l've been completely obsessed with Witch Hat Atelier lately - the world-building, the art style, the magic system, everything is just so perfect 😍
While reading the manga, I couldn't stop wondering: what would Coco look like as an adult witch?
So I couldn't resist drawing my own take on her grownup version. I imagined her with a bit more refined elegance, holding her pen, but keeping that same warm, curious spark in her eyes. ✨
Swipe / scroll to see the close-up details and step-by-step process! Let me know what you think of this design
♡ TW: a lot of different stuff today, NSFW, noncon/dubcon, yandere, stalking, drugging, alcohol/poisoning, vomiting/forced/emeto, abuse of power, plotting murder, waterboarding-ish, squirting, implied bottle-fucking
♡ FEM reader
Monday is your strict boss.
He’s always breathing down your neck around the office, checking if you come in on time, laying into you when you’re anything but perfectly on the dot—not even allowing you to get settled into your cubicle before dumping a workload onto your desk on top of the one you already have, coming back with a fresh one right after lunch again.
You know you’re probably just being sensitive, but you feel as though he singles you out. Barking at you to redo things, even after you’d gone through the extra measure of running it by a coworker who’d given you the thumbs up. You don’t know, it sort of feels as if he has it out for you.
Being yelled at is already bad enough, not to mention how he’ll demand you work late to make up for the slack. And yet, that’s not even the worst part!
No, the absolute worst part is that he’ll insist on staying behind, too—to supervise you.
It’s utterly nerve-wracking. ‘Cause he isn’t only your boss, he’s also sort of… well… really hot. Always dressed sharply in a tailored pin-striped suit and those sharp-tipped newly-polished shoes—hair slick with a fresh barbershop cut and a chiseled face to match.
He smells good, too. And it all just makes it extra awkward for you. Especially when you stay late together, alone. He’ll remove his tie and jacket, then button up his collar and roll up his sleeves—flexing those burly arms of his and that fat wristwatch that’s worth more than your entire life savings.
That neat hair of his will start to fall apart as the late hours take their toll, getting disheveled and only sexier for it—and the way he’ll drag his ring-clad fingers through it with a groan, looking at you with such a fierce glare, you actually have to calm your breath and suppress the urge to rub your thighs together.
But although his voice is definitely something you could dream about, you could do without it when he talks down to you, always admonishing you, grumbling about what a poor employee you are, how you only give him more work to do, how he should be compensated for it.
You’re certain he’s going to fire you soon.
And it turns out soon is even sooner than you’d thought or hoped.
This is it, you think, once he calls you into his office. He’s finally going to do it. You’re going to have to find a new job now—without a good recommendation to help you out, no less. Knowing him and how much he despises you, he’ll probably give you a really poor review on top of it all—he might even call around to make sure no one ever hires you again.
You’re almost about to cry.
“You’re about the worst employee I’ve ever had,” he states, sitting behind his desk with you standing before him, twiddling your fingers while looking sorrowfully down at your heels, hoping he’d have enough mercy to at least make it quick. “But since firing people is fucking impossible nowadays, I’m just gonna haf’to relocate you somewhere else you won’t be damn useless.”
You look up at that. Tears held back in surprise.
Wait, so… he’s not firing you?
He sighs, looking through your employee files, making the changes, “And given it’s the only job open right now, starting today, you’ll be my new personal assistant.”
Gathering everything, he brandishes the documents with his signature, then looks up at you while sliding the pen and papers over.
“Think you can handle that?”
Stunned, you only briefly think about how you’re overqualified to be a personal assistant, but at the same time, you couldn’t really find it in yourself to care, blinded with relief that you hadn’t been sacked.
You just nod your head all prettily, signing just as quickly while vowing, “I’ll try my best, sir.”
He becomes significantly nicer after that—always praising you for a job well done and giving you pretty gifts on top of your paycheck, which, funny enough, is nearly double what it used to be, all the while telling you how lost he’d be without you there keeping his life together.
You can’t help but let it all go to your head, completely forgetting that you had bigger plans than being an assistant.
