I Need To Get Back To This

General Yandere! Osamu Miya Profile

Yandere! Osamu Miya x fem! reader

Warnings: kidnapping, stalking, extreme possessiveness, unhealthy/toxic thoughts, mentions of dub-con, slight misogany/traditional gender roles, mentions of motherhood/forced motherhood, mentions of harassment, basically Osamu is obsessed with you congrats love </3, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!

DARLING PROFILE

Introverted

It’s not that Osamu isn’t capable of being attracted towards a more social darling, but rather that there’s something very endearing and appealing about a darling that isn’t out with friends 24/7.

He doesn’t like the idea of other people monopolizing their time, and consequently it would make him much happier (and quell his protective tendencies) to have a beloved that spends most of their time at home.

Even a homebody would be perfect for him – of course, he wants his darling to have hobbies and activities that take place beyond the four walls of their home that they enjoy, but he likes knowing that ninety percent of the time, they can be found in pristine shape inside their home.

It fuels his more domestic fantasies as well; he likes to imagine spending lazy Sundays with his darling, snuggled up on the couch while rain pours outside, watching Top Chef or other favorite movies and shows, popcorn and other snacks slipping past their lips as he criticizes the chef’s cooking alongside Gordon Ramsay.

He likes to imagine the way his darling would look so pretty wearing his clothing, the hickeys he’d decorated their neck and collarbone with in last night’s passionate throws of intimacy standing out like a beacon as they sleepily rub their eyes, yawning out that fucking adorable morning ‘Samu.

He just likes knowing that his darling is mostly content with staying home most of the time – he hates the idea of them being out with strangers, with people that could potential hurt them or have ill intentions, and in his mind this is a perfect win-win. He’s a homebody too, and this way he can spend all of his time with them, by his side, preferably cuddled into his chest or with his tongue down their throat.

He just loves the way his darling slowly sees him as the most important person in their life, because he’s the only person in their life – it’s a dream come true, and to see their face light up when he gets home from work not only gets his heart racing and his palms sweat, but his pants so fucking tight.

Artistic

Now, this particular trait isn’t a must-have for Osamu, but it’s definitely a factor in what attracts him to his darling.

He likes the idea of a beloved that has hobbies of their own – someone who finds passion in their lives, and devotes a substantial portion of their time to practicing and perfecting their chosen art form.

This could be quite literally anything – painting, playing an instrument, drawing, cooking (Osamu’s personal favorite, though he must be a better cook than you, no exceptions), writing, sewing, crocheting, anything that gets his darling’s creative juices flowing.

He loves to watch them practice; there’s something about the expression on their face as they concentrate that really gets him going. Maybe it’s the way their tongue sticks out just slightly as they put the final touches on the cupcake batter they’re mixing, the way their brows twist together as they brush the ink over the paper, how they tap their foot as they try to keep their rhythm while playing a difficult passage on their instrument.

He just loves the way they look so invested and passionate, and if Osamu is being honest, a lot of this fascination comes from his hopes that one day they’ll think of him with that degree of devotion.

He loves the idea of his darling paying him so much mind and attention that he becomes their hobby, that their artistic urges get focused onto him – maybe the little scarves and knickknacks his darling makes start being his size or having gray hair and gray eyes.

Maybe the poems they write start depicting a man of strong build, with callused fingers and a heart of gold.

Maybe the pottery they mold starts resembling two hearts beating together, symbolizing his and his darling’s everlasting love.

It’s sappy and he knows it, but there’s something about his darling being passionate that really speaks to him – maybe it’s because he sees himself reflected in them, but regardless it only fuels his obsessive tendencies, pushing him to learn as much as he can about the craft so he can impress you, just as he desperately wants to.

Smart

Again, this particular trait isn’t hard and fast for the chef, but it’s most definitely a plus in the stages of his infatuation forming. He’s always had a thing for smart, capable women; he likes the idea of a girl who isn’t afraid to be right, who doesn’t try to dumb themselves down for other people.

Of course, humility is important too (no one likes a braggard, do they?), but Osamu takes pride in the fact that his darling is so smart, that his darling is so talented. And this can take the shape of many different things – perhaps his darling is a gifted mathematician, able to solve equations with little trouble because they just get numbers.

(He likes to imagine the way their math skills might falter as he holds them over his knee, their pretty ass bare to him as he spanks them again and again, hearing them count aloud and grind their pussy against his knee in a way they think is oh-so-subtle.)

This could be his darling being strongly empathetic; able to understand the way others feel, putting them at ease and investing in making sure they’re okay while Osamu flounders to understand why they’re crying in the first place.

(He likes to think this is a sign that his darling would be a perfect mother, always able to calm down their children and make them giggle and smile, even while their knee is scraped up or their favorite toy is broken.)

It could be that his darling has knowledge of a very particular, niche topic; he could listen to them talk for hours upon hours, never losing interest as he nods along to their words, watching the way their lips move and form words, part of him forcing himself to listen while the other part wars to reach out and shut you up with his own mouth.

He just really likes the idea of a smart darling, one he can be proud to call his own, and if you were to tell him off with some logical, well grounded argument? Well, he’s still not letting you out of the basement, but fuck it all – one glance at his pants is enough to show you how your little speech has affected him, and he has no qualms showing you, either.

Optimistic

While Osamu isn’t necessarily a pessimist, he’s most definitely in the middle of the spectrum in terms of his outlook on life. He likes to consider himself a realist; he has no delusions about what life is (though, he most certainly does have delusions about what the two of you are), and he’s not embarrassed to say that more often than not, life has a way of choosing the non-ideal routes.

Of course, things could obviously be much worse (how can he say life is bad when it’s led to him meeting you, the single best thing that’s ever happened to him), but they could be better too. He’s neutral, really, which is why a darling that’s more optimistic would be a perfect fit for him.

Overwhelming negativity is exhausting, and if his darling only ever complains without anything positive to say, Osamu would quickly grow annoyed and tired of their presence, snapping at them to shut up, I can’t listen to you bitch anymore.

It’s not that his darling has to be always happy, always looking at the bright side (as this, too, can be equally as annoying as constant negativity), but he likes that his darling just naturally assumes the best in people.

Of course, it terrifies the protective part of him, the one that’s always paranoid about their safety and the intentions of others regarding them, but even for as much sleep as it causes him to lose at night, it’s just too damn cute. When they’re smiling at others and encouraging them through difficult times, Osamu can’t help but swoon; they’re just too adorable, too motherly, too fucking perfect.

He likes that they’re just genuinely a happy person – he’ll always lend an ear to them when they inevitably have a bad day or need to complain, but he’s quick to give them kisses all along their face and neck, whispering that they’re absolutely right babe, I hear ya.

He just likes how sweet it makes him, and only furthers his idea that they need protection – the world has a nasty way of dimming those that shine brightest, after all.

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS

Controlling

While it isn’t necessarily purposeful, Osamu has a bit of a problem when it comes to being a prominent figure in your life.

He’s used to having to share everything, from the limelight to the occasional toothbrush, socks to volleyball shoes with his twin. He’s used to being known as ‘the other Miya’, as the chef with the famous athlete for a brother.

So to finally have you, something all completely his own, how can he be blamed for being a little more paranoid? Can he really be faulted when he’s just trying to make sure that you stay his and only his?

He’s not even really conscious of the way he slowly begins becoming an omnipresent part of your life, how those cold metallic eyes are always watching over your shoulder, staying fixed on your figure because every little thing you do is riveting to him, fascinating and something he needs to see, to make sure you’re doing as you should, that you’re staying safe and healthy and happy.

He doesn’t mean to come off as the controlling boyfriend (though, his tendencies of being more intrusive than he should be will start much earlier than the boyfriend stage – when you’re both still acquaintances, friends, when his obsession is still freshly new), but with the way he slowly begins demanding more and more from you, the message will be pretty clear.

You’ll likely write it off at first; his insistent questions of who are you going with when you tell him you’ll be out for the afternoon seeming oddly serious, but it’s ‘Samu, right? It’s Osamu Miya, a man you know isn’t as petty as being jealous over your time being spent with another, who isn’t bothered enough to be weird about it, right?

You’ll just laugh it off, though this has the opposite affect on the man in front of you – your laughter has him on edge, wondering if you’re lying to him, wondering if you’re going out to meet another man – what’s Atsumu up to tonight?

Suna?

Ginjima?

The paranoia eats away at him as he paces around, terrified that you might be flirting with another man, chatting and making eyes at some piece of shit, that he could be touching you and fucking you and making you scream out a name that isn’t Osamu fucking Miya – the paranoia is really rather extreme, the deeply rooted fear forcing him to get more serious much quicker than he’d expected.

Soon he’s not only asking who you’ll be with, but where you’re going, how long you’ll be out, what you’re expecting to do, when you think you’ll be home, where and when to be checking your phone for texts or calls from him.

You’ll think it’s strange, confusing why he’s being so weirdly protective over you (and being so damn insistent, as he’s literally grasping your hands in his and forcing you to repeat back a promise to check yer damn phone every five minutes, what if something happened? Ya understand, right? I have to be able to check in with ya when I need to.), but, just like before, you’ll just brush it off, nodding hesitantly and slipping out the door, unease crawling up your spine.

You’ll slowly come to feel as if Osamu is suffocating you, his presence overwhelming and always there, as if there’s no escape from his probing questions, his insistence on you always contacting him (though, the tracker he’s placed on your phone makes it so that his demands to update him on your location via text aren’t really necessary, but it makes him feel better).

And from there, things only get more extreme – he’s catching your wrist as you go to pluck a piece of fruit out of the pile, narrow gray eyes watching you as he tells you to choose something healthier, why don’t I just make ya somethin’ to eat?

He’s sighing and blocking the door when you leave the living area, telling you to sit down and drink the glass of water he’d given you before you go lay down in bed, before you use the restroom, before you shower or brush your teeth or yawn or speak.

He quickly becomes the sole dictator of your life, making you ask permission for every little thing, making you feel subservient and below him, making you feel as if you’re nothing without him, as if you can’t properly take care of yourself without his guidance, without him metaphorically (and literally) spoon feeding you.

And frankly, as irritating and terrifying as it is, it’s difficult to get mad at him – after all, Osamu doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. It’s not even about explicitly controlling you for him; it’s more about making sure you’re his and that no one else can get to you, to make sure that you aren’t being swept away or stolen by anyone else.

And of course, it’s to get you trusting him, relying on him, needing him, because isn’t that what relationships are about? Mutual love, dependence, desperation?

Protective

Going hand in hand with his paranoia and controlling tendencies, Osamu views you as someone who, despite your best efforts, isn’t really able to take care of yourself. He trusts you and loves you, at least as much as he can given his staggering devotion to you, and yet he doesn’t inherently trust you with you, with your health and safety and care.

No, that’s his job, him as the man and your caretaker and the only one who can actually take care of you, who can adhere to your every need, whether you’re aware of it or not.

He’s fairly domestic at heart, loving the softer moments, and you’ll notice this extremely early on with his obsession with you. He’s always trying to cook you things, and while it’s sweet, soon it’ll start getting a bit weird.

He’s got a full course meal for you every lunch, always your favorite foods cooked exactly how you like them despite never mentioning it to him in more than passing. He’s raising his chopsticks and telling you to say ahh, his voice soft and gooey, practically purring at you. He’s placing the sushi against your tongue and smiling boyishly at you, his cheeks dusted pink while pride swirls in his chest that you’re eating his food.

It’s sweet, at first, and damn can he cook, but once he starts showing up at your door with breakfast and dinner as well, inviting himself inside to eat with you and your family, chatting up your father and helping your mother cook, you’ll start growing uncomfortable, unsure of why he’s there.

You won’t know why he seems to care so much and why he’s subtly tapping your wrist under the dinner table, smiling softly and telling you to slow down a bit, you’ll choke if ya keep eatin’ like that.

It’s strange and it’ll feel beyond out of place, but Osamu is a charmer. He may not be as obvious or charismatic as his twin, but your parents will quickly be won over, everyone around you telling you how good of a person he is, how he’s such a catch, how he’s so sweet to you, won’t you just give him a chance?

He’s always pulling you closer to him, keeping you by his side so that you don’t stray too far, keeping a hand on your wrist or shoulder or waist or back, warm fingers pressing into your body as a discreet but strong reminder that he’s right there.

He’s grasping your hips as he maneuvers you to the side to avoid the crack in the sidewalk, sending you a strangely shy, boyish smile as his cheeks turn pink and he murmurs something about you being oblivious as hell, yer always getting’ hurt.

He’s quick to grab your wrist when you’re opening doors or grabbing something sharp or hot, sending you a small look as he does it for you, murmuring something under his breath about you being too delicate, can’t have ya doing something so dangerous.

He’s genuinely concerned about your health and safety, truly – he doesn’t mean to be overbearing. He’s not trying to be condescending by saying that you’re incapable of doing anything substantial on your own; of course not! He’s just concerned that you tend to be clumsier than he’d like, and what would happen if you tripped and skinned your knee, broke your arm, got a life threatening concussion that altered your life forever?

(Or, worse yet, made you forget about him?)

He’s just doing what he thinks of best, and the trouble with Osamu is that while he’s not particularly delusional, he’s also not particularly great at seeing the reality behind his actions. He knows he’s a bit more overboard on his protectiveness over you than he should be, but he’s able to honestly write it off as being chivalrous, as being a good, caring partner.

He thinks he’s being romantic and exactly what you want when he cuts the crusts of your sandwiches off for you (even if you didn’t ask).

He thinks he’s being attractive when he doesn’t let you package your own leftovers from the restaurants, claiming the food is ‘too hot’ even though it came out more than forty five minutes ago.

He’s just trying to help, and he’d never be able to forgive himself if you were hurt when he could’ve prevented it – after all, what does that say about his ability to take care of you? Does he even deserve to call himself yours if he can’t keep you from getting bruised or scraped?

Would you even want him if he can’t protect you like a man should?

Obsessive

Generally speaking, Osamu’s devotion to you knows no bounds.

He’s busy with his restaurant, cooking orders and managing paperwork, but in between shaping the rice and signing his name, every single thought is aimed towards you. He’s constantly idly wondering about what you’re doing, what you’re feeling, what you’re thinking, whether you’re happy or sad or whether you miss him.

He likes to imagine the way you look at any given moment you’re apart; he’ll imagine the soft smile on your face as you see a particularly cute pet when you walk down the street, your fingers itching to reach out and give it some love.

He’ll imagine the way you’d sigh to yourself and roll your eyes when your coworkers are being annoying again; he’s told you so many fucking times to just quit so you don’t have to worry about it anymore, but you always refuse and laugh him off.

(It pisses him off that you so lightly reject his advice; can’t you see how being there is ruining your mental health? Can you not see how it’s deteriorating you, how you’re so much more stressed now, how the money isn’t worth your time? It infuriates him, and he’s sure that once you’re living together, your full time job will be taking care of the house, not your own finances. He’ll cover that, so don’t you worry your pretty little head.)

He’s imagining the way you shrug on your jacket, zipping it up until it stops right below your nose because it’s fucking cold outside, how you’d look like a cute little hedgehog all wrapped up for winter – no doubt warm and soft and perfect to hold in his arms.

He’s always thinking of you in sweet, domestic situations; you’re just too adorable to him, and it’s always been his fantasy to find a partner and live out those horribly cliché romantic tropes he always sees in TV or reads in books.

He wants to be the one spoon feeding you warm soup on cold days, watching as you flutter your lashes shyly at him and compliment to new recipe he tried out (or, more accurately, the recipe he made up knowing your favorite ingredients).

He likes to think about waking up in the mornings with you, the sunlight streaming onto your face as you let out soft little breaths and even the occasional snore, making his nose scrunch up and a snort leave his laugh because fuck, he’s heard that nose through your window for years and now that it’s right in front of him?

He’s imagining falling asleep with you, too, helping you with the skin routine he demands you set up and carry out with him – he wants to have dozens of photos on his phone of you making a kissy face in the mirror with him, a white mask covering your skin and making you look like some sort of slasher serial killer.

He’s plagued by thoughts and fantasies of you in every shape and form. (Some much, much more explicit than the kind, domestic ones – images of you on your knees with cum dripping down your chin and onto your tits, your fingers holding open your pussy and turning away your head in embarrassment as he stares from above you on the bed, the way you’d wantonly moan out his name and scratch down his back because he just feels too damn good.)

And so, the basis of his obsession with you starts out almost immediately with gathering information about you.

He wants to fantasize these sweet (and not-so-sweet) moments with you, but in order to this he needs to know more, to learn more. He wants to know everything he possibly can; when do you fall asleep at night?

Do you spend hours staring at your phone in the darkness of your bedroom, or are you out the moment your head hits the pillow?

What kind of food do you like?

Do you eat breakfast, and if so how would you feel about breakfast in bed, with you woken up to the scent of freshly scrambled eggs and a few (much too heated) kisses to your forehead by Osamu himself?

Do you prefer to spend time with others or by yourself?

Are you an animal person, and if so would you consider getting a pet with him as a trial run for your first child?

He wants to know every possible detail there is about you – and he’s frighteningly good at it. He’s just so unsuspecting; he’s nice, funny, a stand-out guy to everyone that knows him, and why would you have reason to think any differently?

Sure, it may be slightly offputting with how insistent he is that he’s always with you and making sure others don’t get close to you, but you’ll answer every question he throws at you.

After all, it may seem a bit odd to be asked what your greatest fear is, but you’ll just  at him and puzzle over the answer, pressing a finger to your lip as you hum in thought.

It may be strange initially to be bombarded with so many questions about your future plans (where do you want to live? What do you see as your ideal marriage? Your ideal house? Your ideal number of children? Could you see yourself becoming a housewife or a stay at home mother?), but you’ll shrug off the sense of unease coiling at your shoulders and answer him honestly, because that’s just what friends do.

However, once his questions start teetering to a more questionable side, things that you don’t feel comfortable sharing with him, with another man, red flags may begin appearing for you. After all, why does he need to know your bra size?

The package of fancy lingerie that appears on your front door the next day in delicate lace of your favorite color surely can’t be connected to him, right? Even if the fit is perfect?

Why does he need to know how heavy your periods are; what knowledge could that serve him?

(Quite a bit actually, if the some twenty boxes of pads, tampons, and menstrual cups he’s hoarded into his closet in his apartment is any indicator.)

You’ll slowly grows confused by his efforts to know more and more, but Osamu is slick; he’s good at keeping information at bay, at comforting your fears because he's just such a nice guy, now won’t you please take another sip of your beer and tell him what position gets you seeing stars every time?

He just loves you, and he expresses his love by overfilling his brain with information of his favorite variety – you.

DEALING WITH RIVALS 

While it would be a stretch to say Osamu never feels jealousy, he wouldn’t be lying if he said that the majority of his unease with other men earning your attention lies from the perspective of simply wanting to protect you.

Of course, he doesn’t like the possibility of your attention and love deviating away from him, your pretty eyes no longer focused on his, your smiles and laughter no longer aimed at his words and jokes. He likes that you seem to like him – he needs you to like him, after all, but that isn’t the entirety of what fuels his jealousy.

No, it’s the paranoia that eats away at him every time he sees you in public with any number of other people around you. He knows what kinds of monsters a lot of men are – he went to school with a number of them, and while he considers his friends to be good guys, even his closest companions have said questionable things over the years.

Hell, he’s though some questionable things over the years – of course, he’d never act on them, but idle thoughts of wow, she’s got nice tits or those pants are tight, wish she’d bend over again shocking him and making his cheeks flush red. He always feels guilty, immediately leaving the room and not able to look the woman in the eye ever again, but if he, Osamu Miya, someone who likes to think of himself as a feminist and non-threatening to women, is capable of such thoughts?

Then what do the men that don’t hold themselves to higher standards think? What kind of sick, perverse thoughts are rolling through their heads when they see a pretty woman nearby, a pretty woman like you?

It makes his skin crawl to just think about it, and so while he knows that rationally four out of five men would never hurt you, there’s always the what if eating at the back of his mind. He likes to think of himself as a the chivalrous, traditional male partner who cares for and protects his lover, and what kind of a man would he be if he wasn’t able to keep vicious hands – and heaven forbid, cocks – away from you?

What does that say about his ability to protect you, his ability to keep you happy and safe by his side? And so, while jealousy happens to him fairly often, most of the time it’s an ugly mix of his own personal jealousy, his protectiveness, and pure selfishness that cause him to tense up and watch the scene with an extra careful eye.

Towards the beginning of his obsession with you, Osamu was much more reluctant to actually interfere in situations in which he suspected something bad may happen. Of course, the moment anything bad actually did happen, like the man talking to you and reaching out to touch your shoulder, forced him to spring to life, to come to your aid and make him out to be not only the knight and shining armor, but also to get you out of that situation.

He’ll always remember the first time he did this – you ‘d been cornered by a man at a park while Osamu ‘happened’ – at least, you think it was an accidental meeting – to be passing through. The man had been sneering at you and backed you up against a tree in a less populated area, with no one seeming to notice.

You’d been visibly scared; shoulders tensed up and little stuttered pleas for him to move falling past your lips, but the man didn’t seem to care – or maybe, didn’t seem to mind. He’d been quick to swoop in, stepping between you and the man, and while Osamu doesn’t quite have the same physique as he did in high school, his height and the still very clear muscles coating his arms were enough to have the man scuttering off, spitting at the ground and glaring at Osamu.

He’d immediately turned around to help calm you down, leaning down and placing his hands on your shoulders, and it’s safe to say that the way you hugged him and whispered your thanks only further cemented his obsession for you – if you were to ask in the future, that’s the moment he’d say he knew he was in love with you.

And so, after that initial turning point, Osamu hasn’t hesitated much when it comes to defending you against unwanted (or, even wanted) attention from men – it’s his job, after all, and the reward of you clinging to him is so damn worth it.

The bell chimes right as expected, Osamu’s back facing the door to Onigiri Miya.

He can’t help the wide grin that takes over his features, even as he tries to bite it back so as to not lose his cool. He’s sure a flush is coating his cheeks; you always come in around five o’clock on Wednesdays like today, ordering your usual – onigiris that Osamu makes specially for you, but would never tell you is only willing to make for you.

He’s molding the rice with his hands at the counter, grateful for the open concept kitchen and eating area because as he turns around and sees you walking up to the register, the breath gets sucked out of his lungs.

Fuck, you’re so pretty.

And you’re looking right at him – chuckling as you call his name and wave your hand again, breaking him of the stupor he’d been trapped in. He clears his throat in embarrassment and fixes his cap, wiping down his hands on his pants as he approaches the register.

You greet him and give him your order, mentioning off-handedly you’ve been looking forward to his food all day – it must’ve been the only thing that got you through work, you’re sure. Osamu’s heart melts in his chest, the feeling in his fingers fully gone as he lets the compliment sink in, but he’s almost on autopilot as he rings you up and takes the money from your hand, already pushing the tray containing the onigiri your way.

(He’d already had it prepared, something you asked with a laugh as you took the tray, though you’d turned on your heel after thinking him before you could hear his small, vulnerable of course.)

His shift takes what seems like forever after that – he’s trying to focus on cooking, on making sure the seaweed lays perfectly against the rice, the filling being mixed to perfection, not letting any customers wait too long at the register, but it’s hard.

It’s hard to not watch the way you enjoy your food as you sit at the table by the window, the overcast sky shining in on you and making you seem to glow.

It’s also hard to ignore the way the man at the table next to you keeps sneaking glances at you, and when he opens his mouth to finally speak to you once you’re roughly halfway through your food, Osamu’s hand involuntarily crushes the rice in its grasp.

He curses under his breath as he sets it aside, perking his ears up and straining to hear the conversation. He’s flirting, Osamu realizes with a gut-wrenching feeling in his stomach – and badly, too. All compliments about your looks; you’re looking pretty today, love that skirt on you. Do you work out? You’ve got great legs. Osamu feels a shiver roll down his spine, and suddenly the mishappen rice is forgotten as he can only stare at the interaction, feeling his body temperature rising rapidly the longer the stranger talks.

You laugh weakly at the man’s comment, clearly uncomfortable as you shift in your seat to get further away from the man who’s clearly leaning in towards you. Your fingers tap nervously against the table you’re seated at, the shop suddenly feeling much too empty to you.

Oh, uh, that’s very nice of you… you trail off, hoping to end the conversation in its tracks. Unfortunately for you, the man doesn’t seem to pick up your hint.

He resumes on, rambling on about his own workout regimen, even going so far as to pull back the sleeve of his t-shirt and flex, cocking a brow at you and offering to let you touch his bicep.

You refuse, as politely as you can, and turn back to face your food. This seems to displease the man, and Osamu watches with a sharp, dangerous inhale of breath as the man reaches over and grabs your hand, setting it on his arm as he murmurs out a doesn’t it feel good –

Osamu’s moving before he knows it, having jumped the counter and practically sprinting to reach you. His wrist slaps away the man’s hand, your own fingers retracting immediately. He stares down in anger, disgust, barely contained rage, watching as the stranger’s lips part, anger and fear swimming in the man’s black eyes. Get out. Harassment is not tolerated in this restaurant. Get the fuck out, and don’t ever come back.

His voice is deep, the scariest you’ve ever heard it, and for a moment even you’re terrified – of Osamu, of all people.

But it seems to do the trick; the man is out of his chair in an instant, almost cowering away as he shakes his head and haughtily scoffs, walking towards the exit and keeping his shoulders taut all for show.

Osamu growls, before spinning on his heel and facing you, his hands on your shoulders as he searches your eyes with his own. He asks frantically if you’re okay, bombarding you with questions while you simply stare, before lunging at him and wrapping your arms around him, your shoulders shaking slightly as you whisper your thanks over and over. Osamu freezes for a moment, a pink flush spreading across the plains of his cheeks, before his arms return the embrace, squeezing you so much it nearly hurts.

