Bakugou X F!reader

𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐑 — itoshi. r, itoshi. s

𖨆♡𖨆 itoshi rin x fem!reader x itoshi sae

✧˚ · . a tornado meeting a hurricane, a wild flame catching onto dry straw—that was how it felt like to love the both of them: disastrous.

✧˚ · . cw. love triangles, sae is 27 / rin is 25 / yn is 24, cheating (rin), established relationship (sae), dubcon (rin), reader is a physiotherapist, reader is feminine coded (wears makeup, heels, dresses, earrings, perfume, etc), explicit smut, language, tension, toxic family dynamics, sibling rivalry, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of abortion, jealousy, possessiveness, heavy angst, graphic descriptions of violence, toxic relationship dynamics, unprotected s[e]x, exhibitionism, mentions of contraception, slut shaming. . . more tba

✧˚ · . find yourself indecisive with this playlist

{{𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐗}}

#1 — A BACKWARDS DANCE

#2 — WE’RE MAGNIFICENTLY CURSED

#3 — HABITS OF OUR HEART

#4 — OCEANS APART

#5 — ANCHOR TO ME

. . . tba

✧˚ · . rbs to boost are sincerely appreciated <33

© all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy, repost, or claim as your own.

open season thirsts [9/?] /// Iwaizumi x f!Reader x Oikawa (18+)

Request: This is cringe so i understand if u ignore this lmao. Mafia!iwakawa found out that reader is kidnapped by their enemies

A/N: Dude I write anime character reader insert fanfiction, I’ve transcended cringe at this point. BUT I hope it’s cool I angled it a bit darker bc I’m nasty and awful :.)

Setup: reader is the daughter of the former family head, Oikawa’s the current boss, and Iwa’s his right hand man. You’re all childhood friends (Oikawa was your father’s protege before his retirement).

Tags/warnings: um…mafia, kidnapping, genre-appropriate violence/blood/death/murder (not reader), yandere/possessive tendencies, patronizing treatment, restraints/gag/blindfold, mentions of crying, “princess”, ‘family’ just refers to the organization (no one is related other than reader and her father), all characters are adults

“Do you think she’ll be crying?”

There’s blood on the floor. Iwaizumi shifts where he’s crouching so that the edge of his shoe doesn’t touch it—bloodstains are such a pain to get out of leather. “What?”

“I mean, when we find her.” Oikawa nudges the body over with one hand and inspects the blank, glassy look pasted over the man’s face. “This one’s done. I think we’re good here.”

Iwaizumi straightens, throwing a cold glance down to confirm before turning back to his partner. “We should be thorough. This wouldn’t’ve happened if there weren’t rats running around in the first place—and what the hell does that mean? Why would she be crying?”

“Don’t you think she might be scared? She’s such a crybaby.”

Oikawa’s running fingers through his hair now to slick back the strands that fell out of place during the struggle, smoothing his hands down the pressed fabric of his suit to flatten out any stray wrinkles, and Iwaizumi recognizes the gestures against his will. Oikawa’s preening—freshening himself up so he looks good when they find you. God forbid the moron look anything less than his best in front of you, even though you’ve probably been tied to a chair for the better part of a week and you won’t give a fuck what they look like as long as they’re cutting the ropes off.

Not that Iwaizumi can really blame him. Yes, Oikawa’s a vain bastard, but Iwaizumi feels it too—the nervousness, this excitement at the thought of seeing you again. It’s been four months since you insisted on leaving the compound to live independently—and didn’t they tell you it was going to end badly? Iwaizumi spent weeks trying to convince you that it was stupid to play pretend at a normal life (“come on princess, you know your father wants you to stay here, you know it’s not safe”), but you just had to pack your bags in the middle of the night and leave the family behind. You’ve always been headstrong. Neither of them want you to go through any hardship, but at least this time maybe you’ll have learned your lesson. Maybe this was for the best.

Well…it’s a lot easier for him to see it that way when he’s standing ankle deep in the bodies of the people who stole you. As much as Iwaizumi wants to have you back now, it’ll have to wait until he’s sure that every single one of your kidnappers is dead.

“She’s not a crybaby. Not anymore,” he says. It’s true that you used to cry whenever you were scared as a kid, and it didn’t help that as the former boss’s daughter you had plenty to be scared of. Iwaizumi has fond memories of wiping your tears away and telling you it was going to be alright after your father reprimanded you for something you did wrong, and it doesn’t surprise him that Oikawa feels the same way. You’ve always been so hard to pin down—always slipping up, always talking back—except when you’re crying. Back then, it was the closest you ever came to relying on the two of them.

But that was a long time ago. You’ve toughened up since you were little. It’s been years since Iwaizumi’s seen you cry.

“I guess,” Oikawa whines, stepping smoothly over another man lying prone on the floor as he makes his way to the backroom where you’re being kept. “But don’t you miss it? She was so cute back then.”

“She’s still…” Iwaizumi trails off, wondering if you can hear them through the locked door between you. If your eardrums are undamaged from the gunshots (Iwaizumi made sure to use a silencer, but you’re sensitive), you’ll be pissed if you hear him call you cute. “…She’ll be happy to see us either way. She’s been here for days.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Then let’s hurry up and get it over with.”

One of the men on the ground is making a kind of…gurgling sound, and Oikawa kneels halfway down to make sure he’s not going to get back up, peeling back the edge of the bomber jacket the man is wearing and revealing a red stain spreading out from behind his ribs. “This is the last one. Still holding on, but he’ll bleed out by the time we take her out of here.”

“Stand back,” Iwaizumi says flatly, and as soon as Oikawa is out of range, a final gunshot cracks through the room to finish the dying man off.

“Oh—putting him out of his misery, are we? How generous.”

“Not generous. Impatient.”

Iwaizumi scans the room again, counting the bodies, checking for any last subtle breaths. There’s none. The door to the backroom is locked from the outside only—clearly your kidnappers were more concerned about you escaping than the possibility of anyone getting through the small army of guards outside the door. He only has to flip the lock and then the handle is yielding under his grip.

And it’s just like he pictured it. You’re tied to a chair, black cords looping around your ankles and your waist and your wrists and binding you to the wood. You look, predictably, like you’ve been wearing the same clothes for a week, but still—even with the greasy hair, even with the mussed clothing, even with your face obscured by a wad of fabric gagged into your mouth and a blindfold—Iwaizumi can’t help the rush of relief that comes from seeing you alive. And you’re safe, too. Now that they’re here for you.

Oikawa goes to you first, and Iwaizumi lets him. Oikawa’s the family head so he’s the first one who gets to touch you. Iwaizumi knows that’s how it is. Oikawa bends down next to you and when his hands go to undo the gag first instead of the ropes or the blindfold, Iwaizumi rolls his eyes privately. Fuck, how badly does the idiot want to see her cry?

The fabric is soaked with spit when Oikawa pulls it out of your mouth—you must have been trying to talk with it in. Maybe you were screaming. Iwaizumi wishes idly that he’d left some of the men outside alive—it could have been slower, he could have really made it hurt—but the wave of fury passes. It’s done. You’re fine. You’re safe now.

You open and close your jaw a bit, stretching out the sore muscles, and when you finally speak your voice is hoarse from a combination of neglect and likely dehydration. “Hajime? T—Tooru? It’s…you, right?”

“How did you know?” Oikawa pouts.

“I, um, heard the shots…I know what your gun sounds like—” Oikawa’s thumb rubs lightly over your cheek as you’re talking (probably subconscious, Iwaizumi doubts he even knows he’s doing it) and you jerk away from his hand. “Don’t touch me like that! You smell like blood.”

“Oh…I’m sorry,” Oikawa laughs softly, not moving his hand from your face. You’re still blindfolded, but he’s staring at you anyway in pure rapture. The wriggly movements of your body against the rope tell Iwaizumi that you’re waiting for them to untie you, but he holds back—considering the way Oikawa’s drinking in this image of you, it seems like he wants to savor this moment a little longer. Iwaizumi can’t say he doesn’t understand.

Really, it’s just that you’re usually so hard to pin down.

“Are you—aren’t you going to untie me?” Your voice sounds a little nervous now. Iwaizumi’s getting tired of waiting for his turn to touch—he kneels next to you, across from Oikawa, and laces his fingers into yours, pulling your hand awkwardly away from the place where it’s still tied to the arm of the chair. “—Hajime? Is that you?”

“Just give us a minute, princess,” he breathes, folding each finger down until your smaller hand is swallowed up in his grip.

“Were you scared?” Oikawa asks, and Iwaizumi wonders if it’s as obvious to you as it is to him that part of Oikawa wants the answer to be yes.

“No, um…” You’re turning your head blindly between the two of them, obviously trying to sort out whose hand is whose—who’s touching you, and where—but does it really matter? As long as it’s one of them? “I wasn’t. Not really. I…I knew you would come.”

“Good girl, good girl.” Oikawa’s hand tilts your chin up. “Are you ready to come home then? If you can admit it, I’ll untie you.”

“Come on…” It doesn’t feel quite right to hold you hostage like this, but then again Iwaizumi’s lost his sense of what right is when it comes to you. Maybe love isn’t supposed to be this obsessive, but by now it’s been so long that neither of them can tell the difference. Can you really fault them for that?

“It’s okay, Hajime, um—I’m ready.” You swallow roughly, turning back to where you think Oikawa is stroking your face. “Tooru…can I go back to the compound? I want to…go back…”

“You want us to take you back,” Oikawa corrects, cupping your cheek, careful all the time not to let the streak of blood on his hand meet your skin. “You want to come home.”

—12:05 am

Matsukawa Issei x f!reader (ft. Makki)

summary: ( post time skip ) He loved to tease you. Didn’t matter when, where or why. He just wanted to. He loved you of course but he also loved how needy you become after pushing your buttons which was so easy since you were such a crybaby. But he loved that too. It was supposed to be another normal night out with friends but for some reason, he felt particularly meaner tonight.

warnings : pwp, mean dom!Mattsun , mean dom!Makki, daddy kink, sub/dom dynamic, slight degradation, cuckholding, breeding kink, fingering, public setting, car sex, spanking , overstimulation, blowjob, kinda mind break? kind of birthday sex cause it’s like before his bday

words: 5.5k

a/n: so yeah, this came about because it was Mattsun day, so I just had to write it. Supposed to be a Mattsun centric fic where he’s just being a mean dom, but I just had to add Makki to the fray cause idk they’re like a packaged deal asdfghjkl anyways! enjoy lovely people!!! this just proves that my recent obsession are these two 

ღ   tip me on  ᴋᴏ-ꜰɪ    ღ

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bos taurus | dogmeat series pt., i

mafia butcher Simon Riley x Reader

You don't question your brother when he sends you to drop off packages to his friends, but when the enforcer for the 141 shows up to teach the small-time dealer selling on their turf a lesson, you realize there are different ways to pay someone back with pounds of flesh.

(OR: your brother owes them, and Ghost is content to let you settle the debt. after all, if you wanted freedom, then you shouldn't have caught the eye of the butcher of the 141, should you?)

18+ SMUT. noncon. objectification. marking. kidnapping. threats of violence. unsafe sex (manipulation into unprotected sex). rough sex. size difference. breathplay. 10k of foreplay. light pussy slapping. overstimulation. mafia au.

SERIES MASTERLIST | AO3

The goal is to be as quick and discreet as possible. 

In and out, he says, looping the baggie around his index finger. Inside, a snowfall of white powder settles at the bottom. 

Meth this time. Oxytocin the last. 

He ties it tight before giving the bag a quick shake, breaking up the clumps. Satisfied with the way it looks, he turns toward you. Levels you with a sombre look, the picture of a concerned older brother. 

You almost fall for it. Believe it. But the clouded, flat edge to his gaze undercuts his worry for what it really is. A farce. 

“And if it seems sketchy—”

—run.

But your knees are locked, soles glued to the pavement. You can't move even though everything is screaming at you to flee. 

The problem, maybe, is that there's nowhere to go. Escape cut off, filled by a body, a man—even though the idea, the mere notion, of thinking this behemoth as human, flesh and bone; blood and tissue, is laughable when he's so clearly a beast. A monster. 

He fills up your field of vision. Your line of sight was eclipsed by the thickness of his waist, the broad expanse of his shoulders. Thighs that are as wide as the trunk of a tree. Arms boxing you in. A prison of obsidian. A black shadow. 

In the panic that surfaces, surging to the top like an oil spill, you catch a pocket where he doesn't root. A small alcove between the bend of his elbow and the slot of his knee perched against the wall. Enough room for you to—

“Wouldn't do tha’ if I were you.” 

His voice seems to shake the earth, rolling out of his broad chest like the low, brassy roar of a lion; a rumbling thunderclap. 

You feel sick—

The leather covering his hand is cold when it closes around your arm, grip tight. Bruising. Trapping you with just the slightest effort. 

“Go’ a problem, you and I,” he starts, and it's almost conversational. Might be, perhaps, if the clean, sleek outline of his gun inside the unclasped holster around his ungodly thick waist wasn't threatening you more than the grip he has on your arm. “How do you reckon we can fix it?”

You have a meagre twenty dollars in your pocket. Less money for them to take if things go awry. If they decide that the little girl standing in for her older brother was an easier target to rob—money and drugs—than to settle things fairly. Money, goods. Hand over hand. 

Just like the movies, he'd said. 

Just like the movies, you think when he leans in closer, bulk swallowing you whole. 

There is a pockmark in the corner of his crooked, misshapen nose and the crease of his eye. A scar, maybe. It's circular—almost perfectly so; a silver-pink moon on the angular ridge of his nose. Uneven, craggy, like crumpled printer paper. 

It looks almost like—

You think of the mark on your arm. Soot-stained. The smell of burning hair, tissue. The searing pain. 

“I–I can pay you—” you stammer out, tearing your gaze away from the ugly mark on his skin. A cigarette burn. It makes you shudder. 

He cocks his head slowly like a big, dumb dog, but there's something eerie in the ink spill of his eyes. The soft matte of a saltwater crocodile staring at you from beneath the murk. Calculative. Hungry. 

“Pay me?” He echoes slowly, dragging the words out mockingly. “D’you know ‘ow much trouble your brother is in? For sellin’ ‘ere of all places?” 

“No,” you swallow. It feels like your heart is stuck inside your throat. “I–I just—”

“Run ‘is errands,” he finishes cruelly but you can't deny it. “Ain't you a good little sister? Almost makes me wish I ‘ad somethin’ as sweet as you f’myself growin’ up.”

You don't answer. He doesn't seem to be looking for one, really; just empty words to fill space. To echo in your head, barbed wire around any sense of comfort you might have felt. Punishing cruelty. 

He has the upper hand, it says. He's the one who makes derisive jokes while you tremble in his grasp, and try to make yourself as small, as unassuming, as possible. Hiding from the predator in plain sight. Hoping he passes you over for something bigger, more calorie-dense; the effort to catch and consume you expends more energy than the return. Hardly worth it in the long run. The comfort of a risk-reward ratio, right?

But he's opportunistic, it seems. A snacking scavenger. 

Could eat, it says, like a basking tiger keeping a mouse trapped between his paws, letting it squirm and squeak as he slowly licks his lips. Not enough to fill its belly but enough to satisfy the gluttonous urge a predator has to eat. Sharpening its teeth on flimsy bones. Child’s play. 

It's a fitting image, especially with the way he arches over you, looms; fingers looped around the thick of your arm, holding firm, but not—

Not as tight as he could. 

It's a loose-fisted grasp. Lazy, almost. He knows you won't run—or, at the very least, knows you won't get far. 

You peel your gaze away from his, dropping it to the curve of his shoulders—the width of them is just as dizzying as his height; broad, muscular. Pulling it further down the length of his arm, covered in a thick jacket. Black corduroy. Ashes stain the cuffs. A bulky watch juts out from his wrist. Gold. Glinting even in the grey-blue gloom of an overcast evenfall. 

His muscles tense. Hand tightening around your arm, fingers digging hard. Rubbing muscle painfully against bone. 

A warning, maybe. Stop looking—

But something else catches your eye. Blood red. The colour of meat. A fresh kill. 

The back of his hand has a blooming rose. Petals spread out, unfurled. In the middle, a milky skull sits. Stencilled in boxy, yellow letters is ONE-FOUR-ONE—

You know what it means even as your mind whirs, gears turning, turning; plummeting into a tailspin, making excuses as it falls, dragging your heart down alongside it. An area code. Some special date. An inside joke. 

But you've seen the marking around town before. Heard whispers about them from your brother, his friends. 141, they say, and then: mafia. 

The real deal, he said, puffing around a joint his friend rolled. It's too tight. He scoffs, and rips it out from between his lips. Shitty roll, man, make another one—

Mob. Mafia. Gangsters. It seemed so extreme, Hollywood. Fiction, fantasy, all rolled into one. Tony Soprano. Ralph Cifaretto. Michael and Vito Corleone. Tony Montana. Larger-than-life men created on paper. 

You think your brother thought so too. Child's play. Grown men selling weed to kids for two hundred an ounce. Buying themselves sleek, black cars—G Wagons, Escalades, Cullinans—on the Xanax they sell at clubs, parties. Cocaine. Heroin. 

Nothing to worry about. 

Then his friend went missing. 

Sent out on a routine delivery to drop off cocaine to well-dressed men in suits outside of a local butcher shop. A normal, nondescript Tuesday. 

But he wouldn't answer his phone. Texts were being delivered, read, but no chat bubble appeared. Nothing sent back. Calls went straight to voicemail. He wasn't at home. Wasn't at his mum's. No one saw him. Heard from him. 

Your brother didn't call the police. Didn't report him as missing. 

It's just not what they do, he said. You don't involve them. Ever. 

The most shocking part of it was that no one saw anything. He just vanished. Disappeared—stock an’ all, your brother angrily spits—without a trace, picked up off the streets. 

If it was the police, someone would have said something by now. They're hardly discreet. And a rival—

Well.

The biggest problem was that your brother was blindsided by his own small-time success. An accumulation of little wins bolstered his confidence. Overfed his ego. This fallout was tunnel vision. A refusal to see the bigger picture. 

Or the storm clouds looming on the horizon. 

You'd heard of the 141 in passing. Little quips, anecdotes from the passel of friends that congregated around your brother—often getting high on the couch and watching old cartoons; sharing a joint back and forth between gossip. 

Through rheumy eyes, they'd talk about the real gangsters in town—much to the irritation of your brother—and swap tales of run-ins and feats they heard from a friend (of a friend, of a friend). Most of the guys were known already. Soap and Gaz are the biggest names that cropped up on the streets through reputation alone. Both fighters for a gym. MMA, mostly, but whispers of street fighting and extracurricular activities weren't uncommon. 

Liked the thrill of it, they said. But the worst was a man simply known as the Ghost. An enforcer for the 141—a fucking butcher, more like, Liam cut in, jaundiced eyes widening—the guy who took care of problems. 

“Can't be,” your brother scoffed, lifting off the couch to reach in his back pocket for his wallet. A small anthill of white powder poured into the glass table. “They don't get involved in our shit—”

And for the most part, you're sure that's true. Dealing to the same circle of people—outreach spread through word of mouth—seemed paltry in comparison to the scale of an operation that had a money laundering gym. But the problem was that your brother lacked common sense. His ego often got in the way of foresight. The shadow greed casts blocking out the bigger picture. 

Like—

Territory is territory—regardless of what's being pushed. 

You wish there was a modicum of surprise when his friend turned up. Barely recognizable. Sent right to the morgue as a John Doe. 

Most would see the marks on the man's skin—the distinct lack of blood—as an indicator to abandon ship, find the boss, beg for forgiveness, and maybe even try to strike up a deal. But—

That picture is hidden under his anger. Greed. Selfishness. 

He sends you instead. 

You're somethin’ they ain't expectin’, he said. Won't mess with you.

Right. 

He catches the realisation dripping down your brow—beads of sweat gathering at your hairline; anxiety, fear, churning your stomach—and hums. Cocks his head to the side. 

“Was expectin’ ‘im t’show up, though—” he murmurs, hand tightening around your arm. The pressure, the sting, is eclipsed by the gnawing sense of dread biting viciously into you. “Told ‘im if I caught ‘im sellin’ on our streets again, there'd be trouble. Thought we ‘ad an agreement after ‘is friend. But—”

His eyes cut to yours. It feels like a knife to your guts, sinking into soft tissue. A pain you can't breathe around. 

Won't mess with you, you think, and then viciously—sadly—he knew. Was warned by them and still sent you out. Let you take his place for whatever comeuppance they decided he deserved. 

