ᝰ.ᐟ WARNINGS : Extremely Dubious consent, second hand embarrassment; Mentions of Ray, Jealousy, Toxic Possessiveness, Saeran is a warning all on his own. Mentions and usage of toys, fingering, Choking, aggressive biting. Rough, just rough man, Fem!Reader, 3K words.
You don’t know how you got yourself into this mess, caged against a wall by a man that looked twelve seconds from biting your head off. Teal eyes wide, manic as they fluttered about every twitch of your expression, jaw wound so tight and teeth painfully grinding. He was more akin to a beast than a man, ravenous and deadly. Her bedroom was a mess, ransacked as if a tornado had materialized right in the center. Books torn open, shredded pages strewn about and crumpled below his feet, stained with steps caked in old mud that still lingered on his black dress shoes.
“You’re disgusting,” Saeran sneered, messy bleached white hair curtaining his crazed gaze. “Nasty thing, walkin’ round ‘n acting like some pious savior. Did you think I was as naive as him?” His hand shifted, lithe fingers bruisingly curling around your arm, pulling you to him with a hiss. You managed a quiet wince, reminding yourself to be resilient. This wasn’t Ray, but still a part of him- a violently sadistic part of the blushy cheeked flower prince that swooned you into Mint Eye, that you were certain was tucked deep somewhere within the armor of thorns.
Yet you couldn’t help the concern that seeped into your veins, hairs standing at the nape of your neck anxiously; Saeran may have always seemed hot-tempered, hell even erratic when at a loss of what to do; But this? This was a blazing heat, a rage simmered between the spaces of his squared shoulders, threatening to blow.
You fumble when he suddenly pulls you along, dragging you over the shattered remains of your glass coffee table. Praying that no shards would slip through the leather of your flat shoes, the last thing you needed was to develop some rare infection hidden so deep in the mountains. Your mind still so focused on caution that you hadn’t even realized he suddenly stopped, kneeling to pull something from under your bed, ignoring how you nearly fell forward thanks to his unrelenting grip. Expecting anything, but what he pulled from the shadowy recesses below your bed.
As he stands, he seems all the more incensed— yet the tips of his ears burned a ruddy tone. All at once, something is roughly shoved forward, jabbing your chest in a mocking fashion, and his face twists to something dangerous.
Silicone, cold and maroon. Curved and a bit too long, nails digging into ridges that you hadn't quite yet reached. This fucker really just found your dildo.
Indignant, your face flushes, desperately clamoring to take the embarrassingly phallic object in his hold. It was one thing to have it be found, but so horrifically swung around with little regard for any modesty. He twists his grip, throwing her to the bed with a grimace.
“How did you—?” You gapped, knowing your face would be ghastly blanched if it weren't for how mortifying this was. You flounder within the confines of movement you’re usually allowed. “That is private; personal!”
He clicks his tongue, tossing the item aside to the bed. He doesn't hesitate when he steps forward, suddenly focusing his attention fully on you. “Who said you can run your mouth, huh? Huh?” he clicks his tongue, cupping your face with the grace of a starved tiger. His nails dig dull crescents into the apples of your cheeks, feeling the ache of your own teeth against the inside of your cheek. His eyes snap wide, leaning forward till his breath puffs out hotly against your face.
“Privacy,” he spat, “you don't get that. You're my property, my responsibility. Mine. Can you get that through your fucking lack of brain?”
A retort sits heavy on your tongue, your jaw constricts, fingers latching onto his wrists but never digging. Something about how everyone's entitled to privacy, how Ray gave you time and space. Then he continued to rant, lost in his own self-made offense.
“I thought the first time you were just being desperate, some needy bitch humping her own pillow.” Saeran can't help the chuckle that escapes him, still bewildered.
“Then you did it again. Right at nine thirty. Louder— you wanted me to see?” He grits his teeth, “Yeah, yeah. Of course you did.”
