Luminescent Fairy @lumfayette - Tumblr Blog

❛ 𝒾 𝓌𝑜𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇 ❜

— 5012 x gn! reader (𝓌𝒸: 9.6k) (𝒾𝓃𝓅𝓈𝑜 𝓈𝑜𝓃𝑔: “i wonder by Nardo Wick)

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: smut · sex-deprived + hard dom!5012 x brat! afab! reader · hair pulling · oral (receiving) · brat taming · degradation · fingering · multiple orgasms · unprotected sex · creampie · workplace relationships · warming spoilers of adwd 2 remnants!

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: He wonders why you won't leave him alone. Why you keep pushing, keep poking, keep finding new ways to get under his skin. Why you look at him like you see something worth finding—even when he's spent centuries making sure no one looks at all. He's warned you to back off.

He's told you, in no uncertain terms, that you're a distraction, a nuisance, a problem he never asked for.

But you just don't listen, do you?

He wonders why he has to put up with you and then immediately wonders why he wonders that at all.

The fluorescent lights of the R.A.D. corridor hum along with the polished floors gleam under the harsh glow, reflecting the silhouette of a passing reapers. Somewhere in the distance, door slides open and closed with a hiss.

And you're still talking.

"—and I'm telling you, the filing system in the central hub is a disaster. Whoever organized it last clearly had no understanding of chronological order. Souls don't wait for administrative convenience, 5012. They arrive when they arrive, and if we can't process them efficiently because someone decided to alphabetize by—"

5012 tunes you out. Not because he doesn't care about efficiency—like he IS efficiency, truly embodied and perfected. But because he's heard this particular complaint three times already this morning.

And the morning before that. And the morning before that.

You, who arrived with a reputation that preceded you. You, who had been a Reaper for decades—centuries, even before being reassigned to his station.

You, who had worked in the 9th Station under 3611 himself, who had trained under the most demanding Reapers in the Underworld. You, who had been described in your file as "exemplary" and "highly competent" and "an asset to any team."

You and 5012 had only been partnered together following the simultaneous removal of the previous leadership. The revolution had reshuffled everything, like the stations, units, allegiances—and somehow, inexplicably, the two of you had been slotted together. Needless to say, the arrangement worked. Efficiently, even.

Your skills complemented his, your methods aligned with his precision, and on paper, you were the ideal partnership.

But that was on paper.

In practice, you were relentless. You nagged him about his smoking, his recklessness, his gloomy demeanor—everything. At every turn, he was met with your attitude, your teasing, your infuriating refusal to let him brood in peace. You made him all the more stormy, a perpetual thundercloud barely contained behind his carefully constructed composure.

He'd appealed for a new partner multiple times.

Nothing had been said. No response. No reassignment.

He was truly stuck with you.

He glances at you from the corner of his eye. You're walking beside him, matching his pace easily. Your posture is perfect—back straight, head high, the bearing of someone who knows exactly where they stand.

You carry yourself like a traditional Grim Reaper, one who understands the weight of the position. One who had earned their place through years of service. Not like the troublemakers he'd been saddled with recently.

He'd received them a few days ago. Fresh two trainees. Newly awakened. And already, they were testing every ounce of his patience.

And now he had you. Another problem. Another person who didn't understand the value of silence.

It would be easier if you were incompetent. If you were lazy. If you were anything less than what you clearly were—a skilled, capable, experienced Reaper who had been assigned to him for reasons that he didn't fully understand.

But you were competent. You were capable. You were, in fact, exactly the kind of Reaper that the Underworld should have been producing all along.

And that made you infinitely more annoying.

He glances at you again. There's something about the way you move was purposeful. The way you speak was always direct, informed, never wasting words even when you're clearly trying to annoy him. The way you hold yourself—like you know exactly who you are and what you're worth.

He hates that. And also...

No.

He stops the thought before it can form. He's not going there. He's not going to acknowledge the way his gaze lingers a moment too long. He's not going to acknowledge the way your voice cuts through his thoughts like a blade.

"—and then the equipment requisition form was submitted backward, which means we have to resubmit everything, but the form requires supervisor approval, which means you have to sign it, which means you need to actually read it, which means you need to stop staring at the wall and—"

His eyes snap back into focus.

You've stopped walking while he was still moving, but only because momentum carries him a few steps forward before he realizes. He turns. You're standing there, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, your expression a mixture of exasperation and something that might be amusement.

You snap your fingers in front of his face. "Hello? 5012? Did you hear a single word I just said?"

He blinks. "Of course," he says smoothly. "You were talking about the equipment requisition form."

"That was forty seconds ago. Before that, I was talking about the filing system. Before that, I was talking about the new trainees. You know, the one you received a few days ago? The one you've been complaining about nonstop? That new trainee?"

"I was listening," he says.

"Oh yeah? What was I saying?"

He doesn't answer. He can't answer. Because the truth is—he was distracted by you. By the way you moved. By the way you spoke. By the way you annoyed him and fascinated him in equal measure.

He clears his throat, turns, and resumes walking. The corridor bends left, and the lighting shifts—dimmer here, the bulbs flickering with that particular Underworld inconsistency that no one ever bothers to fix. A potted plant sits in the corner, long dead, its brown leaves a testament to the station's general apathy toward aesthetics. 5012 makes a mental note to have it removed.

He's had to make a lot of mental notes since you arrived.

You fall into step beside him again, because of course you do. You don't wait for an invitation. You don't ask permission. You just exist in his space like you belong there, like you've always been there, like the very air around him has decided to take a form and start talking at him.

And the worst part?

He doesn't hate it as much as he should.

"I was thinking about the new trainees," he says finally, because silence with you feels too much like an admission.

You blink, turning to look at him as you walk. "It's only trainees, 5012. All of them always have problems at the start. That's why they're trainees. It's up to us to train them into perfect Reapers."