It should shock you. You almost wish it did. Desperately clinging to the threads of surprise that slip through your oily fingers, grasping onto the nothing but empty air. Numbed to the resignation that trickles in. 

Of course he would leave you here to save himself. Letting you fend off whatever they threw at you alone. Leaving you trapped between a brick wall and a wall of a man. 

The excuses are there. They pool on the tip of your tongue—it isn't me, don't do this, it's my (stupid, selfish) brother you want, not me—but you swallow them down and try not to wince at how quickly they dissipate when you do. It doesn't matter in the end because whatever you have to say won't negate the drugs in your backpack. The empty house you'll lead them to—your brother probably squirrelled away somewhere until this blows over. Half-hopeful you'd call him and say everything is fine, the deal went smoothly. You're on your way back. Or that the debt he racked up with them is settled by you. 

It's half-hearted when it slips out again, caught between resignation and dread. A brittle whisper. A prayer—

“I can pay you. Whatever he owes, I can—”

He's already shaking his head. 

“Too late for that, birdie. ‘sides, I don't want your money.”

He moves back, rocking on his heels to put a small measure of distance between your bodies. In that scant space, he drops his gaze, sweeping it over you. His eyes darken.

When he pivots them down, catching yours, you can't stop the shiver that crawls up your spine. 

That calculative gleam is back. 

“But I think we can work something else out.”

Something else turns out to be ushering you into the backseat of an old Ford pickup. 

The door whines when he opens it. Rust flaking off, falling to the ground by your feet. Your mind reels. Spins comparisons to falling snow, dried blood. 

He hauls you in with his hand wrapped around the nape of your neck, thick thigh sliding between your own to boost you up. The protest—a mindless, reactionary squeal at being manhandled—only makes him chuff. A brief flex of his fingers around the skin of your neck is the only warning he gives before it pulls away, and wraps tight around your waist. His thigh flexes, muscle drawing taut as he shifts his foot up to the running board, lifting your feet off the ground and seating you fully on his leg like a child.

(In his hands, you feel like one, too.)

The motion makes you slip, back glueing along his broad chest with a shallow thump. You feel the rumble of his laugh trembling up your spine before you hear it. 

“Careful,” he drawls, oiled with amusement. “Might slip.”

Anything you could say in response is choked back when he bumps the corded steel of his thigh into the seam of your legs, pushing tight to your clothed cunt. His intention is unmistakable this time. Unignorable. And with the rasp of filtered, balmy air against your crown; the pull of a groan when you rock back into his groin, the noise still slicked with mirth, you feel a knot of dread spool tight in your belly. 

Something else is dragged back to the forefront, coiling like wisps of smoke around you. 

And you knew. It's shocking, you think, but not necessarily a surprise. To call it a dichotomy would be lying to yourself, and so, you settle against it. This notion that what he wants—wanted—is flesh. Not money. Not retribution. 

Not to talk things out like you'd hoped he’d try (grabbing onto the idealistic thread, holding it tight to your chest); bringing you in and forcing you to convince your—stupid selfish greedy—older brother that quitting was the only option. Dangling you—baby sister—over his head in an appeal to his emotions. Familial bonds. Love. 

That thread is cut. Snipped. 

Probably severed when they first came to him with an offer. No strikes against him and yet—

The idea of using you to make him bend was expunged from the drawing board. It's not even a plan b, or c, or z. 

And—

You knew. Have known. Maybe that's why it's so easy to swallow around the panic when it lances through your chest, climbs up your throat. You can think and feel and breathe around this dagger in your back like it was there the whole time and you've only just noticed it now. 

Nothing but a small, whispered oh in the roiling polyphony of your emotions. 

It sits there as he manuevers you into the passenger seat of his truck, your head spinning around the indescribable sensation of being woefully cognisant despite the paralysing fugue pressing against the bubble of stark awareness that keeps it at bay. It manifests itself as a numbed sort of shock. Or more accurately—

Indifference. 

Defeat. 

His hand brushes your cheek, the snag of dry leather against humid skin tugs uncomfortably at your flesh, stinging as they dance down to your jaw, the delicate line of your vulnerable throat, skimming over the curve of your breast—

And it's too much. Too present. Too real. 

Autopilot. Dissociation. Derealisation. All of these concepts slip past the bubble of hypervigilance, skidding the surface like a pebble thrown over a lake. Out of reach as he unashamedly gropes you, barely making an effort to mask his actions as just buckling you in. 

You pretend, though. Curl your fists around the sides of the seat, fingers digging into the worn foam. Head lulling back on the headrest. Eyes fixed out the window as he walked around the front, head and shoulders still visible in the windshield despite the height of the truck. It makes your heart leap, stuttering in your chest as the absurdity of his size is brought back into focus. Too big, you think. Grossly so. 

There's a moment when you think about running. Toying with the idea of sliding your hand over the lock, pulling the door open when he's too busy on his side to notice. It'll give you an advantage—a head start. Enough time to slink through the dense forest of concrete buildings lining the industrial zone, and into somewhere safe. Help, a behemoth is chasing me—

But the door clicks. Swings open with a squeal of rusted metal just as your fingers twitch toward the handle. Hope evaporates with each lurch of the cab as he climbs inside, metal creaking under his weight when he settles in the seat. 

From the corner of your eye, you can see his head tip. Chin angling toward you. Staring. Assessing. 

When he speaks, you feel the words like cold fingers dancing maliciously down your spine. 

“‘pected you t’run.” 

It's said idly enough. Nonchalant. Tone even, if a little cruel, and you wonder if this is some test. One that you passed—and failed—in equal measure. 

He doesn't look away. It takes less effort than you wish it did to peel your lips apart, to breathe in the stale, mulch scent of the cab—something overgrown, rotting, and damp—and mumble:

Where would I go?

It seems to amuse him. He hums around a mouthful of mockery before turning away, pawing at the ignition. Gloved hand curling over the wheel. 

“Smart girl.”

You don't feel very smart. In fact, you feel very small. Stupid. Maybe you should have taken a stab at it—running. Tried, at least, to save your own life before the jaws of the beast closed over you like an iron bear trap around your ankle. Fought like hell. Clawed and kicked and screamed. 

When most kids read the back of a cereal box, you learned about secondary locations. You know better than this. 

But the truck sputters to life in a belly-deep rumble, hacking up soot into the air as he pulls the lever into DRIVE. The fight inside of you—however ephemeral it might have been—dies inside the smoke spilling out of his exhaust. Gone so quickly that you begin to wonder if it was even there at all—

Must be, you think, eyes listing outward. Keen. Mapping the twists and turns—a futile effort in the end: he doesn't bother hiding where he's taking you, and you've been down these old, grim streets more times than you can count. 

It doesn't surprise you much when he turns down the street leading to the butcher shop. An old relic that still carries the marks of a booming farming town before it fell victim to industrialisation. Concrete skyscrapers in place of lush cornfields. Warehouses over old barns, ranches. Cattle, meat, produce—it all used to be a mainstay here but now hides under layers of steel. 

The dark windows of the small shop gleam with hazy smears of neon blue, red, when you pull up, catching on the array of rowdy bars across the street. All clubs that belong to the 141. A playground of drugs, sex. More money than you'd ever see in your lifetime. 

It's an uncanny juxtaposition to the quiet, assuming street right across from it. Barber, butcher, accountant firm, antique store. All dark inside and bathed in the smeared stream of glimmering neon as lights flash in the fading glow of twilight. 

He pulls up to the curb in front of the shop. A bold move if the streets weren't so empty. Lifeless. The clubs won't be open for four more hours. Everything else follows the same nine to five as the rest of the world. The shops closed an hour ago, and everyone in town seems to know not to linger here after dark. 

The air seems to stagnate in your lungs when he cuts the ignition. Slips the key into his pocket. 

“Don't get any funny ideas in tha' pretty little ‘ead o’yours.” 

“Funny ideas,” you echo, toneless. Flat. It rolls out with your exhale. Words that might have been smarter to swallow down. “Like following a stranger to a butcher shop?” 

“Lippy little thing, ain't you?” He scoffs. The truck creaks when he shifts. “Ain't go’ no one t’blame but yourself. Told you what would ‘appen if you kept sellin’ in our territory. You should ‘ave known better.”

“That was my brother.” The words slip out before you can stop them. “Not me—”

“‘ow am I suppose t’know that? You were sellin’ where I told ‘im not to—” he has the gall to shrug. Spit these careless words at you like it wasn't life or death. “That's all there is to it, birdie.”

“That's not fair—”

The truck groans under his weight, shaking from side to side as he leans over to push his door open before turning back to you, rolling his eyes. 

“Life ain't very fair, is it?” 

The acerbic words are flicked out from between his teeth; an apathetic, droning curl clinging to each syllable. He doesn't care. Won't. What happens to you next is your choice, and yours alone. 

And he's just doing his job—

“When I get out of ‘ere, you ain't gonna do anythin’ funny—”  

His hand lashes out. Gloved fingers close over the thick of your throat in a blink. Fear lags by a beat, giving him enough time to sink his fingers over your neck, and when it catches up—heart rabbiting in your chest, thudding in your ears; roaring as your pulse thunders beneath the press of his thumb—he’s already got you in his hold. The width forces your chin to lift, stretching up to accommodate the curl of his hand around you. 

Trapped like a rabbit. Cattle to the slaughter. 

He tilts his head down, keeping his eyes on yours as he forces your crown into the headrest, chin lifted up. It's uncomfortable. The curve of your neck cuts off your airways. Constricts your breathing to shallow gasps. An ache grows in your nape. 

The swell of panic, fear, in your eyes makes him hum. But there's nothing echoing back. An absence of light in the deep, placid pits. It looks like still water. A stagnant lake. 

It's unnerving how dispassionately expressive his eyes are. Wild, wild. Vats of ink. Pools of obsidian. Ringed in red-lined ivory. Long, ashen lashes dusting over the smears of charcoal under his eyes. Sleepless nights, maybe. Fatigue. The corners are tattooed with coal, leaving behind a thumbprint in the crease. 

But empty. Barren. No light.

Like black holes. Eating everything around it. Devouring all that gets too close, but giving nothing in return except a bottomless crater in the bruised-plum nebulous of space around it. 

You're not sure you like it. You can't look away. 

But in staring back so hard (getting pulled in deeper and deeper), you catch the twitch in his left eye. A shallow spasm. It throws off the symmetry when he blinks, one eye a sliver of a second behind. Desynchronized in a way that seems so—

Unlike him. 

Disjointed. 

You blink in response. Perfectly synchronous. 

His lid twitches again. Just once. Brief. Pale, pink eyelids drop, unveiling a nebula of indigo veins on the smooth, thin surface as they roll down to half-mast over his eyes, now narrowed slightly in contemplation. Thought. 

Whatever is happening in his head can't be good. It causes a ripple over the lake. Little rings rebound outwards. 

He looks away first. A quick slide of his eyes to the corners, glancing out of the passenger side window. Whatever catches his attention is unknown to you. The anchor on his hand around your throat keeps you still. Immovable.

(Every instinct in your body compels you not to look away from him because nothing outside could ever be scarier, more dangerous, than him.)

A second later, he breathes in through his nose. The fabric of his mask is pulled into his nostrils from the force, forming little black holes under the crooked arch. 

You hadn't really given much thought to his appearance outside of big, massive. But there's a strange asymmetry to the slopes and valleys beneath the balaclava. Trying to map his face, fill in the blanks with just black cloth and vague, lopsided outlines, is impossible. There are too many gaps. Too many missing pieces. You can only wonder, then, what he looks like under it. 

Monstrous, you hope. 

It's just a coincidence that he looks at you the moment the thought passes, but you flinch like a naughty child getting caught doing something you shouldn't when the heavy, dour weight of his impenetrable stare is levelled at you once more. Your heart stutters. It's loud in your ears. In the truck. 

You wonder if he can hear it just as loudly as you do—

Another blink, and his gaze flickers down, settling on the gap between your lips, watching the little tremble they make with each shallow hiccup of air you greedily suck in. His head tilts to the side, eyes never leaving your mouth even as he leans down, masked lips brushing over the beading sweat gathering on your hairline. 

It's a brief touch. A taste. You tremble when he pulls back, fingers tightening around your flesh. 

His eyes are lavascapes.  

“Are you, birdie?” 

You almost forget what he's asking. The conversation hidden between the scant beats it took for him to measure your worth with the blistering intensity of his stare, and the tumult of your feelings still looping around each other in your belly. Knotting up tight into a ball. There's fear, of course there is. 

But the rest—

You'd rather not think about. 

The grip on your throat eases just enough for you to shake your head no to whatever he is asking. Doing anything funny, you think, scrambling at the tangle of memories flipping past, trying to connect the pieces to a puzzle you've already forgotten. 

It must be the right response. Or maybe it's another question like before, a test where there’s no right answer. 

Run, stay. 

Smart and stupid. 

But it seems to appease him—marginally. His eyes crease. Tightening. His other hand folds over your throat, sliding until his palms kiss the sides of your neck in a near-perfect symmetry. 

Something frissons across the blank, placid lake of his expression. Another ripple. A shudder. He leans in for a moment, nose touching the apple of your cheek, and when he breathes in, it’s sharp, reedy. Cold air ghosts over your skin. Long, pale lashes flutter when you swallow. 

He hums quietly under his breath before peeling back. The flatness to his gaze is back; a cold, impenetrable distance widening like a chasm as he uncoils around you. You almost fall for this—this indifference. An icy nonchalance. But you've been eating the minuscule quirks of him just as ravenously as he's been devouring yours. 

There is something there. A fracture, maybe. A splinter. 

But what leaks through from the other side isn't anything close to warmth. It's—

Hunger. 

The shift in your throat draws his molten gaze to your neck, still wrapped tight in his firm grip. Your reflection blooms in the vat of black; eyes wide, all white. Pupils narrowed to a pinprick. Mouth slack, corners tugging downward from the pressure of his hand. The tilt of your head. His thumbs press under your chin, pushing you back further until it feels like your neck might break—

He stops. Shifts. You puff out a shallow breath. 

What looks back at you is unremarkable in the murk. A sliver of fear. A slip of unease.

Eye of the beholder, you think when his breath chuffs out shallowly through the mask. When that hunger is ground down to a raw, esoteric fissure hairlining the black of his eyes. The widening expanse of his pupil. 

You wonder if it's your fear that itches under his skin, dredging up something predatory in his hindbrain. The urge to chase. To bite. 

But the nearly indiscernible flicker of his gaze has you brushing that idea aside when it snags on the expanse of his hand coiled around your throat. Easily swallowing it whole with just his palms. 

You're not a small thing, but the indomitable size of him makes you feel insignificant. 

You think he feels it, too. 

His fingers flex over your nape, stretching. Pulling. It pushes the flat of his palm into your throat, ridges crushed against your trachea. But you can still breathe. It's shallow. Hoarse. A touch painful. Dizzying in a way that makes you feel like you're on a rollercoaster. A teacup ride that just spins and spins and spins—

The gap closes. A sliver of air snakes down your throat. Muscles flexing, shifting. Struggling to swallow around the pinch of his hand. A harrowing task when you feel the gloved fingers link to the first, then the second knuckle, tying together in a too-tight, impossible, noose around your neck. Thumbs overlap. Fingers slide into place. It forms a chain of his hands with no gaps between them. Not a single sliver of skin shows from under the leather of his gloves. 

He makes a sound when they meet—a nasal groan in the back of his throat, mouth clenched shut so the air has no choice but to tear through his nose. It's raw. Fractured. The devastating moan of a tiger nuzzling at its meal. 

Your vision blurs. A black fog presses into the edges, seeping over the arch of your peripherals. Dripping down slowly over the hazy smear of the man. The way the ochre sun peeks over the angular roof of the accountant's office illuminates his back and casts swaths of shadows over his front. Drenching him in murk. 

Despite the flickering darkness shuttering over your sight, you don't blink. Even as the tears prickle at your eyes, they stay open. Fixed on him. Black holes, you think, watching as the fever marbling those obsidian pools recedes. Cools. 

He makes that noise again. Softer this time. A purr from deep in his chest. A breath. And then he peels back. His hands go slack. His shoulders slumping back into the lax, easy spread from before as you gasp hard, nearly choking on the flood of air that roars down your throat. 

Your cheeks feel hot for a moment, and then cold. Icy. You don't have to touch them to know that you're crying. That the deluge clinging to your lashline spilt over, dripping messily to the collar of your shirt. 

The placid lake is back. In the stillness, you heave. Mouth hanging open, chin quivering. His thumb lifts, slides over the curve of your chin. You don't feel it. Numbed, maybe, by the brief kiss of hypoxia. But you see it. Watch as he slides it up to the jut of your lower lip, the black, angular tip tickling over your skin. He follows the seam between skin and lip, tracing it to the corner of your mouth. It's slick. Drool pools in the crease, dribbles over the top of his finger. His eyes drop when he mops it up, catching it on the pad. 

He makes another noise. An arid rasp bubbling between the soft tissue behind the roof of his mouth and the back of his tongue. It's ugly. The shiver you try to fight back slinks through. 

His hand peels away from your neck, movements lax. Slow. The unwinding gait of an idling tiger in no real rush, no hurry, because there's nothing in the frigid Arctic that can touch him. 

You watch him with flared eyes as he brings his thumb to his clothed mouth, and rubs your spit into the fabric of his mask. 

His eyes don't break away from yours once. 

Your spit doesn't stand out against the black of balaclava, but the idea of it burns through you. Throwing you headfirst into a dazed stupor. Dizzy. Confused. 

Satisfied with whatever it was supposed to mean, he clambers out of the truck before coming around to your side. Distantly, you're sure this is what he meant by funny ideas when he passes the headlight, head straight and eyes gliding around the empty street. An opening to run. You know where you are. It would be easy to flee. Hide in the construction zone just ahead, tucking yourself into the tightest corner you can find until help arrives. 

Help, though. 

Officer, please. I got caught selling meth in the mob's territory and now they're going to skin me alive. Please hurry—

Right. 

They'd rather help bury your body than get in the way of the mafia. Gangland violence isn't their concern unless it tumbles out into the street. Fat wallets keep even the most compassionate person quiet. Willing to turn a blind eye. 

You'd be thrown in a cell. Or dropped off at their doorstep. 

Either way—

You won't be coming back alive. 

There's nothing to steel, harden, when he pulls the door open, your nerves long since ground down to fine powder. Nothing to fight against, either. He hauls you out of the truck, hands firm on your skin. Bursting blood vessels easily between his fingers. Barely any effort at all to crack your bones. 

The moment in the car seems miles away when he pulls you in front of him, hand curling over your nape. Any flicker of humanity rendered out when he pinches you tight and shoves you forward. Dragging you back to the butcher shop by the scruff of your neck, leading you down a narrow set of stairs to the basement where pale white carcasses hang from hooks on the ceiling. He laughs when you tense. When your heels dig into the brown-stained linoleum. 

Ain't gonna hang you, he mocks, fingers dipping punishingly into the sides of your neck. “Not yet, anyway—”

It brings little comfort when he drags you to a room in the back, kicking open the door with the toe of his boot before pushing you inside with a nudge against your nape. 

It's dark. Walls covered in stains; mould, mildew. Something you hope is just rust. A single mattress is shoved into the corner; sheets stained with sweat and grime. Tinged a pale brown. Two pillows sit at the top, lopsided and matted with use. Threadbare. A twisted, black heap of fabric sits at the bottom. Wisps of cotton poke out from the cigarette burns. 

A pair of muddy, black boots sit against the wall at the end of the bed. A basket of clothes—jeans, black shirts, black sweaters—is piled on the wall across from the door. 

The room smells of stale sweat and old cigarettes. 

You don't want to be here. The thought is abrupt. Immediate. Unease prickles along your nape, warmed and damp under his gloved palm. Between the look of the room—the floors stained the same suspicious brown, the rumpled bed in a corner—and the smell, you know this is not a place you want to stay. To be trapped inside with a man cut from Everest; whose hands are more dangerous than the sharp end of a knife. 

He must feel the tension brimming beneath your skin; the spark of adrenaline surging through your veins. The clamp of his hand on your nape digs in tighter. Holding firm. 

A breath tumbles out, thickening with mockery. “Like I said,” he leans down, pressing the mountainous width of his chest into your spine. The accentuation in your size difference, how big he is in comparison to you, makes you feel like prey. Small. Brittle, thin. He eats you whole. Spares nothing for later. “I wouldn't do that if I were you.” 

