yandere dream rebel! riddle rosehearts x f! reader
warnings: horny teenagers (intimate touching), horror elements, coraline and monster house inspired except i haven't seen those movies in years, implied mrs rosehearts x reader (yes, romantic), dead dove: do not eat
(wc: 5.9k words)
𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐏 the hill lived a little boy with rosy cheeks and crimson hair; all red and smiles. His name was Riddle, though you never called him that when you were small— he was simply the boy who held your hand and face, the boy who stole kisses behind the purple slide that went round and round, the boy who swore he’d marry you one day when neither of you even knew what marriage meant.
From six until twelve (maybe thirteen?) he was your whole world, your partner in scraped knees and secret dares, the almost-boyfriend who walked you home until the day you had to leave. You remember that day clearly— you were both young and curious and that was the only time you ever kissed someone so passionately.
And though years have folded and unfolded since, and other boys and girls have passed through your life, the memory of him and the house atop the hill lingered like the last line of a bedtime story you never got to finish. Now, at eighteen, with your suitcases unpacked and the town you wander both changed and unchanged since, you find yourself wondering;
What became of the little boy with rosy cheeks and crimson hair within the elusive house atop the hill? And more importantly… Had he waited for you as he promised he would? As you’d waited for him?
Oh, but the town, if anything, had waited for you. The same sloping lanes curled around themselves like the pretty ribbons every little girl has in her hair, the same shopfronts blinked their painted eyes beneath eaves of chipped wood, and the same cobblestones carried the same weary cracks as though not a day had passed since you last tripped across them.
…Yet look closer; the illusion thins. The bakery that once smelled of sugared dough now carried the sterile tang of coffee beans. The playground, once rusted and loud with shrieks, had been repainted into silence. Faces that might have belonged to childhood friends now belonged to strangers instead. It was everything and nothing like you expected.
You chastised yourself for the disappointment that rose in your chest. What did you think would happen? That the town would remain suspended in amber, unchanging, preserved exactly as it was on the day you left? That if you rounded the corner at just the right hour, you might find your younger self skipping along, hand in hand with a boy whose laughter always rang louder than the church bells? Perhaps you did expect it, though you would never confess it aloud. Perhaps a part of you did think the whole town had been frozen, a snow globe shaken only when you returned to stir its pieces back into place at your liking.
But above it all— silhouetted against the sky that was as bright as you remembered— loomed the elusive house atop the hill. The house that did not blink when years passed, that did not repaint or refashion itself to meet the times. Its windows glimmered darkly, shuttered but watchful, and its slanted roof cut into the horizon like a blade. You told yourself it was only a house, only wood and brick and rose bushes, but you felt its presence all the same; patient, everlasting, a shadow stretched across your childhood, a shadow that had never quite receded from the corners of your mind. Did the boy with rosy cheeks and crimson hair still live there?
What was completely new to the town, though, was the music.
Loud and brazen, the sort that rattled windowpanes and startled sparrows into flight. It did not belong to the town you remembered, yet you found yourself drawn, drawn toward it— pulled, pulled as surely as a tide toward the moon. Each step carried you further down the lane, until instinct led you to the very corner you used to round as a child.
And to your surprise, there the boy with rosy cheeks and crimson stood… with a microphone in hand?
His rosy cheeks were painted now, half-concealed beneath a mask of dark cosmetics. Nor did he wear a full crown of crimson hair, for black had been streaked through it, deep and dark as ink spilled across parchment. He was clothed in splendour you’d hardly seen anyone wear in person— an oversized coat of luscious red fur spilling from his shoulders, shoes so tall they lifted him out of reach— and there was no mistaking the passion that set his whole frame alight as he sang.
So you stood there at the edge of the forming crowd, mesmerised by the sight of him. Riddle. The name trembled in your chest like a secret only you could bear. He was beautiful in a way that startled you, sharp and dazzling all at once, his face carved in light and shadow, every line of him made for a stage rather than a playground. You scarcely dared to breathe, lest the vision collapse.
And because you were so transfixed, you did not notice at first— did not see how his gaze broke from the crowd to find you, how his eyes locked as though they had been searching for you all along. It was only when the music faltered and the cheering dimmed that you realised; he was moving.
He was moving toward you.
Every stride devoured the distance, until suddenly he was there, close enough for the smell of perfume and faint cigarette smoke to cling to his coat, close enough for his arms to sweep you into him with a ferocity that stole your breath.
“Oh—!”
The sound barely escaped you before he crushed you tighter, burying his face against your shoulder. His grip was iron, desperate, achingly familiar, and the years of silence seemed to mean nothing to him. If anything, they spurred him on more— he clung as if he meant to reclaim every missed moment in one embrace, as if you had never been estranged at all.
“(Y/N)! You’re back!” Riddle exclaimed, his cheeks puffing up in a smile like you remembered it to. “I missed you so much! Oh, you look so cute…!”
“Wh—” You sputtered. You’d been so caught up in what was different that you hadn’t anticipated being thrust into such affections so soon— nor did you expect him to hang off of you like this. Why, he clung to you like he used to on the monkey bars all those years back…!
“Mm, and you still smell the same!” He murmured, his words muffled by the fabric of your clothes. “I could pick you out of a crowd blindfolded.”
“Riddle! You don’t even seem surprised…?” You found yourself looking at the floor. You were scared of whatever emotions might come forward if you looked at him directly— for you wouldn’t be able to hold yourself back from kissing him.
“Oh?” Riddle’s lips pursed in thought as he pulled back. You knew he was examining you, but frankly… you were much too shy to look at him in return. “Why would I be surprised? You told me you’d come back, didn’t you?”
“…I did say that, didn’t I?” You muttered, surprise softening your features. You had always meant it, of course, yet seeing him know it too, feel it as surely as you had, made your heart jump up out of your chest and into your eyes.
Suddenly, the world around seemed to be tinted a shade of rose and devotion. And when you mustered the courage to look at him… through his eyes, you saw it—
His soul.
In his soul, he knew you would come back, because you told him you would. So in that tender pause, the years of locked-away feelings slinked out of the depths, up to the surface.
For the first time in years, you let your own soul come out, and your hands found his, and it was as if you’d never left on that hot summer day; as if no time had ever come between you at all.
“…I’m not going anywhere this time, Riddle. So tell me, how have you been?”
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐏 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐋 was elusive and that was all it ever was. It was intangible, something to watch and be watched by, but never touched. Never approached, or lived in, or any of the other things that houses were made for. So you never truly imagined what the inside might look like; somehow, you had never considered that there was an inside at all. And yet here you sat upon the living room couch, your shoes tucked neatly beneath you.
Now, what struck you most were the photographs. If there was anything that you were expecting as Riddle dragged you up the hill— it certainly wasn’t this.
Framed portraits littered the walls, frame after frame, almost cluttered in its quantity. Smiling children— you and Riddle together on the playground swings, faces pressed cheek-to-cheek. Candid portraits of you laughing, caught mid-motion. Family photos— Riddle between the mother you had always heard about but never actually seen until now, and a tall man you had never known existed.
You did not recall these pictures being taken. You did not recall Riddle even having a father.
A warm breath brushed your neck, followed by the scrape of teeth against your skin. “What are you looking at?” Riddle hummed, his voice low and petulant, lips skating over the curve beneath your ear. “Kiss me back, won’t you?”
“Riddle…” You tried for composure, but the sound was already shaky. His hands were splayed over your waist, tugging you closer, closer still, and you could barely manage to push words through the heat curling in your chest. “These… photos. When did we take so many together?”
He hummed against your throat, but he did pull back— if only to resettle himself. His weight settled into your lap, his arms winding back round your neck. Your hands, hesitant, slipped from his shoulders to the edges of his coat, peeling it from him. The intimacy of the gesture struck you— it was everything you’d ever dreamt of— and yet your gaze returned inevitably to the wall.
He followed it, but not before pressing a lazy kiss to your jaw. “We always did. You’ve just forgotten, you silly thing.”
“…I think I would remember this many pictures.” You murmured. “I mean… I didn’t even know you had a father.” Your eyes stayed on the tall man, that easy smile, the hand on Riddle’s shoulder. There was a slight abashed feeling, having to admit it. Not knowing something so obvious about your friend was… embarrassing.
“My papa…” Riddle supplied smoothly, his lips grazing your cheekbone as though punctuation. “Of course you met him. He liked you.” He said it almost fondly, followed by another kiss, softer, more insistent. His nose brushed yours, his voice dropping to a whisper. “But your memory was always bad. That’s why I remember for both of us.”
His words weren’t particularly untrue. You never did have the best memory— you were always forgetful. That was fact, you weren’t going to deny it. But still, your brows pinched together in confusion. “I… I guess?” Your hand raised to brace your companion’s hip. “But I wouldn’t forget something important like that. I mean— I knew you had a mother even though I never met her… I can’t believe I’d forget you had a father, let alone meeting hi—mmh?!”
Your protest was cut short by the sudden press of his lips against yours. It was playful in its abruptness, yet deep enough to make your pulse skip. His mouth moved insistently over yours, stealing the rest of your thought before it could form. He tasted of sugared strawberries and the faintest trace of smoke, and when he finally pulled away you were left breathless, your words scattered.
“Don’t pout so much.” He teased, eyes glinting as he slid off your lap with eagerness. “I’ll prove it to you!” He straightened his coat, then tossed it carelessly over the arm of the sofa, already turning toward the stairs. “I’ll fetch the pictures from my room— the ones with Papa!”
You blinked, still gathering your bearings. “Your… your room?”
“Oh, and speaking of Mama…” He glanced back at you with a mischievous smile, as though he’d just remembered to mention something small and inconsequential. “Why don’t you go say hi?”
You froze sharply. “She— she’s home…? While we were—?”
“Of course!” He laughed, bright and carefree, the sound so at odds with your racing thoughts. “You’ve gotten so uptight over the years, you know. What’s a little kiss on the sofa between us?” He reached over to pat your head, almost condescending in its fondness, before pivoting toward the staircase in the hall.
“I’ll be right back!” He called, already bounding up the steps, leaving you alone with the walls of smiling photographs and the sudden, pressing knowledge that you were not quite alone in the house.
At once, you made motions to neaten yourself— and rub the lipstick stains from your face. You rose, because the motions were better than sitting and staring, and because ‘one could not be frightened while busy with tasks’— as was what your own mother taught you.
So you began in the parlour, touching the picture frames to confirm their authenticity. Then the hallway opened up into a kitchen that smelled faintly of lemon polish and something sweet, as if a tray of scones had been set down and then, deliberately, removed. Drawers were closed. Chairs were pushed in. The kettle sat innocently on the hob. You opened the door to the back room on a whim and found nothing but a slant of sunlight and a chair with a forgotten scarf draped over it. Each room you moved through gave the same answer; empty.
The house, which had watched you from the hill for so many years as if it were merely an ornament on the horizon, felt suddenly hollowed and personal in a way that made your skin prick. All at once you were aware of how alone you were— not alone in the comfortable, peaceful sense, but alone the way one is when a room holds its breath and refuses to exhale. You thought of Riddle upstairs; he was only a flight away, and that ought to have comforted you. He had promised to fetch the photographs; he would be back in a moment. It was absurd to be afraid.
Still, when you reached the foot of the stairs you hesitated, the wooden banister sticky beneath your palm from some remembered summer, sweat gathering, small and hot, at the nape of your neck. You told yourself you were being ridiculous. Riddle was there. His mum was, too, probably bustling somewhere with the sort of domestic efficiency mothers showed only to those they loved. You took the first step.
That was when the voice came.
“My dear, what are you doing all alone? A house like this can swallow a girl whole if she is not mindful.”
The words did not arrive from one place but from many— blooming and settling over you, soft and impossibly near. From the parlour, the kitchen, from the walls, from every room you went in and from every room she wasn't present in— the voice had already unfurled itself into the house and claimed each corner. You turned, trying to place her— Mrs. Rosehearts— but there was no one to face.
“Ah, don’t look so startled…” Mrs. Rosehearts continued, each syllable sugared and coaxing. “There’s nothing to worry over, not here. You’re very welcome in this house. Very welcome indeed.”
The warmth of the words pushed in on you, invading the space where reason would sit. You listened to them as though to music you already knew the melody of, yet with a growing, illogical tension at its edges— a note just a fraction out of tune, the sort that sets teeth on edge only after the song has finished. Your throat tightened. Your mouth, which had been rehearsing a thousand sensible replies, went suddenly blank.
“My, my!” She chimed, an obvious smile audible in every line. “What a timid little thing you are. Won’t you sit down properly? I’ll fetch us some tea. Or perhaps you’d prefer cake? You do like cake, don’t you? Oh, I’m quite certain you must.”
You felt very small then, and very exposed. Where was she? Where was she calling you from? There was a basin in the mind, one full of thoughts that would never be answered. Why couldn’t you see her? Why hasn’t she shown herself? And in your confusion, there was only one sensible reply.
“Oh, Mrs Rosehearts…! I— I’d really like to see you, please. Could you… show yourself?”
For a moment there was silence— so complete it felt as though the whole house had leaned in to listen. The ticking of the grandfather clock stopped mattering, the creak of the rafters vanished. Then above it all was a laugh, elegant and affectionate.
“If that’s what you wish, little dearest. Of course I’ll oblige…”
A beautiful woman with cheeks of rose and hair of crimson.
A hot flush came down the back of your neck, and suddenly every sense of unease you’d had went away. How stupid of you… Honestly, how ridiculous! Working yourself up over nothing, prowling around the house like some silly child afraid of the dark. You’d gotten way too in over your head— jumping at shadows, inventing ghosts where there weren’t any. This was only Riddle’s mother. His mother. Just what were you thinking?
Her thumbs brushed over the apples of your cheeks before you even realised she was approaching you. The touch was soothing, her smile impossibly fond as her eyes roved over your face. “There now…” She whispered, and now her voice felt normal. “So timid… no wonder my darling boy kept you all to himself.”
“Oh…” You breathed out. Was there still lipstick on your face? Sevens, you hope not. How could you explain your way out of that—? Or find another boy with black lipstick in a ten kilometre radius to pin the blame—? “It’s lovely to finally meet you, aunty.” Finally, you remembered your manners, straightening your spine and lifting your chin just the way your parents taught you.
The woman before you laughed. It was the kind of laugh that felt both indulgent and knowing, as though she were in on a secret you weren’t yet privy to. She leaned closer, her perfume sweet and heady— she smelled like smoke, too— and you felt her breath stir your hair as she murmured, “Go to him, won’t you?”
The words remained in your ear long after she’d withdrawn, and for a strange, uncertain beat you couldn’t remember if she had actually touched you or if it had only been imagined. Either way, by the time you blinked, she was gone. The house seemed oddly empty again. So you found yourself drifting up the stairs, each step taken half by will, half by instinct to not be alone, until you reached his doorframe.
There, Riddle was kneeling on the floor, hunched over a small wooden box. His shoulders jumped when you knocked gently against the doorframe, but the startlement quickly dissolved into a bright smile and he sprung up to his feet.
“Look, look!” He beckoned, tugging you to his side with boyish excitement.
You lowered yourself to kneel beside him, smoothing your skirt with careful hands before folding them neatly in your lap. And then you did look—
Photographs. Polaroids. Dozens of them, stacked and scattered, all of you, all real. You, and Riddle, and a man whose features echoed his son’s. The man downstairs, who you swore you’d never met. His father. And in the background of one, unmistakable as day— your own parents.
It made perfect sense by all accounts— a family outing. Yet still you were shocked. You had… no memory of this.
Riddle giggled, tilting his head towards you with a grin that was both triumphant and fond. “I told you so, silly girl.”
The words made you flush with a sudden, sheepish heat. …Perhaps he was right. Perhaps you really were being ridiculous. A laugh slipped from you, small and uncertain, but you forced it into something lighter, more natural. Your memory had always been poor— everyone knew that. It wasn’t impossible that you had simply… forgotten. Yes. That had to be it.
“…You’re right. Yes, silly me…!”
So you allowed yourself to relax, let the questions fall away like loose threads unpicked (even though you were always taught to flounder until everything was perfect). What did it matter, when everything here made such perfect sense? Riddle was beside you, his delight radiating like sunlight, and suddenly you became aware of something else thrumming beneath the surface; the low, insistent pulse of your own arousal. You’d been so caught up in what did and did not make sense that you hadn’t fully allowed yourself to enjoy what was finally yours.
Riddle seemed to notice your change of heart at once. His hand slipped over your shoulder, his fingers grazing the slope of your collarbone in a gesture so casual it made your breath hitch. You answered without thinking, leaning into him, closing the small distance— as your body had been waiting for, all along.
“Do you remember? You promised we’d do so much more when we saw each other again.” He whispered against your jaw, leaving new traces of black lipstick along your skin— and after you’d worked so hard to rub the last set off, too…
This promise, you did remember. It was all those years ago, that day, after you’d separated from him with nothing but a string of saliva connecting you; You’d swore that you’d come back, then you could do all the things that adults in love did with each other. You were so young, then— but you were filled with affection, and passion, and all the other things that growing teenagers felt when they kissed each other. Much like how you felt now— hot, bothered, desperate to arch and cling to the boy beside you and never let go.
You tilted your head, allowing his mouth to trail down the hollow of your throat, a sharp gasp torn from you as you leaned back on both hands. Riddle wasted no time in mounting himself atop of you, letting his kisses trail down to your chest. Thank God you wore a low neckline today— A contented, lazy smile crossed your face as you took a deep breath in, relishing in the way his fingers moved to cup your breast.
“I do remember…” You hummed, moving to unbutton the first few buttons of his shirt. When his pretty, supple collarbone was exposed to you, you trailed your hand across them, before cupping the back of his neck. Pulling him close, you whispered against his lips;
“So, take me in any way you want.”
𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓. After the way his body had pressed into yours, after the way your throat still ached from moans you hadn’t known you were capable of, after the way you had given yourself up entirely— there should have been nothing left but exhaustion and contentment. Your skin was still warm from the heat, your core still weak from the aftershocks, your lips bitten and sore from the force of his kiss. You should have been lulled into the deepest, sweetest sleep, drunk on pleasure and closeness.
But sleep had other plans for you. When you pushed yourself from the plush duvet, it was not in the sluggish, half-conscious manner of one roused from slumber, but rather with the sharp and unthinking urgency of terror. There was nothing deliberate in it; it was instinct, the body leaping to preserve itself from some danger already forgotten— for the memory of the nightmare had fled the instant your eyes opened. Its claws had been deep in you, of that you were certain, and yet by the time you sought to grasp at its particulars, it had already dissolved into nothing. All that remained was the undeniable certainty that something had been there, and that you had to escape it.
The first thing you noticed, when you steadied yourself, was the absence of all things comforting. The bed was empty. Riddle was gone. The room around you was steeped in a kind of darkness that did not belong to ordinary night. So you turned toward the window, hoping for the pale reassurance of moonlight, or the faintest suggestion of a starry sky— but instead, you were met with nothing.
The view opened only onto a smooth, endless black, as though the house were suspended in a void. How? How was this possible? You pressed your hand against the pane, half-believing that some obstruction had been drawn across it— but the glass seemed bare on both sides. You tried the latch; it refused to yield. You pushed harder; the frame rattled, but the window would not give.
And then— you could not help but feel it— the blankness outside seemed to shift, as if it were not absence at all, but a presence. A presence that had been watching long before you thought to look.
You shivered, though the air was not exactly cold, and your arms folded around yourself in a poor attempt at comfort. The room, so plush and indulgent only hours ago, now seemed stripped bare of safety. A thought struck you— maybe he had gone to the bathroom? You crossed to it at once, each step uncertain, and threw the door open with more urgency than you intended. Empty. Utterly empty.
So maybe you were still dreaming. Yes, that had to be it. That this was merely some cruel continuation, a lucid dream from which you had not yet parted from. The notion made a fragile sort of sense, enough that you pinched the soft skin of your forearm until the flesh protested. Pain flared sharp and real. But you did not wake up. Shouldn’t pain wake you?
Heart quickening, you returned to the room and slipped out into the corridor.
What met you there was worse. Every picture that had once lined the walls— faces, new and old, of family… forgotten memories preserved— was black. Every window that ought to have revealed the night instead opened only onto the void. They were pools of nothingness, eyes of nothingness, gazing down upon you in silent judgment. Their regard was so heavy, so oppressive, that you yourself began to feel like nothingness, as though your body, your mind, your very name might dissolve beneath their stare. In that moment, as you clutched yourself closer, you found yourself deeply missing Riddle. What is going on?
“(Y/N)?”
It should have been a comfort. You had been yearning for him with such aching desperation that the sound of his voice ought to have undone you. Yet the instant it reached you, your heart recoiled. It sounded like him, yes, but it did not feel like him. The warmth was gone. The intimacy was gone. Something was wrong. Something was terribly, irreparably wrong.
You ran.
You did not wait to see from where it came; you only fled. The corridor stretched before you, longer than you remembered, the familiar turns and doors rearranging themselves into a maddening geometry that led nowhere. You ran blindly, driven by the certainty that what followed you was not him and must not catch you.
And as you ran, the house changed. The pools of nothingness— those blank, oppressive eyes in the pictures and the windows— began to bleed red. First one pair, then another, until they multiplied, until the whole corridor swam with them. Blood-red, glaring, dripping. The black backdrops glowed as though veins had burst within them, and each new eye threw its own cast of crimson light. The glow spun across the walls like sirens, one moment lancing straight at you, the next wheeling away, only to return from another angle.
The house atop the hill watched you all your life— now, so did the eyes.
Some tracked you directly, following every frantic step; others swivelled without pattern, disorienting in their ceaseless movement. The corridor pulsed red and black, black and red, until you no longer knew which way you were running, only that you had to keep moving— because what was behind you was not the Riddle you loved. But your body betrayed you. Breath tore at your throat, your legs faltered, and at last you stopped. The silence that followed your ragged breathing was almost worse than the chase.
In the black and the red and the red and the black, and in the silence and the deafening sound of your breathing and heartbeat— you heard her; you did not see her.
“Dearest, where are you going?”
“Oh, Mrs. Rosehearts…! My parents will be wondering where I am.” The eyes knew you were lying. The eyes knew you were lying. The eyes knew you were lying. The eyes knew you were lying. “I was going to tell them I’ll be spending the night—”
“Why don’t you go back to bed? My darling boy will be missing you.” When it spoke again, its voice had drifted closer, though no figure stood before you.
“…Mrs. Rosehearts,” you called into the darkness, forcing the words through a throat gone tight, “could you show yourself again?”
“You look so beautiful, dearest.”
“Please,” you tried again, your voice trembling on the edge of a plea, “I really want to see you…”
“Why don’t you go back to bed?” Its suggestion came sweetly. “Or, would you rather sleep beside me?”
No. No, no, no. This wasn’t right. The walls breathed red, and the eyes turned, one by one, until you were their singular focus.
“I’d rather like to see you, Mrs. Rosehearts.” You pleaded to it. “Please show yourself?”
For a long moment there was no sound but your own breathing. And then, very softly, the voice returned;
“…Go back to bed, dearest. He will be missing you.”
This wasn’t right. Why wouldn’t it answer you? Just one request. You only wanted to see its face. You knew it wasn’t Mrs. Rosehearts, but still, you wanted to see. It sounded like her, but it wasn’t her. It wasn’t her. Was it ever? And yet, even knowing that, some small, frantic part of you still wanted to see.
Then there was the sound of heels on the floor, approaching your direction from the right. You turned toward the sound and saw, not a body, but a shadow stretching far and thin across the red-washed walls. It was his shape— Riddle’s— the body you knew intimately, yet every familiar movement was made strange. The distortion of the light enlarged it until the silhouette blotted out half the corridor, crawling closer with every click of those unseen platforms.
Your heart lurched painfully against your ribs. Something was very wrong. You staggered back, despite the voice of Mrs. Rosehearts coaxing you to stay put. The shadow grew longer, wider, swallowing the corridor with every step. You didn’t wait for it to reach you. You turned and ran.
“Don’t let the walls cave in on you!”
The voice chased you down the hall, bright and ringing with laughter. A sweet giggle, laced with the happiness of childhood. It was the sound of afternoons in the park, the sound of hide-and-seek when you were young and innocent and unafraid. But here, in this corridor of red light and nothingness, it was wrong. Horribly wrong. The memory itself had turned against you.
Run, rabbit, run. The beloved childhood song pounded in your skull, faster, faster, a cruel song keeping pace with your desperate feet. Run, rabbit, run—
But your legs betrayed you. The floor clung to them, thick and sticky. You looked down— Black, searing tar had bubbled up under you, gripping your skin, dragging you down into its suffocating heat. Each step was slower than the last, every movement an agony of resistance. But when had it appeared? Where had it come from?
The answer was nowhere and everywhere. The walls themselves were bleeding now. Every picture frame that had once held some cherished memory was spilling over rushing tar. Childhood portraits, family photographs— the father you never remembered hearing about, the photographs you never remembered being taken— all of them slick and running with molten black. The void was pouring out of them, flooding the hallway, surging around your ankles, your calves, latching and dragging and choking.
You tried to lift your legs. The liquid pulled tighter. The red light spun madly across the corridor, eyes upon you from every angle, watching as the black tide swallowed your steps. Now you were stumbling, hardly able to see. It invaded your eyes, and you were weeping salt and tar. So you shut them hard, and frantically felt around for something, someone to hold onto. Hands clawed at the floor, arms pushing through the sticky drag, every movement a battle against the tide. Your knees buckled, slipping, dragging you backward.
With a final, desperate heave, you surged forward, feeling the resistance thin beneath you— and then gravity took you. You pitched forward, tumbling onto something soft and warm, the world lurching before settling.
When you lifted your head, the burning tar was gone, stripped from your skin as though it had never been. No suffocating heat. No tide dragging you under. Only the parlour, neat and whole, dressed in the red glow. The walls still writhed with shapes you could not name, eyes dripped wetly from the cluttered picture frames, but the flood had vanished.
And there, seated upon the couch as if he had been waiting all along, was Riddle. Your Riddle. At your gaze, a smile curled his lips.
This was right. This was right. You wanted to cling to him. To crawl on your hands and knees and cling to his legs— to hug his body which sprawled in casual elegance. …But— wasn’t he the one chasing you? You turned, wild with confusion, to the hallway. Red walls, glowing eyes— but no tar. Nothing but silence. …So it couldn’t have been him.
When you looked back, he was crouching before you and you had no time to question anything. His hands clamped your face, cold and firm, and he dragged you into a kiss.
…You love his kisses— but this time it felt different. You could’ve sworn this was your Riddle— not what was chasing you in the hall. So why did this feel wrong? It didn’t feel like you were kissing him— you knew what it was like to kiss him; Erotic, tender, passionate. That’s what kissing him felt like. Empty, fierce, unyielding. That was what you felt now.
So, who are you kissing? Who is kissing you?
Panic bloomed in your chest. You shoved him away, desperate for space. Now, everything judged you. Now, everything watched you. The house atop the hill, the eyes of nothingness, the eyes of red, the eyes of the boy in front of you— all honed in on you, you, you.
“Why did you push me away?” His voice was low, then cracked, higher, a whisper of someone else threaded through it. “Why did you try to leave? Surely you’re not trying to leave?”
You’d never seen him like this. Never so angry, so livid, so certain in unforgiving.
“Don’t leave us again.”
The words split and weaved together until you couldn’t tell which voice was his and which wasn’t. Where he ended and his mother began no longer seemed clear.
“Won’t you come back to bed?”
thank you for reading, please consider reblogging? <3
a/n: panty fucking w seroooooo and make it brothers bsf
you need your own place. you’ve been tossing and turning for hours, sero and your brother are playing music too loud and the smell of weed is seeping under your door. you kick your covers off, ready to say something when the music stops and the apartment seems to finally quiet.
you huff and settle into your bed once more, waiting for your eyes to get heavy with sleep. just as you get comfortable your door cracks open. you sit up, finding sero filling out your door way.
“you know where the bathroom is.” you hiss, throwing a pillow at him.
“yeah.” he steps in and clicks the door shut. “must’ve got lost on the way to the couch.” he stands at the end of your bed. “those are cute.” he nods with a lazy grin.
“what?” your cheeks heat.
“your panties with the little bunnies.” his eyes flick up to yours. “lemme get a closer look.” he grabs your ankle and yanks you down the bed.
“sero!” you gasp. “he’s in the other room.” eyes going wide.
“then don’t make any noise.”
your legs fall open and his eyes leave your face, sliding down the over sized shirt that’s now bunched up around your middle and stopping on your cotton panties. he reaches down and thumbs at the cotton, glancing up at you when you make a small sound. you bring your hand up to your mouth as he keeps dragging his thumb up and down.
“there you go.” he mumbles. “good girl.” he grins at the shudder goes through your body.
your chest is heaving with each pass of his thumb, hips jerking every time he avoids your aching clit. he watches a wet patch grow in the center, chuckling at you and the desperate cant of your hips. when he finally circles your clit, the sound that comes from you has him locking his eyes with yours.
“‘m sorry.” you gasp.
“try to stay quiet.” he taps your clit and pulls back.
he pushes his sweats down and your eyes go wide as he pulls his cock out, stroking himself a couple times before he smacks the head on your soaked panties. you jerk with the feeling, looking up at him with round eyes as he starts to slide up and down the cotton, nudging your clit perfectly.
“sero.” a small plea.
“shh shh shh.”
one of his hands is on your waist, the other is between the both of you holding his cock in place as he drags his cock up and back down. he groans lowly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he starts to pace up momentum. your panties are embarrassingly slick, the sound making its way to your ears.
“got my shit soaked and you still got your panties on.” he lets out a breathy chuckle.
you turn your head to the side, covering your eyes with your arm and clamping your teeth into your bottom lip so you can use your other hand to pull up your shirt. he groans when you show him your perked nipples, mouth watering and wanting to scrape his teeth agaisnt them to hear your noises.
“play with em.” he nods. you peek at him, bringing a shaky hand down to your chest and taking your nipple between your fingers. “good girl.”
while you play with your nipples, he fucks your panties faster, low grunts spilling from his mouth while small gasps fall from your lips. his cock keeps catching on your covered pussy, pushing in just a fraction before he slides back up to your clit. you’re bucking against him, panties so soaked he’s practically just rubbing himself against your bare folds now from how translucent they are.
“sero!” you whimper.
“shush.” his eyes lock with your glossy ones.
a low grunt rises in his chest when his cock slips under your panties and slides against your honeyed mess. he collapses over you, his hand clapping over your mouth as he starts to hump against faster. your panties are keeping him presses right against you as he slides through your slick. with another pass of his tip on your clit you fall apart, shaking beneath him as you cum, your fingers digging into his back.
he groans, twitching between your legs and with a low groan of your name he’s cumming. you’re both panting, staring at each other as you slowly detangle. he fixed your panties, rubbing over them with his fingers and smearing his cum all over your puffy lips.
“see you in the morning.” he pats your thigh, adjusting himself in his sweats and walking out.
Who do you think are the biggest fumblers in the cast when it comes to romance? My money’s on Epel (Vil & Rook will intervene), Ace (lol. lmao, even), Sebek (keeps yapping abt Malleus at them), Azul (& the twins are living for it), and hot take but i can see Leona fumbling bc talking abt your feelings is vulnerable and requires you to swallow your pride so he Refuses to do it
ABSOLUTELY CRIMINAL BTW THAT IDIA FUMBLERTRON 3000 ISN'T ON YOUR LIST... JAIL FOR YOU ANON... JAIL!!!!
Epel fumbles hard because he doesn't know how to act, and he's getting all sorts of conflicting advice. Use his cuteness to his advantage? Just be himself? Be some gentleman? Poor guy. He just wants to be loved regardless of how he acts. Also, he feels somewhat insecure that he's "not being enough of a man" for you, and that you might not like him when there are literal celebrities and princes around campus. He's a country bumpkin with zero experience in romance, so he's at a disadvantage. He ends up overcompensating for his perceived flaws. Epel always opens doors for you, offers to carry your things, walks you home at night, shows off in front of you during spelldrive practice... it becomes painfully obvious to everyone that he has a crush on you.
Ace has some capacity for flirting but he always pulls the "just KIDDINGGG hahaha I don't want you like that" because he'd rather dig a hole and stay there forever than admit his feelings. Internally, he knows that he should just fess up already, but this guy fumbles on purpose when he concludes that he has 0 chances with you. He self sabotages himself so hard that it's no one but his fault that he's eternally in the friend zone. He's afraid of ruining your friendship, and he's also afraid of having something real and raw. Ace is just... some guy. He's not a prince from a foreign country, but he's your friend, and maybe he can convince himself that he'll be fine as long as he has you in his life—even if that means letting you go.
Silver is a case of being slow and oblivious, but genuinely earnest. Silver doesn't realize his own feelings and probably thinks "What a pleasant friendship we have. I really want to be with them all the time. Let me send them a bouquet of flowers, because father told me that's how you show appreciation to people you value as a friend." Accidental rizz. Except Lilia realizes Silver's in love and tells him to "send them a framed photograph of you on a horse and locks of hair attached to a twelve stanza poem." It all goes downhill from there. Silver's just so earnest and oblivious about it, and everything he does is done with (seemingly) platonic intentions. Even you're left confused on what he wants from you because he, himself, doesn't realize his own feelings.
It's 100% going to bite him in the ass later when he realizes that you're never going to see any of his actions in a romantic light after all that. Also one of those guys who just struggles to be romantic because he's never really given it much thought before.
Sebek fumbles because he's Sebek and he's going to yap your ear off about Malleus. He fumbles even harder if you're a human because he's going to be in denial for so long about his attraction to you. He tells himself that he begrudgingly respects you (he loves you) and that he's just helping you achieve your full potential as a measly human (he wants to be around you all the time). He's going to be in denial for so long before the truth dawns upon him. Once he realizes his feelings, he's also very earnest. But this time, he's also very insistent on undergoing formal courtship ala medieval knight courting a princess, so it might even take years to get to the first date. However, Sebek really needs to stop sending locks of hair attached to twelve stanza poems and framed photographs of himself atop a horse. Also, hopefully Sebek hasn't offended you enough into being permanently turned off or annoyed you with his Malleus fanboying.
Personal HC: Sebek refuses to get your number because he wants to write handwritten letters to you every 2 weeks and he hands them over to you. He's all like ">:D" but it's unreadable because it's all in founding father script and flowery Shakespearean language.
On Lilia—Of course, he wants to see Sebek and Silver fall in love with someone. He's going to do a bit of trolling, but he can already hear the wedding bells and imagine them in white suits. He's planning the wedding in advance. Lilia will still give them a little push in the right direction, but not without telling them to send a framed photograph of—
Azul should know what to do and what not to do by now. Unfortunately, theory doesn't always translate into practice, and especially not when you make him feel like that same stuttering octopi back in middle school. You make him nervous despite so many years of character development and mental fortitude. Somehow, you unravel his defenses within seconds and he's left gaping in awe of you. Azul's fumbling his words when he's supposed to be complimenting you. He's frozen in place when he should be asking you to a dance. He needs to realize that love shouldn't be done in a series of steps, but according to the call of your heart.
Floyd and Jade will find it funny to sabotage him. They're not exactly on his side, and it's very entertaining to see him so spectacularly pathetic. They're interrupting your date at the lounge every 2 minutes with nonsense, just because they think it's funny.
It also doesn't help that he has this underlying fear of being seen, if that makes sense? Azul and vulnerability don't go well together, but you make him weak in knees. He wants to be himself around you, but he doesn't know if you'll accept the worst parts of him. Azul's constantly putting a front to impress and court you—because he wants to be the best version of himself for you—but doesn't think that the ugliest parts of him are worthy of being loved.
On Leona—I would argue that he's not a fumbler, because he was a "seize the opportunity" mindset, if that makes sense LOL. His pride 100% gets in the way of being vulnerable, but it's also an asset. He's confident about his chances, and he simply doesn't give up, even if he's told he cannot achieve something. He might even get competitive about it as long as you haven't definitively closed off your heart.
But at the same time, he also has that deep-rooted inferiority complex. It kicks in when he realizes that, realistically, he cannot have you or that you have already chosen someone else in your heart. He'll give up first before you have the opportunity to break his heart, because he ultimately accepts that there are "winners" and "losers" in life. And unfortunately, he realizes that he's the loser once more when he sees the way you look at someone else. That's the look of love, and he accepts that he'll never be the recipient of it.
Idia, aka Fumblertron 3000. None of the visual novels he played or romance mangas he read could ever prepare him for the real thing. He's absolutely miserable because there's so many things he wishes he could do with you, but he just doesn't have the courage to initiate. Social interaction is already bad enough for him, so any romantic interaction is going to completely incapacitate him. Even worse when he has to be the one initiating it 😭
He's got a chance if you're into his hobbies and interests. He's just infinitely more comfortable explaining lore and raiding dungeons than throwing winks and vaguely flirtatious innuendos, but that also slows his progress with you. He's perpetually stuck at just ""hanging out"" with you and texting you until someone makes the first move.
Personal HC: once had enough courage to ask you to match PFPs on d*scord and got really excited about it, but when he saw your status ("Matching with my friend!!!"), he died a little inside.
But at the same time, I think Idia's actions speak louder than his words. He's infamously a closed-off introvert, and him actively choosing to spend time with you signals that you've become very special to him. Ortho also plays matchmaker to the best of his ability, so Idia's not completely hopeless...
warnings: non-con somno turned outright non-con, obsession, delusional thoughts, slut-shaming, victim-blaming, body dysmorphia, very slight mention of body horror/self-harm, reader is hardly described as her own person, azul is a mean pathetic incel with perverted coping methods, dead dove: do not eat
something i started writing a while ago and abandoned; actually decided to give it some kind of ending and publish because of other works driving me insane trying to write. very inspired by spit - show me the body ft. princess nokia
(wc: 2.5k words)
AZUL THINKS HE’S ABSOLUTELY REPULSIVE. Filthy, disgusting and ugly; he’s sure. Past the hour of twelve in the night, he grows weary of his own reflection, and tired of the charade he dons to fool himself and to fool others. In times like those, he would cover his mirror— for he loathes to see the chub of his cheeks that cast the most hideous of shadows in the dark. Even more so does he hate the chub on his thighs that pudge up slightly when he sits at the edge of the bed and spreads his weight.
Most nights he will lay on the sheets with a faint hum under his skin as he rests trapped inside of a body that does not quite feel like his own. And in times like those, he finds himself longing for the pots he would hole himself inside of in the ocean— for at least then, he would have something to compress all the extra, repugnant fat.
That being said, if Azul had to name what he hates most…
It would be when you look at him.
How dare you look at him like that? With those eyes filled with such empathy and understanding, as if he needs such a thing from the likes of you. Is he so pathetic all at once? It sends a shiver of distaste down his spine whenever he thinks of it. He cannot stand your pity. He cannot stand those dumb little eyes and that dumb little expression. It really gets his blood pumping, boiling just at the thought of you— so much so that you become like a parasite to his mind, clinging to his thoughts night and day until he finds himself squirming in frustration. Even worse yet, there seems to be only one remedy to this malady of his that plagues him each night.
As Azul stands over your sleeping form, he can’t help but think…
He much prefers you like this. When your eyes are closed, so that they cannot stare at him. When your pretty lips are parted in content sleep, immobile such that you cannot make obvious how you walk on eggshells around him with your words like he’s some delicate morsel in need of mindful mercy. There’s a small, upturned quirk of his lips as he observes your helpless form. There’s an extra benefit, too… When your shorts ride up and display to him the precious fat of your thighs.
Azul loathes you… but he loves being able to touch you.
To knead your flesh in his hands and imagine what it would feel like to crush you with his limbs— it’s a wonderful fantasy of his. At first, never expected to think such things… but once it came, he could not seem to rid of it. Perhaps it was because he himself found solace in the feeling of having something weigh down on him— he couldn’t help but wonder in fleeting bouts, would you like it too? Would you enjoy the feeling of being climbed on top of, weighed down, crushed?
Azul hates his body… but he most certainly reveres yours.
To see your supple flesh dip when manipulated under the pads of his fingers as he allows himself to indulge in his desires. You’re asleep, so it shouldn’t even matter what he does, where he does it, and how he does so, right? And what would you do, anyway? Reject him for all his repulsiveness? Say ‘no’? Azul scoffs. Yeah, right— you’re much too nice for that. In Azul’s mind, all you exist for is to be taken advantage of. You’re too charitable, you see, and charitable people only exist to be used. That’s yet another thing he hates about you. Sometimes he thinks you’re due for a good lesson; maybe then you wouldn’t be so damn oblivious all the time.
Azul simply despises your presence… but climbing into your bed come nightfall just has to be his favourite thing in the world.
It sends a manic glee of sorts throughout his whole body, and calms that feeling of hatred he feels for his entire being. It’s almost as nice as being inside an octopot…! A wide grin splits his face. This may be the best solution he’s ever conjured up… And the only one paying in this situation is you. Now isn’t that something?