He brings you everywhere he goes now. Out of the building on business meetings, out of the country on business trips. Expensive dinners, fancy hotel rooms, big yachts and galas. You can’t complain—too busy picking your jaw up from the floor—too busy to notice his leer and how he plans to keep you by his side for the rest of his life—too busy to understand that when he stays work late, he doesn’t mean doing paperwork.
Tuesday is your old classmate who just moved in across the hall.
It’s a funny coincidence, you both agree, as neither of you lives in your hometown anymore—what a small world, huh?
You’ll meet each other in the mornings when you both set out for work and small talk on your way down the stairs, then up the stairs when coming home again. It’s impressive how often it happens.
He’s always asking for the two of you to catch up—always inviting you over for dinner to talk about old times and what you’ve gotten up to since.
You never know what to say… You don’t feel like the two of you were all that close during school, so you’ve turned him down each time, hoping if you ask him for a rain check enough times, he’ll eventually just forget.
But after coming home, tired after a grueling Monday and an even harder Tuesday, on top of realizing you didn’t have anything stocked up in the fridge, you end up agreeing to his home-cooked meal when he offers in favor of ordering takeout.
He lights up at once, “Great!”
It’s a bit of an overreaction, you think. But hey, he just moved here—maybe he hasn’t made any friends yet. It’s not easy being in a new place—he’s probably dying for some company.
Shoot, now you feel a little bad for not having agreed earlier. You remember how it had been yourself when all you ever did was go to work every day—not knowing what else to get up to in the city. Maybe you could give him a hand, tell him about a few places—just to help him get on his feet.
“Yeah, just let me shower and change, and I’ll come over,” you say, unlocking your apartment.
“Sure thing! See you soon!” he cheers, watching you go with a big beaming smile on his face, only turning around to unlock his own place when you’d closed your door.
He’s a little strange, you can’t help but think—or maybe he’s just that eager. Thinking about it, you don’t remember much about him from college. Honestly, he’s one of those faces that just sort of end up blending into the background. He never made any impact in class or at any parties or other gatherings. You don’t know, he was always rather quiet. You don’t remember him having any friends either.
But whatever, people change, and he seems nice enough—maybe he was just more concerned with his average. Fucks knows you weren’t.
You shower quickly, not bothering to wash your hair or put on anything too nice. It’s only a Tuesday, after all—it should be casual. A bralette, boxers, baggy T-shirt, shorts, and slippers later, and you pop out the door and knock on his.
He’s quick to answer. “Hey! Come in, come in—it’s almost done!”
“Cool, thanks,” you say. “Smells good.”
He ushers you to take a seat at the tiny kitchen table he has. Similar to yours, actually—these apartments aren’t all that big. Still, his place is poorly furnished. But then again, he only moved in a little while ago, so you won’t judge.
He rushes over with dinner shortly. Spaghetti, meatballs, and red sauce. A classic. You’re not complaining. However, you could have done without the candles and moody lighting. It’s the kind of thing you’d expect from a corny date, but you decide to ignore it.
“Wine?” he offers despite it being only Tuesday.
You know you probably shouldn’t, but the start of the week has been hard, and you honestly wouldn’t mind the good night's sleep that follows a few glasses of red or anything that would make the affair go over a little more smoothly.
“Sure, why not.”
And yet, it’s still a little awkward. You don’t know what to talk about—you just end up droning on about work, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Then you remember what you’d thought about earlier and start talking about some of the places and things he should check out now that he lives here. You try asking him about his work and why he decided to move here, but he doesn’t seem very interested in talking about himself.
After finishing, it isn’t long before you feel drowsy. You blame it on the wine at first—starting to think it was time you thank him for the hospitality and excuse yourself. But as soon as you get up, you’re already falling over.
No worries, though. He’s been waiting and ready to catch you for a while.
“It took you some time to agree to come—I was afraid you’d never say yes, but I’m glad you finally did… I was about to take other drastic measures…”
You’re so sleepy it’s suddenly impossible to grasp what he’s saying—as well as have any sort of grasp on the situation while you’re being carried bridal style away from the living room, through a door into a very dark room.