Another nudge and you're pushed further into the room. He leans away, foot shoving back on the door until it snaps shut with a noise that cuts through the gossamer that spun around you, bifurcating reality from dream. The haze is wafted away, and all that remains is a barren room with a lumpy mattress, the smeared stain of rotten blood coagulating on the floor, and his body boxing you in. No escape. 

The rumble of his chest shakes loose the cobwebs spooling across your thoughts. A brush of humid air ghosts along the line of your jaw, dampening the skin below your ear as he leans in close, too close, and purrs: 

“Go on now. Strip for me.” 

Each scrap of clothing you slowly roll off of your body is exchanged for a slip of information about him—who he is (Simon Riley, the name rumbled through the split between his teeth; a low, brassy purr as his eyes gleam in the dark, drilling into the expanse of skin unveiled to him)—and what he wants—

Nothing, he tells you, lifting one massive shoulder up in a half-hearted shrug. Jus’ what's owed to me, pet. For stickin’ my neck out f’you. 

You don't think he did. Not really. But you're harshly reminded of the unsubtle threat. The gun balanced on his massive thigh. So wide, so big, it seems to make it look smaller in comparison. Tiny. A toy. 

Child's play. 

It's made worse, somehow, as he lounges. Sprawls out on the bed, legs spread, pulling taut on the jeans that stretch around the thickness of his upper thigh, bunching around his calves in a half-tuck inside his black boots. Arms flexing. Folded over his broad chest. He rolled the sleeves of his black shirt up to his elbow, showing off an impressive tapestry of harsh, faded black ink. Crisscrossing lines. All asymmetrical. Guns, barbed wire. A bullet with a wide, toothy grin—

All of it knits together; woven into a tangled mass of muscle. Of man, hidden under scar tissue. Rope burns on his wrists cut so deep that the skin is permanently dented in. More cigarette burns hidden inside the mess of ink. Jagged lines—from a knife, maybe; bullet wounds. 

His skin tells stories of a terrible life. Ink spills over the worst of them, but they're visible under the fading charcoal. A series of burns—acid, fire, chemical—and raw, torn skin. He looks like he's been mauled. Pressed into the cold metal of a wood chipper until chunks of flesh were taken out. But even with these deep gouges, craters of missing tissue, he's big. Bulky. Soft—like a tiger. Predatory muscle tucked away under a thick layer of fatty tissue. 

The pillowed pouch of his belly, the softness around his biceps—

It belies the danger underneath. The steel. 

But as scary as it is, it has nothing on his eyes. 

Glinting in the dim room. Dark pools of obsidian that follow each movement with an almost clinical keenness. Sharpened to a razor's edge. 

They might be pretty, you think, if they weren't so intense. So liquid. His eyes gleam like wet ink, languidly rolling along his lashline as you clumsily shed your jacket, your blouse. Shoes, socks. Pants. Until you're in nothing but your panties.

Swallowing around the influx of panic that flutters like little birds beating their wings against the soft walls of your throat, you slip your fingers into the hem, now or never, and—

And you hesitate. 

There's a difference between undressing willingly and doing so to save your life. It should spurn you on—survive, survive, survive—but you freeze at the apex. The summit is within reach. 

You know what happens when you climb it. Cross over the invisible threshold. 

What you've been trying to ignore this whole time, ever since he shoved you into the room with a huff, taking his perch on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide, but in such a terrifying state of vulnerability, nearly nude, you can't any longer. Can't avert your gaze to the stained linoleum in a thinly veiled effort to keep from glancing at the thickening bulge lying prone against his thigh. 

His—

Well. 

You knew what he wanted when he grabbed your face in his hand, squeezing your cheeks until your lips pursed, puckered for him to run his finger along the inseam. Prying your teeth apart. Rubbing his finger over your tongue, eyes dark—full; black holes pulling, tugging you in, dragging you closer to the event horizon framed in a ring of arsenic—and locked on to the sight of his gloved knuckle disappearing into your mouth. Wanting. Hungry. 

You knew. And now—

Committing to it is legions above what you’re mentally prepared for. Nausea brims, churns your stomach. Unease curdling inside of you like rotten milk. 

You don’t want this. But you don’t have a choice, do you?

That notion, the idea, prickles along your nape, raising the fine, peach-fuzz there until it stands on end. 

You freeze. Movements still as every muscle in your body tenses. Coils. You can't do it. Can't—

A huff is dragged out of his chest as he sits up, knocking the gun carelessly to the mattress. His eyes daggering, sharpening into needlepoints, as he stares at you. 

“Gotta do everything f’myself, do I?” 

A grunt and he’s up. Pulling himself to his feet with nothing but the flex of his abdominal muscles. 

There's no reprieve. Not a moment graced to gather your bearings before he crosses the distance between you. Once a comfort, a chasm, now conquered in a single stride.  

The tips of his gloves are cold when they brush over your skin, sliding down the slope of your waist until they meet the hem of your panties. The last piece of modesty you have—

But he doesn't wait.

You're aware that this isn't a non-consensual thriller where the lead looms over the hapless love interest, eyes blazing with passion and need. That each interaction is drenched in a thick, palpable tension tethering the two together. Urges coalescing. Threads pulling taut, magnetic, dragging them closer and closer to the brink until they tumble over. 

This is reality. And he doesn't stare into your eyes with an all-consuming desire as he slowly removes that last scrap of fabric keeping him from devouring you. No. 

His skin-warmed fingers push under the elastic band with a rough shove, curling into the fabric until it tightens across your pelvis and thighs, and then he huffs, annoyed, and pulls. Pulls—

Until something gives. 

The lace yields to the tension in his flexing bicep, and scrapes over your skin as it rips apart in his hand, threads snapping. Popping. 

It hurts. Stings. You hiss, but the noise is ignored when he peels the ruined scrap of fabric from your legs, shoving it into his back pocket with a grunt of satisfaction. He looks back to you, eyes rippling like the dark, ink-black surface of a lake during nightfall, and coos, mocking and mean—

“Not s’hard, was it?”

He leans closer to you, a hand skimming up your spine before his fingers curl around your nape, keeping you still for just a breath before he pulls you into him with too much force. Your hands lift, palms slapping against his thick stomach when the movement nearly topples you over and threatens to break your nose on his chest.

“Makin’ me do all the work when y’supposed t’be payin’ me back? Ain't very nice o’you, is it?”

He touches you like he's taking stock of your worth. Grabbing a heavy, rough palmful of your beast in his hand, squeezing. Testing the weight, the softness, how supple you were between his fingers like he might with a piece of fruit. Meat. Prodding into the flesh, feeling the ripeness there. Gauging whether or not it was a piece he wanted to keep. 

It's demeaning. Humiliating. He treats you like cattle; presses into the elasticity of your muscle, examines every inch of your skin for blemishes. Scouring for imperfections. There's no softness in the way he grabs handfuls of your body—squeezing your breasts, pushing them together, rolling your nipples between his thumb and forefinger; pinching your belly, your sides, your waist; curling his fingers under your thigh, lifting it until it hitches over his waist, cunt exposed and pressed tight to the bulge trapped in his jeans. Your ass is handled rougher than the rest. Each cheek sitting in a hand, squeezed and punched and spread embarrassingly wide. 

He ruts into you as he does it. Pushes the thick, fat length of him into your belly, rolling his hips against you with a heavy, ragged puff of air. 

He feels big. 

Everywhere, of course—it’s not so much his height, but the absurd width of him that really digs into your hindbrain, crossing all those intricate wires until they're tangled up, knotted together. Seeing his thigh, the same scale as a tree truck, slotting between yours—a mere branch by comparison—makes your belly flop. Turn over itself.

The muddled wires spark. Heat pools between your hips.

He could crush your head between them like a bear pushing its paw down on a watermelon. 

It's fear and heat. 

The two work in tandem, forming a seamless cohesion, as they flit down your spine, brimming up the urge to sink to your knees, the need to roll over and show your belly. A paradoxical desire to both run and be chased. 

You're not sure if he's tendering your meat to eat later or if this is the usual type of foreplay he engages in, but once satisfied you're softened up enough for him, he shoves his fingers between your thighs with an abrasive hum that reverberates through his belly, tickling your palms. 

“Tired o’waitin’,” is what he says when your head jerks up, eyes widening in shock. Terror. Horror. “Don't look so surprised,” he huffs, dryly. Voice a rough scrap over your cheek. “What'd y’think was gonna ‘appen?”

“Wait—” but he doesn't. 

His fingers twist, pushing through your folds to graze your clit. It isn't gentle. It's sudden, quick. You gasp more from shock than pleasure; the rough slide of leather feels strange on your flesh, and your head is too muddled to separate fear from bliss.  

Despite that, your body heats. Reacts to his touch. Your lower lip wobbles. You bite back another sound that crawls up your throat when his knuckle catches on your clit again, the pressure just shy of too much. 

The burn, the fever, melts the unease. Shallow gasps spill out. Your cunt clenches, fluttering around nothing—throbbing, growing sticky, slick; achy and empty—when he starts to glide his digit between your folds. Little sawing motions drag each groove and stitch of his gloves over your pebbled clit, each thrust of his hand between your thighs making heat pool between your hips. It's done so clinically, so detached, like his hand rubbing over your leaking pussy was nothing to him. An action to get done, a task to complete. 

It's the shame of that, the embarrassment, that makes you want to weep. Your fingers dig into his chest, nails pulling uncomfortably on the pleated bumps of his jacket as you grip the fabric right between your fists, clinging to him like a newborn fawn—all wet-nosed, teary-eyed; knobbly knees threatening to buck. 

“S–stop—” you mewl when the monotonous rhythm melts into something harder, more intense. Heart thudding in your chest, heat burning you up as he turns his hand, palm up, between your sticky, shaking thighs. He rubs his hand back and forth, curling his middle finger up when he passes your hole, tip pushing against your leaking rim. 

The friction aches. The stretch stings. The leather feels strange, foreign when it pries your folds apart and dips inside of you. 

You don't like it. It's too much—

He makes a sound—a tut—when you pull away from him, standing on the tips of your toes until the blunt curve of his finger slides out of you. He sucks his teeth in a mockery of disappointment before digging his fingers, hard, into the sides of your neck. A warning. You whine. Whimper—

It goes unheeded. And when you press your thighs tight together, shivering at the slip-slide of your skin rubbing against each other, he growls. The noise is inhuman. Animalistic. 

Your act of deviance comes with a swift, bruising punishment. 

His fingers tighten on your neck once again. A warning squeeze as he reaches down with his other hand, grabbing your hip. It keeps you still, immobile, as he bullies his boot between your feet, kicking your legs apart. You're not expecting it. When you stumble, he huffs in amusement. Can't hold yourself up? Want me that bad, huh? Needy fuckin' thing, ain't you?

You don't get a chance to respond. His palm splays wide over your hip, leather creaking as he flexes, stretching his fingers out, tapping some soundless beat out against your skin. Touching you like he's owed the privilege. The right. And in many ways—

Go’ a problem, you an’ I

—he does. 

Brute strength, and an unmatched, almost laughable, dearth in your physicality ensures that he has the upper hand—even without the gun he left on the mattress; darker and flat, a full matte compared to what you were expecting. 

(They're always so shiny in movies, aren't they?)

The threat of it—dull as it might be—roots you to the spot as he slides his hand down, thumb brushing over your belly button, dipping in; pressing until your stomach starts to ache—

It peels away when the whine wells up, sloping down, down. Teases your mound with the tips of his fingers, gentle swipes along the sensitive seam of your belly and pelvis, the sensation is an odd tickle that pulls at your navel, pulses at the apex of your thighs. You mewl—a slow, soft thing that barely makes it out from between your teeth—and he lets his hand drop. Palm flat against the soft flesh of your mons, fingers reaching, spreading, until they curl over your folds. Index and ring finger tucked tight into the hollow bend of your pelvis and thigh. The tip of his middle rubs gentle strokes over the skin above your clit. It's a whisper of pleasure. The idea of a touch. 

Mindless, your hips flit, following his hand—

“Needy.” 

It cows you. Douses you in icy shame. There's barely any mockery in his even, observant tone, but you feel it unfurl over your shoulders all the same. 

He doesn't give you a moment to think, to let the ripples of humiliation take over, forcing you to pull away, hide. His fingers trail over your hood, the pebble of your clit. The sensation, the cool undertone in the leather of his glove, is unlike anything you'd felt before. The thick stitches in the fabric catch on your flesh, nerve endings flaring in pleasure. Heat blooms in your belly. 

It feels good. 

You gasp, head tipping back. His hand winds around your waist when your knees buckle, catching you with a rasping huff—

“Feelin’ good, ain't you?” He pulls you tight to his chest, finger rubbing circles around your throbbing clit. Your cunt clenches, empty, and you whine, needing something more. Something to fill the ache inside of you—

His finger slips. Slides easily between your folds, parting your lips around the thick of him until he reaches your drenched hole. The sounds it makes when he taps his finger against your fluttering core makes your toes curl. Has heat blistering over your cheeks, down the slope of your neck. 

It makes him groan. The low growl makes you throb, clenching in needy little pulls, pulses, as his finger dips into the slick dripping out of you. 

“Suckin’ me in,” he grunts, and pushes his finger inside, thrusting up to the last knuckle. Palm tapping against your folds as his index and ring finger close to give him more room to sink deeper into you. The messy, slick squelch is loud, rolling over the mewling gasps that tumble from your lips. 

Heat floods your belly at the belly-deep groans he lets out when you squeeze around him. 

“Stranglin’ my fuckin’ finger, birdie—” 

He leans down, knocking his forehead against the side of your face. It's more intimate than you were expecting. Jarring. The proximity plays a twisted game inside your head—the urge to run, to roll over coalescing into a paralyzing tailspin. Rooting you to the ground when the warm, damp knit of his mask grazes your cheek. 

The intimacy of his head on yours is eclipsed when you can feel the shape of his mouth through the fabric. 

It's softer than you expected. A plush, fleshy give when he presses his lips against your skin. And—

A gap.

On the side of his mouth, there's a gouge. A pockmark. You feel the gap, the absence, of his flesh when he rolls it over your cheekbone. You try to read the asymmetry of his face—mapping all of these misshapen parts; his mauled lips, the crooked nose that digs into your skin and leaves behind a tacky smear of condescension when he breathes out through his nostrils in a heavy puff of air—and convince yourself that you're doing it so you can bring these patchwork pieces to the police later. 

Survival, you think, your head tilting back as he noses down your neck, tickling along your skin. 

(And when your cunt flutters around the rough, thick drag of his finger petting along your walls, you add: a bodily reaction. That's all it is.)

He takes another lungful of your scent before he rocks back on his heels, pulling away from you. Straightening up. Looming above you once more. 

“Now—”

He pulls his finger out of you slowly and you try not to whimper at the empty feeling that brims up. The way your hips rock toward him, seeking and eager. Wanting.

Needy, just like he said. 

Just a bodily reaction—

He holds his hand up to the dim light flickering over his head, fingers spreading apart as he takes in the glossy shine of his middle finger. 

The gleam of it makes your ears feel hot. Shame pools in your belly as he makes another noise—a groan, deep and low, in the back of his throat. Eyes darkening as his pupils bloom, eclipsing his irises in an endless pool of black. They flicker toward you, listing half-mast in a way to leonine, so predatory, that it shudders through your bones. Run, run—

His hand flexes around your waist when you twitch. A warning. A threat. You tremble when he leans in, masked lips brushing over your cheek once more. Breath ghosting through the fabric, tickling the inside of your ear. 

He smells of war. Of fire and brimstone. Napalm and nitroglycerine. You want to close your eyes, look away, but you can't. His proximity alone roots you to the spot. Turns you into a prey animal, frozen on instinct alone as he prowls around, creeping closer. Maw stretching wide, drooling dripping off razor-sharp canines—

“Let's see if y’worth all the trouble.” 

—and he bites.

Knocks his palm into your sternum, roughly shoving you down on the mattress.

His hands fall to the button of his jeans. “Ready?” He asks, but doesn't seem to care about your answer. Opts, instead, to fall to his knee beside you. It pulls on his zipper, tugs it all the way down with a sharp, metallic sound that cuts through the stagnant air as each ring of teeth is pried apart. 

You can't help it. You look. Dragged there by something primal, magnetic—the morbid curiosity to see the monster for yourself as it tries to take a bite. 

And almost immediately, you wish you hadn't. 

The spread of pale skin, dark curls jutting out from the split of his jeans, makes everything feel more real, and moving fast. Whiplash quick. Happening in a blink:

The shift of fabric as he pulls the mask up over his lips, letting rest on the crooked bridge of his nose. A flash of his mouth, mangled. Mauled. Full of ugly, pale pink scars. A gap where tissue once knit his upper lip together. The bite of crooked teeth as he brings the sticky, wet tip of his glove to his mouth, sinking in. Pulling. Tugging. The roll of skin—a rose, a gun, a skull—all encased in barbed wire; thick rivers of blue-green veins. 

Another pull and it's free. Dangling between his teeth for a moment as he reaches up and shoves the jacket off his shoulders. Rolling and thick. Wide. A broad chest. Soft belly. There's an inch of flesh around the expanse of him—biceps, thighs, calves, chest, stomach, shoulders—but it's a buffer for the corded, streamlined muscle beneath. A layer of fatty tissue. 

Like a tiger, hiding its dizzying musculature beneath a thick, loose pelt. 

When he moves, it flexes. His shoulders roll; muscles bunching together, pulling taut under soft skin. The jacket slides off. Falls to the ground behind the mattress. Forgotten, discarded. The glove is next to go. Dropping from between his teeth, landing just beside your ankle with a muted thud. 

He follows after it. Ink spilling over his lashline as his eyes drop, staring at the roll of his skin tucked on the outside of your thigh. Trailing up to your knee. Your hip. The split of your cunt beneath your other leg; knee tucked to your chest. 

A flash of something, a flicker, is the only warning you get before the back of his hand is nudging the glove off of your skin, replacing it with the rough, calloused grip of his palm. 

You jerk at his touch, flinching back—

He's intimidating above you like this. Leaning back on his haunches but still as tall as you are standing up. The sheer absurdity of his height—his width—is dizzying. Gives you vertigo when you look up. 

His throat shifts when you move. A swallow. Coarse stubble grows down the column of his neck, dusting over his lower jaw, chin. The rest is swallowed by the balaclava bunched around his crooked nose. 

He's not—

He's not handsome. 

A smattering of crisscrossing scars, burns, skin pocked and gouged out in deep pockets along his flesh—the slide of a knife carving away at him, you think; digging down to his marrow—all take away from any sense of modern attractiveness you might feel for him with his broad, jagged nose and full lips. 

But there's something rugged about him. Untamed. Wild. Appealing in a dangerous way. 

You don't know if you would have let this happen under different circumstances. If this minacious beauty of his would have worked on you enough to want it outside of this awful, almost unfathomable trade. 

He's too big. Wouldn't even fit inside of your house—

The graze of his thumb on your angle knocks the thought loose, and you're dragged back to the heat of his hand. Rough and coarse; palms slightly damp from the glove. It tugs on your flesh as he draws it up, a rubbery sort of pain as it catches on the soft, dry skin of your ankle. Your shin. 

He follows behind a second later, pulling himself into the mattress with a huff, knees shuffling forward as he crawls over you. The jostling rocks your body. Makes your breasts shake as he lumbers on the bed, hand still sliding up, up, until his fingers curl over the bend of your knee. 

The bed dips under his weight. Your body sagging, rolling into the divot beneath his knees. Tucked under him. Loomed over. He stares down at you through the cutout of his mask, eyes liquid in the gloam. Pools of melting, dripping obsidian. Black holes. Event horizon—

You look away before it drags you in. Submissive. Softened under the harsh burn of his flat, wide stare. He chuffs when your nose brushes over the thin skin of his wrist, mouth sliding over the thick, pulsing vein stretching down from his inner arm and curling into the bend of his hand. Your lips purse, and he makes that noise again. 

Quietly amused, and—

He shuffles forward until the backs of your thighs are pulled over his, spread out on his lap. Bare. Open to him. 

And he looks. 

And looks. 

Hungry, you think. Quietly amused and hungry—

The notion is wrenched out of your head when he shifts his weight. Watches the folds of your pussy open for him as he pulls your knees wider apart, head dropping between his massive shoulders, gaze drilling into the split of your thighs. Gasping at the sting, the sudden stretch, does little to deter him from shoving your leg down until the outside of your knee touches the bed. Muscles straining. Pinching. It hurts; hipbones twinging in agony. 

But the embarrassment burning through you singes all the pain. 

You're spread open under him. Bare. Legs tangled around his waist, stretched wide around the width of him. Ankles knocking into the hard plains of his lower back each time he shifts. 