What?
The pieces click in place— sure, you knew he was monitoring you through your phone; watching your each and every action with the RFA, guards posted at your door. Yet, the last thing that you wanted to believe was that he was watching you like some pervert in the dead of the night. “You're watching me—?!” Your words come out muffled, clipped beneath the press of his palm, panic igniting within your veins.
Saeran blinked, lips pressing tightly into a thin line. His head tilts, leaning forward. “Don't act so stupid.” His knee shifts, looming beside her hip. Your ears burn, attempting to lean back to create some distance, leaning and leaaaaning just so that your arms buckle and back meets the duvet below.
“You knew.”
You hated him, you were sure of it. You despised Saeran, this carnivorous creature of violence— it had to be hatred that made your mind race, your heart drumming in your veins. Hatred that blinds your goodwill and intentions, that blurs the thought of that rosey cheeked hopeless romantic that you still longed for. But his scent is everywhere, his presence is suffocating and demanding— it wasn't your fault, that Saeran was all consuming.
And that he was right.
Part of you had a suspicion, an inkling of a thought lingering between messages. Sometimes Ray seemed to know you better than he knew himself, suddenly summoning himself to your doorway with just the thing to all your sorrows. Willed with pain? Here's your medicine! Craving a hyper specific treat? The chefs are already on it for dinner time. Lonely? His presence was at your disposal. You'd dismissed it as him simply being far too observant, connected to your needs. But the truth was so obvious, you didn't dare to voice the question.
“Were you thinking of him?” Saeran questions, eerily quiet. He cages over you, white pink-tipped hair framing his face as he looks. He was sure he hated you too, Saeran wasn't made to admire— no, he was made to sneer, to snap his teeth at anything that dared challenge his sense of self. And you were no different. A pathetic whimpering dog, weakly always looking at him with those eyes. Those eyes that haunted his dreams, that questioned his reality. He withdrew his hand, shifting it rather to cup her cheek, twitching.
“What?” A shaky whisper, only acknowledged at first with a flicker of his gaze. His brows furrow, finger ghosting over the corner of your lip. Lips that Ray touched, kissed. Why would you kiss something as weak as him?
“Did you think of him,” he repeats, throat tight. Challenging. “Did you fuck that plastic thing in your messy cunt praying he'd see? That he'd finally grow some balls and take you in its place?”
Shocked, you squawked, hand shoving against his chest. “Don’t say things like that. Of course not!” You gasp, feeling his hand trail lower, dancing along the curves of your throat. “I'd never… I wouldn't…”
His gaze burns into you, twinkling with something unknown. It's clear, he doesn't believe any of your attempts to feign ignorance. His lips quirk, almost sneering. “...Me?”
Your lips part to dispute, to argue that you’d never think of him like that. But something about his face, awaiting— hitched breath almost expectant for her answer. It broke the fragile mask you wore. “...Yes, Saeran. I.. thought of you.”
His eyes widened for a fraction, face blanking above her. Lips parting and shutting as if at an entire loss for words. He almost looked like Ray, shattered by a simple sign of want. Yet, just as quickly as it manifested; pale features twisted, darkening into something starved.
You were barely given a second to react with anything other than a surprised squeak before his face tucked into your neck, hand roughly grasping the collar of your dress. It wasn't romantic nor a gentle affection born from love. It was ravenous, like a man finally offered his last meal as he faces the gallows. Saeran consumes, messily lapping his tongue against your throat. His teeth snap, sinking into flesh in desperation to leave something of him behind with you. No kisses follow, only ghosting your collarbones as he dips lower, suckling marks along the way..
“Off,” he gruffly commands, making no room for patience as he pulls, prying the threads apart with his hand and teeth. He ignored your indignant cry of ‘Hey!’, wasting no time in diving for the kill. He bit at the curve of your breast, groaning as tension eased from his jaw. You whimper, face dipping into a ruddy hue as your fingers traversed the length of his suit, from lapels to hem, skimming past the collar of his button up before settling on those bleached strands messily sitting at his scalp.
