A "The Picture of Dorian Gray"!- inspired Nanami fic in two acts (From my Jjk Penny Dreadful Series-here)
*°࿐ Synopsis: After a harrowing escape from the hell of Shibuya, Nanami Kento finds a dark, twisted method to conceal the deep wounds forever etched on his flesh and spirit. He relocates to Malaysia, shedding his former identity in search of s fresh start, driven by the allure of an hedonistic lifestyle. He quickly resigns himself to a solitary existence, prioritising secrecy above all else's -that is, until one evening at the theatre, when your paths fatefully cross. What will happen next in this unfolding tale of tragedy and rebirth?
*°࿐Tags: Act 2- Nsfw + dark content (Katoptronophilia- mirror kink, softdom!nanami, fem! masturbation, pinv, breeding kink, graphic description of scar and injuries)
This work is part of the SPOOKINKY 2024 event hosted by @tsukimefuku 🖤
"Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic (...)Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing." -Oscar Wilde
࿐✧˖*° Fic Moodboard here✧˖*°࿐
Beneath the dim, flickering glow of the bakery where you work everyday, you move like a shadow, wiping the counter where the day’s sweet offerings linger—croissants, chocolate éclairs—fragrant remnants of a life half-lived. The scent clings to you, comforting yet oppressive, as you linger on the past. A year has passed since you fled into this quiet corner of Malaysia, seeking escape, yearning for the hum of the ocean outside your window. Here, in the solitude of this bakery, you’ve become a ghost—part of the background, invisible to all but the clock and the empty tables.
Yet tonight, something stirs deep within you. At the end of your shift, you return to your cozy apartment, heading to your bedroom to let your fingers graze the golden ticket on your nightstand, a silent promise of a dream that has been lingering in your personal space for weeks: The Tempest. Tonight, the magic of Shakespeare’s world will finally become your own. You slip into the emerald night dress you bought for this occasion, catching a fleeting glimpse of a brand new woman reborn in the mirror, staring back with a defiant gaze.
…
The air of the theater hums with electricity as you step inside, your dress shimmering like a forest at dusk. Eyes turn, glances linger. The crowd falls into a hush, a soft murmur ripples through the room. You feel their gaze—a strange, unknown sensation, both exhilarating and disquieting- you’re definitely not used to being the focus of the attention around you. As you navigate the rows to your seat, eager to find yours and hide among the crowd of faces, a chill runs down your spine. There, across the balcony, a familiar figure watches you—a tall, elegant man, poised in a timeless black tuxedo.The tailored jacket hugs his athletic frame, the deep midnight black fabric contrasting strikingly with his fair complexion. A white pocket square elegantly peeks out from the breast pocket, while a finely knotted bow tie adds a sophisticated touch. His reserved nature, shadowed by a hint of intrigue, seems to enchant every woman in the auditorium, inviting curiosity from all who cross his path. With an air of mystery that surrounds him, he garners attention effortlessly, embodying both charm and enigma in every subtle movement.
It’s him—Mr. Nanami, the enigmatic man who has haunted the bakery for months. Always at his corner table, always with a book in hand, always distant, as though carved from some distant age. His gaze is now fixed on you, unblinking, his caramel eyes drinking in every movement you make. Even among the crowd, he is a statue, an artifact of mystery, his blonde hair gleaming under the theater’s lights, his presence too immense to ignore.
«If by your Art, my dearest father, you have
put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.
The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,
But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek,
Dashes the fire out.»
The character of Miranda finally speaks, signalling the start of the play. Lights go off, the world fading into darkness around you, but his gaze never wavers. It pulses between you, an electric current that thrums in your chest. Even as the actors bring the stage to life, Nanami’s attention is all on you. His eyes trace the delicate curve of your neck, they notice the way the silk of your dress clings to your feminine figure—every movement, every breath amplified. In the silence between the scenes, memories of brief encounters in the bakery flood both of your minds—small gestures, the fleeting brush of hands as you served his command. Every mundane act now seems to acquire a deeper meaning, hinting at the long buried electricity now resurfacing in all of its power.
The actors' words echo in your mind, their tale of rediscovery mirroring your own. You feel the thread between you and Nanami tighten with each passing scene. Your heartrate is accelerates inexplicably, his hands itch imperceptibly. By the play's end, the applause is drowned by the weight of his gaze, a fleeting glance that feels like an unspoken invitation. The crowd fades, and you are lost in the depths of his eyes—amber pools that seem to hold unspeakable secrets. What darkness lingers behind them? What truths lie hidden beneath his composed exterior?
In that moment, you are both spectator and part of the story, caught between the stage and the gaze of the man who watches you from the shadows, as if you are both part of the same forgotten tale.
The applause swells, a rising tide of sound that drowns everything around you. The faces blur, the claps echo like thunder, and your senses are swept into the frenzy. Yet, goosebumps rise along your exposed back, a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold. In the midst of chaos, your consciousness fails to identify the tall figure slipping quietly behind you, a shadow stretching long across your seat. But your body doesn't: every fiber of your being tenses in alert, time stretching as if waiting for something to happen at any moment.
Nanami’s hand lingers for a heartbeat before resting on your shoulder, a firm, yet gentle touch. The unexpected pressure makes you gasp, the sound barely a whisper.
"Mr. Nanami... What a surprise," you murmur, turning to face him, your voice trembling like a prayer as you feign surprise. His name spills from your lips, the remnants of the performance still thick in the air.
"Good evening, Mrs... I apologize for the intrusion," he says, his tone softer than you expected. "I saw you in the crowd and... I couldn't resist."
His apology is followed by a smile—small, sincere, and unlike the elusive stranger you’ve come to know. You blink in disbelief, caught off guard by this sudden warmth.
"Good evening," you reply, your words stammered. "No need to apologize. I’m glad you noticed me." Beneath the surface, you are deeply surprised by the fact that he did really recognize you, a simple waitress, a face everyone easily forgets.
He chuckles softly, eyes flickering with interest as he watches you. "The actors were amazing tonight, weren't they?" he continues, easing into the conversation. " Yes, indeed” you answer “I've always been fond of drama... the way music, scenery, poetry, and dance all blend into one living thing."
He catches the spark igniting your eyes as you speak, lost in your own enthusiasm. "Yes, I think it's the perfect kind of art... a fusion of all forms. A single experience woven from many threads."
He watches you, entranced by your remarkable passion for arts. Nanami always secretly thought you looked beautiful, admiring your kind nature from afar while you served tables at the bakey. But tonight he can't help feeling drawn to your every movement, noticing every detail of you, the most attractive woman he has ever laid eyes on in a while. Suddenly a low chuckle escapes him, catching you by surprise: "A real aesthete, aren’t you? I think I’ve finally found a worthy companion for my abstract musings." He muses.
You smile back, amused by the compliment. "So…you are... an ‘aesthete’ too?" you ask playfully.
"Ah... I prefer the term hedonist. There's a difference. An aesthete merely appreciates beauty for its own sake. A hedonist seeks to immerse themselves in it, to live for the pleasure it brings. Do you understand?" He smiles wryly.
You nod, half-missing the full meaning. "It makes sense to me... though 'hedonism' isn't a word you hear much these days."
At your remark, something flickers in his eyes—a momentary hesitation. His gaze drifts away, as though lost in a distant thought. Then he snaps back,as shaken from a dream.
"I have a question for you," he says, his voice now heavier. "Since you’re so drawn to this kind of topic... what do you think? Does life imitate art, or is it art that imitates life?"
You blink, caught off guard. His question is as profound as it is unsettling. Sensing your confusion, he continues, voice tightening with a quiet vulnerability.
"I know it sounds tautological... contradictory, even. But these thoughts are born from years of reflection, of trying to make sense of life."
He pauses, and for a moment, the air between you thickens with unspoken tension. The weight of his words settles around you, and you sense his inner battle—fear of revealing too much.
"Life is indeed the most intricate of masterpieces," you say softly, your voice soothing the strain in his words. "But I believe we create it. We choose the colors, the shapes, the shadows of our existence."
His eyes soften, a long, silent moment passing between you. Then, as though the walls around him have cracked, he sighs, and his words spill out.
"I’ve always had a special sensitivity... but my past... it hardened me, consumed me. I spent years hiding from it, burying my feelings beneath logic and calculation. And when I finally faced those demons, I realized..." He trails off, the confession hanging between you.
You wait, breath held, as he collects his thoughts. "I thought the pleasures of art and literature were gone forever. I thought I had lost them. But then..." He falters again, lost in the depths of his own emotions.
You try to simplify his cryptic confession. "So... you retired early and moved to Malaysia, didn't you? It's not something to be ashamed of, it's common practice here, Malaysia is such a dreamy place. I myself have left everything behind and fled here…" You try to make him feel at ease, failing to notice the deeper meaning behind his words.
His lips curled up in a faint smile, a touch of sadness in his eyes. How could such a pure soul like yours grasp the horrors hidden behind his elegant appearance? "Yes... escaping a life I didn’t recognize anymore seemed the only choice I had a year ago."
You smile back, unaware of the weight of his past, yet moved by his vulnerability. "It seems like we both needed to escape something,then" you say gently.
He watches you intensely, and for a moment, the shadows of his past flicker in his gaze, along if something else- quiet admiration for your spontaneous genuineness. Then, without warning, he clears his throat, inviting you to continue your discussion elsewhere:
"I hope you won’t misunderstand," he says, his voice low and hesitant. "But...would you join me for a drink tonight? I’d love to continue this conversation... and perhaps share a book with you. If you'd allow me."
You accept without hesitation, the thrill of the unknown surging through you. Walking side by side along the moonlit shore, your steps are light, the air thick with possibility. The evening unfolds before you, a path leading to an unseen discovery, your heart fluttering, unaware of the darkness that lurks just beyond the light of the moon, reflected inside his golden irises.
The ebony door creaks open, a haunting sound that reverberates through the dimly lit corridor as Nanami, with an air of quiet dignity, unlocks the entrance to his home, his quiet sanctuary. Leaning forward, he flicks the light switch, and with a courteous gesture, steps aside, allowing you to cross the threshold. Click. A warm, golden light floods the space, spilling like liquid amber into the darkness, inviting you into the treasure trove that is Nanami's home.
As you step inside, the musty scent of aged books mingles with a faint undertone of turpentine, whisking you away to a distant realm where art and literature reign supreme. The air is thick with stories untold, whispers of creativity echoing off the walls. Each available inch of wall space is claimed by an eclectic mix of paintings, their colors vibrant against the deep shadows. Books of every genre crowd every angle of the refined, tastefully furnished open space that stretches before you. Your eyes widen, your jaw drops; you are mesmerized, trying to absorb every intricate detail of this artistic sanctuary.
"I hope this is to your liking," Nanami's amused chuckle pulls you from your reverie, his voice like a gentle breeze stirring the still air.
"This... all of this... is yours? The paintings, the books, the antiques? How...?" You stammer, incredulous, as you survey the vast collection that feels both intimate and monumental.
"Yes," he replies, a contemplative smile gracing his lips as he leans against the doorframe, the shadows dancing across his features. "This collection is my legacy, the thing I’m most proud of..." His voice trails off, and as you admire his possessions, you fail to notice the way his gaze lingers on you, filled with a blend of longing and admiration. In his mind, your figure blurs with the contours of the most graceful of Aphrodites, the missing piece of his collection, the first soul to step into his sanctuary after a long, lonely stretch of time. He watches you spin around his living room, a vision of grace in a flowing dress that clings to your curves like a delicate drapery on a marble statue.
He could grow accustomed to this sight, to you... And in that fateful moment, he lowers his guard, granting you access to the most secluded part of his soul, a realm he has shielded jealously over the years. "Why don’t you take a tour of the house while I pour us a drink? What do you prefer: Cabernet or Whiskey?" he asks, his genuine smile like a rare gem in the dim light.
"Thank you, I’d like to explore your collection further… as for the drink… you choose, surprise me," you reply chuckling mischievously, a thrilling tension crackling in the air as your eyes lock with his, an electric connection that sends shivers down your spine.
The floorboards creak beneath your feet as you venture deeper into the labyrinthine layout, navigating narrow corridors flanked by towering shelves that groan under the weight of Nanami's extensive collection. Each step draws you further into his world, a place where dreams and memories intertwine.
As you explore, you ascend the stairs to the first floor, stumbling upon a cozy library. A plush, crimson armchair beckons you, piled high with dog-eared paperbacks and a precarious tower of art monographs. The adjacent bookshelf stands as a shrine to literary giants—Austen, Dickens, Joyce—their timeless works nestled alongside a first edition of Hemingway's "The Old Man and the Sea."
You are about to descend when something catches your eye: A door at the end of the corridor is slightly ajar, challenges you, invites your curiosity. A thrill courses through you, an all-consuming desire to uncover the mystery hidden within. Drawn by an unseen force, you approach, your heart racing as your trembling hand hovers over the doorknob. With a gentle push, you swing the door open, and a sudden burst of light slices through the darkness, momentarily blinding you. As your vision clears, you find yourself staring at your own reflection, an astonished figure in a green dress, caught in the web of shadows.
Stepping further into the room, you realize you’ve entered Nanami's peculiar bedroom. A quilted round bed dominates the space, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling mirrors that create a dizzying effect, reflecting your image endlessly in the dim light. Your gaze travels, and you find a portrait hanging on the wall—a blond man who looks strikingly like Nanami, but marred by burn scars that crisscross his body like a roadmap of pain, telling a story of flames that once ravaged his skin. His eyes, a deep, piercing gold, seem to harbor the weight of those infernos, a flicker of fire still smoldering within.
“Is this... Nanami?” you whisper to yourself, disbelief coursing through you.
"So you found out..." a faint, emotionless voice emerges from the shadows, and you immediately turn: Nanami stands on the threshold, his attractive features marred by a mask of suffering and resignation. He holds a single book in his hands: The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.
"Nanami... I didn’t mean to intrude. The door was slightly open, and I..." you stammer, searching for an excuse. " But…What is this? Who is the man in the portrait?" you finally manage to ask, your voice trembling with confusion.
His gaze drops to the floor, a deep sadness enveloping him. "I wanted to lend you this book…maybe it would have helped you better comprehend this situation of mine. I’ve always related to Wilde’s work…and its Preface holds everything I’ve painfully learnt about life” his words ring hollow in your ears, emptied of any meaning. “This portrait... It represents the state of my soul. This... is what I really look like." His voice is heavy with truth, and the weight of his words hangs in the air like a dark cloud.
A storm of questions swirls in your mind, casting you into a sea of panic, while your gaze flashes between him and the man of the picture "This... it can't be real. Nanami, what really happened? What is this story about?"
"Please, listen to me..." he interrupts, his tone now urgent, demanding your full attention. "Over a year ago, I was involved in an accident in Shibuya,on the night of Halloween and got severely injured. I barely managed to survive, but half of my body was burned, damaged irreparably..."
He takes a step closer, his expression lost as he struggles to share his truth. "When I woke up in a hospital bed, I took a look in the mirror, and realized I would have never been the same man I was.” He pauses, trying to steady his accelerated breath “ seeing my condition, an old friend of mine decided to set off, travelling the world for weeks in search of a way to restore my appearance. And I thought he had returned victorious at first, when he proposed to me an ancient curse allowing me to channel all of my pain and ugliness into that portrait. So I ended up switching places with the man now hanging above my bed. My friend helped me escape to start anew in this secluded place of Earth, but the truth is that this was never meant to be a blessing…with time I fell prey of the illusion of my appearance, trapping myself in a cage of mirrors, constantly afraid to see my real aspect resurfacing…I’ve been such a fool to forget the real nature of this expedient: a curse will always be always a curse"
He retreats, hiding behind a wall of shame and guilt. "I don’t expect you to understand. You know nothing of the world of sorcery from which I came... and...I wouldn't blame you if you turned your back at me now, pointing at me like a devil…"
As he fights to suppress the lump in his throat, you stand in front of him, your knees threatening to give in at every word spilling from his mouth. But it's in this moment that you see his true nature for the first time—a broken man, whose defenses are now crumbling under the weight of his long-buried secrets. "I’ve missed my chance with you, I cannot hide from the monster I’ve become," he whispers, his voice cracking with guilt and regret.
Without thinking, you step forward, closing the distance between you. Nanami's breath hitches as your hesitant hand cups his chiseled jaw, grounding him in the moment. It is high time to free him from the demons of his past. "Destroy the picture, Nanami... don’t let that portrait weigh down your soul any longer."
Your words provoke an earthquake into Nanami's world: his eyes widen, meeting the compassionate determination in your gaze. "And this doesn't change anything, I’m not leaving…You don’t have to hide anymore, not from me," you say softly, knowing in your heart that this moment could be the key to unlocking the darkness that has held him captive for far too long.
…
His resolve wavers as he gazes upon your lips, mere inches away from his, a tantalizing promise lingering in the air. The last thread of self-control snaps when you pull him closer, pressing your curves against his sculpted form. In that intoxicating moment, he crashes his mouth to yours, a desperate kiss that spills forth your insecurities in a breathless plea for understanding. Lips collide, and the world fades, leaving just the two of you suspended in a cocoon of time and space.
Fingers roam restlessly, exploring, dancing over each other’s bodies in a fervent embrace, like lightning illuminating a starless sky with passion's raw energy. The kiss deepens, heats, igniting flames of longing as he pins you against the cool surface of the mirror, your bare back shivering at the sudden chill. He looms over you, strong and commanding, tension rippling through his broad shoulders before he seizes the lower edge of a golden-framed picture, throwing it to the ground with a shattering crash.
The echo reverberates through the room, breaking the spell that held you. As the cursed image lies in shards, you blink to find the real Nanami before you, a man sculpted by both fire and fate, his scars merely facets of a twisted charm. He holds his breath, waiting for your response, his vulnerability laid bare in the depths of his eyes.
You stay silent at first. Your trembling fingers deftly start to unbutton his shirt, tracing a path from fine fabric to the rough, fibrous tissue of his burned skin. “You look even more handsome in my eyes now,Nanami... ripped at every edge but still holding your original charm, like the finest masterpiece” you finally speak, voice thick with emotion “you’re strong, you can heal. Let me help you, please... let me…” The weight of your invitation hangs in the air, a siren's call that stirs something deep within him. He hesitantly captures your wandering hand, “Are you sure?” he asks, his forehead resting against yours, a silent confession of both uncertainty and deep care.
In answer, you push his shirt off his shoulders, your hands gliding over the contours of his biceps, igniting a wildfire in his chest long thought extinguished. You offer him compassion and heartfelt affection, and in that moment, he feels worthy of love again. “I am sure, Nanami… give me all of you without restraints tonight…show me you’re willing to start anew”
“Fuck,” he gasps, his hands gripping your waist, spinning you around to face the mirror. “See how stunning you look? You are too much for me now,do you understand it?” He desperately spits out through gritted teeth “but if you choose to give yourself to me tonight, know that there will be no turning back. I won’t accept being left alone tomorrow...” His breath tickles your neck as he nibbles at your soft skin, pulling back to meet your gaze with a gravity that sends shivers down your spine. “What do you say? Do you accept my condition?”
“Yes,” you simply breathe out, eyes locked on the reflection before you, feeling small yet cherished in his powerful embrace. “I guess I am the luckiest of men, then…” His warm breath cascades over the delicate flesh behind your ear, a relieved smile curling against your skin as you tremble between his arms.
“I could hold you like this forever…” he whispers, tracing the line of your spine with his index finger. His hands find the thin straps of your dress, gently coaxing them down your shoulders. The silky fabric slips away, pooling at your feet, revealing you in all your glory. “You are a masterpiece here, the most exquisite work of art I have ever seen.”
His gaze drifts to the mirror, breathless as he drinks in the sight of your curves, fingers exploring the valley between your breasts, brushing against your hardened nipples with a soft touch that ignites a deep groan from his throat. “Look at you; I’m going to worship every inch of your delicious body tonight, just like a painter brushing the pure canvas in front of him, I will paint your body with pleasure and reverence” With a confident caress, his hand glides down, cupping your sex, igniting a spark of longing that makes your breath hitch.
“Nanami,” your voice is a prayer, each syllable infused with need as he parts your folds, cool air colliding with your now exposed clit. His experienced fingers start to explore your womanhood and a shiver dances along your spine “So soft,so wet for me already… keep those beautiful eyes open for me,I want you to watch as we create a work of art of pleasure tonight.” his other hand cups your chin, preventing you from looking away from your entwined image.
He moves with purpose, fingers drawing delicate circles on your sensitive nub, escalating your breaths into gasps. “You know, I’ve always believed that sex is a form of art—the highest, perhaps. The sensations it creates, the way bodies merge in a symphony of unbridled passion…” His rhythm quickens, pressure mounting until you scream his name, your body arching as waves of pleasure crash over you.
“Let it happen, just like that, give in to it, feel the way your body yearns for mine” he encourages you, guiding you throughout your climax with his confident ministrations. “Look at you now,” he cups your jaw, tilting your head to see the beauty of your flushed cheeks and wild hair. “You are alive… the essence of beauty.” His kisses scatter across your skin, igniting every nerve, his hardness pressing against your plush curves, a testament to his hunger.
His veiny hands unfasten his belt, pulling down his elegant pants to reveal himself to you: a glorious display of manhood, standing proud and ready in the mirror facing you. The base is girthy, the long shaft crossed by a single bluish vein up to the swollen tip, already for glistening with precum “look what your beauty does to me” his hips jacks forward instinctively as he notices the hunger in your eyes “Ready?” he asks once more, searching your gaze for any hint of doubt before entering you slowly from behind, his eyes locked on yours in the reflective surface, watching as pleasure and pain intertwine on your face.
He’s barely halfway in but you already feel him everywhere, a melding of flesh and desire driving you mad as he fills you completely. A strangled groan escapes him. “fuck, you're too tight… "His eyes flutter shut as he revels in the sensation of your snug channel stretching apart for him, sweaty pearls coaxes his forehead, brows furrowed in concentration “you were made for me.” He buries his face in your hair, inhaling your intoxicating scent as he stills for a moment, savoring the connection of your entwined bodies.
When his hips begin to move, there is no gentleness—only a primal need. He slams against you, each thrust sending you gasping against the mirror, fingers clutching the golden frame for support. Your body turned into a canvas painted with pleasure: head tilted back, throat exposed, breasts heaving with each fervent thrust, trembling legs on the brink of surrender. The smacking sound of flesh meeting flesh reverberates, a wild melody echoing in the room as you surrender to the rhythm of ecstasy, bodies swaying in perfect synchronicity.
Together, you reach the precipice of bliss. The mirror captures the art of your union, an abstract painting of two entwined souls—calling out each other’s names, your bodies slick and sticky, pressed together in a tender embrace. In that moment, you know that this is more than just a union of bodies; it is a celebration of art, love, and the unyielding spirit of desire.
Nanami’s eyes roll back as he feels you envelop him in a fierce grip, but he forces his gaze open, eager to witness the masterpiece unfolding before him. “I'm almost there…” He announces, grunting in your ear as he surrenders to your magic. Warm spurts of his very essence paint your walls white, making you his in the most primal of ways. He groans in pride and delight when the glass reflects the lewd sight of his overflowing seed dripping down your leg. Turning to face him, a loving smile dances upon both of your lips, the calm after a storm. “That was incredible, my diamond… thank you for sharing this masterpiece with me,” he murmurs, placing gentle kisses upon your closed eyelids, the warmth of his damp hair brushing against your forehead. “You’ve shown me that with you, I can finally find my way back to beauty.” He nuzzles your noses together, laughter bubbling forth as he regards you with a playful glint in his eye. “But I fear I need more from you tonight… are you ready for another round?”
You nod, a spark reigniting within you, a shared yearning to delve deeper into the connection that has blossomed between you in the stillness of the night. Without warning, he lifts you off the ground, effortlessly cradling you in his arms, bridal-style, and carries you toward his round bed, laying you down upon the luxurious velvet sheets. The sensation takes your breath away, and you gaze up at him, wide-eyed with wonder.
He kneels at your feet, crawling onto the bed, leaving a trail of kisses along your calves, thighs, and stomach, until he reaches your lips. For a moment, he pauses, studying your moonlit features, before pushing himself into your inviting warmth once more. This time, there is no urgency; instead, he makes love to you with a tenderness that transcends flesh, his thrusts slow and deep, punctuated by soft kisses and feather-light caresses. You gaze upward at the mirror hanging from the ceiling, capturing your supine figure beneath his muscled torso, tensing with every intimate movement.
In that sacred moment of Epiphany, the truth unfurls before you: together, you and Nanami create a beauty that has always eluded you both, a beauty that defies the boundaries of time and space, a masterpiece beyond convention. You were each other’s missing piece. Each creak of the bed beneath you resonates with magic, a spell binding you to this moment of bliss and rebirth, witnessed by every mirror surrounding you.
“We are art,” you lean in and whisper into his ear, your voice filled with newfound conviction, as the night wraps around you like a cloak, and the shadows dance in celebration of your fateful union.
Pairing: Demon! Nanami Kento x Angel Black!Fem Reader
Rating/CW: grey morality, religious undertones, corruption kink, worship, power dynamics (subtle fem submission), monsterfucking, smut, tongue fingering, pronged tongue, vaginal sex, oral (f! receiving), mild blood/biting. MDNI!