“Fuckin’ hell—” he grunts. Snarls. The word ripped up from the back of his throat, forced through the twisting channels of his nose. Nasal and ugly when it scrapes out between his teeth. “Gonna ruin this pretty pussy, birdie.”

It's a threat. A promise. You twist, mouthing your protests into the warm skin of his wrist. 

There's something about his voice—that airy, brassy tone—that strikes a chord deep inside you. Makes heat pool between your thighs, leaking out in a syrupy mess—

His hand peels away from your knee, sliding down your sticky, damp inner thigh until his knuckles graze the sensitive slip of skin sitting between your outer lip and hip. That ticklish, belly-fluttering sensation blooms in your groin as he rubs his scarred knuckles over the crease, catching the slick gathered there on his thick, meaty thumb. 

“Fuckin’ soaked,” he groans, shifting his fingers until they cover the whole of your cunt, cradling you in his hand. He holds you like that for a beat, eyes locked on the way you're swallowed up by the broad stretch of his palm. 

The rough drag of his skin over your folds feels good. An all-encompassing heat spreads over your tender flesh from the curve of your ass to the bump of your mons where his middle finger rests, almost touching the strip of skin between your loins and your belly. Held in his grasp. Cradled in his palm. 

Your thighs twitch. A shallow jerk as your knees try to bend over his hand, but you can't. With his thumb and pinkie tucking into each crease between your outer lip and leg, it keeps you from closing your legs. Hinged by the wide, flat cup of his palm. 

And it shouldn't bludgeon through you the way it does. All heat. All want. Need. A growing ache you can't think around. 

(bodily reaction, you think even as the image of his hand—big with thick fingers, scarred knuckles; streaks of faded, ashy ink etched into milky, veined skin—laying over your pussy, swallowing it whole, sears into your mind—)

“Can feel your little cunt,” he grunts, feeling the pulse, the little throbbing pulls of your muscles as they twitch at the sight. The feeling. Clenching down around nothing. “Greedy little thing, ain't you, birdie?”

Anger paints his words as he rasps them out. A teeth gnashing, jaw clenching frustration that needles into the scorn, the fury, forced out between the tight seam of his crooked teeth. 

You don't understand it. Can't, maybe. 

But it's tucked away as quickly as it appeared, shifting into an ugly, mocking derision. Dry. Acerbic. His teeth flash, lip pulling upward in a sneer—a snarl—before he hums, sliding his hand down. The drag of his damp, rough fingers over your swollen folds has your knees falling open wider around his thick thighs, baring yourself willingly to him. 

Want it bad, don't you? He mocks, and the sound of his voice alone has your pussy clenching tight, belly fluttering around the abrasive scrape of his tone. Brassy and full. Gritty. You whine, hips inching up—

His hand peels off of your slit. The rush of cold air drags another whimper out of you, hips pushing up to chase the heady, molten feeling of his skin on yours. And he's amused by it—a laugh echoes out, crackling in the hollow of his throat at your desperation—but you're too achy, too hot, to feel the simmer of humiliation nipping the apples of your cheeks. 

He's not even making a real effort to pleasure you, to make you feel good, and yet—

Your hips twitch toward him in needy, mewling cants; please sits on the tip of your tongue, cradled between your teeth. Slips out on a shaky, breathless gasp when he meets you on the next buck of your hips, palm slapping over your wet slit. 

The crack echoes through the room. Rough, dry skin on soaked flesh. 

And it shocks you more than it hurts. The sting is there, of course, but it's just an afterthought to astonishment. An eye-widening disbelief masking the way your cunt smarts, throbbing from the slap. Nerves muffled behind the burn in your eyes, the searing heat pooling in your sinuses. 

Wrenched open, unblinking as you stare up at him, your eyes begin to sting, to water. You blink, and feel something hot trickle down your cheek. A tear. His eyes snap to it. Pupils narrowing to a pinprick as he watches it slide down your face, little droplets clinging to your jaw. 

“Poor baby,” he mocks, tilting his head as he tracks the teardrop. “Better behave.” 

Behave. Like he's admonishing a child and not an adult. 

It morphs; rots. Becomes yet another thing you shouldn't feel feverish over. The slick, sticky feeling grows between your thighs as your cunt flutters at the humiliation of it all. 

And deeper—maybe—the bastardized sense of care—

(Punishment is affection in its own, special (awful) way and you've been aching for something just like it, haven't you—)

It's pushed down. Swallowed. And you know in the back of your head that if you keep eating these feelings, you're going to be sick. But you can't stop. Barely breathe around the idea of them sometimes—

“Tha’s’it,” he coos like he knows. Sees them bright and burning behind your irises. Little flickers of need, a smouldering want that you'll never grasp at yourself. 

So he gives it to you. 

The rough slide of his hand, all scarred and dry and calloused, scrapes over your slit once more. A full, flat stroke upward until your clit bumps into the ridge of his palm. Then down, down—

His fingers spread. Ring and index prying your folds apart as he pushes up once more, opening your seam to slip his middle finger through the slick, sticky mess that drips out of your burning cunt. 

“Gonna be good f’me?” 

The slide of his fingers drags the tip up to the bump of your clit. You stare down at it, fixed on the jut of his ink-black knuckles threading through your folds. The crease of his nail as he slips his fingers up higher, pad pushing over your pebbled clit. They're dirty. Grey-black under his nails. Congealed with dirt. Blood, maybe. 

Your stomach churns even as your hips lift. Eager, searching. Hating yourself each second of it. It's gross. Disgusting. 

You want his dirty, thick fingers inside of you—

“When I ask a question—” the tip circles over your clit. A shallow roll that pools heat between your thighs. “I expect an answer.” 

“Y–yes,” you stammer out, hips flexing against his hand. Seeking more of that white-hot bloom of pleasure he brings with each pass of his finger. 

“Good girl—” and you hate how it burns you up from the inside out. “Wasn't s’hard, was it?”

The retort is bitten back with the slow swipe of his finger drawing tight, small circles around your clit. His fingers are rough, scarred. Too dry. The abrasive drag over your soft sensitive flesh makes you whine—a drawn-out whimper nestled between clenched teeth. 

It's too much. 

Too harsh. Too sharp.

He rolls your clit under the pads of his fingers in jerking half-circles. Puts too much pressure on the bundle of nerves than you ever would—your touches are always soft, sickeningly sweet; gentling your flesh until you cum—and the sting, the burn, of it makes your toes curl. Body burn. 

It's good. 

And that's the problem. 

It shouldn't be. His touch shouldn't make you so wet, growing slick and sticky between your spread thighs, bare to his hungry, prying gaze. Shouldn't make you moan. Hips twitching with each stroke of his fingers—

And then he peels away from you, but the time to mourn the loss of his touch, the fear of losing this trembling ember pleasure, is snuffed out when he presses his wet, slick fingers against the inside of your knee. The touch is intentional. Insistent. He makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat before pushing it down to the mattress. The twinge of pain swallowed up as quickly as it forms when he drops to his elbows between your thighs, forearms curling under your legs, and tugs you sharply into him. 

Heat floods your belly when the backs of your thighs press tight to his broad, muscular shoulders, but it's nothing compared to the sight of him on his knees between your legs. It's so obscene you nearly weep—

And then he leans down and licks a long, broad swipe of his tongue over your cunt. 

You hadn't expected it, maybe. His mouth on your pussy, his broken, jagged lips sealing over your pebbled clit. Going down on you seemed too intimate for what he was after. His end goal. It does nothing for him at all—

You realise your mistake when he dips his tongue into your hole and his hips jerk forward. Unconscious. Eager. Seeking. The shifting drags his jeans down his hips, and his cock slips free. 

Most of the cocks you've seen—in porn, pictures, art—jut out from the person's groin. standing at attention, the nasty comments used to say. Jokes whispered on the playground. But his falls. Droops down between big, folded thighs. Skin marbled in shades of red, peach. Deep gouges dot his upper thighs, some sinking deep enough to reach bone. More scar tissue than flesh. 

—than man.

It looks raw. Fresh. Some injuries not too dissimilar to the Wagyu hanging in the front of the storeroom, on display and oh, so out of place in a town where the richest man must be just a hair above the poverty line. 

On paper, anyway. 

You swallow, avoiding his gaze as he pauses, dark eyes watching you with his mouth pressed against your seam. Unmoving. Still as a predator between your thighs, cock visible between the bow of his torso, jutting sickeningly from mangled legs as you gawk at this hideous thing that makes several, half-hearted attempts to spring up towards you, spitting clear, milky liquid all over with each jerk. Tugged down by its own weight. Too heavy to fight against gravity like the rest of the cocks you've seen have done—

Normal cocks, you amend. Textbook. 

His is anything but. 

Ugly, you think again, stomach churning. Roiling. Obscene. An odd thing considering what you're looking at but all too fitting with the way it droops, big, flared head drooling pre-cum all over the bed in long, dangling stands that prickle over your jaws—half nauseous, half hungry, too. Saliva pools in your mouth even though the sight of his cock scares you. Fills your belly with dread. Misery. 

It looks like a bruise. Skin smeared with purples, reds. Patches of pink. Long, thick veins run up from the fattened, full base to the divot of his frenulum. Thick. It hangs low. Drips. 

He raises slightly and shoves his hand down between his thighs, big hand curling over the fat base of his cock. His grip is tight around himself, and he strokes up, from base to tip. It squeezes more precum from the flushed, fat head, and dribbles between your spread thighs in a thick, pearlescent puddle. 

It makes your mouth dry. That twinge in your jaws coming back. Festering. You wonder if he'll make you take that thing in your mouth. Choke you on it. Taste his precum—

“Fuck,” he snarls into your cunt, hand jerking over his cock. “Keep lookin’ at my cock like tha’, birdie—”

You gasp at the rough grunt, the way it seems to tremble through your sensitive flesh. More, though, from the way he sounds. His voice brassy, rough. Unkind, but the words bloom a fresh heat behind your navel. 

His voice does things to you. Things you're not allowed to like. 

Those thoughts are knocked from your head when he bows down again, eyes still fixed on you, and seals his wicked mouth over your cunt. It's hard to compare it to anything else other than being devoured. Eaten in the truest sense of the word. 

His tongue splits down your seam, tip digging into your slick hole. A groan bubbles up at your taste—the soft, fluttering clench of your body trying to drag him in deeper. Needing him deeper. A huff of air ghosts over you, dipped in the same derision as earlier but the harsh slap of skin on skin, his hand working furiously over his cock, makes you acutely aware of how much this affects him. 

“Taste good, birdie,” he grunts, and then sucks your fold into his mouth, laving it with his tongue and teeth until the skin is tender, swollen. “S’fuckin’ good—”

Your breath catches when the crooked arch of his nose presses taut to your clit. Pleasure twisting in a dizzying pirouette inside your belly, winding tighter and tighter—

His nose jerks up on your clit. Lips moulded to your seam, you hear him rasp eyes on me, birdie. Don't fuckin’ look away—

The rough snarl trembles through your body, sinking its teeth into the coil until it snaps under its jaw. Your knees snap around his head as your release locks your joints tight. His name, Simon, a hoarse cry on your lips. You barely have time to bask in the ripples of pleasure throbbing through your body before he rips away from you with his teeth bared, and his chin wet. 

“Fuck—!” he snarls again, shoving your knees apart as he lifts his massive body up from between your thighs. “Gonna fuck you, birdie. Gotta be inside your tight cunt—”

He towers over you, grinding his cock into the apex of your thighs. The drag of his cock—a little damp from being stuck inside his jeans all day; balmy—against the dry skin of your belly makes you shudder. Shivering beneath him as he huffs through the mask. Head bowing. Dipping to look at the way his cock slaps down on you. Cockhead nudging above your belly button, dribbling a small puddle of pre-cum that gets smeared into your skin when he rocks back on his haunches. 

His hand wraps around the thick base of his cock once more, squeezing tight as he grips himself above you. It makes the head swell, engorged with blood. Thickening in his hand as globs of pre-spend leak out onto your belly. That feeling in your jaws comes back—nauseous and wanting. 

He leans back with a hum. “Like my cock, eh, birdie?” 

The crass words bring a fresh bloom of heat simmering in your veins, creeping up your collar. Like doesn't really cover what you feel when you stare at it—his inked hands running along the long, veined shaft—and the unsettled feeling in the pit of your belly rears when he nudges forward, the weeping head of his cock bumping your mound. 

It's humiliating how much want floods through you just looking at it. At him. Disgust, dread, desire. 

You don't answer. Not that you really need to—

Your silence is loud enough. 

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, the rasp thick in his throat. “M’gonna give it to you, pet—”

And he does just that. Slips the head of his cock down the slope of your mound, letting it graze your clit until you're panting, whining softly for more, and pulls it over your slit until his pre-cum is smeared over your drenched folds. You know exactly what this is even without glimpsing the ugly burn of his possessive desire smouldering in the back of his eyes—ownership. Greed. Hunger. It revels in the stain on your skin, from belly to slit; his, all his. Outside and soon—

In. 

It shocks a creeping sense of worry into you. “Wait, what about a condom—”

He snorts, ugly and caustic. “What about ‘em?” He taunts, and it's flat. Playful. 

“You should—”

He drags his gaze away from the pearlescent smear of his spend on your folds, your clit, and the even, placid look in that stagnant lake tells you everything you already knew. 

“I've never—” you start, wincing at the kernel of fear lacing your hoarse words. “Not without a condom—”

It's the wrong thing to say. Near cataclysmic. He drops his head back with a groan that rumbles out of the slope of his throat, sounding like the rip of a chainsaw. 

“Firsts for everything,” he purrs, and he nudges your entrance with the bare, weeping tip of his cock. 

“But—”

His hand lifts, catching your jaw in the too-wide span of his palm. The force makes your teeth clack together. 

“Need me to gag you, birdie?” 

You swallow. It's not much of a choice. Gagged and fucked raw, or—

Just fucked raw. 

No gag. No condom. You fight back a shiver and wish it was all just from fear. 

“No,” you murmur, like you have a choice. “No gag.”

“An’?” 

“Um. No–no condom, either—”

It's not enough. "What are you gonna let me do to this pussy, birdie?"

You know what he wants. What he's angling for. But there's a line, you think. A delineation between unwilling participant, coercion, and giving into the need that slinks down your spine, and rots inside your belly.

(Being forced to ask for it isn't permission, but what happens when you want it more than your next breath?)

The shame can come later, you think, and feel yourself give in. 

"Cum—cum inside me—"

“Good girl, birdie.” 

You hate what that does to you. How eagerly your body reacts to the dark possessive curl in his eyes when you do something he likes. 

He nudges your entrance again, this time with purpose. Intent. A heavy pressure pushing on your rim. Too tight, you think, and the sting of the first inch he feeds—forces—into you burns, pulsing behind your navel. His tip isn't even in yet, and it's already too much. 

You think about telling him so, offering up your mouth instead, but he leans down on his forearms, and catches your lips in a bruising, biting pantomime of a kiss. A blood-soaked parody with more teeth and tongue—sinking into your lips, nipping hard until the skin splits; catching all that spills with his tongue. 

With his weight pressed against you like this, there's nowhere to run when he cups your throat in his hand, winding the other up above your head, forearm tight on your crown to cage you in. And then he shifts. Bears his hips down on yours until the fat head of his cock pops inside of you. 

Your squeal is chewed up between his teeth, swallowed down with a rumbling groan. 

Caught beneath him, trapped, he works himself into you demanding, heavy thrusts. Each inch burns more than the last. A stinging stretch that brings tears to your eyes. It's already too much and it's not even half. Barely even the tip.

“Can't—” you slur into his wet, demanding mouth. “No more. I–I can't—”

The breath rushes out between his teeth. Your watery eyes drop to the divot above his canine. A permanent snarl. A condescending sneer. 

“You can,” he says decisively, words ground out from between crooked teeth. He presses them to your cheek, nipping at the skin under your eye. Possessive and wanting—

(Hungry for something you can't name—)

“And you will.” 

—Or maybe you just don't want to. Can't look at the thunderous need draped over his mangled, battered face without thinking of the rumble in your chest that echos back against his thundering call—)

Stupid, foolish thing—

The dark promise of his words isn't a threat until his hand tightens around your neck, nails grazing your skin, and he adds, all of me, birdie as he grinds his hips into yours shallowly. Broad chest expanding with each ragged inhale. Cementing his taunt with a steel edge as you try not to come undone beneath him. 

You'll take every fuckin’ inch—

He pulls back until only his glands stretch you open, and you know what's coming when his fingers grip the sides of your neck tight. Holding on. Anchoring you to the bed as he nudges his forearm tighter between your skull and the wall, a protective hold. 

Before you can tense up, bracing for it, or even cry out no, please, don't, you can't take it, he huffs, and then slams his hips forward, splitting you open on the fat stretch of his thick, too heavy cock. 

Maybe it's hysteria, delirium, but the blunt press of his length against your tender, sore walls balms the ache, the sting. The deeper he pushes, the less it hurts. A paradox that leaves you whimpering under his hand, heels digging into the broad stretch of his waist as you struggle to decide if you want to kick him away or pull him closer. 

A war you don't have the power to win when he surges forward, burying himself to the hilt with a growl that shakes the fragile tendons surrounding your heart. Fear, misery. Pleasure, pain. It admixes. Coalescing into a dizzying sense of fullness, unbearable pressure. Catastrophic in its heaviness as your mind reels, struggles to come to terms with the gut-wrenching, heart-aching uncertainty of how you're supposed to go on without having him seated as deep inside of you as he can get. You've never known emptiness before him. Before now. Mere seconds ago. 

And now, the thought of it leaves a palpable hollowness itching behind your ribs. Festering. Rotting tissue and bone. 

“Simon,” you choke, sobbing his name out under the firm press of his hand. “Simon—”

But he knows. 

His arm curls over your head like a crown, and you can easily forget the pinch of each thorn when he holds you tight. Protectively. Possessively. Securing you in his arms before he lifts up, palm sliding over the mattress, touch tender against your cheeks, and then settles it on the indent of your knee. Widening you for him as he spreads his thighs under yours until you're opened up for him. 

Those dark eyes are dragged down to the split of your legs where his cock disappears into your slick, swollen cunt. You follow it down, gazing at the impressive width of his stomach bowing over you until they land on the jut of skin pushing out from a messy smatter of damp curls around the base of his cock. 

The coarse hair of his groin unfurls as it sticks to your wet lips, and he rolls his head back over his shoulders he heaves through the too tight stretch of your walls over his length. You feel the pulse of him inside of you, thudding like a heartbeat. It blooms molten under the feverish weight of his lidded, dark gaze. 

“Fuck, birdie,” he rasps, and it's scorched. Charred. “Look at you—”

As the world is condensed, narrowed down to nothing but the near impossible stretch of his cock seated as deep inside of you as he can get, he leans down, scarred, mangled lips brushing cruelly over your ear, and whispers, see? Told you'd take me. 

Every fuckin’ inch. 

Your hand jerks to your belly, fingers dancing over your navel as if to feel him there, bulging from under your skin. Nearly hysterical as you try to come to terms with the pulsing, white-hot ache of him inside of you, slowly acclimating to his girth, his length. 

He grunts when he sees what you're doing, eyes flaring as your fingers skirt around your navel. 

“It's—” you shudder, gasping for air. “It's too much, Simon, I can't take it—”

He rolls his hips with a groan. “m’cock too big for you, birdie?” 

His usual cadence is flat, droll, but an unmistakable sense of masculine pride, a deep, egotistic sense of satisfaction, drapes itself over his brassy words. Glueing to the scorching rasp of his voice in a way that makes you unerringly certain that he likes it. Likes that his cock is too big for you. That it hurts. 

“Y’can take it,” he prompts, forcing more of himself into you until something snaps. Splits. Makes room. Carves out a space for him to fit. 

The brief flash of pain is soothed when he's seated deep. That same paradoxical balm making itself known as he flattens his hips into yours with a noise—half a grunt, or a growl; a lazy, pleasure-soaked snarl. You're not sure what it is, but the sound knocks the air from your lungs, igniting inside of you like a spark inside a tinderbox. 

It's only when his balls are flush against you that the same masculine pride brims up again. Primal. Animalistic. The urge to present your soft belly rears up suddenly, and it's only stifled when he grunts again, looking down at you with lidded, black eyes. 

“Now, be good and let me fuck your tight cunt.”

