twin for simps

Bia • 21 • 18+ content • minors dni • she/her

[seijorhi]

IS THAT A CLUE TO YOUR NEXT FIC or is that simply a thot thought?? JAKSKSKSK AAAAAAA YOU HAVE AWAKEN ANOTHER SCENARIO THANK U SO MUCH

I mean it was just me lamenting the fact that I am still a little drunk, have a headache and that’s worthless unless there’s somebody sexy to take advantage of that, but you know what nonnie?

This feels like a Samu thing to do. Like sure, you go out with him and his brother and a few of their friends and have a few drinks, and maybe a few more – and it almost feels like every time you start to think about leaving, there’s another drink set down in front of you.

And you don’t even have to worry, the twins aren’t gonna let you go too far or do anything too stupid, and they’ll happily scare off anybody who tries to hit on you. What’s the harm in another drink? Why’re ya trying to run off on them? Stay for one more!

Atsumu’s barely standing by the end of it (and you’re hardly much better), but Osamu’s always had a stronger alcohol tolerance than his brother. He’s shoved off into an Uber after a sloppy kiss on your cheek goodbye and then it’s just you and Samu, like the good old days.

You were Samu’s friend first, remember?

And you’re trying to organise your own so you can stumble off home and kick out of your shoes and maybe order something greasy and delicious to stave off your inevitable hangover when your phone’s abruptly pinched from your hand. Samu’s apartment’s closer, just come and crash at his for the night.

No, really. He insists.

Let Samu take care of you.

[seijorhi]

for once i actually wrote the drabble i said i was gonna write <33

pls enjoy scion!akaashi x reader

The tension in the car is palpable. 

Staring resolutely out the window at the passing city lights, you haven’t spoken a word in nearly ten minutes, haven’t so much as acknowledged his presence since the two of you entered the car  – though he supposes that the tears that spill in uninterrupted streams down your cheeks speak volumes for you. 

And he’s not usually one to break the silence, perfectly content being with his own thoughts in your company, but when he reaches for your hand and you yank it back as if you’ve been scalded, Akaashi sighs. 

“Why are you crying for him?” he asks in a quiet voice.

Your shoulders tense, the slightest hitch in your breathing being the only sign that you’ve heard him at all.

He tries again, “If I hadn’t taken the shot, what do you think would’ve happened?”

“… Please stop.”

Keep reading

[seijorhi]

the idea of oikawa not being ready when he meets his soulmate.

it isn't that he thinks you're not good enough, not pretty enough, not right for him, it's just that oikawa wasn't expecting to find you so soon.

soulmates are forever, you'll be there waiting for him when all's said and done, but his career in volleyball – it won't be. he's young, fit and hungry for it; in his absolute prime, but if he doesn't put in the effort now, give it everything, 100% of what he has... it'll slip right through his fingers.

he can't risk that.

there's a strange sort of desperation that tugs at his chest when he tries to explain, to get you to understand it. it's a sacrifice you'll both be making for the sake of the career he's dreamed of his whole life.

the way your smile slowly slips away when you realise he's not asking for you to be patient and give him grace when his focus is more on volleyball than you, he's saying he can't have you around at all, because you will distract him.

he'd lose himself in you.

it's not forever, he stresses, only a little while. you're perfect, and in a year or two when he's more settled in his role, the starting setter on the right team, heading to the championships, he'll be there to give you everything you deserve. no – more. he'll make it up to you, all he's asking for (but he's not really asking, is he) is a bit of time and space.

the light dims in your eyes, a strange, glassy look taking over, and slowly, so fucking slowly, you pull your hands from his, let them fall weakly to your side. it takes a monumental effort to not snatch them back up.

'yeah, okay.'

the expression on your face is all wrong, your voice almost robotic, but oikawa knows it's the right thing. you'll forgive him, because that's what soulmates do. you'll forgive him and then fall even more in love with him and oikawa will spend every damn day showering you in the love and affection he can. he'll drown you in it.

just give him this. let him give everything to volleyball, before he shares himself with you.

—

you're a little too good at it.

it's harder than he expected, going no contact. he was the one who wanted it – needed it, really, for this to work – but there'd been a small part of him that sort of hoped you'd ignore what he wanted and reach out anyway. he'd imagined sneaking a quick peek at his phone during a water break to see a message from you, something simple, casual, a 'hope things are good!' or 'i caught some of the game last week'. was it unfair of him to want you keeping track of him? to see how far he'd come in the days, weeks, months since he'd asked for time?

it's like an itch under his skin, and it grows. a few of his new teammates have met their soulmates, carry the marks to show for it. they're all smug as fuck about it, but the thing is whenever their soulmates are watching from the stands, they play with a different kind of fire. they're better. envy burns watching them celebrate afterwards, all hungry kisses and smiles too fucking big.

he knows you'd be there too if you could. you'd be there every damn game, all of their practices too, cheering him on. his biggest fan.

it's an ache. he goes home to an empty apartment, better than the one he had when he met you, in a nicer part of town, but no less lifeless. there's no one to welcome him home, to wrap him up in a hug, kiss him how he likes and soothe away the days stresses. no one to warm his bed, no other pussy'll ever be as tempting as yours.

i miss you.

i'm thinking of you.

would it kill you to break his rules and reach out every now and then? to give him some kind of sign that this distance was driving you half as crazy as it was him?

are you trying to punish him?

it occurs to him that you probably don't have his phone number. it shouldn't have stopped you, because it wouldn't've stopped him.

—

the first time he tries to follow your instagram you block his account.

it's irritating, until he remembers that you're probably trying to abide by his rules. he can't exactly get mad at you for that, tries not to, and instead does what any sane man missing his soulmate would do; creates a fake account, steals a picture from one of his sister's friends and uses that as his profile pic – even goes so far as to follow a bunch of your friends’ accounts too, just so it doesn't look suspicious or weird when he follows you too.

and for a little while, it's enough. he can see what you're up to, who you're hanging out with, where you're going. he'll watch all your stories, your friends’ stories, just for a few seconds of you.

(maybe strokes his cock to a few of them, cums in his sheets gasping your name.)

you're being patient, he's being good, it's only for a few more months, he can last a little longer–

there's a new post on your insta, a snap of you and some asshole with his arm wrapped around your waist, your lips pressed to his cheek.

'Happy six months, love you a little more every day!'

[seijorhi]

i’ve been thinking for a while and i’ve kinda come to the conclusion that i wanna take this blog in a different direction, focus on some softer stuff for a little while. so with that in mind… i hope you guys like it 💕

Atsumu x female reader

tw: nothing, just soft and sweet vibes :) 

It’s a little after dawn when Atsumu’s alarm goes off, rudely jerking him awake.

One alarm, loud and blaring, aggravating enough for him to grunt and groan, hitting blindly around his nightstand until finally he manages to silence the stupid fucking thing. It’s only a snooze though, he knows he’ll have to wake up enough to turn it off properly otherwise it’ll just go off again and again and again and he’ll be late.

And today of all days, he really can’t afford to be late. Doesn’t wanna deal with Meian bitching at him about it all day, either.

His eyes are heavy, bleary with sleep when he reluctantly forces them open, but the first thing they settle on is you. Asleep still, your nose scrunching up all cute from the noise, but otherwise dead to the world. He’s never been much of a morning person, and ever since he brought you home with him, it’s only gotten worse. He doesn’t mind the actual waking up so much, but leaving you and a warm bed at some unholy hour of the morning; fuck, that’s almost more than he’s capable of.

Keep reading

[seijorhi]

tw: date-rape, breeding kink, pregnancy

when you find out you're pregnant after being drugged and assaulted at a party, your best friend vash is the one you turn to for help. he convinces you to keep it. the baby growing inside of you, it didn't have a say in its conception, he tells you. it's innocent in all of this. a terrible thing happened to you, he won't argue that, but... maybe some good can come of it, with this tiny little life that's yours. you'll be a great mom, vash knows that better than anyone.

and he'll be with you every step of the way, he swears it. he'll take you to all your appointments and help baby proof your apartment, he'll even go out on those late night snack runs when your cravings kick in. he'll be your shoulder to cry on, the one you turn to when you're close to breaking, your whole support system in one. vash'll do whatever he needs to – say whatever he needs to – to make sure you don't give this baby up.

he's not exactly proud of the steps he took to get you here, but it's partially your fault, too. if you weren't so stubborn he could've done it the right way. he wouldn't need to lie to you.

but it's okay, all that matters is that you're here with him, and your baby's safe and this budding family of his – he's gonna protect it with everything he's got.

[seijorhi]

TREMBLE

Nagi Seishiro x female reader

a Valentine’s Day Collab

tw: yandere themes, non-con (stealthing), baby-trapping, mildly nsfw

Relationships weren’t supposed to be all smooth sailing, Nagi knew that. Give and take and ‘compromise’ and all that stuff – least, that’s what he’d been told. 

Honestly, though, he couldn’t really see the point of relationships. It just seemed like too much effort, and for what? Sex with cuddling and kisses at the end? Someone to make you breakfast in bed a few times a year and look after you when you’re sick? 

Nagi could get his dick wet perfectly fine without going to all that extra hassle. He’d get off, they’d leave, and he’d forget all about them the second they were out the door. Nagi didn’t want a relationship. 

So all of this – it’s your fault. 

You were the one who wormed your way into his head and wouldn’t get out. You were the one who wrapped yourself around him so tightly he didn’t have a clue where to start pulling to separate you two – and worst of all, he no longer wants to.

And now that he’s invested, and he’s gone to all this effort to make accommodations and compromises, now that he loves you, you’re suddenly wanting to call it quits? 

That’s not how this works.

The two of you were meant to go out tonight. It’s Valentine’s Day and while he doesn’t particularly care about that, he knows that girls supposedly do – Reo had said as much. He was supposed to go all out and take you to dinner and buy you flowers and champagne and chocolates and jewellery, which sounded exhausting. The only upside was that when the two of you got home, he’d be rewarded with a show, and all the sex he wanted. 

But no, when he’d brought it up, you’d thrown him a tight smile and told him you were fine staying in. Which really, should’ve made him happy. Doing nothing for Valentine’s Day required a hell of a lot less energy on his part. 

He’d probably feel better about it if it wasn’t for the phone call he’d overheard the other day. The one where you were complaining to your friend about how he was being a ‘selfish, clingy asshole’ who ‘refused to budge on the tiniest things’.

No wonder he’s got issues with your friends, they’re the ones putting these shitty ideas into your head. They’re the ones who suck up all of your time.

You’re gonna leave him. 

Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but it’s coming, Nagi can feel it. It hangs over every one of your interactions like a black cloud threatening to burst; he’s going to lose you. 

You end up getting take-out for dinner. It’s not the cheap stuff, and you seem to enjoy it – not that you talk much while you eat. You barely look at him. 

And instead of the attention and pretty lace scraps he’d been looking forward to peeling off of you, you sigh like it’s some big fucking effort when he starts to kiss at your neck, tugging your hand towards his crotch. You’re still his, though. You might drag your feet on the way to the bedroom, but you’re not gonna say no to him on Valentine’s.

Yet somehow, you don’t forget to pant out, “Condom,” as he’s sliding off your plain, cotton panties.

Because you’re not on birth control.

You’re the one keeping track of that kind of stuff, and on certain days you inform him that he’s not allowed to cum inside unless he puts one on – and remembering to pull out is always such a drag.

Nagi huffs, rolling his eyes. Really, if you’re so worried about accidentally getting knocked up, shouldn’t you be the one taking care of this? Is it that much effort to take one tiny pill every day?

But Nagi’s trying to be good for you. That’s what he is – a good boyfriend, even when you’re not being a good girlfriend. So he reluctantly rolls off of you, yanks the drawer of the nightstand open to rifle for a condom.

Not that he really sees what the big deal is. Plan B exists, and if you miss the window for that and you do end up pregnant–

His hand stills.

If he did knock you up, you… you wouldn’t be able to leave. You’d be tied to him; a family. Nagi’s the one with the pro soccer player salary. He’s the one whose apartment you live in. You’re not the kind of girl who’d leave him if there was a kid involved. He could probably even convince you to get married before it popped out, just to make it all official and stuff. 

Not that Nagi wants a baby, he doesn’t. Not now, probably not ever. 

They’re grubby and annoying and for the first few years all they do is shit, eat and scream. A kid would suck up all your time and energy leaving him with the scraps, and he has absolutely no interest in changing diapers anytime soon, but… you’d stay, wouldn’t you, if he pretended to want it. 

You notice the hesitation, propping yourself up on your elbows, lifting an eyebrow, “Seishiro?”

Things happen in the heat of the moment. Condoms break… or slip off. 

His fingers close around the foil packet, and he swallows. He could deal with a brat or two if it meant you’d stay with him forever. 

He meets your eye, flashes a small smile as he takes the wrapper between his teeth and climbs back between your legs. “Happy Valentine’s, baby.”

[uravitypng]

cw: mentions of drowning.. 'cause... y'know... sirens... yandere oikawa <3333

yandere siren! toru who has lured plenty of victims to an early grave but when he saw you... his instincts fought a war with each other... drown or steal you away for himself. it's easy to drag someone down to the deep depths of the sea, it's his nature but you're looking so cute on that boat, kicking your legs in the water without a care in the world...

yandere siren! toru who thinks it's clear you're no sailor or that you've spent lots of time in or near the sea, you have no look in your eye that signals you're aware of the dangers that are currently around you as your hand reaches into the water moving with the boat.

yandere siren! toru who has seen plenty of attractive people in his years but none has ever made him feel like this, it never mattered how someone looked to him, he'd still sing them his song. but with you it's different, fascination, he wants you all to himself.

yandere siren! toru who follows the boat you're on watching you intently. he has good hearing and at the distance he is he can hear you and why you're there, you pleaded with the old man in your village who is a fisherman, he's nearly ninety and he's losing his memory, if he wasn't he definitely would not allow you to come with him for the day. you pleaded to go with him, you're scared of the water and you want to overcome your fear, your legs swinging off the boat in an attempt to overcome your fear. you can't swim but you have trust that you won't fall in and drown- how naive.

yandere siren! toru who thinks carefully about his options. from what he's heard over the last four hours of following you this may be the only day he sees you and he certainly can't have that. he could steal you? if necessary maybe even pull you down until you can't breathe so no one else can have you? but the idea of doing that makes him angry, he's right about how no one else can have you but he certainly will and he'd never let any harm come to you, his precious pearl, his beloved- his mate.

yandere siren! toru has found you're a curious human asking the old man various questions about the sea. he an expert at all the things you were wondering about, so maybe he could answer everything you want.

yandere siren! toru who realises he can use how naive you are to his advantage. maybe if he pretended to be some helpless creature you would come to his aid, humans can be stupid like that or perhaps if he rescued you, you'd let you're guard down? he prefers that option.

yandere siren! toru who needs to 'save' you. he can't sing, not this time, it makes him pout when he realises it. he can't guarantee that you wouldn't figure out it was him after he saved you.

yandere siren! toru who is careful not to be seen or heard as he swims under the boat and turns it upside down, capsizing it. he doesn't take his eyes off you as you fall in the water, watching you with rapt attention, making sure you're still okay.

one second you're on the boat and the next second you're plunged into the cold water, your thoughts aren't about your loved ones or even dying young, instead your thoughts consist of 'god, how unlucky am i?' the first time on the water and you die. how unlucky. water fills your lungs and you claw onto nothing, you can't see but then a brief movement fills your vision, a flash of blue under the water, almost hypnotic looking and whatever it is is ethereal, a beautiful sight to behold before you die. your arm feels warm, like a hand around your wrist almost like you're being pulled somewhere.

yandere siren! toru who pulls you to safety, finding a cave he often frequents, safe from any elements that could harm you and a place for you to rest. toru makes sure there is no water still in your lungs, pressing his hands to your chest in a way he has seen two humans do before after nearly drowning. the only time he failed at tempting to lure sailors has really been a blessing because he saw what they did as they washed up on a small island and now he knows how to mimic it.

yandere siren! toru sings to you while you're unconscious, stroking your cheek and nuzzling your neck, smelling your sweet enticing scent. fish circle around him as he sings and he easily disposes of them, piling them up near you for you to eat when you wake up.

as you wake you think you may be hallucinating or dead. you feel cold sturdy rock under you and as you blink a man comes into your vision. an attractive man who looks about your age with dark brown sweeping hair and chocolate brown eyes to match. both his face and his upper body would make anyone swoon. his charming smile leaving you looking up at him in awe.

yandere siren! toru who tells you his name, 'toru oikawa, but you can just call me toru!' he had said with a wink. he explains how he saw you in the water and was able to take you to the cave. "what about the man who was with me?" your voice sounds more hoarse than you thought it was going to be originally.

"huh?" toru cocks his head to the side. "i guess he died."

yandere siren! toru who watches you look around the cave, how there's enough room for you to move along the stones as long as you're careful but after what happened you're not sure if you think you're brave enough to try, worried that you'll slip and fall in.

you wonder how a cave could feel so warm, but toru choose it for that exact reason, to keep you warm. you know you'll have to take your clothes off soon so you don't get ill, you hope that toru will bring it up instead of you though. you're still studying your surroundings and your eyes land on the pile of fish. toru grins and fire lights up within him knowing that he's providing for his mate, he gets any food you need and watches as you eat.

you pass a fish over to toru and he blushes, "don't you want any toru?" he didn't originally but now you're holding it out to him he does, he leans close to you and gently clasps your hand that's holding the fish eating it. normally he eats a lot quicker.. carnal? but he doesn't this time, he tries not to he doesn't want to scare you.

yandere siren! toru who talks while you eat, asking you questions and learning more about you- his mate. he answers your questions as well without giving too much away.

yandere siren! toru who wants to wrap his arms around your soft plush body after you've eaten, he wants to protect and provide for you, but you interrupt those thoughts. "toru... why are you still in the water? you can sit next to me. if-if you don't want to there's lots of room but you'll get cold."

yandere siren! toru wishes he got to spend more time talking to you before you finding out he wasn't human. "you're so considerate and kind pretty pearl but i have something i need to tell you." the affectionate petname of pearl makes your whole body heat up and you hope you didn't react in away that he notices. "i'm not like you."

"i don't understand toru."

"i'm not human."

[seijorhi]

Divine Rights

for my beloved wife @iwaasfairy as a somewhat late, sort of birthday present aka the royal fic y'all have been waiting weeks for oikawa tooru x female reader w.c 5.6k tw: non-con, yandere themes, blood and a little gore, murder, violence, abuse, pregnancy & childbirth, breeding kink, smut, nsfw

“Miyuki forgot to bring me my tea this afternoon.” At the blank look you get in response, you hasten to clarify, “The maid– the new one, I mean. She always brings it after lunch, but today she forgot.” 

Guilt needles you with every word. You like Miyuki. Quiet as a mouse, most of the time she can hardly bring herself to meet your eye, much less talk with you, but on the days she finishes her tasks quickly enough – the days the guards aren’t watching the clock – she’ll sit with you while you sew or practice your reading. For a brief moment, you can imagine her a friend. Perhaps if you were her friend, or at least a better friend, you’d ignore the gnawing unease in the pit of your stomach, keep your mouth shut and spare her. 

Because there will be consequences, of that you’re certain. Whatever grace the King affords you on a whim does not extend to the servants scurrying throughout the castle. Most especially those few he allows within your presence. 

Stretched out languidly beside you, Oikawa arches an eyebrow. “Your tea?” he repeats.

Your cheeks flame. What you’d give right now to squirm away from him, crawl out of his bed, this room, and disappear entirely just to avoid him and this mortifying conversation. 

There’s a voice in the back of your head that reminds you that there’s a decent chance Oikawa’s ignorant of all of it. Why should he have to concern himself with trivialities like contraception or pulling out? He’s the King, there’ll always be those who trail along after him, cleaning up his messes. No royal bastards. No loose ends when the blacksmith’s youngest disappears behind the walls of the castle keep. 

“So that we don’t– there’s no chance of a– a baby. I meant to say something earlier, but…” you trail off, the slow trickle of his seed oozing from the raw ache between your legs speaking for itself. 

With your oldest sister and her husband, it’d taken months for her to fall pregnant. Newlyweds don’t always conceive within the first year. If every accidental slip left women pregnant, the streets by the brothels would run riot with unclaimed bastards. It’ll be fine. 

You drank the tea Miyuki brought you yesterday, so long as she brings it shortly, and you take it as normal again tomorrow–

Long, elegant fingers coax at your chin, derailing the runaway thought in its tracks. His chuckle, deep and low, registers a split second before the kiss. “Not a mistake,” he tells you, murmuring against your lips. “You’re going to give me an heir, sweet girl. Two, actually. An heir and a spare, and maybe a few after that, if you’re very, very good for me.” He says it indulgently, his own breath catching on a low shudder when his index and middle fingers curl up into your pussy, pushing his spend back inside of you, “Where it belongs,” he whispers.

You seize his forearm, “T-Tooru–” you gasp.

He has to be joking. You can’t– He wouldn’t–

The tea made sense. You’ve no title, you’re not his wife nor his Queen, not a Lady of the court or the daughter of some important, foreign dignitary. Outside the walls of these chambers, you do not exist at all. You aren’t anyone, anything beyond what he desires you to be.

