Will You Bite Me On The Neck

The bell becomes a siren, a raw, animalistic scream of danger that floods your system with ice water. You pivot, the only thought in your head is a single, desperate command: run. But before your foot can even find the floor for the first step, a fist closes in your hair, yanking your head back with a violent, jarring crack.

A voice, cloyingly sweet, like spoiled honey, drips into your ear. “And where do you think you’re going?” You can feel the wet heat of his breath, the ghost of a smile against your skin, and a slick, crawling terror moves through you.

You’re dragged, your scalp screaming, heels skidding on the polished marble, and flung into the center of the lobby. The impact with the floor knocks the wind from your lungs. Through the fog of pain, you see Eun-yu and Yuri’s faces, wide with alarm, as they scramble to you, their hands frantic and fluttering as they pull you up, wrapping you in a hug that feels more like a cage. Their warmth is a sick joke against the cold dread that has taken root in your stomach.

From behind them, a voice, smooth and with the practiced authority of a man, used to being obeyed. “This is a nice setup you have here.” You see the boots first. Shined to a mirror polish. Your gaze travels up, past crisp, immaculate trousers, past a torso that holds itself with a coiled, dangerous energy, until you reach his face. Captain Kim Yeong-hu, he said. 

He has the kind of handsome face that looks good in a lineup, a face you wouldn’t remember five minutes after he walked past you. But his eyes are black, bottomless pits, and they are counting you.

“If you are military, can you tell us what is going on out there?” It’s Yuri’s voice, thin and brave.

Captain Kim’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “We know just as much as you.” The lie is so facile, so dismissive, it hangs in the air like a bad smell. He steps back, the leather of his boots creaking, and asks if this is all of you. The question is innocuous, but the way he asks it like he’s sizing up a room he’s about to demolish, makes your mouth go dry.

Before anyone can answer, Eun-hyuk and Hyun-su walk in. “Now it is,” Eun-hyuk states, and the air in the room changes. The men’s weapons are up in a fluid, terrifying motion, trained on them. 

All of you are frozen. Eun-hyuk and Hyun-su raise their arms, their faces masks of controlled panic as they survey the scene. The silence is deafening, punctuated only by the frantic thumping of your own heart. 

Captain Yeong-hu regards them for a long moment, a predator assessing a new variable, before he gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod. His men lower their weapons.

“So,” the Captain says, his voice light, almost bored, “who’s in charge here?” All eyes, inevitably, slide to Eun-hyuk.

The Captain gestures with his chin toward the hallway. “Can you show us where we could set up and rest?” Eun-hyuk complies with a curt nod, turning and leading them away. They disappear into the darkness of the corridor, the sound of their boots fading into a rhythmic, unsettling beat.

You stand there, trembling, the phantom sting of the grip on your hair still burning your scalp. As the last of them passes, you feel it. A prickling on the back of your neck, a violation of your space, even from across the room. You turn your head, just a fraction. It’s him. 

The one who grabbed you. He’s the last one to go, his body half-turned toward the hallway, but his head is swiveled back, his neck craned in an unnatural, birdlike way. His eyes are locked on you. They don’t blink. They don’t waver. They are a pure, focused beam of hunger that digs into your skin like a scalpel. He sees you. All of you. Your fear. Your vulnerability.

He sees the way your hands are shaking, the rapid flutter of your pulse in your throat. A slow, sickening smile spreads across his face, one that doesn’t reach his dead, flat eyes.

He gives you one last, lingering look, a promise carved into the silence, and then he is gone, swallowed by the shadows of the hallway. And you know, with a certainty that freezes the blood in your veins, that this is not over. You know what that look meant. 

The way he assessed you, the way he claimed you with that single, leering gaze. You have survived one monster, you barely escaped the last one with your sanity and your life, and now, in this place that was supposed to be safe, you have another. They are here. They are in the building. And he is not leaving.

They settle in quickly and terrifyingly efficiently. Like roaches finding the warm spots in a dark kitchen, they spread through the building, claiming corners, establishing routines, making the familiar suddenly feel like a stranger's house. 

You learned the map of their movements, the rhythm of their boots in the hallway, the way the air changed when one of them entered a room. You became small. Invisible. A ghost in your own home, sliding along walls, holding your breath, counting the seconds until the threat passed.

Eun-hyuk and Hyun-su discovered the benefits of your silence early. They learned that you wouldn't scream, wouldn't fight, wouldn't do anything that might draw attention. The bathroom became a recurring nightmare, the cold tile against your cheek, Hyun-su's hand clamped over your mouth, his breath hot and sour in your ear as he took what he wanted. 

The storage room was worse, dark and cramped, Eun-hyuk's fingers bruising your hips as he shoved you against boxes of old cleaning supplies and rusted tools. 

Sometimes you'd wake in the middle of the night, disoriented, and feel the weight of him already there, already inside you, his other hand pressed so hard against your mouth you thought your teeth might crack. 

You learned to dissociate. To float above your body and watch it happen to someone else. To forget. It was the only way to survive.

But there were two more monsters to account for. Captain Yeong-hu with his black, empty eyes and the way he watched you like you were a puzzle he was bored of solving. And Seok-Chan. The one who grabbed your hair. The one whose smile never reached his dead, flat eyes. He was always there, always in your peripheral vision, always cleaning his gun with that slow, reverent attention that made your skin crawl. 

If you walked into a room and saw either of them, you left immediately. No hesitation. No eye contact. Just a swift, quiet retreat.

Today, you weren't fast enough.

You were crossing the lobby, head down, moving toward the stairwell, when his voice cut through the air like a blade. "Stop."

Your feet planted themselves in the floor against your will. Your back was to him, and you could feel the weight of his gaze on your spine, a physical pressure that made your knees weak. The room went silent. You could hear his men breathing. The scrape of a chair. The click of a magazine being loaded.

You turned, forcing your face into a mask of neutrality, willing your body to stop trembling. You felt cornered. Like a deer frozen in the headlights, knowing the impact was coming but unable to move. Every eye in the room was on you: his men, their hungry looks, their predatory stillness. 