He's not looking for assent. Nothing you could say at this moment will sway his mind one way or the other. There's a nasty spool of determination welling up like blood on a pricked finger. Beading up to the surface in a clean, neat droplet as he rolls his broad shoulders, and shuffles into a comfortable position on his haunches between your spread thighs. The motion jostles his cock in a way that makes your breath hitch with each jerk. 

It's not painful. Not particularly. But you're overwhelmed by the sensation of utter fullness in a way you've never experienced before. Each grind of his cock against your overly stretched walls deeping that incipient feeling of anxiety brewing in your belly that one wrong move and you'll tear. He's just—

Too big. 

And despite his claims—or rather, in spite of them—you don't think you can do it. Don't think you can take him. It's too much. It feels like being turned inside out and then put back into place. An uneasy sense of discomfiture blooms with each too-tight, too-sharp tug of his cock pulling taut on your rim. 

Almost deliriously, you think you can feel the pulse of his cock inside your goddamn throat. 

“Simon—” you start on a tremulous breath but he cuts you off with a hum. 

“Relax.” 

You can't. Can't—

“Fuckin’ hell, bird,” he rasps, leaning down suddenly until his face was pushed tight into the curve of your neck, breath shallow on your thudding pulse. “Stop squirmin’ ‘round me like tha’ or I'll cum right fuckin’ now.”

Your heart stutters. Gallops painfully in your chest. His words make you dizzy because for as much as this feeling of him, his cock, inside of you dances on a delicate precipice of being more than you can feasibly handle and somehow the most incredible thing you'd ever experienced before, you hadn't considered how he'd feel. 

Inexplicably, it pleases you. 

There's something so strange—so extraordinary—about bringing a man like him, like this, to his knees. Pleasuring him by just heaving through the white-hot stretch of his cock inside of you. Making him bury his head in your neck, groaning about how he was gonna fuckin’ bust, pretty thing, fuck—

It was a powerful feeling. 

Unwarranted, maybe. But incredible, nevertheless. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, and you feel his throat work around a thick swallow. “Gonna fuck you, birdie. Gonna fuck this pretty cunt so fuckin' hard until you beg me stop—”

And he does just that. Rears back from your neck, and settles again between your thighs—quicker this time. With an urgency that makes you whimper when his cock grinds against your walls hard enough to bruise. 

When he finally pulls out until only the flared head of his cock remains, you knot a fist into the thin pillow, clinging on, and latch the other onto his hip as if that could somehow stop the vicious promise in his eyes about poundin’ you into the goddamn mattress. There's a flash, a brief flicker of his eyes, and then he thrusts back inside of you with a grunt that makes your belly clench, and your back arch. 

True to the promises he gave, it's brutal. Violent. 

Any pleasure you feel is leached through osmosis. A tether bound around his own. 

His arm is shoved under your back, angling your pelvis up. Thighs dangling over the thick spread of his own, ass seated in his lap. He drives into you, thrusts deep—grinds his hips until your moans break into hoarse screams, whimpers. Makes your eyes roll so far back, all you see is black even when you blink your eyes up at him. 

He carves a spot deep inside of you with each delirious piston of his cock, pounding into you with brutal thrusts, and then holding tight when his balls slap against your ass. Digging the head of his cock into the seal of your womb until it aches behind your navel. Each breath feels like glass in your lungs—

“Tha’s it,” he slurs in your ear, mouth damp against your skin. “Take my cock so good, pretty birdie. Little pussy was made for it, weren't you? Tight cunt all mine—”

His gruff words tug on that tether until you're wrapped around him like a bow. Following him down this endless spiral as he slams inside of you over and over again, cooing in your ear about the sounds you made for him, pretty cunt so fuckin’ wet f’me, birdie, hear tha’? all f’me—

“Cum f'me, birdie. Want this pussy cummin’ ‘round my cock—”

“Can't—” you gasp, arching into him, desperate and needy. It rides a line between pain and pleasure; a needlepoint you wobble on. “Need—”

You try to reach down, to touch your clit, but grinds his hips into yours with a snarl. “Cum ‘around my cock, birdie.”

“Touch me—”

“Fuckin’ hell—”

It edges on too much. Pain and pleasure teetering on a knife's edge, split apart by a line the width of a razer. Looping and tangling around each other until you can't differentiate between the two. But it makes sense, you suppose, staring up at him arched above you like a black cloud of smoke. All hunger and fire. Consuming, devouring, everything in its path. A wildfire. 

Butcher, you think again when his hand wraps around your throat. A mimicry of what he did in the truck, forcing your eyes on him. Your life tucked neatly against his palm.

These hands take lives. It's what they're made for. All scarred, and thick. Scar tissue and bone. Muscle and cartilage. Meant to render meat of cattle. Slaughterhouse in the shape of a man. Consumption personified. 

But where there should be fear, all you feel is an echoing sense of hunger. Leatherbound to each other, maybe—

The look that passes over his eyes as he stares down at you, cupped in his palm, seems to fit perfectly into the fractured gaps inside yourself you try so hard to ignore. And what doesn't—

Well. 

He'll make room to fit. 

You reach up, curling your fingers around his thick wrist. His eyes flash, but he doesn't slow his thrusts. Doesn't stop. Just watches as you peel his hand away from your neck, bringing it up to your mouth. 

On his palm, there's a piece of skin that's unblemished compared to the rest of his worn, burnt hands. A strip just big enough for you to sink your teeth into. 

And you do. 

“Fuck, Birdie—!” The snarl is ripped from his throat. His thrusts grow harder, sloppier. Each bit of strength in his muscled hips and thighs is used to pound into you until your vision blacks out. It hurts. Aches. Your heels slip down, catching on the broad expanse of his lower back. And you tighten them around his waist, pulling him closer. Deeper. “Fuck, Birdie, fuckin’ cunt was made f'me, wasn’t it? So cum on my cock. Now—”

Whining, you shake your head. “Can't. I can't. I need—”

You don't get to finish. With a huff of anger, he rips his hand off of the mattress, leaning back on his haunches, and shoves his hand between your thighs, scarred fingers stroking over your pebbled clit. It's rough. Sloppy. His anger hums through his body, skewering into you as he glared down, gaze swinging like a pendulum between the split of your thighs where his cock disappears into your swollen cunt, his fingers rubbing over your clit, and back up the hand around your neck, the tears staining your cheeks. 

There's an edge to his thrusts. A viciousness in the way he pistons his hips into you. Dark eyes catching every flicker—each wince, gasp, moan, whine all meticulously catalogued and exploited. He finds the spots that make your hips jerk, twitching both toward and away from him. Angling into the ones that have your eyes rolling back into your head, drool dribbling past your slack lips as you gasp his name out into the dank, humid air. 

It smells of sweat, sex, and him. Something brutal, bloody, and dark. Rotten leaves. Charred forests after a rain shower. Dangerous. Tinged with a slight acrid, chemical stench—benzene, oxidizing iron. It drips down your throat, and drenches your lungs. Staining you from the inside out. 

And he exploits that, too. Leans in, and breathes heavily against your upper lip, your cheek. Drowns you in his scent. His sweat beads along his jaw, droplets raining down over your brow. Soaked in his essence. Unable to see, smell, or touch anything that isn't him. 

With his hand over your mouth, teeth sunk into his palm, all you can taste is him, too. Leather. Gun oil. Blood. 

The ravenous look in his eye sharpens, turning into deadly points. 

“Such a pretty fuckin' bird.” He rasps, the words shattered, mangled in the back of his throat. They carry the scent of blood when you breathe them in, and you wonder if he forced them through glass. Pushed them out with his bloody fists. 

You bite down harder in response, keening through the white-hot pain of his cock spearing deeper than before, stretching you past your limits. The taste of blood on your tongue, the rasping snarl pulled from his chest, his fingers toying with your clit, push you over the edge once more. Again and again, and again, and—

His hand peels away from your oversensitive clit, dropping down to the mattress beside your face. He follows quickly after several impossibly deep thrusts that shove you higher up on the mattress, pressing in until his balls sit flush against your ass, cockhead battering against your cervix, and he groans—deep and liquid—when he comes, spilling inside of you. Rooted deep, cock twitching, Simon drops to his elbow beside your head, smothering you under his weight as the tension in his body bleeds out. 

Your teeth stick to the divots in his hand, and the sensation of ungluing them from the wounds you gave him makes you shiver. Slowly, you roll your tongue out, chasing the drops of blood, and breathe heavily through your nose as he burrows deeper inside of you, chest shuddering over yours. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he rasps, hips jerking into yours with a slap that echoes through the room. “Little tease, ain't you?” 

Even with his cock softening inside of you, it's still thick. Fat. Stretching you open as he yawns out above you, bloodied hand dropping down to cup your neck again, forearm resting heavily between your breasts. He raises slightly on his elbow, black eyes glinting in the shallow dark of the room. Piercing as they drill into your sweat-slicked face. 

It aches when he moves. When he presses his hips harder into yours, the muscles in your legs throb as his broad waist splits them apart. Your feet dangle, sliding uselessly down his back, over his ass, before coming to rest curled around his thighs. Melting into the mattress, tender and sore and all chewed up—

You feel like a massive contusion instead of a person. A pestle. His. 

The thought makes you shiver, and his eyes flash in triumph like he knows. 

The feeling of him pulling out of you draws a whimper from your lips. The drag on your sensitive, bruised walls is a strange mix of tender pleasure and pain. He chuckles at your mewl—dark and low; the sound of nightmares, you think. Crackling sap on charred wood. 

You try to pretend it doesn't make you shudder, but the way he hums in response dashes the feigned oblivion before it can form. All you can do is heave on the bed, and watch him through narrowed slits as he leans back on his haunches once again, head cocking to the side. His dark eyes fixed on the split of your legs. The ache in your cunt growing sharp under his molten stare. 

“Fuck,” he rasps, the shallow groan pulled out from between clenched teeth. You wonder if the mangled curse was unintentional. Ripped from his throat before he could clamp his jaws around it—a crack in the facade. A hairline splinter in the indomitable mask he wears. 

Your heart lurches. None of this makes sense, but your head is too muddled, too syrupy, to think much at all. A quandary for later when he throws you from his bed with a harsh slap on your ass and a and don't think about doing this ever again. 

But you don't think you can move. “Give me a minute,” you start on a trembling breath. “And I'll—”

His brows move but his eyes stay fixed on your sore cunt. You can feel him leak out of you, spilling on the mattress in thick globs. The sensation makes you shiver. 

“You'll what?” 

It looks like he has to forcibly tear his eyes away from you, reluctance forming a cold, angry crater between his brows. The brunt of his ire—white, burning—makes you want to supplicate yourself at his feet, roll over on your belly and show the beast you mean no harm. 

(Run, and run far—)

He huffs. “You'll what, birdie?”

It takes a minute to find your voice through all the panic clogging your throat. “I'll leave, um—”

He peels away from you with a loud, rough snort, and drops to his his elbow beside you. Hands curling possessively over your waist, fingers tight. Unyielding. 

“Not goin’ anywhere, birdie. Told you, didn't I? You're mine.” 

“I'm—”

“Go to sleep.” 

He pulls you roughly to his chest until your head is pillowed on his shoulder, and then rolls on his back, keeping you cushioned at his side. You try to move, but his arm wedges under your neck, curling over your shoulder. Trapping you to him. 

The panic wants to come now. To rage against the shackle of his embrace, to run home and scrub your skin until it bleeds. But the exhaustion collapses over it all until your eyes feel too heavy to hold open. Too painful.

As you drift, aimless and dreamless, his voice cuts through the fog. “Gotta learn ‘ow to cum with nothin’ but my cock inside of you sooner or later, birdie. Or you won't be coming at all—”

It sounds like a threat. A promise. You fall asleep with the words echoing in your head, his arm an anchor around your waist. 

He wakes up hungry. 

A gnawing in his belly pulls him from the thin doze he fell into after fucking you three more times—with your face pressed into the mattress, ass in the air for him to rut against like a beast; teetering over his hips, the spread of them too wide for your thighs to split over leaving you precariously unbalanced and shifting your weight above him as neither knee sat comfortably on the mattress; and on your belly with him crushing you to the floor under his bulk. The memory of which makes his spent cock stir, twisting limply against his damp, sticky thigh. Matted down with drying cum, sweat, the slick wetness of being buried inside your messy cunt. 

Filled now with his cum. 

He groans low in his throat as he thinks about it. The sloppy way you let him take you over and over again until you couldn't keep your eyes open anymore, passing out before he finished. Letting him fuck his cum inside of you as you whimpered in your sleep—

Perfect little thing, aren't you? So good to him.

Simon can't remember the last time he fucked someone, much less when it was this enjoyable (an understatement, of course; in the back of his head, wheels spin round and round as he tries to come up with a plan to keep his cock buried inside of you at all times while still doing his work—), and the overflow of unquenched lust churns in his belly. A hunger he can now slake on your willing body. In the silence, he purrs—

But the effort, the exertion, dredged up a different need inside him. 

Simple hunger. An appetite. 

He could eat—

his eyes slant toward the top of your crown in the dark, and he amends it, quickly, to: in more ways than one. 

He'll go home in a minute. Make himself a steak from the prime cut he butchered a few days ago, leftovers that no one had any qualms about when he took several pieces home with him. 

(and really, why would they argue with the butcher who keeps their wallets fat and their bills paid?)

It was left on the counter earlier before he got the call that your brother was making another move. Now a perfect room temperature as it waits for him to come back. Cook it the way he likes—

Rare. 

The perfect grill is a nice char on the outside, but bleeding red on the inside. Basted in duck fat and garlic. A sprig of rosemary in the pan, but not touching the meat. Just enough to give the juice that earthy, sweet flavour. Let it rest for ten minutes under foil with the rest of the fat poured over it from the pan. Served as is with maybe a dash of salt and pepper on the side. 

Simple. But incredibly difficult to perfect, he finds. 

Everyone tries to make it fancier than what it needs to be, but at the end of the day, meat is meat. And going from picking scraps from the garbage outside of the Italian butcher on the corner to ordering his own pretentious filet mignon still gives him a sense of unease. Whiplash, perhaps. Nothing to something—how about that, Tommy? 

Maybe that's why he prefers to raise and butcher his own cattle. A never-ending supply of meat for him to sink his teeth into even if this whole thing goes belly up and he's back to begging for morsels on the corner. Tommy hiding in the shadows with a baseball bat waiting to ambush the richer men who happen to feel altruistic that day. 

This practice bled over into his current occupation, too. The basement of that same Italian butcher shop he used to sneak expired sausage from out of the bins is now his home base of sorts. A money laundering front of the 141. Headquarters for them to congregate in secrecy upstairs. And here—

A torture chamber for those who tried to cross them. Strung up on meat hooks like the cattle they eat, the ones he feeds them, until he makes up his mind on what he wants to do to them. 

It's where you should have been, he supposes, thumb brushing a spot of dried blood on your shoulder, right below a nasty bite mark on your forearm. The ring nearly black from the clotted blood pooling in the indents. It matches several others on your thighs—top, insides, back—and neck, belly, collarbones, sternum. All chewed up. Marked by the butcher. 

In working for the old Italian man who ran the shop when he was eighteen, he learned that most of the butchers preferred to mark their carcasses when they came in. A little x on the fat to signify they'd be the ones carving up the prime meat. 

He didn't think you could handle his knife, so he gave you his teeth instead. But the implication is clear. 

His. 

It's overkill considering his reputation, and the claim he already had on you. Because even before this, back when he saw you through the window of his shop as he was moonlit as a legitimate butcher and businessman instead of the enforcer, the brute, everyone already knew he was, his interest was clear. You were off-limits. His to deal with. 

And while Price refers not to get involved in small-time street dealers, the warnings Soap and Gaz impressed onto your brother should have been the end of an irritating situation and not the beginning of a fuckin’ headache. But no. He had to push. And push.  

Until Price gave the order to take care of it. 

And that he did. 

(With the added benefit of killing one bird and keeping the other in a pretty cage.)

Price probably won't like his solution, but Simon racked up enough favours to keep a little pet of his own. Been a good boy for a long, long time now, and he supposes he's owed a bone. 

Or a sweet thing tucked tight to his side having passed out some two hours ago after he slaked his dizzying thirst on you over and over again even though it doesn't feel like it's been enough. 

It's rare that he has an appetite for people. Even rarer that he lets this meagre hunger consume him like this. But there's something about you that makes his teeth ache in the same way they often do whenever he's hungry for meat. 

He wants to devour you. Consume you. Eat you alive and save nothing for anyone else to taste. 

(So—

Price will just have to let him keep you, won't he?)

The mattress vibrates under him. His phone buzzing with an incoming text. He reaches over, pulling it close enough to read the notification on his screen. It's from Soap.

All her stuff is on your porch. 

He hums, but doesn't reply. Simply opts to drop his phone on his belly, and tug you closer to his broad chest. He'll wake you in an hour, and the stirring in his groin tells him it'll be for another round. Maybe he'll take you in the freezer. Make you cling to the hook hanging down from the ceiling as he fucks you like that. He has a pair of ties for ox, lamb legs, that he can loop around your wrists and heft you up on. 

It'll hurt, he's sure. The binds weren't designed with comfort in mind, but he can easily bear your weight as he pounds into you from below, your pretty legs wrapped tight around his waist. 

The image, the thought, alone has him thickening against his thigh. He reaches down, gripping the base tight in his hand as he pulls you even closer, burying his nose in your crown. 

At the very least, he wouldn't be lying when he told Price he strung you up. 

Three rounds—on your back, your hands and knees, perched above him like a pretty goddess he stole away from a temple—and he still isn't satisfied. Fuck. He breathes in your scent and doesn't think he ever will be. 

He'll get you out of here, take you home. Make you the steak he likes for a late dinner, rare and simple—the same one he gave your brother weeks ago when he dragged him into the shop, strung him up on a hook, and demanded payment for his disrespect. 

Who'd have thought that his payment would be you? 

(fitting, though, since he'd had his eye on you for a while now—)

He nudges you when his phone chimes again with another message doubtless from Soap telling him all your things have been tucked away. Matters dealt with. 

“C’mon,” he grunts, running his hand down your spine. “We’re leavin’.”

You blink at him slowly. “Leaving?”

He nods. “Get dressed.” 

You're quiet as he turns, reaching for his jeans left in a heap beside the mattress, but he hears the hitch in your throat. The click when you swallow. Unbothered by it, he turns, giving you his back as he wedges his feet inside the trousers, pulling them up his legs. 

The bed shifts behind him. “I—I can walk back to my brother's—”

The hope in your voice is a delicate thing. Fragile like fine china. A pretty, vulnerable tchotchke meant to be seen, admired, but not touched. Not handled roughly. 

Unfortunately for you, he's never had much of a gentle touch. 

When he throws a glance over his shoulder, he's not surprised to find your arm folded over your bare breasts as you kneel on the mattress, your palm resting flat between your parted thighs, wrist and forearm covering the slip of heaven between them from his greedy, prying gaze. 

It paints a startling picture, he finds. One with you looking thoroughly ravaged. Taken. But presenting it in a soft sort of sensuality meant to make a man feel both hot under the collar and like an unrepentant voyeur. 

Pretty bird, he thinks, and feels his cock stir. 

He rises swiftly, hiking up his jeans around his thighs as he goes, and then turns to you with a heady desire to crush that gossamer of hope between his greedy hand like a silken cobweb that will stick to his fingers. 

“Not goin’ to your brothers,” he says, pushing his tongue against his cheek to stem the ache burning in his muscles. 

You shiver, eyes growing wide, frenzied with fear as you stare up at him. The shift of your throat when you swallow makes pre-cum dribble out of his fattened cock. He's never really had much of a taste for it, but he's overcome with the urge to see you cry—

“Where are we going?”

Amid the ache in his loins, the flickering fantasies of your pretty, lachrymal face gazing up at him helpless, hopeless, and needy, he catches the edge of panic when you speak. The razor-sharp tremble of fear. 

But buried amongst it, hidden in the bruised look you give him as he towers over you with his cock bulging in his slacks and his eyes burning with want, he finds a keen sense of eagerness amongst the rubble. Agog, almost. 

And fuck. If that doesn't do something awful to him. 

“What?” He taunts, cocking his head to the side as your breath grows shallow and your eyes wide. “Did you think that was enough to pay your debt, birdie?”

“What? You can't—”

“Don't like it—” he lifts his shoulder up in a cool, indifferent shrug, enjoying the dismayed expression that falls over your brow more than he should. “—go to the police.”

“The ones on your payroll?” You spit, eyes flaring wide like an angry cat. “You—”

Several things might have continued in place of your choked, angry sob, but it's swallowed down as pragmatically as it was the first time he cornered you earlier today. And as beautiful as your ire is, he finds the cornered look on your face to be much more pleasing. Prettier. 