"No." The word comes out sharper than intended. He exhales, and it's a sound of pure exhaustion—the kind that settles deep in his chest and refuses to leave. "The first one, Atlas, or whatever he calls himself was late to our first meeting. When I asked him why, he said he was playing an arcade game. An arcade game. In the R.A.D. common room. While I was waiting for him."

"He was playing arcade games?"

"He was 'going for a high score,' apparently." 5012's voice drips with disdain. He pauses as they pass a window overlooking the city—the eternal night of the Underworld stretched out before them, orange lights flickering in the distance like dying embers. "And then the other one—0213, who has decided to give themselves a 'human name' even though they've been a Reaper for approximately three days—arrived little late because they were 'socializing' with other Reapers."

"Ah, socializing...?"

The way you say it makes him narrow his eyes. He's about to respond when you step closer, much close enough that he catches the faint, inexplicable warmth of your presence—and tilt your head up to meet his gaze.

He's got a good few inches on you.

You don't seem to care.

"You know what your problem is, 5012?"

He stops walking. The corridor is empty now, the distant hum of the building the only sound. His office is just ahead—door closed, light off, waiting for him like a sanctuary he doesn't deserve.

"What problems," he says flatly. "You'll have to be specific."

"You take everything way too seriously."

"I take my job seriously. There's a difference."

"Is there?" You poke his chest. Once. Twice. The touch is brief, almost casual, but he feels it like a brand since you do it often. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've forgotten what fun is. You know, fun is necessary."

"I don't need to lighten up. I need Reapers to do their jobs."

"And maybe if you were a little easier on them, they'd actually want to do their jobs."

The words hang in the air between you, sharp and undeniable. You mumble the last part under your breath, but he hears it anyway—he hears everything when it comes to you.

The corridor gives way to the entrance of his office. The door slides open with a soft hiss, revealing the familiar space beyond: dim purple light, the cityscape through the arched window, the shelves lined with books and trophies and the meticulous order he's cultivated over decades.

The whole R.A.D. is near-empty. Most of the Reaper Association had fucked off for most of the day, leaving behind only the stragglers and the workaholics and the ones who had nowhere else to be.

Despite this, you stayed and followed him.

You're now in his office, invading his space, standing there like you belong in the one place he's always kept carefully, obsessively his own. When he looks at you his knuckles blanch against the edge of his desk. But his lips barely part, flickering at the corners, a muscle twitching with something he refuses to name.

He tears his gaze away.

“Just please focus on your work." His command lands with all the affection of a slammed door. "Reports aren't going to write themselves."

"Oh, I've been done with that." You snort, and he can hear the eye roll in your voice. You're tired of papers, he can tell. Tired of the staleness of his office. Tired of the fact that it's always clean, always orderly, always perfect in that suffocating way that leaves no room for anything human.

He should be grateful for you. Clearly, he's not.

"Then why are you still here?" he snaps, the words laced with a familiar edge of irritation.

You raise a brow, and before you can even part your lips, he's already barreling ahead.

"I don't need your help," he scoffs, dismissive and sharp, as if the very suggestion offends him.

"Right. Of course. You would've done it all by yourself." You let the words hang, dripping with mock sweetness. "Because you're so eager to do anything 8394 says. Or what's his name now—Casper, isn't it?"

You toss your head toward him, letting your gaze linger just long enough to catch the faint flush creeping across his cheeks. His eyes are closed, jaw tight, that familiar fortress of composure already cracking at the edges.

You beat him to it before he can even open his mouth. "It's not a crime to want approval, 5012." Your voice is softer now, almost conversational, but the barb is still there—sharp and precise. "You shouldn't make it everyone else's problem, though."

The words settle between you like smoke, curling and lingering in the stale office air. He clicks his tongue with irritation, a sound that's become almost routine in your presence.

"So have me terminated then." You lean back in your chair, letting it shriek against the floor in protest. You stretch your arms out casually, very much provoking. "Oh, wait—you can't do that anymore, can you?"

The mockery drips from your voice, playful and venomous in equal measure.

5012's jaw spasms. A muscle ticks beneath the skin, and for a moment you think you've finally pushed him past the point of restraint. You want to see it. You want to see if he'll punch something, throw something, do anything other than retreat into that cold, impenetrable silence he wears like armor.

Instead, he withdraws. Just like he always does.

Most people would drop it. Would let the silence settle and the tension dissolve. But you? You've made an art of poking, of prodding, of testing exactly how far a man like him can bend before he finally breaks.

You’ve been wondering how he’ll snap.

You watch him make three passes through the room, never once facing you head-on. His movements are mechanical—collating papers, scanning documents, scanning them again. The edges of the pages bristle under his fingers, a quiet testament to his fraying patience.

It's thrilling, honestly. How easy it is to set his nerves singing. You start narrating his steps in your head, cataloging every twitch and stiffened shoulder, imagining what it would take to force that mask to slip completely. The nascent thought is seductive: if you keep prodding, keep pushing, maybe he'll finally shatter into a spectacular, beautiful mess.

"Do you want me to be terminated?"

Your voice is modulated now—controlled, almost gentle. The cruelty only simmers beneath the surface, a quiet current you've decided to be merciful about. For now.

You know exactly what you're doing.

You're poking the bear himself, and you're enjoying it.

“Do I look like HR to you?” 5012 questioned bitterly, waving you off with a dismissive flick of his hand. His voice is flat, hollow, drained of all the fire you'd so carefully stoked. “If you’re done with work then just go home. Or do whatever you want."

Instead, you rise from his desk slowness, letting the silence stretch between you like a wire pulled taut. 5012 watches you warily, his posture stiffening as you round the desk, to the front. He doesn't retreat, though. He never does. He stands his ground like a man who's forgotten how to yield.

You plant your palms flat on the surface of his desk, leaning in just enough to make your presence undeniable. Then, with the kind of casual audacity that makes his eye twitch, you hoist yourself up and settle on the edge of his workspace.