Summary: The thick muscle of your wings press against cold ancient stone as he circles you with wicked, stone-faced intent. Glimmering obsidian fingers trace along your feathers until they quiver--fluttering with touch-starved bliss no angel should ever feel. It's forbidden--this sensation in your belly, this humiliating slick between your legs that be can smell, this overwhelming desire that you've spent eons trying to quell.
But now, trapped before a demon so captivating that you can't help but feel equally terrified and dreadfully aroused, reality burns your skin like the holy water that bubbles whenever it's within your reach.
You're not here to serve a divine purpose--you're an offering. And only Heaven knows if you'll fall to your knees before him, begging for corruption.
Author Notes: Here it is! My submission for @tsukimefuku 's Spookinky event! I had so much fun writing this. Thank you, Fuku, for hosting such an awesome event, and I truly apologize for the filth (I do not apologize). Thank you all for your support, and thank you, @aliasnnmknt, for letting me use your art for my banner and helping me create it. Your art really inspired most of this fic!
Header: art by @aliasnnmknt | Divider: @arcielee @enchanthings | network tag: @pixelcafe-network
You’ve heard the stories—flames that burn flesh from bone, screams that echo for eternity, demons that feast on corrupted souls. For the many eons that you have been in existence, the pristine light you thrive in tells enough horrid stories to keep you away.
You do what you can to show you are pure in your thoughts and heart and that you will walk the line given to make the one above you proud in His selection of you. You’ve done well. It’s why you’ve been given this task—a pilgrimage to a sacred altar within this dark realm, to find the relic it holds and be promised enlightenment and a deeper connection to your spiritual life. For once, you feel special. You are special.
The relic you search for holds ancient divine text that the Heavens would like to make sure does not fall into the wrong hands. Your ability to decipher that text and other old tongues made you the perfect choice—though you try not to question why that ability exists at all. This mission feels important and they insisted you were the perfect choice. Your gifts would serve the greater good. Serve Him.
Maybe that’s why they sent you alone. A single angel, moving quietly through dark territory, would draw less attention than an entire group.
Finally, after so many years of wary glances and hushed concerns. Your many ‘gifts’ that have set you apart—the way ancient texts rearrange themselves under your touch, how you see patterns in chaos that other angels cringe from, your thirst for knowledge that shouldn’t be explored. Finally, it’s all paid off.
Or…at least that’s what they told you. Even as something in your grace whispers warnings you choose to ignore.
Angels bask in absolutes, in the pure warmth of divine light and the straightforward clarity of purpose. There is certainty in right and wrong, never a grey in between. Your wings should bask in holy breeze, not in this thick air that tastes of dreadful sin.
You expected the realm to smell of death and destruction, to look as if every natural disaster had run through the land so the shadows could roam freely to commit sin. It’s what you’ve been taught at least. This Realm specifically is forbidden and faith has been used as a boundary to keep other angels in line.
The outskirts of this realm is covered in a haze, a thick russet fog that smells of ozone and decaying flowers. It settles on your skin like an uncomfortable garment, scratching the surface and burning your dermis. Your wings curdle in pain, burning to ash and regrowing through your bleeding muscles. Gnarled, skeletal trees reach up like claws, the birds that sit on their branches malnourished and dying. Distantly, you hear the constant drip of water from a faucet, yet there is no water in sight. Whispers of sin and moans of agony carry on the wind.
Your white dress flows like liquid moonlight, now stained with ash and ember burns. The neckline dips lower than most angels would prefer.
“To be comfortable in the vessel He gave you is to honor His creation.”
Is what they had said, their justification now seems like a cruel irony as the fog caresses your exposed cleavage with burning fingers. The bottom of your dress trails on the ground as you walk, the dirt burning with red soil that seeps through the toes of your bare feet. It feels as if you’re walking on hot coals, the heat burning the fabric of your hem in tendrils of smoke.
You knew to expect this pain, but it’s different. There is a calculated precision to it, intentional in how it burns you as if testing if your form is solid, if your soul is worthy of corruption. The bell sleeves of your gown flutter in a nonexistent wind, ash and soot collecting in the folds of fabric that they once praised as divine elegance.
Your eyes burn, tears streaking melanin-soaked skin that cannot absorb the shrouded sun up above. As you navigate blindly through the oppressive haze, the shadows around you morph with the darkness and skitter past you on multiple hands and contorted feet.
An infinitesimal part of your grace shivers in fear. It’s small yes, pushed away and ignored like you have been taught, but it’s there in the quickening of your pulse and the break of sweat on your neck, it’s there as you walk further through the vicious landscape of horror and pain, as you try to ignore the gurgling of what you do not know from all around you.
Your wings curl around your body, a small gesture of protection that you fall into when the fog gets thicker. It slides languidly up your nostrils and down your throat, catching along the corners. You cough, sputtering wildly through ash and decay, your eyes bubbling with more burning tears. That fear flickers again in your chest and wiggles like a worm in search of moist dirt in your rib cage.
You can do this. You have been chosen. Your lips curl and part as you recite your prayer in silence, asking for strength even as your fear climbs higher to the surface of divine worship.
Then—through burning tears, you see it. A path of pure obsidian that cuts through the horror, its surface covered in a thin layer of water that reflects starlight not in the skies above. Your feet pick up in pace, moving before conscious thought, drawn to its dark beauty and vast difference of the world around. The moment your toes dip into the water-slicked stone, the moisture sliding off your skin without wetting it, everything changes.
The burning on your skin and feathers stops. The pungent fog parts like a curtain and dissipates into the air. You pull in a deep breath, savoring the thickness that is no longer there, your throat coated in clean oxygen. Your dress, moments ago stained with ash and fiery burns, returns to its pristine white. Once the tears in your eyes clear, you take in the changed landscape.
Perhaps the realm only transforms if one gets this far, because now there is no destruction but a defiance of what you see. The sky is tinged a permanent grey, overcast even though there’s a warmth to the low hang of the clouds. There are no lakes of fire, and the ground beneath your feet is no longer hot with clay-colored dirt that seeps between your toes. The obsidian path winds before you through tall garden walls of pearly white flowers, the leaves pitch black instead of earthly green.
Above the dark canopy of the garden walls, a monolith looms tall, piercing the grey sky as if demanding to be let into the heavens. It’s built to resemble a vast tree, its surface rippling with starlight, the bright core pulsing like a heartbeat, beckoning you deeper into this realm of misconstrued beauty. The garden path must lead to it. Even the pearly white flowers weaved into the walls all point forward, ushering you on.
Your wings furl closer to your spine as you shuffle to one of the garden walls, hesitantly reaching for the flowers twined in the vines and leaves. It’s a beautiful white, with small petals that curl toward a sage core. They’re littered along the walls, a beautiful landscape against darkness but the closer you get, the more you realize—
Hemlock
A poisonous flower, the symbol of death, betrayal, and sacrifice. It sits in it’s refined beauty, enhancing the black leaves around you, but they are just as dangerous.
You snatch your hands away as if stung, clutching the fabric of your dress like a lifeline. You try not to think about how the hemlock watches you with pale eyes. You try not to think about what they represent. You try not to question why these flowers would point and line a path to the divine relic you seek.
With every step you take, the pulsing from the monolith in the distance vibrates through the ground, the water rippling currents with each beat. The obsidian path narrows, forcing your wings closer to your body, your arms so close to the deadly blooms. The garden walls rise higher, leaves trembling in that same empty breeze.
While the air no longer feels thick, it is heavy with a taste both nonexistent and flavorful. Flavored with the knowledge you seek when others do not look and secrets that make your eyes linger even as your grace warns you against it. The questioning urges of your nature that Heaven always tries to quell stir awake like a beast being poked after centuries of rest.
You should ignore it. You should ask for forgiveness and count the blessings you have been given in this long existence. But your heart leaps at the chance you have also been given, right now.
The monolith’s base reveals itself slowly, the garden walls parting gradually with dark promise. Your breath catches at the sight—this is no crude demon architecture. The structure rises before you like an otherworldly giant, jet black vines weaving within its bright innards.
You’re struck by the beauty of it all, a resplendent sight that you never imagined would bless your eyes. And as you draw closer, the glass obsidian floors open up before you. From the open floor, a column of marble rises, its surface bleached bone and covered in aging vines and greenery.
On that altar, rests the relic you seek. It is no crystal that contains energy to create vasts universes. It is no seed that once planted will wreak destruction with its pollination. It is no amulet capable of manipulating time.
It is a book.
A single book that is thick with words of forbidden knowledge, its cover worn and weathered from eons of hiding in the shadows, its pages yellowing along the edges.
Such a simple relic, but you feel it’s dark power from your spot at the altar.
You’ve been tasked to tuck it away and sneak back to Heaven, to deliver it to your superiors and be given your eternal reward. While simple in theory, your hands hover over it, hesitating with shaky fingers.
Do not open it.
Do not look at it for longer than necessary.
Do not look inside.
These are your rules—your absolutes. And yet…
Your fingers twitch, reaching and pulling back at the elusive call of the tome, your feathers trembling with a desire you shouldn’t feel. Your eyes burn with tears of veneration as the symbols on the worn leather illuminate and rearrange before your eyes like dancing embers, the translated text reading in your mind like an endless scroll.
Do not look at it for longer than necessary.
You snatch it up, pressing it to your chest as a means to stop your racing heart. Your soul palpitates with want, a baseless need to curl your fingers under the lips of the book and tilt it open.
It’s temptation, that festering desire that always seems to coil in your belly when the explanations you are given never feel right, when the world around you seems too pristine and you want to know more, when you linger in the mortal realm, watching the humans with a curious eye that is more than what is required of you.
It’s quick and on a whim, you pulling the book from your chest to look down at it, as if by looking it will answer the questions you seek. You trail your fingers along it’s ancient skin, soft and unmarred fingertips feeling along ridges and scars along the cover. It looks as if the relic has gone through it’s own personal Hell, no doubt jerked around from realm to realm over the centuries, pried open and its secrets stolen. There’s a faint beat of sadness that you feel in your chest at the thought of what it must have gone through.
But your fingers still finger beneath the lid, the worn pages jagged on your tips as you worry it up with a slow movement.
Do not open it.
You squeeze the tome, pressing the pages inside more into each other in a silent attempt to seal it and your temptation away forever. Your toes curl into the water beneath you, cold on your skin but still passing over you dry and without moisture.
But once again you catch yourself loosening your grip, your fingers adventurous, your mind begging for more and it’s right here.
In times like these, you find yourself turning to the one manifestation that has never answered you, but exists in your very being.
“Father,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Give me the strength against temptation.” Your wings draw tight, your spine aching from the sudden action, before they expand in a glorious span, feathers opening like extended fingers before they curl around you to shield you from your own curiosity. “Guide me from this darkness, keep my thoughts pure…”
But even as you pray, your body rebels—your fingers part a page and slide along the rough texture of papyrus. There’s a power to the book now, a deep pulse that seems to be in rhythm with the monolith, beckoning you further. The ancient text burns brighter, the translated words whispering in your ears to give in just this once—look inside, soak in your knowledge, seek what others deny.
Your lips quiver, eyes burning with unshed tears at the way your body betrays you. You’re no better than a fallen angel, than a demon or a human who walks the path of darkness—easily tempted and consumed.
You’re not damned, you’re not, you’re not—
“What do we have here?”
The voice slides through your tumultuous thoughts like silk, rich with bored amusement and something darker. Your prayers die in your throat, catching along the edges of your esophagus, your body icing over with a chill of what you try to rebuke as fear.
You’re not alone and you knew the dangers of wandering this realm so freely. You call upon your grace, manifesting a celestial dagger of light and purity, before you whirl around to face the demon who pursues you.
But you’re met with nothing—just the empty garden path you came from.
When you turn back to the altar, your scream catches in your throat.
He stands with casual power and predatory grace. His skin is a pitch lighter than the obsidian paths, but still scattered with constellations. His hair falls in golden-blonde waves, the ends touched with flame that frames sharp features and elegant black horns that curl from the top of his head. His eyes are a burning yellow, studying you with a calculating hunger that makes you shiver.
He stands tall, an inhuman height that makes you feel incredibly small, his wings the color of dark flames spread lazily behind him, their edges flickering with crimson light.
The armor that adorns his upper body is otherworldly and crafted not by divine or mortal hands—navy as dark as night, trimmed with gold that wraps around his shoulders and sides, his chest bare. His hip rests against the altar as if he owns it, expectant like he’s been waiting for you.
He’s beautiful, a manifestation of dark and light, a being that walks his own line not predetermined. As you study him, something tugs at your memory—flashes of encounters that have grown fuzzy over time. In the mortal realm, when you linger in the shadows to observe the humans, a tall figure in navy and tan, warm eyes hidden behind glasses with no arms, hair not tipped with flame but parted clean and tucked behind his ears.
He lingers in the darkness, in damp alleys and abandoned buildings where misery and pain give birth to grotesque figures that terrorize the mortals. You’ve seen him—or you think you have—convinced it was a coincidence and ignored the way your wings would shiver at his distant presence, tilting toward him as if searching for someone lost.
And in your dreams too—dreams of large hands filled with experiences of the world, of whispers in your ear of eternal knowledge. You’d wake with your grace trembling, convinced it was just your mind playing tricks even as the apex of your thighs trembled with the sheen of your sweat and forbidden essence.
Perhaps that’s why your superiors ask for you after these dreams. Perhaps that’s why they press their fingers to your temples and bury the memories deep. So you do not have to worry. So that you can resist temptation. Right?
Yes. All of it is a temptation to test your faith.
But now he stands before you, solid and real, and those ‘coincidences’ suddenly feel intentional. Had he been watching? Waiting for this very moment?
You adjust your grip on your dagger, forcing away those thoughts that never seem to go away. You stagger backwards, your celestial dagger shaking in your hands, your prayer wielded before you like a shield.
“Our Father who art in Heaven,” you whisper, desperate words that feel as if they fall on closed ears, your fear radiating from your bare toes, through the strong muscles of your white wings, and up to the top of your skull. “Hallowed be thy—”
The demon moves towards you now, each step gobbling the distance between your retreating form until your back hits the garden wall, a gasp dying in your throat.
“That name,” he murmurs, sultry low as he cages you with muscular arms, “holds no power here.” His eyes drag down your form, cataloging you bit by bit, lingering on the sight of a shaking chest that is pressed to the tome you clutch.
He leans in close, too close, until you feel the burning heat from his skin. You press your back harder against the garden wall, dark leaves and hemlock brushing along your cheeks and neck as he inhales deeply along the column of your throat.
He smells like the archives you lose yourself in, like the green tea you love to drink in the mortal realm, like a dark concoction of burning honey that would make the noses of other angels crinkle but your nostrils open to inhale more. Your divine senses blur.
This is temptation, you tell yourself as your wings putter against the wall behind you. You’ve practiced for this, you know what you should do. But your body betrays you, your head tilting slightly before you can think about it, offering more of your neck for his inspection.
Horror at your sin, ice cold as it washes over you, makes you act. You press your celestial dagger upward, against his bare chest where one particular constellation burns brighter than the rest.
But the blade dissolves like sugar in the rain the moment it touches him, holy light scattering for a home as it shimmers across his skin to form new constellations.
“How interesting…” The deep voice inquires, hot as it puffs on your neck. “An angel, stealing what does not belong to them. Surely there’s a rule about that, is there not?”
You clutch the tome tighter to your chest, your mouth opening to snap that this is your mission, your divine purpose. But the book vanishes from your grip in black tendrils of smoke, your hand smacking into your breasts from the gap created.
“Give it back!” Panic rises in your throat as you try to meld with the leaves behind you, your fingers wrapping around vines and leaves like a vice.
A sigh, long and drawn out as if mentally exhausted, as if this isn’t the first this has happened, leaves his giant form and travels over your body.
“No, I don’t think I will,” he drawls, pushing off the wall and walking away as if your presence means nothing. He turns to face you at the altar, eyes half-lidded as he rests his forearms on the marble surface and opens the tome that is now manifested in his hands. He’s giving off every impression that the relic you seek will not be going home with you, and he is more than prepared to read it all until you go away.
“W-well, you…” you trail off, your eyes flickering to the open book in his hands. You can’t see the words inside, but you can practically smell the papyrus, a smell that warms you when you trail your fingers along the archives in Heaven. You tighten your grip on the leaves, flexing your wings to extend in a display of dominance, even though it feels as if this demon has read you the moment you stepped into this realm.
The tome sits like an infant in his hands, small and precious as he turns a page, long galaxy shimmered fingers gliding along the text as he reads. That curiosity beckons, a familiar pulse of sin that fires along the nerves in your legs to take a step toward him, to peak over the edge of the book and look inside.
“Demon,” you press, swallowing a lump of your frayed nerves.
His eyes flicker up at you, burning gold irises mildly offended.
“That is not my name.” He turns another page, pulling his gaze away from you, dismissive. “Though, I suspect you already know what it is.”
Why would you know his name? While the sight of him invokes some distant memories, you both have never spoken. The confusion mixes with your flood of panic, your eyes locked on the ancient text in his hands.
“I don’t—I’m here on divine purpose. The Heavens sent me to deliver this relic.”
“They sent you to steal this relic,” he corrects. He slams the tome closed, the sound making you flinch before he walks back to you in casual strides, his form almost gliding on the obsidian floors.
“I would not steal.”
“Coming to a place without invitation and taking the items inside is, indeed, stealing.”
You sink back into the flowers as he draws closer, your heart pumping erratically in your chest, your limbs filling with shame at the logic he draws. But still, you resist.
“I was invited.”
You’ve always been around to see the return of angels from long missions where they are surrounded by darkness and pain. They seem so strong, their chests puffed in pride, their wings shining brighter as a badge of honor. There’s a bravery that you wish you could have right now. But you’re afraid—whether that fear is pure or mixed with something sensual and dangerous—you still don’t know.
“I-I was chosen,” you insist, despite what you feel.
“Oh, I’m sure you were.” His head tilts as he regards you.
The book disappears from his hands before materializing in your own, warm smoke wrapping around your wrists before dissipating. “Take it. Return to your divine purpose.”
You clutch the tome, hoping for relief to fill your wings, but you can only feel disappointment instead. You hesitate, flickering your gaze up to the demon who stands expectantly with arms crossed, like he knows what the outcome will be. Like he knows you will be back.
You turn around and flea down the obsidian path. The garden walls adorned with pearl flowers blur past you until—
The walls part again, the altar and demon coming into view.
“That’s not—” you spin, turning back toward the path and running faster this time, your relic pressed to your body, your lungs burning with the truth that you’re trying to deny.
The hemlock flowers seem to laugh as you pass, their white petals pointing the way with mocking fingers until—
The altar. The demon, an eyebrow raised. Again.
“Stop this!” Your voice breaks as you turn around to try again, sprinting so hard that your wings flap against the wind, your toes touching the top of the thin layer of water below you. You come to the altar a third time, then a fourth, each leading back to his knowing and patient form.
“I’m not doing anything.” His voice holds a gentle pity that pricks at your skin. “But why? Why would they send their most curious angel into a demon’s realm? Why alone? Why you?”
Something in his tone, in the endearment wrapped around seduction makes your grace shiver. You long to have an answer ready on your tongue, and you do, but it’s more practiced, copied, and spit out and resonates in your bones incorrectly.
“The relic requires eyes that can transcribe so I select the right one. My abilities—”
“Your abilities,” he interrupts softly, materializing behind you, “the ones that they’ve tried to suppress. The ones that they’ve feared. Yet suddenly, all of it is for naught, and you’ve been given this divine purpose?”
The towering demon circles you slowly, analyzing you like a predator waiting for his wounded prey to finally submit. You swallow hard, fingers digging into the leather of the book, eyes downcast.
“They finally saw my worth,” you insist, but the words sound hollow even to your ears. “I am pure. Free of sin. I do not stray.”
Warmth by the shell of your ear, the rich smell of him forbidden, an erotic melody that makes your blood long to sing.
“Lies.”
Your wings slash through the air in deep powerful strokes, twitching in their plumage. “I would not lie!”
“Neither would I, little angel. But it seems you have been led here under false pretenses.”
“No.”
“There is no relic.” The tome in your hands disappears, it’s solid form no longer tethered to existence.
“Give it—”
“There is no mission,” he presses on. “There is no divine purpose. There is only you. Cast down here and given to me.”
“To you…”
“An offering, little angel.”
The word makes you chill over in disgust, the very thought of being a sacrificial lamb enough to make you sick to your stomach. You shake your head vehemently, insistently denying as best as you can even though your grace radiates with the truth.
“No. They would never sacrifice someone. They—they wouldn’t—they wouldn’t do that to me.”
The demon clicks his tongue, pity filling his otherworldly features with a slight pout of his lips as he studies you. Before you can take another breath, the realm shifts, reality bending in a plume of smoke. The monolith and altar disappear, the darkness of the garden walls fading to give way to the eternal light you recognize as your home.
The tall pearly gates that surround your kingdom smile down at you, pearlescent clouds that seeps beneath the doors kissing your bare toes. Your wings waft in the air with ease, pumping euphoria through your veins as you smile up at your home. The tome is back now, cradled safely in your arms, reminding you of your mission. With a hope bright in your chest, you rapt your fingers on the doors.
“Father! I’ve retrieved the relic! I’m home!”
But the doors do not open. There is no sound of movement on the other side, no shift in the white clouds around you. It doesn’t even feel as if someone is not home. You can feel your siblings, you’ve always been able to sense them in your grace, but this sensation is reluctant. As if they peak through closed curtains on the other side, watching through a window with their hand on the door to prevent you from coming in.
“H-hello?” you try again, voice shaking as you knock with more fervor, denial warring with growing dread. “I-I said I’ve brought the relic.” Silence. “Hello?!” You smack on the doors now, the holy wood splitting at your skin and healing over again. Surely someone must be home. Maybe they are away? Maybe they are busy and do not hear?
You press your forehead against the door, wings drooping. Through your grace, you feel them there, still watching. Waiting for you to leave. But not to welcome you home.
“Please,” you whisper, eyes stinging. “Will someone—”
“They will not open the doors, little angel,” the demon speaks from behind you.
You jump from his sudden appearance, your body drained of all blood at the sordid thought of what is happening right now. Reality shifts again, the divine light of your home sucking back into darkness, the monolith and marble altar and obsidian floors coming back into view.
Your legs threaten to give as realization washes over you. You shake your head, lip quivering as tears blur the edges of your vision, your fingers curling on the altar. How could they do this to you? You have always struggled in this life, always been so ashamed that you do not think like the others. But to cast you out? To give you these wings and then make you feel as if you are beyond saving?
“Perhaps it is a mistake,” you whisper, your hope crumbling with every word. You feel his large form next to you before you hear any steps. “Why would they do this to me?”
You have no choice but to look up at him, to seek some form of answer in his burning yellow eyes. There’s a flicker of something that crosses his face—amusement? Maybe pity?
“They have offered you to me. A sacrifice to take the darkness from their pristine walls and feed it to the realm it belongs to.”
The words hang in the air, the horrifying truth once again presented to you. Your heart lurches in your chest. You recoil, your wings drooping to brush along the water covered floor.
“They fear you, little angel,” he continues, voice softening. “Your potential, your curiosity, your unwillingness to follow their absolutes.”
You slap your hands on the altar, the sound reverberating through the emptiness around you. “I will not.”
The demon chuckles, a low, sardonic noise that crawls up your dress and wraps around your throat. “Such defiance,” he purrs. “It’s quite…alluring.”
You can’t help the noise of shock and anger that crawls up your throat, shooting him a dark look. “I will not be corrupted by the likes of a demon like you.”
“Like me? So you imply that another demon may have a chance?” His jests fall on rageful ears, your wings flapping in defiance as you gape at him. He leans in close, his breath warm against your lips as he whispers. “You deny it all little angel. But you already are corrupt.”
You try to pull away from him, but a large hand falls to the small of your back, his fingers weaving through your wings in a caress that makes you choke on a whine.
“Come now, my dear.” The tip of his nose trails along your cheek, the touch sending flames of desire down your neck. You curl your fingers into a fist on the altar, your body ramrod straight.
“I can smell it on you,” he continues, his voice a silken caress. “The insatiable curiosity, the yearning for more, the essence that pools between your thighs every night before you sleep.”
The fingers in your plumage massage your skin, your shoulders relaxing into a traitorous sigh before with a swift motion, he plucks a feather from its root. You wince, your hand flying back to bat him away before he holds the feather in front of you, its tip stained a deep, inky black.
“Do you not try to hide it? You sneak to the archives. You let them smother your dreams. You do not tell them that you sneak away to the mortal realm to watch them eat, and bathe, and sin.”
He turns your wing to expose the underside where the feather was plucked, your eyes widening as if you’ve been caught. The skin is marred with a dark scar, the muscle underneath dried with blood and presenting as damning evidence of you plucking those feathers over and over, your cheeks covered in tears as you did your best to hide them away.
“You pluck your true self,” he whispers, voice laced with dry amusement. “But they only grow back stronger, don’t they?”
A breath catches in your throat, his words piercing through your defenses that you have built with weak mortar and brick for eons. Your eyes catch his, your desire reflected in burning gold.
“Even so…I cannot leave?”
He hums in reverence, a pointy finger trailing along your collarbone to brush a lock of hair from your shoulders, exposing more of your scent for him to breathe in.
“You have tried to leave already and you cannot. There is nowhere for you to go. I can let you roam to any realm you choose, but the doors of Heaven will be locked for you forever.”