He stays like that for who knows how long, before you pull back and he begrudgingly lets you go. You gulp and tell him you’re okay, that you’ll just finish this last bit of onigiri and then you’ll be off, and Osamu only nods, a displeased look on his face.

He scruffs your hair as he stands up, smirking down at you as you whine a bit, before he steps out the door, following the path he’d seen the man take.

It’s not hard to find him, nor is it hard to shove him against the alley wall, his fist meeting flesh once, twice, five times as the howls in pain. He’s clutching his face in his hands and crouching down by the time Osamu is done with him, but all the chef can do is spit at him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and cursing under his breath.

Disgusting, treating women like that. Especially my women. Don’t you ever fucking come back, or next time I’ll kill ya. I’m dead serious. Yer fucking dead.

He seems happier when he steps back inside the shop, sending you a little wave to which you return, unknowingly making his heart flutter and his resolve harden.

Yeah, he’d do whatever it takes to make you safe and happy – even if it means roughing up his own criminal record.

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY

To be quite honest, the prospect of kidnapping you occurs to Osamu disturbingly quickly.

He’s always seen himself as wanting to end up with a partner one day – a pretty wife that he cherishes and who cherishes him back. He wants to live in a nice, downtown apartment a few blocks away from his restaurant, the whole place painted shades of white and gray (he’d never admit it, but just to match his hair and because his skin tone looks best against the color), with maybe a cat or child running around not too long after.

It’s a fantasy, pure and simple, but while little fourteen year old him was embarrassed to be daydreaming about such a sappy idea (Atsumu had been more than willing to make him aware of how weird this was when he’d accidentally let it slip at sixteen), the embarrassment has faded with age until Osamu began viewing the idea as less of a desire and more of a sure aspect of his future.

And so, once his feelings of such magnitude for you form, you seem to fit perfectly into this image he’s built in his mind.

You’d be such a good partner – he’d love to live by your side, sharing the dinner table with you, a bed, a shower, even a toothbrush if you wanted to. (And in case you’re wondering, yes, he wants to.)

It’s remarkably easy to imagine stepping into a bath tub with you, his bare chest against your bare back as you lean against him, letting your wet hair fall over his shoulders and his chin hook above your head. He'd rub his arms up and down your shoulders, admiring the way you shiver in his touch before relaxing, the heat of the water making your muscles loosen as the shiny diamond on your ring finger winks up at him, validation that you’re his, that he earned you.

It’s surprisingly easy to imagine poking your nose with a dollop of whip cream as he makes a batch of eclairs, seeing the way your nose scrunches up and you giggle, wiping it off your skin and instead placing it on his lips, following it up with a kiss and mischievous tongue that licks away all the cream.

It’s disturbingly easy to picture the way you’d breathlessly whisper to him that the test is positive – we’re – you’re – you’re gonna be a dad, ‘Samu.

You just fit the entire fantasy oh so perfectly, and so it just feels natural to substitute in your form whenever he finds himself idly daydreaming about his future. It’s mostly during long shifts at the restaurant or late nights alone in his bed that the thoughts come, but after only about two months of his obsession reaching it’s full fledged rage that the notion that he needs to live out these fantasies really solidifies.

No longer is it something he sees himself eventually doing – no, he will be living out his hopes for his future life, and you will be the one doing it with him. And so, while he’d ideally have you consenting to this and choosing to move in with him, Osamu isn’t above forcing you, either.

Of course, he’ll ask you first; it’s intended to be casual, the way he brings up moving in together, your brows shooting up in confusion because we’re not dating, ‘Samu, right? So why would we move in together…?

And really, you don’t have to remind him of that – you’re practically dating, aren’t you? With the amount of time you spend together, the longing glances he gives you that he swears are returned, and the way you melt into his touch when he gives you what you think is a friendly hug or kiss on the cheek.

You’re basically already together – which is why Osamu decides that sure, you may be pissed at him for the first few days, weeks, hopefully not months of being his captive, eventually you’ll come around. You seem to have a soft spot for him, and he can treat you like he should – he promises.

He can make you happy, in ways you’ve never been happy before.

And really, as much as you won’t want to admit it, Osamu is right.

You are mad when you first wake up to a semi-familiar but not quite known bedroom, your chest rising and falling rapidly because this isn’t your home. You don’t remember going home with anyone the night before, so where are you?

It’s only once Osamu slips into the room, his face lighting up at seeing you awake that the pieces slowly start connecting, the lock he sets into place on the door’s deadbolt making panic eat away at your gut.

You’re mad, enraged, terrified, and all Osamu can do as you struggle and yell at him to let you go is sigh and nod his head, telling you that it’s okay, I understand this is scary, but it’s what’s best for you. For us.

Of course, that doesn’t get you any calmer – you’re quick to spit out allegations of him being crazy, telling him that there is no ‘us’, that it’s not okay for him to be locking you away with him for the rest of your life – as he so brazenly tells you.

Osamu is patient, though, at least at the start. He’s not delusional enough to believe that you’d be happy the moment you wake up in your new home, that everything would be rainbows and butterflies.

However, Osamu does eventually expect you to straighten up; maybe it’ll be Stockholm Syndrome, maybe it’ll be those feelings of attraction you’d held for him before being stolen away resurfacing once more.

Frankly, he doesn’t care – all he cares about is now you’re in his grasp, by his side, where he can keep you safe, secure, and his. And safe he’ll make sure you are; the entire house is nearly babyproofed, because while he doesn’t think of you as an infant or treat you like one, there’s a part of him that’s too terrified that you’ll see the knife and start getting ideas.

He’s scared that if he doesn’t have covers on all the outlets, you’ll take the fork and jam it in as far as you can go, hoping your heart will eventually stop beating. The thought is too much for him to bear, and so he’d begun planning to make his apartment (in a very exclusive part of town, thanks to Atsumu’s connections, complete with soundproof walls and more square footage than he could ever hope to use) as perfectly fit for the both of you as early as he could.

And so, once you wake up that fateful morning to his bedsheets, you don’t really have a chance at escaping. And despite being kidnapped, you’ll find that you don’t particularly want to; you don’t have too much anonymity, but at least Osamu respects you enough to let you do your basic hygiene alone.

He’s not accompanying you to the toilet, nor does he brush your teeth for you, nor does he dress you himself. Of course, he’d love to do any number of these things, but he still sees you as your own, respectable person – just a person that needs him, is all.

Some things Osamu will still force you to include him in, though; showering is an activity that is always done together, your wet, nude bodies hovering close as he runs the loofah over your back, dipping dangerously close to your ass as he breaths a heavy kiss against the shell of your ear.

Cooking is an event that while he mostly does alone (he doesn’t trust you with a knife yet), you’ll be seated at the dining room table, expected to keep him company while he flies around the counters with pots and pans.

He’s really not too terrible of a captor, really. He’s pretty physically affectionate with you, always pressing kisses against the crown of your head, your fingers, your thighs, your lips and neck, and his arms are always around your waist while he sighs and relaxes against you.

He’s touchy, yes, but every amenity under the sun will be yours when you’re under his roof – nice TV’s with access to every streaming platform you could want, because he knows you get hankerings for programs that are difficult to find.

You’ll have exquisite food, always prepared by him and hand made with love (and perhaps, other things as well, though you’d rather die than find out the secret ingredient of his famous fried rice).

You’ll have an assortment of fluffy, warm sweaters (all of which have been worn by Osamu and spritzed with his cologne, just to get you falling in love with his scent), and all the blankets and stuffed animals you could ever want.

He wants to spoil you, and his only rules are pretty easy to follow; obey him, don’t try to escape, and don’t try to do anything that could hurt you.

It’s not horribly complex, is it?

It’s really not, and after a while of being stuck with Osamu as your only human contact, his kind words, compliments, gentle touches and earnest desire to please you, you’ll slowly find yourself letting your guard down, developing begrudgingly loving feelings towards him. You’ll hate it at first, hate both himself and yourself, but at the end of the day you really don’t have a choice.

Because while Osamu may chastise you for attempting to crack your neck (you’ll break it, baby, don’t crack it like that) or wear something light weight when the heating is broken for a few days in January (put on yer jacket or my sweatshirt, can’t have you walking around in shorts and a t-shirt for Christs’s sake), it’s difficult to ignore the way he looks at you with such reverence and devotion.

And while it may have scared you at first, eventually you’ll come around to it – isn’t it nice to know how much Osamu needs you? Isn’t it nice to feel wanted and desired, to know you’re the reason your captor is living, breathing, smiling?

It’s a head-fuck, sure, but who cares? All you’ll ever know for the rest of your life is Osamu Miya, so why not make the best of it?

PUNISHMENTS

For the most part, it’s true that Osamu is a fairly lenient captor.

He’s not particularly harsh nor demanding, and he does genuinely want to see you smile and return his feelings. Those fantasies of having a loving domestic life with you that he’s harbored for so long bar him from any truly atrocious acts, like burning you or leaving scars on your pretty body.

He doesn’t want to hurt you, not only because it would ruin his fantasies of being your perfect, caring lover, but also because he’d never be able to live with himself if he knew he was the reason for you being in pain. He’s driven to madness by his love for you, but he’s still not fully detached from reality – he knows that causing you pain is wrong, particularly physical pain. He’d be no worse than all those men he was trying to keep you away from when he was still developing his feelings for you.

And so, Osamu tries to give you as much freedom as he can within reason. You’re obviously not allowed to venture into the real world by yourself, nor are you allowed to do anything he deems dangerous (though, while belittling at times, eventually you’ll start to agree that it is dangerous for you to handle knives and razors, that you should just let him cut your apples and shave your legs).

You’re not allowed to disobey him, either, because if there’s one thing Osamu can’t tolerate from you, it’s disrespect or purposefully going against his words.

He doesn’t particularly enjoy brats, and he wants to be able to trust you to keep yourself out of harm’s way; it would save so many stress induced headaches, his eyes wearily watching the clock as he desperately wishes time would hurry up so he could close up shop and head home to you. He’s not super strict, and frankly it’s pretty easy to placate him – just hug him and compliment him, tell him you appreciate everything he does for you, and let him pamper you for a while.

He’s more than happy to take care of you; grabbing water and whipping up a nearly Michelin level meal of your favorite foods, with a yummy dessert for the both of you to share.

(With only one spoon, of course.)

He’ll turn on your favorite movie and have you lean back against his chest, his fingers idly massaging at your scalp as you watch the bright colors and action, familiar with every line and making him chuckle as you recite it.

He’ll lift the covers over your tired form when you’re about to fall asleep, diving down below them as he trails kisses down your stomach and between your legs, wanting you to fall asleep while feeling good, even if it leaves him hanging and having to either fuck his fist or your pretty thighs while you sleep.

And so, you’ll discover it’s actually pretty hard to tick Osamu off enough to get him to punish you – but when you do, he’s remarkably good at shutting down the behavior, even if it kills him to do so.

Osamu’s always known he’s soft on you; he doesn’t claim to pretend that he’s the traditional man of the household, putting you into your place so that you’re always the subservient woman.

No, if anything, Osamu plays both roles – being the strong man in the relationship, and caring to your every whim and need. And so, while it makes his heart ache and his gut wrench in agony to do it, he knows that the best way to punish you is to stop taking care of you.

He thinks the fastest way to show you that he’s your everything is to stop being it for a while – not cooking for you, not holding you in his arms, not engaging you in conversation and asking about your day, not giving you more attention than you would ever know what to do with.

It hurts him (more than it hurts you, if we’re being honest), but it’s the only way – and so, as Osamu watches in displeasure as you shake your head at him, he’s internally sighing. You’d refused to let him bathe you again – you’d been feeling rebellious lately, and while you’d only been with him for about a month – not nearly long enough for the Stockholm Syndrome to set in to the degree he wanted it to – he was starting to get sick of it.

Can’t you see he just wants to give you the proper love and care you deserve? It’s so hard to properly wash yourself, and it’s such a sweet, intimate moment to let him take control of your body, to run the soap through your hair and down the expanse of your arms and legs. Your rejection of bathing feels like a rejection of him, and so he merely nods his head, those gray eyes fixed on you.

Okay, he tells you, sitting up from the dinner table.

The barely touched food in front of you is snatched away from you in the blink of an eyes, being scraped into the garbage bin before you can even utter a word.

You’re confused, your rebellious flare dying down as you stare at him, unsure of what he’s doing. Osamu doesn’t say anything more, merely washing the plates in the sink while willing himself to not glance at you.

(It takes an inhumane amount of self-restrain to accomplish this task, as he’s so used to stealing looks at you nearly every minute of the day, too mesmerized by your beauty to do anything more than gape like a fish, but he manages.)

And maybe it’s petty, but hearing the way you mutter his name has his resolve hardening, because fuck, you’re already cracking.

Once the dishes are done, he dries his hands and whistles a tune to himself, heading down the hallway to his office. Paperwork is strewn across the wooden top, evidence of the way he’d been procrastinating for days on doing it in favor of spending time with you, but now is the perfect time. With a heavy sigh, he plops down into his rolling chair, picking up the pen and getting to work signing and approving business transactions, visualizing where he wants the company to be this time next year.

He slowly grows immersed in the work, having chanted to himself too heavily at the start of the paperwork to ignore you, ignore you, make her dependent on you by ignoring her needs, it’s the only way.

And so, when you peek into his office room, biting your lip in worry, Osamu genuinely doesn’t notice. You’re not sure what’s going on – he’s never this dismissive of you, always asking you if you’re hungry or need anything, if you’d like to read a book together or take a nap.

He’s never gone this long with at least smiling at you, and while it’d likely only been forty five minutes since you’d told him in a moment of bravery that you didn’t want to bathe with him, it feels like a lifetime.

You watch for a few moments, before carefully sitting yourself in the plush armchair in the corner of the room, situated so that you’re watching his back as his pen flies across the paper and his finger across the calculator.

At some point, Osamu notices your presence, but he steels himself to remain visibly ignorant to you and your eyes that seem to be boring into him.

Soon he finishes for the night, groaning as he stretches his shoulders and arms, but as he gets up to leave he doesn’t bother to spare you a glance.

You heart aches; are you missing him? The thought has you biting your lip harshly, tears stinging at your eyes at the realization, but before you can anything you hear Osamu turn the faucet on the bath on, the sound of rushing water making you stiffen up. Perhaps… if you want his attention back, maybe you’d have to…?

Osamu's brows are tightly drawn as he strips himself of his clothing and steps into the tub, trying to let the warm water relax his tense muscles. He peeks at the (purposefully) open door to his left, wishing that you’d appear, but after five minutes of you not showing up, Osamu sighs.

This is the right thing to do, he just knows it – how else is he supposed to get you dependent on him, on his love and protection? He knows it, he swears, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, that his lungs don’t feel like they’re crushing under the weight of his heartache –

He’s brought out of his reverie as he feels a poke at his hand, opening his previously closed eyes to see you standing next to him, a nervous and somewhat embarrassed look on your face.

With a start, Osamu notices that your cheeks are wet and your eyes still a bit red, and immediately guilt is crashing into him; he made you cry, fuck. He blinks at you, trying to keep his face emotionless, and watches as you gulp.

I-um, can I get in with you? You’re asking in such a quiet, unsure voice, and for a moment Osamu threatens to break his careless façade, the urge to swoon at your cuteness nearly too much to handle.

He blinks once more, prompting you to keep speaking.

You play with your fingers as you stare down at them, letting the words fall off your tongue. ‘m sorry, I didn’t mean to be a brat. I’m just – I don’t know. I’m scared, ‘Samu, of how I’m feeling. You stole me away, and I’m not supposed to love you or even like you, but I don’t think I hate you anymore. I think – I don’t know, it’s confusing, but I think that I’m starting to need you.

Osamu’s heart is racing in his chest, your admission making his chest flush bright red, joy eating away at him because are you being honest?

Are you speaking from the heart?

The way you look so frustrated at yourself tells him that you are, and with a swallow much too loud to be unheard by you, Osamu speaks. Do ya understand that I’m just trying to take care of ya?

You quickly nod, chancing a glance at him, only to find his gaze stuck on you, the intensity making you shrink back.

It’s silent for a moment, before Osamu’s face splits into the softest, happiest smile you think you’ve ever seen, his arms opening wide as the water splashes lightly against his chest. Hurry up, cold water’s no fun to be in.

Your lips part and your eyes widen, and quickly you’re stripping off your clothes, too relieved at the way he’s looking at you to be embarrassed as every inch of yourself is revealed to his prying gaze. Soon you’re clambering in, burying your face into his neck and wrapping your arms around his torso, letting him return the embrace as you whisper against his skin.

I’m sorry ‘Samu, I know you love me and just want me to be safe, I’m sorry I acted out. I won’t do it again, just – just please, don’t ignore me. I need you too badly for that.

Osamu’s never had such a warm, pleasant feeling sit in his stomach before, and neither has he had such wonderful, romantic sex in his life as that night – with you clutching at him, not letting a single inch of space between your bodies, his name rolling off your tongue in waves as you came again and again and again, all for him.

OVERALL DANGER

Overall danger rating: 6/10

Osamu isn’t too terribly dangerous.

As far as yanderes go, he’s somewhat tame; he’s mostly just extremely devoted to your safety, and in turn devoted to making sure he knows everything about you so that he can properly fulfill his duty as your lover.

He’s a bit of a sucker at heart, and so while he’s capable of hurting others on your behalf (and isn’t afraid to do so, if he feels your safety is being threatened), Osamu treats you with delicacy.

You’re precious to him, something he can think of as truly and wonderfully his; he doesn’t have to share you with another soul on this planet, and he cherishes the idea of being your one and only in the same way. He’s lovestruck, truly, and while his protective tendencies may scare you at times, it’s truly coming from a (mostly) good place.

He just wants you to be safe and happy and his, and so while it likely doesn’t win him many points to be relocating you to his apartment, chasing off any rivals for your affection, time, or attention, Osamu sees it as a necessary evil.

He’s always wanted to have and be a loving partner, and you’re the one he’s decided has to be it. So while he may not be the traditional knight in shining armor, all Osamu cares about is you falling for him, just as you should.

All he wants is for your dependence on him to grow, so that the two of your can be mutually addicted to one another, unable to go nary an hour without at least some form of contact, be that a smile, a touch, a kiss, or feeling your wonderful, perfect little cunt squeezing around him.

Osamu just loves you, and try all you can, but eventually you’ll return his feelings. And how could you not?

There’s something wrong with him, yes, but have you ever felt so loved?

Have you ever felt so seen, validated, wanted?

You never have, and you never will, so just accept it. Accept him.

Debt

💌Yandere!Hawks | Keigo Takami x F!Reader💌

4.2k words

A commission for @yanyansnack

Summary:

You’re just trying to play some Animal Crossing. Unfortunately, your captor has issues with that. It’s totally not like he caused the problem in the first place.

TWs for: Noncon/Dubcon | Rape

Tags:

Quarantine vibes, anal, assplay- the ass gets fingered, tom nook comes FIRST, loss of anal virginity, orgasm denial, power struggles, thank you for commissioning me! ❤️

(A/N): later than expected but thank you for being patient with me bro

———

You can see him over the top of your Switch, looking apprehensively at your curled-up form. Cornered against the sofa armrest, you decide to ignore him and hope he goes away.

“I’m beginning to regret buying you that thing, you know.” Keigo proclaims, arms folded. Without his hero getup he looks unfamiliar, bearing far too much casualness than you were ever comfortable with. You’re so used to him coming home and skipping the middleman by changing into pyjamas straight away. But today is one of his first days off in quite a while, allowing him the chance to wear something normal. You wish he was at work. It’s nicer having the apartment to yourself.

In response, you give a brief hum and continue to gather wood. After all, there are more important things to address: you owe Tom Nook so much money.

“Don’t you want to do something with me today, baby? You’ve been good. We can go outside, if you’d like..?”

“It’s okay.”

He frowns.

You haven’t really been behaving on purpose, you’ve just been preoccupied. Countless hours of Animal Crossing have resulted in you staying quiet when he attempts to cuddle you, awkwardly wrapping his arms around your body whilst trying his best to not obstruct the screen. He’d make occasional comments on what you were doing but had never watched you play long enough to understand the game itself.

Keep reading

Discipline

this is a fic that I wrote for @hypnoswrites's birthday! (tho I was a bit late in getting it done😅)

please keep in mind the tags on this one

Morel x female!reader

Warnings: yandere, kidnapping, dubcon, drugging, abuse, dehumanization, stockholm syndrome, victim blaming, Morel is not very nice in this fic

Word Count: 12.1k

The sound of creaking wood.

The heady smell of sea salt.

The steady rocking sensation as the world around you was being moved back and forth, back and forth. Consistently. Endlessly.

You groaned, pressing your face into the soft pillow as you yearned for more sleep. You were exhausted, after all. After all that effort, all that planning and carrying out that plan of yours – it had taken up a lot of energy, mentally and physically. So after all of that, you deserved to take a break, to reward yourself, even if it was a reward as simple as sleeping in just a bit longer. That wasn't so much to ask for, was it?

No, it wasn't.

Feeling the way your arms were stretched out above your head, you found that it'd be more comfortable if you brought them back down from where they sat on the pillow. In fact, you wanted to turn over, as you found you didn't quite like the way you were laying on your front. Intending to turn to your side, you pulled your arms down.

Or rather, you tried to.

Something stopped you. Something that was wrapped around both of your wrists that kept your arms from moving freely and held them in place above your head.

That was strange.

That feeling increased when you attempted to move your legs to shift to your side, as you found that your lower half was in a similar state: something soft but firm had been wrapped around your ankles that kept your legs attached to the bed and spread wide.

Why? What had happened to you?

A chill suddenly ran through you, hitting your exposed skin and running down the length of your spine.

…… Were you naked? What the fuck-

The creaking of wood sounded again, this time accompanied by the sound of waves splashing against a solid surface.

For the first time since waking up, you snapped your eyes open to look at where you were.

……..

This was Morel's room.

…. No.

No no no no no no no no no

Why were you back here? How had you been caught? Why the fuck were you back here?

Straining your neck to look over your shoulder, you were horrified to see that you were correct in what you had been wondering earlier: you were naked, and a further look at your ankles and wrists confirmed that the reason why you couldn't move them was because they had been securely attached to the bedposts, leaving you vulnerable and helpless.

Your breath began to come out in short bursts as you started to struggle against the bindings. You shouldn't be back here. You couldn't be back here. Not after everything. After all you had done to escape him, to escape the prison that was his boat while he kept you around just so he could have something to fuck when he was in the mood.

No, that wasn't a life you wanted to live anymore. That was why you left. That was why you escaped him.

Sweat was beading on your skin as you pulled at your wrists, attempting to slip your hands through the bindings so you could get away for good this time.

I need to leave I need to get out of here before he comes back -

A hand came down to grab the back of your neck and you froze.

The touch of that hand was cool in contrast with your heated skin, and the intent you felt as you were grabbed seemed to resemble a warning. A promise that if you continued as you were, something bad was going to follow. Something that you wouldn't like at all.

Relaxing your arms and legs, you cautiously looked up at the figure that had laid their hand on you.

It was one of Morel's smoke soldiers.

White, expressionless eyes stared down at you, all the while they kept their grip firm on your neck, the cold mist that made them up seeping into your skin. They must have been in the room and you hadn't even realized, you thought to yourself. You were too disoriented and shocked by your unexpected predicament to notice that they were even there.

Several uncertain moments passed as they held your gaze, their hand still wrapped firmly around your neck while you watched them, waiting for what their next move would be.

What Morel would make them do.

You remained still – as still as you were able to, at least. You couldn't help the way you trembled as you stared at the soldier that continued to hold you, but surely that wouldn't be an issue. The fact that you had stopped trying to escape the bindings should be something that would make the soldier happy – that would make Morel happy. If Morel was happy then things were good, you remembered.

Though when you considered what you had done to Morel to escape him, it likely wouldn't be that simple of a solution.

Eventually, the soldier let you go. Though not quickly, as they chose to slowly release their grip on you, letting you feel the pressure on your neck gradually dissipate before releasing you completely. Even then, their hand didn't leave you, as they chose to run their fingertips down the length of your spine, mapping out every bump and curve of your back softly before they reached the flesh of your ass. They pressed their hand more firmly against you there, causing you to gasp in surprise and a sense of indignity. They continued to hold your gaze after that, still squeezing you as if daring you to protest, to give them a reason to lash out at your disobedience.

As much as you wanted to do that, as much as you wanted to scream and yell at that thing, at Morel, to let you go…… Now wasn't the time.

A few moments later, the soldier pulled away completely and stepped back, crossing their arms as they seemed satisfied with your submission. That was when you allowed yourself to let out a shaky breath of relief.

As you settled further on the bed and slowly breathed in and out, you found that your mind felt clearer.

Their cool touch had been what you needed. Despite hating the way they grabbed you, it had helped your mind to calm down, reminded you that you couldn't brute force your way out of this and that you needed to think. Take a deep breath and use your head.

Start with what happened, you told yourself. How did things go so wrong that they turned out like this?

Breathing in through your nose, you closed your eyes as you went back to what you'd been dealing with over the past few months; a period of time that felt like an eternity after being taken by Morel – no, not taken. That word didn't accurately describe the gravity of what he'd done.

He'd kidnapped you.

The man that you had thought was a good guy, and a single star Hunter, no less, had snatched you away from everything you'd known just to keep you locked up on his boat, pretending that the two of you were a couple in a loving relationship and that you were his wife who was always there at the end of every day to welcome him back with open arms. A role that you had vehemently refused to play.

At first.

But as more time passed and you realized that he really did have the power to keep you where he wanted, you chose to change your strategy. You told yourself then, just as you had only moments prior, that you couldn't brute force your way out of this terrible, terrible situation.