Right on top of his neatly arranged paperwork.

He hates that you do this.

You know he hates it.

And yet, he lets it go. Every single time.

You sit there for a moment, letting your gaze drift over him with the kind of unhurried assessment that makes most people squirm. His purple eyes are fixed on you, sharp and adamant, but there's something else quivering beneath that pretty face—something he's desperately trying to keep buried.

You look at him for a few seconds before you sit up straighter. Smooth down the front of your outfit. Arrange your features into something almost proper—back straight, hands folded neatly in your lap, chin tilted at just the right angle.

The sudden change is so jarring that 5012's brow furrows. He blinks, confusion flickering across his features like a crack in porcelain. He can't read you. He never can. Your narrowed gaze gives nothing away—bored, almost dismissive, like you've already decided he's not worth the effort.

"Lame," you murmur, just loud enough for him to catch. "You're so lame. And you suck at hiding it."

His eyes narrow. "What are you talking about now?"

You don't answer immediately. Instead, you lean forward, letting your hair fall forward to curtain your face. The strands brush against your cheeks, and you push them back with a slow, deliberate motion—exposing your face entirely, leaving nothing for him to hide behind.

You're close now. Close enough that he can see the way your pupils dilate in the dim office light. Close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating off you. "You look like you want to take the edge off," you say, voice dropping to something quieter. More intimate. "But you don't want to admit it."

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and charged. 5012's jaw tightens. His hands, resting on the armrests of his chair, curl into fists. He doesn't look away from you—if anything, his gaze sharpens, slitting into something dangerously focused.

"That's ridiculous," he finally says, his voice low and clipped. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?"

"No." He leans back in his chair, putting a sliver of distance between you. It's not enough. It's never enough. "You're projecting. As usual."

"Am I?"

"Yes." His fingers drum against the armrest—a rare tell, one he'd never allow anyone else to see. "And I don't need you to psychoanalyze me. I need you to leave."

"Uh-huh." You don't move.

"I'm serious." His voice hardens. "Take your leave. I don't need you anymore."

Your thumb finds the seam of his paperwork—the stack he'd so carefully organized, the edges he'd so meticulously aligned. With a lazy motion, you cock the neat stack askew. "You sure?" you ask, tilting your head. "There's more you could ask of me, 5012. Unless..." You pause, letting the word linger. "Unless you're scared?”

He sighs. It's a sound of pure, bone-deep exhaustion—the kind that settles in his chest and refuses to leave. His hands curl around the coffee mug on his desk, fingers tightening until his knuckles go white. For a moment, you almost expect the ceramic to shatter in his grip.

"Just go," he says again, quieter this time. "I have work to do."

You slide off the desk, but instead of heading for the door, you sidestep—right into his space. You plant yourself directly in front of him, close enough that your knees nearly brush his. You look down at him, and for once, he doesn't bother to look away.

"You know," you say, your voice conversational, almost pleasant, "I could go home. Or I could go to the human world. Chill there for a while. Grab a drink. Watch the sun rise."

His expression sours. "That's irresponsible. Even for you."

"Is it?" You shrug, utterly unbothered. "Maybe. But I could also stay. Right here. Until you tell me what you actually want to my face instead of being so damn defensive all the time."

The words land like a blow. 5012's jaw works, muscles grinding beneath the skin. He stares up at you, "Stubborn," he mutters, almost to himself. "Incredibly stubborn."

"I've been called worse."

"I'm sure you have." His grip on the mug loosens. His shoulders drop a fraction of an inch—so subtle you almost miss it. But you don't miss it. You never miss anything when it comes to him. "You don't know what you're asking," he says, his voice barely above a murmur.

"Try me."

He looks at you for a long, aching moment as his office hums with silence—the distant buzz of fluorescent lights and the faint whisper of the ventilation system.

It's you who finally breaks the silence, voice low and teasing: "Or are you just going to sit there and pretend I don't exist?"

His jaw tightens. He looks away—just for a second anyway before dragging his gaze back to yours. When he speaks, his voice is stripped raw, scraped clean of all the usual armor.

You snort. "Seriously?" You tilt your head, letting your gaze drag over him with theatrical slowness. “Nothing this time?”

The barb scrapes the nerve. He puts his pen down with an audible click—sharp, final, a punctuation mark to his fraying patience. He rises from his chair, and the movement is fluid. He looms by the desk corner, using every inch of his height like a weapon.

It doesn't work.

You remain unmoved, completely unimpressed.

The gap between your bodies is just a dare now. A breath of space that neither of you closes. You smile. Slow. Indulgent. Chin tipped up, meeting his glare head-on. "I want you to stop pretending you're not attracted to me," you drawl.

The gamble lands heavy between you. You think that if it weren't for the air conditioning blasting, you might be able to hear the erratic rhythm of his heartbeat.

His gaze is brighter than the human realm sun, somehow. Hot in anger, though there's something else flickering in those purple irises—something warm, something he'd never admit to.

He's never easy to read, but you know him well enough to recognize the cracks in his composure.

Something about this knowledge makes your pulse behave badly. You've always wanted to know what he'd be like without all the protocol. How much of himself he'd let in if you shone a light on him.

"I'm not," he seethes, voice thin, frayed at the edges, "attracted to you.”

You make a sound that's not quite a laugh. More like a scoff, but it's cruel regardless.

"That's a good answer. Very diplomatic." You tap your chin, feigning thoughtfulness. "Very... technically not a lie, since you're not attracted to me. You're just—what? Fascinated? Intrigued? Constantly thinking about me when you should be working?"

He doesn't answer.

He won't look at you this time.

"Aw that’s too bad, though." You step closer, voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial. "What if I said I wanted you too, 5012?”

He flinches. It's barely perceptible—a micro-movement, a tightening of his jaw. But you catch it. You always catch it. It's the most overt form of emotion he's shown in regards to you, and the sight of it makes you feel drunk on possibility.