“C’mon, bird,” he mocks, holding his hand out toward you with a tick of his lips. “All your stuff is at home. Don't be stupid.” 

“Stupid?” You gasp in indignation, but there's a bruised look in your eyes. A wounded thing that makes his breath hitch in his lungs for reasons he can't really ascertain, but just knows that he likes it. Likes it a lot. “This is—insane.”

Again, he shrugs, but the indifference this time isn't the same manufactured callousness meant to inspire fear. The conversation is stale already. Grating on him. He's not used to having his orders ignored or questioned. What he says usually goes—either through association or reputation, or just the fact that no one has ever come close to filling the same measure of space as he does—and questioning him like this makes him feel too much like a boy, and not enough like the living ghost he pretends to be. 

“You can't do this. It's not right.”

An appeal to his humanity. Cute. He huffs, reaching down to fasten the button of his jeans. The sound the zipper makes cuts through the room. “You're mine, birdie. Better get used to it.” 

Catching your eye as he says it was only meant to reignite the kindling fear you have of him from extinguishing. A scared prey animal was a better pet than an angry one. But the look on your face catches him off-guard. 

It reminds him of a flightless little bird shivering in a child's shoebox. Tiny broken thing his mum warned him not to touch or its mother would abandon it to die on its own. 

“Until the debt is paid off.”

A statement, not a question. He shrugs, but doesn't respond. Tilts his head toward the door. “Let's go.” 

His lack of reassurance doesn't soften the flint in your gaze, but the prospect of recompense seems to spurn you on. Another wishbone of hope to cling to. And despite himself, he lets you keep it. Lets your little finger wrap around the delicate bone for comfort because as much as you might think there's a fifty-fifty chance of getting the bigger piece, he has no intentions of letting something like that get in the way of his appetite even if you do. 

(And his hunger has always been particularly voracious, hasn't it?)

“Come, birdie. Gotta get you home, and fed, don't I?” 

(𝟏) 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋

ও rating. explicit

ও summary. you work for an anonymous phone sex business on campus, andyou would have never guessed that your first client would be the Atsumu Miya—most popular guy on campus who sits three seats ahead of you in calculus. and you’re pretty sure he doesn’t even know you exist. | wc. tbd.

cw/ tw. college au. nerd!reader, volleyball player Atsumu, phone sex, dirty talk, mild hurt/comfort, miscommunication, fraternity parties, rough sex, unprotected sex, praise kink, strangers to lovers

ও featuring. Atsumu x Fem!Reader 

ও an. okay, i turned my self-indulgent fic into a multi-part fic:) please comment on this post if you’d like to be tagged. NOTE: the Taglist is closed | follow #📓 .one missed call for updates.

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Please remember to read all content warnings before proceeding.

Part One—You get your first caller, and can’t tell why he sounds so familiar…until you do.

cw/ tw. phone sex, praise kink, pet names (ex. baby, sweetheart)

Part Two—After weeks of phone calls, you get to know Atsumu which makes pretending a little more difficult.

cw/ tw. sexting, phone sex, praise kink, pet names (ex. sweetheart, pretty girl)

Part Three—Things get even more difficult when Atsumu needs help with his homework before his next game, and who better to help him than the class tutor.

cw/ tw. sexting, phone sex, praise kink, pet names (ex. sweetheart)

Part Four—The truth always finds a way of coming out.

cw/ tw. tba…

Part Five—Atsumu confronts you.

cw/ tw. tba…

© satorini 2022—do not copy, paste, or translate my works anywhere.

SNAPSHOT PT.3 GOJO SATORU

synopsis. nobara is ill and what better way to spend your day off than trying to figure out who your teacher's high school girlfriend is?

wc. 3.5k

tags. gojo x reader, fluff, one suggestive joke, reader is in gojo's class, implied utahime x shoko, only half proofread

a/n. it's nearly midnight and im so tired and I have to be up at 6 tomorrow but I needed to get this done. I hope there's not too many mistakes <3 the ending is kind of shit but idc :) jk i do pls like it

previous part / next part

“are you sure you’ll be okay alone?”

nobara lazily lifted her head from beneath her duvet, orange bangs clinging to her sweaty forehead as she let out a series of harsh coughs. megumi winced from the doorway, inching back ever so slightly - he'd already brought in a couple bottles of water and a box of tissues, he wasn't looking to contract whatever flu-like disease she had caught.

she rolled her eyes at his not-so-subtle antics and raised a weak thumbs up. “go on fushiguro, i know how much you're dying to spend the afternoon with itadori and sensei."

“haha,” megumi uttered with the most sarcastic tone he could muster. on second thoughts, maybe being sick for a week wouldn't be so bad. with nobara gone, there was no buffer for his teacher and classmate to pester. “call me if you get worse, you know the second years are useless.” 

nobara gave the younger boy a quick salute and small smile, “yes boss.”

she dropped her head back into her pillow and waited till she heard the door click shut till she slipped a little less than elegantly out of bed. whilst yes, there was no denying that she was definitely sick, she also had a mission she couldn’t give up on.

in the three weeks, four days and an unknown number of hours since she had found the dvd of her teacher in his youth, she had been putting all of her free time into trying to find you. megumi had been a dead end when she’d tried asking him about you again and, although nobara knew he had a soft spot for yuuji, she didn’t trust the pink haired boy to treat this situation sensitively.

initially, she’d even considered asking gojo about it but she decided against that pretty quickly. that could get awkward very quickly and she still had at least two years at the school. 

then, she’d moved onto searching through the school for traces of the alumni. all she’d managed to find was a single photo; one that included both kyoto and tokyo students. you were tucked into gojo’s side with your arm around shoko. geto was there too: him and gojo side by side as they always were in their teenage years. all of you were grinning and genuinely happy. where had it all gone so drastically wrong?

nobara wondered if it was geto’s fault that gojo’s class had been all but erased – an effort to forget that the worst curse user to live had in fact once been an aspiring sorcerer.

her next plan (and one she hadn’t full considered the logistics of completely just yet) was to watch every single video on the dvd because surely at some point, there would be some clue of who you were or where you’d gone. 

and even if there wasn’t, what else could she possibly do to amuse herself whilst she was on bed rest?

with a huff, she grabbed her laptop and dropped back onto her bed, tucking herself under the covers. opening up her laptop (her password being ‘12345’), she clicked unpause on a video she’d started the evening prior.

“–and that’s it basically.”

shoko waved her hands around, sat on yaga’s chair at the front of the classroom with a blackboard filled with scribbles behind her. it wasn’t anything legible, more like swirls and stars and nobara thinks that, if she looked hard enough, in the corner were two little stick men: gojo and geto. an unlit cigarette sat between her lips as she kicked her legs up onto her teacher’s desk. yaga clearly wasn’t in the room. 

“that made no sense whatsoever but woo! shoko!” you clapped, out of frame of the camera but enthusiastically nonetheless. the aforementioned girl narrowed her eyes at you across the classroom.

“that’s why i made a video, for you to look back on duh,” she tsked, nodding her head towards the camera. “plus it is easy. i expected dumb and dumber not to understand but you?” shoko patted away a few non-existent tears, taking on the role of disappointed parent and their once star student.

except you’d never really excelled in a class with two prodigies and shoko actually loved having the upperhand in at least one area of sorcery.

shoko picked up the camera, holding it upwards to give a full view of her outfit and hair – like it was any different to any other day she attended school. she swivelled the spinny chair over to an occupied desk, slotting next to it and moving the camera so that it captured all of you in the frame. gojo was sat down in the seat, glasses propped up onto his forehead as you sat sideways on his lap, unsuccessfully trying to decipher shoko’s teachings on the board.

“understanding reversed cursed techniques is way harder than understanding cursed techniques,” you tried to justify, pointing to the board that showed the squiggles that ‘symbolised’ performing a reversed curse technique. stealing gojo’s glasses and popping them on your own face, you popped a quick kiss to the side of his head, “plus, why waste my energy? you’ll figure it out so i never have to.”

“the things i do for you,” gojo sighed happily, dropping his head down onto your shoulder as his arms looped around your waist. the orange-haired sorcerer could practically hear yuuji’s gasps at the simple displays of affection and she almost felt bad for watching some of the clips without him.

almost.

nobara was never one for romance – drama, such as the fight between gojo and naoya, that was her scene. but even she couldn’t help herself from smiling at the teenage love between the two of you. maybe she should give her teacher more credit – there was more to the six foot two man than just his over the top personality and questionable teaching methods.

“this is meant to be an educational video! be less couple-y!” shoko complained, scowling and shuffling away on her chair again.

“oh, we could make it very educational,” gojo wiggled his eyebrows, the devious smirk on his lips only widening at your flushed expression as you tried to hit his chest. failing, though, as he isolated his cursed technique to uphold a thin barrier between your hand and the material of his uniform.

there was the teacher she knew – keen to annoy even those he loved the most.

shoko must’ve ended the video out of spite after his comment, because nobara found herself staring at a black screen. 

all that she’d learnt so far was that you couldn’t perform a reverse cursed technique as a teenager. maybe that was what killed you? if you were even dead, that is. but given the damage that curses can inflict on sorcerers, whether or not you were able to execute a reversed cursed technique could literally be the difference between walking away from a fight a little tired or in a body bag.

nobara coughed several times, picking up the open bottle of water from her bedside table and taking a sip to try and ease her scratchy throat. scrunching up her nose at the slight sting of swallowing, she clicked the next available video, not putting much thought into her choice.

it was you and nanami in frame in a library by the looks of it but if it was on campus, nobara didn’t know where. christmas decorations decorated the shelving units behind you – tinsels of gold, red and green, and hanging snowflakes. you were both wearing your usual uniform but you also had a santa hat on and tinsel lining your jacket.

“we’re the only two on campus,” you said quietly, “because everyone else’s parents loved them–”

“we couldn’t afford to go back for the holidays,” nanami cut you off, without glancing up from what he was writing. being from two non-sorcerer families was a disadvantage normally in terms of status and inherited techniques, but holidays were somehow worse. 

gojo had offered to help you out with a ticket back to your parents and had even extended an invitation for you to stay with him but you didn’t want to leave nanami alone (and although he didn’t seem grateful, he was glad you were there).

“it’s fine. academic comeback time,” you held up a book to the screen. being in a class with three exceptional sorcerers meant that studies were often sidelined to try and improve and perfect your techniques. holidays were usually your opportunity to catch up on the missed classwork and homework you’d fallen behind on.

nanami less so – if anything he was reading ahead. tokyo had never been renowned for academic scores until he’d come along.

“i don’t get why the camera needs to be here,” nanami complained.

“to record us study! it’s motivational.”

“sure,” nanami hummed quietly, reading over your shoulder at the work you’d already completed prior to setting up the camera. “that’s wrong. this is simple mutipli–” he paused at the sound of rustling and his brows furrowed as he tried to peer round the bookshelves. 

“merry christmas!” 

nobara snickered as nanami jumped at the sudden voice and appearance of three people behind him. gojo and geto were capable of masking their cursed energy (and shoko’s) so that they wouldn’t be noticed slipping into the library. although gojo had nearly screwed that up by pulling out a chair trying to trip up geto.

“ieiri!” you slipped out from your seat, running up and hugging your classmate. in the process, the camera got knocked so it was facing the ceiling. nobara frowned as she turned the brightness up on her laptop as if though that would somehow bring everyone back into grame. in the periphery of the screen she could make out just the heads and foreheads of the student sorcerers.

“hi satoru, missed you too satoru, so glad you came to see me satoru,” the white haired sorcerer pouted at the lack of attention and nobara is sure someone responded to him but the audio is muffled by two voices closer to the camera’s microphone.

“here!” haibara slipped into the seat next to nanami that you had occupied moments prior and held up a small wrapped box with red ribbon tied neatly in a bow. “i picked it up on the way. merry christmas nanamin!”

“thanks yu,” nanami smiled softly at his classmate. well that’s what nobara thought he did anyways, his eyes lifted into half crescents but she wasn’t actually sure what his mouth was doing out of frame. she’d never seen the blond so happy from a simple gesture.

she clicked off the video even though it still had thirty seconds left to go. it wasn’t much fun just watching people’s foreheads and she highly doubted that nanami was about to fix the camera’s position.

so you were from a non-sorcerer family and possibly not able to use reverse cursed technique. it wasn’t much but facts were still facts.

there was a little more deliberation before she chose her next video, settling herself back into her cushions as she waited for it to load.

the screen was suddenly very bright and nobara winced, turning it down as the surroundings came into focus. it was the inside of an arcade and the camera was pointed directly at one of those claw machines. inside were different sized plushies of spiderman and haibara was the one controlling the claw.

nobara could vaguely make out everyone’s reflection in the glass – to the left of haibara was geto (who was also the one holding onto the camera), gojo and you, and to his right was shoko, nanami and maybe also utahime? shoko had her arm around a blue haired girl either way.

“no! so close haibara,” you patted the youngest boy on the shoulder gently as the plushie he’d managed to pick up slipped from the claw’s clutches before it could be dropped down the chute and retrieved.

“can i try?” gojo asked and, from the annoyed groans, nobara assumed it wasn’t the first time he’d interjected.

“no, he’ll get it this time,” geto encouraged and gojo flashed him a look of disbelief. 

“if gojo wants a go he can have it!” haibara tried to step away from the machine but nanami halted him, slotting several more coins in the machine.

“take your go yu.”

“i’ll get you a slushie if you win,” shoko called out, clapping her hands together as he accepted his fate, hesitantly pressing down on the buttons as he peered through the side of the machine to get a better angle.

“haibara, haibara.” all of them were chanting his name now, and that was enough of a boost for him to finally get one of the plushies over the barrier and down the chute. the camera shook unsteadily as geto jumped and six of them crowded the youngest in a joint hug.

nobara could see yuuji in haibara and megumi in nanami and herself in shoko and she had to stop herself from tearing up. nanami and shoko seemed like strangers these days and she couldn’t even imagine waking up and yuuji not being the first one to greet her outside her room. 

we’ve got a mission here, she reminded herself, shaking her head lightly before moving onto the next clip.

“utahime, say hi,” you lowered the camera to the kyoto sorcerer’s height. she was sat cross-legged on the floor with a jacket flung haphazardly over her head to try and block out the sun that beamed down.

“hi!” utahime waved, smiling as you dropped down next to her. in her hands was a partially made daisy chain that she’d started to entertain herself whilst she waited for the tokyo students. despite being in kyoto, she’d always chosen to join yourself and shoko at events over her own classmates.

“who do you think is going to win the exchange event this year?” you asked with a raised brow and utahime grimaced.

“don’t make me compliment him.”

“are you implying that our edge is not because of me?” you looked at the camera with a disgusted expression, like you had the power to outshine the gojo satoru, she rolled her eyes – gojo’s dramatics were rubbing off on you. “for that i’m telling ieiri. you may be her girlfriend–”

utahime hit your arm and her eyes darted around for anyone that could’ve heard (like you were not sat alone in a field together whilst the others warmed up), “shut up! we’re not like that…”

you nodded with a condescending hum. “then kindly could you please stop calling her till three in the morning, some of us need our beauty sleep.”

“you’re only ever up at three am because you’re sneaking back from gojo’s dorm,” she retorted with a pointed look. you opened your mouth to defend yourself 

“true,” you jumped at shoko’s voice, swivelling your neck around to find the third piece of your trio standing behind you. shoko gestured towards your uniform jacket, “and if she pulls down her collar there’s a massive hickey i had to help cover up this morning.”

utahime erupted into a fit of giggles and you eyed the camera like it was some sitcom and you were breaking the fourth wall.

“you’re such an asshole.”

shoko pushed in between the two of you to make herself the middle. “you love me.”

nobara frowned as the video ended. while it wasn’t overly helpful, it reaffirmed the seriousness of your relationship with her teacher… but that was obvious from the lovesick heart eyes he constantly had in every video you were together.

although, she would have to show it to maki – the two had suspicions about the kyoto teacher and tokyo healer and this all but confirmed that they were right. 

nobara scrolled down till she found a thumbnail of you, geto and gojo sat around a table of food.

“zenin naoya,” you started, chopsticks in one hand as you held a bowl of food in the other. gojo pretended to vomit at the mention of his name. “yes toru, appropriate response, but have you heard about him and the kamo girl?”

geto nodded with a mouth full. “the one who studied abroad?”

“yes! her,” you waved your chopsticks in his direction, “anyways, she cheated on him.”

the dark haired sorcerer made a sound of shock, “they were together together?”

you nodded enthusiastically, offering gojo some of your rice. “mhmm, they got together new years eve.”

“that did not last long,” gojo snickered. nobara peered at the date in the corner of the screen in a retro, yellow font; 15 january 2006.

“best part? it’s not even the first time,” you revealed, picking up some salmon sushi off of gojo’s plate and quickly eating it.

“stop,” geto gasped and nobara was shocked. this man was a war criminal now, and yet ten years ago he seemed so far from it, gossiping like he was a teenage girl.

“which like i don’t get,” you frowned. “i dont know why he’s trying to save face over some two week old relationship. especially if she’s already cheated multiple times.”

“he’s just desperate because it’s the first girl to ever want to actually be with him.”

“oh yeah she really wants to be with him,” gojo uttered sarcastically with a sparkle in his eyes. he would have a party at the downfall of the zenin.

“are they staying together?”

“i think so,” you nodded, holding a hand over your mouth as you spoke and finished your mouthful. “it’s what me and shoko told him to do, well shoko. he facetimed shoko.” you clarified following gojo’s less than pleased expression. nobara didn’t doubt that naoya had caused some tension in your relationship (though she refused to believe it was ever because you had been interested in him) and she wished that you’d switch the topic solely onto that. that was the sort of drama she was after.

“youre telling me he facetimed ieiri to tell her he’d been cheated on?” geto could bearly finish the question without laughing and he shot gojo a look. “odds on him trying to make yn jealous.”

you couldn’t stop yourself from snorting. “oh yeah because hearing all that made me want to leave satoru for that thing.” sarcasm or not, your words were taken literally by your boyfriend who draped all one hundred and ninety centimetres of himself across your body. “oh my god you’re so heavy.”

“it’s just my love for you in physical form. don’t be mean,” he whined.

nobara didn’t even have the energy to laugh quietly at the pathetic nature of her teacher as she felt herself drifting off. it was fine, she thought, only a quick power nap. she’d earned it, watching all those clips expended lots of energy.

“kugisaki?” gojo gently knocked at the young girl’s door. he’d left yuuji and megumi to do laps to check nobara was still alive and well. the illness had made its way through half the school already and while it obviously wasn’t something fatal, he knew better than to take any risks.

he knocked again and waited thirty seconds before he opened the door enough just to peek in and–

“satoru.”

gojo felt his heart drop at the sound of your voice. one he hadn’t heard in almost two years and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so unsteady and thrown off guard. the mere sound of your voice had startled him and gotten more of an upper hand than any curse he’d ever had to exorcise.

although his world had stilled, reality continued on and he was forced to hear himself hum in response. he didn’t have to see the video to vividly remember the day, to remember the smell of the grass and your perfume that were coaxing him into a nap that would make you both late to yaga’s lecture.

“do you think we’ll still be together once high school is over?”

“hope so,” he murmured, half asleep, and gojo wished his younger self was more aware, telling you how much he wanted to be with you, savouring every second he had in your presence rather than sleeping it away. 

like that could’ve changed the outcome.

slipping into her room, gojo lifted the laptop off of her sleeping figure (definitely still alive and breathing). with a press of a button, the disk popped out and he set the device onto the ground as he contemplated what to do.

he could break it in half, make it seem like an accident that nobara hadn’t noticed in her ill state. or he could use his cursed technique and completely eviscerate it from existence.

or maybe he could keep it.

gojo gave nobara one last glance as he silently closed her door once more, grateful for the blindfold he wore as he headed back outside to his students.

taglist. @thefictionalcharacterssimp @hana-patata @mor-pheus @leathairs @sh0ek0 @maliakealoha @levisteeacup @g-kleran @stevenknightmarc @n1kimura @darliingyu @saturn-alone @splxtscreen @leah-rose03 @rinshoe @laurenzitaa @patricia142lilian @sabo-has-my-heart @wooasecret @dahliawarner @kysrion @dreamerdeity @mwah-chia @geromiegerald @arminsarlerts @maliakealoha @cherrypieyourface @k4romis @monsieurgucchi @bofadeezs @777userz @polarbvnny @chonkercatto @tenshis-cake @haitanibros0007 @ba-ks @liaurokodaki @urfavvirg0 @lofasofabread @r0ckst4rjk @vee-ai @aiikuraa @melileli0001 @rinshoe @vinivave @yell0wdreams @sukunasleftkneecap @malikazz243 @sad-darksoul @giannitaa @maliciousmace @name-insert @splxtscreen

this tag list is insane ty all for the support

WICKED THRONE, manjiro sano.