And there was Seok-Chan, sitting at the table, meticulously cleaning his rifle. His smile was slow and deliberate. He didn't look away from you, didn't blink. He just watched, his fingers stroking the barrel like it was a lover's thigh.

"Yes?" You managed to push the word out, your voice steady despite the cold sweat trickling down your spine. You scanned the room desperately, hoping someone, anyone, might intervene. A resident. One of the other women. 

But no one met your eyes. They had learned the same lesson you had. Survival meant staying invisible.

"Is there something you're hiding?" Captain Yeong-hu's voice was deceptively soft. He placed his hand flat on the table, his eyes pinning you in place. Behind him, Seok-Chan's smile widened.

"No, sir," you said, your fingernails digging into your own arm. The sharp pain helped. It gave you something to focus on besides the terror clawing at your throat.

Yeong-hu circled the table, his boots echoing in the silence. Each step brought him closer. You took an instinctive step back, but there was nowhere to go. He reached out and grabbed your wrist with startling speed, his grip like iron. 

Before you could process what was happening, he had pulled a knife from his hip, a blade so sharp it seemed to hum with malevolent intent. He sliced your palm open.

The pain was blinding, white-hot, a scream that tore from your throat as you dropped to your knees. Blood poured from the wound, thick and red, pooling on the floor. Yeong-hu still held your hand, watching the blood flow with clinical interest. It didn't stop. It wouldn't stop.

"What the fuck did you do that for?" You were crying now, ugly, desperate sobs, clutching your hand as he finally released it. The blood dripped through your fingers, warm and sticky, staining your clothes, the floor, everything.

"That's how you tell if someone's infected," Yeong-hu said, his voice calm, almost bored. He cleaned the knife on his pants. "Since it didn't heal, you're safe."

He waved his hand dismissively. "You can leave."

You never left a room so fast in your life. You stumbled back to where you came from, your hand pressed tight against your chest, leaving a trail of blood behind you like breadcrumbs. 

You didn't stop until you reached the bathroom, slamming the door, locking it, sliding down to the floor. Your blood was everywhere. On your clothes. On the sink. On the door you had just touched.

You looked at your hand. The wound was deep, the flesh gaping, the pain so intense it made your vision swim. But you knew. You knew what this really was. It wasn't a test for infection. It was a message. A warning. A reminder of your place.

Seok-Chan's face appeared in your mind. His dead eyes. His terrible, knowing smile. He would come for you eventually. You could feel it in your bones, a certainty that settled into your marrow. 

Yeong-hu had claimed your skin. But Seok-Chan wanted something deeper. Something darker. He would take you apart piece by piece, and when he was done, he would smile at the parts that remained.

You pressed your bloody hand to your mouth, trying to stifle the sobs that racked your body. The wound burned. The fear consumed you. 

Yuri found you in the bathroom pale, trembling, and barely able to meet her eyes. Without a word, she slipped her arm around your waist, steadying you with a gentleness that felt foreign in this place. She guided you through the dim hallway and into the small, cluttered corner she called her own, closing the door softly behind her. 

But now you've left that sanctuary behind, and the phantom warmth of her touch still clings to your arm where she'd finished the bandage. Her eyes had been so full of concern, so heavy with unasked questions and questions she'd held back, perhaps knowing you weren't ready to answer. 

"I know you don't want to talk about it," she'd said, her voice soft, maternal, a knife wrapped in velvet. "But if you need to, I'm here." You'd smiled. You'd thanked her. And then you'd fled, because if you'd stayed one more second you would have shattered into a thousand pieces on her floor, and you couldn't give her that. 

You couldn't give anyone that.

The tears are coming again, hot and humiliating. You just need to get to your room. You just need to lock a door. You just need to breathe. The hallway stretches before you, endless and empty, and you're so focused on keeping yourself together that you don't hear the footsteps behind you. Don't feel the shift in the air.

Until hands clamp onto your arms from behind.

The grip is viselike, bruising, and before you can even draw breath to scream, an arm is around your waist, hauling you backward, and a palm slams over your mouth, cutting off the sound before it can form. You're dragged, feet skidding uselessly against the floor, into a dark room. 

The door clicks shut behind you, and you're thrown to the ground. Your palms scrape against the concrete, the impact jarring your teeth together.

The lights flicker on.

You already know what you're going to see. You already know those boots. Polished to a mirror shine. You look up, and there he is. Kim Yeong-hu. His hands are clasped behind his back, his posture relaxed, almost bored. He looks down at you like you're a stain on the floor, something that needs to be scraped off and disposed of.

You scramble backward, pushing yourself away, and your back hits something solid. Another body. You don't have to look. You already know who it is. The breath on your neck, the rank, sour smell of his skin, the way his fingers find your hair and twine through it, yanking your head back so your throat is exposed. 

Seok-Chan. His face swims into view, looming over you, and his smile is a wound, a wet, gash-like thing that stretches across his face.

"Hi, sweetie," he breathes, and the words are a caress, a violation in themselves.

You shove yourself off the ground, putting distance between them, your back slamming against the lockers. The metal is cold through your shirt, a shock of reality in this nightmare.

"What do you want?" Your voice comes out as a rasp, barely a whisper. You force yourself to look at Yeong-hu, because he's the one who gives the orders, he's the one who but your thought was cut off.

"Are you the residential whore?" Yeong-hu asks, and the question lands like a slap. You stumble, your weight catching on the lockers, the metal rattling behind you. You stare at him, your brain unable to process the words, unable to make sense of them.

"No. What the fuck?!" The words tear out of you, raw and desperate, but the look on his face shuts you up immediately. His expression doesn't change, doesn't flinch. It's the stillness of a snake before it strikes, the terrible patience of something that knows it can take whatever it wants, whenever it wants.

Seok-Chan steps closer. You try to move, but your back is already against the lockers, and your legs feel like they belong to someone else, someone who's already dead. He doesn't stop. He keeps coming, his body crowding yours, and the smell of him is everywhere, invading your lungs, coating your tongue. 

You push against his chest, but he doesn't move. He just laughs, a low, wet sound that vibrates through the space between you.

