten your grip on him, pumping him a little faster.

"What was that, I didn't quite catch it?" You tease, relishing the warm, solid feel of him in your palm, the way his cock swells even more in anticipation.

He's looking down on you, heavily-lidded eyes clouded with desire. His bottom lip's pulled in between his teeth, bitten in frustration, his cock rock hard, the pretty flushed pink tip glistening with his arousal.

"Hmm?" You prompt, raising an eyebrow teasingly.

"Fuck," he groans, drawn out and needy. "Want you... want your lips around my cock. Want you to suck me dry... please... your mouth's like heaven. Need it so bad."

His needy pleas of desperation are like music to your ears and you know you can't hold back any longer. You fix him with a steady gaze, keeping your eyes firmly on his as you dip your head, humming an appreciation as you lap again at the head of his cock. You taste the sweet tang of the pre-cum that's already beaded there, swirling your tongue around and around, savouring his taste. You give him a few purposeful tugs as you suck teasingly on his tip, then you widen your mouth to slide your lips downwards. He immediately melts into the couch, babbling mindlessly.

"That's it love... that's it... fuck... you look so good with your mouth full of me... oh god... you're amazing... just look at you..."

If your lips weren't wrapped around his cock you'd be grinning smugly from ear to ear, satisfied to see his eyes roll back in his head as he lets out the most sinful of moans. You flatten your tongue on the underside of his length as you pull back, pursing your lips and hollowing out your cheeks before you slide back down again. You take him even deeper this time, testing your limits, not stopping until your nose brushes the thatch of dark curls at the base of his dick and you feel him nudge the back of your throat. Your eyes immediately start to blur with tears but you don't stop, loving the effect you have on him too much to worry about ruining your carefully applied eyeliner.

"Holy fucking shit," he whimpers out, his thighs already starting to tremble. "Feels so fucking good... christ babe... am gonna blow my load if ya keep doing that."

You keep your eyes trained on him as you begin to bob your head even faster, watching his jaw fall slack, his chest rising and falling quickly with huge gasping breaths. He's fucking irresistible like this, soft and compliant in your hands, the fact that you're the one making him fall apart so utterly consuming it makes you breathless with your own need. You're just glad you're down on your knees for him because the sight of him completely unravelling before your eyes like this is enough to knock the wind right out of you.

"Fuck... I'm close already... like that, just like that... please don't stop... ughhh... you've got no idea how good that feels."

He shudders in ecstasy, his hips rising up in little waves to meet the rhythm you've set with your lips. The hand in your hair suddenly tightens its grip, hard, making you hiss around his length. Your discomfort's the last thing on your mind though, in fact it spurs you on, turning you on beyond belief that you've got him losing his goddamn mind like this, any semblance of self-control completely obliterated as he starts to writhe in the seat, the sluttiest, filthiest groans spilling from his lips.

There's tiny beads of sweat glistening on his collar bones where his shirt's unbuttoned, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he sucks in shallow breaths. His long neck's littered with a few tiny purple bruises, your earlier handiwork. You know you probably shouldn't have marked him up like that right before a show but there's a mischievous side of you that loves the idea of showing the world that he's yours and yours alone.

You're on a mission to make him come now, aware that time is getting tight and the risk of getting caught like this will only increase as the minutes tick by. Luckily for you you're so familiar with what he likes, you know all the little tricks that will reduce him to a moaning, whimpering mess under your touch. You moan around his shaft, the vibrations inching him even closer to the edge, his balls drawing up tight in your palm as you massage them gently, your other hand pumping his length fast and slick. His hips have taken on mind of their own, shamelessly bucking upwards as he fucks himself into your eager mouth.

"Fucking... love you... Y/N," he gasps out in between his gorgeous sounds, head thrown back as he lets the ecstasy take over, drowning in it, finally letting himself go.

You keep your eyes on him as you double your efforts, not wanting to miss a second of him falling apart. This is what you wanted, to see him totally unwind, his head clear of all thoughts apart from you and your lips and your tongue. He's totally wrecked, his handsome face contorted in pleasure and his jaw fallen completely slack. He's all breathy sighs and raw groans, praises and curses rolling off his tongue as he pushes your head firmly down, finally taking control so he can feel the blissful sensation of your throat constricting around him.

"That's it baby... that's it... take all of me... good girl... ughhh..."

You swallow down a gag, fighting the urge to splutter as you feel his cock pulsing hot and heavy on your tongue, his release spurting into your mouth and coating the back of your throat. His grip on your hair immediately loosens as his body falls slack and you pull back, gasping for breath, giving him a few more deliberate tugs just to hear him whimper from the sensitivity.

"Feeling all better now?" You smirk up at him, mightily pleased with yourself as you watch him fighting to control his breathing, his eyes glazed over and his expression dazed.

"Oh my god yes, you're unreal... that was amazing," he mutters, chuckling quietly to himself as he tucks his softening cock back inside his underwear, shunting his hips up off the chair so he can tug up his jeans. "And exactly what I needed... feel like I could take on the world after that!"