+ f!reader x s. manjiro. tragedy. royal!au. rebel!au. enemies-to-lovers. ooc!manjiro i write him the way i want to idc. romance. heavy angst. fluff. slow burn. character deaths. explicit smut. war. trauma. violence & slight gore: decapitation, undertones of torture, murder. thank you @mqtsuno for the header, i love u <3!

current word count: 142,553.

+ playlist. | misc links.

“he would burn down the

empires who tried

to conquer her,

he would become the monster

of those who tried

to terrify her,

he would be the shadows of the

devils in her nightmares,

but she— she is made of

bruises and of the past,

of arrows made from flames.

perhaps you have

missed the wolf

underneath her skin.

but she wasn’t made

to cower under your crown.

she isn’t the hunter,

and she isn’t the prey.

she is the enemy of the

kings who do

not deserve mercy.”

FIRST ACT: BEGINNING.

SECOND ACT: FIRST TRIAL.

THIRD ACT: MOONSTONE.

FOURTH ACT: ARROW.

FIFTH ACT: EMPTY VOWS.

SIXTH ACT: WHO ARE YOU?

SEVENTH ACT: THE QUEEN’S CROWN.

EIGHTH ACT: THE KING’S THRONE.

NINTH ACT: HIDDEN FANGS.

TENTH ACT: FIRE IN THY DANCE.

ELEVENTH ACT: DECLARATION OF WAR.

TWELFTH ACT: SOMEONE TO BLAME.

THIRTEENTH ACT: THE WEIGHT OF A SIN.

FOURTEENTH ACT: THIS DAY.

FIFTEENTH ACT: THE CROWN AND THE FRIEND.

SIXTEENTH ACT: AND LOVE WHISPERED.

SEVENTEENTH ACT: THE DOOM OF DESCENT.

EIGHTEENTH ACT: FOR POWER. PART ONE.

NINETEENTH ACT: FOR POWER. PART TWO.

TWENTIETH ACT: PENITENCE.

TWENTY FIRST ACT: THE HOUSE OF AVEN.

TWENTY SECOND ACT: HEAVY IS THE CROWN.

TWENTY THIRD ACT: WHAT KILLS A KING.

TWENTY FOURTH ACT: THE HAUNTED.

TWENTY FIFTH ACT: A PACT.

TWENTY SIXTH ACT: SEALED.

TWENTY SEVENTH ACT: YOU AND I, AT WAR.

TWENTY EIGHTH ACT: THROUGH YOUR HEART.

TWENTY NINTH ACT: TO YOU, BELOVED.

THIRTIETH ACT: LONG LIVE THE QUEEN.

SEQUELS:

HARUCHIYO & ASSASSIN!YN. SOON.

RINDOU & CHILDHOOD FRIEND!YN. SOON.

RAN & ARTIST!YN. SOON.

copyright © 2021 8kh all rights reserved. no part of this story may be reposted, edited, or reproduced without the author’s permission.

polarity | 05 yandere!jungkook au

pairing: yandere!jungkook x (f) reader

genre: yandere

warnings: 18+ , toxic relationships, unhealthy and obsessive behavior , mentions of mental health, manipulation, blackmail, cheating,

word count: 13.1k

summary: Your best friend’s new boyfriend becomes infatuated with you…

Parts: 01 | 02 | 03 | CS | 03 JK | 04 | 05 

A/N: So sorry for the delay but my wifi was doing me dirty again. Hope you guys enjoy !:) ALSO this is not edited yet so forgive me .

—

Neither of you said anything at first, not a single greeting or question was uttered. You both stood there, letting your eyes wander over each other in curiosity for god knows how long.

There was still one thing that stood out though. How the woman’s gaze kept returning to your necklace.

“I’m sorry, you are?…” She was the first one to speak, you were yet to form the appropriate response to acknowledge her and explain what you were doing in her son’s apartment.

You debated what you should tell her. The truth? It was out of the question, you were naive but not that naive. The first time meeting her and you immediately jump to accuse her son of blackmail and tell her everything wrong with him? Those were dangerous waters, you still didn’t know if what Jungkook told you about his family was true or not.

There was so much left unclear and so much yet you didn’t know.

“I-,” You take a step back, further widening the door open. “I’m Jungkook’s girlfriend.”

The lie sat surprisingly well on your tongue, as if that’s exactly what you truly were now. You supposed it was, not willingly but that’s  the title he would undeniably give you.

His mother doesn’t seem as shocked as you expected her to be despite the way her eyes widened momentarily, and her mouth opened slightly as a gasp left her.

“Oh!” She told you, her face relaxing as realization slowly seemed to hit her. “Yes, of course. He told me about you.”

He had?

You can’t help to be taken aback, not expecting Jungkook to actually mention you to his mother. How long had she known about you? Was it a recent thing? You wondered if Jungkook had already fed her too many lies , convincing her that he had formed a normal relationship with you.

The thought made you uneasy, how far had Jungkook planned this exactly?

Keep reading

1:14 PM | sanzu h.

sanzu haruchiyo x fem!reader

summary: post kanto manji gang vs toman, you’re staying with your boyfriend to help take care of him after he was released from the hospital.

warnings: spoilers for most recent chapters — once again, yn does not care ab anything except him, cuz i don’t :D, can be read as part two to the timestamp from yesterday but also as a stand-alone; kakucho implied to have survived

notes: 🥹 this is my coping mechanism

taglist: @kxeyas @sano-obsessed @thomaphoria @dear-xiao @kisakiapologist @manjiroscum @arozaur @scandescent @tokyometronetwork

wordcount: 1.8k

your jaw was clenched tight as you slipped into the water behind him, acutely aware of the wince on his face that he was desperately trying to hide, and acutely aware of the way his body shook in pain with every breath.

his arms were trembling and his lips were pressed tight together, and you didn’t speak as you settled in the water behind him, palm gently resting on his back.

“lay back,” you finally said quietly and sanzu inhaled sharply as he slowly leaned back, a hiss escaping his lips at the movement.

you swallowed thickly as you brushed his hair over one shoulder, letting his bruised back lay flush against your chest as the two of you soaked in the warm water. your arms circled him loosely, nails tracing feather-light patterns on his skin, careful of the deep purple and black bruises covering his entire abdomen and half of his chest, disappearing below the water where you knew they were also decorating his thighs.

his eyes slid shut as he rested the back of his head against your shoulder and you brought one hand up to cup his cheek, fingers tracing the blackened eye that slowly peeked back open at your touch.

narrowed blue eyes focused on you, “it looks worse than it really is,” he murmured for the millionth time.

and you only sighed, you knew he would say something along the lines of that—he had been saying the same thing since he got back from the hospital. sanzu hated showing weakness, especially to you. you let your eyes shut, leaning down to press your lips against his pale shoulder, resting there for a moment.

“you don’t need to put up this act with me,” you said softly, about to continue before you were interrupted.

“it’s not an act,” he said instantly, but his words were counteracted by the grimace that crossed his face as another wave of pain swept over him.

“baby, you can barely move,” you said gently, swallowing thickly, “you almost died, it’s okay to-“

sanzu bristled, and you should have expected this. he never took well when people tried to call him out on his weaknesses, even if they had good intentions.

“i said i’m fine,” he snapped harshly, but his body did not react well to the sudden burst of emotion and movement as he tried to sit up. he gasped sharply, eyes shooting open, and your arms darted forward to hold his shoulders, preventing him from doubling over because you knew it would only end up hurting him more.

you pulled him back against your chest, lips pressed to the top of his head as a ragged sob escaped his lips. sanzu had never handled pain well, ever since the first day you met him when you were younger — a fight gone wrong when he challenged a group of older, bigger and stronger boys who were talking down on the tokyo manji gang, who left him bleeding and unconscious in an alley for you to find on your way home from practice.

he had been insufferable then, going on and on about how it didn’t hurt all the while his legs were giving out with every step and he wasn’t even able to walk without passing out. and he was equally insufferable now, only the damage was ten times worse.

you knew better than to scold him—you had tried to talk to him about it at the hospital but his responses were less than desired—so all you could do now was hold him and help him get through it.

you murmured soft reassurances against his skin as his body trembled violently in your arms, as he gasped for air and as his eyes watered.

“i’ve got you,” you said quietly, “always got you, haru.”

you felt sick as you watched his abdomen tense and spasm, as his hand flew to his mouth to muffle another broken sob. you wondered how long it would last—the doctors had told him not to strain himself, physically or mentally, because he would be prone to waves of severe pain until everything healed properly.

but sanzu was sanzu, and sanzu didn’t listen to anybody except himself. the last time it had happened was this morning, and he had been curled up in bed, biting down hard on a discarded shirt to muffle the cries of pain as to not disturb you while you were making him breakfast.

you had come back to find him on the verge of passing out, eyes glassy and unfocused and face contorted in a sort of pain you’d never seen on him before. and you had dropped the glass of water you had been bringing him to rush to his side, holding him gently until the wave of pain passed, just like you were now.

“shhhh,” you pressed your face to the top of his head, hiding in his soft hair, “shh, it’s okay, baby, you’ll be okay.”

“hurts,” he gasped and you shut your eyes, a helpless feeling sweeping over you when you realized you couldn’t do anything except wait for it to pass, “i cant breathe, i cant-“

you brought your hand back to his face, cupping his cheek again and wiping away the tears that were slipping from his eyes.

and he always did this—when the pain became too much and he lost control over the facade he was so insistent on putting up. he always crumbled, letting out gasps and whimpers and mindless babbles about how bad it hurt, eyes wide and wild and glassy, searching yours for help. and it had your heart clenching so tight you thought you might die because you couldn’t give him the help he needed and you couldn’t ease the pain.

all you could do was hold him, press soft kisses to his shoulders and the top of his head until it passed.

and it did, you could feel his breath slowly evening out again, his erratic heart beat calming and his eyes fluttering shut. you didn’t speak, because you knew if you said something, you’d be met with resistance so instead you rubbed your hands up and down his arms soothingly, lips pressed to his hair, letting him settle down.

your hands tightened on his arms as he shifted but all he did was look back at you, and there was an emotion in his eyes that you couldn’t quite place. sanzu had aways been difficult to read, he refused to open up at all and he kept his heart closely guarded but over time, you had learned to catch his cues and understand the words he was wanted to tell you that always went unspoken.

but this was new. a foreign expression that you couldn’t decipher. you frowned lightly, fingers dancing across his cheekbone and you let out a shaky breath when his long lashes fluttered shut as he leaned into your touch.

“haru,” you murmured, but he didn’t say anything and your heart was in your throat as he shifted his face in your hand, pressing his lips to your palm and covering the back of your hand with his, holding it in place as his eyes slid shut again, lashes brushing his cheek.

your free arm slipped back around him, careful to not aggravate the wounds, holding him as he laid between your legs, back resting on your chest, head on your shoulder. and you noticed, briefly, just how small he seemed in your arms in that moment—a subtle grimace still marring his face, body bruised and broken and still trembling from the aftershocks of the pain.

“i hate this,” his voice shook against your palm, and you wondered if he was so frustrated that he was on the verge of tears again—he had always been the type of person that bottled everything up until he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

you held his head close to you, stroking his hair, fingers scraping his scalp gently, and you ignored how he shuddered against you. and you ignored the wetness that hit the hand that he was clutching to his face. you knew very well just how much he hated reaching this point, hated himself for not being able to handle it—bringing extra attention to it would only make him feel worse.

for a second, you wondered what he would do without you. and it wasn’t a sort of conceited thought or anything along the lines of that—sanzu did not have anyone else. all of his old friends were enemies or dead, the majority of the kanto manji higher ups had turned their back on him after he nearly killed kakucho, kokonoi betrayed kanto manji for toman—the only one left was mikey and mikey was… mikey. he wasn’t in the right state to help anyone, or even to care to help anyone.

your lips trembled against his head at the thought of him having to suffer through this alone—struggling to get out of bed in the morning, struggling to eat, suffering through these brutal waves of pain alone, each second feeling like eternity as he waited for it pass.

you inhaled shakily against him. you knew he wasn’t a good person, he had done terrible things, and tried to do even worse things, without a hint of remorse and some might even say that he deserved worse than what he was dealt but…

but he was good to you. he was always so fucking good to you, always gentle, always looking out for you. and to be quite frank, you didn’t give a single shit about anybody other than him.

and you knew a part of him hated this because of the helplessness that came along with it. he knew that the rest of s62 generation would be after him because of what he had tried to do to kakucho, and he knew that if they came for him while you were around, which was more than likely considering you rarely left his side at this point, there would be nothing he could do—and s62 was not known for their kindness. he could barely walk on his alone, much less fight off madarame shion, mochizuki kanji and the haitani brothers to protect you. because he knew that when they came, you wouldn’t leave his side and they would not take kindly to that.

“you’re stuck with me, y’know?” and you hated how your voice caught and wavered.

sanzu only squeezed your hand gently. you knew you weren’t going to get a response from him while he was like this. you never did because he knew that if he opened his mouth to speak he wouldn’t be able to calm down.

but he didn’t need to say anything. sanzu had aways spoke louder through his actions than he ever did through his words, so when his grip on your hand tightened and his body relaxed back into yours again, it really was all you needed.

STAINS ON HIS SUIT

MATSUKAWA ISSEI

WARNING$: NSFW, SWEARING, MENTIONS OF ALCOHOL, OLD CRINGE WRITING.

THING$ TO KNOW: MINORS & AGELESS BLOGS DNI, REPOST FROM MY SFW BLOG ( @hotboyrenji )

$UMMARY: SEEING ISSEI SUIT WAS A AN OCCURRING VIEW BECAUSE OF HIS WORK. BUT SOMETHING ABOUT SEEING HIM IN A SUIT TONIGHT STIRRED SOMETHING DEEP IN YOU.

NOTE: i hate this but i’m not letting nearly 8k of words flop again. reblogs & feedback are greatly appreciated <3

VIPERWOOIN 2021

seeing issei in a suit was nothing new. his job required him to step out in one every now and then so the sight is something you see often but never can stop the shiver that runs straight to your core. this time it isn’t a job event that the only time you get to admire him is when he’s getting ready, this is a ‘very high class’ party that oikawa invited the two of you, makki and iwa to for his amazing wins in the olympics and him coming home for a month. this time you got to admire him get ready but also got to spend the night gawking at him.

well right now it’s more like he gets to watch you get ready, he’s been doing so for the past three hours since you hopped out of the shower. you were on the floor infront of your full length mirror doing your makeup while your hair was for last. the loud music coming from your speaker was enough to get you excited for the night ahead. oikawa warned everyone that it wasn’t a normal little get together, no far from that, everyone had to wear suits or a fancy dress, no shirt and jeans shit. he rented out a room used for wedding receptions and the needed amount of rooms in the hotel for everyone attending so no one had to worry about getting home. when you asked how much it all cost he held a dramatic hand to his chest “you dont want to know (y/n) my bank account is still not to happy with me”.

the sound of the bed creaking behind you brought you out of your daydream to see issei stretching and walking towards the bathroom. “m’ gonna shower so you know that means we don’t have long left so chop chop miss perfect”. “i know i know i’m nearly there”. truthfully you weren’t and slightly started panicking. quickly finishing off your make up you moved onto the hair on your head when you heard the shower start and a deep voice try to sing along to the lyrics coming from your speaker. when the noise of the water hitting the tiles came to a stop you were just adding the finishing touches to your hair. emerging from the steamy bathroom was your lover in all his glory with a blue towel hanging low on his waist. looking at him through the mirror you could see the muscles moving in his broad back as he fished for black button up, black suit jacket and black slacks. “don’t be staring too hard now, might burn holes in my back”. the sudden noise of his voice making you scowl at him and stand to your feet to get your own outfit.

just watching him dress himself was mesmerising. the way the crisp black shirt sleeves strained around his biceps had you drooling, the way his thick fingers did up the tiny buttons, leaving the top two undone to show his tan upper chest, the way he jumped into his slacks that were a tad tight around his thighs and ass but still had him looking gorgeous. remembering your on a time crunch you get into your own clothes and look for your shoes in the collection on your floor. as you were bent over you felt a pair of hands on your hips and a force that nearly had you flying push into your ass. letting out a yelp you stand up to see the culprit with a traditional lazy smirk on his face. “fakebanging really? what are we, in high school again ‘sei?” you sighed at the laughing man, “sorry, sorry i just couldn’t resist when it’s there for the taking” he said referring to your own behind and landing a slap then a squeeze. “this outside really does you good, look so gorgeous. like always”. he whispered the last part lowly into your ear, “okay sweet talker, let’s get going before you make us late again”. you said leaving him spluttering out a response; “it’s always your fault excuse me”.

arriving surprisingly ontime you went inside to find the others while issei parked the car up. walking to the entrance of the large room two men stood infront of you asking for your invitation proof. pulling it from your purse you held it out to one of them and he gave you a nod to signal you can finally go in. ‘i know he said high class but god, i thought he was joking’. you thought as you closed your purse back up and moved to find your three friends.

seeing a head of strawberry blonde hair and the unforgettable sound of saids laugh, you made your way over to your high school best friend who you’ve seen a few weeks ago, but it felt like years. “makki!” you shouted over the music to try catch his attention. whipping his head in the direction of your voice he threw his hands up, spilling some of his fruity cocktail in the process. “(y/n) get over here!”. speeding up as much as you could you made your way to embrace him in a hug. the fabric of his turtle neck under his suit jacket smelt just the same as it has all these years.

“you probably seen him two days ago, where’s my reunion hug hm?”. now you couldn’t forget the bass of that voice. “hajime oh my god! you look so different!”. he did change quite a bit from the last time you seen each other “i’d say i do, all i did was get a tan” laughing slightly and embracing you with a pair of strong arms “no no i think you’ve grown a bit”. you commented seeing how he was growing to the same height as makki nearly “nah that’s his elevator shoes.” takahiro butted in with a sly laugh “watch it pinky. where’s mattsun (y/n)? he ditch us or something?” iwaizumi questioned the absence of one of the groups friends. “oh no he’s parking the car, but he is taking a while now that you mention it” as you finished telling iwa where he was you were about to turn to see where he was until a pair of large hands landed on your hips and shook your frame, electing a quiet yelp from you. “bitching about me now huh?”. you looked up at your lover while placing a hand on your heart from the intensity of the scare he just gave you. “don’t scare me like that asshole” placing a kiss on your cheek he gave you ‘condolences’ “my dearest apologies munchkin.” “don’t say that.”



“long time no see”. iwaizumi opened his now even bulkier arms to welcome issei into a hug. “i know man it’s been too long, you look good though”.

the three of you started talking about life and such, what it was like for iwa in the states, if makki is yet to secure a job, and why on earth issei is employed in a funeral home. just normal things. by instinct you went to bring your glass to your lips to take a sip but you realised you were yet to buy yourself one. “i’m going to get a drink, what do you want ‘sei?” he bends down to where his ear is right by your mouth giving you a whiff of his expensive cologne you love. “hm? oh just the usual please baby”. the way his deep voice went straight through you had you squeezing your thighs together before leaving to the bar.

singing softly and tapping your fingers to the beat of ‘Super Freak’ as you waited to be served you couldn’t help but amdire issei from afar. the way he dwarfed his tall friends and how when one of them told a joke, his broad shoudlers shook and that smile that crinkles his eyes appear. to onlookers you probably look like someone eyeing up a stranger. but to people who know you, you just look as- “helplessly in love as always, (y/n)~”. the high, but low pitched voice broke you out of your gaze to turn around and see the host of the night. “toru, my god you scared me!. where have you been all night?”. he matured since graduation, his once pale complexion now tan like iwaizumi and he’s also grown aswell. “oh you know just greeting my many fans.” you gave him a : ‘really?’ look at his high and mighty claim. “okay not really i was just caught up in old relatives stories. what about you i haven’t seen you and your lovely lover all night either”. you weren’t suprised that he’s been caught up with family, he has been gone for a few years now. “we’ve been with makki and iwa i just came to get a drink.” he didn’t give you much time to breathe after you finished explaining to gasp out a reply, “they’re with you aswell?! well we need to fully reunite then. bartender!”. the way his eyebrows shot up his forehead had you doubling over in laughter. you got your drinks given to you and tried to steady them as oikawa pulled you through the crowd quickly.

the ‘full reunion’ had been going on for about 2 hours now, moving from the table you all sat at, to the dance floor when a song you all knew came on. you were a bit tipsy yes but not enough to make your head and vision blurry, just enough to slightly stumble. issei was practically fine like the heavy weight he is. you’re once again, watching him from afar as he’s on the dancefloor with makki and oikawa. he’s lost his jacket due to the constant sweating from moving around, he’s now undone 3 buttons and rolled up his sleeves to his mid forearm.just the sight of his has your already wet panties starting to get soaked. “if you’re going to fuck him, please at least, for the sake of us, bring him to the room”. the interruption to your daydream made you suck in a gasp of air and turn around to see who startled you. iwaizumi was sitting with his cheek resting on his palm and looking at you with a bored expression. “so vulgar iwa! of course i’ll bring him to the room, after a round in the toilets.” you said the last part with a smirk and let out a laugh at his response, “god please no details i don’t need to know! i’m still scarred from walking in on you to when we went to spain”. “huh? when did- oh yeaahhh! i remember that haha! that was funny”. you laughed with him at the memory coming back. “for you it might’ve been” he shot back. the laugh you let out was enough to attract the curious three away from their dancing.

