🥀꒱ HU TAO MAIN. LISA. 19+ YEARS OLD. THEY/THEM. FYODOR'S GF (REAL).
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headcanons on sharing a darling (shared darling au).
› wc: 8.3k.
› characters included: pierro, scaramouche, pantalone, childe, arlecchino, columbina, il dottore, il capitano, sandrone.
› tw: suggestive themes, pseudo-incest and incest (pierro and childe), mention of noncon (pierro), physical punishment (capitano, scaramouche, and sandrone), mention of human trafficking (pantalone), gendered nickname (arlecchino).
› note: ah the length of these headcanons got the best of me… i would have broken this post up into individual pieces, but i think it’s best to read them altogether considering they’re sharing a darling. i also reposted my columbina headcanons here with several additions for the sake of consistency!
also…please pretend scaramouche didn’t run away and is here to partake in darling <3
Synopsis: Your ex, Arlecchino, wants to make things right. ... Or does she?
Characters: Arlecchino x Fem!Reader
Content Warnings: Modern AU, dubcon (bordering on noncon), use of alcohol and drugs, Reader is drugged/drunk throughout almost the whole thing, mention of a strap-on
Word Count: 3.0K
A/N: Wrote this last summer and cross-posted it from my AO3 account.
-> Also available on AO3!
Just what had made Arlecchino so distant to you?
You tried to make this relationship work, you really did. But eventually, the stoic attitude, the backhanded comments and the late-night texts got to you. As such, you gave up on deciphering the motive behind Arlecchino’s slowly deteriorating interest in you and took the initiative.
Moving out of your shared apartment and removing the hearts from her username in your contacts was the first big step. Getting over it was the second.
And in your defence, you had been making some great progress. You immersed yourself in your work – even going as far as to request that you do overtime –, rekindled a few past interests of yours – from sewing and painting to collecting candy wrappers and magazine cut-outs – and made an effort to hang out with your friends some more.
The cocoon felt warm and familiar, but you could not stay a caterpillar forever. And the reflection smiling back at you had nothing but pride for your dazzling new wings. Such a specimen would make for a remarkable addition to an entomologist’s collection, had you fallen into the wrong hands.
~
The crisp sensation of old yellowed pages between your fingers did little to unease you. Your mind was fixated upon copying word after word on a fresh sheet of paper, adorned with red and blue lines. Your day couldn’t feel more casual.
A familiar pair of footsteps entered. Leather shoes against the freshly-mopped tiled floor. Your sensors weren’t too alarmed until a familiar voice coughed politely.
“Ahem… uhm, miss? There’s someone here to see you.”
You raised your head, meeting with the shy expression of one of the interns; Ganyu. She pushed her glasses up the rim of her nose, its hinges held together with duct tape. You set your pen down, leaving just a faint blue smudge on your palm.
“Really? I wasn’t expecting any visitors.”
The girl shrugged, raising a hand to rub the sweat away from the back of her neck.
“Well, I wouldn’t know. She insisted that you meet her outside as soon as you can.”
She? Your first assumption was that Hu Tao, Xiangling, Xinyan or all three had decided to drop by for a surprise visit. Going out for milkshakes once every week or so was a staple of yours.
Either way, you’d never find out for yourself had you stayed there and theorized about it. So, you fixed the collar of your shirt and pushed your swivel chair back.
“Alright, I’m going. I won’t take long. Tell Keqing that I’m almost done with the old reports.”
~
Clad in a fancy suit and leaning against her car, with a packed bouquet of sunflowers in her arms, was none other than your estranged ex, Arlecchino. Her hair was combed neatly, black streaks perfectly aligned with the white, there was not a single dent or crease on the fabric of her clothes and her lips were painted the same sharp black her hands were submerged in. She was there with intent, and anyone who passed by could tell so with a single glance.
The moment you stepped outside, the world that had been spinning and twisting like a kaleidoscope came to an abrupt stop. You were face to face with a weed that had been plucked from your garden months ago. Yet there she was, smiling at you as though the two of you had been apart for no longer than a day or two.
Before any sense of rationality could grab a hold of you, you found yourself stomping over to Arlecchino with your hands clenched in fists and your eyes narrowed. A vile glint of delight flashed over those crimson Xs within her ebony pupils. The height difference was still the same.
“Y/N, my dear” she purred. Her voice was just as sultry, alluring and luscious as your wretched gut remembered it. A row of pearly white teeth peaked between her lips; work of her signature lipstick. “It’s a pleasure to see you again after so long. Would it be bold of me to assume that you’ve missed me? If so, I’m willing to ease your grief in exchange for a hug.”
A frustrated hiss escaped you. You had already made the mistake of giving her the time of day. Might as well show your claws to her.
“Don’t give me that shit. What the hell are you doing here?” you spat out.
Arlecchino sighed, not even one bit amused at your antics. She raised a hand, claws brushing against your cheek tenderly. Your aggressiveness was no more than a childish tantrum to her, it seemed.
“My, my. Is this a proper way of speaking to me? You look at me as though I’ve defiled you.”
A layer of gooseflesh rose in the wake of her claws. A blue screen of death flashed inside your brain for a split second before you snapped back to reality.
“You can’t just show up like this after months of radio silence. I thought I made that clear when we broke things off. Least you could’ve done was send a text.”
She huffed, doing a rare eyeroll of hers. “I know you’re not petty enough to block me, dear. But I wanted this to be a surprise. And besides…” Her voice trailed off as she proudly presented the bouquet to you. “… I got you a little gift. Your favourites, yes?”
Your gaze slipped down to the flurry of sunflowers in Arlecchino’s arms. Each and every single one of them was carefully picked, you could tell. Their yellow petals seemed to be facing you, searching for their source of sunlight. Indeed, sunflowers have always been your favourites.
“I…” you found yourself at a loss for words. The flame within you was quickly reignited once you realized that flowers make for no form of bribery, no matter how pretty they are. “Don’t try that. I’m not interested in reconnecting, and I don’t hook up with exes either.”
Your defences did little to discourage Arlecchino’s spirit. A single click of her tongue only served to irritate you further.
“Come now, dear. I came all the way here just for you.”
She paused for a brief moment. Her expression softened ever so slightly. Such vulnerable cracks on her tough exterior used to be reserved for your eyes only.
“I know you didn’t ask me to come. But I’m not here to test your patience or plead with you to take me back. I simply wish to make things right between the two of us.”
You did not add anything to this. You kept your hands crossed, eyes focusing on the oh-so interesting pavement beneath your feet. But Arlecchino’s ever-so watchful gaze did not fail to pick up on your steadily blossoming buds of second thoughts. She kept pushing.
“I’m aware of my wrongdoings during our relationship and how much I hurt you. Which is why I’d like for the two of us to spend some time together. You won’t have to face me ever again, but I want us to depart on good terms.”
A long, painful pause followed. Your half-lidded eyes were foggy with memories of the past. As bitter as you were about the whole thing, you couldn’t deny the fact that you had loved Arlecchino a lot. A lot of things for multiple different reasons got in your way, effectively pushing you to make that final decision. But it was quite a shame. You couldn’t just stay resentful forever. Washing away the acid that burned through the fuzzy blanket of your love couldn’t be a waste.
You sighed softly, letting your hands fall to your sides. “What do you have in mind?”
You didn’t see it but the Knave’s lips curled in a pleased smile. You didn’t know it but you were dancing perfectly to the rhythm of her meticulously planned score.
“I was thinking of taking you out for lunch. You wouldn’t be opposed to some spaghetti, would you?”
Your muscles involuntarily stretched into a grin. “No, not at all.” You looked up at her once more; all signs of hostility now vanished. “I’m open to being on good terms, if that’s what you want. Just… let me go wrap things up in the office.”
Arlecchino gingerly handed over the bouquet to you. The cellophane crackled faintly in response to your touch. You couldn’t help the puppy-like sparkles in your eyes.
“I’m glad to hear that.” She purrs. “And don’t you worry about the bill. I am a gentleman, first and foremost.”
~
You were dumb. You really were.
You should’ve noticed that the moment you ordered a second glass. Or the moment the familiar crimson of Dandelion wine gained some uncharacteristic pink hues. Or maybe even the moment you made yourself comfortable in the passenger’s seat, blissfully unaware of the night you’re about to experience.
But you were in too deep, and it was rather late into the night. So, when you stumbled out of that restaurant with an arm over Arlecchino’s shoulders and her hand on your waist, you were too dumb to notice. A cocktail of alcohol and some other chemicals was swirling inside your skull, boosting your veins with energy and making your eyes blurry. Your clumsy footsteps were a product of inebriation, yet they were on par with Arlecchino’s increasingly tense choreography.
“Hey, Arleeeee.” You slurred. “Wanna come over to my house and plaaaaay?”
A hiccup and a drunken giggle left your lips as you accidentally stepped on your escort’s shoe.
“Careful, darling” she mused, unable to hide her pleased smile. “You’ll end up flat on your face if you keep this up.”
You couldn’t care less at the time. You hadn’t experienced the joys of inebriation for months and those additional chemicals were making you giddier than ever. Your mind was submerged in murky waters, unable to remind you of who is leading you to her car right now.
To Arlecchino’s delight, everything was going according to plan. Sure, she might prefer her darling sober but the clearheaded you would never agree to follow her back to her apartment for some late-night festivities. She sighed in a faux melancholy as she sat you down in the plush seat, gingerly strapping you to it.
“I hope you don’t mind me taking you back to my apartment. It wouldn’t be wise to let a drunken young lady stammer back home on her own.”
You giggled again, relishing in this state of wooziness.
“Me? Nah, of course not.”
Poor, stupid you.
Arlecchino hummed in satisfaction, settling in the driver’s seat next to you. With a flick of her keys, the car whirred to life and slowly backed out from its parking spot. Soon enough, the two of you were zooming down the street and past the neon lights adorning almost every building in the vicinity.
You tilted your head to the left, lips parted with need. The discreet scent of wine escaped along with your quiet yet laboured breaths. Arlecchino gave you a short-lived glance, hiding a pleased smirk past your cloud of awareness.
“What is it, dear?”
Your lips formed an O before pressing together in a fine line, smudging away what little remained of your cherry lip gloss. You narrowed your eyes, trying to string a sentence together.
“Hey… like, you’re so hot. Are you single by any chance?”
Arlecchino couldn’t help the faint chuckle that blossomed in her chest. Her eyes focused on the gleaming traffic light before you, its blazing red colour pulsating much like her anticipation. This had been a long time coming.
“I’m flattered, little one. But you could say I’m taken. I have already set my sights on someone, you see.” She teases.
You groaned in defeat, throwing your head back and slumping your shoulders.
“Dammit. And here I was hoping I’d score another chapstick lesbian.” You lulled your head to the side, eyeing Arlecchino with an empty yet solemn gaze. A hazy fraction of a memory resurfaced. “Hey… you look a lot like my ex, y’know?”
Arlecchino squared her shoulders, tensing ever so slightly. It was too early for the drug to start wearing off. The light flashed green and she stepped on the accelerator with a little bit more force than necessary, causing the tires to screech against the road.
“Really?” She uttered between gritted teeth and clenched the steering wheel.
You smiled innocently and beckoned forward, hands clasped between your thighs.
“Mhm! You should’ve seen her… she railed me so good. Now I can’t even make myself feel good.”
You sighed melancholically and lazily leaned your head against the window, idly watching the city go by. Arlecchino sighed in relief, regaining her unbothered façade. Seems like you had yet to make the connection.
“She sounds interesting. Tell me more about her.”
Your lips curled in a drowsy grin, more than willing to indulge your mysterious escort in a ego-stroking session. And to your blissful ignorance, she would indulge you in a different kind of stroking session as a reward later on.
“Hmm… well, she was tall, strong and just looked so fucking good. She smelled like ambers, cedarwood and some kind of manly cologne. She had a… uhh, whaddya call it? A strap, yeah. It was so fucking good.”
Arlecchino’s heart picked up the pace, sending an involuntary shudder within her. Perhaps this is what reminded her of her attraction to you. Your ability to keep her guessing and shake her to her core, even when donning the skin of a sweet innocent lamb.
Well… two could play at this game.
“How intriguing…” She mused, lips quirking up even more so. “I had quite the unforgettable ex too, you know? Shame that she broke up with me.”
You perked up, eyes widening in curiosity as you glanced back at her. “She broke up with you? But you’re so hot!”
You huffed in frustration, already angry at this hypothetical ex-girlfriend, wholly unaware of the fact that you see her face everyday in the mirror. “What a bitch”, you muttered under your breath, pouting for added effect. Arlecchino couldn’t help but snicker at this as well.
“Indeed. She was quite the difficult one. Stubborn and impulsive. But I could never stay mad at her.”
You rolled your eyes, a gesture that only made you even dizzier amidst the hailstorm of lights surrounding you.
“How edgy. If I were her, I’d just let you hit again. Like, c’mooon!”
That was exactly what Arlecchino had been waiting to hear. A form of affirmation. A fleeting joke that she could take as a yes.
And she was quite in luck. Just a sharp U-turn later and she was manoeuvring the car down the polished road leading to the underground parking lot of her apartment building. The screeching of the tires bounced off the walls and echoed from corner to corner. Arlecchino hastily slotted the vehicle in the nearest spot available, not caring about her abysmal parking job in the slightest.
It wasn’t long before her claws were wrapped taut around your wrist, tugging you along to the elevator. You stumbled behind her, struggling to get your bearings together. The world was more confusing than ever.
The next time you saw your face was in the greasy mirror of the elevator, rosy and disoriented at it all. It occurred to you that you did not recognize yourself. The plume of fire that burnt so strongly within you fizzled out within moments, leaving you with a foreign vessel and a demented mind. Only the tall and slim figure besides you seemed familiar. If you only could…
Your malfunctioning train of thought was derailed when Arlecchino wrapped her arms around you and squeezed you again the wall of the elevator. Her lips found yours, colliding in a way that made fireworks explode in the back of your eyelids. Your senses went into overdrive as all of you was consumed by all of her. The remaining traces of dandelion wine were swept away by her tongue, invading your mouth with its lingering taste of burnt coal. Your ears ringed as you melted against her. There was nowhere to go that wasn’t her.
The kiss lasted for what felt like forever. When Arlecchino pulled back and detached her lips from yours, you were left seeing stars. Her heart swelled with a wave of possessive desire upon taking this sight in. She had you right where she wanted you.
“You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted you. To have you back in my arms, where you belong.”
At this, something cold and rational crept up your spine and nestled itself in your heart. In the back of your head, rising amidst the flurry of alcohol-fuelled blood clots and liquified drugs, was the real you. The real, sober you. And she was trying to look past the mist, to really focus on the woman before you. And she was all too familiar to her.
Arlecchino picked up on this quickly. The playful ignorance of the substances in your system was subsiding. A tiny yet omnipresent you was trying to make her way back to the surface and defy her once more.
No, she could not let you slip between her fingers once more.
Not wasting a second, Arlecchino viciously attacked your neck, sinking her teeth in your supple flesh once more, piercing through your heartbeat. You winced in pain and pleasure at the same time, digging your nails in the back of her coat, unaware that the rebel in your head had sunk back to the bottom of your gut.
Sobriety would come eventually. Arlecchino knew damn well you would hate her the moment you’d come back to your senses. But she didn’t care. She wanted to savour this. To pretend that everything was fine between the two of you. To play dollhouse with a dumbed down version of you.
And despite what came next, she’d take you back. And she’d remind you of who you belonged to from the very beginning. You never had a choice, after all.
english is not my first language. please excuse any mistakes.
“Hop, hop, little bunny, hop, hop.”
You sang your made-up song and clapped, waiting for the shorter boy who looked at you with tears in his eyes to do what the lyrics said. “I said hop!”
The boy visibly flinched at how loud you shouted at him, then he slowly crouched down. Seeing that, you started to sing again.
“Hop, hop, little bunny, hop, hop.”
The boy hopped.
His name was Bunny Iglesias, and he used to be the smallest boy in your class. Looking at him now, it’d never been clearer that the word ‘small’ couldn’t describe the boy you used to bully anymore. In fact, at the age of nineteen, he was already taller than most of the people in this fancy-ass night club.
You wished you hadn’t come. What were the chances of meeting a school friend whom you hadn’t met in thirteen years again? Possible, but not likely, you reckoned. So when a big group of men entered your zone and you saw a familiar face there, your brain short-circuited for a second.
And it had to be him, didn’t it?
One could never forget a face like that—red, wide eyes with that pale lavender hair, and an x-shaped scar on his right cheek. The vertical cut ran across his eye while the horizontal went across the bridge of his nose. You used to tease him about it, making his bright eyes lose the light within when you said it made him look like a freak. It was this exact same scar that lived in your head rent-free for years even after its owner was gone.
You were both six years old when you met in primary school, and by seven, Bunny left. He used to love basketball, always staying late to use the school’s court. The first time you saw him on TV playing football, you stopped whatever you were doing and stared until the camera cut to another player—stunned.
“Aren’t basketball players supposed to be tall?” You asked mockingly, your thumbs hooked on your backpack straps, standing on the sideline talking to the only person using the court. “If you’re short, you gotta jump higher.”
There was no reaction from Bunny, and that made you want to provoke him more.
“Well, your name is already Bunny. Go on. Jump,” you said. “Jump like a little bunny.”
Bunny’s eyes turned to you, and you instantly snapped out of your childhood memory.
“I’m going to go get some air.” You told one of your friends, didn’t wait for an answer and just walked. You needed to get out of here. Passing through the crowd of people, you headed towards where you knew would lead to the exit. When you saw the door, you walked faster. Just a few steps away, you thought.
Suddenly, your wrist was grabbed, and the door was no longer in sight. You were pulled into what looked like a short hallway. There was another door at the end, but there was a belt barrier in front of it, telling you there would be no one coming in to possibly rescue you from whatever situation you were about to be in.
Of course it was Bunny standing in front of you. The club’s low light fell on one side of his face, and you knew. It was the scar; it couldn’t be someone else. If you thought he was tall before, he was imposing now face-to-face. Gone was the scrawny little kid whose dream was to be a basketball player. Now, he was the Bunny Iglesias of FC Barcha, one of the most promising players in the football world right now.
“Do you remember me?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Your voice was hoarse, but you knew he heard you because the music wasn’t that loud here. “Of course.”
“And you didn’t think to say hi,” he said with a blank stare. “That was rude of you.”
Confused, you said, “Hi.”
That made him laugh, but it was dry and mirthless. Then his eyes scanned you, roving along your body from your feet up, making you fidget and suddenly uncomfortable in your skimpy spaghetti-strap dress.
“You’re so,” he paused to ponder, “small”
Oh, you knew he still hated you, alright. Thirteen years and still hadn’t forgotten what you said to him and made him do. Now he spat it back in your face, and he wasn’t wrong. Having to crane your neck just to take a look at his face, you were sure he was at least 6’3. Huge and fit, very athletic.
And very scary. Considering that you used to bully him verbally and physically, it wasn’t that unreasonable to think he might want some payback.
But you were six years old, for crying out loud. Kids did things they didn’t mean all the time. You wanted to say, but you also knew he had the right to be mad. You hid his basketball, called him a little bunny and made him hop like one. You made fun of his dream. After the teacher made everyone stand up and tell their classmates their dreams, you told him his would never come true, that it was stupid and he should give it up.
You were the reason he moved schools the following year.
His parents made sure everyone knew, all the teachers and parents, resulting in your classmates distancing themselves from you. After he was gone, you became the next freak no one wanted to talk to. There was no way you wouldn’t remember him. He left quite an impression, too.
“You should come to my game,” he said, giving you a soft smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Next Saturday.”
“I’m busy,” you answered a bit too quickly, and he squinted. “College stuff.”
“You owe me an apology.” He finally addressed the elephant in the room. “It’s the least you could do.”
It was that moment you noticed his hand was still on you, his thumb caressing the inside of your wrist gently. It did nothing to ease your mind, though. Deep down, you knew this was a bad idea, but because of what he said, you promised you would go. Just like he said—it was the least you could do.
—
Hop, hop, little bunny, hop, hop.
You thought of that silly song as you watched Bunny jump unrealistically high and kick the ball mid-air, scoring another goal for his team. At this point where there were only two minutes left, there was no way the other team would take the lead, not unless they could score two goals in succession or one to at least tie so the game would go to extra time. That would give them another chance to try to score a winning goal, but from the look of it, you didn’t think it was going to happen.
Bunny’s play was incredible. He was fast, powerful, and precise. And his jump… it was damn insane. You felt a pang of shame in your heart every time he did it, thinking back to the times you used to watch him jump under the basketball hoop, one hand reaching up trying to get close to the rim. He could’ve definitely been a basketball player. It was you who didn’t see the vision and acted like a dick.
Because you were a kid.
He told you to wait for him after the game, but you weren’t going to. Coming here today was you paying for your sins, but you refused to be gaslit into believing you had to give anything more.
And so you left, only to meet him again a week later in the same club, ending up in the same hallway, but this time, on your knees with his cock down your throat.
He was angry you left. Your phone was bombarded with texts from him that day after the game asking where you’d gone, but you left them unread and quickly muted the chat. You didn’t want to give him your number, but you had to because he said he’d text you the details on where to get the ticket and stuff.
It should’ve been enough, going to his game to acknowledge how great he had become, but Bunny didn’t share the same sentiment. For him, you didn’t deserve to be let off so easily. It was unfortunate that one of his friends befriended one of yours, and that your friend happened to tell that new friend they were going to be here tonight. That was how Bunny knew; he thought he would find you here, and he did.
Breathing through your nose was the only thing that kept you conscious, considering how blocked your mouth was. Bunny fucked your face hard, mercilessly, with both of his hands on the back of your head, shoving you down to take him in as much as you could.
The first couple of times he made you deepthroat him, you gagged, not used to the deep invasion. But he was surprisingly patient for someone who told you frankly he was angry with you before hauling your ass away from the dance floor to suck cock in a place where people could see if they were nosy or drunk enough to stray in.
“Relax your throat. More, angel, more. Just like that. Fuck.”
It felt like your jaw was going to fall off. It took him forever to come, but when he did, you realized you weren’t quite ready for it. The whole load was blown down your throat, and you had no choice but to swallow, drinking his cum as if it were a drink served directly and exclusively to you. It might as well have been, seeing that it made you a little drunk.
Bunny slapped your face with his cock teasingly before tucking himself in, smiling sweetly all the while. Under the influence of his cum, it looked almost genuine.
From then on, you didn’t dare ignore his texts again.
—
His pull-out game was atrociously weak, and most of the time, he didn’t even try. Who would’ve thought Bunny would have a breeding kink? Not you. He didn’t seem like the type to risk doing this with anyone. In fact, he didn’t seem like the type to be interested in sex at all. He just… looked bored all the time. Even with the permanent cold smile etched on his face, you weren’t fooled. This man was so dead inside and pessimistic to the core. You didn’t see that bright-eyed kid anymore when you looked at him.
The fact that he seemed to genuinely enjoy doing something for once, even if that something involved filling your pussy up with his cum and telling you he’d get you round with his kids so you could never leave, surprised you to no end.
When confronted with the observation and the plea for him to be more careful, because even if you were on the pill, it wasn’t foolproof, he simply said,
“You ruined my life. I ruined yours. Isn’t that fair?”
“Fair? I was six years old!”
“And yet, you still managed to destroy the dream of another six-year-old so carelessly," he said, calm and collected. “I lost the one thing I enjoyed, and then I gained another. Fair.”
He didn’t have to tell you what that one thing was; you knew immediately he was talking about basketball, and you as its replacement. Absolutely bonkers.
Then he unzipped his jeans. “Now, hop on my cock.”
And hop on it you did. You were glad he didn’t make you sing the song, vengeful as he was; that would’ve made you wish you hadn’t been born. His full length slid into your pussy without a hitch, and in no time, you were bouncing on it. It didn’t take you long to feel an orgasm creeping in. After months of fucking, Bunny already knew your body like the back of his hand.
Bunny pulled you down against his chest and wrapped both arms completely around you then bucked his hips up fast, fucking you dumb. You wished you still had some fight left in you, just like the first few months when you used to make things hard for him. It was almost too easy now, and at times, you felt ashamed of yourself.
The feeling of his cum spurting inside was inexplicably intimate; it was like being marked—a property of Bunny Iglesias. And perhaps, you were. He even introduced you to his teammates, just a few weeks back, telling everyone you used to have a big crush on him, and that was why you were a little mean to him as a kid. He didn’t go into details, didn’t tell anyone you crushed his dream, but his eyes told you he would if you wouldn’t shut up and play along.
“Cute story, isn’t it?” Bunny said to his footballer friends, his big hand placed on your waist proprietarily. He brought you down to the field after the game for some photos, and if nobody noticed you wearing a number 19 jersey before, they definitely did now. “Now her wish is fulfilled. Never give up, right?”
People laughed, and you laughed with them. And when Bunny kissed you, you did your best not to pull back too soon and even kissed him back, once on the lips and once on his scar. Immediately, the fake glee on his face was replaced with something darker. His eyes were clouded by a look that read, ‘You will get fucked until you cry tonight,’ but you didn’t care.
warnings: non-con, locker room sex, unsafe sex, blackmail, fangirl reader, stalker-ish reader, delulu-ish reader, virgin reader, mentioned alexis ness, jealousy, kaiser has issues, shower sex
word count: 2.7k
english is not my first language. please excuse any mistakes.
Although you'd been following your favorite player around for years, sneaking into the Bastard München locker room was what you considered crossing the line. You told yourself you wouldn't go that far. You're weren't a stalker. You really weren't.
You were here tonight anyway, standing in the isolated dressing room—hours after today's match ended—staring at the players' lockers in amazement, searching for one in particular. It wasn't that hard to find since each one of them had a photo of its owner on the door.
Stopping in front of Alexis Ness's locker, you excitedly put your phone up to snap a few photos. You'd never felt so close to him. Sure, you'd seen him in many games and waited outside the training facility with other fans to meet the players after practices, but this time was different—special.
You were about to touch the locker handle to see if it was locked when the door to the dressing room was suddenly yanked opened. Michael Kaiser stepped in and immediately stopped when he saw you.
There were at least 25 players in club and tons of staff who could've walked into this room even though none should have, considering how late it was. Why did it have to be him?
"Who the fuck are you?" Kaiser grunted as his eyes scanned you. "Were you following me?"
Following him? You had to stop yourself from gagging.
"No, I'm picking up something for," you considered your options, "Yoichi."
You went with the first name that entered your mind, Isagi Yoichi. You wondered if you'd made the right choice. They hated each other, had been since they were teenagers. Now, years into their professional careers, they were still at each other's throats. The chances of him chatting Isagi up and telling him about you should be slim, right?
"Let me see your phone," Kaiser said, walking towards you with his hand held out.
"What?" You stepped back. "No."
"I know a crazy fan when I see one."
You debated coming clean about what you'd done, but when you saw Kaiser's grim face, you panicked. Walking towards you meant he was no longer blocking the exit, so you chanced it and darted to the door.
Your attempt failed straightaway as Kaiser caught you by your waist, lifted you up on his shoulder and walked to the other side of the room. You never realized he was this huge and probably never would if you hadn't come here tonight and been carried by him.
Kaiser made a left turn into a long hallway, carrying you past multiple rooms, never faltering once no matter how hard you tried to wriggle out of his hold. When you were on your feet again, you were in the shower room. Caught off guard, the phone was then snatched from your hand.
"No," you yelped. "Give it back."
The Bastard München striker only pushed you against the wall and said, "Stay still."
The phone was held directly in front of your face. You tried to close your eyes, knowing what he was trying to do, but your face was quickly recognized.
"Picking something up for Yoichi, huh?" He said as he tapped on the screen. "What a bullshit. Just admit it. You were here to see me."
He froze.
"You gotta be fucking kidding me." The hand he put on your chest to push you earlier moved up to grip your neck. "Ness?"
You knew he was going through your photos, and the faster his thumb slid on the screen, the harder he gripped you. All those photos of Alexis, the memes, the arts, the edits. Hundreds, no, thousands of them. In other words, he was going through your obsession.
"Why?"
"Why?" you repeated the question, confused.
"Why Ness?"
---
Why not him?
He wanted to ask, but he didn't want to sound pathetic. Between you and him, the only one who should be called pathetic tonight was you. Easing off on the grip around your neck, he waited for you to thrash and try to get away again but you didn't, learning quite fast that it was pointless.
Your neck looked fine when it was released, and he was a little bit disappointed. You'd look so pretty wearing his handprint like a necklace. It was a nice thought, though it was quickly spoiled by the fact that you'd probably want that mark to be left by Ness and not him. Just thinking about it left a bad taste in his mouth.
"I don't know. I just—like him."
Your answer irked him even more.
"Shut up. You disgust me," he snapped. "I'm calling the police."
"Oh God no, please. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I fucked up," you pleaded, looking absolutely frightened. "I was dumb. I shouldn't have done it. I'm just a fangirl, please, I meant no harm."
"Aw, I meant no harm. I magically appeared in the locker room and, um, took some photos. I don't even like Alexis Ness at all. His photos magically appeared on my phone, too," Kaiser mocked in a fake high-pitched voice.
From what he saw in your gallery, you were no doubt Ness's biggest fan. It wasn't that Ness didn't have his own fan club, but the idea of him having someone who liked him so much they would break into the club's locker room to see his locker didn't sit right with him.
"I understand," you said, patting the middle of your chest softly with your hand, "but can I please ask you not to report me?"
Simply pathetic, but also so sweetly polite he wanted to fuck you against that wall you leaned on, wanting to know if you'd still be this sweet having your guts rearranged by his cock.
"No."
"Sir, Kaiser, Michael." You struggled to find a proper way to address him, but he rather liked the way his first name rolled off your tongue.
"Michael," he said his first name, signaling you to use it.
"Michael, can I negotiate?"
That wasn't wise, but he didn't voice his opinion and only nodded.
"I know you don't need money, but if you do, this is what I have," you said and then took a small card holder out of the back pocket of your jeans to show him its contents. There were two credit cards, an id, and a creased five euro note. "I have a bit more in my bank accounts. You can have it, really."
"Darling, you gotta do better than that." He chuckled, his first laugh of the day, actually.
Everyone was down after a home loss today, but while they all moved on and went home after an intense debrief, Michael stayed behind. A couple of hours of solo practice was supposed to clear his head, yet he was as grumpy as the first moment he realized they were defeated on their home ground.
He didn't think it was going to be you who brought a smile to his face tonight, but he was going to take what he could get. Looking at you now as you tried your best to convince him to not contact the authorities, he wanted to tell you it was going to take a lot more than money to make him zip his lip and forget what happened, but it was your job to figure it out.
You were quiet for a while, clearly thinking, and he let you be. You seemed like a smart girl, and you proved him right when you spoke again.
"Do you—do you want a blowjob?"
"Now we're talking," Michael leaned in closer. "But no, I don't want a blowjob."
"Sex?"
This time, his laugh was louder than a chuckle.
"It's not funny," you said, looking downright embarrassed.
"Are you asking me to fuck you?" he asked. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. What would Ness say?"
As soon as you heard Ness's name, you looked at him as if the devil had appeared in front of you. You had been caught in the act, carried, and choked tonight, but it was the mere mention of his friend's name that made tears well up in your eyes. Michael noted the influence Ness had on you; he also noted that he didn't like it very much.
"I don't want to fuck a slut. Not tonight. I don't have a condom with me."
"I'm not. I mean, I don't sleep around," you said, shaking your head rapidly. "Never, actually."
"Saving yourself for Ness?"
"No," you muttered before inhaling deeply and letting out a long sigh. "I mean, kind of. I know it's not going to happen, though."
Before he could stop himself, he let out another laugh.
"Oh," you said with a straight face, but in the next second, one fat tear rolled down your cheek. You quickly wiped it off.
Respectfully, Michael was going to fucking ruin you. There would not be a piece of you left for Ness, or anyone else for that matter. And by the time you realized he fucked you a little too possessively, creaming your pussy a little too deep and too much, you wouldn't be the same person you were before you met him.
Finders keepers or whatever they said.
But he wanted to play with you first.
"You're in luck. I'm not the kind of person who steals someone's girl," said Michael. "How about you help me shower?"
"Hel—help you shower?"
"Why? You have a better offer?"
"No, no, but what do I do?"
"Whatever you have to do to make my body clean?" he said and then began to strip. "Unless you don't mind wearing wet clothes after we're done, you might wanna get naked."
For a second, he thought you'd change your mind, but then you looked at him—silent determination written on your face—and took off your shirt.
"I help you shower, and you won't call the police. That's the deal, right?"
He forced himself to take his eyes off your bra-clad tits as he replied, "Yeah."
"You'll forget you saw me here?"
"Yeah, why not," Michael said, stepping out of his boxer briefs and tossing it on the only bench in the room, on top of his jersey, socks, and shorts. Then, he put his and your phones on top of the pile.
"You won't tell Alexis?" You chanced asking.
Michael's mood turned sour the instant he heard you say Ness's name. He walked to the nearest shower and turned it on. "You're pushing it."
Standing there under the warm spray of water, he washed his hair as he waited for you to remove all your clothes, fold, and place them neatly on the bench beside his messy pile. If you were tempted to grab the phones and run, you didn't show it. He didn't think you'd do it, though, naked as the day you were born as you were, you'd probably die of embarrassment.
"Quit stalling," Michael drawled. "Come soap me up."
---
Even though you hated his guts, you had to admit Michael's body was art. Tall, lean, broad shouldered—a body that could model if he decided to quit football. The blue rose tattoo on his neck that journeyed down the length of his arm was done masterfully. It suited him, making him look like the so-called 'God's Chosen Emperor' the press loved to call him, and with you washing his body like a maid serving her king, they weren't far off.
"You missed a spot."
Startled, you looked up at him, hoping you'd misheard. Because you'd washed everywhere but there. And if he thought you would touch it, he was out of his mind.
"Please do it yourself," you said.
"Not what we agreed on."
You closed your eyes and counted to five; that was all the time you had before Michael grabbed your hand and put it on his cock.
"Fuck," Michael cursed and stepped closer to you, backing you against the wall the second time that night.
"Open your eyes," he ordered and then placed his hand on top of yours and moved it up and down, making you jerk him off.
"Michael," you said and finally opened your eyes.
"Yes, darling?"
"That's not what we agreed on." You threw his words back at him and pulled your hand away from his clutch.
"It is," he replied, pressing his forehead against yours. "I said help me shower, do you not clean your pussy when you shower?"
He rubbed the head of his cock against your entrance, and you froze on the spot.
"I asked you a question," he said.
"Yes. Yes, I do." You gasped as his cock brushed your clit. He was too close. All it took was one push and there would be no turning back. "Michael—"
He thrust once, you swore he did, and the tip of his cock entered you. It didn't hurt, but that was also not the biggest part of him you had to take.
"Fuck, it just slipped in," he said in an unserious tone, looking at you with a somewhat amused expression.
You must have looked ridiculous with your eyes widened and your lips parted. You felt ridiculous—stupid—for coming here, for believing you could walk out of here unscathed. This was Michael Kaiser, and he wasn't a nice person. He wasn't nice to Alexis, and that was his own friend who'd stuck with him through thick and thin. Having seen their interactions on and off-screen countless times, you knew how ill-tempered Michael was—how he didn't deserve Alexis's kindness at all.
The realization that you'd just lost your virginity to this horrible man made your heart lurch in your chest.
"I hate you so much," you said, and mirth left his face at once.
With one swift thrust, he forced himself all the way in, and this time, it stung. You heard yourself moan in pain, but Michael was quick to shut you up, kissing you until you couldn't breathe and had to hit his arm to ask for air.
You felt a little lightheaded when he let your mouth go, probably from both being in the shower for too long and getting fucked by a mad man. He lifted one of your legs up to accommodate himself, and he fucked you like that for some minutes before he mumbled something about not being deep enough and just picked you up in his arms and bounced you on his cock instead.
At one point, he turned off the shower. Without the sound of water, the sex noises were impossible to be filtered out. The sound of skin slapping and the way he called you his darling messed horribly with your brain, but it was the way he fucked you, rough and domineering, that turned it to mush. You didn't understand how an act so vulgar could be so arousing, but you were learning, whimpering like a kicked puppy every time his cock hit your sweet spot.
"You're coming home with me," Michael whispered against your cheek. "My home or the police station. You choose."
Like you had a choice.
"Choose," he said again.
"Your home!"
"You'll love it there," he assured you.
A couple of frenzied thrusts later, his cock twitched inside you, and you didn't have to be a genius to know what that meant.
"Out," you gasped, trying to push him off you, but trying as you might, Michael wouldn't listen. "Please, why, why would you—"
The sentence was left unfinished as Michael interrupted you.
"Because I know you would've let Ness come inside if it were him fucking you, and I want that, too." he hissed, pumping his cum even deeper into your womb after he let that out.
There was no point in arguing after hearing that twisted reasoning, so you kept your mouth shut and kept holding onto his neck, suddenly scared he'd drop you out of spite. But Michael gently lowered you down to your feet, and God, how you wanted to run and not look back. If you could guarantee Michael wouldn't chase you, you might try to risk it.
Something told you he would, though. From the way he leaned down to kiss you as if he hadn't just irreversibly damaged you, you knew he wasn't done with you, yet. He would chase, and he would have fun doing it.
"Let's get you dressed," he said as his thumb caressed your lower lip. "And let's go home."
synopsis. desperation and hunger drove you to the qin manor — an accursed place from which no one came back. but you would take the risk any day, if it meant securing abandoned jewelries to pay for your survival. unfortunately, jewelries aren’t the only ones forgotten in there.
a/n. inspired by his recent 4* card where he gets us the pretty necklace! also written because of my raw and weird desire to have mirror sex with a vampire… please tell me your thoughts! feedback and reblogs are deeply appreciated!
the manor loomed before you like a corpse that refused to decay.
its windows were hollow eyes, its doors gaping lips frozen mid-scream. you’d heard the stories whispered in the taverns — that no one who crossed the iron gates of qin manor ever walked out again.
but hunger and desperation dulled the edge of fear.
gold glittered brighter than superstition.
the fog was thick enough to taste. it curled around the iron fences like smoke, softening the gleam of the moonlight until everything looked drowned in silver. you moved quietly through it all, a shadow among shadows, ragged boots barely making a sound on the dew-slick grass.
everyone in town whispered about this place. the old qin estate. cursed, they said. haunted, they promised. the perfect hiding place for jewelries no one dared to claim.
you smirked at that.
bad omens were for people with the luxury of fear.
the iron fence bit into your calloused palms as you climbed, the metal slick with frost. soon, your boots hit the cracked ground on the other side with a muted thud.
no dogs. no guards. only the silence of a place the world had already decided to forget.
you crossed the overgrown garden, weeds curling around cracked marble statues. the air smelled faintly of rot and rosewater — the scent of a home that once pretended at elegance.
“disgusting aristocrats.” you cursed to yourself, increasing the pace of your steps to traverse the gardens faster.
when you reached an adjacent servant’s door, hidden carefully behind thick bushes and age-stained columns, the rusted lock yielded beneath your pick in less than a minute. a soft click, and the old hinges groaned as you successfully slipped inside the cursed manor.
the darkness breathed around you.
every sound echoed too clearly — the crunch of your boots against piled dust, the steady thud of your heart against your ribs.
you’ve entered through the old pantry, now emptied by hungry rats and other lost animals looking for food. plates and mugs, tables and stools, all were powdered in dust, victims of time and ignorance, preserved in a moment all too distant from the present.