The only way you could get away from Morel was to be smart about it.

Coming up with and executing a plan to escape from Morel had been stressful and time-consuming. It had required you to build up a lot of good will beforehand, to make him think that you were accepting of the idea of staying with him and were no longer interested in returning to your old home. Being inexplicably over eager for his affections would've raised his suspicions, so it needed to be done over time.

That was why, gradually, you had stopped shying away from his touch and let him hold you if he wanted. You would engage in conversation, going from giving one-word replies to actively engaging with him. You even did some normal couple stuff together, having nights where you cooked together, watched movies and listened to music. Like little date nights aboard his boat.

Morel was ecstatic by the change in you and clearly believed that his efforts were finally paying off. Which was what you needed. Getting away from him hinged on him being so trusting of you that he kept his guard lowered, that he didn't suspect that you would try anything this late in the game.

Unfortunately, getting him to be completely convinced of that meant that you needed to sleep with him.

That was where you found yourself on the night of your escape: in the bedroom, bouncing up and down on Morel's cock while he was laid out on the bed beneath you, his hands tightly gripping your hips and his eyes full of awe as he watched the way you moved on top of him. He drank in the sight greedily, watching your breasts that moved every time you slid down on him before turning his gaze to your wet pussy that engulfed his length completely. The man was genuinely happy that you'd asked to be on top, taking it as further confirmation that you were content in being with him.

That was good. Even though you were fighting down bile that rose to your throat every time the ridges of his cock hit a spot inside of you that caused a pleasurable shudder to run through you, it was good that he was happy. If he was happy with you, surely that meant that he trusted you. You were counting on that. Counted on him being so distracted by this new attitude of yours that he wouldn't think to question the action you would take after.

Your escape started after your coupling had ended; after Morel came when he felt you shuddering on his cock, after you pressed your face against your chest to prevent yourself from showing any signs of how truly disgusted you were by the feeling of him filling you, after he placed hands on you, stroking your hair and running down your back while he kept his dick inside of you.

After composing yourself, you waited a few moments as you pretended that you were enjoying his touch before you lifted your head back up, catching his attention with a bright smile on your face.

“Want something to drink?” you asked sweetly.

Morel smiled back as he answered “sure.”

The satisfied look he had on his face while you left the bedroom made you wish you could punch him and have the hit actually hurt him. It pissed you off – the way he lay there with his hands behind his head, a picture of contentment, a feeling that he certainly didn't deserve to experience after he'd kidnapped you.

But as much as you wanted to hit him, escape was the better option for the long term. That was what you had told yourself as you entered the kitchen.

And when you pulled out two glasses and a carton of juice, you cast only a single nervous glance towards the bedroom before lifting up a paper towel roll and pulling out the small packet that you'd placed inside of it earlier. After filling up both glasses with juice, you opened the top of the packet that you'd constructed out of a spare piece of paper and emptied the contents into one of them.

When the concoction of crushed up sleeping pills and juice was thoroughly mixed together, you made your way back to the bedroom.

When you handed him the tampered juice, you didn't even look at him when he began to drink, too worried that even a single glance would be all he needed to realize that something was amiss. After months of sneaking around behind his back and grinding up those pills in secret, you couldn't let all of that work go down the drain because you couldn't act normal for a bit.

He ended up drinking a little over half of the glass you'd given him, and after you both set them on the small bedside table, Morel pulled you into his arms again, throwing the sheets back over the both of you as he made you cuddle with him.

“I really love you,” he murmured, “you know that, right?”

“I know,” you said, waiting a moment before you added “I love you, too.”

Your soft-spoken reciprocation of his feelings was enough to earn you a kiss as he pulled you up to lock his lips with yours. Just like everything else that night, you had forced yourself to go along with it, kissing him back gently. Somehow that show of love felt more disgusting than the way you had let him fuck you.

You pulled away from the kiss as you settled your head back onto his chest.

“I'm tired,” you murmured.

“Me too,” he answered, his hand going back up to stroke your hair while he added “we can continue in the morning.”

“I'd like that,” you told him.

Morel looked back at you again, smiling brightly as he took in what he perceived to be a content look on your face. With that, he reached over to turn off the light in the room, but he couldn't resist placing one last kiss to your forehead before he settled down for the night.

The man was capable of being so sweet and caring; he probably could've had any girl he wanted. So why the hell had he gone and kidnapped you?

It was a question you didn't think you were going to get an answer to, but hopefully it would be the last time you would lie in his bed thinking about it.

You couldn't say how much time passed before Morel was out of it completely. You only felt that the pills were taking their intended affect when you heard the sounds of his steady breathing and felt when his grip on you had loosened a bit.

After slowly inching your way out of his loosened grip and hitting the light switch, you stared at him. Morel didn't react when the lights came back on, and when you pushed at the arm that had been laying of you, it felt more limp and lifeless than you were expecting.

Still, better safe than sorry.

“Morel?” you spoke, your voice barely over a whisper.

No response.

When you tried again, at a volume that surely would have roused the sea hunter from the hold of sleep, your heart beat heavily against your chest as you saw no reaction.

It worked.

It worked it worked it worked it worked

Morel was in a deep sleep and he wouldn't be up for hours. Only hours, but still, it was the biggest head start you would ever get.

And as you stood from the bed to collect the things you would need when you returned to shore, the rest was history.

Even though something had gone wrong since you had ended up back here, you felt a small sense of pride upon revisiting your escape. You'd managed something that seemed like it should've been impossible, after all. And while before all of this had happened you probably would've been horrified at the thought of drugging someone with sleeping pills, things were different now. Morel deserved much worse than being knocked out soundly for several hours.

But after all of that, how had he caught you?

You closed your eyes as you tried to remember what had happened after.

Getting off the boat had been something of an ordeal, as the waters had been choppier than you had anticipated. But you had managed to get to shore using a life jacket and doggy paddling your way to the nearby shore. From there, you had walked along a road you had come across. You were slower than you would have liked due to how much of your energy had been spent escaping the boat, but the important thing was that you kept moving. Even as night turned to day and the sun slowly rose over the horizon, you kept walking, reminding yourself that every step you took was adding the distance between you and Morel, making the possibility of you being recaptured less and less likely.

Or so you had thought.

But how had that happened?

A friendly motorist had pulled up in front of you at one point, and upon seeing how exhausted you were, they had offered you a ride to a town that was several miles away. You had accepted, and subsequently fought to stay awake during the car ride as the passenger's seat felt like a godsend after the way your muscles ached from both the swimming and the walking. And after that……

You'd made it a few days away from him. By hitchhiking and sleeping when and where you could, you got further and further away from the shoreline that led to the open sea, further and further away from what you considered to be Morel's territory. You chose to approach friendly looking people who were driving away from that direction and avoided the police, worried that if you went to them with your story, they wouldn't believe you if you said that a Hunter had kidnapped you. Or maybe they would, but they would decide that it was better not to make an enemy of the Hunter's Association and instead deliver you back to him.

Regardless, you did pretty well for yourself, as to make it a few days running away from a Hunter as experienced as Morel was something to be at least a little proud of.

But that didn't matter now.

Somehow, he had caught you, and you could only guess that it had happened during a time where you had been sleeping, as you had no memory of him confronting or capturing you. You were caught and were now back in the place where you had started, and the chance of escaping a second time seemed like it would be impossible.

When you thought of that, you wanted to cry.

But you held back your tears. The soldier was still in the room with you, still watching you. You knew enough about Morel's smoke creatures to know that there was some sort of mental link that they shared, and Morel was no doubt watching you even now, keeping an eye on you even when he was away.

Things weren't going to be easy from here, but you could get away again. It would take time – even more time than you had taken to convince Morel that you were happy with him, but another opportunity for escape could happen again.

It needed to.

Your tumultuous thoughts were put to the side when you heard something other than the creaking of the boat and the lapping of the water:

The sound of the door that led to the outside being opened, followed by footsteps.

In an instant your eyes were open, and you were staring at the door to the bedroom as you heard the footsteps descending the small flight of stairs that led to the boat's interior, becoming louder as they came closer and closer to where you were.

You knew who it was. The soldier wasn't reacting and was keeping its gaze firmly on you. If the source of those footsteps had been anyone who wasn't meant to be there, the smoke creation would have been on them in an instant. The fact that it remained where it was told you that it could only be one person.

And when those footsteps stopped just in front of the door and you heard a familiarly deep voice sigh ever so slightly, it acted as a confirmation that you didn't really need, but you tried to steel yourself regardless.

The door to the bedroom opened, and in the doorway stood a single figure.

Morel.

A very upset-looking Morel whose frown only deepened when he saw the way you looked at him. Stepping in and closing the bedroom door with his foot, he walked forward until he was standing next to the bed, his hands in his pockets as he looked down at you. It was hard to tell where exactly his mind was with the way his sunglasses hid his eyes, but there was a very prominent sense of dread that was building up in the pit of your stomach.

You were in for it.

And since this was the furthest you had ever gone to try and get away from him, you were terrified at what sort of response he was going to have.

Agonizing moments of silence passed as you waited for him to speak, the only sound that you could hear being the waves that lapped against the side of the boat. He likely hadn't wasted any time in taking you back out into the open ocean once he got ahold of you again. And now after getting as close as you had in escaping him, it would be a long, long, long time before you would have even a remote chance of leaving again.

Then Morel spoke.

“You can be really unbelievable sometimes, you know.”

While the expression on his face remained impassive as he said that, the anger in his voice was undeniable. There was also no denying how tense his form was, the rage within him that was currently being restrained. In all of your time with him, you had never made him truly upset. You had annoyed him – you had caused him to snap at you when you begged him one too many times to let you go, but even in those instances, it would blow over quickly. He would push for you to apologize; when he got what he wanted he would apologize himself, and then he would move on from it, letting those small incidents go as he was more interested in obsessing over you.

This wasn't going to be one of those times.

Morel continued, “I'm not going to lie and say that I've been perfect during our time together, and I understand that you still have some reservations about all of this, but after all that we've been through, all of the progress that we've made – you really went and drugged me? You wanted to get away from me so badly that you went that far?”

You shouldn't say anything to him. Even if you were to apologize, it wouldn't be received well. He must've figured out that you had planned this far in advance, must've found the little paper envelope you had fashioned that had held the crushed up pills. He must've figured out that the entire reason you had asked for the sleeping pills was just so you could use them on him.

No amount of apologizing was going to make this any better for you, so it was smarter to stay silent.

Except you couldn't bring yourself to do that.

“I want to go home,” you muttered sadly, tears already starting to prick the edges of your eyes.

“You are home,” said Morel.

“No, I'm not,” you answered, “this place could never be a home for me. Not after you kidnapped me.”

He had the audacity to sound exasperated when he said “that again? I told you – it's for your own good. If I keep you here, you're guaranteed to be safe whether I'm around or not.”

“I didn't ask you to keep me safe. I didn't ask for any of this,” you protested.

“I know, and that was why I needed to take you, because you're so stubborn that nothing I said was going to convince you,” Morel said plainly, “I hate to say it, but you don't know what's best for yourself. That's why I needed to step in.”

That statement of his sent a red-hot rage flooding through you, and you clenched your hands into fists as you stared up at him in disbelief, daring him to continue to spout his nonsense justifications.

He did just that as he said “the world is a dangerous place, far more dangerous than you even know. I tried to leave you where you were for a bit – I really did, but it was a constant worry at the back of my head. I worried over you so much that it was affecting me when I was doing my job. I even slipped up a few times and got hurt because of it. And it's all because you're so weak and helpless. Anyone or anything could kill you without much effort. That was why I would get so distracted: if something like that happened while I was away and unable to protect you, I knew I'd never forgive myself.”

You hated that you could tell that he wasn't mocking you, not intentionally. The man genuinely saw you as some weak little thing that needed someone looking out for them, and he had brought it upon himself to take that role that he thought you needed.

Bastard

“So that's why I did what I did,” Morel continued, “and I'm not going to apologize for that. Not when all I want is to keep you safe.”

“….. Bullshit.”

You felt Morel's gaze grow darker as he stared at you, saying “what's that?”

“…. That explanation is bullshit and you know it. None of this is being done for my sake,” you said.

“Everything about this is being done for your sake.”

“No it's not. Even in that stupid explanation of yours, all you could focus on was the way you felt and what you wanted. You didn't like worrying over me because it affected you negatively, so you locked me up to put an end to that, because you couldn't be fucking normal and trust that I'd be okay. Because for someone like you, capturing a person and treating them like a pet is easier than respecting that person's autonomy. As long as you get what you want, nothing else matters, right?”

“Plus, keeping me as your pet came with the added benefit of you being able to fuck me whenever you wanted. Must be pretty good for someone who doesn't view others as being people,” you spat out.

Morel's mouth was set in a hard line and his jaw barely moved as he said “it's nothing like that.”

“How is it not?”

“I care about you.”

“You treat me like an object and you claim to care about me? Really?”

“That isn't true. I don't treat you like that.”

“You kidnapped me and locked me up,” you said.

“Because I'm protecting you,” he countered.

“You aren't!” you insisted, “you're just using that claim as an excuse to justify keeping me with you!”

“It's not an excuse. I love you.”

“Stop lying!”

You managed to get those words out with more force than even you were expecting, and it seemed to surprise Morel enough that he didn't speak while you said “there's no part of you that can genuinely love and care about me if the fact that I'm suffering in this place doesn't matter to you!”

“You're being taken care of. You're hardly suffering,” Morel scoffed.

“I am because I fucking hate this place! I've hated every minute I've needed to spend on this stupid boat and all I want is to leave! I hate being here and I hate being with you! Every time you touch me makes me want to vomit and I wish you'd drop dead already!”

“….. You don't mean that.”

His voice was low rumble when he said that, and even in your current state, you were able to sense something dangerous within his tone. Under different circumstances, you would've backed off, would've at the very least quieted down until you sensed that he was in a better mood.

But right now you were emotional and upset over being brought back to where you started and being stripped naked and tied up, and all you wanted was to let out all of the anger and resentment that had been building up during your time here.

“I mean it. This place could never be my home. Trapped on some fucking boat every day all day – why the hell would I ever choose to be here? To be with you?”

You spat out that last part on purpose, which caused his brows to pinch together as his expression only grew more grim.

“I've been good to you,” Morel had the audacity to say.

“You kidnapped me,” you countered.

“I don't know how many times you want me to say that it was for your own good,” he replied, “you weren't being cooperative and I wasn't going to take a chance of something happening to you while I was away. It was the only option I had to ensure your safety and happiness.”

“Fuck you!”

The angry words continued to spill from your mouth as you yelled at him.

“You're so focused on what you want that you've deluded yourself into thinking I could ever be happy in a place like this!” you shouted, “you keep me on this goddamn boat so you can have something to fuck whenever you're in the mood, and then you run off to do your Hunter shit while I'm locked away on a floating cage! Nothing about this situation will ever make me happy and you're never going to be anything to me other than the worthless creep who kidnapped me and forced himself on me even after I told you 'no'!”

You paused after that, breathing hard as you looked up at him while the adrenaline rushed through you. It felt good to say what you really thought. To lay everything out there as it truly was, to shatter his delusional way of looking at what he had done to you.

It all felt good until it didn't.

When your breathing began to even out, the cold reality of the situation set in. The reality being that no matter what verbal lashing you sent Morel's way, you were still incredibly vulnerable before him, tied down naked to the bed he had made you share with him while he stood above you, stiff as a statue and with a stormy expression on his face.

He could always kill you, a voice in your head spoke. With the boat likely being out in the middle of the ocean, he could tie you down to something heavy and drop you in the water, and you'd be long dead before anyone found your body, if they found it at all.

Would that be better than spending another day with Morel?

You weren't sure what the answer to that question was, because Morel finally moved, pulling his hands out of his pockets in order to undo the belt buckle at his front.

What's he doing?

Panic began to grow in you as you watched him pull the belt off without a word, sliding it through the loops of his pants before it was dangling in his hand while a look of grim determination had settled on Morel's face. The air around you felt different and that confidence fueled by your own anger had died out as you returned to being his terrified captive.

“Wh-what are you doing?” you made yourself ask.

Morel straightened up somewhat upon hearing your voice, looking back to you.

“Ah, right,” he said, more to himself than to you, as if he had forgotten something.

Handing the belt to the smoke soldier, Morel stepped towards the bed as he now reached for his tie, undoing the knotted fabric with deft fingers as he stared down at you.

“I'm going to need you to open your mouth,” he told you, “I don't want you biting your tongue on accident.”

Looking at his tie and then back at him, you asked “you're gonna gag me?”

“Yeah.”

With that, he reached out with the tie in hand as he attempted to force it into your mouth.

“No!”

You yelled loudly as you twisted your neck, once again struggling against your bindings as you tried to keep that bit of fabric out of your mouth.

“Stop fighting me,” Morel growled as he grabbed a hold of your hair.

“No!” you yelled again, still struggling even when you felt the grip he had on your hair become even more tight and painful.

The red fabric was being pressed against your lips as he tried to force it into your mouth, and even though you clamped your jaw shut in an effort to keep it out, you already felt the way he was prying your mouth open.

Was it really a good idea to keep doing this? Any resistance from this point would mean a slimmer chance of escape at a later time. If you kept fighting, you were looking at needing to play docile for him for a long, long while until he trusted you again. The smart choice would be to accept what he was doing in favor of having him be at least a little pleased with you over how you were submitting to him. Because if he was happy, then his guard could be dropped once again.

That was a mantra you had repeated to yourself for several months, and you knew that you should listen to it. It was the smarter decision.

“You're only making this worse for yourself.”

The sound of Morel's voice cut into your internal thoughts while he continued to try to force the tie into your mouth, and upon hearing the anger in his tone, the way he felt that you, the victim, were somehow in the wrong –

It enraged you.

With nothing else at your disposal, you turned your head to face him and spat on him.

The shock on the Sea Hunter's face was evident, his anger dissipating for a moment as he stared at you in disbelief, no doubt able to feel the bit of saliva that had landed on his cheek as it slowly ran down his skin and reached his jaw.

Truthfully, a part of you was also surprised at that action; you'd never done something like that before.

But no one had ever made you as angry as Morel had before this moment, either.

You weren't able to ponder that line of thought for long, because shortly after, Morel's shock shifted into anger, his brows narrowing into a glare as he wiped your spit off of his face with his sleeve.

“Open your goddamn mouth,” he ordered.

Your response was to clench your jaw shut while you glared at him.

By that point, Morel clearly had enough.

Taking both hands to your face, Morel's fingers forced their way into your lips as he pried your jaw open. His tie was forced inside in a similar manner, even when you tried to push it out with your tongue or when you bit at his teeth. Nothing you did slowed him down.

A few moments after that, he was securing a knot at the back of your head, leaving your mouth unable to close as the tie had been used to gag you.

You were still struggling to escape and Morel was still radiating rage as he stood to his full height, glowering down at you from above.

“I love you a lot. I really do,” he spoke, “but I have my limits, and today, you've pushed well past them.

The soldier stepped forward, holding out the belt for him while their gaze never left your form. Taking the belt without looking, Morel silently wrapped the end with the buckle around his right hand, holding it tightly with his fist once he was finished. With that, he looked back to you.

“I want you to know that I'm not going to take any sort of pleasure in this,” he told you, “but you haven't left me any choice. You've made it clear that if I want you to learn anything from this, then I need to go to the extreme.”

Your heart began to pound in your chest as he approached the bed once more, this time standing in front of your exposed backside. He…. He wasn't going to….. Was he?

When he pulled the belt taut with both hands, tears began to well up in your eyes as you shook your head at him while your pleas were muffled by the tie in your mouth.

Morel gave you one last look before he spoke again.

“You made me do this.”

And with that, he pulled his arm back and brought the belt down on your ass.

The first time, you didn't scream. In fact, it felt as though you fainted for a brief moment as your mind went blank from the pain and all that came out of your mouth was a brief gasp as it felt as though the air was being forced out of you.

It was when he brought the belt down a second time that you screamed into the gag.

Tears filled your vision and your entire body reacted as your limbs once again fought at the bindings, and when that didn't work, you found yourself trying to press into the mattress in a desperate effort to escape the way the belt struck your sensitive flesh over and over again. It didn't matter that Morel and his creation were right there and would never allow you to step foot off of the bed – you weren't thinking logically. You just needed to get away.

But despite your best efforts, the bindings remained strong while you remained helpless.

The belt came down again.

The searing pain that ripped through you caused the veins in your forehead to bulge out as you cried out, your voice quickly becoming hoarse from how hard you were screaming. Sweat was beading up on your forehead as well while adrenaline was pumping through you, only adding to your efforts to escape from him.

It was just as useless as it had been every other time you tried to break free; there was no sign of the bindings loosening even slightly.

A pattern was beginning to emerge as he brought the belt down once more.

And then again.

And again.

And again.

The areas on your ass and upper thighs were soon all aching, every inch suffering from the force of his hits. With no more free skin to mark up, Morel began to hit you in the spots that had already been attacked.

The pain in those areas became worse the second time around.

You had long since lost count of how many times he'd hit you. You were only able to note when you felt your skin beginning to tear and you felt something liquid and warm dripping down from both your sides and the apex of your thighs.

You were bleeding, you realized. He was hitting you so hard that you were bleeding.

And he didn't care, as you felt the leather come back down on your aching skin and cause the pain to bloom in your body yet again.

Morel continued in a steady rhythm; he would hit you, pull back, wait a few seconds and then bring the belt back down.

Again and again.

Over and over.

No end in sight.

The sound of the belt moving through the air was seared into your brain. As was the sound it made when it came into contact with your flesh. The same could be said for Morel's determined grunts as he made sure not to go easy on you. Those sounds would likely stay in your mind forever and visit you with every nightmare.

And as for the pain……

All you could do was hope the memory of that would fade with time.

You were conscious for far too long. At a certain point you weren't really able to think. All you knew was the cycle of pain Morel was putting you through as the thick leather continued to come down on your damaged skin, making your wounds even worse in the process. You managed to be vaguely aware of the blood that decorated the sheets beneath and around your pelvis, just as you were vaguely aware of the spatters of blood that had managed to get onto the ceiling above you, flying off of the belt from the momentum of Morel's swings.

After enduring all of that for however long it truly lasted, it was a mercy when you finally passed out.

When you awoke, it was to a stinging sensation as something was being lathered on your rear. While not as bad as the pain you had gone through at Morel's hands, it was enough to wake you up, making you struggle again against the bindings you had fought so desperately against during the lashing. You were simply reacting again, the not-logical part of your brain trying to get away from what it knew to be a bad situation.

A cold hand came down to smack you on your injured flesh, causing you to shout in pain once again.

That woke you fully.

A glance over your shoulder revealed it to be the soldier that had hit you. They stared at you for a moment, as if warning you against fighting any further. When they were satisfied that you wouldn't, it went back to what it had been doing: tending to your wounds.

You strained your neck to see just how that part of you looked.

That was a mistake.

The skin of your ass and the upper parts of your thighs were covered both with bruises and bloody open wounds that stretched across your skin, some of which looked deep enough that you feared there would be permanent scarring. It would definitely be a long time before you would be able to sit down comfortably.

The sight caused the tears to well up in your eyes once again, and now without the gag in place to muffle your cries, you openly sobbed into the surface of the pillow. Your throat hurt, but you couldn't help it – what had happened to you was monstrous.

And Morel didn't care.

He had done all of that to you without remorse. He'd had the nerve to blame you for it before he'd gone through with the barbaric act, all because he wanted to teach you a fucked-up lesson.

In the midst of your sobbing, you glanced over your shoulder again, this time to glare at the soldier.

“I'll never forgive you,” you choked out between your scratchy sobs.

The soldier paused in their actions, turning their blank gaze over to you once again.

Morel was listening in. He needed to be.

“I'll never forgive you,” you repeated.

There was no verbal response from the soldier.

Instead, they spread more of the disinfectant that caused you to wake up, once again without an ounce of care, and your cries of pain echoed against the walls for what must have been the hundredth time that day.

The feeling that had been behind your fierce deceleration felt as though it was wavering. Whether or not your resolve had faltered too soon or too late was impossible to tell, as you couldn't tell just how long you had remained in your current state.

In the days following your horrible ordeal, you had been left with your limbs still tied to the bed. Every day of every hour, those bindings remained wrapped tight around your wrists and ankles, keeping you attached firmly without even the slightest bit of wiggle room, your arms and legs permanently stretched out. The only reprieve you got from that was when the soldier would allow you to use the bathroom, and at the beginning, it felt more like a punishment at first. As you had expected, sitting down was painful, and there were several times you returned to the bedroom a crying mess.

Every ounce of pain that ran through you only reminded you of what you had been through – what Morel had done to you.

At first, the anger from that brutal act only strengthened your resolve. How could he do this to you? How could he do such things and still claim to love you? He was a monster. You spat that out a few times, both at his creation and at him during the times he entered the bedroom. Morel ignored you and the soldier remained ever silent. When your words didn't draw any reaction, you went silent as well and kept your gaze averted whenever Morel entered the room for a fresh change of clothes. If he was going to ignore you, you could do the same.

You even told yourself that you were happy that he wasn't touching you, that it was better this way. For once, you were free from his incessant touch, his demanding need for you to give him the sweet kisses and the soft embraces that you had come to know that he craved from you. While his presence in the form of the soldier was still overwhelming, you told yourself that you had won if just for that fact alone.

At first all of it was easy.

As if the fact that he had kidnapped you wasn't enough, the pain that started in your backside that ran through you every time you sat down and the humiliation that came with every day you woke up tied to the bed reminded you of why you could never forgive him.

He was a monster and a brute who had done so many awful things to you that you felt there wasn't a good enough punishment for him to go through in order to make up what he'd put you through.