"Don't play dumb, sweetheart," he says, and his hand comes up to cup your chin, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh of your cheek, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

"It's ugly on you. We all saw it. The way Hyun-su was fucking you in the bathroom when you thought no one was watching. Or the way you stumbled out of the storage room with Eun-hyuk trailing behind you, looking like you'd just been used properly." He lets the words linger, letting them sink in, letting them fester.

"You didn't think anyone would know about that, did you? That's the problem with you sluts. You always think you're so clever. So subtle."

He leans in closer, his mouth brushing against your ear. His breath is hot and damp, and you can feel the shape of his teeth through the whisper of his words. "But we saw everything. We always see everything. And if we know, sweetie, who else do you think knows?"

Your blood turns to ice. The room spins. You look at Yeong-hu, and he's still standing there, hands behind his back, watching with that detached, almost clinical interest. Like he's observing a specimen. Like he's deciding what to do with you.

"Please," you hear yourself say, and the word sounds alien, pathetic, falling from your lips like a surrender. "Please, I didn't—"

"Didn't what?" Seok-Chan cuts you off, his hand moving from your chin to your throat, squeezing. "Didn't spread your legs for anyone with a pulse? Didn't let them use you like the cheap, desperate cunt you are?" His smile widens. 

"That's the thing about girls like you. You can't help yourselves. You pretend you're scared, you pretend you hate it, but we both know the truth."

He draws his thumb down your throat, tracing the line of your jugular. "You love it. You love being reminded of what you are."

Behind him, Yeong-hu watches. His eyes are unreadable, black pools in the harsh light. He takes a step forward, then another, until he's standing beside Seok-Chan, looking down at you like a scientist examining a particularly fascinating insect.

"We have a lot of time here," Yeong-hu says, his voice soft, almost thoughtful. "A lot of time to figure out exactly what you're good for." He tilts his head, and something flickers behind his eyes. Something hungry. "And I think we're going to enjoy discovering all of it."

Seok-Chan's fingers tighten on your throat. Just enough to make you gasp. Just enough to remind you that there is no one coming to save you. No one to hear you scream. No one who cares.

Seok-Chan's hand leaves your throat, and for one brief, insane second, you think it's over. You think he's done with you. His fingers find your hair instead. A fistful of it, yanking your head back so hard your neck cracks, and then you're being slammed face-first onto the table. 

The impact rattles your teeth, sending a shockwave of pain through your skull. 

Your cheek is pressed against the cold, sticky surface, and you can smell years of spilled coffee and cleaning fluid, the ghosts of a thousand lunches. His mouth is on your ear, his breath hot and wet, his teeth grazing the cartilage. 

"Let's see how tight you still are, hmm?" The words are a whisper, intimate, almost loving. Then his teeth sink into your earlobe, and you feel the skin break, feel the warm trickle of blood sliding down the side of your neck.

The tears come then, uncontrollable, streaming down your face and pooling on the table beneath you. Snot runs from your nose, mixing with the tears, and your hair is sticking to your wet cheeks, plastered against your skin like a second layer of shame. 

All you can do is lie there, your body trembling, your mind retreating to some dark corner where you can pretend this isn't happening.

Yeong-hu's face appears in your peripheral vision, his fingers brushing the wet strands of hair from your face with a tenderness that makes your stomach lurch. "You look so pretty like this," he says, and there's something almost reverent in his voice. 

He taps your cheek, a gentle, patronizing pat, and then he's pulling away, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

You feel Seok-Chan's hands on your shorts, pushing them down. They catch at your knees, and you can hear the fabric straining, the cheap denim digging into your skin. "Oh no underwear?" His voice is a delighted purr, and you can practically hear the shit eating grin spreading across his face. 

"Eun-hyuk and Hyun-su have you trained well, don't they? They've already broken you in so nicely for us."

The scrape of a chair across the floor is a sound you'll never forget. Yeong-hu sits at the end of the table, settling in like he's watching a movie, his eyes fixed on you with a predatory stillness that makes your skin crawl.

Seok-Chan's hand presses down on the back of your head, grinding your face into the table. You bite the inside of your cheek, and the taste of copper floods your mouth, warm and metallic. 

The buckle of his belt clinks as he undoes it, and you hear the rasp of fabric as he pushes his pants down.

You feel him. The blunt pressure against you, the awful, stretching intrusion. He pushes in, and it's too much, your body screaming at the violation, and you try to close your eyes, to escape into the darkness behind your lids. 

But your eyes won't close, won't obey, and you're forced to stare at the table, at the pattern of the laminate, at the tiny scratches and stains that will be burned into your memory forever.

Your legs give out. They just stop working, the muscles going slack, but Seok-Chan's weight on top of you keeps you propped up, keeps you impaled on him, and you can't move, can't fight, can't do anything but lie there and take it.

He doesn't wait. He doesn't give you time to adjust. He starts thrusting, hard and brutal, each impact slamming your hips into the edge of the table. 

The metal legs scrape against the floor, the whole table rocking forward and back, and you can only grip the far edge, your knuckles white, your nails digging into the laminate as if you could somehow hold yourself in place, somehow keep yourself from shattering.

You can hear Seok-Chan laughing above you, the sound mixing with the wet, obscene noise of his body against yours. "Cap, are you enjoying yourself there?" he asks, and you realize he's looking at Yeong-hu, that this is all a performance, a show for the man at the end of the table.

His hand leaves your head, and you feel the absence of pressure, a brief, giddy moment of relief. But then his fingers are on your chin, squishing your cheeks together, forcing your face up, forcing you to look at Yeong-hu.

And there he is, the captain, his hand wrapped around himself, stroking in slow, deliberate movements. His eyes are locked on you, dark and hungry, and you try to look away, try to close your eyes, but Seok-Chan's grip is too tight, too painful, and you're forced to watch as Yeong-hu touches himself to the sight of you being used.

"Fuck," you hear him whisper, and the sound of it, the raw desperation in his voice, makes something inside you shrivel and die.

Seok-Chan laughs again, a low, satisfied sound. "She's such a pretty sight, isn't she?" He removes his grip from your face, and you think you might be able to breathe, but then his hand is back on your head, pushing you down into the table, and his other hand is on your hip, gripping so hard you know there will be bruises, purple and black, in the shape of his fingers.