“I bet you don’t remember me that well, huh?” he continues as he lays you down on something soft, something that swallows your body in a way you can’t really decide if it feels nice or not.
He keeps talking while you try to figure it out, “Hm, that’s fine. I remember you very well.”
You connect one and two associations and come to conclude the thing beneath you is a bed. It ripples and dips with the added weight once your neighbor crawls over you. Your body doesn’t yet recognize being alarmed, but something behind the fuzz that’s taken over your mind still has enough common sense to make you feel as if something’s not right.
“I just had to follow after you, you know?” he keeps rambling, but you’re only barely able to listen. “I just needed some time to save up the money and all, but I was right behind you. And made sure I’d get this apartment right next to yours.”
He looks at your pretty face—all spaced out—stroking your cheek all slow and delicately.
He sighs, “Heh, I know they say that if you love someone, you should let them go—but I just couldn’t find it in me.”
His hand travels further down—eyes following the trail. Down, down, down, until reaching the hem of your shirt.
“I had a crush on you since day one, you know?” he confesses while pulling your tee up over your bra, exposing your pretty chest to him. He licks his lips, breath shuddering, and yet he keeps preaching despite it, “All three years. I wanted to tell you, but you were always surrounded by those pesky friends of yours. It was impossible to catch you alone.”
He feels your skin with a gentle touch as if in reverence. Still, now that you’re getting used to the effects of whatever it is he’s drugged you with, you’re lucid enough to feel the treacherous hard-on he has rubbing against you.
“Unlike me…” He stills for a moment, and something dark takes over. “I was always alone.”
Beyond uncomfortable, beyond alarmed, you’re fully terrified now. You want to scream, but you can’t find the strength to move, even just a finger. Completely limb, and yet not numb, but sensitive to all his awful touches.
“But that’s all in the past.” He smiles. “Now that I finally have you all to myself.”
Wednesday is the cheerful clerk who works at your local grocery store.
You like doing your grocery shopping on Hump day. It only makes sense, after all—you’ve made it through the first half of the week and deserve to spoil yourself a little!
He’s only just a bit older than you and yet still plays the older and wiser card—all in good fun, though, making a few comments about your lifestyle, jokingly telling you that “Candies are strictly for the weekend, you know?” A brow quirked while looking at you slyly.
And you’ll return his banter, giggling while saying, “A little fun never killed no one.”
It’s an innocent flirt the two of you share—neither of you really expects anything in return. He’s just a really friendly guy—always coming over to help you in the store. Tall as he is, he reaches the top shelf, barely needing to stretch his arm. Sometimes, he’ll even take a look at your shopping list and help you gather everything, bag your items, and then carry them out to your car as if the two of you are the people around and the store isn’t filled with dozens of other shoppers in bigger need of his assistance.
He mostly only sees you on Wednesday, but he knows your entire life story and your day-to-day schedule the way the two of you end up talking. Usually, people would be wary of sharing things with strangers, but you trust him with so much exactly because he is a stranger—treating him no different from a confidant. No one knows you as intimately as him. He knows all your little habits—from what you eat on a daily basis to what brand of soap you use, even what type of tampons and pads you like.
He doesn’t appreciate you eating things outside of the groceries the two of you pick together. He fucking hates it, actually—it makes it feel like you’re cheating on him. Every time you eat out, order in, go to a bar or cafe, even a fucking candy store is like a stab to his back and heart all at the same time. It drives him crazy—he might just burn all those places down to the ground.
But he never lets any of that show when you’re in the store. It’s not your fault after all that there are so many temptations out in the world. You just need a little help saying no.
You don’t have to worry though. After he becomes your boyfriend, he’ll be that help for you.
Yeah, all you have to do is stay home and he’ll make sure you get what you need. He won’t let you indulge as much as you do now, of course, but he won’t be too strict either, so don’t fret.
He’ll make sure you get all the right nutrients to lead a long, happy, healthy life—get your body ripe and ready to start a family.