You would never forgive him.

But after what must have been weeks with nothing to do but listen to your own thoughts while you stayed firmly attached to the bed and listened to the endless creaking of the boat as it rocked back and forth, you found that it was harder to hold onto that rage.

And part of you felt pathetic for that fact.

There was only so much to focus on in that small area, only so much you could do while you were tied down. You weren't even allowed to feed yourself as the soldier was the one to do that, feeding you like you were an animal, and there was nothing you could do about it. If you tried to fight, they would take the meal away, a clear sign that told you if you wouldn't behave, then you wouldn't eat. After going several days with only being offered water, your desire to act up during mealtimes died down so as to ease the growing ache in your empty stomach.

Even then, the meals that were being offered were meager, but they were all you were allowed to have. That, combined with the little bits of movement you were allowed every day which caused your muscles to weaken, had your strength ebbing away bit by bit while your mind was having a hard time coping with the isolation and the minimal stimulation your brain was getting from the stagnant environment.

Your thoughts became less angry and more dismal. At first you were consumed by memories of your life before all of this, of what things had been like before Morel had torn you away from everything you knew. A life with family, friends, a dating life that could've been better and a job that you had really grown to enjoy, even if there was that one coworker who had a bad habit of oversharing everything. It wasn't perfect, but it was good, and it was mostly all you wanted.

And even if things could've been better, Morel didn't have any right to take you away from that.

Those times with your loved ones felt like a million years ago now, and more than once you found yourself crying tears of rage over how all of that was lost. All because of Morel's selfishness.

Thoughts like those had your resolve strengthening somewhat, and yet, it didn't feel like it lasted long. You were just so tired. You couldn't tell how many days had passed since all of this had started, even with your best efforts to try and count the meals you had gotten or the times that Morel entered the room.

He must have been sleeping on the couch in the main area of the boat, you thought to yourself.

What was the point in that?

Why wasn't he all over you? Why hadn't he nursed you back to health himself?

What was his endgame?

….. Was he tired of you?

“Are you going to kill me?” you asked him one day, your voice croaking out the question due to how little you had spoken.

Morel again ignored you, and nothing in his actions indicated that he was in any way affected by your question. His ever present soldier remained where they were, and there wasn't any change in their treatment of you after you asked that.

It should have angered you. That after having the audacity to kidnap you, he would then pretend as though you didn't exist.

But by the time you asked that question, you felt weak in both body and spirit as the true toll of the situation had begun to hit you fully.

It wasn't right.

Nothing about this was right.

But things were nicer when Morel was happy with you.

Even if it had all been driven by his own selfishness, having him hold you was better than the bindings that held you down. Having him regale you with stories of his adventures on the seas was nicer than the way he wouldn't even look at you.

And the feeling of his lips on yours was a better feeling than his belt hitting your ass repeatedly until you were bleeding.

As what must have been weeks slowly but surely passed, you found yourself wishing to go back to before the night of your escape. Back when things were good between you and your kidnapper. Back when he treated you softly and held you close in a way that felt secure.

That's stupid. He kidnapped you, you told yourself. You really think anything about that was good?

But another part of you didn't care. Things had been better before you escaped, and you didn't want this existence anymore.

You wanted to take it all back.

Your resolve to not forgive or speak to him broke soon after that, and for the first time in a long while, you tried to make conversation for the sake of your own sanity. You offered up apologies in between pleas for him to say something to you.

Morel didn't acknowledge your request.

Morel didn't acknowledge you at all.

That night you broke down sobbing as you feared that nothing about this could ever be fixed and that your current state was going to be the rest of your life.

Standing in the corner, the soldier watched you impassively.

Sometime later, there was a change in the awful routine you'd been forced into.

That evening, Morel came into the bedroom as he always did, and you anticipated that he would grab his nighttime clothes and immediately head back out without sparing you a second glance, as was typical.

Morel didn't do that, however.

Instead you were caught off-guard when he approached you, standing at the spot at the top of the bed and reaching out to grab at the bindings. He was untying them, you quickly realized. Your eyes widened as his calloused fingers undid the bindings around one wrist, loosening it until he was able to slip your hand out of the fabric before he turned his attention to the other.

What was happening?

Your heart pounded in your chest as you laid there silently, unwilling to do anything without his explicit permission for fear of Morel changing his mind and tying you back up again. When he had finished with your wrists and walked down to undo your ankles, you remained where you were, not even daring to push yourself up to look at him.

He would tell you when to move.

Which he did, though not verbally. Once he had finished freeing you completely, the Sea Hunter grabbed you by your arm and hauled you up to your feet, and without giving you even a second to recover from the way you had abruptly changed positions, Morel began to drag you out of the bedroom.

You had no choice but to comply, following behind him on unsteady feet while you tried not to bump into either him, the doorway or the walls. With one last glance back you saw the soldier following behind you, their eyes trained on you as always.

Once more you asked yourself what was happening, but you were still unwilling to ask that question aloud.

Morel pulled you into the main area of the boat, a room that you hadn't been in since the night you escaped. Your eyes went to the part of the kitchen, finding the exact spot where you had been standing when you had tampered with the juice you had given him. Where you had, in his mind, betrayed him to the worst degree.

Upon reliving that memory, you felt a pain in your rear. The marks from the way he had beaten you came alive on your skin. It was probably just stress pain, as your wounds had long since healed up. But that didn't make the ache lessen in any way. Nor did your nerves calm down as Morel dragged you towards the couch.

After he had settled down, Morel pulled you onto his lap after, his hands holding onto your hips while he stared at you. He still wasn't saying anything, so you followed his lead and remained silent as you stared back nervously. Feeling awkward, you ended up using your hands to steady yourself on his shoulders.

He remained silent.

The smoke soldier remained as a constant presence at the doorway.

And you remained tense, your muscles coiled up as you waited for something to happen. But you could only wait for Morel to say or do something.

Because something was going to happen; you were sure of it. Whether it would be good or bad for you remained to be seen.

You kept your hands on his shoulders, your fingers clenching and unclenching at the fabric of his shirt while you waited for him to speak to you, to explain what was going on. Maybe things would go back to normal? After everything you'd been through now, you wanted to go back to the way it was before you had run. Because even if you hated being his captive, even if he still used you how he wanted with little regard for your own feelings, at least there was a semblance of love to be found. Morel was gentle with you, he was kind to you. He went out of his way to do things for you that he thought you would like, would surprise you with little gifts that he felt suited you, or he'd cook you meals that he knew were your favorites.

That version of Morel, the one that doted on you and held you softly, was nowhere to be found. Instead, the man whose lap you were sitting on only continued to stare at you coldly, his mouth still set in a frown and and his eyes watching you from behind his sunglasses.

You didn't want to speak. Doing that felt like a bad idea, like all you would do was earn another round of punishment for yourself if you dared to do or say anything without his express permission. Waiting for his command was the smarter option, the safer option.

So you sat, still staring at him with uncertainty while you were unable to help the way you squirmed beneath his gaze.

Then Morel once again broke the silence, not with words but with action, as he moved his hands away from your hips, leaving you to hold yourself up on your own as he began to undo the buckle of his belt.

Seeing that had your heart rate increase on seeing that.

Was he going to hurt you again? Why? Had you done something else wrong? Or was this simply a continuation of your punishment?

Every part of you wanted to run and barricade yourself in the bedroom, but you made yourself stay still as you stared on helplessly. Running would only make it worse, you told yourself. Just stay still.

Even when he pulled the belt out of the loops of his pants and gripped it in one hand, you forced yourself to stay where you were.

Still remaining silent, Morel placed the belt next to him on the couch as he reached down for the button and zipper of his pants, the sound of the zipper teeth pulling open echoing loudly in your head.

You made yourself sit there, even when he shoved his pants and boxers down in order to pull out his semi-hard length.

Then, for the first time in a long, long time, Morel spoke to you.

“Touch it,” he ordered.

“……”

Somehow it hadn't been obvious when he was undoing his pants of what he wanted. Even though you were staring at him the entire time, your mind hadn't truly been taking in what was happening. As such, you found yourself shocked at the order, and you couldn't help but open your mouth as you began to form a question.

“T-touch-?”

“Did I say you could speak?”

You snapped your mouth shut, fearful of angering him. Again.

Morel stared down at you through the lens' of his sunglasses, waiting impatiently for you to do as he had told you while also having no concern for your distress that was once more slowly building as you remained still on top of his lap.

“I'm not going to repeat myself,” Morel told you.

His words brought you out of your stupor. If you didn't do what he wanted, he'd give you back to the soldier and make them tie you up to that bed, wouldn't he? You would only see him in passing and all you would have was the creature made up from his abilities. Always by your side. Always impersonal, never offering any sort of kind or loving touch.

Letting out a shuddering breath, you pulled one of your hands off of his shoulders and placed it on his cock, wrapping your fingers around his length. Then you began to stroke him.

The interior of the boat was quiet as you ran your palm up and down his dick, and the air around you felt stuffy. Dense. Like you were slowly being suffocated. You took in a big gulp of air as you increased your pace, trying your best to put your all into pleasing him despite how tired your muscles felt already.

Maybe he would appreciate that.

Maybe this could be the first step in him forgiving you.

You don't need forgiveness from him. He kidnapped you.

Shaking those thoughts away, you continued, watching as his cock hardened until it stood erect in your palm, a bead of precum sitting at the tip as you worked him over, bringing your other hand down in order to use both on him.

You must be doing something right, otherwise he wouldn't be aroused like this. Even if the setting still felt suffocating to you and not arousing in the slightest. The air still felt heavy and grim.

Maybe he likes seeing you at his mercy.

…… You didn't like that thought, and you again banished it from your mind as you continued, determined to keep your focus solely on pleasing him. All the while Morel sat there with his arms crossed over his chest as he stared at you.

It sure didn't feel like he was enjoying this. It felt like he was still pissed off at you.

Just don't hurt me again, you begged silently. You can lock me back up, but don't hurt me anymore.

By that point your hands were becoming slick as you kept rubbing them up and down Morel's length. His precum was dripping down from the tip of his cock, and the stickiness was getting in the areas between your fingers as you rubbed him harder. You focused your touch on the veins that ran along his cock, areas that you remembered were sensitive, areas that you hoped were having the same effect on him.

But it was impossible to tell with the way he kept staring at you.

“Stop.”

Your hands stilled as soon as he spoke, and you stared up at him nervously,

“How wet are you?” he demanded to know.

You blinked.

“Um…..”

You didn't want to answer, because you didn't feel aroused at all and you felt worried that he'd be upset by that.

It turned out that you didn't need to answer as he sighed, saying “I should've figured.”

He sounded annoyed.

Feeling compelled to apologize, you opened your mouth to do just that, but you stopped, remembering how he didn't like it when you tried to speak earlier. So your shut your mouth yet again as you waited for him to speak once more.

“Whatever. You'll ride me anyway.”

Then Morel's hands were on your hips again, and he hoisted you up so you were on your knees above his length. He then readjusted his grip so he was holding onto the globes of your ass while the tip of his cock brushed against your pussy lips.

And then he held you there, waiting for you to sink down onto him, regardless of whether you were ready for him or not.

I don't want this, you thought to yourself as you stared down between your legs, at the cock that you didn't feel prepared for.

I don't want this at all.

Morel's fingers gripped tighter on your ass and this time, the pain that ran through you wasn't an echo of what he had done to you that night when he caught you.

What you wanted didn't matter right now.

So you squeezed your eyes shut as you lowered yourself down.

It hurt.

The stretch felt like too much and you wanted to pull off of him, but you forced yourself to go down further and further. Tears were now pricking at the edges of your eyes and your knuckles had paled from how hard you were gripping at his shirt, but you didn't stop or pull away even when your senses were screaming at you to do so.

At least it's not as bad as the belt.

Thinking that helped a little bit.

You were able to sink down to about the middle of his cock when you paused, taking in a deep breath before you began to pull upward, waiting until his head was all that was inside of you and then sinking back down again. Morel didn't make any indication that he objected, so he must have been pleased.

Except he still didn't show any signs that he was enjoying this.

He still seemed angry.

So you continued with uncertainty, still feeling fearful even as the stretch became more comfortable and you were able to take in more of him until you were able to hilt him inside of you fully. Even when you were able to move faster as you bounced on top of him, nothing about it felt like things between the two of you were mending.

And evidently what you were doing wasn't enough, because Morel took it upon himself to force you to go faster.

Grabbing you by your hips, the Sea Hunter began to move you, plunging you up and down on his length at a pace that you weren't capable of in your current weak state. The room was soon filled with the sounds of your bare thighs hitting his legs while you let out pained groans and sudden shrieks whenever he handled you a bit too roughly, and all you could do was hold onto him for dear life.

Morel wouldn't have done that before.

He had always been attuned to your discomfort, being able to sense when something was wrong and stopping before you would get the chance to tell him to. He'd even agreed to you saying 'no' to certain acts when you cited that they made you uncomfortable. And even when he was lost in a haze of lust, he was never so lost that he continued to seek his pleasure without thinking of you and his desire to make you happy.

You hadn't thought of it before. You had been too focused on using sex to get him to lower his guard to realize how nice he was being to you. The man was so sweet and caring; he probably could've had any girl he wanted, and he picked you.

And how had you repaid him?

And could things ever go back to normal?

“I'm sorry.”

You breathed out those words, and immediately, Morel came to a stop, his hands still gripping your hips hard and his cock still buried in your cunt. You felt their gazes on you, of both himself and the smoke soldier that had stayed in the doorway. Tears began to run down your cheeks as you began to sob out more apologies, your voice becoming more and more choked with every syllable you forced out.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

You couldn't tell how your many apologies were being received – even if your vision wasn't blurry with tears, you couldn't bring yourself to look at him. For some reason, you felt ashamed, and it was all you could do to keep yourself upright while you forced more apologies to fall from your mouth.

“I'm sorry.”

The boat creaked as it moved against the waves.

“I'm sorry.”

The soldier's gaze remained ever present on your back.

“I'm sorry.”

Morel still said nothing while you sobbed on top of him.

The next apology of yours caught in your throat, and though you were unable to speak, you clenched your fingers tighter on his shirt, hoping that he would still understand what you wanted to say, how remorseful you truly were over your actions.

If we could just go back to the way things were, I'd be fine.

You weren't able to process how wrong that thought of yours was.

Because Morel chose then to respond.

Lifting one large hand to cup your cheek gently, Morel moved your head up so you were looking at him. And with a gentleness that you hadn't felt since the night you ran away, he brushed away the tears on your cheek as he murmured to you softly.

“Shh. Don't cry,” he said to you.

That just made your tears flow harder, and you couldn't help but grab at the hand on your cheek with your own, pressing his palm against your skin in the hopes that he wouldn't pull away. Not that you would be able to stop him if he really wanted to let go, but your desperation for his soft, gentle touch drove you to try anyway.

You felt elation when Morel not only chose not to pull away, but went and wrapped his other arm around you as he pulled you in, holding you close to his chest. Immediately, you wrapped your arms around him in response, nuzzling your face against him. When was the last time he had held you like this? The night of your escape? Regardless, it felt like it had been years since the last time this had happened, and you didn't want to let him go.

Morel sighed as he buried his face in your hair.

“I'm really happy to hear you say that. I was worried you would never come around,” he said softly, “I don't know what I would do if you stayed that way. If you still couldn't see things from my point of view.”

Morel moved his hand to the back of your head in order to stroke your hair as he continued “it's been a tough few weeks, and I know I wasn't good to you during that time, but it was necessary. You get that, right?”

You nodded.

Morel let out a sigh of relief as he said “that's good. I'm glad you understand.”

His other hand began to run up and down your back as he said “and I hope you'll also understand why we can't immediately go back to the way things were. I'll need to keep you on a bit of a leash for a while. That means you can only go topside when I say so, and I'm going to keep using my ability to watch over you.”

“But it won't be forever,” he added, “just until we've rebuilt the bridge between us completely. Understand?”

You nodded again as you let out a soft “I understand.”

He sniffled when you said that, which caught you off-guard.

When you pulled your head back up to look at him, you were surprised by what you saw:

He was crying.

Moments ago he'd been glaring at you; he hadn't allowed for any other emotion other than anger. But now…… Now tears were streaming down his face as he looked at you with an expression of sheer relief.

“Good. That's good, sweetheart,” he said, leaning down to place a kiss on your head. He then held you tightly, his tears landing in your hair as he declared “these last few weeks have been hell for both of us, but we're going to come out of it stronger, I know it.”

You hummed in agreement as you nodded, reciprocating his embrace as you held him back.

This isn't right, a small voice at the back of your head protested. How could things have been hell for him? How could he hurt you over and over and say that he was affected negatively by it? How could he have the gall to make it seem as though he had also suffered?

Shut up, you told yourself. Just shut up and stay quiet. He wants to love you now, so take it.

The alternative is being tied to the bed.

You held him tighter, your shoulders trembling slightly from the warring emotions within yourself.

Morel noticed as he asked “what's wrong?”

You shook your head.

“I just missed this,” you answered softly.

On hearing that, a soft smile graced Morel's face.

“I did too,” he admitted, taking a brief moment to wipe at his tears with his sleeve.

When he then moved your chin up in order to pull you in for a kiss, you didn't protest.

The smoke creation of his that had been a constant presence dissipated as Morel began to readjust you, slowly moving you so you were laying back on the couch, his cock buried in you the whole time as he took his place above you. He pulled away from your lips in favor of covering your neck with kisses as he gently caressed your sides with soft strokes that soothed you. Your hands came up to grasp at his shirt again, to which he chuckled.

Taking one of your hands into his, he kissed your fingers before asking “are you ready?”

You nodded.

Morel began to thrust into you once more. This time, his movements were softer, not as forceful as moments ago when he had been taking what he wanted from you. The stark contrast to the change forced a sob to escape your throat, to which Morel shushed you gently as he wiped away the remainder of your tears.

Then he pulled away and pressed his face into the crook of your neck, sighing contentedly.

“Welcome home,” Morel whispered.

Bad Decisions

was meant to be a drabble inspired by the opening of It Follows and it turned into something a lot longer than I expected sorry if it’s trash

Warnings: kidnapping, noncon, dubcon, death

The waves of the ocean lazily lapped at the sandy shore, the water hitting you every time the tide came in. The stereotypical image of a beach that had crossed your mind when you’d thought of this destination, one of a deep blue sea on golden sands, was nowhere to be found. Instead, the waves were black, reflecting the dark, empty sky above. The only light source in your vicinity was that of the car parked behind you, keys left in the ignition so you could keep the headlights on. You sat in the middle of that spotlight, hugging your knees to your chest as the water continued to hit you, soaking your feet and the seat of your shorts, leaving the fabric feeling cold and heavy on your body.

It was as though the waves were trying to pull you in, to take you into the abyss that sat before you, where you could disappear into its depths and never be found again.

The waves came rushing up, hitting you once more and then pulling away, tempting you with the same offer as they had been since you arrived.

“You’re wrong,” you whispered, “he’d still find me.”

Keep reading

Title: Negligence.

Pairing: Yan!Geto Suguru x Reader x Yan!Gojo Satoru (JJK).

A Continuation of Nursle.

Word Count: 9.0k.

TW: Dub/Con - Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Unhealthy Relationships, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Kidnapping, Mentions of Pregnancy/Childbirth, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Lactation, Geto and Gojo Have Their Own Thing Going On That Is Entirely Separate From The Events of This Fic, and Age Gaps. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

[Part One] [Part Two]

Suguru wouldn’t let you hold Himari.

You’d offered to as he led you out of Suguru’s apartment, reached for her instinctively as he gently urged you into the passenger seat of a familiar black car, but Suguru was in a fugue state – eyes glassy, voice softened and tempered, a glazed smile painted over his lips. He kept Himari pressed against his shoulder, and then, when she started to stir, in his lap, bouncing idly on his knee as he drove. It was dangerous – for Himari and for you. You were tempted to tell him that, to insist on holding the daughter that wasn’t supposed to belong to him, but then you remembered that he was a cult leader and a kidnapper and a murderer and you kept your mouth shut.

Instead, you kept your hands tucked between your thighs and your eyes focused on the passing landscape, on Tokyo as it dwindled from skyscrapers to rustic storefronts to backwoods. You thought of Megumi, first, surprisingly. Even if he didn’t spend the night with Satoru, he’d notice if you weren’t in class, tomorrow. He’d be worried.

You wondered if Nanako and Mimiko had been worried when they suddenly couldn’t find you in Suguru’s bedroom, where you’d spent the days following Himari’s birth recovering, when you stopped appearing at Suguru’s temple with a folder of worksheets and enough candy to keep two girls under ten engaged for a full ninety minutes. You wondered how Suguru explained your absence, if he bothered to explain it at all. You wondered how long they’d hold it against you.

It was getting dark by the time you left the city entirely. With the setting sun to your backs, Suguru slipped onto a deserted seaside road and, still in that gentle tone, broke the silence. “Was it different?” And then, as Himari sniffled, “With him, I mean. Different than it was for us.”

It took you a moment to realize that he was talking, another to recognize that you were supposed to answer. It was less that you were lost in thought and more that you were lost in the absence of it – your mind a vague, cloudy haze of static and fog and every other grey, disembodied, terrible thing that could seep its way into your consciousness and leave you entirely blank, entirely numb. It was all you could do to remember how to open your mouth, let alone piece an intelligent response together. “With Satoru?”

“Satoru,” Suguru repeated, almost disdainfully. “It took you months to call by my given name.”

You couldn’t deny that, although part of you was tempted to try. Because it was true. Because it had.

Because it was different – or, it had been, at least. Things had moved so quickly, with Satoru. He’d gone from a stranger to a stalker to something not totally unlike a partner in a handful of hours, and you’d watched it all from a distance, never fully able to shake that strange sense of liminality. He was rich, and stable, and he’d never suggested that you quit your job or attempted to lock you up in his mansion of an apartment, as trapped as you’d felt. He’d raped you, but you couldn’t say you believed Suguru wouldn’t have, had you not been so terrified of what would happen if you ever tried to remove any part of yourself from his control. You knew, rationally, that they had to be around the same age, that Satoru shared every quirk and every immaturity that’d once made you disgusted to so much consider Suguru in a romantic light, but it was different. When you first met Satoru, you’d seen him as a parent, a provider, a man who wanted to raise your daughter (albeit, with or without your consent). When you first met Suguru, you’d seen him as a boy who fell asleep in temple gardens and pretended not to be as scared as he really was, and if you were being entirely honest with yourself, you’d never really been able to stop seeing him that way.  

Suguru clicked his tongue. He still wanted an answer, but it was all you could do to shrug, to let your gaze drift back to the passing landscape. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “I don’t think I would’ve wanted to marry him either, if he’d asked me to.”

You heard Suguru shift, the engine rev. He started to say something, but a shrill, ear-piercing, howl of a cry cut him off. You didn’t need to check to know it was Himari, and to know why.

“She’s hungry.” You spoke without thinking, snapping toward your daughter. You’d been on your way to feed her when you found Suguru next to her cradle, meaning she was already more than an hour past due. Himari didn’t cry often, but when she did, it was usually for a good reason. Yet another trait that must’ve come from Suguru – had she taken more closely after you, she might not have done anything but cry.

Something crossed across Suguru’s expression; a flash of irritation, a spark of anger, but nothing more violent, nothing lasting. He cooled back into stoic neutrality as one of his hands fell away from the wheel and to the back of your daughter’s onesie – lifting her out of her lap and depositing her unceremoniously in your arms, his eyes never leaving the road. “Can you take care of it?”

It. You had to dig your teeth into the side of your tongue just to stop from saying something you’d regret, from telling him not to talk about your daughter like some unfeeling, inanimate object, not to talk about her at all. You were in a car with a murderer, and you couldn’t forget that just because of some misplaced, motherly paranoia.

Instead, you looked around for a jacket, a blanket, something to cover yourself with, and when you found the car utterly and entirely barren, you settled for turning away from him and struggling the sleeve of your dress off of your shoulder. You went through the motions mechanically, automatically – cooing and running your fingers through Himari’s soft hair as she latched on, little hands grasping the scrunched fabric of your dress as she practically fed herself. You preferred formula, especially with Satoru breathing down your neck, but you didn’t have much of a choice.

A minute passed in relative silence, Himari’s crying slowly fading back into her usual incoherent, but relatively cheerful babbling. Eventually, her little eyes fluttered shut, and you pulled her away, holding her against your shoulder as she fell asleep. When she’d gone quiet, Suguru glanced toward you out of the corner of his eye. You saw him stiffen, straighten, then felt the car veer off the road and come to an abrupt, jeering stop.

You held Himari that much closer as Suguru let himself out. He took his time – his fingertips brushing over the hood as he made his way to your side of the vehicle, opening your door and nodding to the side. “You can leave her on the seat. I promise, I’ll try to be fast.”

You clung to Himari, who shifted restlessly against you. “You really can’t leave newborns unattended, she might—”

“I’ll be fast.” That smile was back in full force, albeit cast in shadow by the quickly dimming light. “I’ve missed you.”

You didn’t want to, but he was using that tone, again – the one that meant he was already running out of patience. Leaving Himari tucked against the backrest, you let Suguru take your hand and pull you out of your seat. No sooner were you on your feet than the door was slammed shut behind you, then Suguru’s hands were on your waist, pinning you against the side of the car. The heat of the dark metal sapped into your back, your shoulders as Suguru’s mouth found its way to the side of your neck, the crook. “I’ve missed you,” he repeated, his voice airy, edging on desperation. “I thought something happened to you. You were gone, and I couldn’t find her, and I thought someone must’ve taken you, or—”

His voice cut out. He didn’t draw back, but one of his hands fell away from your waist, reappearing on the neckline of your dress. His movements were hasty, rushed, like he couldn’t tear the fabric off of your shoulders and down your chest quickly enough. You weren’t wearing a bra, but even if you had been, you doubt it would’ve been much more of a barrier. A chilled sea breeze washed over your exposed chest as Suguru’s mouth fell from your throat to your collarbone, and then to the curve of your breast, lingering. “Wanted to do this since you got pregnant,” he muttered, as something heavy and spiked dropped from your diaphragm to the pit of your stomach. “Held off for the baby, but she’s had more than enough time with you.”