Azul despises when you look at him… but he cherishes being able to look at you.
He keeps his eyes trained solely on your thighs when he mounts himself atop of you— Sevens forbid his gaze wanders to a mirror and breaks his only bit of fun. The bed sinks drastically under his weight, but clearly you must be as airheaded in sleep as you are when awake— because you don’t stir one bit at the change. Any joy he may have felt melts away in an instant. Why are you so oblivious all the time? Do you not get tired of that charade? He clicks his tongue as he straddles you, perching himself on your hips. The smile falls just as quickly as it came when he looks you over, a perfectly neutral expression upon his face as his gaze lifts to the exposed bit of your stomach that he raised your shirt to see.
…He can’t help but be a little jealous of you, you know. You walk around with such a perfect body, flaunting it to any boy who will watch, seducing all his customers with that dazzling smile without a damn care in the world— You must have it so fucking easy, huh? The work he gives you must be the only hardship you ever endure in your simple life.
Azul's brows pinch together as he leans forward, hands moving to encase your waist.
He hates you, he really does. He hates how at peace you look right now. (Why does someone like you get to sleep so soundly— while he must rot from the inside out, resisting the urge to claw and peel at his skin layer by layer to strip down some weight?) He hates how badly he needs you every day. He hates how you’re the only thing he can think about— obsess over. He hates how the only way he can sleep at night is by getting off to the image of you beneath him, crying and sobbing and as miserable as he.
He hates you. He hates you. He hates you. He HATES you.
The grip of your waist tightens. You shift in your place at the pressure, the sheets crinkling at your adjustment. Azul sneers. What an idiot, you are. You can’t even fend for yourself, yet you think you’re in a position to feel bad for him? Don’t make him laugh. His hands travel upwards, fingers following in dips with every contour of your body. They take your shirt with them, peeling it upwards until your bare breasts expose themselves to him. Your nipples are all hard and perky from the cold, a sight that nauseates him so much as it serves to arouse him. (…He really, really loves your body, he’ll give you that.) As much as it annoys him to rely on slinking into your room at night to quell his inner turmoil, he really won’t complain much when he gets to do this.
Would you finally hate him for this? He wonders. Whenever you look at him so tenderly, that is the question at the forefront of his mind. If you only knew what he does to you, what he fantasises about doing to you… would you hate him, as everyone else does? Oh, if only you knew how hard you make him whenever he sees you in a state such as this. He knows you’d hate him. You’d hate him just as much as he hates you. If you knew how addicted he is to caging you in with his thighs and hands, grinding his clothed cock against your hip and thigh with clenched teeth for some sort of release— if you knew this, surely you would hate him. You wouldn’t smile anymore at him, if you saw how he smiles at you when he does this.
The thought gets his breathing all hard and heavy, soft pants escape from him that make him seem like a desperate little bitch in heat. It’s so fucking hard to keep it in his pants. You just look like you’d feel so good… Azul’s hips come to a stop. He rests his head against your shoulder, peering up at you through the strands of hair that fall in front of his eyes. …You wouldn’t mind if he went a little further this time, would you? You’re always so eager to help him during the day, so what’s the difference now? Poor, poor Azul just can’t get the question out of his head—
Does your pussy feel as warm and tight as an octopot?
Would it be nice to bury himself inside of you, snug and soothing? He wants to know. He has to know. Help him, won’t you? You will help him, will you not? His hands toy with the edge of your waist band, flicking the elastic between his fingers. There’s a fond look in his eyes as he hooks it around his index, catching the other side with his thumb. It’s not a good grip by any means, and it takes some effort to tug it down… but when he finally gets your shorts to your mid thigh, a soft laugh escapes him.
You aren’t wearing any panties.
Is it that you wanted this to happen? Is that it? Is that why you’re so incessant on being around him, tempting him, clawing at the edges of his mind and splitting him apart with lust? You absolute slut.
Azul’s mouth salivates at the sight before him. How long has he thought about this? About that diamond at the meeting of your thighs? He can’t help but smile in triumph when he moves to palm himself through his pants. He can feel the precum soaking through the fabric, a notion that both disgusts and appeals to him. Do you know the effect you have on him?
Ah… He should prepare you first, shouldn’t he? That’s how these things go, don’t they? He needs to get you all wet before he fucks you. His lips purse as he stops his motions, his eyes narrow in scrutiny. Do you even deserve to be pleasured, too? He thinks this when he lowers himself, down, down, down until his face hovers right above your pussy. Now that he actually has you to himself… He licks a singular stripe up your slit, coating it in his saliva. He just has to get you wet. He doesn’t actually care about making you cum. That’s what he reminds himself as he experiments with the different directions of his tongue. His lips, lubricated with spit and just the slightest bit of slick, attach themselves to your clit (it’s not nearly as hard to find as Idia swears it is) and detach themselves with a subtle ‘pop’.
…That’s what makes you jolt. Perhaps you’re lighter of a sleeper than he thought. For a second, Azul panics. You’re opening your eyes… He can’t let you see him. Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him. You can scream all you want, but don’t, don’t look at him—!
His hand works faster than his brain does, slapping itself rather harshly over the upper half of your face. He’s embarrassed to admit how much his hand shakes— whether it’s from anxiety or the sweet adrenaline boost you just gave him, he can’t tell— as he fumbles to pull his pants down. Damn you. Damn you…! You just had to ruin it didn’t you? He grumbles under his breath at your hyperventilating. You really do have the survival instincts of a fucking manatee, huh? You’re not even screaming.
Beneath his palm, he can feel you beginning to tear up. Part of him wishes to yell at you, but it would be in his best interest to keep quiet and just get this over with. Maybe he can fuck you back into unconciousness, and you’d never even know it was him. Maybe you’d think this was a dream. Azul huffs at that. He’d really love to laugh at you right now… but unfortunately for him, his laugh is quite recognisable.
His grip around your face tightens. Stop squirming. Normally, he’d be troubled at his weight, but his thighs are thick and they keep you from flailing around beneath him, and that’s quite enough in his favour. He's always been strong for human standards; perhaps he should pin you on your stomach?
…He really should pat himself on the back for these wonderful, wonderful ideas. Azul grins, and he does just that. For a moment, he’s worried he’ll snap your neck from how roughly he turns you— but any slower a movement and you might’ve caught a glance… and he can’t have that now, can he? The need for haste makes him brutal. He shoves you onto your stomach, his weight following to smother any cry you might make into the mattress. One hand plants firmly between your shoulder blades, pinning you down, while the other keeps your head twisted to the side, buried in the duvet to obscure his form. He holds his breath, listening, every muscle tense. Not a glimpse. Good.
What amuses him most is how silently you sob. If he weren’t so entertained, he’d almost be jealous. Whenever he cries, he drowns the room with his sound as much as he does with his tears. How do you manage to do that, he wonders? And how do you manage to be so pliable even in the face of being assaulted? Oh, don’t tell him he’s not the first man to touch you like this…! But as he looks down at your perfect ass, stuck up in the air just for him, he understands why he wouldn’t be the first to want it.
The feeling of your gummy walls, squeezing so tightly around him… it really does feel like an octopot…! He’d missed the sensation so dearly, so it’s relieving to find a solution.
He’s never gone this far with you before, so having you hiccuping below him, bare and wet and ready to be split apart on his cock gives him such an addictive rush he almost forgets what troubled him so much in the first place. His breathing weighs heavier and heavier as he runs his tip up against your pussy. He had no idea it could sound so squelchy… how lewd. There are so, so many options for him, now that he has you like this. He could use any hole he wants, put you in any position he wants— it’s all so overwhelming!
The thought makes him giddy, and it sends so much blood rushing below it’s almost painful. So Azul wastes no time in taking just what he came for— sinking himself into your slick warmth, until he’s sheathed in his entirety inside of you.
There’s a crazed grin on his face when he rocks his hips, and he doesn't care for the pained yelp that leaves your lips. Now, there’s only two things on his mind; how wonderful you are, and how he can’t wait to fill you up, up, up with all of his sticky cum. He wants to see it overflowing and dripping out— but before sunrise, at least.
He has a busy schedule tomorrow, and night activities are an inconvenience.
thank you for reading, please consider reblogging? <3
“𝐖𝐇𝐘 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐋𝐋 of them at once? Your greed truly knows no bounds.”
But your husband’s gaze never left the swaddled bundles resting against his chest— so you drew nearer and came to his side. You did not take them— he would not give them up even if you asked— but you bent down and pressed your mouth to the soft crown of your daughter’s head.
At once she stirred, her lips puckering in sleep, a soft coo escaping her. That tiny sound tightened something deep in your chest— and if you had been any more a fool you’d think it your heart. So you kissed her again, just to hear it once more, and again, your insides fluttered. Her fat little cheek warmed against your lips, and what was still strange to you was that she was soft. She was alive; A little, living thing. And her brothers made their protest at being ignored— one wriggled in his wrappings, a small fist punching the air; the other loosed a half-formed cry that never quite found its strength. They were living, too. That was even nice.
“Little brats…” You murmured, and bent to them too, brushing your lips over their brows, their cheeks. The restless one gave a wet, squeaky sigh; the other gurgled, content. You had not thought such sounds could exist outside of dreams.
Malleus shifted them faintly, not out of discomfort but as though to remind himself they were real— something you often did yourself. One of the boys yawned, mouth opening like a little fish, chubby cheeks stretching as if the world itself were too heavy a burden to hold in such a small body, and Malleus’ chest rumbled with something close to laughter. He bowed his head, the sweep of his hair falling forward to curtain them, and for a moment you thought he might hide them from you altogether; a dragon folding its wings over its hoard. Typical.
“This one looks just like you.” He gestured, dipping his head to your daughter.
You scoffed, though softly, scrutinising him through your lashes. “This one? You know these are your children, right?”
He smiled in return— if the slight curve of his lips could even be called that— though his gaze was fixed and heavy, like he was studying some detail you’d rather leave unnoticed. “Do you?” He asked finally. “You’ve yet to name them. Perhaps you’d rather not admit they’re yours.”
“What nonsense are you spouting now?” You quipped. It should have stung, maybe, but you had long since lost the energy to let words wound you. So you only leaned closer, let your lips brush your son’s head, and said without hesitation, “Ace."
Malleus stilled, and you felt the shift in his body even though he didn’t move, his eyes burning down into you, searching.
You ignored him. Your lips passed over the restless boy next, the one forever wriggling against his wrappings. “Deuce.” You whispered, with no more ceremony than one gives to a passing thought. Then at last, the smallest— your little girl. And to her you gave your own name, not minding if now it belonged to someone other than you.
When you straightened, the weight of Malleus’ gaze was still on you. Murderous on all accounts, really, but you didn’t exactly have a problem with that anymore. It wasn’t as though it was shocking.
“Do you have anything better?” You asked finally, your tone flat, almost wry, as if the exchange were no more than idle banter.
For a long moment there was nothing, only the soft little sounds of your children rustling in his arms. Then he inclined his head, just faintly, and his voice came low.
“…Hm. I suppose not.”
You exhaled, something like satisfaction curling in your chest, though it was thin, though it was fragile.
He looked down again at the small bundle pressed nearest to his heart and adjusted his grip with a gentleness you would have never thought him capable of if you hadn’t witnessed it yourself. His lips shaped the name slowly, almost warily, as if he had to try it on his tongue before he could accept it.
“(Y/N).” He muttered, and the irony between you was not lost to either of you.
“She wears it better than me. I do not like hearing you call me that, anyway.”
The words left your mouth without thought, and you let your head tip sideways until it found the slope of his shoulder. Your babies pressed gently between you both, small bodies shifting now and then with sounds that vibrated faintly against your ribs, so that your chest rose and fell in time with theirs and his. You felt caged by it— his size, their softness, the sheer inevitability of it all— and yet you held still, because they were yours, and that was all that ever was, and all that would ever be.
Malleus turned his face then, just enough for his breath to ghost your temple, and you lifted your chin the slightest bit, a motion so small it could have been mistaken for nothing at all— until his mouth found yours.
Kisses were supposed to be sweet, or passionate, or tender. A kiss was supposed to carry laughter and sorrow and every vulnerability hanging upon the lips, love spilling easy and steady out into your beloved. That was a kiss— you already knew about kisses... But this? What was being done to you? This was no kiss.
…But no matter what it was, it was yours now. All of it; the man in front of you, three little bundles embraced between two hearts—
Your husband, your children. Now, and forevermore.
warnings: implied non-con, off-screen character death, graphic depictions of gore, grotesque imagery, cruelty, supernatural psychological manipulation, monster/human relationship (dragon fae x human), slow burn (?), no happy ending, malleus is just not nice dude, dead dove: do not eat
greensleeves — a traditional english folk song, commonly attributed to king henry viii for his second wife; anne boleyn, whom he later had executed.
o death, rock me asleep — a tudor-era poem and lament, famously attributed to anne boleyn, believed to have been written while she awaited execution.
a/n: this was written over the course of a few months; you can actively see my writing style change throughout the story...
(wc: 23.8k words)
𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐎𝐍 𝐈𝐓 𝐍𝐎𝐖, you wish you’d slammed the door in their faces. How dare they show at your doorstep unannounced, after a year of no-contact? Ace and Deuce. Your two idiot boys, as you so fondly nicknamed them, whom you’d grown up alongside— they’d taken to a life of adventuring together, leaving poor little you at home to strum the lyre and read books… only to appear once more with even bigger dreams than when they’d left.
It all happened so quickly you hadn’t even the time to resent them for leaving. If you could, you’d go back in time and say no. But the version of you from way back when… was clearly too nice for that, and too high off the joy of seeing your boys again. And now, you found yourself at the foot of a castle. A castle unlike anything you’d ever seen— even in the grandest illustrations from your books.
It towered impossibly high, a strange fusion of cathedral-like scale and fortress-like strength. Every spire stretched toward the dark heavens, their tips nearly swallowed by the thick clouds above. The sheer scale of it was almost incomprehensible— it begged the question; who could possibly need a castle this massive? The archways were wide enough to fit entire caravans side by side, and the doors stood taller than any building you’d ever entered. It felt less like a home and more like a monument to something far beyond human understanding, and the thought made your stomach churn uneasily.
You clutched your lyre tighter, the polished wood now slick under your damp palms. With the backdrop of the full moon, combined with the surrounding, never-ending forest… this place reeked of foreboding. And truthfully, you were never meant for such things. There was a reason you’d stayed behind while Ace and Deuce chased glory. Ah… even in childhood, it seemed, they were always two daring boys with swords (stolen from your father’s collection, mind you), and you, a shy little girl with her worn lyre.
Somewhere ahead, said duo stumbled through the shadows with all the grace of a pair of toddlers in a glass workshop. Some things truly never change. Count on Ace and Deuce to foolishly decide to explore a castle well after daybreak, with nothing but lanterns and weapons in hand. You huffed lightly, observing their clumsy demeanour with a nostalgic fondness before forcing yourself to catch up with them.
The inside of the castle was just as strange as the exterior. The moment you stepped inside, the lanterns’ glow spilled across the vast interior, casting flickering shadows on walls that stretched unnaturally high into the darkness above. The sheer size of the space felt overwhelming— too… massive for what it actually seemed to hold. Sparse clusters of comically normal sized furniture scattered across the floor, each piece dwarfed by its surroundings. The tables and chairs, though intricately carved, seemed misplaced, almost absurdly small against the towering columns and endless walls. It were as if the castle was designed for something far larger, and these furnishings were added later, an afterthought to make it appear more lived-in.
Candlesticks stood upright yet unlit on the tables, their golden polish dulled by time but not tarnished. Tapestries, faded yet untouched by the dampness that often claimed abandoned places, hung from the walls, depicting scenes you couldn’t make sense of. It was all just so... odd.
"Guys... check this out." Ace whispered in awe, his voice cutting through your thoughts.
He stood crouched in front of a giant door, the iron bands reinforcing the wood looking thick enough to withstand a battering ram. He pushed it open with a groan, revealing a grand hall beyond. The room was cavernous, lit faintly by beams of pale moonlight filtering through the countless high windows lining the hall. Better lit than the rooms before, at least. You stepped inside hesitantly, the soft echo of your footsteps engulfed almost immediately by the sheer space. Despite its grandeur— or perhaps because of it— there was something unsettling about the hall.
“Doesn’t it feel...” Deuce trailed off, glancing around nervously.
“Empty?” You offered, to which your companion nodded in agreement.
“Yeah. That.”
Ace, of course, seemed entirely unfazed, already crossing to the center of the room where a massive stone table sat. He ran a hand along its surface, then rubbed his fingers together, inspecting the layer of dust.
“Whoever left this place behind had some serious cash...” he muttered, “look at this stuff! That chandelier alone could probably buy us a small town.”
You glanced up. The chandelier was an intricate mass, all crystals and gold, hanging precariously from the ceiling like some kind of jewelled leviathan. It looked heavy enough to crush anyone unfortunate enough to stand beneath it if it fell. It was mesmerising indeed… but the unsettling feeling only grew stronger. It wasn’t particularly that the castle was too big (though that’s not to say it wasn’t ornate and strange), so much as it was the sense that it wasn’t as abandoned as it seemed— that somewhere, in the silence and stillness, something was watching.
"I’m telling you," Ace hissed, his voice a notch louder than a hush, "this place has to be loaded with treasure. No one would’ve guarded a dump like this unless there was something worth hiding."
Deuce shot him a glare. "Yeah, and what if the 'guardian' is still here? Just look at the size of this place! That’s nothing any ordinary human would live in. Did you forget what happened in Greystone Keep?!"
Your expression was utterly blank as you listened in the background, trailing a finger against the surface of the table in front of you. You… had no fucking idea what the hell these two were prattling on about. ‘Greystone Keep’ might ring a bell— you think you’d heard of it in the drunken gossip in an inn, once— but that was the extent of your knowledge.
"Relaaax," Ace drawled from somewhere in the background, snapping you out of it, "if anything’s still alive in this shithole, we’ll hear it before it hears us."
As if on cue, a deep, bone-rattling rumble echoed through the hall.
The three of you froze in your tracks.
"Uh…" Ace’s voice cracked. "That was the wind, right?"
Another rumble followed, this time accompanied by a tremor that shook dust from the ancient rafters above.
Your heart plummeted. "Ace. Deuce."
"Yeah?" Their voices came in unison.
“…I fucking hate you two.”
It all happened in a blur.
Ace shrieking, Deuce yanking him by the collar— you think the two of them blindly threw around some of their weapons all for three seconds, before they bolted back down the corridor. And you in all your inexperienced glory… made the terrible, terrible mistake of looking back— something Ace and Deuce hard learned the hard way to never do. Something you couldn’t have known not to do.
The creature that emerged from the shadows stole the breath from your lungs. Black scales gleamed like a finely polished obsidian, and its enormous wings stretched out, blotting out the light trickling through the panes of the windows. Eyes like shining pools of emerald— and though it had no pupils, or any slits you’d associate with all things reptilian, you knew that it must be glaring down at you.
Deuce was right. Of course such an impossibly large structure… would be made to house an impossibly large creature.
You tried to swallow, but your throat had turned to sandpaper.
The dragon moved so very slow, each step sending tremors through the floor that reverberated up your legs. Its wings curled inward— even folded they dwarfed your form— giving the illusion that it loomed even closer than it already did. If you had to guess, you’d say it was at least fifty feet long.
You stood immobile. Every gasp was painful to your lungs, heavy with the scent of ash and metal, and every shallow breath you managed only served to fill your insides with that suffocating presence. Your limbs betrayed you, rooted to the spot as if the sheer weight of your terror had anchored you to the floor— some poor joke played by your body, leaving you to face this monstrosity upright; a lamb awaiting slaughter.
Your breath hitched as it lowered its head, its sharp snout a mere few feet from you now. It sniffed its surroundings, a low growl rumbling deep within its chest. The sound so loud it vibrated down your spine to the rest of your body, and the pull of air so strong it almost brought you closer to the dragon.
…In being the local bookworm, you’d read about death a great many times. Reports, studies, stories— all speculations and beliefs of what it must feel like to be inches away from death— to know you're about to have your life taken from you. To have your life flash before your eyes was such a timeless concept… something you'd admittedly thought of in the past. You had always contemplated how you’d die— what it would be like at the end of your life. But never would you have thought it would be like this. So visceral, so immediate, so unrelentingly real.
And as you stood in the face of certain peril, head beginning to grow hazy in overwhelm, there was only one conclusion to be drawn, one conclusion to be written within those odd reports, studies, stories—
Life does not flash before the eyes. There are no poignant memories or final epiphanies to bring you solace. Instead, you are entirely in the moment, every fiber of your being hyper-aware of the being before you.
Is this truly how you die? Will you stand in place like a fool— let yourself die before you can hardly experience life? This can’t be.
All you’d hoped for was to become close to your only true friends once more— and look where that led you. Straight into the jaws of an inconsolable beast, ready to end your life for simply stepping past an entrance.
The realisation clawed its way through the reaches of your mind.
What a cruel jest, this all was.
You’d read about moments like this— when sheer terror renders someone deathly still, when survival instincts fail, and they can only wait for death to claim them. You’d always assumed that, if ever faced with such a fate, you would at least scream and run. But no— here you stood, the perfectly pathetic portrait of fear, awaiting the inevitable.
You are nothing to this creature.
Every emotion, thought, memory, and experience that has made you who you are— it might as well be dust on the wind. You are but another insect to be ground beneath its heel, another trespasser to be erased from existence.
And yet, a desperate, absurd thought flickered to life in the back of your mind. If this was truly the end, why not go out with words? You were, after all, a bard. Words were all you had— all you ever excelled at. Maybe, just maybe, they could save you now. Or, at the very least, delay what was coming to you.
"Y-You are…" you stammered, your voice barely more than a whisper, "you are magnificent. Truly. To stand in the presence of such power and beauty… I— I can hardly believe it."
The words tumbled out shaky but oddly eloquent, as if your fear had sharpened your tongue rather than silenced it.
"If this is how I die," you continued, your trembling hands clutching the lyre so tightly your fingers ached, "then I suppose… I can’t think of a more fitting end than being claimed by a creature as awe-inspiring as you.”
The words barely got to settle in before the dragon’s glare sharpened. Its wings stretched, the tips brushing the walls, making the vast hall feel small. …If anything, the flattery only seemed to agitate it further— and as it directed that nasty glare onto you, its expression was impossible to misread;
It wasn’t buying your bullshit.
You froze, feeling uncomfortable beads of perspiration form at your brow. This wasn’t working. Of course it wasn’t working! What kind of dumbass tries to butter up a dragon like this? You were seriously, seriously done for. Your shoulders slumped in defeat, the weight of its stare pressing you further down. The act, the excuses— they all melted away, leaving only the raw truth.
In the face of death, is it really worth not being yourself?
“Alright, listen man, I’m sorry. I give up, damn…” you admitted, "I shouldn’t have come here. None of us should have. I didn’t mean to disturb you, or your home, or anything else. I didn’t even WANT to be here. I was just trying to get on my friends’ good sides, y’know? I mean, they’re all I have— otherwise I’d just be a sore loser stuck in my home with nobody to talk to but the pigeons in my ceiling."
Truly, is it worth wasting your last moments?
…You know what? If this damned lizard was going to kill you, it might as well hear all of your life problems first. Let it be known that you are more than just vermin— that it is taking your life away before you can even make it all right.
“I mean, all I do is sit in my room all day reading books and strumming the lyre all night for what— less than minimum wage? I’m not interested in your ‘treasure’ don’t get me wrong, but I just wanted ONE thing to spice up my life, you know? It’s just so frustrating being… being…” You paused, stumbling over your words.
“Being so damn idle all the time.”
The dragon stilled. The growl in its throat subsided, replaced by an eerie silence that felt, strangely, even heavier than its anger. It tilted its head slightly, as if your new words had been entirely unexpected. The nasty glare had yet to fade, but upon further inspection of its face, there was something different in its gaze now. It wasn’t anger, but rather it was something else entirely— Curiosity, perhaps? …Nevertheless, encouraged by the lack of immediate incineration, you continued.
“Now I’m going to fucking die for just trying to look out for my friends. Do you know how pathetic that is? To go out for ONCE in your life only for it to end so abruptly. I’ve hardly seen twenty winters— I can’t even legally DRINK in any of the taverns I play in. Would a dragon like you know what that feels like—?”
You paused, your own words cutting you deep. Are you really going to die with nobody to hear your last words but a merciless dragon? What a pathetic fucking death.
At your sudden silence, the creature’s massive eyes narrowed— fully studying you. Then, after what felt like an eternity, it huffed— a short, sharp sound that sent a gust of warm air ruffling your hair. Its posture eased just a little, and you almost dared to hope that you weren’t about to be a snack.
"…Ah,” you leaned your head back in defeat, examining the ornate decor of the ceiling above you, “you really are magnificent, you know."
The words slipped out before you could think them over. As you looked back at him, into his eyes… this time there was no ulterior motive, no desperate attempt to placate. It was the simple truth, spoken without expectation.
“All my life, I’ve only read about things like you. Dragons. Faeries that watch over sleeping children. Talking gargoyles that come to life… They were all precious stories in picture-books of unknown authors that I clung to while the other children played outside. I could only dream of seeing things as marvelous as you. Everyone else, even those two jackasses…”
Your took a peek to the nearest window, thinking about Ace and Deuce— you wondered how far they must have gotten, by now.
“They all fantasised about slaying great beasts like you while I only ever dreamed of getting to SEE one.”
“…And how I so feel like a fool, being the only child to be killed by one, now.”
You couldn’t place the feeling in your chest— nor could you place the look in the dragon’s eyes, anymore.
Now… one thing about you is that once you begin to talk, you never seem to be able to quiet yourself. Thoughts spill into voice— words that spill into a spiel— and soon, that stream becomes a river too swift to dam.
Perhaps, in this case, it was the fear wound tight within your chest. Perhaps it was despair— despair of the last rites belonging to a person who knows they are not long for this world. Or perhaps— and most shamefully perhaps— it was because some wretched part of you liked being listened to… even if your audience was a beast large enough to gobble an army whole.
“…It is wonderful. Your home, I mean. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. I never even knew such… grand structures could exist. I can’t even begin to think about how much effort must have gone into constructing something like this. This kind of architecture just isn't possible for humans, I’m sure of it.”
“Honestly, it’s not even fair.” You continued, shifting your grip on the lyre. “People like me… We’re not… afforded the luxury to see things like this. We read about them. Hell, maybe even dream about them when it’s raining too hard outside and we’ve got nothing better to do.”
You gesture vaguely at the spires, the windows, the endless dark beauty around you. “And now it’s all just… here. Right in front of me. It’s like falling into the pages of the oldest book on the highest shelf. You know, the ones you’re not supposed to touch because they’re so fragile and cursed and probably bound in someone’s skin.”
Your voice trembled on a laugh. Now you find yourself remembering the old, superstitious woman who ran the local bookshop. A little sweet and a little crude. Clearly lived to see many things. Sometimes, she reminded you of yourself— of who you would become. A lonely lady with nobody to talk to but those who would kindly spare a little time out of their day to lend an ear. That’s what you did for her. And oh, she filled your head with such magnificent stories… and warnings that were twice as so. You always found her endearing, but now you realise you should’ve invested a little more than just affection when listening to her— for she was completely right; ‘Never fuck around and find out’.
“And I’m not even going to get to tell anyone about it. That’s the worst part, really. All of this. Every column, every decor, every inch of this ridiculously excessive, ludicrous chandelier— what is WITH this, anyway? Did you bedazzle it with your entire hoard?”
You pressed the heel of your palm into your forehead in an attempt to soothe the oncoming headache. “It’s not fair. It’s really not fair— YOU’RE not fair. Am I really going to get slimed by an overgrown lizard with six limbs? Why do you have four legs and two wings? Is that biologically feasible—?”
“Do you play…”
The voice that reached you did not reach like any other you’ve heard.
Perhaps it would be wrong to even refer to it as something to be heard. The words arrived all at once, like cold iron plunged straight into your brain— inside you before you even registered they were said. A voice with no mouth. A breath without ever having been breathed. It clawed its way into your head, heavy and wrong, vibrating beneath your skin. You did not hear this dragon speak— rather you felt it. Something never meant for a human’s mind.
“…As well as you prattle?”
Do you play… Do you play… Do you—
It looped ceaselessly within the confines of your mind, ricocheting against the walls of your skull until it bloomed into a headache. Yet, by sheer force of will, you bit the inside of your cheek, willing the voice into silence.
“Uh—” you managed, voice cracking in a sharp wince as the sound of your own vocals nailed the coffin on your internal agony, “…depends on what you want played…?”
“Anything that will convince me to spare your life.”
Fortunately for you, the second time he spoke settled in your mind with greater clarity than the first. Yet it was hardly a comfort, for the only thought that gripped you in that instant was that you would much prefer to die here and now. Were you… really understanding this correctly? Did this dragon honestly mean to… Must you really—
Play your stupid little lyre to a dragon to save your life?
“…Just kill me…”
Only a fool would mistake the growl that followed as anything but a warning. Low and guttural, it rolled from deep within his chest and rattled the very air, vibrating through the floor and up your legs. He stepped forward, one singular footfall—
That was all it took to send a primal jolt of terror through your spine.
“NO— No no NO—!” You scrambled back, clutching your lyre tighter to your chest. “That was just— a force of habit, okay?! Just sarcasm! I didn’t mean it, I swear—!”
You shut your mouth so fast your teeth ached within the muscles of your jaw.
Music. He wanted music… Okay. You could do music. You’ve done music for coin, for food, for polite applause and for drunken sobbing. You’ve done it at weddings, at funerals, in taverns so loud no one even noticed. Surely, this was no different… except for the whole ‘dragon threatening to end your miserable life’ part. You shifted your grip on the instrument, fingers twitching. Think… Your hands were trembling, so you should play something easy… Something that always works, that gets a reaction from the crowd just from a few plucks drawn from muscle memory…
And so—
Greensleeves.
Reliable… check. Calming… double check. The song that makes even the angriest drunk at the far table soften his glare and listen if only for a moment and hopefully, in your case, enough to soothe the slightly sadistic— who the hell makes a poor bard play for their life?— dragon before you… hopefully check?
Still, there was something humourlessly funny about it all. A song written for a queen… by the man who would later send her to the executioner’s block. That’s how some rumours go. You glanced at the dragon— your possible executioner— and huffed a weak breath of laughter through your nose.
Fitting, you thought. How very fitting.
You don’t think he’d know the tune or its history. You doubt he cares… But you care. That’s the joke, isn’t it? Playing the supposed ballad of an ill-fated queen while trying to soothe the king of the castle who could very well kill you before the last note. The notion almost pulls a dry laugh from your lungs. Just why the hell have you of all people ended up in this situation? But if there had to be a light at the end of the tunnel, however… you would like to think that you're rather skilled with your fingers— adept enough, at least, to strum a lyre with confidence. So if this was the task required to preserve your miserable life, perhaps you haven’t drawn the worst hand imaginable… yet.
The melody that spilled forth was as lulling as it usually was— each note coaxed into existence by trembling fingers that, thankfully, needed not be steady to sound true. The lyre didn’t betray your panic, for its strings sang the same whether touched by grace or desperation. The sound drifted, delicate and sure, and were you not the one clinging to life with every pluck, you think you could almost fall asleep to it.
Truthfully, you dreaded the moment the final note would fall silent. So you slowed the tempo, drawing out each chord as long as your trembling fingers would allow, desperate to stretch the moment between life and whatever came after. If this was to be your death ballad, then better it last— a painful, aching farewell rather than a sharp, sudden cut. The thought gnawed at you, and a persistent ache twisted low in your belly; what fate awaited you once the music faded?
And when the dreaded moment finally arrived… silence was not what you were expecting. Your death, perhaps. A growl. Maybe even an ego-shattering belittlement for mediocre playing— anything but silence. And after enduring the excruciating discordance of experiencing the creature’s voice for the first time… you could say you were qualified to know that his silence was infinitely worse. You wiped your clammy palms against the folds of your skirt, fingers trembling despite yourself. Your eyes flicked upward, searching his immense face— almost pleading, though you’d never want to admit it aloud.
The dragon’s massive head tilted, his glowing eyes narrowing as he studied you. Then, with a deliberate slowness that made your heart skip, he lowered himself closer… and the faintest puff of air brushed against your face as he sniffed around.
“Uhm…”
You breathed out, flinching backward as his massive snout brushed against you. The roughness of his scales was undeniable— each one like a hardened shield, easily the size of your hand, scraping softly against the tender skin of your chest. You squirmed, eyes fluttering closed as your lips parted just barely before pressing into a thin line of restrained breath. Times like these were when you cursed the low neckline of your kirtle— as turning your head away only bared more of your neck to him. The heat was so scorching you swore it would melt you down to the bone.
For a long, heavy pause, you stayed just like that; eyes wound shut in anticipation of something more. Every exhale from the dragon stirred the fabric of your clothes with a force more powerful than any storm’s gust, and you were almost convinced a spike of fire would follow.
“Play it again.”
It was a request no sane person would dare refuse. So there you stood, like some hapless jester, fumbling to recreate the melody you’d just played. This time, though, you let the notes unfurl as they were meant to, each one ringing truer than before. The dragon seemed to notice the difference in quality; his great head inched nearer, closing the space between you. You could only assume he was studying your hands, tracking the nimble dance of your fingers across the strings.
It was on his fourth time demanding the same song in a row that you paused. Your brows knitted together as you stared up at him, confused. “You want to hear the same song again? Would you not rather I play something else?”
"Do as I say. There will be time enough to wring every last melody from that clever little head of yours… but for now, I wish to hear that song.”
The words sank in slowly, much akin to spilled ink bleeding into paper— seeping deeper, staining more than they should. ‘Time enough’. Enough for what? Enough for him to hear every song you’d ever known, ever made… to keep you until there were none left?
You forced a laugh, though it came out thinner than you’d have liked. “Right… ‘time enough’. I’m guessing that means I’ll have to charge by the hour.”
The dragon stilled completely. For a moment you’d begun to wonder if you’d broken him— but eventually his nostrils flared, sending another puff of hot air over your face. “You will not be leaving until I say so.”
“Oh…!” Your fingers tightened around the strings. “So… I’m under your patronage, then?”
Slowly, he bowed his massive head until it pressed heavily against the floor, his eyes locking onto yours with a piercing, jagged sharpness that sent a cold shiver clawing beneath your skin.
“Label it as you might, but in the end, your freedom is no longer yours to barter.”
You forced another, even shakier laugh— clinging to the tattered edges of your playful facade. Some instinct within you whispered that if you kept playing dumb, you’d soon be playing dead— but nonetheless, you persisted.
“B-Barter…? What, like a pig? Two pigs? For my lyre? I’ll take it—”
“Foolish mortal.”
The dragon snapped at last, for it seemed even Lady Luck had become tired of your imbecilic ploys.
"Must I spell it out for you? I intend to keep you for myself. You will speak. You will play. And it will be for me, and only for me— whenever I so desire. Now, the song?”
The harsh finality of his words stunned you into complete, feeble stillness. Whatever gambit you’d been trying to play was dismissed outright— This creature wanted no part of your tricks or pleas. And in that moment, it became painfully clear to you that your fate rested solely at the impulses of this beast.
There was really no way out of this.
Quietly, you accepted that you might very well end up as nothing more than dragon kibble, and let your fingers resume their candence— the melody of Greensleeves.
At the very least, for all that, you were able to console yourself with the notion that Ace and Deuce had gotten away unscathed. So perhaps, in the grand scheme of things… this wasn’t the worst possible outcome. And in any case—
When, in all the years of your life, had you not taken the suffering for your boys’ betterment, anyway?
𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐃𝐀𝐘, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 dragon seemed utterly enthralled by every minor thing you did. He was no stranger to commands, either, and you were not one to deny a monster within its own dominion. For a good hour, he was transfixed by the way your body moved— so he instructed you to walk, to run, to leap, to climb atop heaps of gold… and then delighted in the way you slipped halfway through that. But to be fair, you couldn’t exactly gain proper footing on a great stack of metal.
Furthermore… he appeared to be fond of suspending you from various heights to assess the strength of your arms— a habit you most definitely did not share an affection for in return. In fact, he seemed drawn to the idea of arranging you in different corners of the chamber altogether… almost like finding the perfect place on a shelf to set down a flowerpot. So in a matter of that first day, you were intimately acquainted with the vast cavern he called his own.
But for all his partiality to seeing you in different corners of his hoard, the same could not be said for the rest of the castle. On the second day, you were near certain he would kill you when he cast that glare down upon you for setting a single foot past the entrance’s threshold. …After that, you did not try again. The subsequent nights were spent curled on an old carpet (this particular one reminded you of the one displayed in your own home) spread across a mound of gold, so high that every shift or stir set coins sliding. It was a trap disguised as bedding; if you moved, the sound would wake him.
Though you were no doubt used to a solitary life, this one was unbearably dull— the sort of dull that made hours drag like weighted chains. Day in and day out, you found yourself trapped in the same cycle of gilded idleness, with nothing to measure the passing time but the whims of your captor. And those whims, you soon learned, could be mercurial at best. Some days he would lounge nearby, trading quips with you as if the two of you were old companions; other days, he became so cold and severe you swore the very air in the cavern sharpened around you, and you found yourself imagining the pyre that would follow.
Yet without fail, what always framed this idleness was the music you brought him. Other nights, when you weren’t lazing around (the dragon was quite the sleeper himself, you see, so his routine quickly became yours), you would pluck the strings until dawn. You offered him every melody you knew, every melody you were refining, and every melody you could conjure on the spot. Above all, though, his most beloved remained the first you’d ever given to him— Greensleeves.
You weren’t sure how many days had passed— only that it was several, and that some days you went without speaking to the creature at all. The silence should have been a relief… but instead it gnawed at you, until the only highlight of your day became those rare moments he deigned to speak. You told yourself it was only because it broke the monotony— because in this endless, stagnant gold-dusted prison, even a single new word was a change in the atmosphere. Yet somewhere between one meaningless exchange and the next, you began to notice how your ears pricked at the sound of his voice, how you found yourself measuring time not by the sun or moon, but by when he might next decide you were worth probing at.
You knew not if he had a name, or if he even knew yours— for you never told him, and he never asked for it. But over the days that ignorance festered into an insatiable curiousity, and the longer you remained in his company, the more intolerable it became not to know. Every word he withheld felt deliberate, a game you hadn’t agreed to play but could not stop participating in. You caught yourself watching him when you thought he wouldn’t notice— straining to glean something, anything, from that tilt of his head or the pause between his sentences. Even the smallest slip, the briefest hint, felt like a stolen jewel in a hoard you had no right to.
In the end— and you had realised this suddenly, with much bitterness— he had essentially made you into his mirror; just as fixated, just as incapable of letting go. Your hunger for the workings of his mind was as ravenous as his hunger for yours.
Perhaps it was because of this that you never ran, even when the chance was laid bare before you.
On occasion, the dragon would vanish into the wilderness, returning with some unfortunate creature— scorched beyond recognition, its flesh blackened and bitter, the sort of meal meant only to keep you alive rather than thriving. (It was such a pitiful sight that you felt cruel each time you sliced into it with the knife at your girdle— the knife Ace had pressed into your hand on the eve of your birthday.) And during these times, when the dragon was gone, the opportunity presented itself to you on a silver platter. The world beyond was there, waiting, the open mouth of freedom gaping wide before you. Yet… your feet remained rooted. So the only taste of freedom you permitted yourself came in those rare, fleeting moments when you leaned out of the gargantuan windows (and you mean this quite literally… they were large enough for the dragon to crawl out) of the chamber, flask in hand, to catch rainwater for drink.
Ah… You remembered the times you’d complained of thirst, buzzing in the dragon’s ear (the general direction of it, at least) like some persistent mosquito. He would only huff (just a singular huff, without fail) and turn his head away— yet, almost unfailingly, a storm would break minutes later. The coincidence occurred so often you began to wonder if the rain answered to him, bending itself to his whims as easily as the rest of your world seemed to.
Because of all this… at the very least, life here had been survivable. You had food, you had water— and little else, perhaps, but that was enough. Enough to keep breathing, enough to carry on, and in these idle days… you were able to get by on the fact that this small mercy had seemed sufficient.
…However, as of today— as you lay atop your carpet staring up at the unnecessarily high ceiling—
Sufficient… was not that sufficient.
There was a certain… ‘problem’ with your life here— one that you could no longer ignore. Every part of you strained toward confronting it, until it made your skin crawl, your garments clung damp and close, and you felt swallowed whole by your own body.
With a weary sigh, you let yourself sink down, sliding along the mound of gold until the coins shifted and clattered beneath your weight. The sound stirred the resting dragon; But when he saw your path bent not toward escape, but toward him… he merely closed his eyes again— completely unbothered by your presence.