“hasn’t been touched in a long time, huh?”
curious as always, you dipped one bare finger into a bowl, scooping the thick layer of dust and shaking it off to inspect the porcelain. the pattern was expensive and intricate, layered with shiny metals that would definitely catch the eye of a merchant back in town.
if there are no jewels, a few plates will do.
the air was colder in the main corridor — not the chill of neglect, but something older, heavier.
candles, long melted into puddles, dotted the halls. faded portraits watched from their frames: pale faces, red mouths, shimmering eyes painted with such uncanny precision they seemed to follow your every step.
you ignored them. you always did.
aristocrats would never look at the poor. so at least now, in death, you could reciprocate their behavior — hold your head high, ignore their insistent gazes, pretend they don’t exist.
one abandoned candle stood proudly taller than the other, calling your name and asking to assist in your search. so, pulling out a lighter you’ve pocketed from a clueless traveler, you gave the old wick life to illuminate your way around the estate.
with your new addition in your dominant hand, you went up the staircase, boots brushing against carpets that had once been red. now, brown with dust and time. your heartbeat was steady — practiced — lulled by the certainty that you were alone and in control.
but if you’d paused long enough to listen, you might have noticed another pair of footsteps twitching across the old floorboards. slow. inhuman.
he had awoken the moment you touched the fence.
sylus’s eyes opened in the dark, bloody red pupils swallowing what little light seeped through the cracks of his coffin. the air had shifted — fragrant now with mortal blood.
fresh. defiant.
he hadn’t tasted such a scent in years.
he rose without a sound, the centuries of stillness melting from his body in seconds. shadows curled around him as he moved, parting to let him pass through the ruined mansion to get to you.
and oh, he found you so easily.
through the veil of dust and moonlight, he watched as you prowled through the manor, clever little hands rifling through cluttered drawers, your breath ghosting white in the cold air.
he could hear every heartbeat, every scrape of your sleeve, every curse, every swallow when the silence grew too heavy.
how long had it been since a mortal dared come this far?
sylus lingered at the edge of your vision — a shape that never quite solidified, a whisper that vanished when you turned. his hunger hummed low and steady, palpable in the air, but he did not move closer.
not yet.
he preferred to watch. to let you think yourself brave.
you were quite amusing, really.
going up another level, peering in closer and closer to his own chambers, your dirty hand brushed against a cracked hallway mirror. the dust cleared just enough for your reflection to flicker back — tired, nervous, haloed by the faint glow of the dying candlelight.
you didn’t see him behind you in the shadows. not really. just the hint of movement. a suggestion. a breath too close to your ear that could have been the wind.
a flicker of ruby-like shimmers that burnt too strong into your skin.
“ghosts are not real, ghosts are not real, ghosts are not–” you chanted like a mantra between deep breaths, trying to regulate your beating heart and your too-active of an imagination.
you couldn’t go back now, not like this — defeated, empty-handed, ridiculed by invented specters.
so you went on, passing the fractured mirror. ignoring the looming presence of the predator.
sylus did not strike — the thrill of watching was too exquisite.
he lingered in the shadows, unseen, tracking your careful steps as you crept through the corridor. his eyes, red as spilled blood, followed the small flame of your candle as it painted trembling light across the peeling walls.
the manor had not known a heartbeat in centuries, and now it pulsed with yours.
it excited him.
you started acting more cautious, suspicion creeping into your heart. you checked corners, pressed your ear to doors, measured each creak of the floorboards like an experienced thief. just in case someone was here with you, also planning to steal a handful of jewels and silver and exchange them for a life of comfort.
at least that was the only credible reason your feeble mind could muster up to justify the presence of another.
ghosts are not real, ghosts are not–
sylus admired that. the way you held your breath before turning a handle; the way your fingers hovered over a silver candelabrum before deciding it was too heavy to take. you moved like someone who understood risk, but not danger.
not the kind that waited, patient and ancient, in the dark.
not him.
when your weak candle flickered harshly, the silence pressed closer.
a chill kissed the back of your neck — faint, but sharp enough to make you shiver in your boots and glance behind. but there was nothing. only shadows stretching long and thin across the hallway.
sylus smirked at your adorable reaction, sharp fangs peering from behind his lips and shining faintly in the darkness. he was close enough now to hear the delicious flutter of your pulse.
your steps quickened, but he matched them — silent, gliding. you turned down another corridor, and for a moment he let you think you’d shaken whatever phantom haunted the halls.
then a whisper of movement brushed past your ear — colder than air, softer than breath.
the flame of your candle trembled again, threatening to die in a few pulses.
and… it bent towards him. recognizing him before you even saw his face.
a breath grazed your neck — chilly, yet not spectral — and your whole body went taut. you turned too fast, candlelight shaking, but saw only the dust stirring in your wake.
no one stood behind you. no one should.
and yet… you felt him.
fingers, invisible but deliberate, traced the air an inch from your throat, brushing close enough that your skin prickled in its wake. a slow, deliberate caress against the curve of your waist, the faintest tug at the worn-out hem of your blouse.
it wasn’t enough to prove he was real — just enough to make you tremble with the possibility.
“still you wander.” came a voice like silk drawn over glass. low, amused, hungry.
you spun, but the voice seemed to melt back into the walls, echoing from nowhere and everywhere.
“just the wind… just the wind…” you stumbled forward, clutching the candle, whispering under your breath.
sylus watched you through the half-light, every frantic breath a symphony, every heartbeat a lure. he wanted to see how far you would go when the darkness began to consume you whole.
so he followed you, guiding, shaping your path — the gentle touch at your elbow that turned you left instead of right, the cool brush of his hand that nudged open a particular door.
his mother’s room.
when you crossed the threshold, the air changed. softer. sadder. the moonlight poured through the torn drapes, laying pale ribbons across velvet and dust. the candle guttered out, but you did not notice; the silver glow was enough for your mortal eyes.
you started searching because it was easier than admitting you were afraid. your hands — small, dirty, desperate — opened drawers, lifted silks, scattered combs and trinkets. and when your fingers closed around a heavy and intricate string of silver, your fear cracked into laughter.
“ha, ha, ha–”
jewelries. real ones. cool and bright and beautiful against your ruined hands.
“ha, ha, finally!”
you laughed again, wild and giddy, and inattentively slipped the necklace over your neck. then a bracelet, a ring. they looked absurd against your ragged sleeves — a parody of wealth — but for once you felt radiant.
alive.
sylus leaned in the doorway, unseen, his eyes glowing faintly red in the moonlight. his lips curved — not in cruelty, but fascination.
a mortal, daring to adorn herself in the relics of the dead.
how divine.
he drifted closer, his presence no longer shy. the air around you cooled as he came near; his breath ghosted over your shoulder, his hand almost — almost — settling at your waist. he let you believe it was your choice to stand so still, to tilt your head slightly as if you’d admire the silver around your neck.
“a thief playing at nobility… how charming.” he murmured, soft and teasing, the baritone of his voice fully hitting your ears for the first time.
you froze, jewels clinking faintly against your throat, suddenly drooping heavier against your dirty skin.
he was behind you now, completely, yet his reflection absented in the vanity mirror. you only saw him from the corner of your eyes — tall, refined, red eyes catching moonlight like blood in a chalice.
a man was here with you. caught you in the act.
you gulped.
one gloved finger brushed your neck, tracing the necklace you’d stolen. the gesture was languid, reverent, dangerous.
you gulped again.
“i–”
“you wear them well.” sylus breathed, voice dipping low, amused, a mixture of teasing and sincerity. “my mother would have adored you.”
the words coiled through the air like smoke… intoxicating, dizzying. his thumb found the flutter of your pulse, lingering there, and you realized — too late — that you were trembling not from fear, but from how close he was.
mother?
the predator smiled once more at the fear of his prey.
shit, shit, was this a trap for thieves from the beginning?
you stumbled backwards, crashing into his toned chest, the necklace clutched in your fist like an old and dried loaf of bread you found on the streets.
“i'm sorry– i'll put them back– i was just–”
your voice cracked with fear and faux ignorance, half wishing to elbow the strange man and ran away with the goods, half wishing to solve it all peacefully. your hands moved to unclasp the chain, fingers fumbling against the cold locket to drag on the interaction.
“oh, no, no, no, sweetheart.”
his hand snapped out, not with force, but with a sudden, unyielding firmness. you gasped as he pinned your wrists behind your neck, ripping them away from the chain. his grip, like iron beneath the velvet glove, kept you still.
“do not.” he growled heavier, the amused tone evaporating into a venomous chill. “my mother wanted her heir's wife to wear them. she wanted to see them adorn someone worthy.”
his red gaze scorched you, one orb more luminous than the other, traveling from the jewels to your blown-out eyes.
“and you... you look so beautiful in them. like they were crafted for your thieving neck.”
your heart hammered, not just in fear, but in a peculiar, deep-seated dread. fuck, this strange man knew what you were and what your business was.
unable to face him due to his harsh grasp, your eyes flicked to the dusty vanity mirror leaning against the wall. you saw yourself — wilting, terrified, dressed in spoils and ornated with expensive jewelry.
but you did not see him. no reflection. no shadow.
just your own wide, horrified eyes staring back.
“w-what are you?” you whispered, the question torn from you. “why are you here? in this... abandoned place?”
he couldn’t possibly be a thief, putting on an act to take your loot. not with the way he was carrying himself.
not with the lack of reflection.
sylus tilted his head, a slow, predatory arch. he released your wrists, only to trail his gloved hand up your arm, over your shoulder, until his palm rested against the side of your neck. his thumb tipped your chin up towards him, forcing your head to turn behind and your gaze to meet his.
and now you fully saw him: pale skin, lifeless and devoid of any colour, matching a silvery mane. piercing red eyes, gleaming like freshly polished rubies in the shiny glaze of the moonlight. soft yet bruising lips, framing a mouth with a tad too angular set of teeth.
this man was a noble. a hauntingly beautiful one.
“i am the last son of qin. and this is not an abandoned manor.” he hissed, the words a poisoned lullaby. “it is my estate. my tomb. my preserve.”
and he leaned in, fast and unexpected, his nose brushing the column of your throat. you felt him inhale, long and deep, a gesture which made goosebumps bloom across your skin.
“wha…”
“your smell…” he murmured, ignoring your little whimper, voice thick with a hunger so antique it seemed to rot the air itself. “it awoke me. it stirred something in the darkness that has not been stirred for centuries.”
his lips, cold and soft, grazed the skin just below your ear. and then you felt the pressure of his fangs — not piercing yet, just resting there, twin points of imminent damnation.
vampire.
“i have been keeping to myself.” he breathed, the words a wave of ice down your spine. “but now... now you are here. your pulse is a drumbeat in my empty halls. your skin is warmth against my chill.”
fuck, i have to run. i have to–
one sturdy hand dipped lower and spread over your stomach, pulling you back against the chilly, unyielding line of his body, while the other propped itself on the edge of the vanity — successfully trapping you.
“my body craves yours, little thief. it would take so little to get what i want.” his teeth scraped lightly down against your jugular, not penetrating.
not yet.
“so tell me... will you let me do it?”
fuck, fuck, fuck–
your mind raced, but no answer came out. you were pinned between the vanity and his body, the jewels on your neck now feeling like a noose tightening with every brush of his mouth against your skin.
“sweetheart…” he pulled away from your neck just enough to look you in the eyes again, his gaze a bottomless, scarlet well.
“will you take responsibility?” he purred, his mouth curling into a predator smile.
your head spun, the room tilting on its axis from the quick turn. you were desperate to escape, the glint of his mischievous eyes sending a shiver down your spine.
“i... i can't.” you stammered, your voice a shabby whisper. “the jewels... they're not mine. i'll leave them, just let me go–”
“silence.”
the word wasn't spoken; it was hissed, a sound like silk tearing in the dark. his grip on your hips tightened, not enough to bruise, but enough to remind you of the steel in his veins.
“you wear my family's heirloom. you have adorned yourself in the trappings of my ancestry. tradition is unyielding in such matters.”
tradition?
“you were the one who chose to put them on. by the old laws, you are now my wife.” his red gaze burned into you, incandescent and hungry.
“that's insane!” your protest came out as a panicked laugh, completely baffled by what you were hearing. “i'm no lady. i'm a thief! a scraper of gutters!”
“and yet…” he purred, his mouth finding the soft hollow behind your ear. “you wear the jewels as if they were woven from your own soul.” his hands moved, sliding up to your midsection, tightening its possessive claim on your waist. “and as my wife, you have a duty.”
“i owe you nothing!” you squirmed, trying to wrestle free, but his body curved into yours, a living, implacable prison of flesh and strength.
“you owe me everything.” he corrected, his tone dropping into a venomous whisper. “your very presence here is a trespass. i own the roof, the stones, the air you breathe. and now, little thief, i own you.”
his mouth returned to your neck, his lips tracing the threading pulse with sacred devotion.
“your duty is to feed me. to sustain me. to be the vessel for my eternal hunger.” his hand slid from your waist, groping the curve of your ass through thin, tattered fabric, his touch bold and unyielding. “and you will accept this. you will embrace it.”
“no–” your word cut off into a strident, stuttering gasp as his fangs pierced your skin.
the pain was sharp and precise, a quick, burning sting. but it was over in a heartbeat, replaced by a strange, warm sensation that spread outward like liquid sunshine. you felt your very muscles relax, a heavy, pliant weight settling in your limbs. a low, humming pleasure took root in your core, blooming into a heady, familiar arousal.
“what... what is this?” you murmured, your voice slurred.
sylus pulled back, his mouth stained scarlet. he smiled, his fangs glinting with the achievement of piercing you. “a gift.” he whispered, his voice thick with satisfaction.
“and a reward. my bite... it can induce pleasure as easily as pain. it makes the submission sweeter.”
he swung you around and pressed you down, your back now flat to the vanity. your legs felt weak, your mind fuzzy and slow. the jewels on your neck felt heavier, their weight a promise of ownership.
“you are mine.” he repeated, his hands sliding up your thighs, pushing around the thin fabric of your worn-out trousers. “your body, your blood, your pleasure. it all belongs to me now.”
your resistance crumbled, not under force, but under the strange, heady wave of aphrodisiac poison spreading through your veins. a moan escaped your lips as his fingers traced the soft, clothed skin of your inner thigh.
“that's it.” he coaxed, his voice a sinister lullaby. “accept your fate. it is more grandeur than whatever you could have stolen.”
he pulled you close, his body a shivering, immortal cold against your suddenly feverish heat. his mouth returned to the wound on your neck, and this time, when he sank his fangs deep, there was no pain. only a sweet, pulling sensation as he drank.
and a throbbing, urgent need between your legs that made you arch into his embrace, your hands finally raising to claw at his shoulders.
not to push him away, but to pull him closer.
“oh.”
he pulled back from your neck with a soft, wet sound, his tongue sweeping over the twin punctures he’d left behind. a low, hoarse moan ripped from your throat, the sensation of his wet tongue so exquisite it was nearly too much.
you could feel the warm trickle of your own blood slipping down your neck, past your collarbone, staining the dirty fabric of your blouse. it dripped onto the necklace adorning your throat too, coating the surface in a shimmering, dark crimson.
“that’s it, my wife.” sylus murmured, his voice a rumble against your skin. “let the sounds of your abandon fill my halls. they are more melodious than any symphony.”
his hips pushed forward, and you felt it — the hard, unyielding hardness of his arousal beneath the fine black material of his slacks. it strained against the fabric, a heavy, impressive bulge that pressed directly against the soft, quivering flesh of your inner thighs.
your own ragged pants, thin and worn, felt like no barrier at all.
every roll of his hips, every press of that thick, stone-hard cock against your clothed cunt sent a jolt of pleasure so sharp it made your vision blur.
“ahh…”
your head tilted back against the vanity, a sob escaping your lips as he rutted against you, the bunched material of your pants rubbing your swelling, sensitized folds through the soaked fabric of your undergarments. the aphrodisiac poison in your veins turned every touch into a liquid fire, and you could feel the wetness building, soaking through the rags, your body weeping with need.
he could smell it.
“so wet for me.” sylus groaned, his hands clenching on your hips through your thin pants. “so ready. all that feigned outrage, all those pitiful protests… melted away by a simple bite.” he laughed, a low, cocky chuckle that rumbled in his chest.
“you were always meant to be on your back for me, sweetheart. you just needed a little… encouragement.”
he rocked his hips, the steady, insistent pressure of his cock ruthlessly stroking the soaked, swollen bundle of nerves at your center. each pass elicited a new, higher moan, your hands flying up to clasp his back.
your fingers dug into the fine, black fabric of his unbuttoned shirt, your nails scraping against the underlying, chilled solidity of his body.
“please.” you whimpered, the word barely audible. it wasn’t a plea to stop; it was a plea for more.
“please what?” he purred, his mouth finding your ear. he nipped the lobe, sending a shiver of pleasure down your spine. “does my wife need something?”
“i… i need…” you couldn’t form the words. your hips bucked up instinctively, seeking harder pressure, more friction.
“you need your husband to take you.” he declared, his voice filled with arrogant certainty. “you need me to fill that empty, aching little cunt until you forget your own name.”
his hand slid between your body and the vanity, his fingertips skimming the waistband of your ragged pants. “you need to feel me split you open, don’t you? to finally have something real inside that puny, starving body.”
you cried out, a sharp, wailing sound as he unceremoniously tore the weak stitching of your pants open, the ripping fabric a vulgar confession of your surrender. the cold air of the manor hit your bare skin, but it was quickly sheltered by his bare hand cupping you.
he palmed your entire cunt, his thumb pressing roughly against your swollen clit, making you jerk and scream.
“there it is.” he hissed, his eyes blazing with triumphant possession. “there’s the gutter wench, reduced to a needy, sobbing little thing. all it took was a taste of real pleasure.”
he pushed one long, cold finger inside you, and your whole body convulsed, your nails drawing down his back. “you’re so tight. so empty. you were waiting for me.”
his first finger slid in with the effortlessness of a knife through warm butter. a sharp, guttural moan tore from your throat, your head thrashing back against the dusty vanity mirror. your hips bucked, your entire being focused on that one, invading digit.
“that’s it, sweetheart.” sylus murmured, his lips brushing your jaw as he watched you. “let me hear how much you need this.”
he curled that first finger, searching, and then hit that spongy spot inside you that made your vision burst into white sparks. you cried, a raw, unhinged sound, hitting your head again against the mirror. your hands, once clawing at his back, now flew to the edge of the vanity, gripping the wood as if it could save you.
“so responsive.” he hummed, his eyes dark and hungry. “but one isn’t enough, is it? your greedy little cunt wants more.”
before you could beg, his second finger joined the first. the stretch was sharp, incendiary. your mouth fell open, a silent, desperate scream escaping you as your eyes rolled back. he stretched you out, working you open with the precise, merciless efficiency of a sculptor.
“you take them so well, wife!” he praised, his thumb swiping through the soaked, twitching folds, landing on your clit. “so wet. so warm. it’s as if your body was built just to welcome me.”
the circles on your clit intensified.
you sobbed, a sound of overwhelmed, pleasure-bordering-on-pain ecstasy. your inner muscles fluttered, clenching around his daring digits, trying to accommodate the stretch. he pushed deeper, his bottom knuckles brushing against your swollen entrance.
“talk to me, sweetheart.” he ordered, his voice a low, commanding rumble. “tell me how my touch feels.”
“i-it’s… so good. “you gasped, your words slurred and heavy. “so… full.”
“full?” he laughed, a dark, chuckling sound. “this is nothing, my dear. you have no idea how full i will make you.”
then, he began to slowly withdraw his fingers. you whimpered, a protest at the loss, your orgasm now neglected. but he only smiled, his intense gaze locked on yours.
“patience, wife. i have something else for you.”
he raised his sticky hand, and your eyes flicked down past the wetness. on his ring finger, the one you had not yet felt, was a heavy, ornate silver ring with a large, intricately carved dragon.
your own eyes widened, recognizing it.
it was the match to the ring you had stuck on your own finger in your desperate greed.
“yes.” he whispered, seeing your realization. “the pair is complete. you put on the seal of your own bondage, my dear. it was always meant to be on your finger, just as mine is on my own.”
he pressed the tip of that ring finger against your soaked, trembling entrance. the metal was chilly, a contrast to your scalding heat. you moaned, low and long, as he pushed it inside, joined by his other two fingers.
“oh, lord–”
the sensation was unlike anything you had ever felt. the cold, hard metal of the ring continuously pressed against your swollen, spasming opening, pumping in and out, stretching you, filling you.
“three fingers.” he groaned, his own breath hitching as he watched his hand disappear into your body. “you take them all, my greedy little thief. you take what is yours.”
his thumb never ceased its round, rough circles on your clit, making you squirm and shudder. your hands left the wood, reaching for him again, tangling in the hair at the base of his neck, pulling at the collar of his shirt.
“tell me more.” he demanded, his thrusts becoming faster, harder. “tell me how needy you are for me. how you love being filled like this.”
“i’m so… so needy.” you sobbed, tears streaming down your face, words slurred between moans. “i love it. i love your fingers in me. i love how you stretch me. it feels so good, i… i can’t stand it.”
“you can stand it.” he growled, his nose pressing against your neck, licking at the coagulated blood. “you were made for it. now, thank me. thank your husband.”
your body began to tense, the pleasure coiling tight in your belly, spreading outward like a shattering wave. your vision tunneled, the only thing real was him, his hand, his touch.
“say it!” he roared, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit.
the orgasm ripped through you, violent and unstoppable. your back arched off the vanity, a soundless, raged scream frozen in your throat. your inner walls gripped his digits, spasms of pleasure so intense they bordered on pain.
and in that peak, with his fingers deep inside you and his thumb on your swollen, pulsing clit, you sobbed the words.
“t-than-nk you, hus–”
the word echoed in the silent room, a sacrament, a surrender.
“–bnd.”
sylus stilled, his hand slowing its ruthless motion, yet not quite stopping. he leaned in, his lips parting in a triumphant, predatory smile, dipping his tongue down your cheek and collecting your salty tears.
“clearer, sweetheart.” he whispered, his voice dangerously soft.
your body was a trembling mess, shockwaves of pleasure still rippling through you, while the constant rubbing and thrusting of his fingers made it all overwhelming. you whimpered, eyes barely blinking through the tears, as you did your best to say the words.
“than-k yooou, husband-d.”
a slow, satisfied smile crept across sylus' face at your thanks.
“good girl.”
he purred, his voice a vibrating rumble against your skin. he slowly, thoughtfully, withdrew his soaked fingers from your spent cunt, the sudden emptiness a profane relief. you watched, your breath hitching, as he raised his hand to his crimson mouth.
his tongue, long and dexterous, swept out to meet his fingertips. he licked your arousal from his skin with the same reverent care a connoisseur would clean precious wine from a crystal goblet.
his ruby gaze held yours, unwavering, as he swallowed.
“the taste of your submission…” he mused, his voice a lull of dark pleasure. “it is even sweeter than your fear.”
he straightened, musing with that aristocratic arrogance. “but fingers are merely a prelude. a marriage must be consummated.”
his gaze swept the room, landing on a tall, carved wooden armchair near the window. with one effortless hand, he dragged it across the dusty floor, its legs scraping on the wood, and positioned it right before the large, golden-framed vanity mirror.
he turned back to you, his eyes glowing with possessive anticipation. “come, wife.”
your legs were still weak, your mind fogged with satiation and anticipation. so he swept you into his arms as if you weighed nothing, your ragged clothes a cruel juxtaposition against his immaculate silk and wool. he sat in the armchair ceremoniously, settling you across his lap, your back to his chest, your gaze forced toward your own reflection.
“look!” he commanded, his lips finding the shell of your ear. “look at the picture we make.”
your own image stared back at you: a wild-eyed, disheveled thing, hair a tangled mane, face flushed and shining with sweat. the silver around your neck gleamed, out of place against the dirt on your skin.
his mouth trailed down your throat, his teeth scraping gently against your bite mark. then, his hands followed, gripping the thin fabric of your blouse. with a sharp tear, he wrenched it down, the ragged cloth giving way to expose your beautiful, neglected chest.
the necklace settled over them, the cool metal a shivering contrast to your warm, peaked nipples.
“exquisite.” he hummed, his palms cupping your breasts, his thumbs rolling over your nipples until you moaned out loud, your head lolling back against his shoulder. “the jewels of my house, now put to proper use.”
his hands traveled down, over your quivering stomach, until he reached the waistband of your shredded pants. with a single, ruthless tug, he tore them away, leaving you completely bare on his lap. you felt him shift, and the sound of his slacks unfastening sent a new thrill of anticipation through you.
then you felt it — the heavy, intimidating weight of his arousal springing now free. he guided his cock, thick and long, upward, so the head notched just at your soaked, swollen entrance. the tip was a slightly darker hue, glistening in the moonlight, and it seemed impossibly large.
“here.”
he guided your hand to his lap, and your fingers met the solid, veiny length of his erect cock. it felt immense, hard as marble and slightly chilled.
“feel what you have won, wife.” he growled, his hand over yours, guiding you to stroke him. “something much greater than mere silver.”
he positioned you, lifting your hips slightly. you felt the thick, slightly tapered head of his cock press against your soaked, trembling entrance. your eyes, haunted and hungry, met your own in the mirror.
“watch.” he ordered, his voice a dark and smooth like velvet. “watch your lewd, little body. watch how it stretches to take its husband.”
he pushed in, and you saw it.
you saw your own reflection: your eyes wide, your mouth open in a silent scream, your slight frame bare and vulnerable. and you saw your cunt, so aroused, so wet, gaping open as it began to take him in.
but you saw no him.
no hands on your thighs, keeping you open.
no body behind you.
in the mirror, it looked as though your own body was simply floating, spread legs and arched back, as your cunt stretched and widened around… nothing. a blank space.
“yes.” he hissed, his voice a ghost in your ear as he slowly, inexorably filled you. “see how you grip nothing? see how your greedy, slutty little hole strains against the air? it is the ultimate surrender, my dear. to give yourself to a vampire.”
the stretch was incredible. he felt even larger than anything you’ve taken before. harder, more unyielding. you sobbed, your head falling back against his body, your nails digging into his shoulders.
“you like that, don't you?” he groaned, his hips beginning a slow, punishing rhythm. “you like playing the whore for a specter. a dead man, forgotten by all.”
he pushed deep, hitting your cervix, and you screamed, your eyes shutting against his neck.
“no, sweetheart! look!” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. “look at yourself. look at the whorish wife i have acquired.”
your eyes flew open, meeting your own gaze. you saw the chain bouncing against your heaving chest. you saw the flush on your skin, the sweat on your brow. you saw the way your stomach bulged with each of his thrusts.
and you saw the sight of your own body, fucking itself on nothing, stretched and wet and totally, utterly ruined.
that aroused you even more.
“it's so… perverted.” you whimpered, your voice breaking.
yet you didn’t avert your gaze.
you saw it all. you saw the way your tight, young flesh strained, expanding around the invading cock. you saw how it swallowed him, how your body distorted to accommodate his size.
and you saw no reason for it.
in the reflecting surface, it was just you — your gaping, lewd cunt — opening around nothing more than empty air.
“tell me…” he growled, his voice strained as he slowly, mercilessly buried himself deeper inside you. “tell me how it feels to be fucked by no one. tell me how much you love being my little wife.”
your mouth opened, but only a ragged moan came out. he bottomed out suddenly, his hips fully cushioned against yours, and you felt him, so deep, so completely filling you, it seemed impossible.
and the mirror showed only you, your body deformed around a void.
“i... i love it.” you gasped, the words finally breaking through. “i love how it feels. i love how full i look, how profane i look... stretched out for you.”
he moved once, a slow, possessive roll of his hips, and you screamed, your mouth breaking into a large circle.
“then tell me to fuck you, wife. tell your husband to use his property.”
“please…” you sobbed, your hands reaching back to claw at his hair. “please, husband, fuck me. use me. i'm yours.”
his response was immediate and violent. the slow, possessive rolls of his hips exploded into a ruthless, punishing pace. he slammed into you, his thighs crashing against your spread ass with each thrust, the sound of skin against skin a wet, slapping echo in the dusty room.
your body rocked with the force of his strokes, your head snapping back, your hands scrambling for hold on the armrests of the chair.
“yes!” you screamed, the sound raw and unrecognizable. “yes, husband!”
your breasts, adorned with the stolen necklace, jiggled and bounced with outrageous rhythm. in the mirror, they looked like obscene, living trinkets, the pale silver a stark contrast against your flushed, dirt-streaked skin. your nipples were hard, aching, and the chain rolled against them with each jolt, overstimulating them with the coldness.
“so sinful.” sylus growled, his voice strained with the effort of his thrusts. “to be decorated in my ancestors' treasure while your body is used like a whore. you were born for this, to be fucked by cursed souls in a ruined manor.”
his hand snaked down between your bodies, his thumb pressing directly onto your swollen, throbbing clit. you let out a shriek, your body twitching. the sensation was too much — a sharp, overwhelming pleasure that tore at the edge of pain.
“that's it.” he hissed, his thumb making tight, round circles. “let that little nub guide you. feel how it enhances your pleasure.”
he accelerated, his thrusts becoming shallower, faster, more focused on that spot inside you that made your vision white. your moans were continuous now, a stream of sounds that were part sob, part scream.
your gaze was locked on the mirror as much as possible, on the sight of your own gaping, slopping cunt, stretched open around nothing.
“ahhh-h.”
then, you felt it — the scrape of his fangs against the tender skin of your throat. a shiver, not of fear, but of ravenous anticipation, ran down your spine.
the memory of the aphrodisiac poison, the euphoric surrender, was still so fresh.
“please.” you begged, your voice breaking. “bite me, husband. please, i need it.”
he groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated lust. “you want to feel me in your veins while i'm in your cunt? you want to bleed for me while you cry on my cock?”
“yes!” you sobbed, your hands reaching back to tangle in his hair, pulling his mouth closer to your neck. “please!”
he snarled, a sound of triumphant possession, and then his fangs pierced your skin.
“ohh...”
it wasn't the careful, teasing puncture of before. this was a voracious, possessive bite.
you felt the sharp, searing pain, and then the immediate, warm gush of your blood. he drank deeply, his throat working against your neck, and the sensation was so intimate, so violent, it sent a new, scorching wave of arousal surging through you.
he didn't stop fucking you.
in fact, his thrusts became more furious, more possessive, as he drank. you felt your own lifeforce being drawn out, and with it, any last shred of resistance.
your body was his.
your blood was his.
your pleasure was his.
he pulled away from your neck with a gasp, his lips stained bright red. “i tasted your soul.” he hissed, his voice gravelly. “and it is mine.”
and with that, his thrusts became erratic, unraveling. he ground deep inside you, his hand still working over your clit, and let out a low, guttural roar.
with that, you felt him pulse one last time, hard and hot, deep within you. thick, sticky ropes of his seed spurted into your womb, some spilling out, hot and plentiful.
he held you down, his body shuddering with the last of his release, making sure your greedy pussy took all of his cum.
then, slowly, he pulled out.
“s-shit.”
in the mirror, you saw it.
you saw your gaping, well-used cunt, now slopping with his seed. it trickled out of you, a pearly, opaque white against your swollen, abused hole.
it mixed with your own arousal, creating a lewd, shimmering cream at your entrance.
the sight was undeniably pornographic: the ragged thief, jeweled in silver, her body spent and filled, her vision haunted by her own submission.
“beautiful.” sylus whispered, his hand trailing through the mess he'd made of you, dexterous fingers scooping up the cum and smearing it all over your cunt. “my thieving, promiscuous wife.”
synopsis. the famous criminal of n109 has just escaped the maximum-security prison and is on his way to his domain. the famous criminal to whom you’ve sent spicy messages through the penpal program. but surely… you’re safe?
pairing. criminal! sylus qin x reader
content/mdni. non-canon. NON-CON (he threatens you). fem!reader, criminal!sylus, pervert!sylus, mean!sylus, dom!sylus, GUN PLAY, blowjob, deepthroat, gun to your head, dacryphilia, throat bruising, slight sir kink, teasing, dirty talk, degradation, slight praise, pet name (kitten, penpal, slut), allusion to raw sex/breeding.
word count. 3.4k
a/n. happy belated birthday to my lovely wife @xaphisto! this is dark, dare i say darker than the caleb fic, so please be cautious! as always, please tell me your thoughts! feedback and reblogs are deeply appreciated!
the linkon city news anchor’s voice was tight, strained. “–repeat, sylus qin, the notorious criminal of the n109 zone, has escaped the max-sec unit. he is armed, extremely dangerous, and is believed to be headed toward his domain. all citizens are advised to lock–”
your remote clicked, volume blaring just as the screen flashed with his mugshot.
and holy shit, if you weren’t about to moan out loud.
white hair, unkempt and toxic-silver under the flash. skin pale as marble, cut with sharp, brutal lines. and those eyes — glowing, corrupted red, like bad wine and spilled blood. but it was his smile. a slow, slender smirk that curved up one side of his face, revealing a hint of sharp canine.
he looked young. younger than the horror stories suggested.
a demon with the face of a fallen angel.
“why does–” you felt your towel, soft and warm around your body, slip just a hair as you step towards your tv screen. “–he look so familiar?” you muttered to the empty apartment, your voice slightly damp from the shower you’ve just taken.
sylus, sylus, sylus… your mind repeated his name over and over again as you tried your best to dig through your memories and find something about this criminal. maybe you’ve seen him on the news, just like now? and maybe his face was ingrained in your mind because he was so fucking hot?
or maybe…
“oh no.”
it hit you. it hit you so hard you almost fell backward on your sofa.
“no fucking way.”
sylus qin.
the notorious criminal of the n109 zone. but also the man you and tara — actually only you — had sent three dizzying, swore-filled, thirsty as hell messages to through the prison’s official program, one wild night after too many shots of tequila and a game of smash or pass.
a game that had gotten so out of hand, it now felt like a suicidal dare.
yeah, you now clearly remember how hard you’ve shouted the word smash as sylus’s mugshot came up on tara’s phone, making the most obscene sounds you could’ve humanly produced. you also remember her mischievous face as she encouraged you to send “the poor convict with no friends” all your depraved thoughts and maybe cheer him up a bit.
that sylus qin.
“oh gosh, i hope they didn’t go through...” you murmured, slowly pacing around your living room in an attempt to settle your nerves. “surely someone approves those messages before getting to inmates.”
surely, sylus did not read them.
…right?
“and if he somehow did, it’s not like he–”
wo-pheeesh.
the lights went out so abruptly that the tv’s final echoes of terror snapped into dreadful silence. a solid, weighty blackness clamped down over your apartment, broken only by the faint glow of streetlamps filtering through the window.
…knew who you are.
you froze, towel clutched tight to your chest, the cloth suddenly feeling incredibly fragile and disarming.
“fuck.” you cursed shortly, the words sounding empty in the thick dark. bouncing off the walls and forming an eerie sensation deep in your belly.
you quickly fumbled for your phone between the cushions of the couch, but the damn brick was nowhere to be found. your heart thumped against your sternum as you dug deeper, even removing one soft piece of the sofa and throwing it down on the floor. hoping your phone will miraculously appear if there was no pad.
cars outside speeded like usual, occasional blue and red lights filtering through your window. a siren in the distance beeped but did not persist.
the quietness of your apartment and the loudness of the city clashed into a maddening atmosphere, encouraging the worries in your chest to deepen.
“calm down, nothing will happen! this is not a movi–”
click.
suddenly, there was a sound… not from outside. from the kitchen.
a soft, metallic snap.
like a window latch being tugged open.
“s-shit.” your breath hitched as goosebumps spread all over your limbs, sneaking beneath your towel —which was doing too little right now — and pinching at your sensitive skin. “the…” kitchen window. it opened onto the fire escape.
no.
you clung to your towel, pulling it tighter around your chest, needing to feel somehow secured in your otherwise obvious lack of power. but you were merely freezing from the cool air that swept through the room from the kitchen. shaking from the ominous air that engulfed your apartment.
the air pressure changed, a slight... intrusion invading your safe space.
someone was in the apartment with you.
a creak of a floorboard. a low, controlled breath. the stranger was getting closer.
you turned slowly, your back to the kitchen archway, facing the dark hallway leading to your bedroom. you could run. lock the door. yell for help through the window and hope someone hears you.
but your legs were boneless, merely trembling beneath your towel as the intruder was approaching.
maybe it was a stray cat? maybe it wasn’t the wanted criminal that just escaped?
a shadow detached itself from the darkness of the kitchen. a very human one.
maybe it was–
he leaned against the doorframe, filling it. a long, lean figure clad in orange, prison pants and a tight-fitting darker uniform top, mud and dirt caked at the knees. his hair looked even paler in the faint light, like liquid mercury. his eyes were two pools of bruised cherry, tracking you with unemotional precision.
…sylus qin.
“hello, penpal.” his voice was like rust crushing on barbed wire. low, rasping, and incredibly overpowering.
you couldn’t move. couldn’t speak. your mouth was dry as ash as the criminal you’ve just seen on tv materialized in front of you.
oh, and bonus points: he appears to know you.
he pushed himself off the frame and took a slow, casual step into the living room. like it was his apartment, not yours. his boots had been left behind, most likely in your kitchen — he wore only thin black socks, muffling his careful steps across your old floorboards.
he scanned the room quickly, dismissively, barely sparing the abandoned cushion a glance. then landed right back on you.
on your body, wrapped in that one plain white towel.
his eyes flickered down. up. then down again. taking in the last moisture beading your collarbone, the slightly damp hair plastered to your neck, the way the towel stuck to the curve of your breasts and wrapped around your waist.
a slow, arrogant smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.
“oh, kitten.” he said seductively, taking another calculated step closer. “you were dead serious about your message.”
he reached behind him, to the small of his back. your eyes widened in fear, locking onto the harness straps over his shoulders. and if the sight of a hidden harness was not causing you enough distress… he drew a black, compact pistol, spinning it once before settling it down in his palms.
it looked absurdly professional in his long, pale hands.
“i–”
he didn’t point it at you. not yet. he held it lazily at his side, letting the polished matte metal glint. like a warning.
“i don’t remember everything.” he continued, ignoring your attempt at communicating, his crimson eyes glued to your face. “but i remember the gist. ‘i would die for a taste, mr. qin. i dream about gagging on your huge cock before i let you breed me.’”
your cheeks burned as sylus recalls your dirty messages. he did not increase the pitch of his voice to sound more feminine, to imitate you. so, to hear your drunken thoughts in his raspy death-row voice made goosebumps crawl down your spine like lined maggots.
“that was… a mistake.” you croaked, trying to save your skin and not be added to his list of kills.
you were fucking stupid to think that your actions won’t have repercussions. stupid, stupid, stupid.
“mistake?” he chuckled, a dry, hollow sound that made your heart thump louder in fear. he took another step. and now he was within one meter of you. you could smell him — blood, dirt, something acrid like adrenaline and sweat. “in my line of work, mistakes are mortal. you don’t send sex messages to a killer and then expect to go about your life.”
he raised the gun. now he did point it at you. not at your head though, but at the center of your chest, right where the towel knot was.