You cannot have his child. 

“Please, I don’t want this. I’m not– I’m not ready.” Your nails are digging half moon circles into his skin, and the prickle of tears unshed and the lump in your throat make your voice thick and strained, but the King meets your panicked gaze with a twinkle in his eye. 

“You are,” he kisses your forehead, “and you will,” your mouth, sucking on your lower lip. “Trust in your King, love. Everything is as it’s meant to be.”

The woman who brings your meals the next day doesn’t linger, she scurries about, shoulders drawn, flinching when you ask her name.

There’s no tea – not that afternoon, or any that follow. 

—

When you were younger, you used to pretend you lived in the castle up on the hill. 

Your two older brothers would fight over which would play King while you and your sisters danced and sipped honeyed drinks and pretended to give your favour to one or the other, only to order them about once they’d been crowned. You imagined dances and feasts and thrilling hunts, tournaments with brave knights and roaring crowds. Never a dull moment. 

A life of luxury forever out of reach. 

Until it was forced upon you, but only a shadow. 

You eat delicacies you could only have dreamed of, taste rich, heady wine on the King’s tongue – once, a mouthful from his lips, Oikawa laving up the droplet that spilled down your chin.

But while you hear the distant, muted melodies that play somewhere down below, you’ve never sat in the hall by his side. Only a few of the names he rattles off you recognise. The others remain blurry figures in your head, characters in a play you’ve yet to attend. Won’t ever attend, if the King has his way. 

The court gossip you learn in dribs and drabs, never enough to paint a complete picture, and for all that he chatters away in your ear, Oikawa shares little. You aren’t privy to the schemes that run through the castle, the kingdom at large, from its highest echelon. Nothing for you to trouble your pretty little head over.

It should come as no surprise then that news of his upcoming nuptials doesn’t come from the King himself. 

“I imagine they’ll be moving you,” the maid – Miyuki’s replacement – says one afternoon, out of the blue. And it might not come as such a shock if she’d ever spoken to you before that, if the comments weren’t accompanied by a wide eyed, frantic look at odds with her stilted delivery, if you had any idea what she was on about to begin with.

You blink at her. “Moving me?”

She nods, a shaking jut of her chin. “When the King marries at week’s end. If he decides to keep you, it won’t be here.”

If.

Oikawa’s never bothered with sweet lies. Every vow he’s ever made to you, he’s followed through on, every threat delivered – no matter your tears. In that, at least, you trust him. When he withheld the tea and told you he wanted you to give him an heir, you believed it. He had no reason to lie.

Your mind spins, trying in vain to pluck the threads of an unravelling tapestry; the colours wrong and the image distorted. 

A Queen doesn’t bode well. Moving you would be the logical step; there’s no doubt a plethora of nooks and crannies he could lock you away in until he’s gotten what he wants – but now that makes even less sense than before.

A cold feeling prickles at the nape of your neck.

And then what? What happens when you give him the child he wants? What happens when you outlive your usefulness?

You’ve become stone, blank faced, frozen if not for the slight tremor in your – the hand she seizes by your wrist, fingers digging in tight. Dropping all pretence, she steps closer, voice lowering to a frightened whisper, “You need to leave. Whatever you think you’re gaining from this, you aren’t. He’ll kill us all before–”

“Enough.”

The maid snaps back like she’s been scalded, dropping into a hasty curtsy, eyes fixed to the floor as one of Oikawa’s Royal Guards – knights in their own right – Matsukawa, strides into the room, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. 

He spares you only a glance, a quick, cursory look to determine you’re unharmed. A laughable notion, really, when one considers his King’s penchant for manhandling.

“She didn’t do anything wrong.”

“She had her hands on you,” he counters. And the King will not abide that.

You bite your tongue, sinking down onto the bed as Matsukawa steps aside and the maid – she never told you her name, never answered when you asked – all but flees with a hand to her mouth, muffling a sob. Matsukawa leaves behind her, the door quietly shut in his wake.

For a long time after that you sit in silence. 

Eventually, the door opens again – a boy this time, no older than seven, carrying a tray from the kitchens. He stares with wide, awe filled eyes, and bows and stammers out an apology, cheeks flushed apple red. Only the ache in your chest draws the corners of your lips upwards into a paper-thin smile.

Your sister’s boys would’ve been his age. 

If, if, if–

“I hear you’ve had an exciting day, my love.”

The sun has set. The King has returned home to roost. 

“Is that why?” you ask, hardly glancing up as he makes his way over towards you.

“Why what?”

“I-is she barren? Hideous? Too old to bear children, or too– too–” you can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. Cruel, heartless and selfish he may be, you have to believe there’s at least one boundary he wouldn’t cross. “What happens to me when all this is done? When you have your heirs, or you grow weary of this– of… me?” you ask instead.

You don’t realise tears are rolling down your face until he’s looming over you, having pushed his way between your legs, cupping your cheeks to wipe them away. The gesture could almost be construed as something comforting, something genuine, if not for the preening satisfaction behind his sigh. 

“My stubborn, sensitive girl, twisting yourself into knots over things that aren’t yours to worry about. We’d both be much happier if you just left well enough alone and trusted me, hm? You know I can’t stand to see you cry.” Liar. “But if it will ease that tender heart of yours, know that she’s a whining cunt, I have a sizeable new merchant fleet courtesy of her father, and there is no scenario, in this or any other life–” his expression doesn’t waver, but every trace of levity bleeds from his voice as his thumb slides between your lips, “–where I will ever be done with you, do you understand?”

You nod. With his thumb hooked in your mouth, pressing against your tongue, it’s all you can do. 

“Good girl. Always so good for me.”

It isn’t unexpected when his other hand moves to unlace his breeches and fish out his cock.

“Get it wet,” he breathes.

When he’s feeling generous, your King’s the one to sink between your knees, tongue and fingers working at your core until you’re panting, dizzy on the edge of pleasure, warm and welcoming, dripping with a need that’s his to sate.

But the King isn’t feeling generous tonight. Gathering your hair in his fist, he lets out an anticipatory breath, a near hiss, when your fingers curl around him and you lean in, lips obediently parting.  Your tongue swirls around the velvety head giving it a light,  experimental suck, and his hips buck, chasing the sensation.

Usually, Oikawa enjoys your mouth almost as much as your pussy, preferring to draw it out, edge himself, let you demonstrate your ardent devotion to your King, your love – but there’s none of that now. Your scalp screams for relief when he tightens his grip, and though you should have been expecting it, the sudden thrust into your mouth takes you by surprise, eyes shooting wide, choking on the intrusion.

It’s rough and graceless, the wet, gagging sounds that spill out amidst his panting, the tears that spring to your eyes and the burn in the back of your throat. You barely have the presence of mind to work your tongue, hollow your cheeks. Suck like he wants you to.

The reprieve comes without warning, Oikawa yanking you off by your hair. True enough, every inch of his thick, flushed cock shines with your spit, gleaming in the flickering candlelight.

“Lie back,” he orders.

You sprawl back onto the bed. 

None of your earlier nerves have eased, but the tremor in your heart has everything to do with the naked desire that bleeds across his expression as he finishes ridding himself of his clothes. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous.”

You shake your head, fingers fluttering in the sheets either side of you.

“No?” he purrs. “You don’t wish it were you I were putting in a crown–” Your insides twist into knots as he crawls onto the bed taking an ankle in his grip. A soft whine escapes, but he simply trails his fingers lovingly along your calf, pushing your shift up and sliding closer. “–pledging myself to in the eyes of God and our Countrymen?”

Your breath hitches. He knocks your legs wider, slotting himself into the open space. “I–I wouldn’t dare to be so bold. I’m already yours, that’s… that’s enough for me.”

He laughs darkly, pressing a kiss to your knee and lifting it to his shoulder. “You are mine, but if you want a crown, I’ll give you one.” 

You seize the sheets, gasping for air when his cock slides into you in a slow, punishing thrust. 

“I’ll give you a crown, the dress, all the pretty diamonds and rubies you like so long as I can have you like this you while wear them– fuck,” he moans, eyes closing, head tilted back as he savours the tight warmth of your pussy, squeezing at his cock. 

He leans down, seeking the taste of your swollen lips. With his tongue licking greedily into the open seam of your mouth, he rolls his hips and falls into a rhythm which leaves you writhing and squirming beneath him. The drag of his cock stings. The King’s never cared that it hurts and it doesn’t affect him now, his fingers digging into the meat of your thigh, dragging you closer, shifting your hips so the angle is better. Deeper. Every inch of you claimed, every inch of you his. 

“I’ll marry you too, if that’s what you want,” he pants. 

Each whimper, sharp, stuttered breath, plea for clemency, for a second’s reprieve – they spur him on. Drive him to the brink. You’re sweltering from inside out. Sweat forms at your forehead, beading along the nape of your neck – through hazy eyes, you watch a droplet trickle down Oikawa’s bare chest, struck with the strangest desire to push yourself up and lap at it, all the while the King’s cock rocks inside of you, deep, hard strokes that rob you of sense. 

Your bones rattle with each slam of his hips against the cradle of your thighs, your cries swallowed by his tongue, soothed with a kiss. Pain and pleasure war, bleeding over until they’re indiscernible from one another. “We’ll do it in the Old Ways,” he tells you, his eyes alight, his smile almost savage in its raw pleasure. “Oaths sealed in blood and fucking, witnessed by a Priest. I wouldn’t let any of those old fucks anywhere near you, but Iwa should suffice.”

All you can do is cry out, clutching at his forearm. You’re sure that your nails break the skin, but it only urges Oikawa on. 

“You want Iwa to come watch me split you apart on my cock, hm?” His weight drops, leaning over and nearly folding you in two, and on the next thrust you see stars that blink out your vision. “You want him to marry us?” You shatter beneath him, eyes rolling back, body shuddering as pleasure explodes inside of you, fizzing through your veins til every part of you is alight with it. 

The King swears violently, the heat of your spasming cunt driving him over the edge. With his forehead pressed against yours, he cums with a gritted out moan, fucking his release deep inside of you. Where it belongs. 

—

The disparity between the two of you is never so stark as when Oikawa dons his regalia. From the deep teal of his fur-lined cloak, clasped with chains of gold, to the glittering gemstones set into his crown, he wears finery like a second skin. Even his leather boots would fetch more money at market than your family had ever seen in their lives.

You, meanwhile, are barefoot, hair unbound, wearing a shift stained with last night’s blood. Oikawa smiles down at you with a fond sort of benevolence while you fiddle with the last of his fastenings. At one point of time, he must’ve had a servant to help him with this sort of thing. 

Now, he has you, and seems all the more pleased for it.

“Are you coming back tonight?” you ask.

He catches your hands when you pull away, bringing them back to rest on his chest. “Where else would I go?”

These are, of course, his chambers. 

“And… her?” you choke out, refusing to meet his gaze. 

“You mean the blushing bride to be?” He laughs, the sound grating on your already fraught nerves. “You wouldn’t happen to be jealous, darling, would you?” 

If he fucks her here tonight, with you in the room, you might actually vomit. 

Biting down on the tip of your tongue, you force a nod. It earns another laugh from the King, “My little liar,” he croons. “How quick you are to forget the promises we made to each other.”  Like a dance, he spins you to draw your back flush to his chest, turning you both to face the mirror. 

The reflection paints a stark, ugly picture. Baleful eyes shadowed and drawn. Skin sapped of its healthy glow. You might’ve been a great beauty once – in the eye of certain beholders – in the King’s covetous embrace, there’s something hollow that stares back, aching and endless. A stranger plucked from the wilds. 

Oikawa rests his cheek against your hair and smiles at your reflection, tugging at the top of your shift until it slips low enough to reveal the marred flesh above your breast. He hums appreciatively. “The Queen isn’t your concern. She won’t be setting foot in here.”

The finality in his tone stops you from prying deeper. 

That, and the sharp double rap at the door. 

A quiet curse tumbles from his mouth. For a split second, his grip tightens, the beginnings of a scowl flitting across his handsome face before he smooths it out with a huff. “Later,” he promises, dragging himself away like it pains him to do so.

Rather than leaving, though, you watch as he steps aside to allow someone else entry – a guard.

Kyoutani. Mad Dog. 

Presumably nicknamed for his scowling, vicious mien and the rabidity of his temperament, of all the Royal Guard, he is definitely the last you’d pick to be alone in a room with. Somewhat darkly, you wonder if that’s the sole reason Oikawa says what he does next. “I think we’ve been a little too lax with your safety, my love. Mad Dog will be here to keep a closer eye on you for the foreseeable future.”

Honey brown eyes bear down on you, sharp and shrewd, and a chill rolls down your spine.

“Be good for him, won’t you?”

—

True to his word, she never appeared in his bedchambers; he returned alone, cheeks flushed, eyes glazed and handsy, tugging at your shift with clumsy hands and a sloppy grin before you’d fully roused.

Nothing changes – with the exception of your new guard. 

Gone is any semblance of privacy. For every moment that your King does not dog your every waking breath, Kyoutani takes up watch. You cannot ignore him. You cannot relax, pinned under his stare like a rabbit in a trap. If you thought your maids were nervous before, it’s nothing to the unbridled panic the latest exudes working under the eye of the King’s loyal hound, walking on eggshells like he’s one wrong breath away from snapping her spine. 

After Matsukawa and her predecessor, you’re not entirely sure she’s wrong. With the way he watches you, tracking your every move with narrowed eyes and a perpetual scowl, you’re more afraid that when he snaps – when Oikawa loosens that leash ever so slightly – it’ll be your neck that finds its way between his salivating jaws. That maybe this is your end, and he’s making you face it day in, day out.

You believe Oikawa, and the oaths he made – but only to a point. 

It’s why the morning they bring you eggs for breakfast and the smell sends you hurtling to the bathroom, it isn’t a sense of relief or happiness that fills you. While Oikawa rubs soothingly at your back, kissing your neck, your hair – whatever parts of you he can reach, cooing praise that goes in one ear and out the other, there’s an edge of hysteria that winds its way through your chest and constricts util it feels like you’ll choke under the pressure of it all.

In your womb, a noose and a lifeline. 

“I want my sisters. I want to see them.”

Breakfast long forgotten, lying in bed covered solely by the fine sheen of sweat sticking to your skin, you take his hand in yours and guide it to your stomach. It’ll be months before you show, but that doesn’t stop his eyes from flicking down, the hunger that pools at the reminder of the life that’ll grow there. Your child; his heir.  

“Please, Tooru. I haven’t– it’s been months. Let me see them. Five minutes, that’s all I ask.”

His eyes return to yours, pityingly, his hand stays where it is, thumb stroking bare flesh. “My love, they won’t see you.”

He might as well have slapped you. “What? Why wouldn’t they see me? You– you promised you wouldn’t–”

“I haven’t laid a finger on them,” he assures you. “They… blame you for what happened. Your parents and brothers. Their husbands. The boys. Even if I allowed the guards to permit you entry, they’d only lash out and hurt you. I wouldn’t put you through that, not for anything.”

Rationality rebels against this. Whatever your faults and missteps, you never asked for the King’s attention, you wouldn’t have tried to run if you’d known the cost. He did this, not you.  But rationality gets lost entirely, drowned beneath the wave of grief that sweeps you up. It coils around you and sinks down into your bones. Grief becomes the air you breathe, the blood in your veins. It’s agony and heartbreak and the first sob that leaves you feels like it’s cleaving you in two.

They blame you. 

You don’t fight him, not anymore. You sit pretty and spread your legs, let him fill you with rot over and over and over again, all to keep the King’s ire from touching them further. 

They live and breathe at your behest while you’ve become a broodmare, and they hate you for it.

The cracks within grow wide and deep. 

Still cradling your belly, the King laments, “I’m sorry, my love. I’d have kept you from that knowledge if I could.”

If, if, if–

—

Your breasts swell and grow tender, your middle fills out.

A simple gold band on the King’s left hand marks their marriage, but within the walls of your gilded cage, the new Queen does not exist. Beyond them, you don’t. 

She breaks that tentative impasse only once.

The day itself is unremarkable. The King left hours ago, you’re on the chaise, trying, as per usual, to ignore Kyoutani’s overbearing presence with your drawing book when you hear the muffled conversation filtering through the door.

At first, you pay it no mind. While your maid is usually the only one permitted access, servants come and go throughout the day, the guards change rotation, every so often this Lord or that Lord will come seeking the ear of the King. None of them gain entry, and so you’ve learned to mostly tune the noise out.

But the voices get louder, distractingly so. 

You recognise Makki’s, the other’s foreign to you. Female, you can discern that much, and with each passing exchange, her soft, dulcet tone morphs into something sharp and shrill.

From the corner of your eye, you spy Mad Dog stiffening, a clenching of his jaw. Without necessarily meaning to, you abandon the quill pen, folding your half-finished sketch shut, one hand drifting to flutter nervously over your stomach. 

“– hiding his pet whore! Let me in, or so help me–”

The door thumps violently, rattling the lock and you jump with it. A snarl tears through the chamber – not from Makki or the Queen, but Kyoutani, eyes ablaze, who stalks towards you, seizes you by your arm and hauls you to your feet roughly. 

For months he’s prowled on the edge of an invisible barrier he’s erected around you. He smashes through it now without care, calloused fingers digging in through the cotton of your dress while you stumble behind him, struggling to keep up with his long, angry strides.

“In the bedroom. Now,” he growls, as though you aren’t already at the door.

You expect him to toss you inside and slam the door shut behind you, with him on the other side. He doesn’t. He drags you to the huge bed, pushing you – almost gently – back onto the mattress and stomps to stand guard by its foot without so much as a word of explanation. The door swings closed of its own accord, but not before you catch the screeching wail that cuts off with another loud thump.

The silence grows heavy after that.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’d entertained the possibility that whatever it was Oikawa was plotting with you and her, the Queen was in on it. Content enough with her crown not to care where her husband buried his cock each night or that her own bed remained cold and empty.

She, after all, would remain once your part in this was done. 

But even if she was just a simple fool, tossed into this game at the whims of the men in her life, you imagined she’d be untouchable. Protected in a way you’d never been afforded.

If the Queen – pretty idiot, scheming bitch – is not safe from the King’s violence, what hope is there for you?

Your eyes drift to the sword on Mad Dog’s hip, and you do a very good job of pretending that when your hands curl around your stomach, they aren’t shaking, that the lie doesn’t taste bitter on your tongue when you whisper, “It’s okay, little one. We’re gonna be okay.”

When the King returns shortly thereafter, he doesn’t utter a word about the incident. Dismissing Kyoutani with a flick of his wrist, he cups your cheeks in warm, tender palms, marvelling at the tears that shine there as though he isn’t perfectly aware he’s their cause.

“Give me a son,” he says lowly, a secret just for the two of you, “and I promise we’ll only have to go through this once more.”

—

You know it before the first contraction, before your water breaks, soaking the sheets beneath.

The physician’s called, your maid pulled from her rest to attend you as the King refuses to allow any more eyes into the room. For hours, you wait out your contractions, breathing through the pain while the King paces and the physician flits between examining you and whispering in his ear. 

Eventually, though, he rises from your bedside and nods at the King. 

“Makki, fetch the Queen. Iwaizumi, too,” he orders. To you, he says, “She’s had such a difficult pregnancy, can hardly get out of bed these days, the poor thing. She deserves to be here for the birth of her child, don’t you think?”

Your chin bobs in agreement, too terrified to speak.

Within minutes the door to the chambers opens again, the Lord Chancellor stepping through, followed by Makki with the Queen in tow.

Mortification stirs within your chest at the sight of the King’s right hand, and you’re quick to divert your gaze to the Queen instead. She stands behind Hanamaki, pallid and thin – certainly not pregnant – and she might have been beautiful, had her expression not been pinched in a sneer. 

A whining cunt, Oikawa had said. But no amount of imperiousness can hide the nervous way her eyes dart between you, the King, and the gathered guards. 

“Your Grace,” she utters stiffly.

She isn’t wearing a crown. No jewels or pretty dresses. Her hair’s loosely braided and she wears a shift dress not dissimilar to your own. Hardly the picture of royalty. 

What strikes you, though, is that she looks passably similar to you. 

“Kneel.”

Another contraction hits, stealing your attention. You squeeze your eyes shut and suck in a breath through clenched teeth, waiting for the rippling pain to abate. 

“Don’t look at her,” Oikawa drawls. “Kneel.”

When your eyes flutter open again, the Queen’s on her knees, the edge of Makki’s blade resting upon her shoulder. Your heart lurches.

You don’t understand what’s happening, why they’re here, but the panic rising up inside of you threatens to sweep you away and you cannot help the tears that spring to your eyes or the lump that forms in your throat. Your mother should be here. Your sisters. They’d help you through this, guide you with steady hands and keep you calm – but your mother burned with your home, and your sisters, who despise you anyway, now traitors to the Crown. 

The bed’s been turned to give you the smallest semblance of privacy, but there’s no escaping the prying eyes across the room. In a room full of voyeurs, you’ve never been more alone. More terrified. You don’t want to give birth in front of them. You don’t want your children taken from you. 