You can feel the bruises forming already, your hips slamming against the table edge with every thrust, the skin splitting, the blood smearing across the laminate. "Shit, I'm close," he grunts, and you try to speak, try to beg, but your voice is gone, stolen by the tears and the pain and the hopelessness.

"Take it," he growls. "Take it, take it."

And you feel him empty into you, a hot, invasive flood that makes your stomach turn. He kisses the back of your head, a fucking parody of tenderness, and then he's pulling out, and you think it's over, you think you can finally escape.

You try to push yourself up, your arms shaking with the effort, but your head is slammed back down onto the table. The impact sends stars across your vision, and you hear Yeong-hu's voice, calm and measured, as if he's discussing the weather. "We're not done yet."

His hand is in your hair, yanking you up off the table, spinning you around. You're facing the ceiling now, the fluorescent lights burning into your eyes, and then your back hits the table, the impact driving the air from your lungs. 

Your head cracks against the surface, and the room spins, tilts, goes black for a second, and you feel yourself slipping, drifting away to someplace safer.

But you can't go. Yeong-hu's hand is on your neck, squeezing just enough to keep you present, keep you aware. He positions himself, and then he's pushing into you, and it's worse than before, because he's bigger, or maybe it's just that you're already so sore, so raw, and every nerve ending in your body is screaming.

Your knee comes up instinctively, trying to push him away, but he hooks his hand under it, pulling you closer, driving himself deeper. And then he starts moving, not slow, not tentative, but like a man starved, like he's been waiting for this his whole life.

He makes sure you watch him. He forces your eyes to his, and you can see yourself reflected in their black depths, a broken, ruined thing, tears and snot running down your face. His breathing is ragged, unsteady, the facade of control slipping.

"You close?" he asks, and it's not a question, it's a demand, an expectation.

You can't answer. You can barely breathe. His hand leaves your neck and moves down, finding your clit, and you try to sit up, trying to get away from his touch. You're too sensitive, too raw, and every touch is a spark of pain that shoots through your body.

But Seok-Chan is there, holding you down, his hand on your shoulder, keeping you pinned to the table. You try to close your legs, to escape him, but Yeong-hu won't allow it, and he's moving faster, harder, chasing something you can't give him.

And then it happens. Your body betrays you. The pressure builds, a terrible, unwanted coil in your stomach, and you can't stop it, can't hold it back. You come, shuddering and broken, a sob tearing from your throat.

"Fuck," Seok-Chan breathes, and the word is all the permission Yeong-hu needs. He drives into you, harder and deeper, and you feel him spill inside you, mixing

The table is cold against your back. The kind of cold that seeps into bone, that stays with you long after you've left the room. You lie there, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks. Three. 

There are three cracks, each one a different length, each one shaped like something you can't quite name. You count them. You count them again. You count them because if you stop counting, you'll have to think about what just happened, and you can't. 

You can't.

He pulls out. The absence of him rushes in, cold and sudden, and you feel it everywhere in the hollow of your chest, in the spaces between your ribs and the raw ache between your thighs. The table is hard beneath you, metal against your spine, and your legs won't close. He tucks himself back into his pants, fixes his clothes, his eyes never leaving your body.

The gesture is so ordinary, so mundane, that it feels like a violation all over again. He looks at you the way you'd look at a piece of furniture you're about to throw out, a final, dismissive glance that says your usefulness has been exhausted.

"Eun-hyuk and Hyun-su were right," he says, and his voice is almost conversational, like he's commenting on the weather. "You really are a treat."

The words don't register at first. They're just sounds, meaningless vibrations in the air. But then they sink in, and you feel something inside you broke.

You push yourself up from the table. Your arms shake. Your legs are dead weight beneath you, unresponsive, like they belong to someone else. You manage to get upright, but your knees buckle and you're on the floor before you've even registered the fall. 

The impact jars through your spine, through your skull, through the places that are already screaming.

Seok-Chan laughs. It's a wet, scraping sound, like gravel being dragged across glass. He steps around the table, his boots clicking on the linoleum, and he's smiling. He's always smiling. You've never seen him without that smile, and it's the worst thing you've ever seen. It doesn't reach his eyes. 

Nothing reaches his eyes.

"What?" The word comes out as a whisper. You don't recognize your own voice.

Yeong-hu crouches down to your level. His face is close to yours. Close enough that you can smell his breath. His eyes are flat, empty, like windows into a room where no one lives. He stares at you for a long moment, and you feel yourself shrinking under that gaze, becoming smaller and smaller until you're just a speck of dust on the floor.

"They gave you to us," Yeong-hu says, and he's smiling now too, a thin, humorless line. "A little peace offering. In exchange for some information about what's going on out there." He tilts his head, studying you."Don't worry. You belong to them. But we can have you whenever we want."

He pats your head. The gesture is almost gentle, almost paternal, and that makes it so much worse. "You're making yourself useful. That's good, right?"

They leave. The door clicks shut. The lock engages. The sound is final, absolute, like a period at the end of a sentence you never wanted to read.

You stay on the floor. You don't move. You can't move. Your body is a thing that has been taken apart and put back together wrong, and you don't know how to make it work again. The ceiling tiles blur. You blink, and tears slide down your cheeks, and you don't even feel them. You don't feel anything.

Time passes. You don't know how much. Minutes. Hours. It doesn't matter. Time is a concept that belongs to people who still have futures. 

You don't have a future. You have this room. You have this floor. You have the bruise forming on your hip where the table edge dug in, and the stinging ache between your legs, and the hollow emptiness in your chest where you used to live.

Eventually, you move. You don't know why. Muscle memory, maybe. Instinct. The part of your brain that's still running on basic programming. 

You pull yourself up. Your legs scream. You ignore them. You pull up your shorts. Fix your hair. Wipe your face. You stand there, trembling, waiting for the next thing to happen.

The door opens.

Eun-hyuk steps in.

He looks at you, takes in your shaking hands, your bruised face, your desperate attempt to look like nothing happened.

"Did you treat them well?" he asks.

The words hit you like a slap. You don't even think. Your hand moves, and then his head is turned, and the sound of the impact echoes through the room.