“i came to claim shelter, until my associates get to me.” he started explaining, tilting his head a smidge just to take in the sight of you. again. “but to think i’d found my admirer so… welcoming.”
the gun’s cold muzzle pressed against the soft towel now, right above your sternum. you froze, eyes bulging, every muscle taut. when did he...?
sylus’s smile did not faulter.
“you welcomed me into your home naked.” he hummed, his gaze dropping to the towel knot. “did you think this was a serendipitous opportunity? that you’d get to recreate those little messages you slobbered that night?”
“n-no.” you stammered, the words clogging in your throat harsher now that the gun was pointed at you. “i swear. i had no idea you were coming here. i just got out of the shower.”
“mmh.” he purred, skeptical, further closing in. the gun tilted upwards, the muzzle now tracing your trembling jawline. “so this… shamelessness… is just a coincidence.” he leaned in, his breath hitting your shivering lips. it smelled of blood and menthol. “i think you’re lying, penpal.”
“no.” you rasped, the word clotting in your throat. “it was just the shower– the news– please.”
he chuckled at your stammering, a low, vibrating sound that sent a shiver down your spine. the gun never wavered. “please.” he mocked, softly. “i've heard that one. right before i put a hole in someone.”
your mind scrambled for anything — a solution, a way out. and then you remembered what he said before. “i can hide you!” you blurted, the proposal betraying your terror. “no one knows you’re here. i have food. medicine. i-i can help you. just… please, don’t hurt me.”
sylus’s red eyes flared with something darker than amusement. interest. “hide me? that’s a given, of course.” he repeated, the gun now drifting down to trace the dip of your breasts, the loose hem of your towel. “offer something more tempting, kitten.”
“anything.” you whispered swiftly, the word a trembling, uncontrollable sound. “i’ll do anything you want.”
the silence that followed was thick, punctuated only by the distant sirens outside. his gaze scanned you, as if weighing your worth, your utility.
“good answer.” he raised the gun, not to your head, but cupped the metal slide of the pistol under your chin, tilting your face up to him. the steel was chilly against your skin. “my wish is simple. let us reenact at least a part of that dirty little message of yours.”
he elevated the gun, tracing a slow, hard line against the seam of your lips, pushing the chilling muzzle against it. “but you need to earn it.”
a soundless gasp stuttered out of you. your vision spotting at the feeling of the deadly metal against your mouth. he couldn't mean–
“nothing is free, kitten.” his voice was a low, unyielding factuality, that shattered any hope you’ve fostered until now. he pushed the muzzle harder into your lips, making you stumble back a step. “open your mouth. put your lips on it. show me how much you want to live.”
all you could do was gulp down your shame and obey. you were exposed, terrified... and embarrassingly aroused. a wet, traitorous heat pulsed low in your belly, making arousal drip down your thighs.
“how precious.” he murmured, watching you lose your faith in being safe another way. “a cowardly little kitten, but willing to lick the tool that will kill her. good start.”
your lips touched the metal fully now. it tasted of oil, smoke, and something coppery — probably blood. he pushed it forward without a warning; the tip of the muzzle parted your lips, sliding onto your hot tongue. you made a gagging sound, repulsed by the feeling of the deadly object, your throat seizing.
“shh.” he soothed, the gun stroking your tongue in short thrusts. “take it. get used to the feel. you're going to gag on something much thicker soon.”
he began a slow, sinister pistoning motion, pushing the barrel deeper into your mouth with each push. each stroke hit closer to the back of your throat, eliciting a spasm from your trembling body. your eyes watered, big tears rolling down your cheeks. saliva dripped down your chin, tracing wet lines on your neck.
you were so terrified yet so aroused.
“you liked writing about gagging.” he mused, his eyes narrowed in cruel amusement. “tell me, did you think it was hot? did you touch yourself while you wrote it, pitiful little slut? let's see if you still like it.”
he added pressure.
the gun slid down your throat, pushing at your uvula. you gagged hard, your body jerking in place. the towel finally gave up and slipped exclusively off one side, falling to your elbow. one naked breast lay bare in the cool air, presenting itself before sylus.
he let out a soft, whistling breath.
“look at that. fear doesn't stop your nipple from hardening, does it?” he used the gun to tilt your head back further, exposing your bulging throat. “you're scared. but you're also turned on, aren't you? a true degenerate.”
you couldn't nod. you could only gag harder, heart banging in your chest with terror. what scared you more was the fact that he was right. a dark, glossy heat had fully bloomed in your stomach, sinking lower and staining your legs with slick.
you felt it.
“you are doing such a good job, kitten.” he said, slowing the thrusts altogether. the metal slid deliberately out of your mouth, leaving a trail of saliva between the muzzle and your lips. “do you want my cock instead of this gun?”
you swallowed hard, gasping for air, your throat burning from the harsh intrusion. your gaze, teary and dazed, trailed down his body — the tight orange pants did nothing to hide the heavy, obvious bulge hung between his thighs.
he was already hard, most likely aroused by your pitiful self.
wretched with need you hated yourself for, you answered. “y-yes.” you plead, another wave of tears threatening to spill. “please.”
“louder.”
“please!” you screamed it, the word echoing in the silent room.
sylus’s smile widened, a macabre, triumphant slit that reached his ghoulish red eyes. he pulled the gun completely away, waiting for you to obey. “get on your knees then.”
your body acted before your mind could process the order. your knees hit the hardwood floor and a sharp panic snapped through you. you were now below him, your nose level with his hips. your towel, precarious against your body, offered zero protection.
“s-sir...” you breathed, looking up at his demonic smile.
“oh, that’s right.” he coolly replied. “it was mr. qin, wasn’t it?”
he hooked the gun’s muzzle under your chin, tilting your head back to inspect you. the metal dig into the tender skin of your throat, pressing against the spot it bullied just before. “what else, hm? aha!”
“you said you’d suck me off so good, i’d forget to shoot you.”
with his free hand, he unbuckled his prison pants. the zipper spread with a hushed, rasping sound. and you couldn’t look away. your heart pounded with terror — and a silky, traitorous arousal.
“open.” he ordered, the gun now digging into the side of your jaw. “show me that mouth you so generously offered to a criminal.”
your lips parted, a whimper stuck in your throat. he had not taken his cock out yet, but you could see the bulge, already hard and full, straining against the dark fabric of his boxers.
he leaned down, very slowly, the gun never breaking its contact. his lips next to your ear.
“and remember.” he whispered, the barrel of the gun drifting to temporarily press into the hollow of your throat. “if you stop, or if i don’t enjoy it…” he pulled back just enough to make you look at him. at the way his red eyes glinted. “i’ll kill you here, on your knees.”
he straightened and released himself from his pants in one fluid move. his cock, thick and long, already leaking precum, brushed your parted lips. pushing against them just like the weapon was against your feverish skin.
“now.” he rasped, voice gone rough with lust. “make me forget i’m holding this.”
the gun rested lightly on the side of your head now, its presence a stark, unrefutable reminder of the stakes. your mouth watered in terror, throat already bruised, yet craving more. your pulse pounded in your clit, wet and disloyal, asking for his cock.
so you leaned in.
you opened wider. your tongue probed his slit, tasting the salty, musky precum. he hissed, his hips jerking forward in response, penetrating past your lips with his tip. the gun pressed more solidly against your temple, serving as threat and as encouragement.
“yes.” he breathed, looking down at you. “that’s it.”
your eyes sprang tears from the strain of taking him in, as well as from the gun against your head. yet you allowed yourself to close your lips over him, to suck his cock as nicely as possible.
you made it slow. wet. messy.
your knees ached against the floor. your towel slipped fully, unfurling around your thighs, leaving you naked below him. he moaned, a low, ruthless sound, and his free hand tangled in your hair, pulling you closer to his navel.
“deeper.”
you relaxed your jaw, ignoring your gagging sounds, allowing him to push further in. his tip hit the back of your throat, adding another bruise to the one created by the gun. you choked and spilled spit all over — a loud, ugly, wet sound. your tears ran free down your face, trailing lower against your throat and chest.
“kitten–”
the gun trembled slightly in his grip, and you shook with uncertainty. was he going to shoot? you were unsure. you sucked harder, taking him in with stupid, desperate hunger. burying your face in his happy trail so you won’t have to be buried for good.
“fuck.” he groaned, his hand tightening so hard in your hair it hurt.
he started pumping more viciously, his hips slamming into your face, his cock sliding sloppily deep down your throat with every thrust. the gun moved, now pressing directly behind your ear. “yes. that’s it. you wanted this, didn’t you? you wanted to be used by a criminal.”
you moaned in response, too afraid to pull it out and speak. the vibration enhanced his pleasure, earning you another grunt of pleasure.
you were scared and turned on in equal, poisonous measure.
“i’m going to cum down that pretty, scared throat.” he snarled, his thrusts going raw, losing rhythm. “and you’ll swallow it all. lick me clean.”
you reached up to grab his thighs, to steady yourself, to show your submission.
and that was when he lost it. his stomach tightened, a rough grunt ripping its way out of him, and hot, pulsing cum spilled into your throat. heat spreading down your neck, filling your stomach. he held your head tight, milking himself with shallow, grunting thrusts.
feeding you every single drop.
the gun fell to the side, clattering against the floorboards.
…it was no longer pointed at you.
he breathed heavily, looking down at you with a hazy, exhausted gaze. he pulled out, slow, with satisfaction, admiring your disheveled state. you stayed on your knees, shaking and terrified, swallowing what had pooled in your mouth.
waiting.
“good.” he murmured, fully content by your behavior. he tucked himself away, zipping up with one hand his soft cock. he then dropped to one knee, his face now level with yours. and, surprisingly, he wiped a thumb over your sloppy, sore lips... sparing you. “you can live.”
he cradled your jaw in his grip, murderous fingers pressing against your bruised throat from the outside. “and if you’re very, very good, maybe we’ll get to that second part you wrote.”
second part? wha–
“the one about me breeding you.”
oh.
he let go, stood, and turned to walk into your darkened apartment. leaving you shaking, naked, and treacherously alive on the floor. the gun, close by on the floor, gleamed silently in the moonlight.
but sylus had an insufferable knack for pissing you off.
"sy?" despite the calmness across your features, your eye twitching showed you were anything but. "where is he?"
if you weren't so focused on keeping your breathing regulated, you would've seen the reassured grin slipping onto his face, far too cocky as he casually fiddled with his gun.
"where is who, kitten?" his voice was a lazy drawl as he dragged his gaze up to meet yours. "you'll have to be more specific."
"you know!" when waving your hands in the air only earned you a raised brow, you groaned. "my grumpy crow plushie! he was on the bed when i left for work, and now he's gone!"
"ah." he brought his gaze back down to the gun he was maintaining, and you could see the way his lip curled. "that thing? perhaps he ran off to find his own kitten."
"sy!" you marched over, grabbing the gun from his hands. he seemed all too pleased as you placed it on the table. "i know you have something to do with this! spit it out!"
"i'm telling the truth, sweetie." he held his hands up, placing one over his heart. "the crow wished to find a companion, so he left."
"sylus qin." you poked at his chest, scowling. "if you don't tell me, i swear-"
"you're more worried about a plushie than your own husband." he lamented, a dramatic sigh escaping his chest as he wrapped his arms around your waist, tugging you between his legs. "you haven't even asked how my day was."
".. how was your day, sylus?" your hands drifted to his hair reflexively.
"very productive." he nodded, resting his head against your stomach, nuzzling into you. "i made a few deals.. dealt with some troublemakers.. aided a crow to find a new home-"
and with those words, you tugged on his hair. he barely seemed fazed, only lifting his head at your pull to smile up at you.
"where. is. my. plushie?" you demanded an answer, scowling down at him.
"the closet." he decided to answer truthfully this time, if only to catch a glimpse of the sight of you running off to see if his claims were true.
"why did you put him in there?!" you hugged grumpy crow as soon as you found him, glaring daggers at his "kidnapper."
sylus merely shrugged, leaning his head against his palm. "he was stealing from me."
"stealing from- he's a plushie!" you moved to storm towards the bed, but a hand grabbing your wrist stopped you. you brought your gaze up, finding him watching you, a strange gleam to his eyes.
"he was stealing my wife's attention." he spoke as if it was a grievous sin, bringing you into his arms. a steady hand rested on your hip, the second sliding up to cup the back of your neck. "why would you cuddle with.. him if i'm only a call away?"
"when did i..?" you paused, before glaring at him. "are you seriously jealous that i was holding him before bed last night?"
"you should be holding me instead." he huffed, tugging you impossibly closer. "surely i'm better than cotton and cloth?"
"you're so dramatic." you grumbled, holding the plushie up. "he's just a plushie!"
"plushie or not, i'm not sharing our bed with him." he turned his head away, nose up in the air for dramatic effect. "who will you choose, sweetie, me or the plushie?"
he wasn't even fully surprised that he ended up sleeping on the couch that night.
yanderes ! douma, kokushibo, and muzan react to you wanting to leave them.. x human ! reader
song rec while reading
do you hear that? it's the sound of you.. staying with me.. for eternity..
cws; yandere themes, including possessiveness, psychological manipulation, gaslighting, threats of violence, emotional abuse, and non-consensual control of autonomy. scenes feature intimidation with weapons, implied captivity, and moments of coercion. please read with caution. mdni !
doma :
you whisper the words carefully, afraid to even meet his eyes: “I want to leave.”
for a moment, there’s silence. cold, hard, silence..then Dōma claps his hands together with a bright smile, the kind that doesn’t reach his hollow, rainbow eyes.
“oh, my precious flower, you’re so funny!” he coos, tilting his head like a child hearing a joke. he steps closer, brushing a strand of hair from your face with deceptively gentle fingers. you can feel your heart race with each step he took. tears already brimming at the sides of your cheeks. he's going to let me leave.. right?
“why would you ever want to leave me? i’ve given you everything, haven’t I? safety, warmth, love,” his tone is light, but his grip tightens until your jaw aches. your cheeks squishing together as you felt for the first time in your life..fear..the fear of death.
when you try to step back, he only giggles, pulling you against his chest like you’re something fragile. “humans are so silly, always thinking they can survive without me! you’d crumble out there. so let’s just… forget you ever said that, alright?” his smile widens, and though he’s humming sweetly, you can’t ignore how cold the room feels—like you’re trapped in the arms of winter itself.
"doma, i don't think you understand. i want to leave.. and i am going to leave." you say looking at him pushing him off with all of your strength.
he blinks, tilts his head, and then lets out a soft laugh that chills your spine. “oh, sweetheart, you’re serious!” his voice is airy, amused, like you just told him the punchline of a joke he doesn’t quite get.
he doesn’t stumble from your push—he lets you think you moved him. then, in a blur, his hands are on your shoulders, holding you in place. his smile widens, but his eyes are glassy, empty of warmth. “leave?” he repeats, sing-song, leaning close enough that his breath brushes your ear. “but you can’t leave. you’re too delicate. the world would crush you in an instant without me.” He presses a kiss to your temple like a blessing and adds with a whispering giggle, “besides… if you walk away, I might have to break those pretty legs of yours. just so you don’t wander off, hm?”
"you wouldn't.. you wouldn't do that to me doma. right?" you whispered breaking from his shoulders getting ready to walk backwards.. you turn a corner.. sliding the door open as he sighs. "y/n.. your beginning to really hurt... my feelings.." he said stretching his arms. your eyes widen, already knowing what he was going to do next. you turned on your heels beginning to run as within a blink of an eye his arms snake around your body pulling you back into the room. "oh.. no.. it seems i need to break your legs now."
you screamed as his grip shifted. a single, fluid motion—effortless, merciless. pain exploded up your leg as the bone snapped, your body convulsing in his hold. the sound of your sobs mixed with his soft hum, the contrast almost unbearable.
“oh, hush now, hush, darling,” dōma whispered sweetly, pulling you close as though to cradle you through the agony he’d just inflicted. his long fingers brushed your hair back from your tear-streaked face, his smile as gentle as a saint’s. “I know, I know, it hurts. But it’s for your own good, really. you see? Now you won’t wander off anymore.”
another sharp crack split the air as he moved to your other leg. your cry broke into ragged gasps, body trembling violently in his arms. Dōma only rocked you slightly, as though lulling a child to sleep. “shhh, my flower. don’t be upset. I’ll take such good care of you now. No more scary thoughts of leaving me, hmm?”
He pressed a soft kiss to your temple, ignoring the way your body shook with pain. His arms wrapped tighter, almost protective. “you belong right here, with me. safe and sound. isn’t that much better?”
Your vision blurred from the tears, from the pain, but all you could see was that unchanging smile—bright, beautiful, and terrifying.
And then, as if he hadn’t just broken you, his voice turned almost tender, the weight of false devotion dripping from every word:
“you’ll thank me one day, Y/N. you’ll see… I saved you.”
-
kokushibo ;
your voice wavers, but the words are clear: “I can’t stay with you anymore.”
kokushibo doesn’t move. his six eyes fixate on you with a suffocating intensity, unblinking, unshaking. the silence drags until it feels like the air itself has turned heavy, pressing against your lungs.
finally, his voice rumbles low, each syllable sharp as steel: “Do you believe you have a choice?” you flinch as he steps forward, his towering presence blotting out all escape.
his hand rests on the hilt of his blade—not drawn, but the threat hangs between you like a guillotine. “you belong to me. It is not a matter of desire. It is a matter of fact.” His words are final, laced with centuries of authority. he leans close, his breath brushing against your ear as he adds, almost as a growl, “If you seek to run, I will cut down every path, every shelter, every person who dares stand between us. until there is nothing left… but me.”
“i-i don’t care what you say,” you snapped, your voice trembling but fierce, fists balled at your sides. “you can threaten me all you want, kokushibo but I’m not yours. I’m going to leave. And when I do—when I do-you’ll never see me again.”
for a moment, silence. his six eyes narrowed, each one studying you as if weighing whether your words were bravery or foolishness. the air thickened, heavy with the stench of bloodlust. then came the low rumble of his reply:
“…you dare defy me to my face.”
your legs screamed at you to run, and you did—turning, sprinting toward the door. for a heartbeat, you thought you might make it.
but the floor seemed to vanish, the world twisting with impossible speed. a cold hand closed around your wrist, wrenching you backward so violently that the breath tore from your lungs. in the next instant, you were slammed against the wall, his towering figure looming over you.
“you speak of leaving as though it were within your power,” he growled, his voice like thunder in your ear. one of his blades hissed free, the sharp edge pressing against your throat—not enough to cut, but close enough that you felt your pulse throb against steel. “but you are a fool. do you think I would allow it?”
you glared up at him, even as tears stung your eyes. “i'd rather die than stay chained to you.” you spat as he pressed the blade further down your throat.
his expression didn’t change, but his grip on you tightened. “then you do not understand,” he whispered, his forehead pressing against yours. “if you die, I will carve open hell itself to drag you back to me. you are mine. your defiance only deepens that truth.”
muzan ;
The moment you say it—“I want to leave you”—the air itself feels like it shatters.
muzan’s red eyes flare with such fury that your knees nearly buckle. his lips curl into a snarl, voice sharp and venomous: “you dare think you can abandon me!?” the walls seem to tremble as his presence fills every corner of the room, suffocating, inescapable.
he’s in front of you before you can even blink, fingers gripping your throat—not enough to kill, but enough to remind you that your life rests between his claws.
“you live because I allow it. you breathe because I permit it.” his tone softens into something cruelly mocking as he drags you closer, almost cradling you.
“do not mistake my indulgence for weakness. you are mine. forever.” He presses a kiss to your temple, tender and terrifying all at once, before whispering the final blow: “if you try to run, I will burn the world down until you have nowhere left to hide.”
"no! let me go. i am leaving."
you shouted, shoving him with all of your strength. For the briefest second, his body moved back an inch—not because you were strong enough, but because he let you believe you were.
his crimson eyes narrowed, glowing in the dim light. the silence that followed was worse than a roar. then, faster than you could blink, his hand snapped forward, clawing around your throat, slamming you against the wall so hard the air left your lungs.
“you dare,” Muzan hissed, his voice low, venomous, vibrating with restrained wrath. his grip tightened, not enough to crush, but enough to make your vision blur at the edges. “you dare to push me… to speak of leaving me… as if you are more than what I made you.”
You clawed at his wrist, gasping, eyes burning with stubborn fire. “i..don’t care what you think... i am leaving you!”
His lips curved into a cruel smirk, his voice dripping with mockery. “leave me? you couldn’t even take a step without trembling.” his thumb traced the line of your jaw almost tenderly, a mockery of comfort. “you belong to me, little human. your body, your breath, your future .... it all exists because I allow it.”
he released your throat suddenly, and you collapsed to the floor, coughing, scrambling to push yourself up. but before you could stand, his foot pressed down on your back, pinning you with humiliating ease.
“defiance,” he whispered, leaning down so his cold lips brushed your ear, “only makes me want to chain you tighter.”
and then, in a sickening twist of cruelty, he crouched and gathered you into his arms, as though he were consoling a frightened lover instead of the one who broke you. “shhh… don’t cry. you’ll see. it’s better this way. you’ll never need anyone but me.”
His forehead rested against yours, voice dropping to a chilling whisper. “no matter how many times you say it, no matter how far you run… you will always crawl back to me. because I will never let you go.”
Kokushibo already scares with his appearance, height, and strength. As a yandere, he tends to use that to his advantage. It seems to be the only effective way to get your attention so you don’t escape.
He does love you, but if you keep trying to escape, he won’t hesitate to put you in your place. No matter the cost.
Kokushibo is extremely hard to escape from. He has a high IQ and intelligence. Not to mention, he’s Uppermoon One. Any plan you have, he’s already 17 steps ahead.
He does not respond to begging, so you can’t beg your way out of his grasp. Though, he does secretly find it….arousing. 👀
His punishments are extremely painful. It could be anything really. Cutting off your limbs, keeping your family hostage, or even leaving you to starve.
Nonetheless, Kokushibo is obsessed with you.
“Your attempts to leave me are pointless, but I like a challenge.”
DOUMA
Douma is more subtle about his obsession for you. While he does melt over you, he makes sure you know that you’re beneath him and should be practically worshipping him.
He loves you, that much is true. He won’t hesitate to eat your entire family and won’t feel bad if you cry.
He would provide be the easiest to escape from since he’s always so busy with his cult and his duties as an Uppermoon. He’d always make time for you though.
Begging? Priceless! It makes him laugh that you’re so desperate to resort to such pathetic matters! Of course he won’t let you go.
His punishments are….let’s say you won’t be able to walk for a month or two.
Douma doesn’t treat you like the rest of his followers. In fact, he demands his followers treat you like royalty. You’re just below him in the hierarchy of this cult.
“Ohoho! Keep begging! This is amusing!”
AKAZA
Out of these three, Akaza is the one who is most lenient. However, that depends on how loving you are toward him.
He’s not one to harm someone he loves but will go there if it comes to that. And trust me, you don’t want it to come to that.
Is Akaza downright crazy for you? Of course! He’s obsessed with you, but he’s much more gentle with you than the other Uppermoons would be.
The chances of you being able to escape from him is dependent entirely on how much he trusts you. If he trusts you, you may be able to escape. If he doesn’t, then you’ll lose any chances at going out at all, let alone escape.
Begging? Cute, but not gonna work. No exceptions. Unless ya’ll fucking.
Punishments are rare. Extremely rare. He composes his feelings around you so you don’t see him as an angry, abusive man.
Overall, he’s probably the most wholesome yandere in the Twelve Kizuki.
“People like you are what the world needs. You’re a delicate flower that needs to be protected.”
A/n: TRIGGER WARNING! TW, TW! I originally said I wouldn’t write non-con or dub-con. But truly I think it’s a healthy way to process things and heal. I don’t think I need to elaborate more on that. If you don’t like it, then don’t read it. I provide trigger warnings and I don’t think I owe anyone a further explanation. This is fictional, with fictional characters. Also this might suck. I’ve never written something like this… I’m sorry. 🖤
Setting: KNY universe Plot: You were trained to kill him. So why does Muzan Kibutsuji choose you? He watches. He waits. Then…he takes you. You’re dragged from the light and delivered into the hands of his most loyal subordinates. The Upper Moons don’t ask permission. They already want you.
Cw: Dark themes. Heavy themes. Kidnapping, Power imbalance, NSFW, smut, non-con, foursome, violence, spanking, choking, facefucking, double penetration, oral sex, fingering, clit rubbing, grinding, Hair pulling, degradation, praising, cream-pies, squirting, marking, rough sex, manhandling, restraint, very light blood play, primal play. Not Beta read.
The forest has memorized you.
The weight of your steps. The careful way you breathe through your nose when the air turns damp. The subtle roll of your shoulders when fatigue creeps in but pride refuses to let it show.
Tonight, the trees lean closer.
Fog drapes itself low along the ground, cool against your calves. Crickets hesitate between songs. Even the wind feels restrained, as if it’s waiting for permission to move.
You stop.
Your hand hovers near your blade.
You immediately sense it. Something is wrong. But it’s not loud enough to name. Not sharp enough to fight yet. It’s the sensation of being expected as if the night itself has been holding its breath for you.
Somewhere deeper, within the trees, out of sight, beyond the reach of moonlight, Muzan Kibutsuji watches.
He has watched you for weeks.
He knows the exact moment your vigilance softens—two hours past midnight, when your thoughts drift just enough to become dangerous. He knows which shoulder bears the oldest wound. He knows the way your pulse jumps when you think you’re alone.
He chose this forest because it swallows sound.
Because it teaches submission without ever touching.
You feel him a fraction too late.
The night folds inward around you.
There’s no warning. There’s no noise—just the sudden, impossible weight of a presence behind you.
You turn, blade already sliding free.
And his hand closes around your wrist.
He’s cold, unyielding, yet gentle.
You reach for your sword.
Your fingers betray you.
Steel slips free and hits the ground with a sound that feels embarrassingly small.
You fight anyway.
Your knee snaps upward. He shifts, barely moving, and your strike meets empty air. You twist, elbow swinging back, and your breath breaking.
His other hand closes around your throat.
“Quiet,” he murmurs, voice low and intimate.
Your pulse thunders beneath his thumb.
You tear at his grip, nails scraping uselessly against his skin. He allows it and watches you. Your struggle is cataloged and measured. It’s not a threat, but a confirmation.
“You shouldn’t be alone this late,” he continues, almost indulgent. “You’re predictable when you’re tired.”
That lands harder than any blow.
You manage a gasp, a snarl. And your breathing technique flares, muscles tensing, and your vision sharpening.
Then he tightens his grip just enough to disrupt it.
The forest tilts.
Stars scatter at the edges of your sight. He steps in closer, chest brushing your back, and suddenly there is nowhere left for your body to move without asking permission.
“You’ve been so careful,” he says softly. “So disciplined. I wondered how long it would take before you made a mistake.”
You bite down on the inside of your cheek until you taste blood.
You refuse to scream.
He releases your throat.
Then it’s quick... you’re falling into endless depth. The world around you curving in ways you can’t understand. Orange and red lighting surrounds you. The strong, potent smell of demon fills your senses. It’s as if you’re surrounded.
Then you’re being held in his arms. Safely on the ground.
He sets you down and you tremble. You look around trying to make sense of your surroundings.
Then a voice.
“Master? Shouldn’t we restrain her?” The voice is elegant, dripping in silk.
Then your hands are taken behind your back by an unbreakable force. It was so sudden. So quiet. You didn’t even feel it coming.
You turn to see six red eyes staring back at you, maroon hair flowing down his shoulders as he holds your wrist together. He only blinks at you. You’ve never seen something so terrifyingly beautiful before.
Muzan stands before you.
Crimson eyes steady on your face as you surface back into yourself. He watches the moment confusion gives way to memory. The instant fear sharpens into fury.
“There you are,” he says.
You lunge.
It’s instinct more than strategy, rage propelling you forward despite the tight grasp on your wrists. You barely move an inch before pressure slams you back down, forcing you to your knees again.
It’s not magic.
Another demon is on your other side and reaches out to caress your hair.
“It’s okay little blossom.”
His voice is sweet, soft, yet sharp at the edges. His hair falls perfectly around his face. His eyes are captivating. An endless sea of rainbow hues. He’s gorgeous, dangerously gorgeous.
“You’re safe,” Muzan says calmly, and the lie is almost convincing. “For now.”
You snap your head to look at him.
“You dragged me here,” you hiss. “You think I won’t kill you all the first chance I get?”
A smile ghosts his lips.
“I’m counting on it.”
He steps closer. The air changes with him, thickening, pressing. You can smell him now. He smells like cold night air and iron and something ancient beneath it all.
He leans down. His fingers lift your chin before you can pull away. The touch is infuriatingly careful.
“We do not intend to waste you… “ he exhales sharply. “I’m Muzan. This is Dōma and Kokushibō.” He gestures over at both men.
Dōma waves and smiles.
Kokushibō lowers his head.
Your breath shakes despite your resolve.
Doors slide closed.
The air in the dimly lit room is thick with anticipation.
Muzan, Dōma, and Kokushibō surround you, their presence a suffocating but intoxicating blend of dominance and desire.
You thought they’d question you or torture you.
You didn’t expect this.
You stand before them, trembling. While your heart races with a mix of fear and forbidden excitement.
Muzan’s eyes gleam with amusement as he circles you like a predator. "You think you can kill us all?" his voice a velvet threat.
Dōma chuckles, his rainbow eyes dancing with desire. "Oh, but we can smell your desire on you, little thing. The way your breath hitches, the flush on your skin. Tell us…how long has it been since someone touched you?”
You remain silent.
So did Kokushibō, his gaze intense and unwavering, a silent promise of what was to come.
Muzan’s hand shoots out, gripping your chin firmly, forcing you to meet his gaze. "You’ll beg for us by the end of the night," he promises, his thumb brushing over your lower lip.
Dōma’s fingers tangle in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat. "And we’ll enjoy every moment of it."
Muzan and Dōma begin to undress you while Kokushibō restrains you. They start with your shirt, your bra, then your pants, and finally your underwear.
“Stop—please— I’ll tell you anything— I just— please—“ Your pleading is ignored by all three men as they start to undress themselves.
Kokushibō’s hands find your hips, his touch possessive and harsh. The trio’s combined dominance was overwhelming, and despite your resistance, your body responded with a shiver of anticipation.
Without warning, Muzan’s hand comes down hard on your ass, the sharp smack echoing in the room.
You cry out, more from surprise than pain, as heat blooms across your skin.
"Count," he commands, his voice cold.
"One," you whimper, your cheeks burning with shame.
Dōma’s laughter is cruel as he delivers another spank, this time harder.
"Two," you gasped, your fingers clutching at the air.
Kokushibō’s grip tightens, holding you in place as they continue their assault, each strike testing your control.
Muzan’s fingers dig into your scalp as he pulls your hair, forcing you to your knees. Kokushibō releases his unrelenting grip.
"Open your mouth," Muzan orders, his tone leaving no room for disobedience.
You comply, your lips parting as he slides his cock into your mouth, his grip tight as he thrusts into your mouth. You gag and push him away, but it doesn’t stop him. He doesn’t slow down. Tears form in your eyes and fall down your cheeks.
Dōma kneels behind you, his hands roaming your body, teasing and tormenting.
Kokushibō watches, standing next to you. His expression unreadable.
The taste of Muzan, the feel of Dōma’s hands, and the weight of Kokushibō’s gaze combined overwhelm your senses.
Your body trembles as Dōma’s fingers find your clit, circling it.
"You’re doing so good," he taunts, his breath hot against your ear.
Muzan’s thrusts grow more demanding, his grip on your hair tightening as he fucks your mouth.
Kokushibō’s hands move to your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, sending jolts of pleasure through you. The overstimulation is unbearable, but your body involuntarily arches into their touch.
"You’re such a needy little thing," Dōma mocked, his fingers plunging into you, curling just right to hit that spot that made you see stars.
Your moans and pleads are muffled by Muzan’s cock, your body writhing between them.
Kokushibō kneels. His lips find your neck, his teeth graze your skin, leaving a trail of marks in their wake. The combination of pain and pleasure is intoxicating, pushing you closer to the edge with every passing second. This is a feeling you can’t fight, no matter how hard you try. You feel utterly helpless.
Muzan pulls out of your mouth, his eyes dark with lust as he watches Domā and Kokushibō lift you by your arms and manhandle you onto the bed.
"On your hands and knees," Kokushibō commanded, his voice low and authoritative.
You obeyed, your body trembling with anticipation. Then Dōma positions himself behind you, his hands gripping your hips as he enters you with a single, brutal thrust.
“Please—“ You beg for mercy before the air is stolen from your lungs as he thrusts deeper. Your fingers are digging into the sheets as he sets a merciless rhythm.
Muzan kneels before you, his hand wrapping around your throat as he forces you to look at him. "You’ll take everything we give you," he growls, his eyes staring into yours.
“Please. Just stop. I’ll do anything you want. Just no more.” You beg, voice thin and trembling.
Dōma’s thrusts only grow more erratic at the sound of your voice, his grip tightening as he chases his release. Kokushibō’s hands roam your body, his touch both possessive and reverent, a stark contrast to the roughness of the others. The room is filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, and your moans slipping out from you as Dōma hits your sweet spot repeatedly.
"You’re so tight," Domā moaned, his hips snapping against yours. "Such a good little slut for us."
“No—I’m— I’m—not—“ you gasped.
Muzan’s grip on your throat tightens, cutting off your air just enough to make your head spin. Kokushibō’s fingers find your clit, rubbing it in time with Dōma’s thrusts. The combination of sensations is too much, and with a scream, you come undone, your body squirming as waves of pleasure crash over you, unwillingly.
Dōma follows you as your walls flutter around his cock. “Ta—take it, darling.”He mutters between breathy moans. His release fills you as he buries himself deep inside you.
Muzan releases your throat, allowing you to gasp for air as he and Dōma switch spots.
He positions himself at your entrance. "Ready for more?" he asks, though it was less a question and more of a command.
You just nod in fear, your body still trembling from your orgasm as he enters you, his size stretching you again.
Kokushibō moves to your side, his hand stroking your hair as Muzan begins to move. "You’re doing so well," he murmurs, his voice a rare moment of praise amidst the degradation and shame.
Muzan’s thrusts are relentless, his hands gripping your hips as he takes you with a ferocity that leaves you breathless.
Dōma watches, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he sees you being used so thoroughly.
"You’re ours," Muzan growls, his teeth sinking into your shoulder, marking you as his.
You cry out, the pain mingling with pleasure as he claims you. Kokushibō’s hands move to your breasts, his fingers pinching your nipples, sending another wave of unwanted arousal through you.
It was too much, your body begging for more even as your mind struggled to fight it.
Muzan’s pace quickens, his thrusts becoming more sloppy as he approaches his release. "Cum for us again," he commands, his voice rough and strained.
Kokushibō’s fingers find your clit once more, rubbing it with a quick precision that sends you over the edge.
With another scream, you come undone again, your body convulsing as you squirt, soaking the bed, Kokushibō’s hand, and Muzan's thighs. The pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.
Muzan’s rhythm falters, then he releases his hot thick cum into you, with one last thrust. He collapses against you, his body heavy and hot as he catches his breath.
The brief break is shattered as Kokushibō’s hand, large and unyielding, clamps onto your arm.
With effortless strength, he hauls you from the tangled sheets, your limbs feeling like lead. He doesn’t speak, he simply sits on the bed and pulls you down with him, arranging you so you are straddling his muscular thighs. His six eyes locked with yours, a silent, consuming vortex that holds you captive.
Before you can even process the new position, a sharp, stinging crack echoes through the room. Muzan. He stands beside you, his handprint already blooming a furious red on your ass. "Did you think we were done?" he hisses, his voice laced with cruel amusement. "That you could just lie there and bask in it?" He strikes you again, harder, the impact jolting you forward against Kokushibō's chest.
Dōma’s laughter, a light and melodic sound, as he watches. "Oh, she looks so pretty like that, all marked up and flinching. Don't you agree, Kokushibō?"
Kokushibō’s hands finally move from your arms to your hips, his grip cruel. He starts to move you, dragging your slick, swollen folds back and forth along the thick length of his cock. The friction is exquisite torture. He isn’t even inside you, yet the pressure against your clit, the heat of him, the sheer dominance of him using your body like a toy for his own pleasure, is overwhelming. You bite your lip, trying to stifle your moans, your eyes locked with his.
"Look at her," Dōma says, kneeling to get a better view, his fingers tracing the red handprints on your ass. "She's already so lost in it. Her hips are moving on their own, trying to chase more…I think she likes you.”
He isn’t wrong. Your body betrayed you, arching into Kokushibō's touch, silently begging for more. Kokushibō's grip tightens, his pace becoming more deliberate and more demanding. He is testing you, seeing how long you can last like this, perched on the very edge of sanity.
"Pathetic," Muzan sneers from the side, stroking his own hardening length. "Getting off from just a little grinding. What a needy, desperate creature."
Suddenly you feel it coming again. The heat. The knot in your stomach. Your breath hitching, your thighs trembling, and your gaze never leaves Kokushibō's as your orgasm tears through you. You bite your own lip hard enough that it begins to bleed. Your back arches, and a choked gasp escapes your lips as your pussy clenches around nothing.
A low rumble vibrates from Kokushibō's chest, the closest thing to approval you'd ever hear from him. He leans in and licks the blood from your lip, without breaking eye contact. Then he shifts his hips, and with one powerful, fluid motion, he lifts you and you’re sinking down onto his cock. The sudden, full penetration makes you cry out, his size stretching you perfectly, filling you completely.
"So good," he finally spoke, his voice a deep, resonant growl that seems to shake you to your core. "And all mine."
He sets a brutal pace, his hands on your hips lifting and dropping you onto his thick cock. The world narrows to the feeling of him inside you, the sound of your bodies meeting, and the hypnotic pull of his six eyes. Just as you are adjusting to his rhythm, you feel another presence behind you.
Dōma’s cool hands grip your ass, spreading it open. "Don't forget about me," he sings, his voice right next to your ear. "Every part of you belongs to us."
You feel the wet, cool press of his saliva against your other hole before he begins to press in. The burn is sharp and intense, a stark contrast to the heat of Kokushibō. You tense, a cry catching in your throat.
"Relax, little thing," Dōma coos, though his tone is anything but comforting. "Take it. Take all of us." With a final, deliberate push, he is seated inside of you, his cock filling your ass.
“It’s too much—it hurts—please!” You beg again and are met with no empathy, no emotion, no mercy.
The sensation of being so completely, utterly full is mind-bending. They hold still for a moment, adjusting.
You breathe for a second.
Then they find a coordinated rhythm. As Kokushibō lifts you, Dōma pulls back, only for them to thrust into you at the same time, burying themselves. You are a ragdoll between them, your body nothing more than a vessel for their pleasure.
"Look at you, stuffed full of cock," Muzan's voice cut through your haze. He is now right next to you, his expression one of cold, demanding authority. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back painfully. "You're not finished. Use your hands."
He guides your trembling hands to his own cock. "Get me off," he groans. "Now. While they ruin you."