You don’t want to die like this, an animal on display.  

“Tooru–” you gasp, curling in on yourself as another contraction hits.

He’s at your side in an instant, hand in yours, the other stroking your hair. He shushes you gently as the physician peers between your legs and tells you that it’s time to push.

—

There’s no more proof needed of the divine right of kings than in the two healthy baby boys the physician presents to Oikawa. 

An heir and a spare. 

The Queen still kneels on the ground at Makki’s feet. Your maid’s fussing with sheets, Iwaizumi and Kyoutani surveying from the corner, straight backed. Alert. Waiting.

Every eye but the Queen’s is fixed on Oikawa and his sons. 

“Can… Can I hold them? Please?” 

You’ll beg if you have to. Those boys are yours. He can kill you now, throw you in the dungeons below with your sisters – he can erase you from the story entirely, but those two perfect boys belong to you, and you’ll haunt him to the grave if he robs you of the chance to kiss them goodbye. 

As though the entire room isn’t holding their breath, dangling on the edge of a knife, Oikawa returns to your side, carefully laying the two swaddled bundles in your arms, and presses a kiss to your trembling lips. “My perfect, perfect girl,” he marvels, smoothing your hair back from your sweaty forehead. “You did so well. Better than I could’ve possibly hoped.”

One of the babies yawns, squirming into the warmth of your chest, the other blinks curiously at you, his tiny brown eyes a mirror image of his father’s. They’ll need to be fed soon.

Rather than snatching them back as you fear, the King eases down onto the bed beside you, careful as to not disturb either Prince, and tucks you into his side. Unable to hold it back any longer, a sob wrenches its way free, and Oikawa sighs with such exasperated fondness that it breaks you a little more.

“Iwa, she’s crying.”

The Lord Chancellor grunts in agreement. “You seem to have that effect.”

Oikawa laughs, the tip of his finger running down his son’s nose. “Women die in childbirth every day. It’s a small miracle, my love,” his lips brush your cheek, nuzzling close, “that you were spared that, especially with twins. The Queen wasn’t so fortunate.”

At first, you think he’s referring to his own mother – it’s common knowledge that there were complications when she delivered the King’s younger brother and neither survived – until you catch a glint of steel from the corner of your eye. On instinct, you turn to follow it, and witness the exact moment the Queen’s head is cleaved from her body and tumbles to the floor.

Her body – kneeling in forced supplication, blood spurting from her still pumping heart – hangs there for a moment, as if waiting for the shock to register, for everyone to drink their fill of the grisly scene, before it too topples to the ground. 

An echo, playing out for you once more. 

Your maid screams, Kyoutani darting to wrench her back before she can flee. The physician pales. Startled by the sudden noise and the commotion in the room, two near identical wails break within moments of each other, your sons making their displeasure known, wriggling about and crying in your arms. You draw them closer, eyes wide, trembling like a leaf, to press a kiss against both their foreheads as you choke back a sob of your own. 

“And the woman?” Iwa asks. 

Oikawa, head on your shoulder, utterly absorbed in his children’s outbursts, doesn’t even bother looking up. He waves his fingers in front of their little faces and coos when they scrunch up in response. 

“We’ll need someone to clean up the blood. Take her tongue instead.”

[seijorhi]

Uneven Ground

Part 4 of the Betaverse Masterlist Kuroo Tetsurou, Bokuto Kotarou, Akaashi Keiji x female reader w.c 8.7k tw: a/b/o, yandere, noncon, smut, ptsd, blood and minor violence, forced claiming, nsfw

“You can’t not go.”

“I’ve spoken two whole sentences to the guy, and I’ve never watched a game of volleyball in my life,” you reply. Both of which are true. Not the entire reason, but valid objections all the same. “Besides, it wasn't like he invited me specifically. He invited the whole team, it was a general thing. He won’t even notice if I’m not there.”

Ino shrugs. She glances over her shoulder to check no one’s around and leans in close, lowering her voice.

“Yeah, but it’s not about him. The boss’ got a hard-on for Kuroo. His packmate’s some big-shot player in the league and he’s obsessed. Like, ultra fan-boy. He was standing right next to us when we got the invite. If you don’t go, he’ll notice and trust me, he’ll make it a thing.” She gives you a meaningful look as she draws back, patting you on the shoulder. “It’s a few hours, you’ll be fine.”

Your fucking boss. 

The sole reason you went out with the rest of the team for drinks, the reason you didn’t – couldn’t – make a polite, if not hasty exit after finishing your first. The invite would’ve gone out regardless – you work in the same building, a few of the guys on your team close enough to call drinking buddies, hitting the same bars and hole in the wall joints after work – the only difference being that you wouldn’t have been a part of it.

‘Nothing beats courtside, ‘course, but it’s tradition to kick off the season at mine.’ Stuck between your coworkers, insides twisting into knots when those hazel eyes flicked your way, ‘You guys should come.’

And now, apparently, you don’t have a choice in the matter.

—

Not counting your boss, there’s ten of you on the team. One happily bonded omega, seven betas – including you and Ino – and two alphas; Sakai, in her mid-to-late 30’s and Junya, who’s two years younger than you and already working his way to his next promotion. 

Nearly four months in, and you’ve finally gotten to a place where you don’t have the urge to flee any time either of them walks into the room. That’s progress.

Sakai’s got an omega of her own and Junya’s not interested in women, much less betas, and those facts should matter, they should make a difference, but they don’t.

Still. Baby steps.

—

There’s butterflies in your stomach. Not the kind you used to get back in school, making eyes across the room with your crush. Not the type to leave you warm and giddy. You feel faintly ill. 

Your hands are clammy too, but short of anyone reaching for a handshake or a hug – unlikely – that’s a problem you can deal with.

You’ve been at Kuroo’s for twenty minutes already and the game doesn’t start for another fifteen. 

You wander around with a glass of wine someone handed you that you haven’t touched, flitting on the outskirts of conversations that don’t include you, and while you do make an effort to appear present and attentive, laughing when everyone else does, a hum of agreement here and there, you find yourself more often that not staring at the furniture, the framed pictures on the walls. No specially lit trophy case or wall of medals, but–

“You look bored.”

The glass in your hand slips. Blame the sweaty palms or the way you spook like a startled animal – it crashes to the ground at your feet, shards of glass skittering across the floor, the wine you hadn’t touched drenching the front of your skirt and your shoes.

“Shit.”

Kuroo, who’d snuck up beside you, makes a choked noise of surprise. People stop talking, turn to gawk – only for a moment, but that moment stretches infinitely, in slow motion with a spotlight shined directly on you. Stupid, awkward, clumsy beta. Your cheeks burn.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a jumpy little thing?” he drawls, nudging his shoulders teasingly against yours. Like you’re friends. Like this is funny. 

And that, more than the shards of shattered glass at your feet or the wine staining your clothes, cracks like a hammer to your defences.

“I, um–” your throat’s too dry. “Sorry. I’ll go get…” you’re backing away, stumbling over your heels when there’s a light, fleeting touch to your wrist.

A pretty, auburn haired omega you hadn’t noticed before stands at your side, next to Kuroo. She offers a small, reassuring smile, “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “I’ll clean this up. Bathroom’s just over there,” she points, “if you need a sec.”

You take the out. Not a word to Kuroo or her or anybody else, scarpering off without a backwards glance. 

There’s not a whole lot to be done for your skirt. With trembling hands and vision that blurs with stupid, ridiculous tears, you sponge it off best you can, leaving a giant wet spot that doesn’t look much better.

You need to pull yourself together.

It’d be bad enough if everyone out there were strangers you’d never have to see or speak to again, but these are the people you work with. They already believe you’re awkward and probably socially inept, you can’t have them thinking you’re going to unravel after a simple startle.

The worst part is, you’re fully aware this is an overreaction.

If you could, you’d change it. Rewire your brain so logic would overrule blind panic. One alpha hurt you, years ago. You can’t be spiralling into hysterics every time you’re forced into close proximity with another. By and large, alphas aren’t interested in betas, most won’t pay you a second thought, most don’t have bad intentions.

You need to get a fucking grip.

Deep breaths. Inhale through your nose, hold it, exhale through your mouth. Inhale, hold–

Exhale. 

You breathe like that until your hands stop trembling and your pulse calms down. Until you don’t feel hunted, and when you stare in the mirror and school your features into something less haunted, still wan, still a little wide-eyed, the image of it holds.

As good as it’ll get.

You emerge from the bathroom steadier than when you went in, but rather than slipping back into the fray, you head for the balcony. The sun’s set, it’s cooler outside and you desperately need another minute to just breathe. 

This time, you see him coming. Clock him peeling away from his friends’ conversation to follow you out. Dark haired, glasses, handsome with a somewhat serious mien. An alpha. He’s in a few of the photos you’ve seen tonight – the last of Kuroo’s packmates, if you had to guess, though if anyone mentioned his name, you’ve since forgotten it. 

He stops a few feet away, leaning against the railing, head tilted your way. Casual, relaxed. Not far enough. 

Your heart thuds off kilter.

“He wasn’t trying to be an asshole,” the stranger says after a long beat, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. “It’s a natural talent of his, unfortunately.”

“W-what?”

“Kuroo,” he elaborates. “With the wine and all that. He wasn’t looking to scare you off.”

“Oh.” You swallow hard. “Um, yeah. No, it’s– it’s fine… Sorry I broke one of your glasses.”

“I think we’ll survive the loss.” 

You don’t get it. He’s smiling, lightening the mood with dry humour, apologising for his packmate. There’s no move to close the distance between you, no hint of hostility or derision, and none of it is the slightest bit reassuring. None of it eases the prickling on the back of your neck or the vice-like constriction around your lungs. You turn to face the view, the glittering city lights miles away set against the violet sky, the whisper of a breeze blowing. It’s beautiful. Peaceful – or it would be, if he wasn’t boring holes into you with those flat, blue-grey eyes. 

“Since I doubt Kuroo said anything, I’m Akaas–”

He’s cut off by someone calling your name. Both of you turn on instinct, you half expect it to be Ino, but standing in the open doorway, a faint frown marring her otherwise flawless face, is Sakai.

“The game’s about to start,” the female alpha says, a sharp, assessing gaze flickering between you two. It softens fractionally when it finally settles on you. “You should come back inside. It’s cold out here.”

You can count on your fingers the number of times Sakai’s spoken directly to you when it wasn’t work related. There’s no mistaking the concern etched in her brow, though. The look she flicks the other alpha when you wordlessly scurry past him.

She steps back, giving you plenty of space to get past her, and for the first time you wonder if the carefully maintained distance between you hasn’t entirely been a one-sided endeavour.

In a quiet voice, she asks, “You okay?”

“Mhm,” you lie. 

—

Six days later, you’re waiting on the ground floor for the eternally slow elevator to ride up to your office when a woman steps up behind you, an omega, if the sweet scent of honeysuckle is anything to go by.

Since you don’t make it a habit to ogle random omegas, you simply shift a bit to the side to give her more space, attention already sliding back to the digital display above the elevator, tracking its crawling descent. For the life of you, you cannot understand how in a twenty storey building with three elevators, only one ever seems to be working at a time. 

“Hi,” she says.

You don’t glance over, positive that she’s talking to somebody else. It’s only when there’s no immediate response, not even a tinny echo from down a phone line, that you turn to look at her fully, and in doing so, realise she’s speaking to you. 

“… Hi,” you parrot back, awkwardly and a beat too late.

And then it hits you.

Auburn hair, pretty smile. You couldn’t smell the honeysuckle that night because, well, you weren’t exactly working at full capacity, what with your incoming breakdown and all. But you recognise her face now that you’re looking at her properly.

“Himari,” she supplies, not perturbed in the slightest. “I’m Himari, we met at Kuroo’s for the opening match the other night, I don’t know if you remember…” she trails off.

“Yeah, I remember.” Burned into your memory, more like. “Thank you, by the way.” 

She waves off your gratitude as the elevator finally deigns to arrive. Both of you step inside, you first, with Himari behind you. “Which floor?” you ask, punching in fifteen for yourself. 

“Eighteen.” 

…Where Kuroo and the rest of the JVA work. Huh. 

You suppose it makes sense. She was standing by Kuroo at the time, had offered to clean up the mess, which strongly suggested she was familiar navigating their home, either a close friend or their–

“You um, you and Kuroo?” you ask. With the sweater, skirt and boots combo she’s wearing, you can’t spot any claiming marks, but omegas aren’t always about flaunting those things. “You’re their mate?” 

She blushes a darling pink. “Well, kind of. Almost. But I’m actually really glad I ran into you.”

The elevator climbs.

“You…are?”

She laughs, “Yeah, I am. I think we should go get coffee.”

The invite, if you can call it that, isn’t the strangest thing she could’ve come out with. People in elevators probably get asked out for coffee on a semi-regular basis. Doesn’t make this situation any less bizarre. 

“Coffee?”

“Or boba, or matcha, tea. Milkshakes. The beverage isn’t really the important bit.” She may as well be speaking French for how you blink uncomprehendingly at her. “Here, pass me your phone, let me give you my number.” 

She holds out an expectant hand, and without conscious thought you dig through your purse and pass it to her, unlocked. 

She hands it back a few seconds later, right as the elevator arrives on the fifteenth floor and the doors slide open.

“We’re gonna be good friends, I’ve got a sense for these kinda things.” She winks at you, “I’ll tell Kuroo you said hi.”

—

Back in high school, your best friend was an omega. She’s on the other side of the country now, all packed up and happily mated, but every now and then either she’ll reach out or you will, and it’s like no time’s passed at all. They can be finicky about odd things, and they get a little weird around their heats, but overall you’ve never had issues with omegas.

You don’t even have an issue with this omega. You’re just… a bit bewildered. 

It has to be pity, right? The chances that watching you spin out in a giant overreaction to an alpha striking up a conversation endeared you to her in any way are slim to none, you can’t understand what else it could be if not pity. 

There’s no denying you’re a mess – last week proved that –  you’re working on it, but you aren’t some broken doll for anyone to fawn over and fix.

And yet, in spite of those misgivings, here you are. Standing outside the cute little brunch spot she’d messaged you about, wondering, not for the first time, whether you’re overthinking things. There is a slight possibility, you can concede, maybe, that there is no ulterior motive. That Himari’s genuinely interested in being friends, terrible first impressions notwithstanding. You’re afraid a lot of the time. Overwhelmed and easily panicked, but you aren’t a coward. 

What’s the worst one over-friendly omega can do, you muse, dithering on the doorstep before you take a deep breath, force your shoulders to loosen and walk on in. 

The universe, ever giving, is quick to provide you an answer. 

In the cozy, well lit cafe, it’s easy to spot the auburn haired omega, and the tall, bespectacled alpha sitting beside her.

The sudden nausea that yanks deep in your belly, the panic sawing raggedly through your chest, those are familiar to you. Familiar, and deeply unpleasant.

He’s the one who catches sight of you first, a faint smile as he raises a hand in greeting.

You consider running. Well, running might be a bit dramatic. You consider ducking your head and sneaking out the door you just walked through, pretending you never saw them, never left home this morning, never responded to Himari’s messages at all. Much more rational. 

Himari follows the alpha’s gaze and lights up when she sees you, beaming like you’re old friends. 

Too late.

Mechanically, your legs jolt you forward. You work with alphas. You live and breathe and exist with alphas. You can handle coffee with one. 

“I’m so glad you came,” Himari gushes when you reach the table. She’s already standing, leaning in to give you a hug. From your experience, omegas aren’t usually all that touchy feely with strangers, but she pulls you close enough that you swear she’s trying to scent you. “You remember Akaashi, right?”

Akaashi. He hadn’t told you his name that night– no. Sakai had interrupted him before he had the chance. Now, he’s watching you with the same placid expression, seemingly unbothered by his almost-omega’s overt affection towards you.

“Yeah, we only spoke for a minute, though.” 

Akaashi hums, but chooses to say nothing. Fine by you.

“Anyway, don’t mind him,” Himari breezes on through. “If I’m out on my own for too long they get antsy, even if it’s just coffee with a friend. Trust me, if the other two weren’t busy, they’d be here, too.” She says it with an eye roll and a sigh, but there’s no real irritation there. Her hand’s resting on Akaashi’s, her chair tilted towards his. She thinks it’s dreamy. It sounds like the beginnings of a horror story to you. 

For her sake, you hope they loosen up a bit after they bond. If they bond. 

“You haven’t eaten, have you? This place does the most amazing pancakes. I know we said coffee, but you’ve got to try them. We can share if you’re not feeling all that hungry…?” she trails off with a hopeful expression.

“Uh, sure. Sounds good.” 

“Don’t. She’ll order the matcha mochi ones. No one deserves that.”

Himari turns on him, mouth agape in mock offense. “What’s wrong with matcha mochi pancakes?” she demands.

Akaashi doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a close thing. “Tea doesn’t belong on pancakes.” His voice carries no heat, only a familiar sort of exasperation that makes you think this is an argument they’ve had before. To you, he says, “The strawberry one they do is pretty popular, you should go for that instead.”

You do, in the end, order the strawberry pancakes. Not because you particularly want them – the thought of eating could not be any less appealing right now – but because it is easier than picking up a menu and trying to parse it out when your brain won’t cooperate with you, and not ordering food will only make this whole thing more awkward than it already is.

“So,” Himari begins after the waitress leaves with a promise to return shortly with your drinks, “Kuroo’s only told us the basics. You started at your job a few months ago, right? Were you already living here, or did you move to the city for work?”

And so it begins. 

You tell them bits and pieces. Nothing that comes close to touching your damage, nothing that you wouldn’t share with the friendly girl from your weekly, beta only yoga class.

You like your job just fine, but it wasn’t what you planned on doing career wise, you just sort of fell into it. No, you grew up in a smaller town down the coast, you’d be surprised if they recognised the name of it. You’ve been in the city for about a year now.  A few of your cousins live here too, which is nice.

Only child, though you always wanted a big sister. Yeah, your parents are both betas, too. Most of your family is. 

No, not really a volleyball fan, or a sports fan in general, but seeing the game was kind of cool, you guess. Your hobbies? Well, you’ve been getting into baking lately, um– stress baking. You’ve found a beginners yoga class nearby you like, even though you’re not great at it. 

When your food arrives, you take it for the blessing it is. 

You aren’t in the least bit hungry. You bite and chew and swallow, and all you can taste is the cloying sickliness of your own discomfort. But, with your mouth full and a stacked plate in front of you, there’s a temporary reprieve from the rapid fire interrogation, which means you’ll eat and be thankful for every bite. 

Himari pouts at your pancakes like they’ve personally wronged her, and you wonder why Akaashi bothered to order at all when he spends less time eating than he does staring across the table at you. You can’t decide if there’s too much going on behind the blank affect, or if he’s genuinely bored out of his mind listening to his girlfriend/omega/almost-mate pepper you with questions. 

To be polite, you ask a few in return between mouthfuls. How they met, whether she was a volleyball fan first, or if that came after, and while Himari answers each happily enough, it inevitably swings back to–

“What about you? You seeing anyone?”

“I’m married.” 

You don’t know why you say it. You aren’t and never have been, and as far as jokes go, it isn’t particularly funny. It becomes even less so when, in an almost creepy synchronicity, Akaashi and Himari’s expressions drop and they snap their attention down to your left hand. Your bare left hand.

Made you look. 

You chuckle awkwardly. Himari laughs, too, after she realises you’re joking. 

Akaashi doesn’t.

—

Late Tuesday, Kuroo strolls into your office. 

It’s well after six, which means the girls who work reception either already left for the day, or they took one look at the handsome alpha and let him pass regardless. 

You spot him from the corner of your eye, scanning the floor, and assume he’s there to corral some of his friend-slash-drinking buddies into heading off somewhere. Your plans involve the spreadsheet on your screen, and staying put at your desk until your boss finally finishes up for the night to head home. Four-ish months in, you don’t yet have the goodwill the others take for granted.

Ino left twenty minutes ago. Her workspace is neat and tidy, a few post-its stuck to the monitor, chair tucked in – until Kuroo pulls it out and collapses into it with a dramatic groan.

“You gonna stare at that thing all night?”

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard. “I have a deadline,” you manage to say.

Kuroo grins. Stretches his long legs out into your side of the desk, fingers laced over his lap. There’s no attempt for subtlety or discretion. Your boss’ in his office, door open, and while some of the office had left, plenty of your coworkers remain. If they weren’t watching this, gawking at the two of you, you’d eat your laptop. 

God, you’d give anything to just disappear right now.

“Well, lucky for you, I’m here to spring you. I need you.” When you don’t immediately jump to your feet and start gathering your things, he adds, “C’mon, it’s for Himari. Please?”

Himari. Why else?

She’s messaged you a few times since pancakes. Without her alphas hovering around, you find you actually kind of like the omega. She’s sweet, if a little… intense. 

You aren’t sure you like her enough for whatever this is, though. 

“I can’t, I’ve got–”

“A deadline, yeah, yeah, yeah, I heard. Thing is, I need your help, and it absolutely has to be tonight.”