Your eyes bubble with tears. It’s an unfortunate hand that you have been dealt. A hand always opened to you in promise even as the other held a dagger behind the back of divinity. There’s a deep part of you that would try to find some sort of silver lining in moments of darkness, a silver lining that only benefits you.
“If I stay…what will you give me?” you ask, your voice small and defeated.
The demon sinks to one knee in front of you, his eye level now only a little taller than you, but still more humane than his hovering from before. He offers a slow, predatory smile, his lips parting to reveal sharp pearly white fangs.
“You already think in ways that will benefit yourself, don’t you? Whatever you desire, little angel, I will give it.” The sharp point of his nail trails down your cheek, casting a wave of arousal down your body, your stomach tightening. “Anything at all.”
You cannot deny the promise of whatever you want does not make you perk mildly with curiosity, the same curiosity that was always quelled.
You lick your lips in thought, a nervous habit that your siblings have always discouraged. It’s unbecoming of an angel, they’d say, a physical manifestation of want. But you’ve always like the way your tongue feels against the plump flesh of your lips.
“Anything?”
He inclines his head to you, eyes answering without having to say. You hesitate, your mind racing with possibilities, unleashed with nothing to hold them back.
“I want…” you begin, stopping short at the coil of desire that burns in your body. You’ve never given it a true voice, and now that you’ve been presented with the opportunity, you are unsure of how to proceed.
The demon’s eyes roam over your form before they brighten with understanding. “You wish to read the tome.”
You nod, unable to speak past the dry lump in your throat. He summons it quickly, the worn leather materializing in his enormous hands as he hands it to you like an offering of forbidden fruit.
“Take it,” he urges in a seductive whisper. “It is yours.”
You reach out with trembling fingers, your grace pulsing with desire, it’s feel growing bolder as you snatch it up into your hands and let it flow through you. The leather is cool beneath your fingertips, worn with the promise of centuries of words you’ve always wanted.
When you open the book and let your eyes fall on the faded script, they rearrange themselves like before, translating to you in a seductive dance that makes your toes curl. The knowledge overwhelms you, flooding your senses in a wave of information about this realm—its history and inhabitants and magic. You feel a thrill of excitement, a suppressed sense of liberation as you turn page after page.
From your peripheral, you see the demon offer that same predatory smile. With a snap of his fingers, the world shifts around you again. You are further from the monolith but instead of the altar, you are surrounded by looming bookshelves, all filled to the brim. Ancient tomes and scrolls, dusty relics that have been neglected over the years but kept in condition by this demon who rules this realm.
“This is a taste of what I can offer you. All of it is yours.” He steps closer, the energy that he radiates filling your space with darkness and seduction that terrifies and excites you. “There is so much more I can show you,” he whispers in your ear again. “Would you like that?”
Even though your body and soul buzz with satisfaction from the books around you, the shame is still there, still bubbling beneath the surface next to your dejection.
Sensing your unease, he places tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, a gesture that you long to fall into before the world morphs again.
He takes you back to where you began, the realm’s outskirts. However there is no russet fog that is thick and smells of decay and misery, this time your vision is clear. The shadows that once hovered around you in your quest to the monolith now reveal themselves as souls—humans that you recognize from your years of observation.
“Do you remember her?” the demon asks, pointing to a small woman tending to a bush of flowers. “The woman from years ago who stole medicine for her dying child because she had no money.”
You do remember watching with tear filled eyes. It was an ancient time where death was a sentence given freely, and this mother had been called to the land of the dead for stealing bread.
“You watched her pray for forgiveness even as she did what was necessary.” His hand rests on your lower back, reassuring in its pressure. “Heaven would have condemned her. I gave her purpose.”
“How do you give purpose if you are a demon?”
The demon huffs, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “It is true that I gain my strength through corruption. But it is corruption through intellectual rebellion and questioning minds. I am strong because no matter how many years may pass, there will always be a soul that questions.”
Each soul that you pass triggers a memory—struggles you watched but could never reach out and help. And in each memory, you gain more clarity—he was always there in the mortal realm, appearing in navy and tan just like you thought.
“You’ve been watching me then,” you inquire, tucking your tome closer to your chest as you cast a sidelong glance to him.
“It is my nature,” he rumbles from next to you. “You understand the beauty in grey areas. The necessity of balance.” His fingers glide along the empty space where you plucked your blackened wings. “Here, you could judge with mercy and justice. Rule in the knowledge they feared.”
Power.
A destructive thing that has elevated so many and torn them down. But the call of it has always been sweet, and now you are the subject of it. The very thought of it makes your knees weaken, your grace fluttering like a leave in the wind. This could be something more honest, not Heaven’s sterile authority.
The soil that is no longer red vibrates beneath you, pulsing up your ankles and calves, around your waist and torso in thick vines that pull you to the monolith miles away.
“Easy, my dear,” he murmurs, a muscular arm sliding around your waist to prevent you from swaying further. “The first taste of true power always overwhelms.” Your grace flickers between divine light and seductive shadow, somehow grounded by his hold.
Every soul’s story calls to you now, complex choices and grey morality making your divine nature pulse with stomped out recognition. You lean into him, falling more into his scent, your wings brushing his back to seek balance.
“I…” you trail off, clutching the relic in your arms, using it to ground you through your thoughts that fight between light and dark.
“What else would you like?” he purrs in your ear, his hand reaching out to the realm beyond that begins to shift again. A vast kitchen filled with warmth and enticing scents. “Earthly pleasures are denied amongst angels.” The pristine counter tops are soon overflown with rich goods and goblets of wine. “Even something as simple as this.”
You’ve never had wine—it’s forbidden—at least for you. But the way it catches the warm fireplace behind it, deep and rich…your mouth waters.
“Freedom to roam where you wish.”
Glimpses of different realms flash by—clouds of different shapes and sizes, landscapes of mountains and water as clear as crystal, beings that take on their own forms as they wander the lands—places you’ve only dreamt of exploring, of asking to see and always been denied.
His voice drops lower, more intimate and hot on your cheek. “Or perhaps…” Another shift. A dark room you remember faintly—through gauzy curtains, you see two figures entwined in candlelight. The brown skin of limbs and curves wrapped around tan that shimmers faintly. You recognize the hips of the woman, the collarbone and hair, and you realize it’s you. You wrapped around this very demon next to you who appears in the mortal realm as a human with carefully parted locks and a height fit for yourself.
Your blood boils beneath your skin as you try to look away. But like every forbidden thing that’s ever called to you, your eyes are drawn back to the scene—to the way your dream-self arches into his touch, the way your neck cranes, the sight of his tongue sliding along the sweat of your brown breast.
He hums from behind you, his demonic form pressing closer as you watch his human glamour worship your other self. That familiar wave of shame wars with the desire in your body, trying its best to smother the arousal that tightens your nipples beneath your white dress. All of it you suffer night after night—your grace singing, skin hot and sweaty—essence coating your thighs.
“I—” you stutter for words, eyes locked on the human form that rolls his hips and swallows a moan that shakes from your other-self. “This is wrong…”
His starlight fingers trace your collarbone, mimicking the tongue of his human form. “Your body remembers what they tried to smother away. How many nights did you wake burning for this? For me?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
The realm shifts one final time, the familiar garden walls and monolith appearing before you, the altar pressing into your back. The demon circles you, giving you no time to recover as his prying eyes pick you apart feather by feather.
“Even your grace recognizes where you truly belong.” He reaches out, trailing pointy nails down your spine, your body arching of its own volition. “Here. With me.”
His hands engulf your entire waist, his touch making you gasp as he lifts you up to sit on the altar before him.
“Every dream they tried to bury,” his hands trail up your thighs, “every desire they made you forget…” he steps closer, taking the oxygen from your lungs that you expel, his naked chest a hairsbreadth from your searching fingers. “All of it has lead to this moment. To me.”
“I—” you try to protest, but it dies in your throat as he tilts your chin to face him.
“You were meant for this realm,” he leans in, trailing his nose along your shaking lips. “I will make you mine. As my queen, my consort, my equal.” You press the tome further into your chest like a lifeline as his hand rests on the side of your neck, his nails grazing the lobe of your ear. “You’ve always known it. Even in those dreams where you surrendered to me so sweetly.”
His lips are close enough to kiss you, but they brush your jaw instead, trailing electricity down your throat. “Anything you want,” he breathes against your pulse, smiling at the sight of it’s rapid flutter, “you will have, little angel.” His mouth moves to that sensitive spot behind your ear that you discovered one night centuries ago. “But you must surrender to me. You have been offered and now you must be consumed.”
You clutch the tome tighter, using it as a tether even as your head tilts to give him better access. “I should not…”
“Surrender,” he whispers, lips ghosting your shoulder now, each kiss punctuated with promises that you should deny. “Let me worship you.” A kiss to your collarbone. “You will never be denied again.” His mouth traces back to hover over your lips. “Submit to what you have always wanted.”
The burn in your body makes your skin tingle, your core pulse with forbidden need, your nipples tighten in pleasure. Everything you’ve always wanted, could be given to you right now.
All of your dedication to faith has only led to tears and shame and disappointment. But here, you could be rewarded for your curiosity, exalted for your power to see what others do not, consumed in pleasure without the eyes of disdain looking down on you.
Here, with this beautiful demon, you can have it all.
For as powerful and as dark as he is, despite the patient hunger in his golden eyes, you realize he’s waiting. You must give the final say. A final say to do away with eons of denying, of plucking dark feathers, of letting them bury your dreams…
“Please,” the words shake from your lips before you can stop it, the tome slipping from your defeated grasp.
His eyes flash with satisfaction, mouth twitching with the urge to smile, but he relents. “Say it properly, little angel.” His mouth brushes the corner of your lips in not quite a kiss. “Tell me.”
Your wings spread wider of their own accord, trembling and stretching past invisible threads that have always held them down. “I want…I will to surrender.”
You hardly finish your words before you feel the press of his lips against yours, gentle and almost reverent. It’s the first time you’ve ever kissed, and it’s as euphoric as you’ve always thought. Your toes curl in satisfaction, your body hums with arousal, low and beneath the surface but quickly growing.
The hand on your neck tilts you up so he can feast further, a wet tongue sliding along the seam of your lips in a quiet ask for permission. You let your body guide you, opening your mouth to welcome him with a groan.
He tastes like he smells—green tea and honey, a hint of rich bread that you occasionally try in the mortal realm. It’s intoxicating, dark mingled with your fading sweetness. One that speaks of corruption and surrender.
What started as gentle quickly turns hungry and consuming. Your grace shivers as you catalogue every shift in your body, learning from the lessons of his tongue. Each stroke of him feels like corruption, like freedom, like finally coming home and you arch into him for more.
Your white dress slowly disappears before you, your body revealing to him naked and shivering. You try to cover yourself, an urge ingrained in you since your coming of existence, but the demon’s large hand stops you, gathering both hands in his strong grip and placing them at your sides.
He does not wait a second longer, his mouth trailing in worship down your neck and across your collarbone to pepper the swell of your breasts, your core pounding incessantly as he gets closer to one nipple before he wraps it in his hot mouth.
A moan shakes from your mouth, unexpected and loud into the quiet air of this monolith room. Your hands reach up to card in his golden locks, they’re warm and impossibly silky, the flame colored ends burning more than the rest. You let the pain of it singe your fingertips, basking in the euphoric pleasure pain of your skin growing back and burning all over again.
His hand envelops your other breasts, his sharp nails teasing your nipple before he drags it slowly across your areola. Your fingers tighten in his hair from the pain, your core dripping on the marble altar you sit on.
“You taste wonderful, little angel,” he purrs into the wet skin of your breast, pulling away before he gently nudges you onto your back. Your wings stretch languidly to make you more comfortable against the flat surface. The urge to cover yourself is not as insistent as before, the desire eating you up without reservation. “But I must taste more.”
He leans over the altar you lay on, kissing your lips gently before his tongue slides along the skin of your neck and down your body. It’s longer than a mortal tongue, and when they circle your nipples again, you shake at the pronged tip that flicks your bud.
He worships down your torso to dip in your navel, over the dip in your hips before his hands push your legs up onto his shoulders and he licks your sopping core from bottom to top.
You arch sharply, teeth digging into your bottom lip in a futile attempt to stop the moan from shooting from your throat.
You’ve watched the humans many times in the shadows, transfixed when their mouths worship these parts of their partner, but to experience it yourself? To feel the demons tongue part your folds and circle the bud at the top that makes you cry into your pillows at night. Heaven has hidden away beautiful pleasure.
“Look at how much you give me,” he whispers, kissing the inside of your thigh before you feel his tongue on you again, prodding your entrance that you’ve sunken your fingers into at night.
You bite down on your lip, shivering in pleasure as he prods further and further, your legs widening with each current of pleasure until he sinks his wide tongue inside of you. You taste copper from your bleeding lip that heals over quickly, your bare feet digging into the demon’s broad shoulders as he feasts on your essence.
With every gasp, your wings quiver in anticipation, curling into your body to protect yourself from a euphoria that is growing so quickly in your stomach.
“Please,” you whisper in disbelief, hands twisting his hair with your divine strength. He hums in satisfaction, satisfied with what you give and digging for more.
His tongue strokes inside of you with purpose, caressing something along the roof of your hot walls, his nose brushing your bundle of nerves once, twice, the pleasure enough to make your jaw drop, to make you pant feverishly into the air, to make your back arch until the base of your spine hurts as you come apart by the seams.
Your release makes you cry out into the air, the sound brushing along the monolith, the constant pulsing stopping to take in your pleasure before it resumes its steady pulse.
He rises slowly as you struggle to catch your breath, his golden eyes tracing over your shivering form from head to toe. His grey obsidian hands slide up your trembling thighs as he leans over you.
“Beautiful,” he purrs before he kisses your lips. You swallow your taste—tangy and rich like the divinity that courses through your veins. “But I must have all of you to make this complete.”
All of you?
You look down to find that his pants are gone, starlight shining bright on his hips that seem to point down to the member that hangs between his thighs. Your eyes widen—he’s definitely bigger than mortals, purplish veins that trail along the sides, a tip that is darker than his grey, the skin flickering with those shimmering stars you are growing to love.
He’s beautiful, and without thinking you reach out to touch. He’s impossibly hard but also incredibly soft, and you watch in fascination as his dark flame-colored wings expand and shake in supplication.
He leans his head back to the grey skies, swallowing deeply at your touch and there’s a sense of power you feel. To know that with a single touch you can make this powerful demon fracture just a little.
He wraps his hand around yours to stop you, pulling you up so that he can sit on the altar instead. Even though he’s tall, you’re able to reach up and wrap your arms around his neck.
Your wings stretch and flap behind you, sparse feathers wafting in their air to fall around you both in white, grey, and black. Even though you feel loose from your first release, there is a subtle power that thrums with every flap of your wings.
You look at the monolith again. The pulse has picked up steadily, seeming to match your own heartbeat. Maybe there is a connection to the power inside of it and what might be coursing through you now.
As you tail up the length of it until it disappears into the grey clouds, you think faintly of those who cast you out. The pleasure fractures a little with pain, your eyebrows furrowing in disappointment.
“My angel,” he calls to you, softly, turning your gaze back to him. His golden and flame locks are messy, his horns pulsing with shimmering light, the navy and gold armor gone so that he is as naked as you are. “That pain that you feel will go away with time. I will make sure you will never know it again.”
The promise fills you with hope, and the press of his lips to yours makes the sordid thoughts fall to the wayside, your pleasure humming to life at the base of your spine.
The touch of his fingers to your core makes you whine into his mouth, pulling away with only a gossamer of saliva connecting you both. He strokes your bud, drinking your sighs and moans as your thighs and stomach tighten, your fingers digging into his soft shoulders.
He pulls you up onto your knees, your wet entrance brushing the thick tip of him before he guides you onto him slowly. It’s a stretch, far thicker than your fingers and foreign inside of you.
The initial pain makes you gasp, tears pricking your eyes. It feels as if you’re being split in two from your hips, torn apart with a strength that only makes you shiver and moan.
One hand slides along one wing to soothe you, his lips pressing to your neck. Eventually, the pain gradually melts into pleasure, his hands possessive on your hips as he guides you with careful restraint. You quake at the feel of him inside of you, stretching and molding your muscles in each euphoric stroke.
“Perfect,” he breathes against your shoulder. “Look how well you take me.” His voice resonates deep in your core, a sound that both terrifies and entices you, a forbidden melody that you are slowly learning the notes to.
You whimper in response, relishing in his praise as you begin to move faster on top of him, bouncing with a newfound sense of purpose. Your wings flap with more insistence, stretching and bending with the power that begins to seep out of your skin, white feathers less in abundance with each flap.
The demon’s nails dig into your waist and you sigh into the pain, picking up the pace until you’re not sure where he stops and you begin.
The power takes you higher and higher, your skin breaking into a sheen of sweat, your gasps dying in the air as you pant and moan above him. The pleasure at the base of your spine heats quickly, bubbling with sticky satisfaction as it slides down your vertebrae and into your core.
“That’s it,” he growls, nails digging into the flesh of your cheeks, canting your hips toward him so the tip of his member brushes that spot on your upper walls once again.
You choke on a moan, head thrown back in bliss, nails dragging down the solid muscle of his chest. Your wings curl around you, dark feathers replacing white with each thrust.
“Transform for me completely. Embrace what you truly are.”
“Yes,” you hiss, your mouth falling open as you struggle for breath. Your core tightens around him, the bundle of nerves shaking even untouched, and you’re falling, you’re falling, you’re—
The demon shifts again, his member leaving your hot core and denying you of release, your hands now pressed to the altar as you’re bent over. You whine in annoyance, looking over your darkening wings at his large form as he heaves with breath.
He regards you with a dark look, one that shows just how capable he is of picking you apart, and your mouth fills with saliva at the thought.
He draws one leg up onto the altar before sliding into you once more without pretense. You groan around the stretch of him, marveling at the pinch of pain that bleeds into overwhelming pleasure as he picks up his pace inside of you.
What starts out as reverent and gentle soon turns feverish. His strokes are deeper, his hips snapping against your open legs, a haze of pleasure clouding every crevice of your mind as he kisses spots inside of you that makes you groan, hiss, and whine.
The monolith picks up in speed, pulse matching your heartbeat as you climb higher and higher up a ladder of darkness that has always been denied.
You don’t know why, you don’t know where it comes from, but the last slivers of your salvation slide to the surface, tickling your throat one last time before they leave your soul forever.
“Please, please, Father,” you moan, eyes filling with tears of satisfaction as your body jerks with every harsh thrust of the demon behind you. One of his hands weaves into your locks, curling tight before yanking you back to him, arching until our stomach presses into the altar. “Forgive me.”
“We will have none of that,” he warns, out of breath. “You seek forgiveness to someone who is not listening. You pray to someone who has cast you out. And here you are. Under me. Calling for him as you weep on my cock in pleasure.”
His sharp fingers slide down your hip to circle over your bud of nerves and you cry out, tears streaming down your face, power radiating up your limbs. “Keep moaning, little angel. Keep begging.” He leans over you, pressing his hot chest into your wings, his breath hot on your ear as the tips of his pronged tongue slide along your lobe. “In your eyes you are soiled. Filthy. And my sweet goddess loves it, doesn’t she?”
You shake your head to deny, deny, deny. But a hard thrust, a stroke of his thick cock that kisses your cervix, and you sob in the pain that molds into pleasure. Your nipples brush against the cold marble, each icy touch shockwaves down your spine.
“I’ve watched you, my dove. When you study the humans in their pleasure. I’ve seen the way your pupils dilate. I’ve smelt the essence between your thighs. You dream of this don’t you?”
You try to whisper your Father’s name one last time, to show with your last breath of divinity that you were an angel who worked hard.
“You won’t say his name here anymore. Not in my realm—in our realm. Not in my arms while you cum on my cock. The only name you will moan and beg and plead is mine.”
Your wings flap in reverence, responding to his demands as they stretch around you. No longer are your feathers white, now they are inky black, as dark as midnight, as mysterious as the darkness you peer into.
The monolith quickens, a hummingbird’s wings, the bright core sliding up and down the tree-like structure and bleeding with vibration through the ground and up the altar.
Even as your mind tries to deny what you are becoming, your soul speaks otherwise, your core clenches around him unwilling to let go. The demon behind you grunts with each thrust, low and seductive on the back of your neck, his nose smelling the skin.
“I can’t—” you choke, fingers sliding on the altar from your sweat. “Please.”
“Please what?” he groans.
“More, please more, more, more,” you beg, words and resolve splintering in your throat as he rewards you with deeper thrusts, each one making you see the stars that shimmer along his skin.
“Say my name,” he demands, one hand sliding up your throat. You gasp at the subtle pressure on each side, not enough to do anything, but enough to make a dark current of pleasure pulse inside of you. “Let the skies above hear who you belong to now.”
You don’t know where the name comes from. He’s never given it to you. You’ve never asked. But somewhere, deep down in some ancient place in your soul, you’ve always known all along. Known him.
“Nanami,” it falls from your lips like a broken prayer. “Nanami, please—”
His teeth graze your pulse, sharp fangs dragging along your skin as pleasure builds in your body beyond reason. Your wings spread impossibly wide, your skin hums in arousal, hot and stinging.
The monolith’s pulse quickens with you, its light growing brighter as the power in your body travels through your veins to complete a transformation you can feel in your fallen grace. Even with every harsh pump of his hips, you feel worshiped. Worshipped by his hands. Worshipped on this altar in front of a monolith that watches over you both.
“You were an offering—a gift to me. Molded by the heavens. And now you’re mine. And your Father sent you to me,” he growls against your throat. “My dark goddess.”
His thrusts grow harder, more desperate, each one a brand searing its mark into your very soul. A mix of your essence and his precum pools on the altar where you are joined. The last embers of your angelic resistance crumble completely, replaced by an insatiable hunger that mirrors his own.
“Let go. Surrender to me completely.”
“Yes, yes, yes!”
That hot lava at the base of your spine explodes like a volcano of unholy fire as his teeth sink into your neck, marking you as his. Your release bursts from you, your core squeezing his thick member, your muscles seizing as your mouth falls open and your cries echo through the realm as divine light fractures into starry darkness.
All of your abilities that have been repressed swirl within the darkness and mix with the forbidden powers awakening within you. It feels like the very essence of your being is changing, transforming into something wild, a reflection of the demon who guided you with a sultry voice down this path.
You feel a rivulet of your blood trail down the side of your neck from his puncture, blazing with the essence of darkness that now pumps through your veins. He releases his teeth from your neck and turns your head to him with more force than necessary, sliding his tongue into your mouth as he kisses you senseless.
You can’t breathe, your body is loose, your grip on the edge of the altar slipping with each relentless thrust but you love it. Every smack of heavy balls against your clit, every slide of sweaty muscles of his chest against your wings and back, every pulse of your cunt around his cock.
Nanami pulls away breathless, the hand around your throat tightening imperceptibly, the sharp tips of his fingernails breaking skin. His pronged tongue slides along your cheeks to collect your fallen tears.
Every noise that leaves your mouth is against everything you hold dear, a sound of sin, debauchery and lust.
“I’m yours,” you whisper against his lips, your breath punching out of you with each desperate thrust. Nanami’s eyebrows furrow and his nose crinkles with a snarl, his wings pulsing with flame as his release climbs up his body as well. “I’m yours, Nanami.”
“Take my essence, little angel,” he demands, biting your lip until you draw blood. You lick up the coppery tang, falling into the prickly grip on your neck as he takes what he needs from you. “One day, when you have ruled with me for centuries to come, when you are one in your skin, perhaps my essence will take root.”
Your eyes widen at the implication, your soul no longer quivering in blasphemy but in satisfaction. How you would love that. One day. With him.
“Yes, Nanami,” you whisper into him, accepting one more kiss as he strokes once, twice, and a final time before he shivers from head to toe and groans with deep pleasure into your mouth.
His darkness seeps into the remnants of your light, a forbidden dance of shadow and flame now made true. He pumps hot semen into you, far too much for comfort and your essence combines with his demonic energy, feeding the power that still ebbs in your veins.
He falls into you, his hold on your throat vanishing to slide down to your naked stomach, pressing to the spot where he is still lodged inside. You reach back, carding your hands through his burning hair, reveling in the shiver he gives you.
He pulls out of you slowly and your cunt clenches around nothing, legs shaking at the feel of his semen dripping from you. He does not entertain the mess but gathers you in his arms, carrying you past the defiled altar and monolith that has fallen into a gentle ebb once more. The obsidian floors open up again, the thin layer of water rising within a large tub of water that steams with inviting heat.
He sinks you both into the steaming water, your new darkened wings flapping at the moisture that touches your plumage. When he dips your head beneath the surface, it feels like baptism in reverse—washing away heaven’s hold rather than blessing you with it. When you emerge, you feel reborn, your shame and disappointment for your former family now washed away.
You sigh at the effect hot water on your muscles, melting into the large expanse of his chest. He does not speak and you do not ask questions, content to watch him manifest a tray of oils and soaps that smell of green tea and burning honey.
He plucks a marble comb from the tray and drags it gently through your curls, each stroke bending with the texture of your hair to guide without tangle, each pass worship and calming.
Once your hair is untangled and silky, he washes your skin with the soap and oils that smell of him. You study him openly now—the way constellations shift across his skin, how his golden eyes hold both demonic power and intelligent precision, the careful way he maintains order even in darkness.
He dresses you in black fabric that flows like liquid shadow, clinging to your curves like his possessive touch. Instead of the starry sky, the black material is adorned by golden accents that match his eyes and armor.