Your mind struggles to catch up, overwhelmed by the dual penetration, the hair pulling, the sheer debauchery of the scene. You fumble for a moment, your grip clumsy, but Muzan is not a patient man.
"Faster," he snarls, tightening his grip on your hair, making your eyes water. "Don't you dare stop."
You find a rhythm, your hands stroking his cock in time with the thrusts into your body. Every time Kokushibō and Dōma slam into you, your hands tighten on Muzan. You feel like a machine, a conduit for their pleasure.
"That's it," Dōma praises, his voice a sickly-sweet poison in your ear. "Such a good little cocksleeve, taking all of us at once. You love it, don't you? Being used like this."
"Answer him," Muzan demands, his eyes blazing.
You can only manage a choked sob and a desperate shake of your head, as the pleasure builds to an impossible peak. The stimulation is too much. The cock in your pussy, the one in your ass, the one in your hands, the voice in your ear, the hand in your hair—it is a sensory overload that shatters you completely.
Your cheeks fill with more heat, your trembling legs begin to shake, and your breathing grows rapid. You snap your eyes shut as your orgasm tears through you again, like a lightning strike. You groan loudly, your body squirming uncontrollably as you gush around Kokushibō, your inner walls clamp down like a vise on both men inside you.
The feeling and sight of your spasming body sends them all over the edge. With a deep, guttural groan, Kokushibō slams you down one last time and you feel the hot flood of his release filling you. Dōma moans, a sound of pure ecstasy, as he buries himself deep in your ass and spends himself. Muzan’s grip on your hair becomes almost painful as he thrusts into your hands, his own release spilling over your fingers and onto your bare chest.
They collapse in a mess of heaving breaths. You’re limp, boneless, dripping with their cum and your own arousal, utterly and completely wrecked.
Kokushibō's arms are the only thing holding you up, his six eyes still watching you with that same intense, possessive gaze. You are theirs, marked, filled, and broken.
Hi! I love your writing so much and how you portray the three upper moons! I was wondering if you could write a fic with Kokushibo and a fem reader and have it be nsfw? The Kokushibo fans are starving over here 😞 thank you so much!!
A/n: It’s not a chapter fic… I hope this will do. Since I am starving you guys, I will actually write a part two to this and make it just fluff… if you want that. You just have to let me know lol. Anyways, xo thank you for your request and your support. It’s always appreciated 🖤
Setting: KNY universe Plot: You’re a Hashira. One of the most powerful and strongest. After a mission you are captured by a magnetic and weakening force: Kokushibō. He shows you just how weak you truly are.
Cw: NSFW, smut, fingering, noncon elements, power imbalance, manhandling, restraint, hair pulling, degradation, praise, oral sex, face fucking, penetration, light size kink, rough sex, forest setting, no after care.
The forest is too quiet.
That’s the first thing you notice.
Your steps drag over the dirt path, boots heavy with exhaustion. Blood, mostly not yours—dries tacky on your uniform, sticking where it shouldn’t. Every muscle in your body hums with that hollow post-battle shake. You’re almost home. If you can just keep walking.
A cold wind skims the back of your neck.
There’s a presence.
You don’t even have time to turn.
A hand; large, unyielding, and calloused, clamps over your wrist. Your chest hits rough bark, hard enough to bite a gasp from your mouth. His body follows, pressed to yours with an intimacy that feels deliberate. Like he’s fitting himself to every line of you.
Six eyes open behind you, but you don’t see them. Though, you can sense them dragging down your spine like a second touch.
“You’re a strong one… aren’t you?” his voice murmurs, low and resonant, brushing your ear.
Your fingers twitch toward your sword. His grip closes around your hand instantly firm, immovable, but frighteningly gentle. He plucks your sword from you like it’s a toy and throws it into the darkness. It lands far away, out of your sight, metal ringing against wood.
“You couldn’t behead me if you tried.”
You swallow a curse. Try to dig your heels into the dirt. Try to push back against him. All it earns you is more pressure from him. You feel his chest pinning your shoulder blades, his hips locking your body into stillness.
“Give up,” he breathes against your skin. The heat of him slides down your back. “You won’t win.”
He pauses, letting the words settle.
“I won’t devour you. I’m here to study you.”
Your breath stutters. Not from fear. From something else.
“For what?” you manage, twisting your head to look at him.
He turns your chin toward the tee again, with two fingers unhurried and reverent, as if he’s handling something precious rather than a Hashira with a heartbeat he could stop whenever he pleased.
“You’re powerful,” he says softly, almost like an apology. “Not helpless like the others. Your skills are… excellent.”
A deep exhale.
“I’m impressed with you.”
Something sharp flickers in your chest.
You hate the way this feels good. The heat, the fear, the praise. No one ever appreciated your strength or potential. Never rewarded, just forgotten.
You try moving again on instinct, pride, and desperation, but he presses in harder. His whole body molds over yours and holds you there.
“That behavior won’t do,” he whispers.
His restraint, his carefulness, it lights something unbearably low in your stomach. From the glance you stole, he’s beautiful. You feel every inch of him.
But he’s a demon. He’s the enemy.
No mercy.
“You’re a real threat,” he continues, tone dipping lower. “A true treasure. It would be a shame if that was… disrespected.”
Your breath catches, embarrassingly loud. Heat coils under your skin, blooming at the point where his weight presses you into the tree the most, between your hips. His presence is overwhelming, like the night itself decided to trap you in its arms.
Suddenly you didn’t feel like the powerful, strong, and courageous Hashira you are. You felt weak, powerless, submissive. It’s igniting something within you. The feeling of being cared for, praised, and appreciated felt foreign. But God, it was something you yearned for.
“I don’t know what you think you’re planning,” you say, voice ragged, “but it won’t turn out like you think. Others will come for me.”
He hums soft, amused, and indulgent.
“Is that so?” His lips graze your jaw. “We will be quick, then.”
The forest holds its breath.
And so do you.
His fingers ghost over the waist of your uniform skirt, tracing the line of your belt.
“I can smell you. I can hear your heartbeat.” He says as he plants a soft kiss on your cheekbone. “Do you enjoy being weak?”
You tense, a fresh wave of defiance surging through you, but it’s useless. He’s a mountain, and you’re the foothill he’s decided to claim. Your belt unbuckles with a sound loud enough to echo. His hands trail down to your underwear. The fabric gives under his touch, with a deliberate slide of his knuckles, exposing you to the cool night air and the burning weight of his gaze.
“Look at you, it’s like the strength has left your body,” he breathes, the words a low vibration against your ear. “Already so wet for me. Such a good girl, aren’t you?”
The praise is a poison. You want to turn around and kiss him, but all that comes out is a choked sound. You know you should be fighting. But your knees give out as one long, calloused finger slides between your folds. He’s not gentle. He’s not cruel. He’s exploring you, mapping you out with the same precision a cartographer would use. He circles your entrance, a slow, maddening tease that makes your hips twitch against your will.
“Patience,” he says softly. “I want to feel every inch of you. To understand what makes you so...you.”
Then he pushes a finger inside of you.
Your forehead falls into the bark, a sharp gasp tearing from your mouth. Then he adds another finger. The stretch is a shock. He doesn’t stop until his knuckles are pressed against you. You can feel every callus, every ridge of his finger inside you, a stark reminder of the power in his frame.
He curls them and your vision whites out. A bolt of pure pleasure crawls up your spine. Your body clenches around him, a traitorous and desperate reaction.
“There it is,” he murmurs, a dark satisfaction in his tone. “That’s the spot, isn’t it? So sensitive. So powerful, and yet you’re falling apart from just my fingers.” He adds a third, the burn more intense this time, the stretch more demanding. It’s almost too much.
His other hand, moves to your hair. He doesn’t just grab it; he fists it, winding the strands around his knuckles until your scalp tingles with a sharp, delicious sting. He uses the grip to pull your head to the side. The angle is awkward, submissive, and it sends a fresh gush straight to your core.
“Don’t you dare look away,” he commands, his voice dropping into a growl. “I want to see your face when I ruin you.”
He’s breathtaking, almost majestic underneath the moonlight.
His fingers curl in you with a steady, punishing rhythm. He finds that spot inside you again and again, abusing it until your thighs are trembling and broken, needy sounds are spilling from your lips. You’re a mess. A writhing, panting mess pinned to a tree by a monster.
“You feel that?” he asks, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit. “That’s what it feels like to be owned by someone stronger.” His fingers scissor inside you, stretching you wider, making you feel every inch of him.
“Such a tight little cunt. It’s like it was made for me. Made to take my fingers, my cock, anything I decide to give you.”
The degradation is a lash, but it only makes the pleasure coil tighter. He’s right. You hate it, but he’s right. You are taking it. You are loving it.
“Please,” you whimper, the word barely recognizable. You don’t even know what you’re begging for. More? Less? An end to the exquisite torment?
He laughs, a low, rumbling sound that you feel more than you hear. “Please what, little Hashira? Please stop? Or please don’t stop?” He speeds up, the wet, obscene sounds filling the quiet forest. “There you go, humping my hand. All that pride, all that strength… gone. Just a desperate, needy thing for me to play with.”
His thumb on your clit circles faster, harder, and the pressure inside you builds to an unbearable point. It’s a tidal wave, and you’re completely at its mercy.
Your back arches into him, a strangled cry tearing from your throat as the orgasm crashes through you. It’s violent and overwhelming. Your vision goes white, as your cunt clenches and spasms around his fingers.
He doesn’t stop. He works you through it, drawing out every last shudder, every last pulse. Only then does he still his hand, his fingers remaining buried inside you as you gasp for air.
He leans in, his lips brushing against the sweat-slick skin of your temple. You can feel the curve of his smile.
“See?” he whispers. “Perfect.”
The aftershocks of your orgasm are still trembling through your limbs when he withdraws his fingers. The sudden emptiness is a cold shock, but it’s short-lived. He uses the hand still fisted in your hair to pull you away from the tree, turning you with an effortless strength. Your legs feel like they’re made of water, and you stumble, catching yourself on his chest.
The solid wall of muscle is an unwelcome anchor. He’s impossibly broad, and you can feel the sheer scale of him even through the layers of his clothing. He looks down at you, his six eyes gleaming in the dim light, a predator admiring his catch.
“On your knees,” he orders.
Your pride screams at you to fight, to spit, to do anything but comply. But your body, still humming, betrays you. He tightens his grip on your hair. You sink to the forest floor, dirt and dead leaves pressing into your skin. The position is humiliating, vulnerable, and it sends a dark, thrilling pulse straight through you.
He releases his hold on your hair only to unfasten his pants. He frees himself. The sight of him steals the breath from your lungs all over again. He’s huge. The sheer size of him is a statement of power.
“Open your mouth,” he murmurs, his voice a low, hypnotic sound.
You hesitate for a fraction of a second. It’s all the time he needs. He wraps his hand around the base of his cock, guiding the flushed head to your lips. The scent of him is clean, masculine, and overwhelmingly potent. He taps your lower lip with his tip, a silent command.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he warns. “Be good and take what I give you.”
You part your lips, a concession that feels like a surrender. He doesn’t ease into it. He slides forward, filling your mouth in one slow, stroke. The weight of him on your tongue is immense, the sheer girth stretching your jaw until it aches. He’s so big you can’t take all of him, but he doesn’t seem to care. He just groans, a low, guttural sound of approval.
“I’m so proud of you,” he breathes, his other hand coming to rest on the crown of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair again.
“Such a perfect fit. Your mouth was made for this.” He begins to move, a shallow rocking of his hips that tests your limits. “You look so beautiful like this. On your knees for me, taking my cock.”
The praise is a drug, that you can’t fight. He starts to thrust deeper, each movement pushing him a little further into your throat. You gag, your body’s natural protest, but he holds you steady, his grip on your hair firm and unyielding.
“Relax your throat,” he instructs, his voice losing its soft edge, hardening with command. “You can take it. I know you can. You’re strong. Prove it to me.”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You try to do as he says, to breathe through your nose and relax the muscles constricting around him. He takes your submission as an invitation and pushes deeper, burying himself in your mouth. Your nose is pressed against the hair at his base.
“Yes,” he snarls, his hips grinding against your face. “That’s it. Take it all. Such a filthy, mouth.” He pulls back, giving you a moment to gasp for air before thrusting back in, setting a brutal, rhythmic pace. He’s using your mouth for his pleasure, a wet, obscene slide of flesh and heat.
“Look at me,” he demands.
You force your gaze upward, meeting all six of his eyes. He’s watching you, watching himself disappear into your mouth, and the sight clearly pleases him immensely. He’s a god, and you are his worshipper.
With a final, deep thrust, he stills, his cock pulsing as he spills down your throat. You have no choice but to swallow, to take everything he gives you.
He pulls out slowly, a string of saliva and cum connecting your lips to his tip. You’re panting, your jaw aching, your lips swollen. He looks down at you, his expression one of satisfaction.
“Good,” he repeats, the word a final judgment. “But I’m not done with you yet.”
He reaches down, hooking his hands under your arms and lifting you to your feet as if you weigh nothing. He turns you again, pressing your chest against the rough bark of the tree. He kicks your feet apart with his own, widening your stance, leaving you completely exposed and open to him.
You can hear the rustle of fabric behind you, and then you feel him. The hot, thick head of his cock presses against your entrance, still slick from your release and the mess he’s just made of your face. He’s not gentle this time. There’s no slow exploration, no teasing build-up. He grips your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave bruises, and he slams into you.
The world goes white.
A loud moan escapes from your throat. He’s He’s deeper than his fingers ever were, a deep pressure that touches a part of you no one ever has.
He stills for a moment, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust. “You love this. Don’t you?” he growls, his lips brushing against the back of your neck.
“Being filled by someone who could break you without a second thought.” He pulls back, almost all the way out, before slamming back in, even harder this time. The force of it rocks your entire body, your hips smacking against the tree. “This is mine now. Do you understand?”
You can’t speak. You can only moan, a desperate sound that’s all the answer he needs.
He sets a relentless rhythm. The sounds are obscene, wet slaps of skin against skin that echo in the quiet forest. His hands roam your body, squeezing your ass, tracing your spine, one hand snaking around to pinch your clit. The added stimulation is a jolt of pure pleasure, and you squeal, your body arching back against him.
“You’re doing so good,” he praises, his voice a low and broken groan in your ear. “Take my cock. Take all of it. You’re such a good girl for me, taking me so well.” His praise is only pushing you closer to the edge.
You can feel your slickness coating your thighs, the evidence of your own shameful arousal.
His thrusts become erratic, his breathing harsher. He’s close. He leans forward, his fangs scraping against the curve of your shoulder.
“Mine,” he snarls, and with one final, brutal thrust, he buries himself deep inside you.
You feel him twitch and throb, a hot flood of his release filling you. The feeling is enough to send you over the edge. Your second orgasm crashes over you, a wave of pleasure that leaves you barely standing and gasping against the tree.
He stays inside you for a long moment, his weight pinning you, his breath warm on your skin. You’re both panting, the forest slowly coming back into focus around you.
Finally, he pulls out, and you feel the combined mess of you begin to trickle down your thighs.
He turns you around, his grip on your chin forcing you to look at him. His six eyes are heavy with satisfaction, a dark, and possessive glow in their depths.
“Now,” he says, his voice a low, possessive purr. “You are truly a sight to behold. A masterpiece, marked and claimed.” He leans in, his lips ghosting over yours in a mockery of a kiss. “And you are mine.”
“I want to kiss you.” You whisper, your cheeks going red in shame.
His eyes flicker.
Then—
He leans in and presses his lips against yours, softly.
“A romantic?” He teases, voice dripped in silk.
“If I’m yours…you’re mine.”You mutter.
“I’ll find you again.” He says before disappearing in a blink.
Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, bodily injury, blood, life changing injury, kidnapping, reader is not very healthy in the way they idolize Romance
Word Count: 15.4k
The man caught your attention the second he entered the store, causing you to do a double-take while you stood at the cash register while another customer was rummaging through their bag for their wallet. You felt as though you had seen him from somewhere, and as the man made his way from the convenience store doors and into one of the aisles, the thought of just who that might have been hit you like a lightning bolt.
Was it really him? Would someone like that really visit a store like this?
Unfortunately, you weren't able to check immediately like you wanted to – you were still stuck at the register while your current customer continued searching for their wallet. Apparently this wasn't something they could've done while you were ringing up their items, and there didn't appear to be any sense of urgency on their part.
Normally it wouldn't have bothered you too much; it was getting close to the end of your shift and the store was basically empty at the moment, so one person taking an unusually long time to do something as basic as collect their wallet wasn't anything to be upset over, but right now you were irritated at their incompetence.
You wanted to go after that man, to see if he really was who you thought he was.
If he was, what would you do then? Would you do anything? You didn't know. You just wanted to go and see for yourself if you were correct. You wouldn't say anything; all you would do is look. That way the worst case scenario was just a case of mistaken identity and you getting your hopes up for nothing.
But better that than you ending up embarrassing yourself.
After several more minutes that seemed to last a lot longer in your head, you stepped away from the counter the instant the customer had turned away with their bagged items in hand. There's no one else in the store so it's fine, you told yourself as you made your way along the edge of the store and to the end, where you then headed for the aisle that you had seen him walk to. The convenience store you worked at was small, so it wasn't hard to find him, and when you did catch sight of him, you pretended that you were doing your job as you turned to a random shelf and acted as though you were rearranging the products while looking at him out of the corner of your eye.
He didn't appear to notice you as he stared at the drinks selection on the other side of the refrigerator door, his focus clearly on whatever beverage he was going to pick for himself that evening. With his attention being on the drinks in front of him, you were able to get a clear look at his profile.
While his long pink hair had been pulled into a ponytail and the combination of a black cap and sunglasses weren't normal with the image he presented to the public, the longer you looked at him, the more certain you were in confirming what you had thought when he first walked in:
That was Romance of the Saja Boys.
And in an instant, you felt your heart rate increase, because you never thought you'd be this close to him.
Not a second time.
The fact that you'd seen in him person for their debut was a fluke in and of itself, in all honesty. You'd been on your way to work when that live performance took place, simply happening to be in the right place at the right time when you heard the music that was slowly but steadily growing louder as it played in the square. Just like dozens of other people who happened to be there, you came to a halt when you caught sight of the purple mist at one end of the large, open area, lingering as you wondered what that was all about.
And when the mist dissipated and revealed the five attractive men who broke out into song, you were just as mesmerized as anyone else.
You didn't know their names at the time – you didn't even know that the group was called “Saja Boys” until their song was over and their leader stepped forward to promote the group's appearance on a game show. He was Jinu, you learned later. You learned the names of the others as well, with the other members calling themselves Mystery, Abby and Baby.
And then there was Romance.
It was before the song had ended that you found your eyes going towards him over the others, only able to steal glances at those members before your gaze inevitably went back to him. It was like there was a magnetic pull he had on you that you couldn't escape from, forcing you to keep your attention to him and him alone.
The longer you stared at him, the more you felt yourself becoming absolutely entranced.
Even though the rest of the group were all handsome in their own ways, there was just something about Romance that had him standing apart from the rest in your eyes. Maybe it was the way he carried himself and the gracefulness in his movements. Maybe it was the way his voice sounded as he hit those higher notes with ease.
Maybe it was the way you felt your heart fluttering in your chest when he sang out the lines “you're the one I saw in my dreams.”
And when his eyes went over the area of the crowd where you happened to stand and it felt as though his gaze had met yours, you felt the heat in your cheeks rise while your heart beat faster.
It was a little embarrassing just how fast one man had managed to affect you in such a short span of time – actually, no. It wasn't a little embarrassing.
It was incredibly embarrassing.
You were a grown adult and all it took was one good looking guy singing out manufactured lines in a song that were meant to be as generic as they could be so they would appeal to the widest possible audience. There was also no way he had seen you; he just happened to look in your direction and you were taking it like it actually meant anything.
But even knowing that, you couldn't help yourself. You were fully taken in by the spectacle in front of you, and by the time the song ended, not only did you know you would be a fan of this group, but you would also consider yourself to be incredibly fortunate to have caught their very first live performance on mere chance.
Even though staying for their whole performance had caused you to be late and in turn earned you a scolding by your manager, you couldn't care less. In fact, sitting through the entire thing had left you feeling happy for the rest of your shift, even when you were dealing with rude customers who snapped at you over how slow you were ringing up their items or even things that weren't your fault. The way the song Soda Pop played in your brain for the several hours that followed kept you happy and uncaring even when you were dealing with people who were downright nasty.
And every time you thought of Romance, a small smile found its way to your lips.
You likely weren't going to be able to see any other live performances; you didn't have the funds necessary to pay for expensive concert tickets, so the idea that you'd be able to see them sing in person ever again was the longest of long shots and one that you knew you shouldn't hope for. For you to have seen their very first performance felt like the universe had thrown you a freebie, and you were grateful just to get that much.
But evidently the universe decided to be nice to you once again, because now you found yourself here, unexpectedly in the presence of a member of the Saja Boys, and out of all of them that could have walked through those doors, it was the one you had managed to fall for.
You wished you could talk to him. You wanted to tell him that you had been there when they debuted, that you had been following along with their various TV interviews and guest appearances. You wanted to tell him that you listened to Soda Pop daily and that it had become your favorite song of all time. You wanted to tell him just how much you loved his voice when he sang.
But he clearly didn't want to interact with fans right now.
Romance had dressed himself down considerably, as the yellow shirt with the see-through sleeves and the jeans with pink hearts adorned on them were nowhere to be seen, as he had instead chosen to dress himself a dark colored hoodie and baggy sweatpants. It wasn't at all in line with his normal outfits that you saw him wearing, so that combined with the cap and glasses made it obvious that he was trying to be inconspicuous.
It made sense; the Saja Boys were incredibly popular right now, and if any of them were caught out in public, fans wanting to get their attention would be swarming in an instant. Even if the two of you happened to be the only ones in the store at the moment, all it would take was one person walking in and seeing that he was definitely Romance, and then his evening would no doubt be ruined.
Approaching him would be a horrifically selfish thing to do, you told yourself. The decent thing to do was to let him shop in peace.
Plus, you heard the chime above the entrance sound as the doors slid open, signaling that someone else had entered the store. While it wasn't likely that they would immediately need you at the checkout counter, it was a better idea to head back to your place at the register so no one could claim you were slacking. You didn't need any more lectures from your boss.
You'd still been watching Romance when the new customers entered, and you noted the way he stiffened slightly as he glanced over in that direction, followed by the way he reached up to the bill of his cap as he pulled it down slightly.
Yeah, he probably didn't want to deal with anyone right now, much less fans of his.
You turned away, heading back along the way you'd come from to return to the register, and you in turn caught sight of the customers who had just walked in as you stepped back behind the counter.
No wonder Romance was trying to be extra careful in keeping his identity secret: the group of girls you saw at the entrance of the store were covered in Saja Boys merch from practically head to toe. Hats, a headband, bags, shirts and even a nice-looking jacket, all with that lion symbol or the words “Saja Boys” printed all over. All of those being things that you had seen before but you had either been too broke to afford or the shops had all sold out before you had a chance to grab anything. As you looked that group over, you couldn't help but be a little jealous of all that they had managed to get their hands on.
It'd be nice to have a shirt, at least.
A professionally polite smile found its way to your lips when one of the girls glanced over in your direction, though you didn't get any form of acknowledgment back as the group were making their way towards the drink aisle.
The same one Romance had been standing in last you had seen him.
Once as they vanished from sight, a new figure entered your line of vision: Romance, who was following the same path you had taken from that aisle only moments earlier, heading to where you were standing at the counter with a hurried pace in his step.
He was definitely worried about those fans finding him out as he kept his gaze turned downwards while he approached you.
….. He was coming towards you.
A thought then struck you then – you didn't really need to go down that aisle to look at him, did you? Since he was shopping and you were the only one at the registers, you would have been the only one he would have checked out with. So that whole expedition of yours was completely unnecessary.
It was a little bit creepy, too, now that you thought about it. You were so determined to confirm whether or not that it was actually him that you abandoned all logic just so you could watch him up close, or as close as you could be without actually catching his attention.
…. Did that technically count as stalking?
A certain sense of mortification began to set into you at that thought, because you really thought you were better than that.
You weren't able to linger on that for long, though, as he placed his items in front of you on the counter. A single drink and a cup of noodles, things that were possibly hastily grabbed when he was forced to quickly come to a decision on what he wanted.
Despite your newfound sense of shame, you managed to pull it together enough to fall back into a professional mindset as you asked him if he found everything okay while you grabbed the drink in order to scan it.
He nodded at you, a small smile on his face in place of giving you a verbal response.
You smiled back at him, and while on the outside you were maintaining the role of a convenience store clerk, on the inside you felt your heart racing again.
He looked at you. Romance looked at you and smiled. And this time you could be certain that it wasn't just you wishing for his attention when it was just him looking over a certain area of people; he had acknowledged you.
Stop this, you told yourself as you scanned the other item. There wasn't any deeper meaning to him smiling at you. Romance was only trying to be polite while also staying under the radar, because if he was rude to you it would only make him stand out in your mind. You were just another person in an entire ocean of them that he would come across during the course of his career, and even though you would remember this for a long time, he would probably forget you the second he walked out that door.
There wasn't much else for you to say during your interaction. You had scanned both the drink and the noodles and you told him the total before you asked for payment, to which he provided without hesitation. The girls in the drink aisle could be heard chatting from across the way while the register slid open so you could collect his change.
The entire interaction between the two of you would be over in less than a few moments.
….. You would never get a chance like this again, would you? To speak to him face to face like this.
You couldn't afford normal concert tickets, and you certainly couldn't afford the pricier ones that allowed for a backstage meet and greet. That you had seen him twice in person out in public were two instances of flukes, of things that would definitely never happen again in your life.
This was the only chance you were ever going to get to tell Romance how much you enjoyed his musical talent.
So, even though you knew it was selfish, you leaned in as you were handing him back his change. Taking in a breath to steady yourself, you made yourself speak, only speaking loud enough so he was the only one who could hear you.
“I saw you at your debut,” you said, your volume barely over a whisper, “your singing voice is beautiful.”
A small smile formed on your lips as you looked to him while held out his change, as you were hopeful that he would be flattered and not annoyed at the fact that you had recognized him.
Romance had stiffened when you first spoke, his eyes growing wider behind the glasses ever so slightly when he realized that you knew who he was. But after you had finished speaking, his form relaxed, a smile gracing his own lips as you slipped the money into his hand.
“Thank you, darling,” he told you.
That name coming from his mouth and being directed at you was enough for the heat to rise to your cheeks, and you found yourself looking away in slight embarrassment while he collected the bag that held his things.
You were satisfied with that. The girls were coming back out of the aisle, meaning that he would need to leave within the next few moments, and you were certain that you wouldn't see him again. But you had said what you wanted to, and even when he inevitably forgot the interaction, you would treasure the memory forever.
Yet for some reason, instead of heading out the doors like you had expected, he lingered. Though he was well aware of the way the group was coming close, he leaned in close over the counter, and spoke to you in a voice that matched the level of the whispered compliment you had given him.
“But when it comes to beauty, I think that smile of yours is the most beautiful thing I've seen since I came to this city.”
He ended his comment with a wink before he finally turned to leave, exiting the store and going out into the night air of the city.
And as for you……
You were flustered, but also flattered. Even though a voice at the back of your head told you that he was just being nice towards a fan who had chosen discretion and that he hadn't really meant it, you didn't care.
Those were words that he had meant for you and you alone.
As the girls decked out in the Saja Boys merch approached the register, your feelings of jealousy faded away while your smile stayed on your face. Maybe it was petty of you, but you felt satisfied that you had something that none of them would ever get, a memory they could never have.
So for a third time within a matter of about a week, you felt like the luckiest person on the planet.
That had been enough for you.
Even if you would never get the chance to see him or the rest of the Saja Boys in person ever again, that lone interaction between you and Romance, that only the two of you knew about, that was enough. Wishing for any more than that would be selfish, not to mention get into the territory of you becoming an obsessive fan with a creepy streak – which you had already broached, as much as you were embarrassed to admit it to yourself.
So you weren't going to delude yourself into thinking that there existed anything beyond that interaction between the two of you. You were just a fan, and he was a singer with more than a million of those. You had your moment, and that was enough.
It surprised you a little when he came back into the store a few days later, once again dressed incognito. While you recognized him immediately, you didn't react beyond looking at him once he had entered. There were a lot more people in the store than the first night he had come in, and there was a risk of any one of them recognizing him if you made a big deal out of it.
Not that you could have done that; the number of people waiting in line meant that you couldn't step away from the register. But even if it had been as dead as it was the first time he came in, that sense of mortification at how you had followed him was still hovering over you, and even the thought of doing that again made you internally cringe.
You really, really hoped he hadn't noticed that you'd done that.
The line of customers moved steadily as you scanned their items one by one, a line that he eventually joined after he'd grabbed what you assumed would be his dinner. Soon enough, Romance was standing before you again, the counter in between the both of you while you smiled at him and politely asked if he'd found everything okay.
Romance smiled at you in turn as he nodded.
You didn't say anything beyond the customer service lines that were expected of you, and he remained silent throughout the process of you scanning the items he'd placed down. But after you had told him what his total would be, you noticed something.
Just like the other time, he had wordlessly pulled out his money and slid it across the counter for you to take. But beneath the cash he had handed you, there was something else.
A small slip of paper.
After picking it up, you glanced up at him.
Romance was smiling again, and when your eyes met his, he winked at you.
Your heart started pounding in your chest as you weren't sure what was happening, but since that piece of paper was apparently for you, you subtly slipped it into your pocket before you turned your attention back to the register in order to complete the transaction.
Romance left the store shortly after, still not saying a word. That was likely due to some of the other customers that seemed to have been staring at him, as a sense of recognition could be seen in their eyes as they looked him over. He wouldn't be able to come back here if too many people figured out that he was possibly shopping here regularly. And that fact might have made you sad were it not for the paper he had given you.
What was on it?
You wanted to know, but you couldn't find time to escape to the back and look at it. There were too many customers and you had used up all of your breaks for the day. So instead it sat in your pocket while your curiosity burned. Just what was it? What could he possibly want to give to you that could have been worth blowing his own cover by going into the store when it was busy?
You spent the entire rest of your work shift feeling restless and wishing that time would move faster so you could find out. And when your shift finally did end, you rushed back to your apartment, your heart beating fast once again as you kept your hand on that paper slip in your pocket, so you could read it the second you were in the safety of your home.
Once your front door was shut and locked behind you, you did just that. You pulled it out hurriedly, your fingers shaking as you unfolded it and you finally got a look at what had been written on it.
It was a phone number.
And beneath it were the words 'text me', followed by a string of hearts.
….. Was this real?
Was this actually real or were you having the most intense and realistic dream in your life right now?
Just to check and make sure that you were actually awake in that moment, you reached to one arm and pressed your nails into your skin just deep enough to be painful, so that if you were dreaming, you would wake up and deal with the disappointment before the dream went too far.
The pain made itself known in your arm, but you didn't wake up in your bed. You were actually there, in the entryway of your apartment with the note that Romance had given you.
So this was real then. He actually wanted you to text him.
Just because of your comment the other night?
It was a little confusing – why would that be enough to make him want contact? How could he be so certain that you weren't an unhinged fan or that you wouldn't post his number online so anyone could message him? Why would he trust you that much?
….. Was it actually his number?
With all the thoughts that were racing through your mind, the saddest one made itself known just then: that he hadn't actually given his phone number to you and it was just a mean joke to get your hopes up and then make fun of you.
Would he really do that to you? You couldn't say, and the clarity hit you then that you didn't actually know this man. You admired him, but that didn't automatically make him a good person. Despite the beautiful, flawless faces that they presented to the public, there were plenty of celebrities that hid their true selves and were completely nasty when the cameras were off of them.
As much as you wanted to believe that Romance wasn't like those celebrities, you couldn't deny the possibility existed.
That thought was heartbreaking.
It shouldn't have been. You shouldn't care this deeply and you were old enough to know that even though you admired him, Romance was only a person at the end of the day, and whatever views you had of him in your head probably didn't match what he was actually like. If you didn't want your heart to be broken by a mean prank – or if you didn't want to ruin that memory of when he had spoken to you, of how he told you that your smile was beautiful – it was better not to text the number.
Better to keep that distance so the image of how you saw him could remain untainted in your mind.
And after all, when does a celebrity actually end up in a relationship with some nobody of a fan?
….. That was jumping a bit too far ahead. After all, he'd only said that he wanted to text you, nothing more.
But aside from that unwarranted leap forward, those thoughts, the ones concerning keeping that image you had of him the way it currently was, were what drove you to put the paper at the top of a wastebasket in your bedroom. Even though you were tossing it, you found yourself placing it gingerly at the top of the rubbish you had placed in there.
You shouldn't keep this here for long, you told yourself. The longer it was around, the more tempted you would feel to text the number. You'd get rid of the entire thing by tomorrow, so you wouldn't be able to go back on your decision.
That was the correct choice.
Your resolve was strong when you placed it in the basket, and when you entered the bathroom in order to take a shower, washing the sweat and exhaustion of the day off of yourself. When you had finished cleaning yourself and had dressed in your nighttime clothes, you weren't even thinking about it anymore.
But as soon as you entered your bedroom, your eyes went straight to where that paper sat, folded just as neatly at the top of the basket as it had been when Romance had slipped it to you.
That resolve which had been so strong only minutes earlier began to falter as you thought everything over. He had gone out of his way to get it to you, risking getting hounded by fans that he knew would more than likely be there at the store. The note itself had been neatly written and the edges of the paper were clean; it wasn't a spur of the moment decision for him to give you his number, he had that note ready to hand off before he had even entered the business.
Just for you.
Your heart began to pound in your chest as regret filled you – how could you even fathom throwing out something Romance had given to you personally?
In an instant, not only was the paper out of the wastebasket, but you had it sitting on your lap while your phone was in hand and you had your text messages open while you typed in the number.
You knew it was a bad idea – you knew you were running the risk of being hurt emotionally.
But you didn't care.
Because Romance wasn't like that….. Right?
With shaking fingers, you had typed in the number, and then, after mulling it over for about a minute or two, you settled on sending a simple, one word of a first message.
Hello?
Right after sending it you realized that it was stupid – you hadn't said who you were. He could easily block you thinking your message was spam or something like that.
You then typed out another message to explain yourself.
Sorry, I should say who I am first. You gave me your number tonight. At the store
That was enough, right? Romance would know who you were from that.
…. Unless he had given his number out to more than one convenience store clerk.
But you couldn't worry about that because something else caught your attention – how late it was. It was well after midnight, and with his busy schedule as a singer, he could be asleep.
….. What if you had woken him up?
Panic began to fill you, and before you could stop yourself, you typed out another message.
I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention to the time. I hope I didn't wake you up. If I did I'm really sorry
Fuck. What were you doing? Sending more messages wasn't going to help if he was trying to sleep. Plus, when you looked over all of what you had sent so far, you saw just how desperate you were sounding.
You needed to stop. You needed to put the phone down and get some sleep. How you were going to sleep while you were agonizing over Romance's potential reaction to your annoying messages, you didn't know. But at the very least you needed to put your phone away and leave it alone before you said or did anything else embarrassing.
You had placed your phone back on its stand and were beginning to settle down into bed when you heard it chime at you.
You had a message.
And immediately you shot back up to grab your phone, unlocking the screen before you opened up your messages, your heart beating loudly as you looked to who had sent it.
Romance.
No need to apologize. I was already awake
His message was then followed up by another one of his own.
Thank you for texting me, darling. I was worried you wouldn't
…. Holy shit.
Holy shit holy shit holy shit
You needed to not freak out. You needed to be calm when you replied because you didn't want him to think that you were weird and that he'd made a mistake in trusting you with his phone number.
Taking in a deep breath, you typed out a response.
You don't need to thank me. I'm honored that you would want me to text you, honestly
Was that too much? Maybe. Maybe you should ask a question to distract him from that last response.
I am a little surprised you'd want contact with me. Aren't you taking a risk by trusting me like this?
Your palms were sweating as you waited for his reply.
I don't feel it's a risk. After all, you wouldn't give my number to anyone, would you?
You responded immediately.
Never
Romance replied with a smiley face.
I thought so, was his reply after.
I like to think I'm a good judge of character, and I can tell you have a kind soul
Your heart rate was increasing again, and he wasn't even in the room with you.
That's very kind of you to say. It means a lot that you think of me like that
You typed out that message and then sent it, and then sent another one shortly after:
You also seem like a very kind person
He sent another smiley face in response to that.
It means just as much to me for you to say that darling
You found yourself beaming at the screen of your phone as you sat down on your bed and made yourself comfortable as the messages kept coming in, the two of you responding easily to one another throughout the conversation. Romance wanted to know about you, what your hobbies were, what plans you had for the future, and you were more than happy to oblige this man that you were truly infatuated with.
At the back of your mind, there was a voice that told you that this felt strange. It just wasn't normal for someone like Romance of the Saja Boys to take interest in a random convenience store clerk whom he'd happened to share a small moment with. Regardless of how sweet it had been, why in the world would he be so eager to give out his personal phone number to someone that he didn't know?
A different internal voice of yours told that one to shush as you continued your text conversation. It wasn't that weird, and he'd said the reason why he gave the number, because he felt that you were kind. With the ruthlessness of the industry he had entered into, it wasn't impossible to imagine that he simply wanted someone outside of it to talk to.
And for him, you were more than happy to be that someone.
It felt surreal even at the best of times, knowing that you were in contact with Romance the way you were – daily contact at that, as nearly every time you took a break during your shifts at work, you always found a new text message waiting for you. His texts were something to look forward to, especially when you were at your job, and the positive feelings you got from chatting with him were enough to keep you in high spirits as you dealt with the usual bullshit you got from customers at the convenience store.
Any doubts at the back of your head were silenced shortly after as well; mainly your fear that Romance wasn't actually in contact with you and he had pranked you by giving the phone number of some staff member he worked with who was also in on the joke. The worries you had about it not really being him were quelled when he started to send you selfies, and when you looked on the Saja Boys' official social media pages, you couldn't find the photos he had sent you there or anywhere else.
He had sent you those photos to you specifically, and again, you were left feeling giddy.
Who would have thought that a simple compliment would lead to a correspondence like the one you were having with Romance?
The constant texts and selfies more than made up for the fact that you hadn't seen him in person since he'd given you his number – you were correct in assuming that the others who had been in the store the night he gave you his number had recognized him, as you saw an increase in the number of Saja Boys fans mingling in the store, keeping an eye out on every man who seemed to be trying to hide their faces as they walked in. There was little doubt in your mind that you would never see Romance again in the store as the risk of him being mobbed by fans was just too high.
But it hardly mattered when you were speaking to him every day through text, sometimes talking about nothing in particular, other times where you would shower him with compliments over the photos of himself that he sent, a fair amount of playful banter that sounded a lot like flirting when you read it over again, and even a few instances where the two of you had deep conversations that felt like they went beyond that of an interaction between a fan and their idol. Those conversations were the ones you would go back and read over the most in your free time, as those ones felt like proof that there was a connection being built between the two of you, and you treasured them above all else.
Romance trusted you.