“Ahem… Oh, fair dragon… I DO believe I am wasting away inside this dreary place!”
Your voice carried an annoyingly theatrical flourish as you beckoned. Had you been any more familiar with the beast, you might have clambered onto his immense frame and made your boredom his problem. But alas… intimacy had not yet reached such heights— so you were reduced to planting yourself before his head, hands holding tightly to your lyre lest he request music as some odd payment.
One great eyelid lifted, revealing a pool of green that regarded you with indifference. (For a brute lizard, he was disarmingly expressive— and that made the weight of his empty stares all the more cutting when he chose to use them.) But after a single second his eye shut again, head angling away with deliberate dismissal.
“I do not recall requesting the sound of your voice or music. Why do you disturb my rest?”
Your jaw fell open at the sheer audacity. (Yet beneath the offense was a flicker of gratitude; as it meant your strange companionship had evolved far enough that you could be sassed rather than sizzled. It was a dangerous kind of luck, perhaps, but luck all the same.) Still, you were not so easily deterred— so you darted around his muzzle once more, determined to recapture his attention.
“Won’t you at least hear me out…? I have a request… and— it’s an important request, too! I’ve been putting off asking you for days… But now it’s very unavoidable…!”
The dragon did not agree to hear you out… but he did not refuse, either.
“I… I need…”
Now that you actually stood here, having to say what you needed out loud… it dawned on you how odd (i.e, embarrassingly human and therefore belittling in the face of a mighty dragon) your ‘problem’ was. Your shoulders slumped, and you fidgeted, glancing around as if the walls themselves might bear witness to your mortification.
“…I need to bathe…!” You admitted in a rush, each word heavier with embarrassment than the last. “It’s… it’s been a few days, and I’ve been… coping, yes, but… it’s— well, it’s uncomfortable, and, frankly, humiliating!”
The dragon cracked his eye open again, narrowing. “Bathe?” His tone was flat— and dare you say amused. “Surely, you can survive without it. You have managed thus far.”
“Yes!” You said, waving your hands— taking your instrument with it. “I have MANAGED! But I’m a human, remember…? We clean ourselves regularly, and I… I insist upon it! It’s only natural!”
A low, almost imperceptible bellow sounded from his throat, the closest thing he had to a laugh. He stood from where he laid, peering down at your ant-like form.
“You… insist upon it?”
You puffed your chest out despite the heat rising in your face. “Yes, yes that’s right. I insist upon it.”
The dragon lowered his head, eyes boring into yours with unflinching scrutiny.
“…Do not say that phrase again. Such language ill suits your youth. You sound like a fool.”
Yikes. You were quiet for a long time after that.
“…So do I get to bathe, or…?”
What the dragon did next… it would only be right to say that it scared the living shit out of you.
His colossal jaws began to part, until a cavernous darkness framed by jagged pearls yawned before you. Heat and a faint smoky scent rolled over you, making your stomach pitch. You stumbled backward, a comically high-pitched scream tearing out of your throat.
“Wait! Please don’t eat me! I didn’t mean—!”
“Shut up. Why would I eat you for that?” He interrupted sharply, the word vibrating through your body. “Just be quiet.”
The sheer absurdity of it struck you like a slap— this massive, terrifying dragon, scolding you like a schoolchild. Your terror cracked, and you froze mid-apology, lips pressed together to stifle the snort threatening to escape. Oops…
“Climb inside.” He ordered bluntly. “I am taking you outside. You will bathe in the mountains’ stream, but it’s quite a while to get there on foot. I have seen you move about— you’re not good at it. I shall carry you.”
…Ouch. You flinched, but forced yourself to ignore the jab at your physical capabilities. “C-climb… inside? You mean… like an alligator?”
A low exhale of impatience rolled from him.
“…Yes, like an alligator. Now move.”
He tilted his monstrous head and, with an almost unnerving delicacy, scooped you into his maw. The gesture was more reptilian than draconic— really like an alligator ferrying its hatchlings— jaw unhinged just enough to cradle you in the cavern of his mouth. You hardly dared to breathe, lest a twitch of his tongue press you against the serrated ivory surrounding you.
Then the ground lurched. Stone groaned beneath his weight as he coiled through the tower’s circular chamber— your gilded idleness, your prison. For all its grandeur, you were beginning to resent it; the massive doors that never once opened for you unless it was to relieve yourself in the nearby chamberpot (and even then the dragon followed closely behind); the jewelled relics heaped in careless mounds; the shafts of light that pierced the gloom only when the sun angled through the windows— On such days, the chamber glittered like a cathedral of glass, colours scattering across the ceiling in rainbows, and it truly was a beautiful sight. …But more often than not, it had been little more than a dark vault, its treasures piled high as though mocking your insignificance.
The scrape of his talons along the walls reverberated as he pressed forward, squeezing through the window large enough to fit lesser beasts whole.
And then, suddenly— wind.
You felt the air through the cracks of his mouth. Gone were the shadowed piles of metal and velvet— before you stretched an endless canvas of green and blue, rolling hills veined with rivers that caught the shining sun like threads of silver. The horizon unfurled into forests bristling like emerald seas, into distant mountains hazed in storybook blue. And the sky felt impossibly vast, clouds rearing like little castles of their own, shifting all the while.
Despite yourself, you leaned forward, craning your neck past the bars of his teeth to drink it all in. The wind whipped at your hair, tugged at your sleeves. For one delirious moment you felt as though you might tumble into the wide, bright world below— free at last.
“Back inside.” His voice came, low and warning. “Do you have a death wish, Child of Man?”
…But you barely heard him. Your heart pounded against your ribs as though trying to answer the sky itself, every page of every story you had ever read suddenly made real before your eyes.
“You have these sights around you all day and you choose to stay in that tower—?” You shouted, your voice nearly put away by the rush of wind.
“I have watched these lands for centuries, long before your bloodline ever came to be.” He responded, and that was all he chose to say.
“Oh… I guess even beautiful sights can get boring, huh…? You know what, I actually understand that. When I was a kid the whole town was my playground and then it became…”
The words died off on your tongue, your shoulders sagging with them. At the mere thought of your hometown, your mind began to unravel. First came the memory of your solitude there— quiet, unremarkable, utterly stifling. Cobblestone streets washed in grey, hemmed in by rows of timber houses so tightly packed they seemed to lean over the narrow lanes. Air that always felt heavy, steeped in the dark smoke that came from a hundred chimneys. Yet the longer you dwelled on it, the sharper the irony became to you; For all its monotony… you found yourself missing it, now.
“It became merely the place you lived?”
“Huh?” You snapped out of it, blinking a few times in surprise. Hearing his voice invade your mind after thinking to yourself was always a sort of whiplash. “Oh, yeah! Just… where I lived. When you’re young everything seems so magical and when you’re grown it just…” You paused. “…I told you how I always read storybooks as a kid, right? Well… This is a sight straight out of one, I swear. Your… ‘mundane’ really is amazing.”
“I would say your mundane holds its own fascinations, as well. But what draws me most is your sharpness of opinion. Only twenty winters you’ve lived to see, was it? How swiftly your kind ripens.”
…It seemed, perhaps, that fortune had favored you today— for the dragon seemed to be in a talkative mood for once. Such moments were rare, and you’d be damned to let this chance slip from your grasp.
“I just like to talk, that’s all!” You blurted, your voice fraying as the wind tugged it thin. In hindsight… maybe sticking your head out of his mouth to get a good view wasn’t the smartest idea.
A low, rumbling sound rolled in his throat— shaking you with it. His great wings beat once, twice, and the whole world seemed to shudder with the force of them. “That much is evident.” He said at last, his tone even. “And I would call it one of your strengths, little one. You… amuse me. When I was younger, I was often told that I was a quiet one myself.”
You gawked up at him, squinting past the press of his jaw. “Really?” The mental image of a cute, quiet little baby dragon got a snort out of you. “Can’t imagine you being young…” You muttered, a laugh finally breaking loose. “What, were you also once a tiny thing, getting scooped up in a bigger dragon’s mouth? Ooh! Wait— do all dragons carry their kids like this?”
“Hm.” He only hummed, and nothing else after that… leaving you to wonder if you’d actually close to the truth or missed embarrassingly by a mile. You were still caught in that thought when his voice finally followed;
“You may want to hold onto something.”
“Wha—?”
Suddenly, your stomach was lurching out of your mouth alongside a scream. The world tilted on its axis, and you found yourself clinging to one of the dragon’s teeth. Wind battered your face, sharp and unrelenting, tearing tears from the corners of your eyes as the once dazzling outside spun into an incomprehensible blur of green and blue.
The dragon had plunged downwards… and like a complete and utter jackass— hadn’t bothered to actually warn you. The sheer drop made your insides somersault, so you pressed yourself tighter against the tooth— arms scrambling for purchase on smooth enamel. Every bone in your body swore you were about to be flung free, hurled into the dizzying expanse of sky.
But suddenly, as if the whole ordeal had never happened— all was still. At some point, you'd shut your eyes, and now they refused to open. You didn’t know where you were just yet, but as you stayed there in silence, you let yourself listen to the world around you. The low roar of rushing water rolled steady in your ears, a constant thunder that seemed to seep into your bones. Beneath it came the lighter sounds— the trickle of smaller streams, the soft lapping of water against stone, the sigh of a breeze stirring through unseen leaves.
And then— without ceremony— you were dropped. One moment surrounded by warmth and shadow, the next colliding with damp grass and stone, a startled yelp breaking out of you before you could stop it.
“Honestly!” You huffed, pushing yourself up, brushing at your clothes. “I could’ve climbed out on my own, you know—” You stopped, shaking your head with a mutter. “Whatever. Fine.”
“Oh? I believe what you mean to say is ‘thank you for bringing me here’.” His voice rolled over you, smooth as ever— if the dragon had eyebrows, you were certain one would be arched right now.
You froze. Then, with a reluctant sigh, you parroted back, “...Thank you for bringing me here.”
A soft puff of air came from his nostrils, and you could swear it was amusement.
At last, you dared to lift your eyes. The sight stole the rest of your irritation clean away. What you saw could only be compared to a scene being opened to you in a book— the kind that makes you wonder if such places could even exist outside of imagination. But the waterfall spilling into a clear, running stream cradled in by a meadow of bright, swaying green and scattered stone, with tall pines climbing skyward beyond was proof that they really, truly could. Your chest rose with a sigh you hadn’t meant to release. Almost without thinking, you stepped forward, drawn by the sheer beauty of it all.
The ground trembled with the weight of the dragon’s sudden growl. You froze mid-step, heart kicking against your ribs. The reminder was sudden and brutal; you weren’t here alone— nor were you even with a friend.
“Sorry—!” You blurted quickly, turning back toward him, hands raised in peace. “I’m not trying to run away. I just— this place is beautiful. I got a little carried away.”
“I brought you here to bathe. Do not run off, unless it is to the water.”
To your relief, the dragon did not seem irritated. If anything, it felt more like a gentle correction. Swallowing, you turned toward a broad rock near the bank and moved to stand before it. Your hands found the ties of your bodice— but as you tugged them loose, unease prickled at the back of your neck. Slowly, you turned around to look at him once more.
“Uhm, can you… look away…?”
He did not respond to that. So for a moment you hesitated, before continuing with what you were doing. With deliberate care, you pulled the lacing free, your kirtle slipping from your shoulders in one smooth motion to pool at your feet. One by one, you released the sleeves tacked over your shift, letting them join the rest of the fabric in a small heap. You were still clothed— your shift hung modestly over your form— but even so… you couldn’t help but feel a little more conscious of your body and your being under such an intense gaze.
“…I will do as I please.” He quipped suddenly, as if reminded abruptly that a response was still needed. “Now tell me, Child of Man… are such garments common where you come from?”
“Oh?” Your mouth parted in surprise. “You want to know about my clothes, is that it? Well… Yeah, it is common, I guess. Everyone wears uhm…” Your line of sight fell to the kirtle, now laid across a large rock. “Well, that right there is a kirtle. That’s the outer garment. If you’re not royalty, that is. Royalty will wear a gown over that, and—”
“I am aware of the garments of nobility. Tell me about you.”
You flinched at the interruption. There was no cruelty in his tone, and yet… he spoke with the kind of easeful command that left no room for disobedience. How could someone manage to speak like that in such a casual manner?
“Me…?” You pointed to yourself, pursing your lips in thought. “…This is an old kirtle. I wear it when I’m running errands and don’t really care about what happens to it. Next to it is my girdle— that’s what I hold my flask and knife on, see?” You picked up the items, the ones you’d been sustaining yourself with for the past weeks. “I’ve never really understood the point in attaching a girdle book and well— pomanders would be nice but that’s much too expensive for me. And… this is my shift. And petticoat.” You ran your hands over the cloth on your body for emphasis. “There’s meant to be a bum pad too to support all the weight but I forgot it… Uhm, anyways, I… change and wash these often and that’s what helps keep the kirtle clean. That one is just a pain in the ass to wash…”
You grumbled, reflecting back on all those dreadful wash days. It was times like those you truly did appreciate your mother, who used to take it upon herself to launder not only her family’s clothes but the neighbours’ as well. If she were still around, she would no doubt chide you for your disdain of washing.
“Oh! And these are my stockings. They’re tight on my skin so I never have to tie them in place like other people do.”
You gathered the weight of your petticoat into your hands, lifting the firm fabric with care. Beneath it, your leg was sheathed in soft white— stockings pristine as porcelain. You’d long since outgrown them, but you took a satisfied sort of pride in how spotless you’d maintained them over the years.
“I even say that they’re my lucky pair. That’s why I haven’t replaced them, you see…” A fond smile ghosted your lips. It was nice to talk about the niche things— things you’d kept to yourself with a quiet passion.
Then, as though doused with cold water, the warmth in your expression faltered.
Right. You were explaining stockings… to a dragon. You blinked hard, fighting the flush threatening to creep up your neck.
“So… yeah! That’s… what I wear.” You rushed, the words tumbling out in a panic. “And most people in my town wear it like that too. Uh, some people don’t bother to tack on extra sleeves because, well…” You gave a little gesture to the sleeves of your shift, flapping them for emphasis. “But I think extra sleeves are pretty, and they’re nice to perform in. The ones from the shifts are just so plain, you know? Actually, those ones over there were a gift from—”
Deuce.
A gift from Deuce.
It had been raining that day, you remembered. Not hard— just the soft, steady kind that darkened cobblestones and made everything smell of petrichor thereafter. You’d been practicing an original composition beneath the awning of the smithy when he’d come bounding over, soaked to the bone, with a grin far too wide for someone dripping water onto your clothes.
The smithy was owned by a kindly widower with two children— a son and a daughter who reminded you far too much of yourself and Ace in your younger years. Perhaps that was why you so often chose to practice there, where you knew their curious ears would catch your music— especially the little boy, who thought you hadn’t been aware of his presence each time he hid behind the workbench. In time, it became your favoured haunt whenever you were not engaged in some performance— rivaled only by the old woman’s bookshop. More often than not, you could be found in one of those two places— so much so that your boys had long since learned to seek you there rather than at your own lonelier, emptier home.
Deuce hadn’t even waited for you to ask when he’d arrived in town or what he was doing there. He hadn’t said a word either— merely held out a strange parcel to you.
“I bartered for them in town!” He’d exclaimed, breathless and proud. “The man said he’d done work for nobles, even— and… well, you deserve nice things too.”
…You deserve nice things, too.
Your hand tightened around the folds of your petticoat, fingers curling into it until your own nails began to dig into your palm. For a moment, the forest around you seemed quieter, as though it, too, had been caught in the warmth of that memory. Every luxury you owned, from your beautiful sleeves to your beautiful knife— all of it was thanks to your boys. But then you shook your head— just enough to scatter the mist from your thoughts, just enough to return to the reality of where you were and who was watching you.
“They were a gift.” You said, voice quite soft now. “From a very good friend.” A pause. Then, with a sharper breath, you straightened your shoulders and cleared your throat. “Now… I have to bathe, so…” You met the dragon’s eyes, steady as you could manage. “Will you look away?”
The dragon did not speak for a long, long time.
“No. I do not think I will. I have not looked upon anyone in a very, very long time, you see… Allow me to indulge myself.” He said at last, and lowered his head so as to allow him a better view of you.
Indulge…? Your shoulders tensed as you measured him in quiet disbelief. He truly meant to… watch you as you bathed? You swallowed thickly. …Well, you supposed there wasn’t any point in arguing. Not with something that could rend the forest apart with one lazy swipe of its claws. And certainly not with someone who thought your discomfort counted as indulgence. So you turned without a word, sliding your shoes off in the process, and you let the river greet you with its hush. Its waters trickled gently over stones worn smooth by centuries. Moss clung to the banks, soft and vibrant, and the air hung heavy with the scent of pine and something older still.
Your hands trembled as you peeled your lucky little stockings from your legs. One, then the other— timid and slow, folded neatly away. You moved on to your shift without pause, lifting it over your head in a single breathless motion, folding it with a similar, rushed sort of precision.
The breezy air pressed in at once, cool against the places of your body it ought not touch. Places another person— let alone a dragon— ought not see. And only then, as you stood fully exposed, did you cover yourself— one arm curling instinctively across your chest, the other dipping low in a gesture both modest and childlike.
The dragon chortled. His head tilted, ever so slightly, as his eyes grazed slowly over you in a manner too measured to be anything but deliberate.
“You… You’re seriously laughing at me right now—?”
“Oh, why do you look at me so?” He asked, voice lilting with false innocence. “Your cheeks are flushed, and you seem even smaller than before. Surely you are not… embarrassed? Tell me— why is that, little one?”
…What an unfair dragon. That stare of his couldn’t possibly warrant anything but embarrassment. Had it come from a person— you’re sure it would have sent ghost-hands trailing down the slopes of your hips, cupping your breasts without so much as a whisper of permission.
“Humans—” You winced at the crack in your voice. “We don’t… show ourselves bare to just anybody! You wouldn’t know because you’re… well, you’re…” You squeezed your legs together to conceal the meeting of your thighs, using your now free hand to gesture vaguely at the dragon’s entirety. “You’re a dragon! You’re covered in scales…! I don’t have scales.”
“You don’t have scales, no.” The dragon agreed, and you couldn’t tell if he was missing your point out of genuine ignorance or pure spite. “Quite the observant Child of Man, you are.”
…So it was pure spite.
“Oh, haha.” You laughed dryly, completely unimpressed. “Yes, very funny. Quite the funny dragon, you are. Now SHUT UP.” You huffed, inching toward the river with the stiff caution of someone very much aware they were being watched.
It was harder than it should’ve been— because you refused to turn your bare back to the creature. Instead, you moved in clumsy reverse, each step accompanied by the rustle of grass and your own mounting dread. Then, your foot caught on a root— or a stone, or a curse sent by your worst enemies— and you very nearly wobbled straight into the water. A sharp yelp escaped you as your arms pinwheeled for balance. The cool splash that followed as you stumbled knee-deep was insult enough.
But worse— so much worse— was the dragon’s laughter.
“Ugh…” You grimaced, kneeling on the riverbed with your hands curled into fists on your lap. You glared up at the dragon, a newfound sense of bravery now that you were covered by the water. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up!”
The dragon only responded by inching his massive head closer— close enough that the weight of his breath stirred the water and sent your hair dancing behind you. You squinted against the gust and stiffened as the tip of his snout brushed against your shoulder— then he pressed.
“Hey—!”
With a gentle nudge, he tipped you clean off balance. You fell back with a splash, the cold closing over your chest before you managed to scramble upright again— sputtering, soaked, and thoroughly humiliated.
He chuffed at that. A pleased sound, low and rumbling, not unlike a purr.
“Go on.” He urged, eyes gleaming with that slow-burning curiosity of his. “Bathe. As you normally would.”
You froze.
He tilted his head— again. That strange little habit, as though mimicking the mannerisms of something more human than beast.
“I want to see.”
The river curled at your waist as you reached down, cupping water in your hands and dragging it up the length of your arms. There was no cloth, no soap, no oils to perfume the air— only the biting chill of the stream and the weight of his expectant gaze. It was either this dragon was a massive (and you mean that quite literally) pervert or…
“Oh. You want me to tell you, huh?” You murmured, voice barely louder than the sound of the current. “You want to hear how I do it, am I right?”
The dragon was silent for only a moment.
“Tell me.”
“...Okay.”
You reached again, dragging water up over your chest this time. Your hands swept over your collarbones, then slowly circled— palms flat, pressure firm— just above the area of your breasts.
“I start here.” You said, as clinically as you could manage. “Over the chest and under the arms. It’s where I sweat the most.”
Your hands slipped lower, dipping beneath the surface, dragging slowly along the undercurve of your chest. The motion was smooth, habitual— but under his stare, it felt foreign. Lecherous. Was it wrong to feel violated? He’s just a dragon, after all. Though his gaze may have felt like that of a man… he still wasn’t.
But as you worked your way down your sides, your waist, your hips— you couldn’t convince yourself of that. You shifted, twisting lightly as your palms swept over the place where thigh met pelvis.
“…I wash here after.” You whispered. “And then here. Between the legs. It’s… delicate, so I go gently.”
Your fingers slowed at your inner thighs, a feigned act of precision masking your trembling. Then your hands slid back up, along the swell of your hips and the gentle dip of your lower belly.
“Then the arms. The legs. Behind the knees. The back of the neck.”
He’s just a dragon. You hated that your voice had gone breathless. He’s just a dragon.
“Every part.” You finished finally. “Until the skin is clean. Uhm…” You quickly submerged yourself beneath the surface of the water, relieved that you were done with it. “It’s normally easier at home because I have a brush to scrub myself with. And… soap. I mean, you can clean yourself with water and your hands just fine but… it’s just nicer with soap and…”
You trailed off. You couldn’t hide your bashfulness behind rambling any longer. …Why was he staring at you so intently? Your skin prickled at the sight. He’s just a dragon. He’s just a dragon… You had to keep reminding yourself, over and over. He’s just a dragon… but why did his wandering eyes, wandering over every bare inch of you feel so human?
He hadn’t moved since you’d begun, nor spoken. It was as if he were memorising the sight of you… and not with the hunger you’d expect from a predator of his kind— but with a strange, unnerving persistence that made you wish you could vanish beneath the riverbed entirely. Is this what blushing brides felt on their wedding nights—? You wondered. It was only when you were completely finished did his voice break the uncomfortable silence;
“Play for me, Child of Man, the song I like best. Let me hear it, just as you are. I want to remember you like this, for I find I much prefer you in this state.”
…Any discomfort you may have felt— clearly, it mattered not to him. So you did the only thing left to you; reached for your lyre, where it rested beside the folded remnants of your dignity, and kneeled once more in the water, body still bared to this creature of stories. And you knelt there in the river, and you played— fingers steady despite the heat of his looking.
And you pretended for your own sake that the music— Greensleeves— was for your ears alone. That in this act of playing, you may reclaim something that no eyes, not even his, can take from you.
𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐀𝐘, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍 allowed you to explore the forests— as long as he was there to accompany you. He had taken to overseeing— like a parent supervising their giddy child running around the streets— never interacting or partaking in the fun, but never letting you out of his sight. But even if he were not there, you couldn’t say you would have been alone. As you soon realised… the woods were far from empty.
One day you strayed from the path with a laugh, chasing after the scatter of wildflowers that grew in the shade of the towering pines. Sunlight spilled through the branches in broken shafts, catching on your hair as you darted from mossy rock to fern-covered hollow. It felt almost like play, (and it would have been exactly like when you were a child, had it not been for the absence of your boys) though you could sense the dragon’s gaze following your every step, heavy and unblinking. Still, you spun through the clearing as if the whole forest might belong to you, and for a fleeting moment you’d nearly forgotten the dragon’s presence.
It was just then, you noticed, that there were tiny lights which blinked in the canopy. Darting quick and erratic, they couldn’t have possibly been beams of the sun. In a sense, they almost looked like fireflies… and upon further inspection you realised they were not fireflies or any insects to name— but rather little beings no larger than your hand. They came in twos and threes, flickering just past your vision— glimpses of wings, comforting laughter that sounded just as the windchimes of your town did. They circled you the way minnows dart about a dropped crumb, not quite daring to touch, not quite able to resist.
It continued this way for a few days, until they realised that the dragon took you here quite frequently— and that you were a new addition to their world. So eventually, they learned to interact with you as a dynamic being, rather than something to be observed.
And today, it seemed, the silent little things had unanimously decided to confront you directly.
One creature stood on your shoulder and pulled at a strand of your hair until you swatted it away by reflex. You felt terribly bad at first, but if anything, it only served as entertainment to them. Another hovered near your ear, whispering syllables like secrets in a language you thought you understood at first— only to listen closer and hear nothing but nonsense. When you tried to swat at that one, three more tugged at your boots until you stumbled. Their laughter rose, the sound of the wonderful windchimes, high and bright.
You were absolutely charmed. They plucked flowers and wove them into chains to drape around your wrists, your throat, your crown; they tugged your fingers toward them and danced along your palms as though the creases in your skin were paths to follow. You laughed and played along— because how could you not? Nothing in your books or stories could compare to the delight of having them here, weaving daisies into your hair and tugging at your nose.
A bold one fluttered before your face, balancing a ring of blooms precariously on your head. You clapped your hands at their craft, only to feel a sudden warmth stir the crown. The dragon had lowered his head to peer at you more closely, and with a faint, amused huff of breath, the crown tumbled from your hair into your lap.
Your laughter spilled out— but for once, the faeries did not share it. In the instant the dragon’s shadow fell over you, their tinkling mirth snapped silent. They darted for the safety of leaf and branch, vanishing so quickly the clearing seemed empty again. Only when he drew back did one or two daring stragglers peek out from the undergrowth, their glow faint and watchful.
“You’re scaring them!” You chided playfully, putting the crown back atop your head. “These are my only friends now, you know. Please don’t run them off like you did my other ones.”
“Ha.” The dragon laughed dryly. “They merely observe the proper respect that I require. You alone are the exception, little one.”
You tilted the crown slightly, glancing toward the shrubbery where more faeries trickled out. Watching, but not quite approaching— like how they first treated you.
“Huh. So I guess they’re respectful, huh? Can’t say the same about me. You’ve really got to stop sabotaging my friendships, though.” You murmured, still smiling, though your thoughts had begun to drift elsewhere. For a moment, you imagined Ace and Deuce running through these woods instead of you. How would they have reacted, seeing these creatures? How you wish they could be here to experience it with you.
“Hm? What is the matter? Your mind is suddenly elsewhere.” The dragon said quietly, almost as if to tease. “Do not tell me you are thinking of those two?”
“Who? Ace and Deuce?” You questioned, not quite present in the conversation. But as soon as you uttered their names…
Everything in the forest stilled.
The tinkling of the faeries vanished; their movements froze, suspended in midair. Every sound seemed to drain from the clearing. The dragon’s stare snapped to you, sudden and unwavering, his attention fixed with an intensity that made the air feel heavy.
“Those are their names, then?” He leaned in, so much so that his snout brushed against you.
…You hadn’t really thought about it. Hadn’t really dwelled on the old, cautionary tales— the warnings murmured about the nature of fae. You’d assumed the ones you were warned about would be different than the ones you interacted with here, considering that these ones didn’t seem malicious. And therefore… you hadn’t really thought about one of the biggest cautions;
Never give a fae your name.
A cold shiver ran down your spine. Words caught in your throat, and for a heartbeat, you froze, unsure how to respond. Surely, if that superstition were true… it could not have applied to your boys, as well?
Then, forcing your voice steady, you shifted the topic.
“Ah, those boys… always argued about the silliest things.” You began, describing the way Ace and Deuce bickered over trivial matters, laughing quietly at the memories.
You told of their little quirks, the clever tricks they played on one another… things you knew the faeries would find appealing. But you never, ever repeated their names. You just spoke about them, letting the warmth of the recollection fill your words, attempting to draw attention away from what you’d just revealed. At some point, you weren’t even sure of what you were saying— only that, at the very least, you weren’t confirming or denying the dragon’s question.
By the time you had stopped— and this was only because you’d become overwhelmed by the dragon’s undivided attention to every last word— the forest seemed a little more normal now.
The dragon was silent, looking down at you rather blankly.
“…You speak of these… cowardly fools rather fondly.”
Your chest tightened at the words, but you didn’t respond immediately. You shifted the crown slightly, your fingers lingering over the delicate petals as if they could anchor your thoughts. …Cowardly fools? Fools, for sure. But… cowardly?
“My friends…” You corrected carefully, almost to yourself at first. “They’re… wonderful. Clever, brave, and kind in ways you couldn’t understand unless you were there with them.”
You glanced at him, and though you tried to keep your voice light, a subtle edge crept in— a rising passion within you.
“When I was a child I had nobody else but them— they were the only people who didn’t ridicule me for being such a recluse. You like me, don’t you? They were the ones who taught me how to be like this in the first place… How could you be so quick to insult them like that?”
The dragon’s lips curled upwards in a snide manner. You didn’t know he could smile— let alone look so deliberately… cruel.
“Friends? Is that truly what you insist on calling those who dragged you here? Who left you trembling at my mercy while they fled with their tails between their legs? So you have fond memories of them. What good does that do now, now that they have abandoned—”
“Oh, come on, you’re talking nonsense— that’s not fair!” You interrupted sharper than you initially intended— but you did not regret it.“They didn’t abandon me on purpose… it was you that was the problem—! They wouldn’t have left me otherwise…”
But the rest withered on your tongue. You knew the truth of your friends. You knew them better than anyone. Yet when you tried to pull the memories forward, tried to shape them into something solid to hold against the dragon’s claims, they slipped like water through your grasp. The more you reached, the less you caught.
Your thoughts tripped over each other, a dozen reasons surging to the surface only to tangle in your throat. It was a horrible, nasty feeling— one that brought tears to your eyes. You were certain, weren’t you? You were certain they would never leave you on purpose. So then why couldn’t you say it? Why couldn’t you answer him civilly, simply, the very way he spoke to you right now?
The heat rising in your chest wasn’t anger alone— it was panic, it was humiliation. He was speaking to you as though this were nothing more than a fair discussion, and you were the one floundering, flustered and foolish. But how could you argue against him, when your own thoughts betrayed you?
“Do not cut me off.” What scorned you most was that he did not even seem offended by your attitude. “It is the truth and you know it, don’t you? I did not think you to be blindly unreasonable. Tell me, am I wrong?”
His composure stung worse than any raised voice. Among all of the questions he presented to you, there was only one on your mind; How could you lash out at him so, when he is only trying to talk to you—?
“You stand here because they abandoned you. If they still valued you as you claim they did, they would not have let you fall into my claws. Yes, I intimidated them. Yes, I intended to kill you all. But circumstances do not matter when, in the end, your loved ones chose their own lives above yours. Selfishness is the nature of men— but nature can be changed, if one loves another enough to do so. But did they change that innate, selfish part of themselves for you? Did they strain every fiber of their being to shield you from me? I think not. I think they fled at the first hint of danger, and now you are here with me. Is that not exactly what happened, in truth?”
Too many questions. Too many questions.
An unrelenting torrent of information coursed directly into your mind, each fragment pushing insistently for attention. You had grown accustomed to his voice— had come to accept its intrusion without the need for spoken words. Yet, just as it did in your first meeting, it began to reverberate within you, echoing with an almost unbearable insistence, and in an instant, all of your composure shattered.
A tear slid down your cheek before you even knew it.
You jerked at a soft brush against your skin— tiny hands, delicate wings. A faerie hovered near, carefully wiping the tear away. The gesture, meant as comfort, only burned deeper. They were watching. All of them. Your humiliation laid bare before a court of silent eyes.
You stiffened, curling your fingers so the little creature had no choice but to rest on your palm. You forced yourself to meet the dragon’s eyes again, calmer this time, though the tear track on your face betrayed you.
“…We will agree to disagree.” You said, and your voice almost held.
He regarded you for a long, unreadable moment before inclining his head.
“As you wish.”
Your attention was already turned back to the faerie in your palm, who had now taken to toying with your fingers. It tugged gently at your fingertip, tiny hands pulling your attention down to where it played. You let it, stroking its gossamer wings with a trembling thumb… though your thoughts were far from present.
Every word you’d thrown in anger replayed in your head, harsher with each remembrance, until you almost wished you could snatch them back. It was… incredibly embarrassing knowing that this faerie, along with all its companions, had to witness you in such a state. So letting the little one inspect your finger, tolerating the surprising and odd strength of its vigour, was your way of apologising to it— for making it get caught in your outburst.
“You will not speak of them again.”
Your head jerked up, startled. “What?”
“I do not want to hear their mention on your tongue. Not once more.”
The words landed like an unavoidable command— the ones that are final and absolute. You stared, mouth parting, some protest fumbling to rise— Why? Why can’t you? He can’t tell you to do that— But nothing left your lips.
“But… why?” Your voice cracked.“Why can’t I—”
“Because you must not.” His interruption was firm, and he offered no explanation beyond that— only expectation.
And suddenly, you felt it again— that cornered, breathless shame, as though your refusal alone made you childish, and as he’d said; unreasonable. You shook your head, cradling the faerie closer as if it may bring you comfort.
“…I hope you’re not trying to make me forget them. You can’t expect me to.”
“That is not what I ask of you. I merely ask for your obedience in what I command. Hm… How should I explain this?”
The dragon mused to himself. It only served to make you feel even more of a dimwit— something you knew he must have intended.
“Look around you, Child of Man—” His words eventually fell with an even tone. “The trees that crown this valley, the skies stretched above them, the very grass beneath your feet. The faerie that perches in your palm, and the ones who hide among the leaves. Do you not see how they bend to my will?”
He looked to the river— and though he did not tell you to go… that is what you did. So you stood there, where the current caught the light in a resplendent show of glittered little dottings.
“Look there. Look at your reflection. I wonder, do you see it? That, too, is mine. The face you wear is not your own. The hand that holds the faerie is not your own. You breathe because I allow it. You live because I keep you. Every part of you has been claimed. Now do you see why you must listen to me?”
(And just like that, any affection you’d gained for him throughout the weeks seemed to vanish in all but an instant.)
As if you had fallen into an enchantment to forget the chains beneath the flowers, it was clear that you’d forgotten your place— grown much too comfortable, much too bold. But the dragon did not need to reprimand you for that. You did that just fine on your own. For you understood, then, the purpose of his words; not to reason with you, but to leave you cornered with nothing to stand on. To remind you that you were in no position to deny him, that disobedience itself was made absurd when the very earth bent to his command.
His stare honed to a point, striking through you as clean and cold as steel. It was clear, now. Unlike the faeries, who accepted you as a guest in their realm— the dragon did not see you as so. It was all so, very clear. So clear, in fact, that you found yourself finishing his words in your mind before he put them there.
“You are mine to keep. Body, voice, and mind. And I shall eliminate anything to preserve what belongs to me. So, I will say it again; I do not want to hear of these boys— not even once."
𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 wonder about your captor, you’d have to wonder if he knew exactly what he was doing. Too quickly, too cruelly, he had reminded you of your reality— while robbing you of the one thing that could have kept you sane; the freedom to speak. Now, what had once consoled your captivity was the belief that you could tell the dragon anything. A foolish hope, perhaps, but it softened the edges— that if all else was lost, at least you had someone to confide in. Someone to keep your memories alive, to let your thoughts spill into air instead of festering and wasting away inside you. But what you had failed to truly digest then… was that this ‘someone’ was the very being who had caged you here in the first place.
You never felt the need to go outside after that— and so, you never did. You never felt the need to talk to your captor, either— and so, you never did. (Unless he demanded it— which was something you used to find almost endearing… However, now it only makes you feel sick.) There was a fleeting thought that he would become irritated at your silence— but surprisingly (and if you cared to wonder, you’d wonder if you should be offended) he didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did notice, he didn’t mind it.
Yet even above the grief of settling into this quick, cruel reality… something else ran deeper still; offense on behalf of your friends— Ace and Deuce. To be trapped with a creature who, magnificent in his malignity, mocked to death the two boys you loved most in the world made a black, sticky hatred curdle inside your heart. So you sank into the carpet most days, refusing even to glance at him— because to look at him meant remembering, and remembering meant rage.
But for all your hatred, you were obedient. And so your captor, with a twisted tenderness, gave you one small allowance; to walk the corridors alone. It was meant as mercy, you supposed— though the stone passages did not feel merciful. And you could not enjoy the secrets within the walls either… for what purpose would it have served, if it was not in the company of the boys who were the ones truly interested in the first place? Still, you wandered those corridors, if only to keep your flesh from melting into the carpet.
It was during one of these meanderings that you saw them.
At first, you thought the castle was playing tricks on you, as everything else in this strange, new world did. Too many days in silence, too many nights curled in on yourself, and now your mind conjured what your heart ached for most. Two figures stood at the far end of the hall, blurred and trembling in the torchlight, as though stitched from memory itself. You rubbed at your eyes and blinked hard, then you looked again— expecting the mirage to vanish. It couldn't have been them. You had thought you heard their laughter before too, had felt their hands brush yours in dreams. You had woken to the echo of voices that weren’t there. This was no different. It had to be no different.
…But this time— not like the other times— they didn’t vanish.
Instead, they moved. And not like tricks of the eye, either. One careless and quick, the other desperate and wild. Ace’s sprint, Deuce’s charge— exactly as you remembered. And when they shouted your name, the sound split the silence so violently that your heart nearly stopped. No dream could shout like that. No vision could breathe your name so raggedly— breathe life into you.
“What are you doing here—?”
But before you could finish your own sentence, you were already rushing to meet them. For a moment you were terrified your arms would pass through empty air— until they didn’t. You were able to take both boys into your arms. And you kissed them— right at the corner of their mouths as you always used to do. Right as you’d always dreamt of doing. And soon that kiss turned into multiple, and you weren’t sure where you were peppering them anymore— only that it was all over both of their faces as you squished their cheeks together.
“We came back for you, of course. Fuck… I didn’t think you’d be alive…” Ace breathed in between your flurry of affections, wrapping a single arm around your waist. The intimate gesture confirmed to you that this couldn't have been anything but real— and that was enough for you.
So for the first time in months, your soul crawled out of its hiding place.
“You could say it less like an ass…!” Deuce choked, glaring at his companion as he, too, cradled his arm across your back. “We’re so sorry, (Y/N), we thought bringing you here wouldn’t have been a big deal— we just wanted to let you go out and experience something with us for once… If we’d known that thing was here we’d never even have thought of letting you come— let alone have left you by yourself. I could’ve sworn I was holding your hand as we ran but…” His words came forward all at once and you could tell they must have been waiting to be let free for a long, long while. His shoulders slumped, and he looked nothing short of dejected. Then his hands moved to cup both sides of your face, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’m sorry. That was my fault.”
But you didn’t care for any of their apologies. All you were glad for was that they were here— that they were really here… and more importantly, that they were here for you. Every mean-spirited word from your captor, every implication of doubt he tried to force onto you— it all abated. Now, you were reminded just how much you loved these two— and how much they loved you in return.
He was wrong— your captor; he was wrong. They love you. You love them. Nothing could change that.
You shook your head in dismissal, an overjoyed smile plastered on your face. Soon you were nuzzling your face into their necks, pushing yourself into them with such force they nearly lost their footing. Deuce was stroking the back of your head— you knew his hand by heart, so even though you couldn’t see, you knew it was him. And you knew it was Ace’s hand trailing from your waist to the small of your back— then down to your hips in a comforting gesture.
But the reality you had been forced to swallow… came rushing back as quickly as it fell away.
“I love you. And there’s so many things I wish I could tell you but you need to go… now! Before he finds you—!” You ushered, face contorted with worry. You pressed your hands against their chests, urging them back.
Ace didn’t seem deterred by your warnings. In fact, it only seemed to strengthen his resolve. He caught your arm and held it firmly. “Yeah, I don’t doubt you on that.” He said quickly. “All the more reason we have to move. Let’s go, before it DOES find us!”
“We won’t leave until we’re sure you’re with us.” Deuce assured, taking your other arm into his. “You have to trust us, okay? Just listen to what we say and we’ll explain everything after.”
Your feet dragged a little, the way a child drags when they don’t want to go— but your boys were strong and it did not slow them. They carried you along those long corridors you had never walked alone, past doors you had not dared to open, under arches where the lamps burned low. And then you looked at them proper and saw how their faces had gone solemn. You had never seen them like that before.
Outside waited for you like a basin of cold water. The air hit your chest and the night was wide. And with the night came the sound. Steel on steel like many bells. Men shouting and calling to one another. And above all of it a great roaring, the kind that shakes a rib. You knew that sound without seeing it. Your captor, the dragon.
Your head went light, full of the noise. “What’s going on?” You asked. “What’s going on? What’s going on—?” You asked again, because the answers did not come.
Now your boys looked troubled. They did not answer, only tightened their hold and pulled you from the noise. The clash of men and the roar of your captor slipped further, further, muffled as if under water. Your heart beat wild against their silence. Still they would not explain. Still they drew you on— and the forest opened to swallow you whole.