“Kuroo–”

He rolls Ino’s chair closer. Your pulse ratchets in response. “Don’t make me beg. C’mon, you don’t want to be here for the next three hours pretending to work, do you?” You open your mouth again, and he cuts you off, again. “Your boss won’t care. It’s one night, help me out. Please?”

He takes you by the wrist and urges you to your feet, and though every cell inside you recoils at his touch, you let him, well aware of the audience the two of you have attracted. There’s a weight to the stares burning into the back of your head, the pindrop silence growing louder from the moment he sat down beside you. 

“I’ll– meet me downstairs. I need a few minutes to finish up,” you mutter, every word pulled from your teeth with hooks. 

“That’s my girl.” He raps his knuckles against Ino’s desk, satisfied in spite of the fact you resolutely won’t meet his gaze. “I’ll be out front.”

Kuroo stops briefly at your boss’ door on his way out, winking back at you and heat suffuses all the way to the tips of your ears. 

Mechanically, you gather your things, refusing to look up, to meet anyone’s stare or find out if they’re watching at all, now the show’s over. No one would’ve blinked if it were Ino, or any of the other betas in the office, but because it’s you, the new girl, the weirdly skittish one no one’s quite sure about yet, they’ll be whispering and giggling about it in the break room come morning, you’d bet money on it. 

Your boss’ office is situated between your desk and the front door, there’s no option but to walk right by, and with glass partitions, there’s no sneaking past. He glances up from his screen long enough to call out a friendly goodnight, and your shoulders drop another inch. 

Kuroo’s waiting for you by the elevators.

“Shall we?” 

Biting back a sigh, you offer a resigned nod. The ride down is near silent. You put as much space between you and him as the small confines of the metal car allows, as much as you think you can get away with without it coming across as rude, and Kuroo leans against the opposite wall and watches you do it with a stupid, irritating smirk. 

You’ve yet to meet the volleyball player, and Akaashi’s decidedly unsettling with all the dead-eyed staring, but Kuroo’s fast becoming your least favourite of Himari’s almost-mates. 

“Where are we going?” you ask when you finally have the space to breathe. And when can I leave? 

“Kuroo.”

It’s an echo of another night, another alpha too close when you were stripped down. Though the voice is much deeper, you turn half expecting to see Sakai by the door again, that same leery frown. Silly, because Sakai hadn’t been in these past two days, thanks to her omega’s heat, and the voice wasn’t calling for you. 

You both turn, and it’s Kuroo’s expression that drops. You recognise the alpha approaching. He looked bigger on Kuroo’s TV. Not physically – roughly the same height as his fellow alpha, the jacket he’s donned for the late autumn chill doing the bare minimum to mask his build –  just… more, somehow. Possibly because of the scolded puppy expression on his face.

Bokuto, though Himari only ever calls him Bo. 

Kuroo’s hand clamps down around your wrist, not tight, but firm, like you’re an errant child about to sprint blindly into traffic. “What happened to training?”

Bokuto shrugs, eyes shifting guiltily between you both. A non-answer. Eventually, he says, “We’re doing the thing, right?”

“The thing?” You tug at Kuroo’s grip, pulling back, but he doesn’t let you go. Not at first. Not until you make a strangled sort of noise, tugging harder, and his attention snaps like a rubber band back to you. He releases your wrist, plastering an easy grin on his face.

“You haven’t met Bokuto yet, have you?” 

You don’t particularly want to. 

“What thing?” you ask again, ignoring the other alpha. 

“Are you this prickly with everyone, or am I just lucky?” He doesn’t sound all that put off by the prospect. “The polite thing to do is say hello. He won’t bite.”

He’s joking. Of course he’s joking, Kuroo hasn’t wasted a single one of your interactions being serious, that doesn’t stop the ice that drips through your veins, the echo of abject terror slicing away at your insides. 

Without his hands on you, there’s nothing keeping you from stumbling a step backwards, and then another.

“I–” you swallow, something sharp lodged in your throat. You remember your manners long enough to glance in Bokuto’s general direction, “It’s nice to meet you, really,” you lie. “But I can’t do this tonight. Sorry,” you add hastily to Kuroo.

“Relax. We’re going shopping, it’s nothing nefarious, cross my heart.” He isn’t smiling anymore. Reaching out to stop you, a hand in the dark–

gripping your hair, blood dripping down your face

– “I– I can’t do this. I can’t,” you gasp out, jolting backwards.

“Alright, okay, that’s fine, we don’t have to do anything tonight,” he says. “But we should take you home. Neither of us,” he shares a look with Bokuto, “would feel good about leaving you on your own in this state.”

They’re tracking you, both of them. Every twitch, every inch you put between you, caught and catalogued. Kuroo’s palms are up in front of his chest placatingly. Bokuto looks like he’s a hairsbreadth from lunging at you, a fervent, frankly unsettling desperation bleeding through the loose, lax, ‘non-threatening alpha’ pose he adopts.

Pretending they both aren’t trying to hem you in. 

Around you, the street hums with activity. Office workers heading home, off to find somewhere to eat and drink the hours away. Friends catching up. Date night. Shoppers and tourists milling about. Plenty of bystanders and witnesses. If any of them spares the standoff between you three a second glance, they decide it’s not worth intervening. 

From the outside looking in, the alphas aren’t doing anything untoward, they aren’t threatening you, they aren’t even touching you. You’re the one falling to pieces over nothing.

“I-I’m fine.” Neither of them buy it. Wide eyed, trembling like a fawn, you suppose it isn’t all that convincing a performance. When it comes down to it, though, you don’t need them to believe you. You need them to heed it. “I can get an Uber.”

“What if– what if it was just me?” Bokuto offers. “Kuroo stays here, and I could take you home.”

As if Kuroo is the sole problem here. 

From the corner of your eye, you spy an empty taxi driving along the road, and you don’t think, your body moves with a will of its own, hand shooting out to hail it down. 

Your legs are steadier now there’s an escape route in sight. “Thanks. I’ll take the cab.”

There’s more you should say. Another apology, probably. The feigned politeness you hastily toss out in your bid for freedom won’t win you any favours. Tomorrow, later tonight maybe, you’ll curse yourself for it, remember the reason you walked out with Kuroo in the first place, and stew over what he might tell your coworkers. Your boss. 

Emotionally unstable. Paranoid. Bitchy. A few carefully placed words, and it all goes up in smoke. 

For now, you side step the two of them and slip into the cab with as much dignity as you can claw back.

You don’t properly exhale until they’re specks in the rearview mirror.

—

Blood drips from your face onto your forearms, onto the gravel beneath.

You can’t breathe through a busted, bloodied nose. You wail instead; choked, animal. Fingernails scrabble for purchase. Break. You can’t drag yourself away. You can’t move with the heavy weight draped over your back.

The pain like a hot knife thrust into your insides. 

And then– 

exponentially worse.

The taste of warm copper heavy on your tongue. You thought the bite would be the worst of it. The knot. 

‘Rookie, where the hell did you–!’

Four of them, featureless in the dark, obscured by tears. Arguing. Rough hands pulling at you both, yanking him away far, far too soon.

A shriek ripped from your lungs. Snarling. A warm splatter on the ground, seeping red. 

The haze of rage and fury, pounding in your head. Not yours.

More swearing. Snapping of teeth, fists meeting flesh. 

‘D’you wanna fuckin’ help me with him?!’ 

One hangs back. Watches you attempt to lift yourself up, crawl – but the agony swallows you whole. Spits you back out. 

‘Shit, shit, shit! Fuck– uhh, you’re gonna be fine. You’ll be okay. We’ll send for help. We’ll… we’ll– Fuck!’

And he runs. 

—

There’s no gasping breath as you wake. 

You don’t shoot bolt upright, clutching at your chest.  Your eyes open, adjust to the dim confines of your bedroom, and you wait for the paralysing dread to balefully relax its claws and slink back to the shadows it inhabits. 

The scar on your neck’s long since healed, fading into nothing as the bond did, but on nights like tonight, it throbs and itches and aches beneath your skin. A wound that never healed right. 

There’s no chance you’re going into work once the sun rises and the day begins proper. The reserves have bled dry, there’s nothing left in you to cobble together a convincing enough performance for your boss, your coworkers, Kuroo – any of them. You can’t even call it a decision, there’s no reality in which you roll out of bed in a few hours fully functional and go about your day like normal. 

Your normal is already a struggle. 

When you grab your phone, intending on setting an alarm to message your boss in a few hours’ time, an unopened notification from Himari catches your eye. 

kuroo said you left upset :c whatever they did, they’re idiots. 

And then, ten minutes after that:

can i come over? i think we should talk, no alphas just us girls <3 

Being that it is the very, very early hours of the morning, you don’t respond right away, but you will. She’s right, after all – the two of you do need to talk.

The second time you wake, sunlight’s beginning to creep through the gap in your blinds. 

The third time, when you finally drag yourself from bed, bleary eyed and bone weary, it’s well into the morning. 

You make coffee, eat breakfast. One of your cousins messaged you about catching up for dinner soon – a thin veneer for what is essentially a check in – you respond to her and then shoot a reply back to Himari as well. 

A few hours later finds her at your door, the brightness of her expression dimming when she takes in all that the long, scalding shower couldn’t wash away.

The air goes thick, redolent with her honeysuckle scent. 

“Oh, honey,” she sighs, and wraps you up in a hug.

Loosely, you return it. 

After messaging her your address, you’d gnawed at your lip and picked at your cuticles, pacing about and wondering how to broach it, what you’d tell her. In some ways, you’re strangers to each other. There’s something there, though. Fledgling and fragile, and you’re about to take a hammer to it.

And to do that, you have to tell her the truth. Problem is, you don’t know how. 

But before you can open your mouth, she’s drawing back, a soft crease between her brows, lips downturned. 

The words, “I feel like this is my fault,” are the very last thing you expect her to say. 

“What do you mean?”

She takes your hand in hers, soft and warm, and smiles a little sadly. “Come sit,” she says, which is a little weird when she’s not the one who lives here. Even so, you find yourself following along when she leads you to the couch, settling down beside her. 

“Have you ever been in love?”

You blink at her, surprised by the sudden left turn the conversation’s taken. 

“… No. Never.” Love always seemed like one of those things you’d get around to eventually. Once you finished school, once you figured out who you were, once you had a bit more life experience under your belt.

And then the goalpost shifted.

“Omegas don’t always have that luxury,” she says. “We get a choice with an invisible timer attached to it, counting down to an unknown point in time where our bodies turn on themselves and our heats eventually kill us.” 

None of this is news to you. No one likes to talk about it, but it’s a simple, brutal truth that every child learns at some point. One of the reasons you grew up thankful for your own boring beta biology. 

“We have a limited time to pick alphas who will treat us right, take care of us during our heats, provide for us, be good fathers to our kids, and once we do there’s no taking it back. Sometimes…” Himari breaks off, her eyes dropping to where your hands are joined. She sighs again, “They told me they wanted a beta mate.”

The quiet admission hits you in a delayed sort of reaction, the crack of a slap registering seconds before any pain does. Your eyes widen, but she misinterprets your shock, laughing gently.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I knew pretty much from the get-go, no surprises, no rugs pulled out from under anyone. I could’ve walked away if I wanted to, I just,” she shrugs, “didn’t want to. I thought it wouldn’t matter. They’d bite me, we’d bond and fall in love, and if one day they met someone, it wouldn’t take away from my own happiness. I’m not a jealous person. I want my alphas to have everything they want.”

Her eyes are beseeching when she squeezes your hand and delivers the final blow.

“But Kuroo came home one day, and he had this look on his face, and I thought– I thought if they liked you, and you liked them, we’d finally be able to bond. We’d be a pack, all of us. I gave them my blessing, and then I met you and–”

“I can’t,” the words slip out without you meaning them to. “… It can’t be me. I’m sorry.” 

Himari flinches, a tiny, likely involuntary response, but you catch it all the same. “You can’t give them a chance? Give me one? I know they came on a little strong, and that’s partially my fault, but–”

“In my first year at university, I was walking home from a friend’s place one night when I was attacked by an alpha in a rut.”

She falls silent, frozen and wide eyed. Whatever she thought you were about to say, it wasn’t that.

You tell her how you were jumped from behind and wrestled to the ground, how it was so dark that you never got a good look at him. You tell her about the other alphas that showed up after he’d raped, bitten and knotted you – his friends, presumably – the damage they did prying him away.

You tell her that they promised to send help, and they ran, and no one came. For hours. 

You tell her, briefly, about the months you spent in recovery, hindered by the bond sickness that quickly and brutally set in. 

By the time you’re finished, Himari’s got streaks of tears running down bloodless cheeks, gripping your hand so tightly you’d think she was the one clinging to a lifeline. 

There isn’t much to say after that. 

She hugs you on her way out, burying her face in the crook of your neck. “I’m sorry.” 

It isn’t her fault. Some things just are the way they are.

“Me too.”

And then she’s gone.

The silence in your apartment feels louder in her wake. 

There’s a few hours of daylight left yet, but you were exhausted when you woke up, and more so now. An exposed nerve, dredged up in the muck of your past, that leaves you feeling raw and deeply uncomfortable, now that you try to settle back on the same couch you spilled your guts on. 

TV might help, you eventually decide. You don’t particularly care what, anything to fill the silence, give you something to stare at rather than wallowing through the last two days. 

A knock at your door sounds just as you reach for the remote.

The only reason you get up at all is because you assume it’s Himari, having forgotten something. Your phone’s been on silent all day, left on the kitchen bench – if she’d messaged you after leaving, there’s every chance you wouldn’t’ve heard the notification go off.

Either Himari or a delivery driver with the wrong address.

Only, when you flick the lock and crack open your door, it isn’t the auburn haired omega standing on the other side, but one of her alphas.

“Bokuto?” You step back on instinct, fingers tightening on the doorknob. You force yourself to smile, to soften the image, grim as it may be. “Are you looking for Himari? She left like ten, fifteen minutes ago.”

For a split second, you think he’s just going to stand there, all six foot whatever of him, looming in your open doorway like a sentinel, and then–

A smile like wonder breaks across his face, “Fuck, say it again,” he groans out. 

He moves quicker than a man of his size has any right to it. A foot in the doorway first, stopping the door from slamming on him when you shove it with all your might, and then he’s in your apartment, catching it on the rebound and swinging it shut himself. 

Your mouth opens on a scream, but you never get the chance. Two steps, and he’s on you. A hand fisting through your hair, parted lips crashing into yours. “Say it again, baby. Please?” he groans lowly, attacking your lips again with a near feral desperation.

You can’t answer him even if you wanted to. 

Fear floods through you. There’s no kick of adrenaline to spark your feral resistance – you plummet into a pit. Sapped of what strength you have, a slow acting paralysis. Rather than the pilot, you’re demoted to a passenger, and it is all you can do to draw your palms up to his chest and shove ineffectually back while he wraps his free arm around your back to haul you closer.

Your elbows fold. You collapse against him wholly, every part of you entangled with him. His tongue hot in your mouth, the scent of him suffocating. 

He loosens his grip on your hair fractionally. Draws away from your lips only to mouth openly and suck at your jaw and the tender flesh beneath. 

You remember how to scream as an old, poorly healed wound throbs at the junction of your neck–

And his teeth dig in.

It’s lightning. The bond burns you from the inside out, robbing you of thought, of sight, of control. You are alight and in pain, clutching at him blindly, lips parted on a strangled whine, and he uses that disorientation to move you into your bedroom and onto the bed. 

“Missed you,” he pants, laying you down and caging you in from above. “Missed you, missed you, missed you so fuckin’ much.”

He rips through your clothes like they’re paper, treating each inch of exposed flesh like territory he needs to map and stake a claim upon. It’d strike another cord of terror if you weren’t half out of your mind with fear already, reckoning with the foreign and familiar sense of alpha forced into your chest.

Bokuto.

Tears brim and spill, and your eyes fall shut. Himari’s words echo in your head, over and over in a never ending loop. They wanted a beta mate.

An alpha in a rut is mindless and ferine. This is a conscious choice. 

Rough hands glide over your breasts, pinching and flicking at your nipples ‘til they peak under his touch, a low appreciative growl leaving his throat. “I know, baby, you missed me too. You shouldn’t’ve left.”

W-what?

Your eyes fly open of their own volition. Golden irises, sharp, focused, predatory, flit from your tits to the oozing bite on your neck to your tear stricken face, like he can’t decide which he likes looking at best. Somewhere between the door and now, he’s shed his hoodie. His own chest heaves above yours, not with tears or exertion – he’s barely broken a sweat so far – or terror like yours is, but quivering with excitement. Even without the waves of lust assaulting you down the bond, the strain of his erection pressing against his jeans is evidence enough.

And you remember the feel of it, splitting you apart. 

“Please, please, Bo,” you beg, adopting Himari’s nickname for the hulking alpha. Your alpha. Your mate. “You’ll hurt me again. I can’t,” you draw in a sharp, ragged breath, “I-I can’t–”

A quiet tearing sound, and cotton scraps of your underwear are shoved aside. 

“‘Course you can. We’ll take it nice and slow. It’s been a while, huh?” But his voice is thick and roughened, dripping with excitement, and he either doesn’t realise his hips are already jerking clumsily against yours, desperate for the friction, or doesn’t care enough to stop. His hands tremble when he settles back and fumbles for his belt buckle. “We love each other. We’re mates,” you whimper at the word, and the bond goes liquid between you, “This is how it’s s’posed to be.”

A year or so after you were attacked, your parents pushed you into taking self defence classes. On a rational level, you understood that what happened was a freak occurrence. The chances that anything similar would happen to you again were next to negligible. 

But you weren’t thinking rationally when you’d accidentally bump carts with an alpha while doing your groceries, or when one would take the seat next to yours on a busy train. 

Your parents were under the impression that if you had confidence in your ability to defend yourself – at least to the point of being able to escape – being around alphas in public wouldn’t be so hard on you. 

It was too early, maybe. The instructor was a beta, and the class split between betas and omegas, mostly women, but not all. That wasn’t a magic fix, though. The second anyone got too close, it didn’t matter their designation – you were right back in the alley.

No one ever said as much, but the truth became obvious fairly quickly. A thrown elbow might be enough to wind the slow moving omega trying to ‘overpower’ you. It wouldn’t stop the alpha twice your size, with a hold on you from inside yourself.

Metal clinks, the hiss of a zipper sliding down. Bokuto’s low, throaty groan sounds as he works at his own cock. He shifts forward, large, calloused hands sliding down your trembling thighs to push them further apart, all whilst his heavy cock bobs threateningly between you. Your tears come quicker, choked, frightened little sobs. You shake your head back and forth, pleading wordlessly with him – your alpha. Your mate. 

“Hold onto me, baby–” he grunts a little, moving your arms so they stretch over the back of his shoulders. “Yeah, like that. Good mate.”

Maybe if you sink your nails in, claw at his back. If one of your knees comes up, if you can just–

“Ready for me?” His cock slides along the seam of your pussy, a testing push at your entrance.

“Please,” you beg, your voice pitched and frantic. “Please, Bokuto, don–” 

Sharp, blinding pain. The shriek that replaces panicked pleas is smothered under another hungry, demanding kiss as he pushes his cock deeper.

Reality fractures. Gravel digs into your skin, the mattress springs creaking beneath your combined weight. You taste blood on your tongue, you taste him, his scent. It wraps around you. You’ve never been colder, exhausted in the darkened alley. Never burned hotter. Battered under a barrage of emotions that aren’t yours, held down, clawing at the ground, nails splitting, breaking, twisted in your own bedsheets, gasping, crying out. The panting in your ear. Snarling. Moans and grunts, the slick sound of your pussy squelching around him and his heavy balls smacking against the back of your thighs. 

Agony, ricocheting like forks of lighting. He doesn’t let up, won’t give you a second to adjust or squirm away. 

No matter his promises to take it slow, he fucks like it’s the only chance he’ll ever have to do so, like he’ll die if he can’t bury himself deep enough to reshape your insides around him. 

You don’t think it can get any worse, and then you feel the unmistakable swelling at the base of his cock, notching at your entrance on each downward stroke; his knot. 

There aren’t words for the visceral wave of terror that ripples through you, but you must clench down around him, because Bokuto moans loudly above you, cursing as he picks up the pace.

“My mate, all fucking mine,” he pants in your ear, hunched over you like an animal. 

Carried along with the motion of his thrusts, helpless, just a ragdoll tossed about beneath him. “You ca-n’t–” you cry out. “Bo, your kn-ot, pull out! You’ve g-gotta pull out–”

“Gonna knot you so fucking good,” he slurs out, “gonna keep you right there on the end of my dick all night. My mate.”

It all becomes too much, the force of Bokuto’s cock punching into you, the deluge from the bond, your memories, the pain and the sudden, stark terror.

Pushing, pushing, pushing, and then–

Unbearable fullness.

—

You come to some time later.

The light in your bedroom’s different. Golden, now. You blink blearily, a confused noise slipping out as you register the strange sensation between your legs. Stinging, an ache that throbs, and…

Warmth suffusing your core. 

Hands on your inner thighs, keeping them spread. A drag of something wet and hot along your pussy–

Bokuto appears in your eyeline, naked, loose, a dumb, satiated grin wide across his face. “Stay down, baby. ‘Kaashi just wanted a taste.”

