Warnings: whistle trained reader, somewhat toxic relationship?? Reader has no will-power I mean immediately goes back into Sevika’s arms, public sex, dark and ooc! Sev, humiliation, Sev is packing and her strap is referred to as cock, degradation (reader is called a bitch and refers to herself as a mindless bimbo), I’m lowkey gaslighting reader too LMAOO
Genre: smut, angst with the little plot I put in here
A/N: inspired by the copious domestic Sevika content I’ve been taking in and pretty little birds by SZA and @wingedcrowpersona
Reader is a stripper!!
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Divorce wasn’t something you saw with you and Sevika but it’s your reality.
It was like one morning was different, the arguing didn’t matter, the makeup sex wasn’t working. You still wanted her but you didn’t need her.
You fell back into your old routine; get up, practice, hangout, work, hangout, sleep. Anything that stops you from thinking. Your marriage was lovely till it wasn’t, never agreeing with Silcos influence on your wife.
Music was blaring, lights were flashing and slightly tipsy you didn’t know where you were walking. This plus six inch platform heels caused disaster.
You fell right into her arms.
She was still as beautiful as ever and you know she thought the same about you. You also knew you were trapped.
Her mechanic hand squeezing the small of your back as she helps you up. “You look good” she states as she pops the string of your thong.
Immediately you swat her hand away, “don’t touch me like that.” You state crossing your arms. Vika always teased you whether you liked it or not.
Slowly she almost stalks to you, “is that how you treat your wife?”
“Not my wife anymore that’s how divorce works.”
“Not divorced if you didn’t sign the papers doll.” She said as she cups your face and brings you close. “For one second could you behave? Be my good little wife again?” Instinctively you nod missing how mean she could be, “I could fuck you right here and you’d like that mhm?”
“I’m on the clock!” You whine remembering where you are.
“I’ll pay you” she says flatly as one of her fingers dip into the front of your thong.
“Sevika wait” you gasp and you press yourself closer trying to make sure no one in the club could see you.
You grab her wrist about to deny yourself of pleasure until Sevika let’s out a short loud whistle. You let go of her wrist, stand up straight and look at her with doe eyes.
“Still my bitch I see” she says as she slowly rubs circles on your pretty clit. You can’t help but moan and obey because that’s what Sevika deserves, a mindless bimbo wife.
Legs shaking due to embarrassment and pleasure you step closer to her to balance yourself. Another whistle was let out and you open your legs more, giving her thick finger more access to you.
“I should embarrass you, since you embarrassed me.” She scoffs, “thinking you aren’t mine, my wife.”
You shake your head no but it didn’t really matter. She knew you wanted this, she knows how much you missed her.
Sevika maneuvers you two to a booth, pulling you by your thong strap. She’s seated whilst your standing.
“C’mon dance, entertain me.” She mutters as she lights a cigar blowing it in your direction knowing you hate smoke. Sevika is never this hard on you but you left her, you did this to yourself.
Slowly you dance to the music, touching yourself here and there in the process. Naturally you strip not caring who saw because it was about your wife’s pleasure. Once you were bare she whistles and you sit on her lap. Sevika puts the cigar out and holds your face, smoke escaping her mouth. “I missed you”, her whisper sincere and hurt. “Not as much as I.” You mumble before you softly press your lips against hers.
Her tongue slithers your mouth. She missed how you taste, how you feel so much. How could you deprive this from her?
Your pierced nipples rub against hers and you go to unbuckle her pants. Like a good bitch you wait for the whistle, her wanting to see how patience you could be. Once granted permission you are able to slip her inside with a satisfactory squelch from your dripping cunt.
Her hands were harsh on your hips and your pelvis was burning but none of the mattered as you kissed your wife. Didn’t matter who was watching or if you’d feel shame tomorrow because that’s the effect she has on you.
Both of you desperate for each other are rutting against each other ready to cum. Saliva is dripping from your tongues, hair is frizzy and fucked, both of your moans are loud and desperate.
She just wants her wife back, wants to take care of you again. Fucks you into never thinking about leaving her again.
With one final thrust you shakily cum, and ride your orgasm out together.
“Can I take you home?” She whispers her eyes looking like hurt puppy dogs. “Let’s go home.”
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A/N: oh my gosh!! I need to be whistle trained by her!! She’s so hot why isn’t she real (ˊ̥̥̥̥̥ ³ ˋ̥̥̥̥̥)
or... what happens when Rusty's boss finds him in a very.. compromising position.
warnings : suggestive!