For a brief moment, every intelligent part of your mind seemed to slow, stall, then stop altogether. You opened your mouth, ready to ask what he meant, but unfortunately, you weren’t given the chance to be so painfully oblivious.

Suguru’s lips latched onto your left nipple, and anything you might’ve said was replaced with a hitched whimper.

He was rougher than he really had to be, than his daughter had ever been. The only thing you could think to compare him to, deservedly, was Satoru; just as forceful, just as loud, just as sickeningly eager. The only difference was his tempo. Satoru had always been too giddy not to rush, eager to steal a kiss before you left for work or wake you up with a hand lodged between your thighs, but Suguru seemed content to act as if he had all the time in the world, as if you were somewhere more private than the shoulder of a public road. The flat of his tongue lulled over your nipple as he drank, his free hand coming up to paw at your other breast in almost meditative patterns. You tried to shut your eyes, to block out the wet sounds of his lips working against your skin, but as routine as it was supposed to be, there was little you could do not to hear an occasional, satisfied grunt, not to feel a certain amount of relief as the pressure you’d learned to ignore began to dissipate. His teeth grazed against your skin, and reflexively, your hand found the back of his head, nails biting into his scalp. Rather than pull away, Suguru seemed to purr – the noise deep and throaty, reverberating against you as he leaned that much closer, as he shifted and you felt something stiff press into your thigh. Don’t think about it, you forced yourself to chant in the back of your mind, trying to remember all the age-old coping mechanisms you’d used when you were with him, all the coping mechanisms you’d forgotten after realizing that they wouldn’t work on someone as unpredictable as Satoru. You couldn’t think about it. You couldn’t put a name to it. You couldn’t acknowledge that sucking on chest was in any way connected to the hard, pulsing cock pressing into your—

But you didn’t have a choice. Suguru gasped, his breath hitching, and then he was drawing away from you, his forehead resting against your collarbone as a hand fell to the waistband of his jeans, freeing his cock – already stiff, already leaking into his palm. “I missed you.” You’d lost track of how many times he’d repeated the same meaningless phrase, but this time, his voice shook, misery seeping out from each fractured syllable. You might’ve felt more pity, but any sympathy you might’ve been able to feel for him was quickly drowned out by the material of your skirt being gathered in handfuls at your waist, his cock finding its way between your plush thighs. His larger body kept yours in place as he rutted against you, his open mouth leaking drool and milk and all the other ungodly things you could imagine onto your chest. It was embarrassing, really – just how tightly you kept your eyes shut, like a child walking through their first haunted house. Like all the bad things in the world would go away just because you couldn’t see them. “For weeks, I couldn’t—I didn’t know where you were, I thought—”

His form jolted against yours. You felt it – a sudden, liquid heat against your thighs, a sudden tension where Suguru’s chest pressed into yours – at the same time you felt the first tear fall, searing your skin where it made contact. There was another, then yet another, before you finally realized what was happening.

Suguru was crying.

Huh.

He’d never done that, before.

Finally, you forced yourself to open your eyes. Rather than attempting to look at Suguru, to see if his shoulders were shaking as violently as it felt like they were, your gaze moved outward, first to the bay, then to the sky – as black as spilled ink, now that the last traces of light had faded. As black as Suguru’s eyes.

You carded your fingers through his hair as he cried silently into your shoulder, never making a sound. Minutes passed before he spoke again, but you let him be the one to break the silence. “I don’t get it.” You hummed, and he went on. “I don’t understand why you didn’t try to leave him, too.”

“I might’ve, eventually. If I’d had more time.”

“But you didn’t.” His blunt nails bit into your waist with enough force to sting, but you didn’t say anything. “I don’t understand why you didn’t.”

You didn’t try to answer.

~

Suguru stopped at a gas station to clean himself up. You stayed in the car, clutching Himari to your chest, attempting not to flinch as her tiny hands pulled at your hair and grabbed at your skirt – searching for something to do, to entertain herself with. The rest of the drive passed in relative silence. Suguru didn’t try to make conversation, and even if you’d wanted to, you wouldn’t know where to start.

Finally, Suguru turned down an unpaved backroad, and far too soon, you were in front of a house you recognized. The architecture was traditional, the design compact, but you could remember Suguru saying that he and the girls didn’t need much. Later on, when he decided you shouldn’t be allowed to wander any farther than his line of sight during your pregnancy, he’d played with the idea of a larger property – something that could accommodate a growing family. If he’d ever had any real plans, they must’ve been abandoned after you left.

“We’re only stopping by,” Suguru explained, as he moved to step out. You didn’t wait for him this time – shouldering the door open and pulling yourself to your feet before he could decide he needed to drag you out of the car himself. “There’s a nursery attached to the master bedroom. The girls can look after Himari while we’re gone.”

Your breathing hitched, then stopped altogether.

The girls.

You’d managed to forget you’d have to see them, tonight. Suguru would’ve been enough to handle on his own.

You tried to take a step back, more out of reflex than anything, but your legs were unsteady, unreliable. You stumbled, but before you could so much as start to fall, Suguru was by your side, one hand on your arm and the other underneath Himari. He started to say something, but you were faster, louder. “I—I can’t. They’ll be so—I knew you wouldn’t hurt them, but I shouldn’t have—”

“They’ll be just fine.” He wasn’t crying, anymore. Instead, he took on the inflection, the stature he’d worn when you first met him – when he’d been the level-headed priest and you’d been a distraught non-believe desperate for help. If you hadn’t known better, if you couldn’t still see the reddened skin around his eyes, you might’ve called his composure sadistic. “And they’ve been waiting for you all night. Wouldn’t it be cruel to disappoint them now?”

It'd be crueler to make them face the woman who’d married their father and abandoned them without a second thought, but you doubted Suguru would agree. He was already curling his arm around yours, already guiding you towards the rustic villa. Whatever daze was keeping you from losing your mind entirely must’ve worn-off sometime during the drive. It was all you could do to keep yourself on your feet as you edged closer, closer to the front door. You were walking down the unpaved driveway, then standing on the wooden porch, and then, Suguru was ushering you inside – taking Himari out of your arms as you passed over the threshold. You didn’t try to resist. He wouldn’t ask the girls to hurt her, not after how long he’d spent holding the idea of a new, adorably helpless little sister over their heads, and wherever he was going to do to you after this, you didn’t want Himari involved. You didn’t want to give him an excuse to use her against you.

Suguru moved further into the villa, but you froze in the entryway. You could already hear the little, rushing footsteps, already picture the betrayal in their eyes, the questions they’d ask you and the answers you wouldn’t be able to give them. They’d hate you. They had to already hate you. You abandoned them, and they would know you abandoned them, and they would—

Two arms wrapping around your legs, the force of a smaller body crashing into yours. You glanced down and found Mimiko, clinging to your waist, her face buried in the material of your skirt. She wasn’t crying, but you could see her shoulders shaking, feel her nails digging into your thigh through the thin fabric. Reflexively, you reached down, resting a hand on top of her head and moving to nudge her away gently, to see if she needed help, but she only clung to you that much tighter.

Nanako was there, too, but she hadn’t latched onto you. Unlike her sister, she kept her distance, hands ringing the hem of her sweater as she stared pointedly at the floor. “Geto-sama told us what happened,” she explained, while Mimiko mumbled something incoherent and affirmative into your skirt. “He said that sorcerer – the white-haired one – took you and Himari away.” There was a pause, a quick glance in your direction. “He promised he wouldn’t let it happen again.”

Her eyes met yours, and suddenly, her nervous posture, the measured distance left between you and her – it made sense. You recognize the light in her eyes, or rather, the lack therefore.

It was the same shadow her father’s eyes took on, when he looked at you.

Whatever lie he’d told them, Nanako clearly didn’t believe it. Mimiko – sweet and loyal and prone to holding onto the things she loved like there was someone could come and take them away at any time – would’ve believed Suguru if he told her that world ended every time she closed her eyes, but Nanako was more pragmatic. She knew something was wrong. You doubted she would speak to you at all if she knew just how wrong, but still.

Swallowing your guilt, you lowered yourself to one knee and hugged Mimiko properly, squeezing her for one beat, then another, before letting her go entirely. Nanako was next. For all her reservations, she was running towards you as soon as you opened your arms to her, crashing into your chest and clinging to you twice as tightly as her sister had. “I’m sure he won’t,” you mumbled into her hair. And then, pulling back, “I know I was gone for a while, but it’s alright. The sorcerer Geto-sama told you about – he just wanted a little advice. He had two children he was raising all on his own, just like Geto. He heard all about how wonderful you two are, and wanted to know if I could stay and show him how to bring up the best kids in the world.” A kiss on either forehead, a thumb drawn over Mimiko’s cheeks to wipe away the tears she was frantically (and unsuccessfully) attempting to paw away on her own. “But, although I was very flattered, I told him that I had to go home. I knew you two would be fine, of course, but let’s face it – Geto wouldn’t last a day without me.”

It was your turn to pause, now, to lower your voice into something secretive. Mimiko was still sniffling, still determined to keep her face buried in her hands or your shoulder, but you made sure to meet Nanako’s eyes, to sound as sincere as you could – even if complete honesty was beyond you, at the moment. “Don’t tell Geto, but I missed you two most of all.”

Nanako looked like she wanted to say something. She almost did, too – tensing, opening her mouth, but she shut it again just as quickly, her eyes falling back to the ground in a sharp, violently narrow glare.

The pain was instant and beyond words. You wanted to pull her and Mimiko close again, to squeeze them tight and promise you wouldn’t leave them, not again, to apologize when you’d inevitably have to for the sake of a sister you hadn’t given them time to love. You wanted to—

You heard Suguru’s footsteps, felt his hand on your shoulder, and every thought you might’ve had that wasn’t devoted to your daughter’s well-being was gone.

Rather than embracing the girls, you drew back from them. Suguru pulled you gently to your feet, his hand falling from your shoulder to your elbow before wrapping around your wrist. “Keep an eye on your sister.” You could only be thankful there was still an ounce of warmth in his voice, as he addressed the girls. “(Y/n) and I have one more errand to run. We’re trusting you two to look after her, until we come back.”

You might’ve added something, made sure they both knew that you really had missed them, but Suguru was already drawing you towards the door – still ajar. The last thing you saw was Nanako taking Mimiko by the wrist before the door was slammed shut, and you were left entirely alone with Suguru.

~

Of all the places you expected him to take you, his temple hadn’t made the list.

His followers must’ve been sent away for the night, and the property’s attendants either dismissed or told to stay in their dorms. Every window was dark and shuttered, the gates locked and the doors bared. As you followed Suguru across the desolate courtyard and into the main shrine, you tried to think of places you would’ve wanted to be taken to, but came up empty. Part of you had been expecting the cheap, equally lifeless chain motels he’d shown a fondness for during your pregnancy, or worse, the hotel where you’d spent your first night together. Another, larger, quieter part had been able to imagine him driving into the deepest, darkest forest he could find and having his monstrous spirits tear you to shreds before you could so much as scream.

His ultimate destination was far from shocking, and yet, you still felt your heart drop into your stomach as he led you into his darkened sanctuary. As if in preparation, two tapered candles had been left burning in metal trays on either side of the screen door, and Suguru took one up as he passed by. You were left to linger in the doorway as, with a surprising meticulousness, he lit the candles scattered throughout the sanctuary, casting the open space in an ebbing golden glow. When he was finished, he collapsed onto his raised dais – perched on its edge, rather than laid across it. He almost looked out of place, without his usual costume, his usual posture. He almost looked his age.

You didn’t move. Running seemed impossible, but so did breaking the silence, doing anything to make yourself an active participant in Suguru’s bizarre ritual rather than a passive observer, a prop to be moved from place to place with little thought as to where you might want to be. A moment passed in silence, then another. Finally, he cracked. “Sit down.”

You didn’t move. “Are you going to kill me?”

He didn’t react. “All I asked you to do was sit down, love.”

“Are you going to kill Himari?”

He flinched into himself, going crooked. Something like hurt passed across his expression, as genuine as it was hypocritical.

He didn’t respond, but either out of pity or remorse or a lack of anything else to do, you found yourself closing the gap between you and him, setting yourself down on the edge of his platform. Immediately, his head fell onto your shoulder, his hand to your thigh, as if he was afraid you’d leave him again if he didn’t cling to you. “…I thought about breaking your legs,” he confessed, without prompting. “I was angry, when I realized you hadn’t been taken by force. I thought I’d be able to do it in Satoru’s apartment, leave enough blood to make him think I’d killed you, but—” There was a pause, a slow shake of his head. “I don’t know. I guess I waited too long, lost the nerve or something.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” And then, when he shifted curiously beside you, “It would’ve scared the girls. They’re already having such a hard time.”

At that, Suguru melted entirely against you. There was an airy laugh, a small sigh, and you felt his hand on your hip, his thumb drawing loose patterns into your side. “So considerate,” he muttered, nuzzling into the dip of your shoulder. “Maybe, one day, you’ll care about me like that, too.”

A knot formed in the back of your throat. It wasn’t that you didn’t care for him – or, that you hadn’t, before he made it clear that the ways you were capable of caring for him weren’t enough. If you hadn’t felt anything for him, none of this would’ve ever happened. If he’d been satisfied to let you feel the same way about him that you felt about his daughters, it would never have gotten this bad. If you’d just laid back and let him fuck you the first time he’d asked, he would’ve lost interest in you months ago. You almost said so, too, tensed and opened your mouth and everything, but Suguru was moving before you had the chance to spit something out, his mouth crashing into yours with all the care and all the tenderness of a blunt object shattering bone. His teeth cut into your bottom lip, his body pressing into yours with enough force to throw you off balance, but his arms were already around your waist, keeping you upright. It was less that he slid off of the dais and more that he collapsed – dropping onto his knees at your feet, as little difference as it made in terms of height. He never let you stray very far, but tonight, he seemed determined never to leave more than a hair’s width of space between your body and his. His lips fell from your mouth to your neck, his hands finding their way to your hips. One darted for your neckline, but dropped back to your waist just as suddenly – all ten fingers soon burrowed into the plush of your waist.

“Your dress.” He wasn’t panting, wasn’t grinning, wasn’t laughing. His voice reverberated dully against the base of your throat, his pointed canines scraping over your skin as he spoke. “Take it off.”

You swallowed. Normally, he preferred to undress and re-dress you himself. You’d been scolded more than once for thinking you had any right to decide what you wore without his loving input, and when pressed, he claimed it was a show of love; proof of his dedication, his devotion.

This wasn’t about love, though, or dedication, or any other flowery word he’d ever used with you.

This was about control.

Your hands shook as you raised them to the back of your dress, finding the row of corset-type strings keeping the loose material in place. You fumbled with the knot for seconds, but Suguru was patient, willing to wait until the bodice fell away from your chest entirely, pooling at your midriff. You weren’t wearing a bra (again, an extremely difficult habit not to get into with a newborn at home), and one of Suguru’s hands came up, a scarred palm cupping your breast with enough force to bruise. You remembered, dimly, the time he’d spent pulled over by the side of the road earlier that day, but the memory was foggy, already so far away. You wouldn’t have been surprised if all of this seemed like one hazy, distant dream by tomorrow morning.

He detached from you suddenly, pulling away and kneeling on the sanctuary floor. Rather than relief, you only felt the world distort more violently around you; your pulse slowing and your vision burning as you clumsily pushed yourself to your feet, allowing your dress to fall away entirely. You moved to sit back down, but Suguru caught you before you could – his fist wrapping around your ankle, then skirting upward, settling gingerly against your thigh as his dark, soulless eyes raked over you. His stare caught on your panties, and his expression darkened. “I’m going to kill him.”

You didn’t have to ask what he meant. The pair had been Satoru’s pick; not quite a gift, but something given to you, regardless. They matched his aesthetics – needlessly detailed, smothered in lace, cast a shade of light blue so pale, it bordered on ivory. With how expensive Satoru’s tastes tended to run, you were sure the set had cost a fortune, but the priceless fabric gave away without protest as Suguru slipped two fingers under the waistband and tore. The ruined article fell away before you could so much as process that he’d moved.

Suguru’s impressive patience waned quickly. In the same motion, he pushed himself to his feet and took you into his arms, carrying you against his chest onto the dais, then to the altar pressed against the far wall. The scrolls laid across it were sent to floor with a single movement of his arm, and in the blink of an eye, you were laid across the polished wood, Suguru on his knees between your open legs. Your mouth opened, but there was no time to protest, to call out before his face was buried between his thighs, tongue lapping over the length of your slit. Still, you grit your teeth, bracing yourself to sit up, to tell him to—

Oh.

He'd gotten his tongue pierced, sometime after you left.

He was shameless. A rounded, jeweled stud dragged over your pussy, circling your clit with no pattern or pace, no intention other than to taste you. Never content to leave you to your own devices, he kept his hands wrapped around your hips, pinning you to the surface of the altar as he tried to all-but swallow you whole. It was messy, and overzealous, and worst of all, it was good. It was a matter of seconds before a mixture of spit and arousal stained the inside of your thighs and dripped from his chin, less than a full minute before you had to concentrate just to keep yourself from squirming underneath him. Not that it would’ve mattered, if you had. Suguru had always been playful in bed, content to milk reactions out of you with measured precision and careful vigilance, but that had been when you at least attempted to present yourself as willing. Right now, anything you might’ve felt seemed secondary to Suguru’s pleasure; satisfied groans soon joining the slick, wet noise ricocheting off the walls of his sanctuary. You dug your teeth into your bottom lip, crossed your arms over your face, but neither distraction helped to stifle the feeling of his lips latching onto your clit, suckling on it with all the care and all the delicacy of a butcher’s knife cutting into lifeless flesh. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes by the time he pulled away, but the pressure was immediately replaced by the bridge of his nose grinding harshly against the bundle of nerves, his tongue slipping past your entrance to curl against the most vulnerable parts of your cunt.

He let out another reverberating moan, and reflexively, your hand shot to the back of his head, your fingers soon tangled in his dark hair. One of his hands fell from your waist, and for a moment, you thought he was moving to pry away yours, that he didn’t want you touching him. But, fortunately or otherwise, his attention wasn’t on you. Instead, he reached for the elastic band holding his hair in place, pulling it out with enough force to snap the cheap plastic. You didn’t realize what he was trying to do until you felt him lean into your palm, his eyes fluttering shut as he melted into the semblance of your touch.

If you’d been capable of feeling anything more towards Suguru than you already did, you might’ve found the sight pitiful.

At the moment, though, you weren’t in a place to be quite so sentimental. It was all you could do to knot his hair around your fingers as you felt tight and hot form in your core, as your thighs threatened to snap shut around his head. You bit into the inside of your check with enough force to draw blood as Suguru moaned shamelessly, as he dragged you that much closer. It was too easy to forget to care whether or not he’d enjoyed it, too reflexive to gather his hair in your first and pull, to buck involuntarily into his mouth, to—

Suguru drew back suddenly, pushing himself to his feet. Thankfully, you caught yourself before you could feel disappointment, and after a few shallow breaths, found the strength to follow his stare away from you and towards the sanctuary door. Instantly, your heart stopped beating, the blood running cold in your veins.

Satoru stood in the doorway, cast in shadow save for his bright, piercing eyes. One of his hands was still wrapped around the doorframe, while the other hung limp at his side, cupping a small, pulsing ball of… light?

You didn’t have time to think about it. Suguru acted swiftly – pulling you into his arms and onto his lap, seating himself on the altar where you’d previously laid. “Drop it,” he said, his tone cold, cutting, not unlike an owner talking to his disobedient pet. He’d been short with you all night, but you couldn’t say he’d ever spoken to you quite like that. “Before you do something you’ll regret.”

The light dimmed before disappearing entirely, but Satoru didn’t move. He didn’t do anything, but you could feel it – a drop in the sanctuary’s temperature, a change in the air pressure, something deep and intrinsic that you didn’t want to be a part of. Reflexively, you tried to stand, to move, but Suguru held you tight, an arm barred over your midriff.

Despite everything, Satoru was the first to break the silence, albeit without doing anything to make that intangible tension any more bearable. “I should kill you.”

“You should.” Suguru’s fingertips dug into your side. “Those are your orders, aren’t they? Or are you going to put off delivering my head to the higher-ups for another three years?”

Whatever he was talking about, Satoru didn’t seem interested in acknowledging it. “You took my girls.”

“You fucked my wife.”

At that, something seemed to break. Suguru’s chest pressed into your back as Satoru’s eyes shut, as he sucked in a harsh breath and broke out into a fanged grin, the sharpest you’d ever seen him wear. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.” He took a step forward, all hostility gone in favor of a sort of manic, unpredictable buzz. You didn’t know whether to be relieved that there was a slightly diminished chance you’d be caught in the middle of their fight to the death or terrified at the thought that they might want to do anything but tear out each others’ throats. “I fucked her after she left you. Bet you can’t stand it – knowing you’re not the only one who gets to run away.”

Suguru, for all his faults, didn’t flinch. He’d always had an even-temper at the worst of time. “What do you want, ‘toru?”

Satoru’s stare fell away from Suguru and onto you. His expression softened, taking on an almost apologetic lilt. Almost, but not quite.

“Not much,” he admitted, with a shrug. Even from a distance, even in the dark, you could tell his nonchalance was forced. “Just to say goodbye, make sure my pretty girl’s gonna be taken care of. Gotta wrap up loose ends, n’ all that.”

Suguru, for his part, seemed far from convinced. His grip didn’t loosen; if anything, he only held you closer. “And why should I let you?”

“Because I love her?” And then, with another step toward the altar, “Because you know I could wipe this building off the face of the planet, if I wanted to.”  

Pragmatic as he was, Suguru seemed to consider it. The hand over your side flexed, a chin settling against the dip of your shoulder, and beneath you, his stiff cock pressed into your ass – either unaffected or worse, fueled on by Satoru’s interruption. You were still attempting not to dwell on the implications when Suguru responded, level-headed as always.

“If you try anything, I’ll kill the baby.”

The second before a car crash, the spark where two wires failed to connect. For the longest time, you couldn’t seem to process what he’d said or how it could’ve been so gut-wrenchingly terrible. Rather than pull away, you flattened yourself against him, glancing over your shoulder. You opened your mouth, but the ability to speak was suddenly beyond you, set deliberately out of your reach. He didn’t mean it. He couldn’t mean it, and yet, his expression was stoic, unchanging, the pinnacle of neutrality. There was no laugh from Satoru either, forced or otherwise. Still, he kept up his smile. As if Suguru hadn’t said anything of consequence. As if either of them had any right to so much as touch your daughter.

Satoru didn’t respond to the threat, nor did Suguru urge him to. Almost mechanically, Suguru’s arm fell away from your midriff, and with little more than a nudge to the back of your shoulder, you were on your feet, vulnerable and shaking on the center of the raised dais. You could still feel a mix of slick and saliva coating the inside of your thighs, and you had to swallow the urge to make a grab for your clothes, to put yourself through the humiliation of being forced to strip twice in one night.

 Thankfully, tragically, you were liberated from any illusion of free choice swiftly. Without protest from Suguru, Satoru stepped onto the dais and took you by the hand, either overlooking or failing to acknowledge the panic in your eyes in favor of intertwining his fingers with yours and squeezing gently, as if you could still believe he genuinely wanted to comfort you. Rather than pulling you into his arms, dragging you down to the floor, he looked to Suguru, cocking his head to the side. “Get up.”

Suguru’s lips quirked downward, but he obeyed, pushing himself to his feet. “How blasphemous.”

Now, he pulled you off of your feet. In a moment, you were in his arms, and the next, you were perched on the altar, your back pressed against the wall and your legs spread around Satoru’s waist. “Blasphemous,” Satoru echoed, his voice low but plainly audible in the silence of the sanctuary. “would be fucking the most beautiful woman in the world on the ground. That’s why I’m her favorite – ‘cause I’m so considerate.”

No part of you trusted Suguru. No part of you preferred Suguru to Satoru, or the other way around. No part of you thought that, unless your life or his pride was threatened, he’d ever lift a finger to help you, but you found yourself glancing toward him out of the corner of your eye, doing your best to silently communicate that you needed to get out of here. Instead of sympathy, jealousy, you only found an idle smirk, a glassy sheen over his eyes that you could only imagine you’d mirrored for most of the day. “You’re not the one she’s married to, idiot.”

There was a dip, a surprisingly fleeting kiss to your lips, then your jaw, then your throat. “But she would get with me if you were out of the picture, right?” The question was punctuated with a nip to your collarbone, a hand dropped low enough to cup your pussy. The heel of his palm ground into your clit as two fingers pushed into your soaked cunt, spreading apart and scissoring you open. You tried to bow your head, to keep your eyes closed and your mouth shut, but you were still sensitive from your ruined climax, still so painfully exposed, and there was nothing you could do to bite back the cracked whines and pitiful mewls that slipped through your pursed lips. It was far from verbal confirmation, but Satoru hummed, grinned against your chest as if you’d sung his praises. “I’d get you a nicer ring, nicer house, nicer honeymoon. Always make sure you’re good n’ taken care of while Suguru’s busy playing god.”