You scramble back immediately, ignoring the sharp burst of pain moving so suddenly earns you. 

Laid out on his stomach between your spread legs, hair lightly mussed, glasses gone, mouth and jaw glistening with– with you, Akaashi’s lips twitch faintly upwards.

“I don’t think I was done, angel,” he remarks with a dry laugh. “Not very good with instructions, are you?”

Your stomach churns, heart pounding sickly in your chest.

It isn’t the sight of the bloodied mark on your thigh that can only have been another bite, or Bokuto’s resumed pawing. It’s Akaashi’s eyes. You always thought them flat, cold and lifeless. Shark-like. Serial killer-esque if you were feeling particularly unkind.

Nosing along your thigh, nipping lightly just to hear the catch of your breath, they shine with an unsettling fervor, too bright. Too much. 

“I-I don’t think–”

“You don’t need to,” he tuts. He rises smoothly from his elbows and stalks up your frozen body. His lips, wet with the remnants of you and Bokuto, hover mere millimeters above yours.

You think he’s going to kiss you. You’re close enough to count his long, dark eyelashes, and every breath you take he shares. 

The hand that takes you by the throat is gentle, the touch dare you say loving in its caress – right up to the point it tightens. Not harshly enough to restrict your airway, not enough to bruise. Just enough so as to feel the jump of your pulse beneath his fingers, watch your eyes widen in instinctual fear.

Into your lips, he whispers, “That’s what you have your alphas for.”

—

Kuroo arrives a few hours later. 

The three of you are still in bed. You’re nestled between Bokuto and Akaashi, sweat slicked and shivering. The front door opens and you don’t even have the strength to flinch. There’s a soft thud, something heavy being set down, shoes kicked off and toed aside. A coat flung over the back of one of your chairs. 

Seconds later, he’s walking through your bedroom door like he belongs there, making a beeline for your bedside.

Ignoring for the moment Akaashi propped up between you two, he leans down and tilts your chin up for a languid, simmering kiss. “Hey, babe. Sorry I’m late.”

The noise that leaves you is a wounded, confused thing, but Kuroo just laughs. “They really wore you out, huh?”

“Might’ve waited if you’d showed up when you were supposed to,” Akaashi taunts with that half grin of his, a stray kiss pressed to the crown of your head, resting now back on his shoulder. 

Kuroo groans, scrubbing a hand through his already messy hair. “What was I supposed to do? Tell the division head to sort his own fucking problems?” 

Akaashi raises a brow and Bokuto makes a half-hearted grunt, sprawled face down over your chest and clearly more interested in napping. 

“Ugh, whatever.” He waves them both off with a huff, straightening up to start taking off his clothes.

There’s no dread, no flash of panic. There’s nothing but cold numbness inside of you, an echo of pain washed out by the contentedness of the two alphas you’re already bonded to.

Soon to be three. 

And though he doesn’t say anything to them, Akaashi kicks at Bokuto, and after a little grumbling from Bo, they both begin to withdraw, shifting you like a doll between them to make space for Kuroo to kneel on the mattress and crawl to you. You never thought of your bed as small before – it’s a double, and it’s only ever been you. With three alphas added into the mix, it feels claustrophobic.

Your whole apartment does.

You wonder how much of it shows on your face, because Kuroo snorts, cupping your tearstained cheek in his palm. “We can handle a bit of close quarters cuddling for a night, beta. We’ll have you back home in the nest tomorrow.” His smirk grows ever so slightly, “Could’ve picked out some new pieces just for you, if you hadn’t run off on us.”

“What… what about Himari?” you manage to croak. 

If you expect him to be bothered in any way at the reminder of his almost-omega, you’re sorely disappointed. Kuroo shrugs and drags the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, “Home, I guess. Poor thing learned some hard truths today. Needed the space.” He presses down ‘til your they part and accept the digit. 

Thumb resting on your tongue, Kuroo appraises you with a tilted head. “She’s not gonna help you, little beta. You’re all ours tonight.”

[ddarker-dreams]

Do you think Mydei and Phainon could share the user? I feel like they'd clash but eventually work together.. you write both of them so accurately, and I love your 'multi character' fics a ton.

to be pursued by both the deliverer of okhema and the prince of kremnos is to be hunted. in its infancy, their pining for you was innocent enough. you had no knowledge of the chaos that would usurp the order of your life. once they recognized their shared interest, it became a competition of sorts, where they'd seek to outdo one another. whenever you went out to run the most banal errand, they'd be there, as if waiting for you. phainon would carry your groceries, mydei would insist on escorting you from one destination to the next. inevitably, their near constant presence attracted attention, both good and bad. people talked, rumors ran rampant. peace became a thing of the past.

aglaea's golden threads caught on to the brewing tempest. she didn't need her teacher's gifts in divination to sense how this predicament might deteriorate, should it remain unchecked. a tentative agreement was reached — without your input — that would see you 'shared' between the two great warriors. if aglaea pitied you, you wouldn't have been able to guess it by the matter-of-fact manner she explained your new reality.

"for the stability of okhema," the weaver of romance insisted. any counterargument on your part was meticulously shut down, though she did allow you to vent your frustrations.

you left the meeting understandably dejected. you heard of city states that offered sacrifices to appease the titans, is this how it felt to be marched to an altar? at least livestock were oblivious as they went to their demise. with every step you take, you feel a painful awareness of your station in the world. it's a placement you'll never rise above, not when the goldweaver has forcibly intertwined your fate with theirs.

at the end of the hall stands phainon and mydei. the former beams at you, whereas the latter squares his shoulders, though the softening of his eyes betray his delight.

"looks like we'll be seeing a lot more of one another, huh?" phainon chuckled.

at your crestfallen expression, mydei clicked his tongue and muttered a phrase foreign to your ears.

"it's not such a terrible thing," he said. "you'll be treated well."

only time would tell if the crown prince's words held any weight.

[cosmicalastra]

For Persistent Feelings, Consult Your Doctor

your cousin's business trip left you with his two little angels and a scheduled appointment to the doctor. only to have your niece and nephew assigned to two different pediatricians?!

pediatrician! phainon x fem! reader x pediatrician! qifrey

word count: 2.2k

note: i am no doctor and medical professional, most of the words and scenarios in here are from my research while making this fic (and also from the ungodly amount of hours i spent watching medical shows in my free time)

“Coco, Caelus, behave!” You dragged your whining niece and nephew inside the children's hospital despite their tantrums.

“Nonono! No doctor!” Little Caelus cried, holding on to his little garbage can plushie. “Nooo… Noooooo…” Little Coco sniffles sadly, trying to wipe her snot on her fuzzy brushbuddy toy.

This has been going on for a few minutes already. After your cousin went on a business trip three days ago, these two little angels have been giving you the best time of your life.

And nobody told you that these kids need a check-up!

So with a grumbling sigh, you dragged the two crying children to the receptionist. “Excuse me, these two here are scheduled for a check-up.” you nudged a look down at Coco and Caelus, much quieter now but with a bit of snot running down their noses.

“Coco… Caelus…”  The receptionist chimed, her hands clacked on the keys as she shuffled through the appointments in the monitor screen. “Oh! Coco and Caelus.” 

“They're two separate doctors.”

You blinked in confusion. Two? Seriously?

“What? Why two?” The question came out condescending, but the receptionist just sighs. “We're so sorry, there's been a few shuffles on the doctors lately. But, rest assured, the documents and details of the children submitted are with their assigned doctors.”

The explanation immediately got into you—so to just get this whole appointment over with, you nodded in agreement. “Alright, who are these doctors anyway?”

“Let me see…” The receptionist squinted her eyes. “Miss Coco is assigned to Doctor Qifrey… As for Caelus…” She scrolls her mouse a bit lower. “He's assigned to Doctor Khaslana.”

“And the time?” another few seconds of scrolling.

“Oh Caelus can be taken in now, Coco’s appointment is in thirty minutes.”

With the time determined; gently, you picked Coco up and gave her a gentle smile. “Will you be a good girl and stay here with miss receptionist, Coco?”

Coco nods quietly, her arms tightly held on to her brushbuddy toy. “Mmkay..”

Now that Coco is settled, you placed her down a chair for children and picked Caelus up, his one hand holding on to his garbage can plushie while the other desperately held on to your neck. “I'm scared..”

“It's okay, Caelus.” You gently pat his head and calmly walked to the room labeled ‘Doctor Khaslana || Open’

“Excuse me..” Your knuckles gently knocked on the door, followed by a “Oh come in!” as you turned the knob and went in.

The room was… calming to say the least. The doctor's desk remained near the door, but the room served a little nook for children. Tiny chairs on the corner coming in yellow and purple colors; the nook with a cute wheat field wallpaper, with tiny wooden toys like swords, shields, and spears kept on the corner.

Doctor Khaslana should supposedly be in his chair but he's also there on the nook—tidying up remaining toys. “Please give me a second.” He playfully hummed.

“There.” A second passed as he stood up and turned, only then did you realize that this guy is tall as a tower…

“Good afternoon! I'm Doctor Khaslana.” He gazed at you for quite a few seconds, then finally at little Caelus. “Hey little buddy.” Khaslana crouches to meet the little boy in the eye. “Call me Phainon, alright?”

“Fai…nun..” Caelus shyly mumbles and it seemed to make Phainon laugh. “Haha! Just like that!” He ruffled the kid's hair.

He stood up once more and offered to shake your hand. “A wonderful pleasure to meet you. Let's sit?” He smiles and offers you the seat nearest to his chair.

This doctor has gotta be nuts. You thought, because who honestly would waste such handsome looks for pediatrics?! 

Still, you cannot deny that this doctor is awfully handsome, how old is he–twenty-five? twenty-eight?

“I'm twenty-eight.” Phainon blurts out, while writing on the patient records. “I mean… If you're wondering…” He sheepishly smiles.

You cannot deny the warmth creeping up your cheeks, was this room always this hot? Even with the air conditioner set on a pretty cold temperature, the smile that Phainon just gave you was enough to make you feel even just a teensy bit self-conscious.

“So! Little Caelus…” Phainon darts his gaze back to Caelus who surprisingly, stops looking anxious and is staring brightly at Phainon. “This is my little buddy.” He takes his stethoscope with a grin. “His name is Neikos! Is it okay if me and Neikos give you a little check?”

Another surprising feat as Caelus nodded eagerly, the persuasion proved to be effective as the little boy hands you his trash can plushie and extends his arms to Phainon, demanding uppies.

“Good job!” Phainon pats Caelus’ head, as he begins simple check-ups.

“You're really good with kids.” You expressed your awe over his amazing skill of making kids safe.

“Thank you, they did say I'd make a great dad.”

Phainon snickers softly, giving you a subtle glance as he focuses back to Caelus; still quiet and behaved.

It didn't take long for the check-up to finish, Phainon asked you basic questions about Caelus’ growth, appetite, and his sleeping habits.

“Very well, he doesn't have any complications.” Phainon puts his stethoscope to rest and smiles at Caelus. “Good work!” He raises his hand to give the boy a high-five.

“Since you've done so well, have a candy.” Phainon takes a tiny candy from his sweets jar and hands it over to Caelus, the little boy smiling with glee. “I'll talk to your mom for a second, okay? Look at those toys, wanna play with them?” Phainon coos and points to the children's nook, and without a sliver of hesitation, Caelus runs to the nook and starts playing with the toys, giving his garbage can plushie a toy sword.

The statement caught you off guard. A mom? You've heard a lot of misconceptions but you've never had anyone assuming that you're these two little kid's mothers..

“They're so adorable.” Phainon chuckles and gives you his full attention. “So what were we saying?–ah yes right.” He fixes his posture and looks you straight in the eye. “Caelus has no complications, give yourself a pat in the back, you're a great mom.”

“Oh I'm not his mom.. I'm his aunt.” You immediately protested, trying to brush off the awkwardness you felt after hearing his assumption.

“Oh really?” As if that reply made Phainon's face beam in joy. “Not mom?? Just aunt???” He double checked with a question, his face seemed to soften and lean closer. And to answer him, you nodded, a joyous grin elicited from his face soon after.

“Wonderful!–ahem..” He bashfully clears his throat. “Since Caelus has no problems, I won't have to give a prescription for anything.” He takes a prescription paper and writes.

“Here. Open it when you get home.” Phainon hands you the paper, both your hands lingered with a touch when you took the paper from his large hands.

“Thanks..” That familiar heat went up to your cheeks once more, to save yourself from embarrassment, you cleared your throat and called the little boy. “C'mon Caelus, it's time to go.”

Caelus gets up and grabs his plushie, clinging back to you as he gives Phainon a big wave. “Buh bye Fainun!” He hails as Phainon returns it with a cheeky grin. “Bye bye little buddy!” 

When the doors went shut, you silently squealed in relief. That has got to be some kind of punishment. You've seen a share of handsome doctors in your life but Phainon? He knows he's hot.

Out of desperation to keep yourself intact, you slapped your cheek and moved on.

Now that Caelus is done, it's Coco's turn. You walked back to the chair you made Coco sit in. “Hey Coco it's time–” 

Coco is nowhere to be found, the chair left abandoned as the panic starts to seep in. Where could Coco have gone?

“Coco? Coco!!” You call out, eyes frantically searching and prancing around while Caelus starts to get anxious. “Coco??” The little boy calls out as well.

A few seconds passed with no response anywhere until finally… “Auntie!” A little squeak caught your ears.

You snapped your head to the direction of the voice and saw Coco, smiling with her brushbuddy in her hands. A taller man held her in his arms, smiling gently as he approached them.

“Oh, are you Coco’s guardian?” The man asks, eyeing you intently from head to toe. You spared him a look and checked the tag on his coat. Qifrey.

“I'm Coco's doctor.” Qifrey puts Coco down, the two little children reuniting and hugging. “Waaah! Coco!” Caelus whines. “It's okay Cae! Mister Qifrey took care of me!” She tugs on Qifrey’s coat.

“You shouldn't be leaving children unattended like that.” Qifrey added, his tone laced with disappointment. “I am deeply sorry… But thank you for taking care of Coco too..” You looked at Coco ashamed.

Qifrey was right, you should've just brought Coco inside with Caelus during his check-up. They're both children, even if this was a children's hospital, you shouldn't leave a child unattended.

“No worries, but you should be saying that to Coco.” He glances at Coco who pats your hand. “I'm okay auntie… Thank you! Mister Qifrey is very nice!” The little girl assures you and pats your leg after.

“Shall we come in?” Qifrey offers, walking you to the room and opening the door for you. Although that action was quite confusing, doctors aren't exactly opening doors for you. Then why is he doing so?

You brushed off the confusing action and held Caelus and Coco's hands as you walked in—Caelus surprisingly tame now and sits quietly beside Coco after Qifrey offers a chair.

Unlike Doctor Phainon's room, Qifrey’s looked majestic. Stars and magic motifs plastered all over the walls; a little wooden table on a children's nook with small drawing papers and pencils labelled ‘magic pens’. Little story books on a purple shelf with fantasy themes and different colored dragons for book covers. The nook also comes complete with a velvet colored rug and little toys scattered on the floor.

“Ah pardon the mess… I just had one of my patients come in earlier and play with it… “ He smiles in embarrassment. “Ah Tetia, seriously…” He mumbles and fixes his seat.

“Alright, Coco is the patient, right?” At the mention of her name, Coco gets up and smiles “Yes! It’s me!” 

Qifrey takes his stethoscope and looks gently at Coco. “Let's check you up, okay Coco?” His voice envelops the room, soft and gentle.

Carefully, Qifrey checks all of Coco’s vitals, heartbeat, height, and several questions about her wellbeing.

“For an auntie in charge, you're taking care of your nephews and nieces quite well.” He hums while writing on the patient record. “Coco is free of any complications.”

“Though I must say she's quite the fast learner, independent too.” Qifrey observes Coco who is now playing and drawing little circles on the drawing paper, copying the sigil on one of the dragon story books while Caelus stared at the book, drool slowly dripping.

“Ah yeah, she really likes to draw too.” You chuckle, attention also seemingly drawn to Coco. 

Qifrey puts his pen down. “So you are aware.” The sound of his desk opening caught your ears, turning to look at him, he wrote on a small piece of paper and handed it to you.

“I’ll give you this, just in case you need a chart of how you'll track Coco’s growth.” He swiftly slid the paper on to your hands, his slender fingers intertwining with yours as he dips the paper in, eye contact with yours never breaking even for a second.

Qifrey offers you a flirty smile, his fingers slowly stroking your palm he pulls away.

The stare made you bashful, on equal par with the charming smile that Doctor Phainon gave you earlier.

What is up with handsome doctors in this children's hospital? Do you need the word ‘handsome’ in your resume to be qualified?

“Coco, it's time to go.” Qifrey stands up from his seat, leaving you flustered and confused as he approaches Coco and Caelus. “Is it time already?” Your niece pouts, but all Qifrey did was give a smile.

“Unfortunately, yes. I also have other little kids to take care of.” He picks Coco and Caelus up like they weighed nothing. “I gave your auntie something, ask her sometime if you want to talk ‘kay?” 

Coco nods over his explanation, Caelus on the other hand stares back at you. “Home?” he asks.

“Yes, home.” You took Caelus from Qifrey's arms and held Coco by her hand with her brushbuddy in her pocket when she's placed down.

Qifrey holds the door open for you to walk out of “Thank you, Doc.” you offered a shy smile and walked out.

“Doctor Qifrey is so cool!!” Coco exclaims while walking down the hallway to the elevator. “He's so nice!”

Caelus wriggles out of your arms and walks beside you, holding your hand. “Doctor Fainun! Cool..!” He exclaims.

You can't help but laugh at the cute reactions your little nieces and nephews expressed. It seems that their doctors really caught their hearts and minds.

When you got home, the ‘prescription’ paper that Doctor Phainon gave and the note Doctor Qifrey handed you immediately crossed your mind.

While Coco and Caelus sat in the living room watching television, you opened both papers in unison.

[xxxxxxxxxxx It's my personal number, call me if you have any questions about Caelus… Or me <3 -Phainon Khaslana, Caelus]

[Here's my number if you ever want coco to talk to me, you're welcome to do so as well. xxxxxxxxxxx -Doctor Qifrey, Coco's Pediatrician]

notes: ah yes the concept of phainon and qifrey being pediatricians just sounded too good that i just had to make a lil fic abt it and also bc this was inspired from a recent medical mission i participated in and the pediatricians there were also good looking LOL (i totally wasn't giggling while writing this fic)

[qifreyswifee]

Dry humping with Qifrey

This was not what you had planned for tonight. A quiet evening laying in bed and watching a movie was the plan. But then Qifrey had to walk in with that stupid compression shirt on—pecs looking so toned and biteable, biceps straining against the too tight fabric—which is how you ended up straddling his lap, rubbing your clothed cunt over his painfully erect cock. His hands held tightly to your hips, helping you grind back and forth. Your forehead pressed against his, heaving breaths mixing in the electric air. Each time you rolled forward, he whined, a soft gasp leaving his lips, and his eyes straining shut.

His grip on your hips tightened, “Darling, nghh, oh my god,” He moaned out, pressing you further into his lap.

“Qii,” You whined, his bulge hitting your clit perfectly, “wanna put it in.”

“Fuck,” He breathed out—a rare curse from your lovers lips—“Please, just like this,” His hips bucked up.

“Want more,” You pouted, though your face quickly contorted in pleasure when he once again pressed you further into his lap, rolling his hips to grind his cock onto your slit.

He was getting close, you could feel the way his cock twitched beneath you, and you weren’t any better. Both panting into the other’s mouth, but that didn’t stop you from wanting more.

“Greedy little thing,” Qifrey chuckled breathlessly, “Be a good girl and take what i’m willing to give you,”

You threw your head back, allowing him to move your hips. Sliding you back and forth against his cock, rutting up into you. You tangled your hands in his hair, the coil building in your lower belly threatening to explode at any moment. Your eyes rolled back, a wave of pleasure washing over you before you could even prepare. Qifrey rocking you to ride through the high. Your legs shook, crying out his name at the feeling coursing through you. The moment you said his name he was done for, groaning as he spilled in his pants, a wet spot appearing on the fabric, already mixing with the spot on yours.

You both panted, trying to catch your breaths. The room filled with the smell of sex and sweat, and the sounds of your breathing. So yeah, this surely wasn’t the plan for the night, but this seemed much better than the original.

A/N:I did not realize Qifrey calling us a “greedy little thing” would have me turned on the way it does until I wrote it.

*Please do not repost, copy, or use any of my works to feed your AI*

[crsssie]

caught - qifrey x reader

Qifrey's good at hiding and smiling through everything he needs to. The facade is there for a reason. So it feels a little strange to get to kiss you so often now that you're properly settled into the Atelier. Sometimes he gets a little distracted, and what's supposed to be a stolen kiss ends up being him holding you there hostage for kissing properly.

It doesn't matter for the most part since Olruggio is in and out of the place, but sometimes he forgets that his girls have the keys and they too are in and out of the house.

Cue his current issue.