ᐟᐟ ⟢ a/n: actually 90's brad pitt is my pretty boy ( 🏷 @callme-holly )
♱ *ೃ.⋆
It was just supposed to be a quick stop.
Danny Ocean had a new job on the table. Not a big one—nothing with flashing lights or vaults or twelve moving parts. Just a simple hit. $10,000 apiece, if they played it smart.
He needed Rusty. And there was only one place Rusty Ryan could be at 1:27 AM: The velvet-draped, hush-toned VIP bar near the Strip Club with drinks that cost more than a used car and a clientele that smelled like money, danger, or Chanel No. 5.
Danny walked in smooth as always, black-on-black suit, hands in his pockets, flashing that effortless grin to the security guy at the front.
“Evening, sweetheart,” he murmured to the hostess. “Don’t mind me—just looking for the blond disaster I pay too much to eat shrimp cocktails and drink other people’s bourbon.”
She smirked, and without a word, pointed him to the far left corner of the lounge.
And there he was.
Or at least, a golden mop of hair and a wildly inappropriate public display of affection.
Danny stopped short when he saw the scene: his partner-in-crime, his right-hand man, deeply entangled in what could only be described as an enthusiastic motorboat situation.
Rusty Ryan was half a drink past drunk, half a button past decent, and very comfortably tucked between your thighs—his face unapologetically buried in your cleavage, his hands lazily circling your waist, and yours tangled in his hair like you were trying to comfort a dying soldier.
To be fair, he was going through something emotionally significant:
A particularly strong whiskey sour and the fact that you were wearing his favorite perfume and no bra.
He hummed something against your chest. Probably your name.
Rusty Ryan. Legendary poker whisperer. Coolest man in the room, usually.
Currently half-seated on a plush velvet bench, face buried unapologetically in a your cleavage, hands wrapped possessively around your waist like he was afraid you’d evaporate if he let go.
And you?
Well. You looked like the dictionary definition of trouble.
All milky pale skin, impossibly lush blue eyes lined in kohl, and hair that looked like it had made men commit crimes just for a chance to touch it. You were in a glittery barely-there outfit designed to bring men to their knees. The thigh slit alone could’ve started wars.
Danny took exactly three seconds to commit the scene to memory, then tapped Rusty on the shoulder.
You lifted your head slowly, smirking when you saw the sharp-dressed stranger watching with mild amusement.
“Well, this looks... productive.”
Rusty jolted like he’d been caught stealing from the Vatican.
“Shit—Danny?!”
His voice came out too loud, too fast, and he practically threw himself upright, accidentally bumping your nose with his chin in the process.
You giggled.
Rusty looked like he wanted to die on the spot. Half of his shirt was untucked, your lip gloss was all over his cheek, and his hair looked like he’d just lost a fight with a tornado. Which, to be fair, he kind of had—you were the tornado.
He turned, stumbling slightly as he tried to pretend he hadn’t just been halfway to second base in public.
Danny just blinked at him, then slowly turned his gaze to you.
“Well,” he said, still smiling. “Aren’t you a surprise.”
“Danny. Uh. Hey. Hi.” Rusty cleared his throat, smoothing his shirt and sitting up straighter like that would somehow undo what had just happened.
“You forget what year it is, or are you just trying to climb back into the womb?”
You snorted—couldn’t help it. Rusty groaned under his breath. “I thought you were in Atlantic City this week.”
“I was. It's already Monday, 1:31 to be exactly.”
He gave you a once-over, not lecherous, but with the polite curiosity of a man who knows beauty when he sees it. His eyes flicked between you and Rusty, then back to you.
“And you must be the reason my guy here hasn’t answered his phone in three hours.”
“Three hours? That’s a record. I should get a bonus.” You giggled sweetly, bringing a hand to your chest as if honored.
“Please kill me.”
“You gonna introduce me, or should I guess her name?” Danny teased, raising an eyebrow.
He extended his hand before Rusty could fumble through whatever half-truth he was about to mutter.
“Danny Ocean. And you are?”
You took his hand, graceful, eyes shining. “Depends who’s asking.”
“Someone who needs to know who exactly has my work partner by the—well, chest. And whether or not he’s in good hands.”
You smiled slow and wide. “The best hands. Professionally and recreationally.”
Rusty let out a noise halfway between a choke and a wheeze.
Danny let out a surprised laugh, shaking your hand.