Thursday is your is your random-ass friend who’ll drop by unannounced. It’s never anything crazy, though—no, just a fun hang-out to get a little headstart on the weekend. He’ll bring a joint or maybe some gummies—he likes to keep you guessing. And the two of you will watch cartoons or shitty reality TV, play a round or a dozen of Mario Cart or the like—giggling over each other’s commentary.
He’s chill, laidback, a fan of both comfortable silences and making good conversation. A really good friend.
Yeah, a really good friend who likes sticking his tongue down your throat when you’re knocked out from all the laced drugs he keeps passing you.
“God, you’re so clueless,” he moans when bearing over your passed-out body where you lie all comfortably oblivious on the couch. “Just a naive cutie pie who’s gonna get her gullible little pussy used.”
You make him so hard—you have no idea how he licks your face and kisses your eyelids. Drunk of the power he has over you and feeling all but unhinged because of it.
He feels your limp tongue with his fingers, playing with it while grinding against your thigh. Breaths thick with lust—eyes half-mast, getting overstimulated by all the nasty things he’s going to do to you and how you will never ever find out about any of it.
“You know I fuck you raw every time I come over? That’s right, every single time,” he laughs and shudders in delight, whispering the truth into your ear despite knowing you’re in no state to hear it.
“Mh, I use this body like my own personal sex doll. There’s not a spot left I haven’t touched.” He tugs down your top and takes both your tits in his hand, squeezing them as if they belong to him because, in his mind, in these special precious moments he shares with you, there’s not a part of you that doesn’t belong to him and there’s not a part of you he can’t do whatever he wishes with.
And so, he sucks and licks your pretty tits too and keeps raving, “You’re all mine, every single part of you—I own it all.”
He pulls up your skirt and strokes your cunt through your panties, sliding his fingertip through the slit as if he’s teasing you even though you’re going to stay just as unresponsive no matter what. But in his mind, he imagines it wants him—that your pussy desperately craves him without you knowing—that it’s a secret the two of them share with each other and that they're somehow in cahoots on keeping you oblivious.
“You’re always so tight and wet—it takes everything in me not to cum inside, but we wouldn’t want you figuring things out and ruining our fun, now would we?” he rambles, finally sliding your panties to the side so that he could slip his digits within, pumping you sweetly while you sleep oh-so-soundly and blissfully unaware, getting you good and ready to take his cock in the next minute.
“Yeah, it’s gonna stay our fun little secret forever.”
He’s seen you in every state of drunkenness possible—from tipsy, plastered, sloppily drunk to flat-out shit-faced. You’re a bit of an alcoholic, you know that? Once you start, you can’t seem to stop yourself. If someone puts a drink in front of your face, you dont even think before grabbing it—all laughs and zero critical thinking.
Of course, the way he overserves you, you’re bound to get fucked up.
“Wanna go home…”
He holds your drowsy body against his chest, keeping you upright.
“My shift’s done, and my place is right above here, so you don’t gotta worry,” he says, soothing you as you cling to his side, utterly unable to stand on your own two feet, flinching at the flashing strobe lights and wincing from the blaring party music—feeling as if there’s a seismic eight earthquake raging on inside your poor head.
“Where’ my friends?” your words are so slurred, they’re barely audible.
But he hears you, chuckling before cooing at you, “Let’s get you someplace comfortable, and then we’ll contact your friends, okay? Sound good?”
You burble a few incoherent sounds before uttering out a weak, “Okay…”
“Alright then, baby, don’t worry, I got you,” he purrs in return, getting a better grip around your body as he leads you out of the club, into the elevator, and up to his flat.
“I feel sick…” you mumble, whimpering.
And he coos, “I know, baby, it’s okay, I’ll help you.”
He leads you to his bathroom, setting you down on your knees in front of the toilet. You don’t think much of it when he lifts up your little party dress and tugs it off over your head—feeling as if he’s just making you comfortable. Yeah, he's just taking care of you.
“Let’s empty that system of trash, yeah?”
He gets down on his own knees just behind you, cradling you as he gathers your hair back with both hands—gripping it a little too tightly in a single fist before being just as rough, sticking two of his thick digits deep into the back of your throat.