"You can't say things like that," he finally says, his voice so quiet it's almost swallowed by the hum of the office. "You know the rules."

"Rules?" You laugh, soft and disbelieving. "Since when have you ever cared about what I know?"

He lifts his gaze to meet yours. There's something raw in it now, something unguarded. "I care about the balance. I can't—"

"Can't what?" You cut him off then tilt your head, voice softening despite yourself. "Can't admit it? Can't say it out loud?" You pause, letting the words settle.

"Or can't lie about it?"

He goes still. The Reaper's oath binds him to truth. He cannot utter a falsehood—the words simply won't form. But he can dodge. He can deflect. He can dance around the edges of a confession like a man avoiding a trap.

And right now, he's doing all three.

Then something change in his expression. It doesn't just slip—it shatters, and what's underneath is something you've never seen before.

5012 moves. One moment he's standing there, rigid and restrained. The next, he's in your space—closer than close, his body crowding yours against the edge of his desk. His hand finds your chin, fingers firm against your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

You gasp. It's not loud. Barely a whisper of air escaping your lips. But he hears it anyway.

"You." His voice is low, rough, scraped raw. "You have no idea how sick I am of your behavior."

Your heart stutters. Your mind scrambles for a retort, a barb, anything to regain the upper hand. But the words won't come.

"All this time," he continues, thumb tracing the line of your jaw with devastating slowness. "All this poking. Prodding. Testing my limits like I'm some kind of experiment." His other hand finds your waist, fingers splaying across your hip, anchoring you in place.

"Every single day," he murmurs, and there's something almost amused in his voice now, enough that makes your stomach flip. "You find new ways to get under my skin. To push my buttons. To see how far you can go before I snap."

His eyes search yours, and for the first time, you see something you never expected to find there.

Hunger.

"And now you wonder," he says, the words slow and careful, "whether I want you."

You swallow hard. "I—"

"Be quiet." His thumb presses against your lower lip, silencing you. "I've had enough of your talking. Your pathetic little games." He leans in, his breath warm against your ear, and you feel the words more than you hear them.

"You wanted my attention so badly? You have it."

A shiver runs down your spine. Your hands find his chest, ready to push him away—but they don't. They just... rest there, just feeling the steady pace of his heartbeat.

"Tell me," he says, pulling back just enough to look at you. "Is this what you wanted?" His thumb traces your lower lip again, slow and teasing. "To finally get a reaction out of me?"

You force yourself to meet his gaze. “Ha… I don't know what you're talking about. You’re the one who’s freaking out over me.” The statement you claim, clearly isn’t true.

His laugh is quiet and devoid of humor. “Now that’s a lie… and the truth, such cleverness," Your eyes widen as he tilts your chin up higher. "We both know you can't lie. But you can deflect. You can dodge." He pauses, and the intensity of his stare makes your knees weak. "You can pretend you don't know exactly what you've been doing."

“50—“

"Did you think I wouldn't notice?" His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. "Every time you poked my chest. Every time you sat on my desk. Every time you leaned in just a little too close." He tugs, just slightly, tilting your head back. "Did you think I was blind?"

You should say something. Again, at least fight back but the words are stuck in your throat, tangled in the sudden, overwhelming awareness of how close he is.

"Just admit it." His voice drops even lower, a whisper against your lips. "You wanted to see what it would take to break me."

You swallow hard, scoff. "And? So what if I did?"

Your confession caused 5012 to goes still. For a moment, you think you've finally pushed him too far. That he'll pull away, retreat back behind his walls, leave you standing here with your heart in your throat.

Yet he doesn't. Instead, he pulls you closer.

"Then… you should have been careful what you wished for."

His mouth meets yours before you can respond—and it's not gentle. It's not tentative. It's a claim, a brand, a punishment and a promise all at once. You make a sound against his lips—surprise, maybe, or something deeper. Your hands fist in his coat, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

When he pulls back, you're breathless.

"That's—" you start, but he cuts you off with another kiss, shorter this time, almost dismissive. His hands find your hips, and before you can react, he's lifted you more onto the desk, stepping between your thighs like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"5... 0... 1... 2..." You manage a forced breath, staring up at him with that wide, defiant gaze even as he crowds you against the edge, your head tilting back to follow the line of his face.

"Twenty-three times," he says. "You've put that same look on your face twenty-three times today."

"What look?"

"The one that says you're about to say something you shouldn't."

"Pfft," you scoff. "You're counting."

"Difficult not to, when you make it so—" His jaw tightens. "—obvious."

"Obvious?" You laugh. "Oh, I'm obvious? Then tell me, what am I thinking right now?"

He narrows his eyes, scanning your face—and then his lips part, his throat bobbing when he swallows. "No."

"No? That's all I get?"

"Because I—" He breaks off, reining in his frustration. "I have the distinct feeling you'll take what I say and use it to torture me for the next century. So, no. I won't be obliging you."

You lean back, palms flat on the desk, "Funny. Because I was just thinking about how different your office looks from the angle. Right from where you sit. That's the view you have all day, just staring at the wall? It's a wonder you get any work done."

His eyes tick to your throat, then away. And for a moment, 5012 just looks at you, like truly, thoroughly, devastatingly looks and you watch the last thread of his composure snap.

"You know, when I wonder about you..." He trails off, jaw working, eyes unreadable. Then, slowly, he reaches out, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your breath catch.

"I wonder what it would take to finally shut you up," he says softly. "What it would take for you to stop running your mouth and just..." He stops.

"Just what?" you whisper.

He doesn't answer. Instead, his hand slides to the back of your neck again, and he pulls you in, forehead pressed against yours.

"No more games." His hand slides to your waist, grip firm, pulling you flush against him. "No more teasing. No more testing."

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice a low murmur that sends shivers down your spine. "You've been begging for this since the day you arrived. Every glance. Every touch. Every word carefully chosen to get under my skin."