“Oh, I like her,” he said, shooting a pointed look at Rusty, who groaned and rubbed his face like he could disappear if he just believed hard enough.
“So, you his girlfriend?” Danny asked casually.
You and Rusty both spoke at once.
“No.”
“She’s not—”
You smirked. “But he is clingy. Especially drunk.”
“God,” Rusty muttered.
Danny, ever the composed gentleman, sipped his scotch with a sparkle in his eyes.
“And what do you do, exactly?”
“She dances,” Rusty mumbled into his hands.
You shot him a playful glare, then turned to Danny. “I strip, Mr. Ocean. Dances are just the entry fee.”
Danny gave a low whistle. “Hell of a resume.”
“And she finds people,” Rusty added suddenly—too suddenly, like he was trying to pivot before you said something worse.
Danny blinked. “Finds people?”
“She’s—uh—she’s the one that gets me contact lists you ask for.”
You gave Rusty a slow, sugary smile. “Aw. He finally admits I’m useful.”
Danny grinned wider. “So you’re the one behind all those mysterious ‘sources’ Rusty always brags about?”
Rusty shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t brag—”
“You do.” Danny cut him off with a pointed eyebrow. “Every time I ask you to find me someone—arms dealer, safecracker, dirty valet? It’s her? Well then, you've got a hell lot of connections, sweetheart”
You smiled, nodding at the man.
“You’re his supplier?”
“In more ways than one.”
“OH my god.” Rusty turned to you, expression pained. “Please. I have like two molecules of dignity left.”
“Not anymore,” you winked.
Danny leaned back, folding his arms as he looked you up and down—not like a creep, but like a man adding a puzzle piece to a bigger picture.
“You know,” he said slowly, “You might be the best thing that’s ever happened to my golden boy.”
Rusty made a noise that sounded like a dying whale.
Danny ignored him.
“Well, keep an eye on my golden boy, would you? He tends to fall into things he shouldn’t—like vaults. Or tits.”
“Okay, let’s not—can we—?”
“And Rusty?”
He sighed, already defeated.
“Don’t lose this one. You’ll never find another stripper with underworld connections, perfect boobs, and that much patience.”
“Thanks, boss,” Rusty muttered, red-faced and mumbling into his glass.
After Danny left (with a final amused look and a “Call me tomorrow, Romeo”), Rusty just sat there, still trying to will the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
You leaned closer, sliding into his lap again with ease.
“Well,” you murmured, tracing a finger down his collar. “That went well.”
He groaned. “You’re never gonna let me live this down, are you?”
You kissed his cheek. “Not a chance.”
“But you will still sleep with me tonight, right?”
Mob Boss Florian Munteanu x Black Stripper! Reader
Warnings: mentions of (filthy) sex (18+), unprotected sex, smut, drinking, mentions of violence, swearing, mentions of blood, mentions of killing/death, mafia aspects, stripper, sex work, female penetration, PIV sex, mentions of guns and gun violence, mentions of people getting shot
Summary: You’re a former ballerina turned exotic dancer at a strip club frequented by some of the city's most ruthless mob families. When a new man enters the scene in hopes of taking the city for himself, will you be consumed by him or become another victim to his unstoppable ambitions.
Note: so yeah, after 8 months I’ve FINALLY been able to update this. I have an idea of how I’d like this series to continue but not sure when I’ll be able to update this. But until then, enjoy and let me know your thots 😏 Song Inspo: Those Nights-Bastille
You speed out of the club's parking lot as the sounds of police sirens in the distance begin to draw near. Florian, Masias and Sandro are speaking all at once, their booming voices making it hard for you to think.
Grabbing the edges of Florian’s jacket, you bring it closer to yourself trying to warm your frozen skin. You were numb, flashes of the city and building lights passed by you as you made your way through it. The city you knew so well suddenly felt foreign, closing in on you like a cage and you could do nothing to escape it, nor the man intending to take it for his own.
You end up taking the back roads, the minutes feel like hours, twisting and turning throughout the darkened roads to an unknown destination. Large, foreboding, unfamiliar iron gates start to come into view. The car slows down the closer it gets to the gate and you hear the driver's side window roll down before Masias punches in the gate code before the creaking of the gates welcomes you inside.
A sight out of the corner of your eye takes you aback, men dressed in black clothing to shroud their presence in the darkness. The glint of guns slung over their shoulders doesn’t escape your notice either, a shiver running down your spine thinking of what they could do with the guns. One of them nods to the car in acknowledgment before the car continues on. The gates squeak and groan as they close behind you, and the reality that you’re being taken further into the lion's den hits you.