“Saeran,” you creen, squirming. Wincing at a particularly harsh bite; he groans, shoulders slacking as his tongue flicks out, circling the perking bud in the center, hand toying with the opposing nub. You murmur his name again, this time gasping. He watches every reaction, allowing shudders to crawl up his spine with every soft cry of his name.
His hand trailed downward, cupping the sticky fabric of your clothed cunt. Saeran laughs, lips splitting into a sadistic grin that makes your heart drop. “Fer me?” He snickers, at first questioning— before quickly cutting his own train of mind off. “Soaking yourself like a bitch in heat. How long w’re you prayin’ fer me?”
His words slur, mind buzzing with the heat, spit slicked at the corners of his lips. Messy and unrestrained. “Actin’ all stern, a brat wanting’ ta be put in her place. All while dripping.” You whined, stiffly shaking your head in protest.
Saeran scoffed, “No?” His tone dripped with malice, mocking as he dragged down your soaked panties down her thighs. He didn't ask, no. That's not who Saeran was. He was a taker through and through, a push first and gauge the results within the soreness. “She says otherwise.”
He spits out, sitting up straight. He takes in the sight of you, clothes tattered and callously ripped; skin flushed and quivering below his touch. He throws your legs over his thighs on either side, spreading you out with a grin. He relishes the view, enjoying how your gaze skittishly avoids his own. Embarrassment boils in your blood, vulnerability sitting below skin as you realize, incredulously, that his suit remained crisp— crinkling at the waistline, along with the clear sign of his arousal straining against charcoal toned slacks.
His pointer drags along your puffy folds, slow and tantalizing as he gauges each reaction. Gaze twinkling when your head falls back, eyes snapping shut to avoid locking with burning teal irises.
“See?” He cooes, mocking. “She knows what she wants. She's practically drooling for me, doll.” Another draaaag of his fingers, gathering your slick messily between digits. Then, without warning, he plunged them into your entrance. Fingers curling, breath catching in his throat, his fingers moving iin and ouut as if you were something to study, mimicking the very motions you made in the dead of night— when you thought nobody was looking.
Damn bastard, either he was a fast learner or he'd watched you finger fuck yourself enough times to memorize every motion your hand made. Your hands latch onto his arms, nails digging deep into his suit jacket. “Don't talk like that…!” his brows furrowed, plunging deeper— even adding another finger into the roster. He continued the rhythmic erratic pace of his hand, nearly slipping out a shaky whimper at the increasing sounds of your shuddering moans.
He was sure he was losing himself. He wondered if you tasted sweet, if the flavors would mask the poison that was the Elixir. If he could crawl into the shadows of your bedroom whenever he was forced to swallow the bitter concoction to lap between your legs. Praying that the taste would become his new balm—
He pauses, suddenly going still. His expression shifted to conflict. You really were a devil, a seductress wrapped in heavenly silks. You were there to steer him into a path of the damned, of the weak. Ready to soften up his insides and drink them whole.
No, he was stronger than that, better than that. Better than Ray
He withdraws his hand, ignoring your whine. How you breathily questioned him, frustration building within you to have the sudden stimulation stripped away. You ask once, but he just stares at the rise and fall of your stomach. Then you ask again, louder. Only then does he snap back, his clean hand lurching forward— wrapping around your throat. It doesn't dig, the grip remains tight—but not suffocating. He squeezes once, a clear warning as he wipes his soaked fingers on the surface of his slacks. Saeran didn't care if they stained, he'd threaten any follower that dared to question him.
Wordless, he reaches out— plucking the item that started this whole mess. He grimaces, turning the toy to study it. Curiosity twinkling in his vision as he takes in every faux ridge, even the two buttons sitting pretty at the base. You shakily exhale, attempting to draw back his gaze with another call of his name. Which only makes him squeeze at her throat again. “Sae…ran?”