His other hand finds your thigh, fingers pressing into the fabric of your pants. "And I've let you. Because I was too stubborn. Too professional."

He pulls back, and the look in his eyes makes your heart stutter.

"But I'm done letting you get away with it."

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and charged. And then he moves slow, never breaking eye contact.

His gloved hand rises to his mouth, and you watch, transfixed, as his teeth catch the tip of the leather at his middle finger. He tugs, a single sharp pull, and the glove comes free inch by agonizing inch. The black leather peels away from his skin, revealing the pale expanse of his hand beneath—the ridges of his knuckles, the fine veins tracing along his wrist, the warmth of his palm that you suddenly, desperately want to feel against your skin.

His jaw works, pulling the glove loose until it hangs from his teeth, a dark flag of surrender. He lets it drop to the floor with a soft thud, and his bare hand finds your waist, skin against fabric, searing through the barrier of your clothes.

The second glove follows the same way—his teeth catching the leather, pulling slow and deliberate, dragging out every second of the reveal. You watch his lips part around the material, watch the flex of his jaw, and something low and hot coils in your belly.

When that glove joins the first on the floor, he flexes his bare fingers, and you can see the faint flush of warmth across his knuckles. His hand rises, palm flat against your cheek, and the contact is electric—bare skin against skin, no barrier, no distance.

His thumb traces your lower lip, and you feel every ridge of his fingerprint.

"No more barriers," he murmurs. "No more distance." His bare hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair that makes your breath catch.

"I wonder," he says, voice low and rough, "if you're ready for what comes next."

You open your mouth to speak but he cuts you off with another kiss that steals every thought from your mind. It's not gentle. It's not the careful, controlled kiss from before.

It's a lesson.

His teeth graze your lower lip, and you gasp. He takes advantage, deepening the kiss until you're breathless, until your hands grip his coat like a lifeline.

When he pulls back, you're trembling.

"I warned you," he says, and there's a finality in his voice that makes your blood run hot. "Warned you many times." He tips your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"But you can only learn the hard way, it seems."

Your pulse pounds in your ears. It didn't take long for 5012 to start implementing punitive measures.

It was subtle at first—a hand that lingered a moment too long on your hip, a gaze that tracked your movements with precision. But then the games began in earnest, and you realized with a thrill that you'd awakened something in him that had been sleeping far too long.

He called it "professional development."

You called it the most exquisite torture you'd ever endured.

5012 sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms bare and corded with tension. His coat had been discarded hours ago, draped over the back of the sofa like a forgotten skin. He looked... unmoored. Just hungry looking.

His hand found your chin, tilting your face up. "Look at me when I'm speaking to you."

You met his gaze, defiant and unrepentant.

"Right" he murmured, thumb tracing your lower lip then released your chin and stepped back, "I think it's time we address this... behavioral issue."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "Is that all you've got?"

He stopped behind you. You felt the heat of him at your back, felt his breath ghost across the shell of your ear. "Careful," he murmured, "or I'll show you just how much I've got."

A shiver raced down your spine.

"Lean over the desk."

You froze in shocked, “Excuse me?"

"You heard me." His hand found the nape of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. Not a threat—just a promise. "Lean. Over. The desk."

You could have refused. You could have laughed, deflected, turned it into another game. But something in his voice made you obey.

You bent over the polished wood, palms flat against the cool surface. Your heart pounded. Your breath came in shallow gasps.

"Good." His voice was warm against your ear. "Look at you. So obedient when you want to be."

His hands found your hips, fingers curling into the fabric of your pants. He tugged, just slightly, adjusting your position. "Tell me," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "How many times have you done this? Sat on this desk, crossed your legs, tilted your head, tempted?"

"I don't—"

"Don't lie." He pressed closer, the warmth of him a brand against your back. "I've seen the way you look at me. The way you arch your back when you think I'm not watching. The way you push and push and push." His hand slid from your hip to the curve of your ass, palm flat and heavy.

"You wanted my attention," he murmured. "Now you have it."

The first strike was sharp, unexpected, a crack of his palm against your pants that made you gasp. It didn't hurt—not really—but the unexpectedness and shock of it, the sheer audacity, made your knees buckle.

"That was for the complaint about the filing system," he said. "You knew I was already frustrated."

Another strike. Harder this time. You bit your lip.

"That was for telling the junior Reapers that I 'needed to lighten up.'"

You opened your mouth to respond, but the third blow came faster than you expected, and the sound that escaped you was embarrassingly close to a moan.

"And that," he said, voice dropping to something almost affectionate, "was for this."

His hand found your hip, turning you over, and before you could react, he'd flipped you onto your back on the desk causing papers to scattered, even his pen clattered to the floor. He loomed over you, eyes dark, breath uneven.

"Look at you." His voice was rough, scraped raw. "So damn obedient when you're not talking."

You laughed, breathless. "You like me better when I'm talking."

"Do I?" His hands found the hem of your shirt, fingers sliding beneath the fabric. "Or do I just like the way your mouth moves when you're being insufferable?"

"Both."

He huffed a laugh. "Probably."

His fingers traced the edge of your pants, hooking into the waistband. "Take these off."

"Make me."

The challenge hung in the air between you, just. unbearable. He tilted his head, studying you with those sharp purple eyes. "Oh, I will." His voice was a murmur, almost tender. "But you're going to ask nicely first."

"Never."

"Never?" He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. "We'll see." His hands found your wrists, pinning them above your head. The desk was cool against your back, the wood smooth and unforgiving.

"Stay," he said, and the command was absolute.

He released your wrists, and you kept them there. You didn't know why you obeyed. You just... did.

5012 pulled back, and you watched him move around the room. He retrieved a length of silk from somewhere his drawer, maybe, or the back of the sofa and returned to stand over you.

"Arms stay up," he said, and there was no room for negotiation.

You raised them, and he bound your wrists together, wrapping the silk with meticulous precision. Not too tight. Just enough to remind you that you were at his mercy.