You look outside your window with curiosity and find the car coming close to a large Mediterranean style house, so out of place just like Florian. The closer you get the more details come into view. The house is expansive and utterly gorgeous, yet another thing that it and Florian have in common.
When the car finally pulls up to the front of the house, the men are quick to open the doors and exit, Florian’s hand on your arm helps you out of the car through his side. You sway easily, the cold of the night seeping into your bones. He looks down at you and adjusts his coat over your shoulders before guiding you in front of him to the front door.
Masias and Sandro enter the house first, checking out the immediate surroundings before giving the signal that it’s safe to enter. Your eyes flicker from one corner to the next, taking in the decor. It’s warm and inviting, a touch of homeliness that contradicts the man than occupies it.
Movement out of the corner of your eye catches your attention and your steps falter as you realize more men dressed in black who have seemingly come out of the shadows themselves and you bring yourself closer to Florian.
Florian speaks to them quickly in rushed German, his words clipped and angry talking to the men. Sandro and Masias occasionally speak as do the others. Due to your lack of the language you can only guess what the conversation is about. Had they known something like this would’ve happened? You can’t help but to think they must’ve, given what Anton had said about Florian’s meetings with the other shady underworld families that ran this town weren’t happy with him wanting to stir the pot.
You register Florian saying your name suddenly and a hushed silence fills the air, heavy and thick with tension, dozens of eyes looking your way. Your heart drops, mouth suddenly going dry as to the future of your fate. He brings you closer to him, his warmth helping to thaw your chilled skin.
“It’s been an eventful night, let’s get you cleaned up and something to eat and we’ll figure out the rest in a bit” he urges. You can only nod your head in agreement before he begins to lead you to a large staircase. The others nod to him before heading back to their posts.
Looking outside in you could tell the house was large but everywhere you looked did nothing to help you marvel at its beauty. White walls contrasted with richly dark wood and accents of red, entirely masculine in the decor. No family photos, no pictures of friends, nothing to give any more insight into the man who walked into your life and halted it so abruptly.
He finally stops in front of two large French doors and ushers you inside. You note the large California king sized bed, the large open windows and closet. You barely have time to look at the room before he leads you to the bathroom.
Upon entering, Florian picks you up and places you gently on the bathroom counter. The numbness that consumed you earlier still plagued you. Too traumatized to do anything else, you sit on the counter, your mind absentmindedly finding a spot on the wall behind Florian that you focus your attention on.
He walks to a wall and pulls open a door, fumbling inside before pulling out a few towels and washcloths and stops to turn on the shower before he makes his way back to you. He turns on the sink, testing the water with his hand until he deems it suitable. He wets a corner of the washcloth, rings it out and turns his attention back to you. He goes to cup your face in hand when you jerk it away suddenly, his movements scaring you briefly from your trance.
“It’s okay Y/N, I won’t hurt you ” he says, slowly bringing his hands back to your face. Cupping one side of your face in his hand, he tilts your face into the bathroom light and begins to wipe away at the blood on your face.
“Is he dead?” you dully ask, the sound of your voice so unfamiliar even to yourself. It’s the first time you’ve spoken in what feels like hours.
“Who?” he asks, taking the damp washcloth and rings it out in the sink.
“Dmitry. He’s the one,” you start, “he’s the one who was shot in front of me, wh-whose blood is on me.” You look over to him and notice for the first time the blood on him as well and blanch, “On us.”
He stops what he’s doing and moves your head until his eyes meet yours. “I’m not sure, but I’ll do everything in my power to find out.”
A heavy silence fills the air before you swallow thickly, thanking him. When he’s satisfied that the blood from your face is gone, he steps back and begins to wipe his own face, making quick work of it too. He walks over to a wall and opens a conveniently hidden hamper and tosses in the washcloth. He begins to take off the blood splattered clothes until he’s completely naked. You notice scars dotted along his body, some very old while others seem to be newer from the state of their healing. Walking back to you, he gently removes your arms from the diamond straps and drops your clothes on the floor.
Helping you to get off the counter, he leads you to the large walk in shower, the steam engulfing both of you as he leads you inside, his hand never leaving yours. He steps in front of the water and turns to you, allowing the water to hit his back. Droplets of water hit your skin and the numbness you’ve felt up to that point finally comes to a boiling point.