The trees grew thick and dark about you, branches low, shrubs scratching at your shift, and you had to keep close to them or else be lost. This wasn’t like the clearings your captor had carried you to, no meadows, no open sky. Only dark, and the hush of leaves, and the three of you moving quick through a new side of the world you were forced to accept— the one you were finally being taken away from.
Ace’s mouth was tense, set like stone. Deuce kept looking back, eyes shining too much, like he might cry if you asked him. And you did ask. Whispered, quick, before your courage left you— “Tell me what’s going on.”
Neither answered at first. They pulled you on, gaining quite a bit of distance until the noise was all gone. At last Deuce spoke, voice low, heavy;
“We sent those men to die.”
It caught you off guard entirely. You didn’t understand it much at all— but you did see the sorrow in him. You did see the guilt under Ace’s scowl. And in that moment you knew; Whatever fight had been raised behind you— for you… it wasn’t one to win— wasn’t one that could ever be won.
An execution.
Your eyes blurred. The steps went on, but you couldn’t stop the tears, sliding hot down your face. “I’m sorry.” You sobbed. “Fuck… I’m so sorry—”
Ace’s grip softened then, his fingers threading through yours, squeezing warm and steady. “Don’t. None of this is on you. If you were a burden, we wouldn’t have even come. All of this is worth it. Don’t cry now.”
Deuce leaned in close on your other side, pressing a kiss to your temple without the slightest bit of hesitation. “You hear him? Nothing’s your fault. Just keep walking. We’re never letting you leave us again.”
And so you cried between them, their hands sure, their words a shield, their closeness like shelter in the dark. And to be in their presence again was of the utmost reassurance. So for a little while, you let yourself believe what they were telling you; None of this was your fault. You’ll be with your boys forevermore, and that is all that could ever be.
Your boys, forevermore.
𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 to an end. That was what the old woman of the bookshop told you once, her voice quiet as she stacked the shelves, her back bent, her eyes lost far past what she was looking at. You had respected her words, for she carried a wisdom you never doubted, but you did not know what to make of them. At the time you thought— perhaps one day their meaning would come clear, and perhaps then you would understand. And so you put them away with the rest of the things that elder folk often said, the riddles and warnings, laid deep in the mind and left to rest. And that is where they stayed.
But you knew now. The time had come, it seemed, to understand what she meant. You understood because the sky parted with a roar, and the forest shuddered and bowed to him— as all the other things in this world did. Wings beat overhead, blacking the stars, and the air rushed cold against your face, past the shrubbery which was meant to be your cover— and down onto you. Your captor had come. Your captor had come for you. So now, you understood.
As abruptly as it started, the good times… had now come to an end.
The time of execution had come. Now, it was only a matter of who would be the executed. But you weren’t afforded the luxury of grief. Ace caught your wrist, Deuce pressed a hand to your back; both urging you down into the cover of particularly dense bushes.
“Stay low.” Ace hissed. “Keep to the trees. He can’t fit in here.”
“Run.” Deuce urged, eyes too bright in the dark. “Don’t look back. No matter what you hear.”
And in that moment you understood what they meant to do for you. The memory of that first day returned— their flight, their fear— but tonight they did not run. So you kissed them, and they kissed back. Quick, desperate, a blessing and a promise all at once. Your lips to Ace’s, your lips to Deuce’s. It was something you wished you could take your time with, but no such thing was given. Tonight, you were the one running.
You ran with the thicket tearing holes into your shift and wounds into your skin. Sharp branches and brambles opened streaks of blood across your arms and legs. Each inhale burned in your lungs; each heartbeat pounded like a drum in your temples. Behind you came the sound of battle— the crash of trees, the shatter of branches, the cry of your captor, the cries of your boys. Your strength wavered, hot pain and fatigue coiling through your limbs, yet still you ran, and you never looked back.
…But under all the weight— your fragile soul, which had only now gained freedom, finally split apart.
So, though you had fought it, darkness had taken you for a while. Blood and screaming and execution put you under, and it laid heavy on you till it let you go. You did not know how long you were out, but you knew it couldn’t have been for much time— for the forest looked no different than when you left it momentarily. But when you regained all senses, it wasn’t to your boys calling you, nor to safety waiting—
It was to arms pulling you up into a chest.
A body was there to hold you up. But when you turned— no face was given to you. Your eyes went searching, but nothing would settle there. The shape of a man was made, yet the head was not made for seeing. Something blurred, something refused. Mind reaching, mind slipping. Your breath quickened, your chest rose hard. …Who was this? Why couldn’t you see his face? It was as if everything in the world came together to stop you from seeing the man in front of your eyes.
“Had I known what a sight you make from this close, I would have taken this form sooner and never let my eyes off you.”
The voice that reached you now was nothing like before. No iron in the brain, no thought forced beneath your skin. This one came pressed from lungs, shaped by a throat. A sound in the air, a sound the world could hear. That was what made it worse. For all its human weight, for all its mortal sound, you knew it was the same. The words came walking to you dressed in flesh. Your ears took them in, but your mind rejected them, staggering back from what it knew and what it could not bear to know. It was a voice with breath now— real breath, living breath— when it should never have been so.
Your captor, the dragon, the executioner; had taken the form of a man.
And this man touched you in ways you never thought you would be touched. His hands gathered your shift as if he meant to wring it dry, bunching it slow, slow, hiking it higher up your thighs till the night air kissed what should have stayed covered. His palm slid over the dip of your waist, the soft hollow under your ribs, the valley of your chest, pressing as if to mold the shape into his own keeping. There was no shame in him— only the same hunger you had felt in his eyes when he watched you before, when his stare alone had set ghost-hands on your hips. Now those hands were real, and they traveled bold as any thief, claiming, groping, learning you as though proving you were his to unmake.
You looked down and saw the truth of his hands at last; claws dragging blood across you, smearing red into the white of your clothes. Not your blood. Not his.
Your boys. Your boys, your boys, your boys—
That thought alone was enough to bring the world rushing back. You shoved at him, desperate, and slipped free of his arms— and of his lips against your nape. You fell hard onto your stomach, then hastily flipped yourself over, scrambling backwards on hands and heels, dragging your body away from the monster who looked like a man without a face.
Roots clutched at your clothes, stones pressed themselves into your palms, until your hand slid across something sharper still. You hissed, pulling back instinctively— only to see blood beading on your fingertips. And there, half-buried in the dirt, was the knife. Your knife. Torn loose from your girdle at some point in time, now waiting as though it had been set there for you to find.
The opportunity was not lost to you. So with a shuddering breath, your fingers closed around the knife. And before you could think, you moved— heaving yourself up from the ground in a wild lunge. You drove it into him with all the strength you had, the blade sinking through his flesh with a sickening resistance before it slid deeper. And you twisted— savagely— dragging the steel down.
You felt it tear a jagged path through muscle, felt the tremor of his ribs beneath the force of your strike, hot gushes of blood spurting over your hand, your wrist, your sleeve. For one frantic heartbeat, hope flared— surely, this was not a wound any living human should bear… But he only looked down at the ruin of his own chest with something almost like mirth, lips curving into a weary smile; a smile without a face.
Leisurely, he wrapped his hand around the knife’s hilt and pulled it free, the steel singing as it grated against torn bone, opening the wound wider so that blood spilled in torrents. He held the blade up between you, crimson dripping steadily. (It was a horrifying sight; the flesh of his chest flayed open, and yet he smiled at you.)
“Little one,” he murmured, “did you think iron could part me from you? An army? Come, now. I expected better from you.”
His hand caught your chin, forcing your lips apart. Then the knife— your knife, your wonderful knife given to you by your beloved Ace— was pressed into your mouth.
Its edge carved messily against your tongue as he shoved it deeper, slicing its way past soft flesh, filling your throat with fire and iron. The taste was unbearable, metallic, salt-thick, a mingling of his blood and yours. You gagged, choking on the bubbling liquid as the blade cut its way down your gullet, warm rivulets running back up and over your lips, staining you in a mixture that was both him and you.
“Good.” He breathed, eyes without a face fixed on the convulsions of your body. “Even your rebellion leaves you stretched open, swallowing me whole. You’ll never be empty of me again.”
Inch by inch, he dragged the blade back out, its edge rasping cruelly against torn muscle, leaving your mouth spilling blood instead of sound— your scream mangled, trapped forever in the ruins of your throat. You clutched at your neck with shaking hands, nails raking desperate fissures into your own skin as if you could claw the agony free, but it only spread like fire through every nerve, leaving your limbs trembling, your body buckling beneath the weight of it.
Your vision swam red, not just from the blood in your eyes but from the sheer, consuming hatred that clawed at your chest. You did not know if he was still smiling, for whatever sense you had was lost in the haze of your fury. Fury to him. Fury for your boys. Fury for everything he had taken from you and everything he was still tearing apart. You wanted to fight, to sink your nails into his skin, to scream until your throat shredded further— but the pain pinned you down, a white-hot spike through every vein.
(It hurts—it hurts—it HURTS—)
Instinct drove you to move, to escape. You clawed at the ground, dragged yourself forward, every twitch of muscle sparking agony through your ruined body. (You had to get away. You had to—) But before you could even crawl more than an inch, his hand clamped around your ankle. The strength in it was effortless, dragging you back into the shadow you hated more than death itself.
Crouching low, his shadow blocked out what little light you had left. Your legs kicked weakly, uselessly, until his hand caught at your thigh and tore downward. The delicate stockings you had cherished— once white, once untouched, once yours— ripped apart in his fist. The once pristine white, now soaked through with blood, clung wetly before peeling away— the ruin of it a mockery of everything that had been clean, everything that had been yours alone. A desecration of all things innocent.
“Where are you going?” He asked softly, as if you were a child caught in some silly mischief. The faceless smile reappeared to you as he leaned closer, voice curling into your ear. “I intend to fill you with much more than just blood, you see… So don’t go anywhere.”
“No—!”
The word should not have existed. The very utterance of it should have been impossible— for just a moment ago, you know he pushed the knife into your mouth. Had your tongue shredded against steel— and you know the taste of nothing but iron and fire. You should not have been able to speak, and yet here you were— screaming, protesting… as though you had never been torn apart at all.
Your mind reeled, grasping for what was real— What was real—? You swore the memory was clear; of him split open from collarbone to navel, of the blood pouring in the torrents, of the sight of his chest flayed raw— …Was that real? What was real—? Here he crouched, looming over you— whole, unbroken, skin unmarked save for the grin that stretched widely across his lips. Nothing made sense. Nothing held. Pain drifted, sharp and sure, yet the evidence of it dissolved in front of your eyes.
Now he was crawling over you. The ground took your spine, and his limbs closed in, claws biting earth on either side of your head till you lay inside the prison of him. Now you could see that he was bare of any clothes— his body sculpted and naked like the statues meant to represent gods. But there was no beauty in this bareness, in the art of the pure human body; because this man could hardly be considered a man at all.
His mouth came onto yours, but this was no kiss. This was not a kiss at all. Kisses were supposed to be sweet, or passionate, or tender. A kiss was supposed to carry laughter and sorrow and every vulnerability hanging upon the lips, love spilling easy and steady out into your beloved. That was a kiss— you already knew about kisses. Your boys had taught you that much— shown you it, let you experience it. But this? What was being done to you? This was no kiss.
This was a brand, hot and heavy, but not in the way that made the world seem brighter and made life feel good. You wonder, was the world always so dull? Was it only your boys that filled your life with light, or did this monster just sap everything out naturally? Now everything seemed lifeless to you. Were the trees always dead?
…And were these thorns always here?
Now there were thorns wrapping around you. Barbed vines crawling, twisting, finding every soft place to bite. Thorns in your arms, in your legs, in the thin skin over your ribs. His claws too, cutting and wandering, so that you couldn’t tell where the plant ended and the man began. The air stung, the earth swayed. Breathing hurt. Thinking hurt. The thorns kissed and tore. He kissed and tore. His claws pressed and opened. Everything was red and black and moving. You felt his eyes on you as much as you could see them, and you felt them deeper than the wounds on your body. You wanted to close your own, but you couldn’t. You wanted to run, but there was nowhere left to run.
And through all of it, the questions fell away, one by one, until only one remained.
What have you done to deserve this?
A gasp tore free at last from you, sharp on the lungs and wet upon your lips, for it came blood. It bubbled up your throat and spilled from your mouth in a thin red stream, slipping past and staining your chin. You choked on the taste of iron, gagging, coughing, spattering yourself.
And he— he bent to it as though you were a chalice poured for him alone. His mouth found the spill, tongue dragging up the line of your jaw, greedy as a beast lapping from the ground. He licked you clean as though none of it belonged to you at all. Then his lips pressed hard to yours once more. But this time the action managed to be even worse, and you hoped you would die before he did what he wanted to do; His tongue forcing its way past your teeth, sweeping the blood from the inside of your mouth, your cheeks, savouring it with a deep groan.
But no matter how erotic and obscene he sounded, it would never make it a lover’s touch. He drank your pain but it was for himself— not in the selfless way a lover would.
“Ah…” His head lolled backward, and he licked his lips clean of any remaining fluid. “When I realised you were gone, I was going to find you and kill you. I would have kept your corpse around… but I think I’ve found a much better purpose for you. You shall be my mate. Would you like that?”
Anything but that. Anything but this.
Your head jerked side to side before the thought could stick, before the sentence could even take shape in your conscious thoughts.
Not that. Not this. Not him. Not ever.
The thorns knew what you wanted before you did, and they didn’t like it. They tightened at your throat, coiling and biting deeper, drawing a wet heat up into your collar, pressing, constricting, silencing. More gagging, more choking, more sobbing. Spit and blood and the hurt of it. Tears spilling hot. All you knew was that you were shaking your head no, and that you couldn’t muster a single word.
‘Please, just let me die’.
The thorns were angry at you for that. They hated you. They hurt you because they hated you. But he didn’t hate you. The sick glint in his eye said so. He smiled at you— right at you, only at you— and that made your wish all the more apparent. You wanted to die. His finger pressed to your lips, shushing you so sweetly, so softly, consoling you as one would with a child. You wanted to die then, too. Then the finger left your mouth, a claw snagging at your lower lip and leaving blood behind. He hurt you because he wanted you. That made you yearn for death. And then there was the way he held your head and kissed your temple in kindness— but it was no favour.
“You don’t want to be my mate?” He frowned, and tilted his head in that familiar way. Now he was back to your cheek, holding your face gently. “Why?”
…Why? Why? Your mind grew all fuzzy with anger and confusion. Why? Finally, your voice returned. A strangled cry left you, ragged and raw, spilling out in a sound that was no longer despair— rather the unbridled rage that had simmered just beneath the hopelessness. Why? The vines constricted your arm, but you didn’t care anymore— you didn’t care for pain, or even in this moment; death. You jerked your limb upward with all the force you could muster. The thorns ripped through your flesh, tearing open your skin in long, jagged strips. Muscle knotted and pulsed beneath the exposed wounds, sinew stretched and glimmered wet with blood.
Every nerve sang agony, every heartbeat roared, but still you tore free— and your hand struck for all your anger. Why? Your nail plunged into his eye, and it gave way beneath the pressure with a wet squelch— a horrible sound that made your stomach twist in disgust. You gripped, twisted, yanked at him with a feral desperation, and threw him off— and every muscle trembled but you ran.
…But why? Why were you still on the ground? Why was he here? Didn’t you just throw him off? Didn’t you just—? Why? Why? Why? Your arms strained, your legs kicked, but nothing moved. The weight— his weight pressed you flat. His hands— his impossibly heavy, unyielding hands, a constant to your body— pinned you to the earth. Why? Why? Why? Didn’t you hurt him? Didn’t you—? And yet, he was whole, above you, pressing you into the soil, bending everything you knew into something you could not understand. Why? Why? Why?
Now his fist was in your hair, yanking your head back harshly until his lips grazed your ear. Then his voice was back to how you always knew it to be— felt, not heard. And it felt horrible.
“I was going to make our first time sweet, but I think you need some discipline.”
(All you remember was the feeling of cool air against your bare skin. The feeling of being split apart, of blood running down your thighs, of other fluids filling up your insides. Of bites to your nape, your back, your shoulders. Of begging, pleading the word no— over and over. Yet through it all, only one thing stands out to you, now—)
“Look at me in my face, (Y/N), tell me… do you still think I am magnificent?”
(…That was the first time you heard him say your name. You couldn’t recall ever giving it to him— but you couldn’t think of that, then. You couldn’t even think of looking at him. No matter how hard he clawed at your neck, twisting it to force your eyes upon him— you couldn’t. No matter how roughly he made ‘love’ to you— you couldn’t. Instead, you closed yourself shut and let yourself drift off to what you could only hope was a land of no return. But even as you had shunned all the sights of the cruel world you would never escape… all you would see were the lifeless eyes of your boys forevermore; And that was all you could think of—)
(Your boys, nevermore.)
𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏, 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 you was a constant nightmare. Normally, rest was solace; a moment of respite from the every day— but what happened to you was far from what was normal. What happened to you was so traumatic that your mind was unable to do anything but relive it— even in sleep, which so often provided you peace. Ironically, when you opened your eyes and sank yourself back into the living nightmare, it was all much calmer than what you saw behind closed eyelids— and what you’d experienced before that.
You shot up from your position, atop your ragged carpet strewn. (The uneven surface is just as uncomfortable as it has been all these days, but at the very least it is something that is yours. The same could not be said for your body.) The first thing you noticed about yourself was how ordinary you felt. Your body was… fine. Unexplainably so. It was strange. How present the sensation of thorns did feel upon your skin— just as they did before, but there were no marks to show for it. You traced your clavicle lightly with the tips of your fingers to confirm, and indeed all that was met was smooth, untouched skin. You are fine. Your skin was unblemished, free from the physical scars you were so sure he would leave.
A soft exhale escaped you, and your eyes drifted around the room. It looked the same, just as it always did. All towering arches and gilded patterns carved into dark stone, the faint flicker of candles casting shadows onto everything but what you actually wanted to see. You didn’t dwell on the sight— what would be the point in that? You already knew this place by heart.
And then your gaze found him.
Malleus.
For whatever the reason, the name appeared to you, and it felt wrong to think of it— so you knew it must have belonged to him. So this was the dragon. And this was what he truly looked like.
He sat atop a pile of gold, still as a statue, and like a living portrait; something too perfectly framed to be real. Regal, and utterly otherworldly. Dragon horns curled back from his head, wicked in their shape but elegant in design. His green eyes gleamed, brilliant and luminous in the dim, and there was an old cruelty hidden behind them. His face was as pale as it was beautiful— feminine in its elegance, masculine in its structure. He’d be perfectly handsome by any society’s standards.
What was most curious was the garments he adorned. Faintly, at the back of your mind, you recalled him assuring you that he was well aware of royalty’s embellishments. Now, you understood why— for the clothes he wore currently would be fit only upon the body of a king. They were not clothes typical of any fashion you’d associate with modern times, but that didn’t negate the fact it was gorgeous. Midnight velvet clung to him in sweeping folds, parted at the chest to reveal the pale expanse beneath. Silver wrapped around the base of his horns, casting a faint gleam over their black surfaces— framing a single emerald set into the metal like a crown jewel. But nothing commanded your attention so wholly as the shoulder guards— carved from gleaming metal, curved like the wings of the beast he once was.
You wouldn’t be surprised if he were a king, himself.
You, by contrast, wore only a shift. Even your lucky stockings were gone. But like the body it clung to, this shift did not belong to you— for it was much too clean to be so. You were sure your old one, the one that was yours, had been ruined— stained with blood and whatever fluid that had passed between you and the man before you. (You think the same could be said for your own being, as well).
Your hand slipped from your neck and came to rest in your lap. You found yourself unable to look away from him, and in the silence of his gaze, fixed so intently upon you… all you could see were the things he had done. Yet for all the terror, disgust, resentment and humiliation— your expression remained empty. As long as you held his wordless stare, those ugly emotions became muted— just as the cusp of bubbling over, but ultimately unable to as you wish they could.
“You asked… if I still thought you were magnificent.” You began, and if you weren’t feeling the way you felt, you would have been surprised at the flatness in your voice. You looked him over once more, taking in the sight of him in full. You didn’t see him properly while he…
“I didn’t answer you then. But I have my answer now.”
Malleus’ eyes narrowed, a sight you’ve long since been acquainted with— if only in the form of a great dragon. But no longer did you feel anything by it, not even with his new appearance. What should have made you sink back into the carpet instead made you rise. And you approached him— not with the caution you should have exercised, but with a sense of tranquility that could only come from one who’d already accepted their fate.
For a moment, you remembered the song that forced your involvement with this man. And suddenly, the irony of it all became much more apparent. You approached him… as a queen approaches the executioner’s block.
It was a cruel joke just waiting to deliver its even crueler punchline.
“I think you are horrible. The very sight of you makes me sick to my stomach.”
Malleus rose slowly. You had braced yourself for a snarl, perhaps even a threat— but none came. Instead, his ashen lips curved into something resembling a smile, and he drew himself closer to you. In moments, he stood mere inches away.
“You are rather cruel in your words.” He muttered. In this form, and in the still silence, his voice was no longer one that resounded within your head. It was grounded and real and it came from his throat— and it was right in front of you, just as he was. “I cannot imagine what I’ve done to deserve such disdain from you.”
“What you have done to me goes beyond cruelty! You are a vile, perverse creature.”
His hand lifted to your face, a caress too soft for the malice you knew he carried— yet still, you did not falter.
“Hm? I have no recollection of doing such things to you. I merely presented you the most intimate parts of myself, and loved you to my fullest.” He responded quite calmly for an accusation that should have enraged the average person. Instead of that, he sounded almost amused.
“Stop that. Don’t say that. You always do this, you’re always getting in my head…! Telling me half-truths and giving me an illusion of choice— I know what you do to me! I should… I should strike you for what you’ve done. I should be terrified. My insides should be shredded. My body should be cut. I’m sure I should be dead…! And I should lash out at you for that— But when I look at you, when I look into those eyes…”
Cool palms, careful and deliberate, cradled you now— one on either cheek, as though you were something delicate and precious. It was obscene, and surely was audacious on all accounts, but you couldn’t pull away; neither physically nor mentally.
His face was inches from yours now, eyes fixed and unblinking. Everything else seemed to fall away, swallowed whole by the green glow of his gaze. It was all you could see— two glaring, unnatural lights, boring into your own.
“What is it that you feel?” His voice was impossibly soft. “Look into my eyes— do not look away. Tell me, how do you feel?”
“What do I feel…?” You echoed, as soft as him. “I hate you. That… That is what I feel.”
Now his nose brushed against yours, and you could feel his breath brush against your lips. His eyes eclipsed the world. He eclipsed your world. Everything you were, are, and would be. And without realising it, your body leaned in— drawn forward, head angled just slightly, as if pulled by the magnetic gravity of his mouth. His gaze flickered to your lips. Yours to his.
“Is that so?” He smiled, the words nearly a kiss themselves. “Do you truly hate me?”
Your lips trembled against the air that separated them. “Yes.” You whispered— if it could even be called that; for your voice had all but died in your throat. “I hate you…”
“Mmh… Do you know what I think?” Malleus asked, studying your face in between his grip. “I think you’re hiding something from me. You’re not telling me how you truly feel. How I make you feel. What were you going to say earlier, hm? Tell me, (Y/N), what do you feel when you look into my eyes? You know I do so adore when you start with your spiels. I have missed them, you know.” There was a pleading look in his eyes, one that was more mocking than genuine.
“…I feel… like a shell. But I also feel… like a pot that is about to boil over. When… the bubbles are just at the edge of spilling— then you take it off the heat, and they simmer down. Only to put it back on, and repeat the proccess… Everytime I think about what you did, how you killed them, how you raped me, violated me in front of them… I want to lash out at you but I just…”
Now, your head was starting to feel hazy. You couldn’t say you were entirely aware of what you spoke— only that, somehow, you meant every word and that Malleus hummed thoughtfully at them. A simple conversation, he made it seem like.
“I want… I want to hate you. I know I should hate you. I… I do hate you. I shouldn’t be talking to you like this. But I… just—”
“But you just can’t bring yourself to act on your hatred, is that right? Clever girl. Then let me be honest with you, as you’ve been with me. All of this, everything you feel, and everything you cannot feel… is because of me. And it will always be so, and never has been anything else.” His lips, still curved in a small grin, brushed against your eyelid. It was a soft kiss. You’d shut your eyes to block him out, but even that small refusal was trespassed— just as he’d trespassed into your conscience.
“Because of you…”
The voice that came out of you was not a voice that you recognised. Soon, you were leaning into his touch, into his kisses— peppered all throughout your face. (You swore you didn’t want it. You’ll always swear that. By God, you didn’t want it.) Even more did that confirm your suspicions— he was doing something to you. You didn’t know what— only that it was something that subdued you. Something that rendered you immobile, standing in the worship of a man made of everything unholy in the world. The man you hated most.
You had so many questions. So, so many. (Why bother with all this? Why was he kissing you so tenderly? Why was he revering you? Why was his touch so loving? Why did it feel worse than any act of hate he could’ve given to you? Did he always intend to do this to you? Just what about you could have been so possibly alluring— Why you? Why your Ace and Deuce? Your boys?) But every one seemed to die on your tongue before you could get it out. You stood there in silence, letting him practically drape himself onto you.
“Your friends are dead.”
He’d said it after a moment of silence. So plainly, so without warning… that for a moment you thought you’d misheard him.
“I devoured that foolish army in its entirety.” He went on, almost idly in thought as he continued with his affections. “But those boys… I reserved them. I placed them at the fore, impaled them upon stakes myself. A fitting display.”
…Something within you surged— the pot just about to boil over. For a single second, the heat stayed on. And in that second, you shoved him away, staggering back so hard you nearly lost your footing.
“What are you talking about? What are you talking about—? Tell me this is your poor attempt at a joke—!”
But there was no reply. No correction. No cruel smile to betray a lie. If anything, the man only seemed confused at your sudden parting from him. You staggered back another step as if it would distance you from the images forming in your mind—
Ace, mouth open in a scream that never finished, lips split down the center by a sharpened stake. Deuce, crumpled around the spike like a rag doll, impaled clean through the gut. Their skin waxen and bloodless, eyes wide and dry in the sun. Or worse— already picked out by birds, the sockets hollow and oozing, tongues black with rot, flies and maggots and every parasite of the world nesting, wriggling in their throats.
You stared down at your hands.
Would you even recognise them, if you touched their faces now? Would you be able to kiss them tenderly as you always did— or would their jaws fall slack at your contact, flesh sloughing off like overripe fruit, teeth slick with decay clattering to the mud?
A sharp breath hitched in your throat. The pot boiled over— only to be yanked from the fire again. And in that space, something else returned. Your pain.
You remembered the feeling of thorns burrowing into your body— how easily they’d split your skin, tracing lines down your arms, your thighs, your ribs. Slicing through muscle, tearing through cloth, and everything else that belonged to you. But when you looked now, there was no mark. No sign that you’d ever bled. He had done that— the destruction and the mending. With a flick of his wrist, no less, or perhaps not even that.
“Surely, if you healed me completely when I was in such a state… You could bring them back? And let them go far from here, never to bother you—” You paused as you rethought your phrasing. Every word was a dance upon jagged glass. “…Never to bother— us… again.”
Malleus’ face contorted into an expression of what you could only describe to be pure, unfiltered disgust. As if the very proposal of showing your loved ones mercy were an insult to his very being. It was apparent, he wasn’t going to entertain the idea— not in the slightest.
Terror, disgust, resentment and humiliation. Of all those emotions within you— desperation was what surged through. You stumbled forward, right into the arms of the man you hated most, bunching the fabric of his clothing in your trembling fists. And you looked up at him with shaky eyes so pleading, with tears gracing just at the cusp of your lashline— if you could feel anything other than mania, you would feel ashamed of yourself.
“We have spent so much time together. You have listened to everything I have said about them— you know how much I care for them, how much I cherish them… and you take them away from me? Was taking me away from them not enough? Why must they suffer for—”
One moment, the words were still scattering from your lips. The next, they were strangled mid-sentence, caught in your throat as sobs often are.
His fingers wrapped tight around your jaw— his palm flat across your windpipe, not quite crushing, not quite letting you breathe. You were silenced. He was silencing you. And soon after your silence did his grip on your throat loosen— though not in mercy, but in transition. Fingers that had crushed the words from your windpipe slid higher, curling beneath your jaw, then sweeping up the sides of your face. His palm held your cheek while his thumb and forefinger pressed in— firm and deliberate— squishing your cheeks until your lips jutted out in a helpless, involuntary pout.
"I recall telling you that I would kill for anything that belonged to me. I also recall saying that I never wanted to hear of them again. I do not understand why you are so confused… Was their deaths not the only plausible outcome from your foolishness?” His brows furrowed. “You know I am positively enraptured by your way of thinking, but I must caution you… this subject wearies me, (Y/N). For now, I merely wish to dote on my mate. Is that so horrible?”
You couldn’t believe what he was telling you. You wish you were too rattled to understand what he was saying— for that would have been a much more merciful fate. But you were painfully aware of the point he made— and of the blatant, twisted barbarity of it.
Malleus tilted his head in the way he frequently did as a beast. His eyes were half-lidded, almost curious as he stared down at the shape he'd made of your mouth. Then, with a ghost of a smile, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the center of your puckered lips— so soft, so chaste it may have very well been mistaken for tenderness, had it not been him.
The kiss broke, but he didn’t move far. Instead, his fingers uncurled from your face only to slip around the back of your neck— and in the same breath, he pulled you back in. His mouth found yours again, no longer light nor gentle. His right arm remained firm around your back, caging you against his chest as his left hand held your nape fast, keeping you exactly where he wanted.
“Mmfh—!”
Your mind only caught up to your body once the bastard’s mouth was already on yours again— hot and consuming and relentless. You gasped into that kiss, and that alone seemed to urge him on, as though the sound was something he’d been starving to hear. But then your hands, shaking but certain, found his chest. You pushed.
At first, he didn’t budge. Then, slowly, the pressure of your palms seemed to guide his mouth lower, until open-mouthed kisses scattered down your cheek, your jaw— no less fervent, but less precise.
You thought that might buy you a moment, but it didn't. His right arm crushed tighter around you, locking your spine to his chest with such force it emptied the air from your lungs. His left hand at your neck kept you fast in place. Your head tipped backwards— and in that second, your fingers shot up.
You found them; the smooth curve of his horns.
You grabbed hold and tugged it as tightly as you could. He hissed— and it was a rather inhuman sound. Sharp and serpentine-like, and forced through bared teeth. Such a noise paired with the utter rage painted across his features took you back to the moment you’d first met him— a jolt of primal fear passed through you. This was the first time you’d ever seen him like this.
And in that singular moment as you found yourself paralysed in fear— in that singular moment… that was when he struck.
In one swift, brutal motion, his grip vanished from your neck— only to reappear elsewhere. Your body was yanked from the cradle of his chest and thrown down hard. The air punched from your lungs when you landed on your stomach. Your arms had scrambled to brace the fall, but they barely slowed it, and now your palms stung harshly.
“…You beg for your idiot friends, yet you’ve not once mentioned the countless lives they threw away in the process of ‘saving you’.”
He spat the last phrase as if it were poison to his very tongue.
“Are you so selfish a person? Do you not cherish the other men of the army who came to save you? I see… So, you only cherish those boys? Then, listen to me well.”
You were on the ground. You didn’t want to get up from there and you didn’t want to look at him. But you felt his footsteps stop right near your legs, and even without looking… you knew he must be looming over you right now. Your tears had begun to fall.
(And when he spoke, he killed you with words—)
“You would do me wrong, my love, to cast me off so discourteously— for now, I am all that you have. Those boys are dead, and I will never bring them back no matter how much of your pleas I must endure. Do you understand me? They will rot upon those stakes as long as I live to see it through. Therefore…”
(—your execution, your death.)
“You will either cherish me, or cherish nothing at all.”
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐍’𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌 and it’s a lazy sort of day. The sort of day which slows time to a crawl. Still, the street is far from empty. Carriages rattle by, and the scent of bread and ash drifts from a nearby baker’s stall. The tavern behind them groans under its usual weight— creaking doors, clinking tankards, the low roar of patrons arguing over dice games and spilled drinks. Its crooked sign swings above the entrance, the painted name faded, almost illegible, from too many summers.
A brother and sister have gathered just outside, sitting on the step where a young bard once perched with a serene smile and a lyre in her lap, weaving melodies so lovely they made even the loudest drunk hush to listen.
“She’s not coming back.” The brother says, arms folded tightly across his chest. “Told you. She’s gone.”
“You don’t know that!” The sister pouts, sticking her tongue out with a childish stubbornness. “But… Papa did say she might have run away…” She deflates at that, puffing her cheeks in thought. Then, just as quickly, her eyes light up again. “Ooh! Maybe she ran away with a prince!”
The boy groans, tossing his head back with exasperation. “She didn’t run off with a prince. That’s dumb.”
“You’re dumb!”
“Maybe she got married?” A smaller voice pipes up from behind a stack of crates. One of the siblings’ friends peeks his head out shyly, cheeks round and flushed with the heat of the day. “When you get married, you have babies. That’s what happens. She’s probably really busy…”
“Hmm? How many babies?” The sister asks, already invested.
The two children fall into thoughtful silence, squinting up at the sky as if the answer might be written among the fluffy clouds. The brother rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath, but he doesn’t walk away.
“Maybe three!” The friend chirps at last, grinning. “Like… One for each wish, you know?”
“Two boys and one girl.” The sister adds, beaming. “Just like us! And like the bard and her two friends… Ooh, do you think I could be a bard one day? I’ll play the lyre just like her!”
The girl’s eyes sparkle and her friend nods along fondly to her words. He’s clearly engrossed in her ramblings— but the same could not be said for the brother.
“She left us behind for some other kids? That sucks.” He mutters, scowling now as he kicks at a loose stone by his feet. “I bet you she only plays for them, now.”
His words carry a bitter edge, but they don’t fool anyone. Any adult watching would see it for what it was— a boy sulking not out of anger, but because he misses the songs of the pretty bard under the awning. The pretty bard whose name could never be remembered, no matter how beloved she was by all. The pretty bard who was only truly understood by the old woman of the bookshop.
Alas; no more bookshops, no more laughter in the smithy or melodies floating out into the street. Just rumours now, of over the hills and far, far away.
Somewhere no man shall ever reach.
𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘, 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐍 to the lyre. The memory eludes you; the last time you’ve played it. But for whatever neglect that has been shown to it on behalf of yourself over the past few years, your daughter certainly makes up for it. She seems positively obsessed with the old thing, grabbing at it with chubby hands that look too much like yours, pestering you to no end to teach her to play. And unfortunately for you, her father is just as fond of pestering you over it as she is. So you sit for hours at a time, with four pairs of the same, carbon copied green eyes (your sons love to do whatever their father and sister are doing) watching you strum strings with a rusted muscle memory.
A faraway part of you— a fond part that you suppressed a long time gone— reignites with an assured affection when you see your children stumbling around together. Two daring boys with swords (stolen from their father’s hoard, of course) and a shy little girl with her worn lyre. It’s all too familiar a sight, and really, it’s a miracle that your husband let you name them what you did—
Ace, Deuce, and (Y/N).
Oh, your precious babies… They’re all you have, so you try to make it count. You wonder, is it wrong to project your childhood onto your little ones? To give your daughter your own name, and your sons the name of the boys you yearn for? Ah… maybe it is wrong. (Your husband, for one, never seems to try to hide his discontent for your frequent reminiscing of the life you’ll never get back.) But you can’t help it; pestering your boys to treat their sister just a little bit nicer— because they’ll never know when they may interact for the last time. You’ve yet to tell them the last part, though— they’re much too young to have their head filled with old musings like that. Such musings belong in bookshops, spoken to young bards by older, lonely women.
Buried deep within the confines of your subconscious, you have a hope that someday you will regain some sense of normalcy. That some day, your husband will bring back what was lost to you. But the present part of you that has long since wilted with an idle content reminds you that the only life he would allow is the life that you both have created. And that is all that will ever be.
Ace, Deuce, and (Y/N).
As far as the rest of the world is concerned, the three of them are dead. But you know. You know it is not entirely so. The rotting bodies of your boys rejuvenate in the little ones you and your husband call your own. You, as well, live on through the little girl who sits atop her mother’s carpet and her father’s gold. You may not rot with your boys upon stakes, but your spirit has long since rotted with them.
There are always two deaths— the real one, and the one people know about. That is how the saying goes, and you couldn’t agree more. Death has rocked you asleep; brought you to quiet rest. So for your first death, you’ll give yourself to your husband— to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, till the second do you part. You’ll let your boys prance around the castle grounds, a little too close to the bodies from which they received their namesakes. And you’ll let your daughter live where you couldn’t, and carry on the refrain of your death’s ballad—
Greensleeves.
❝ Farewell … my pleasures past,
Welcome, my present pain!
I feel my torments so increase
That life cannot remain. ❞
— O Death, Rock Me Asleep
thank you for reading, please consider reblogging? <3
Having Mark back in your life was… okay. You didn’t want him back in your life—that was what the break up was for—but then him showing up at your apartment and then him not leaving continued after…
So he was back in your life again.
Not as your boyfriend, at least how you saw it.
Mark thought… assumed(?) that you were back together? That’s what you assumed from what you were able to gather. You never really sat down to discuss it. How would you even go about addressing it? The one time that you reminded him you weren’t together he wouldn’t stop crying until you agreed to rock him in your arms like a baby. So, you’re together, in his eyes at least.
I mean, breaking into your apartment, lounging around like he owned the place—he even went back to calling you pet names, and even started using ones that were just sickeningly sweet.
’Baby, sweetheart, honey, sugar, angel’
It was offputting and gross, really.
You could barely handle being called baby and sweetheart when you were together and now this? It just felt like he was overcompensating.
But it was okay.
You just had to accommodate your schedule around him and his impromptu visits.
Which was hard, considering that you still had him blocked on everything so he couldn’t give you a heads up when he was coming over. Not like he would if he could. He just showed up, whenever he wanted.
It’s like he took some sort of pleasure in the fact that you would never truly know when he was coming over. That he could just show up when he wanted to and he could come in.
Because he always found a way.
Regardless, you still adjusted your schedule. You did take on more hours at the pizza shop for a while, so that you would be out of your apartment as much as you could. It was a consistent schedule, you worked every day except on tuesdays, thursdays, and saturdays.
And then classes started again.
That’s the reason you don’t work tuesdays and thursdays—you like having all of your classes on those two days so you don’t have to go to campus more than twice a week. But by doing so, you’re at campus for so long. From eight in the morning till ten, maybe even later depending on if you’re not able to catch the bus.
Maybe you should’ve told Mark about this, warned him that you would be starting classes again—twice a week—and you would be gone for the whole day.
Maybe if you had he wouldn’t have stopped by every place you’ve frequented to ask for you, telling everyone he was your ‘worried boyfriend who hasn’t seen you in days’.
The insistent buzzing from your work group chat is what let you in on the fact, that you apparently have a ‘very worried’ boyfriend.
You had dozens of texts from your coworkers, teasing you and asking you why you hadn’t introduced your ‘hot’ boyfriend to them
“you have a BOYFRIEND and never told us?? what are we to you, just some coworkers?”
“why didn’t you tell us your boyfriend was so hot??”
“lol”
“omg did you guys see his face when he was asking where she was? i swear he was giving me PUPPY eyes. god, i was ready to jump his bones… if im being honest”
Okay, that last test definitely bothered you a bit. If she was under the impression that Mark was your boyfriend, why would she just admit to that like it was nothing? You never even liked her anyways…
You definitely had to keep an eye on her now…
Not that it mattered. Mark wasn’t your boyfriend so it doesn’t matter that someone else is interested in him.
You just won’t tell her specifically that Mark isn’t your boyfriend.
—
You’re halfway up the stairs when you feel it—that sinking in your gut. The one you’ve learned to trust and yet you keep ignoring.
The lights in the hallway flicker a little when you walk past them. They always do, but tonight it feels like a warning. Like the universe is trying to whisper “turn around.”
But you don’t.
Instead, you adjust your bag on your shoulder, dig your keys out of your pocket, and sigh.
“Mark?” you call out, voice flat, before you even unlock the door. “You here?”
No answer.
You exhale slowly, unlocking the door, pushing it open.
It’s dark inside.
Not unusual. But not comforting either.
You don’t even bother flicking on the lights yet. You just drop your bag near the door, toe your shoes off, and wait a beat. Listening.
Still nothing.
You let out an annoyed huff. “Mark,” you say again, just a little louder. “I know you were looking for me today.”
You step further into the apartment, heart picking up for reasons you don’t want to admit.