"Sit up," he said next.

You obeyed.

He unbuttoned your shirt with slowness, revealing your chest inch by inch. The air was cool against your skin. Your nipples tightened, and you saw his gaze track the reaction.

"Beautiful," he murmured, and the word was almost reverent. His hands found your pants again, and this time, you didn't resist. He tugged them down your hips, exposing your thighs and the heat pooling between them.

"Spread your legs." The command was low, causing you to hesitated, just. little. He slapped your thigh—not hard, just enough to make you gasp. "I said spread your legs."

You obeyed, shame and arousal tangling in your chest. "Good." He stepped between your thighs, and the pressure of him there was maddening. "Look at you. So turned on for me. And you still haven't said what I want to hear."

"I don't know—"

"Yes, you do." He leaned in, lips brushing your throat. "You know exactly what you need to say. But you're too stubborn to say it." His fingers found your core, tracing the heated area with devastating precision. You arched into his touch, a desperate sound escaping your lips.

"I wonder," he murmured, "how long you'll last before you break."

His thumb found your clit, circling with agonizing slowness. Your hips bucked. He pulled away. "Ah-ah." He tsked softly. "I didn't say you could move."

"Please," you breathed, and the word shocked you.

"Please what?"

"Please... touch me.”

He halfway smiled. It was a cruel thing, that smile. "That's not the right answer."

You didn't know what he wanted. Honestly, you were too far gone, too desperate, too lost in the haze of pleasure and frustration.

"I wonder," he said again, and his voice was a low murmur against your skin, "if you know how much I've wanted this. How many nights I've lain awake, wondering what it would take to break you."

His hand slid from your core to your thigh, gripping hard enough to bruise. "I wonder," he continued, "if you know what it does to me when you look at me like that. Like you know exactly what you're doing."

"I don't—"

"Yes, you do." His lips found your throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. "You've known since the day you arrived. And you've been playing with me ever since." His fingers found your core again, slipping inside you with cruel precision. You cried out, hips bucking against his hand.

"That's it." His voice was soft, almost affectionate. "Let go, my dear. Let me see what you've been hiding." His thumb found your clit again, circling in time with his fingers, and you felt the pressure building, building, building—

And then he stopped.

"Not yet," he murmured, pulling away. "Not until you say it."

You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. "Say wha?" you gasped.

He leaned in, voice a whisper that made your blood run hot. "Say you're mine."

"Please," you breathed. "Please—"

"Say it."

"I'm—" You swallowed hard, shame and desire warring in your chest. "I'm yours."

His breath shuddered out of him. "Again."

"I'm yours."

"That's my good little brat."

His hand found your core again, and this time, he didn't stop. He drove you higher and higher, watching your face with those purple eyes, and when you finally came—when the pleasure crashed through you like a wave—he held you through it, murmuring soft praise against your skin. "Good. So good. My perfect, infuriating little menace."

You clung to him, breathless, shaking.

And when you finally came back to yourself, you found him watching you with an expression that made your heart stutter.

"One more thing," he said, and the deepness in his voice made you shiver.

"What?"

His hands found your hips, flipping you over onto your stomach. The silk binding your wrists tightened, and you felt the stretch in your shoulders.

"One more round," he said, and his voice was a whisper against your ear. "And then we'll see if you still have any fight left in you."

You laughed, despite everything. "You'll never break me."

"No." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. "But watching you try to hold out will be incredibly entertaining." His hand came down on your ass, sharp and unexpected, and you cried out.

"Count for me,” he said.

"One."

Another strike. Harder. "Two."

"Three."

"Good." His hand traced the stinging skin, soothing the ache. "Now tell me—was it worth it?"

You laughed, breathless. "Every second."

He shook his head, but there was a smile on his face—a half real smile, open and warm. His hand found your waist, turning you over again, and he lowered himself over you, weight settling against your body.

"Mm. Aren’t you truly enjoying this…" He pressed a kiss to your throat. "I wonder how many rounds it'll take to truly break you."

You laughed, open and free. "You'll be wondering for a while."

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "I figured." His hand found your core again, and you arched into his touch. Then pressed a kiss to your collarbone. "Let's fix that."

He pulled away just enough to look at you, and the intensity in his gaze made your breath catch. “Let’s see,” he said, "we're going to try something different."

“Different?” You asked, little bit dazed.

"Mm." He produced a length of silk from somewhere—you didn't know where, and you didn't care. "Sensory deprivation."

"I—"

"Shh." He pressed a finger to your lips. "You said you wanted to see what I have. This is what I have."

He slipped the silk over your eyes, and the sudden darkness was disorienting. Your other senses sharpened: the smell of his cologne, the warmth of his body, the rasp of his breath.

"Now," he murmured, "I want you to focus. On every touch. Every sound. Every breath." His hand found your throat, and the pressure was just enough to ground you. "Don't think about what's coming next," he said. "Just... be. Here. With me."

You obeyed.

His lips found your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breast. His hands roamed your body, cataloging every curve, every inch of skin.

"Tell me," he murmured, "what do you feel?"

"You."

"Specifics."

Your laugh was breathless. "Where you touch me. Your lips. Your hands."

"Good." His teeth grazed your nipple, and you gasped. "What else?"

"Your voice. The silk on my skin. The cool wood."

"Fascinating." He pulled away slightly, and you heard the rustle of fabric. "And now?"

A blindfold over your eyes had already stolen sight. But when something soft wrapped around your wrists, when you felt the silk thread through the desk's hardware and knot tight, you realized your arms had been bound to the legs of the furniture, just spread open, wrists tethered either side of you.

You tugged, just once, testing. You rattled the whole desk. 5012 chuckled "Good. You're still breathing. Perfect." He paused, considering.

"I wonder... if you're going to be good."

You opened your mouth, and a sharp, stinging bite landed high on your thigh—not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make your muscles jump and a small, sharp sound escape you. He soothed the spot with his tongue before pulling back.