Your body shakes with the force of your sobs until you’re gasping to breathe, the air becoming harder and harder to take in. You fan your face, hoping to calm yourself down, to help with the overwhelming panic of the events. It should’ve, could’ve been you possibly lying dead in the club. You had promised Anton to be careful and yet you were now in the lion’s den. Stupid!
Florian grabs you and pulls you to his chest, swaying the both of you gently. This act of concern troubles you. Why did he seem to care? Did he think that his kindness would make you forget about the man he is?
While you're pondering all this, Florian grabs a bottle of expensive smelling body wash and pours a generous amount in his hands, rubbing his hands together until it forms a lather and washes you thoroughly. Hints of amber and oak fill the shared space. When he’s done washing you he gives the same attention to himself.
“Why did you ask for me tonight in the Champagne Room?” You ask, the question more for yourself than him. “You could’ve asked for anybody, one of the Romanian girls even, why me?”
You don’t think he heard you before he pushes air out through his nose and responds. “I saw you in the wing of the stage. If I hadn’t looked up when I did, I would’ve missed you before you came out to perform. I felt like I was being watched, and not just because of the reason for my visit.”
You remembered how he commanded the space so easily as he continued. “I could see that you looked at me with awe, a little intimidation, curiosity. And then you performed and I could see that you were like me, an outsider.”
“So that’s why you took me? What, some sort of attraction?” you scoff.
His ease and unconcern aggravated you further. "Attraction is too tame a word for" - he gestured at the space between you two - "this." You were stunned, whatever the word was, he’d taken it right out of your mouth.
After a while you told him that you needed to call somebody to let them know that you were okay, especially Anton. You beat yourself up knowing how worried he must be for you.
“Like I told you at the club, it’s not safe for you to go home yet. For all we know whomever shot up the place knows where you live and are waiting for you. Who knows what they’d do once they got to you.” You start to protest before he lifts one hand to silence you. “But I’ll have Sandro or Masias go to your place to gauge the situation. If I deem it’s safe for you to return, I’ll have my men bring you back safely.” You start to protest but he glares at you and your mouth snaps shut, you figured his mind was made up on the matter and he wasn’t going to budge, instead, you rattle off your address and give thanks.
Once you’re done with the shower he shuts off the water and guides both of you out of the shower. He dries you with a towel first and then himself. Afterwards, he wraps you in a fluffy robe and ties the towel low around his waist.
You stilled, trembling, your gaze on the mirror's reflection of your mascara-smeared face and sunken and tired eyes next to Florian's ravaged beauty. His features were overcome by volatile emotion. The contrast was striking, something that looked all wrong for each other. You wanted to start crying all over again.
Florian tells you that he needs to check back with his men, pulling on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. You’re so exhausted that you walk over to the large bed, lie down, and instantly fall asleep.
👠👠👠
“No, please, no!”
“Shh, fetiță, it’s okay. You’re just having a bad dream.” A voice soothes you in the dark.
Strong arms tighten around you, pressing you against a hard, warm body, and the suffocating terror eases, the cruel voices receding. Sobbing with relief, you try to turn, to face the person holding you. The nightmare is still fresh on your mind, the images still so clear you swear you can feel the blood hitting your face, see Dmitry hitting the floor.
“Florian?”
“Yeah, it’s me.” Warm lips brush your temple as a big hand wipes away the tears you hadn’t realized were shed. “I’ve got you. You’re all right now. You’re fine.”
He’s got you. Something should worry you about that statement, but at this moment, all you’re aware of is its seductive comfort. Florian’s powerful arms are around you, holding you, protecting you in the darkness, and the horror of the dream grows more distant, sinking back into the mire of the past.
There’s no unknown shooter, nobody standing in front of you with a gun to your face, nobody dying trying to get you out of harm's way. There’s just Florian.
“Fetiță you’ve got to stop moving like that.” His voice is hoarse, strained, and you realize you’re rocking against him in an attempt to burrow even deeper into his embrace. You don’t remember him joining you in the bed at all, or the fact that he’s naked. In the process, your ass is shimmying against his groin—with a predictable result.
The horror flickers distantly, the panic returning for a moment, and you try to turn again, to hide your face against his broad chest, but the fear of finding comfort in the person who may be the reason you’re in your current predicament gets in the way.
“Shh, it’s okay. You’re safe.” There’s a quiet click of a bedside lamp being turned on and the room is cast in a warm glow. “You don’t have to be afraid. It’s okay.”