Not just with his phone number, but with personal information that you knew hadn't been disclosed to the public. Actually, very little about the Saja Boys' personal lives had been disclosed, presumably in order to keep an air of intrigue around the group. Certainly, personal information was nowhere to be found in any of the interviews or TV specials they did.
Yet he told you things that weren't likely to be shared, such as how his father was a doctor who ran a small clinic deep in a rural part of the country, but due to a strained relationship Romance hadn't seen him in years. Or how Romance and Abby had known each other for a long time, the two of them having been friends well before the formation of the Saja Boys and that he considered Abby to be like a brother.
The information on Abby wasn't terribly surprising – the two seemed close whenever they were together, in public or on the screen. But hearing about Romance's home life made you sad. You chose not to pry for more information, however, and you simply did your best to offer your condolences and your support for something that must have been hard for him to talk about.
You were certain that he appreciated it.
The things you told him about yourself weren't nearly as interesting as what he had to say, nor were the selfies you had taken nearly as nice as the ones he sent to you. But he had asked you to send them, and seeing as he had sent similar photos to you, you felt badly at the thought of denying him. Just as you were always eager to compliment him, he was just as eager to do the same with you, always mentioning how much he loved the look of your smile. You swore your cheeks were starting to hurt with how often you were posing in front of your camera with a smile that stretched across your face.
Not that you minded. If that was something that made him happy, you would do it.
Romance was worth it.
But even as your conversations continued and you felt that a bond had truly grown between the two of you, there were still times where that voice at the back of your head insisted that this was weird. Again, that voice argued that it wasn't normal for him to have given you his number like that – what if he was using you? What if you were just a conquest for him, someone who was abusing his newfound fame who planned to use you for sex and then discard once he had gotten what he wanted? What if the person you thought was speaking to you was actually a persona of his and you were falling for it completely?
Despite those worries that you couldn't completely silence, you found ways to rationalize the points that had been raised. He had told you what he wanted – a friend on the outside, someone who wasn't involved in the industry. Someone who was kind, who he could trust. Someone who couldn't possibly hurt him with the personal information he was sharing with them. And with the things he'd shared with you, it just didn't seem possible that sex was his endgame. By now you had dozens and dozens of messages filled with personal information; would he really share all of that if he only planned to fuck and then dump you?
No. Not him. Not Romance.
Sure, it was normal for certain celebrities to lure in fans and use them, but after how much the two of you had spoken, how much you had both shared with one another, you couldn't believe he would do that.
If he really wanted to use you like that, he would have made his move by now. There was just no way that he wasn't being genuine with you.
You were certain.
As the days went on and your text conversations continued, the voice at the back of your skull would never fully quiet about your doubts, but you managed to get better at ignoring it as time moved along. Even when worry and paranoia was starting to take hold of Seoul as a whole due to the number of people being reported as missing was rising to an alarming degree, you were reassured by Romance when you expressed fear over ending up as one of those missing people, as he told you that there wasn't any way you would disappear.
In a whole city full of people, what were the chances that it would happen to you?
Just having him give you those encouraging words managed to make you feel better, making you feel like he was right and that you wouldn't wind up vanishing without a trace.
And whenever that anxiety hit you again when he wasn't available to reassure your worries, you just put on Soda Pop and you felt at ease once more, as the happy pop song chased away those fears just as effectively as Romance did.
Hearing his voice was soothing. Texting him had butterflies form in your stomach. Even though it hadn't been long at all since you had started communicating with him, you felt certain you could trust him with anything.
Because for him, you were willing to do anything.
Things took an unexpected turn one evening when you got home after your shift and found a message waiting for you, one that simply read call me when you read this.
You did so in an instant, hitting the icon next to his number and pressing the phone against your ear, the butterflies already fluttering in your stomach as you wondered what he wanted to talk about that wasn't suitable for a text conversation.
He picked up after the first ring.
“Good evening, darling,” Romance's voice said smoothly, “I thought I'd be hearing from you around this time.”
“Good evening,” you said, copying him with a smile while you toyed with the hem of your shirt.
“It's nice to hear your voice again,” you added shyly.
“Likewise, it's nice to hear yours as well,” he answered, “just how long has it been since we saw each other last?”
“Uh, a little bit?” you replied, taking your bag off of your shoulder as you set it down on the nearby table.
“Hm. Regardless, it's been too long, don't you think?”
As much as you were even more flattered, you couldn't help but worry as you asked “but won't you be busy? The Idol Awards are coming up soon, right? Do you even have time to see me with that going on?”
“I'll make time for you, darling.”
Heat was rising to your cheeks as your hand went back to tug at the hem of your uniform shirt, a small smile finding its way to your face even though you knew you should discourage him from taking his focus off an important event like the Idol Awards. HUNTR/X had been poised to win that award this year, as they had done for several years in a row by now. But with the surprising debut of the Saja Boys and how fast their song had hit the top of the charts, it'd be even better for their success, to not only to win so soon in their careers but to also dethrone HUNTR/X from their five year win streak.
“Is that really wise, though? And what about the other members of your group? Won't they be mad if they find out you're goofing off?” you asked.
You then heard Romance hum on the other end of the line.
“Darling, are you playing hard-to-get?” he asked playfully.
“No,” you replied, your fingers still pinching the hem of your shirt “I just don't know if you need a distraction from a fan right now.”
“Well, you aren't just any fan, are you? After all, you're special.”
Your fidgeting fingers came to a halt while the heat in your cheeks reached up to your ears, and despite the embarrassment that came after hearing such a line being said to you of all people, you couldn't help but let that grin on your face grow wider.
“There would be a lot of fans of yours who would be heartbroken if they heard you say that,” you told him.
“Well, that's unfortunate, but their feelings don't matter as much to me as yours do,” he said, “and besides, as long as they don't hear things like that, it doesn't matter, does it?”
“I guess not.”
He hummed again, this time sounding pleased.
“So, when will I see you?”
Oh.
This was happening. This was actually happening. Romance was asking you to meet up with him.
… Would the two of you be alone?
…… Wouldn't that make it a date?
It seemed as though your brain short-circuited for moment, so caught up in the thought of a going on a date with Romance that you didn't respond until you heard his voice asking “darling?” and promptly breaking you out of your fog.
“U-um…. Tomorrow,” you stammered out, hastily remembering your schedule as you told him “tomorrow I work in the morning and I have the evening free, if you want to see me then.”
But wait, was that too short notice? Worried that it might be, you hastily added “if not, I can look over my hours again, see-”
“Tomorrow is wonderful,” he said, smoothly interrupting you.
“Oh. Okay then,” you replied happily, “what time tomorrow? And where? I don't know if we should go anywhere too public since it'd look bad for you if you were caught on a da- if you were caught being alone with someone, you know?”
Romance laughed, saying “you can call it a date, darling. That's what it is, after all.”
You felt the embarrassment rise to your cheeks as he had caught what you had tried to not let out; calling your meeting tomorrow a date. You had worried that saying that would be overstepping a boundary, taking things to a place that he might not have wanted.
But apparently not, as he just said that it was going to be a date.
“So, uh, where should we go?” you asked.
“Like you said, it would be bad if I was caught with you. So instead of going out to a place where I might be recognized, how do you feel about coming to visit me where I live?” he asked.
You blinked in surprise as you asked “you mean…… Your home?”
“It's just an apartment, but the others should be out tomorrow, so we'll have the place to ourselves.”
He paused for a moment, and it sounded as though he was leaning back against something, possibly a chair, as you heard a sort of creaking noise.
“Would you be comfortable with that, darling?” Romance asked.
It took you a short moment to respond.
“Of course,” you ended up saying, “as long as you're okay with me coming into your home.”
“I wouldn't be inviting you if I wasn't,” he told you.
“Okay. Oh, but will the others be okay with that?” you asked, “I wouldn't want to intrude on their space.”
“It'll be fine. The others won't mind,” Romance reassured you. He then paused for a moment before adding “well, maybe Jinu might take issue, since it's his job to be the responsible leader, but the others won't care even if they do find out you were there.”
“Ah. So it just needs to kept secret from Jinu, then,” you said playfully.
You heard him chuckle as he answered “indeed. Though with his focus being on the Idol Awards, I have no doubt we can avoid getting his attention.”
“But shouldn't your attention be on the Idol Awards, too?”
“One night of pleasant company isn't going to break my focus, darling. As I said before, I want to see you. You aren't going to deny me that, are you?”
The answer to that question was no.
Because you wanted to see him again, just as much as he evidently wanted to see you.
Within a matter of minutes, he had given you his address and a time for you to arrive the next day, both of which you had quickly jotted down so you could be certain that you wouldn't misremember. When the phone call came to an end, what little remained of the evening was spent looking through your closet for the nicest clothes you had that would be appropriate for your date with Romance. Just because the two of you weren't going out together didn't mean you couldn't look good for him.
The rest of the night, while you desperately tried to get to sleep, was spent with various scenarios rushing through your head, wondering what would happen when you met with him, where things would progress after that point and how you would even get through your work shift tomorrow morning when you knew your thoughts would only be on the evening you had planned.
The whole thing was like a whirlwind; coming into your life and shaking things up to an unexpected degree. From being at the spot where the Saja Boys made their debut to happening to see Romance in the store, and then the way the two of you had ended up connecting because you chose to speak up when you had the chance. Now the man that you had unexpectedly grown close with had asked you to go on a date with him, so eager to see you that he was insisting on having you come to him. A last-minute date that had been set up in less than 24 hours and in the middle of his busy schedule, just so he could see you.
“Well, you aren't just any fan, are you? After all, you're special.”
The words he had spoken to you rang out in your head while you went to sleep with a smile on your face.
Your morning work shift felt like it was longer that day – probably because you wouldn't stop looking at the clock in order to see how many hours you had left, and that only left you feeling disappointed whenever you were faced with the reality that no more than a few minutes had passed every time you looked. But slowly, the hours began to pass, counting down bit by bit and having you feel more eager when you saw that it was coming closer to when you could clock out.
When that time finally did come, you couldn't leave fast enough.
Not that you were immediately heading off to Romance's apartment – you weren't going to meet with him until the late afternoon. But that didn't stop you from wanting to look over your outfit again and making sure you would look as perfect as you possibly could. Another round of waiting for the hours to tick down started in your apartment, but at least there you didn't need to worry about catering to customers.
By the time the final hour mark had passed and the sun was sitting lower in the sky, you brimming with anticipation as you chose to head out early just in case of bad traffic, hailing a cab and giving the driver the address. As the ride began and you looked out the window while you waited to arrive at your destination, your emotions must have been obvious as the driver asked if you were meeting someone special.
You happily answered him with a “yes”.
The neighborhood where Romance's apartment was located was a really nice one, you noted to yourself as you exited from the cab. In fact, it was so nice that you felt like you didn't belong, and you found yourself looking over the outfit you that had agonized over for so long, and now you were worried that even what you had thought was your best wasn't good enough. How cheap did you look? How much did you stand out?
The happy anticipation that had built up over the drive had now been replaced with an anxiety that only grew as you walked towards the building while the cab drove away.
Despite the nervous intakes of breath that went in through your nose and out through your mouth in an effort to calm yourself, another worry was that someone inside would turn you away as you clearly weren't a resident. If that happened, you wouldn't be able to tell them that you had been invited. Not just because they wouldn't believe that someone would have given you permission to enter, but also because you wouldn't be able to tell them that Romance had invited you. It'd be detrimental to his career if it looked as though he was dating someone on the side, and above all else, you wanted to see him be successful.
Not to mention you didn't want to know what kind of scrutiny you would be under if the public at large found out you had any sort of close contact with him.
Unable to help the way you gulped as you approached the entrance, you did your best to steel your nerves before walking through the double glass doors. There was a woman working the reception desk just beyond the doors, and she caught sight of you the second you walked in. Even with the slight distance between the two of you, it was easy to see the way her eyes narrowed behind her glasses as she looked you over.
You gulped again before you took a few steps forward, already anticipating the way she would tell you to leave before you had a chance to explain yourself.
“Um…”
Before you could get out any actual words, the receptionist's demeanor changed as she smiled at you.
“You're the special guest Romance is expecting, correct?” she asked.
You blinked in surprise.
“Uh, yeah.”
You weren't expecting her to be so nice as to take your word for it as she proceeded to direct you towards the elevators, informing you of what floor he was on and what the number of his apartment was. Only moments later, you found yourself in the elevator car, watching the doors slide shut while the receptionist gave you a small wave, prompting you to smile and wave back at her.
It was nice that you hadn't been turned away or anything, but you wondered: just how much had Romance told her about you that she was able to instantly recognize you? That was where your thoughts remained as the elevator doors came closer and closer to shutting completely.
You thought you noticed something then.
Though you only had a scant few seconds to continue to look at her before she had been obscured from your vision, you thought that you caught sight of the way the pleasant expression on her face changed.
From a polite smile to a smirk.
Your eyebrows furrowed slightly as you stared at the doors in front of you while the car began its journey upwards. What was that about?
The chiming of your phone caught your attention, pulling your thoughts away from the receptionist briefly as you got your phone out of your bag. A flash of worry hit you right then, that it might be a message from Romance who had needed to unexpectedly cancel the date, thus leaving you in an awkward position heading up to his apartment after having just arrived.
Could that have been why the receptionist was smirking? Because she knew you would be coming right back down?
But no.
The text wasn't from Romance, but instead from a cousin of yours, sending a text with a sentiment that you had gotten used to by now as they asked how you were doing, if you were safe.
Please text back as soon as you get this, another quickly sent message from them read.
They were worried, and you couldn't blame them. Your family didn't live with you or even in the area surrounding the city, and because you were the only one living in Seoul, the news of mysterious disappearances had them all grow concerned for your safety and as a result, they were checking in with you frequently to make sure you were okay. While sending back messages that you were doing fine quickly got repetitive, you understood their concern. It was scary that so many people were going missing and that the authorities didn't have any clue as to where anyone had gone. Someone had described it as though the missing people had fallen off of the face of the earth, as the only things that could be found were personal items; no signs of the actual people themselves.
The reminder of the state of things in Seoul sobered you slightly, but as you had been since your family started sending you the more frequent text messages to know that you were safe, you made an effort to reply back cheerfully so they wouldn't worry as much.
I'm doing great! The text you sent to your cousin in reply read.
You then began to type out that you were on a date, but then quickly deleted it. If you said something like that, your cousin would blab and then everyone would want to know who you were seeing and what they were like, and you would no doubt be bombarded with requests for photos. You definitely couldn't say you were on a date with an idol; your cousin was also a fan of the Saja Boys, and if you were to tell them that you were meeting up with Romance, that information would be out there faster than you could blink.
Using the word “date” was not something you wanted to do.
I'm visiting with a friend at their place. was what you ultimately came up with.
A few moments later, your cousin's response came in:
Okay. Have fun!
You sent a smiley face in reply, and then proceeded to put your phone on mute, not wanting to deal with your phone constantly chiming throughout the time you would spend with Romance.
The elevator slowly came to a stop, and you straightened up slightly as you sensed that the doors would open, readying yourself to step out of the car.
You weren't expecting to see Romance standing in front of you when the doors opened.
The second your eyes met his, he smiled.
“It's lovely to see you in person again, darling,” Romance told you.
“Same-”
You didn't get a chance to finish your sentence before he had stepped forward and pulled you into a hug, wrapping both of his arms around your body as he held you close to him. Close enough to catch the sweet scent of his perfume – the smell of roses mixed with something sweet, like raspberry and marshmallows – and feel the soft fibers of his sleeves brushing up against the exposed areas of your skin.
Close enough that you could feel his breath hitting your ear as he continued to hold you like that, even when the elevator doors slid back shut.
You weren't expecting such an enthusiastic greeting, either, and if it had been under different circumstances, you probably wouldn't have allowed someone that you had met so recently to grab you like that.
But for him, you were happy to make an exception as you brought your arms up in order to hug him back.
The hold he had on you became ever so slightly tighter in response.
Romance pulled away shortly after, that charming smile still on his face as he said “forgive me. That may have been a bit much, but I just couldn't help myself.”
You smiled at him while you answered “I don't mind. I'm really happy to see you, too.”
Even though the two of you were no longer sharing an embrace, one of his hands stayed on your shoulder while hummed in reply and looked you over. His smile then widened and he tilted his head in question ever so slightly as he asked “did you dress yourself up just for me, darling?”
“I wanted you to know that I own nicer clothes than just my work uniform,” you told him.
He laughed.
“I think you look beautiful in anything, darling. But you look especially stunning right now.”
“Thank you,” you replied, “you look amazing, too.”
Unlike the last two times you'd seen him, Romance was wearing the same outfit he'd had on during the Saja Boys' debut; the yellow shirt with the light blue jeans and hearts all over. Far different from the darker outfits with the cap and glasses meant to obscure his face that you'd seen on him in the convenience store.
He seemed just as pleased with your compliment as he answered with a “thank you, darling.”
The hand he had on your shoulder slid across your back as he began to maneuver you, gently directing you to face one end of the hall before his hand ended up resting on the small of your back. He then playfully asked “shall we head off? Or would you like to spend more time chatting in the hallway?”
Romance was already starting to lead you away from the elevators, which you happily allowed as you told him “I'm fine with heading off. It wouldn't do if any of your neighbors saw me with you, right?”
“Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. Most of the tenants in this building are some form of public figure. They all understand to respect privacy.”
“The receptionist, too?”
He grinned as he answered “you definitely don't need to worry about her. She won't say anything about you.”
Romance looked back in your direction, his brown eyes seeming to glimmer while he continued to lead you down the hall. All the while he kept his hand on that space at the small of your back.
The way he held you like that almost felt possessive.
“So,” he began again, “how have you been since I last saw you? Are you still doing well at your job? You haven't had any more issues with your manager, I hope?”
“It's all going about the same,” you answered, “work isn't great, but it isn't terrible, so that's as good as I can expect it to be.”
“And outside of work?”
You shrugged as you said “things are pretty quiet on that front. I haven't been going out that much.”
“Why?”
“All the people going missing. Doesn't seem safe to go out on your own when they still haven't found anyone, you know?”
“Ah.”
For a moment, it felt as though the mood had changed. The smile on Romance's face seemed to falter slightly, and that sight had you scramble to say something to pick the mood back up.
“But I'm really happy that you asked me to come and see you,” you began, “I've been looking forward to this all day.”
That seemed to work, because Romance's smile appeared a bit more genuine as he said “so have I, darling.”
The walk down the hallway ended when Romance came to a stop at a door at the very end, and the hand that had stayed on your back during the journey over finally left your person as he reached out to turn the handle and open it, standing aside for you as he invited you to enter first. You did just that as you thanked him.
When you entered the apartment, you noted that it was….. Not too bad. Technically, it was very nice, especially when compared to what you lived in. After exiting the entryway, the first thing you caught sight of was a large, living room area with a long couch and a wide TV standing at the other end of the room next to a wall of floor to ceiling windows that revealed a balcony that ran along the outside. A glance to your right also allowed you to get a glimpse into the spacious kitchen that matched the quality of the living room.
But even though the apartment was far better than the one you lived in, it was hard not to notice the various not-very-clean looking Hawaiian style shirts and sweaters that haphazardly littered the couch and a stack of old-looking take out boxes and empty noodle cups that had been forgotten on the counter.
Oh well. Even if they were celebrities, you couldn't say you were expecting much from a group of five young guys sharing a living space together.
At least Romance had the sense to appear embarrassed when he returned to your side and caught sight of what you had been looking at.
“Oh……”
Romance faltered for a moment before turning back to you, a wide smile on his face as he asked “would you like to see my room?”
“Sure!” you said cheerfully.
His hand was on your back immediately after you answered and he was quick to lead you down another hallway, this time to usher you away from the mess in the other two rooms. He was much more eager about it, too, like he was worried you would be disappointed if you looked at it for too long.
Seeing him be slightly embarrassed was also kind of cute.
“I forgot to mention something,” Romance said as he guided you, “Jinu and Abby are out, but Baby and Mystery chose to stay in, so we don't have the apartment to ourselves like I said we would.”
“Is that going to be a problem?” you asked.
“It shouldn't. But seeing that they're watching a movie, we should make sure we're quiet so we don't disturb them,” he answered.
You nodded. It was a reasonable expectation, and you were only a guest in this place, one that the other two may or may not have known about. Though as you made your way to Romance's room, you wondered how alright it really was for you to be here if Romance was essentially sneaking you in, since that's the way it was feeling. What if the others were actually upset over your presence?
It's a little late to be worried about that, don't you think?
Romance cocked his head to the side as he asked “is something bothering you, darling?”
Shaking your head, you answered “I'm guess I'm still surprised you would want me over like this.”
“Don't get me wrong though; I'm grateful you invited me over,” you added.
“I'm grateful you chose to come,” he answered warmly.
You were feeling shy again as you averted your gaze, much to his amusement since he chuckled at the sight.
Romance's step slowed once he reached a particular door in the hallway, and just as he had done when you entered the apartment, he pushed the door open for you and invited you to step inside first. You once again did so with a small “thank you.”
Unlike what you had seen of the living room and kitchen, Romance's bedroom was fairly tidy. Though the lighting was dim, the bed had been neatly made and the items on the shelves had been arranged nicely. There was a vanity on one side of the room which had an assortment of makeup and perfume bottles sitting neatly to the side, and the closet door that had remained open allowed you to see an array of shirts in the same style as the one he was currently wearing: long sleeved button ups that were different shades of pastel.
You looked back to him as he was closing the door behind him, teasingly asking “I guess you're not the reason why all that mess is out there, huh?”
“Never,” he said, placing a hand over his heart as he stated “I would never do anything like that. What you saw out there is the doing of Abby and Baby.”
“But you're not going to clean up after them?”
“No. That's Jinu's job.”
You couldn't help but laugh.
“I guess it's rough when you're the leader,” you stated after.
“It's what he chose. Us being in group was his idea, after all.”
Romance was approaching you as he said that, coming closer to where you stood at the center of the bedroom.
“Hm. Then I think I might feel bad about keeping secrets from him,” you said.
“Oh? And why's that, darling?” Romance asked.
“Because if it wasn't for him, you might not have become an idol and we might not have met,” you answered.
Romance chuckled as he came to a stop in front of you, close enough that the scent of his perfume was surrounding you once again.
“You have a point there, darling. And I am so very grateful to have come across you.”
He ended that statement by raising up his hand and brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. That action had your heart fluttering, and the affect he had on you must have been evident on your face because he chuckled again.
“Feeling flustered, darling?”
“Do you really need to ask that?” you replied.
“No, but I'd like to hear the words from your lips,” he stated.
Romance then leaned in further, his breath hitting your ear as he whispered “but if you'd rather not do that, I would be just as happy to feel your lips on mine.”
With just those words, the mood shifted and you felt your heartbeat quicken.
He wanted you to kiss him.
You then felt his hand slip down to your back, pulling you in closer until your chest was touching his, keeping you there as that hand stayed like an anchor.
And you wanted that, too, right?
You did. You definitely did.
But if you did that, you'd be crossing a line, wouldn't you?
Romance was so close to you, standing in your personal space while that sweet perfume scent overwhelmed your sense of smell, his breath on your skin until he pulled away in favor of looking at you. Once he did that, you had trouble breaking your gaze away from his own, like the sight of his light brown eyes had a power over you that wouldn't allow you to look away. Much like how you had felt when you had first seen him that very first day.
The intensity in his gaze made you swallow down a bit of nervousness before you asked “will it be okay if we do that?”
His mouth parted in a smile, letting you catch sight of his teeth as he answered “of course it is. Why wouldn't we be?”
“I don't know. I just…. I'm worried that things won't be the same after we do that, you know? I really like talking to you, and I'd be sad if that stopped.”
Romance shook his head while he chuckled.
“Nothing like that is going to happen, darling.”
He reached up to brush your cheek with his fingers while adding “things will change, but you aren't going to lose me after tonight.”
“You promise?” you asked as you found yourself leaning slightly into his touch.
“I promise.”
The hand that had been at your cheek moved down to your jaw, keeping your head tilted up while his thumb brushed against your lower lip.
“So don't be afraid of that, darling. You're mine now, and I'm never letting you go. Understand?” Romance murmured.
Your heart was beating loudly in your chest while you nodded once more.
He smiled again at the sign of your obedience.
And then leaned in, his lips coming towards yours. To kiss you like he said he wanted to.
Your eyes automatically squeezed shut when you saw him coming closer, and a shudder ran down your spine when you felt his breath on your lips. In the scant few moments you had before your lips made contact, you noted that the rosy sweet smell of his perfume was even more overwhelming than it had been when he hugged you.
Then he kissed you.
Soft lips then met your own, pressing against you gently at first before growing more confident once he felt you kissing him back. You were stiff at first, but after the initial contact, you became more relaxed and lifted up your hands to lightly rest against his chest.
He took that as a sign to deepen the kiss as his hands moved to hold you, his left going up to grasp your hair while his right went down to the small of your back. At the same time, his tongue pressed against your lips, silently asking permission to enter, to which you complied with. You let out a soft whimper into the kiss while he let out a groan of pleasure.
This was real. Romance was really kissing you. You could feel him holding you, feel his body against you and the way his lips were taking yours while his tongue danced with your own. You could feel the way his fingers were tangled in your hair while his other hand lightly ran along your spine, fingertips pressing down gently.
This was real and Romance wasn't going to vanish from your life after, and that thought had you pressing against him harder while your hands clenched at his shirt.
Your mind felt like it was a broken record at this point as there was still a part of you that couldn't believe how you had gotten to this point. A single compliment that you almost hadn't given him out of fear you would be bothering him, and now you were here, in his room, in his arms, and all of the worries that plagued you were forgotten.
You were completely in love. And Romance loved-
Pain shot through you.
A feeling of pain that was so intense it erupted in your lower back and pulled you out of the kiss, forcing your body to seize up while your nerves screamed out in agony.
It hurts
Black spots dotted your vision and you weren't sure what you were looking at; if you still had your gaze on Romance or if you were staring at something else. You weren't even sure if you cried out or made any sort of noise in response to what you were feeling, nor were you aware of how long you remained like that, your body tensed up as you felt the worst pain of your life.
And then you fell.
Gravity pulled you down violently, out of the embrace of Romance and onto the hard surface of the floor, your legs folding beneath you before you landed on your back with a loud thud. The awkward position you found yourself in only added to the pain you felt in your back, pulsing through you while you let out a weak groan when the damage you took from falling finally registered.
It hurts it hurts it hurts
You whimpered while your vision swam, still unable to focus on anything around you. In that moment, you only had enough awareness to know that you were laying on the floor.
Start there. Get up.
For some reason, that was easier said than done because your legs decided they didn't want to cooperate with you. But your arms did, even though your muscles protested the way you used them to force yourself up into a sitting position.
Your arms hurt. So did your back, and your head. You had fallen on those parts of your body.
So you fell. That wasn't that bad. The floor wasn't comfortable, but you didn't need to go to a hospital or anything.
But why did you fall in the first place?
And now that you were gaining more awareness about yourself and your surroundings, why did your lower back feel….. Sticky?
That wasn't right.
Using one arm to prop yourself up almost resulted in you falling over again, but you managed to keep your upper half upright while you reached back with your trembling free hand, going for the area where the stickiness seemed to be centered around.
Where the pain was greatest.
A mere brush of your fingers against that tender area almost had you almost blacking out, yet you somehow managed to remain conscious as you brought your hand back so you could inspect just what had gotten onto your back.
Your hand was trembling and the low light of the room didn't help, but there was no denying what you were looking at, what you found smeared on your fingertips.
Blood.
Blood on your fingers. Blood on your back.
Blood that could only be coming from you, and with how much seemed to be there and the way the wound had felt when you had pressed your fingers against it….
Had you been stabbed?
Why?
And by who?
Because the only person in the room with you was……
…….
No.
No no no no no
But who else was it if it wasn't him?
And why wasn't he helping you?
In all of your panic and confusion, it only hit you now that he hadn't done anything for you. You had fallen, you were bleeding and clearly in distress and yet in all of the time that had passed, you hadn't even heard Romance call out to you, or even call out to someone else in the apartment for help.
The entire time, his presence remained above you while he remained silent.
Placing both of your hands on the floor to keep yourself steady, you craned your neck upwards to look at him. Maybe there was an explanation, something that would help you to understand why he wasn't doing anything. Maybe he was just in shock. Some people react very differently to stressful situations, and maybe he was the type to freeze.
But then who stabbed you?
Your breath was rough as you breathed in and out of your mouth, wide eyes traveling up Romance's person until your gaze reached his face.
…… Why?
Why did he look amused?
He was staring at you, his soft brown eyes that had hypnotized you moments earlier not leaving your form, but there was an edge of cruelty in them now. His warm smile had changed, too, as he was smirking at you, like he was enjoying the state you were in.
You blinked as tears began to form in your eyes, unable to comprehend how he could look at you like that.
Movement then caught your eye.
Coming from his right hand.
Your tore your gaze away from his face, looking down at his hand.
A different kind of dread filled you.
The source of the movement was the blood that was dripping from his fingers. Specifically his pointer, middle and ring finger, which were covered in blood up to the middle joints. Like he had jammed them into something.
Perhaps into you.
…. He did that? To you?
But how? No normal person was capable of things like that.
Romance moved his hand then, lifting it up from where it had hung by his side in favor of holding it aloft in front of his face. With the position of his hand now changed, gravity was pulling the red liquid down, causing it to drip onto his brightly colored shirt, or even make it run down his knuckles and then his arm before slipping beneath the cuff of his sleeve, vanishing for a moment and then reappearing through the translucent fabric as it continued running down his flesh.
That was when you realized there was something wrong with his arm.
It was purple.
While his face and his other arm remained in his natural skin tone, the skin of his right arm, starting from his elbow and going up his hand, was not only purple, but also covered in striped patterns, and those patterns seemed to glow beneath the light of the nearby lamp. And when you looked back to his hands again, you noticed something else: his fingers looked different. They were tapered, pointed, looking more like claws than fingers.
With your attention still on his hand, you watched with wide eyes as he opened his mouth, his tongue flicking out to make contact with his pointer finger as he licked up the length of it, collecting your own blood on his tongue before it disappeared back into his mouth.
Even when sitting on the floor, you could see the blood on his unusually sharp teeth when he smiled at you after.
“You taste wonderful, darling,” Romance purred.
“Y-you…… You stabbed me?” you asked as you looked between his bloodied fingers and his face.
He let out a playful hum, and that smile remained on his face as he spoke again.
“I mentioned that my father was a doctor, didn't I?” he asked, his tone far too casual for what he had just done.
“Wh-what? What does that-”
“When I was younger, I helped out a lot in his clinic,” Romance said, interrupting you. “He expected me to take it over, after all. And although being a doctor was never something I liked the thought of, I learned quite a lot from my time there. Such as what the human body can withstand, and what it can't. Which injuries are fatal….”
His voice trailed off as his tongue escaped his lips to lap up more of the blood on his fingers.
“…. And which ones only paralyze,” he added.
A chill settled into your gut as soon as he said that.
Paralyze? But that would mean….
Your wide eyes turned back to your legs that were still bent beneath you, still in the same awkward position they had ended up in when you fell.
No. Please no
Please move
But they wouldn't.
You couldn't feel them.
They laid bent and lifeless on the floor, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't move them. Your legs stubbornly refused the orders your brain gave them to move, as if that connection had been cut off completely.
The connection had been cut off. Quite literally.
And now you couldn't even run.
Romance brought your attention back to him as he spoke again, saying “I will admit, my first few practice tries didn't go as well as I would have liked. I'm embarrassed to say it took a bit of time to get right. But it was worth it, don't you think?”
“….. Practice?” you repeated.
“Don't worry about it, darling. They didn't mean anything to me.”
The horror within you swelled.
He had done this to other people?
You couldn't respond. You weren't able to do anything but stare up at him in shocked horror and complete confusion as you didn't know what you were supposed to focus on: the fact that he had stabbed you, the fact that your legs weren't working because of that, or the fact that there was something terribly wrong with him as a whole, from his arm to his too sharp teeth. Something that just wasn't right in the slightest.
Like he wasn't even human.
It seemed as though he was expecting some sort of response from you as he asked “well? Don't you have anything to say? Or have I stolen your breath away again?”
You couldn't say anything. You were too horrified and your voice wouldn't work. But the sound of him speaking and the way he stepped ever so slightly closer to you forced a reaction out of you, making you begin to pull yourself across the floor and to the door that only stood a few feet away. But without the use of your legs it was no easy task. You were relying solely on the strength of your arms to pull your body forward and perhaps due to the stress of the situation, you were having a hard time in your effort to escape.
You had walked into this room just fine. The door wasn't far away and you should have been able to get out easily. Yet in one move, Romance had managed to cut away a vital part of you and left you helpless.
No no no no no no no!
You needed to get out!
A burst of adrenaline must have hit you, because somehow, you managed to flip yourself onto your front and forced your way towards the bedroom door, using your arms to pull your partially limp body over the surface of the floor. You were acting on pure instinct, moving only in a way that your panicked brain told you to, that the thing that needed to be done in that moment was to get out of that room and away from Romance.
Away from danger and towards safety.
Despite that not being the only hurdle – you were in an apartment at the top of a tall building, how were you going to get down from here? – you still found yourself feeling hopeful when you got closer to the door.
You can get out
Romance's presence remained behind you, the weight of his gaze only spurring you to move faster.
You can do this
Now mere inches in front of the door, there was a hope that bloomed in your chest when you reached up for the handle. All you needed to do was pull on it, pull the door open and then get out of the room the same way you had gotten across the floor. Then you would be one step closer to freedom.
You managed to brush your fingers against the door handle –
And then you felt something pressing against the back of your neck. Something sharp, pointed, and slightly sticky.
You froze as you recognized the feeling of Romance's fingers on you once again, dancing over the skin of your spine as he caressed the bones underneath ever so lightly, yet the threat in his action was clear.
“I'm being nice to you, darling,” Romance began, “I'm letting you keep some of your ability to move out of kindness.”
He then leaned in closer to whisper in your ear “but I might not continue to be so nice if you keep acting up like this.”
You sat silently, your hand hovering midair over the handle while your body trembled against the threat of his claw-like fingers.
He would do it. He had already hurt you greatly today; what was there to stop him from taking things a step further, of paralyzing you completely just so he could keep you in one place?
As much as you wanted to escape, you couldn't let that happen.
So with great reluctance, you pulled your hand away from the door.
“That's good,” he murmured, leaning in to place a kiss to your neck, “I knew you would listen to reason, darling. That you wouldn't disappoint me. After all, if there's one thing I've learned since I met you, it's that you're more than eager to please me.”
The hand on your neck was pulled away, and then you were grabbed by the shoulders. The world spun as you were roughly yanked up from the floor and thrown onto the bed, landing on your back with a pained yelp that echoed against the walls when you bounced slightly.
“None of that, darling.”
Romance was on top of you in an instant, straddling you on the bed before those claw-like fingers were suddenly shoved into your mouth, the sharp ends of the middle and ring finger scraping the back of your throat as he gagged you. The scent of blood now overwhelmed you, the smell filling your nostrils while your own blood that was still on his fingers settled into your mouth.
Romance looked down at you with a pout as he said “I told you Mystery and Baby were watching a movie, didn't I? It'd be rude to ruin their evening with noise like that.”
You whimpered around his fingers, your breathing still loud and uncontrolled while tears were streaming down your eyes.
Why was this happening?
His other arm, the one that wasn't busy gagging you, was moving. It was also purple, also had claws instead of fingers. When had that changed? You had no idea, but you watched helplessly as he used that hand to cut away at the strap of the bag which had remained on your shoulder all this time.
Your phone!
It was in there – how had you managed to forget?
Not that it did you any good to remember now. The strap was cut and Romance was quick to toss it to the other side of the room. Your only lifeline sat out of reach while Romance remained on top of you.
“Now then.”
Romance was staring at you, a smug look on his face as he took in your helpless state.
“I will patch you up, darling. It wouldn't do to have you bleed out. But first, I really want to see how you'll react when you see all of me,” he told you.
Amidst your terror, your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. What did that even mean?
Your question was then quickly answered.
Because the coloring on his arms were spreading.
You could see it due to the material of the sleeves; the see-through fabric that allowed you to watch as the purple of his hands and forearms began to overtake his skin, the striped patterns following as they traveled upwards. You watched as the entirety of his arms were changed, and when it had reached his shoulder, your eyes flicked up to his face once again, and just as quickly the skin there was changing as well. He was transforming, the purple and the patterns taking over him completely as it engulfed all of his skin.
At the end of it, a being that could only be described as a monster sat on top of you. Purple striped skin, hands with fingers more like claws, sharp white teeth and yellow glowing eyes that seemed to look straight through you.
Romance's lips then turned upwards into a smile when he saw your wide eyes taking in the sight. He was enjoying the sight of your fear.
“You're beautiful when you're like that, darling,” he told you, “I'm so glad I picked you.”
With one swift motion, he pulled his fingers out of your mouth, leaving you gasping and coughing at the sudden feeling of relief.
Not that it lasted long.
Those hands were immediately on either side of your head and he was leaning down over you, his lips hovering over yours.
After all that, he wanted to kiss you again?
You tried to push him away, but you proved to be too weak as your arms that pushed against his chest were quickly bent beneath his strength, becoming trapped between your body and his.
With nothing else you could do, you spoke.
“I trusted you,” you weakly whimpered out.
On hearing that, Romance paused. His yellow eyes gazed into your tear-filled ones blankly for a moment.
“Well, that was a silly thing to do, wasn't it?” he replied.
“After all, why would you think it was a good idea to trust a man that you don't even know?”
A grin then spread across his face and Romance leaned in closer, his lips hovering over yours as he said “but don't worry, darling. I don't mind your naivety. In fact, I think it makes you very charming.”
Hey, I've been getting asks about whether or not I will make a part 2 or when it's coming out.
I will not be writing any part 2s or any fics for that matter. The last time I wrote a fic was 2024.
I'm sorry for waiting so long to give an update. I've been extremely unmotivated. I did originally plan to write part 2s and they were in the drafts but were ultimately never finished.
Hi-hi-hi, have this! It took quite a while to get it done, but this is my longest work yet, and I hope it lives up to the expectations. This one is on the heavier side of my content, so heed the warnings, read the tags over with care, and enjoy your read (⸝⸝> ᴗ•⸝⸝)
Rough Blade or gentle Blade, ooo, which to pick, which to pick *presses both buttons at the same time*. Content warnings look harsh but I swear there's a lot of tender stuff in there!! （´∇｀''）
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
CONTENT WARNINGS INCLUDE: Dark content (dead dove), cisfem!Reader, the general stuff that comes with yandere content (possessiveness, imprisonment...), both severe and lighter injuries to the reader (bone-breaking, cutting, bruising, blood, slapping...(there is a lot in this one), forced non-schmexual touching, strangulation, threats (of hurting and killing the reader), manipulation, manhandling, hair-pulling, mental health problems (mainly panic attacks, anxiety and hysteria, but depression is crossed into as well), Kafka is quite prominent in this fic so if you have personal beef with her, this is probably not the piece for you,
NONCON, (very) rough and occasionally painful boombayah, manhandling, mild strangulation, anal, fingering, oral in both directions, sadism, Mara-in-bedroom, blood, marks, biting, blade knife play, degradation, he calls you a bihh :pensive:, a singular mention of sesbian lex (but actually nothing).