You immediately gag and throw up.
And he hums, sounding pleased while praising you, “That’s a good girl—get it all out.”
He doesn’t pull his digits out despite you struggling, trying to wrench away—no, he just uses his bigger body to keep you pressed and hunched over the toilet bowl while finger-fucking the back of your throat—smiling sadistically while at it.
“Come on now, baby, I know you got more in there. Let it out.”
He keeps you there for half an hour, making you dry gag and spit, mascara streaming down your pretty face as he feels your smaller body convulse under his weight. Fuck, it’s enough to make his cock pre.
“Good girl,” he purrs, petting your hair and placing a kiss on your temple, all while you shudder and sniffle. “Let’s get you washed up, hm?”
He reclaims his harsh grip on your hair, just as tightfisted, using it to make you crawl across the tiles until reaching the tub. He takes his place behind you—trapping you between his legs, thighs, and crotch, keeping you locked against the porcelain edge while he fetches the showerhead and immediately sprays your face with the cold at full force.
“Open up, baby, let’s wash your mouth out.”
You yelp, whining, but he finds your protesting more amusing. Finding your nose with his other hand, he pinches it shut. Making you gape and gasp for breath through the water stream.
But he doesn’t leave it at that. No. The shower head is about the same size as your fist and proving to be just small enough to allow him to force it into your mouth—all but waterboarding you.
He has to chuckle at your fussing—you’re so weak he barely has to put in any effort keeping you in place—he nearly busts in his pants feeling it. But the best part is how when he lets go of your nose, the water starts coming up and out your nostrils.
He let’s go before you drown, of course. Snuff isn’t on the menu tonight. He’s been stalking you for far too long—he can’t just waste it with foreplay.
You collapse on the floor, shivering and coughing—head a spinning mess, still wasted, riddled with shock yet stifled by exhaustion to do anything but lie there, trembling against the wet tiles.
“No, no, no, baby, you can't fall asleep yet. The party’s still far from over,” he admonishes, giving your cheek a few small slaps before grabbing your upper arm and pulling you up. “Yeah, come here—I’m far from finished with you...”
He carries you out of the bathroom and drops you on his bed.
“God, you’re fucking dumb,” he grabs your face, pinching your lips while giving it an ugly kiss. “Did your mommy never tell you not to go home with strangers, huh?”
Leaving you there, he goes off to find your purse.
“Let’s let your friends know you’re home safe, hm.”
You try getting up while he’s gone, crawling around in the bedsheet like a worm, but not managing to get anywhere.
He watches you and scoffs while typing up a message, hitting send to your most recent group chat. It only takes a minute before all the dumb bitches you call friends send hearts in return, saying how fun tonight was.
They have no idea what they’re missing out on.
He saunters back to you. Enjoying every second of watching you squirm. Thank fuck for alcohol, and god bless dumb party girls.
“Where do you think you’re going, huh?” He grins while grabbing your ankles and pulling you to the edge of the bed. “You’re not going anywhere, baby—you’re staying right here with me where I can have my fun with you.”
His hands go up and down your soft skin, thinking of all the pretty marks he’s going to leave on you before curling his fingers around your slutty string panties.
The lace is all wet from his earlier actions as he tugs it down your thighs and legs, tossing it over his shoulder before spreading your legs and pulling you even closer.
“Aw, you got your pussy all clean-shaven for me?” he awes with a smirk, “What a good girl you are.”
He’d planned on having a bit more fun with you before giving in to his urges, but seeing your pretty little cunt so ready to be fucked, he couldn't be asked to wait any longer, needing to fuck you like he’d been wanting to ever since he first spotted you in the club so many TGIFs ago.
“You sure like to party, don’t you?” he rasps while buckling up his belt and zipping himself down, letting his pants drop before grabbing his painfully hard cock. “Always at the club shaking this pretty little ass of yours—just a dumb party animal, huh?” He just knows your little cunt’s going to squeeze him tight like a trap—he isn’t even going to give you a finger test before bullying himself inside.