It’s okay. The panic retreats, especially when you’re able to wrap your arms around Florian’s muscular torso and inhale his unfamiliar scent. He smells like his body wash and warm male skin. Burying your face in his chest, you throw your leg over his hip, wanting to wrap yourself around him like a vine, and you hear him groan as his hard cock presses into your belly.
Something about that should worry you too, but with your mind still wrestling with the dream, you can’t figure out what. You just want him closer—as close as two people can possibly get.
“Fuck me,” you whisper, slipping one hand between your bodies to cup his tightly drawn balls. “Please, Florian, fuck me.”
“You…” His voice sounds strangled. “You want me?”
“Yes, please, Florian.” You know it’s pathetic to beg, but you need him. You need him to chase away the horror, the memories too fresh on your mind. “Please”—you grab his cock and try to align it with your sex—“please fuck me. Please.”
“Y/N, are you sure?”
“Help me to forget, to make the pain stop. Just--please.”
He doesn’t ask a second time, he sounds skeptical as he rolls on top of you, his hips settling between your open thighs. “Ok fetiță. If this is what you”—he thrusts in deep—“want. What you need.”
You both groan when he’s seated to the hilt, his thickness stretching you to the limit. You’re not as wet as usual, but it doesn’t matter. The near-painful friction, the overwhelming force of his sudden entry—it’s exactly what you need in that moment. This is not about sex or pleasure.
It’s about numbing the pain, anyway you can. Somewhere in the back of your mind you know that having sex with Florian isn’t the answer to your problems. That in the end you may end up hating yourself even more. But right now, you need the connection, the comfort of being with somebody.
His body takes yours, over and over again, and you feel yourself sliding into that cold, dark place, the one from which you fought so hard to emerge. The lines between the present and the past blur.
“Y/N…” His voice is a tortured groan as he begins to move inside you. “Fuck, you feel so amazing…”
“Yes.” You hiss, wrapping your legs around his muscular thighs, taking him even deeper. “Yes, just like that. Oh God, just like that.”
He complies, his rhythm strong and steady, and you forget all about the initial discomfort.
As he keeps thrusting, a wild heat ignites inside you, a need that’s purely animalistic. You want him to fuck you so hard it hurts, to make you come so much you’ll forget your own name.
You want his savagery to destroy your demons.
“Harder,” You whisper, sinking your nails into his back. “Take me harder.”
He tenses, a shudder running through his big body, and you feel his cock swelling even more. A low growl rumbles in his chest, and he picks up the pace, his muscled ass flexing under your calves as he jackhammers into you, each thrust so deep it almost cleaves you in two. It should be too much, too hard, but your body embraces him, the heat inside you blazing brighter with every bruising stroke. You can hear your own cries, feel the explosive pressure building, and all your fears evaporate, leaving nothing but scorching pleasure.
“Florian!” You don’t know if you scream his name, or if it’s only in your mind, but at that moment, he lets out a hoarse cry, and you feel him jetting into you as white-hot ecstasy rips through your nerve endings. The orgasm is so powerful your entire body arches upward and white flecks appear at the edges of your vision. It seems to go on forever, one pulsing spasm after another, but eventually, the waves of pleasure recede, and awareness slowly returns.
Florian is lying on top of you, his big body covered with sweat, but just as you register the heavy weight of his frame, he rolls off of you, gathering you against him so that your head rests on his shoulder. You knew just how he felt. Stripped. Laid bare.
You lie like that, both panting and too drained to move, and as your heartbeat begins to slow, the heavy lethargy of satiation steals over you. “You should try to get some sleep fetiță,” you hear him whisper as it pulls you under, and you close your eyes, knowing you’re safe.
You’re with Florian, and he’ll keep the bad dreams away.
You feel the stickiness of sweat gluing your bodies together, hear the harsh bellows of his breathing, and strange, unwelcome tears burn your eyes.
If you had any doubts about the reality of what’s happening, they’re gone. This act, this soul-tearing thing that happened between the two of you, impresses upon you more than ever the fact that you survived where others didn’t.
You survived, and you’re his prisoner.
The tears threaten to spill out, and you squeeze your eyelids tighter, determined to prevent that from happening. You can’t allow yourself the luxury of crying. Whatever this means, whatever Florian has in store for you, you have to bear it. You have to be strong because this is only the start.
a/n: to all those who are confused about what “Cherry!Seb” is - it’s just mob!seb but my readers kinda just gave him a name because of the first hc down below.