Suguru huffed, and Satoru fell into a steady pace, adding a third digit as he carelessly fucked his fingers into your cunt. You didn’t hear him move, but before you could brace yourself, Suguru was at your side, leaning onto the altar to cup your face and trace over your jaw with the pad of his thumb. “I take care of you, don’t I?” You opened your mouth reflexively, ready to tell him that you were sorry, that you didn’t want him to touch you, that you wanted this to stop, but he was faster than you, more malicious. His thumb was forced past your lips before you could make a sound, pressed against the flat of your tongue with just enough force for your jaw to ache in protest. “I can’t blame Satoru for not being able to see that, though. Not when you treat me so cruelly.”

Cruelly. You’d never been cruel – at least, no crueler than you absolutely needed to be to survive. You felt pins and needles prick at the corners of your eyes before you noticed your vision blurring, before tears were streaming down either side of your face in boiling tracks. Satoru purred in sympathy, falling low and nuzzling into the tender spot at the base of your throat, flicking his wrist and burying himself inside of you to the knuckle. “You don’t have to worry, I know he’s the mean one.”

He was whispering, but that didn’t matter. He was too close, too awful for each word not to be absolutely deafening, for each little movement of his hand not to leave your nails scraping against the smooth wood of the altar, searching for purchase you wouldn’t find. Time was moving too quickly, it had been since you arrived at the temple. You couldn’t scream, couldn’t pull away, couldn’t breathe before Satoru pressed an open-mouthed kiss into the side of your neck and you were coming undone around his fingers, your thighs locking around his arm and keeping his digits inside of you until you could remember how to suck in a gasping inhale, until the last of the aftershocks faded and you could bring yourself to open your eyes. It wasn’t until the warmth of Satoru’s mouth fell away from your neck that you noticed the strange, copper tinge spread over your tongue, that you registered the absence of Suguru’s hand against your jaw. When you thought to look in his direction, he was evaluating his own hand. A thin, red line formed a dotted ring around the base of his thumb. You must’ve bitten down, at some point.

You must’ve hurt him.

Fear drowned out any satisfaction there might’ve been. He mentioned deciding against breaking your legs, earlier; was there any chance he’d change his mind? Would Satoru be able to stop him, if he tried to hurt you? Would Satoru even want to stop him? Himari was still alone, still in danger, and you wouldn’t be able to get to her if you couldn’t walk. You wouldn’t be able to stop Suguru from—

Satoru reached out, his hand curling around Suguru’s wrist and dragging it down to his height. With Satoru’s guidance, Suguru’s thumb came to rest against his bottom lip, then slipped into Satoru’s mouth entirely, his lips soon sealed around its base. There was a second or two of stillness, a swallowing-type noise too loud to ignore despite your best attempts not to hear it, and then, Suguru was pulling away and Satoru’s lips were crashing into yours.

It was strange for Suguru to be so clumsy, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be as surprised by Satoru’s lack of polish. It was all you could do to choke back a renewed sob as his mouth moved against yours, as his pointed teeth ghosted over your lips and grazed the underside of your tongue. He was all instinct, no logic, and when you tried to straighten, to leave enough room between you and him to catch your breath, he only seemed to want you closer. His hands were on your waist, then your arms, then your chest, never satisfied unless he could dig his claws into the most tender parts of you, and this time, when his canines grazed over your lips, he wasn’t satisfied to leave your connection at contact alone. He let out a shameless moan as he lapped at the puncture wound, warm blood leaking down your chin and pooling on your chest where it pressed into his. Again, you looked to Suguru for help, and again, you immediately wished you hadn’t bothered.

He wasn’t perched on the altar, anymore. No – he’d shifted, slinked, positioned himself behind Satoru where he was bent at the waist. He caught your eye as his arms snaked around Satoru’s midriff, as Satoru arched his back to better take advantage of the new contact. There was the distant, muffled sound of fabric rustling, a keening whine from Satoru, and then, Suguru’s hand was curled around Satoru’s stiff, leaking cock – pumping over the shaft while his dark eyes burned holes into yours. “Get it over with,” he muttered, the bitter sterility of his tone a sharp juxtaposition to the grin creeping across his expression. “Before I remember why I want you dead.”

Satoru didn’t have to be coaxed into compliance. No, he let himself be eased into place, let Suguru slot himself against his back as he carefully aligned Satoru’s flushed tip to your entrance. Even after he’d let go, his hands finding the edge of the altar on either side of you, Satoru failed to move on his own. You could feel him drifting from your lips to your throat, then lower – to the crook of your neck, a spot Suguru’d always favored. Vaguely, you were aware of his lips moving against your skin, of warm breath fanning over your chest and leaving frost wherever it’d touched. His voice was muffled by proximity, but whether or not you could hear him didn’t really matter. You would’ve recognized those three little words from a thousand miles away.

“I love you.”

If you’d been able to laugh, you would’ve.

At least Satoru didn’t expect you to say it back.

Suguru must’ve missed it – that, or he was beyond the point of caring. His teeth sunk into the nape of Satoru’s neck, and then, something hot and piercing was inside of you.

This time, you couldn’t stop yourself from crying out. A fractured moan tumbled past your lips as Satoru immediately fell into a brutal pace; all that teasing tenderness gone the moment your pussy was wrapped around his cock. Suguru didn’t pull away, but he didn’t help, either; straightening his back and gazing down at you with that same foggy, absent, pleased expression. It took you a moment to put a name to it; lovestruck, all glassy eyes and hollow smiles, any anger hidden behind a thick curtain of glazed-over satisfaction. He’d never looked away from you, but when you met his eyes, he seemed to soften even further, his shoulders dropping as he brought a hand to the small of Suguru’s back, spurring him on. “He’s always been this bad.”  Suguru let out a keening whine into your shoulder, and Suguru chuckled airily. “Like a dog in heat. You’d think be as desperate as one, too, but apparently, his standards are too high for him to do anything but act like a whore.”

You couldn’t take it – the way Satoru’s hips crashed into yours, how his pubic bone ground against your clit, the pure venom interlaced with Suguru’s velvet-soft tone. You knew that it was useless, childish, but you couldn’t swallow down the cracked sob that rose up from somewhere deep and unprotected in your chest, couldn’t hold back the tears now flowing freely down your cheeks. Suguru’s smile widened, his sharpened teeth catching the dull candlelight, but Satoru was kind enough not to be so observant. His attention was dedicated entirely to fucking into you as quickly and as deeply as possible; his cock never less than half buried. You felt him twitch, and before you could hold yourself back, your hands were on his back, your nails embedded in pale skin and tearing upward every time he bottomed out and sent a new type of agony coursing through your system. “Stop, stop, I can’t—”

“You can.” Clipped, concise, dripping with stone-cold affection. You’d be surprised if you ever heard any warmth in Suguru’s voice again. “That is, unless you’d like to break two hearts on the same night.”

Your mouth was still open, but you couldn’t answer. Satoru groaned as he rutted into you, his pace growing that much more erratic, his hips grinding into yours. He pulled you into another deep, copper-tinged kiss as he pressed his body flush to yours, as you felt something thick and hot and soul-crushingly familiar flood into you. It might’ve been the sensitivity, or the overstimulation, or the herbal stench of incense left to burn for a minute too long finally taking its toll – it didn’t really matter, either way. No explanation could’ve dampened the feeling of your cunt clenching tight around him, could’ve prevented the utter desolation of cumming on Satoru’s cock.

It seemed to go on for the longest time – second after second of thoughtless, helpless pleasure, century after century of Satoru against you, edging on your climax with the occasional sharp movement from his hips, a hasty kiss pressed into the corner of your jaw. Finally, after a small eternity, the last of the aftershocks faded, unwanted bliss fading into a slow, pulsing ache settled deep into the deepest pit of your chest. You felt Satoru shift; not pulling away, but lifting himself up, bringing his mouth to the shell of your ear. “I love you,” he said, again, and then, more quietly, “I’m sorry.”

You wanted to say something, to call him a liar, to spit out every venomous and vitriolic and warranted thing you could ever say to either of them, but it was already too late. Something vital slid out of place, a poor signal finally losing connection entirely, and then, everything went dark.

~

Nine months later, you’d find yourself in Suguru’s temple again, albeit not his sanctuary. A brown-haired woman in a lab coat and several female attendants swarmed around you, pressing damp cloths to your forehead and constantly rearranging the thick quilts laid over your limp body. Dried tears formed defined tracks down your cheeks, and every part of you screamed for rest, for escape, for a quick and merciful death. It was all you could do to suck in a shuddering breath, to remind yourself that there were more important things in the world than your own well-being. Sleep could wait. This couldn’t.

Slowly, you managed to turn your head towards Suguru, standing at your bedside just as he had for the past six hours. Your vision was distorted, dimmed around the edges, but it would’ve been impossible to miss the small, white bundle in his arms, already beginning to move. You could practically taste the relief, only slightly soured by your own exhaustion. Loving Himari had been a miracle. It would’ve been a lie to say that you hadn’t expected yourself to be more callous, the second time part of you was ripped away and molded into the shape of a man you hated.

Your eyes flickered to Suguru’s expression, to those impossibly dark eyes, and instantly, your relief was replaced by pure, unadulterated dread. A smile played at the corner of his mouth, softened and careless, but… Oh, god.

You’d never seen so much death in his eyes.

“Suguru.” You hadn’t meant to say anything, and yet, your voice was clear – a little hoarse, but far stronger than you felt. Never looking away from the bundle, he hummed, and you went on. “Can I see…?”

“Him,” Suguru filled in, bouncing your newborn – your son, gently. “A healthy baby boy. It’s a shame, really – I chose names with another girl in-mind.”

Thankfully, he didn’t make you ask again. With no small amount of care, the bundle was placed gently onto your chest, Suguru’s hand remaining on your shoulder – as if only waiting for your limited strength to give out. It took you a long moment to brush the swaddling sheets to the swaddling blanket aside, little hands immediately reaching up to bat against your own, and another to register what you were looking at. It wasn’t hard to see why Suguru was so angry.

You stared down at your son, and eyes more blue than the clearest, brightest sky stared back at you.

treasure doyoung , high school au, strangers to lovers & prompt 31 pls! 💓

thank you so much for requesting!! this took a while bc I was confused with how to start, so enjoy :)

Kim Doyoung - “you never saw me.” highschool au! strangers to lovers!

You never really knew the boy well, but to be frank, not everyone did either, he only had a close knit of friends, plus, he was the type to only speak when spoken to. He gave off the impression of someone who liked to focus on their interests and hobbies, the type to not waste time partying like most kids at your school did. You admired that. He got good grades and he has a passion for dancing.

Unfortunately for you, your admiration for him ended up turning into a huge crush, you were always glancing at him, and whenever he would catch you he would only give you a smile in return. You wanted to get to know him better, but despite him literally sitting a row ahead and two seats to your left, he seemed so far away. He seemed like a stranger to you, you often wondered; ‘if he saw me in the streets would he even recognise me?’ You were sure that was the case, you weren’t the only girl to be caught staring at him, and you weren’t the only girl he smiled at.

Your feelings for him only deepened ever more when your class voted you both to be captains. Doyoung, of course, got voted captain, and you, vice captain. It was both a nightmare and dream come true, you two would be able to look into each other’s eyes and discuss plans for any class excursions or what not, the nightmare part was you being scared of embarrassing yourself.

You would always make sure there would be nothing stuck in your teeth after every meal and after every snack, you stopped wearing laced shoes due to your fear of them suddenly being untied and you tripping, so you switched to Velcro shoes. You switched to hair clips to put your hair up due to your fear of the hair tie snapping in the middle of class, now that, that was a personal and unpleasant experience.

Despite you always being on edge, Doyoung always had his eyes lead back to you, his gaze always softening, as he let out a small smile whenever you turned your back towards him.

It was like any other normal school day except for the fact that the teacher had been absent and that led to you having a substitute. After a long day the substitute had put you and Doyoung upon the task of bringing the many boxes filled with folders into the staff room. As you and Doyoung rearranged the boxes from lightest to heaviest, Doyoung decided to break the silence.

“Sucks to be here after school hours, huh?”

He smiled took you a while to register that he was talking to you and there was no one else in the room, you wanted to refrain yourself from embarrassing yourself, of course.

“Yeah, but it feels nice being able to help.”

You cringed after that sentence left your mouth, you felt so embarrassed, you mentally facepalmed yourself, you wanted to just jump into any hole avail-

“Hey you don’t have to be so hard on yourself okay?” He smiled softly and put a gentle hand on your shoulder.

‘Huh?’ You has been snapped out of your mental scolding and now you had no idea on how to reply.

“I see the way you’re so cautious around everything or how you scold yourself sometimes, you just gotta relax, you know?”

He continued, “its all apart of life embarrassing yourself but the best part about it is that you can laugh at all the embarrassing things you’ve done.”

He started walking out of the room with you following behind him with boxes in both of your hands.

“Now you’ll be able to laugh at it all, so you know, I wouldn’t call them embarrassing, they’re really just memories in disgu-“

“Wait your laces!”

It was too late, he had already tripped with the folders scattered around the floor, his cheeks tinted with a deep scarlet red. You put your box down and offered him a hand.

“You never saw me.”

You burst out in laughter with tears brimming your eyes, “what happened to the memories in disguise? Huh?”

You let your head fall back due to the laughter, whereas he watched you, his gazed soften, and smiled softly at you, he saw you in a light he had never seen you before, he saw you differently, he saw you, and felt like he knew you, he felt familiarity.

BIRD DOG | Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

MOODBOARD · AO3

A few times a year, Simon goes home to an empty apartment in a shithole city and counts down the days until he can leave. This time, there's someone waiting for him when he comes home.

Convenient. He was already planning on ordering takeaway.

Or: the live-in masseuse au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB reader - Freeform, Masseuse Reader, Forced Cohabitation, Strangers to Roommates to Lovers, Porn with Feelings

The mangled hand of fate lets him go but seldomly. 

He does, though, get a few weeks off a year. Bids farewell to his captain (the barest hint of a nod after leaving each other on the runway, chopper blades spinning faster and faster, the other man headed back out, his duties never finished; the world can never let them both rest at the same time) and then he’s gone, bags long packed and truck loaded the night before last. He drives a long, circuitous route after leaving the military base, the mask only shed when the paranoid prickle in his head finally abates. 

It never quite goes away though.

And then comes the drive back, the road long and the drudgery endless. One hand on the wheel, the other hanging out of the side of the truck, a cigarette pinched between two knuckles. Occasionally, he takes a drag. 

This is the part he always hates. The drive back. Roads winding through quiet towns and over hills, blue disappearing into black, streetlights piercing the darkness and demarcating the beginning and end of civilization. Manchester is a long drive north. He stops once for a piss by the side of the road and then carries on. 

It’s a wonder they let him go at all. He is violence forthright; setting him free does no one any good. It’s hardly even a reward for him, more of just a pretense of normalcy. A week to stretch his legs, so to speak. If he were anything other than human, maybe they’d force him to stay on base indefinitely, secured and contained behind barbed wire fences and reinforced concrete walls.

But a few times a year, they play this game and send him off into the world.

There’s an apartment in Manchester that he’s rented for as long as he can remember. A shithole flat in a shithole borough, and though Simon’s squirreled away enough money to buy a place of his own, the thought of owning anything makes his skin crawl. It’s not in his blood, he thinks. He’d sooner live in a shack in the woods, no fixed address or way to find him. Even his flat in Manchester is rented under a different name, and he pays his landlord in cash for the year. 

It’s dark when he reaches the city, the sky soot black and patchy with clouds. Moon nowhere in sight. Nothing beautiful ever visits Manchester. 

But there’s a light on in the window when he pulls up in front of his place.

Odd.

Would’ve remembered if he left the light on the last time he was in town months ago; filament would’ve blown out in at least that time as well. Still, there’s a light on in the living room window and a new curtain pulled across to keep anyone from looking in.

Simon stares at the light while he leans outside against the truck and finishes his cigarette. Stubs it out under his boot when it’s down to the filter and locks the car door behind him. Violence already itches under his skin, knuckles tingling like they know what’s coming if he opens that door and finds some junkie living in his flat. It’ll be worse if he finds out that his scumbag landlord moved someone else in after picking up on him being gone nearly half the year.

His key still works though. Fancy that. 

He finds you like that, sitting up from a nap on his couch, sweater slouched down a shoulder and groggily blinking open big doe eyes that widen when you notice him in the doorway, fear making you freeze up. 

You’re a pretty little thing; a pleasant surprise to find something like you sitting on his couch. It quells the violence simmering in his belly because it awakens another appetite instead. Like a meal delivered right to his door. He was already planning on ordering takeaway. 

He drops the duffel bag by his feet, propping the door open with it. “You lost, bird?”

Terror leaves you mute. He can only imagine; he must seem like something straight from a horror movie—defenceless girl waking up to the dead-eyed stare of a giant dressed in all black watching her sleep and blocking her only way out. That’s not completely true; there’s a backdoor through the kitchen that leads into a laneway behind the house, but the door sticks in the winter, not easy to open in a hurry. 

He has as much right to ask as you do to run at the sight of him though, considering it is his fuckin’ flat. 

You can’t seem to choke out a single word. Scared stiff, likely, heart slamming against your chest while the worst scenarios possible play out in your mind. Simon nearly rolls his eyes. 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he grumbles, finally kicking his bag out of the way so the door can shut behind him. “Cat got your tongue or somethin’?”

The sound of the door slamming shut must finally snap you out of it because you scramble off the couch, nearly tripping over the arm when you run for the back. Screaming too, just to piss him off extra. His back already aches something fierce from the long drive—he wasn’t expecting a headache on top of everything else. 

“Heeeeeeeeelp! Heeeeelp!” 

Your screams are borderline deafening, almost more aggravating than finding someone living in his flat in the first place. 

You scramble down the hall, so terrified that you go for the first open door, slamming it shut behind you. His eyes follow the shape of your bare legs and the way the muscles in your ass move as you run. 

“I’m c-calling the police!” you yell from behind the bathroom door. 

When Simon looks back down the hall, he notices your phone on the floor, bright side up. Must have dropped out of your pocket when you bolted like a scared cat.

“No, you’re not,” he says blandly, staring at the door. There’s a pause on the other side like you just noticed your missing phone, then a bleat of panic. “Don’t try going out the window either—thing’s been sealed shut since the nineties.”

On the other side of the door, the window rattles in its frame for a good few seconds before you give up on trying to escape that way. There’s a pause while you consider your options. Simon waits patiently on the other side of the door, his temper slowly but surely getting the better of him the longer he goes without a shower and a beer, locked out of his own bathroom. 

What a bloody headache. 

He pounds a fist against the door, bracing his feet in case you try to open it and scurry out around him before he’s had a chance to have a chat. “Gonna come out now?”

“Get out of my house!” you shriek instead of being polite. 

Figures. He should’ve known his landlord would pull some shit like this. “How long’ve you been living here, bird?” 

“I have a knife!”

Pretty thing that likes to lie. There’s not a shot you have anything better than a hair dryer or nail clippers in there. 

“Better get away from the door ‘cause I’m kickin’ it in,” he announces, taking a step back to give himself some distance and waiting a few seconds for you to realize that he’s dead serious before you start screaming at the top of your lungs again. 

Got quite a set on you. That doesn’t matter much to him though. The door caves in after only a few good kicks, the frame splitting right up through the lock when it finally gives, and the two halves—the door itself nearly snapped in half—banging against the wall when it ricochets open. 

You’re trembling between the toilet and the wall when Simon walks in, knees practically knocking together. The crotch of your shorts are wet and there’s a small puddle under you; must’ve pissed yourself in fear, and he’d almost pity you if you weren’t squatting in his flat. 

The closer he gets to you, the harder you wail. Full on bawling now, snot and drool dribbling down your face, and Christ, he sure picked a bad time to grow a heart. He’s not immune to a pretty girl in distress, much as he wishes he could be. 

He kneels in front of you, purposefully blocking your only way out, before knocking his knuckles under your chin, huffing out a breath when you flinch. “Ain’t gonna hurt you, bird. You’re just in my flat, is all.”

“Your flat?” you repeat in disbelief. “This is my flat. I pay rent!”

“Got a lease then?” he asks, and though your eyes are still bloodshot and your nose is still leaking, you nod. 

“Yes.”

“Show me then,” he orders. 

And you do when he steps back to give you some space, scampering shamefully to your—his—bedroom to rifle through the dresser until you pull out a handful of papers that look suspiciously like a lease. He skims it with a growing tick in his eye. It looks like one because it is one.

“See?” you mumble. He ignores the attitude in favour of reading until the end, where he finds his landlord’s name, the blotchy signature underneath it unmistakable. 

“Bullshit,” he grunts through his teeth.

“It’s not. You can call him and ask! Where’s yours?” 

His copy of the lease is tucked away in a drawer in the kitchen, buried under loose rubber bands, old batteries, and takeout menus from restaurants that went under years ago. When he returns with it and holds it up to your nose, you frown.

“Oh. I guess that explains some things.”

“Explains some things, huh? The clothes didn’t tip you off?” Simon asks, referring to the sweatpants and shirts still lining the dresser shelves. Your lips tighten. 

“I thought the previous tenant skipped town and left his clothes. I was gonna throw them out eventually.”

“Good thing you didn’t.” His voice is thick with sardonicism. 

It’s an interesting standoff to say the least. You, standing there in your soiled sleep shorts with tear-streaked cheeks, and him still decked out in his military gear and boots tracking dirt across the flat. You sway on your feet, the adrenaline crash likely intense. He catches you when you sway too close to him and you flinch when his hand clamps down over your shoulder, a new wave of adrenaline coursing through you. 

“I’m fine,” you snap, taking a step away.

For fuck’s sake. His mood darkens at the continued hostility. It’s not like you’re the one who came home to a strange man squatting in your flat—if anyone has a right to be hostile, it’s him. 

Skittering back into the bedroom, you shut the door behind you, likely to change into another pair of shorts. Simon’s mood festers the longer he waits for you to come out. The last string of his patience nearly snaps when you finally creep back out into the living room, the sour expression on your face pissing him off even more.

“I’m gonna call Tom,” you mutter, picking your phone off the coffee table.

“Go ahead.” He doesn’t bring up that it won’t change a thing. Not his problem if you’re so green behind the ears that you think your landlord will drop everything to answer a call, especially after dinner. 

No one answers when you ring, just as he thought. He plops down on the couch and rests a foot on the coffee table, ignoring the way you pace back and forth waiting for your landlord to pick up.

“No answer?” Simon asks rhetorically. 

“Aren’t you gonna try?” you ask.

“Yeah. Tomorrow. When ‘e’ll actually pick up.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do then? I’m not getting a hotel room for the night.”

“Me neither, birdie.”

He meets your stare with one of his own. It doesn’t take long for you to give in. 

There’s a pullout bed in the couch that you offer to take and he lets you because he is, at the end of the day, a selfish prick who won’t give up a week of decent sleep for anybody. Not when his back and neck have been acting up for the past month and keeping him from getting more than three hours at a time. 

The ache behind his eyebrow throbs as Simon sits on the edge of the bed. A slow exhale. 

Tomorrow can’t come quick enough.

In the morning, Simon rings his landlord and listens silently as the fuckhead blubbers on the other end of the phone about late payments and eviction notices.

“This ain’t a charity, y’know,” the other man sniffs. “I gotta pay my bills too.”

He lets the man make excuse after excuse and accuse him of this and that until he finally goes silent when he notices Simon hasn’t said a word in minutes. At which point, Simon icily reminds him of what he does for a living and the fact that he paid him for the year in full just a few months back. 

Not much to be done after that. There’s silence on the other end before his landlord tries to hem and haw his way out of it. He offers Simon one of his other properties currently sitting vacant on the other side of town, but that’s not the answer that Simon is looking for. 

“If anyone’s moving out, it ain’t me,” Simon growls into the phone. 

The wounded look that you shoot at him rubs him the wrong way.

His landlord’s still rambling on about moving costs and lawyer fees when Simon hangs up, no longer in the mood to try and talk things out. 

He doesn’t really understand the legalities here, but he knows he can’t just toss you out on your ass when you’ve also got a lease, same as him.  

“I have every right to be here,” you start up the second he hangs up the phone, not letting him get a word in edgewise, shoulders rolled back like you’re trying to be assertive. “I’ll take it to court if I have to.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Simon scrubs a hand down his face. 

“I’m serious. Rent is expensive and this is the only place close enough to where I work that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg—and I don’t have the money to hire a lawyer to get my money back—”

“I’m not gonna kick you out,” he finally snaps, fed up with your caterwauling. 

You pause, hope warring with disbelief. “You’re not?”

He gives a curt shake of his head. “Too much of a headache. I’m only…in town for a week anyway.”

“Oh. ‘Til when?”

“‘Til whenever I’m back.” Purposefully cryptic. He gives you a flat look when you open your mouth to pry some more. 

You reconsider, chewing your bottom lip until a better question occurs to you. “Are you in town a lot? Because I’m not sure how else we could make this work. I could sleep at my cousin’s until you leave?”

“Your cousin live around here?”

You hesitate. “No.”

“Then that ain’t gonna work, is it?”

“At least I’m trying,” you hiss, and Simon has to tamp down the amusement that swirls in his chest at the sight of your shoulders puffing up. “I’m not ripping up my lease and if you’re not either, then we have to figure out something unless you feel like taking this to court.”

While Simon wouldn’t usually take kindly to being threatened, his annoyance never quite develops into anything more substantial. 

“Just keep outta my way and I’ll keep outta yours,” he says. 

“Fine.”

The agreement you come to is that when he’s in town—seldom and erratic—he’ll take the bedroom and you’ll sleep on the couch, a fair compromise since you have the flat to yourself the rest of the year. 

He doesn’t explain himself, of course. Doesn’t explain why he’s allowing this instead of dragging you to court kicking and screaming. It’s no one’s business but his why he chooses not to go down that road.

He tells himself that it’s easier this way; that it’s easier just to run your lease out and spare himself the legal mess. It’s not like he’ll even be around most of the time anyway. 