“Yeah, you like having fun—you havin’ fun now, babe?” he bows down, biting your cheek while putting his head to your entrance, pressing inside despite the resistance.
He was right—you are fucking tight, taking his cock just the way he thought you would.
“Fucking slut,” he groans as he starts thrusting, hugging your thighs tight. “Begging to get gangbanged out on that fucking dance floor—dancin’ like a fucking stripper for free and for all to see.”
Fuck, how he’s going to ruin you—give you a necklace of hickies all around your throat as he fucks you into a mess, then press a beer bottle inside you once he’s done—keep his cum in you all night long.
“You deserve to be used. And I’m gonna use yah for all you’re worth.”
Saturday is a gym-bro. There isn’t a day he doesn’t go. Yep, not even Saturday.
You try to go as often as you can muster. But no, you don’t go every day, especially during the weekend—and that gives him a good reason to come up to when you do—teasing you about how he missed you last time. Acting all smug and cocky when asking you what bad habits you got up to on Friday that made you skip out.
He makes you feel sheepish standing next to him as he all but bullies you for being an itty-bitty weakling.
He’s not exactly being fair. It’s not as if you’re especially weak compared to everyone else. It’s just that absolutely everyone’s an itty-bitty weakling standing next to him. The guy’s pure muscle and taller than most of the equipment, for crying out loud!
One time, he’d demonstrated his strength by daring you to hang from his bicep. And sure enough, he could lift you like you were nothing. Using you like a dumbbell—which is what he’ll sometimes call you.
You’re pretty sure he’s flirting with you. It’s flattering, but honestly, you think guys like him are a bit too much. His leg has the same girth as your thigh, and so does his neck—not to mention how you think he has enough strength in his hand alone to pulverize your skull in one simple squeeze.
Besides, he’s way too full of himself. You get being proud about health and fitness, but holy shit, does he never shut up? He’s always bragging about how much he benches and how many reps he does every day—and on top of everything, he seems to always be watching and studying you, commenting about your form, and mansplaining how you can get better.
He gets on your nerves.
But then again, the guy does seem to know what he’s talking about. And after several weeks of neither seeing nor feeling much results, you finally decide to let him help you out.
And he does. Taking you through all the motions, from warm-ups to really pushing yourself, and now, the cool-down stretches.
Though… you can’t exactly say there’s much cooling down involved in the way he has you full-feverish, sweating more than you did during the actual workout. In the locker room, suspended against his swole chest with his arms locked around your thighs, folding you clean in half, fingers locked behind your neck as he bounces you on his thick length. And fuck, even his fucking dick is riddled with muscles and veins—feeling as if he’s fucking you with an arm the way he’s stretching you out and punching your guts to mush.
“You holdin’ out, dumbbell?” he mocks, knowing you’re a mess. “Tap out any time, yeah?”
Fuck him, you think—as if you can move your arms in this position—as if you can even speak or make any sound except full-on panting like a bitch and drooling like one too.
One more hit, and you’re spraying—and he insists on fucking you just as hard through it. Straight pounding your wet cunt until he’s sure you’re empty before dropping you back down on your own two feet.
But just because you’ve cum like a shower doesn’t mean he’s done. No, far from it, as he rushes you up against the lockers next and continues where he left off.
The cool metal feels good against your cheek, so good you don’t even mind how he’s pressing you flat and free of air—keeping your neck in a chokehold and your hair in his other fist while fucking into you from behind.
“Trust me, this is way better exercise for someone like you,” he grunts with a grin, feeling you go limp. Your knees shot and your whole body listless, kept up solely by his strength like a puppet on strings.
He rasps out a laugh, “I’ll be your personal trainer, free of charge—just meet me after my reps, and I’ll put you to work and make sure you go home feeling proud.”
Sunday is the religious guy who always comes and knocks on your door to share his faith.
You don’t share his views, but you’d invited him in for lemonade and pastries once.
You don’t know exactly why. You usually just say no thank you and close the door, but that time, well, you’d just finished making cupcakes, and the house smelled like a bakery—it seemed like a waste not to have company.