The altar recedes into the floor and in its place, two large thrones emerge. Carved from pure white marble shot through with veins of gold, they’re identical in height and grandeur—a statement of what he promised you—equal rule.
Dark vines curl around their bases, blooming with black roses, while plush velvet cushions in deep navy make them as comfortable as they are magnificent.
He throws you an inquisitive rise of his brow, what was once used to pick you apart upon first meeting him, now make your lips curl in a smile. You pretend to ponder which you will choose, humming noncommittally before you sink into one chair, sighing into the softness around your body and wings.
Nanami bends down, taking a hand in both of his before he kisses your palm. “You look magnificent,” he purrs, your hand still in his while he sits on his throne.
With a snap of his fingers, the garden walls disappear, revealing the vast landscape that was once shrouded in horror and fear when you first arrived.
Now it appears without malice, without misery or shame, but of exotic greenery and souls who have been neglected for only choosing a path that feels wrong even though it is right.
The heavens is but a distant memory now, infinitesimal in the many years you will continue to exist. Now, you bask in the new power in your bones, in the brush of Nanami’s lips to your palm once more.
As the stars on his skin ebb and fade with light, you take in the muscles of his torso, the strength in his movements as he worships you without speaking.
It has taken eons to get to this moment, but some part of you preens with the satisfaction that Nanami has always been watching, waiting for you to come to him.
Thrilled to be putting up this behemoth of a fic I've been working on for two entire months at last! as part of @tsukimefuku's Spookinky event. Yes, I'm aware Halloween was also 2 months ago (sorry Fuku, and thanks so much again for helping beta read it!) Anyway, do check out the other works, they're incredible.
+18, DARK CONTENT AHEAD. You've been warned. See end of story for further author's notes.
abstract. It was a fairy tale, wasn’t it? Or a cautionary one, as most of them turned out to be.
wc. 9.4k (strap in with a beverage folks)
tags. Yandere!Nanami Kento x F!Reader | established relationship | smut | dubcon | psychological drama | manipulation |
Jim knew that he was awake and asleep at the same time, dreaming of the war and yet dreamed of by the war…
Your eyelids droop, heavier and heavier with every pass you make at the sentences. You’re fighting against the font even, dripping off the page into the pitch black pit of your mind, those once thick and bold serifs ooze into obfuscation, molten as the afternoon congealing into dusk. Your focus has been wavering for hours in this stifling summer air, the dense miasma of words shimmering into a mirage of meaning.
You sigh, scrubbing a hand over your face as you let Empire of the Sun flop into your lap. You should have known; J.G. Bellard didn’t exactly stake his reputation on breezy prose. You have a suspicion the book’s about a week or two overdue, though Nanami hadn’t said anything. Well, it was his library card getting charged. You hadn’t renewed yours in years.
You rifle through your current slog; 300 pages give or take. Perhaps you should have been less ambitious, started with the short stories. Long ago, you’d read The Garden of Time. You had enjoyed it, you think. Your eyes slip shut, trying to remember how that story ended, but the details are fuzzy.
It was a fairy tale, wasn’t it? Or a cautionary one, as most of them turned out to be.
These days, you were living with your own Count Axel too.
You open your eyes, gaze instinctively flitting towards the clock whirring with its tick-tock mick-mockery, matching the taunting your ears had already gotten accustomed to. The second hand quivers a sliver past the hour, as exacting as an anorexic’s indulgence of a fractional slice of cake; and promising as much sustenance.
Where was Nanami? When would he come back?
Your stomach growls. The shadows have grown, black slats cast by the window grilles lengthening and slithering stark against the bleached gold of the walls. You hate this time of day the most, this inevitable boredom numbing your mind into mulch, too sluggish to tolerate even the most insipid of dating reality show reruns, which was all that was on TV. As for your once carefully curated stash of true crime podcasts, the thought of listening to them now was unbearable.
Something burbles in your belly, a strange gastric shriek acidifying into a yowl. You shut it out, closing your eyes.
Your present circumstances might make for a pretty good biopic, a thriller perhaps. Or a psychodrama. Grim amusement filters through your mind as you imagine actors you’d cast in the lead roles…who was that Danish fellow, who had played a Bond villain? He’d had a similar sort of malevolent charisma as the titular protagonist in that show about eating people…
A little too fixated on trying to recall the actor’s name, you don’t hear the key turn in the first lock. But the second schlick sends a jolt straight to your spine, muscle memory triggering you to leap to your feet. By the time the third and fourth bolts have slotted out of the way, you’ve sprinted to the front step, your exuberant chirrup eclipsing the hinges’ creak.
“Welcome home, Kento!”
He grabs you mid-lunge, as usual, chuckling as you fling your arms around his neck. He’s a little off balance today, with the bags dangling off his thick forearms but they still manage to curl, boa constrictor snug around your waist, the weight of their contents pressing you further against him.
“Hello darling,” he murmurs.
You let him bury his nose against your nape, feeling the burdens of the world slough off him as he inhales your scent, ever familiar, ever constant. Never changing.
Staring past the summit of his shoulders, you see dust motes drifting unencumbered in the scorched-tangerine shaft of the setting sun, the pavement glowing white, the bright brilliance of its incandescence and resistance petering into the imminence of night; all this, a few tantalising inches beyond the door.
You blink, the dark spots perform their pirouette, and the temptation passes. You put on a smile as you feel Nanami’s question rumble low along your throat, peeling you away from his chest as he carefully shuts the door behind him, zipping chains one through four back into place.
“I said, how was your day?”
“Oh, good. Pretty good. You’ll be proud of me.”
“Yes?”
“I got through a whole 4 pages in your absence,” you grin at Nanami, waggling the book at him.
“Am I proving such a distraction?” His tone is bone-dry, but you catch the glimmer in his eye, polished as fragments beneath flesh desiccated by a desert.
“You mean providing?” you hum, smoothing a palm across his pectorals as Nanami shrugs out of his coat.
Nanami tuts, catching your fingers and greeting them with a kiss,“You ought to know by now, your flattery has its consequences.”
“Seems like an acceptable risk.”
Nanami tuts and you feel his lips twitch over your knuckles at the belligerence lilting your tone.
“Well, I’m sorry sweetheart but I was picking up a few extra things for dinner.”
Nanami finally relinquishes your hand to set the bags down on the dining table. You gape as he proceeds to carefully uncover the biggest bundle of blue hydrangeas and pale yellow daffodils you’ve ever laid eyes upon, all exquisitely wrapped with an embroidered silk ribbon. Nanami holds the flowers out to you, savouring your little gasp as the full size of his generosity blossoms into view.
“It was a bit of an impulse buy,” he confesses, to fill your stunned silence.
“You expect me to believe this was a snap decision?”
“Well, no, I was intending to get a bouquet from the start but they’d run out of roses. The florist suggested these instead, plus they seemed particularly fresh.”
“They’re gorgeous, Ken. Thank you, and I think I like their scent much better.” You press your nose to the delicate petals for a moment before you go to fetch a vase, submerging the stems in a few inches of water.
“These make me wish I’d paid more attention to my ikebana classes in elementary school,” you comment, caressing one of the butter bright coronas. “Or maybe I could enrol in one of those community courses now.”
“Leave it to the shops’ experts, they know the optimal aesthetic arrangement.”
“Oh, of course. It’s just, it’d be fun to learn something trivial and new.”
Nanami’s smile at you is soft and relaxed. “I’ll buy you more flowers, you can learn through trial and error, Miss Independent.”
“That seems a little lavish. What if I just consult our neighbours across the road, I’ve seen them growing-“
“You can figure it out on your own I’m sure,” Nanami interjects, patting your cheek and you have to remind yourself not to flinch, letting your face go taut with a perfected smile instead. “Or with a book. It could even be a nice hobby for us both, right?”
“Sure, Kento. Sounds fun.” You sigh, separating out some of the stalks. “So this is why you were delayed by half an hour today?”
“Yes, I’m sorry dear.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
It’s quiet for a few moments as Nanami observes you carefully thumbing through the floral clusters.
“I was...just a little worried. I wish you could tell me in advance. Maybe a text?”
Nanami lifts a brow, barely perceptibly. “And you’d receive it with what phone?”
Swiftly, you recalibrate, your tone shifting into a playful inflection. “Or we can resort to pagers. Like it’s the 1980s.”
It was one of the ironies of this living situation; a tradeoff, Nanami would have termed it. Although you dwelled under the same roof, you communicated less than ever before with him.
Nanami shakes his head ruefully, plaintively remarking, “I didn’t think you missed doomscrolling more than me.”
“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic,” you huff, setting aside the vase to place a peck on Nanami’s nose. Apparently random acts of affection usually worked to disrupt his morose musings.
You start to bustle with the groceries. “Don’t get me wrong, Bruckner’s 7th symphony on vinyl is exquisite,” you continue, “And I’ll be eternally grateful to you for making a cultured woman out of me…”
Nanami practically pouts at your exaggeration, indignation pulling the corners of his mouth down. You give a lopsided smile, pushing your luck.
“But…I’m just a little bit curious about the Top 40 stuff. Like what’s Ed Sheeran been up to?”
“That’s what the radio is for, dear. I’m not depriving you of pop hits.”
No, just music videos. And remixes. Plus you’ll never set foot inside another club or karaoke bar. Or attend a live gig. Hell, you’d pay dearly to hear an off-key sidewalk busker. Even a drunkard caterwauling in a subway.
Sounds from a lifetime ago. Better not to dwell on them.
You pull out carrots, a few stalks of celery, some onions. “You’re right. I doubt Square Roots or whatever mathematical function his latest album is titled after is a seminal turning point in his discography. I’m not missing anything.”
You survey the ingredients, feeling Nanami’s mild concern descend upon you as you ramble through your unexpectedly eloquent tirade.
You glance back up at him. “Anyway, dinner tonight involves a mirepoix?”
Nanami nods. You pass a hand hesitantly over the vegetables.
“It’s a lot of prepwork for a…a weekday, right?”
“It’s a Thursday,” Nanami offers to your unarticulated question. “And trust me, it’s worth it.”
This time the kiss he presses to your temple is a shade too tender.
“You’re always worth it.”
Your eyes flutter shut for a moment, letting Nanami’s words lodge deep between your ribs. Then, you carve a smile against his cheek.
“Who’s the one hoping for consequences now, mister?”
Nanami gives a light squeeze around your hips. “The meal will be ready in about 40 minutes.”
“Can I help?”
Nanami considers you for a moment, looking at your open face.
You skate your thumb across his knuckles, your voice becoming demure, saccharine in its wheedling. “I’ll just wash the vegetables? You’re welcome to do all the dicing and slicing.”
Nanami chuckles and you feel the tension ebb from his hands at your suggestion. He fishes out his phone and taps on Spotify. “What are you in the mood to listen to, darling?”
Walking on a dream
How can I explain?
Talking to myself
Will I see again?
The upbeat 80s inspired synths pulse through the kitchen, a backdrop to Nanami’s knife working its hypnotic rhythm against the chopping board. You run the cucumbers under the tap while he slides the last of the cubed carrots into a bowl alongside the onions and celery, also cut into similar sized pieces.
“What are you thinking for the salad?”
“Yuzu-wafu for the dressing?” Nanami checks his blade, noting its dulled edge.
“Maybe some kind of vinaigrette? Would pair well since this variety is a little more tart.”
Nanami hums thoughtfully, setting down the knife. He strolls over to a drawer where the cleaver, scissors and matches are stored and after making discrete adjustments to its built-in number padlock, retrieves a whetstone.
“Good call, there’s some EVOO we need to finish up-” Nanami turns around and goes rigid, seeing the knife clasped in both your hands, poised just under your chin.
Thought I'd never see
The love you found in me
Now it's changing all the time
Living in a rhythm where the minute's working overtime
You’re swaying back and forth to the melody, a distant look in your eyes.
“Dear?”
His voice is gentle, even gentler than usual. Which is plenty gentle already.
Your gaze slides towards Nanami, how he’s tracking the most minute shifts of the gleaming point hovering inches away from your skin. He’s perfectly still, not a tendon twitching, not a nostril flared; the air doesn’t leave his body, you see how it’s gripped between his lungs, as if the oxygen has become cement pooling in his valves. Nanami locks eyes with you, ochre irises shimmering tourmaline, exuding perfect calm. Waiting on you for his next heartbeat.
We are always running for the thrill of it, thrill of it
Always pushing up the hill, searching for the thrill of it
On and on and on we are calling out, out again
Never looking down, I'm just in awe of what's in front of me
You grin at Nanami on the other side of the kitchen island, your captive audience as you belt out the chorus.
Is it real now?
Two people become one
I can feel it
Two people become one
Nanami purses his lips, taking a step towards you. “Dear…why don’t you get the olive oil?”
Your grip tightens on the knife’s handle. You shut your eyes.
Is it real now?
Two people become one
I can feel it
Two people become-
You don’t immediately feel his iron grip manacled around your pulse; instead what first alerts you to his presence back by your side are his lips brushing against your temple. And that’s worse somehow, than his touch molding over your whitened knuckles, and the sinews of your wrist gilded with their jagged deltas of silver.
“I love you,” Nanami states, one hand heavily dwarfing your fists. You release the knife into his grip without another word. He swipes a brisk kiss across your jugular and you feel the maniacal desperation bleed from you, receding into the whirlpool of your subconscious. What had come over you?
“You’re kinda pitchy, but I love you anyway.”
With that cavalier comment, Nanami starts on the cucumbers.
A joke. He's making a joke. Had he seen right through you?
Hasn’t he always? Another voice, almost perfectly resembling your own, whispers within your mind. And he always will. You’re a glass wall to him, utterly transparent, easily shattered.
And Nanami’s the only one who’s been patient enough to put you back together, the only one who can make you whole.
He knows all your fractures, enough to refract and reframe the truth. This was your choice to live as a one-way mirror, to reflect his desires; to orient to the prism without realising it was a prison.
You watch Nanami quickly and quietly julienne the verdant oblongs, the knife’s swift staccato the only sound for a while. You pinch a slender, perfect matchstick from the mound of green, holding it between your fingers.
“Is there a point to such precision?”
“It’s so everything cooks evenly. It’s the standard for mise en place cooking.”
“Miso what?”
“It’s another French technique.” Nanami puts down the knife on the far side of the chopping board before plucking the sliver of cucumber from you and returning it to the pile.
“Literally translated, it means ‘putting in place’.”
“I see, I didn’t know that before.”
You fold your empty palms in your lap, eyes downcast.
One hand still on the blade, Nanami settles the other over your fingers, his heated grip squeezing just tightly enough for you to feel your metacarpals briefly grate against each other.
“Now you do.”
As Nanami turns back to prepping the ingredients, he tells you, “Go set the table, dear. And open up the bottle, so the wine breathes.”
At least one thing in this house can, you think, walking away from him.
“Taste familiar?”
The burgundy swirls in your glass, glinting like fluid rubies as you dip your nose over the rim.
“You know I don't have your refined palette, Ken. Just tell me already.”
Nanami shakes his head, nudging the ceramic dish towards you.
“Pair it with the cassoulet, then try again.”
You follow your spoonful of the hearty stew with a sip of the red, and this time notes of Pinot noir and brambleberries are more pronounced, as the tannins press their lingering tingle on your tongue, coaxing forth a vaguely familiar association from the recesses of your mind.
“I’ve had this before?”
“It was a fusion restaurant, Japanese-French. We had our first date there,” Nanami prompts.
“Oh! Jonquilla’s?”
Nanami smiles as his clues finally click together for you.
“I visited them before their evening service started, on one of my days off. Had a chat with their chef to recreate the recipe for the cassoulet, though I don’t know if the proportion of spice blends is identical-“
“Never mind accuracy, it was absolutely delicious, Ken. You’ve really outdone yourself.” You hum in satisfaction and satiation around the last mouthful of his culinary achievement.
“But what’s the occasion?”
Nanami’s brow arches, almost imperceptibly. “Today’s March 7th.”
You blink owlishly at him for an extended second, then abruptly recoil, stiffening with your realisation.
“Oh crap- I mean, sorry! I-I didn’t know.”
Nanami gestures placatingly, sliding his hand over yours. You stare sheepishly as he laces his fingers through yours. “It’s all right, love. I should have left a note in the morning.”
Timidly, you glance up at him. The mortification only churns with more turbulence seeing Nanami’s gaze brimming with affection and mild amusement.
“Umm...well, happy fourth anniversary Kento.”
For the first time this evening his smile falters.
“Fifth,” he corrects you, with the slightest suggestion of a sigh ghosting over the single syllable.
Your gaze plummets back to your hand underneath his. “Right, fifth. Five years.”
Five entire years...everything had changed; now none of your days did. All of them spent waiting, then waiting for him. The past three years had been an eternity, dwelling with a man you’d once been keen to spend forever with. The prospect had been a privilege, a certainty back then. When you’d been free to choose it.
Now, like death, it was nothing more than an inevitability.
The redundancy of your statement lurches heavily into the air; you and Nanami sit in silence for several epochs, its weight creeping into the room like a mastodon carcass emerging from permafrost. He splinters it first.
“You didn’t check the calendar?”
What would have been the point, etching out eternity by the day as if that would stall the lobotomy of this monotony? Every flick of a page would have been another papercut embedded in your epidermis, your spine chipped away ever quicker, just one more reminder of your sinews and synapses and wits atrophying, triggering an avalanche of spiraling, depressive thoughts and an even swifter, simultaneous erosion of your sense of self, your will to survive.
You can no more resist the scalpel than the cudgel, it’s an insidious chiselling of your core, to be remade in someone else’s image. Beatific as Helen of Troy, argumentative as an effigy.
“I forgot today and well, you know the saying, time flies.”
You pull your hand away from Nanami’s to examine the wine bottle, brushing a thumb over the label.
“It really is the exact same isn’t it?” you murmur, looking up at him with a wider smile. The Ice Age passes, and both Nanami’s tone and gaze thaws.
“I figured I’d speak to their sommelier at the same time, since I was there. Not many places import this so it took some convincing for them to part with one from their cellar.”
You raise a brow. “Please don’t tell me you spent more than-“
“It was complimentary in fact. Turns out the sommelier was a rather romantic fellow.”
“Sounds like he was giving someone a run for their money.” You lean forward, topping off Nanami’s glass.
With an appreciative chuckle, he responds, “He said it was the least he could do, bringing Provence to you if you couldn’t go.”
Provence, hah. If he only knew, the furthest place you’d been dreaming of was the konbini that had been a five minutes stroll from your old apartment. It was cramped, and the rent had been exorbitant despite being in a dodgy part of town - sort of a shithole if you were honest, but it’d been your shithole.
What colour had you painted the walls? Turquoise? Cerulean? No, aquamarine maybe,to match the canal you could just about glimpse from your balcony in summer-
“They really do a good job, highlighting the seasonal and regional specialties.”
You snap your attention back to the conversation, before the man opposite you can notice anything amiss. Perfunctory participation and trite observations were necessary to shield your most private thoughts from Nanami.
“Yeah, incredible menu. I loved the ambience of the place too.”
“The ambience?”
“Well, everything. The art, the lighting, that live violinist. It all adds to the dining experience, you know.” You let your gaze drift into the scarlet liquid swishing around in your glass, the garnet sparkles enticing in their reminiscence of sweeter, simpler times, when you and Nanami were just getting to know each other.
“Perhaps. I’ve never really noticed those things. That’s just decor.”
Now of course you know him all too well.
“Oh obviously the food should be the focus. And it definitely stood out. Your tarte tatin really took me back there.”
“Hmm, you know I suspect they used caster not muscovado after all,” Nanami remarks, scrutinizing the remnant fleck of pastry balanced delicately on a single tine.
“Sweetheart, tonight was a success,” you coo, patting his hand. “Trust me.”
Nanami relents, putting the fork down. “Even in the absence of a live violinist?”
You roll your eyes. “Yes, even without that.”
Nanami raises the stem of his glass, trying to hide how pleased he is. You copy him, gaze catching his as the both of you drain your drinking vessels. It is good wine, after all.
You hum, idly letting your fingers skate up Nanami’s forearms.
“Still, there’s lots of French fusion places around Tokyo. Why’d you pick that particular one?”
Nanami shrugs. “I went there with a client once, back when I was a salary man, so I knew it was good. I’d checked the more recent reviews too. Based off those I was convinced the 4.8 average rating it retained was warranted.”
You incline your head to the side, expectant. There were sure to be other factors, with this pinnacle of logic. Nanami pushes his spectacles up the strong bridge of his nose and sighs.
“And it was, well...equidistant from both our houses.”
You let out a mock gasp, voice fruity with an affectation of being scandalised.
“Mr Nanami, I did not take you for such a schemer.”
Perhaps it’s the burgundy, but you can’t help but think the pink tinting Nanami’s cheeks is rather endearing.
He clears his throat, sitting up straight. “That’s not what I meant. Quite the opposite in fact. We both had assignments early the next day. I wasn’t...making any assumptions.”
You purse your lips together, withholding a smirk as Nanami stumbles through more of his rationalisations.
“I mean, it could have gone poorly too, you could have wanted to cut the date short. So I considered your cab fare wouldn’t amount to more than-“
“Well, our first date didn’t end early, did it, Kento?” you interject. You don’t know why, but it delights you to see a rush of poppies blossom downwards, beneath his collar.
“I suppose not.”
You relax back into your chair with a chuckle, feeling Nanami’s significantly warmer gaze on you.
“Actually, I do have a gift for you.”
Nanami reaches into his satchel and for a moment you’re worried a velvet box will materialise from it. To your relief, he instead withdraws a simple paper envelope, too slim and understated for any expensive jewellery.
“Here you go,” he says, sliding the envelope over to you.
“Takashimaya vouchers? Oh Kento, how romantic-“ You stop short of delivering the jibe when you see what his gift actually is - a library card.
Your library card, to be exact.
It’s your turn to be baffled now.
“You were racking up too many fines on mine,” Nanami’s expression is strait-laced, but his gaze is affectionate .“So I renewed yours.”
“Is there, um, some kind of new demerit system?”
“No, the length of the penalty period is the same as the overdue one. Basically I was barred from loaning out more books till you were done, Miss four pages per day.”
“It’s not my fault if the plot drags on,” you protest.
“Pick a more compelling read then,” Nanami smirks, “Or know when to give up.”
You examine the laminated rectangle, and the photo of yourself from five years ago stares back at you, her expression bright and clear-eyed, the set of her jaw resolute. Virtually unrecognisable.
“I can...pick up my own books?” you mumble, eyes still locked on your picture.
Nanami’s sigh is heavy and you hear him remove his lenses, setting them down on the table. You look up when he addresses you, and his gaze is tinged with the same slight weariness wrung from your name.
“Your residence needed to be updated, that’s all.” Nanami speaks patiently - no, patronisingly. “You can continue to give me the list of titles you want to check out.”
So, you wouldn’t be able to borrow the books in person, let alone browse the shelves in a public space, without him.
“I should...probably pay my late fees myself though, right?”
Nanami shrugs, “They don’t add up to that much. I usually take care of it with the petty cash.”
Money he wouldn’t miss. Transactions without a bank statement. Untraceable.
You’d never have to pay for anything ever again. And it had only cost you your freedom.
You slip the card carefully back into the envelope, face down.
Some unthinking machine would scan its barcode, would log your details, your preferences in novels and fiction, the imaginations you escaped into. On some arbitrary database, you’d exist.
Somewhere outside these four walls, you’d live.
“Thank you, Ken. It’s a lovely...gesture.”
You don’t think Nanami registers the pause, neutrally watching you empty the wine bottle equally into his glass and yours.
“Shame that’s the last of it,” you sigh, setting the bottle down. Nanami hums contemplatively as you drink up.
“It was... a nice restaurant. Would you want to visit it again?”
You stare at Nanami, not quite believing your ears at the sentimentality that has seeped into his tone, let alone his offer.
“Visit it?”
That would involve going back into the world. Strangers would see you. Might even interact with you. That would be too much, surely?
Nanami takes a long sip of wine before continuing.
“I could get candles and cushions and white linen tablecloths, or put a Poulenc record on...but I know it’s not the same.The environment does make a difference.”
You nod slowly, twisting the stem of your glass between your fingers. He reaches for your hand and you let him hold it.
“You could do your hair, nails, get dolled up and all, just like old times. There’s this dress in a corner boutique I go past every day, that I think you’ll like-“
“That I’ll like or you’ll like?”
He chuckles, “My dear, if you want to wear a burlap sack there you’re welcome to. I’ll insist to the maître d’ I have the most beautiful woman in the world on my arm, regardless.”
A blush unfurls across your face, looking into Nanami’s eyes and seeing the absolute sincerity and conviction there.
“I just want you to feel as special as you are to me, when we go.”
Nanami brings your hand to his mouth, eyes closed, taking his time to plant a kiss on each of your knuckles. Something constricts in your chest, watching the reverence and regret of his lips each time they have to lift a tiny fraction away from your rapidly warming skin.
“It’s where we started to make so many memories.” Nanami says softly, opening his eyes to stare deeply into yours. You sink into the rich russet warmth of those irises, mesmerised by the familiar tawny flecks shining bronze with pure adoration for you.
“If we were going to celebrate, it would be worth commemorating it there, yes?”
He almost whispers the question, with both his hands now clasping yours. Nanami brushes a thumb across your hand and you barely notice how it strokes slow, tender circles on your fourth finger.
Barely.
You know what he is truly asking. What he’s really after.