“I had class. I wasn’t avoiding you.” You feel dumb, explaining yourself to a room that may or may not be empty. “You can’t just freak out every time I go somewhere.”
Silence.
And then—
The softest creak. The sound of weight shifting—barely. Coming from your bedroom.
You suck in a breath.
This is the part where you’re supposed to act surprised. Scared. Like you didn’t already know.
But you’re too tired for theater.
“Come out,” you say, voice sharp now. “Seriously. I’m not doing this.”
Nothing.
You reach for the hallway light, flick it on.
And there he is.
Standing in the hallway, just a few feet from you. Barefoot, eyes red-rimmed, hair a mess.
Like he’s been crying.
Like he hasn’t slept.
Like he’s been here… waiting.
“Where were you?” His voice cracks when he says it. It’s soft, but there’s something dangerous buried underneath.
You blink. You don’t answer.
Because you know it doesn’t matter what you say.
He’s already decided it wasn’t good enough.
—
“You know,” Your coworker Eli murmurs, scrutinizing the man that is standing in front of him, “She told us that you guys broke up, six months ago, actually.”
Eli was on register today, and while he usually dreads it—having to interact with customers face-to-face made him want to walk into oncoming traffic—he was glad he was on it today and not you. He was the first one that saw Mark, your ’boyfriend’ walk in.
He was the only one of your coworkers that actually believed you when you clarified that Mark was not your boyfriend. Aside from that one coworker that you didn’t want to tell…
He believed you, so it was easy to confide in him about everything else Mark did. So he can’t help the way he already hates Mark before ever really meeting him.
Mark blinks. Smile tight. “She’s just confused, stressed.” He answers simply.
He may have had a smile on his face but his eyes were dark—void of any emotion yet also saying so much. “She says things she doesn’t mean when she like this.”
“... That’s not what she said.” Eli counters, his brows now furrowed in annoyance.
“Yeah?” Mark’s voice drops, “Well, I’m sure you don’t understand her the way I do.”
Eli was going to say something else, argue in your defense, but he could only watch in utter shock the way Mark’s face changes the split second that you walk out from the back. The face that looked so… angry yet devoid of emotion? Yeah, it was gone.
He could only watch as Mark called out your name, a smile—a real(?) smile—now on his face.
He hears the way you call Mark’s name in confusion, clearly not having expected him to show up.
“Hi baby,” Mark’s voice is sickeningly sweet as he talks to you, “I knew what time you got off so I wanted to come pick you up, walk you home.”
“But I never told you—” You’re quickly cut off, Mark’s voice drowning out your own.
You and Mark were high school sweethearts–started dating freshman year when you were both losers that could barely hold a conversation, and went on dating way past graduation
Your relationship was sweet, for the most part
Mark is–was a great boyfriend. He was kind and gentle with you, always treating you like a princess. He was all of that and more… too much
The breakup was unexpected, on Mark’s part at least, he was completely shocked when you came to him about ending things
Maybe that’s why he won’t seem to stay away
breaking up with Mark.. it had been a tough decision, really. You mulled over it for months, wondering if it was something that you truly wanted. And as time went on, it proved to be that–yes–you really did want it.
You loved Mark, deeply. Hell, you still love him.
You were high school sweethearts after all, everyone assumed the two of you would eventually get married and start popping out kids, you did too.
Everything was going well. Two years after high school, you were in college, your relationship with Mark was going steady.
But then he started getting too much, in every sense.
It felt like every moment, even when he was far from you, you had eyes on you and something–someone–breathing down your neck, scrutinizing everything you did.
Which led to the eventual breakup.
Even though you were the one that initiated the breakup, it wrecked you.
You were together for six years. It’s not something that you can get over in a couple days. It took a few months but you eventually started feeling better, Mark no longer running through your head 24/7–but for Mark, it wasn’t like that.
The two of you hadn’t seen each other for a good five months now, you assumed that the both of you were doing your own healing and self discovery.
And then one day, you came home from your part time job to see Mark lounging around your apartment–like he owned the place.
You remember the moment vividly. Coming home from a five hour shift at the local pizza joint, opening the door to your apartment and seeing Mark, sat on your couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table–something that always pissed you off.
And he had the audacity to greet you like it was a regular tuesday?!
”Hey, babe. How was work?”
Like, what?
It took you two hours to get Mark out of your apartment, and it only worked after you threatened to call his mom, and that was after you threatened to call the cops but he didn’t even bat an eye at that.
While it did throw you off, him suddenly appearing after no contact for literal months, you assumed it was a one off–maybe he had just been feeling nostalgic and somehow got in your apartment… even though you never gave him keys… yeah.
To your utter dismay, it didn’t end there.
He popped up again the next week, and the week after that, and then it turned into a weekly thing before turning into an every-other-day thing.
Honestly, at this point, you were too exhausted with him to even care. So what your ex-boyfriend kept breaking into your apartment? At least he wasn’t like those exes that tried getting back at you in extreme ways…
He was just… weird… and creepy at times.
–
You opened up the door to your room with a weary sigh. Though your shift at the pizza place was a short one, it was during the most popular hours. Your feet hurt, your back hurt, and you reeked of pizza.
You reach to turn on the small lamp on your desk, turning to grab clothes from your closet before letting out the most ear piercing screech imaginable.
There, crouched atop of your bed, was Mark.
“What the actual fuck are you doing here?!” You managed to ask as you caught your breath, getting up from where you had fallen on the floor. Your heart was hammering in your chest, your pulse racing and your hands shaking from the sudden scare of seeing Mark in your room–with no fucking notice.
You don’t know if you’re glad that the figure on your bed ended up being him.
“I was waiting for you to get out of work.” Mark answered simply, as if he hadn’t just scared you half to death.
You couldn’t help but scoff at his words. What the actual fuck is wrong with this man? And you don’t shy away from confronting him.
“What the actual fuck is wrong with you? You were waiting for me to get out of work, so you decided to wait for me in my room? In the dark?” You ask, the fear and adrenaline slowly turning into anger.
“Uh, yeah? It’s not like I haven’t done it before.” He says, looking at you like you were the crazy one.
You felt like your breath had gotten knocked out at that. He’s done this before? When? How had you not noticed?
“You–” Your words are lost, your heart and thoughts racing. “Honestly I don’t–I don’t think my brain can process this right now.” You muttered, sitting down on the edge of your bed in… defeat.
–
You were having a dreamless sleep, which wasn’t unusual, when small murmurings woke you up. You blink your eyes open, groggy and brain still half asleep as you try and figure out what woke you up.
It was soft murmurs… a voice–that was calling out to you.
“I made you breakfast, get up.”
There, standing at the foot of your bed was Mark.
Though you’re half asleep and not even understanding what is happening, you feel like crying.
From exhaustion? From fear? From nothing and everything all at once?
Yeah.
But you don’t.
You just pull the covers over your head and will yourself back to sleep, hoping that when you wake up again Mark will be gone.
–
You wouldn’t say you were scared of Mark–he was the softest and sweetest guy you know. Always treated you so gently and softly, like you were made of glass.
But you also can’t deny the way your heart races with… with something every time he appears in your house, unannounced, with no sign as to how he got in.
You’ve had the landlord change the locks five times at this point…
Or the way you constantly feel his eyes on you when he isn’t there. You just know that he’s watching you, someway, somehow.
And you’ll always remember that night.
–
The night your shift went on a little longer than intended, the night you decided to hang back and help your coworker with closing up the shop.
You got home late, way past the time you usually do.
It was five past twelve when you walked into your apartment, dead on your feet.
Mark was there, again, but it was different this time.
He hadn’t been lounging on the couch, making something in the kitchen, or even waiting in the dark of your room.
No.
He was crouched right in front of your door. You almost kicked him when you walked in.
The look in his eyes–it was one you had never seen before. It was starved, desperate as he grabbed onto your legs, hands fumbling up your body to grab ahold of your hands, your wrists–anything so he could pull you down and close to him.
His hands framed your face in a tight grip–pulling you as close, close–so close, as he could, demanding over and over again to know where you were–who were you with–what you were doing.
Nothing, no sort of explanation calmed him down.
It wasn’t until he had his arms wrapped fully and securely around you that he finally stopped his mutterings.
It was a side of Mark you had never seen, one you believed didn’t exist until… well, then.
You can’t bring yourself to explain how you felt that night. You didn’t like thinking about it much.
It made you feel—
—
So, Mark was certainly very weird and creepy at times–but it’ll pass, surely.
You’re broken up, technically, even if he does come to your apartment every other day.
Even though he comes to your apartment when you’re not even there.
Even though he manages to get in after you make sure everything is locked.
(𝓐UTREMENT) — over the summer, you meet jungwon and his friends at the ice cream parlor you work at. recurring visits to the ice cream parlor and a performance at the summer festival bring you closer and eventually sparks are bound to fly.
天使ℳade :: summer!yang jungwon x fem!reader ⋆˚✿˖° 𝒆𝒔𝒕. (4.9k)
(ℒ)lust. not proofread, reader has stage fright, kissing, skinship, slight angst, briar sucks at warnings so if u find anything else lmk in the comments
ᥫ᭡⊹ ࣪ ˖ (1) notification! i think i have burnout. anyways. outfit desc one and two. for k-films' 'k.i.s.s. soundtrack' summer event! go check out 'strawberry crush' by supast4r!! happy summer lovelies <3
💋 #reblog for kisses ☆゙ catalogue ˖°— 𝐕𝐎𝐋.𝐗𝐕
The gentle chime of the bells by the door fills the air as the door opens, signalling that a customer has entered.
You look up to see a group of boys around your age walk into the pretty, cheery, vibrant ice cream parlor.
"Welcome to Sundae Waves!" You chirp with a smile, a habit drilled into you from having worked at the parlor for almost a year. "What would you like today?"
One of the boys smiles back, and you swear your stomach does a backflip. "We'll let you know after looking over the options first," he says politely.
You nod and watch as the boys crowd over the display freezers, eyeing the assortment of ice cream, gelato, sorbet, and frozen yogurt.
Even though you swear your attention is divided between all of them equally, you can't deny that your eye is drawn specifically to a certain long-haired brunette in the group. The way he jokes, his mischievous comments, and the way his smile reaches his eyes, making them sparkle, all send you into awe, and you can't take your eyes off him.
Even as the seven boys all line up around the counter together and say their orders, your brain is only half-attentive: listen to the order, prepare it, give it, forget it.
However, time seems to slow down when the brunette that caught your eye tells you his order.
"I'd like a strawberry cone with chocolate sauce, please," he says coolly, flashing his dimples, although you can hear the subtle excitement laced in his words.
You nod, continuing like clockwork: grab the cone, scoop the ice cream, put it in the cone, grab the sauce bottle, drizzle it over the ice cream, wrap a paper towel around the cone, hold it out for the customer to take, and beam a smile. "Enjoy!"
"Thank you," the boy beams back (his happiness more evident this time) while one of his friends pays for all of their treats.
“Welcome to Sundae Waves!”
You look up with a smile to see the same boy you’ve been seeing every day for the past week.
“Hello,” he greets politely as he takes a seat on a bar chair near the counter.
“Strawberry cone with chocolate sauce, again?” You ask.
“Hmm, no. I think maybe two scoops of strawberry gelato, please.”
“Of course.” You nod. “I’m guessing strawberry is your favorite?” You add with a teasing edge.
“It’s just amazing,” he says, chuckling. You catch a hint of light red on the tips of his ears.
“I’m Jungwon,” he offers as you hand him his cup of gelato after gently stabbing a spoon into it. “What’s your name, ice cream girl?” He hands you a few bills that you put into the register after counting.
“It’s Y/n,” you reply, chuckling at the nickname he’s been using throughout the week. “I’m only telling you that so that you’ll stop calling me ‘ice cream girl’.”
“Nice to meet you, ice cream girl—I mean, Y/n,” he quickly corrects after seeing you narrow your eyes playfully at him. “I think I’ll have trouble dropping the nickname for you, though.”
He does drop it, contrary to his words.
Jungwon hums a tune as he sucks on a popsicle.
“You have a great voice,” you tell him.
You’re not wrong; you're not just saying it to flatter him. His voice sounds like a river of pure honey sliding down a cool mountain. He had the kind of vocal tone and control that could have landed him a job as a Grammy-winning singer.
“Thank you,” he murmurs. “I’m practicing for the musical showcase they’re holding at the beach for the summer festival.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll do great with that voice.”
“Are you participating in the showcase?” Jungwon asks.
“No,” you say truthfully.
“Aw. It’s alright. Everyone has some kind of talent; it’s okay if yours isn’t music. I’m sure it’s something else amazing.”
“I don’t think so,” you scoff.
“I do,” he beams, shrugging.
Jungwon ransacks his duffel bag, his friends observing.
“Hey, do any of you guys have 5 bucks?” He asks, looking up at them before letting his eyes fall back down as he hunted for his wallet. “I think I left it at home.”
“Sure,” Jay offers, as if it’s no big deal. “Why, though?” He questions, giving Jungwon the 5 dollar bill.
“I just wanted to get some ice cream.”
“Oh, I’ll come with you,” Sunoo pipes up.
“No! You can’t!”
The six boys look at Jungwon in confusion over his sudden outburst.
“It’s just ice cream, dude,” Heeseung says carefully.
“I-I’ll get you guys some if you want,” Jungwon says quickly, trying to cover up for his mistake. “I just…want to go alone.”
“You’re going to see that girl who works there, aren’t you?” Jake chuckles.
“No,” Jungwon said sharply. But he couldn’t hide the way his entire face flushed red.
“Oh, look at that,” Sunghoon teases. “He is going to see her.”
“Okay, fine. I am,” Jungwon confesses with a huff. “I’m gonna head down, now.”
He turns around and stalks down the beach, sulking melodramatically
“Don’t take too long, hyung!” Riki calls out from behind.
“I’m so excited for the showcase.”
You chuckle. “I know, Jungwon,” you laugh. “You’ve been telling me every day.”
“Sorry,” he apologizes, shyly grinning. “My friends and I have been practicing every day. We’re just really pumped up.”
“Are you and your friends here on vacation over the summer?” You ask, stacking the dessert cups.
“Uh…sorry, come again?”
You look over your shoulder to see Jungwon busy scraping every last bit of his ice cream from his cup.
“You and your friends? Are you guys just staying here over the summer?”
“No,” Jungwon says, straightening up to look at you. “We all moved here permanently. We’ll be going to Decelis High after summer, well, except for Heeseung hyung, he’ll be going to Decelis Uni.”
You nod in approval. “Decelis Uni is prestigious, it’s also only a 10-minute ride from here. I’m happy for him.”
“We all are,” Jungwon states proudly. “You go to Decelis High as well, right?”
“I do.” You nod in response. “I’m a sophomore. What about you?”
“I’m also a sophomore,” Jungwon replies, tossing the empty cup in the garbage can. “I bet we’ll have a bunch of classes together. What are the teachers like?”
“Depends on what classes you have.”
“Hmm, how about the math teacher? Them math teachers always the worst.”
“Oh, they are,” you agree. “But, we’re lucky. Mr. Kim is hilarious when it comes to his outbursts of anger; no one takes them seriously.”
“Alright then.” Jungwon nods. “Doesn’t sound that bad, I guess.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Kim is an amazing math teacher.”
“I’m sure. Besides, I’m even more sure it won't be that bad if I have you with me in my classes.”
“Yeah,” you mumble, taken aback as your cheeks flushed red. You turned away, resigning to restacking the already neatly stacked ice cream cups so that Jungwon wouldn’t be able to see your flustered face.
You picked up the large tub of vanilla ice cream, kicking the door of the storage room open as you sang one of your favorite songs loudly.
“Wow,” a familiar voice echoes through the parlor, a voice filled with awe.
You were entirely sure that the parlor was deserted. If you had known Jungwon was there, you wouldn’t have been doing it.
“Your talent is singing,” he gushes.
“It’s no big deal,” you try to laugh it off.
“No, really,” he insists. “You’re amazing.”
“How’s your performance coming along?” you ask, vainly attempting to divert the conversation onto him.
“It’s great. Seriously, did you take lessons as a child?”
You sigh, giving up. “No, I didn’t.”
“You should sign up for the showcase,” Jungwon urges, settling on his regular bar chair in front of you. “You’d probably win.”
“Then I probably shouldn’t. That would mean you guys wouldn’t win.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Jungwon states elatedly, his eyes practically sparkling. “We’d still have fun performing. That’s the whole point! You should sign up too, it’ll be fun watching each other perform.”
“Listen.” You spin towards Jungwon, letting out a heavy sigh. “I get you’re thrilled about the showcase, and I’m happy for you. But, I’m not joining the showcase, and that’s final.”
“Thank you,” you say solemnly. “What do you want today?” you ask, turning towards the display freezers.
“Uhm, it’s alright,” Jungwon mutters. “I have to get going now. The others will probably be waiting for me.”
“Oh.” Your voice is filled with disappointment. Why? You didn’t understand. “Um, okay. Have a good day then.”
You watched as Jungwon got up and walked out, flashing you a somber smile, and leaving your heart to sink to the pit of your stomach.
You hadn’t seen Jungwon for a few days at the shop.
You look up from your cleaning.
The sun was bright outside, shining like it had never seen a tragedy before, and all it had was ecstasy in its life. The trees down the lane to the beach danced along to the wind’s melody.
You couldn’t say you felt the same, however. Ever since Jungwon walked out on you, it felt like a storm convulsed inside you, and you were drowning in it.
The bells by the door rang, and your head whipped up, eyes widening in the hope that it was Jungwon.
But it wasn’t Jungwon.
The shimmer of hope in your eyes died out.
“Welcome to Sundae Waves,” you recite, forcing a smile for the lady who stepped up to the counter. “What can I get you today?”
“Frozen yogurt,” she says, smiling. “Cookies ‘n’ cream, please. The medium cup.”
You nod, preparing the order purely from muscle memory as your mind drifts off to other thoughts, like it does regularly nowadays.
“Here’s your order,” you say monotonously, setting the bagged cup of ice cream on the counter for the woman to take. “Have a good day.”
You shambled down the beach, forgetting your thoughts as you solely focused on the cool feeling of the sand between your toes and the echoes of the waves crashing onto land.
Staring at the night sky, you didn’t realize there was something in front of you, causing you to trip and plummet towards the ground, landing face-first into the sand.
“I’m so sorry!” Someone cries as they help you sit up.
“It’s alright,” you mumble, attempting to dust off the sand from your face frantically.
Your brain slowly catches up. You process it was Jungwon’s leg that you tripped over, and Jungwon helped you up.
“What are you doing here?” you ask. “It’s late.”
“Back at you,” he retorts. “Or is it still noon from your perspective?”
You let out a half-hearted chuckle, shuffling to sit next to him.
For a while, neither of you speaks, simply letting the sound of the waves crashing wash over you two.
Finally, you decide to slice through the silence. “I’m sorry.”
A feeling of confusion emanates from Jungwon. “For what?” he questions.
“For snapping at you a few days ago.”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize.”
“I do. It wasn’t okay for me to—”
“Stop.”
You pause instantly. Jungwon’s voice isn’t filled with the usual playful warmth it holds. Instead, it’s stern and serious.
“You don’t have to apologize,” Jungwon repeats. “It was my fault. Whether you want to participate in the musical showcase or not is your decision and not mine. You said you weren’t interested in participating, and it was wrong for me to try to coax you into joining when you made it clear you didn’t want to participate.”
He looks at you and then away. “You didn’t yell at me when I tried to force you to join. You told me calmly that you weren’t going to join, and that made me like you as a person a lot more. That was respectable.”
You look at your feet, tracing swirls in the sand with your fingers. Guilt overtakes you, and suddenly you feel awful for still having snapped at him a few days ago.
“How’s your performance coming along?” you ask, trying to change the subject and lighten the mood.
Your heart drops when you see Jungwon’s face fall. You had tried to improve the situation, but it seemed that you had worsened it.
“We hit a dead end,” Jungwon states curtly.
“What…What do you mean?” you urge.
“Heeseung lost his voice,” Jungwon explains. “The doctors said it’ll take around a week or two for him to get his voice back.
“Oh. So you won’t be able to perform?”
“No. Not unless we find a good enough replacement for him. But so far, that isn’t going well. We haven’t been able to find someone even though a whole bunch of people auditioned.”
You hesitate, carefully considering your next words.
“What about me?” you blurt.
“Huh?” Jungwon seems taken aback by the sudden offer.
“I don’t know if I’ll be a good fit for your harmonies,” you drabble. “But, I could try and audition? If it works, I’ll fill in for Heeseung at your performance.”
“But, you said that you weren’t going to perform.”
“I’ll do it,” you cut him off.
“No. I don’t want you to do something you made clear you didn’t want to do.”
You let out a heavy exhale. “I didn’t want to perform in the musical showcase because I have stage fright. But if I were to perform with other people, it’d be easier on me. Because it feels like less of the attention is on me and is more spread out.”
You laugh. “Besides, you guys are handsome. So I’m sure I won’t have a lot of attention on me.”
Jungwon shares a laugh with you, red dusting his cheeks at your compliment. “What about your job?”
“Today was my last day for the summer. I was covering for a fellow employee who was on holiday for a month. I only have to work again when school reopens and I have my part-time shifts once again.”
You look at him. “So I’ll be there tomorrow to audition at the beach.”
Jungwon gets caught off guard as Riki barrels into him.
“Riki!” he yelps, the two of them tumbling into the sand.
“Your girlfriend’s here!” Riki declares, panting.
“My girlfriend?” Jungwon echoes, confusion lining his furrowed eyebrows. “I don’t have one.”
“The girl from the ice cream shop!” Riki clarifies. “I just saw her ask someone where the auditions for Heeseung’s replacement were happening, and then she started heading down towards our way.”
Jungwon quickly scrambles up, Riki following in pursuit as Jungwon quickly tries to dust himself off and make himself presentable.
“Jake!” Jungwon grabs Jake’s arm, spinning the latter to face him. “How do I look? Do I look good?”
Jake eyes him up and down, the corners of his mouth lifting into a teasing smile. “You look great. Why? Is the girl from the ice cream shop here?”
“No,” Jungwon quickly lies, his red cheeks, however, gave it all away.
“She’s here to audition for Heeseung’s replacement!” Riki pipes up, completely blowing Jungwon’s cover.
“Riki!” Jungwon hisses.
“What?” Riki shrugs.
“You weren’t supposed to say that!”
“Oh, c’mon,” Sunghoon intercepts, breaking the two up before either of them could get another word in. “She’s coming to audition. We were all going to see her anyway. There’s no point in lying.”
You stand in the corner, having auditioned for Heeseung’s parts, glancing at the group of huddled boys far away from you. You ran a finger through the water, feeling the cool water calm you down.
You hoped it would be good news, after all, a few of the boys did seem to be in awe of your singing.
After a while, the huddle broke, and Jungwon and one of the other boys came up to you.
“Congrats!” The boy flashes you a confident grin as he shakes your hand. “You’re officially our new Heeseung!”
A confused look crosses your features before happiness highlights them as realization dawns upon you.
“Oh,” you breathe out. “I got in?”
“Yep,” Jungwon confirms. “Congrats, again.”
“I’m Jake,” the other boy introduces himself, continuing to flash you his charming grin. “Jungwon talks a lot about you.”
Jake just snickers, at which Jungwon shoots him a whole-hearted glare that you miss.
“Come on, let’s go meet the others,” Jungwon guides, his hand instinctively taking yours as he leads you down. A tingle runs down your body, setting every nerve on fire as it passes. The fire reaches your cheeks, staining them red.
Jake is, however, oblivious to this exchange between you two and continues excitedly sauntering across the waves of sand towards the other boys.
“Meet ENHYPEN!” Jake announces as you two catch up.
“So,” Sunghoon cuts in with a casual tone laced with subtle seriousness. “I guess we should start practicing now,” he suggests.
You had now gotten acquainted with the boys, who were quite a friendly bunch.
You nod. “That’s a good idea, we should continue perfecting the performance. Jungwon has told me how much this performance means to all of you. It’d be awful if I messed it up for you,” you laugh.
“I’m sure you won’t,” Jay offers kindly. You can tell by his tone that he isn’t just saying to be kind, but is genuinely sincere about it, and it makes you feel more optimistic and less nervous about this whole venture.
“Thanks,” you reply. “But we should still practice so that I can get a better hang of everything.
Laughter fills the air as you and Jungwon walk down the dark street, cracking jokes at each other.
“Thank you,” you tell him. “For offering to walk me home.”
“Don’t say thank you,” Jungwon tells you. “It’s late out, I just wanted to make sure you get home safe. It’s the right thing to do.”
“Aww,” you croon, pouting. “You love me.”
Jungwon can’t hide the blood that rushes to his face. “No, I don’t,” he stammers.
“You love me,” you repeat singsongly, teasingly. “You wanna hug me, you wanna kiss me.”
Jungwon is quick to shut you up, your eyes widening as his lips press against yours. His plush lips moved across yours in devotion, each stroke painting unspoken words of endearment on your mouth, telling you how much he loves you, how much he wishes you were his.
His arm snakes around your waist, holding you close like he never wants to let you go, never say goodbye. It’s like he believes the second you pull away, you’ll vanish into thin air.
The kiss doesn’t last long; something snaps inside Jungwon, and he abruptly pulls away. It feels like you’ve lost something monumental when his arm unwraps from around your waist.
His eyes are filled with remorse when they meet your perplexed gaze.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, averting his gaze and continuing up the path.
Those two words established an invisible metre-thick brick wall between you two. And it’s one you don’t know how to pass.
You adjust your pink and orange halter top, leaning into the mirror to double-check if your makeup is alright. Your denim shorts, slides, and the sunglasses perched on your carefully curled hair complete the look.
“Hey.” You spin around to see Sunoo standing by the edge of the backstage area, smiling infectiously. “It’s almost time to go out there. We’re next!”
“Coming,” you assure him.
“Alright! I’ll tell the others.”
You chuckle, watching him disappear into the small huddle of boys. Taking one last look at yourself in the mirror, you head towards the others.
You peek out onto the stage, watching the band before you perform. The audience is as enthusiastic as ever, and their energy doesn’t seem to diminish despite the hot sun beating down on them.
You snap out of your trance as Jay pats your shoulder.
“The stage is ours, now,” he informs, smiling, before heading up the stage.
You inhale deeply, trying to push away any negative thoughts your brain tries to implant in you.
“You can do it.”
“Huh?” You look over your shoulder, startled.
“You can do it,” Jungwon repeats. “Don’t be scared. We’re in this together. Just think of the crowd as a large cluster of potatoes.”
You let out a chortle. “Potatoes?” you echo.
“Yeah.” He mirrors your smile, knowing how absurd it sounds. “I know it sounds stupid, but it works. If it doesn’t work, just pretend all the attention is on us.”
You nod. “Thanks,” you pause for a second. “Really.”
He just gives you a monotonous nod in response, heading up on stage as Jay finishes tuning his guitar. You follow suit, taking your place behind one of the mics.
Think of them as potatoes.
The boys rush off the stage, cheering.
You follow behind, happiness bubbling inside you.
The performance had gone well. You had felt nervous at first, almost freezing up. But you ended up forgetting yourself to the music as Jay started strumming. Once you started singing, you felt yourself flow along with the notes of the music and the words of the lyrics.
“You were great, Y/n!” Sunoo squeals, hugging you.
“Thank you!” you beam back. “You guys were all amazing as well! And that song was as well! I can't believe you all composed and wrote it, you guys are amazing at this!”
“Aww, you’re too sweet!” Sunoo replies, grinning so widely you thought he was going to burst into rays of sunshine.
The other boys crowd around, and eventually, you forget the invisible tick-tock of time as you converse with them.
Eventually, the judges announced the winner of the summer musical showcase: ENHYPEN!
All of you rushed back onto the stage, hollering in ecstasy as you received the award.
Afterwards, you disperse to pack your bags, deciding to head down to a restaurant for lunch to celebrate.
Packing doesn’t take you long. You don’t like lugging around a lot of stuff, so your bag is quite small. Besides, you had barely taken anything out of it, so it didn’t need repacking.
Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you hesitantly head toward Jungwon, making up your mind to talk about the kiss you shared a week ago.
“Hey, Jungwon.”
Jungwon twirls around to see you standing behind him.
“I wanted to talk about—”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Jungwon cuts you off bluntly, returning to packing his bag. “What happened between us last week at night. It…” Jungwon trails off, like saying the next words were equivalent to prying his heart out of his ribcage with no anesthesia. “...it was nothing.”
Jungwon shoulders past you, leaving you astounded and hurt.
Jake watched Jungwon stare into the never-ending expanse of the ice cream parlor’s walls, repeatedly stabbing his melted ice cream with his spoon absent-mindedly.
“Y’know what? That’s enough,” Jake cuts through the silence, which causes Jungwon to jostle back into reality.
“What’s enough?” Jungwon asks tentatively.
“This.” Jake simply points at Jungwon, briefly at a loss for words to explain Jungwon’s recent demeanor. “You’re about as exciting as watching wet paint dry. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Jungwon lies.
“No,” Jake drawls in his famous Australian accent. “Time to spill what’s wrong.”
“It’s noth—”
“What’s wrong?”
“No, really, it’s no—”
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re not going to let me be until I tell you what’s wrong, are you?”
“No.”
“Fine, I’ll tell you.”
Jake brightens up at Jungwon’s words, straightening up and adjusting himself on the bar chair as Jungwon sighs in exasperation.
“The night after our first practice together, I walked her home because it was late, and then we…kissed.”
“I knew it!” Jake exclaims, almost toppling over in excitement. “I knew something went on between you two.”
“Yeah, but…” Jungwon pauses, a perplexed look closing his eyes as he looks down at the melted strawberry slush of strawberry ice cream in his cup. “...I don’t know what we are. I don’t know if she likes me back, or if there's anything else between us anymore. She asked to talk when our performance finished, and I just walked away from her after telling her there was nothing between us. I don’t even know if she’d want to give me a chance after I did that.”
“Then, the sooner you talk to her, the better. Don’t let it fester and give it a chance to go rotten. Go and fix things before her mind gets a chance to decide she doesn’t want you. Trust me when I tell you that she likes you back. We’ve all seen the way you two look at each other. Everyone knows you two like each other except the two of you. So go before she gets a chance to change her mind.”
Jungwon ponders over the idea for a split second before grabbing his jacket and running out of the store. “Thanks, Jake,” he yells over his shoulder, running off in high spirits.
“Hey! Wait!” Jake looks frantic. “You were gonna pay for the ice cream?”
You yelp in surprise as someone almost barrels into you, the saltwater of the sea splashing all over you as they crash into the water instead.
“What the hell?” You quip.
“Y/n!”
“Jungwon?” You look at Jungwon, dripping wet and out of breath.“What happened?”
“Y/n, I’m sorry. We need to talk, please.”
You reluctantly nod, seeing the desperation in his eyes. “What’s up?”
“The kiss,” he says bluntly. “I’m sorry. I know I said there was nothing between us. But I was scared of you rejecting me. I decided it was better for me to push you away than face you saying ‘no’ to me. The truth is that I really like you, Y/n L/n. I kissed you because I liked you. And I still like you. I’m sorry for pushing you away when you asked to talk. Really sorry. And I want to show you how much I care about you. So, please, will you go out with me?”
You recoil, taken aback by the sudden confession. “Jungwon, I—”
“Please, give me a chance! I’ll fix it. I promise I will. Just…one chance. Please, don’t say no.”
“Jungwon, wait!” you say, grabbing his shoulder to help steady him. “I was hurt when you pushed me away. But I get where you come from. I’m scared of rejection as well. Therefore, I’ll give you a chance to redeem yourself.”
“Thank you,” Jungwon gasps, a smile blooming on his face. “I’ll text you the details?’
“Sure.”
You finish fixing your gray chunky knit cardigan over the white crop top you donned. It's paired with light blue, wide-leg jeans, a cream-colored baguette-style shoulder bag, and white and beige sneakers. A delicate necklace with small star-shaped pendants from your grandma completes the look.
As you pick up your phone to text Jungwon about where he is, your mom knocks on your bedroom door.
“Y/n, your date is here.”
“Thank you, Mom,” you tell her, practically flying down the stairs as you rush to greet Jungwon.
When you reach the door, you’re greeted with the sight of Jungwon in an oversized chunky knit sweater in a navy blue shade, paired with matching beige cargo-style pants with practical pockets, and black Converse on his feet. On his face is the most dazzling smile he has given you to this day, and in his hands are a bouquet of your favorite flowers and a basket of strawberries.
You giggle seeing the strawberries. “What are the strawberries for?”
“It’s to symbolize how our love started, by me buying strawberry desserts at Sundae Waves every day. Also, it symbolizes my love for you because it’s as sweet as these strawberries are.”
You burst into a fit of laughter at that. “Jungwon, that’s so stupid. But you’re lucky it makes me fall harder for you. I love your stupid thoughts, they’re so sweet.”
You let Jungwon pull you towards him as your mom takes the flowers and basket of strawberries inside, leaving you two alone.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, rubbing circles over your knuckles.
You respond. But instead of using words, you use your actions to respond. Leaning up, you press your lips together, letting out a hum to appreciate the way his breath hitches at the feeling of your plush lips against his.
Jungwon’s hand slides to your hip, rubbing deep circles, easing you into his touch as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. You pull away when he tugs at your lower lip with his teeth, afraid of things getting more serious right now while you were out in the open. You were going to save those moments for when you two were alone.
“Your lips taste like strawberries,” Jungwon remarks, still dazed by the kiss, cheeks flushed and eyes cloudy with adoration.
“I know how much you like strawberries,” you hum, pecking his cheek. “So, I thought I’d use that to my advantage to woo you.”
“Sneaky,” he chuckles, licking his lips. “But I think I like it.”
“So, where are we going on our date?”
“It’s a surprise,” Jungwon says, leading you down the street, fingers entwined in your own. The sunset glows behind you, shining down on you two like you were two angels Cupid brought together with his arrows.
I BEEN THINKING BOUT YOU ALL NIGHT 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ cant believe that you're mine
(𝓐UTREMENT) — your boyfriend shows up late at night with a surprise.
天使ℳade :: idol!bf!lee heeseung x fem!reader ⋆˚✿˖° 𝒆𝒔𝒕. (565)
(ℒ)lust. skinship(?), kissing, tell me in comments if anything else
ᥫ᭡⊹ ࣪ ˖ (1) notification! outift description from here. song inspo is 'oh my' by supast4r. unpopular opinion: i need brown haired heeseung back.
💋 #reblog for kisses ☆゙ catalogue ˖°— 𝐕𝐎𝐋. 𝐗𝐕
Your sleepy eyes look up in surprise as you hear the doorbell ring. You shuffle off the couch, shambling towards the door tiredly. You wonder who it could be.
You peek through the peephole. To your surprise, you see your boyfriend standing outside.
Flinging the door open, you practically rush into his arms.
“Hee!” You lean up to shower kisses upon your poor boyfriend, now subject to your overwhelming affection.
It doesn’t last for long, though. Heeseung’s lips connect with yours in a deep kiss, stilling you as you calm down and melt into his arms instead.
“Hi, princess,” he says warmly, stepping aside smoothly and guiding both of you into your apartment with a gentle hand on the small of your back.
You spin out of his arms to shut the door and lock it as Heeseung kicks off his shoes and trudges to the couch, making himself comfortable as he beckons you towards him.
He doesn’t let you sit down next to him, though. No, the only place for his beloved girlfriend to sit right now is on his lap. And he makes sure you do just that as he pulls you down.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, practically breathless from the excitement of seeing your boyfriend after two months.
“Remember when I said we were getting back next week?”
“Yeah.”
“I lied,” he confesses, shrugging. “I just wanted to surprise you, princess.”
You scoff, feigning mock irritation at having been lied to in an attempt to hide the fact that this surprise was one of the best things that has happened to you in a while.
“Traitor,” you drawl. “How dare you lie to me? I thought you loved me.”
“I do, princess,” he says, kissing you to distract you from looking at what he's reaching out to get.
When he pulls away, a collection of shopping bags that you failed to notice all this time amidst your euphoria materializes next to Heeseung on the couch.
“If I didn’t love you, why would I get you all this?” Heeseung teases.
“You didn’t have to.” You turn to frown at him “This must have been so expensive.”
“Gotta spoil my princess with all the pretty dresses in the world, don’t you think?” he just responds. “If I don’t do it, who else is going to?”
“No one,” you admit.
“Atta girl.” Heeseung pats your thigh as if he were giving you a silent order. “Now go and try these on for me, princess.”
Heeseung watches as you catwalk around the house in the last dress he got you while on tour in the U.S.
It’s a black mini dress that combines luxurious textures for a striking look. The bodice is crafted from a rich velvet fabric that drapes beautifully, while the long sleeves are made of sheer mesh with ruffled cuffs.
Matched with the black Valentino pumps you’re currently strutting around in and a matching set of a pearl choker and earrings Heeseung reminds himself to get you, it’s a showstopper.
“Do you like it, princess?” Heeseung asks, admiring you from the couch, legs spread wide casually and a sultry look filled with adoration for his girl adorning his eyes.
You nod, completely over the moon with how gorgeous you look in your new outfits.
And all Heeseung can think about the whole night, as he watches you twirl in the outfits he got you, is one thing: he can’t believe that an angel like you is his.
BREATHED SO DEEP I THOUGHT I’D DROWN . . . ft. Floyd Leech
wc: ~7.5k
cw: NSFW—MINORS + AGELESS/BLANK BLOGS DNI, gn+afab!yuu/reader, reader is not called yuu, reader is called shrimpy sorry, all characters portrayed are 18+, mutual pining, friends -> lovers, implied virgin!floyd, scientifically inaccurate/speculative on behalf of author’s conception of mer-eel anatomy, #fucking4science, more like fucking under the guise of science, pool sex, mentions of mating/breeding, penetration, fingering, cunnilingus, kissing, biting/marking, dirty talk, creampie, silly and unserious because it’s floyd, shrimpy more like simpy (floyd's worse), only like a third of this is actually smut someone shoot me
reid: couldnt have written this ridiculousness without my two beloveds @seasidefallenangel and @fleursdaydreams ... thank you for bouncing around analysis, prompting me to write, and listening to me talk endlessly about him for the past few weeks lol <3
You and Grim struck a deal back when you were first settling into Ramshackle together: he’d take the classes that required applied magic and its necessary preparation, and you’d take the more basic courses. You were mostly spared first year, save for the moments when you were more or less dragging Grim through History of Magic by the scruff of his neck (he was going to hold up his end of your duo-enrollment if it meant you had to maim him a little along the way), but that was it. Not that you’d have had much time to devote to study, anyway, what with the way Crowley had you running around all over campus and beyond, cleaning up after people’s messes and bailing your lovable (deplorable) companion out of trouble. But he promised he’d take it easier on you this year, your second year, seeing as you’d be personally enrolled in a few classes—just another one of his kindnesses that he had no reservation extending to you, of course, because Crowley was just so nice like that.
And you quickly learned in the first weeks of fall semester that being in class with the friends you’d made thus far is actually pretty fun—or, at least, it’s never dull. Kalim’s TA position in Trein’s astrology class comes in handy both for academic and entertainment purposes (he likes to tell the class the stories he used to make up for the constellations before he knew what they meant), and even mathematics is alright when Ace is willing to let you peek over his shoulder for answers.
And you have biology with Floyd, which goes… exactly as you might expect it to.
Really, though, people tend to write Floyd off as a clown—and for good reason, because he certainly acts like one sometimes, but he’s smarter than he appears. On the first day of classes when he’d slid into the seat next to yours, you immediately wondered aloud why he was taking biology his third year instead of his second, which would’ve been usual protocol. Had he flunked it or something?
“Subbed it for Ancient Magic last year since bio sounded boring,” he’d explained, kicking his feet up on the chair in front of him (Crewel, sauntering around all dramatic-like before the bell, passed by and batted them to the ground, muttering bad), “but they wouldn’t let me get away with flakin’ out on it entirely.”
Ancient Magic was usually strictly reserved for third years, so you guessed it was no small academic feat that he’d managed to wiggle in a year early. Even Jade’s test scores didn’t quite rival his brother’s.
And despite this quiet academic prowess (or maybe because of it), he seemed to really be dreading biology. You kind of scrunched up your nose when he complained—you wished your biggest worry was being too bored by college level subject material, even if it was just a gen ed—but in that lovingly compensatory Floyd way, he’d wrapped up his lamenting with some slyly sweet comment about how it couldn’t be that bad as long as he had his Shrimpy with him.
So you’d just rolled your eyes and smiled, returning the sentiment. As long as you had boy-eel-genius Floyd Leech to steal test answers from, you supposed you’d be alright. (He’d dismissed such a title with that radiating laugh of his, and so you were certain.)