Qifrey's got you half melted against him, licking his lips as he pulls back for air, and he's halfway into kissing you when the door clicks, and chattering stops when it swings open.

The girls freeze in place, and Richeh is the one to speak up.

"Did we... come at a bad time?"

Qifrey wipes his mouth with a handkerchief, turning to face his girls as you push him off of you, sitting down at the table to catch your breath.

"Told you it was a bad idea."

"Hi girls." He smiles, and the four of them blink.

Coco threw her hands over her eyes second she caught a glimpse, and Tetia's got stars in her eyes that Qifrey thinks is going to become a barrage of questions. Agott, well.

"Could the two of you not picked a better place?"

"Qifrey's fault."

You're quick to throw him under the bus, laughing as you stand up to dust your skirt off.

"I'm hurt, love."

"To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Tetia fires a round of questions at you, hopping over, and Qifrey tends to the other girls as they ask how things have been.

Well. Considering that they caught the two of you kissing like that, things can't be bad at all.

[elysiumae]

🚿 counter-conditioning.

⟢ pairing: qifrey x gn!reader

⟢ word count: 3.2k

⟢ tags: showering together, reader sucks qifrey's cock, allusions to qifrey and reader being apprentices together, ambiguous relationship, fluff

⟢ a/n: the way this was more fluff than porn. forn 😭 it was also I think my first time writing the suck suck. also you can see me losing my motivation towards the end. pwp but one p is better than the other and it's not the porn.

Qifrey doesn't like water.

It's one of the first things you'd learned about him, back when you were still apprentices—discernible in the way he'd flinched when someone accidentally knocked over a basin in the dining hall, water spilling over his hands and lap. You don't remember anything about the book you'd been reading across from him, then—only how his pale, pinched face had somehow become more pale and pinched as he stared down at himself, and subsequently, the startling blue of his eye when he'd glanced up at your proffered handkerchief, then you—his first acknowledgment of you after pointedly ignoring your existence for the past month you'd been apprentices together.

You'd asked Olruggio about it, later. He'd been evasive at first, but after your shameless pestering and unsubtle curiosity he'd finally relented. Terribly ironic had been your first thought, for a budding witch so intent on mastering water magic. The second thought that had followed had been somewhat more practically, if a little private.

How does he shower?

"Like any other regular person," Qifrey told you much later, laughing quietly as he did, long after you'd moved into his atelier as a fully qualified witch and the relationship between the two of you had settled into something difficult to define solely with words. He'd looked amused, as if one of his apprentices had just asked an especially fascinating question. "Why? Did you think I didn't shower at all?"

"Perhaps," you'd admitted with a shrug, suddenly feeling somewhat silly. "I thought you might have had some secret cleaning spell you kept all to yourself—that, or you cleaned yourself with your tongue, like a cat."

A snort had escaped him at that—warm, startled, a little undignified—and you found yourself thinking, almost helplessly, that you wanted to keep hearing that sound, for as long as he would allow you to.

You'd proceeded to intently question his bathing habits after that, each query more absurd than the last. By the end of it, Qifrey had been laughing near uncontrollably into his hand, shaking his head as he looked at you. "Why are you so curious about this topic?" he'd asked, eye flashing with faint amusement. "Do you want me to show you?"

You'd been entirely certain, at the time, that he'd meant it as a joke. But you'd reached across the table to take his hand and said yes anyway, watched the way his breath caught at your answer. One thing had led to another, and then the two of you had stumbled through the atelier half-fumbling and half-kissing, clothes discarded piece by piece until you'd ended up tangled with him beneath warm steam and running water.

Now, joining Qifrey in the shower is one of your favourite pastimes. Getting him there, however, is a whole different story.

"Qifrey." You stand over his bed, one hand cocked loosely on your hip as honeyed sunlight streams in through the far window. "Qifrey, c'mon."

He only curls tighter on his side beneath the covers, retreating into them like a garden snail withdrawing into its shell. Nothing emerges from the blankets aside for a string of unintelligible sounds—soft, muffled protests lost to the stuffing of his pillow. You bite back a smile. He's always like this in the mornings before he's properly awake—petulant, unwilling to leave the warmth of the bed, and even more reluctant to step anywhere near the shower. In moments like these, you catch glimpses of the boy you'd once grown up with; nothing at all like the composed, inscrutable master he presents himself as to everyone else. Now, though, he's nothing more than a sleepy, sulking creature—burrowing beneath the blankets in hopes you'll give up and let him stay there forever.

You like it, though. You like being able to see him like this: soft-edged with sleep and grumbling in a way so few people ever do.

"Qifrey," you say again, more coaxing this time as you sit on the edge of the bed, mattress creaking faintly beneath your weight. Your fingers comb gently over the hair covering his bad eye. "You're going to be late taking the girls to the Great Hall if you don't get up now."

There's a pause. Then, slowly, he pushes himself upright, blankets pooling in the cradle of his lap. His pale hair sticks out in every direction, hopelessly tousled around the sharp lines of his face, while his rumpled nightclothes hang just loose enough for the collar to slip off one bare shoulder. Still sleep-soft and warm from bed. He looks like he's been dragged straight out of a dream.

One blue eye—the same shade as the cloudless sky outside—cracks open to peer at you through the tangled mess of his hair. Qifrey always looks softer without his glasses. Younger, somehow. He also looks deeply aggrieved at being awake, though, so you lean forward to press a kiss to his temple, his cheek, and then the softening corner of his mouth.

"…hrgm," he says. But he looks less put-out about it, now.

"I'll shower with you." You already had, earlier that morning, when you'd dragged yourself from both the bed and the warmth of his arms to start breakfast and deal with the laundry, but you don't particularly mind doing it again. Rising to your feet, you begin undoing the fastenings of your robe as you move towards the washroom, letting your outer layers slip from your shoulders and to the floor behind you as you go. "Don't keep me waiting too long, hmm?"

You turn the corner just in time to hear the quiet fwump of Qifrey reluctantly dragging himself upright from the bed. It's followed a moment later by the sound of socked feet against wooden floorboards, uneven and sluggish with sleep.

"Manipulative," you hear him mumble, from somewhere behind you.

You bite back a smile as you fetch the bar of soap from the counter—calendula and rosemary and mint—before turning towards the vapour bubble hanging from the ceiling. The device had been modified years ago by Olruggio, miniature heating spells etched carefully into the upper and lower trays with a searneedle wand so the water stays comfortably warm no matter the weather. Qifrey had tried baths before, but being so completely surrounded by water had reminded him too much of the box he'd been found in. Showers were easier and allowed him to step away the moment it became too much.

You check the little dials along its side. You'd already used it earlier that morning, so the water heats almost immediately at your touch. Warm.

Steam is already curling lazily through the room by the time you begin peeling off the rest of your clothes. A few moments later, Qifrey appears in the doorway, wearing the mournful expression of a man being walked to his own execution. It eases slightly, though, when he sees you shrugging off your shift, soft linen slipping from your fingers to land by your feet in a crumpled heap.

It's a little strange, but you've never been shy about Qifrey seeing you like this. Never felt the need for it. You bend over to tug off the scant remainder of your clothes, kicking them off to join your discarded shift, before stepping under the warm spray. Water cascades over your shoulders and back in soft streams of steam and heat. You glance back at Qifrey in silent invitation, wiggling your fingers coyly at him.

Qifrey squints at you for a long moment before he sighs. Then, with the long-suffering air of someone resigning himself to fate, he begins to take off his own clothes.

There's not much for him to remove—only the oversized tunic he'd slept in that is nothing like, thankfully, the elaborately collared shirts he usually wears. You love seeing them on him, loathe fumbling with the accursed straps as he laughs, the sound vibrating beneath your fingertips. This one comes off easily when he tugs it over his head, and it's followed quickly by his trousers, discarded in an untidy heap next to yours.

When he's as naked as you are, he finally steps under the spray with you. You notice the way Qifrey stiffens the instant the water hits his back: shoulders drawing taut, breath hitching faintly, lips pressing tight for the briefest second. It's subtle, barely perceptible, but you notice. You always have. It's the same thing every time, never to change.

You reach up to fiddle with the vapour bubble, carefully lowering the water pressure until the spray softens to a gentle patter, then coaxing a little more warmth into the steam. "Too much?"

Qifrey shakes his head. "No, no." A slow exhale passes between his lips as he presses himself more firmly against you, leaning into your warmth like a flower turning to the sun. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, swallowing. "Just… just the usual."

"Mm. Let me help, then."

You tug him closer by the waist until there's no space left between your bodies, warm steam curling around the two of you as you tilt your head to kiss him gently. Qifrey sinks into it almost immediately, damp lashes fluttering against your cheeks until they fall still. You move your mouth slow and unhurried against his—fingers gently cradling his jaw, thumb rubbing slow circles over the quickening pulse of his inner wrist—giving him something else to focus on besides the water running softly over the two of you. Qifrey's fingers curl tighter against your waist, damp hair brushing your forehead every time he leans deeper into the kiss with a quiet sigh.

Slowly, you let your hands wander wherever the water does—over the bare expanse of his back, the notches of his spine, the sharp jut of his hipbone, coaxing his mind to focus on you instead, the closeness of your bodies, your touch. Qifrey lets out a shuddering breath against the wet curve of your shoulder. He melts into you, soft and pliant under the hot water, the same way sugar cubes dissolve in warm tea.

You reach for the bar of soap, lathering it up carefully between your palms until thick suds gather, and Qifrey cracks open one eye to watch. The whole bathroom smells pleasantly of flowers and herbs.

You start with his hair. Qifrey lowers his head for you instinctively, eye slipping shut again as you work the lather into the pale strands, fingers combing gently through wet tangles. The water will rinse it clean soon enough, so you move on to his shoulders instead, pressing a soft kiss to each to coax them into loosening before you continue. Down his arms, across his chest. Qifrey trembles faintly when your fingertips brush across his nipples—soft pink-brown against shower-flushed skin—and you have to bite back the urge to lean in and put your mouth on them. Instead, your hands continue tracing the lines of his body, nails scratching lightly over the soft plane of his stomach before gliding lower, following the shape of his hips and the long line of his legs.

Here, you have to crouch down to reach the rest of him. The water runs in rivulets over his thighs, his lean calves, his narrow ankles. You're about to start when you feel a hand at your shoulder, long fingers closing over your upper arm to tug you back up.

"Hey," he murmurs. Qifrey's voice is soft, slightly hoarse when he peers down at you. "You don't have to. I can do that myself."

You look up at him, blinking away scattered droplets of falling water. Qifrey's face is flushed—perhaps from the heat or your hands, perhaps both. His eye is bright in the dim light of the bathroom, darting back and forth from your face uncertainly like he still hasn't decided whether he wants you to stop or keep touching him forever. His lower lip catches briefly between his teeth.

You have the sudden urge to reach up and tug it free with your thumb, to suck it into your own mouth and kiss him until that hesitant expression dissolves into something else completely. But you are already on your knees, supplicant before him, and so you simply smile and kiss the side of his knee. Qifrey shivers.

"I want to," you say, simply. "Besides, I'm down here already."

You kiss his other knee, too, just because you can. A quiet breath escapes Qifrey as you start to lather up his legs properly, careful to remain gentle as you work the soap over his calves, his shins. You can feel him watching you as you do.

By the time you reach his thighs, you notice. His cock, soft when you'd first stepped into the shower together, has thickened up somewhat. Not fully hard, but stirring with interest despite the heat and water and everything else. You wrap your soapy fingers around him and he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth.

"What's this, hm?"

Qifrey exhales slowly—a shaky, half-laugh caught somewhere in the back of his throat. "How else am I supposed to react with your hands all over me like that?"

You laugh quietly at the faint strain in his voice. His hips twitch ever so slightly towards you when your thumb sweeps lazily over the tip, spreading the drop of slickness you find there. The flush on his cheeks has deepened, crawling down his neck. Smiling, you settle properly on your knees, warm water cascading over your shoulders, and guide his cock into your mouth.

Qifrey lets out a quiet sound, caught somewhere between a gasp and a groan. His hand finds the side of your head, fingers curling through the damp strands—winding loosely, but not pulling or pushing. It's not as comfortable as some erotic catalogues make it out to be. Water seems to run endlessly into your eyes and your knees are beginning to ache where they're pressed against the tessellated tiles. But you care less about your pleasure and more about the way you can feel him tremble under your palms, the way his quiet pants become audible as they echo off the slick walls. You trace your tongue over the tip and he shudders. There's no taste of him yet—not with the water washing away every trace of him in the shower—only the faint remnants of soap still clinging on his skin. You want more than that. You want him.

You take him deeper, slow and deliberate, letting your tongue press flat along the underside. His breath stutters above you. You take your time, unhurriedly, feeling him grow heavier in your mouth, the way his thighs tense beneath your free hand. The water continues to fall around you both, but Qifrey doesn't seem to notice it at all. He lets out a quiet moan, one hand tightening ever so slightly in your hair while the other braces flat against the wall behind him.

"Hah…"

You pull out until only the tip remains, dragging the flat of your tongue over the head before suckling lightly there. Qifrey chokes softly. The faint salt of his precome coats your tongue and you hum happily, glance up through your lashes. His lips are parted, chest rising and falling too fast, eye squeezed tight. You frown. He's not looking at you.

You curl one hand around his knee for balance and swallow him down further, gagging lightly when the head nudges the back of your throat. Qifrey makes a strangled sound—half a moan and half your name.

"W-Wait—"

His knees buckle with a gasp that sounds suspiciously like a curse. He nearly falls—would have, if the wall hadn't been there to catch him. You let him slip out of your mouth with a soft pop, laughing quietly as he sags against the damp tiles, chest heaving, panting.

"You—"

"Watch the language, love." The endearment slips out before you can stop it, a captive prisoner making a run for it. You nibble at his hip, hope it's enough to keep him from noticing. "What if the girls were to hear, hmm?"

Qifrey huffs a breathless laugh, his head tipping back against the wet tiles. "That's the least of my concerns when—" His voice breaks into a whine when you take him in your hand again, stroking lightly, idly. "—mgh—when this is happening right in front me…"

You grin up at him, slow and a little wicked, before you slip him into your mouth again. This time, you keep one hand wrapped around his thigh—keeping him close close—while the other strokes where your mouth can't quite fit. You work him deeper and deeper, patient but with a focused intent, until the head presses against the sensitive back of your throat again. The familiar urge to gag rises but you force yourself to breathe through your nose, relax your jaw to take him deeper still, until he slips past the last resistance and into the tight confines of your throat.

Qifrey's whole body shivers, toes curling against the wet tiles. His head tips forward then back, like he can't bear to look at you but also can't bring himself to look away. Look, you want to say. Look at me.

Your mouth is currently full, however, so you have no choice but to settle for other means. You dig your nails lightly into the back of his thigh—not enough to hurt, just to get his attention—and when his head dips down, you look up at him through your lashes. His eye finds yours, hazy and glassy and dark as ink, just as you hum around him. The vibration pulls a sound from his chest—something desperate, almost broken—and his hips jerk forward before he can stop himself.

Qifrey arches off the wall with a shuddering cry—one hand scrabbling against the slick tiles while the other tightens fractionally in your hair. His pleasure spills hot across your tongue, and you have to resist the urge to close your eyes to savour the taste. You want to watch him, and watch him you do—the way his mouth falls open, the way his eye squeezes shut then flutters half-open, how his chest heaves like he's forgotten how to breathe. He's flushed all the way down his pretty neck, white hair plastered to his forehead, dark with water. His lips part around something that might be your name.

Beautiful. So damn beautiful.

You swallow slowly, one last time, only pulling back when Qifrey's grip in your hair loosens and his thighs stop shaking. Your calves ache ever so slightly when you get back to your feet, but when you pull him into a kiss and feel him moan at the taste of himself on your tongue, all of it seems to fade away. Much in the same way you hope it does, for him.

When you finally pull back, you smile at the dazed look on Qifrey's face. "Come on," you murmur, leaning in to kiss him one more time before reaching for the soap again. "Let's get you cleaned up for real this time."

[florasuno]

………………I know I posted about soft, respectful, chaste Qifrey but is this a safe space to also post about actual pervert Qifrey………….

[florasuno]

Qifrey who is gentle and kind and chaste and respectful….until he isn’t.

Who you feel crowd you against your front door after he walked you home, and you realize just how tall he is.

Who kisses your forehead goodnight, as usual, but then his nose brushes down your temple and he inhales your scent.

Who mumbles quietly against your ear that it’s awfully late, and maybe he should stay the night and go back to the atelier in the morning.

Who barely hears the lock click into place behind you before his tongue is running against your pulse and his hands are grasping the fat of your hips.

Who moans ever so softly when you slip your hands up his chest and shove the cloak off his shoulders, and you remember just how silently strong he is when his long artist fingers curl in your hair to tilt your head back.

Who presses his knee between your legs and up against your dampening, clothed cunt and curls the tip of his tongue against the roof of your mouth as he grinds you down against his thigh.

Who would never use forbidden magic…but won’t deny he may trace sigils across your body with his fingers and tongue to transform you into exactly what he wants.

[qifreysbush]

Wanted Runaway!

Plot; It's been weeks since you've been trapped inside of Qifrey's Atelier, the reason they gave is always 'there been an accident-' or 'stay abit longer.' you're getting more homesick as the day past, every door seemed to lock every time you touched the handle, you called for help.

Words; 3.4k

Note; First time someone requested for utowin.. *cough* n1 utowin glazer *cough* i hope i did him justice in here... i'll open requests after i finish with 2 of them. Quick read of his wiki, his giving off chill unc vibes so im going with that characterization for now, ill probably expand when he appears more in the manga/anime.. another thing i want to add is that i hope i give everyone ample scenes so it doesn't feel like one character got all the screen time.

Pairing; Yan! utowin x (Gender neutral) reader x Yan! Orufrey, request for @mutsukisses . (i gotten lazy at the end, worked on this for too long.)

It's been awhile since you've gone outside.

You thought it would be fun to visit two of your friends to see how much they've been faring ever since you've moved slightly closer to their house. A great way to catch up after months of inactivity, staying for a few days wouldn't hurt.

You came as scheduled, waving at Qifrey and his four apprentices, you've met them before but the exchange were brief in a market place before rushing away. "Is olruggio out? " —you questioned, putting down your backpack near the kitchen counter.

"Mhm, an important client called in an emergency.. He'll be back tomorrow. " Qifrey answered, a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes as he placed a plate of your favourite dish. "You've been so busy, I thought I saw a ghost when the letter was delivered.. " The witch laughed heartedly, taking a seat across from you, his head resting on his palm. "Did you came across any complications while moving? "

"Not much, just taxing is all. " you replied, food half stuffed into your mouth, releasing a relaxed hum. You missed Qifrey's cooking, whenever the three or two of you meet, you always buy something from a restaurant but they could never beat Qifrey's cooking. Homemade and made with love. "I missed this... So good... " you mumbled, earning a satifactory chuckle from the witch himself.

"You should visit more frequently, I don't mind cooking for you. " Qifrey suggested, grabbing your empty plate. "How long are you staying again? "

"Hm? Did you forget? "

"I planned to spend as much time with you as possible, I've had some places scheduled for our outing. "

"Outing? Where are we going? " you perked up, wiping the crumbs with a towel.

"Just a lil' bit of a fancy restaurant with me and Olly, nothing much. " the clatter of plates and cups clinking against together could be heard, wind and water working together to clean the grime from the wooden items sloshing around, having the expense of not getting yourself wet.

"Are you sure? " you questioned, standing up as you went to his side. "It will be quite expensive.. "

"I'm quite sure, I've been meaning to take both of you on something nice rather than being stuck inside the Atelier for months.. "

"Haha, I guess you're right. " you laughed, patting his shoulder. "Guess I should go to the gu—"

"You can stay in my room or Olly's. " Qifrey cuts you off, tone gentle yet there's a sharp persistence beneat his tongue.

You look at him for a moment, he doesn't turn to you but you can feel his eyeing you. "... Sure, I'll stay with olruggio.. What happened to the guest room? "

"It's being cleaned out. "

'That isn't like Qifrey. ' you thought, a tiny sweat went down your forehead. "Alright, i'll move my belongings now. "

—You didn't know, it's quite obvious to other people yet you doubt and swallow it cause they're your friends, someone you knew for years and didn't think twice about.

You walk away, grabbing your backpack with 5 days and 4 nights of clothes, you hoped this is enough.

You waved, signalling that you're going to Olruggio's room as the door shuts closed.

—

".. Perhaps I should've seen it coming." You muttered in the empty atelier, those 5 days and 4 nights turned into 14 days and 13 nights. You've been borrowing clothes from Olruggio, that guest room never getting cleaned out and certainly you aren't leaving anytime soon on your own.

You slapped yourself, falling down onto the comfy mattress of Olruggio's room. Scent of firewood, oil and ink, familiar yet it make you nauseous.

Theres been so many hints, from the morning after your arrival, you felt sick and stayed much longer than nacessary until Olruggio returned in the evening with conviniently medicine.

From the way Olruggio seemed to slip something into the pocket of your cloak, you were able to glimse at it but you didn't pay mind.. Yet when you checked that pocket, it dissappeared.