Disclaimers can be found in my pinned post. The template is heavily inspired by @/cinnamonest!
S-FW
˗ˏˋ ★ 1. General look: How are they like? How do they behave around the darling? Are there any warning signs?
You can’t say you know much about the man, and you would like to keep things as they are. As fearsome of a group as the gang of criminals is, the man with long black hair and piercing red eyes strikes particular terror in your heart.
His face is plastered all over the Luofu along with the other three members of the bunch. The poster is hard to miss: The bounty listed below his picture is 8,13 billion credits. With money like that, you could most likely live cosy for the rest of your life. Not that catching criminals is your expertise, but it’s fun to imagine. Besides, there must be a reason for why the reward is so high, and you’re not about to find it out for yourself.
You’ve never been one to get involved in questionable activities — you consider yourself to be a proud, law-abiding citizen —but nonetheless, one day, you manage to cross paths with the tragedy that is Blade of the Stellaron Hunters. Stumbling upon him is the opposite of a miracle; calamity would be the only proper word to describe the encounter you have with him.
It’s a completely ordinary day; at least as ordinary as it can be on the Luofu. It’s early in the morning, and there aren’t many people out on the streets yet. You, on the other hand, already have places to be before most of the planet has even woken up to the artificial sky’s sun. Despite having set your alarms and making sure that you had everything ready in the evening, you have ended up running late for the job errand that was tasked to you. You have a starskiff to catch, and looking at the time, there’s no way you’re going to make it in time if you go via your usual route. In an attempt to catch up with the lost minutes, you decide to take a shortcut.
It’s not a route you use regularly. To be perfectly candid, you’re not exactly allowed to: The street was closed off a good while ago due to the increased amount of Mara-struck soldiers roaming around the place, but desperate times require desperate measures. So, you peek over your shoulder to make sure that nobody is watching before swinging your leg over the barrier that blocks the alley from the public.
On the few times that you’ve had to rely on your backup plan, you’ve never been faced with any of the abominations that supposedly inhabit the place. Hence, you’re not too worried about being attacked by anything — and besides, even if you were to, the help would be just around the corner. The Ship tends to be a tiny bit overcautious when it comes to protecting its citizens, you have noticed: One of your friends’ home streets got evacuated for basically no reason just a few weeks prior.
Rushing down the stony stairs and down to the empty intersection, you nearly slip on the golden ginkgo leaves that cover the ground. Still, you can’t afford to slow down since you wish to make it work on time, and so you hasten your pace. It’s not a long way back to the main street from where you are, and as usual, there isn’t much to see. The view is a tiny bit haunting since you’re quite possibly the only living thing around, but other than that, you can’t help but think that the roadblock is, yet again, an exaggeration.
However, as your luck would have it, the trip doesn’t end up being a completely uneventful one. Just as you turn the corner to the final stretch of the vacant street, you come to find that you’re not the only person who has wandered into the restricted area that morning. In your haste, you don’t even think of hiding yourself when you spot two vaguely familiar people standing by one of the abandoned buildings in the distance.
A woman with sunglasses and a tall man in dark attire are seemingly discussing something amongst each other, partially concealed in the shade. The entire scene moves like in slow motion: Mid-stride, as you run, they hear your approach and turn their faces towards you.
In the following moment, you experience perhaps the strangest occurrence of your entire life. Inexplicably, as you take in the sight of them, you swear that despite being several dozen meters away from the couple, you can see the deep red hue of the man’s eyes. Rationally speaking, you’re nowhere near enough to make out the distinct features of his face, but regardless, the scarlet shade is burned to your retinas like a bright flash of sunlight. The feeling is like an icicle had been pierced straight into your soul.
The ordeal is over in a matter of seconds. You arrive at the street’s end, and you lose sight of the two as you disappear behind a hedge. Despite having been hidden from their view, the sensation of the man’s gaze lingers on you like you had been branded. For an unknown reason, the incident shakes you to your core; so much so that as you make it to the end of your shortcut, you need to take a minute to catch your breath and rid yourself of the feeling of imminent doom before you can even consider continuing your commute.
You end up running late for work in the end. It isn’t that big of a deal in itself — your boss is a very understanding Foxian lady after all: The road blocks are a headache for her, too — but throughout the entire day, you find it incredibly difficult to concentrate. The image of the two people in the alley is burned into the back of your mind, and no matter how you try, you can’t rid yourself of the uneasiness. You wonder if you’ve caught some type of an illness due to how horrible you’re feeling. Nevertheless, no matter how hard you try, you don’t get much done during the day.
As you scuff your way back home with a heavy mind, you happen to lay your eyes on one of the wanted-posters on the information boards. The one about the Stellaron Hunters has been there for quite a while. You haven’t read that much about it, but apparently, the Cloudknights haven’t managed to capture any of the four despite their best efforts. There’s the strange mecha, the hacker, and-
Your blood runs cold as the digital picture flashes to the next one. You immediately recognize the dark, unkempt hair and the traditional Luofu attire. The bandage on his right arm, the partially covered eye, the… It’s the man you saw. Blade, the board says in broad, bold letters. The image flickers to another portrait. Sunglasses, white shirt, dark jacket, it’s the woman that was with him. You smack your hand over your ajar mouth in disbelief.
Immediately, you don’t know what you should think. It’s absurd, it’s unbelievable, it’s a chance so miniscule that you were certain nothing like this could ever happen to you in your relatively meager lifetime. What the hell does one even do in this situation, you think. Call the knights? Alert the General? But is there anything they could do since it has already been several hours? What if you’re mistaken and the sighting is going to mislead the investigation? You’re left standing by the info board with the palms of your hands planted on both sides of your head.
Ultimately, you end up doing nothing about it. You go to sleep in your bed that night with all kinds of thoughts plaguing your mind, but you can’t think of a reasonable course of action beyond talking to your boss about it all the next day. She’s a reasonable and wise person, having been alive for way longer than you, and you trust her to give valuable insight on the matter, you trust her to know what to do, you trust her to do something, anything about the thing. Truthfully, you feel like a fool for both ever taking the restricted route and being so helpless with it all. Still, you trust that tomorrow, everything is going to be just fine, pulling the covers over yourself and resting your head against the pillow. Though, even as you close your eyes, the red irises are staring right into your soul behind your lids. You can only hope that the eerie feeling is gone when the morning arrives.
However, though you don’t know it, you’re already tangled yourself in the spider’s web. Your arms, your legs, everything has sunken so deep into fate’s clutches that there’s practically no way out of it for you. Destiny’s Slave has already foreseen the path which has been set out for you, and the Stellaron Hunters are nothing if not committed to his vision.
The first and simultaneously last nail in your coffin is the singular eye contact you had with him. In the span of ten seconds at most, Blade’s gaze has been set on you. There’s no ”How he behaves around you” or “If there are any warning signs”; he himself is the warning sign. The two of you have no further encounters beyond the first one, and in itself, it’s way more terrifying than any amount of stalking he could conduct.
It starts as something akin to a morbid joke on their end. Occasionally, the Hunters jest with each other at his expense, saying how “Blade needs himself a girlfriend”, but that’s all there has been to it. Immediately after crossing paths with you, Blade is, more than anything, worried that you’ll end up bringing them trouble for leaking their momentary location. However, when he turns his gaze away from you and lies it back on Kafka, a single glance at her tells him that she’s brewing up an entirely separate plan. Initially, he doesn’t think that much of you, but his view changes as she poses him with a certain question: ”Is she to your liking?”
Blade closes his eyes. He lets out a mildly annoyed huff before uttering a simple ”yes” as an answer.
So, initially, the one that ends up sealing your fate is Kafka. For a good while, she has wondered if Blade’s Mara would become a little better if he had something to take his negative feelings out on. Mara, as an illness, feeds off of one’s accumulated suffering, and naturally, dulling out the edge of his mental anguish could function as a temporary remedy, at least. Essentially, she’s planning to get him a stress ball in the form of a human being: She has to be in charge of controlling Blade nearly at all times, so having someone like you around would lessen her workload a considerable amount! That being said, she has been in idle search of a suitable candidate to fill the role, and coincidentally, you happen to catch her (and his) eye.
You meet all the requirements for Blade’s soon-to-be toy, too! You’re not in any high position, and you’re... There aren’t any further requirements. It’s that simple, really: The only fault you have committed to end up where you do is leading a normal life and using a shady shortcut. That’s it.
Blade isn’t really sure how he feels about the idea of you. Yeah, you’re pretty and all, he can say that much — he isn’t blind — but that’s all there is to it. He isn’t a man of many emotions in general, and only having seen you once, what opinion is he supposed to have? Though, he can’t deny that what little interest he has left in his immortal body has been piqued.
He doesn’t think he’s capable of normal love anymore; most likely hasn’t been in quite a while. The little tinge of intrigue that rises inside of him isn’t exactly affection, he recognizes. That, and for as long as he can recall, he hasn’t had much desire for genuine human connection. It simply isn’t his style: His sole purpose in life is to serve as a weapon and search for the sweet release of death, but as long as he has to live without being granted that mercy, you’ll have to suffice as a means of entertainment, he supposes. Someone like him doesn’t require much fuel to become crazed in possessiveness.
What makes you enticing is that he could finally have something that he could call his. It’s not in the romantic way in any shape or form: He just wants something that’s completely his to have, to shape, to touch, to control, to unleash his agony on. So, he doesn’t necessarily ”go crazy”: He was already there.
˗ˏˋ ★ 2. Securing: How will they abduct their darling? When, where and how?
The Stellaron Hunters are known for their schemes and remarkable ability of slipping out of law’s grasp. They’ve been evading the IPC for a considerable amount of time, and as long as they have the Script on their side, not much can go wrong. That being said, abducting you is as easy as snatching a lollipop from a toddler. It requires equal effort for Kafka to slack off as use a tiny bit of her Spirit Whisper on you and render your mind blank for the short while it takes her to bring you to their hideout.
It could be at night, it could be in the middle of the day: What is certain is that your abduction happens in the 24 hours that follow the encounter. You’re not safe, no matter the time of day, but they do end up taking you the following night out of convenience. That way, you won’t get to cause any unnecessary commotion. It’s comparable to a clean-up, almost: They’re in, and they’re out, and you won’t understand a single thing that happens. Blade likes his jobs quick and requiring no complex thought, and so, delaying the abduction would serve no purpose. You’re going to be his, whether you like it or not, so what’s the use of making it wait? A little past midnight, the two walk into your apartment through the front door like they own the place.
There’s a knock on your bedroom door. After having suffered with all kinds of thoughts the day prior, your slumber is light, and you wake up to the sound immediately. In your half-asleep state, your gaze fixates on the exit just in time to see it creak open like in a cheap horror movie. Before you can even think of screaming, your brain goes blank.
Being entangled in Kafka’s mind-control is like dissociating: It’s like you’re watching yourself in third person but still witnessing it all through your own eyes, yet nothing you see elicits a reaction from you. You’re completely disconnected from your emotions and thoughts as the couple of wanted criminals step into your bedroom.
Kafka introduces herself with a pleasant smile and shakes your hand. In the strange, hazy state you’ve been locked in, you greet her just like you would any new acquaintance. Blade doesn’t really do a thing aside from lingering in the background with a menacing aura. Despite him being the reason for your unease earlier that day, you don’t feel a single thing when he approaches you with a blank expression on his face. Kafka inquires his opinion on you now that he has gotten to see you close up. He scans your form up and down before giving a deep grunt and a nod as an answer. Vaguely, in the back of your blurry mind, though not quite being able to comprehend what’s going on, you understand that you’re in grave danger. Still, for a reason unknown to you, you can’t bring yourself to care. It’s a sensation beyond uncanny.
Nevertheless, your capture is quick and well-executed, true to the Stellaron Hunters’ usual manner. When you wake up from your trance, you’re already in their safe clutches, sitting on a chair with your hands tied behind your back and your ankles secured to the wooden legs, hidden deep in their hideout and away from any help you could alert. Kafka and Blade are both in the room, the former awaiting your first reaction with great curiosity.
Your immediate response to the sight in front of you is... none. You don’t realize the weight of the situation for a good minute after Kafka releases her grasp on your mind. You seem quite disoriented, and it’s exactly what you are: Your first thought is that it must be one of those nightmares where one realizes they’re actually asleep, and so, you attempt to pinch yourself to wake yourself up. When that doesn’t work, you try to will the surroundings to change, much like in a lucid dream. As you (quite quickly) run out of methods, the reality begins setting in.
The faint, bewildered smile you have on your lips vanishes into thin air, and you start frantically tugging on your bindings. Finding that your efforts bear no fruit, your next course of action is to plead with your kidnappers: You assure the two that you have nothing of value, that you don’t have a lot of money nor do you hold any information that could be of interest to them: It’s the classic pattern that’s observed in victims of abduction. Kafka follows your show of distress with prominent interest, her chin propped against the back of her palm, but Blade doesn’t really show any emotion. He’s just staring at you with an unintelligible expression on his pale face.
You seem to be determined about not looking him in the eye, he notes: No matter where your frantic gaze darts, it’s nowhere near his face. He knows he has a bit of a frightening glare, but he didn’t expect you to be this weak-minded. It’s a good thing, in his opinion, though: He isn’t looking for a challenge — the more pliable you are, the better. However, considering a situation, you’re doing a somewhat commendable job at keeping your hysteria at bay. Though, your fear begins leaking through the cracks in your facade when Kafka begins her welcome speech.
”You and Bladie here are going to get very closely acquainted”, she lets you know among other trivial things in that sweet, sultry tone of hers. Even though you appear unable to comprehend the statement, the words only manage to frighten you further. Instinctively, you start struggling against your bindings again, but just like the first time, you find them inescapable. It’s Kafka’s cue to leave, apparently, and soon enough, you find yourself alone in the room with the man you first saw less than a day ago. It’s all downhill from there.
˗ˏˋ ★ 3. Life: What is it like to live with them? How do they treat the darling?
The first thing you learn about your new life is that you have essentially been employed as Blade’s fidget toy — without pay and against your will. You don’t immediately even grasp the weight of the situation until you’re actually forced to face reality — him — head on. You look up at his compassionless, scarlet eyes, and much like back in the closed-off street, his gaze sends a mean shiver down your spine. You don’t yet know of the alternative, much more berserk state of his, the Mara-hued side, but even now, your first instinct is to get as far away from him as possible. Initially, you try to tell him, to tell Kafka that ”you don’t understand” and “you don’t want to be here” but all of your complaining is shut down the moment it starts by a few mean words from Blade’s mouth. You learn quickly not to question anything further.
Your new home is, naturally, with the Stellaron Hunters. Unlike other yanderes, the case here is that he’s not too concerned about where you are or what you’re up to, as long as you’re within the premises of their current hideout. True to the fugitive lifestyle, your place of stay tends to alter quite a bit, and so you never really have a proper home in the sense of the word. Sometimes, you have plenty of space to roam in and a room all to yourself (and him), but other times, all five of you are cramped up in what feels like a cleaning closet. It’s basically a gamble where you’ll end up next. They do have a proper place to stay Akivili-knows-where, but it’s quite a rare occurrence for you to get to spend more than a couple of days there at a time.
In general, there isn’t much of a routine in your days. Yes, you get to sleep a generous amount and everything, but when it comes to passing the time, there aren’t many options available. Frankly, you don’t dare to ask Blade for anything beyond the essentials, so you don’t have things like books, games or art supplies to entertain yourself with. If you want something to do, the only choice is to seek out the others.
All four of your ”roommates” go in and out without much of an explanation, and sometimes you get to have the entire day for yourself. At times like that, you’re usually locked in whatever space they have available; the bathroom is a common one. Then again, most of the time, there’s at least someone to keep you company. Your favoured option, Firefly, is gone less than she’s around: You don’t really know where she goes, but she does try to chat with you whenever she’s available. Then there’s Silver Wolf who occasionally tosses her gaming console in your lap and asks you to ”farm for her”, and that’s pretty much the extent of your interactions. Kafka is there to strike up a conversation with you, but most of the time, you would prefer to be anywhere else than under her keen gaze. Her presence is beyond unnerving, and for some reason, you get the feeling that it’s her goal to make you feel that way.
When it comes to your basic needs, you can be sure that they’re fulfilled, more or less. You’re not deprived of things like food, water or warmth at any point; partially because Kafka makes sure that Blade takes care of you, but still. In the first few days, you notice that the man doesn’t seem to be that accustomed to people’s company, and that translates to him failing to tell you essential things like where the bathroom is, where you’re going to sleep and so on. It’s like he’s a chatbot that only talks to you when you ask something, and truth to be told, you would rather avoid talking to him at all. Though, you’re not going to be able to do that as you have your “role” to fulfill.
If you didn’t find him terrifying at the start, your view is going to change, at the latest, when he starts to utilize you for the task you were intended for.
He’s violent. There’s no going around it: Everything he does holds very little consideration towards you, and that manifests in him being physically and mentally rough with you. Trying to do just about anything, whether it’s sleeping or passing your time by any means available, is risking having to deal with his sour attitude and apparent distaste towards you doing anything more than breathing.
He doesn’t really use his words when he’s with you, and so, whenever he wants something from you, he just grabs you by the arm and drags you wherever. His grip is rigid and unforgiving, and as you complain that ”ow, ow, hurts”, he only tightens his hold. Prepare to be shoved around, pushed to the ground, manhandled, scratched, to have your hair tugged... The list goes on and on, and it will start taking its toll on your body quite early on. It’s a nearly daily occurrence, too, and sooner than you would like, different kinds of marks begin to adorn your body: Bruises, cuts and welts cover your arms and legs, travelling up your thighs and your shoulders and back. More often than not, you don’t have a mirror to look in, and it’s for the best, perhaps. You don’t think you could bear to see yourself in the state that you’re quickly reduced to.
On the psychological side, Blade is anything but cordial when it comes to you. Even in the first few days, as you’re ”getting to know him”, your attempts at getting any pieces of information from him are met with scoffs and serrated glares. He isn’t a man of many words, but with you, he tends to open his mouth in favour of berating you. He has got a sharp tongue, you discover, and even with short sentences, he manages to make you feel more worthless than the dust balls lining the hideout’s corners. He also seems to take some twisted gratification in scaring you in general: Sometimes, he looms in your presence and purposefully bares his teeth, just to frighten you.
It’s no wonder that your resolve diminishes to a fraction of what it was, and it doesn’t take longer than a few weeks. The constant sense of danger chips away at your personality, and you think to yourself that “this is as bad as it gets”, but it’s not until you first get to experience him in his less-than-savoury state that you truly learn the extent of what he is at his worst.
As much as she would like to, Kafka can’t always be there to ensure that he doesn’t slip into the depths of his Mara. That’s precisely what she captured you for, but she can’t help but feel a little concerned for your safety: Not that it’s your well-being itself, but it would be quite a hassle if Bladie were to accidentally get you killed in his delirium, wouldn’t it? So, the first time you get to witness his Mara, she makes sure not to be away for more than an hour at most. That way, even if you’re at death’s door when she returns, she’s positive that you’re going to survive. You win some, you lose some.
You’re left alone with him. Initially, you don’t think there’s anything different about him until your eyes meet his. From the doorway where he’s standing, you don’t fail to see the way his irises are burning with a strange, unfamiliar hue. It’s very subtle, but you can feel the unnerving, downright sinister aura he emits. Albeit it’s not that far from the usual him, you sense that something is terribly off. You’re unable to even get a word out before he pounces on you.
The air is knocked out of your lungs as you’re shoved to the floor. In a brief vestige of lucidity, he manages to plant his fingers under the back of your head to shield your skull from the impact, but it’s the last shred of concern he shows for your physical welfare for the day. You yelp out a frantic sound akin to a call for help, but the rest of your grievances are muffled as his hand lands over your mouth. Large enough to cover the entire lower half of your face, he squeezes your jaw with a trembling grasp as if he’s hanging onto the last ounce of self-control he has. It’s like every last inch of his body is itching to hurt you. Paralysed by terror, there’s not much you can do other than take what’s being served to you: For what feels like an eternity, you lie there, pinned on the ground by his weight as he trembles atop of you, staring you down like a lunatic — which he is at the moment, sort of.
He doesn’t do anything. You see his hands twitching as if yearning to reach for certain places, or craving to cause you pain beyond what you have ever experienced, but he doesn’t do anything. The insanity that swims in his widened eyes is a difficult sight to explain in words, but if there’s one thing you know, it’s that it’s the most mentally terrorizing thing you have ever witnessed.
You don’t know how long you actually remain where you are sprawled on the ground under him, nor could you tell at which point you began crying. By the time Kafka comes back, you’re in tears, snot is running down your lip, and there’s a red, hand-shaped mark over your face. She gently ushers Blade away from your limp body, cooing at you and telling you how ”you did so well for him”, but you’re not alert enough to make sense of her words. Though you survived the first incident without a scratch, you should know that from that point on, hardly any mercy is going to be granted to you.
˗ˏˋ ★ 4. Rules: What kind of rules do they enforce? How lenient are they? How do they keep their darling in check?
He doesn’t bother setting rules for you. Coming up with something like that would not only be a waste of his time, but they most likely wouldn’t be of much benefit, anyway. Plus, he couldn’t care less about what you do in your limited alone time: It’s not like you could wreak that much havoc even if you tried your absolute best, so he doesn’t see a point in enforcing any strict instructions. If you were to ever directly inquire about what his rules for you are, his response is going to be something along the lines of ”do whatever you please”.
He does technically have one, though. It’s simultaneously as simple and as complicated as it gets: Do not piss him off. The former because it’s a single sentence, and the latter because, well, there are many things that could make him angry. The things that cause him to blow a fuse range from burning down the Hunters’ hideout to breathing at him wrong, depending on his mood. There are days when he would tolerate you using him as a cutting board, and there are times when your mere presence could be enough to make him snap your neck. He won’t, of course, since an unfortunate side effect to that is your death, but you’ll be subjected to his wrath nonetheless.
Escaping is obviously off-limits. He doesn’t believe you would be stupid enough to attempt something like that — especially since there are multiple people that would be right on your tail to recapture you (and you would be caught in a heartbeat) — but in case you were to try it, he lets you know that he’s going to kill you if you do. It’s a lie, but it’s a well-placed one, and your fear will most likely function as a preventative measure.
Fear, namely, is the biggest factor when it comes to keeping you docile. He has a naturally scary presence to him, and he finds that it’s quite handy: You don’t dare to do as much as blink when he gives you a certain look. Even if you haven’t experienced the horrors that are his punishments yet, just scowling at you is enough to make you so scared that he doesn’t know if your heart can take it much longer. Your hands tremble, your eyes dart around, and the spunk you once demonstrated has long since become absent. He doesn’t have to do much, really.
That, and he trusts his companions to correct you in case you were to do something you’re not supposed to. Kafka isn’t nearly as volatile as him when it comes to temper, but she has certain limitations for you, and so does Silver Wolf, albeit a little less. Firefly isn’t much of a step in any direction, but he doesn’t think she would turn a blind eye to you trying to escape and such.
˗ˏˋ ★ 5. Consequences: What kind of punishments will the darling face? How do they punish different offences?
He’s most likely the worst of the worst when it comes to punishing you. It’s always very in-the-moment and violent: He doesn’t have any planned-out consequences for you so you could fully understand what you’re getting into when disobeying him. It’s a difficult equation, because sometimes he doesn’t have the energy to punish you even if you were to try to escape — but then again, occasionally, the tiniest annoyances could have him treat you like you just brought Dan Feng into the hideout.
At the lightest end of the spectrum, the most you’re going to face is a few harsh words and a nasty grip on the back of your neck, but if that isn’t enough to get you to behave, it evolves to ripping on your hair, slapping you across the face, or even cutting you if he deems you to be acting irritating enough. ”Irritating” is a very loose term for him, too: You could do as little as flinch away from him when he’s reaching for your face to do something completely innocuous, maybe move a lock of hair away from your forehead (you assume that he’s about to lay his hands on you again), and the next moment, he has reached for his sword and slashed a wide cut across your forearm. For a moment, you’re too aghast to even make sense of the situation, but as the stinging sets in, you fall on your knees, cradling the now bleeding limb with a shell-shocked expression on your features. Given the frequency of such instances, it’s not an unlikely scenario that you’ll end up with the same fashion of bandages on your arms as him. How romantic.
Breaking anything, yelling at him, yelling at the others, or doing general stuff that you’re not supposed to all earn you some type of physical discipline. Depending on his mood, the punishment ranges from a smack on your head to carving into you with his blade. No matter how you wail and plead, there’s no way out of your plight unless he were to go severely overboard: Sometimes, although he doesn’t intend to, he ends up causing more harm than he planned to, and he has to pause his actions in favour of making sure he isn’t doing any irreversible damage, as twisted as his mindset is.
When it comes to giving you a time-out, he doesn’t really have anywhere to lock you in, most of the time, at least. So if he needs to restrain you because you’re lashing out, he usually just resorts to strangling you. His goal isn’t to have you suffocate by any means — that would be a little extreme even for his taste — but it gets the message across. You could never cause actual injury to him, obviously, given his immortal nature, but it’s the thought behind it that counts.
You could be disobeying his whims, maybe trying to hide in one of the closets to get away from him, or, Aeons forbid, talking back to him. There’s no use in trying to get away from him, because the moment he finds you, he merely proceeds to yank you out of your spot and wrap his fingers around your throat. The action is usually accompanied by forcing you against a wall, and it only serves as an amplifying factor to your punishment: Your breath is wheezing due to your airways being constricted, and your legs helplessly dangle below you in an attempt to kick yourself out of his grasp, but it’s no use. The corners of your field of vision are getting blurry, you’re seeing bright, twinkling spots all around you, and you know you’re running out of time. Yet, right before you’re about to fall into unconsciousness, he releases you. You drop to the floor, head spinning and coughs violently ripping through your throat. Needless to say, you remain agreeable for the rest of the day.
And that’s only the milder extent of his wrath. With Blade, you’re most likely to end up with a few broken bones and torn muscles not even that far into your shared life. It could be accidental, or he could aim for just that, depending on how you’ve been acting. A foolproof way to get him to give you a treatment you’ll never forget is to make even the smallest attempt to escape from the Hunters.
Not that long after you have been kidnapped by the bunch, you’re still maintaining hope of making it out of Blade’s clutches. So, you’ve prepared yourself a make-shift weapon: With the limited resources available to you, you’ve made use of the little time you have alone and succeeded in honing yourself a little weapon out of a piece of glass you found in the hideout. You have wrapped the thing’s base in a strip of cloth, managing to create a rudimentary shiv.
Not being aware of the curse that has befallen on the man, you believe your best chance to be standing behind the door to your shared room and waiting for him to walk through. Whenever he arrives back from whatever mission he has been tasked with, you’re ready to sink the knife into his side to render him inert and make your way out of your prison. You haven’t really planned anything beyond: Getting through the rest of the group is going to be a challenge in a league of its own, but right now, Kafka is not in, and you’re certain that after the worst is out of the way, the rest of your escape doesn’t need to be mapped out.
So, you wait. You’re doing your best to keep your grip stable, but the task proves a little difficult due to the cold sweat that makes your hands slippery. You’re concentrating on the sight of the unmoving door, gaze glued to the wood, prepared to react without even a second’s delay when he walks in. Your legs tremble from the mix of terror and exhilaration, the promise of what is to come. The margin of error is so slim that you don’t dare as much as blink.
You hear footsteps. In the span of a mere few weeks, you have learned to recognize the sound of his shoes against the floor, the pace in which he walks in, the distinct rhythm. Drowning out every other noise, you listen as the steps grow closer, closer, closer... and then, the hinges creak.
The blade pierces into his flesh like a blazing metal rod into molten butter. The moment of truth is over in a split second as your weapon slits the silken fabric of his clothing, lodging in between his ribs. Blood rises to the borders of the wound, dyeing the black material of his coat in a strange, dark colour. Oddly, you note, the liquid seems to lack its usually characteristic warmth.
You don’t know what exactly you were expecting his reaction to be. But, if there’s one thing you didn’t prepare yourself for, it would be the blank expression on his face. As you slowly turn your head to look up at him, you’re presented with the haunting sight of his features completely devoid of any emotion, his eyes directed at the wall in front of him. Your violently trembling hands slip away from the weapon’s handle, and you take a shaky step back.
He reaches for the shiv. Still staring right in front of him as if in a daze, he pulls the knife out of his side without as much as flinching. By this point, you realize that there’s something ominous going on, and your response is to back away into the corner you so seem to favour as your place of solace, but even you yourself understand that it’s not going to save you from whatever is to come.
In a show of horror far beyond your imagination, you watch as the wound in his side starts healing on its own: The blood gathers back into the laceration, and you can barely believe your eyes as his body mends itself, how the cut appears to be sewn shut without a needle or a thread. The sight is so nauseating that if it wasn’t for your psyche frantically preparing to survive the next fifteen minutes, you would surely have emptied your stomach on the floor. Your vision becomes blurry from what you don’t even realize are your own tears.
In the blink of an eye, he lunges at you. You don’t get to as much as shriek, let alone properly bring your arms up to shield your face, before you feel the sickening sensation of something burrowing into your hand. The pain doesn’t immediately register in your mind, but as you raise your gaze up to where your limb is now sprawled up above your head, you nearly pass out: The shiv is sticking out of your palm where it’s nailed on the wall like a butterfly pinned on a board. Your elbow points in an unnatural direction compared to the rest of your arm. Your jaw falls open.
Though it’s hard for you to see properly, you don’t need to take a second look at him to tell that he has been consumed by his Mara. The petrifying, crazed hue in his eyes tells you that he’s much too far gone to comprehend what he’s doing. For a soul-crushing couple of seconds, as you see his hand reaching for your face, you think that the sight of him is the last thing you’re going to witness in this lifetime.
”Bladie”, Kafka’s voice calls. In some twisted curl of fate, the commotion was loud enough to reach her ears from wherever she was, and her silhouette stands in the doorway like a taunting mimicry of an angel. Immediately, the frenzy in his irises is smothered, and with his fingers just inches away from you, he withdraws. He doesn’t as much as bother taking a look at you as he walks out of the room. You retch out a devastated, shattered sob.
It ends up being Firefly that has to patch you up. After a good minute of having to dangle on the wall by your hand in the aftermath of Blade’s rage, she has taken you to the bathroom where you now lean against the bathtub, half-sitting, half-lying. With careful touches, she wraps bandages around the wound with such gentleness that more tears would surely spill from your eyes if you hadn’t already run out of them. The limb throbs terribly, and no matter how she attempts to rinse it, a crimson patch rises onto the pale material. The room reeks of blood, but despite all the sensations you’re being bombarded with, you’re having a hard time keeping your eyes open. Distantly, you can hear her assuring you that ”it’s going to be okay, it’s going to be okay” as she applies some sort of ointment on your hand. Right before you close your lids and fall into slumber, you see the tear-blurred, terribly pitiful expression on her kind face.
You don’t see him for the rest of the day, or even the day after that. It’s a somewhat pleasant surprise, but at the same time, you’re finding it hard to be happy about it. Your hand hurts no matter what you do, and though whatever Firefly did to it seems to have sped up the healing process a great amount to the point where you’ll have a functional limb in a week, you’re already dreading the moment he comes back.
Surprisingly though, when he does, it’s as if he had forgotten the whole thing. You don’t dare meet his gaze when he confronts you, but you swear your eyes nearly pop out of your head when he reaches for your injured arm. Though, instead of causing you further pain, he simply observes the arm, gently stroking his thumb over the bandages as if inspecting the result of Firefly’s efforts. With all you’ve had to go through, you’re sure you’re imagining it, but his touch seems to linger an unusually long time.
It’s the single, worst thing you're going to face with Blade. After understanding the damage he’s capable of inflicting on you, and the aftermath of it, it’s probable that he’s never going to go as far again. Internally, he beats himself up for stepping so far past the line, but at the same time, he can’t help but be satisfied by how you’re much too frightened to ever think of attacking him again.
˗ˏˋ ★ 6. Emotions I: How do they show love? How do they attempt to make the darling love them?
As is with the rest of his feelings, he’s quite lamentable at showing anything close to endearment towards you. He would probably rather die-, be alive than to ever express anything positive to you verbally, so the most you’re going to get out of him is actions.
In the beginning, there’s nothing loving to be found in anything that he does. All of his touches bring you discomfort and pain, and he spews nothing but hate from his mouth. Not only is his presence terribly suffocating, but he notices that the only thing he manages to awaken in you is uncontrollable fear. Though it was half his intention, he realizes that if he ever wants to get any other emotion from you (namely, the adoration he secretly craves from you), he’s going to have to work as the example himself.
You could swear you’re dreaming when he first touches you without the intent of harming you in one way or another. Your back is turned to him, and without your knowledge, he has crept up to you from behind. Only when he picks out a strand of your hair do you notice his presence.
Your breath catches in your throat as you feel his hands on you. Unable to think of anything you have done wrong, you freeze in place, suddenly hyper-aware of everything around you — especially how his fingers linger right beside your head — but as seconds pass, there’s nothing. He doesn’t grab a fistful of your locks, doesn’t sink his claws into your scalp, refrains from pushing you to the ground. Silently, he just inspects the wisps in his hand for a while before letting them fall back in their place. The moment is so surreal that you have to wonder if it ever even happened afterwards.
A time when he expresses the most of his affection is when you’re not conscious to actually experience it. In other words, he acts when you’re asleep.
Although the two of you share a bed, he can’t exactly hold you while you rest. It’s an unfortunate side-effect of your unease: He has noticed that you’re unable to get any sleep if he’s touching you. It’s a self-inflicted problem, of course, and he isn’t about to shift the blame on you for something like that, but it’s still a thing that irks him a little. He can’t exactly deprive you of rest — that wouldn’t serve any positive purpose — so he resorts to touching you when you have already fallen into deep slumber.
His sleep schedule is all over the place, and on some occasions, he pulls an all-nighter just for the sake of it. It enables him to feed his underlying need for your closeness: When you’re unaware, lying on the bed with your back turned to him, he tends to trace the curves of your bare skin with his fingers, for example. As much as the flimsy sleeping top you wear allows him to, he lets his touch travel from the base of your shoulder blade to where the shape of your vertebrae protrudes on the back of your neck, along the juncture of your clavicle, down your arm, back up your spine. It’s comparable to a meditative practice for him, almost. His touch is feather-light to make sure you don’t find out about his actions, but sometimes, in the morning, you recall having a strange yet comforting dream of someone’s gentle hand on you.
˗ˏˋ ★ 7. Emotions II: How do they deal with the darling’s emotions? How are outbursts handled? How do they attempt to comfort the darling?
Blade is completely and utterly deplorable when it comes to comforting you. No further notes.
Seriously speaking, taking care of your emotional well-being becomes more and more arduous for him the more time passes. Day by day, your psyche suffers from the constant fear of accidentally doing something that could tick him off, and not too far into your captivity, it’s probable that you start instantiating all kinds of symptoms. Even the feistiest of darlings don’t take long to deteriorate to a bundle of trepidation and distress when exposed to the tribulation that is him.
The main problem with him is that, initially, his attitude towards your tears can be summed up in a single sentence: ”He’s going to give you something to cry about”. Essentially, your misery only manages to throw gasoline into his flames, and you ending up sobbing becomes quite a common occurrence with him. It’s not that anything is wrong per se — wrong in the sense that anything that drastic compared to your usual life with him has happened to you, necessarily — but there’s simply nothing else left to do. It’s the only way you can attempt to regulate your emotions, to rid yourself of the overwhelming despair and fear. He doesn’t take it too well: It’s almost as if he considers it to be a personal attack. You’re that helpless? This is how little it takes to shatter you? You think he’s being cruel? He’s going to show you “cruel”.
That being said, his usual reaction is the same as it is with you being ”irksome”: Mean words, a hand in your hair, and a tight grip on any part of you that’s within his reach at the moment. That only manages to make you more distraught, naturally, and so, as a last recourse, you turn to crying when he’s not there to see. Whenever he’s away, you pass your time by draining your tear ducts in the palms of your hands. It’s pitiful, it’s pathetic, but it serves as a temporary alleviation for the distress you’re drowning in.
All the anxiety and fear ends up eating away your sanity, and quite soon, you start suffering from things such as full-blown insomnia, heart palpitations so severe that you sometimes clutch your chest for minutes at a time, and you begin having difficulty functioning beyond what’s strictly necessary. That, in turn, plays into intensifying your distress, so your usual emotional outbursts are not of anger or frustration but sheer, unadulterated terror. In other words, you’re going to start having attacks of hysteria and panic.
Truth to be told, he doesn’t have the faintest idea about how he should deal with something as complex as your feelings. Besides, there are multiple issues to be tackled there: You’re lachrymose, paranoid, and quivering like a leaf, you’re afraid of practically everyone and everything, and you’re having trouble operating as a human being. He wonders if you’re going to develop a heart condition one of these days due to how your pulse is racing at every hour of the day. Whenever he sleeps with you (in the innocent sense), he regularly wakes up to the sound of you hyperventilating next to him in the bed. He isn’t even sure if you’re actually awake during the instances or not.
The most palpable of your episodes are the ones where he’s present in the same space. Usually, when he merely lingers in the room and doesn’t actually do anything, you’re relatively calm, but if he’s to go any further and try to touch you for example, you may go into a state of terror. Your hands tremble, your eyes widen, pearls of sweat rise onto the back of your neck, and you start sputtering out incomprehensible words and pleas, asking him ”please not to hurt you” and saying things like ”I promise I’ll be good, I promise, I promise” over and over and over again until the sentences blur together and he’s left with a blubbering mess of a human being. You then back away into the nearest corner, pull your knees to your chest and sort of cover your face with your hands like dodging a hit. You’re basically inconsolable by this point: Not that he would initially try to, anyway, but he suspects that not even any of his companions would be skilled enough to get through to you.
The responsibility of eventually getting you out of your state falls on Firefly, more often than not. She’s the most prone to empathy out of the four, and she has a naturally calming presence. After Blade reluctantly asks her to, she enters the room where you’re huddled up in the corner with your hands over your ears, staring at a singular spot on the wall like you’re attempting to bore a hole through it. She tries talking to you in a soft tone, but even she’s at a little bit of a loss at what to do with you. You do calm down eventually, but the cycle is likely to repeat less than 24 hours later. That being said, Blade himself realizes that he’s going to have to think of a more convenient solution to the problem before the last bits of your former self are washed out of you.
He finds himself... kind of caring about how you’re doing. Not in the sense that he makes a real effort at being nicer to you to alleviate your anxiety, but he has to admit that it’s beginning to hinder your relationship. So, though he starts slow, he gets a little better at de-escalating the situation.
His first proper go-to method is a little unconventional, but it appears to have some effect on you, at least. Whenever you start showing signs of yet another hysteria attack and retreat into the corner you seem to like so much, he tends to throw a blanket over you. He just tosses it on your form with a deep sigh, and more often than not, it’s enough to take the worst edge off of your panic. You’re unable to see him that way, and in some primal way, that manages to calm you down. You just sit there, huddled in the corner with the fabric covering you like you were a piece of furniture in an attic. He leaves the room for the fifteen minutes it takes for you to go back to normal again.