"How about playing a headline show?" You grin up at him, wiping your mouth on the back of your hand, savouring the sweet-salty taste of him that still lingers on your tongue.

"I reckon," he smiles back, eyes twinkling with that same old magical spark of excitement he always used to get before performing that's been absent these past few years. God how you've missed it. "You always know what I need love... every single time. How do you do that? C'mon, come up here, come and sit with me for a while. Reckon we've still got a few minutes before I need to get my shit together."

He reaches down for your hand which you take and he pulls you up on to your feet, and then he's pulling you gently down, urging you to take a seat on his lap. You scramble up, curling your body around him and resting your head on his shoulder, pressing your lips gently to his neck as you mumble against the warmth of his skin.

"I knew I needed you to get out of your head for a little while to get you to stop overthinking everything and clear your mind. Knew I had to find a way to distract you."

"You certainly did that," he huffs out a warm breathy laugh, shaking his head. "Reckon I need you on hand before every show from now on. Might even add you to my rider."

You giggle, sitting up a little straighter so you're both on eye level, your lips curving into a suggestive smirk. "Well, that's a service I can certainly provide... maybe I'll throw in a few extras back at the hotel too later if you play your cards right."

"Babe, if ya keep looking at me like that we're not even gonna make it back to the hotel after," he grins. "You know how I get when I come off stage. Fuck... I can feel it now, all that adrenaline. Can't believe I'm just about to go back out there."

"You're gonna kill it, just like you do every single time. The fans adore you, why else would you sell out all these gigs, huh?" You raise up a hand to brush back a few sweat-dampened strands of hair from his forehead, letting your fingers run through his long locks. "They're here to see you doing what you do best, what you love, what they've been missing all these years... and you're gonna go out there and give them one of the best nights out that they're still gonna be talking about weeks and months from now... hell, maybe even years!"

"A little piece of Catfish history, huh?" He nods, eyes bright and eager, nerves melting away by the second as excitement starts to take over.

"A big piece, I'd say," you reply. A shiver of excitement courses through you as you hear the pre-show music suddenly fall quiet, a short pause before the opening bars of Dean Martin's Ain't That a Kick in the Head blare out of the onstage speakers. All at once the crowd noise which had been simmering at a low murmur swells into a cacophony of screams and whoops and whistles. The noise is muted back here in the trailer but you swear you can even pick out some individual cheers of devotion as the diehard fans who've been counting down this moment for years get caught up in the exhilarating anticipation of seeing their favourite band once again.

"Shit love, this is it. This is really happening," he breathes, blowing out a shaky exhale through his pursed lips. You can feel the tension in his limbs but it's not just nerves now, every muscle and tendon in his body reacting to the adrenaline rush pulsing through his veins, the excitement mounting.

"C'mon then, you'd better go... Helter Skelter's gonna start up any second now."

You slip down off his lap just as the trailer door swings inwards and you both turn to see Benji standing there, nervous excitement clear on his face. "You all ready mate? Stage manager's been pacing like crazy for the past half an hour. Reckon he thought you'd lost your nerve shutting yourself away in here like this..." his eyes flit to you and a cheeky smirk breaks out. "Of course I told him not to worry, I knew Y/N would be in here with you giving you one of her... ahem... infamous pep talks..."

He chuckles, his attention darting back to Van who's just realised as he rises up on to his feet that his flies are still undone, his face flushing beetroot red as he fumbles with his zipper. "Ahh crap! Works a treat though Blakes, I'm telling ya... you should definitely try it!"

"Oh my god, shut up you two," you giggle shyly, your own cheeks warming to the same hue. "Now go on... get on out there... don't keep the fans waiting!"

Benji turns to walk away and Van goes to follow him, but he comes to a stop, turning to you and cupping your face in his hands, pressing his lips hard against yours in a passionate kiss which leaves you breathless as he pulls back.

“Love you so much Y/N… and thank you…”

“You don’t have to thank me silly,” you smile, hands curled around his waist, your hips knocking together. “Like I say, it’s all part of the service!”

“I don’t mean just for that!” He laughs, his thumbs tenderly stroking your cheeks, his eyes pooling with tenderness and affection. “I mean for putting up with me these past few years. I know it’s been a tough ride and I’ve not always been easy to be around… but having you there by my side’s the only thing that’s got me through. You believed in me when no one else did.”

“I’m not the only one who believed in you,” you nod your head in the direction of the roaring crowd, watch Van’s smile grow, warm and genuine in a way that makes your heart swell. “They never stopped believing in you either.”

And there he is, the man you fell in love with all those years ago. Full to the brim with confidence, buzzing with the infectious energy that’s radiating off him, back to doing what he loves… what he was always meant to do. It’s Showtime.

#showtime #van mccann x reader #van mccann fanfic #catb imagines #catfish and the bottlemen #van mccann #fanfic #vanfic #smut

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