From how every door and window that lead outside somehow locked everytime you touched it. Only the apprentices, Olruggio or Qifrey could opened it.

The realization came when you wake up in the dead of the night, about to shake Olruggio awake so you could go to the kitchen but finding him nowhere in the bed.

But you hear murmuring towards the exit of his room, you sneaked closer, footsteps quiet as you placed the side of your head to the door.

"... They'll ask questions' , we can't keep them forever here if we don't—"

"I'm workin' on it! It's not that easy to replace a memory. "

... You sweat a bit, guess your guts were right. You should go back to bed, your whole body moves carefully to not make a sound but you accidentally slipping on the stairs going to Olruggio's Hammock, making a particularly big— thud.

"Shit, shit—" you cursed silently, hurriedly slipping yourself into the covers, closing your eyes tight and your body relaxing as if asleep.

With a second later, the door opened, Olruggio looking around the room before at you're figure. ".. They're asleep, don't worry. " Olruggio confirmed to Qifrey, shoo'ing the white witch away with an excuse, closing the door behind him and slipping next to you.

You could only cursed at the memory, you didn't want to believe your friends kept you in the Atelier for so long, perhaps you went weak at their request and pleading.

You've been scowering inside olruggio's room and Inside of the Atelier when the morning arises, did your efforts went to waste? Not quite. You're able to open a singular small window, too small for you but big enough for a pidgeon to enter and leave. They've hidden the conjuring ink, but that doesn't mean that they didnt throw out with some very small leftovers.

So the plan were to collect as much leftover ink to write with a small stick that you were able to break off from the Atelier's floorboards and use it as a pen. You've been eavesdropping on olruggio's and Qifrey's conversation, Olruggio is leaving for a client for precisely 3 days and Qifrey has to go out in the morning, from Kalhn to The Atelier, it's 2 hours on foot and 50 minutes on Sylph shoes.. Who could be fast and reckless enough to be here and not be seen by either both men? Eas— it's utowin.

Easthies.. Just a no, you don't want your friends to go to jail albeit this is law breaking, Luluci is an option but you don't want to give her memories and you don't know her that well so Utowin it is. His relaxed and easy-going, making you trust him easily.

You breathed, getting a piece of paper with a spell for emergencies, carefully opening up the used vial filled with ink of various quality. You started to write.

' Utowin, help me out of Qifrey's Atelier, the door with curses and words. Help in the late morning, only 50 minutes available. '

You roll it over, going over to the small window as you close the circle, the paper turning into an origami bird. It slowly flap it's wings, soaring into the skies to it's receiver.

you exhale a huge amount of breath, quickly trashing the vial that's empty of ink and breaking the stick into small pieces. You don't know if he will come, but at least you have hope, you lay down on the bed, closing your eyes as you remembered a memory that happened not so long ago.

Olruggio and you, sitting in the dining room as Qifrey and the apprentices gone out to grocery shop and stock up in supplies. He yawned tiredly, swirling the tea in his hand with a spoon, reading letters that kept on piling up on his desk.

" Olruggi—"

"You can call me Olly.." He replied with a casual wave.

".. Olly." You corrected yourself, you try to find the words but your throat makes no move.

" uhm, when will the guest room be cleared out?" it's the eigth day of your visit, you've been overstaying and yet when you want to come home, they don't let you with some excuses and excuses piling in your mind and you listened it couldn't be helped that you were getting unnecessarily anxious and concerned.

he look up from the letter in his hand, tired eyes with eye bags that you swore is getting darker with every week he has to go to work on a commission. ".. it's in the works, we've been using the room as storage, we don't really have much people coming over..." He reasoned, relaxing his posture and pushing the cup away. "what's wrong? ya ain't this.. tense, if you know what i mean."

You look down, the food on your plate half-eaten and your head absent minded. "i want to go home."

"you can't just yet, wait a lil' while. It's been five months since your last visit."

The more you argued, the more insistent Olruggio became, eventually you gave up after much coaxing.

—

You waited, sitting on the stairs as you look intensely at the door that never opens for you. "Where is he?.. Stupid knight. " you cursed, biting your nail, your feet fidgetting out of nervousness, theres only 30 minutes left before they come back.

"i'll be locked up in that dingy basement if he doesn't come ri—" right when you said that, the door hinge made a sound.

"sorry for the long wait, Easthies.. uh— is very insistent on training today." Messy and tousled orange hair with slight facial hair on their chin, tired and lazy eyes.. that's Utowin.

"i was starting to get paranoid you didn't come.." you ruffled his hair, giving out a big sigh. "but i'm glad nonetheless.."

"i couldn't turn down a friend's call for help, can i?" he chuckled, trying to light up the mood abit. "alright, enough joking around.. hold onto me, i didn't bring a spare of sylph shoes in a hurry."

"don't let go of me, i don't want to fall to my death."

"hah! are you underestimating me? "

"... no"

"then trust me." Utowin leads you outside, grabbing your hand. "okay, hold tigh on' to me now." he lifted you up, putting one arm under your knees and one arm behind your back.

You quickly wrap your arms around Utowin's neck, hands clutching at his back. "let's hurry, i don't want to get caught."

Utowin huffed, "how long have you been stuck there?" he questioned, slowly lifting off the ground, his sylph shoes working as he flies off with you in his embrace.

"fourteen days and thirteen nights, i was supposed to stay for only five days."

"jesus.. that's quite a while." he frowned, both of you become quiet, it will be a long ride from here to his house.

—

It became evening when Olruggio returned, yawning. The client he had didn’t listen to his suggestions at all. Wanting a chandelier that shines but is made out of ice? They’d have to sacrifice one thing or the other, but they still wanted the same design without any changes and, as they said, "as bright as possible."

"ugh.. why not just use crystals instead of ice? yes tis' much shinier but.." Olruggio muttered curses but his too tired to dwell on it. His most important task right now is to check on you. "hey.."he called out, knocking on the door but

it's slightly ajar.

That wasn't supposed to do that, the spell only opens to anyone written in the rune and— Olruggio swinged the whole door open, checking the bed and the bathroom connecting to it. ".. shit, they've escaped." he already made sure he spell-proofed the whole atelier, each window and door having a lock mechanism, how could they escaped?!...

...he didn't thought about it, but the small window that no one could get out of. "fuck, i should've just put it without a second thought!—" he cursed, running out of his room and going to the main Atelier. Careful not to cause panic, the apprentice's doesn't need to know about this.

Olruggio gently opened the door, watching as the kid's had their dinner in the dining room and Qifrey washing the dishes like normal. "uh, Qifrey—"

"Yes, Olly?" Qifrey turned towards the voice, wiping a wet cup with a table cloth. "are you hungry? i just made dinner, we're having mushroom soup with some mash potatoes!" he smiled, clearly happy. "i even made something special for our guest."

'guest' Olruggio thought, swallowing a thick lump of air in his throat. 'that guest.. just ran away today, can't even track them because i placed the spell onto their cloak.' he knows Qifrey won't take it lightly to the news. "yes, about' our guest..."

".. did something happened to them? did they got sick?" Qifrey questioned, lowering the cup in his hand before putting it away. "Olly, what happened to them?"

"... they ran away." —Olruggio finally got the guts to speak, a stray sweat dripping down his forehead.

"what?"

—

"thank you, again for saving me." you felt grateful that someone actually came to save you. Feeling a large cloth placed onto your shoulder suddenly as you looked at Utowin.

"don't mind it, i always had a feeling against those two." he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "stay at my place for a moment, i know they're going to look high and low for you." —his Knights Moralis cloak, draped over you, while it wasn't practically cold tonight, you appreciated the geasture.

"i will, and uh.. do you have other clothes? i'm wearing Olruggio's." you questioned, following behind the Knight.

"not alot, i could buy you clothes if you want." He offered, opening the door to his humble abode. "come in, it's not much but it's homey."

"of course." you entered, looking around the house. Slightly dusty and messy but it has it's charms. You don't mind cleanliness as long as it's safe. "is there a guest room?"

"second floor, at the end of the hallway, make sure to close the blinds... it's quite bright in the morning." Utowin pointed to the stairs, taking off his pointed cap, setting it away along with his shoes.

You went upstairs to rest, giving Utowin a wave and he gave a lazy smile back. 'savior...' you thought, smiling back at him as you went your merry way.

Utowin stared at your retreating figure, his heart almost going to cardiac arrest. A faint blush dusted his face, taking a deep breath before taking a seat on a chair.

His glad you called for his help, he had these feelings while they aren't intense as Qifrey's or Olruggio's, it's still a feeling. His hand clutched where his heart would be, he thought it'll be a small fleeting crush but it stayed.

And when you have a crush on someone, you became painfully aware when other's fallen for the same person. Utowin can see that specific glimmer and scowl on people's faces, no matter how much disguise they put on, he can see through it.

He gotten a hunch that he wasn't particularly welcomed by the genius duo when he came to greet you while out in patrol. Relaxed and lazy posture, he looked to the side as he locked eyes with Qifrey, he knew the man isn't quite fond of Knights Moralis but the least he gave fake courtesy.

He never seen such an ugly expression on the renown Beldaruit apprentice.

'is it because i'm too close to them or is it because i'm from the Knights Moralis?' a question he often find himself thinking.

'no matter.' he can win this game of hearts, don't be impatient and desperate. Slow and steady wins the race.

"i should start being careful." it's quite dangerous when the people you're attracted is the most known geniuses of the witch society, what kind of mess did you get into?

—

"careful, don't let it fall off your head." Utowin adjusted the hood ontop of your head, it's an old cloak, black with white fur thats suited for more colder climates. "are you overheating in there?" he questioned, holding your hand. He had asked for an absence from Easthies and able to get it approved since he'll be buying you new clothes.

"i'm fine.. just making sure it hides my face better." you huffed out, it is quite comfy but warm. It's starting to get into the winter season's anyways so you have an excuse.

"alright, if anyone asked, just reply you're a.. uh, trader and i'm helping you. Okay?"

You nodded, holding his hand tight as you make your way through the market's crowd. Going to the town square, you found the bulletin board, stopping slightly as you look at the posted notes and.. a missing person's poster already being held. Utowin look at it, ripping it off from the bulletin board. "they're quite fast. Efficient too."

"we better be careful."

"yeah, no shit." He cursed, tugging your hand to go to the nearest clothing store available, something isn't fancy, just get the work done. "let's get this over with, much appreciated if we don't bump into them."

You hurried with your feet, entering a clothing store. "go grab ten sets of clothes, two shoes too. I'll be near the cashier, finish quick " Quickly look around as Utowin let's you to your own devices.

"alright, i will.." you huffed, you don't like being rushed but in this situation you understood. Time is running and the longer you take, the more they will notice your disguise.

You look through racks, and racks of clothes, picking out clothes that aren't your styles and sometimes style's you want to try out. It took you an hour and a half to finish picking out your clothes, you felt happy for fresh clothes.

"Utowin!" you called out, looking around to find him near the cashier but couldn't find him there. Then you go to the back of the store and he isn't there too. Did he abandon you? no, he wouldn't do that.

You look outside the window, 'where is he?' you questioned in your mind and yet you're met with a familiar blend of black and white hair. "shit—" you cursed, quickly pulling away from the window and hiding behind some of the clothing rack. "i took too long.." you took another peak, they seem to be pointing at the clothing store. "no, no, no.. please—"

"there you are."

"ah— Utowin, bad news." you flinched, hearing the familiar voice yet you didn't spend time acting surprise, there's something more important right now. "They're here." you whispered to his ear, tugging the edge of his sleeves to go to the cashier. "come on."

His eyes narrowed, straightening his spine as he saw a pair of white and black hair entering the store. "alright, alright.. i saw, just keep your head down and be quiet." he muttered, leading you to the cashier from the opposite side. "how much are these?" Utowin asked, getting the cashier's attention.

"they're..." The cashier opened their mouth, Utowin got into their satchel and started counting the coins. It's not that expensive, the Knights Moralis has decent pay when you're also teaching new recruits.

"alright, just stay close to me." He whispered, placing the coins onto the table, grabbing the bag full of clothes. "don't wa—"

"Utowin!" A familiar gruffed voice could be heard, Utowin could feel his brow twitching in annoyance but he put on some face for your sake. He could feel dagger's staring at his back, that Beldaruit apprentice.

"Mister Olruggio, hello! hi! fancy meeting you here." He gave the fire witch a lazy smile, turning around to face them. "play along." he muttered, close enough that you can hear and they can't.

"who is yer' friend here?" Olruggio questioned, towering over you slightly, he doesn't extend his hand to lift your hood. it seemed as rude.

"Acquaintance, actually! " Utowin stepped forward, almost completely obscuring your figure. "they're a foreigner, then we hit it off after a few conversation!" excuses, Olruggio could tell.

Qifrey didn’t say anything, only staring at your figure—far too intensely. “Can they speak?” he asked at last, forcing a polite smile.

“They’re terrible at Common Tongue,” Utowin replied smoothly, the edge of his smile twitching at the audacity of the question. “It’s best not to overwhelm them.”

This wasn’t quite a friendly exchange—you could tell that much immediately.

Such a mess. He should’ve kept you inside his house, Utowin, Qifrey and Olruggio stared at each other.

“…Sure,” Qifrey replied, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.

He didn’t buy it for a second.

[avedukedantalion]

Scarlet Fever

Yandere Chrollo x AFAB! Reader

Word count: 6.1k

Summary: You, a surviving member of the Kurta Clan, have been held captive by Chrollo.

Warnings: Non-con, forced orgasm, pet names, power imbalance, kidnapping, imprisonment, bondage, dacryphilia, vomiting, forced pregnancy, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

Author's Notes: Can't believe that this fic took me almost a year to finish.

"You're staring again."

At first, Chrollo offered no response, appearing entirely unbothered by your biting words. He maintained a poised, rigid posture, his legs neatly crossed. Even with that damn book resting in his lap, his gaze remained locked onto you as if nothing else in the space existed.

"Go ahead. Take a good look." You barked a humorless laugh. "First, you slaughter my people for their eyes. Is this part two? Watching them rot while they're still in my head?"

His head tilted, allowing the moonlight streaming through the glass to highlight the line of his jaw before he at last replied:

"I've seen Kurta's eyes," he murmured. "Preserved in solution behind glass cases... dull things then." A pause. "But I wanted to see them when they're still alive and full of rage."

Keeping his gaze locked on yours, you leaned in and spat right at his shoe.

"You know, last night I dreamed that I killed you," you said, venom in your teeth.

His hand ceased its movement against the spine of the book, but that was the only sign you'd reached him. "And?" he asked softly. "How did it feel?"

"Like taking my first real breath in years," you whispered, tracing a slow line down your own neck before tightening your hand into a white-knuckled fist. "I shoved a fork through your neck—right here. Under the jaw, deep into the soft part. It went all the way up into your brain."

"Is that so?" His expression didn't flicker. "How did I go?"

You didn't look away from those hollow, dark eyes. "You gargled like a fish," you sneered. "Died staring at nothing. But even as light left those black holes of yours—you were smiling."

Chrollo didn't pull back. Instead, he let out a short, thoughtful hum, as if he were contemplating a particularly moving passage in his book. Slowly, he raised a hand, his long fingers trailing upward to the exact spot you'd pointed out.

He pressed his thumb into the soft tissue beneath his jaw, testing the pressure:

"The brain, you say?" he murmured, tilting his head back, exposing the vulnerability of his throat to the moonlight. "A messy way to go. But efficient, I suppose."

You hated how he looked genuinely fascinated when he said it.

The day everything ended, it started with smoke from burning homes when the Spiders came. By midday, the sky was a bruised, blooming orange, and the chorus of birds was drowned out by the sound of human screams.

You remember your uncle, trying to hide children under a floorboard. You remember when Feitan found them anyway. You remember a body dragged through the dirt by its hair — your cousin. You remember the indifferent look on Machi's face as she walked past. You remember one of them whistled. You remember your father on his knees, hands raised, trying to reason. You remember a bullet in his throat.

You remember the blood on your palms, the crunch under your knees when you crawled through the rubble. You remember your mother shoving you into a crawlspace under the floor. Her last words were "Don't make a sound."

You didn't.

Not when you heard her scream, blood soaked through the wooden boards above you. Not even when the voices laughed. You stayed silent until a hand ripped the boards free and hauled you into the harsh light. Your nails sank into his skin with a frantic, desperate determination. You fought with the raw ferocity of a trapped animal, biting and clawing at the cold hands that held you fast.

Chrollo didn't even flinch, his expression unwavering, as if he were carved from stone. There was a weight to the moment, then he said something you'll never forget:

"They say the Scarlet Eyes are most beautiful when filled with rage."

He didn't kill you. No—death would have been a mercy.

Instead, he kept you.

The first few days barely registered in your mind. A blurred image of tainted events and uncomfortable moments between you and your kidnapper. His hands were on the back of your head as he whispered how fond he was of you. You were raped to orgasm by him countless times until you passed out, and the squirting sprayed on the cock is so much that it seems like incontinence. Your body was covered with marks, bruises and purples, and you were still unconsciously saying "no".

So you give him no peace, you wake up every morning planning how to make his life as miserable as possible.

Some days you ignored him completely. On other days, you screamed, broke plates, and ripped your sheets apart.

But Chrollo never responded with anger, every act of rebellion was met with either serenity or interest. Even the time you spiked his tea with stolen cleaning chemicals from the bathroom, he didn't falter. He simply sipped the poisoned cup as if it were water, offering only a mild observation: "It's bitter."

You nearly tore your own hair out then—how could he be so unflinching, so calm? But you never stopped trying anything to provoke him into losing that awful, dead-eyed mask. You loathe him; no amount of admiration from behind a cage will make you forget what he is. And as long as you didn't give it, you still had power.

_

This place wasn't your room, it wasn't quite a cell either—the space was too refined for that kind of name. Polished stone floors reflected dim lamplight; cream-colored walls absorbed sound to keep your screams from ever escaping. A bookshelf stood against one wall that was updated weekly with texts from ancient philosophers to modern ethics dissertations, from Camus, Sartre, to a well-worn copy of "Being and Time." There was even luxury here, too—if luxury could be weaponized, soft bedding untouched by sleepless nights; fresh clothes folded neatly each morning.

And then the bulletproof glass wall. Beyond it stretched the city, a neon web sprawled across steel veins. From this height, high above streets where people moved like ants blinded by light, the world looked beautiful and utterly alien. Your home and your people were a world away. Distant, and forever lost.

Once, in a life before your freedom was confined to these four walls, you belonged to the trees. Now, you could barely recall how they smelled when rain fell on pine after summer heat.

"Good evening, dear."

Every day at precisely 7:00 PM, never a second late, Chrollo arrived.

You didn't bother to greet him. You pressed your forehead so hard against the glass that bruises bloomed there. The cold was real, at least. That, you could still feel. You loathed the clothes he provided; the polyester burned against your skin like nettles. You had torn the hems that the sleeves ripped at the seam earlier—anything to break the slick, suffocating texture. Still, you found yourself pausing at an odd time, your hand pressed lightly against your abdomen, as if something were stirring beneath your ribs.

"You've torn your clothes," he noted, gaze sweeping over the tattered fabric. He set the book on your nightstand, the new one this week. "Did they chafe that badly? I could have them bring cotton. Something softer, perhaps."

"I don't want anything from you."

He let out a soft sigh before turning toward the table, flipping open the book he'd brought—a habit that infuriated you even more. "This one is by a philosopher," he said, tone conversational. "He wrote that memory defines the soul more than the body does. You might like it."

"I don't want your books."

"You read them," he said, not looking up.

"Because there's nothing else to do."

"Still," he murmured, "you read them."

You hated that he was right. You hated that, on some level, he knew you needed the words, even if they came from him.

You turned away, pressing your palm to the glass. Below, the city's lights bled together in hazy constellations. It was a world you could see but not touch—mocking you every night. He then moved toward you, his reflection bleeding into yours on the glass, etched against the vibrant neon wash of the city.

"If you touch me, I swear I'll use the chair over there to test your skull's durability." You hissed.

Chrollo only chuckled softly, treating your violent promise like the outburst of a charmingly naive child. Undeterred, he closed the distance between you.

"I don't mind at all," he murmured, folding you into an unexpected embrace from behind, before reaching out to stroke your hair.

Your fingers twitched at your side, nails catching on a frayed sleeve you'd gnawed open. He tilted your head back with deliberate care, his thumb tracing the sharp line of your jaw before slowing just beneath your lip—brushing across it in a touch so light it could've been accidental. And your body caught between fight and flight, and you jerked back so sharply that he let go.

"You're consistent, at least," he remarked.

"Get off—" you started, but before you could move, he turned you with practiced ease until you were facing him.

His lips found your neck, exploring every inch while his hands roamed hungrily, desperate to feel the heat in your skin. You pushed against his shoulders, wrenching sideways with a snarl, breaking his hold just enough to slam your elbow back toward his ribs. Putting three frantic steps between you and him.

Your fist aimed straight for his temple, but Chrollo caught it easily in midair like plucking a falling leaf. His grip tightened, and the pain bloomed across knuckles and bones, a lock of his ink-black hair shifted from the motion; otherwise, he didn't flinch.