Sundays were usually so anticlimactic you never really knew what to make of them. But after that, you came to really enjoy spending them baking, always trying out new fun recipes. And before you even knew it, since he always came knocking on your door on Sundays to enlighten you bout God, it quickly became a thing of ritual for you to invite him in.
You’d always thought strictly religious people such as him were more… how do you say… fanatic? Or, at the very least, be somewhat passionate about talking about their God. But he doesn’t seem to be very interested in telling you about that at all. No, he seems much more invested in you and how you’ve been since last time.
Oh well, you think—maybe he’s more accepting of people having different life views and isn’t deadset on changing minds after all. Maybe that was never his agenda—maybe he’s simply a good samaritan going door to door to see if he’s needed or wanted. That is what religion is all about, after all.
Little do you know, though… he’s not really a religious guy at all…
No, he’s actually a serial killer who’d been hunting for his next victim.
He thought you were just perfect, exactly his type—pretty and kind and dumb, just like prey should be. Oh, but then, you became a little too perfect, didn’t you? Inviting him in with such big doe eyes, despite living all alone, feeding him cupcakes, and telling him tales about your life as if he isn’t a total stranger. You might as well be begging him to make you his victim.
But he can’t waste perfection.
And so, instead of abducting you and frolicking in your screams as he cuts you up into a dozen pieces, he abducts you and frolics in your screams as he sucks your pussy into a dozen orgasms.
Yandere! Lawyer has always seemingly had a vendetta towards you, targeting you with every decision he makes.
He hits where it hurts— financially.
Your confrontation that was supposed to end everything actually resulted in something even worse. You're fired. He's officially halted your long years of tenure, ruining your whole life in one go.
With no income, and a whole lot of unfinished debt to pay to him, you surrender. Hesitation rests heavy on your heart, weighing it down as you swallow the lump in your throat, pushing it down as you press the doorbell to his mansion.
The door opens immediately upon the sound, and he peeks his head out, looking annoyed before he notices it's you.
You grit your teeth in defeat. Losing to him would've never been your option, but alas, it is. In this cruel game of survival, you find yourself in utter humiliation for the sake of living.
"Ready to wave the white flag?" he asks, raising a brow, an evident smirk on his face that you want to rip off with your bare hands.
"Yeah," you answer, sealing the fate for the rest of your life.
"Good," he says, nodding his head towards the inside of his home, gesturing for you to come in without actually muttering it.
And you do.
It's nice, unsurprisingly large in its interior, wooden all over the floor but reeking the scent of luxury all the same. It looked like a house only in those fantasy books you would read.
"So," he sits down, and you sit across from him in the living room. "This means I'm dropping all charges on you and in return, I expect you to serve me."
Serve.
The word echoes in your mind, a negative connotation poisoning it.
"What do you mean?" you ask.
"You'll find out," he says.
"Then, what am I agreeing to?" you ask another question, only making him more irritated than the last.
He rolls his eyes. "To be my partner, forever. I need a wife to impress my family— since they've been pestering me to get married since who knows when."
"Why me?" you continue inquiring.
"You're the perfect image of who they wanted me to be with for the rest of my life," he replies in a matter-of-fact tone, no emotions being close to shown in his voice. Or maybe there's more meaning to his speech than you might think.
That's pathetic. Forcing you to submit to him just to satisfy the wants of his relatives? Sounds absurd.
Though, there's a piece of you that doubts the statement, like he has some other deeper, darker reason.
"Do we have a deal?" he asks this time.
"It's not like I have any other choice," you reply.
He smirks. Wide and proud. "Smart girl," he declares you. "Sign the papers by the time I arrive home," he throws files onto the coffee table that lays between the both of you, a much-needed border.
He's oddly hasty for something that's not going to make much of a difference for him. A little too quick to indenture you to him.
Is it excitement? Trepidation? Or just the breaking point?
You'll find out.
kiperina @gentlyimpossiblesorcerer - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
snowghoul
theartofmadeline
titsay
kianamaiart
origamiaround
prguitarman
discoholicmusic