What he carefully side steps, even in his own mind, is the sharp displeasure that accompanies the thought of forcing you out of his flat and onto the streets.   

Cohabitation is—

Easy wouldn’t be the right word. He certainly doesn’t make it easy on you, leaving his dirty dishes in the sink and his half-empty beer cans in the shower caddy, his cum drying on the wall over the tub spout. You try to do the same by leaving your dirty laundry on the communal furniture, but it doesn’t have the same effect. 

It’s interesting, at least. It’s not as though he’s never lived with anyone before—his memories of his early years in the service are littered with bunkmates packed into every corner of the room, and learning to sleep everywhere from moving caravans to while standing in formation, always surrounded by other people—but he’s paid his dues. Barring deployment, he thought he’d earned the luxury of his privacy. 

But it’s not all bad; it’s been years since he had fun like this. 

You try your best to annoy him in return, but you don’t realize that you’re playing chicken with a man who’s been buried alive. There isn’t much someone like you could do to break him. 

Living with another person doesn’t soften him up one bit. There’s a time for change and it’s not off the back of a four-month covert operation, his nerves still razor sharp and ability to sleep practically nonexistent. He gets precious few weeks to himself and he isn’t going to waste them trying to get in the habit of smoking on the porch instead of in his own living room. 

“I’m a masseuse.”

“Oh yeah?” Simon grunts, barely listening. There’s a match on the telly and a beer in his other hand—a perfect afternoon, if only you’d just stop yapping in his ear for five fuckin’ minutes. 

“Yes, and I can’t show up to work reeking like a chimney,” you explain, scooching closer to him on the couch while being careful to leave some distance between the two of you. For all your posturing, you’re still timid around him, like a kitten hissing and spitting around a much bigger cat. 

“What’s that got to do with me?” he asks rhetorically, not in the slightest interested in how it pertains to him. He takes another drag from the cigarette dangling between his index and middle finger, ashing it over the side of the couch. 

“It means I’d prefer if you didn’t smoke in the flat,” you say, hissing the last few words. 

He takes another drag, turning to look at you before exhaling right in your face. “That’s a shame.”

You cough and squawk, and he fights down a grin. 

For the most part, he leaves you to your own devices, intent only on enjoying his time off. He fixes the bathroom door at least, which you begrudgingly thank him for. 

A week and a bit, Simon reminds himself when you come in through the front door chirping into your phone, your voice effectively drowning out the TV on in the background. When you spot him staring at you from the couch, you go quiet as a mouse and slink off to the bathroom, locking the (newly installed) door behind you. He supposes it’s the only place where you feel any semblance of privacy since his bedroom is off limits until he leaves. It does leave him without a bathroom though. 

Pissing in the alleyway behind the flat half an hour later, he scowls into the darkness and reminds himself that he has no one to blame but himself for this mess.  

When his leave comes to an end, Simon doesn’t bother to give you a heads up. You’ll realize it in a couple of days when you notice his absence around the flat, the siege finally lifted. He supposes you’ll be grateful for his departure and grateful not to make you feign politeness.  

Duffel bag packed away in the car, he leaves with the bed still unmade. Knows that’ll ruffle your feathers later on when you come home, but it’s his parting gift. His reminder to you to enjoy the couple months reprieve his job allows you. 

And then the road slips away under him and he’s gone. 

The months away are just complex rearrangements of the same thing. Each time it drives his soul deeper into the gully, buffeted by katabatic winds. 

His daily life on base is split into brackets of time. Wake up, go to the gym, work, clock out, see the captain for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. Each day blending into the next. Back where he belongs, under the thumb of a system that he’s long sold his body and freedom to, and sent out God knows where to do God knows what. 

Then, again the rooster crows at first light and he lifts himself out of bed.

When he’s deployed, everything changes while everything stays the same. He doesn’t have the same freedom of movement as he does on base, but in truth very little changes from one deployment to the next if you zoom out enough. Limited time to sleep on the chopper before it touches down, body tensed for what’s to come, and then he’s off, his objectives clear. 

Driving a knife into a neck to the hilt and pulling it out one inch at a time. It’s the one he knows how to do, and he does it well. He doesn’t have to like what he does; he doesn’t even have to think about it so long as it gets done. 

Ghost exhales and slips the mask back on.

In [redacted city] in [redacted country], he sets his scope up in the window of a building across from one where his target is slated to be in twelve hours and then he waits. Flexes his fingers when they go numb and ignores the thirst clawing up his throat. Four hours later, his elbows ache something fierce from digging into the ground for hours on end, a sharp pain shooting up his arms, but Ghost pays it no mind. Mind over matter. 

Amidst the hours of laying there and waiting for his target to come into frame, his mind doesn’t wander. That’s a luxury for a different time—when the job is done and his target is executed. 

At the very edges of his consciousness though, something flickers. The skin around his eyes pinches as he pushes the half-formed thought away. 

Then his target walks into the room and everything else disappears.

You’re still there when he returns months later on another government ordered leave. Same petulant frown and wobbly lower lip when he walks in through the front door, dripping wet from the rain outside. When he tosses his duffel bag onto the couch, you scowl, nudging the bag onto the floor with your foot. 

“You could’ve rang,” you mumble, pulling the throw from the back of the couch over your lap to hide your bare legs. Pity to be deprived of a nice view, but Simon doesn’t take it to heart. 

“Didn’t think you’d still be ‘ere,” he grunts instead, shrugging out of his jacket and shaking it dry, suppressing a smirk when you start squawking about getting water all over the floor. 

That’s partly a lie, though not one he’ll ever admit to. Simon figured there might be a chance you’d be gone, but in the time since he last saw you, he’s done enough digging around online to know that you weren’t kidding about the lack of affordable flats in the area. There’s hardly a unit nearby that isn’t going for double what he pays, some even more. 

“Well, guess I’m sleeping out here tonight,” you grumble. You’re on your tiptoes in the doorway to the living room now, the throw wrapped around you like a security blanket. 

He doesn’t answer that. No point getting your hopes up when he has no intention of giving up the bed. 

In another life, he might be enough of a gentleman to let you sleep in the bedroom while he takes the couch, but in this one, his back is ravaged by sciatica and his dominant hand and wrist twinge with the beginning of carpal tunnel syndrome. Most nights, it’s a miracle if he can get five uninterrupted hours. 

So no, he won’t be giving up the bed.

But Simon toys with the thought of dragging you in with him. It’s been awhile since he had a woman, so long that the memory is fuzzy when he dredges it up, and though his hand does the job when the itch grows severe, he’s no monk. He could pull you in with little effort, sweet talk you until your knickers are around your ankles and your legs are in the air, hot cunt steaming when your legs part and he sinks his cock in deep. Wouldn’t take more than a half dozen thrusts before he busted, pretty pussy painted with his cum.

In the doorway, you eye him dubiously, scrunched nose expressing your discontent. 

It’s an idea, at least.

He still leaves his dishes in the sink and wakes to you pounding on the bedroom door, whining about having to scrub his plates with a pot scraper, but time and distance have mellowed any hostility in you. You treat him less like a stranger intruding on your space and more like a roommate you’ve grown to tolerate despite his many faults. 

The oddest thing is opening the fridge up to more than just a six-pack, a stick of butter, and three half-empty bottles of mustard. Fresh produce and meat spill from the shelves now, leftovers packed in tupperware and neatly labelled. He eats like a king now, takeout relegated to the days when you don’t feel like cooking. On those days, Simon heads down to the chippie a few streets away and gets enough for the both of you before heading back to eat on the couch with you. 

He still gets a kick out of leaving his cigarette butts in cups strewn around the flat for you to find. 

“So what do you do anyway?” you ask out of the blue.

“What’s it matter?” Simon grunts from beside you. He has to slow his usual gait to keep pace with you—which is irritating as all fuck—but you didn’t leave him much choice when you insisted on going to the store well after dark.

“I’m just making conversation. You always get so squirrely when I ask—what are you, some kind of secret agent?” 

He’d roll his eyes if he had any less self-control.

“No way. No way. You are?” you gasp, suddenly glued to his side, hands scrambling for purchase on his bicep and shoulder. 

Simon stares down at your hands clutching his arm, unconsciously tucking his bicep between your tits. “Best to not ask questions, bird.”

You pout. He ignores the impulse to lean down and sink his canines into that plump bottom lip.

His nose itches because the world is changing. 

He used to catalogue his time off base in much the same way. Wake up, workout, tinker with the junk pilfered from estate sales and scrap yards he’s frequented over the years, then head to the pub for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. 

That’s changed since you came into his life. Aside from when you’re out working, you unbalance his schedule. Upset his routines. The structure propping up his entire existence gets taken down in an instant when you open your mouth and ask him to the market with you, giving him no choice but to slam the door shut behind him and drive you there.

Each day comes with its new flavour, a new bite to it. 

“You’re not eating takeout again?” you ask him, aghast when you come home from work to find takeout containers all over the coffee table

“Always a fuckin’ lecture with you, huh?” Simon grumbles into his curry. Shovels another forkful into his mouth. 

Just as he expected though, you don’t let it go. He was a fool to think you would. It’s not so bad at first when all you do is cook for him—with the life he’s lived, he’s never been one to turn down a home cooked meal, so he accepts the proffered food happily—but it’s another thing entirely when you rope him into it.

He’s already pissed off when you wrangle him into the kitchen under the guise of needing his help—absurd after your subterfuge from the day before, his expectation being that you were happy to do all the cooking yourself, not force him to debase himself by chopping up all the vegetables and meat while being ordered around like a line cook. 

What really ticks him off though is that—

he grumbles to himself as he chops the mushrooms into thin slices

—you keep getting away with it.

The worst is when you catch the tremor in his hand at the breakfast table, quick eyes picking up on the subtle quiver instantly.

“Something wrong with your wrist?” you ask. Always prying into his business. 

Simon closes his hand into a fist. “It’s nothing.”

You frown. “Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’.”

“Well, it is.”

“Can you relax your grip? I just want to see that again.”

How he lets you talk him into massaging his wrist is beyond him. Then you press your thumbs into the meat of his palm and rub in smooth, circular motions, and his brain goes offline for half a second. The relief hits him like a cudgel to the head; knocks him upside. 

“Jesus fuck, bird,” Simon groans. His knee bangs against the leg of the table. 

“Feels a bit better, huh?” you ask, the corner of your mouth quirking up in a crooked, teasing smile.

And fuck if it doesn’t feel a thousand times better by the time you’re done. He snaps when your thumbs dig in too deep at his wrist and pain radiates up his arm, but all you do is laugh it off, smiling to yourself when you press down on a tender point on his wrist and his jaw goes slack.

Sometimes, he wishes he could study you like a bug. Pin your arms and legs down to get a closer look. Kneel over you and pin your shins down with his to keep you from squirming away, then tuck his fingers into the inside of your cheeks to pull them open. 

But he keeps his hands to himself. Just barely. 

He doesn’t stay long this time, called back from his katabasis before the week’s even up, Price’s voice urgent over the phone. His duffel bag is packed before the call is even over, boots laced up and mask folded neatly in his pocket for when he leaves the city limits. 

“You’re leaving?” you ask when you notice, and if Simon were less of a realist, he might think you sounded upset. 

“Need me to take out the trash?” he asks, his answer implicit. Yes, he’s leaving. Even if it weren’t for his job, he’s not the staying type; those kinds of decisions are out of his hands anyway, and even if it were up to him, he’d be long gone by now. Adrift; across the pond or somewhere down in the Balkans, far enough away that you couldn’t find him even if you wanted to. 

That’s what he tells himself. Whether he believes it anymore is another question.

You’re quiet for a second. “Sure. Thank you.”

Simon nods. Nothing more to say. The ache in his gut could be anything else. 

He lifts a hand on his way out, ruffles your hair once before he’s gone.

Rain soaks him down to his britches but still he stands in it without complaint, watching some of the privates unload a delivery truck parked outside of the commissary. Even the mundane parts of his job are his to attend to and he does so with little complaint.

When they finish around eighteen-hundred hours, he signs out for the day and heads to Price’s office for a drink. It’s so routine it’s practically part of his DNA. 

Price already has both glasses poured when Ghost arrives, two fingers each, and it goes down smooth when he rolls the mask up over his nose to take a sip. 

“Got out the pricey stuff just for me?” Ghost asks. He can tell by the taste and from the bottle sitting on the shelf behind Price, label facing outward. 

“What else am I saving it for?” Price asks rhetorically. “I’m not letting the good stuff go to waste.”

Ghost hums. It’s still raining buckets outside. He watches as it hits the windowpane behind Price’s desk, almost transfixed.

“Got time for a drink before you’re out on Friday?” 

He shakes his head. “No time. Gotta be out by six.”

“Six?” Price repeats, a mite surprised. “Why? Something waiting for you back home?”

Ghost doesn’t answer. 

Price lifts an eyebrow. “Well, spit it out.”

He shrugs. “Nothing to tell.”

“So there’s no one back in Manchester?”

“Didn’t say that.”

Price’s lips twitch into a grin under his mustache, eyes faintly amused. “Heard.”

Truth be told, he has started to think of you as someone waiting back home. Maybe not for him, but waiting all the same. Why else would you be back in his flat in Manchester in his bed if not to wait for him to come back?

It almost makes him itchy to leave. He can tamp down the urge when the situation calls for it, but it sits right under his skin most days. If he thinks about it for too long, his focus goes razor sharp and the edges of his vision go blurry. 

In the present moment, he brings the glass to his lips and tips his head back, letting it pour down his throat. 

He has some nascent idea of where this is going.

As always, you’re curled up on the couch watching TV when he walks through the front door, on the verge of sleep. When your eyes land on him, you blink away the sleep and smile so brightly that his chest aches. “Simon!”

In nearly forty years, no one has ever said his name like that. Brimming with brightness and warmth. Like for once someone has longed for him in his absence. 

All he can do is stare at you for a time. It should make his skin crawl, and it does, to an extent. He should be out the door already—lease broken, all his shit in the back of his truck, ties cut, and so many kilometers between you and him that he has no choice but to forget your face. 

Instead, he kicks the door shut behind him and ruffles your hair when he passes on his way to the bathroom to piss and scrub a towel over his face. 

It must be a form of self-punishment. That’s the only explanation for why he comes back every single time when he has more than enough money to fuck off down south for a week instead—he could be spending his leave in Costa Brava or sipping rakija in Kotor, but he chooses to come back to this hovel with its bleak weather and seedy underbelly every single time. What other urge would drive him to abuse himself like this other than masochism? 

Any attempt to answer that is swiftly dismissed. 

One day. One day is all he manages after promising to keep himself in check this time around. He manages to get through that first day largely because of the physical distance he puts between the two of you, playing chess with a couple old men in the park, rock doves pecking at the birdseed scattered under the wrought iron tables and benches. 

His restraint breaks when he catches you dozing off in front of the television, socked feet tucked under your thighs and head balanced precariously on your fist, elbow resting on the arm of the couch. 

He sits down beside you and his lip twitches when your head bobs, slumber briefly breached when the cushion under you dips with his weight. 

“C’mere, girl,” Simon grunts, pulling you onto his lap. 

You go somewhat willingly, only putting up a little bit of a fuss. Grumbling to keep up appearances. But that melts away the second he tucks your head into the crook of his neck, body going lax and fingers burrowing into the fabric of his shirt at his belly, gathering it together in your fist. 

Christ, Simon thinks, dropping his head back on the couch. What am I doing?

Even he doesn’t know these days, but his chest aches in a way it never has before. He makes a mental note to see a doctor when he’s back on base. 

His back aches too, but you pick up on that rather quickly, hounding him when you recognize the stiffness in his back for what it is. It takes you days to wear him down enough to agree to a massage, but eventually you do. He regrets it the second the words leave his mouth, leery at the thought of putting himself in such a vulnerable position.  

You lock him out of the bedroom while you set up your table and do all the little things that you need to do in order to set the mood. His nose wrinkles when the smell of incense hits him. 

“You can strip down to your comfort level,” you explain after letting him back into the room, patting the bed as if he doesn’t know where to lie down. “Then get under the blanket and let me know when you’re ready.”

He cocks a brow. “You trying to get me naked, bird?”

“Simon,” you sigh, a touch exasperated, hands on your hips to emphasize your weariness. 

His belt clinks as he unlatches it. “Don’t worry, birdie, just gimme a second to get these off.”

A frustrated growl and then the door slams shut behind you when you bolt out of the room. 

He spares you the indignity of having to repeat yourself, sliding under the towel and barking at you to come back in when he’s stripped bare and covered. You slip back in quietly and flit over to the dresser to press play on your music.

The first touch of your hands against his bare back almost makes him flinch. All his regret comes rushing back and he very nearly calls it off, and then you press the heels of your palms into the meat of his shoulders and the bottom falls out from under him. Then you drag them down the length of his back and he very nearly bites his tongue clean off. 

Simon doesn’t bother muffling his noises when you dig your hands into his back to work out the plethora of knots, huffing and groaning like he’s balls deep. When you get to his shoulders though, he has to fight to stay put, 

“Oh, your back is really messed up,” you note, a bit breathlessly. 

He doesn’t acknowledge your words, too intent on not vocalizing his pain. Not even a grunt passes his lips. 

You work years of hard labour and soreness out of his muscles, leaving behind a new man. The oil coating your palms makes your hands glide across his back. 

He must fall asleep at some point because he wakes to the sound of television in the other room. Groggy at first, cotton mouthed and sleep drunk, and when Simon stumbles into the living room, you’re sitting on the couch with your knees drawn into your chest. 

“Oh hi,” you say when you notice him standing there. “Sleep well?” 

Speech still beyond him, all he can do is nod and plant himself on the couch beside you. Shirtless still. Simon only notices it himself when he tips his head to look over at you and finds that you won’t meet his eyes, gaze steadfast on the TV. 

“Shoulda ‘ad you do that when you moved in,” he says. 

“I could give you another one before you leave,” you reply, still not looking over at him. He bets that if he brushed his knuckles over your cheeks, they’d be hot to the touch. “Just tell me when.”

Maybe he will. What use is there in depriving himself of life’s little pleasures when his soul bears all of life’s bruises? 

He reaches over to pinch your cheek, grinning when you yowl. Just as warm as he thought.

One thing Simon doesn’t take for granted anymore are his scarce moments of privacy. No stranger to a little exhibitionism (barracks walls and tent flaps hardly muffle sound, and he’s learned over the years that men will tolerate anything if it means they can rub one out in peace), he still appreciates the time he gets to himself to take care of things. 

He’s only just finished tugging one out, his jeans buttoned back up and his hand still wet with his spend, when you walk in the front door.

You start up the second the door slams shut behind you, steam practically billowing out of your ears. “Well, thanks a lot—one of my regulars just gave me shit because she said I smelt like an ashtray and she couldn’t ‘properly relax’ for the whole hour—” 

Afterglow proper scotched, Simon sits there and lets you cuss him out until the pounding behind his eyebrow becomes unbearable. 

You go quiet when he rises to his feet, unused to him actually reacting to your whinging. Sometimes you don’t realize how accustomed to him you’ve become—how ingrained he’s become in your everyday life. What continues to elude you for no good reason is that you live with a stranger, and a strange man at that. It would piss him off if it were anyone other than him. 

Practically chest to chest now, you nearly go cross eyed staring up at him. Jaw unhinged and mouth dangling loose, just the slightest gap between your lips like you forgot to close them. He lets you size him up for a second before lifting his hand to your mouth and slowly but firmly shoving his cum-covered fingers into your mouth.

Dumbstruck, all you can do is stare up at him with his cum-slicked fingers in your mouth, holding them there for a few more seconds and whimpering when he drags them out and then feeds them slowly back in. You even go a little glassy-eyed.

When he finally pulls his fingers out and lets his arm drop to his side, you sway on your feet a little, at a loss for words. There’s a creamy sheen on your bottom lip that disappears when you suck it into your mouth on instinct, eyes going wide when you recognize the taste on your tongue. 

“Thanks for cleaning that up, birdie.” And then he reaches down to zip his fly up, smug when your eyes flit down to his crotch. 

The stakes are different now than what they were all those months ago. It can’t be a carefree cohabitation when he’s playing for keeps. Whatever that means. 

But his time is cut short again, the world catching up to him and yanking him back. And when Simon goes this time, he can’t help but drag his feet on his way out.

You’re looking good. A comment made in passing, Price’s face barely twitching through it, but Ghost catches it and he lets it sit for a moment before responding.

“Yeah?” he grunts, looking away. The recruits round the part of the track closest to where they stand, panting through their seventh lap. 

“Put on a bit of weight since you left,” Price notes. 

“Calling me fat, sir?”

He rolls his eyes, huffing out an exasperated breath. “Give it a rest, you fuckin’ muppet. I said you look good.”

Price isn’t wrong though. He both looks and feels different. With increasing regularity, he watches the clock and counts the days down until he’s released from his duties again. His want has him circling like a bird of prey. 

All his life, he’s had to live in the moment, concerned only with the immediate, tangible present because that’s all that life let him have. And though it’s been decades since he’s needed to be in survival mode, those instincts have never quite left him. 

The shock to his system has left him forward-thinking for once. A girl in his house and food in his fridge; his body feeling better than it has in years—he’s still lucky if he gets more than five uninterrupted hours of sleep, but his expectations are different when he’s not at home. Even the concept of home is foreign, like a language he’s just starting to learn. 

The future isn’t some nebulous concept out of his reach but a real place that he gets to walk into. 

Desire tips him like a scale. There may not be any coming back from this.

Love shows him no mercy, so he doesn’t show you any either. 

Months pass before Simon’s leave comes around again, and when it finally does, he’s already packed and signed out before his last day on base is even up. He says his goodbyes to Price on his way out and the other man visibly suppresses a smile, eyeing the bag clutched tight in his hand. 

“Give her my best,” is all he says before getting back to the paperwork in front of him. Simon leaves without another word. 

Then the long drive back. A skein of birds in flight follow him for part of the journey. A train running parallel to the throughway follows him for the rest. Tree boughs bend under the weight of the last snowfall.

Then he blinks and when his eyes open, he’s home.

You’re still sitting on that blasted couch when Simon opens the front door, pretty as a peach in August, and his name rings like a bell off your tongue when you say it, summoning him to you. It’s not his fault that his urges prevail, that he has no choice but to throw his bag down onto the carpeted floor and stomp over to you, lifting you up by the collar of your housecoat and dragging you into a scorching hot kiss. 

“Mmf,” you squeak against his lips, eyes flying open. 

It’s messy and frenzied, spit dripping down your chin and his tongue halfway down your throat. No finesse or skill to speak of, only an incessant buzzing at the back of his head that only quiets when you give a helpless little moan, an instant balm to his suffering. 

Simon pulls back for a moment to let you breathe. “That’s my welcome ‘ome?” he murmurs. His lips brush against yours when he speaks. 

“W-welcome home?” you repeat, flustered, your lip catching against his. He sucks it between his when it does, cock throbbing in his pants when you gasp, hot breath billowing into his mouth and making his head spin. 

This is nothing like being high on pain meds or three sheets to the win. It pulses through him and makes his cock chub up, forcing him to shove a hand down between his legs to readjust himself. That gets you good when you notice. 

He kisses hungry and mean, ever greedy for your mouth, fitting his hand over the back of your head and angling you how he likes. Holding the delicate cradle of your skull in his palm and knowing that he could crack it if he squeezed his fingers hard enough. The thought sends a rush right through him, his violent underbelly scratched in just the right way. 

“W-where’s this coming from?” you gasp when Simon pulls back. You look thoroughly flustered, but he ignores you to hook a finger in your mouth and wrench it open. 

“Open,” he grunts, giving your inner cheek a sharp tug. 

You go cross-eyed when he spits in your mouth, the glob of spit landing right on your tongue, and your affronted little gasp hits him like an arrow shot straight through his heart. He’s considerate enough to seal it in with a kiss, making sure not to let you waste a drop. Tongue pushing in right after to lick it up, growling at you to suck it when you only nervously kiss back.

His patience isn’t infinite though and kissing barely wets his appetite. It’s not enough to plumb the depths of his hunger when there’s something uglier down there waiting with its jaws wide open.

He twists you around and bends you over the back of the couch, rucking your housecoat up to your waist. Your knickers get ripped clean off, tearing at the seams, and your ensuing shriek nourishes the hunger simmering low in his belly. Appetite never satiated, belly never full. 

He likes that you didn’t expect him back so soon. Fuzzy, unshaved legs and holey socks; pimple patches on your face and nothing under your robe. The lazy domesticity appeals to him in a way he never would’ve expected. 

Then his fingers split the seam of your pussy and the runoff of his appreciation cascades down the slopes of his shoulders and his back. Slick drips from your winking hole, gathering together into a tight bulb before a single drop drips onto the couch beneath you. 

“Fuck—now there’s somethin’ to come ‘ome to,” Simon grunts, and then drags his tongue between your dew-slicked lips.

His enjoyment was a foregone conclusion when he imagined this back in his quarters in the barracks, cock in hand, but the reality of having his mouth on your pussy exceeds his expectations a thousandfold. It’s all soft, pillowy skin and sweet nectar. He gorges himself on it, an almost pathological need to be tongue-deep in your cunt.  

“Wet little gash just sucks ‘em right in…” he murmurs, plunging two fingers into your hole slowly. The soft flesh of your hole bulges around his fingers when they sink in all the way to the knuckle. 

“Fuck—don’t call it that,” you bleat, so pathetic that he’s smitten. 

“Shouldn’ta wagged it at me if ya didn’t want me to touch it,” Simon teases, then crooks his fingers just so and your leg spasms. 

He keeps you stuffed full until your legs shake, on the verge of coming, and then he rips them out. 