"That was a test," he said. "You passed."

"Test?" you echoed, voice rough.

"Mm." He settled between your thighs, and you felt the warmth of his breath against your core. His mouth found you, tongue tracing the slick folds with devastating precision. You arched against the bindings, a desperate sound escaping your lips.

His tongue circled your clit, and you shattered.

When you came back to yourself, you were trembling. The bindings had shifted, the silk looser than before. 5012 watched you with an expression that was both fierce and tender.

“Such a good little brat,” he breathed, mocking you a little. "Yet still I'm not done with you," he murmured. "But you're doing so well."

The impact came where he'd struck before—over the same reddened spot, landing again and again until your thighs quivered and a pathetic little noise you'd never admit to had started to bubble up from your chest.

You tried to muffle it.

5012 noticed, causing his hand moved, tangling in your hair, pulling your head back just enough that he could see your face. "I want to hear you," he murmured. "I want to hear exactly how it feels to be completely and thoroughly punished."

The next strike was harder—a proper, solid blow that landed with a crack and sent a shock of sensation straight through you.

"Count again," he said.

"F-fuck—" You choked.

He sighs, adding, "That’s isn’t counting, must I remind you?" He alternated—one side, then the other, leaving you no time to brace or recover. You lost count. You lost yourself. Every sharp crack of his palm against your skin was a shock of pain and pleasure that blurred the world into something pale and bright around you.

The corner of the desk bit into your hip. His hands cradled you through the worst of it. "Should I stop?" he asked, and his voice was almost gentle.

"No," you heard yourself say. “Please don't stop."

He soothed the sting with his palm, stroking over the reddened skin as if he could erase the marks. You leaned back into him, and he caught you, steadying you with his arms.

The next hour was a blur of strikes and whispers, of his body against yours, of his hands and his teeth and the dark, hungry sounds he made when you surrendered. His voice above your ear was steady, guiding—the firm, watchful tone that stirred something deep in your gut.

"Hm," he murmured, "let me see."

The world tilted again. He turned you, moved you, and you felt the press of the desk against your hip.

"Keep your knees spread. Good. Now hold still."

The belt slid free from the loops with a soft hiss of leather. “A more proper punishment," he said, "has to make an impression. Otherwise, what's the point?"

He smoothed a hand over the spot he'd chosen—your thigh, where the skin was sensitive, still tender from all the attention—and you heard his huff of approval when you jerked.

"Perfect."

The first lash landed before you could brace. It wasn't blinding, more just a quick, sharp stripe of fire across your skin.

Then another. And another.

By the third, you'd started to feel the world sway. By the sixth, you were starting to shake. Your hair had come loose from its bindings, pooling over the edge of the desk. You were trembling, your body starved and aching and craving a release you weren't sure you'd ever get.

"Just a few more," he murmured, and he sounded almost apologetic. "You're doing so well."

"Please 5012,” you gasped.

"Please what?"

"Please let me—"

"Let you what?"

You couldn't get the words out. Your throat was raw, your body trembling, every nerve ending alight with desperate, aching need. You just shook your head, and he sighed—long, slow, almost pitying.

"Please," you breathed, the word barely a whisper, "just fuck me already..."

The look on your face—that constantly irritated, defiant gaze that had been your armor since the day you arrived was already giving way a desperate look for him.

5012 watched the transformation with dark fascination, his purple eyes tracing the flush spreading across your cheeks, the way your lips parted on each desperate exhale, the slight furrow of your brow as you fought to maintain some shred of composure.

He couldn't help but imagine how your desperate eyes would look underneath the blindfold. How they'd widen. How they'd glisten. How they'd plead with him in ways your mouth never would.

"Hm... alright," he said, and his voice was warm, almost tender, but there was an edge to it, “I suppose you've earned it."

His hands found your hips firm and he repositioned you. He pulled your hips up, angling you just the way he wanted against his disk, and you felt him press against the aching heat of you—the blunt head of his cock sliding through your slick folds, teasing, taunting.

He didn't push inside. More like he just held you there, breathing against your ear, the warmth of his exhale sending shivers down your spine.

"I wonder," he murmured, and the words were soft, almost reverent, "how many times I've imagined this. You, bent over my desk. You, falling apart beneath me. You, finally quiet for once."

You whimpered—an involuntary sound that made him chuckle.

"Patience, my dear," he said. "We have all afternoon. It’s my lunch break after all." He notched himself at your entrance, the pressure maddening, and then finally, he pushed inside.

You cried out.

It was a sound that was half pain, half relief, torn from the depths of your chest. He filled you perfectly, stretching you open, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth, devastating motion. Your fingers tried scrabbled against the polished wood of the desk, for something to ground you. But aw, did you already forget that your wrists were still bound?

His hips rocked against yours, a slow, deep pace that made stars burst behind your eyes, from all that spanking has you on edge. His hands gripped your hips like a lifeline, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise.

"Now fully answered question? Is this what you wanted?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble with a few occasionally grunts "Is this what you were waiting for?"

"Yes," you gasped, the word punched out of you with each thrust, "yes—"

"Good." He pulled out, almost completely, and then thrust back in—more harder, deeper, more punishing. "Because I've been waiting for this too."

His hand found your throat, not tight, just... there. A presence. A reminder of exactly who was in control. His fingers curled around the column of your neck, thumb resting against your pulse point, feeling the frantic beat of your heart.

"For so long," he continued, his voice dropping to something almost confessional. "Every time you sat on my desk. Every time you poked my chest. Every time you looked at me with that infuriating smirk." He punctuated each word with a thrust, driving himself deeper each time.

"I always wondered what it would take to finally shut you up."

You couldn't respond. You could barely breathe. The pleasure was too much, too intense, too everything. His cock filled you perfectly, hitting that spot deep inside that made your vision blur. His hand on your throat, the weight of him against your back, the way he moved inside you with relentless, unforgiving precision—

"I love the way you feel," he murmured, and the words were almost tender. "The way you take me. The way you clench around me when I move."