And to this present day, he’s been a shining classmate, honestly. Meticulous lab partner, halfway decent notetaker. When he’s in the mood for it, is what everyone usually bellyaches about his redeeming qualities, but you have yet to experience a Floyd so stormy that he’s unwilling to lend you a hand or be sweet to you. And you’ve been waiting for it to happen, you really have—to catch him on a bad day, to be the one to say or do the thing that sours his mood before you can blink.
But it hasn’t, and you haven’t.
Ace and Deuce theorize it’s for reasons that make you go warm in the face. Please, who else is he that nice to but you? Because Floyd is notoriously an individualist to his core. Yes, he has a reputation for scaring underclassmen straight with a single glare. Yes, he heckles professors every chance he gets. Yes, he likes to skip out of class and wander the halls when lecture falls into a lull, but when he drags you with him, he never disappoints his MO of loathing boredom. He keeps you guessing—but, somehow, in a way that never exhausts or overwhelms you. If you’re thankful for nothing else that’s come out of the entire ordeal of being isekai’d into this terribly absurd pocket of existence, you’re at least softened by the opportunity to find beauty in places no one else gets to see, even if those places are renowned idiot Floyd Leech.
Like so many other things in Twisted Wonderland, he looks scarier than he is; the simple reality is that he doesn’t pay any mind to the narratives others fit him into, nor is he lacking in the depth that’s endeared him to you beyond your own expectations. He’s funny, he’s chaotic, he’s a quiet mind and a loud lover, reliable in his own right, predictable in his penchant for unpredictability. And one of your best friends!
Okay, so biology with Floyd goes better than what you might’ve expected it to.
It’s not like you’re going to complain. If he weren’t six-foot-whatever and heartwrenchingly pretty, you’d be so content with just best friends, but again, you’re picking your battles here. And Floyd, thankfully, doesn’t have to be one of them.
“Shrimpy,” he snaps, but when you look over, he’s grinning. Floyd tips your textbook shut for you; people are filing out of the classroom. You must’ve tuned out the bell. “Class is over. D’ja hear me?”
“Sorry,” you mumble, grabbing your bag. “What’s up?”
“I said you should study with me later,” he says, folding his arms beside you and tucking his chin into them. He looks up at you adorably. “Anatomy section’s kinda kickin’ my ass.”
Liar, you think at first—but then, maybe he’s not. Despite zoning out today, you recall the content of the past few classes—particularly, a class from last week, in which Crewel spent a whopping five whole minutes (if you were generous) taking a detour to a flimsy conclusion about how marine anatomy and physiology is so often glossed over on land, just by nature, by expectation, by separation or whatever, and for that reason, there isn’t really room for it in the syllabus. Or whatever.
You don’t remember the smart comment Floyd made at this gap in the curriculum, but you remember he made one. And if landfolk life science is by and large as foreign to merfolk as vice versa, you figure maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe you’ll actually study for once instead of goofing off like you usually do, ending up on the roof of Ramshackle, scrounging in the cafeteria for late-night snacks, or sneaking onto the bus to Foothill Town; his kicked puppy stare tells you so.
“Of course,” you say, gathering your things. “Mine or yours?”
“Mine, duh.” Floyd stands to trail behind you to your astrology class; he has a break after bio, but he always walks with you anyway. “Or send Sealie away, at least, if we do yours. Gotta get serious about this test next week.”
He still jars you a little when he talks so sensibly, but you chuckle anyway. “I can ask the uncles to babysit.” Your two now-sophomore Heartslabyul friends, you mean.
“You’re the best, Shrimpy.” Floyd tosses a jovial arm around your shoulders, and you tuck yours around his waist to keep yourself from tripping on his feet. “Can’t get ya to Trein late or he’ll have both of our asses. What were ya thinkin’ about just now, anyway?”
You, you could blurt, but you don’t. His fingertips toying with the shoulder of your blazer always make it harder for you to think clearly. Shouldn’t you have grown used to this by now? Floyd’s so open with physical affection when it comes to his friends; you hate when your brain makes it into something it obviously isn’t. Only it isn’t obvious that it isn’t, and you’d only ask if you were an iota more certain.
You hum. “Can’t remember.”
“Too bad. You looked real concentrated.” His chin knocks into your head, and you swat him away, laughing. “Love that lil’ brain of yours.”
Please, shut up. You’re not an easily flustered Shrimpy; Night Raven College knows this about you. So, you think, what the hell? “J’you just call my brain little, Leech?”
Cue sunshine laugh again. He doesn’t deny, nor does he confirm, but you know it’s out of love. Friendly love. Fuck, you’ve got it bad.
Before you break away from him to cross the threshold into astrology, Floyd takes you by the shoulders.
“I’m serious, I need help.” He’s got that whiplashingly serious look in his eyes when they snap to yours. “I’ll see you after dinner, yeah?”
You nod, smiling as you internally curse the indelible flush in your skin. You’re so irritatingly sensitive to his charms today. No doubt if he does end up wanting to bail on studying later, you’ll give in. “I’ll text you.”
“Cool.” In an instant, that toothy grin is back. He presses an amiable smooch to the top of your head (complete with loud mwah) and you swear you feel ten degrees cooler as soon as he begins retreating down the hallway. “See ya later!”
You toss him a wave as you duck into Trein’s. Kalim greets you brightly—he also immediately asks you why you look sweaty. You blink, sheepish, and say, “Good afternoon to you, too.”
What you didn’t expect out of biology was to have it so horribly for Floyd Leech.
Night Raven College knows, too, that you generally do a bad job at picking your battles.
It really kind of blows for the mer-students at Night Raven that they don’t teach their fucking anatomy and physiology in bio. Sure, the majority of them probably learn about it under the sea, but then to be thrown into landfolk A&P with no frame of reference to accompany? Talk about a learning curve.
It blows even worse that, right now, Floyd’s zeroed in on two blown-up diagrams right next to each other—the female and male reproductive systems—tongue poking out from behind his sharp teeth, brows knitted as he struggles to remember the names of everything he’s looking at. You’re pretty sure he was joking when he referred to the lymphatic system the limp-fantastic system (and maybe halfway intentional in making it sound like it moonlights as a Bizkit cover band instead of regulating fluids), but it is a lot to take in. Imagine him recounting the bones in the lower extremities some thirty minutes ago before getting to this.
“So, these are the…” Floyd’s circling both illustrations tentatively with his fingertip, and then taps harshly on one. “Okay, I know this is a penis. That’s a wiener. Duh.” He drags his finger, panning over to the other as you snort. “And this is where the babies are made. This is the babymaker. Yep.”
Your chin drops to your chest (even though he’s technically correct) and you sigh through a laugh. “Well, they… yeah.”
“Sorry,” he whines petulantly, more for himself than you, “this is hard! I ain’t never seen any of this stuff before, you know.”
But it’s less his human-anatomical incompetence that’s got you more dismissive than you ought to be for such intense material, and more the fact that since astrology all you’ve been thinking about is Floyd, Floyd, Floyd, just like you always do, like you’re a pathetic middle schooler lovesick for the first time, for their best friend no less. And now, words like penis and babymaker are leaving his mouth, and even though physiology specifically has got to be up there next to abstract algebra as one of the unsexiest areas of rote studying, having the guy you’ve got a massive crush on pick apart the literal stuff that’s inside you is making you feel some inconvenient (but not entirely unwelcome) things. You swear it felt a little romantic just watching and listening to him label the arteries, veins, and capillaries on and around the human heart.
“Weird as all hell I’m part’a this whole new species and I don’t hardly know shit about it.” He grumbles briefly about technicalities and vocabulary as he flops onto his stomach; your mattress creaks out its protest, but he just buries his head in his arms. You hear, muffled, “I’m sick’a this, Shrimpy, let’s do somethin’ else.”
Right, his borrowed human form.
It’s not even a second before you’re trying not to think too hard about the fact that he’s inhabiting a body incredibly biologically compatible with yours. You disguise this train of thought beneath the sound of your textbook smacking closed before you opt to flop next to him, nosediving into your own arms in a similar fashion. Your skin feels like it itches.
Stupid Floyd and his stupid study session and his stupid mouth that never shuts up and that you absolutely want to kiss. You miss the way he peeks up at you quizically with one golden eye, but if you would’ve noticed, you’d be cursing his stupid receptivity that no one ever expects because he acts like a moron. You need to pull it together now. Quit being distracted by your stupid, attractive best friend, quit reminding yourself of his stupid human anatomy, and especially quit wondering if you could get him as worked up over nothing as he’s got you, in mer-form or otherwise, and how it would feel for him—if he’d like it, if he’d like you… If he’d—quit it, quit it, quit it, your stupid human brain chants like a mantra.
Think about anything else. His true form is probably so incompatible with yours, think about that. Think about how he’s actually, like, half a fish. Yeah. There. Crisis averted, battle picked.
“D’you feel alright?” he asks, fingers curling around your arm to feel your forehead. Ruined it, just like that. “You’re warm.”
“I’m fine,” you don’t mean to snap, but you do—even so, his hand doesn’t recoil. Floyd scratches your hair a little, the way one might do to a dog. You could scream at him not to touch you if you didn’t like it so much, but you do—painfully so—which is why you turn your head to face him while his fingers trace lazy half-shapes from your hairline to your temple. You try to sound chipper and not at all strained when you concede, “Let’s do something else. What’d’you wanna do?”
He blinks at you slowly, obviously dissatisfied with your dodge. He still traces, brushing your cheekbone as he studies you. “Something’s on your mind, Shrimpy.”
Stupid receptivity. “Just information overload,” which isn’t entirely a lie. “And I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you. No marine A&P, my ass. You’ve got marine communities well within reach here, so not teaching it’s an outdated excuse for ignorance, if you ask me. But I guess humans are good for that wherever you go.”
Floyd hums, pulling away from you, rolling onto his back, tucking his hands behind his head. “Yeah, that pissed me off, too.”
“‘M pissed for you.” You do give a shit, really, but it certainly doesn’t hurt to have something to channel your intensity into right now.
Quiet settles over you both. You allow yourself a few seconds more of stewing and admiring his side profile, his sharp nose and bitten lips; Floyd looks like he’s pondering. You wish you could pick apart what’s inside him, too. He’s fascinating to you—you love his lil’ brain, too, you know, in more ways than one. It really is an injustice that landfolk don’t know more about merfolk and their glaring similarities and yet, major differences; Floyd’s an emotional, physical, scientific marvel to you. You don’t think you’ve met anyone more interesting. Or easier to love, for that matter.
Fuck.
“I know!” In an instant, he’s on his feet. “Let’s hit the pool. You’re all warm, it’ll cool you off—” He’s tugging you to your feet, grabbing his bag, bright, pointy smile lighting up all at once, “—it’ll be so fun. You can relax, and I haven’t swam in days…”
“That actually sounds perfect.” Yes, back to fish-form with the heathen. You’re quick to toss together a bag of swim things, eager to put mind-numbing, rage-inducing study material and complicated emotions alike to rest for the night. His unreserved laugh when you agree so readily still makes your heart flutter, but you plan to leave it at the door.
Surely, you can leave it at the door.
On the way to the mirror chamber, you’re so eager to leave it behind that you’re asking questions—your mood flipping with his, incidentally—because you’re disgustingly susceptible to him and, as noted before, you do give a shit. Ardent and full of curiosity, just like you always are with him, you shed the limitations of textbook-sanctioned inquiry and launch yourself full-force at reclamation of your own wall-hitting; you can and will get a fucking grip and be normal.
“Is it super different?” you ask.
“What?” Floyd’s rummaging in his bag as you both walk, already aware he forgot a notebook in your room. “Merfolk stuff?”
“Yeah.” You adjust your own bag on your shoulder. “Like, your A&P is probably as different to me as mine is to you. Where I’m from, scientists haven’t observed a whole load of shit about the ocean—it’s more of a mystery to us than outer space. There’s tons we don’t know about morays, you know.”
“Oh, yeah, I mean skeletal system-wise, there are bony fish, and then ones with more cartilage. And either way, the whole structure and makeup is so different since we got no legs, and…”
You listen to him talk all the way through the mirror, into the halls of Octavinelle, past the lounge and onto the sprawling pool deck—it’s empty, much to your relief, sparkling and humid; when you reach down to skim your fingers across the water, it’s refreshingly cool. Floyd’s submerged before you can blink, hardly pausing his spiel; you lift your shirt off and toss it aside, and suddenly he’s aquamarine and soft green, scaly and shiny and webbed and you would tell him to look away while you slip your bottoms on but it’s you who’s staring, really.
“And then merfolk fall sorta in the middle of the venn diagram between humans and fish when it comes to reproduction and shit. Don’t really know how that happened, and I don’t even know how—I don’t think…”
For once in his life, he trails off. You settle at the edge of the pool, dipped in up to your knees, and he swims up to you. Wanna play mermaids? is what you’d usually joke, but as your kicking feet slow to a stop and Floyd’s arms curl up across your lap, all you can do is look down at him, ruminative and a little mystified (no matter how many times you see him in his true form, you’re always taken by its elegance).
“Whatever.” It’s the day of Floyd burying his face in his elbows and looking up at you in a way that makes you want to take a page out of his book and squeeze him until he pops; it certainly doesn’t help that, absentmindedly, your fingers move to card through his wet hair and he hums, low and sweet as you do, so that you feel it in your stomach. “Not like lookin’ at anything on a piece of paper does squat. I’m more of a hands-on learner.”
He blinks up at you through his wet lashes—it should be a criminal offense—and you grin down at him as he splays his palms across your thighs, tracing, tracing little shapes again (fuck, and now you’re looking at his biceps. Stop that!). Your face burns, but you mock confusion to play it off. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re flirting with me, Floyd Leech.”
Less a bold move and more placing the ball in his court because with Floyd, what you see is mostly what you get. Yes, he’s a horrible trickster, but you know him. And if you know him as well as you think you do, he’ll laugh that radiant laugh (which he does) and, next, you’re confident, brush you off and yank you into the water yelling about how his Shrimpy needs to learn to swim like he does so you can keep up with him—yes, he’ll wave the silly little theatrics behind you both and forget it even happened before tomorrow peeks over the horizon.
But he muses, “I am,” not at all coy, because coyness and Floyd don’t go hand in hand.
And you blink at him, all at once a little giddy and disbelieving. “No, you’re not.”
“D’ya not want me to be?” Schroedinger’s flirt. I mean it if you do, but if you don’t, then of course I’m totally joking.
His mismatched gaze is locked steadily on you. You wish he would ever let you hear the end of it if you covered your face with your hands, but he won’t, so you don’t; you just giggle, unable to not, unable to confirm or deny, unable to decide if it’d be better or not for him to say he’s messing with you. It’s always straightforward, except when it isn’t.
“Shrimpy, I’m serious,” he continues when you finally look at him again. He does feign urgency—or maybe he’s not feigning, like his words would imply, as he positively bores into you. “Do you not want me to flirt with you?”
“I—” You suppress your trepidation, doing your best to match his air. “I never said I don’t want you to.”
“Get in the damn pool, then,” he snaps a little bit, impatient—impatient for you, you realize; you’re smirking as he slinks down to tug at your ankles with no real consequence. “C’mon.”
“Make me,” you tease, and something dangerous ingnites in his eyes—something that makes you want to toy with your fingers and look away, but you don’t, because it’s always worth stifling yourself to feed Floyd a little bit of his own medicine. You’ve never watched it have this particular effect on him, though; when you grin evilly at him, he plants his palms on either side of you and rises out of the water to your eye level.
“Don’t piss me off,” he half-barks in your face—sometimes, if you poke him hard enough, you do feel like you’re catching a glimpse of the scary Floyd everyone’s warned you about, but you don’t slink away from it. You kick at him, go to pinch his nose—he makes an attempt to bite your fingers and you laugh and laugh, and he does, too, eventually, the two of you in a duel where you have the upper hand only because he chooses to give it to you (and his hands are literally occupied with holding himself above water).
You wrastle with him, landing a jab to his (infuriatingly well-defined) stomach, snapping your fingers in his face a bit, blowing air in his eyes—before you gather his cheeks between your fingers, squishing his face in a way that makes him scrunch his nose, lips puckered unwillingly, and you—you fucking kiss him. You land a quick peck to his mouth without even thinking, and you release him immediately; he pulls back, but only a few inches, just enough to look at you.
For a moment you think he’ll really get mad. You try not to shrink.
It’s quiet and you can’t tell if his expression is starstruck or disgusted.
A few seconds is a century.
“Kiss me again,” he barks right at you. Like he thinks you won’t.
Your face feels stuck, contorted into a sheepish grin; Floyd’s open mouth, taunting you, luring you in, lets you watch his tongue flick between his rows of sharp teeth and the thought of what they’d feel like in your neck jolts you toward him, your hands grabbing for his strong shoulders; he’s not sure if you’re about to shove him off or devour him whole, but he hangs in that lightning-quick moment of anxiety, thrilled to have your hands on him, all at once assured and with the only hint of apprehension you think you’ve ever seen on his face and you decide you have to, you must—what else could you possibly do but throttle yourself forward, into him, not at all soft or scared as the water envelops you from head to toe and he does just the same?
Beneath the surface is a pillowy, noise-cancelling limbo—you feel like you’ve plunged into a dream, eyes screwed shut and senses dulled where the only vivid things are his hands clutching your waist and his lips on yours. And you kiss him and kiss him, drifting up, suspended, cupping his jaw like you’d start breathing him if you could.
Before you hit oxygen, pockets of air bubble out from between both of your mouths; you’re laughing before you’re inhaling, finding yourself panting to catch your breath—unlike Floyd, who giggles so fully and unapologetic it echoes around the pool deck. The next thing you feel is a cool, slick tail twining around you—your hips, your waist, so you don’t have to flail to stay afloat.
“Here, hold onto me.” His tail slips away with his tense disposition, replaced by laughter that doesn’t cease as you link your ankles behind him at the spot where his human back gives way to his mer-half, and your wrists at the base of his neck. “There ya go.”
You’re not sure if you’re tingling from the impact to the water or from the way his pale teal chest rises and falls so rapidly against yours. He sways back and forth so subtly you’d almost think it was only the rippling of the water; you wane into silence in the crook of his shoulder, like you don’t want to be the first to speak.
But he does (you’d be nervous if he were to be quiet); large, clawed hands slide from your waist to hold you up from beneath your ass.
“I could kiss you again,” he offers into your ear like it’s the most obvious thing—a was that okay? of Floyd fashion, an opening to tell him he’s silly, this was silly, to let you go. He listens to you for alarm bells. You don’t set any off. “Always wanted to do that. Could do anything you want, baby.”
Baby?
What world were you transported to when you resurfaced? It’s the first time he’s called you anything other than Shrimpy, or your name. Something flares in your chest, unfurls down your arms and into your fingertips which trail down to the planes of his chest.
Anything?
Your manner of yes, of promptly shutting that window, is a series of fluttering kisses beneath his ear, over subtle, pulsing gills you’ve never been close enough to notice before, let alone touch. You really can’t curse the A&P curriculum now—it’d be blasphemy. Look where it got you: nipping at your best friend’s throat, quick to wonder what bruises would look like blooming on his aqua skin. You tear into him gently, hearing him hum over hitched breath when you do.
“I mean, I think I could use an interactive lesson if I’m gonna have a shot on this test.” A minute ago, you were the one gasping for breath; now, Floyd sighs to maintain composure, accidentally puncturing your bottoms with his nails while you lick across his jaw. You can’t see his erection, but you can feel it, beginning to press up beneath you as his arousal grows. Merfolk fall sorta in the middle of the venn diagram between humans and fish, he had said; maybe you’re more compatible that you originally assumed, and the fact that you have him hard just from a little bit of kissing and biting is so pathetically cute. Floyd might look real tough, but he’s practically falling apart just the way you fantasized he would earlier today, just as quick if not quicker than you, his cute lil’ Shrimpy—his baby—who’s clearly had more control over him than he’s let onto until now.
You pull back to look into his olivey eyes and he’s half-lidded with something just to the left of restless yearning—like how a predator must look when it’s got its prey backed into a corner.
But you’re hardly prey.
His head cocks like a puppy waiting for a treat. “Ain’t’cha gonna help me out?”
Later, you’ll swear this was him begging, and he’ll deny it; he tries to distract you from it with that sly confidence, his eternal air of never taking anything too seriously, but you have him right where you want him.
Even if he does get one final jab in, sing-songy, grasping onto the last of his smugness. “You could get a little marine anatomy lesson in return, y’know.”
You want to make him squirm back—so you concede, “Alright,” like you’re doing him a favor. In reality, it’s so sweetly dizzying and surprising to drink in his desperation after he’s made you feel crazy for as long as he has. You untangle yourself from him, backing up until you hit the wall so you can hoist yourself upon it once more.
Floyd treads back up to you without having to be told. When you slip your bottoms off, you don’t ask him not to look.
“Ever touched a human like this before?” you ask, more to put him through answering than actually looking to know; you have a pretty good idea, anyway, from the way he just pouts up at you—an answer in itself. You prop one heel up on the edge of the pool and push his drenched hair away from his forehead as he settles a shoulder beneath your still submerged calf, downturned eyes shining.
You look at him so fondly, drag your gentle touch down his face before tilting his chin toward the apex of your thighs; if eels could blush, you’re certain you’d have gotten him with the way you wiggle forward to the edge and spread yourself open with two fingers.
You’d be kidding yourself if you said his hungry gaze and warm breath on your cunt doesn’t affect you just as terribly.
“So,” you clear your throat—this is an anatomy lesson, after all. You’re nothing if not committed to the bit. “A lot of my reproductive anatomy is inside—totally unreachable. But this—”
You demonstratively swipe a finger over your clit.
“—feels real good if you touch it.”
Floyd, self-proclaimed hands-on learner, doesn’t waste a second replacing your finger with his thumb.
You yelp, jumping a bit, for more than one reason. “Watch the claws, Leech.”
He bites his lip through a focused smile—he really is so hot when he actually gives his full, undivided attention to something, and the fact that you’re the something is even better. “Sorry.” He’s hardly sorry.
But he struggles to avoid scratching you up.
“Tell me what to do, baby,” he insists at your ow, ow, ow, lower and more invested than usual—it makes you clench around nothing, makes you feel so empty. You wish his fingers inside you wouldn’t maim you. You suppose that’s an excursion for his other form. His hands instead busy themselves grabbing at your thighs, opening you up, wanting more. “Can I just…?”
You don’t know if oral sex exists under the sea and you don’t really care—either way, Floyd’s unhinged enough to just go for it without you having to tell him, and you simply guide his head the rest of the way to you as his tongue licks a long, experimental stripe up your slit.
“Yeah,” you sigh, “yeah, that feels—”
He keeps licking. Enthusiastically, like one might an ice cream cone. You cover your smiling mouth for a split second before you continue, pushing him away to show him.
“Here, here, here.” Again, you touch yourself—so pulsing and hot compared to how chilly he is. “This little—above the hole, is the—”
“The Exorcist,” he insists, looking deadpan up at you, so Floyd in timing, that you can’t tell if he’s joking or not.
You try so hard not to snort. Sevens, what kind of media has he been consuming up here? At least he’s maybe, sort of trying? (His bio grade does depend on it, after all.)
“Clitoris,” you correct him, chuckling at the sheer absurdity of this whole situation. It’ll catch up to you in embarrassment if you don’t get his mouth on you in the next five seconds, you’re pretty sure. “See it? Feels really good to touch, lick, suck o—oh!”
Before you can breathe, he’s latched onto you—licking again and pausing where you’ve instructed him, suckling around you and twirling his tongue in a way has you pushing him into you instead of away, now, and you’re going to keep your voice, of course; you’d go as far as to call him somewhat of a natural, but you’re still going to instruct him like a good tutor.
“Y-yeah, that’s it,” you encourage him; his tongue feels long and a little frigid, so unlike anything you’ve felt before, and it’s certainly not working against him. “Just—don’t move down—yeah, like that. G-good boy, Floyd.”
He must like that, because he hums into you; the vibration sends your hips rolling forward into his mouth—you prop your other heel up to spread yourself even wider—and he peers up at you wetly like he wants you to say it again.
When you don’t, his eyes flutter shut, his brow furrows, and his tongue works harder—making you arch, making you croon.
And it falls from your mouth like you can’t help it, “Good boy, right there—mhm!”
Said tongue slips down, prodding your hole; you’re gasping all over again, biting into the back of your hand when Floyd moans into your pussy once more like he’s unaware of the shockwave it sends through you (he probably is), his hands landing at the small of your back to tug you into grinding on his face. He seems to enjoy alternating between tonguefucking you and making out with your clit—if how tight he’s holding you is anything to go off of, anyway, and with the way he moves, the way his elbows come up to rest under you, tense and holding himself up, it seems like he’s humping the pool wall.
The fact that he’s getting off on going down on you makes you want to lay back and curl your thighs around his head. But as much as you’d love to cum in his mouth, as good as his tongue feels drinking you down, now that you know he has a cock, you pretty much need him to fuck you with it.
“Floyd,” you whine, wriggling away from him. He’s hesitant to let you go; his eyes fly open like you’re taking away his favorite toy, which you may as well be. “Floyd—ah, I want you t’fuck me, please?”
That has him happily departing with a lewd smack, nails letting up on your flesh; he looks up at you with a dopey smile, like you’ve just injected him with something that’s sent him skyward, but it doesn’t last long—he’s determined as he pulls you back into the water with real firmness, catching you beneath your arms as you squint for the splash.
When you open your eyes, you’re met with a satisfied and glistening mouth, tongue poking out, lapping you up. “You taste good, Shrimpy.”
You roll your eyes. “Don’t call me Shrimpy while we’re fucking.”
Floyd snickers. “Ya like baby better? Maybe I’ll use that all the time from now on.”
“You should,” you agree before he’s kissing you; you’re coiled around him again in an instant, tasting yourself in his spit, sliding a restless hand under the water between both your bodies to thumb his tip.
Floyd bites your lip as you circle him; you half-wish you could see him from an outside point of view, how his eyes are screwed shut, how his jaw flexes and releases when he chokes on his breath, but you know you can’t be anywhere but here—you fully don’t want to be anywhere but here—pleased at the way he bucks into your hand all needy.
When you maneuver him down to drag your cunt along him, you earn your first nasally, full-bodied moan from Floyd Leech—all at once obscene and uncorrupted; you wonder if he’s ever made himself sound like this, if he would even know how to; you nearly growl into his open mouth as his ridges and veins catch on your clit, your entrance. You wonder, too, just how soaked you are right now, riding along his length, which does not by any means feel small, by the way. When you close yourself around him to let him fuck your thighs, you feel his tip reaching past your ass.
And now that he’s started, he’s not going to shut up. “Oh, shit, that feels—Shrim—baby, oh, fuck.”
You wish you’d have dedicated some time to learning his cock—when you catch a glimpse beneath the surface, it seems to be the same darker shade of blue-green that contours the edges of the rest of his body; it’s undoubtedly naturally slick, also not unlike the rest of him, probably as pretty as it feels.
You bite into the freckles across his collarbone as you thrash against each other, all sweat and water and stickiness and teeth. “Want you,” you mumble in his webbed ear. “Spare me the lesson.”
“Alright,” he hisses, letting up like it’s painful. “Your turn.”
It’s in Floyd’s nature to turn on a dime. He was so docile while you let him explore you. His razor-sharp grin threatens you with ruin now that you’re letting him take what he wants, forgetting all about the subject at hand—the topic that got you here in the first place. Nonetheless, he intends to be strict, you can tell—even if you’re the one palming his cock, wetting your lips for more of his rough kisses, hooking your knees over his elbows and guiding him into your cunt.
“This how ya do it?” But he’s got the basics down by now—and with you lining him up, he’s got little more to do than thrust himself forward, but he decides the best way to go about this is to shake his head dismissively, almost annoyed, and bend your knees up to your shoulders, damn near to the pool wall, and all at once he’s in you, filling you up, hitting you deep.
“Floyd!” you squeal, stretched in more ways than one. “Chill!”
“Fuck—can’t,” he groans brokenly; he’s fucking into you already, steady and rigid. His next sentence tumbles out more like one long word, like it might be the last thing he ever says: “Oh, fuck, it feels so good, I gotta move.”
His long tail comes to wind tight and writhing around your middle as he pins you, leveraging your whole body as he keeps an experimental pace, but already, speech escapes him; still, Floyd doesn’t shut up, groaning through uneven whimpers, unabashed and frantic to let you know how you good you feel even if you’ve stolen his voice.
Water swashes around you and you can do nothing but cry out, tangling both hands in Floyd’s drenched hair, your forehead pressed to his.
“‘S’okay, baby, I want it all,” you whine.
And in a second, his hips are brutal against yours.
You can’t see anything below—the way he fucks you deliriously stirs up the water—but you reach down to touch yourself again, jaw slack to your chest as he bends and pounds you; Floyd’s so damn loud you’d worry about being heard if it wasn’t for the way you can feel his dick, ruthless in your guts, turning your brain to pitiable mush. He looks so pretty, eyes all teary and borderline crazed, teeth clenching closed just to be pried open by pitchy moans that send waves of heat straight to the orgasm building in your core.
When he gets his voice back, you’re losing yourself—reminding yourself to keep your eyes open, keep your gaze on him, because you’d rather die than miss the way Floyd looks when he opens his pretty mouth again.
“If you—fuck, ‘m gonna cum in you—‘f you could take it, I’d keep—keep fuckin’ you…”
“Want it,” you breathe, words all strung out and slurred, whole body jostling with the way he batters against your insides, “ngh’I want y’r cum.”
Floyd cusses a few more times—mouth just as filthy as the rest of him for you as you goad him—because you want him, you want him to cum in you, you’re so fucking tight and perfect around him that he knows he’s growing more and more addicting with each rapid-fire slam of his tip against your cervix but he couldn’t stop if he wanted to, and from the way your hips jerk to the flexing and curling of your toes and the whines and moans you sing, muddled and noisy, into the air for him, he doesn’t think there’s a world that exists where he’d want to.
“This is where you’d release your clutch, if ya had one—oh,” he explains, breath quick and hot against your neck as you twitch—you’re so close, he can feel it, the way you clamp around him erratically as each stroke, each thrust distresses his words into little more than gasping and rambling. “A-and I’d—hah, fuck, I’d knock you up so good—”
In your hazy, foggy, humid upswing of pleasure your melting mind remembers his unfinished thought from earlier: I don’t even know how—I don’t think… And oh, fuck, just the thought of it sends you hurdling over the edge, cumming hard, but
the words, too, are leaving you before you can stop them, before you can think too hard about what it is your clipped and breathy voice is babbling—
“G’na breed me? Wanna fill me up with your kids, Floyd? Huh?”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, yeah—” he chants back, ruined, “G’na fuckin’ take it all for me, aren’t’cha, baby?”
“Fuck, I need it,” you’re unsure if you whisper or scream—your nails are harsh in his shoulders and his teeth are buried in your neck, muffling rough, rhythmic cries as he cums, throbbing inside you; he cums so fucking much, you can feel it, filling you to the brim, coating every inch of you he can reach, trembling and spasming and fuck, he can’t stop—it feels like forever and too soon when he slows to a stop, buried in you, letting up on your neck and dropping your legs to grab either side of your head and kiss you long and hard, both of you half-humming, half-whining into each other.
Between labored breaths and lazy kisses you spend a good few minutes rocking into one another—biting at lips, hands wandering, tongues poking, until eventually you’re both just play-fighting, snickering quietly, touching in ways that are spent of sex and yet still wholly intimate.
When he calms a bit, scarily serious in that way only Floyd can get, he asks you, “You gonna be mine ‘er what?”
“I’m already yours, Leech.” You flick water at him, resigned, and wriggle a bit. One golden eye winks to dodge, and he’s grinning, so familiar; as he untangles himself from you, helping you back up onto the tile, he mocks relief.
”Good. Would be kinda awkward if you weren’t.”
Water settling is the only sound across the pool deck as you towel off, shuffle your shorts back on. In the silence, Floyd twirls around the water and starts to sing a stupid little song—totally off-key and fully content, I love my Shrimpy, I love my Shrimpy…
Until the lights start to flicker, and you hear the extremely vexed voice of a certain Mostro Lounge owner from the far hallway—
“If you’re done, get the fuck out! My students are trying to sleep!”
And in another blink, Floyd is human and wild-eyed, on the deck pulling his shorts on and running—he catches your hand in his, mumbling something about how he’s gonna ace this test and Azul can suck it—and he’s laughing, running, and you wouldn’t rather be doing anything but the same.
I suck his dick, it's big, it's very-very big! ᝰ.ᐟ✮⋆˙
◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ — who'd make you cockwarm him while he works, the door unlocked, his dick so close to your g-spot but he wouldn't let you move! hands keeping your waist in place as his dick keeps you all stuffed n warm.
“I'll be done soon, sweetheart, you can wait a little more right? So, be a good girl n stop movin’ so much.”
◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ — who'd praise you for sucking him off so good, tears forming at the corner of your eyes as you try not to gag on his huge dick. Guiding your tongue on his dick, gently holding your hair, shooting thick ropes of cum in your mouth.
“God, your mouth feels so good, my sweets. Keep goin’ alright? looking so pretty f’ me.”
◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ — who'd taunt n insult you while you gag on his dick, roughly grabbing your hair and making you take him fully. Your mascara n lipstick all ruined, eyes rollin’ back when he cums in your mouth. :(
“You look like some cheap whore like this, y'know. I bet you're getting wet from me degrading you, hm? As expected.”
◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ — who'd fuck you in a mating press, his big cock stretching your insides, hitting your womb. Pressin’ his hand on your tummy to feel his dick in you, making you whine. Your tummy already full from how much he cums, you definitely can't go for another round.. + he's gonna fuck you till you need a wheelchair.
“It won't fit? Don't worry, darlin’. Gonna make your cunt remember my dick, don't worry! Even if it does forgets, I'll just fuck ya again.”
◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ — who'd fuck you till your dumb n can only think of him and his dick if you do decide to act all bratty or he'd just tie you up n put a vibrator on your clit and watch as you squirm around trying to get a release, but he turns off the vibrator just when you're gonna cum. :(
"Should've thought before being like that, what did you expect, princess? acting all flirty with that random guy, trying to make me jealous."
◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ — who’re either super experienced from sleeping around or just fucking virgin losers, walkin’ around with that big ass dick in his pants.
sum; after he accidentally reveals that he's superman, and you successfully keep his secret while being his roommate, he finds himself subconsciously telling you more and being softer than usual, and he thinks he's blessed by the damn gods when he gets a chance with you.
content; roommate au, slow burn, friends to lovers, f!reader finds out clark is superman, eventual smut, subconscious yearning through actions, clark is a sweetheart who absolutely loves to take care of you, clark loves kissing omg he's so cute, fingering, unprotected sex, a silly pinky promise during sex
wc; 10.4k
Being Clark's roommate was great. You happened to work at a diner near the Daily Planet, so when you found out that someone nearby with a good job was in need of a roommate, you signed up quickly, eager to leave your previous living situation.
First meeting, he was a little clunky and awkward, but he never made things feel weird. You learned quickly that he had a habit of making himself smaller for doorways or beds or couches. Part of you definitely found that a little attractive, but you'd never speak on that.
Easing into the first three months of living together, you'd wake up an hour after he left, and he'd always leave coffee on the hotplate for you along with a small measurement of your favorite creamer and a little dish of sugar for you to scoop from. He'd always leave extra breakfast on the stove top—an extra egg or two, even if you ate them in a different style, an extra three pieces of sausage or bacon, and toast or a waffle. That's how you learned he liked to take care of people he cared for. And that's when you realized he actually cared instead of just being roommates with no bond.
In return, you'd often get home earlier than him, so you'd make dinner and leave out a sweet treat for him. He always left a small thank you note in the mornings that you two wouldn't see each other before work.
Being his roommate was great! Until you started to worry about his late nights.
Where was he going all the time? He'd disappear for an entire day. No calls, no texts, no notes. It wasn't required, of course, but he was usually open about staying late for work at the Daily Planet. As his roommate and friend, it worried you. Especially with all the danger in Metropolis as of recent.
All kinds of extraterrestrial beings seemed to pop up every other day. The Justice Gang and Superman would always fix things, so you had faith in them for your safety, but part of you couldn't help but fear for Clark. So many nights he wouldn't come home. You stayed up a few nights—just waiting for him. You even called him a few times. No answer, just his voice-mail.
You never pestered. You didn't feel it was your place. You didn't want to overstep into his personal business. But the one morning you actually woke up early with him, you caught a glimpse of bruises. All over his back. As you were passing the bathroom, he was pulling a shirt over his head after a shower. The door was open since he had his pants on, but your timing was a blessing and a curse. You didn't mean to, but you gasped at the sight, and Clark's unnatural hearing caught the subtle sound. He tugged the shirt down and turned to you, glasses askew, curls still dripping wet from his shower.
"You're awake," he cleared his throat, reaching for a small towel to dab at his messy hair.
"I.. yeah. I have a doctors appointment for the ache in my back." You muttered, still taken aback by the sight.
"Oh. Yeah, I remember. Are you alright? There's some Tylenol and ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet if it flares up again." He offered, trying to ignore the fact he knew you'd seen the bruises. The bruises he'd gotten during one of his recent late nights.
"Clark, what happened?" You asked. "Your back. It's covered in bruises." You reached out, but he gently took your hand and shook his head.
"It's nothing. Just a fall down the stairs the other day." He lied, offering that sweet smile of his. The smile that usually took away all your fears and worries.
You exhaled heavily through your nose, but you nodded.
"It's just some bruises. Nothing I can't handle. I'm a grown man, yknow." He joked, patting the back of your palm in a friendly way that almost hurt your soul.
"You should be more careful." You pulled your hand back and stepped away. Your gaze lingered for a moment as he nodded and turned away. His dark curls still lay messy, his glasses now fixed, chin slightly stubbled since he's not shaved recently. You didn't usually see him in such a state. You liked it. Something about it felt nice.
You walked off. Your alarm went off in the other room, so you knew it was almost time to leave for your appointment. You'd have to pester Clark another time.
The next thing that scared you was the large gash on his palm. You—unintentionally—found him in his room, unwrapping the bandage from his hand. Earlier, when asked about the bandage, he said he hurt his hand at work somehow. Now, you didn't believe it. Not with the giant gash that looked like he'd completely had a knife run over the width of his palm.
"Jesus, Clark!" You scurried over, not bothering to apologize for intruding. He lifted his head, eyes wide. "You said this happened at work, but that's not a thing that should happen at the Daily fucking Planet." Your brows furrowed as you hesitated, hands struggling to decide if you should help or not.
"Okay, well, maybe it wasn't at work. But it's still not a big deal. Just a little misunderstanding on the way home late the other night. Nothing bad." He brushed it off. Again. Like he did with those terrible bruises.
You took his wrist and grabbed the bottle of hydrogen peroxide on his nightstand, and didn't hesitate to pour it over the still open cut. It wasn't bleeding, but it was still an open wound that could easily breed bacteria when he's got the bandage on for too long.
He stammered, using his other hand to try and stop you, but he hissed at the feeling of the liquid filling the cut and bubbling up.
"Oookay, that feels less than ideal." He forced out a laugh, but his lips were twitched into a deep scowl.
"Just hold still. You're lucky you don't need stitches. How does this even happen, Clark? Did someone try to stab you?" You asked, using a clean rag to dab at his palm.
"Well—" He hesitated with a groan, his other fist balled up as he tilted his head back and forth—the thing he did when he was brewing up a new lie. "Yes. But it was just on the way home, some dude tried to mug me."
"And you didn't go to the police or even tell me that you got hurt?!" You scolded, unintentionally pressing the rag against the cut.
"Ah! Ow! Okay, I'm sorry!" He grabbed at your wrist, easily taking your hand away from the rag despite how hard you pressed. "I didn't want to worry you, and it was late! I got away, didn't I?"
"You're like a magnet for injuries, you big doof." You frowned. "I see you more than you think, Clark. You come home later, and I hear you groaning. That's not just 'exhausted from work' kind of tired groaning. That's the kind of groaning that only happens when you're getting your ass handed to you frequently. Or frequently enough to leave aches often."
"I am not a doof." He huffed, focusing more on your little name calling than the lecture you were giving.
"Oh, please, you're the biggest doof I've ever met." You scoffed half jokingly as you wrapped the clean cut in a new gauze wrap, careful not to hurt him this time.
A moment of silence tugged between you two, and he sighed.
"I'm sorry for worrying you." He looked up at you finally. Well, not really up. He lifted his head, and from his seat on the edge of his bed, he was level with you at your full height. God, he was a tall, big man.
When you lifted your gaze to meet his, still holding his hand gently, you were met with the look of an abandoned puppy begging for mercy and love. You wanted to tease and tell him how silly he looked, such a big man with such a baby look. It was ironic, really.
"Just... be careful. I'm not gonna ask you why you're always home late and why you never text most nights, but.. I do ask that you come home safely. You're like... the only thing that keeps me sane outside of my work friends." You murmured with a shrug as you pulled your hand from his, reaching to take the first aid stuff back to the bathroom between your two rooms.