You practically scream in frustration, twisting to look at him from over your shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“Somethin’ wrong, birdie?” He smirks when you arch your back, pushing your ass back in his face. 

“I want to come, Simon,” you whine, wagging your ass in his face again. Just his luck that a little slut like you dropped into his life.

“Alright,” he sighs, mock aggrieved. “Lemme see if I can ‘elp with that.”

Ungrateful little thing, he thinks when he turns you over onto your back and heaves you up into the air. 

“Simon—”  you keen his name when he has you pinned up against the wall, his arms scooped under your thighs to hold you in place. 

He plunges into that warm little honeypot between your legs in slow, measured strokes at first, savouring each punctured whimper and hiccup that drops from your lips. Each flex of his hips brings him that much closer to heaven and that much closer to hell.

“Didn’t think you could just barge in without consequences, did ya?” Simon asks rhetorically, voice gone brassy and tiger-stripped, thick in his chest. “Been sleeping in my bed for nearly a year, ‘aven’t ya? Ain’t I owed this?”

He means it too. 

“You’re—so full of it,” you retort, hiccuping through your words.  

Your arms hang limp around his neck, fingers twined at his nape and nails scratching at his hairline. The low ache in his back is barely a deterrent—he’d hold you up all night if it took that long to make you come. A distant voice at the back of his head reminds him that he’ll suffer for it in the morning, but he shakes that thought away. 

He chases the beads of sweat snaking down your chest and tits with his tongue, straightening back up only when that nearly makes you lose your grip around his neck and topple out of his arms. 

“Hey,” you pout when Simon chuckles, digging your nails into his back in retribution for laughing at you. It has the opposite effect though, the pain stoking his pleasure and sending a shiver down his back, his next thrust so rough that you bounce in his arms.

Your skin smells like sweat and musk this close, so heady that his head spins. It registers dimly at the back of his mind that he’s still dressed while you’re fully nude, housecoat and knickers in a pile on the floor in front of the couch, but he can’t pull away now, not with the need to come pressing into him on all sides, dick hard enough to split diamonds. 

He stares down between your legs where his cock splits you again and again, a ring of white cream at the base. He could paint that little snatch white with his cum or stuff it deep inside, both options appealing to his baser instincts. It’ll be a coin flip in the end.

When the ache in his back grows too significant to ignore, he lifts you up off the wall and drops you down on his cock, burying himself to the hilt before carrying you to the open door to the bedroom. 

“Sorry, pet,” Simon murmurs when he feels you clench around the thickest part of his cock, whispering a little oh fuck to yourself under your breath. He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel. “Back’s shit. Mind taking over for me?” 

The mattress squeaks under his weight when he sits down on the end. You blink up at him. “You want me on top?” 

He nods and hums his assent, digging his fingers into the muscle and flesh of your ass and kneading. “Yeah, bird. Still wanna see all the pretty bits though.”

The pretty bits being the globes of your ass facing him while you ride his dick, his hands pulling apart your cheeks to watch you take it inch by inch, thighs quivering with the strain.  

Your thighs are stretched out on either side of him, pretty calves resting perpendicular to his chest and toes curled into the mattress. He eyes those with some interest before your pussy distracts him again. There’s no angle that isn’t nice to look at, but this has got to be his favourite so far, tight bud between your cheeks clenching every time you drop down onto his dick. It’s easy to ignore the ache in his shoulder with a view this nice. 

“Fuck, birdie,” Simon murmurs, dragging his hand over your ass and then swatting it, grunting when that makes you clench up around him, inner walls squeezing his length and nearly milking him dry. “Coulda been doing this the whole time.”

You laugh a bit breathlessly. “No—you were way too annoying.”

Smack. You yelp when he backhands your ass and your shoulders go stiff, spine a taut line with your impending orgasm. Simon can feel it like a knot in his throat, pussy so hot that it nearly burns him alive. 

“Shit,” you gasp, hands on his legs the only thing keeping you upright. You nearly rip out the hair on his thighs when you curl them into fists.

His hands glide up and down your sides, touching wherever he wants. It’s his God given right after housing you for so long, and though Simon clings belligerently to that belief, like the foundation of his existence is built on quid pro quo, on doing nothing for others unless there’s something in it for him, there’s something else that burrows underneath that maxim. Something far truer and more terrifying, and if he were to look it dead on, it would bring him to his knees. 

Simon grunts, lungs pummelled when you squeeze around his length, tight as a vice.

Good thing you’ve got him on his back instead.

In the end, it’s not up to him whether he comes in you or not. When his cockhead bumps against your cervix and he feels teardrops land on his thighs, your shoulders shaking with the force of your sobs, the spigot loosens and his stomach aches with how hard he comes. His heels dig into the mattress, hips lifting up, trying to cram more and more of his cock into your cunt, tendons straining against his neck. 

“Take it, bird,” Simon snarls, teeth grinding together, his voice sounding wrecked even to him. “Take it nice ‘n deep, fuck—wanna see it leak from your hole when I pull ya off—”

Your nails sink into his thighs, cutting him off. 

He does too, when you flop down beside him onto the bed and he tucks you under his arm, spreading your legs so he can push his cum back into your cunt, fingers pearly white with your mixed juices. 

“Oh God,” you whisper, squeezing your thighs together around his hand until he’s forced to wrench them open again, hovering over you this time, the cudgel dangling between his legs already thickening up again. 

And that’s how he spends his week, in a suspended state of euphoria, no sense of time passing. It doesn’t matter where it goes as long as you crawl into bed with him at the end of the day, eyes sparkling with delight. 

The leaving is tougher than it’s ever been, claws scoring right through his chest when Simon tips your chin up and leans down to slot his lips over yours. He’s not made for this sentimental bullshit, but it finds him either way. 

His chest burns on the drive back to base, acid reflux a bitch as always. 

The next time his landlord calls, he comes bearing good news.

“I’ll cut you a deal on the first month to make up for the…mix up,” he starts begrudgingly. “But don’t worry—the girl’ll be out of your hair by the end of the month. Gonna tell her today that I can’t renew her lease.”

Simon hangs up without saying a word, swathed in anger. Nearly crushes the phone in his grip when his landlord calls back a second later. He ignores that call too.

If he were a different man, if this was a different world—

No one ever knows when their world is about to change until it does. 

But even if his walls have grown barbed wires in the years that he’s been alone, there’s always a way to dig out from under. 

The return home is different this time around, the wind under his sails all but lifting him into the air. 

A year to the date almost. Another month and time will wrap back around on itself, the seasons changing the same way they have for all thirty-seven years of his life. When fate lets him go this time, Simon heads over to Price’s office before taking off for the week, carving out time for one last drink before he hits the road. Over a whiskey and kretek, he tells Price his plan and only just keeps from rolling his eyes when Price barks a laugh, clapping his hands together.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” he chuckles, shaking his head. 

“Shut up.”

“It’s a big step, Simon. I’m proud of you.”

Simon rolls his eyes, pleased despite himself. “Stuff it, old man.”

And then he’s gone again, following the same winding road back, with one stop along the way this time. He stays overnight at a local inn after signing the paperwork, too exhausted to keep driving. Too much on his mind anyway. 

It means nothing to him that people do this sort of thing all the time. He has survived the locust years of his life and come out the other side. That should be enough to give himself some grace when he tosses and turns all night, back pain flaring up and immobilizing him for an hour. Only when the first rays of dawn pierce through the threadbare curtains does it finally abate, and he heads out after his morning piss, ignoring the cramp in his belly on the drive over.

You greet him at the door when you hear his car pull up, standing under the door frame while he gets out and rounds the car, bare toes curling at the cold air. And any effort to tamp it down now is in vain, his chest filling with something unspeakable and unsaid. 

“Put your shoes on,” Simon instructs, coming over just to pull you in for a kiss before nudging you back into the flat, shutting the door behind him. 

“Why?” you ask, lifting a brow. “Wanna go for coffee or something like that?”

“Something like that. Why aren’t you putting your shoes on?” 

Herded into the truck after getting dressed, you badger him with question after question the whole drive over while Simon keeps his mouth shut, focusing on the road in front of him. It’s not a long drive at least, but your incessant questions make it last an eternity. 

Until he pulls up in front of a house with a short gravel walkway and a garden in desperate need of attention, milkvetch growing near the front step. The outdoor sconces are new though, and though Simon already has a few things in mind to fix up around the house, it’s got good bones. Leagues nicer than the place you just left.

“Are we picking someone up?” you ask when he puts the car in park, confused. You stare at the door as if waiting for it to open. 

Simon doesn’t respond.

You look over at him and he takes one of your hands, holding it palm-side up and covering it with his own ugly mitt. You feel something cold drop from his hand into yours and he curls your fingers into a fist to hold it.

“No.” 

When his hand moves away, you uncurl your fingers to find a key. It means so little and so much all at once. If he could say it with words, it wouldn’t be the same so there’s no point in trying. 

“It’s ours?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

There’s a watery sheen over your eyes when you look up, and your lip wobbles. And in a way different than ever before, his chest grows tight, the ache in his heart a fresh and welcome pain.

𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈

[ PAIRING ] Vash the Stampede x reader x Millions Knives [ SYNOPSIS ] You get high with your sweet roommate and his weird brother. [ WORD COUNT ] 3k [ CONTENT ] Modern AU, no plot/just smut, dubcon (everyone's high), marijuana, lowkey plantcest, threesome (mmf), marking, of course Vash has a biting kink, handjob, oral sex, nipple play, sensory deprivation, finger sucking.

“I wish you would have said he was coming over,” you growled, mourning the loss of a lazy, hazy Sunday morning.

You were laying down on the couch, your feet resting in Vash’s lap. You wore one of his old shirts over a pair of comfy underwear while he was dressed in a pair of cotton running shorts and a loose fitting tank top.

Vash intently watched the baseball game you put on for background noise. It was cute, considering he didn’t know anything about sports. When your team hit a home run Vash looked at you, his puppy dog eyes sparkling with wonder, and said with full confidence, “The orange team scored a goal.”

He pouted. “I live here too, y’know? I’m allowed to have company.”

“All I ask for is fair warning. Your brother…” You groaned. “I don’t know. He weirds me out.”

Vash sighed. “I know, I know. But I told him to play nice.”

You sat up and glared. “Oh, whatever. Why did he even leave Alaska in the first place?”

“I think he’s lonely.”

“Did he not move up there to be alone? He hates everyone. Why the fuck would he be lonely?”

“Well he likes me,” Vash laughed.

You rolled your eyes and laid back down, your head hitting the arm rest. The vibe was sure to change with Nai’s arrival. He had a habit of sucking the air out of the room with his presence. It was like being locked up with a starved coyote.

And yet Vash brought out a devoted tenderness, one that radiated adoration. His brother was the only one who could coax a smile out of him. His grin was precious and fleeting like a nightblooming cereus flowering under a desert moon.

“That doesn't make him any easier to deal with though,” you whined.

“It’s gonna be fine,” he said, patting your leg. “You have nothing to worry about.”

Vash’s touch left your skin feeling voltaic. You hated that such a brief and simple gesture could render you reeling in milliseconds. Fortunately there was a knock on the door, breaking you free from your Vash-induced trance. Unfortunately the person beyond the door was a beacon of hostility. You grumbled and repositioned yourself on the other end of the couch. Vash got up and let his brother in.

“Hi!” he replied cheerfully, opening his arms for a hug.

Nai breezed past him, dropping his stuff down near the front door. He looked worn out, hostility tempered by a long flight. His platinum blonde hair was fluffy and askew, each strand riddled with sleep. His big blue eyes were half-lidded, obscuring the usual intensity of his gaze. His sweatpants were rumpled, hanging low on his hips and revealing a tuft of his pale happy trail. His shirt was slightly too short and it hugged his body, accentuating his hard earned muscles. An unbuttoned oversized flannel topped it off, the sleeves rolled up revealing his veiny forearms.

“How was your flight?” you asked even though you didn’t care.

Nai took Vash’s seat on the couch and sunk into it. He was clearly annoyed by your presence.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” His tone was dripping with impatience.

You couldn’t believe he was being so dismissive considering he was in your apartment.

“So I’m guessing it was bad,” you replied.

“I was stuck next to a screaming infant.”

“Oh fuck, that’s awful.”

“I know what you need to do,” Vash interjected with a playful grin.

“And what would that be exactly?” his brother asked.

You and Vash spoke at the same time.

“Get high!”

“Find somewhere else to stay!” 

Vash let out a little gasp and Nai weakly glared at you. “I’m kidding! It’s a joke. Like ha ha. It’s funny… Whatever. Yeah, smoke weed.”

Vash ran to his room and gathered his rolling papers and a mason jar full of fruity smelling marijuana. He sat on the floor in front of the coffee table and began to roll a joint. His dexterity and speed were awe inspiring. Watching him roll made you think of all the other incredible feats his fingers were capable of.

“I can’t even remember the last time I got high,” Nai mumbled.

“Is weed like extinct up there or something?” you asked knowing your wording would annoy him.

“Extinct? How could it be extinct if yo—I’m not going to even bother.”

“Smart man,” you laughed.

You were shocked to see a hint of a half-smile on his face. Maybe Nai had heeded Vash’s request to play nice.

“Wasn’t your last time with me?” Vash asked before licking the edge of the paper and sealing the joint.

“Probably. You’re the only stoner I know…  thankfully.”

You cocked your head to the side. “What do you mean by thankfully?”

“People that smoke weed are… hm. How do I put this? Obnoxious.”

Vash looked disappointed as he lit the joint. He took a hit and blew the smoke up at the ceiling. 

Nai continued, “And I hate the smell.”

“Why even smoke then?!”

Nai turned to you. “How can I say no to that face?”

The two of you directed your attention towards Vash. He looked up, big, blue eyes already red rimmed, and broke out into a goofy grin. His dimples were on full display, looking cute as hell. Nai had a point. How the fuck could you say no to such a precious creature?

“You can’t,” you confessed as Vash handed you the joint. You took a hit. “It’s a crime, like, a felony,” you continued, holding the smoke in your lungs.

You exhaled and passed the joint to Nai. He looked at the glowing, red cherry with mild disgust. He held it to his lips and took a long drag. He looked so confident, so cool.

However the illusion was fleeting. The second he tried to exhale he burst out into a cacophony of coughs with a melodramatic “WHY!?” in the middle. Vash got off the floor and took a seat in between you and Nai. He tended to his brother, rubbing his back as he tried to catch his breath.

“He gonna be okay?” you asked, plucking the joint from Nai’s fingers.

You took a hit and exhaled with little fanfare.

“I’d—” Nai continued to hack. “—shit—appreciate it if you didn’t talk about me like I’m not in the room.”

“I didn’t think you were capable of speaking.”

Vash put his arm around Nai, letting him bury his blushed face in his neck. You stifled a laugh and passed the joint to Vash. He took a lengthy drag and exhaled the smoke away from his sensitive brother.

“How are you feeling?” Vash asked softly.

Nai coughed pathetically. “Terrible.”

“That means you should smoke more,” you said. “You’re in like limbo right now. You’re existing in between worlds. Sobriety and fuckin’ uh… being high.”

“I–”

You completely disregarded Nai’s attempt to speak.

“You should shotgun him.”

Vash appeared to be deep in thought. “That’s a great idea,” he finally said.

“Yeah and it’s totally, um, altruistic. I gain nothing.”

You knew you were overselling it, but you couldn’t muster any discretion regarding your deranged desire.

“Is it going to hurt?” Nai asked trepidatiously.

You laughed. “Nope. It’ll actually make the smoke less like… harsh, y’know?”

“What do I have to do?”

Vash went to speak, but you were feeling gutsy and interrupted him.

“Your brother,” you said, pointing at Vash as if Nai wouldn’t know who his brother was, “is gonna take a hit. And then he’s gonna kiss you and exhale the smoke in your mouth… And it’s not gonna be weird at all.”

Again, you found yourself overselling the act, but it couldn’t be helped. It was bubbling up inside you. There was no escape. You were trapped, practically drowning in your perverted need to see them kiss.

“It’ll be a little weird,” Vash admitted. “But only a little.”

You wanted to strangle Vash. He was right of course, but you didn’t want the bleak truth to deter Nai.

“It’s gonna be great,” you reassured. “And your brother is like the perfect person to do it with.”

Vash batted his eyelashes and relit the joint. He was so cute you wanted to hit him.

“Alright. I’ll do it.”

You planted your head in Vash’s lap for a better view. He took a hit off the joint, holding the smoke in his lungs before passing it off to you. He gently held onto Nai’s jaw, running his thumb across his lip. He placed his other hand on the back of Nai’s head and stroked his undercut.

Nai’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes wide and nervous. You felt like you were going to fall to pieces once Vash leaned in and pressed his lips against Nai’s. You were utterly bewitched as he exhaled the smoke into his mouth. Nai looked like he was in a daze as Vash pulled away.

“Ca—can I try?” you asked.

“Sure,” Vash said enthusiastically.

“Not you,” you said, taking a hit off the joint.

You dropped it in the ashtray and clumsily lifted yourself up to kiss Nai. His lips were soft and his mouth tasted faintly of spearmint gum. After exhaling you slipped your tongue into his mouth, the smoke trailing out his nose. The odd positioning of your body betrayed you. Your arms gave out from under you, breaking the kiss. Your face was nestled in his crotch. You could feel his girthy cock against your nose.

Vash cleared his throat. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” Nai muttered, stroking the back of your head like it was a kitten. “Can we put something else on? I can’t handle sports right now. The competitive nature of it all is taking years off of my life.”

“What’s the score?” you asked.

Vash said solemnly, “The orange guys are losing.”

“Ugh. Yeah… you can put something else on.”

“Any requests?” Vash asked, scanning the floor for the remote.

“A Fistful of Dollars. Or Once Upon a Time in the West… wait, no. Not that one. I hate that part where the guy has his neck in a noose, and sitting on his little brother’s shoulders is the only thing stopping him from getting hung.”

“Boriiiiiiing,” you heckled. You lifted yourself out of Nai’s lap. “I’ll fall a—fuckin’—sleep.”

You found yourself lost in Vash’s eyes. You felt bad for being so dismissive of him when he offered himself up to you.

“Well what do you have in mi—”

“It doesn’t matter. Can I kiss you?”

“Oh, so now you wanna kiss me?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know… You kinda hurt my feelings.”

“Vash, please.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, just kiss them already,” Nai groaned, reaching for the extinguished joint. “Where’s the lighter?”

Vash practically threw the lighter at his brother and pulled you into a sloppy kiss. He wasted no time shoving his tongue into your mouth and rolling it up against yours. His hands wandered down your back, holding you close to his body. Drool began to drip from the corners of your lips as he whimpered in your mouth. You braced yourself, hands pressing into his chest, feeling the softness of his relaxed muscles.

“Ouch, ow, ow,” Nai droned as he burned his thumb with the lighter’s flame.

Vash turned his head and wiped his mouth. “What? What happened?”

“Burnt my finger,” Nai replied, taking a hit off the joint. As Vash went to speak, Nai pushed the joint through his parted lips. “I’m fine.”

“Baby,” you teased.

“I’m hardly a baby for being averse to pain.”

“Hate to break it to you, but you’ll always be my baby” Vash said while exhaling.

“Can I be your baby?” you asked, grabbing the joint from him. You took a hit and let the smoke trail out of your mouth. “Please?”

“No,” Vash said before kissing you once more.

Nai groaned and plucked the joint from your fingers. He finished it off. He uncomfortably crossed and uncrossed his legs. You briefly opened your eyes and shifted your gaze to his lap. His cock was stiff against his sweatpants.

You reached over, placing your hand on his cock and stroked his tip. He coughed, choking on nothing but air. He grabbed a hold of your wrist and you waited for him to shove you away. But he didn’t. He guided it under his clothes. Your fingers danced along his shaft, feeling the veins snaking around his cock.

Vash bit down on your lower lip before kissing your jaw. He moved onto your neck, grazing it with his teeth. He sucked on your neck, interspersing his kisses with bites. You could feel the bruise blooming on your skin. You stroked the back of his head, his soft, flaxen hair slipping between your fingers.

Nai rutted against your hand. His cock leaked precum, leaving your palm sticky. His breathing was sharp and shallow.

“You like that, huh?” you cooed.

Nai nodded. The power you felt was insurmountable. You never thought you’d end up in such a situation with him. You always knew you’d hook up with Vash eventually because you resided under the same roof, but fucking around with his brother never crossed your mind.

Vash tugged at the neckline of your shirt and peppered your collarbones with kisses.

“Take it off,” he said, breath hot against your skin.

You let go of Nai’s cock and pulled your shirt off. Your nipples hardened as the cool air hit your chest. Nai whimpered, longing for the return of your touch. He took your hand and placed it back on his cock. You wrapped your hand around it, letting him fuck your fist.

Vash flicked his tongue against your nipple, drawing your attention back towards him. Nai followed his lead, latching onto the other one. Your cunt throbbed as they lapped at your breasts.

“Sh—shit,” Nai choked out as he came in your hand.

You continued to jerk him off, coating the shaft of his cock with his cum. You savored each of his breathy moans. His brows were knitted together, a sign of the bliss overwhelming his body. You were a little jealous, praying one of them would tend to your weeping cunt.

“I have a fun idea,” Vash said abruptly.

You let go of Nai’s cock and held your hand up to his face. “Lick it up… Uh, so what’s the fun idea?”

Nai reluctantly dragged his tongue along your hand, slipping it in between your fingers..

“Okay,” Vash said sitting up. “One of us will go down on you and you have to guess who it is.”

“What happens if I guess wrong?”

Vash shrugged. “You’ll… I’ll… Nothing I guess. I didn’t think that far ahead.”

“If you’re wrong, we get to fuck your face,” Nai said, shoving your hand away.

That didn’t seem like much of a consequence so you readily agreed. Nai scrambled to his duffle bag and pulled out the complimentary sleep mask he got on the plane. You put it on and tried to ignore its recycled air smell.

“Alright, ready?” they asked in unison.

“Mhm.”

You felt a pair of hands grip your hips and pull down your underwear. Your toes curled in anticipation as they traveled down your thighs. They hung around one of your ankles; the man between your legs was too impatient to remove them completely. He kissed the inside of your thighs and slipped his fingers inside your slick cunt. He spread apart your folds. His tongue slid in between them, teasing your hole.

He dragged his tongue along your clit before sucking on it. You couldn’t figure out who was going down on you and you didn’t really care. He lapped up the arousal that glazed your cunt. You rolled your hips against his face, the tip of his nose grazing your clit.

You tried to speak, but you couldn’t. The words got caught in your throat. All you could do is whimper. You heard a familiar laugh and could feel the sound of his amusement against your body.

“Don’t laugh,” you whined.

He continued to laugh before biting into your thigh.

“It’s Vash.”

“How did you know?!” he asked, ripping off the sleep mask.

“You fucking bit me!”

“And? Maybe he would have bit you too.”

“Nope,” Nai said. “You’re just that predictable.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, you’re like especially bitey,” you replied.

“No I’m not.”

“You bit me all the time as a kid.”

“And you’ve been biting me all day.”

Vash groaned and buried his face in your cunt. He paid special attention to your aching clit. His soft tongue was relentless. Your skin was tingling, every inch of your body singing. He lifted one of your legs over his shoulder. You felt like you were going to burst with pleasure.

Nai sat next to you on the couch and forced his fingers in your mouth. His face was adorned with a sick grin, his eyes dark with lust. You glanced down at Vash, his eyes mirroring his brother’s. All the attention sent you spiraling, falling deeper and deeper into lusty avidity. Nai’s fingers in your mouth did little to quiet you. Your moans were simply too powerful.

“Aww. You’re getting close, aren’t you?” Nai said, pulling his fingers out of your mouth.

A strand of spit clung from your mouth to his fingers.

“Uh-huh,” you mewled as Vash sucked on your clit.

Nai couldn’t have been more right. Your orgasm rushed through your body in no time, leaving rapture in its wake. It was transcendent. You felt like you were hovering above the couch. Vash biting the inside of your thigh was what brought you back to earth.

“I know…” You struggled to speak. “I know I guessed right, but I still want you guys to fuck my face.”

Vash immediately pulled down his shorts, revealing his throbbing cock.

“Hold on,” you sighed. Vash frowned and tucked it back into his shorts. “I wanna be on a bed.”

In one swift motion, Vash hoisted you over his shoulder. You hung over him like a limp noodle with no will of your own. Nai trailed behind and pinched the tender flesh of your ass. All you could think about was how lovely it would be to gag on their cocks.

Handle With Care

My grasp on genshin characters is flimsy at best and ‘based on a single animated trailer’ at worst. This is the second variant. If canon makes this fic unreadable in like, a week, I won’t be surprised. I hope you all nevertheless enjoy this fic :)

Part 2

Warnings: yandere! Capitano, unhealthy relationship dynamics, threat of violence, fantasy hierarchies, nsfw, female reader, marriage, very bad communication and misuse of power, 7k words

Gildendria only grew in very specific circumstances.

The acidity of the soil had to be just right, the margin of water the plant needed and could handle was very slim, and if any weeds were within a five feet radius, the plant immediately gave up and died. The only reason the flower even managed to survive the long toil of time was that there was a very specific species obsessed with the beautiful colours the flower made in bloom, namely humans.

Even the dried variant went for quite a lot, and you were once told that it was one of those flowers that annoyed florists all over the world since many people wanted a vase full of the flowers for their soiree but few actually realized the work needed to grow such a particular plant, instead complaining about the high costs and acting obnoxious.

You’d always had a fondness for the colourful bloom, like many others, primarily because your mother had always placed them in your room on your birthday. Back then, you’d not realized the nostalgic sight had cost so much effort, so when you tried to recreate the sight by yourself, you’d been surprised to see the first batch die out nearly immediately.

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