Would it be a celebration or a sentencing?
Even after all this time, it isn’t clear if there’s just the one answer.
You shut your eyes, taking a breath. You lean forward in the darkness, finding and anchoring your lips to Nanami’s, parting them to reel his soft exhalation into your mouth, feeling the tidal surge of his ache in his tongue tracing the very edges of your mouth, desperation lapping at your own control.
You haven’t permitted him this little in so long. You haven’t permitted yourself this much for even longer.
You break away just as his canines start to graze your trembling lower lip, whispering the truth through your teeth. “I’ve been utterly smitten by you, Nanami Kento. Too often, you know me better than I do myself. But I know you too.”
“And?”
You let the panted word hang in the air, savouring the way his anticipation swells through his button-up shirt, his chest rising and falling with each second that passes, that you hold out on.
You imbibe a heavy gulp of composure, some of the burgundy spilling past your lips.
Your glass chimes against the table with a definitive clink as you reply, “And I know how much of a hassle you find washing cast iron skillets to be. Restaurants would take care of that, right?”
Nanami’s face crumples into confusion, his consternation finding physical manifestations in the crease of his brows and down turned lips.
Maybe you’d gone too far, even if it wasn’t an outright rejection. He might interpret it as a stalling tactic.
“That was a joke, Kento. Of course I’d love to revisit Jonquilla’s with you. Or even a Mcdonalds drive-thru.”
“My dear, you deserve so much better than that sodium saturated crap.”
Your laugh quivers, rippling with the pronounced vehemence with which Nanami had spat the expletive. He pins you with a stern glare, but you will mischief to glaze over your face, like a visor.
“Y’know, I’ve kinda been craving their fries.”
Nanami wrinkles his nose, and you breathe a little easier. “How your standards haven’t improved, after years of living together with home cooked meals, is beyond me.”
“You’re such a snob sometimes,” you dismiss his disdain with a giggle, “You gotta realise there are just some things you can’t exert influence over.”
Nanami’s eyes narrow. “I’m not going to give up.”
“Suit yourself,” you lick the last traces of a sauce off the back of a spoon with deliberation, feeling his gaze track your movements. “I see no downsides for me, if that means more yummy replications.”
Nanami’s exhale through his nose is short and sharp; what passes for a laugh these days. He regards you silently for a minute, exasperation mingling and melting into fondness, ever so gradually.
It seems you’re out of the woods. Still, it doesn't hurt to keep him in a good mood.
You reach out to caress Nanami’s cheek lightly, and his eyes drift close against your touch. “You can take me anywhere you want.”
Everywhere and nowhere.
“How about we start with the shower?”
Nanami stands a few feet away from you as vines of steam coil around his granite cheekbones, wilting his collar, leaching translucence into the whites of his Oxford top. You see the fibres strain with every rise and fall of his chest, the vapours of his mouth melding with the swelling humidity of the bath, amidst fluctuations of hunger and hesitation.
“Are you sure about this?” Nanami murmurs, he braces his arms behind him, pressing his back against the tiles, breath expanding underneath his shirt. You gaze upon Nanami, a centurion sculpted by Rodin, a cornered animal.
You take a step towards him, feeling his heart hammer as you enclose your palm over it.
“It’s nothing we haven’t done before,” you whisper, reaching for his first button.
It wasn’t quite the same of course, as on the other nights. Usually your positions were reversed; Nanami, fully clothed, would strip you and usher you into the shower, only a sponge between you and him as he cleansed every inch of your skin. His own bath would be brisk, but he’d thank you for your patience every evening as you shuddered in the corner, eyes tightly shut. He didn’t seem to care if you stared at him with revulsion or resignation, the way a leopard would disregard a sparrow.
That was all your bodies had been to each other for the longest time, mere objects co-existing in space, empty vessels requiring maintenance.
It’s hard to remember that now, as a more carnal need pumps through your veins, as the fabric peels away from his skin, sleeves rippling slow in their remorse of being parted from his swollen biceps. You replace them with your palms, gliding over arms corded with sinews like steel cables. All this strength he’s never used on you, keeping you in his grasp by some other power.
No, it was exactly this restraint that restrained you; shackled to the myth that it couldn’t get worse, torture earning your tolerance, tolerance reaping your torture.
You thread your fingers through Nanami’s locks, barley sheaves darkening into rye beneath the spray and the circular motion of your hands, massaging shampoo into his silken roots. The cascade of water catches his lashes just right, fronds fluttering like the gold-gilded ruffled edges of ginkgo leaves at the terminus of autumn; yet, as you sink your fingers into the joints where Nanami’s nape connects to the base of his cranium, you doubt it’s the scattered droplets which are responsible for his eyes closing, or the guttural groan dragged from his throat, the octaves dripping much lower than you’ve heard in months, sending simultaneous sensations of heat dribbling down your spine and a lush insistence of warmth tugging through your gut.
Suds slip their foamy trail over the corded tendons in his neck, iridescence slathering over his chest and arms. Your fingers follow them, naturally. Nanami holds himself very still as you scratch your nails lightly over his pectorals and abdominals, tracing a path of your own design and desires, forgotten yet familiar. The terrain prickles beneath your wandering palms, goosebumps sprouting at your touch. But then, you reach a swathe of blue mottling into violet, and your hand hovers over it, a sickle sized smudge wrapped around his upper ribs. You can’t control the flood that suddenly surges to your waterline, blurring your vision.
All the violence, and all the silence. The endless chaos. This was the truth out there, and here was the evidence he kept from you.
The bruise spreads beneath your fingers, wider than your hand.
And what was the truth in here? Where was the danger? Long ago you’d confronted that same savagery, the senseless cruelty, those injustices he used to justify keeping you safe now.
You sink your thumb against the wound, dragging your anguish through it. You feel the breath juddering through Nanami, as he winces. But he doesn’t stop you.
You can hurt him too.
“It’s all right,” he whispers, leaning into your touch.
Monsters creating monsters, curses birthing more curses. Perhaps misery didn’t love company, as much as it feared and loathed enduring its own misanthropy alone.
There were worse things to lose than freedom.
You lift your hand away, to cup Nanami’s face instead.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur, pressing the apology over his closed eyes. You feel them flickering beneath your lips.
“I’m sorry for all of this.”
His gaze, when it returns to you, wavers wearily between guilt and grief. It’s dimmed and misty, there are no calculations, no charting these choppy waters; he sways towards you, a man (as before, as ever) seeking safe harbour, adrift in your arms.
You coax his calloused hands around your hips, and you’re uncertain for a few moments if the trembling from his fingertips has summoned the same across your skin, or if it’s your own nerves rippling outwards to his touch, all too tentative.
“Do you…not want to-”
You feel the answer in his immediate indentations upon your waist, squeezing your doubts into silence. But his gaze remains obscured behind his fringe, plastered to his forehead. You brace against the silence by sliding your arms over his, thumb circling the taut knot at the crease of his elbow. Gently you lay your cheek against his chest, savouring the solidness that has been so absent, and its underlying thump-thump-thump, far less steady.
You feel the breath rising through his lungs as he tilts your chin up towards him, voice rasping with frayed restraint.
“I want to. Of course I want you.”
Nanami drags his thumb from the corner of your lips to its plush centre, feeling it furl and yield without very much pressure.
“What if I want too much?”
For him to ask this now is a kindness you can’t afford. You don’t owe him this, he has reassured you of that much, tonight and many other nights. Perhaps it’s time that has taken its toll instead, so that with your last shred of autonomy, you choose to give, or at least give in.
“Just let me be selfish, this once.”
You angle your face towards him, lips parted and watch the light in his eyes shrink to pinpricks; firelight flickering out as bipedal silhouettes slink and morph back into the shadows of beasts -
coherence, logic, caution all consumed by more primal instincts.
And so, you anticipate his devouring, his half-snarl, his clash of teeth when he claims your mouth again for the first time in ages but it’s worse, so much worse. And divine.
His kiss is slow but no less forceful, the pressure gradually mounting, lapping at your lips then teasingly receding so you have to push up into him, deepening the kiss so quickly without you realising, only vaguely aware of your shortness of breath, of the most mild discomfort; the same dissonance of someone witnessing a revealed shore and wading further and further onto it, clueless that the waves are pulling back because of the tsunami surging towards them.
It’s too late by then, caught in Nanami’s undertow when your head rolls to the side, hardly far enough before it’s cradled by one of his large hands. The warmth from his palms pools across your nape, dripping down down down your spinal column, an erosion of stalactites as your weight melts against Nanami when he pulls your waist flush to his. He drinks in your whimpered surprise as you feel a smear, thick and wet, between your legs and prodding at your gusset.
Nanami finally lets you part for air but you cling to him, limpet-limbed. Your gaze and hand drifts down to where he’s stiff, scarlet and sobbing from his slit, globs of fat white pearls that remind you of the dryness in your mouth.
“So much…you’ve been holding back this much?”
Nanami had never responded this way when conducting your evening rituals of hygiene, had swept his eyes over your breasts and buttocks as efficiently as he’d inspected your scalp, elbows, knees. His touch had been mechanical, clinical to the point of brusque. You came to the conclusion then, over the years, that he was inoculated against arousal, that the sight of your bare flesh no longer titillated him, that on some level even, he was completely apathetic to your nudity.
It’s impossible to argue such a stance now with the copious amount of evidence painting your thighs, the head bobbing heavily as it brushes against your skin.
“Sometimes at work…” Nanami croaks and you finally tear your stare away from his glistening length, to be sucked into the brine-dark whirlpools of lust churning in his eyes. “I’d…I’d take the edge off.”
“How?” you whisper. The crimson rush crests high on his cheeks and you reach out to caress his face, residual heat sweeping from your fingers down your wrist.
“J-just in a cubicle,” he confesses, averting his eyes. “Not often.”
During lunch breaks. In between meetings. Just before commuting. You hadn’t been able to keep your hands off each other, in those early days. So many late nights, and later mornings. Beds were irrelevant. Desks, couches, corridors, stairwells - the two of you didn’t need much to improvise intimacy, the sparse surroundings testimony to the inspiration you found endlessly in each other.
It must have been difficult, to forget and forego all that. It was, for you.
“Made it worse…I tried to stop.”
Nanami Kento, with his crisp collars, perfectly ironed jackets, shiny brogues - in a sterile bathroom hunched over fisting his cock with frantic, feverish tugs, struggling to sputter to a paltry climax, the spit in his palms a poor substitute for what he refused himself every evening,
so close, so easily within reach that he couldn’t take it.
Temporarily vanquishing his visceral ache for you, while heightening his hankering, compounding his cravings, haunted by his half-measures for months and months.
Diminishing returns, returning with a vengeance.
“Why not here, at home?”
You see the anguish flash across his face, feel the tremor in his hands as he clutches at your waist.
“I…didn’t want you to ever - ever - remotely consider that risk, with m-”
You crush your mouth to Nanami’s, pillow-soft lips pummeling his doubts into nothing more than the air that escapes with his choked grunt of surprise, tongue spearing deep past his lips to wrestle with his, an excavation of the remnants of his uncertainty.
“Kento…” And he hears his name panted, twisted through with such longing he has no choice but to look at you.
“You don’t have to stop yourself anymore.”
Coals glow in Nanami’s irises, you witness in an instant the incineration of his final vestiges of control. But even if you hadn’t caught the change, you feel it as your body is engulfed in flames for the remainder of the night.
Nanami grabs you, pins you to the wall as he nips kisses all across your nape, sucks bruises down the column of your throat, carnality swelling carnelian across your clavicle, as you claw ruby rivulets down his spine. He buries his pleasured growls between your breasts, stuffing his mouth with your mounds and moans and the stiffened peaks of your nubs, while his hands waste no time, grasping at every inch of you, your curves, the plush of your thighs, the fat of your bum, years of denial striking the flint of desperation, skin singeing against each other, ragged sighs breathing life into him, coaxing the inferno higher and higher.
And then his knuckles graze the lake of slick between your legs and when did he get on his knees and Nanami hisses your name, whiskey-smoked gaze drilling into yours, demanding not your permission, but your focus when he finally sinks his tongue into you, and the sob rips from your throat at his impatience, his insistence, lapping ravenously at your folds, retracing every crease and crevasse of you, tip curving into spots you forgot you had to chase and catch every drop drooling from your niche, greed driving him deeper to get closer to the mouth of the river, your lust already streaming down his face. He grinds your weight further on his face, disregarding your garbled protests, you cry out as the high bridge of his nose brushes your clit and almost immediately you regret it as he switches his attentions and abuse there, to that tiny bundle of nerves, tongue now stroking ruthlessly fast, alternating between flicking and wrapping tight circles around it.
A particularly vicious suck has your climax shattering over you, your wails of his name bouncing off the tiles and to your fascinated horror, falling on deaf ears. It takes you a few moments, with every synapse scorched beyond function, to realise that your jerking and spasms aren’t from your first orgasm, but an impending second. Because Nanami hasn’t slowed down for a fraction of a moment, your cunt still sealed around the cavern of his mouth, the beast within writhing its way back into its reclaimed burrow; you squeal and whine and squirm, but it’s no use, Nanami slaps a hand against your thigh, angling it to hook high over his broad shoulders to keep you splayed, the iridescence you’re spraying across his cheeks no match for the gleam in his eyes as he feasts and slurps and sucks.
His moans reverberating through your pussy seem to crawl their way up through your own throat, writhing into your garbled pleas for amnesty, for release. You’re convinced your pleasure is mere collateral, not the priority, to Nanami now, that he’s punishing you in some sadistic, delightful way - until you feel the swipes of his tongue soften and his smirk stretching you, in time with the tips of his fingers spreading across your swollen lips.
“One more darling,” he promises, pressing a tender kiss to your inner thigh. You brace against the wall, whimpers tapering into relieved little mewls of his name as Nanami’s index glides inside you, pussy readily receiving every ridge and joint, liquid-smooth, as your resistance dribbles down his wrist.
“Gotta prep you, it’s been a while mmh?” he mumbles against your sodden core, starting to pump his digits in and out of you steadily, before he latches back onto your clit like an addict, picking up his pace and pressing into the soft spongy spots that have you erupting into your next climax.
But Nanami’s far from finished.
He withdraws his fingers, luminescent with your essence and sucks them…clean hardly seemed an appropriate word, but it had to suffice in your severely diminished mental state, as the aftershocks scoured every nerve ending south of your tummy, satiation severing any attempt by your neurons to connect.
Brain mushy and muscles gelatinous, you slump forward into Nanami’s solid embrace, his baritone rumbling sweet nothings to reinforce the trembling in your knees. In a single fluid motion, he sweeps you into his arms, bundling you up bridal style out of the bathroom, not bothering with a towel.
“Ken! I’ll get the bed soaked,” you complain, clutching at his biceps.
“That’s the plan, dearest,” he rasps, the menace in his voice somehow simultaneously melodious. Nanami tosses you down on the mattress, lips chasing the blush rushing down your bosom, mouth puckering around the pertness of your buds, alternating between his tongue’s gentle flicks and how he rolls them roughly between his fingers.
But Nanami’s only got one hand occupied by your tits. With the other you distantly hear him rummaging through the nightstand, sounding increasingly agitated. He cusses against your cleavage, and you hear a hollow cardboard box clatter off in the corner as he hurls it across the room.
Of course, neither of you had considered replenishing contraceptives in a long time.
Nanami sits back on his haunches, hands clenched on his knees. His erection juts tantalisingly between them, in a proud upwards sweep of roseate to vermillion, milky droplets already beading again from the heavy head.
Later, you’ll blame the flowers, the wine. Even that damned library card, for the next words that spill from your mouth.
But something possesses you, and you whisper in a voice you barely recognise as your own, “I don’t care, Nanami.”
You feel his gaze snap from the offending emptiness of the bedside drawer to your hooded eyes, which are decidedly not directed at his face.
Your statement sinks into the silence taut between your bodies, and you feel the bed dip, as Nanami cautiously (but eagerly) shuffles forward on one knee, the hard silhouette of his length brushing against his belly. Errant pearls drip wastefully into the sheets, and you have to hold back a sob.
“Repeat it.”
“I…I don’t care, I j-just want…” your voice falters as Nanami looms over you, caging you in beneath his arms. His broad mushroom head glides along your slit, rivulets of your slick running from his tip down the rest of his cock. In all your years together, you’ve never felt him this way, with such intimacy, such bristling urgency.
“What do you want, love?”
“You, all of you.” The conviction crackles from your lungs at last and something snaps when Nanami suddenly sinks partially inside you, hips stuttering at your confession, gasps eclipsing each other’s at the sudden surge and squelch of wet and heat and clinging.
It’s too much and not enough all at once and it has your hips jerking up involuntarily, your body remembering there was more, that it was made for much more - but Nanami clamps down on them, shushing your indignant whines even as you try to draw more of him in.
“There’ll be time for you to regret your greed later, my girl,” Nanami chuckles his hoarse assurance, and there’s something about the specific blend of his tone; the sardonicism, the delirium, the absolute warmth under it all that is completely familiar to you. You slip into surrender, relaxing entirely into the kiss you drag him down for.
Nanami is slow to sleeve himself fully within you, savouring how your expressions flicker between frustration and pleasure, a reticence resonant with the way your pussy flutters around his girth, beguiling in its struggle as Nanami feeds you his meat, inch by throbbing inch. You feel him wrestle with the dilemma too in the aberrant twitches of his cockhead, leaking pre-cum, as if your passage weren’t satin-slick enough already and arduous with your ardour.
It’s a surreptitious, viscous cycle; you get more sodden and sensitive with every incremental shimmy Nanami presses into you, the teasingly measured secretion of his slimy trail inside you mingles with your own wet wantonness, the excesses of this elixir dribbling down the remainder of his length and coating your already considerably saturated walls, making it harder and harder for him to resist slamming the rest of his way inside you.
He knows you could take it, that you crave such treatment even, but he wants even more to commit this eternity to memory, not simply the glorious, torturous novel sensation of fucking you raw but the way your face shifts from arousal to adoration, back and forth, again and again, as he seeds a new addiction inside you, gradually stretching you past your former limits; physical, emotional, moral.
Nanami presses a stilted groan into your nape when he bottoms out inside you at last, laving his tongue over the film of perspiration clinging to your collarbones, as if there were some secret adhesive he could absorb to keep himself together, to prevent himself from falling apart with every rippling contraction of your cunt, as your being is molded once more around his pulsing length.
“Ke~nnnhg…” you moan, and he twitches hard inside your gluey, velvet-vice to hear his name so stretched out, like gum, like rubber, like the dearth thereof, of any barrier between your bodies when you squeeze around him, deliberately this time. There’s an abundance of obviousness that it’s your action, not a reaction, by how your voice tremors with the effort.
“Already told ya,” you huff, “You don’t have to stop yourself anymore.”
And perhaps it’s your petulance, how you’re pouting this reminder of your mutual needs to be devastated, that sets Nanami off, that has his hips snapping forward, callous and careless at last, his thrusts initially sharp and shallow building quickly into an erratic rhythm that you can barely keep up with, letting yourself be jostled and pounded and shaken like a ragdoll, like Nanami’s exclusive fucktoy for him to drain his desires into.
“Fuck, angel, so fucking perfect. Gonna fill you up, make you so swollen with me, mmh?”
Your keen peels from your ribs, pitching high into the air, as Nanami continues to whisper filth and praise and promises you can’t quite comprehend, the only sounds, barely intelligible, is his slurring of your name, the syllables stringing stickily together like the messy ropes of cum swaying with every plunge of his cock back into your cunt, relentlessly bruising those spots that make meteors flash across your screwed shut eyes.
“Ken, K-Kento! Ah, ah- missed this so much, m-missed you!”
It’s your last attempt at coherence before your climax crashes over you and you clench around Nanami’s spurting cock, his broken bellows echoing through your bones and veins as he cums shortly after, flooding you, tethering you. You arch into him, receiving each pump, pulses blending with tongues tangling, till there is no distinction between tributaries and alluvium, between river and ravine, only the abundance of silt from his slit, nestled snugly against your cervix.
Nanami shifts to settle you in his arms, some of his spend seeping from the apex of your thighs.Will there be a price to pay?
The potential of a gynecologist’s scrutiny, doula appointments, consultations and consolations, complications and consequences, another presence at last in this house…you push these questions far from your mind.
Because the night doesn’t end there of course, you don’t recall if it ends at all. It’s a haze of hormonal hedonism, hours lost in the fog of damp breaths and senses swamped by desire. It is as if you dreamed it all, drifting off with Nanami inside you, waking to find his hunger unabated. Any concerns the morning might bring are cloudy, what is crystalline instead - what you choose to curate - are the sparse intermissions of his syrupy kisses over the words you exchange, that he demands to hear with your will languishing, effervescent as the vow he pulls from you, but will hold you to, lingering in the long shadows of your subconscious: I’m yours and you are mine, I need nothing else.
Seraphim, succubus, sorceress...all these accusations and adorations Kento lays at your feet, worshipping at the altar of your thighs, whether you were astride or under him. Calling you his cornerstone, a becoming like cinder blocks around your ankles.
Drunk off of him, kisses spilling kerosene and casks of Amontillado, your kindness your kindling, immolated by indulgence. You’d yearned for this too, his hunger feeding yours, an Ouroborous of obsession wrapping around your arms, chest, eyes so you couldn’t see how symbiosis ceded to the parasitic, the pleasure paralytic, ambrosia abused into anaesthetic until it cemented your ruin. Your comfort and his catharsis was a drug, yet you do not stop to wonder if this love had never been medicinal, if it had been narcotics lavished against necrosis.
It was too late for either of you to realise he’d never healed, amidst the eternity of nights spent with your lips sealed to Nanami’s like an oath. He never cared or dared to question destiny, yet never been so sure he’s meant to share his with anyone except you. But Fate has always been cruel to the best people he’s known and known too late just how much he needed in his life.
And he couldn’t possibly be crueler than Fate, could he, if it meant protecting you?
Sworn and bound to this, but it unleashed an ancient anguish that had festered for far too long in his heart, aches that should have stayed buried, instincts that should have gone extinct; His salvation now only in the mutation of satiation into starvation. Every love bite and bruise stacking upon each other’s skin like bricks in a citadel for two. You were his fortress, his hearth.
You didn’t know he was building you a pedestal, a pyre, a pyramid.
All to serve a goddess in name, in invention not intervention. Does it matter? Nanami strips you of your mortality, your humanity. You are a being of infinite benevolence and eternal beauty, a deity who deigned to age alongside him. He would grow old with you. Even if it meant dooming you to dwell within a sarcophagus.
Nanami looks upon you, you are enshrined, entombed. He engulfs you in amber; Your life preserved, your love petrified.
thanks for reading!
a/n:also wanted to say I owe a debt of inspiration to @saintshigaraki's fic which has one of the most realistic, seductive portrayals of a Yandere Nanami I've read. Mise En Place would not exist without it.
Synopsis: Famine! inspired Reader x Nanami Kento (MDNI) (Part 1 of 2)
The empty, downtrodden drudgery of your life as a salarywoman is brought to an abrupt halt when you meet your new co-worker. The enigmatic Namami Kento ignites a hunger in you that you never dreamed possible ...
Written for the Spookinky Event hosted by the lovely @tsukimefuku !!
CW: Graphic sexual content and imagery, food play, simultaneous masturbation, body worship, oral sex (female and male receiving), unprotected sex, canon-typical violence, psychological deterioration.
Rating: M
When did your life become a series of ceaseless, hackneyed phrases, each piling on top of the next, burying you under their weight?
Your mother informs you, over your weekly supper, that a good partner won't be waiting in the wings for when you find it convenient. You'll have to go out there and 'get him'. Oddly aggressive phrasing, but you've heard it many times before. Your colleagues have stopped asking you to join them for drinks. They've all spied the growing 'to do' list pinned to the board above your desk, and they won't intervene. They recognise a lost cause when they see one.
There's no specific time frame you can pinpoint, no precise moment in the dreary, steady march of time that stands out as a clear beginning to the veil of grey that has been cast over every aspect of your life. You'd never flatter yourself enough to think that you deserved that much more.
You look average. Your career has been stuck in limbo for some time. Your fractional increase per year has gone largely unnoticed with the rate of inflation. You always go to the same grocery store after work. You cook a regular menu, one that's simple and requires little effort. Your knees have begun to hurt in the evenings and you've been finding a few more silver strands every time you give your hair a cursory brush in the smudged bathroom mirror.
The broken gutter above your balcony allows water to get into your apartment after heavy rains. You haven't called the landlord to get someone to fix it, even though it happened six months ago. You'll get round to it, one of these days.
It isn't that you don't want something better for yourself. You do. You really do. But you're just so tired all the time and the energy required to 'get things done' never seems to materialize. It's so much easier to vegetate in front of a newly released comedy show than touch up your CV, or go to the salon, or dust your shelves or go to that new home store and buy new bedsheets.
A thousand deferred dreams, and they never get any closer. Until you meet him, that is.
When he is first introduced to the team at the office, the cursory welcome sticker placed on his desk alongside some generic coffee mug gift, you don't take much notice of him. He is tall, blonde, his steady brown eyes seemingly staring past everyone he meets, a certain immovable melancholy present there.
He blends into the never-ending array of salarymen you meet daily, in the course of your job, almost as if intentionally. You see him in passing a few times, and you've actually forgotten his name a few weeks after he's become a regular fixture at the office. Such is the nature of things.