You sobbed—a broken, desperate sound. Your body was no longer your own. It belonged to him, to this moment, to the overwhelming tide of pleasure that threatened to drown you.

"That's it," he breathed. "Let go now." His pace quickened, became more frantic, more urgent. His hips slapped against yours with each thrust, the sound obscene and perfect. His hand tightened on your throat, just slightly, and you felt the pressure build, build, build—

And then you shattered.

The orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave, building from somewhere deep in your core and spreading outward in concentric rings of pure, blinding pleasure. Your body arched against the desk, the wood cool against your heated skin, and a soft cry was torn from your lips—swallowed by the darkness of the blindfold, by the weight of him pressed against you, by the sheer overwhelming intensity of it all.

Your inner walls clenched around his cock, pulsing that seemed to go on forever. Each contraction drew a shuddering breath from your lungs, each pulse of pleasure sending sparks dancing behind your blinded eyes.

5012 followed you over the edge with a guttural groan that seemed to be ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. His hips pressed flush against you, driving as deep as he could go, and you felt the warm pulse of his release—thick and hot, filling you completely.

He held himself there, buried to the hilt, and you felt every spasm of his body against yours, every tremor that ran through his frame.

"Fuck," he breathed, the word ragged and raw, and you'd never heard him sound so undone.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The only sounds were your mingled breathing and the distant hum of the Underworld beyond the office walls. Then, slowly, he pulled out.

You felt the loss of him, still aching and somehow still desperate for more. A rush of warmth followed, and you knew without seeing that his release was seeping out of you, trickling down the inside of your thigh; feeling his hands were steady despite the tremor in his breath, and when he settled you against the wood, you felt his gaze on you like a physical weight.

The blindfold came off.

You blinked against the sudden light, disoriented, and found him looking down at you. His face was flushed, his hair disheveled, his usually immaculate composure completely shattered. His eyes were soft in a way you'd never seen. A little more vulnerable.

"Fuck," he said again, and this time it was almost reverent.

You laughed, or tried to. It came out as a breathless wheeze. "Eloquent."

He huffed a laugh, surprised and warm, and the sound made something in your chest ache. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your neck, the corner of your jaw.

"That," he murmured against your skin, "was worth every single complaint."

"I have a lot of complaints."

"I'm sure you do." He pulled back, and there was a smile playing at the corner of his mouth—real and unguarded. "File them later."

You watched as he reached down, his fingers finding the mess between your thighs. He gathered some of the evidence of his cum and pushed it back inside you that made you gasp.

"Can't have you dripping all over my desk," he murmured, and there was something darkly amused in his voice. "I still have work to do."

You opened your mouth to respond, to fire back some clever retort, but the words died in your throat when he withdrew his ungloved fingers and brought them to his lips. He tasted himself there, eyes never leaving yours, and the obscenity of it made your breath catch.

"Now," he said, pulling you into a sitting position and lifting you off the desk. "Let's get you cleaned up."

You let him carry you across the room, too boneless to protest. He settled you on the edge of the sofa and knelt before you, grabbing a cloth from somewhere—you didn't see where, didn't care—and began to clean you with careful, almost reverent precision.

"And then?" you prompted, your voice rough.

"And then." He paused, looking up at you. There was something soft in his gaze, something that made your heart stutter. "I wonder," he murmured, "how many more times you're going to make me do that."

You reached up, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "Keep wondering," you whispered. "I'll keep surprising you."

He kissed you then—soft and slow and achingly tender. His lips moved against yours like he had all the time in the world, like there was nothing else that mattered. His hand cradled your jaw, thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone.

When he pulled back, you were both breathless.

"I think," You started, "I could get used to this."

He opened his mouth to respond—

The office door slid open with a hiss. "Lunch time is over! I was wondering when you'd finally get around to finishing those reports, 5012, because 0213 and I have some questions about the soul allocation for—"

Atlas froze in the doorway.

The scene before him was... a lot. You, perched on the edge of the sofa, still flushed and disheveled, your shirt half-unbuttoned and your pants somewhere on the floor. 5012, standing before you, shirt untucked, hair a mess, his hand still cradling your jaw.

The silence stretched between the three of you like a wire pulled taut. Atlas blinked. Once. Twice. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.

"I—" he started.

5012 rose to his feet with the kind of deliberate, unhurried grace that suggested he wasn't even slightly embarrassed. "The door was closed," he said flatly.

"It was. It... definitely was." Atlas's gaze darted between the two of you. “I-I can come back."

"You can wait," 5012 said, and his voice was pure command. "Outside."

Atlas's eyes went wide, and he stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Right. Yep. Outside. I'll just... I'll just wait out here. For... however long. No rush. Take your time. All the time in the world, really."

The door slid shut behind him.

You started to laugh. It bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest, uncontrollable and helpless. "Oh my god."

5012 looked at you, his expression caught somewhere between exasperated and amused. "This isn't funny."

"It's hilarious." You leaned back against the sofa, still laughing. "He's never going to look at you the same way again."

5012 sighed, long and defeated. "Get dressed," he said, and his voice was almost fond. "And then I suppose we have to deal with him." He straightened his shirt and ran a hand through his hair, trying in vain to restore some semblance of order.

"One minute," he called toward the door. "We'll be ready in one minute." He turned back to you, and there was a lightness in his expression that you hadn't seen before.

"Then," he said, and his voice was warm, "we can see what other wonders you have in store."

♤ — 𝒶𝒹𝓌𝒹 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

𝒶/𝓃: apologies dearies, never thought in my life this will ever be the most difficult fanfic I have ever wrote this has been sitting in my drafts, and I refuse to move on from it until it was completed... (¬､¬), plus i had @mint0hhh in mind, numder one 5012 fangirl!

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