"Thank you." He said, watching you closely as you walked out of the room and left his door cracked, just how he preferred for the hallway light to peek into his room so he didn't need his own night light. Yeah, Clark Kent wasn't a fan of the pitch black dark unless the moon shone bright enough to provide him some sense of safety.
For almost two weeks, you'd barely seen Clark. Once for dinner, once for a lunch break when you brought him his lunch on the way to your work because he forgot his, and once when you two crossed paths in the morning right before he left.
Clark wasn't avoiding you, no, but he was definitely.. acting weird. You figured maybe it was work stress getting to him. Maybe he was anxious about all the stuff with Superman and the Justice Gang in the nearby area. That's what you were anxious about. There have been a lot of attacks in your area, especially late at night. Thankfully, none of them were to the level of truly causing danger to citizens. The Justice Gang and Superman were good at their jobs of protecting the people.
The last few nights, the attacks got loud, rousing you from bed. In just your sleep shirt and a pair of panties, you roamed out to the living room and found yourself watching the city from the large glass door that led onto your balcony. You'd watch, sometimes catching better views of the fights. It was weird to see such inhuman things. Giant floating blobs that had tentacles, an oddly tiny yet deadly cat-like creature with some kind of horns and fangs, and other weird shit that felt like fever dreams every time you saw them.
Tonight, it was a giant glowing eyeball. It was so gross, but you couldn't sleep, so you watched. Flashes of green lit up your apartment from Green Lantern's moves. The eyeball seemed to be fluttering with its luminosity. Each hit made it dimmer, and when the final hit was delivered, a green puss exploded from it.
"Oh, that's disgusting." You gagged faintly, turning away and pulling the curtains to cover the big balcony doors. You turned, jolting when you found Clark, stumbling into the apartment. He looked exhausted. Slouched, barely on his feet, and trying not to collapse as he hung up his bag and removed his shoes.
"Clark?" Your eyes widened as you approached him, and he looked up. He was covered in dirt and debris. Your brows furrowed. "Did you get caught in the crossfire? You're not hurt again, are you?" You asked, stepping closer to let him lean on you as he stumbled toward the couch. He laid down, head falling to the side with an incoherent mumble. His glasses shifted, ready to fall off his face.
Part of you wanted to call someone for help, but when you reached to take his glasses away, he was startled as if you'd come at him with a knife to take his life. He pulled away and quickly saved his glasses, keeping them high on the bridge of his nose as he blinked to try and get rid of the blur in his vision.
"Just.. need sleep.. sun.." he uttered, his head falling back again. Sun? What kind of need was that? You understood that maybe it was helpful to have a day of relaxing in the sun, but when he looked this bad, you didn't understand why he thought of the sun instead of a hospital.
"Jesus, Clark," you sighed, kneeling at his side as you lifted his head and placed a pillow under his head for support so he didn't hurt his neck. "You're really gonna be the death of me one day." You whispered, and you watched as his lips twitched faintly with the effort of a smile.
You stayed with him all night to make sure he was okay. You couldn't carry him elsewhere, and like an idiot, you trusted that he was just tired after possibly getting caught in some of the fighting. He didn't seem to have any outstanding injuries, so you didn't want to panic until you had to.
Another late night. This time, you were coming home late. Too late. You needed some extra money, and when your coworker needed you to cover her closing shift, you took the opportunity like it was a once in a lifetime thing. The diner you worked at closed around 2:00 a.m., so you got home around 2:30 in the damn morning. You didn't expect Clark to be home, so when you were greeted by a silent, empty apartment, you weren't shocked. It wasn't pleasant. You didn't like being home alone, despite how often you told yourself that you understood Clark and his personal life.
But coming home and feeling like you lived alone? You hated it. Not because you hated being alone, no. You liked alone time. But you hated it because you lived with such a sweet, lively man. You lived with the kind of guy that'd stop on his way to work just to save a kitten from a tree. You live with the man who leaves you breakfast and a note every morning and makes sure you have a list of all your necessary errands just in case you forgot.
You lived with fucking Clark Kent for Christ's sake! Who wouldn't hate coming home to an empty home?
You made your way to the bathroom to unwind for the night. You didn't want to sleep without taking your hair down and at least brushing your teeth real quick. After that, you went to change. All limp bodied and exhausted, you changed into a large t-shirt and panties. Ready for bed. Ready to sleep in since tomorrow was a day off.
BANG! THUD!
Well, now you were awake. Assuming it was an intruder, you grabbed the bat at your bedroom door along with your pocket knife, and you snuck into the hallway.
Before you could even reach Clark's room, a tall figure comes stumbling down the hall. You shrieked, flicking your knife to open at the same time as lifting your bat. But then you see the cape in the shadow. And your eyes adjust.
It's fucking Superman.
He's injured. He's hurt. Holding his side and barely standing. With the faith you had in the man from another world, you dropped the bat and closed the knife, letting it drop as you went to his side.
"Not what I was expecting tonight." You whispered, hooking his arm over your shoulders and letting him lean onto you. "Oh, Christ—big guy." You choked out as you guided him into Clark's room since it was the nearest room.
Upon hearing your voice, the man's body felt heavier as if he was weighed down by more. He fell onto the bed, clutching his side and struggling to keep steady breaths.
He looked up at you, and before you could walk off to retrieve first aid, he stopped you with a grasp on your wrist.
And a choked breath of your name.
Why the hell would Superman know your name? You froze, looking back to him.
"I need to get the first aid kit so I can—"
"Sun." He breathed faintly, head falling back as he sighed and closed his eyes. "I just need... sleep.. and the sun.." he let his hand fall as he lost consciousness.
"What? What the hell? Are you—" You panicked, reaching out to gently press two fingers to his pulse point. You exhaled sharply with relief as you felt a steady pulse. No fluttering or struggle to stay strong. You just hoped he didn't need a hospital because you couldn't carry this giant man, who also faced a lot of troubles and would likely be shamed in a public space if someone else found him like this.
Just like you did a few nights ago for Clark, you remained by his side. You fell asleep at the foot of his bed, practically falling off with each shift. He really took up the whole bed.
Waking up to the blinding sunrise, you fell off of Clark's bed, reminded of the fever dream night you had.
You sat up on the floor and was baffled to find Superman. So it wasn't a fever dream. His back was turned as he seemed to be inspecting his suit. You shuffled over to his side of the bed, quiet as a mouse.
He lifted his head. Glasses on. He froze when he realized his error. Instinctively, he clumsily tore the glassed away. But as the realization dawned on your face, he knew it was too late.
Silence. Stunned silence. Clark Kent was your roommate. And your roommate was Superman.
"I'm living with Superman." You barely breathed out, as if you had the air punched from your lungs.
"I-im sorry. I need you to understand—"
"I'm living with fucking Superman." You repeated.
He paused, blinking at you, confused.
"Y-yes, you just said that..?" He mumbled.
"It makes sense! All your silly secrets and your weird behavior and the injuries and—" You stopped, staring at him. "The sun. You—oh my god! I-i heard somewhere that Superman needs the sun to heal steadily. That's why you ask for sleep and the sun when you're hurt! When your hand was cut and you let it breathe at the park? When—oh, God, when you came home all sleepy and limp, and you told me you were okay, you just needed the sun—oh my god!" You nearly shrieked at the end, hands coming up to tangle in your hair at the sides of your head.
"Oh, jeez—" his tone dripped with guilt. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I just—you couldn't know. I couldn't tell you. It'd put you in danger. If you knew, you'd become a target."
"And?! How am I not already a target when you come home every night after a fight?! All you do is put those stupid glasses on and—" You stopped again. You stared at him. "The glasses! The God damn glasses! They—the stupid things change your face! They make you unrecognizable!" You laughed—a strained sound, like you felt insane.
"They're.. they're hypno glasses.." he added quietly, reaching for them and putting them on.
"I live with a fucking alien." You huffed out.
Clark paused. "I-is that bad?" He stepped back, almost like he didn't know if he wanted you to answer.
Your eyes widened at his body language. "No! No! I just—it's not something common! You're.. You're Superman!" You gestured to him.
"I know that. I couldn't tell you. I'm sorry. I didn't want you to find out, and if you had to, I didn't want it to be like this." He hung his head low as he inhaled and exhaled, shoulders slumping in a way that wasn't purposely making himself smaller.
You sat down on Clark's bed, head in your hands as your elbows rested on your knees.
"That's why you're always gone." You muttered.
"Yeah.. guess so.." he murmured to match you, stepping closer to come and sit with you again.
Silence stretched on. You weren't upset. Not at all. You understood the need for a secret identity. You just never thought you'd live with Superman.
"Can you fly me around?" You asked suddenly, looking up at him with a childish grin.
Clark stared. "Possibly..." he said, suspicions growing.
He can fly you around.
"Hooohohoh my god!" You shrieked, clutching onto him like a koala. "Holy shit!" You looked over his shoulder, eyes wide as your stomach churned with the horrid mix of excitement and fear.
He couldn't help but laugh, anxious as ever. He held you close with one arm, doing the typical superhero flight pose with the one unused arm. Finally, he slowed down as you two reached a desert. He'd flown you so far so fast, you weren't even sure where you were. He came to a slow stop, and gently pried your head away from the crook of his shoulder to get you to look around without being so tense that you might give yourself a muscle cramp.
"How high are we?" You asked, looking down with another fearful churn in your stomach.
"Few thousand feet. Do you feel okay?" He asked, his other hand idly rubbing at your back to soothe you like he could feel your nerves from a mile away—which he could. Because your nails were dug into his suit, and you refused to lift your head higher than two inches from his shoulder as if it would protect you from a fall. Not that he minded. He knew this was a hard thing to trust him with, even though it was your idea. The idea you'd begged him to do for a week before he gave in with the one promise that you trusted him and didn't squirm.
"Totally. Feels great up here. Not at all hard to breathe." You forced out, laughing nervously before you experimentally lifted your head higher to look over at him as he held you against his front with a firm grasp over your waist. He looked at you, still idly comforting you with circular rubbing over your back.
"Let's go lower. I forget that you guys are less easy to adapt to high elevations.." His tone dripped with apology, and his eyes said the same thing. You nodded, curling back into his shoulder.
"Lower, please." You agreed.
"Yes, ma'am." He started slow, like a car building speed as he flew directly down from where you two were floating beforehand. Once he came to another stop, he was a few feet off of a high cliff.
"Are you staying still?" You asked, peeking over his shoulder again. He chuckled lightly.
"Yes, I'm staying still. You can look now." He reassured, lifting you up a little higher so your legs wrapped more comfortably over his hips.
You lifted your head and looked around. You didn't know where you were, and you didn't care. Clark held you tight and secure, ensuring your safety, but part of him wanted to play a bit of a joke. He waited. While you admired the view, he subtly lowered just above four or five inches from the ground before he let go of you for literally two seconds. You screamed, but your legs clinging around his waist kept you from falling. He laughed as you restabalized yourself, delivering a hard punch that didn't really hurt as much as you wished it did.
"Okay, okay, sorry. I would never actually drop you. Look at how high we are." He said, a mix of amusement and guilt on his face. You looked down, expecting the exact opposite of what you found. A few inches from solid ground of a cliff. You grumbled, looking up at him.
"I knew you weren't all sweet and sugary like you come off as." You jabbed at his chest, accusing him jokingly.
His heart fluttered slightly at your words. "Sweet and sugary?" He quipped.
You stared at him, realizing your error. "I-i mean, yeah, you're kinda the only guy that really comes off as nice and legitimately trustworthy." You shrugged a little, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed.
Clark fought back a grin, feeling an overwhelming sense of joy at your words. "Right. Yeah. I guess it wouldn't be hard to come off that way considering the way other guys are nowadays." He shrugged, matching your casual look as he slowly floated up a little higher.
"We going home already?" You asked.
"We don't have to."
"You want dinner?"
"Where to?"
"What about the new Mexican restaurant down by the diner I work at?"
"Sure. Let's stop by the apartment first. Can't really go out like this." He gestured toward his own suit, head tilting back and forth as he held an arm over your back and tugged you close again.
He started this flight a little faster since you'd gotten used to it now. He kept you tight to his body, and part of him wanted to memorize every curve and plush spot that pressed against him. He wasn't trying to think that way, he swears—it just happens when he feels your breasts pressed into his chest with your plush thighs pressing tight around his hips. He can also feel your warm breath on his neck, and he tries to ignore the way it makes his skin prickle with warmth.
Stopping by the apartment only took about a half hour. Clark needed a shower, so while he rinsed off and got ready, you waited on the couch, dressed nice enough for a restaurant, but still not fancy for anything more than a small, local outing.
Clark emerged from his room finally, curls still damp and but neatly laid just lightly over his forehead as he fixed his glasses and adjusted the nice dress shirt he always wore. The man really only had one good shirt for going out that he actually liked wearing—similar to the two or three pairs of good pants. Two good pairs of slacks that fit perfectly and one well-formed pair of jeans. It was tough for a guy with his height and build.
You lifted your head as you saw him emerge and head into the kitchen, likely looking for his wallet since he looked confused with his bottom lip jutted into that small thoughtful pout he always had when he was focused.
"Clark," you cleared your throat. No answer. "Clark." You said a little more firm. Still no reply, looking around with a grumble. "Clark!" You swatted at the wall to get his attention, and he jolted upright like a puppy, looking at you. His glasses fell crooked, and goddammit, he looked so cute. You almost forgot to tell him his wallet was right here on the coffee table—too distracted by his gorgeous blue eyes staring wide behind his glasses as he used a little nose scrunch to fix his glasses.
"Sorry. What's up?" He asked, rubbing at the back of his neck like it'd soothe the embarrassment of jolting like that.
You cleared your throat, standing up and pointing to his wallet. "It's right here, Clark. Your.. your wallet. Not that you need to bring it." You shrugged, avoiding his gaze as he stepped into the living room, his shoulder brushing yours unintentionally.
"Sorry." He uttered once again, a hand reaching out as if trying to soothe a pain that he didn't cause when your shoulders bumped. He automatically tried to hold whatever he'd hit when walking.
Bump into a doorway? His hand would gently hold the door frame as he hissed. Bump into a chair? He'd gently push it back in and frown. Bump into another person? His hands would reflexively try to catch them because he'd knocked down so many people on his way to work through the busy mornings of Metropolis.
You thought it was the cutest thing ever. But you never let him reach you. His hands always reached, but never quite made contact. You weren't sure why, but you didn't think anything was wrong with that.
"Uh, are you ready?" He asked finally, double checking for his wallet, phone, and keys. You did the same, giving a thumbs up.
"Got it. Let's go. I wanna be back in time to finish the book I'm reading." You hummed, watching as Clark opened the door and gestured for you to walk ahead. He closed the door behind him, locking the deadbolt and regular lock before he walked down the hall with you. He nodded at your words, and before he could speak, you spoke again,
"So.. Superman." You muttered, glancing up at him. He glanced around. No cameras, nobody coming.
"Yeah. What about him?" He asked, making sure you caught onto how he spoke of Superman like he was a random guy that Clark didn't know well.
"You interview him. Tons. Well, enough to get a little suspicion going around.. but.. how long? Like.." you paused, shrugging as he clicked the button on the elevator to bring it up.
"He said he's had the powers of Superman his whole life, but only truly became the hero he's known as when he moved away from home. Which I can't tell you where he's from. That's confidential." Clark said, clearing his throat.
"Yeah. Cool. Superman needs his.. privacy. I get it." You nodded. Silence.
More silence.
You two stepped into the elevator as it opened up. It closed, Clark pressing the button for the bottom floor.
"What's with the red trunks?" You blurted out. Clark groaned.
"The suit looks stupid without them, I swear it makes sense!" He insisted, but you giggled, covering your mouth.
"Really? The blue suit and red cape look better with red underwear on top?" You snickered.
"Yes. It does. Believe me—he's shown me. They really do not look good separately."
"Oh, I'm sure Superman looks great in boxers." Yoh blurted out. You clearly forgot who that was for a second. Clark's cheeks flushed, and his silence made you look up. He looked away, a large hand coming to cover his face.
"I wouldn't really.." he trailed off.
"Oh! Right. Sorry. Probably shouldn't say that—" You paused, clearing your throat. "A‐about your friend. That's probably weird." You added quickly, still wanting to ensure Clark's privacy.
The elevator opened up, and he quickly stepped out, glancing back to make sure you followed.
"Hey, Clark?" You asked, idly picking at the meat from the tacos on your plate, eating the bigger chunks while the plate cooled down.
"Mm?" He hummed, mouth already full of a spoonful of pozole, chewing on the chunk of chicken he picked up.
"Does anyone else know?"
He swallowed the bite of food, clearing his throat. "Only Lois. From work." He shrugged.
"Okay. Cool." You nodded, leaning over your plate to take a proper bite of your taco, which you piled some rice into for extra flavor in the bite.
"Just asking or is there a reason?" He asked, tilting his head as he picked up a spoonful of broth and sipped it into his mouth. You shook your head, waving a hand dismissively.
"Just curious." You mumbled, halfway through chewing—a hand covering your mouth to seem a little less impolite. Clark chuckled at the sight.
"Ma and pa used to always get upset at each other for that. Pa would talk with his mouthful, and ma absolutely despised the sound of it. She made sure we knew to swallow before we spoke, even if it took five minutes to chew through a thick bite of slightly overcooked steak." He mused, visibly a little softer as he spoke about something he rarely opened up about. Not that he never spoke about his parents, just not as often about memories like that.
You smiled a slight smile, nodding as you swallowed. "Yeah, my parents tried to beat it into me through verbal threats, but... well, sometimes a girl has something to say and she wants to say it. My grandma always told me to just cover my mouth, and it's less impolite." You explained.
"You never really talk about your family." He observed, head tilting slightly as he took a bite of chicken from his bowl.
"Never really need to." You shrugged. "I mean, there's nothing.. crazy about us. I'm not close with some of them, but I haven't really talked to any of them besides my parents since I moved out when I was nineteen."
"Wow. Nineteen?" He choked lightly, a hand covering his mouth as he looked at you.
"Yeah," you laughed a little. "I wanted to be independent, so I got a job in junior year, saved up for the rest of the time in school, and moved out pretty fast." You leaned in to take another bite.
"Gosh, I wonder how that was on your parents. Ma was torn apart when I moved out around my eighteenth birthday. She didn't stop me—though she really wanted to—but she was absolutely heartbroken. Told me she was 'losing her little boy'." He laughed, leaning back in his seat.
You laughed with him, shaking your head as you swallowed your bite. "Little? Please, you've never been little a day in your life from the photos I've seen you keep in your room." You scoffed playfully.
"Nope. As a baby, I was big for my age. As a kid, I was big for my age. As a teen? Whoof, middle school was a doozy with how big I was. High school, too. Of course, I was kinda bullied. Big, buff kid who accidentally broke door handles and sink handles just from nudging them." He explained, using a napkin to lightly wipe around his mouth as he watched you eat.
"Ehh, people will bully for anything. But I bet you had all kinds of girls in line to get at you." You joked, nudging his foot under the table.
The simple touch of your foot against his ankle sent a blush to his cheeks, but he hoped you'd think it was just your words that caused it. He laughed nervously, sitting up straight.
"No, not.. not really. I had a girlfriend, but.. moving away kinda put that to a stop." He looked off to the side before turning his attention back to his food.
"Oh. A girlfriend?" You blinked. "That so..?" you muttered, glancing down at your plate as you took a bite of rice.
"Yeah. Yknow how it is. The typical high school couple except we were the nerds, so it wasn't us making out against the lockers or leaving condom wrappers in the bathrooms during school dances." He snickered at his own quips.
You cringed. "That's so gross. I do not miss high school." You shook your head, taking a drink of water as you looked at him.
"Nobody does. Unless they peaked in high school and can't let go of the damn school." He stuck his tongue out in mock disgust at the mention of those who clung onto their high school personality rather than developing into a functioning adult.
"Can't say you're wrong." You hummed.
As you two continued conversation, your foot would occasionally brush over his ankle, and he'd subtly tense each time. He had an oddly prominent blush over his cheeks the entire time.
Eventually, as he waited for you to finish your plate or decide to take it home, he let his ankle tangle around yours. You looked at him, but didn't stop your story. It seemed you two were even—catching each other off guard with gestures that shouldn't be shared between friends, let alone roommates.
You and Clark didn't mention the little brushes under the table. Didn't mention the way he tangled legs with you. Didn't mention how he opened up about his family.
Days passed, life returning to normal for a while as there were no attacks, no extra work for you two, no extra errands. It felt good. Waking up to Clark's breakfast being set off to the side for you, his sweet note always on the side. He'd come home to dinner made, and he'd check on you at night, whether you were awake or not.
Things that he started to realize weren't so normal between roommates.
Jimmy told him that.
"Dude, she's not just your roommate if you're doting on her life a husband would to his wife." He scoffed with a laugh, finding it amusing how oblivious Clark was to his own feelings.
"What? N-no! I don't 'dote' on her, Jimmy, I just.. we take care of each other! She makes dinner, I make breakfast. She does groceries, I do laundry. I do dishes, she does the floors. That's all normal!" Clark insisted.
"Yeah, that's normal." Jimmy leaned forward in his chair, making Clark lean back. "But those little notes? Checking on her at night? Going out every two weeks for dinner or lunch? That's not normal roommate behavior, man. Trust me, I'd know." Jimmy grinned, a knowing look in his eyes.
"You're not the man I'd go to for relationship advice. No offense." Clark muttered, fixing his glasses as he glanced away.
Jimmy huffed, brows furrowed as he flung his hands out to his sides. "What?! I'm totally the man! Clark, you know I am!" He further insisted, and Clark could hear Lois laughing in the background.
While Jimmy tried to convince Clark he was the right man, Clark focused on trying to finish the article he was working on editing. He didn't notice you coming in with the lunch he'd forgotten in the fridge along with a small container of cookies that Clark had recently brought from his trip back to visit his parents. You still had no clue where he lived, but that didn't matter when his ma made such amazing cookies.
When he felt your presence at his side, he lifted his head and was quickly overcome with a toothy grin.
"Hey," he greeted, voice softer than what he'd use at work.
"You left lunch again. And I figured you might want a couple of cookies since you said you'd be working late tonight." You said, setting down the small bowl and the paper bag he'd packed a sandwich and apple inside the night before.
"Oh. I did forget." He mumbled. He glanced at the bowl and reached for it, shamelessly excited about the cookies. "Thank you." He looked up at you—well, kind of up. Sitting in his chair even with his subconscious slouch, he wasn't much shorter than your eye level.
"No problem." You hummed.
He glanced down at your outfit, and back up to your face. "Off to work?" He asked.
You nodded, mood slightly deflating at the reminder. "Yeah. I'm covering Marie's shift again tonight, so I won't be home, but there's leftovers." You said, voice a small huff.
Clark chuckled lightly, but he had a sympathetic look in his eyes. "I'll make sure the apartment doesn't get too cold tonight then. I know your room has trouble with heating." He mused.
"You don't have to."
"But I can and I want to." He said. Your smile melted a little, becoming softer and more mushy like he'd just told you he loved you without actually saying it.
"Don't wait up."
"I'll wait."
"I said don't."
"But I will." He grinned, and as you straightened up with that reluctant smile of yours, he handed you a cookie. Jimmy's mouth gaped at the sight.
"You evil thing! You never share your mom's cookies with us!" He pouted.
Clark looked at Jimmy. "Because you don't bring me lunch and make me dinner." He huffed.
"You're so whipped, man." Jimmy scoffed, rolling away toward Lois' desk.
You snickered. "I'll see you at home." You mumbled to Clark as he waved goodbye while you walked away.
Later that night, you walked into the apartment to a sight you hadn't seen—Clark was waiting on the couch with the TV playing an old rerun of a show you'd mentioned in passing. He lifted his head, and you felt horrible. He looked so tired.
"I told you not to wait up." You murmured, but you knew he heard you. He always heard you.
"I told you I'd wait." He countered, a small smile spreading over his lips. You could tell he'd only showered recently, curls still wet and clinging to his forehead.
"And I told you not to before you said you would." You countered.
"Eh, a little sleep loss never killed me." He hummed, shrugging.
"You're as stubborn as damned toddler." You scolded, but there was an unstoppable smile on your face. Clark had one that matched.
"So.. what's playing?" You asked, kicking your shoes off and already beginning to remove your jewelry so you could prepare for a shower before bed.
"That old show you mentioned last week. It seems like they're doing a nightly rerun marathon for the next week. I figured you might wanna watch before bed?" He asked, looking up at you as he patted the spot next to him on the couch—which he took up most of the couch, leaving just enough room for you to join him.
You hesitated, glancing at the calendar and the time before you caved in and came to sit on the couch with a huff, followed by a long exhale as your body relaxed into the familiar cushions that you had fallen asleep on so many times, only to wake up in your bedroom the next morning because of Clark.
"Long night?"
A small beat of silence, and another sigh through your nose. "Mhmm." You barely nodded, already melting into full relaxation as you let your legs bump his.
Clark nodded, looking back to the TV as the colors flashed in the dark living room. He glanced at your legs, and without thinking, he took your legs and laid them over his lap, his big hands automatically resting over your shins. You looked at him, ready to object, but he took initiative and lightly pressed his thumbs along your calves, applying just enough pressure for it to feel good.
You melted, head falling back and eyes closing. He glanced up at your head, a soft chuckle filling the silence between scenes.
"Don't laugh." You groaned.
"Not laughing. Not at all."
But he did snicker a little when you groaned again as his hands worked up and down your sore calves and ankles. He knew how tired you got, how sore you got during double shifts.
"Jimmy said I dote on you." He suddenly blurted out, and you lifted your head to look at him.
"You do, Clark. When I was sick, you slept on the floor of my room just to make sure I had company when I threw up so I didn't have a panic attack." You laughed lightly, sitting up a little with your elbows behind you for support.
"You get scared of throwing up." He frowned, eyes wide like a puppy. God, he was so cute.
"You're not wrong there... but a regular roommate.." You paused, realization dawning on you. Regular roommates wouldn't do the hingd you two do. You knew it was a little abnormal to care so much about some dude who you moved in with, but you hadn't thought much about how kind Clark was. And you thought you were just returning the favor for the sweet, considerate man who made sure you had a meal to start your day with a cute little note to have a lovely day with that silly smiley face or star.
Neither of you spoke, and his hands stilled on your legs.
"I didn't think it was weird." He murmured.
"It... doesn't have to be. If you don't want it to be." You shifted, hands idly picking at the aged and stressed fabric of your jeans.
"Do you not want it to be weird?" He asked quietly, offering a shy, sidelong glance.
You returned the shy glance, and he fought back a grin as you nodded lightly. "I'd prefer it be normal." You shrugged as if trying to play it casually.
"So. What's that mean exactly?" He asked, a small nervous exhale leaving his lips.
"Uh.. what do you want it to mean?" You asked.
"What do you want it to mean?"
More unbearable silence.
And more.
And shy glances. His hands remained on your legs. Your legs shifted as you sat up more to look at him. Even though you were on the same couch, at the same waist level, his torso was taller, and he loomed over you without even trying or leaning forward.
"Yknow, I don't often say things. I.. prefer showing." You finally spoke, and he swallowed slightly, unsure of your implications.
"I suppose I have always been a bit of a visual learner.." he tilted his head slightly.
"Just... tell me to stop if you don't want the same thing."
When you shifted to lean in closer to his side, you wanted to kiss him so badly. You wanted to grab his cheeks and smash your lips to his and make him forget his own name while you could only remember his name.
But you hesitated, faces only an inch or two apart. Your cheeks prickled with uncomfortable heat, and his mouth seemed to water. He felt like a dog.
Clark was losing his mind.
He remained still for a moment, and when he saw you start to shift away, he had to make a move and take the risk. He leaned in and pressed his lips to yours. You almost didn't react. Your body tensed, eyes wide.
As his hand came up to gently press his large palm to your cheek, you relaxed into the kiss and leaned in to return the affection—palm coming to splay over his thigh as you lifted yourself to situate your knees under your body. Since you accepted the kiss, Clark made the next move of tugging you into his lap so you straddled one of his thighs.
"Clark," You exhaled against his lips, and he pulled away to give you a second to breathe. He forgot you couldn't go as long without needing to properly inhale.
"Sorry," he huffed, his hand still idly cupping your cheek with his thumb soothing over your cheekbone.
"Sorry for what?"
"I just—I assumed you needed to breathe.." He muttered.
"Well, yeah," you laughed a little. "But I was just saying your name. Just... yknow, experimenting..." You shrugged lightly, and he shivered at your words. He did like it when you said his name, but he'd hoped you hadn't felt him shift his hips to try and adjust himself in his sweats.
"Right. Yeah. That.. makes total sense." He nodded, eyes flickering back down to your lips. You stared at him for a moment, waiting. Watching. Hoping.
And he must have felt it because he was right on time as he leaned in to press another kiss. This one with stronger—less afraid and more eager. He let his hands fall down, holding your hips before he felt your hands come to slink under his t-shirt. You let your hands roam, and he did the same—although his touches were less strong to start with. His grip on your hips tightened as he felt your leg lightly press against the bulge in his pants. You could feel his size, and you had to pull away to look at him with wide eyes.
He stared back.
He blinked.
You blinked back.
"Please tell me you know how to not hurt a woman." You blurted out.
A bashful blush spread over his cheeks as he laughed at the sudden blurted words of yours. He let his head fall forward to your collarbone to hide his blush.
"I won't hurt you. I promise." He reassured, a hand coming to gently glide up and down your back.
"Jesus, man, I had assumed you weren't gonna be small, but damn."
He groaned, embarrassment growing in his chest. "Your words are oddly bold for someone who couldn't kiss me two seconds ago." He muttered against your collarbone.
"Shut up." You huffed, your own cheeks flushing.
"You first."
"Make me."
"FIne."
His head lifted as he suddenly hoisted you off his lap and into his arms while he stood up. You yelped, holding onto him as he padded down the hallway to find his way to his bedroom. He didn't even flick the light on as he entered, just laying you on the bed and climbing on top of you as he let the moonlight bathe the room in a cool toned glow. You looked up at him, and despite his bold move, he still looked nervous.
He leaned in to kiss you again, tongue swiping softly over your lower lip to ask for an entrance. You gave it to him immediately. He moaned into your mouth as he let his tongue meet with yours in a gross, slobbery dance.
Clark wasn't one for rushing unless he had a deadline, and even then, he hoped to prioritize accuracy and final product.
And you could tell that translated to his affection and love. He took it slow, despite how sloppy and needy it felt. He shifted between your legs and let his hands come to lift your thighs, wrapping them around his hips as he let his hips press into yours with a heavy exhale, his body weight melting against yours.
"Claark," you whined, head falling back lightly as he let you breathe while he kissed down your neck, fingers softly massaging the flesh of your thighs and hips.
"Wha's up?" He murmured, the annunciation in his words becoming less and less as he kissed along your neck and collarbone.
"Don't take forever." You murmured, hips pressing up into his. He groaned, pushing back against you.
"Mm.. feels good." He ground his hips against yours, grumbling lightly at the slight restraint and restrictions of feeling. He loved how it felt for foreplay, but it drove him insane how he couldn't feel your skin on his.
Your head lifted as he began to undo the buttons of your work shirt. You watched him for a moment, and when he got it undone, he used one arm to lift you slightly so he could push the fabric off of your shoulders and toss it to the side before he resumed his kisses downward.
He reached the waistband of your low rise jeans, and he paused for a moment as your breath hitched.
"You okay?" He asked, hands gently soothing over your hips.
"Yeah, just.. never really had anyone go down there like this." You admitted.
His eyes widened and he sat up between your legs. "Are you a virgin?"
You gasped. "No! No! Oh, God, no, I'm not—I meant no one has ever eaten me out! I-i assumed that's what you'd do since your head was going so low!" Your cheeks flushed, and his matched at how blunt your wording was.
"Well—yeah, I was... do you not want me to?" He asked, but you shook your head. "You want me to? Or not?" He prodded further, looking for a verbal agreement.
"I want you to." You shifted your hips impatiently.
"Okay. Just tell me if it's good or not, okay? I can take it if you don't like it." He gave a soft smile as he leaned forward to kiss you again. This time, he distracted you with a kiss while he undid your pants and gently pushed them down. Now you were left in just your panties and bra, and he just about busted in his pants when he pulled back to just look at you for a minute.
To him, you were the softest, most sweet and gorgeous thing he'd ever found on earth. And the look in his eyes told you that exact thing.
"You're so beautiful." He sighed out, leaning back down to mouth down your torso until he reached your underwear again. When you thought he'd remove them, he didn't. He kissed over the mound and made you wait as he decided he wanted to suck hickeys into the soft, pliant flesh of your thighs. Your hand came down to hold onto his hair, and he hummed against your thigh as he sucked a dark hickey into the skin.
You closed your eyes and fully relaxed into the comforter of his bed as he worked on marking you as his and his only. His dark curls wrapped light around your fingers. You felt him press his lips to where your entrance would be beneath your panties, which had already created a damp spot that his saliva only worsened as he ran his tongue along the mound from your entrance to your clit. You shuddered, but didn't stop him.
"Mm.." you hummed, hips lightly bucking against his mouth as he let his tongue circle your clit through the fabric of your panties. "Clark," you whined, lips parting for a soft gasp.
"'S okay," he murmured, leaving one more kiss over your clit before he found himself tugging your panties to the side so he could see you more. You looked down at him, swallowing harshly as he inched a hand up your thigh.
Two fingers gently pressed between your folds, and you suddenly realized how thick his fingers were. You whined lightly, but he shushed you with a kiss to your hip.
"I'm not gonna rush. Wanna take my time with you." He shook his head before he dove back in and ran a tongue along your folds. He groaned, and you shivered at the feeling. He held your folds apart with two fingers and let his tongue circle your hole. You moaned softly, and as he felt your body relax, he let his tongue slip past the tight hole, pressing back and forth. You gasped, body tensing at the foreign intrusion. He looked up at you, glasses slightly fogged up.
His nose nudged your clit, and your thighs closed around his head as he fucked his tongue back and forth, curling and twisting to find what you liked. When he found that the penetration of his tongue didn't seem to give you as much as you wanted, your hips bucking impatiently, he lifted his mouth and let his tongue focus on your clit while he slipped two fingers inside of you.
That got a reaction out of you.
A soft cry of pleasure filled the dim room as he suckled at your clit and curled his fingers to find that spongy spot inside of you. He used his other hand to keep your panties pulled to the side, but as he focused more on your pleasure, he didn't even hear the rip of fabric right next to his ear.
You gasped, looking down at him. "Cla—aaark!" You tried to scold, but it morphed into a loud moan as he pushed a third finger alongside the first two. "Oh, fuck!" Your hips jolted against his face, and he moaned as if he was the one being pleasured. He looked up at you through his fogged up glasses, and as your hand tugged at his hair, his brows furrowed faintly.
To see his eyes properly, you reached down with a shaky hand to remove his glasses. He let out a gruff noise, but didn't stop you. He watched you from where his face was buried against your pussy, and from the look on his face and in his eyes, you'd think he was the one getting fucked like this.
But no. He just really liked pleasing you.
"Holy shit," you gasped lightly, back arching as a choked whimper left your lips. "Clark," you looked down at him. "Fuck, please don't—don't stop!" you ground your hips harder against his mouth and he doubled his efforts. He kept his eyes on you as his fingers drilled into you with ease. Your core squeezed and pulsed around him, and before you could warn him, the knot in your belly snapped like a rope with too much weight.
"Oh, my—Clark!" You cried out, your pussy gushing around his fingers as he worked you through the orgasm, letting you squirm and buck as if you weren't sure whether or not you wanted more.
Slowly, as the shocks and waves came to a stop, he eased his fingers out and lifted his head. You panted, eyes hazy and half-lidded as you watched him settle between your legs. His hands quickly came to push his sweats and boxers down to his knees before he leaned over you and found your lips with his once more.
"Y're so good f'me." He murmured, the kiss lazy and uncoordinated as you barely returned it due to how dazed you still were. "Y'ready?" He asked, slowly guiding his tip to glide back and forth along your folds, making sure to nudge your oversensitive clit.
You whimpered, but nodded lazily. "Please," you huffed, bringing your hands to search for his. He cooed softly at you, murmuring about how gorgeous you were as he kept his lips on yours. He brought his free hand to link his fingers with yours as his other hand held his cock to press against your still soaked pussy.
"'m sorry if it hurts," he warned, but he began to sink in slowly as he could. Your eyes rolled back and your nails dug into his hand.
"Cl—aaark," you whimpered, voice breaking slightly. He shushed you, carefully continuing until he reached your limit. There was still an inch that you couldn't take.
"That's all I can go." He said, finally pulling away so he could look at where your bodies met. You looked too, and shuddered at how big he was.
"You'll go slow, right?" You looked up at him, brows furrowed with worry.
"Oh, sweetheart," he shushed you softly. "I'd never hurt you. I'll go slow. I promise it'll feel amazing once it's past the first couple of seconds."
"Pinky promise?" You muttered. He laughed softly, nodding.
"Pinky promise, gorgeous," he lifted his hand and looped his pinky around yours before he kissed it. "I've got you." He promised.
You nodded. His pinky stayed looped with yours as he slowly pulled his hips back and then forward. You whimpered, eyes squeezing shut. He hesitated, but continued with slow, deep thrusts. The whimpers died down and were replaced by gasps and moans in a matter of seconds, and he lost it. Once he was sure you wouldn't be hurt by his size, he sped up slowly.
"'S so big," You bit your lip and looked down, watching as his cock disappeared inside of you and showed through a small tummy bulge.
His hand left yours to press on the bulge, and you cried out at the way it only made him feel so much bigger. He choked on his own sounds as he angled his hips a little lower to swipe along that sweet spongy spot inside of you. A squeal filled the room as he sped up for the last time, finding a good rhythm to settle on with the perfect angle that made your eyes roll back and your back arch.
"Oh, gosh, sweetheart," he panted, his own moans mingling with yours. "Takin' me so well, gorgeous. So perfect—like you were made just for me." His own eyes rolled back as he felt you clamp down on him when he praised and complimented.
"Fuck, 's so good," you panted.
"You like it, sweetheart? Like hearin' me talk about how good you are for me? How you're so darn perfect?" He teased, thrusts becoming a little harder as you squeezed him like he'd leave if you didn't.
"Y-Yeah—fuck—yes, clark!" You nodded eagerly.
"Gosh, you're so cute. Moanin' my name like that. You sound like an angel." His voice morphed deliciously into a whimper as he felt himself getting closer and closer.
"'M gonna cum—ah!—gonna cum!" you cried out, and he kept one hand low so he could let his thumb massage your clit while he let his other hand come to hold yours. Moments later, another orgasm crashed through you like a bulldozer hitting a building. A squeal of pleasure echoed and your core gushed around his cock.
"Oh! Oh, yeah," he panted, hips bucking faster inside of you. "Feels so darn good. Better than anything I could'a dreamt." He whined. His balls drew tight to his body, and he looked at you. "Wh-where do you want it? Where should I cum?" He stammered, hips losing rhythm as he squeezed your hand.
"I-Inside—do it inside." You told him, and the moment he got permission, he spilled inside of you. His cock twitched and pulsed inside of you as thick ropes of cum coated your walls to the point where it was already leaking out due to how he filled you with just his girth.
"Y're so perfect." He breathed, body giving one last shudder and a final spurt before he slowly pulled out. He knew it was lewd, but he couldn't resist looking at the mess he'd made. Your pussy gaped from his size, and his cum leaked out of you.
You looked up at him, both of you panting unevenly.
Panting was all that broke the silence.
Until his laugh rang in your ears.
"I guess I am a visual learner." He quipped, recalling his earlier joke.
You let out your own huff of a laugh. "A very visual learner."
"It came in handy." He grinned. There was a small pause before he shifted and got off the bed. "I'll be back." He said softly. You waited for him, still splayed comfortably on his bed.
When he came back, he had already cleaned himself up and now he approached with a warm, damp rag. He crawled onto the bed next to you and carefully wiped you down to clean up the mess he'd left between your thighs. Once you were comfortable and clean, he gave you one of his t-shirts to put on so he didn't have to leave the room again. You'd already told him not to worry about underwear for you since you thought you two were far past needing to be covered if laying together.
He tugged you into his embrace and curled up around you, letting you lay a leg over his hip. "We should probably talk more in the morning.."
"Yeah.." You muttered. He sighed into your hair and relaxed, closing his eyes. "Goodnight, Clark."
I wanna see your writing about Mark being jealous of female reader. 🤭
"JEALOUSY, JEALOUSY!"
in which, MARK GRAYSON from INVINCIBLE might be a jealous man.
‧₊˚✩彡
includes: mark grayson x fem!reader, established relationship, neck kissing, breast sucking, slightly jealous behavior, mild groping, mature content (17+), 1.2k words.