And then he is assigned to work on a project with you, and you have to sneak a glance at the name at the top of his profile sheet to save yourself the embarrassment of asking again.
Nanami Kento.
A name that suits a decisive man. You're not sure if it suits him. He seems ... lost. He is confident and earnest in his demeanor, but there is always something distant about him, as if his body and mind function on one plane, and his emotions in another. His voice is beautiful, though.
Deep, mellow, arresting and quiet, Nanami speaks and people listen. The monotonous inflection is imbued with something more, a potential for variation that you've never heard from him. He never raises his voice. He never speaks out of turn. He never uses that captivating richness of tone to draw attention to himself.
He is a man entirely self-contained. Your interest in him grows a little, after that brief time spent working together.
You've always experienced dreams of a vivid nature. When you were little, you'd woken with wet cheeks and a hoarse voice, your mother's arms around you, warm, warm, cradling you like the ocean. Even worse, you remembered your dreams, unlike many of the other children at school. All of them dreamed, and all of them forgot those dreams as soon as they'd woken up. You'd asked, and none of them recalled things quite like you did.
For a while now, the dreams had been dormant. Something in your recent life, however, had brought them back to the surface.
The first inkling you had of it was the dream of a feast. You are seated at a long table, laid with the most sumptuous food that wouldn't look out of place at a five star eatery. The table cloth is barely visible beneath the platters of stir-fried vegetables and meat, large crockpots of hearty stews, thinly sliced fish, raw and smoked, tiered rows of sandwiches, freshly fried croquettes, beautifully crafted dim sum, slices of succulent, finely marbled wagyu sizzling on stone plates.
You approach with trepidation, wondering who on earth this food had been laid out for. Surely not you? Where was the catch? Experimentally, you pick up a small croquette and nibble at it, eyes widening at the unexpected perfection of flavour and texture. This was good. Better than good, it was delectable.
You waited (only for a minute) before taking another croquette. This one went into the small bowl of dipping sauce before you took a larger bite. Still, nothing happened. Was this all ... really here for you? Just so you could ... enjoy yourself and indulge?
When you turn, a chair is placed conveniently beside you. You hadn't noticed it before. There was just a single chair, so this confirmed that it would just be you. Fingers slightly slick with oily remnants from the fried, golden morsels, you drag the chair closer and sit, still looking around warily. You still haven't found those consequences.
You eat, slowly at first. Strange. The thing that puzzled you was how you became hungrier the more you partook of. The sandwiches were soft and light, so it was no wonder you managed to finish quite a few of those. The tea was warm and superbly steeped, so you didn't find its soothing effect unusual. It was when you realized that you'd emptied out an entire pot of cream stew, wiped up the remnants with bread, and then went on to demolish five stacked baskets of steamed pork dumplings and a whole platter of mapo tofu, that you knew that there was a problem.
It was too delicious. You couldn't stop. You'd never stop. You'd continue feasting on these perfectly prepared dishes until -
The bedroom is still dark when you sit upright abruptly, your nightshirt damp with sweat, hair in disarray. Flinging aside the covers, you barely process the fact that this is the first vivid dream you've had in ten years before you shuffle to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face. Your bleary eyed self stares back from the mirror, and maybe it's that morning film over the eyes that makes your reflection seem like that of a stranger.
Shortly after this, you are assigned to work on another project with Nanami. There is something different, this time, about working alongside him. You suddenly find yourself more aware of him than others around you, of the subtle way he would shuffle his papers every fifteen minutes or so, of the sound of the small cough he gave when he'd been sitting for too long directly under the air conditioning, of the set of his mouth when he saw something he didn't approve of, of the precise manner with which he set his chair before sitting down.
Naturally, you pay more attention to his appearance too. He was obviously a man who took good care of himself, but in a mechanical, rather soulless fashion. His hair was always clean and perfectly arranged, his shoes polished to high shine, suits impeccably laundered and pressed. He was always clean shaven, not a nick or cut in sight, testament to the extreme steadiness and strength of his hand.
Speaking of strength, Nanami was obviously no slouch in the fitness department. Although somewhat disguised under the square-cut, dull nature of his suits, he was broad-shouldered, the curve and dip of powerful, sinewed arms visible through his shirt in warmer weather, the natural grace of his stride a testament to his confidence in his own physicality.
But something was lacking; a certain fundamental warmth that you'd seen in others, something that placed them firmly in the world of the living. Nanami was like a ghost vessel, attention always trained on the horizon, slicing his way through the waters of daily life with unerring certainty towards a goal nobody could fathom.
(Did he?)
On the third day of working together, you ask him if he wants to try the new cafe that opened up a few blocks away from your building. He puts his pen down with that precise little motion you've come to find familiar and turns to you, giving you his full attention. He considers for a moment, before nodding and collecting his coat.
You both head out of the building into the chilly spring air, the bite of it fresh and stinging. Emerging from the office was often a surreal experience. You wonder if this is how fish feel when removed from the tank, the comfort of their sluggish, waterlogged existence snatched away to the foreigness of what lies outside, and they flounder, suffocated.
Taking a bracing breath, you glance across at Namami. He hasn't said much at all since you've both left the office.
"Do you even like sandwiches?" you query.
He nods slightly.
"Yes. I'm actually quite fond of them."
"Oh. I didn't want you to agree to come along just to be polite."
"I wouldn't have agreed for such a reason. I also felt the need to get out of the office for a bit."
You noted how that was phrased. You'd never mentioned to him that you'd felt for some fresh air.
Within ten minutes, you've arrived at the small cafe, the cosy interior lit with vintage-style lamps and the dark wood tables set with pristine white tablecloths, heavy chairs with cushioned red leather seats pulled back for you by the wait-staff.
You pause suddenly, one hand bracing on the back of the chair. A dizzying sense of déjà vu asserts itself, and you take a moment to find your bearings, your heart rate accelerating slightly.
This was all ... familiar. The table, the type of chair you'd placed your hand upon, the lamps casting their gentle glow from above. This was very similar to what you'd seen in your dream the other night, the dream of the feast.
You look up, mouth opening to formulate some excuse for your hesitation, when you see how Nanami is looking at you. Gone is the distant, detached expression, the hazy attention that passes across and then beyond you. Those eyes of his are now laser focused, the bronze and green of his irises lit from within with a sudden clarity and sharpness that momentarily takes your breath away.
He reaches slowly for your arm and a small line appears between his brows.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Just a little dizzy spell. Recently I've ... not been sleeping well."
He nods and turns that gaze away from you, and you let out a breath you hadn't realised you'd been holding. Your legs feel a little shaky, but now there is something else, something you can't quite put a finger on.
And when your food arrives, you're struck by that same sensation, and you wonder how you'd never noticed how hungry you were at the office. Shouldn't you have taken your lunch break earlier if you were this ravenous?
In spite of the sudden development of your appetite, you eat slowly and appreciatively, taking note of how your current companion relishes his own food. He is enjoying the brie and prosciutto combination, and you catch the vague scent of some kind of pickle, a vinaigrette and some garlic spread on the bread. You don't think your senses have ever been so attuned to food before.
You take the opportunity to watch him discreetly as you both eat in silence. The gleam of his wristwatch is now visible, the cold metal juxtaposed against the faint cloud of blonde hair on his wrist, a halo across his skin as the sunlight coming through the window catches it. He has firm, pale lips that soften at the corners when he savours his food and strong, blunt edged, elegant fingers, long and mobile.
You realise that your plate is now empty. He looks up at you, pausing in chewing momentarily, and you wonder if he can see the rapidly concealed hunger in your glance.
You are no idiot when it comes to matters of the heart. Or loins, as the case may be here. Nanami's demeanor screams of a man who is emotionally unavailable, and so naturally, you feel a burgeoning attraction to him. You can't place your finger on why you have fixated on him. He does his best to blend in with others, but somehow fails miserably to do so in your eyes.
He is very handsome, there is no doubt about that, but this isn't it. Not entirely. There is something about him, a certain hidden vitality that lies just beneath the surface, some secret current that runs through his veins that draws you along like a hapless fish to a lure.
When sitting beside him in the office, you are hyper aware of every move he makes, the rustle of his sleeve against the tabletop, the shift of his shirt across the firm planes of his broad chest, the slight upward nudge his long legs make under the table when he has been seated for extended periods. Sometimes, when he has been moving around a lot, he tucks his tie into his shirt pocket and rolls up his sleeves, the top of his pen tucked into the corner of his mouth when his hands are occupied. You have to remind yourself not to stare.
It is then only a matter of time before Nanami finds his way into your dreams. As vivid as they had been, none of your previous ventures into the subconscious quite compare to this one.
The table has been laid out for you once more, but with one staple addition. Nanami Kento is seated at the other end. He is attired in his pinstripe suit, a white shirt and dark tie beneath, hands folded primly on the tabletop. He appears as usual, except for the eyes. There is something there, in those gleaming depths, flecked with amber in the dim, intimate light, that ignites a terrible, terrible call in your gut.
You have never seen Nanami look at you like this before. The plethora of steaming, succulent dishes forms a bridge of earthly delights, each pearl of glistening condensation a pathway to the answering hunger in his countenance. That lambent gaze rakes over you, even as he adopts a posture of disciplined dignity, lingering on your eyes, your mouth, the base of your throat, the plunge of your neckline, the dip of your hips, all along their outer curve, until he focuses on the shifting shadows between your thighs. Something at the corners of his eyes tightens, his regard snapping up to you once more, gauging your response.
Your breathing has accelerated, your palms damp with sweat. You take a few steps forward, approaching the table. In the hazy dreamscape, there is no need for speech. It is as if your consciousness is connected to his through some form of commonality of desire.
You drag the chair out from where it stands, stepping in front of it, but you do not sit down. You reach up, now transfixed by the man across from you, like the hapless prey of a swaying cobra, and pull down the straps of your chemise, letting it fall to the gathering point of your waist. Your breasts, nipples pebbled and at attention, stand proud as you face him, watching his eyes drop down to them, something uncoiling in their depths.
He remains motionless, the picture of restraint as your fingers gather at the fine material bunched around you and slowly draw it down your hips, thighs, knees, ankles. Once it lies puddled on the floor, you step out of it and send it flying away from you with a sharp motion of your foot. All that is left is your underwear, and this receives similar treatment, tugged with gentle deliberation down to your feet and shuffled away.
You stand before him, fully nude, and note that he has not partaken of any of the food laid out in front of him. He is completely, utterly, fixated on you, knuckles now as white as the tablecloth, Adam's apple bobbing, a shimmer of moisture visible on his brow.
You smile and place one hand delicately on the table, reaching across for a tray of the richest looking sliced mangoes you've ever seen. One bite releases a flood of the sweetest juice imaginable, and you quickly reach for more, licking the fingers of your hand and your palm clean as Nanami, out of the corner of your eye, shifts around in his seat. You catch the hand that drifts upwards to loosen his tie, and you imagine the silky material sliding down, away from the firm lines of his throat and jaw.
Choosing to eat with only one hand, you pause, scanning the table. Your appetite is increasing, as always, but this time, you're more selective. There is a platter of grapes and cheese closer to your end, and you pluck a handful of the ripe, large, heavy-hanging fruit from the bunch, each the colour of a newly-formed bruise.
You place some in your mouth, slowly backing towards the chair, seating yourself in it. Raisimg your knees, you place your heels on the soft, red leather, spreading outwards until Nanami has a clear view across the table, of a different kind of feast laid out for him.
Something in his demeanor snaps, then. He utters a low, smoky groan that you can hear from where you sit, and stands abruptly, taking you in. The desire he has been subtly showing is now on full display, in the narrowing of those earnest eyes, the deepening of the shadows around them, the way his chest rises and falls beneath the thin white shirt, the jacket long discarded.
As you reach down with your free hand, sliding down, between your breasts, across the softness of your abdomen, down between your thighs, you whimper at the increasing sensitivity of your own body. Your folds, once your fingers reach them, are a slick mess, and you moan loudly, eyelids fluttering as your hips press upwards from the plushness of the leather.
Nanami utters a small grunt, and you glance over at him again from beneath your lashes. Now there is, by far, the most delicious sight at this table. His tie has been thrown across his shoulder, the first few buttons of his shirt undone, giving a tantalizing view of a firm expanse of tawny skin, the darker stands of hair forming an upward divergence between his clearly defined pectorals. Sleeves rolled up, the flex and shift of planes of muscle and tendon in his powerful forearms are visible as he slowly undoes the button and zipper of his trousers, hand sliding within to free his straining length. Soft sounds of effort escape his throat as his palm finds purchase, gripping the base of his cock, unmoving as he waits in anticipation for your next move.
The greatest delicacy, of course, was the expression he wore. Nanami was a reserved man, some unspoken barrier between himself and the rest of the world. The Nanami of your dream, however, opened himself to you, a tremor in his frame of barely reigned control , soft, panting breaths escaping slightly parted lips, the soft blonde hair in damp disarray on his brow. The severe lines of his cheek and jaw had mellowed from sheer, wanton bliss, the fierceness of his desire tracing paths of heat across your body where his gaze fell.
Holding the grapes like pearls between your teeth, you began to move your fingers, tightly controlled motions rocking you slightly back and forth as you gasp and throw back your head.
In some other place and time, you would never act this bold, this unrestrained, but this dream is yours, and you will be whoever and whatever you want to be here. Nanami's deep groans and pants, the slick sound of your fingers as they circle, stroke and tease you to each tiny peak of pleasure, combine to form a symphony that fills and stretches you breaking point.
Some shining point of equilibrium has been reached, some fine, quivering, golden thread that winds amongst the steaming feast between you both, binding your pleasure completely to his. Your hunger is being beaten back, the glorious taste of power under your tongue, dissolving like a thousand crystalline points of exquisite heat that flood your bloodstream all at once.
The heady influx of pure, undiluted beauty fills your eyes until they overflow, an outpouring of all the emptiness and desolation you've ever felt, every space left by dead dreams filled to the brim by him, him, him, and ...
A choked cry escapes you, feet giving way under the powerful spasms that jerk your body convulsively, and you force your eyes open. You have to see this, have to take it all in if you want the hunger to go away. Nanami is gripping the table, legs spread, feet planted firmly as his fist works with deliberate, measured strokes along his weeping, flushed cock. The tendons of his neck stand out, sweat trickling down his temple, the firm line of his mouth now open, harsh breaths breaking past his teeth.
Your climax strikes like an electric storm, teeth finally clamping down fully on the sweet fruit between them, their juice running dark down your chin. A muffled keening escapes your slightly open lips, one that sounds almost alien in its complete abandon. Your legs give way, feet striking the floor as your back arches right off the chair, a perfect hyperbola suspended, quivering, for a few moments.
Your cries die down to soft gasps, throat relaxing as you shakily swallow the crushed remnants of the grapes, and Nanami lets out an explosive groan, glistening, pearly fluid splattering over the tablecloth before him; an offering on the altar of your satiation.
You sit up, body taut and still tender. You want to reach for him, to trace the softened edges of those harsh lines, to possess what you know isn't yours and he -
dissipates to the sight of your bedroom ceiling, the shift of light across it from a vehicle moving past on the street outside. Your body is an inferno of heat and sweat beneath the soaked sheets, the slickness between your thighs a testament to sexual release that had been as real to you as the hunger that had now completely vanished.
You thought that you might feel shame, that your spirit would retreat into itself as it always did, once you faced him in the office again. Your reflection in the bathroom mirror wouldn't allow any of that, though. You frowned as you brushed across the healthy flush in your cheeks, the new, bright dewiness of your eyes, the vitality that seemed to infect your expressions, the mobile readiness of your mouth to curve into a rare smile.
Who was this person? What was happening to you?
It wasn't a question asked in fear. You could appreciate this new you, this appetite for more. Surely it was time? Maybe your body was simply metamorphosizing, ready to break into the mold of the new, a physical rebellion against the oppressive regime of work, home, work, sleep, work, eat that had emptied you out like a water tank in a drought.
Maybe Nanami had been the trigger. It was highly possible. You knew that your current preoccupation with him was sexual, and in a very strong sense, stronger than any you'd felt before. It had begun to startle you sometimes, when you visited the bathroom after having been seated next to him, finding that your arousal had dampened your underwear to the extent that you need to freshen up before heading back to the office.
You'd never had this kind of physical response to anyone before, and even your burgeoning sexuality as a teenager and young woman could never match the intensity of what you felt at present. And now, there was this dream to contend with.
It was as if there was a bottomless pit, extending all the way from your throat down to your loins, a single track of fathomless darkness, filled with unknown stars, that reached from the gateway of your teeth down, down, into the icy heat of infinity.
Hey Wolfmoon(Werewolf!All Might/Toshinori Yagi x Fem!Reader)
warnings: smut, AU where Toshinori is also a werewolf along with being a hero, colleagues to lovers, age gap, size kink, werewolves, biting, oral sex(fem receiving), mentions of blood, mentions of body pain, transformations, stalker/yandere behavior, dub con, dark themes, bodily fluids
word count: 2.7k
pairings: Werewolf!All Might/Toshinori Yagi x Fem!Reader/eventual Werewolf!Fem!Reader
a/n: for @tsukimefuku's Spookinky event! Also Toshinori's look in this fic is very VERY heavily inspired by @mightytato's drawing of him here! dividers by the lovely @adornedwithlight
He knows he’s not like the others. He’s known that his entire life. But most of the time, Toshinori doesn’t have to hide it from many. In the world where quirks are the norm, why would Lycanthropy be any weirder? It certainly helped to boost his use of One For All as well.
So what if he gets hairier near the full moon? Who cares if his teeth are a little more sharp than most? And his glowing eyes never bothered anyone.
That is, until he met you…
Oh you were so sweet. Such an innocent person. Always one to be so kind to everyone. You made butterflies erupt in his tummy every time you talked to him. The only problem was he had to fight the urge to bite you and tear you to pieces whenever he thought about you a little more lewdly than normal.
So for the first time in his life, Toshinori began to hide his wolfish desires from someone. He hid them from you, in fear that you’d outright reject him.
You joined the UA teaching crew not long after him. You, with your quirk that calms down people, were too sweet to see this side of him. You knew about his true form, and you still accepted him. You were beginning to flirt with him as well. It worried him in a way because the more you flirted with him, the more he wanted to take you home and make you his.
This is when he begins to distance himself from you.
It doesn’t take long for you to notice. You wonder if there’s anything you’ve done wrong. You ask all your colleagues, and instead of giving you a concrete answer, they all seem to be sharing the same secret from you. You were beginning to wonder if maybe you had made a mistake and that everyone was making you pay for it.
A few weeks go by, and Toshinori returns to being your friend. It was almost as if nothing had happened. So you just let it slide; yourself being lonely and wanting to find someone to confide in.
But the closer it gets to the next full moon, he’s once again distancing himself. And he’s getting the colleagues to lie to you again. This time you’d get to the bottom of whatever was happening.
It started with seeing him in the hallways. You notice how he seemed to have more stamina around this time of the month. He’d often be in his muscular form, even if he usually didn’t keep it up to save on energy. You noticed that he looked almost taller, if that was even possible.
Then you started noticing other little things. Despite him avoiding you like the plague right now, you still worked together in the same building. So catching a glimpse of him wasn’t uncommon. And the more you looked at him, the more you noticed even more things that seemed to align with a little theory you were forming in your mind.
Surely someone would call you insane if you told them you thought that Toshinori was afflicted with Lycanthropy. But everything was adding up just a little too much to be a coincidence. So you were wondering how you could find out for sure. You were beginning to think you’d need to set up a trap.
What you didn’t realize was that Toshinori was already at his limit of how long he was going to be able to stay away from you.
It was the night of the full moon now. You were lying awake in your bedroom, looking at different articles and forums on your phone for some sort of idea on how to attract the man to you. How would you be able to get him here or even close to you to prove your little theory?
Unbeknownst to you, the man was stalking you. Your scent had grown unbelievably delicious to him. It was making it almost impossible for him to even concentrate. Seeing you in the hallways had been even too much. The way you made his skin crawl with pure lust just by existing near him, it would certainly push him into an early grave.
Tonight, as he begins to feel the first little signs of his transformation, Toshinori knows he won’t be able to stay away from you. He knows where you live from the file he found on you in the school office. He knows exactly where you are right now. And he’s practically vibrating with pleasure just thinking about breaking into your home and claiming you.
He finds your home with ease. You’re still awake; yes, he can sense that. You smell delicious, even more so now that he’s close to you. Toshinori lets out a soft howl of excitement, trying not to let himself be found just yet. Even just being this close to you has him salivating.
You aren’t paying too much attention to anything besides your research. Scattered on your bed are old books from the library on local legends and legends from Europe and North America. Through the different pages on cryptids such as the Wendigo, the Skinwalker, Mothman, the Banshee and many others, you found much information on Lycanthropes.
But now you were scrolling through a video social media app. There were hundreds of videos of people saying that they had seen a werewolf before. Stories of their colleagues and friends and neighbors turning into ferocious beasts on the full moon. You were starting to piece it all together as well.
A noise from outside breaks your concentration. You begin to shiver at the thought of what happens if Toshinori is what you think he is. Suddenly you don’t feel as safe as you did moments ago. Being so wrapped up and enthralled in your research, you weren’t too scared. Now even just the thought of seeing him in that form was terrifying.
You stay on your bed, trying to remind yourself that your mind would be playing tricks on you. Then you scroll through a few more videos, trying to get back to the subject at hand. You jump when you hear the front door bursting open. You suddenly feel very terrified.
A loud howl is heard from the entryway. Your blood runs cold when you hear that noise. You try to think of the best place to hide now, but you are trapped in your room. The door isn’t even closed. You had been so confident and comfortable, you didn’t think your own research would come to fruition.
You hear loud footsteps coming down the hall. Toshinori smirks as he makes his way to your bedroom. His tail is wagging with every step closer to you. You were so close! He’d be able to be near you and finally claim you. This is what he’s been dreaming of since he first met you, after all.
Suddenly, you hear him just outside your bedroom. He presses himself up against the wall, peeking from the doorway. His glowing eyes are enchanting in a way, and you’d want to stare into them if you weren’t already petrified with fear. You try to scream but your whole body is locked in fear.
“There you are, little mate!” He growls loudly.
You’re stunned. All your theories were right. Here was Toshinori in all his werewolf glory. His fangs looked so sharp, just as much as his claws looked like they were ready to shred anything. You notice the way he looked harrier. The tail was wagging behind him as he let out another howl.
Then without warning, he pounces on the bed. The frame creaks under both of you, almost threatening to break from the obscene amount of weight now on it. You look up to see the wolfish grin on Toshinori’s face. He then leans in to lick your face, shuddering at the way you taste.
“Been tryin’ to keep myself away from you,” he slurs. “Can’t do it anymore. Need you so badly.”
As if to prove his point even further, he pushes his crotch against you to make you feel just how hard he is. You let out such a cute little moan, it makes his cock throb. How was he going to be able to go easy on you? His head was already swimming with pure lust.
“Please please please…don’t make such sounds like that unless you want me to fuck you.”
Your breath hitches in your throat at his lewd words. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t completely in love with the man. But to be intimate while he’s transformed like this, you worried if you’d even be able to handle it without getting incredibly hurt. Though, judging by the way he keeps pushing his erection against you, you weren’t sure if you could even run from him.
“I wanna be gentle, sweetness. I really, really do.” He growls. “But you’re makin’ it so damn hard.”
You whine as he grips your ankles and pulls your legs apart. You try to keep yourself calm, but with the way he slots himself between your legs and you realize he’s just that big, you realize all logic has been thrown out the window.
He howls when you wrap your arms around him, petting the fur on his back. He’s absolutely loving every moment of this. It’s making him so happy to be able to finally kiss you and hold you in the way he’s been fantasizing about.
“Mine,” he growls as he begins to undress you. He’s becoming much too impatient to even really take the clothes off properly.
With your clothes shredded and your body exposed to him, you feel so vulnerable. Yet when you see the look of pure love in his eyes, you suddenly feel so calm. He tries to caress you, but his hands are so calloused and his claws drag against your soft skin.
He then kisses a trail down your body, stopping only to take greedy inhales of your scent. He’s drooling now as he spreads your legs. Then he leans in to begin devouring you.
You let out such a cute little yelp. As your body begins to shudder under the total onslaught of pleasure, it only drives Toshinori to begin lapping at your cute little cunt even more. Oh how you taste even better than he imagined. You have such a sweet taste with the perfect amount of musk. It’s making his cock leak all over the inside of his underwear. He begins to rut against your mattress, making it creak under his immense weight.
The way you cry out his name as you fall off the edge has him howling again. Your hips cant forward as you begin to grind against his tongue and his nose. Toshinori’s grip on your hips tightens, but he’s good to let you continue to grind until you’ve had your fill of pleasure.
You slump against the bed, looking down at your new lover. He’s looking so proud of himself for bringing you so much pleasure. When he grabs you and folds you into the mating press, you let out a little squeak. Toshinori pushes his pants and underwear down and your eyes widen when you see the size of him.
“I can…I can make it fit. I promise I can make it fit.” He moans as he uses the head of his cock to slide through your sticky folds. “I can make it fit.”
You want to believe him, but when he prods your hole, you swear you’re going to get ripped in half. Slowly, he slides himself in. The more of himself he gets inside you, the more he begins to pant. It’s like you were a fucking vice around his cock.
“B-breathe for me. Breathe cause you are so tight.” Toshinori whimpers in your ear. “Going to make me blow my load way too quickly.”