He doesn't react. He doesn't flinch. He turns his head back, slowly, deliberately, and his eyes have gone black. Pools of darkness that swallow everything, that consume all the light in the room. He stares at you, and you feel something inside you shrivel up and die.

"Unless," he says, his voice soft, almost gentle, "you want me to invite the whole crew to take turns on you" He holds your gaze. You can't look away. You're frozen, pinned like a butterfly to a board.

"You will get that attitude in check."

The words hang in the air between you. "Attitude." As if you had a choice. As if any of this was about attitude. As if you're not just a thing to be used, a body to be passed around, a piece of meat that's still twitching.

He stares into your soul.

And you know.

You know that your body isn't yours. You're not a person anymore. A thing that can be entered and exited at will. The ceiling tiles stare down at you, blank and indifferent. You stand there, trembling, waiting for the next thing.

Because the next thing always comes.

The gas station lights buzzed overhead like dying insects, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. You sat on the curb outside the convenience store, knees pulled to your chest, the concrete cold through your thin dress. The hem had ridden up hours ago but you didn’t care. Your heels were kicked off beside you, one strap broken from when you’d stumbled out of the party. The night air smelled like gasoline, stale beer, and the faint sweetness of your own vanilla perfume clinging desperately to your skin.

You were drunk. The world felt soft and blurry around the edges, but your thoughts stayed painfully sharp. Your best friend’s voice still echoed in your head, the ugly things she’d said, the way her face had twisted when she told you to grow up. You had laughed in her face then, but now the laugh was gone and all that was left was the hollow ache in your chest.

Your phone screen glowed weakly in your lap. Uber still said twelve minutes. You refreshed it again. Still twelve. The little car icon hadn’t moved in forever.

You tipped your head back against the brick wall and closed your eyes. The spinning started immediately so you opened them again. A moth kept throwing itself at the fluorescent light above you, over and over, until it finally fell to the ground twitching. 

Headlights swept across the lot. You didn’t look up at first. Just another stranger stopping for gas or cigarettes or whatever people did at 1:17 a.m.

But the truck stopped right in front of the pumps closest to you. The engine cut off. You felt the shift in the air before you even saw him.

Rafe Cameron stepped out.

He looked the same as always. Tall, broad, expensive hoodie hanging off his shoulders like it cost more than your rent. Hair messy from the wind, eyes already scanning the lot like he owned it. When his gaze landed on you, something flickered across his face. 

He didn’t say anything at first. Just walked over to the pump and started filling up his truck, the numbers on the display clicking higher and higher. You could smell the gasoline mixing with his cologne. It felt familiar in the worst way.

After a minute he glanced over at you again. His voice came out low, rough around the edges like he’d been drinking too.

“What are you doing out here, baby?”

You laughed once. Soft. Bitter. The sound scraped your throat.

 “Waiting for my Uber.”

He nodded slowly, like that made perfect sense. The pump clicked off. He didn’t move to put the nozzle back. Just stood there looking at you, eyes dragging over your bare legs, your smudged mascara, the way your dress clung to you from the humidity.

“You look fucked up,” he said. Not mean. Just honest.

“Yeah,” you whispered. You pulled your knees closer to your chest. “Rough night.”

He leaned against the truck, arms crossed. The vape in his hand glowed red as he took a slow hit. Smoke curled out between his lips and disappeared into the night.

“Fight with your friend again?”

You didn’t answer. Just shrugged. He always knew. Somehow, he always knew when you were like this, when the world felt too heavy, and you wanted someone to make it go away for a little while. Even if that someone was him.

Rafe took another hit. Exhaled slow.

“I can drive you,” he said. Simple. Like it was nothing. “Wherever you’re going. Save the money.”

You shook your head. The movement made the parking lot tilt. 

“It’s fine. Uber’s coming in like… ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes,” he repeated. The corner of his mouth twitched. “You really wanna sit here alone for ten minutes looking like that?”

You didn’t answer. Your fingers found the hem of your dress and twisted it. The fabric was damp from the ground. You felt exposed. Seen. 

He stepped closer. The glow from the station lights caught the sharp line of his jaw, the way his eyes stayed fixed on you.

“Come on,” he said softer. “Get in the truck. I’ll take you home. Or wherever. Doesn’t matter.”

You looked up at him. Really looked. He was offering more than a ride. He always did. Bottles of expensive vodka. Little orange pills that made everything fuzzy and sweet. Weed so strong it knocked you out for hours. Things that made you feel special. Wanted. 

Your phone buzzed in your lap. Uber still said twelve minutes.

You bit your lip. Hard.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Rafe’s face didn’t change much, but you saw the small, satisfied shift in his eyes. He opened the passenger door for you. The truck smelled like him; leather, cologne, and weed. You climbed in slowly, careful not to flash him more than you already had. He closed the door behind you like he was sealing something.

When he got in on the driver’s side, the truck felt smaller. He started the engine, and the low rumble vibrated through the seat.

“Where to?” he asked, glancing over at you.

You shrugged. “Anywhere but here.”

He let out a short breath through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite. His hand squeezed your thigh once, fingers digging in just enough to remind you he was there.

“Anywhere, huh?” he said. “That’s dangerous. You know that, right?”

You didn’t answer. You just watched the road, the way the yellow lines disappeared under the truck. Rafe took another slow hit from his vape before he spoke again.

“I got some people at the house,” he continued. Casual. Like it was nothing. “Topper, Kelce, couple girls. Nothing crazy. Just drinking. Smoking. You should come.”

You turned your head slightly. The dashboard lights caught the sharp line of his jaw, the way his eyes stayed on the road but kept flicking back to you. You knew what hanging out meant with Rafe. Bottles on the counter. Lines cut neatly on the marble. Music loud enough to drown out the thoughts in your head. 

You should have said no. You had work tomorrow. You had told yourself you were done chasing this feeling. But the thought of going home alone, sitting in your quiet room with nothing but your own thoughts and the memory of your best friend’s angry voice… it felt worse than anything.

So you didn’t say no.

Instead, you looked over at him and whispered, “Okay.”

Rafe’s mouth curved into that small, satisfied smirk he got when he knew he had you. His hand slid higher on your thigh, thumb brushing the hem of your dress.