MARK GRAYSON is a liar.
it doesn't matter if he's a good one, nor does it matter if he was caught red-handed seven-ways-to-sunday as one-- all that matters is that that boy is a liar.
"i'm sorry," he apologizes to the man you were talking to, grabbing your upper forearm gently, "we just have somewhere to be. can't risk being late," his smile is regretful and the flush of his cheeks feigning embarrassment are almost believable to you as you purse your lips.
almost.
you run through your busied schedule quickly in your mind; of all the hero meetings or mandatory university orientations you had sprinkled throughout the coming weeks, nothing was occupying your evening following this event; a celebration of sorts, being held by the real estate company debbie worked for. she had been in charge of the guest list, and so much to mark's dismay-- he had been expected to be there. by proxy, you were too.
you hadn't minded-- in fact, networking and formal functions weren't all that horrible to you. you were good at the whole small-talk thing, and conversation came comfortably between you and strangers almost double your age.
mark hadn't been a fan though. glued to your side the entire evening like a lost puppy, tail tucked shamefully between his legs. only when you, an hour and a bit into the function, had begun to chat it up with a gentleman practically ten years your senior-- had mark perked up.
"i don't recall--" you tried, throwing your boyfriend an incredulous squint.
"well i do." mark said firmly. he reached a hand outwards to the older man, and offered him a tight smile. he watched, the tiniest bit amused, as the older man winced at the sheer force of mark's handshake. "let's go," mark inquired softly, though he looped his hand through your elbow and all but yanked you away from the conversation you had once been engaged in.
once you were out of earshot and down some obscure hallway leading towards the exit of the venue, you stopped right in your tracks. "what was that?"
mark looked back at you, clearly reddening with humiliation. the tips of his ears burned a cherry red, and he scratched awkwardly at his neck. "sorry," he offered.
"yeah," you scoffed. "why did you do that?" you exasperate. the hem of your skirt had ridden up during your wobbly escape with mark, and naturally, you tugged it down.
mark's eyes flicked downwards to your legs, and he swallowed. "he was looking at you,"
"looking at me? well i'd hope, we were having a conversation." you quip, crossing your arms over your chest-- you miss the insinuation in mark's words.
"no," mark tried again, voice barely above a whisper, "looking at you."
your mouth flattens into a thin line. oh. "he was like... at least fifteen years older than us, mark; it doesn't matter."
mark reaches a hand upward to loosen the tie around his neck, groaning your name softly in frustration. "you think that'd stop him? he looked sleazy." he fights.
you suck on your teeth, the smallest bit agitated by mark's behavior. "sleazy? please," you shake your head. "there's no need to get jealous of him-- stop acting like," one of your hands motions to mark's figure, going up and down, "this."
"i'm not allowed to get jealous when some guy is practically drooling over my girlfriend right in front of my face?" mark questions, eyebrow cocking upwards.
"he was not drooling over me," you say weakly, though recalling your interaction, the man had seemed quite enamored in... well, you.
mark rolls his eyes, tongue poking his cheek angrily. suddenly, he's taking a few steps towards you-- forcing you back against the hallway wall. "so if i do this," he begins, making a show of looking you deep in your eyes and then fixing his vision straight to where your cleavage is displayed through your top, and then back up to your face again, "what is that called?"
your silence is enough for mark to continue on, driving home his point.
he grabs your waist gently-- big, strong hands caressing your hips before running downwards to grab a handful of your ass through your skirt. "or this-- what's this called?"
"he didn't grab my ass, mark!" you laugh softly, pressing your own hands against his chest.
mark smiles cheekily, shoving his face into your neck. "he definitely wanted to," he purrs, lips connected to your pulse point. he sucks, and you gasp, knees buckling ever so slightly at the sudden sensation. mark's hands shoot back up to your waist, holding you steady with a practiced ease. "careful, pretty girl. i got you."
you swallow, fingers trailing up marks neck and the side of his face to finally meet his dark locks. they curl, giving him a few scratches, and he hums satisfyingly against your skin. his lips continue to pepper the rest of your throat.
"i don't like you talkin' to other guys like that," mark confesses between kisses. "makes me mad."
"yeah?" you ask, raising a leg to hook around his thigh. when he feels it, he easily picks you up, and you wrap both legs around his waist.
"yeah." he echoes. pressing his weight against your frame, he releases your waist from his grip, going to pull the already low neckline of your top down further. you try and stop him (weakly-- part of you doesn't want him to stop), yet he swats your protests away smoothly. his lips connect to your collarbone, and they trail lower until they meet the swell of your breasts. "s'like, couldn't he see me there? i was scowling at him!" mark begins to ramble, face buried in your chest.
"i- i'm sure he could, babe," you shudder, tipping your head back to rest on the wall.
"exactly." mark continues to press sloppy kisses to your chest, his hands beginning to squeeze and grope your tits overtop your bra. "this is all mine," he licks, hands pawing needily at your breasts. "you're all mine."
"sounds a bit possessive," you laugh breathlessly.
"if the shoe fits," he answers, hooking his fingers underneath the fabric of your bra to free your tits, watching them spill out from their confinement. he groans. "jus' like i'm all yours, right?" he asks, before efficiently popping one of your nipples into his mouth, swirling it around his tongue.
his brown eyes meet yours as he continues to suck on your breast, hand massaging the one not in his mouth; you're panting now, hands gripping at the collar of his fancy white dress shirt. "mhm," you murmur, eyes fluttering with each of mark's movements. "all mine."
mark moans around your breast, before switching sides-- he rolls your free, spit-soaked nipple in between his fingers easily; feeling it harden at the cool air of the venue. he grins, hearing you inhale deeply.
reaching a hand downwards, he slips his fingers in between your thighs; when they meet your panties, which are embarrassingly soaked, he grins. mark pulls himself off your tit with a pop.
"bet he wouldn't have been able to make you this wet either."
he laughs-- a warm, boyish snicker-- as you smack his bicep.
it's true though, you think. no one could have you this obsessed, except mark grayson.
PLUVOiA '25 ®
loren's thots: the man that u are, mark grayson. i need to makeout w him asap!!! also no full smut in this one sorry lol... mayhaps another jealousy one will appear in the future...... idkkkk (reqs are open!)
⠀. ⏝ི𓏶. ゜ imagine ⠀dick⠀being obsessed with you⠀ ⋮
It begins like a seed rotting in the soil.
You smiled at him once—just once—and it sprouted. Not a flower, not a gentle thing. No, what bloomed inside him was monstrous, a tumor of want that fed on every heartbeat. He felt it spread through his veins like ivy made of knives, threading itself into muscle, curling around bone. You didn’t even notice. Of course you didn’t. You were just living, just laughing, just speaking into the air like it cost you nothing.
But to him, each word from your lips was marrow, was sacrament. And he starved without it.
He studied you the way a coroner studies a cadaver—cataloguing each tiny detail, imagining what lay beneath. The slope of your shoulders whispered to him of the delicate clavicles underneath. Your smile? He wanted to split your cheeks wide with his thumbs just to see how far it could stretch before the skin gave way. Your eyes? Jewels, yes, but soft ones—organs sitting wet in their sockets. He wondered what color they’d stain his palms if he crushed them.
And yet, it was never cruelty. No. It was worship. He thought of you as cathedral. Your ribcage the vaulted arches, your lungs the stained glass, your pulse the endless hymn echoing in the nave. He wanted to break the doors open, crawl through the ruins of you, and pray until his knees shattered.
At night, he dreamt of you peeled. He saw your skin sloughing from your body like wet parchment, saw your veins rising like rivers on a map. He would follow them with his tongue. He would drink from you like a pilgrim kneeling at a holy spring. And he woke trembling, sweating, his fists clenched around nothing, desperate to be inside your gravity again.
The obsession grew teeth.
He began to imagine the in-betweens—those fragile seams in your body where life could spill. The tender hollow of your throat, the soft cave behind your knees, the slit of your belly where he could unzip you. He pictured sliding his hands inside, the heat of your organs wrapping around him like a lover’s arms. He’d wear your insides like garlands, let your intestines drape across his shoulders like scarves. He’d be beautiful in your ruin.
And every day, he smiled. Bright, boyish, unbroken. No one saw the bloodlust gnawing behind his teeth. No one saw the shrine he carved out of your absence. He collected scraps of you—gum wrappers, a strand of hair caught in your brush, a napkin blotted with your lipstick. He touched them like relics, kissed them like wounds. Sometimes he pressed them to his chest so hard they left bruises.
He didn’t need saints. He didn’t need God. He had you.
And oh, how he hated the world for touching you. The way others laughed with you, breathed the same air you did, let their voices graze your ears. Each moment was desecration. He wanted to burn their throats raw, peel their tongues from their mouths, scoop out their eyes with his bare hands and place them at your feet. An offering. See, y/n? Look at what I’ve done. Look at the meat I’ve carved from the world just to make it quiet for you.
You haunted him. You lived inside him like worms in the belly of a corpse. He couldn’t eat without tasting you, couldn’t sleep without hearing your laughter clawing at his skull. Sometimes, in the mirror, he swore he saw you behind his reflection—your hands crawling out of his skin, your teeth biting through his cheek, your eyes blinking through the soft meat of his throat.
And he smiled. Always smiled. Because no one must know.
But you will.
You’ll see it soon—the hunger, the devotion, the holy rot. He’ll show you what it means to be loved by him. He’ll open himself with his own fingers, tear his ribs apart, and let you watch him bleed your name onto the floorboards. He’ll peel the grin off his face and place it gently in your hands. He’ll carve your initials into his sternum until they shine white with bone.
And maybe you’ll scream. Maybe you’ll run. But screams are music, and running is just another kind of dance. He was born an acrobat; he’ll follow.
And when he catches you—because he will—you’ll learn. You’ll see that love is not gentle. Love is hunger. Love is dismemberment. Love is forever.
And in the dark, when he finally presses his forehead to yours, drenched in your blood, shaking with the ache of it—he’ll whisper it like a prayer:
"You’re mine. You’ve always been mine."
He rehearsed it for weeks.
Every angle, every word. He built the sentence like a coffin, nails hammered in, wood smoothed down until it gleamed with false normalcy. He’d say it with that bright, easy grin—the Dick Grayson smile, the golden boy mask polished to perfection. The kind of smile that made people trust him. The kind of smile that made you lean closer.
He thought you’d hesitate. He thought you’d laugh, maybe tilt your head, maybe chew your lip while your brain weighed the invitation. He was ready for all of it. Ready to swallow rejection like glass if he had to. Ready to tear his own insides out and lay them at your feet if it meant you’d look at him longer.
But then—
"Sure."
You said it like it was nothing. Like you weren’t cracking his skull open with that single word. Like you weren’t driving a hook through his chest and yanking him forward.
So easy. So eager.
It was obscene.
Your yes echoed in his ribs, bounced around like a trapped animal, clawing at bone. He felt it in his teeth, in the soft tender meat of his stomach. His knees almost buckled with it. His grin—the one he wore like armor—nearly split wider than his skin could allow. For a moment, he swore he tasted blood, copper hot at the back of his throat.
You didn’t know what you’d done. Of course you didn’t. You thought it was simple. A date. Coffee. Maybe dinner. You didn’t know you had just pressed your thumbprint into his marrow, signed your name into his lungs.
Because now it wasn’t fantasy. Now it wasn’t dream-stitching in the dark. Now he had permission.
And permission made him dangerous.
That night, he lay awake staring at the ceiling, your voice replaying over and over until it warped into something monstrous. “Sure.” He heard it like a chant, like a dirge. He imagined carving the word into his arm, letter by letter, until it festered. He imagined peeling his own chest open in front of you on that date, showing you the cathedral he’d built inside himself with your face plastered on every wall. He imagined you smiling across the table, unaware of how he wanted to crawl into your mouth and stitch himself into your throat just so he could live in your voice forever.
The thought made him shake. Made him dig his nails into his palms until half-moons of blood welled up.
He couldn’t sleep. Not when your yes was still dripping through him like candle wax.
He wanted to preserve it. Bottle it. Smear it across his skin like war paint. And he wanted to make you say it again. And again. And again until your lips cracked and bled from repetition. Until your voice was nothing but his name.
Yes, yes, yes—always yes.
And when the date came, you’d walk in so casually, maybe with your hair a little out of place, maybe with your sleeve rolled up just so, exposing the tender wrist where a vein pulsed blue beneath the skin. And he’d sit there smiling, while inside, the monster rattled its cage, whispering how easy it would be to grab that wrist, sink his teeth in, drink until you were hollow.
But he wouldn’t. Not yet. Because now you belonged to him in a way you didn’t even realize. And he’d savor it.
He’d savor you.
The café smelled like burnt sugar and espresso.
A safe place. A normal place. Couples dotted the room, laughter spilling soft against the clink of ceramic cups. To everyone else, it was mundane. To him, it was a stage.
You sat across from him, chin propped in your hand, smiling like you weren’t holding a loaded weapon in your mouth every time you said his name.
“So…” you stirred your drink absently, eyes flicking up to meet his. “Do you do this a lot? Take people out for coffee?”
He tilted his head, smile sharp but sweet. “Only when I really want to.”
The words landed in his own ears like a confession. But you only laughed softly, stirring your cup faster, the spoon clinking. That sound went straight into him, metallic and holy, like church bells echoing down the hollow hall of his ribcage.
“What about you?” he asked. “Do you say yes to strangers often?”
You shrugged, lips curling. “Only when they’ve got really nice eyes.”
And there it was. A blade slipped between his ribs. His eyes. His cursed, cursed eyes that had seen too much, taken too much, bathed in blood and darkness. You thought they were nice. You said it so easily. Like you weren’t digging your nails into the meat of his soul, carving yourself into the softest part of him.
Inside, he was screaming. Inside, he was dragging his face across the asphalt, peeling his skin off, howling at the sky.
But outside, he just chuckled, ducking his head a little, playing bashful. “You’ll make me blush.”
And God, he wanted to. He wanted to split his own skin open right there at the table, let the blood rise up in his cheeks until it painted the whole café red. He wanted to show you how deep blush could go—down to muscle, down to tendon, down to the slick shine of bone.
Instead, he sipped his coffee, hand steady even as his pulse roared like war drums in his ears.
You leaned in then, just slightly, your wrist brushing the table, the thin blue river beneath your skin glowing in his vision. His eyes caught on it like barbed wire. His tongue pressed to the back of his teeth, imagining the taste of salt, of copper, of life itself flooding his mouth.
“So,” you asked, voice lighter now, teasing, “what’s the plan, Mr. Grayson? Coffee and then you disappear into the shadows again?”
His grin sharpened. “Not if you don’t want me to.”
The words trembled in him. A vow disguised as flirting. Not if you don’t want me to. Meaning: he’d follow you anywhere. Meaning: he’d haunt you, cling to you, sew himself into the lining of your skin if you gave him half a chance.
You laughed again, and he swore it rattled through his bones like chains.
“Good answer,” you said, and sipped your drink.
He didn’t even taste his own. The coffee was ash in his mouth. The only flavor that mattered was the phantom of you—the imagined warmth of your blood, the imagined sweetness of your breath.
The café around him blurred. He could feel his mask tightening, cracking. He wanted to drop it. Wanted to grab your face and press his forehead to yours until bone bruised bone, until he could crawl into your skull and see what your thoughts tasted like.
But instead—
“Want to take a walk after this?” he asked lightly, smile lazy, as if he weren’t already starving.
Your eyes lit up. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
And there it was again. That yes. That merciless yes.
His fingers curled around his cup, porcelain squealing under the pressure. He loosened them quickly before it shattered.
“Perfect,” he said.
And inside, he was already building a shrine out of your bones.
The night unfolded like a vein slit open—slow, deliberate, pouring out its dark.
You ended up in his apartment. That was how it always happens in stories like this: a walk through lamplight streets, the faint brush of your arm against his, the bloom of silence between laughs, then his voice low at your ear, asking, “Do you want to come in?” And you, eager, radiant, saying yes.
That yes again. That blasphemous yes.
His place was clean, too clean, stripped bare like a morgue drawer. The sheets tucked in sharp, the air heavy with disinfectant and soap. He watched you step across his floor like you were walking on his ribs, each step bruising him, beautiful in its cruelty.
When you smiled at him, when you reached for his hand—something ruptured.
He pulled you in and kissed you. Hard. Desperate. His lips trembled against yours, because he wasn’t kissing, no, he was devouring, pressing himself inside your mouth like he could dissolve there. You gasped, and that sound—sharp, wet, human—was more intoxicating than blood.
And when it happened—when you let him push you down onto the bed, when your body opened beneath his—it wasn’t sex, it wasn’t love, it wasn’t anything the world had language for.
It was worship.
He worshipped you like a martyr splitting himself open on the altar. His hands shook as they traced your skin, like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he thought you’d vanish if he blinked. He kissed your throat with the hunger of a drowning man, tasting salt, sweat, life.
But in his head, it was never just touch. No—every brush of his lips became violence reframed as prayer. He imagined your veins glowing beneath the surface, those blue rivers he wanted to carve open and drink from like communion wine. He imagined peeling you open and crawling inside, wearing your body like a shroud just to be closer.
He whispered against your skin, words tumbling raw and broken, half-sob, half-prayer:
“You don’t know—God, you don’t know what you do to me—how you ruin me—”
You only pulled him closer, your nails digging crescents into his back. He moaned against your collarbone, and it sounded like a death rattle, like something being born and killed in the same breath.
Your body wasn’t just a body—it was cathedral stone, it was marble cracked with holy light, it was the Sistine Chapel ceiling, and he was smearing himself across it like blood-stained paint. You were a knife slipped between his ribs, you were the maggots eating at his insides, you were the grave he’d crawl into willingly.
And he—he was a swarm of flies. He was a wound that wouldn’t heal. He was the rot that made flowers bloom brighter against the decay.
When he finally broke apart inside you, it felt less like release and more like annihilation. He clung to you, shaking, face pressed into your neck, breathing you in like a dog sniffing at carrion.
And when it was over, when your chest rose and fell soft and slow beside him, he didn’t close his eyes. He couldn’t. He watched you. He mapped every inch of you with his gaze, memorized you like scripture. He thought about how easy it would be to bite through the skin of your wrist, to mark you with something permanent, something bleeding.
“Mine.”
Barely a sound. Barely a breath.
A promise. A threat. A prayer.
You moved in.
Not in the neat way people move in with their boyfriends—cardboard boxes and cheerful arguments about where to put the couch. No. It was subtler, more insidious. One toothbrush left behind, then a sweater, then a drawer filling with things he touched when you weren’t looking. He smelled them, pressed them to his face like relics, like holy cloth that had soaked up your sweat, your skin.
And then one night—you didn’t go home. You stayed. And then another. Until your absence from your old apartment was just a shadow, a ghost with no teeth. Until the lease didn’t matter. Until every sound, every smell, every breath of you belonged in his apartment.
He couldn’t believe it. He almost laughed sometimes, sharp and ugly in the back of his throat, because you were here, you were here. Breathing in his bed, sitting at his table, leaving your fingerprints on his glassware. Like you’d crawled inside his ribcage and made a home of the wet red there.
And God, the way it changed him.
He’d wake in the night, heart thrashing like a rat in a trap, and there you were, curled beside him. Sleeping. Innocent. He would stare at your closed eyelids and imagine peeling them back, seeing the meat beneath, just to make sure you were real. He’d lay his palm on your chest, not for warmth, but to feel the rise and fall of your lungs. Sometimes he pressed too hard, left faint bruises like fingerprints burned into parchment. Just so he’d know you’d been there.
The apartment itself began to change. He started keeping it colder—so you’d need him, so you’d curl into his body for warmth. He stocked the fridge with the foods you liked but touched every package first, every fruit, every box, so they bore his fingerprints, so everything you consumed had already passed through him in some way.
And when you weren’t home, when you slipped out for groceries or air, he would walk through the rooms and touch everything you had touched. Your hairbrush. Your mug. The indentation in the couch cushion where you’d sat. He’d press his cheek to it and close his eyes, inhaling. He’d imagine you sitting there still, warm, laughing, alive. Sometimes he’d cry—ugly, heaving sobs—because the ghost of you in the furniture was almost more than he could bear.
At night, when you lay tangled with him, he whispered things into your hair. Not declarations of love. No—confessions, compulsions. Things no sane man should ever say.
“You’re not leaving. Ever. I’ll cut off your legs if I have to. God, I’ll feed you from my hands like a bird. I’ll sew us together if it keeps you from running.”
You only stirred in your sleep, maybe smiled faintly at the sound of his voice. And he shook against you, trembling with the miracle of it—how you didn’t hear the threat, only the lullaby.
Sometimes he dreamed of you rotting. Of waking up to find your skin sloughing off, your eyes milky, your smile bloated and split. He dreamed of you dead in his bed, mouth full of soil, hair crawling with worms. And instead of horror, it filled him with a strange, exquisite relief. Because even like that—even as carrion—you’d be his. Forever.
And in the daylight, he would kiss your shoulder, make you coffee, laugh with you like he was the boy everyone thought he was. But inside, inside he was a pit of teeth and rot and prayer.
Because now you lived with him. Now you were woven into the walls, the sheets, the very air. You were his ghost, his marrow, his parasite, his god.
And he knew he’d never let you leave.
Not alive.
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cw: major perv! rafe, flirting, implied age gap (rafe is 4-5 years older), coercion, naive! reader, massages, raw sex, floor sex, missionary, breeding, MDNI
synopsis: naive athlete! reader feels stiff and tense and needs a massage before a big game. how will her friend's brother, Rafe, help her out?
Rafe would be listening outside the door of Sarah's room while you whine to her about your body. He wasn't trying to eavesdrop, per se, you were just really loud and didn't seem to care about who overheard your conversation. Plus, when you were talking, you sounded all soft and whiny, and he really liked that. How you sounded so fucking sexy when you were frustrated.
His body slows instinctually and he leans near Sarah's door, listening into your complaints. "I'm gonna die, Sarah," You were saying. He could picture what you looked like right now. Probably splayed on Sarah's bed in those tiny, low waisted shorts and little baby tees you always wore to be "comfortable".
"My back hurts like a bitch. I've been stretching constantly, I swear, but my body's just getting tighter and more stiff, and my performance in games has been sooo bad. i'm ruined, i swear."
Rafe hears Sarah mumble something back, but he mostly tunes her out, hyper focused on you. His mind's locked on the way your voice rises in pitch and gets a little breathier with each passing moment, and every time you shift on the bed, you'd let out a little moan of pain.
Was it normal to get hard just from breathing and whines? Maybe Rafe just had a problem. "I just feel so stiff," You whine some more, dragging out each syllable so your voice comes out all slow and sensual. "I can't even bend over without something locking up. What if I go out into my game and look like an idiot? That'd be the end of me."
Rafe scoffs, pressing his ear more firmly against the door now, wanting to be sure he doesn't miss any of your little sounds. Fuck, you sounded hot when you were being overdramatic. He liked how petulant you always were, because it'd keep him on your toes. It all just made him want to spank you for being such a brat, and then fuck the attitude right out of you.
Rafe struggles to hear you over the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears, his focus solely on the delectable sounds of distress spilling from your lips. You shift again, and he has to slap a hand over his mouth to stifle the groan that surges up from his chest at the little moan of pain you let out, no doubt from some muscle twinge or another.
Surely Rafe's big hands could get those kinks easily. He knew how to use his hands. He had experience.
Imagining you going still under him, mewling softly when his hands spread your thighs to massage your glutes and the insides of your thighs, of him convincing you that the only way you'd feel better is if he slides two thick fingers into your pussy... he throbs, stepping back. He can't handle much more of your whines and his daydreaming without nearly soiling his pants. He'd be back later, after he took care of the raging boner you gave him...
Later, you're almost to your bike at the end of the Cameron's driveway when you hear footsteps behind you, getting closer. "Yo," Rafe calls out, his voice smooth. "Where you going?"
You don't stop walking, but you slow your pace just a little. You know he won't back off until you give him some kind of answer, so you glance back at him. "Nowhere, Rafe." you muse back. He's so used to you acting this way around him, to keeping things casual, pretending you're not affected by him when you absolutely are.
"Come on," Rafe presses, his steps quickening as he matches your pace. He's close now and you can feel the heat radiating off him. "Just tell me. You've got me all curious now, princess." He's grinning, gaze flickering down to your lips momentarily, then back to your eyes.
You just give him a little shrug, like you're not interested in playing his game anymore. "I'm just heading home," you murmur. You don't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he makes you nervous, and so you back away a little. "Hmph. Not that it's any of your business."
Rafe doesn't even falter, though. He steps in front of you before you can take another step. There's no hesitation in his body language because he's really got the confidence to match his cocky grin, and he's never been shy about using it on you. "Not my business?"
You try to move around him, but he steps in your path again, blocking you effortlessly. His body is like a wall, and for a second you don't know whether to be annoyed or turned on. He's always like this, making you feel like you can't get away from him.
You stare up at him, his blue eyes piercing into yours. He does this thing where he refuses to break eye contact until you look away, and when you do, he bends his head forward to chase wherever your gaze is pointed to put his face in your line of sight. He leans forward just a little, his voice dropping low. "Look," he says, drawing out the word like he's talking to a kid. "You're heading home, hm? What, you think you're just gonna leave me hanging, not even tell me where you're going? I don't think so."
You exhale sharply, feeling heat in your cheeks now, but you don't back down. Instead, you cross your arms over your chest, trying to hold onto your composure. "I don't owe you anything," you say, but even you can hear the uncertainty in your voice. You're trying to play it cool, but the closer he gets, the harder it is to pretend.
Rafe notices, of course. He's always been good at reading you, and now he leans in a little more, his lips just inches from your ear. You can feel the heat from his body, his breath brushing against your skin, and it makes you shiver despite yourself.
"I heard you talking to Sarah earlier." He steps in closer, just close enough for you to feel his chest almost touching yours. "You're so tight from training, aren't you? I can help with that."
You're silent for a beat, unsure how to respond, and when he sees that, he leans in a little more, his hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is gentle, but it makes you suck in a breath, and you hate that it's so hard to keep it together around him.
"Come on," he coaxes, his voice practically cooing now. "Let me take care of you. I've got really good hands."
You take a step back, hoping to break the tension, but he follows you, matching each step. You're trying to stay firm, but there's something in the way he's looking at you, the way his hands are hovering around you like he's barely holding back.
"Of course you were spying on me. Creep." you scoff.
"I'm not a creep," he says a little too defensively, leaning down so his face is right in front of yours. "I'm just keeping an eye on you. Better than some random guy feeling you up, during a massage. You know me. I'll be better for you."
You hold his eye contact for a moment, before giving him a little push back, scoffing a bit in a way that confirms that he succeeded in persuading you. "Ugh, fine. My house will be empty tonight. Everyone's out. I'll be alone."
"Good." he says, voice smooth. "I'll come by at 10, then. And you can stop pretending you don't want me... to help you out."
You turn to leave, but before you can, he calls after you, his voice teasing. "Don't wear much, sweetheart. Need to make sure nothing's restricting the flow of circulation."
You roll your eyes, hurrying off with your heart pounding.
-
You're on your tummy in your basement, laying on a cushy gym mat a couple inches off the ground with Rafe hovering over you. You actually listened to him when he said not to wear much. Actually, you seemed to have gone all out. There's not a single piece of fabric on you other than the little pair of panties covering your butt. The rest of your body, glistening and smooth and soft, is bare for his eyes to take in.
Rafe's floored, to say the least. His brain is malfunctioning, eyes going from your smooth back, to your waist... hips... your plush ass, and then finally, your core, which is barely covered in the thin cloth of your panties. Fuck... jerking off twice in one day wasn't enough to prepare him for this.
He huffs out a breath, starting with digging his palms into your shoulder blades, rolling them repetitively like he's got any idea what he's doing. You moan softly, eyes fluttering shut, making him bite down his lower lip in response. His thumbs dig into your back a little too hard, and he hears the little whimpering sound you make. Rafe tenses, having to do a little pause to shake himself out of it and dial it back so he doesn't get overexcited and ram his cock into you.
You're soft everywhere, he starts to realize. And warm. You hum softly every time he loosens up one of your sweet spots, and the noises you make make him so much more eager to know what you sound like when he's touching you where you're extra sensitive, and so his hands keep slipping. Grazing just too close to your nipples when he reaches around to massage your chest.
You gasp, your back arching just the tiniest bit as you blink your eyes open. "Ah! w-wait… is it supposed to feel like that there? All tingly?" Rafe freezes as you turn to look over your shoulder at him, clutching the mat with both hands. "Feels tingly, hm?" He murmurs, voice teasing. "Right here?" He intentionally cups handfuls of your breasts, flicking both your nipples. You jolt and cry out, squirming underneath him.
"Mmhm! R-rafe!" You moan out his name, jolting forward like you'd just been electrocuted. There's something very odd about the way his touch makes you feel, like heat spreads around your body and you can't seem to sit still. You rub your thighs together to try and soothe some of the heat coursing through you.
Rafe exhales hard like he's been holding it in for a while, hands cupping your breasts but not squeezing them again. He's being very careful so that you don't realize what he's doing is pretty far from a massage and that he's just feeling you up. He speaks again, telling you something he hopes you'll believe.
"Mhm... that's normal. Means I'm doing everything real good."
What he doesn't say is that he's about ten seconds away from flipping you over and finding out exactly what other spots make you feel tingly. That little pair of panties barely counts as clothing. They're riding up in the back, too, showing off the curve of your ass like you wanted him to stare, and you wiggle slightly underneath him, shifting your hips, and he nearly groans out loud.
"Why're you moving so much?" he mutters, voice low. "Stay still."
You pout, all innocent, "I'm just trying to relax."
His palms slide down again, pressing into the small of your back and gliding down to your hips. "Mm. Sure you are." His thumbs find the tops of your ass cheeks and press in gently. "You always relax in just your panties? Or is this just for me?" Your thighs squeeze together again, though you don't see how Rafe's eyes snap to the movement, and his dick twitches against your ass. He's so keyed in on you right now that he's buzzing. "You're the one who told me not to wear too much," You huff, moaning softly.
He sits back on his heels for a second, just to look. Your body is tiny in his huge hands, your back arching real pretty. The way your panties are hugging your plump pussy lips makes his jaw clench so tight it hurts. He swipes a hand down his mouth like that'll help him focus, his eyes rolling back a little. He can't take this. Feels like his dick will explode any second now. Maybe he could just convince you his load is some body cream if he does accidentally finish on your ass. "Feel's so good, more!"
He swallows thickly and leans forward again, hands slipping over your thighs now, trailing down until he's brushing just above your knees, then dragging them up, up, up again, grazing the sides of your ass with his thumbs this time.
"You know…" he says, voice low and teasing as he bends even closer, mouth practically at your ear now. "Most people wear more than this. Not just these tiny little things." He swipes his fingers across the waistband of your panties, letting it catch and snap lightly against your butt. You gasp, and he grins, pleased with himself.
"You're not most people, though, are you?" he says. "You're my special little tease." His hand fully cups the swell of your ass, fingers digging in a little harder than necessary like he's trying to convince himself you're real.
He doesn't move right away, his fingertips denting into the soft flesh like he's sculpting you. His thumb slides in toward the center, right where the curve dips down, and he grazes over the stretched fabric clinging to your core.
Then he shifts, lowers himself even more. Now he's straddling your calves, his weight heavy on you. The position forces him closer, lets him reach more of you without having to stretch.
"Mm, need to loosen you up right here," he murmurs, digging his thumbs into the tops of your thighs now, massaging slow circles just beneath the curve of your butt. "So tense, baby. That's not good for you."
His fingers knead into the backs of your thighs, spreading them just enough for your panties to pull tighter against your pussy. He watches it happen like a man possessed, staring openly at the way the fabric pushes up against your hole, admiring the little damp spot that's formed.
His hands slide further down your legs now, curling around your thighs and calves, squeezing, trailing back up, brushing the sensitive skin behind your knees and up along the insides of your thighs this time.
"Bet you're warm here," he says, his voice practically a whisper now as he presses a thumb against the inside of your thigh, just shy of your core. "And you're soaked down here, too."
You're a flushed, panting mess at this point, your eyes hazy and hands clenched up. "D-dunno what that means..." He groans at your innocence, slowly pulling your panties down your legs. "That's okay. Just close your eyes and let me check, kay?" You nod lazily, eyes fluttering shut on his command. He pulls your panties all the way off and tucks them into his back pocket, planning to play dumb if you asked where they were later.
You're a little embarrassed at being so exposed to him now, but he's in awe. Your pussy is completely visible to him, folds slick and plush under your plump pussy lips. He's throbbing like crazy. "Hm." he tuts, trying to come up with a lie on the spot so he can take things further. "You need some help here too. This is the only way you can get your whole body to relax."
He traces two fingers up and down your slit, listening to the soft gasps that leave you as he slowly coaxes them inside you. His fingers back and forth slowly, trying to get you to relax and loosen up enough for him to shove them deeper.
Rafe's hands grip your hips suddenly, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he tugs you backwards. Your ass is now raised and presented to him, his fingers never leaving the depths of your core. You swallow hard as you feel his thick, oil slicked fingers thrust in and out of you, making squelching sounds. "Mnh! It's so much, it feels so weird there…"
Rafe huffs, eyes glazed. "Shit… Knew you'd sound pretty when I touched you. Just take it for me"
He keeps pumping his fingers in and out of you at a slow pace, curling them just enough for his fingers to stroke that spongey spot deep inside you that your own smaller fingers were never ever able to reach. You cry out, your back arching off the mat as jolts of pleasure shoot through you. "Shh... there we go. Doing so good. Just need to loosen you up."
You're whining now, his fingers diving in and out of you at a steady, repetitive pace that turns your brain to mush. "Rafe… feels s-good..."
He starts to pick up the pace, scissoring his fingers inside of your clenching pussy, turning his hand so that the angles of his fingers vary. You're bucking your hips back into him, unable to hold back especially as his fingers swirl deeper inside your gooey, untouched walls. Rafe groans, feeling your silky walls ripple and squeeze his invading fingers. "Oh, you like that?" he says, grinning now, drunk on the way your body reacts to him. "Knew you'd be sensitive. Knew you'd be a little fuckin' mess for me."
You squirm and let out a little cry, gushing around him and clenching hard as your vision sparkles. He keeps fingering you as you cum, coaxing you to keep going and push you further off the edge. Your body's still trembling when you finally come down, hips twitching under his hands, your cheek pressed against the mat, lips parted as you gasp for breath. There's a high, dazed flush across your cheeks, hair stuck to your forehead, and your thighs won't stop shaking no matter how hard you try to clench them together.
"Goddamn," he mutters, staring at the mess you made on his fingers. "You came so fuckin' hard…" One arm slides under your waist to lift you with ease, turning you onto your back like you weigh nothing. He's already crawling between your legs, big hands spreading your thighs wide and settling in close. "Still twitching," he murmurs, dragging a single fingertip over your clit, making you gasp. "God, you're so sensitive. You want more?"
You nod, pawing at his shoulders hazily. You're too far gone to realize that this stopped being a massage a while ago. His hands are everywhere again, palming your thighs, sliding up your hips, gripping your waist to yank you down the mat toward him. You let out a soft gasp, hands scrambling to hold onto his arms, but he nudges you of so he can focus on tugging his shorts down. He drops them and his boxers, cock springing free, which is thick and flushed with heavy balls. " 's my massage rod, baby. See? the last part of the massage."
"Mh, y-yes..."
He chuckles at your whines, and lines himself up with your slick, oversensitive pussy, letting the head of his cock drag through your slick folds before just barely nudging your clit.
He leans over you, one hand next to your head, the other wrapped around himself as he teases your hole, circling it, tapping lightly, sliding just the head in before pulling back. "Easy, easy… just gotta prep you first, alright? Don't wanna hurt you," He fusses, watching your face scrunch in anticipation and listening avidly to each tiny noise you make.
One deep, slow thrust that splits you open and punches the air out of your lungs. He sinks into you like he belongs there, like he's been waiting his whole life to be buried inside you. When he bottoms out his hips press flush against yours and he feels your walls fluttering around him, he lets out a sound that's half groan, half growl.
He keeps one hand on your throat, thumb pressed lightly just beneath your jaw, not choking, just holding you there and feeling your pulse race under his fingers while his other hand cups the back of your thigh and shoves it up, folding you in, letting him go deeper, hit deeper.
"Oh fuckkk…" he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. "You feel like heaven, baby."
He starts rutting into you with long, deep strokes at first, slow enough to feel every inch, to let your body adjust and to let you feel how big he is. His hips roll, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every push and he keeps his eyes locked on yours the whole time.
You're whining and babbling, vision spotty from the slight lack of air caused by his hand around your throat, but each time you try to shut your eyes and shut your legs due to the overstimulation from your recent orgasm, he catches your jaw and tilts your face back toward him.
"N-nuh uh," he pants, sweat beading on his forehead. His pupils are dilated and his lips are parted to let out heavy groans. "No looking away, ngh, wanna see that lil look on your face when you fall apart on my cock."
You can't stop the whines that spill from your lips as he shoves his cock deep inside you, strokes hard and rough enough to make your tits bounce with each thrust. "Ah, fuck... you're squeezing me so tight," Rafe groans as he thrusts into you, panting at the way your walls clamp down on his long, thick cock.
You keen, pussy creaming around him even more as you dig your nails into his hard biceps to keep yourself upright, struggling to keep your gaze focused on his. You're so wet that there's juices squelching onto the yoga mat each time he pushes into you, making a mess. The oil covering your body isn't helping either.
He's so deep inside of you, and his balls slapping against your swollen clit is starting to make your head swirl even more. Rafe's large hands grip your hips and guide them back against him with each thrust so you're fucking yourself on his dick. "Shittt, baby. Thought you were s-so fucking innocent, but look at you. Fuckin' yourself on my cock like mnh, fucking slut."
"Rafe!" You cry out his name when he gets real deep inside you. "Sl-slower, please, mnh… you're… it's so deep," You're whining softly, body jerking on his cock as he huffs out a breath and refuses with a gruff "Don't wanna," and pounds into you a little harder just to spite you. He's not going to slow down when he's finally got you where he wants you.
The mat shifts around underneath the two of you as Rafe splits your poor little hole in half on his cock. He lets go of your neck to slide two fingers into your mouth, watching your eyes roll and your tongue swirl around his thick digits. "Atta girl, sweetheart, use that tongue. fuckk..." He throbs inside you, watching the way your pussy sucks him back in every time he tries to pull back. You squeeze him like you were made for him. Makes him wanna put a baby in you.
You gasp when he drives forward hard, hitting that sweet spot inside you that makes tears of pleasure spring to your eyes, and you suck on his fingers hard so you don't scream.
He keeps fucking his cock against that gummy, soft spot in you, angling his body so he can hit your g-spot over and over, and within seconds, you're creaming around his cock, a loud whine leaving your lips as your clear juices coat his thighs and cock.
He nearly cums on the spot at the way you make a mess on him like some silly mutt with no self control and how hard you clench down when you're cumming, but he has a little more self control and stamina than you. "Shit, feels s'good, princess, good girl, keep squeezin' me jus' like that,"
He grabs your hips hard with one hand and takes his fingers out of your mouth to grope at your tits, flicking your pebbled nipple and pinching it between the rough pads of his fingers.
"Anh, Rafe!" You scream, " 'S too much, oh my god Rafe," You wail and babble, overstimulated, but he just grunts and squeezes you tighter. He pulls on your nipple and pinches it lightly. He hilts himself inside you repeatedly with each thrust, not stopping until his heavy balls slap lewdly against your puffy clit.
Your pussy's swollen with overstimulation, and it's tightening up and is really sloppy around his cock. Rafe's heavy cock plunges into your sopping pussy with each thrust, creating squelching sounds as your juices stir up against his in a mess. "Fuck, this pussy's gonna be the death of me, sweetness, grippin' me like a goddamn vice and soakin' my cock," He groans, throwing his head back. Your fucking pussy makes him crazy.
He stretches your poor puffy pussy to its limits, driving desperate moans from you that grow louder the dumber he makes you. Thick strands of your cum cling to his cock as your walls ripple around him as he fucks into your overstuffed cunt, your puffy lips kissing his slicked cock. "Look at you. You wanted this so bad, didn't you? Hah. Fuckin' adorable."
You whine as he pounds you, his cock filling your pussy and hitting the gummy barrier of your womb with every other thrust. You can see the way your tummy plumps up around the outline of his big cock, stretching into your womb.
Your head lolls and he pushes down on your tummy. You cry out and cum again, and he groans and splurts inside of you, dumping heavy loads of cream inside your used pussy. "Fuckkk, that's right princess, milk my fuckin' cock... God, best pussy I had in a long ass time." He leans down to press open mouthed kisses against your cheek, fucking his cum back into you after stuffing you full and breeding you.
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