Then, not that long after he invents the first means of calming you down, he discovers another. It's against all he initially thought he was supposed to do, but nevertheless, it gets the job done quite quickly. Namely, instead of allowing you to regain your composure on your own, he resorts to yanking you out of your shelterless retreat, setting you in his lap and holding you against him until you lie limp in his arms. Despite how you writhe and cry and yelp out a frantic mantra of ”please-please-please”, he throws his legs over yours and locks his arm around your throat. By this point, you must be terrified out of your mind, and when you eventually simmer down, it’s more that you have burned all your fuel and less that your hysteria was actually extinguished. You have a habit of falling asleep after the most intense of episodes, and so, he deems the practice to be a success, no matter the implications.
Finally, if all other options have been eliminated, he’s faced with the fact that if he doesn’t want to end up with an empty husk of you, he’s going to have to step outside of his comfort zone and into the comfort zone. It’s at this moment that he realizes that perhaps, deep in his dead soul, he harbours some sort of affection for you beyond the need to possess and control you. So, he makes a clumsy, almost endearing attempt at consoling you.
Hissing at you didn’t work, the blanket didn’t do its job, and he has been holding you down for the past 45 minutes with little to no results. Your eyes are blown wide open, your voice has gone hoarse from how you have been spewing out your incomprehensible pleas without a single pause like a malfunctioning cassette. Eventually, he reaches the point where he has to roll his eyes and abandon his nonchalant exterior.
He frees you from his grasp. You’re so deep into your state that you don’t immediately realize he has done so, but when you do, you only manage to slump to the ground not even a meter away from him. He wonders if your throat is about to close in on itself with how you’re gasping for air like you’re drowning. A pathetic thing you are, he muses, but at the same time, he crouches down beside your body and sets his hand on the space between your shoulder blades. ”Calm down”, he tells you in his gruff voice, as unbothered as if he was reciting an instruction manual. He presses down on your back, somewhat replicating the weight of a comforting embrace.
Initially, his touch only seems to drive you deeper into your panic, but after a few moments, he senses a change in your state. As he sort of rubs his palm up and down the curve of your spine, the haphazard rhythm of your frantic breathing seems to stabilize a little bit. He continues talking you through it, and though he doesn’t know if you’re actually listening, slowly but surely, you break out of the hysteria. After a while, he’s left with a limp, barely conscious you lying on the ground with dried streaks of tears adorning your cheeks. He lets out a sigh.
If there’s anything positive to be found in his approach, it’s that, much like with his punishments, he gets gentler and more tender the more time passes. He sort of grows accustomed to your emotions, to how your mind works and responds to certain things. He himself has to face the reality that you instill a semblance of compassionate instinct in him. Your anguish becomes a source of that to him, too, and so, he finds himself inclined to be more lenient with you.
˗ˏˋ ★ 8. Thing to exploit: What are the darling’s best chances at escaping? Are there things the darling can use to their advantage? How can the darling make things easier for themselves?
Despite the severe lack of precautions, Blade is incredibly difficult to run from. Not only does he himself possess superhuman qualities when it comes to hunting things down, but he also has three more people by his side that ensure that you don’t get to escape. Despite having quite a lot of freedom to yourself (if it could even be called that), no matter what you do, there’s not a lot of ajar windows for you to utilize. That, and most likely, you’re far too scared of the potential consequences of your actions to attempt something as rash as fleeing.
Though, if you’re up for the challenge, there’s a certain thing you can use to your advantage. Namely, the fact that you have quite a lot of chances to be alone. As mentioned, Blade isn’t that concerned with letting you do your thing, and so, there are plenty of opportunities where you could technically slip away without a trace. The problem is, however, that as the name suggests, your captors are hunters. You won’t get much further than a few hundred meters away from the premises before one of them catches up to you. If you want to make your escape the classic way, be prepared to try multiple times (and wait for your injuries to heal in between them).
The alone time also enables a chance for you to construct your plan more carefully. If you’re slick, you can attempt to steal and hide things, to make weapons with the limited resources available to you, or to pick the locks on the doors. Fighting Blade is off the table, of course, but if he isn’t there to catch you, someone like Silver Wolf could be an easier target.
Regarding her, she could be of use to you when escaping due to the fact that she just... doesn’t really care. Obviously, if Kafka orders her to, she’s going to make sure that you don’t get away, but she doesn’t see a reason in going to far extents to capture you since you clearly don’t want to be with them. You could run right past her after breaking out of your room, and she would merely glance up from her console, think ”oh shit”, and go right back to her game.
Then there’s Firefly. If you know how to push her buttons, she might help you flee. It’s not an easy feat to manipulate her into letting you go since she has her own agenda and a job to do, but with the correct words and plentiful pleas, you can pull it off. She won’t exactly carry you out of your jail, but she might help you conduct the scheme and aid you in getting what you need for it. Then, if possible, she could deliver a message to someone close to you, for example, or even the Astral Express. She doesn’t give you any guarantees, of course, but the girl is susceptible to others’ suffering, and so, it’s best to befriend her.
Finally, an incredibly stupid way you could technically contact someone outside is via Blade’s phone. He only uses it for work purposes and doesn’t take very good care of the thing, so every once in a while, he ends up leaving it somewhere you can reach it. It’s protected by a pin, obviously, but if you manage to figure it out, the device could be your key to freedom. You need to be very cautious with it, though, because the help won’t arrive in a heartbeat, and if he ever were to find out about what you have done, you can be sure that you won’t be leaving the bed for a few days, and not for the nice reason.
˗ˏˋ ★ 9. Further notes: Is there anything that sets them apart from the other yanderes? What unique qualities do they possess?
Essentially, when you become Blade’s darling, you sort of fill the role of Kafka’s own as well, almost like a proxy. There will be times when she snatches you for whatever activity she has planned for that day, not paying too much mind to the fact that Blade is left sitting in the background as she takes you away. You might, for example, end up as a dress-up hostage.
She sits you down on a stool in her room, asking you to stay put in her sickeningly sweet tone. Just her presence is enough to nearly send you into cardiac arrest, but if she knows about the effect she has on you, she doesn’t care. Instead, she introduces you to her collection of jackets.
”Would you like to pick one out for me?” she asks you. You’re wise enough to know that it isn’t exactly a question: You’re expected to do as you’re told, and you don’t want to find out what happens if you don’t. So, trying your best to hide the way your knees buckle, you stand up and walk over to the closet, letting your shaky fingers glide over the myriad of sleeves lined up next to each other on the hangers. Not having the slightest clue on what the correct answer is (or if there even is one), you hesitantly point at a white leather blazer, mumbling out a barely audible ”this one...?”
”It’s a little too similar to the shirt, don’t you think?” Kafka raises her brows with a gentle smile on her lips, swiping her gloved hand over her shoulder. You genuinely believe you’re going to pass out when her fingers come down on the crown of your head and pat your hair down like taking care of a pet. She likes keeping you on your toes like that.
When it comes to the man himself, though, it’s difficult to get anything out of him aside from the usual, gloomy aura he emits. If you didn’t know better, you would think that he wants nothing more than for you to disappear from existence. His behaviour contradicts itself: You always share a bed with him (whenever you have one), but at the same time, he makes sure to lie so close to the edge that you fear he’s going to fall off the mattress. He lingers in the same space as you, but if you were to try and talk to him, he makes it very clear that he’s not interested. However, if you leave the room, you can be sure that he’s going to be on your tail in less than a minute.
He could be compared to an energy vampire. It’s not necessarily the fact that he’s a pessimist through and through (albeit that occasionally gets to you, too), but the fact that his presence literally makes you feel like doom is about to befall on you. Looking at the other three Hunters, you wonder if they feel the same as you do, but that doesn’t seem to be the case — perhaps they’re just that used to him, considering that they pull daring stuff with him all the time: You have noticed that his phone circulates among them like a gag gift that never stops giving. If you were to ever pull something like that, he would bash your face in the wall in less than a second, so you’re not exactly inclined to join the others in their games.
Though, if you want to keep your highly limited social life together, you’re going to need to chat with the women, because Blade seems to be physically unable to keep up a conversation with you. You don’t recall a single time when he has voluntarily talked to you more than strictly necessary: You don’t know a single thing about him personally, and to be frank, he would like to keep it that way for as long as he’s able. He’s sure that Kafka is going to let you in on the secret one of these days, and the idea irks him to no end, but as long as she doesn’t, you’re going to remain out of the Luofu loop. Yes, you’re aware that he’s basically immortal and all (due to the stabbing attempt), but your knowledge doesn’t go beyond that. He would rather be stuck in a closet with Dan Feng than ever utter a word about the ”of five, three must pay the price”-shenanigans to you. He really isn’t fond of the thought of you knowing his weak spots, and besides, it wouldn’t be particularly judicious to give you a verbal Mara-trigger since he already throws you around the room a good amount.
Lastly, compared to other yanderes, a very strange sum of factors regarding him is that while he wants to keep you, his ultimate aim in life has been to, well, perish. As more time goes by, even he doesn’t know which one of the goals tops the other: The two can’t exactly coexist for obvious reasons, so he’s faced with an unforeseeable dilemma. Sure, his existence is a burden on himself, but he notices that somehow, you seem to make it a little better. Maybe it’s because of the fact that he gets to blow off steam with you in less-than-ideal ways, or, he ponders, it could be that he has, at long last, found a person worth investing his time in.
So, as weeks roll past, he becomes more and more gentle with you. The change is very subtle due to how slow it is, but one day, you suddenly realize the fact that it has been five whole days since he has last hurt you. The previous bruises on your wrist have had the chance to fade away before new ones have been formed. You raise your gaze from your arms in your lap in favour of peeking at him over your shoulder. As if knowing what you’re thinking, his eyes are already on you: The look he sends your way is inscrutable, and you turn your head away in fear of him ending the streak if he found out about the tinge of happiness that sparks inside of you.
NS-FW
˗ˏˋ ★ 10. General look: How does their sexuality manifest? What does sex mean to them? How horny are they?
He doesn’t think he’s capable of a thing such as experiencing arousal anymore. It’s supposed to be a positive feeling, and he has been drained of those a good few centuries ago. He’s an old guy, theoretically speaking, and he hasn’t had much interest in sexual matters for as long as he can recall. It’s simply not worth the effort, and even something as minor as self-pleasuring isn’t a common occurrence at all for him. At most, he beats his meat as a means for stress relief: It’s quick and it gets the job done, but he rarely feels up to it.
Though, he notices a few changes in that regard when you come around. Compared to before, he now has something to both ignite his urges and something to take them out on; both of those being you. Especially since his Mara has a nasty habit of making itself known when he’s going through rough patches, it’s no wonder that he starts to entertain the idea of wrecking you. You do have a nice figure to you, too, and the clothes you wear (the ones that Kafka so graciously provides you with) don’t do a very good job at concealing your best bits. You sometimes catch him staring.
It’s not that he starts having the urge to bang you, necessarily. It’s more of an intense feeling of being drawn to you but in all the wrong ways. His hands itch with wanting to grab you, to feel how you shiver and squirm under his touch. He isn’t one to really enjoy physical closeness in general, but now, he finds himself gravitating towards you. Initially, he thinks that his new-found ”emotions” are more of a bother than anything, but with time, his watchful eye turns into wandering hands.
˗ˏˋ ★ 11. Limit: How long does it take for them to have the darling? What is the first time like? Do they care about the darling’s willingness?
He’s in two minds about your willingness and your feelings regarding the matter. He considers you to be an annoyance in his life half the time, and when he doesn’t, he uses you as he pleases, but on the other hand, he does pay a tiny bit of mind to how he treats you and your body. When it comes to sex, the gentler side of him has the upper hand, sort of: He doesn’t want your first time with him to be stained by a Mara-hued lens.
It couldn’t be more obvious that you would rather fight a borisin than ever be dicked down by him, but he knows that he’s bound to overstep the line sooner or later due to his illness. That being said, after pondering the matter over for a few days, he decides that throwing you in the deep end of the pool will not only save you from the dread but soften the blow of when he inevitably ends up taking you in his deranged state.
You catch on to the off atmosphere as soon as he enters the room. Having been subjected to his presence for long enough, you appear to have developed a sixth sense regarding him, sort of: He doesn’t even need to look at you before you’re already scampering away from him, backing yourself against the wall. He can see it in your eyes; the way your mind is swimming with all kinds of possibilities, each one more frightening than the other. You probably don’t have the faintest idea what you’re about to go through, he thinks.
”Please don’t”, you beg him as he closes the distance between the two of you, trapping you in between him and the wall. He doesn’t answer your plea: He merely gives you a raspy sigh before taking you by the arm and yanking you towards him. However, clearly not being a fan of what he’s initiating, you thrash in his hold, trying to tear his hand off of you. There’s no use in trying that, obviously, but your struggle still manages to annoy him enough for him to harshly jerk you towards the bed. The movement holds a little bit too much force to it, and you end up tumbling against the piece of furniture, landing on your knees on the floor with your upper body on the mattress, rear up. Though it’s not exactly what he had in mind, he doesn’t bother lifting you up from the ground since the softer surface would have been mainly for your sake, anyway. Instead, he gathers your arms behind your back in a straining hold, muttering at you to ”stay still” while his free hand grips the waistband of your bottoms.
You shriek as he attempts to yank the garment down your thighs, but the rigid fabric refuses to come off so easily. What little self-restraint he was able to exercise goes out the window, and he decides that your clothes aren’t worth the bother. The cold metal of his sword slides against your lower back as he slices the material in half, effectively ridding you of the barrier between your bits and his keen gaze.
You’re still chanting out the same pleas, asking him to ”please just let you go”, and to ”please give you a little more time”, but the words do very little to waver his resolve. You were bound to end up in the present situation eventually, and to be fair, he’s doing you a favour here: It was either this or waiting until his Mara acts up, and the latter would have been much harsher on your mind. You may be terrified out of your head now, but you’ll get over it after a while, he hopes.
Your tears are soiling the sheets. Before stumbling upon you, he didn’t even know a human being could be capable of so much crying in such a short time: It’s like you sob just to pass your days, but frankly, your reaction is quite warranted here. Your thighs are trembling, making a poor attempt at shielding your cunt from his view, but it’s no use. The next thing you know is that his bandaged fingers are breaching your entrance.
There’s no ease of a smooth slide. You wince at the feeling of the coarse material chafing against your opening, but what makes you truly start flailing is when the pads of his fingers press against the front wall of your insides. He’s not having any of it, though: He jams his knee in between your legs and shifts more of his weight on your arms behind your back. His fingers dig deeper into your cunt, pressing right against your good spot. He jabs the ribbed texture with a little too much strength to be pleasurable, but nevertheless, he notices your tight cunt giving in a bit.
You seem to have given up on the struggle, and instead, you have surrendered to staining the blanket with your misery and letting him do his thing. Perhaps in an act of sympathy, he loosens his hold on your hands for a tiny bit, allowing the circulation to return to your limbs. Silently, he listens to your desperate, frantic gasps for air all the while he works another digit into your entrance.
After a while, you feel his touch leave you. Though, you’re not given a single moment to catch your breath as you hear the sound of a zipper being unfastened. The terror is about to burst out of your vocal cords, but there’s no time for you to wallow in your distress as he’s already pushing into you.
It’s a bit of a tight fit: You’re not exactly relaxed, he notes, and there’s a considerable amount of resistance as his cock slides into your cunt. He’s not too small in size, and the prep was hardly sufficient for any shape of intrusion. Still, the deep, elongated sigh that slips past his lips as he bottoms out is nothing short of satisfied. Leaning down to your level, pressing his chest flush against your back, he lets out an airy chuckle right into your ear, expressing some form of amusement towards your disconsolate form. Then, he starts fucking into you.
With each thrust, you let out a wail, a sob, or something in between. You’re much too panicked to find any enjoyment in the act, but he, on the other hand, seems to be having the time of his life. You wonder what kind of urges he has had to suppress with you around: Judging from his pace, they must have been a lot. The bed legs screech against the floor with every movement, and there’s no doubt in your mind that the other Hunters are able to guess what’s happening, but nevertheless, even after a while, none of them have come to check on you. In a way, that sinks you even deeper into your sorrow; there’s nobody out there to come save you.
˗ˏˋ ★ 12. Preferences: What is sex with them like? What sort of stuff are they into? What kind of kinks do they have?
The vast majority of the time, there’s no such thing as gentle sex with him. He slaps, he bites, he squeezes, he hisses, he growls... Be prepared to weather a good amount of his pent-up emotions. Not only is it a physically straining feat, but by the end of it, your mind is going to be in just as much shambles as your body.
- Rough, rough, rough
The first thing you should note is that, albeit it’s there, his prep is both inconsistent and rarely adequate. It’s not that he doesn’t pay any mind to it, but his standards for such things are just a little less than what one would expect. In a sound state of mind, he doesn’t just ram his junk in, no, but his methods leave a lot to be desired.
His touches barely ever make you feel loved or cherished in a way some other yanderes’ actions might: It usually appears like he just wants to get the necessary steps out of the way before he can begin unleashing his frustrations on you. Though he takes care to yank your bottoms down and feel around your bits for a little, there’s not a lot of enjoyment to be found there. It’s not that he’s rushing with it — he’s not an impatient person per se — but that he just can’t be bothered. It won’t bring about much of a change if he were to rub one out of you (plus if your frightened expression is anything to go by, you just want it to be over as quickly as possible), and besides, he has conditioned you to get wet enough with just some light prodding. So far, there hasn’t been much blood when he enters you, and so, he deems the result of his efforts viable enough.
He doesn’t really warm you up in other ways, either. Sex with him is without any trying-to-get-you-in-the-mood: It’s whenever he wants it and wherever he wants it. He just pulls you away from whatever you’re occupied with and slams you against a random surface— preferably the bed, but more often than not, the floor — and goes for it. There’s never really a time when he doesn’t have to hold you down during it, and so, one of his hands is on your wrists or forearms, whatever is suitable and within his reach, and he holds your legs down by shifting his entire weight on them.
Your clothes suffer damage more often than not. He himself doesn’t prefer stripping for sex — perhaps for convenience or for other reasons — but as long as he gets yours out of the way, he’s content. It might mean yanking them off, jerking your bottoms down and pulling your top up and over your eyes to reveal your breasts, or if you’re wearing something he deems ”too difficult”, he’s just going to destroy his way through. Kafka isn’t particularly happy with the amount of garments she has to replace due to him slicing and dicing them in record speed (and he sure as hell is not going to shop for clothes for you), but then again, you keep Bladie a little more docile, so she’s kind enough.
Occasionally, during sex, he has to stop himself for a moment because it looks like your body is suffering genuine damage. In one instance, he almost cracks your head open on the bedpost as he throws you in with a little too much force. Then, one time, you end up getting a sore shoulder for days as he suddenly twists your arm in a difficult direction. He tries his best to steer away from causing you severe harm, but damn, you make it challenging for him to go easy on you. You’re just so... susceptible to being bullied. You’re easy to get a reaction out of, and that must be what piques his sadistic side. To be perfectly honest, he wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re a darling, but most importantly, you’re his darling (to bully).
If you were to ask, he wouldn’t be opposed to giving you a softer time, but it’s only if you come up to him when he’s not already balls deep in you. There’s a good chance you won’t since, although he would say yes, he has given you a good few reasons to think that it would not be the case. Still, if you want a moderately better time, you need to speak up.
It’s still as rough as it gets, but he knows how to give good head. His previous life didn’t go to waste completely, after all. He holds your body down like he usually does, but at the same time, his mouth is around your clit, and two of his fingers are knuckle-deep inside of you while his thumb prods at the lower hole. He licks, he sucks, and though it feels so intense that you think you might pass out, the whines that slip out of your mouth are that of pleasure and not pain. This is somewhat of a cheat code when it comes to his urges, too: Though it’s not going to get you out of the harsher activities, it will reset the timer for when he needs it again. The more you ask him to, the less you’ll have to deal with the less delightful side of him. Go figure.
- Degradation
There are two ways he goes about degrading you. Depending on his present frame of mind, it’s either spitting vile remarks at you through a toothy, maniacal grin, or it could be phlegmatic, emotionless words about your current state that come off more as observations than anything.
The former is pure filth. He doesn’t exactly curse, but even without swear words, the sheer vulgarity of his utterances would be enough to have even General Jing Yuan’s steadfast smile waver. For example, he might sort of narrate all he does to you (given that he’s in a clear frame of mind) but in a horribly visceral way while disparaging you. ”Pathetic, whiny bitch. That is all you could take? I’m inside you, and there is nothing you can do”, he says while pressing his fingers against your lower abdomen, feeling out the shape of his cock under the skin. It feels strange, how your cunt is spasming around him, how it’s desperately trying to accommodate his size, and it hurts. It doesn’t help that his other hand is wrapped around your throat, and you’re completely unable to stand your ground. ”Cry all you want. No soul is coming to save you”, he breathes in your ear and punctuates the words with a mean slap on your thigh.
The latter is equally as frustrating, though it’s not as foul-spirited as the previous. Nonetheless, you don’t exactly feel fantastic as he points out how there’s a mark on your neck. ”Blemished”, he simply states, as if diagnosing you with a condition, while he creates another right beside it. Being delicate with words isn’t exactly his style, and you’re aware of that, but you still can’t help the way more tears sting at your eyes as he looks down at you with something akin to disdain. You quickly forget about it, though, as he aligns your hips so that his cock rams even deeper into you.
He never talks nearly as much outside the bedroom as he does while degrading you. It’s as if a whole new page of his vocabulary had been turned. He’s a particular fan of fucking your face while spitting the most humiliating words at you: His fingers are tangled in your hair, tugging at your scalp to the point of pain while he’s forcing his dick in your throat. ”Take it. This is what you were meant for”, he sneers down at you, pressing your head against his crotch. Your eyes are squeezed shut, and your hands are weakly pushing against the front of his thighs, trying to get yourself off of him, but you’re unable to halt your torment. The contrast in your positions is vast, too: He’s standing up while you’re on your knees on the floor, doing your best to weather the storm. There are red patches on your skin where the bones are pressing against the ground, and despite having had to take him for the best part of half an hour, he still hasn’t finished. He has plenty of stamina, but something tells you that he’s prolonging the session on purpose.
- Dacryphilia
There’s just something about your tears that gets him going. He doesn’t really know how to explain it: Perhaps he’s a sadistic fuck at heart and takes some sick pleasure in your suffering (which he does, partially — at least the deranged side of him), but where your tears are supposed to induce compassion in him, they instead go right into his dick.
More often than not, he intends to make you cry during sex. Whether it’s using mean words, pain, or the fear he stirs up in you, he wants nothing more than to see the precious, crystal beads spilling past your lashes as you sob out your misery. He doesn’t attempt to conceal his intentions, either: When he succeeds in his goal, he lets out an amused huff against the shell of your ear before commenting on the matter. ”Pathetic thing”, he murmurs, punctuating the words with a harsh thrust that forces your back into a deeper arch. He might even mock you by swiping his thumb along the underside of your eye, vocalizing a compassionless ”aww” with a nasty smile, before going right back to harrowing you.
He also tends to lick the tears off your face. While it makes you feel horribly gross and violated, there’s simultaneously something so intimate about the act that it has your heart lurching. He drinks the salty liquid directly from its source: You can’t help but wonder if he gets off to the taste. There’s no use in trying to resist the act, either, because if you do, he just grabs your jaw with way too much force and drags his tongue along the side of your face, all the way from your chin to your temple. You shudder at the sensation.
The more you cry, the more he desires. When the first tears fall, you can be sure that he’s going to do his best to keep them coming. Whether it’s a spank so harsh that it resounds in the room or a vicious pinch on your nipple or clit, you’re bound to be sniffling for a long time. As it is with your emotions in general, his attitude towards you crying in bed is the ”he’s going to give you something to cry about”, and so, your wailing only adds fuel to his fire. Moreover, in the aftermath, he does get some sort of pleasure out of being both the perpetrator and the one to offer you solace when it’s all over. It’s a sick cycle of emotional manipulation that makes hating him all the more confusing in your dispersed state of mind.
- The Mara Special: Blood, Sweat and Tears
It’s the very reason the Hunters abducted you for, so why not utilize your role in the bedroom as well? You’re his to mould, to play with, to bring pleasure and pain to. This sort of sex with him is purely for him to blow off steam, and while it’s not necessarily for punishing purposes (although it can be), it does often feel like that.
You can usually tell that it’s one of those days by the look in his eye. You get confirmation for your suspicion as Kafka informs you that ”she’s going to be away for a little while”, and consequently, there’s nobody to curb the man. As the zero hour draws closer, he also has a certain, odd smirk on his face that’s barely detectable for the normal eye, but oh, you know exactly what is about to take place. There’s no running away from him or soothing his mind. You sometimes wonder if bringing you fear is a part of the fun for him: Being in his Mara-hued state is supposed to cause him pain, so why does it appear like he’s purposefully inciting it?
Nevertheless, it’s a thing you have to deal with quite a bit. The act could be compared to a predator-prey dynamic in the way that it’s usually a fight on both ends: You put up a good grapple for him, but no matter how hard you try, it’s going to end up with you underneath him, hands pinned under his and legs forced open by his knee nudging against your crotch. With your stomach pressed against the ground, you’re only able to catch a glimpse of the insane glint in his eyes, and that’s enough of an observation for you. It’s one of the times when you truly fear for your well-being: Yes, harsh is his manner, but normally, he holds even a little semblance of control and refrains from roughing you up beyond repair. However, there are no guarantees of that when it comes to his Mara. You could as well be a training dummy since he seems to treat you accordingly.
That being said, if you want certain accommodations from him, such as prepping, you’re going to have to ask him for those using your words when he’s still lucid enough. With his tunnel vision, he doesn’t really consider the possibility of things like you tearing or other matters of the same sort, so if you want less pain, you better take initiative. If possible, he tries to get it out of the way before he’s completely consumed by his Mara: He might give you a quick rub on your clit to warm you up a little, but that’s the extent of it. If you express to him that you want his fingers inside of you to stretch you out before the real deal, he’s going to try his best before surrendering to his instinct. On one of your first Mara-hued times, he lets you know that in a gruff voice, telling you that ”he can give it a try if you ask for it”, but it’s not the default since he can hardly even think straight.
When the necessary preparations are out of the way, he just... goes crazy. There’s zero restraint, and though he tries not to hurt you too much, you’re making it pretty damn difficult by lying there, looking all pretty and tearful. Your cries are music to his ears, and his cock is straining in his pants to the point of throbbing. It’s usually not long until you feel his dick aligning with your cunt, and he wastes no time pushing in with a single thrust. There’s no build-up, no adjustment time, nothing: It’s just straight to fucking you with full force, so much so that you doubt the others are going to be able to sleep with how loud the sound of skin slapping against skin is.
The sight of your blood makes him wild, too, and so, you can be sure that his sword is going to make a cameo in the bedroom sooner or later. Sometimes, he just slots it against your throat and threatens you with it, but other times, he’s actually going to cut you. His favourite spots are your inner thighs and arms since those areas are plenty sensitive. Biting is a common thing too, but compared to his usual style, this time around, it’s specifically to make you bleed. Your neck, back and chest are gonna be littered with so many marks that you won’t be able to tell where one starts and another ends. He uses his nails as well: As a swordsman, he doesn’t pay too much mind into making them presentable, so the jagged edges are ideal for digging into your hips and leaving bright red streaks in their wake. Sometimes, he doesn’t even need to get inside of you to bust since the sight of your suffering is enough to drive him past the limit.
Of course, when his Mara has worn out for the time, he briefly checks your injuries to see if anything requires medical attention (and quite often, the responsibility falls on Firefly), but then again, what’s the use of taking care of your bruises and whatnot if he’s just going to renew them in less than a week? No, ”they don’t make you ugly”, he assures you in a less-than-concerned tone as he catches you looking at yourself in the mirror, and at least half of that statement is true; his arm is conveniently covering his crotch where he’s sitting.
˗ˏˋ ★ 13. Punishment: What do their sexual punishments look like? What methods do they prefer?
It’s completely random and a by-product of his illness. If you think about it, the concatenation of events is perfectly logical: You make him mad, his Mara is triggered, his Mara makes him lose his shit, you’re right there, looking all feeble and pretty, and it’s a steep slope from there. He’s unable to think clearly when he’s in his state, and besides, if you have done something that’s worth punishing, he doesn’t carry much remorse about showing you the consequences of your actions.
He’s horribly rough, even more as he is during his worst, lucid moments. You need to be taught a lesson, and the usual route is clearly not enough to cut it, so his solution is to let go of the last remnants of self-restraint and unleash all of his wrath on you in the sexual realm of things. It includes all the stuff he commonly does when you act out: Bruising, cutting, strangling — you name it — but this time, it’s with his dick inside of you.
It doesn’t really serve the purpose of getting off for him, albeit that’s what ends up happening. More often than not, he simply lunges at you, pulls or tears his way through your bottom, and sticks his cock in with zero preparation with a sick grin on his face. It’s obviously very painful for you, and you make it known by screaming your lungs out and begging for him to stop, but other than hysterically clawing at the ground, there’s nothing much you can do to stop him. No amount of apologies or promises of doing better are going to help your case. He fucks you until you’re edging the limit of passing out (or already past it), and even then, if he’s not satisfied, he keeps going until he has his fill. He also has ample time in his hands: The animalistic noise from your room is usually enough of a warning for Kafka to give him some time before stepping in.
On the floor, over the table, against the wall, but never in the bed. You’re not deserving of it, is his reasoning — and besides, when his Mara takes over, he isn’t particularly concerned with the location. The only thing necessary for him is to get his dick inside you, and that’s that. He manhandles you, tosses you around the room as he sees fit, snarls mean words at you, spanks you, bites you, all that stuff.
It doesn’t even matter which hole it is: In fact, he tends to fuck you in the ass when he gets mad. He has noticed that it gets a more intense reaction out of you, and that’s exactly what he’s after in his delirious state. So, quite often, he presses your stomach against whatever surface you’re on, rips his way through your undergarments, spits on the hole, and pushes his dick in. You squeal and thrash around to the best of your ability, trying to take hold of anything within your reach, and that’s what truly gets him going. He thrusts into you with such force that you’re going to be feeling the impact days after.
There’s never any proper aftercare when it comes to his punishments, specifically. No matter how brutal of an act he has committed, he won’t take care of you, even as you’re sprawled on the ground, sobbing and leaking blood in various places. Bruises blotch your arms and thighs, cuts from his nails streak your waist and hips, and there’s a deep, teeth-shaped mark around your left nipple. Much like your non-sexual punishments, he leaves you where you are, but even then, the routine of you eventually ending up in the bed doesn’t change: When you wake up, your head is propped up on the pillows, and there’s a comforter over your aching body. It’s the only act of compassion he offers you during your punishments.
˗ˏˋ ★ 14. Aftermath: What does their aftercare look like? Is there any?
Truthfully, it didn’t really cross his mind that you might need something like aftercare before he actually has to witness the consequences of his actions: There’s really never a time when you’re not left in a sorry state after the deed has been done. Listening to your near-silent pleas for him to stop even after he has halted his actions, he understands that he can’t exactly ejaculate & evacuate his way out of this one.
That being said, the first few times around, he’s downright awful. As he’s coming down from his own high, his gaze falls on your trembling form under him: You’ve given up on holding yourself up, and your body has collapsed to the floor. Your hands are partially extended towards the doorway ahead of you as if trying to reach for the exit in a futile effort. Most of your panic has long since died down, and the only evidence left of your misery is the dried tears that streak your cheeks. Struggling to keep your eyes open, you’re breathing through your ajar mouth in short gasps of air, but before long, they develop into quiet, heart-wrenching sobs.
He removes his hand from where it has been forcing you down by the back of your neck. From what he’s able to tell, not only are you in mental anguish, but you seem to be in physical pain as well. Slowly, he pulls his cock out of your quivering cunt with a wet squelch. You wince at the feeling of him withdrawing, and despite the torment being over, you can’t help but feel sorrowful and so, so cold.
Even as he stands up, you don’t make an attempt to move: You just lie on the ground apathetically, not very aware of what’s happening around you. Though he understands that he has to do something about your state, the only thing he can think of in the moment is picking the blanket off the bed and throwing it on your body, much like he tends to do when consoling you in general. After that, he just leaves the room and closes the door behind him, encasing you in the unforgiving darkness. The only pity you’ll get is that most likely, you’re going to wake up from the bed and not the ground if he’s feeling merciful.
He himself can’t believe he could do you like that when he thinks about it afterwards. Yes, he’s blasé regarding most things and not very concerned with matters like other people’s feelings, but something like that was a little cruel, even for him. He sure as hell isn’t going to send anybody else to take care of your wrecked, half-naked body and fractured spirit; that’s his job. He can’t help the way the conscience he thought perished a long time ago knocks on his heart, and he promises himself that the next time, he’s going to care for you a little better. That, and he doesn’t think he can bear Kafka nagging him about how ”a lady is not a toy”.
So, after a while, he gets the gist of it. One time, as you’ve ended up in the same position as you commonly do when the act is over, you find that his touch doesn’t leave you right away. Instead of going his usual route of ditching your body on the ground, his hand weaves itself in your hair. For a moment, you fear that what you thought was the end was only a small break, but then you feel him... stroking your head. You wonder if your brain has finally resorted to hallucinating its way out of the affliction, but it's real. He’s still being somewhat rough: Your hairs catch in between his bandages and strain in an uncomfortable manner, but the sentiment is so tender that in your disconcerted condition, you close your eyes and lean into his touch. He lets out a deep, quiet huff in response to your reaction.
With little effort, he gathers your limp body off the ground and carries you to the bed. He plops you down on the mattress without much care for the fact that you don’t have clothes on and proceeds to strip himself of his upper garments. Lying down next to you, he softly grabs you by the arm and nudges you towards him. With whatever little strength you have left, you yelp and try to pull away from him out of confusion more than anything, but he isn’t having any of it: He merely grunts and pulls you against him.
He never falls asleep afterwards — he just remains awake with you lying against his side, idly caressing your hair as you rest your head against his bicep. Despite how every corner of your mind is screaming at you not to give into the soothing sensation, your body’s physiological response is to sink into the comfort he offers you. It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep since you have long since run out of energy, and so, he gets to silently cherish these moments where he can just hold you without the fear of you having another episode. You probably prefer this to sleeping on the floor, too, he thinks.
˗ˏˋ ★ 15. Further notes: Is there anything that sets them apart from the other yanderes sex-wise? Are there any unique aspects to them?
One thing where Blade diverges from the other examples is that at first, he’s not at all concerned about your pleasure when it comes to sex. It doesn’t matter to him whether or not he makes you climax: Oftentimes, you don’t, and when you do, it’s by accident. Either way, he can’t be bothered with things as trivial as, eh, the other party’s satisfaction. It’s not until you happen to have a horribly embarrassing chat with none other than Kafka that things start changing.
With how loud you and Blade are being (for all the wrong reasons), you can’t expect her not to hear your high-pitched moans (wails). She tilts her head to the side in a little condescending manner before asking you point-blank: ”Does Bladie make you come?”
The question is unfortunately well-founded, but at the same time, it’s so brazen that you don’t even have to respond to it for her to know the answer. Your eyes fly wide, and you wrap your arms around yourself in a tense manner before trying to come up with something that’s both somewhat truthful and won’t set the man looming behind you into another Mara-hued spiral. You stammer out a quiet ”Well, uhm...”, but Kafka has already caught the gist of it. She turns to Blade and starts scolding the grown-ass man for ”not taking care of his partner’s needs”. The conversation is equally as mortifying for both you and him, but he doesn’t really react in any other way than sighing, closing his eyes and looking like he’s trying to astral project to his happy place. Though, the corner of his mouth does twitch when Kafka gives him a cheeky smile and tells him that ”she’s going to have to step in if little old you doesn’t start coming soon”. She wiggles her fingers towards you in a suggestive manner, and the gesture seems to be enough for him to get the point.
And so, he has to up his game. The first time you come to see his efforts is terrifying, but it’s for different reasons than usual: It’s scary because, the entire while, you’re sure that the ordeal is about to go south any second.
He has you sit in his lap on the bed. His method of getting you where you are is the same as always; snatching you away from whatever you were doing while you cower in fear of what he has in store for you. Thus, your eyes are already blown wide, and your breathing is as shallow as if you were actually in mortal danger. You might very well think you are — what does he know — but at the moment, he finds your panic more annoying than anything. He makes his feelings known by letting out an irritated sigh right next to your ear. It doesn’t make the situation any better, though, and the only thing you do in response is freeze in place and let out a choked sob. What a bother, he thinks.
Your breaths turn to tiny gasps of air as he trails his fingers down your bared stomach. He follows your reactions closely, watching how pearls of cold sweat rise on your temples and scrutinizing your petrified expression as his touch travels lower and lower. You must be scared out of your mind: Both of your hands are clutching on the arm he has locked around your throat, trembling uncontrollably.
He doesn’t strip you of your garments. It’s an act of mercy more than anything: You never take it well when he slits his way through your clothing. It must also make you feel like you have the tiniest sliver of control over your body; he can grant you that much.
Though, it doesn’t stop you from quivering like a leaf when his bandaged hand makes contact with your sensitive bits. You let out a strangled sound akin to a cry, digging your fingers into his forearm. Judging from your behaviour, you’re probably expecting him to pinch and squeeze, to shove his fingers in dry — speaking of which, you’re dry as a desert down there, he notes. He can’t exactly blame you for that, even though it’s inconvenient. He wonders if you’re still sore from last night’s endeavour, but he decides to dip one of his fingers in nonetheless. You squeeze your eyes shut.
There’s no pain. At least, not nearly as much as you’re used to: The only thing that brings you discomfort is how the mildly coarse material of his bandages chafe against your skin. Under normal circumstances, he barely ever fingers you properly in the first place, and this time around, he’s being so uncharacteristically careful with his movements that you can’t help but think that something far worse is coming. Nevertheless, his ministrations continue steady as he nudges his finger deeper inside you and gently grinds the palm of his hand against your cunt — did he trim his nails for this?
Truth to be told, the entire thing is a learning curve for him as well. He hadn’t put much thought into what you might like before Kafka posed him with the question, and so, he’s a little unsure of how to please you. He’s been alive long enough to have the basic knowledge of how the opposite sex’s bits work, of course, and so he applies that to you. The clitoris is commonly a sensitive spot, he recalls and presses his thumb against the hood of your pearl. Judging from the way you wince and how your thighs clamp shut around his wrist, it must either hurt or feel good to you, and his bet is on the latter.
Going with the same strategy, he continues pleasuring you with his arm secured around your throat. You’re still more or less acting as if you thought he was going to crush your windpipe, but as he coaxes you further and further into the bliss he’s offering you, you seem to forget at least a little part of your fear. Instead of trembling and sniffling, your breathing has become laboured, and your face is warm against the crook of his elbow. Your eyes are half-lidded in a strange expression of both strain and relish, and your legs twitch weakly as if you’re trying to resist the feeling. It takes a considerable while for him to get past all the barriers you have set up for him, but eventually, your breath hitches, and you let out a strangled noise before your entire body tenses; you come on his hand.