“Yeah?” he said, voice dropping lower. “Good. Because I wasn’t really asking.”

The truck sped up just a little. You leaned your head back against the seat and closed your eyes. The spinning started again, so you opened them. Rafe’s hand stayed on your leg the whole time, heavy and warm, like an anchor. 

After a few minutes, he spoke again, casual, like he was talking about the weather.

“You must have really had a shit night. That friend of yours always acts like she’s better than everybody?”

You nodded once. Your throat felt tight.

 “Yeah. We got into it. She said some stuff.”

Rafe made a low sound in his throat. 

“Fuck her. She doesn’t know shit about you. Not like I do.”

His fingers flexed on your thigh. Not painful. Just enough to make you feel it.

“You know you’re better off without her, right?” he continued. “All those Pogues do is drag you down. Make you think you need to be some sad little victim. You don’t need that. You got me.”

You stayed quiet. The words felt too heavy to argue with right now. Rafe took it as agreement.

The rest of the drive passed in a haze. You kept your eyes on the passing trees, the way the dark blurred into streaks of black and silver. Every so often, Rafe’s hand would drift higher, thumb slipping under the hem of your dress, brushing bare skin. You didn’t stop him. There was something comforting about the way he touched you. 

When you pulled up to the Cameron house, the lights were already on. Music thumped low from inside. Rafe parked in the circular driveway and killed the engine. For a second, he just sat there, looking at you in the dark.

“You sure you’re good?” he asked. Softer this time.

You nodded. Your fingers found the back of your neck again, pulling gently at the strands there. The sting helped. It always did.

“Yeah,” you lied. “I’m good.”

He leaned over and kissed your temple. Slow. Lingering. His lips were warm against your skin.

“Alright. Let’s go inside.”

You followed him up the wide front steps. The door was already unlocked. Topper was sprawled on the big leather couch, laughing at something on his phone. Kelce was pouring drinks at the kitchen island. Two girls you didn’t recognize were sitting on the counter, legs swinging, eyes glassy and bright.

Rafe’s hand stayed on your lower back as he guided you in. 

“Look who I found,” he said, voice loud enough to cut through the music. “She was sitting outside the gas station.”

Topper looked up and grinned. “No shit. Rough night?”

You forced a small smile. “Something like that.”

One of the girls handed you a red cup without asking. The liquid inside was dark and sweet. You took a long sip. It burned going down, but the burn felt good. Familiar. You chased it with another sip, then another. The alcohol mixed with whatever was already in your system and made the edges of the room soften just a little more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The music pulsed low and heavy through the house, bass vibrating up through the floor and into your bones. Everything felt soft and distant now, like you were floating just above your own body. You were on Rafe’s lap on the big leather couch, your dress riding high on your thighs, his arm locked around your waist like a seatbelt. His chest rose and fell against your back, warm and steady. You could feel his heartbeat, fast and erratic from whatever he’d done earlier.

You didn’t remember how you got here exactly. One minute you were standing near the kitchen, the next Rafe had pulled you down onto him without asking, murmuring something about how you looked better close. You were too drunk to argue. The pill from earlier had melted the edges of everything into something warm and blurry. Your head felt heavy. Your thoughts moved slow, like swimming through thick honey.

Rafe’s hand rested high on your thigh, fingers slipping under the hem of your dress every so often. He wasn’t hiding it. Topper glanced over once and smirked but said nothing. One of the girls raised her eyebrows but looked away when Rafe stared at her. He kept feeding you drinks. Every time your cup got low he’d take it from your hand, refill it himself, and press it back to your lips like you were something he owned. “Drink,” he’d say quietly, almost sweet. You did. The liquor burned less each time. Everything burned less.

You were so drunk you barely registered the way his fingers kept moving higher, brushing bare skin. It felt far away. Like it was happening to someone else.

The brunette girl sitting on the arm of the couch tilted her head and looked at you with a lazy, half-drunk smile. “You always look kinda sad, even when you’re smiling. Resting sad girl face or something?”

You laughed it off, the sound weak and floaty. “Yeah… that’s just my face.”

The words barely left your mouth before you felt Rafe’s whole body go rigid behind you. His hand stopped moving on your thigh. The air around him changed, like the temperature dropped.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just sat there for a long second, breathing steady against your back. Then he stood up slowly, lifting you with him like you weighed nothing. His grip on your arm was firm but not rough. Not yet. He guided you toward the kitchen with a hand on your lower back, smiling at the group like everything was normal.

“Come on, baby,” he said casually. “Let’s get you another drink.”

The others went back to talking, but you could feel their eyes on you. Curious. Watching.

In the kitchen, Rafe pulled you around the island, still in full view of the living room. He kept one hand on your lower back, the other reaching for the small mirror on the counter. A thin white line was already cut neat across it. He didn’t look at you at first. Just stared down at the powder like he was thinking.

“You embarrassed me out there,” he said quietly. His voice was low, controlled, the way it got when he was really angry but didn’t want anyone else to know. “Laughing like that. Looking all sad in front of my friends. Acting like you don’t want to be here.”

You tried to focus on his face, but the room kept tilting. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean-”

“Shh.” He pressed a finger to your lips. Gentle. Warning. “You’re gonna fix it. Right now. In front of everyone. Show them you’re happy to be here. Show them you’re here with me.”

He turned you toward the mirror. His hand stayed on the back of your neck, not pushing hard, just holding you there. Firm. Unyielding. You could feel the others watching from the couch. No one said anything. No one stopped him.

“I don’t… I can’t,” you whispered. Your voice sounded far away. “I’m already too fucked up.”

Rafe leaned in close, lips brushing your ear so only you could hear. His breath was hot against your skin.

“You can,” he said softly. “And you will. Because if you don’t, I’m gonna take you upstairs and remind you why you should have. And I won’t be nice about it.”

His fingers flexed on the back of your neck. Not painful. Not yet. Just enough to make you understand.

You leaned down. The burn hit sharp and chemical. Your head snapped back. The room spun harder. Rafe’s hand stayed on your neck the whole time, steady, like he was proud of you. Like he owned you.

“Good,” he murmured. “That’s my girl.”