“oi oi oi whats so funny it has (y/n) busting a lung?” makki said looking at you holding your stomach. “nothing nothing don’t worry just, an inside joke.” an offended looking oikawa butted in: “hah?! iwa and (y/n) have an inside joke without me? i feel betrayed. like i lost a part of myself.” he supported himself with an arm against the table in his attempt to be wounded. “iwa, where’s akari?”.makki questioned after not seeing the mans date. “oh she’s coming in a while, woman problems she said”. “what did i say hm?”. the said woman came up behind iwaizumi and placed her hands on his shoulders. she didn’t let the man respond as she spotted you and moved to wrap her arms around your neck. “let me see let me see!” you moved to grab her left hand and look at the shining diamond that adorned her ring finger. “gorgeous isn’t it?”. she fawned at the sight of you admiring the ring “i’m jealous! i want one” you heard your own lover place the drinks down beside you and shot him a glare. you always do when someone asks you two about marriage. his eyes widened and he froze for a split second before relaxing and placing the glasses on the table. “good things come to those who wait my dear”. he said in a sultry voice while lifting your from your seat and sitting on it himself before placing you onto his lap. “she must be fucking spectacular for waiting nearly a decade.” the whole table erupted in laughter at makki’s comment and the two others nodding their heads in agreement.

the late night bled into the early morning and no one was giving signs of going to bed. but you just wanted—needed— at least 1 round with issei, just to get rid of the ache between your thighs and then come back down and join everyone. the constant shuffling on his lap was enough to make him notice. “everything ok?”. he whispered, putting his chin on your shoulder and stroking up and down your thigh. “hm? oh yeah just, want sum’thing” “what’s something?” you looked over your shoulder at him then buried your face in his neck. “m’ not saying s’ embarrassing”. he let out a short deep laugh at your mumbled response. “i’m sure it’s not that bad is it like, girl problems? oooh did you like get pussy blood on your outfit?”. the look of confusion and disgust that was written across your face gave him the impression he’s very wrong. “then what’s wrong? talk to me pretty girl.” “wan’ you ‘sei”. it look him a second to realise what you meant and when he did his pants tightened ever so slightly. “oh you want me? well i’m right here doll, you have me right now”. his voice had noticeably gone down an octave and it sounded just as deep in your ear “you know what i mean ‘sei stop teasin’”. you weren’t in the mood to deal with his god awful teasing right now. “m’ not teasing baby isn’t that what you mean?”. “issei stop” you gave him a look and ground yourself on his growing erection making his grip on your thigh tighten. “you really want it? fine then. we’re just gonna go to the room for while (y/n) has a uhh, woman problems”. issei said to the group while standing up, supporting you with a strong arm around your waist. “no problem man see you in a bit” “hope your ok (y/n)!”.

as the pair of you were leaving the remaining four of the group all looked at each other. “we all know what they’re doing right?” makki said with a raised eyebrow. “of course, just hope they actually do come back” iwa followed up knocking back one of the shots oikawa brought over.

the walk to your room for the night felt like it would never end. the long hallways looked as if they went on forever. finally, you reached the elevator and luckily people were getting out so you could just step in and press your floor button. you leaned against the left wall taking some of the pressure of your heels that were killing your feet all night. you couldn’t relax for long because once you did issei came infront of you, towering your frame making you feel tiny. his hands snaked around behind you and gave one grope to your ass before moving back around to the front to dip under the waistband of your trousers. “issei! not in here fucking hell someone could walk in”. you weren’t to fond of someone seeing you in such a position. “shut up, your the one that dragged me away from our friends just so you could get fucked.” you weren’t ready for his harsh words already and they shot down to where his hand was resting outside your underwear. “n-no! it’s not like that”. “oh? then what is it?”. met with silence he knew you didn’t have an answer to his question. “ ‘s what i thought, bet if i stick my hand in your panties i’ll know the answer.” he didn’t even wait for you to give him a response before he moved them to the side and slid one finger from your soaking hole to your throbbing clit. the tiny action had your knees slightly bucking and a quiet whimper leaving your sealed lips. “ fuckin’ knew it, your dripping, just for me hm?” he covered his groan with sultry words to make you weak for the man. “y-yeah issei for you, only you”. the loud ding of the elevator reaching your floor had him quickly withdrawing his hands from your pants and moving it to the small of your back to lead you out of the old couples way.

watching him scan the key card to let you in made you feel like you were stuck in time, the way his hands, adorned with thick and thin silver rings, made the key card look tiny, it had you wanting to reach about and grab his hand just to be holding it, it just felt like you had to. technically he was touching you but not holding your hand and bringing you into the room lovingly. no, his hand was in your hair pulling strands from the roots and pushing you through the door.

he sits himself on the edge of the bed and gives you a look that you know exactly what it means. not wanting him to get even more annoyed you quickly started to undress for him. not wanting to waste anymore time you now stood before him stark naked for his eyes to roam your figure. he flicked his head back, silently telling you: “c’mere”. you walked over to him and placed your hands on his wide shoulders while his snaked to the back of your thighs and ass, slowly rubbing circles into the skin. “issei please”. your quiet voice made him look up and you but his hands kept moving. “hm? what do you want?”. if your being honest, you don’t know what you want, what are you begging for? well him of course but if you say that he’s just tease you and keep asking you what you want. suddenly, a loud clap filled the once silent room, the force you felt on your right cheek and the loud noise was enough to knock you out of your thoughts and snap your head to the side. “i asked you a fucking question, you gonna answer me?”. “please issei just, just-fuck!-do something please i need it!”. your high pitched whines were like music to his ears, he’d keep teasing n’ teasing you if he didn’t want to go back downstairs so he’ll just let you have your way.

standing up to his full height and pushing you down onto the bed he went to unbutton his dress shirt till you objected. “wait no, k-keep it on please”. he looked down to see your pleeding eyes looking into his lust filled own. “oh? you want me to keep it on? want me to fuck you like this huh? that what you want?”. “yes issei! yes please just, please please fuck me.” you spread your legs for him to see the way your pussy glistened in the yellowish light of the hotel room. he felt his cock jump slightly in his slacks so he pulled his belt through the loops and off, unbuttoning and zipping his trousers down to let him pull his aching cock out of its confinement’s. he heard you let out a soft moan and looked at you pinching and pulling at your nipples while wating for him. he snapped his eyes to the belt resting beside you and his hands moved quicker than his thoughts. grabbing both wrists without warning he places them above your head and looped it around till you couldn’t move your wrists from where they were stuck. “huh? w-why ‘sei wanna touch you”. the harsh leather digging into your wrists pulled a whine from your throat, as well as the fact that you now couldn’t touch your lover above you. “cant have you touching wants mine baby, need to teach you manners yeah?”.

he moved up on the bed to kneel in between your spread thighs. squirming and bucking your hips to try even feel the tip of his cock bump against you sensitive clit. “wait baby wait, need to prep you first”. the said soothingly while rubbing your thighs and pulling them onto his shoulders and leaving your bum in his lap, leaking pussy by his face ready for him to devour. “yes please please issei need it!”. not wasting anymore time he wrapped his arms around your thighs and used his hands to spread your outer lips and licked a thick stripe up your slit, stopping at your clit and sucking it harshly. the long awaited pleasure had you arching your back and ripping a loud moan from your chest. lifting your arms up you tried to grab his hair and whining when you remembered your hands were confined. separating his mouth from your bud with a pop, he gathered some salvia in his mouth before spitting it onto your twitching cunt. the action made your hips buck up and whine loudly again. “f-fuck ‘sei more need more”. humming at your lack of patience he dove back on latching onto your clit. listening to your request he brought his left hand from your thigh to up to your mouth. “suck” .

He knew how much you loved sucking on his fingers, and he wasn’t going to lie and say he didn’t enjoy it, because he fucking loves it too. The feeling of his thick fingers pushing into your mouth, aswell as the taste of his rings on your tongue made your eyes roll back and tighs tighten around his head. All too quickly, he pulled the digits from your mouth. He didn’t wait long before he moved the hand to your pussy and pushed the two saliva soaked digits into you. “ah, ‘sei fuck feels good baby, want more”. Humming at your soft moans and begs he added another finger along with the two already stretching your for his cock. It always felt so good, his thick fingers stretching you for him to fuck you dumb, showing he doesn’t want you to be in too much of an unpleasant state to not enjoy yourself. You and him both knew he couldn’t wait anymore longer, he was dying to just fuck you already. So he sped up his fingers and his mouth that was still sucking at your clit and dipping in beside his pistoning fingers occasionally. All you wanted to do was grip his hair and pull him even further into your pussy while you came for him, but all the belt was doing was digging into the skin of your wrists every time you tried to reach for him.

“‘m gonna cum ‘m gonna cum, fuck i’m cumming issei!” was the warning you gave him before he felt your release on his tongue, he moved his fingers from inside you to replace them with his tongue and rub quick circles on your clit. Riding out your high until it got to much, you arched your back with kicking legs trying to get away from the man between your thighs. “issei no n-no ‘s too much please.” Finally he listened to you and rose up to sit back on his knees and stopped to admire the sight before him. You were layed out for his eyes, arms bound above your head leaving your bare body for his taking. He couldn’t physically wait another second and went to strip himself off his clothes but remembered what you said. He knew it wasn’t the best idea to stay in his suit as you still had to go back downstairs and he was already sweating through it, but seeing your wide, hungry eyes looking up at him made him resort to just undoing his pants just enough to free his hard cock.

Once he did he could hear the faint whine you let out at the sight of him and he looked to see your eyebrows knitted and a hungry gaze on his cock. “whats wrong pretty girl? You want my cock that bad?” he knew his teasing words were itching at your skin all night and he certainly wasn’t stopping them any time soon. “yes ‘sei yeah, wan’ your big cock so bad, please fuck me now,” he hummed at your begging, silently letting you know it wasn’t that convincing. Whinging for a short second, you then lifted your legs up and as far back as you could without the aid of your hands, so you could show how badly you wanted him. The way the light reflected off your shining juices that covered your cunt had the man gulping down the lump in his throat. Now he knew he couldn’t wait any more, with that he reached out to grab at your thighs and pull you towards him, flip you over and push on your back to arch your ass towards him.

Usually, you loved this position-but tonight all you wanted to do was to touch, to look at issei, first the belt and now this position prevented both of those desires. You were about to protest and beg for him to turn you back over and undo the restraints, but you felt the head of his clock running up your slit and catching your sensitive clit. Just the small action had a loud whine coming from you and pushing your hips back to meet him. Normally he would let you but tonight he gripped a hip with one hand and the other came dawn to slap your right cheek. Of course you couldn’t see his hand reading back, so when you felt his calloused hand met the smooth skin of your ass it caused you to jump and let out a sob into the white sheets beneath you.

“issei please hurry please!” for the umpteenth time tonight more begs left your mouth for him to do something, anything to please the ache.

His strong hand that was on your hip reached up to twist in your hair and pull you do your back was armed against his chest. “I don’t recall you being in charge, do you?” his deep voice went straight through you, his mouth right against your ear so you could feel his laboured breathing. You shook your head snd whispered out a small “no”. knowing he’s wouldn’t be happy with the sorry excuse of a response you clenched your eyes shut and waited for what he’d do next. You waited, Expecting a slap to your ass- or your face again but when nothing came you opened your eyes again and seen him still looking over your shoulder. “is that so? Glad to see we’re on the same page then.” You were surprised to say the least, normally when you don’t answer him probably, he’d give a short quick punishment. But he seemed a bit too compliant. As if you knew, he let go of your hair and pushed you back down but moved off the bed to walk around to the side. Confused, you looked up to the tall man towering over you. He’d grabbed your upper arm and man handed you while he moved to sit up against the headboard. Planting you down in his lap he didn’t give you a as second before he was lifting your hips to finally push his cock into you.

The feeling your craved all night, the slight pain of the stretch that came with sinking onto his thick cock was delicious. Your mouth fell open on its own, eyes rolled back against your will, the pure feeling of him stuffing your cunt was all you needed and more. you’d fallen into his chest from the lack of support by your belt bound arms and the feeling of his fingers dancing up and down your spine brought you back down from the high he brought just by pushing his cock in. “fuck ‘s always so tight angel,” even he was feeling the heavy weight of pleasure already, the feeling of your gummy walls sucking him in and barely allowing him to move. “jus’ for you ‘sei, ‘s tight just for you,” it might be the alcohol slurring you words but you swore you sobered up ages ago, now just drunk on his cock and that only.

Issei was quickly getting impatient with how long you were sitting on his lap just trembling and face buried in his shoulder. Quick and sharp he landed a slap on your ass that shook you of of the cock drunk daze. “c’mon angel bounce on my cock for me,” his deep voice rung out in your empty head and made your legs move on their own accord, trying to get the both of you to the awaiting high you needed.

The lewd sound of skin slapping, high pitched moans and strained grunts filled the room and any passers could probably know what’s going down.

It felt like your legs were about to give out from under you at any given second but the pure pleasure and want for him overshadowed the pains in your knees. “fuck issei he-help need help please,” you knew you wouldn’t be able to keep riding him with just your own strength- and he knew to, it was just a matter of how long it took till you were pleading for him to start helping. “yeah, you want my help doll? Want me to fuck into this cunt n’ make you cum nice and hard?” Even just his words could be enough to make you cum on the spot. “mmh need you ‘sei please wanna cum now!” he also knew you’d start getting bratty when he’d hold off on fucking you and teasing for too long. With it, he planted his heels into the white sheets and placed his hands on the bottom of your ass, raising you off his hips just a tad. When he started thrusting up into your pussy with all the strength he could you swore it nearly had you falling out of consciousness. The only indication for him that your still awake his the moans growing even louder right by his ear.

Your waiting friends could probably hear you downstairs with how loud you were now. Even issei found himself letting his grunts, groans and a small moan slip out without biting them back.

“Issei ‘s so good! Do-don’t stop please m’ gonna cum, please let me cum daddy!” hearing you beg for him and your pussy getting tighter around his cock was enough to make him pause and pull you off him onto your back, situating himself to lean back on his thighs and spread you legs outwards for him to slip back in and keep them out there. “Shit baby, getting all tight for daddy hm?” this far in you barely could respond to your lover, only answering him with a quick nod of you head and moans rising an octave.

Issei moved his hands closer to your ankle when he sped his hips up, and when he did he felt the cold metal of the anklet he gifted you with a small ‘i’ resting in the middle. Feeling the jewellery he now needed to hear it jingle by his ear, a small reminder that he’s yours and you’re his. He stopped for a short second, only to move your legs together and kept them there with his arms, one palm going to wrap around your neck. “Said you were gonna cum for me angel, m’ waiting to see you fall apart nice n’ pretty,” “yeah issei ‘m so close, so fucking close, please move I wanna cum!” quietly he chuckled before pushing his hips to meet yours more feverishly than any times tonight.

It was a sight any man or woman alike would die to see, your eyes rolled back, mouth wide with your tongue falling out and one small hand gripping at his bicep while the other was wrapped around his wrist that was constricting your breathing.

Truthfully you could barely utter a word out, and issei always told you to tell him when your about to cum. The only thing you could do before it was close to crashing down on you was to slap at his bicep that your nails were once digging crescent moons into. “Hm? You gonna cum? Such a good girl for telling me, play with your clit while you cum n’ then daddys gonna fill this sweet pussy up.”

Before he could even finish talking your hand found its way to your aching clit and used the juices flowing from you to rub the little button quickly. It didn’t last long before your body froze up and then started shaking in issei’s hold. The high you’ve been wanting all night took over your body with such force it made tears spill from the corner of your eyes, and juices spray out of your cunt, soaking issei’s cock and suit pants.

The mess was the least of issei’s worries, all he cared about was watching you fall apart and then filling you up with his own cum. “shit, fuck that’s it baby so fucking perfect cumming for me, Makin’ such a mess. Gonna cum inside and fill this cunt up, you want that angel?” he knew you were still recovering—maybe even still cumming. But he didn’t expect a verbal answer until one was slurred out of your mouth. “mmh please fill me up ‘sei wan’ be full of cum” He couldn’t even warn you he was cumming, frankly because his own body didn’t warn him. His orgasm hitting like a ton of bricks and pulling gorgeous sounds from his chest. “fuck fuck, (y/n) that’s it, so good—fuck—such a good girl”

Shortly after both of your highs subsided, issei collapsed onto the mattress by your side. “y’ okay baby? you did so good, so proud of you” he let his hand softly run up and down the expense of your spine when you moved to lay your head on his chest. “mmhh, m’ tired but i still wanna go back downstairs.” Issei couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out, growing louder when you sat up and hit his chest telling him to stop.

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry please. Let me get you cleaned up and just, dispose of the evidence then we can head down ‘kay?” Carrying you the short walk to the bathroom he set you down on the toilet leaving you to your own business before wiping your body down with a damp wash cloth. “you able to get dressed yourself?” nodding at his question he placed a peck on the thigh he was leaning on then lifted himself to your lips.

After getting yourself back into your outfit you went to the mirror the wall to start fixing your hair and make up. The loud noise of a, hairdryer?, made you jump slightly and look to the bathroom through the mirror. what you saw was issei on his hunkers only in his dress shirt and boxers, other clothing no where to be seen. You shook your head in confusion and left him to whatever he could be doing. Once you were all done up again issei was still at it with the hair dryer, making your confusion grow.

“issei what the fuck are you doi-” the sight of your longtime boyfriend crouched over in just his boxers and a button up, blow drying his cum soaked dress pants made you double over in laughter harder than it should’ve. “Oh yeah no, go ahead, laugh at me. If it was you i’d still be the one down here drying your pants,” he watched you with a scowl on his face, not amused at how funny you were finding the current situation. “but they aren’t mine, they’re yours silly,” “eh duh, you’re the one that wouldn’t let me take them off. that’s it, you set me up! Making me the laughing stock of the night.” His pure idiotic reasoning made you laugh even more and him sulk even harder. “please stop I need to go before I piss myself” leaving him to his dilemma tears in your eyes to put your shoes on. “hold on just a second, your gonna leave without me?” he rushed up and out of the bathroom with his trousers in hand and the other on his hip, as if he was a mother scolding their child. “well unless your ready then yeah” turning his head with a scoff he retreated back to the bathroom while shouting out to you. “the absolute betrayal i’m facing, I give you everything and you leave like that. i’m not just some hooker y’know”

By the time he got you to help him dry his pants—and got you to stop laughing—the pair of you we’re finally able to head back down to the party hand in hand, trying to seem as unsuspicious as possible. “now remember your meant to be sick, so don’t go downing shots the minute we get there,” “ easy for you to say.”

“and they return! You feelin’ better now (y/n)?” the first to greet you was makki, of course even drunker than when you left. In fact every one was when you had walked in you seen iwa and his fiancée dancing together out on the floor and oikawa was currently face down on the table looking lifeless. “haah?! (y/n) is back?!” well ‘was’ looking lifeless. “i’m here too y’know” issei grumbled before taking a seat beside his best friend. “(y/n) let’s go get drinks!” with no time to answer oikawa pulled you off and over to the bar.

“was there a little spillage in the village up there, or are you just very happy to see me,” makki lowly said to issei while sipping his jaeger bomb. “shut your mouth or I swear i’ll shut it for you and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine,” “ooh kinky.”