You manage to take a few deep breaths and relax as best as you can. Eventually, Toshinori gets in all the way. You marvel at the way he’s balls deep inside of you. You feel a slight bulge in your lower tummy. Then there’s this new pressure inside of you. Toshinori lets out a little howl of pleasure as he rests against your chest.
“Fuuuckkk,” he groans. “I fucking knotted.”
The words almost sound foreign to you. You had heard of this happening, but even just thirty minutes ago, you didn’t think werewolves were actually real. You can feel the swollen part of his cock keeping you two locked together. Toshinori can’t help but begin to rut deep inside of you.
“Need to cum!” He pants in your ear. “Lemme cum, please please please!”
You don’t even have it in you to really reply. You begin to nod eagerly, trying to let him know he’s allowed to cum. He’s growling and grunting as he fucks himself deeper inside of you. The bed is creaking under both of you now. You’re worried it’s going to break but it’s the least of your issues now.
Toshinori nuzzles his face in the crook of your neck. Your scent almost seems to be stronger in this area. Without even thinking about it, he bites down and breaks the skin. He’s drawing blood from you.
Your walls are pulsing around him as he bites down. He’s fucking into you faster and harder and with a loud grunt, he falls off the edge. The knot keeps you both connected as he slowly rides out the rest of his high.
When he pulls away, you notice the glow in his eyes has dulled just a bit. He seems a little more docile. This is when you notice the blood on his fangs. His eyes widen and he’s cursing at himself.
“Shit, I’m so sorry!”
You try to make sense of what just happened. Your heart starts racing in your chest as something seems to take hold of you. A low whimper comes from you as you clutch the wound on your neck. It feels hot to the touch. Your blood was boiling.
“I never meant to do this to you.” He finally says, pulling out of you and cradling you in his arms. “I’m so sorry…I love you so much.”
The words are fuzzy as you are going through something you don’t understand. You cry out as extreme pain rushes through every nerve. Then as quickly as it came, it disappeared. Toshinori is holding you, rocking you slowly to calm you. Then you open your eyes and you pull him in for a kiss.
“I love you too.”
EPILOGUE
The moon is full. It’s the first one since your encounter with Toshinori. And now you are about to have your own transformation.
He’s with you at home, keeping you in bed. The bedside table is littered with electrolyte drinks, high protein snacks and sedatives in case you need them. Toshinori knows how volatile he had been during his first transformation, so he was going to be prepared.
Then the moon reaches its peak. You had been in pain this entire week, and while you had done everything Toshinori had informed you, it still wouldn’t soothe the pain that was coming from this.
You yell as you feel your bones shifting in your body. Toshinori keeps his arms around you, knowing he can take anything if you were to lash out or attack him unknowingly. You growl louder as the pain becomes even more intense. Your teeth grow sharper, your nails turn into claws.
“Toshi! Toshi go!” You growl, but he’s shaking his head.
“No, I’m not leaving you.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m here.”
The pain becomes even more unbearable. You cry out when you feel like your body is about to give out. Then slowly, it’s starting to ebb and flow. You cling to your lover, hoping this will give you the comfort you need.
And when you open your eyes again, you notice that everything looks a little different. Your sense of smell is even more keen now. You can smell the musk coming off of Toshinori, and this is what makes you push him onto the bed.
With your new claws, you shred his clothes. Toshinori grins up at you, loving your new outlook on the situation at hand. He pulls you in for a deep kiss, cementing your newfound love and new life.
In this darkness, which you know you cannot fight - Chapter 1
by RedLikeRozez
Summary: Shi Qingxuan has never been one closely acquainted with the sea, especially not after nearly drowning as a child. The locals in Fu Gu may chalk it up to superstition, but she knows the truth—there’s something lurking in the waters off the coast, something horrifying and potentially ancient. It saved her life once, though no one believes her story; not her brother, not his friends, and not even the town’s weathered and wistfully ignorant locals. The only one willing to listen is He Xuan, a brooding, outcast fisherman who grew up in Fu Gu but has never truly belonged. Their partnership, at first a thrilling summer romance, soon morphs into a terrifying alliance when she realizes the creature in the depths may not be the only thing hiding monstrous secrets. As they plunge deeper into the mystery, Shi Qingxuan uncovers a horrifying truth that might finally fully awaken the creature beneath the waves.
Content warnings/tags: Modern AU, Inspired by HP Lovecraft, TransFem!Shi Qingxuan, descriptions of drowning, eldritch horror, cosmic horror, unraveling the mystery beneath the waves, alcoholism, protective!Shi Wudu, sea monsters
Word Count: about 7k words
Author’s Note:
Loosely inspired by the songs “The Music of the Night” and “The Point of No Return” from Phantom of the Opera and also Dredge the fishing horror video game (which is a wild combination lemme tell you that).
SPOOKINKY EVENT 2024!!! @tsukimefuku
Vaultworks 2024 submission (didn't get fully funded rip)
Betaed by the amazing @sandsorghum and the fantastic @parameciam
PART 2, PART 3, PART 4
Chapter 1: Floating, Falling
Shi Qingxuan let out a long, melodramatic sigh full of discontent as she asked her brother one last time, “Why do I have to go with you again?”
“I already told you at least seven times already, Qingxuan. Quit whining and get your things. We’re supposed to be in the air in two hours,” her brother replied coldly.
“I’m not whining, I’m complaining! If you want to hear me whine—”
“No. I don’t want to hear any of your nonsense– whining, complaining, grouching, bitching, moaning, none of it. Get your things and let’s go. I don’t want to be late to the airport because of you. We are not going to miss this flight.”
Shi Wudu was waiting impatiently in the kitchen next to his suitcase and duffle bag. He was leaning on the counter, scrolling on his phone.
“But why did you have to pick somewhere so dreadful?! You know I hate the water, ge! And we’re gonna be surrounded by it!” she complained further, crossing her arms childishly. “So just one more time, tell me why I have to go to that stupid, boring, old town and get on that stupid, boring, old boat everyday with your stupid, boring, dumb friends?”
Well, maybe Ling Wen didn’t really count as stupid, but she was definitely boring.
Shi Wudu didn’t even look up from his phone or acknowledge her in any way.
She continued, “It’s my vacation, too, you know! You’re dragging me along with you to your dream summer trip and said no to mine? Tell me how that’s fair?! I’m just gonna complain the entire time if you make me go. You might even hear me whine! So indulge me, ge.”
She pawed the phone away from his face when he made no moves and he scowled up at her.
“Make it make sense, ‘cuz so far, I’m only seeing more reasons to complain. You really should just let me stay here,” she insisted. “I will make this trip a waking nightmare for you if you make me go.”
Shi Wudu sighed just as dramatically and started massaging his temples with his free hand.
“Like I said the first time, it’s so I can keep an eye on you. For all I know, you’d drink yourself into a coma if I let you stay here or, god forbid, go to the capital alone,” he explained for the nth time. “I don’t trust you enough to go anywhere by yourself.”
“I’m not a child anymore, ge. You don’t have to—”
“Oh, I don’t have to take care of you anymore, do I? News to me!” he interrupted. “If you’re so independent, then why don’t you move out, hand over your credit cards that I pay for every month, and go get a real job?”
She rolled her eyes. Ouch. That one hurt.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he grumbled, going back to staring at his screen. “If you’re still freeloading, you’re still my little sibling and I am still in charge of you. Until you actually make something of your life, we’ll do things my way, since I’m the only responsible adult here. So we’re going on vacation where I want to go and you’re going to have a great time spending some quality time with gege and his friends, alright? You’re gonna be nice and smile and nod and not be a pain in gege’s ass, yes?”
“You’re the worst.”
He slammed his phone down on the thigh of his designer sweatpants.
“Qingxuan, do you think I want to be taking you with me?” he spat back at her petty remark. “Believe me, this isn’t my ideal scenario, either. If you showed me I could actually trust you, maybe I’d let you go where you want, but until then, we’re both stuck with each other for the entire summer. So please. For my sanity, just go get your things and let’s get this flight over with. I already requested our taxi.”
“I’d rather drink myself into a coma than listen to Pei Ming and Xuan Ji make out the entire summer on some stupid boat…” she muttered.
“Ling Wen will be there, so I doubt she’ll tolerate their PDA for very long,” he replied, going back to his phone again. “And Pei Xiu is coming with us, so maybe you can get to know him better. He’s a nice kid. You might hit it off, who knows? Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think.”
Her eyes narrowed dangerously and she could feel a bit of bile rise up in the back of her throat she had to swallow down. “If you’re trying to set me up with Pei Xiu, please know that I’d rather drown again than date anyone remotely related to that absolute scoundrel you call your best friend.”
“Stop being so dramatic, my friends aren’t that bad.”
“Your friends are the worst, ge. You have that in common, it seems.”
He just pointed to her bedroom, not looking up from his smartphone with the flight itinerary pulled up.
“Whatever,” she resigned in defeat, finally giving in and going to grab her suitcase. “Maybe there’ll be a super hot, tall and muscular, sexy lifeguard or a member of the coast guard to save me from drowning instead of a sea monster!”
“You’re not gonna drown. That was so long ago. Get over it,” he sneered. “And there was never any sea monster. How are you still on about that? Grow up.”
She started feigning some strained gurgling sounds, screaming melodramatically, “Save me! Save me!”
As she thrashed wildly in the hallway, she almost knocked over an old family photo on the wall. One of the only ones with all four of them in it before their parents died. She rescued the picture at the last second before it could crash to the hardwood floors, and held it to her chest melodramatically. Shi Wudu only looked up when he heard the collision.
“Hey, watch it. Be careful with that.”
“Oh, thank you so much for saving me, Mr. Sexy Lifeguard. Oh my, did you give me mouth to mouth? That was my first kiss, how could you! Oh no! My bikini top came undone! Oh, Mr. Sexy Lifeguard, we can’t do this here! Someone will see!”
She threw the picture back on the hallway table, not bothering to hang it back up, and started moaning loudly as she walked into her bedroom just to piss off her brother. She pulled up the suitcase handle with a quick pop and dragged it over the hardwood floors as loudly as possible into the kitchen, next to his.
Shi Wudu was trying desperately not to have an aneurysm at her infernal screeching. He tried to ignore her stupid antics and focused instead on reading the terms and conditions of the taxi app he downloaded in his desperation.
Shi Qingxuan gave him an overly fake smile and cried, “You know, maybe I will have some fun, after all!”
“This is going to be a long trip…” Shi Wudu muttered under his breath, head in his hands.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
Get over it, he said, she grumbled to herself whilst leaning against the airplane window, looking out to watch the clouds. Yeah right. You can’t just erase trauma like that in the blink of an eye.
Shi Wudu didn’t know what it was like, almost drowning. He’d always loved swimming since he was a kid, and he was on the swim team in high school. Had a personal best of 29.41 seconds for the 50 meter butterfly and bragged about it nonstop.
How could he know what it was like? It was like he was made to be around the water.
Every summer when their parents were still alive, he’d beg them to take him out on the boat in that same stupid coastal town, despite her harrowing trist on said boat. They hadn’t been back to Fu Gu since the accident. Their parents never gave into Shi Wudu’s demands, and after they died, there wasn’t much point going on family vacations. (Until now, it seemed.)
Shi Qingxuan, however, never shared her older brother’s hydrophilic tendencies. No, she always preferred the company of the sand, shore, shells, and seagulls, as well as that amazing ocean breeze, rather than the murky depths of the fathomless ocean. She shivered just thinking about it.
She’d been afraid of the water even before her accident. Not that her brother seemed to care. He was currently leaning back in his first class seat with a satin eye mask over his face, resting peacefully as she recounted her painful memories.
Shi Qingxuan silently vowed to be eternally pissy and awful the whole summer for sweet vengeance sake.
She hated that town, and rightfully so. But another, maybe more masochistic, part of herself wanted to uncover the truth about what really happened that day she almost drowned. Maybe finally coming back would give her some much needed closure about the whole ordeal and she would be able to move past it. Maybe she could even learn to not hate the ocean, who knows!
There was one thing that wasn’t so horrible about that vacation, though… She’d briefly met a weird boy with the same name as her and his little sister on the beach all those years ago. She could never put on a finger on why they’d made such a strong impression on her, but she found herself thinking about them from time to time.
She wondered if they ever thought about her, too.
Doubt it… she thought, dismissing the crazy notion.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
Fu Gu was a perfectly picturesque little seaside town. In the past, it was a bustling fishing hamlet no one ever bothered to visit, but slowly people started flocking to the town because of the historical lighthouse, pristine beaches, and charming atmosphere. Popular tourist activities included flying kites on the beach, renting sailboats or other vessels, climbing up the stairs of the lighthouse, and sampling the local seafood.
Back during the summer of the accident, their mother and father had rented a bungalow and boat for the summer in the supposedly quaint coastal town of Fu Gu. The Shi family had some business ties with Fu Gu due to the oil pipes running along the ocean floor that lead to a rig many kilometers out past the coastline, so they got a good deal on the trip.
Little A-Xuan had kicked and screamed the whole way, not wanting to go, despite gege’s and her parents insisting they would all have a great time by the ocean. She was incredibly insistent, though. Wailing and crying all the way to the docks, little A-Xuan vehemently refused to get on the boat that first day. Her mother ended up having to stay on the shore while her husband and son got to enjoy the boat for the first time.
Even on the beach, A-Xuan was causing quite the commotion. Her terribly embarrassed mother was trying to dip her little toes into the incredibly safe shallows to show her that it wouldn’t hurt, but A-Xuan just kept screaming bloody murder every time the foamy tide came running up towards her.
It was only until some little boy about her age ran over and invited her to play in the sand that she stopped her tantrum. The little boy led her over to his little sister who was dutifully helping her big bro build an elaborate sandcastle.
Finally able to relax, her mother sprawled out in a lounge chair under a big umbrella a little ways away with some alcoholic drink that wasn’t nearly strong enough for her ruined outing. She watched the three kids play while she waited for her husband and son to come back from the probably much more invigorating boating trip along the coast.
“The water isn’t scary,” the little boy said late into the construction of their joint sandcastle, taking a big scoop of sand into a colorful plastic pale. “It’s nice.”
“It’s scary,” A-Xuan insisted, a deep frown on her face. She had found several little cowrie shells along the beach and was sticking them into the outer walls of their compound.
“No, it’s not,” he said with a severe brow for someone so young.
“Yes, it is!” She put her hands on her hips to punctuate her sentence.
He gazed out to the horizon, his gaze softening instantly. “The ocean will be nice to you if you’re nice to it, right meimei?”
“Mn!” the little toddler sounded, nodding vigorously.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” A-Xuan pouted. “The ocean isn’t a person. It doesn’t have feelings.”
“If you keep saying that, it’ll get mad at you,” he warned, furrowing his brows with an intense golden gaze.
“That’s silly.”
“I’m serious,” he insisted, pouring out the pale to make a new section of the increasingly elaborate sandcastle. “Can you swim?” he asked, changing topics.
“No! And I don’t want to know!”
“No wonder it’s scary. Even meimei can swim. And she’s three.”
“Can Daiyu-er go swimming with gege?” she asked, tugging on the side of his swim shirt.
He shook his head. “Not right now. We have to finish the fortress together.”
“No, it’s scary because it’s scary. Not because I can’t swim. I don’t want to swim because it's scary,” A-Xuan continued.
“That doesn’t make sense,” he countered. “Scary things are scary because they make you afraid, not because they’re scary. Scary things are different from person to person.”
“Nuh-uh! Everyone’s scared of sharks. Sharks are scary.”
“I’m not afraid of sharks. They’re cool.”
“Cool?! They eat people!”
“They don’t want to hurt people. They mistake the people for food and then the humans make movies about sharks and start killing them ‘cuz they’re afraid. It’s not fair to the sharks. They just made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes.”
The two stared at each other for a long moment before A-Xuan finally deduced, “You’re weird.”
“You’re weird,” he retorted back immediately.
“Gege’s weird!” Daiyu-er echoed happily.
The boy was about to argue with his little sister before A-Xuan stood up and dusted the sand off her legs.
“I’m gonna go get some more shells,” she said. “Does your sister wanna come with me?”
“No, we’ll keep working on the foundations of the fortress.”
“Oh yeah, her name is Daiyu-er, right? So what’s your name, weirdo? I’m–”
“A-Xuan!” called out her mother from under the shady umbrella.
Both older kids’ attention snapped over to see who was calling their name. Daiyu-er kept slapping her chubby little fingers against the sides of the outer walls, making sure they wouldn’t fall.
“YES?” they called out in unison.
Bright emerald green eyes locked onto stern golden brown ones.
“I’m A-Xuan,” they both said at the same time.
“Wait, what? No, you’re not. I’m A-Xuan,” A-Xuan insisted, pointing to herself. She was in a cute little green and white sailor outfit with her chestnut colored hair in tiny, curly pigtails.
“No, I’m A-Xuan,” the second A-Xuan said, in black swim trunks with a big shark mouth on one leg and a matching swim shirt. His inky black hair gently jostled about in the ocean breeze. He hadn’t gone back in the ocean for a while, but he was still dripping wet. Daiyu-er, too.
“A-Xuan?” her mother called out again.
“COMING!” they both yelled.
“Hey! Stop! That’s my name! You’re copying me!” she demanded, pushing him in the arm.
“No, it’s my name. Stop it!”
They started batting at each other like cats until A-Xuan’s mom finally came over to break them up. Daiyu-er was clapping happily, in a fit of giggles over their bickering.
“A-Xuan, stop that!” she called, horrified her child was hitting another kid.
“He started it!” “She started it!” they called out in unison, pointing accusatory fingers at the other.
“Mama, he says his name is A-Xuan, but that’s my name! Make him stop!”
“My name is A-Xuan! He Xuan!”
“A-Xuan gege!” Daiyu-er confirmed, pointing at her brother. “And A-Xuan jiejie!” She pointed to the other A-Xuan.
Her mom started laughing and said, “Oh, I see. There are two A-Xuan! Qingxuan, isn’t that something?”
“Two A-Xuan?” she asked, looking wildly affronted by the boy who dared to share her name. Thick tears started welling up in her eyes and she began absolutely wailing, screaming how she wanted to be the only A-Xuan.
“Fine, then I’ll be Xuan-er,” the boy finally huffed. “Xuan-er and Daiyu-er.”
“No, you don’t have to—” her mother tried to interject.
“Okay,” A-Xuan sniffed, instantly shutting off the tears. “A-Xuan and Xuan-er.”
“Xuan-er gege!” Daiyu-er accepted easily.
Her mother slapped a hand to her slightly red forehead. What am I gonna do with this stubborn, spoiled child? She should be an actress at this rate…
(She was so stubborn, in fact, that one day a couple of years before this vacation-turned-nightmare, A-Xuan had insisted that she was a little girl instead of a boy and there was nothing any of her family could do except just accept that A-Xuan was their daughter now.
They took her to a pediatrician and a child behavioral therapist, both of which couldn’t find anything clinically wrong, other than gender dysphoria. When she got older, they’d have to make some tough decisions, but before puberty, the best prescription was really just going along with it. Her family thought it wouldn’t be too long before she got bored of being a girl, but it had been nearly two years at this point and she showed zero signs of stopping anytime soon.)
“Anyways, A-Xuan, Baba and Gege are back from the boat! Let’s go meet them on the docks.”
Little A-Xuan looked back at the boy and said, “We didn’t finish the palace. Mama, can I come back to play with Xuan-er and Daiyu-er again tomorrow?”
“We’ll be here tomorrow if you wanna keep building the Nether Water Manor,” confirmed Xuan-er with a slight smirk.
“That’s not its name! It’s called the Palace of Wind and Water, not the stupid ‘Nether Water Manor’!”
Her mother cut in before her daughter could start another fight with the boy. “We promised your brother we’d try going back on the boat tomorrow, remember?” (A-Xuan definitely never made any such promises.)
She looked her mother dead in the eyes and stated plainly, “I'm not getting on that boat, Mama. I’ll scream the whole time if you make me. The ocean is mean and scary and there are sharks. I wanna finish building the sandcastle with Xuan-er.”
After a long moment, her mother just sighed and said, “I’ll think about it. We came all this way to enjoy the ocean, A-Xuan. Mama wants to be with Baba and Gege on the boat. Don’t you wanna be with Gege and have fun together?”
She shook her head violently back and forth and crossed her arms, puffing her cheeks out a bit. Xuan-er started snickering lightly at her. She stuck her tongue out at him.
“Maybe you’ll change your mind when you hear how fun it was,” her mother said, hoping and praying for her stubborn child to change her mind, knowing deep down that it was useless.
“Bye bye! I’ll see ya tomorrow, Xuan-er! See you Daiyu-er!”
“See you tomorrow.”
“Bye bye, A-Xuan jiejie!” Daiyu-er called back, waving excitedly.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
A-Xuan never showed up to build sandcastles the next day.
“YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!” she shrieked, flailing and struggling out of her father’s strong grip. “I WON’T GO! YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!”
“If you keep struggling and I drop you, you could fall in,” Baba said, the picture of calm, as he tried to wrangle her onto the anchored boat, still docked at the pier.
She gulped audibly, eyes going wide and she instantly went rigid like a piece of driftwood in his arms. Tears started welling up in her eyes as Baba set her down on the seating area of the speedboat.
“See, it’s not so scary!” Shi Wudu said, rushing to her side.
Except, it was very scary. She stared out into the endless horizon and all she could see was blue. Horrifying, dreadful, unknown ocean, as far as her eyes could see. She wanted to dash off the boat, run as far away as her legs could take her, and go back to the safety of the beach. Xuan-er and Daiyu-er were waiting for her to finish the sandcastle! But she was too terrified to even move from the bench. Her fingers turned into claws as she tried to ground herself deeper into the plastic-feeling leather upholstery.
“I wanna go back!” she cried, bursting into sobs.
Mama appeared at her side, holding two life jackets. She passed one over to Shi Wudu.
“Do I have to, Mama? I’m really good at swimming,” he protested.
“Yes, put it on,” she replied. “Just in case.”
Shi Wudu who buckled it around his torso reluctantly. He gave A-Xuan a quick but comforting pat on the shoulder and went to ask Baba if he needed any help with the boat.
A-Xuan kept crying and trying to fight Mama who was only trying to buckle the life jacket around her torso.
“I wanna go back! I wanna get off! I don’t wanna go on the boat!” she wailed, trying to swat Mama’s arms away.
“Do you want to fall in and drown?” Mama asked, already getting frustrated. A-Xuan stopped fighting her for a moment as that thought consumed her mind. She fervently shook her head. “Then let me put this on you.”
Mama huffed and sat down next to her once it was secured. A-Xuan clung to her mother’s arms, digging her tiny fingernails into her arm and continued weeping.
“It’s going to be fun! Look how Gege’s not afraid, yeah? Baba’s not afraid and neither am I,” she tried to soothe. “If there was really something scary out there, we would be scared, but we’re not. So it’s going to be fine!”
Mama made a fair point. Shi Wudu and Baba weren't scared of anything, but Mama was a scaredy cat like her. If everyone wasn’t scared, maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad…?
Except, right as she had that thought, Baba started up the engine of the boat. With a wicked lurch, they started a rather bumpy journey taxiing out into the open ocean.
A-Xuan practically jumped into Mama’s arms and hid her face into her armpit, screaming bloody murder from the sudden change in speed.
“I wanna go back! I don’t wanna go! Don’t take me out there!” Her sobs were muffled from the motor and by shouting directly into Mama’s arm.
“It’ll be alright, A-Xuan,” Mama said, tracing smooth circles on her arm since the life jacket covered up most of her back. “Come on, it’ll be okay. It’s really not so scary, I promise. The ocean is really pretty today. It’s nice and calm. The weather’s nice. We’re gonna have a lot of fun, yeah?”
“NO! I WANNA GO BACK! TAKE ME BACK!” She lifted her head and screamed directly into Mama’s face, her terror mingling with rage when they made no motions to turn around and take her back to shore.
And from such a wild motion of her head, combined with the jostling of the boat from the ocean waves, a wave of nausea picked up in her throat. It just made her cry even harder, scream even louder.
Mama was about to lose it. “A-Xuan! Stop screaming!”
“NO!”
Mama eventually pushed her out of her lap if she was just going to keep yelling directly into her ears.
“Mama, wait! No! Don’t go! I—” she tried to say, but Mama wasn’t listening. Her pleas died in her throat as another lurch of the boat made her screech in terror.
With Mama as her anchor gone, this left poor A-Xuan clinging desperately to the bench below her for purchase with every toss and turn of the boat in the waves.
“Wudu, tell your sister to stop screaming,” Mama ordered her older, more sensible son. A-Xuan actually listened to him. Maybe he could calm her down. Or else, this was going to be a very long day.
Shi Wudu sighed and did his best to try and comfort her, but at this point, A-Xuan was so angry and so thoroughly upset and helpless to do anything, that she was content to just keep wailing and screaming at the top of her lungs.
Her family thought that if A-Xuan had been set loose in the Monster’s Inc. universe, she would’ve supplied enough scream power to last for decades. Centuries even.
Mama resorted to drinking, as she usually did, just to cope with the noise. Baba felt sorry for A-Xuan and wanted to go comfort her, but he was the only one who knew how to drive the boat. Shi Wudu was trying to avoid his little sister because he was also growing irritated from her astronomical tantrum. Thank god, it was a fairly sizable speed boat, comfortable for the family to spread out in while her father raced around, chasing the waves at the insistence of Shi Wudu who wanted to feel the boat jostle and shake, much to A-Xuan’s absolute horror.