He turned you around slowly, pulling you back against his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist again, tight. He kissed the side of your head in front of everyone, soft and sweet, as if nothing had happened.

“Smile,” he whispered against your hair. “Act like you’re happy.”

You forced your lips into a smile. It felt like plastic.

The group went back to talking like nothing had happened. But you could feel their eyes on you. Curious. Pitying. Amused.

Rafe kept you close the rest of the night. Every time you tried to pull away even a little, his fingers dug in harder. His hand stayed under your dress, higher now, touching you openly while he laughed with Topper like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You were so drunk you barely registered it.

But somewhere deep down, under all the haze and numbness, you felt it.

The slow, quiet humiliation.

The way he was marking you.

The way everyone saw it.

And no one did anything to stop it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The music had been turned down low, nothing but a slow bass thumping through the walls now. topper sprawled on the couch scrolling his phone, Kelce mixing one last drink at the island, and the two girls whose names you kept forgetting laughing softly about something on their screens. 

You were still leaning against Rafe near the front door, head heavy, legs unsteady. The silence felt louder than the music had. You looked up at him, voice slurred and tired.

“Can you take me home?” you asked. “Please. I’m really fucked up.”

Rafe nodded right away, an easy smile sliding into place for the others still lingering by the door. “Yeah, of course. Let’s get you home.”

Topper clapped him on the back as he left. “See you later, man. Take care of her.”

Rafe smiled that perfect Kook smile. “Always do.”

The second the door shut and they were gone, the smile disappeared.

His hand tightened on your lower back, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He didn’t move toward the truck. He just stood there in the quiet foyer, breathing through his nose, staring at the closed door like he was trying to decide something.

You shifted on your feet, the room tilting slightly. “… you said you’d take me home.”

He turned to you slowly. His eyes were dark, glassy from everything he’d done tonight. The polite mask was completely gone.

“You embarrassed me,” he said. Voice low. Flat. Dangerous. “In front of my friends. Sitting there looking all depressed like I dragged you there against your will. Laughing at that bitch’s joke like it was funny. Like you didn’t even want to be there with me.”

You blinked slowly, trying to catch up. The words felt far away. Your head was still spinning from the drinks and the pill. “I wasn’t… that’s just my face. I was tired. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“Shut up.” His voice cut through yours, sharp and cold. “You think I didn’t see it? The way you were acting? Like some sad fucking charity case I picked up off the street. You made me look weak.”

You tried to step back, but his hand on your lower back kept you there. Your stomach twisted. The emptiness from earlier ached in a dull, hollow way. You felt sick. Scared. Confused. You didn’t understand why he was so angry. You had done everything he wanted. You had smiled. You had taken the line. You had let him touch you in front of everyone.

“I said I didn’t mean to,” you mumbled, voice thick with alcohol. “That’s just my face. Why the fuck do you care what one person said?”

Rafe’s jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jump. His hand slid from your lower back to your arm, gripping hard.

“Because you’re with me,” he said, voice dropping lower. “You’re supposed to act like you’re happy to be with me. Not like some miserable bitch who doesn’t want to be there.”

You tried to pull your arm away but he held tighter. The irritation was starting to burn through the haze. You were drunk. Really drunk. And the more he kept going, the more defensive you felt.

“You’re not my man,” you snapped, words slurring together. “I’m not about to argue with you about this. I said I didn’t mean to. Get out my face, Rafe. I’m calling an Uber.”

You reached for your phone in your bag, fingers clumsy. The room kept tilting. You just wanted to go home. You just wanted this night to be over.

Rafe’s eyes flashed. Something ugly and wounded crossed his face. He snatched the phone from your hand and threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a loud crack.

“You’re not calling shit,” he snarled. “You think you can talk to me like that? After I let you come here? After I gave you everything tonight? All that and now you’re acting like you can just leave?”

He grabbed your face hard, fingers digging into your jaw, forcing you to look at him. His eyes were wild, red-rimmed, furious.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” he hissed. “You don’t get to act sad in front of my friends and then act like you didn’t do anything wrong.”

You tried to pull away but he was stronger. “Rafe, stop-”

He slapped you.

Hard.

The sound cracked through the quiet house. Your head snapped to the side. Pain exploded across your cheek. You stumbled back, hand flying up to your face. Tears spilled down your cheeks instantly.

Before you could recover, he grabbed you again, slamming you against the wall. Your back hit hard. The air rushed out of your lungs. He was on you in seconds, body pinning you there, one hand gripping your wrists above your head.

“You made me look weak,” he snarled, face inches from yours. “You made me look like I can’t even keep my own girl happy. Like I’m forcing you to be here.”

He ripped your dress down the front. The fabric tore loudly. Cool air hit your skin. You gasped, trying to twist away, but he was too heavy.

“Rafe, please-”

“Shut up.” He shoved your dress up around your waist, yanking your underwear down roughly. “You don’t get to talk. You don’t get to pretend like you didn’t do anything wrong.”

He pushed into you hard, no warning, no gentleness. You cried out, the sound muffled against his shoulder. He fucked you rough and angry, hips slamming into yours, one hand still pinning your wrists, the other gripping your jaw so you had to look at him.

“You embarrassed me,” he panted, voice breaking between thrusts. “You always embarrass me. You think you’re better than me? You think you can sit there looking miserable and I won’t do anything about it?”

Tears streamed down your face. The pain mixed with the alcohol and the pill made everything feel distant and too sharp at the same time. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe right. All you could do was take it.

He finished inside you with a low groan, hips stuttering. For a second, he stayed there, breathing hard against your neck. Then he collapsed against you, still inside you, arms wrapping around your body like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“You made me do that,” he whispered, voice cracking. Tears wet your shoulder. “You always make me like this. Why do you always make me like this?”

He held you tighter, crying softly into your neck while you stood there shaking, dress torn, body aching, the weight of him crushing you against the wall.

You didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

You just stared at the wall behind him, fingers twitching like they wanted to pull at your hair, while Rafe leaned against you and whispered the same thing over and over.

“You made me do that. You made me.”

And the house stayed quiet.

Like nothing had happened at all.

…………….