He hasn’t seen you in this state before. Instead of your usual, jittery behaviour and how even a brief glance from him would be enough to send you down a spiral, you now lie completely lax in his hold. Both of your hands have fallen to your sides from where they were latched onto his forearm, and your chest heaves up and down with your rapid exhales. He silently observes your expression from over your shoulder, taking in the sight of your cloudy eyes and flushed face.
Seeing you so vulnerable awakens a strange emotion inside of him. He doesn’t exactly feel sympathy — something like that is far beyond his range — but surprisingly, the sensation is pleasant. You would never allow him to hold you like this if it wasn’t for your current, delirious state. It must have been quite some time ago when you last climaxed, too, and if the way the aftershocks quake your body is anything to go by, this one was particularly intense for you. For the time being, he decides to take advantage of your momentary calmness and cradle you against his chest. Kafka better be satisfied, he thinks, and the event marks the day from where you don’t have to specifically ask him to get pleasure anymore.
Another possibility is that if you’re seriously having a difficult time climaxing by his hand, he might sit you down on the bed with an odd expression. Before you can question his actions, he takes a seat on the chair by the foot of the mattress and tells you to show him how you like it done. He leans back, manspreads leisurely and crosses his arms, looking at you expectantly. Naturally, you’re much too stunned to even blink, but as the glint in his eyes threatens to turn hostile, you take the initiative.
Hesitantly, you dip your hand in your underwear and cautiously stroke your bits. In a last-ditch effort of protecting your dignity, you keep your thighs clamped shut, but he isn’t having any of it: Summoning his sword, he rests the blade over your knee and nudges it outward. You have no choice but to comply.
His undivided attention is on nothing but you. The way his sharp gaze lies on your most vulnerable parts is nothing short of mortifying, but it doesn’t appear to bother him the least bit. It’s as if he’s watching a mildly uninteresting nature documentary rather than you doing your best to pleasure yourself while your captor is right in front of you, judging your performance. Though, if your efforts seem to bear no fruit, after a while, he might get irked enough to take matters into his own hands. Even though it takes a longer while, he’s going to have you come undone on his hand, whether you like it or not. Besides, it’s not like he doesn’t eventually learn the best patterns: His previous profession required an incredible amount of dexterity and patience, and he’s lacking in neither of those.
Aside from his initial disregard towards your pleasure, he himself doesn’t ever appear to be having a particularly peachy time when he indulges in having you. You truly can’t recall a single instance you have seen him smile during, excluding the maniacal grin his face contorts into when under his Mara’s influence. He never sighs in pleasure, never moans, and especially never tells you that he’s feeling good. He could be balls deep inside you, but right after he finishes, he pulls himself right out and huffs as if the whole thing was a chore he had to complete. Ironically, it’s as if you forced him to do it.
It’s not what he’s actually thinking, though; he just lacks the willpower and the right words to express it. He very rarely gets sentimental, and sex for him is, as stated before, a method of venting out his negative feelings more than it is about any semblance of love. If you ever were to ask him if he even enjoys what he does to you, you’re in for a very dicey conversation that will most likely end up with you being bent over the nearest surface and fucked until your back has a permanent arch to it. The question is really not worth the consequence.
Lastly, one peculiar trait of Blade’s is that he never kisses you. It doesn’t matter if he has been dicking you down for the last two hours or if you’re sprawled over his lap and getting down from your high, his lips will never be on yours. Though, there is a singular exception to that: Occasionally, in his Mara-induced, he will devour your mouth.
His ”kisses” can’t even really be called that. They’re rough, they’re demanding, and more often than not, they’re imbued with the taste of your own blood. There’s teeth clashing against each other, his tongue is deep in your mouth as if he’s trying to suffocate you. He bites down on your lower lip, leaving bruising in his wake, and there’s very little enjoyment to be found in his actions. It’s more about showing his dominance over you than it is about pleasure. Though, just as is with your pleasure in general, if you were to ask him for a kiss, he wouldn’t decline. A partial reason for his reluctance to indulge in the act is that, even in his mind, the gesture is something sacred. It’s meant to be used as a show of love, not as a means for laying his ownership on you. He lets you keep that part of your dignity, at least somewhat. Though, further down the line, he keeps the possibility of one day enjoying the act open.
A/N
I hid a teeny tiny Easter egg in this piece! If you've read the Jing Yuan profile already, you know of the nameless side character that is your Foxian boss. As you may have noticed, she makes an appearance in this one, too. I kind of thought of the backstory of this piece in the way that it's sort of intertwined with the JY one: You're the darling of the same background, but it's either-or whether you end up with Blade or him, depending on what kind of an errand you were tasked with! If you remember the plot in the other one, the boss sent you on a different sort of a task, and the General ended up snatching you away. Such is the life of a professional darling — you never know where the danger lurks!
Also big thanks to @astolfofo who gave me plenty of good ideas to feed this piece with, I see you Itsu bro ๑´ ³`) ﾉ
Also, taglist, yippee! Comment or send an ask to be added, either one is alright (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡
Synopsis: You and the boys are in a polyamorous relationship. You put in a challenge a whole month before your wedding. ‘No Nut November’. How does your wedding night go? Guess.
Warnings: Poly Relationship (li x li, li x reader), Smut, DP, Breeding, Li x Li, oral (f&m), Orgasm denial, overstimulation, anal, spit-roasting, Eiffel Tower, doggy, choking.
A/N: THIS WAS A COMMISSION AND THIS PERSON HAS A BEAUTIFUL MIND MWAH
Having 5 beautiful men, well fiancés, is no easy feat. Trying to keep them all entertained was a struggle at times. Your wedding was a month away and wedding preparations were well underway.
But you wanted to make your wedding night that much more special.
The penthouse buzzes with playful tension as you stand there, grinning at your bewildered boyfriends. The marker and whiteboard behind you spell out words that make all the males groan in unison.
Rafayel dramatically flops back against Xavier, who barely stirs, still half-asleep. Sylus swirls his drink, amused, while Caleb rubs his temples like he's already regretting everything. Zayne just stares at you over his glasses, completely deadpan.
"You can't be serious," Rafayel whines, flopping an arm over his face. "Thirty days? That's inhumane.”
Sylus chuckles, tossing back his drink. "Oh, I'm definitely winning this."
Zayne sighs, adjusting his glasses. "You do realize this is statistically improbable, right? Especially with him around." He nods toward Rafayel, who gasps in offense.
Xavier finally blinks awake, rubbing his eyes. "...Wait. Did you say no nut?"
Caleb groans, sinking into the couch. "I already hate this."
You grin, arms crossed. "Betting pool starts now. Who's cracking first?"
Rafayel points accusingly at Sylus. "Him. Absolutely him."
Sylus smirks. "Sweetheart, I have self-control. Unlike someone who cried when he couldn't eat sushi for a week."
Rafayel gasps. "That was tragedy—"
Zayne interrupts flatly. "Xavier's going to lose in three days."
Xavier blinks. "...I feel attacked."
You laugh, delighted by the chaos. "Gentlemen... may the worst willpower win."
You pull out a scroll of parchment paper with exaggerated flourish. Rafayel snorts when he sees you've even tied a red ribbon around it and dramatically unroll your list of rules.
1. No Orgasms.
Self-explanatory. Fail = instant shame.
2. No Touching Each Other.
This includes: "accidental" sleepy cuddles, "friendly" shoulder squeezes, "just checking if you're warm" hand-holding, and ESPECIALLY Rafayel’s "I was just fixing his collar" excuses.
3. No Proxy Outlets.
Cold showers only. No "training sessions" with Caleb that mysteriously last three hours. Zayne, no "research" on stamina enhancement. Sylus, no "stress-relief workouts."
4. The Punishment.
Whoever breaks first has to cook AND clean for everyone for a week... wearing nothing but an apron.
Rafayel clutches his chest like he’s been shot. "This is targeted harassment."
Zayne adjusts his glasses. "Rule number two is... excessive."
Sylus grins, leaning forward. "So if you touch us—"
You waggle your finger. "Nice try. I’m the referee. I can do whatever I want."
Xavier, finally awake, squints at the rules. "...What if someone dreams about it?"
Caleb buries his face in his hands. "We’re doomed."
Rafayel flops onto the floor dramatically. "Just end me now."
You roll the scroll back up with a smirk. "Game on, boys."
The first week of "No Nut November" is equal parts hilarious and excruciating.
Sylus and Zayne have thrown themselves into their work, trying to distract themselves with anything and everything to avoid breaking. You can practically feel the frustration radiating off of them at times, Zayne's fingers tapping incessantly on his desk while Sylus paces around like a caged lion.
Xavier's been walking around like a zombie, running on caffeine and sheer willpower. The poor guy's exhausted, yet refuses to admit he's struggling.
Rafayel, on the other hand, is not handling it well.
"I miss skin," he whimpers dramatically as you walk by, draped over the back of the couch like a wilting flower. "I miss human touch. Why is the universe so cruel?"
You pat his head sympathetically. "Only 21 more days."
"Twenty-one days too many." He groans, then narrows his eyes at you. "You're far too cheerful right now. It's suspicious."
As Caleb saunters in, sweat trickling down his forehead and arms, Rafayel's gaze immediately tracks his movements with unabashed appreciation. His eyes nearly bulge out of his head as Caleb strips off his sweaty shirt, revealing a toned, chiseled physique.
You hide a smirk, watching as Rafayel's tongue practically lolls out. He visibly swallows, eyes glued to Caleb's sweat-drenched skin. It's a bit comical, honestly.
"He's literally glistening..." Rafayel whispers reverently, staring unabashedly at the way Caleb's muscles flex as he towel-dries his hair.
Sylus, sitting nearby, rolls his eyes. "Stop drooling over him. You look desperate."
Zayne looks up from his book, arching an eyebrow. "That's because he is."
Xavier, still looking like a sleep-deprived zombie, just groans, burying his face in the couch pillows.
Rafayel vs. Caleb - The First Almost-Casualties
By Day 8, Rafayel is a walking disaster. He’s taken to dramatically sighing every time Caleb walks into the room, muttering things like “This is torture” and “Why must the gods test me?” under his breath.
The near-break happens when Caleb—completely oblivious—stretches after a workout, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal that delicious V-line. Rafayel makes a sound like a dying seagull and lunges for a throw pillow to hide his face in, groaning, “I can’t—this is inhumane—”
Meanwhile, Zayne, who’s been a stoic pillar of self-control, almost snaps when Sylus—absolutely on purpose—leans over him to “adjust the thermostat,” his chest brushing against Zayne’s back. Zayne goes rigid, his grip on his book turning deadly.
Sylus smirks. “Problem, doctor?”
Zayne grits his teeth. “You’re a menace.”
Sylus just winks. And that’s when Zayne slams his book shut and storms out of the room like a man on the verge of committing crimes.
You cackle from your referee perch. “Two almost-fails in one day?! This is getting good.”
Rafayel, still facedown in the pillow whines. “I hate everything.”
By Week 2, the penthouse has turned into a battlefield of strategic weakness exploitation.
Sylus takes the offensive first. He casually struts around shirtless while making breakfast, humming under his breath as he just so happens to bend over right in Zayne’s line of sight. Zayne’s grip on his coffee cup turns white-knuckled, his expression grim as he stares resolutely at the wall like a monk in meditation.
"You're pathetic," Zayne mutters.
Sylus grins, flipping a pancake. "And yet you're still looking."
Meanwhile, Rafayel, who has no dignity left to lose, decides if he's suffering, everyone should suffer. He starts leaving his paint-stained shirts strategically draped over furniture, knowing full well Caleb’s weakness for "artist dishevelment." Caleb walks into the living room, freezes at the sight, and immediately does a military-precision about-face, marching straight back out the door.
Rafayel cackles. "HA! That’s karma, you Adonis-shaped menace!"
Not to be outdone, Xavier, who’s been quiet this whole time, casually starts napping everywhere, knowing his sleepy, rumpled warmth is a universal weak spot. Sylus walks in on Zayne physically dragging a half-asleep Xavier off his lap like a man handling a radioactive hazard.
Zayne grunts out in a strained voice. “You're enabling him."
Sylus just clicks his tongue while grinning. "No, I'm applauding him."
You, keeping score on a whiteboard: "Current Fail Attempts: Sylus - 4, Rafayel - 3, Xavier - 2, Zayne - 1, Caleb - somehow still holding strong like a goddamn Spartan."
Caleb chuckles from the doorway. “I’m a soldier. She was my childhood crush, I’ve been doing this shit for years. You amateurs breathe and lose focus."
The competitive glares in response could melt steel.
Game on.
As December loomed closer, the penthouse transformed into a chaotic blend of wedding planning and desperate restraint. You, the diabolical mastermind, had planned it this way all along.
Every time someone almost broke during No Nut November, you’d sweetly remind them: “Imagine how much better it’ll be on our wedding night if you hold out.”
Sylus groaned into his hands. “You evil, evil woman.”
Zayne, gripping his pen like a lifeline while reviewing seating charts: “This is psychological warfare.”
Raf kept “accidentally” modeling potential wedding outfits with deep V-necks, lounging around like a romance novel cover. Caleb once walked in, took one look, and immediately turned around to do push-ups in the hallway.
Xavier, the sleepy menace, started napping in everyone’s beds, knowing full well his warmth and unconscious cuddling were lethal weapons. Zayne once woke up with Xavier half-draped over him and threw himself off the mattress like it was on fire.
Sylus, ever the opportunist, took up baking, shirtless, of course, just to watch Zayne’s jaw clench every time he licked frosting off his fingers.
Caleb, the last bastion of discipline, started falling deeper in his Colonel duties. But you once caught him running his fingers through Xavier’s hair while the blonde man napped in his lap. You let that one slide.
Finally. FINALLY, the day of the wedding came. You were almost tired of being surrounded by such pent up testosterone.
The ceremony is held under a canopy of twinkling fairy lights and winter stars, the air crisp with December’s chill but warmed by the sheer radiance of the moment. The penthouse terrace has been transformed.
It is now an arch draped in ivy and silver, snowflakes drifting lazily from the sky like nature itself blessing the union.
And then there’s you.
Dressed in a gown that seems spun from moonlight itself. The delicate lace hugging every curve, a trail of satin whispering against the frost-kissed ground. Your hair is a cascade of soft waves, dotted with tiny crystal pins that catch the light every time you move. But it’s your smile that steals the show. It’s luminous, triumphant, so full of love it makes Sylus’ breath hitch, Zayne’s throat tighten, Caleb’s fists clench at his sides.
Rafayel, standing at the altar with the others, lets out a strangled noise. “Oh, this is unfair.”
Xavier, blinking rapidly, mutters. “We were supposed to last?”
And then you walk toward them, each step deliberate, each glance a spark that threatens to incinerate what little resolve they have left.
Sylus goes first with his vow, taking your hands with a rare display of vulnerability. He speaks of home, of how he found it not in a place but in you. The warmth of your smile, the light in your laugh, the quiet bravery you bring to his storms. He vows to protect you, cherish you, be your rock in the darkest night.
Zayne takes your other hand, his fingers trembling. He speaks of trust, how you've seen his flaws and chosen him anyway, how your patience has mended his jagged edges. He promises to always be your sanctuary
One by one, they step forward, their voices thick with emotion under the winter stars.
Sylus grips your hands like he’s memorizing their shape, his usual smirk softened into something unbearably tender. “I spent my life building walls,” he admits, thumb brushing your knuckles. “Then you walked in like sunlight through broken glass. Reckless, beautiful, impossible to stop. I vow to be your shelter, but never your cage. To fight for you, not against you. And—” he kissed the back of your knuckles without breaking eye contact. “To make sure you never regret choosing this idiot over a normal, sane relationship.”
The others groan. You laugh through tears.
Zayne steps up next, his glasses catching the twinkle of fairy lights as he cups your face “You… are the exception to every rule I’ve ever set,” he whispers, so quiet only you hear it. “My logic, my protocols, none of it survived you. I vow to keep choosing you, even when it’s illogical. Even when it’s messy. Even when….” His gaze flicks to the others, then back to you, “—even when I have to share your chaos with these disasters.”
Rafayel practically flings himself into the vows, hands fluttering like excited butterflies. “Darling, muse, love of my existence. You turned my entire world into color,” he declares, gesturing wildly. “I vow to drown you in affection every day! To paint your laughter into every masterpiece! To—” He pauses, suddenly serious. “To try not being jealous when you kiss Caleb more than me. Try.”
Caleb facepalms. Sylus mouths the word “Pathetic.”
Xavier is next, his sleepy eyes shimmering as he lifts your hand to his lips. “I… didn’t think I’d get to keep anything this good,” he admits, voice rough with not tiredness but vulnerability. “But you held on. Even when I forgot how to. I vow to be here through the worst of it. To never let you walk this path alone.”
When Caleb steps forward, the air itself seems to still. His usual disciplined composure fraying at the edges as he takes your hands in his, calloused palms warm against your skin. Every word strikes like a hammer on steel.
"I spent my life following orders. Training my body, my mind, to be a weapon." His thumbs trace your knuckles, grounding himself. "Then you...you disarmed me. Without a single battle. Just by existing."
The others are silent, even Rafayel.
"I vow to be your shield. To deserve the way you look at me. To wake up every damn day and choose you. Not because I have to, but because I can't imagine anything else."
"But most of all..." Caleb lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your palm, slow and deliberate. "I vow to make sure you never forget you're the strongest damn thing in this room."
You're definitely crying now. Zayne hands you a tissue without looking, his own eyes suspiciously bright.
Rafayel fake-sobs into Xavier's shoulder. "I can't believe the emotionally constipated soldier just gave the best vows!”
Caleb elbows him. The ceremony continues.
Finally, December 1st arrives.
Wedding night victory has never tasted so sweet.
You'd chosen a secluded, private island villa for your honeymoon. It’s all white sand beaches, crystal-clear waters, and a luxurious suite with far too many surfaces perfect for sinful activities. But getting there? Is pure chaos.
Sylus books a private jet and spends the entire flight with his jaw clenched, fingers drumming impatiently on the armrest as he stares at you like a man counting down the seconds on a bomb.
Zayne had meticulously planned every detail of the trip, but even he loses his composure when you casually stretch in your seat, the hem of your dress riding up just enough to make his pen snap in half mid-sentence.
Rafayel whines the entire time, flopping against you dramatically. "Why isn’t travel time a thing? This is cruelty. We should’ve just teleported."
Xavier dozes off. Until you rest your head on his shoulder, your perfume teasing his senses. He jerks awake with a gasp, eyes wide and very alert.
The second the jet lands, it’s a blur of movement. The suitcases are abandoned, doors flung open, and a near-stampede toward the villa.
Sylus sweeps you off your feet before you can even react, tossing you over his shoulder as he books it down the beach. "No more waiting," he growls.
Zayne is right behind him, adjusting his glasses with one hand and yanking Sylus back by the collar with the other. "Put. Her. Down. We agreed on orderly—"
Rafayel shrieks, sprinting past them both. "VILLA FIRST, FIGHT LATER!"
Xavier, somehow already inside the villa, peers out from the doorway. "...Did I win?"
After a mad dash into the villa, suitcases thrown like grenades, clothes flung like battle flags, you find yourself sprawled on your back, the bed dipping beside you. Sylus climbs over you, pinning you against the mattress with a smirk.
He leans close, breath warm against your ear. "My turn."
Before you can protest, however, Rafayel pounces from the door, tackling Sylus and rolling them both off the bed.
"NO. I called dibs on first at the altar!"
Sylus hits the floor with a thud, snarling. "DIBS AREN'T REAL!”
Caleb doesn’t wait for the brawl to resolve. In one smooth motion, he flips you onto your knees, grips your hips, and-
…Zayne yanks him back by the collar. "Medical advisement: slow down." His glasses gleam ominously. "She’s not a battlefield."
Xavier, meanwhile, has already seized the opportunity to slide between your thighs from the other side of the bed, his sleepy grin sharpening as he ducks down—
—and wins.
His tongue drags through you in one devastating stripe before anyone can stop him, his groan vibrating against your skin. His long fingers had slipped your panties to the side like a magic trick. "Told you... I'd be first..."
Xavier's mouth seals over you with a satisfied hum, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes. It’s like he's savoring the taste after weeks of denial. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open as he laps at you with unhurried precision, his eyelashes fluttering shut. He's relishing every shudder you give him.
Rafayel, whining in protest, tries to shove Xavier's head away, only for Caleb to grab his wrist mid-reach. "You lost," Caleb growls. Then he yanks Rafayel into a bruising kiss, swallowing his complaints as his free hand fists in Rafayel's hair.
Sylus, watching with dark amusement, slides a hand up Zayne's thigh. "Doctor," he murmurs, lips grazing Zayne's jaw, "-you look... tense."
Before the dark haired man can retort, Sylus palms him through his slacks, grinning against his throat. "Let me help."
You arch off the bed, Xavier's tongue curling just right as Caleb pins Rafayel against the headboard, as Sylus undoes Zayne’s belt with his teeth.
There is asymphony of gasps, groans, and finally, finally unraveled restraint.
No Nut November was just the prelude.
December is for feasting.
Caleb flips Rafayel onto his stomach with a practiced grip, spreading him wide with rough hands. When his tongue swipes over Rafayel’s tight, fluttering entrance, the artist screeches, fingers clawing at the sheets.
“C-Caleb—ohmygod—!”
Caleb growls against him, tongue pressing inside with relentless demand, one hand pinning Rafayel’s hips down while the other strokes him in brutal tandem. Rafayel sobs, thighs trembling, his curses dissolving into breathless moans.
Meanwhile, Sylus drops to his knees before Zayne with a wicked smirk, taking him down his throat in one smooth slide. Zayne’s composure cracks, his head thuds back against the wall, a ragged “Sylus—” tearing from his lips as the red eyed man swallows him deep, hollowing his cheeks with precision.
Xavier grins against your dripping cunt, fingers replacing his tongue as he lifts his head for a split second. He licks his wet lips clean with a moan.
“Told you… patience pays off.”
Then he licks a stripe up your clit just as Caleb bites Rafayel’s ass cheek, just as Sylus gags on Zayne’s dick.
Chaos. Glory. Victory.
Rafayel shatters firsts. His body bowing off the bed as Caleb’s tongue drills into him, his cock pulsing against the sheets where Caleb had let him rut instead. "I—I’m—!" His voice cracks, eyes rolling back as he spills with a choked sob, shaking like a leaf in a storm.
Zayne follows almost instantly. Sylus’ throat is working around him in greedy swallows pushes him over the edge. His hips jerk erratically as he floods Sylus’ mouth. The white haired man takes deep gulps, only pulling off when he’s positive there isn’t a drop left.
You come next. In more ways than one. Xavier’s fingers are curling just so inside you while his tongue flicks your clit. It sends you spiraling. Your back arches off the mattress, thighs clamping around his head as you cry out.
Xavier pulls back with a smug, drenched grin. "Still... first."
Sylus groans around Zayne’s softening cock, palming himself through his black dress pants. Caleb yanks him up by the collar and crush their mouths together, sharing the taste of Zayne between them.
Sylus growls, rutting against Caleb’s thigh like a man possessed until he spills with a vicious curse, biting Caleb’s lip hard enough to draw blood. The front of his slack are stained with cum but he couldn’t give two shits.
Caleb lasts the longest, always the soldier. Always in control. When you lock eyes with him, your fingers beckoning him closer, his restraint snaps. He fucks into your waiting hand with a guttural groan, his release hot and heavy over your fingers, his forehead dropping to your shoulder with a shudder.
It’s so heavy and throbbing in your hand. Painting your fresh red manicure white instead.
Xavier, still lazily tracing circles on your oversensitive clit, sighs. "Told you... I’d win."
With everyone still riding the aftershocks of their orgasms, the competitive fire reignites. This time it’s over who gets to be first inside you.
Sylus wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and grins. "Age before beauty."
Zayne scoffs, adjusting his glasses which are still fogged from fucking Sylus’ throat. "That logic is flawed. Medical expertise should—"
Rafayel whines, laying on the bed beside you. "But I'm the prettiest! Shouldn’t I—"
Xavier pokes his head up with soft blue eyes. "...Rock paper scissors?"
The room fills with a quietness besides Xavier playing around with your wet pussy.
"Fuck it."
They scramble into a circle, elbows knocking, eyes narrowed.
Round 1: Sylus (rock) vs. Zayne (scissors) vs. Rafayel (paper) vs. Xavier (scissors) vs. Caleb (rock).
Eliminated: Zayne and Xavier glare as their scissors are crushed by twin rocks.
Round 2: Sylus (paper) vs. Rafayel (scissors) vs. Caleb (rock).
Eliminated: Sylus curses as Rafayel’s scissors cut his paper.
Final Round: Rafayel (rock) vs. Caleb (paper).
Winner: Caleb smirks as his paper wraps Rafayel’s rock.
Rafayel wails. "This is rigged!!"
Caleb doesn’t waste time. He rolls you onto your hands and knees, his grip possessive on your hips. "I gotcha Pips." he growls.
Caleb sinks into you with a groan, his thick cock stretching you perfectly. Slow at first, savoring the way your body clenches around him. The others don’t waste a second settling around you, watching with rapt attention as your lips part in a silent gasp, eyes fluttering shut.
Sylus chuckles darkly, dragging a finger through the drool spilling from your lips. "Poor thing," he chuckles. "Already fucked stupid and he’s barely started."
Zayne, ever the observer, tilts your chin up with two fingers, studying your dazed expression. "Fascinating. Pupils dilated, speech impaired. All classic symptoms of overstimulation." His thumb presses down on your tongue. "Should we stop?"
You whimper around his touch, hips jerking back against Caleb. ‘No, no, don’t stop!’ Which earns a chorus of laughter.
Rafayel sprawls beside you, propping his chin on his hand with a grin. "Oh, she’s ruined. Slutty lil’ thing! Begging without even speaking. And Caleb’s barely broken a sweat!" He leans in, licking a stripe up your neck. "Sooo pathetic."
Xavier is still stroking his leaky cock right against your cheek. "Told you she’d fall apart fast."
Caleb’s grip tightens, his thrusts turning punishing as you writhe, oversensitive and desperate. Your moans pitch higher, syllables slurring into pleading nonsense.
“Please, more, yes, don’t stop!” Until Sylus shakes his head, brushing your tears away.
"Awww, Kitten. You think he’s gonna let you cum that easy?"
Caleb slows to a deep grind, his smirk brutal as you sob.
The others watch.
You, are completely gone.
Gone. A drooling, shaking, cock-drunk mess. Just how they like you.
Caleb finally pulls out with a wet pop, leaving you twitching and desperate. But before you can even catch your breath, the others descend like starving men at a banquet.
Rafayel is the first to claim your lips, kissing you deeply as if to swallow every one of your whimpering breaths.
His slender fingers tangle in your hair, holding you in place as his tongue explores your mouth. “Taste shooo good~!” he moans against your lip.
At the same time, Sylus guides your trembling hand to his throbbing length, his smirk turning into a sharp gasp as your fingers wrap around him. "Fuckkkk yes, just like that," he groans, hips jerking into your grip.
Meanwhile, Xavier wastes no time pressing into your other hand, his breath hot against your ear as he grinds into your palm. "You’re doing so good," he murmurs, teeth grazing your earlobe. "Taking us all so well."
But the real assault comes when Zayne spreads your thighs wider. His cool, clinical gaze burning with sudden hunger. His hands spread your ass cheeks, watching the foaming ring you leave around Caleb’s cock.
Rafayel whines against your mouth, "Bastards. Fuckin’ hogging you.”
Sylus chuckles darkly, tightening your fingers around him. "Don’t worry, princess. We’re not leaving you unsatisfied."
And true to his word, they don’t.
The moment Zayne’s fingers press against your clenched rim, your entire body locks up, a high-pitched whine tearing from your throat. Tears spill freely as you shake your head frantically, overstimulated and trembling.
"N-no—too much! Zaynie, please—"
But the others are merciless.
Rafayel instantly crowds behind Zayne, pressing kisses along the doctor’s shoulder blades as his hands smooth down your trembling thighs. "Shhh, darling, you can take it," he purrs, lips brushing your ear. "How many times have we stuffed these holes? Who was the one who starved of us each other?"
Sylus grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him as his thumb swipes away your tears. "C’mon, Kitten. You love this," he growls, voice thick with lust. "Love being stuffed full, love being ours."
Meanwhile, Xavier, ever the quiet tactician, presses a slicked finger alongside Zayne’s cock. He’s rubbing slow, teasing circles against your tight ring. "Let me help," he whispered, watching your face for any signs of pain. "Just like that. Good girl."
Zayne finally takes initiative as Xavier strokes a handful of lube over his aching cock. The doctor presses in slowly, his hips flush against yours. It takes a couple of seconds to work your tight hole open. Zayne has to close his eyes so he doesn’t blow his load at both of your leaky holes pressed wide.
Your sob is shattering, holes convulsing around him. But then Caleb is there, his calloused palm stroking your hair as he kisses your temple.
"Our brave girl" he rumbles, pride and hunger mingling in his voice. "Taking every inch. Perfect."
As Zayne finally settles deep in your guts, your scream melts into a broken moan. Because god, you feel so stuffed.
Every hole.
Every gasp.
Every shudder.
Is alllll theirs.
Zayne and Caleb move in a tandem, synchronized rhythm.
Zayne's thrusts are deep and measured, Caleb's are sharp and punishing, until you're nothing but a trembling, whimpering mess between them.
Every drag of their cocks sends electric shocks of pleasure up your spine, your drool pooling on Caleb’s shoulder as you straddle him.
"What’s wrong Princess? Can’t think anymore?" Zayne buries his face into your hair. "You are the one who wanted that idiotic challenge. The least you can do is be a pretty, compliant hole for us.”
Caleb growls in agreement, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "Sloppy holes, she’s fucking ruined."
Sylus and Xavier exchange a look over Rafayel’s squirming form. The purple haired artist is still pouting, as he has been the entire ‘NNN’.
"Someone," Sylus drawls, cracking his neck to the side, "-needs to learn some manners."
Rafayel’s eyes widen. "W-Wait—!"
Too late.
Xavier pins him face-down with ease, while Sylus flips up the artist’s frilly shirt, delivering a sharp SMACK to his bare ass. Rafayel shrieks, legs kicking uselessly.
"And now," Sylus purrs, landing another slap, "-you get to watch while we take turns with her first."
Rafayel wails into the mattress, his cock leaking pathetically beneath him. "CRUEL—THIS IS CRUEL—"
Sylus smirks. "Say please."
You are too fucked-out to do anything but take it, your body jerks between Zayne and Caleb like a ragdoll. Until they finally let you crumble into blissful, shattered oblivion.
And Rafayel….is still begging.
With a final, stinging SMACK that leaves Rafayel's ass flushed and trembling, Sylus grips his hips and yanks him back—
"S-Sy—!!"
—and buries himself inside Rafayel’s tight, fluttering heat.
Rafayel’s scream is pitchy, back arching like a bowstring as Sylus pushes inside, his cock stretching him wide. "F-fuckkk—! S’too muchhh—!"
Sylus leans over him, breath hot against Rafayel’s ear as he grinds deep, savoring the way Rafayel shudders beneath him. "Should’ve behaved," he taunts, rocking into him with slow, sadistic precision. "Now, you can have allll the cock you want."
Xavier settles between Rafayel’s thighs, his lips wrapping around Rafayel’s leaking cock without warning.
Rafayel chokes, hips jerking as Xavier swallows him down to the hilt, his tongue swirling in wicked, practiced strokes. "X-XAV—! Ngh—!"
Sylus chuckles and pick up his pace. Each snap of his hips punches pitched moans from Rafayel’s mouth. "Nothing ever changes," he scoffs, dragging a hand up Rafayel’s spine. "Whining, begging...just like he always does."
Xavier hums in agreement, the vibration wringing a broken sob from Rafayel. Xavier pulls off until just the swollen and leaky head is propped against his swollen lips.
"Say thank you."
Rafayel’s eyes roll back, tears streaking his flushed cheeks as he bucks between them, overwhelmed and ruined. "Th-thank you—! P-puhleaseeeshhh—!"
Sylus laughs, slamming into him harder. "Good boy."
And as Rafayel shatters between them, his orgasm ripped from him with a scream. You (albeit cross-eyed from pleasure at this point), Zayne, and Caleb watch from the bed, thoroughly entertained.
Zayne’s thrusts grow erratic, his precision dissolving into a feral behavior. He gyrates into you with a broken groan. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he release spurts of glossy seed inside of your ass.
"S’tight. Mm there we go," he snarls, hips jerking through the aftershocks. “Gooood girl.”
But Caleb isn’t far behind.
With a final snap of his hips, he grinds into your sweet cunt, his rhythm stuttering as his orgasm crashes over him.
His growl is raw against your back, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he floods you, his cum mixing with Zayne’s as it slides out of both holes.
"Fuckkkk, take it," Caleb rumbles, voice rough with satisfaction. "Every drop."
Your climax hits like a storm, your cunt clenching around Caleb’s cock as you sob his name, your body arching off of Zayne’s chest. You are now drenched in sweat, tears, and them.
Rafayel, still pinned beneath Sylus and Xavier, whimpers at the sight. "S-So mean... leaving me out!”
Sylus laughs, lazily thrusting into him. "Should’ve waited your turn, brat."
And as the room fills with the sounds of panting breaths and stifled moans, Xavier presses a kiss to Rafayel’s trembling hip bone. “Next time," he murmurs, "be patient."
But next time feels far away.
Right now, you’re full.
By the time Sylus, Xavier, and Rafayel finally get their turn, you're already ruined. Your legs are trembling, holes still dripping with Zayne and Caleb’s seed. Your entire body oversensitive and twitching at the slightest touch.
And yet, you still whine.
"N-No—s’too much!” you sob, squirming pathetically as Sylus drags you onto his lap, his cock pressing against your overfilled pussy.
"Oh? Thought you wanted us," Sylus purrs, gripping your hips as he shoves inside, stretching you deliciously around him. "Take what you’ve earned Kitten.
Rafayel immediately shoves his cock past your lips, silencing your complaints with a groan. "No more talking, darling. Just sucking," he sighs, fingers tangling in your hair.
Xavier just smirks, pressing a slicked finger against your abused back rim before pushing in alongside Sylus.
You screech around Rafayel’s cock, your entire body convulsing as Xavier fills your ass, his slow, torturous thrusts making your vision blur.
"She’s dripping," Sylus growls, grinding up into you. "She loves it."
Rafayel pulls back just enough to let you gasp for air, before shoving right back in. Your cheeks bugle with his thickness. You gag, fingers digging into Sylus’s chest. "Such a good girl for us," he coos. "Taking all of us like this."
Xavier hums, pressing a kiss to your spine as he fucks into you deep. "Perfect."
You are a whimpering, cock-drunk mess, just how they like you.
You’re a shuddering, dripping mess between them, holes stuffed full, hands barely able to keep a grip on Zayne and Caleb as they press against your palms. They are demanding attention even while the other three wreck you. Your whimpers are muffled around Rafayel’s cock, drool pooling down your chin as he sighs in faux sympathy.
"Aw, baby," Rafayel coos, petting your hair as he thrusts shallowly into your throat. "You’re wasting it."
Sylus groans as your pussy clenches around him, his fingers digging bruises into your hips. "That’s it, squeeze me just like that," he growls. "I’m going to fill you up so good."
Xavier presses a kiss between your shoulder blades as he fucks into your ass with slow, sadistic rolls. "Almost there," he murmurs, voice rough. "Hold on a little longer."
Zayne and Caleb watch shallow breaths as your weak fingers stroke them. Your grip is faltering, your movements sloppy, but trying so hard to please them anyway.
Caleb groans deep as your hand tightens just slightly around him. "Greedy little thing," he rumbles. "Wants everything at once."
They all lose control.
Sylus groans, hips stuttering as he spills inside you, his cum mixing with Caleb’s from earlier. "Dirty Kitten, take all of your milk," he snarls, grinding deep.
Rafayel whimpers, his fingers tightening in your hair as he comes down your throat, forcing you to swallow every last drop. "S-Such a good girl—!"
Xavier buries himself to your deepest part with a shudder, filling your ass.
You finally, finally collapse.
In an instant, strong arms catch you, lowering you gently onto the bed.
Garbled, murmured voices of your loves echo around you. But all you can think is, ‘God, that was good.’
One of the others hums. "She’s completely out of it," comes a voice.
Another laughs softly. "Can’t say I'm surprised."
With you sprawled boneless across the sheets. You are glistening with sweat, dripping with their combined spend, utterly ruined. Rafayel lets out a breathless laugh, his painter’s eyes alight with inspiration.
"One last stroke," he murmurs, his fingers trailing down Caleb’s abdomen before wrapping around him, coaxing him back to hardness with a few flicks of his wrist. "Our bride deserves a proper finishing touch."
Zayne, still catching his breath, arches a brow. He’s doesn’t protest when Sylus fists him through the aftershocks, his smirk wicked. "Think she can even feel it at this point?"
Xavier, ever the pragmatist, simply takes himself in hand, his gaze locked on your blissed-out expression. "Doesn’t matter," he slurs. "She’ll wear it either way."
And so—
They paint you.
Rafayel’s groan is filthy as Caleb fists his hair, using him like a brush to smear stripes of cum across your thighs. Sylus bites Zayne’s shoulder when he spills over your stomach, muttering a- "Fuck, look at her," like a prayer. Xavier, ever precise, traces claiming lines down your collarbones with his release, marking you as theirs.
When they’re done, Rafayel collapses beside you, panting, his fingers intertwining with yours. "Masterpiece.” he sighs all smug.
Zayne snorts, but his thumb brushes your cheek. He’s so gentle, despite it all. "Rest, darling."
And as your eyelids flutter shut, Caleb’s voice curls around you.
"We’re never letting you go."
The moment the last shudders of pleasure fade, their demeanor shifts instantly. They are warmer and softer, the sharp edges of lust melting into a tender care as they gather you between them.
Rafayel is the first to press a kiss to your forehead, murmuring praises as he wipes you down with a damp cloth, his touch feather-light. "So perfect for us," he sighs, cleaning the mess from your thighs with an artist's care. "Our beautiful, beautiful girl."
Sylus lifts you effortlessly, cradling you against his chest as he carries you to the bath. The water is already drawn, scented with lavender. He sinks into the warmth with you, his arms a secure anchor as he massages the tension from your shoulders. "Breathe, sweetheart," he rumbles. "We've got you."
Zayne kneels beside the tub, pressing a glass of water to your lips with one hand while the other checks your pulse. He’s ever the physician, even now. "Small sips," he orders. His thumb brushes away a stray tear. "You did so well."
Xavier drapes a robe over your shoulders the moment you're lifted from the water, toweling you dry with methodical gentleness. "No more tonight," he murmurs, tucking your damp hair behind your ear. "Just rest."
Caleb is the last to approach. He’s lifting your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles, his usual roughness absent. "Proud of you." he says, gruff but sincere, before bundling you into bed.
They surround you then. It’s a tangle of limbs and whispered affections, Rafayel runs his fingertips across your spine, Sylus is nuzzling into your hair, Zayne’s steady heartbeat is under your ear. Caleb is massaging out any tense muscles in your legs and feet.
And as sleep pulls you under, their voices follow. You feel safe, loved and cherished.