“What?” He scoffs, lips curling up, but it's far darker. “You thought you were gonna have it easy? You ain't calling the shots.”
Saeran slots his thighs, shifting them juuuust right to prop you into his lap. Bulge pressing to your dripping heat, he rolls his hips once— hissing below his breath. He taps the silicone surface of your toy, he fights back the dryness in his throat. Then prods it right to your aching hole, once again, ignoring the shy squeak of embarrassment. He sinks the toy past its faux mushroom tip— eyes narrowing into slit like focus he pushes it deeper and deeper. You gasp, trying to knock your knees together to shut your legs which is made infinitely times more impossible with his body slotted between them.
“Wait, wait wait—” you heave, blinking as your eyes moisten, the stretch as painful as it is delicious. “I can't take more— s’nough! I can't—”
“Not asking.” His jaw ticks, he notes that despite your words, you practically suck the toy in. Desperate for more. “Y’er gonna take it. Gonna ruin this filthy pussy, mkay? Gonna ruin it so whenever ya’ play it, you'll just think ‘bout me.”
He continues, sinking inch after inch into you. It's slow, but it's relentless. Watching as your thighs quiver, as your eyes roll and spittle accumulates on your tongue. His breath grew heavier, despite his desperate attempt to remain unaffected. “Thats it,” he breathes, “Thaaats it. See? She's practically begging for
more.”
You're the worst. The thought lingers in your gaze, something he catches with ease.
He chuckles— only when he finally thinks he's reached the limit does he press his thumb to a button. The toy whirs to life, vibrating within your pulsating walls, pressing to that gummy spot that made you see stars. He relishes the way you practically shriek, head thrown back as your eyes flutter. Hair strewn about like a filthy halo. “There she is,”
You moan unabashedly, mind turned to mush as his grip around your throat only tightens, constricting your air intake. The bleach haired man leans down, lips messily pressing against your own in a kiss that's all tongue and teeth. Gnashing and ravenous to taste, to devour. He thrusts the toy just as rapidly, withdrawing it from its very tip to then slam it back as deep as it could go, his eyes sparkle— staring in amazement as you pathetically cry out weak ‘s’too much!’ and ‘it hurts’ between kisses! His thumb presses into your jugular, watching your eyes bulge and your lips part in desperation to intake air. Brows upturning, he ignores the way his own hips buck in occasion to match your own rocking. He had a point to prove.
His tongue presses to the roof of her mouth, before he parts. Licking his swollen lips as he quickens his movements, lulling your gaze as your mind practically becomes mush. Satisfied, he pries off his grip on your throat, instead meeting his other below, circling at your clit with calculated motions. Roughly pressing the swollen nub with a hushed command that barely registered in your melted mind.
All at once, the coil that built within your belly had snapped, back arching as your toes curled. He doesn't stop his motions, pupils practically blown out to a pure inky darkness as he watches you unravel. He commits the shattering of your watery expression to memory, the messiness of your hair, even down to the sweat-slicked glaze of your flushed skin littered in bites. He nips at the bare of your knee, reminding himself to expand the distance of his marks. He wants to kiss at the stretch of your legs, to run his tongue over the curve of your spine. Wholy, fully his.
The thought sickens him, so, before you can come down from your high fully. He withdraws, slipping out of your bedroom with the swiftness of a man horrified. He misses the bleary confusion in your gaze, or the way that once the tremors in your limbs ease, you sleepily try to call out his name. Wanting him, needing him.
No, Saeran wasn't made for love. For the comfort of a warm bed and the weakness that came with your touch. So, despite the stickiness between his legs, the wet patch he refuses to acknowledge. He staggers to his room, cursing your name the whole way through. He hates you, he hates you and he needs you.
What a shame. He clearly needed to up his dose tomorrow, double.
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