“Baba…” she cried out (softer this time), holding her hands out for him. “I wanna go back. Can we go back now?” She sniffled and whimpered her big, teary, emerald eyes at him.
Fuck, her puppy dog eyes were really good. A lethal weapon. Baba stopped the boat for a moment and went to go grab her. He pulled her into his lap in the cabin with the steering wheel.
“We can’t go back yet, but if you’re really scared, you can stay here with Baba, okay?” he compromised. “I’ll keep you safe. It’s better here than outside, anyway.”
She bristled in his arms, not fully satisfied with this arrangement since they were still out on the ocean, but she eventually conceded. She was already exhausted from crying so much. Her face and throat ached. She curled up into his chest and wept silently for a while. Baba helped her unbuckle her life jacket so she could snuggle up closer and discarded it on the floor of the cabin.
A-Xuan yelped and cried out whenever a particularly big wave or hard turn jostled her a little more than expected, but she found it really wasn’t so bad in Baba’s lap. She didn’t have to see the outside and she couldn’t get flung off in here.
“Baba, my tummy feels weird,” she croaked out. “I don’t like it out here. Can we go back? Please?”
He gave her one of the nasty tasting anti-nausea and sea sickness tablets Mama had stocked up on, but made no mention of turning the boat around.
That was the final straw.
She wasn’t getting what she wanted, her stomach felt awful, they weren’t taking her back, and the pill tasted like ash as it dissolved on her tongue.
“I wanna go back!” she screamed, hitting Baba's chest with her fists. It didn’t really have any strength behind it. “Take me back! I hate it here! I hate you for taking me out here!”
“If you’re gonna scream and hit me, I’m gonna have to kick you out, Princess,” Baba explained patiently. “I gotta keep driving the boat safely. I can’t do that with you hitting me.”
She screamed again and started flailing her limbs in his lap, even more enraged he wasn’t giving into her demands.
Mama had to come in and help wrangle her out of the cabin, kicking and screaming while Baba continued driving the boat. A-Xuan didn’t stop screaming for about two hours after that. Literal. Nonstop. Constant. Screaming. Her mother was already way past a tolerable amount of drunk just to cope. Shi Wudu was hanging onto the front railing of the boat with his bright orange life jacket tied loosely around his torso while Baba weaved and sped around trying to catch the biggest waves. They all tried to collectively ignore her, but wow, was she making it impossible.
“Stop that!” she demanded. “It’s too scary! I’ll fly out! Stop it and take me back! Right now!”
“Do it again, Baba!” Shi Wudu encouraged.
“NO!”
She hated seeing them ignore her and continue to have fun on the objectively horrible boating experience. It only encouraged her to scream and cry more.
With copious amounts of alcohol loosening her tongue, Mama finally lost her tempter.
“A-Xuan, shut up! Just shut up! Please, for the love of GOD, SHUT UP! Cry all you want as long as you do it quietly, I don’t care!” her Mama yelled, absolutely over it. “We’re not going anywhere! We’re staying here on the boat and you’re going to deal with it! We’re supposed to be having fun and you’re ruining it! This tantrum is not going to give you your way!”
In response, she just continued to scream and cry even louder and more desperate than before. But now instead of just her face and her throat, her little heart ached. Mama was always really mean when she drank.
Mama made her own loud, frustrated noise and stormed over to the cabin. She was already starting to feel sick from having a few too many drinks, and the rough ride coupled with her growing migraine from A-Xuan wasn’t exactly helping. She got up momentarily to go pop an extra anti-nausea and sea sickness pill in the interior cabin.
After a particularly nasty turn that only fed Shi Wudu’s adrenaline rush and left a huge spray of sea water in his face, he whipped his head around and started jumping up and down, begging his father to do it again.
It was only then that the screaming finally stopped.
Mama felt like it was music to her ears. She hoped that FINALLY A-Xuan and tired herself out and quit her infernal fussing.
She came tumbling out of the cabin interior, looking pale, “Do NOT do that again!”
“Come on, Mama! Just one more, please!”
“No, you’re gonna terrify your sister even more than she already is,” she said, not caring to mention that she was definitely going to hurl for sure if they kept this up.
“No, she loved it, didn’t you, meimei?” Shi Wudu called out to the back of the boat.
There was no response.
“Meimei, you loved it, right?” he asked again.
More blissful silence.
When no one replied, three heads immediately turned to look at the back of the boat. Much to everyone’s immediate horror, there was no little A-Xuan sitting on the bench.
“A-Xuan!” her mother called out, suddenly very sober. “A-Xuan?!”
She ran into the cabin again, but A-Xuan was not there, only a discarded, orange life jacket. Six frantic eyes searched the horizon, searching for any sign of the little girl.
“There! Baba, she’s over there! She’s in the water! She fell in!” Shi Wudu called out, hand pointing out in the exact opposite direction the boat was currently speeding in. A tiny flailing figure was struggling in the water.
“Oh my god,” Mama said, putting a horrified hand over her mouth. “Turn around right now, turn around! She can’t swim! Oh my god!”
“I am!” Baba insisted, already spinning the wheel in a 180.
Mama ran over to the edge of the boat and gripped the tiny orange life jacket like it was her anchor as her eyes stayed locked on the form of her daughter splashing helplessly in the ocean. This was exactly why she was so scared to get on the boat in the first place!
“Did she jump? Did she fall off? I didn’t see what happened!” Mama asked frantically. “Oh my god…”
“I don’t know, Mama,” Shi Wudu admitted.
“Why weren’t you looking after her?!” she spat at her eldest son, despite the fact that it was definitely not his responsibility to do that. “You should always be looking after her! That’s your job as her older brother!”
Shi Wudu’s eyes widened and he swallowed uncomfortably. “I’m sorry—”
“It’s not his fault,” Baba piped up, racing the boat over to where they’d seen A-Xuan as quickly as possible. “I’m the one that let her take off the life jacket…”
Poor little A-Xuan, who was still screaming her head off several dozen meters away, had gotten flung off the boat before she could realize what had happened. She tried her darndest to keep her head above the water, but the water felt like it was trying to swallow her whole. She couldn’t seem to kick hard enough and her arms were too busy flailing around to help keep her afloat. She immediately regretted unbuckling the life jacket her mother had tried to put on her torso.
She kept kicking and kicking and screaming and screaming as she watched her family’s boat get further and further away. Hot, panicked tears raced down her cheeks as she watched her only lifeline speed away.
Mama doesn’t wanna come back for me! was her first terrible thought. They hate me, they want me to drown! They took me out here to get rid of me!
It was too much work, all the screaming and splashing and kicking. The dark waters around her seem to grow rougher as waves began relentlessly pounding against her face, spilling salt water into her lungs. Every time she opened her mouth to gurgle and spit it out, another wave was there to flood her scratchy throat and aching lungs with more water.
It hurts! It burns! Everything hurts! I can’t keep… I don’t wanna…
She tried to redouble her efforts to keep her head above the water, but her entire body felt like it was on fire from her valiant struggle. She just couldn’t figure out a harmonious rhythm to keep in time with the waltz of waves slowly trying to overtake her.
One last hoarse scream ripped from her raw lungs as a particularly tall and powerful wave finally bullied her underneath the surface.
“Where did she go?” Mama searched frantically, running all over the boat, trying to see any shapes under the water. “She was around here somewhere! A-Xuan! A-Xuan!! Oh my god, I can’t see her! She’s wearing a green swimsuit! I can’t see her! Oh my god! A-Xuan!”
“I can go look for her, Mama!” Shi Wudu offered, already moving to jump off the edge of the boat.
Luckily Baba caught him by the scruff of his life jacket before he had the chance to do anything so foolish.
“No, stay here in case you see her,” he ordered, throwing his shirt on the deck. “I’ll find her.”
Mama caught hold of Shi Wudu, who was already going back to the edge of the boat to jump in after Baba, and hugged him tightly as they watched in bone-chilling suspense.
Baba didn’t resurface for a while, but when he did, he was empty handed. He immediately went back down after taking a gulp of fresh air to try and search a different direction.
The seconds of waiting turned into agonizing minutes. Still he couldn’t see her.
I have to find her. I have to find her. Where did she go? This is all my fault!
Mama was holding back sobs and Shi Wudu was practically vibrating in her arms, wanting to break free for the chance to search for his sister.
Flailing more than ever now that she was underwater, trying desperately to breach the surface again, A-Xuan undulated and squirmed all over and eventually lost her bearings. She couldn’t tell which way was the surface in her confusion. Her little lungs couldn’t hold much air to begin with, and with so much physical movement going into hopelessly trying not to drown, she had exhausted herself before a minute even passed.
I… I don’t want to die!
A-Xuan choked and sputtered, inhaling a huge mouthful of saltwater as her vision started darkening underneath the waves, trying desperately to scream for help. Water flooded her mouth and lungs, burning and choking her already shot throat and burning lungs. She looked up at the last rays of sunlight peeking through the waves as tears filled her eyes and washed away into the ocean current. Her body felt like the heaviest lead as she slowly sunk deeper and deeper into the darkness. Her ears felt like they were going to explode from the pressure.
Please… Someone! Baba, please! she begged, praying to anything. I don’t want to die!
She thought about how she had been so excited to go back to school after summer break and brag to classmates about where her family went for vacation.
I still want to be a fashion designer…! I can’t… this can’t be it! Please, someone!
Mama was only just now teaching her how to hand sew bigger things. She had already sewn some buttons on her clothes all by herself. When she was older, Mama promised to teach her how to use the sewing machine. She scrawled into her sketchbook different designs for skirts and dresses and cute ruffled shirts she wanted to make.
A soundless scream bubbled out of her throat when she thought about her family. She still needed to make Shi Wudu proud of her. She wanted to impress him with her accomplishments so he could tell her that she did a good job. He was already so good at everything. She wanted to be just like him.
She wanted to snuggle into Baba’s chest one last time and hear him read a story to her at night even though she was way too old for bedtime stories. She wanted to walk in on him in his study late at night and grab ice cream from the kitchen as he whispered, “Don’t tell Mama!”
Her eyes started stinging and going cloudy from the added darkness and pressure.
Please…! I just… I want to live!
She thought of that serious weirdo boy she met yesterday and his little sister. She promised them! She promised she’d come back and finish the Palace of Wind and Water. She wanted to be his friend. There was something about him…
She wondered if they’d forget about her if she never showed up.
I’m sorry I hit you, Xuan-er…
There was no one. There was nothing she could see other than emptiness. She closed her eyes as a stray tear bled into the fathomless saltwater trying to devour her, helpless to stop it.
And then, a rush of cold water jostled her a little to the side. She startled, eyes shooting open in terror. A black shadow darted underneath her.
Oh god, please don’t be a shark!
Something lithe and slimy grabbed hold of her foot and began climbing up her body. She opened her mouth to scream, but that slimy something reached a large, bony, webbed hand up and covered her mouth.
Suddenly, A-Xuan was face to face with a creature darker than ink with eyes even more golden than the sun. Its bioluminescent eyes glowered fiercely at her through furrowed brows as it held onto her shoulder with one hand and covered her mouth with another.
It was definitely not a shark, that was for certain.
A-Xuan tried to thrash and fight to break away, but her rapidly fading consciousness didn’t make for much of a fight. She squirmed her mouth away from the creature and tried to scream again, but in her panic, she just ended up swallowing more sea water into her already burning lungs. And coughing was little salve to her oxygen-deprived lungs when submerged underwater. The creature tried again and firmly slapped its hand over her mouth. The texture alone of its skin was enough to make her want to throw up.
Much to her continued horror, the creature then opened its maw, revealing rows and rows of razor sharp teeth and forced her face closer to its own, despite her pitiful attempts at resisting.
This was even worse than drowning, she realized, too terrified and exhausted to fight back anymore as the edges of her vision began enveloping her in the calm darkness. But she was so, so scared and trying to cling to any shred of consciousness left, but she also didn’t want to be awake for her inevitable demise. A-Xuan scrunched her eyes shut, waiting to finally asphyxiate and drown or have her face ripped off by this monster.
No, please! Not like this! I just wanted… to finish the sandcastle with Xuan-er…!
Except, the creature neither attacked, nor did she suffocate.
She couldn’t say what exactly that creature did, but it must’ve been something akin to mouth-to-mouth. Smooth, slimy lips attached to her mouth. It held her face close, webbed hand on either side for support. Saltwater streamed out of her mouth and lungs in swathes, and the creature just gulped it all down. Once all the saltwater was gone, it breathed in precious air, filling her aching lungs.
A-Xuan opened her eyes only to behold these eerie but determined golden orbs with a slitted pupil beaming directly at her bright emerald eyes. They looked a bit like lightbulbs or like the dangly bit on an angler fish in the darkness. The creature had a vaguely humanoid face amidst the inky black scales dotting its face.
This was nothing like the sea monsters from the movie Luca. Those were nice sea monsters with pretty colors and not terrifying teeth. This was something much more grotesque and horrifying, but also exceptionally beautiful.
Fully taking it all in, she determined it really was the most stunningly beautiful thing she’d ever seen. The scaly skin reflected off dancing and undulating rainbows like an oil spill, completely mesmerizing her by the way it dazzled underneath the waves.
She blinked several times, brain trying to put a name to the creature, but it was nothing like she’d ever heard of or seen. And the creature blinked back at her, slits turning softer and rounder the longer they held her gaze.
Finally detaching from her lips after the last big breath of air that rattled around her lungs, the creature covered her mouth with its hand. Instinctively, she flinched away from the slimy touch, so instead the creature grabbed her own hand and placed it over her mouth. After a moment of staring at each other, the creature blinked at her with that same determined gaze and pointed a clawed finger up towards the surface. He gently wrapped an arm around her waist, and started escorting her up to the surface.
A-Xuan couldn’t rip her eyes away from her strange savior. Its assemblage of fins, legs, and maybe even a few tentacles if her eyes were seeing correctly, glided effortlessly and gracefully through the water. She wanted desperately to open her mouth in shock, but she kept her mouth closed with her hand covering it for good measure.
Once they breached the surface, she immediately started coughing and taking in gulps of fresh air to her exhausted lungs. Her head whirled around trying to get her bearings in the unfamiliar ocean. A firm push to the small of her back had her floating over to a small boat bobbing in the water a couple meters away.
“Wait!” she called out, finding her voice hoarse and barely more than a whisper. She kept trying to swim back as its murky visage under the water disappeared. “THANK YOU!” she screamed out to it, feeling like her throat was going to tear open.
“A-Xuan!” Mama called, crying tears of relief. “A-Xuan!!”
Mama nearly jumped in after her when she spotted her, but luckily Baba swooped in immediately underneath and grabbed hold of her waist, clutching her tightly to his chest to keep her head above the water. But she struggled weakly in her Baba’s grip, straining her head to look underneath the waves to catch a glimpse of the creature that helped her.
“Did you see it, Baba? Where did it go?”
“See what?” he asked, breathless from all the tireless searching.
“The monster! With the eyes!” she said, like it was obvious. “It saved me!”
But Baba hadn’t seen anything. No one had.
Maybe she hallucinated it after all…
~~~
PART 2, PART 3, PART 4
End Notes:
Make sure you don’t forget to leave some kudos, drop a comment, bookmark, and subscribe so you don’t miss the next chapter! Check out my other social media on my carrd if you wanna follow me elsewhere!
Here's to you! My first prompt for the Spookinky2024 event, conceived by @tsukimefuku is finally here!
You'll find the rest of my JJKPENNYDREADFUL Halloween Series here
This one is inspired by one of my favorite novels ever: the absurdly-underrated Perfume:The Story of a Murderer by Patrick Süskind. As usual, I've picked a song that matches the vibes of this fic!
Warnings: dark and smut/nsfw content ahead (MDNI). Obsession, stalking,sexual descriptions, olfactophilia. Roughly proofread (English is not my first language)
1.8k words
I’m pouring my soul into this series, I really hope someone will enjoy it. If you do, please feel free to interact and/or reblog! Thank you in advance for reading!🙏🏼
"For people could close their eyes to greatness, to horrors, to beauty, and their ears to melodies or deceiving words. But they couldn't escape scent. For scent was a brother of breath. Together with breath it entered human beings, who couldn't defend themselves against it, not if they wanted to live. And scent entered into their very core, went directly to their hearts, and decided for good and all between affection and contempt, disgust and lust, love and hate. He who ruled scent ruled the hearts of men." P.Süskind
Fall comes as a surprise, pushing summer away. It brings along a mix of smells, spreading them like tiny stars in the night sky: the smell of old smoke from chimneys, the sweet scent of cinnamon and pumpkin wafting from bakeries, and the fresh aroma of damp leaves in quiet woods. Every single smell, every tiny aroma unlocks a feeling, bounding the mind to the celebration of an ever-lasting memory.
Just a few days ago, you walked down the busy sidewalk during rush hour, trying to reach the subway. You mindlessly moved through a sea of students and workers. Huddled in your coat against the first autumn chill, you failed to notice the pale, stout man in unusual garb who had begun following you onto the subway platform.
The stranger,named Choso Kamo, is a half-cursed spirit, whose existence has always been bound to the ill-fated story of the mother, whose affection he couldn't know… her body had been exploited and abused to generate him and his beloved brothers until it collapsed, leaving him, the eldest of her sons, with the difficult burden of taking care of his brothers' cursed-wombs. He was now standing in the middle of the crowd with his usual vacant expression, surveying the many passersby as instructed by his associates… deep down, Choso knows they brought him back to life just to take advantage of his strength, but at least they have given him a purpose to pursue in his miserable life.
In the precise moment you mindlessly passed him by, adjusting your scarf around your neck, a gust of wind unleashed the essence itself of his renewed purpose: Choso found himself entranced by the intoxicating bouquet of your vibrant youth, sublimated in an ephemeral fragrance that danced upon the crisp evening air, weaving a spell that ensnared his senses. Enveloped in a tempest of longing, the crowd disappeared from the awareness of his senses,and he could think of nothing else but you, a siren call beckoning him to follow. With trembling resolve, he boarded the same train, trying to stay as close as possible to your graceful frame, in the desperate attempt of tracing the path back to your intoxicating perfume. He ended up following you up until your doorstep, now torn by an all-consuming obsession.
Night after night since then, Choso had been tormented by his desire, passing restless hours awake under the pale lunar light, when even his strong hands could not tame the wild hunger that throbbed and begged for release. At every nightfall, he surrendered to the echoes of his desire, rigid and raw, a prisoner of this exquisite torment, yearning for the touch that could soothe his restless soul. He vowed he would never find peace until he had found you. So Choso retraced your path, desperate to breathe in your sweet scent once more. He lurked in the shadows, stealing small tokens of your presence- discarded trinkets that bore the faintest whiff of your essence, each one a precious relic he hoarded within a secret chest, a shrine to the object of his obsession.
Your very existence had become a haunting, lingering thought, driving him to the brink of madness with an all-consuming desire to possess you. Choso found himself teetering on the precipice of madness, surprising even himself indulging in dark thoughts of violence, should any rival dare to encroach upon what he believed was rightfully his—the very breath of your existence, the haunting aroma of your skin.
(...)
And then came the witching hour, Halloween night—a tapestry woven with shadows, the spookiest eve of the year. While in the city streets echoes of children's laughter drift through the air, you languish in the solitude of your living room, binge watching the whole Scream series. You lay half asleep under a blanket on your couch, distracted by the dim glow of your flickering television, oblivious to the stranger spying on you just outside your window. Hidden by the welcoming veil of darkness, Choso bursts into the warmth of your apartment, drawn by an irresistible magnetism that thrums in the air. He slips through the half-open window of your bedroom, a tall, well built silhouette against the moonlit night, and the moment he crosses the threshold, he is engulfed by an intoxicating familiarity, a warmth that wraps around him like a silken shroud. His heart races, a frenetic drumbeat as his ravenous gaze roams the sacred space you occupy, etching every detail into his memory: the hue of the walls that cradle your secrets, the books piling atop your bedside table, the delicate arrangement of your bed adorned with ornamental pillows, each whispering tales of your essence.
Your very presence saturates the air, a heady perfume that drives him to the brink of madness. Yet, his brow furrows as it lands upon the disheveled heap of laundry piled carelessly in the corner. In that moment, all restraint shatters—his longing overcomes him. He dives into the chaos, seizing your garments, letting the subtle scent of your skin engulf him. In an instant, the pressure swells within his baggy pants, an undeniable urgency that demands release.
With a fervor that borders on the frenzied, Choso collapses onto your plush bed, a wild creature succumbing to the lust that consumes him. He sheds his loose robe, exposing the sculpted lines of his body, yearning to lose himself in the essence that lingers in your sanctuary. His hands, trembling and desperate, explore his length, as lost in an urgent trance, but it is not enough. His mind conjures up haunting visions of you—your soft skin beneath his fingertips, your lips parted in exquisite pleasure, your breasts quivering with each of his deep, ravenous thrusts.
Lost in a fevered reverie, he begins to grind against your pillows, surrendering to a trance where he imagines your warm, welcoming heat enveloping him. Clutching your underwear, the fabric cradled in his grip, he feels his knuckles whiten with the force of his need. Memories flood his mind—how your delicate hands had clutched your scarf in that crowded subway, and the thought of those soft fingers caressing him sends a shudder of bliss through his core. A moan escapes him, mingling with the scent of your freshly laundered linens, the bedspread now stained with white, thick stains of his desire.
His face twists with a rapturous anticipation, the gates to a forbidden paradise poised to swing open. But just as the world around him begins to blur into a cascade of ecstasy, you materialize at the threshold, your eyes wide with disbelief at the sight before you—a tall,pale sublime-looking stranger lays in your bed, lost in a primal dance of pleasure.
You stand transfixed, mesmerized by his unconventional beauty— you notice how his uncanny, unearthly features merge perfectly on his graceful face, etching a unique,twisted kind of charm on it: his curious hairstyle, the sharp line of his clenched jaw, those haunted eyes, their irises of golden honey, matching the unhealthy purplish puffiness beneath his eye; the tribal dark mark etched upon the his skin of his face his hair. You soon understand that you stand in front of a non-human creature…yet, your senses catch a glimpse of his kind soul, buried deep inside the shadows of his eyes. Rather than fear, a flicker of arousal ignites within you, an electric thrill coursing through your veins as you drink in the sight of this beautiful,mysterious demon.
He pauses, the moment stretching as you lock eyes—his pupils dilate, revealing a tempest of desire and hunger, yet glimmers of tenderness shimmer beneath the surface. In that gaze, you read an unspeakable promise—of safety, of reverence. Your heart quickens, and instead of retreating, you advance, a moth to his flame. You kneel down on the edge of the bed, your trembling fingers hovering over the mark crossing his face, the silent blossoming of a connection. He whimpers as your skin brushes against his,his gaze incredulous. A soft smile graces your lips, and he blushes under your father-light touch, the heat radiating off him palpable.
"You... You look so beautiful," he stammers, his voice grave, each breath a desperate whisper. In an instant, he rises, revealing his hardened desire—long and throbbing, its tip glistening with the evidence of his lust. He lunges,burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, finally rejoining with your essence. He feels overwhelmed by your presence, intoxicated by the heady mix of your unmistakable scent and a hint of a fresh thrill of anticipation that dances along the delicate curve of your neck.
“Finally…” he breathes against your skin, his dry lips grazing your soft flesh, igniting a fire that spreads through your body, causing you to arch into him, surrendering to the magnetic pull of his presence. And then, in a whirlwind of passion and primal instinct, he takes you—your senses clouded as he pins you to the bed, unleashing a torrent of fervor that leaves you gasping for breath: he runs his strong fingers through your silky, perfumed hair, now cascading freely on the pillow below your head, then he starts carefully peeling each layer of clothing off of your body, trying not to get lost in the enveloping scent unleashing with every garment falling to the ground, just like fragile, autumn leaves. The veins on his big, strong hands popping out under the pressure of his constrained need. Once you lay bare in front of him, he grabs the silky skin of your thighs, spreading them open as he buries his face in the spring of your essence. He breaths you in, needing to feel you, the purest you, straight into his lungs. His mind is clouded by the highest form of ecstatic haze, and his resolve falters…in this moment he would surrender to your every darkest order, he would be your puppet forever, exploiting his half-demonic strength for whatever purpose you put forward, you… his muse. And just like that, something inside of him snaps at the willingness conveyed through your half-lidded eyes and he releases the depths of his pent-up need on your body, worshiping every hidden corner of your skin.
You lay beneath him, quivering under the disclosure of a brand new, unearthly, unadulterated form of passion: you lose count of the waves of pleasure that crash over you, each thrust a divine revelation, each moan a prayer whispered into the dark. Words remain unspoken, yet the reverence in his touch, the fervent grunts that escape him, speak volumes of his devotion to you, body and soul.
As the night wanes, Choso pauses, drinking in the sight of your blissful surrender—a vision that etches itself into the very depth of his soul. In that moment, clarity washes over him; he grasps the essence of devotion. You are his goddess, and your bedroom, now steeped in the mingling scents of passion and your sweet essence, becomes a temple where he will forever worship.
Unleashed, his half-demonic nature finds solace in the storm of ecstasy, surrendering to the sanctity of your spread legs—the sacred gates to his paradise. Now that he has discovered his faith, he knows there is no turning back; he yearns for more than a mere taste of your forbidden fruit—the very essence of you, a heady nectar that lingers in the air, binding him to you eternally.