Your body locked—from knowing how easily this calm monster could break you without ever raising a hand in violence. With the last of your resolve, you tried to wrench away. "Stop-"

"Resistance is futile, my dear."

But Chrollo's grip was like iron, and he didn't yield as he reached out slowly, palm pressing flat against your ribcage, beneath polyester prison-garments, where your heart hammered like a caged bird trying to escape its ribs. Then with terrifying gentleness, he pivoted against you so cleanly it felt like the room had turned instead of him. The world spun once—lights, glass, the city smearing into color—and then your back met his chest for half a second, one arm hooking around your torso.

You kicked, twisted, tried to drop your weight, teeth bared as you thrashed like an animal caught in a snare. He turned you again, this time forcing your arms behind your back, one hand locking both wrists together; your wrists burned where his grip held firm.

"You're going to dislocate something."

"I don't care!" you snarled, voice breaking as you bucked against him.

"That," he said, tightening his hold just slightly, "is precisely the problem."

You tried to throw your weight sideways, backward, anywhere. That was when Chrollo forced you forward, guiding you down and away from the stone, toward the bed just behind you. The mattress dipped under your knees as he pushed you onto it, using the softer surface to break the fall. Your chest hit the bedding, air rushing out of you in a harsh gasp.

His weight fell on top of you, while one knee pressed into the mattress near your hip, anchoring you. His hand stayed firm between your shoulders, keeping your head from snapping forward.

"You're going to hurt yourself," he said again, voice still infuriatingly calm.

You screamed into the sheets. Tried to wrench your arms free even as your shoulders burned and your wrists screamed in protest. The struggle tore at something raw inside you, and for a few seconds, you didn't care what broke as long as something did.

Unwillingly, your movements lost their sharpness. Your breaths hitched, then stuttered, then came ragged and uneven against the mattress.

Chrollo didn't loosen his hold yet. He waited until you finally went still, your body could no longer keep up with your fury, and he stayed exactly where he was. Even when your muscles gave out, even when your breath came in ragged pulls against the mattress, the tension stayed coiled inside you. Your hands flexed uselessly behind your back. Your teeth chattered with the effort of holding yourself together.

Chrollo loosened his grip just enough to test it. You surged immediately, a sharp, reckless jerk that sent pain lancing up your arms. Your wrist struck the headboard with a dull crack. You hissed, half in pain, half in fury, and tried again.

"That's enough," he said, firmer this time.

You didn't listen, the next attempt was worse. You twisted sideways, vision flashing white for a split second as you nearly wrenched yourself free—or tore something important in the attempt.

That was when he stopped trying to reason with you.

He straightened, still holding you down with one hand, and reached for his belt with the other. The leather slid free with a soft, mundane sound that felt obscenely loud in the room.

"No, no, no, no," you spat, your eyes blazing bright red. "Don't—"

"I'm a thief, darling."

But he was already moving your wrists apart, guiding them upward toward the headboard. The belt was firm, unyielding as he looped it around your wrists. He adjusted it twice, testing the tension, making sure you couldn't reach far enough to hurt yourself again.

You thrashed as much as the restraint allowed, the leather biting into your skin, the bed frame creaking beneath you.

"Ah, there it is," You don't expect comfort, least of all from him, but he's tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "I've seen many beautiful things, but the way the light fractures in your eyes when you're looking at me with such pure, unadulterated loathing... it's a color I've never seen anywhere else."

"Damn you, Chrollo!" you choked out, your eyes blazing bright red. "I'll never forget. You slaughtered an entire village for a black-market price tag—for nothing! I'll carve that day into my own bones if I have to, just to make sure I never stop hating you!"

"It's a lovely thought, I hope you do." He hummed, his dark eyes searching yours with a void-like hunger. "Your clan, your family... they were a collection of masterpieces. And like any collector, I wanted that color. I wanted that heritage. So I took it, admired them until there was nothing left of the person they used to be. That is the privilege of the thief, my dear."

His palm flattened against your bare stomach. Traced upward and stopped just below your bra.

"And now, I want you."

Your shirt came off in stage, first the hem sliding up past your ribs, then over your bound wrists, where he carefully guided the fabric through and let it fall. Cool air hit flushed skin. Goosebumps raced across your stomach. Your skirt followed, peeled down over hips that bucked against his hands once before going still, whether from exhaustion or surrender, hard to say.

His mouth finally found the side of your neck—teeth scraping while tongue soothing, dragging slowly from the hollow below your ear down to your shoulder and leaving a trail of heat that prickled cold in its wake. His hand splayed across your ribs, thumb tracing the underside of your bra, you feel humiliated.

"Then I hope you rot in it!" you finally snarled, your legs trembling slightly where his knee presses against yours. "I hope you rot in every single thing you've stolen. I curse your hands—I curse the air you breathe and the very ground you're standing on! I hope it swallows you whole."

You were shaking, your voice climbing into a jagged, breathless edge of hysteria.

"Every time you close your eyes, I hope it's nothing but the red of my people's blood! I hope those eyes you stole—every single pair—stare at you from the dark until you can't breathe. I hope they drive you insane!"

Something snapped behind those dark eyes. Like a leash he'd been holding with both hands, finally slipping through his fingers.

"Such a heavy burden to lay on me. Tell me, darling... did it feel as good to say as it did to dream?"

You pulled at the belt, the bedside frame groaning once more. "Call me 'darling' one more time and I'll bite my own tongue off just so I don't have to answer you."

He let you win this time and settled between your thighs, fully clothed against fully bare. Forearms framing your head, he was looking down at you with an expression that bordered on devotion.

The bra clasp gave way with a sharp flick of practiced fingers, tossed somewhere toward the foot of the bed without ceremony. One hand gripped your waist hard enough to leave fingerprints tomorrow—five little bruises that would bloom purple by morning. His other hand slid down your stomach, past your navel, fingertips skating the waistband of whatever underwear remained.

Two fingers hooked the fabric and dragged it down. Down your thighs, joining the rest of their discarded clothes on whatever dark surface served as the floor.

You shook when you heard the sound of a zipper opening. You felt the tip of his cock spreading the folds of your pussy. He was going to enter you... take you, rape you. And it hurt when he pressed in, you were almost dry, and he was with his horrible size. You retched in fear, tensing—

"It's okay, dear. You're taking it all so well. But I know you can take more, can't you?"

Yet, he eased you into it, stopping halfway and rocking back, then he was rubbing a finger over the small bud topping your slit.

The realisation hit just a moment later, as he began to thrust repeatedly into you; his cock hitting right where it hurt and then without stopping, doing it again and again. The headboard cracked against drywall, and somewhere in the apartment, something glass rattled on a shelf. Your scream was muffled against the bed sheets. His shirt clung to him—still fully dressed while you lay beneath him stripped bare.

"That's it my love, you cry so prettily for me."

Each thrust pinned you deeper into the mattress, the belt pulling taut against leather and bone. The bed screamed beneath you, springs protesting with every impact. His clothed chest dragged against your bare back—friction and heat and the obscene slap of skin on skin filling the dim room.

Outside, the city lights into smeared watercolors against the glass.

You arched your back, your bound wrists straining against the belt until the leather groans, your inner muscles clenching around him in a tight, rhythmic pulse. "Chrollo..." The words were torn from your throat as him hurried even deeper. "Please stop... Chrollo please... just stop!"

His rhythm didn't falter at all, each stroke punctuated by the rhythmic slam of the headboard against the wall as you cried out with such sawing aggression that emphasised just how needy he truly was, no matter the claims that otherwise left his lips, pinning the blame on you. His hands found your hips and lifted them off the bed entirely, changing the geometry of everything, driving into places that made stars explode behind eyelids.

The sheets beneath you were soaked through. Sweat, saliva, neither mattered.

"My dear, you do it so good, you take this dick so good, look at how it goes in and out, that's it darling." He bent forward and kissed your shoulder, murmuring against bruised skin between thrusts. "Take it all. I know you can. That's it."

One hand released your hip and snaked between your bodies. His finger found your clit and pressed—circling with ruthless precision, matching the pace of his hip stroke for stroke.

Your body was tightening around him like a fist. Close. So close. The coil in your belly wound impossibly tighter with every snap of his wrist and every devastating thrust. The belt creaked. Your wrists were red.

"You can feel how much I love you, right? Now let me feel how much you love me."

Soon, he leaned over you, mouth sucking marks on your neck and shoulder, muffling soft moans and grunts. You lost track of time at some point. His honey-sweet voice whispered such filth.

Your nails dig into the mattress as far as your bound arms allow, your hips involuntarily bucking upward to meet every punishing drive. The sensory overload of his fingers, his weight, and the internal stretch shatters the last of your control, sending you into a white-hot climax that makes your entire frame go rigid.

"That's it—take it all, honey—make it messy for me—"

Three more thrusts, completely stripped of rhythm as your walls clamped down and dragged him under. His fingers were digging crescents into your hips hard enough to bruise, and you felt a rush of heat and a thick, sticky wetness flood your womb. He clamped a hand over your mouth when you started begging him not to cum inside, shushing you.

The room went quiet except for your breathing and the distant hum of the city beyond the glass.

You were bound, shaking, fury and nausea and exhaustion tangling in your chest until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. You really were going to vomit this time; you could feel it, the sickness beneath your skin, in your head, in your stomach, in your womb.

The possibility of being taken captive was a danger to be aware of for your people's scarlet eyes, but rape was not tolerated. Rape in the Kurta clan was virtually unheard of because punishment for such an action was so severe. The Kurta did not have a prison. Punishment for such felonious acts often consisted of execution in front of the clan.

You closed your eyes, then opened them again; everything before you was a blurry, watery mess. Once the crying starts, there's no holding it back.

"Untie me..." You choked out, and with that, the tears began to fall even harder. "I want to wipe my face..."

Chrollo didn't seem to hear you words. He looked at you then, really looked—your heaving chest, your clenched jaw, the red beginning to bloom at the edges of your eyes, then slowly reached out his hand to catch a falling tear. He looked down at his damp finger, then leaned slightly forward, pressing a soft kiss against the tear still clinging to your eyelashes.

"I love you."

You were nearly driven mad with frustration. Drop after drop, large beads of tears spilled from your eyes, rolling coldly down your face, gliding past your nose and the corners of your mouth, pooling at your chin before thudding onto the bedsheet, soaking the white fabric in an instant with splotchy wet stains.

A gentle kiss was placed down, and the trailing tears suddenly vanished. Following the tracks of those tears came a series of tender gestures across your eyelashes, your cheeks, the corners of your mouth, and finally, your lips.

A kiss that tasted of salt.

_

You remember the first time you met him.

It was days before the night of the massacre, when you crouched low in the undergrowth, gathering fruit in a basket. There were birds fussing in the canopy, until a voice came from behind you.

"Excuse me."

You straightened up a bit too quickly, and thorns caught on your sleeve. What really startled you wasn't just the voice, but the fact that you hadn't heard any footsteps, not even a crunch of soil at all.

"Pardon me, I didn't mean to startle you."

When you turned, he was already standing there, close enough that you wondered how long he had been watching. He was a handsome young man, who looked like he'd walked straight out from the polished cities. A pair of eyes, black holes in the nothingness, fixed on you. And you couldn't help it—your heart twitched.

He was so beautifully wrong; as if every line of his face had been carefully chiseled from marble, making him look less like a man and more like a piece of art. His skin was as white and delicate as a moth's wing, so fragile you couldn't imagine it holding a drop of blood. His hair was a stark, inky spill against that paleness.

Beautiful in a way that left you questioning how someone like that could be so cruel.

"Would you know where the nearest river is?" He asked, his tone polite, as though you were neighbors and not strangers in the middle of the woods.

You narrowed my eyes at him, your fingers tightening around the wicker handle of your basket. The only nearest river here was the one women used for washing, people drink from it, just near the village path.

But you didn't answer right away. Instead, you let your gaze rake over him, head to toe. He didn't so much as blink beneath your judgment, waiting patiently for an answer.

"You're not from here," You clicked your tongue and looked away, pretending to rearrange the berries in your basket

"No. I'm passing through." He tilted his head slightly, the faintest smile touching his lips.

"Travelers don't come far into our forest. Unless you're lost."

"Then I suppose I am," he replied. "Lost, and looking for water."

You frowned. The phrasing was odd, though it wasn't hostile. "The nearest river is..." You hesitate, considering him. Outsiders can be trouble, your elders always said. So you turned around and lifted your hand and pointed toward a tangle of brush where the ground grew marshy, away from the village. "That way. You'll find it if you follow the path far enough."

But he doesn't look, or even turn his head. He only stared at you, gaze steady, as if he could see the falsehood folded inside your words. Seconds stretch. Long enough for your stomach to tighten, and your hand started to tremble slightly, though you will it still.

"I see." At last, he inclines his head. The smallest, neatest bow you'd ever seen.

He stepped forward. For a moment, you think he'll take the false path you pointed, but instead, he simply keeps slipping by without a sound, the faint brush of his coat stirring the edge of your sleeve. Your shoulders went rigid, but you didn't dare to move.

"If fate allows," As he draws level with you, he pauses, not long enough to face you again. "I hope we'll meet again."

You turn, but he is gone, dissolved into the hush of the forest as though he had never been there at all.

Your chest heaves once, and you tell yourself you'll forget him. That he was only a stranger passing through. But his words cling to you, stubborn as burrs, long after the berries have stained your hands and the sun has slipped behind the treeline.

_

You woke to the sound of something sizzling.

For a fleeting moment, a disorienting haze cloaks your awareness, leaving you puzzled about your surroundings. The room appeared just as it always did—immaculately clean and meticulously arranged. Every item was in its rightful place, untouched by the chaos of the previous day. It felt surreal, as if the furious spirals of emotion, the violent tearing apart of the atmosphere, and the raw, unrestrained rage that had once filled the space had simply evaporated, leaving no trace behind. An unmistakable smell of food saturates the air, but it's a warmth that feels foreign and unsettling.

It took longer than it should have to remember where you were.

You sat up slowly, waiting for the usual disorientation to pass. It doesn't. It never does. Instead, it settled into you, holding you rigid as you swung your legs off the bed, noticing the belt was gone from your wrists, leaving only raw, angry red welts behind.

By the time you reached the main room, Chrollo already stood at the counter, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, hair pulled back as if this were any other morning in any other life. There's a pan sitting on the stove, bread lined neatly on a plate, and two cups set out side by side.

"Good morning," he said. "How are you feeling today?"

He poured coffee into one of the cups, dark liquid filling it to the brim. He added cream to the other without asking.

"I wasn't sure what you preferred," he continued, setting one cup down across the table from where he intended you to sit. "So I made something simple."

Your hands curled into fists at your sides. A fierce and familiar rage flared up, threatening to consume your very core. There are a thousand things you want to say, but the anger has nowhere to go, suffocated by an overwhelming wave of exhaustion. You were too tired to confront him or to give him the satisfaction he craved, so you sat at the table.

"You didn't have to," you said finally, because silence would give him something to interpret.

"I wanted to."

He set a plate in front of you. There was no embellishment or garnish; eggs were cooked plainly. Next to them, the toast was cut neatly in half.

"You don't have to finish everything, just take what you can handle," he said, taking the seat across from you.

The table was smooth, cool under your palms. Proof that this moment existed, no matter how wrong it felt. You stared at the food. It looked fine. Smelled fine. Yet your body seemed to recoil from it, a persistent feeling you'd been ignoring for a week. The coffee in your cup carried an unsettling metallic taste that lingered on your tongue, and your appetite had drifted in and out, leaving you in the grip of nausea each morning.

"I'm not hungry," you muttered.

"I know," he replied calmly. "You rarely are in the mornings."

You forced your hand to move and stabbed at the food, pushing it around the plate. Finally, you lifted a forkful to your lips and chewed out of spite more than hunger. It tasted like nothing.

Chrollo watched without staring. His gaze drifted respectfully, allowing you a sense of privacy while remaining wholly present in the moment.

"You haven't eaten much lately," he said, his brow furrowing with what looked like genuine, pained concern. "Just... if it's something more, you should know."

Your grip tightened around the fork. "It's nothing, really. I just need rest."

"Loss of appetite can be a response to prolonged stress," he murmured, leaning in just enough that you could see the sincerity in his dark eyes. It was a terrifyingly kind expression. "We'll fix it. Starting tomorrow, I'll prepare smaller, lighter portions—perhaps something chilled or more fluid if textures are becoming difficult. I want this to be easy for you."

You grumbled weakly and said you were fine as you dropped the fork; it clattered against the plate louder than you intended. You pushed the plate away and wrapped your arms around yourself, exhaustion finally catching up with the fury.

The coffee—rich, bitter—suddenly turned your mouth slick with saliva.

"No," you swallowed hard. "I can't."

The nausea surged, sharp and overwhelming. You clapped a hand over your mouth, chair legs scraping as you stood fast. The world tilted, and heat flooded your face.

Chrollo noticed immediately, he stood and slid the plate farther back. "That's fine," he said, already moving aside. "Don't force it."

You barely made it to the bathroom, retching over the sink as your body curled inward, stomach spasming in vain. There was nothing to eject—just bile, pain, and the humiliating sound of your body betraying you once more. After it passed, you remained there, forehead resting on the cool porcelain, breathing shallow.

"Hey." Chrollo voice came from behind you. You didn't look up, didn't want him to see you like this.

"Go away," you managed between breaths.

He moved closer, waiting until the silence stretched thin. "How long's this been happening?"

You rinsed your mouth and wiped your face with the back of your sleeve. "A few months."

"You think it could be...?"

"No." You cut him off fast. Then softer, "No, it can't be."

When you finally straightened, a curious sight met your eyes — he was holding a small white box and still sealed. You didn't know where he'd kept it, or how long he'd been waiting to give it to you.

"You should check," he said.

"You already bought one?"

He shrugged, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I just thought— I don't know. Better to know than to keep guessing."

You stared at the box resting in his outstretched hands. It looked harmless, but it carried a weight you weren't ready to hold. Suddenly, the words you longed to voice lodged in your throat.

It occurred to you that you had missed your period for a while. You didn't think much of it because extreme stress could cause you to lose your period, and if there was ever a time for it to skip, it was definitely when you had been kidnapped by the man who committed genocide on your clan.

"I don't want to know," you whispered, your breath barely a flutter.

"I know." He stepped closer, for you to feel the sickening warmth of him. "But maybe it's time you did."

With hesitant fingers, you reached out and took the box from him, feeling the cool, smooth surface against your skin. In that suspended moment, neither of you spoke.

You took the test into the bathroom and closed the door behind you, though the thin wood did nothing to quiet the pounding of your heart, which resonated like a drum in the eerie quiet. The chill of the tiles seeped through your socks as you stood before the mirror, staring at your own reflection, which looked both familiar and foreign. Your hands trembled uncontrollably, the box feeling heavier than it should as you carefully opened it

After what felt like an eternity, you placed the test on the counter, stepping back as if it were a creature that might bite.

From the other side of the door, you heard his knuckles tap softly. "I'm right here," he said, as if to reassure you.

You didn't reply, you closed your eyes tightly, grounding yourself through measured breath. The bathroom light was bright, bleaching the room in pale yellow. It was another wound, really.

When the result appeared — those red, positive lines — your heart clenched so tightly you thought it might split you in two.

In a moment of frustration, you seized a nearby chair leg and swung it with fierce desperation, shattering the bulb in a shower of glass. Shards flew like glimmering stars, scattering across the cold tile floor. For two fleeting minutes, you tasted real darkness. For two minutes, you could almost trick yourself into believing you were free.

He must've heard it; the door creaked open before you could speak. And the lights came back on, fixed without explanation. Chrollo only stared at the lines on the test. Despite your best efforts to stifle the rising tide of emotion, you pressed your palm firmly against your mouth. Yet, a sob still came through, shaking your shoulders. Your knees gave before you realized you were falling, and you crumpled against him. For a moment, your eyes shone a bright, almost fevered scarlet — lit from somewhere deep inside — before the tears welled up and softened them to a muted ember.

Chrollo pulled you without asking. "Hey," he whispered into your hair. "Breathe."

"I can't-" You buried your face in his chest, your fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt. The sobs came hard, shaking through you.

No. No way in actual hell would you let yourself carry one child belonging to Chrollo Lucifer; you vehemently rejected it with every fiber of your being, as if it were a poison coursing through your veins. Nothing in this world could evoke greater resistance from you, including the monster in front of you, and how you wished you could convey that to him verbally instead of succumbing to an overwhelming fear.

"You think it's a boy or girl?"

You let out a shaky laugh. "I... I don't know. It's too early to—"

"I think it's a girl. What do you think about naming our child Ruby?" he suggested, his voice filled with twisted affection. He then leaned back just enough to look at you, his fingers brushing a tear from your cheek. "Or perhaps Scarlett? They means red, I want something that reminds me of your eyes. It's a beautiful color on you."

It took a moment for the weight behind his words to sink in, and you could only look at him, appalled. You had never felt more used in your entire life, and the nausea surged within you, threatening to spill over once more.

"I hope they'll have your eyes, darling."