⭑

“Oz…”

No more words needed to be said, your tone saying it all, and your boyfriend turned to you with that look he knew you hated. He shrugged his shoulders at you, brows furrowed in a way as if to ask what he did, and you couldn’t hold back your sigh. There was a brief stretch of silence between you as you both were surrounded by the noise that was Gotham’s nightlife.

“You said you just needed to drop something off with the twins,” you reminded him, crossing your arms over your chest.

Your boyfriend let out a sigh of his own at the look on your face, and you stood your ground. It was his first night off in almost two months, the restaurant reservations were only going to hold for so long, and you weren’t exactly dressed for the likes of the Iceberg Lounge. You watched the heavyset man move towards you, reaching for an arm but you jerked away from his touch. He didn’t need to say what you knew he was going to say; you could see it all over his face.

“We’ll just be ten minutes, alright?”

“Oz!”

“You know I can’t just swing by without showing my face to Carmine. I’ll pop in, update him on a few things, drop off the stuff and we’ll be on our way.”

He made it sound so simple, but you knew better.

Carmine Falcone was not a simple man. What little you knew of him came from Oz and whispers on the street, but you knew enough. When he wasn’t treating your boyfriend like some lap dog, the kingpin was making money from mysterious sources and running the kind of club you never had the taste for. Funnily enough, the one night you decided to go to said club, you met Oz.

It was simultaneously the best and worst thing to happen to you.

“...and what am I supposed to do while you’re rubbing elbows with your asshole of a boss?”

The question was barely past your lips when Oz was harshly shushing you, frowning at you like you’d lost your mind, but you didn’t care. Carmine Falcone—and anyone listening for him—didn’t scare you. You recognized how stupid that probably was, but it was the truth. He was just another big man with money who threw it at people to feel important.

“What are you? Crazy?” Oz wondered, leaning in and lowering his voice. “You can talk like that around me, but we’re not in my apartment, sweetheart. You show the proper respect around here.”

You bit your tongue at that, narrowing your eyes at the man before you and thinking to yourself that of all the reasons to dislike Mr. Falcone, this was at the top of your list.

You really cared about Oz for a whole lot of reasons independent of his money. You’d always had a thing for the underdogs, and Oz was certainly that, but he was also driven. In this city that chewed people up and spat them out for fun, Oz was always determined to make something out of nothing and refused to let this city break him. It was admirable, really, and it made you have so much respect for him.

…but when he got around Mr. Falcone…

You really resisted the urge to roll your eyes, hating how much of a bitch he became in the presence of the other man. You got it to an extent. The man was his boss and he needed to be listened to, you understood that perfectly well, but your boyfriend’s entire demeanor seemed to change in his presence. He always turned into someone you hardly recognized—a pathetic ass-kissing excuse of a man just yearning for Mr. Falcone’s approval—and if you didn’t love him so much, you would’ve left a long time ago by how much it disgusted you.

“I’ll sit you in my office,” he finally answered with a shrug. “You can hang out for a while and overlook the club in my absence.”

There was a hint of amusement in his voice, but it didn’t latch itself onto you, and Oz waved you off.

“Lighten up,” he added, tone much softer now as he pressed a kiss to your forehead before guiding you both towards the door.

Only one of the twins was at the door tonight, and you threw him a tight smile as he greeted you both. Since that night you’d met Oz, you’d only been inside of the club two other times and both times had you sitting in Oz’s space while he discussed whatever with Mr. Falcone and Kenzie. There were worse spaces to be, you supposed—Oz’s office being all windows with a bar that allowed you to watch the dancers below—but he knew how much you detested this entire scene.

Tonight was no different.

He gave countless apologies and fixed you up a drink before disappearing with a kiss. You sipped on it while looking down at the club goers below you, once again having the same mental conversation with yourself that you had every other month. Oz was determined to secure better for himself, sure, but he didn’t seem keen on securing it outside of this lifestyle. He loved this lifestyle, and you were once again seriously contemplating if this was how you saw the rest of your life playing out.

As you waited for your boyfriend, ten minutes turned into twenty which then turned into thirty. You shouldn’t have been surprised when an entire hour passed, and by then, you were too upset to even produce frustrated tears. You’d long finished your first drink and was currently on number whatever when Oz finally showed his face. A scathing remark was on your tongue when he opened his mouth before you could.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he apologized, the rushed words making his accent pop. “...but I gotta reschedule.”

You blinked with a shake of your head, hand tightening on the glass in your hand.

“What?”

That was the last thing you’d been expecting.

Oz placed a hand on your arm just as you stood.

“I gotta do something for Carmine and–.”

“Are you kidding me? Oz!”

“It’s important–!”

“It’s always important! This is the first night off you’ve had in weeks. This night was supposed to be about us, and you let me get all dressed up just to sit up here for an hour and now you tell me–.”

“Look,” Oz harshly cut you off, nostrils flaring as he stared you down. “I don’t like it, but I got no choice, alright?”

You looked away from him, finally feeling like you could cry.

“Something came up, and I gotta do this for him…”

You finished your drink, slamming it down and searching for your purse.

“It shouldn’t take too long, but I gotta leave, now, so Carmine’s driver is going to take you home…”

“Excuse me?” you quietly said, slowly turning to face him. “Carmine’s driver is going to take me home–y-you can’t even take me home?” 

You wildly gestured to him, and Oz dismissed you.

“I don’t got time for this. Grab your things and let me walk you outside. He’s waiting…”

Oz’s words died in the air as you hurried past him, not sticking around to hear anymore excuses or reasons as to why he couldn’t take you on your date or at the very least drive you home. You were sure your boyfriend had a few choice words for you, but the loud music drowned him out and it’s not like you were sticking by him to actually hear what he had to say. Your heels stomped against the floor as you hurried to the door, and a bitter taste filled your mouth as you remembered that this was the first time you’d worn them.

You had imagined Oz taking them off at the end of the night.

Now the thought made you laugh.

“I’m sorry, alright? I’ll make it up to you, I promise…”

The words that reached your ears were familiar—and empty—and you only nodded and evenly hummed at every one.

“Yeah…sure, yeah…no I get it, I understand…”

You did understand, but that didn’t mean you had to like it. Your boyfriend apologized a few more times before telling you to give him a kiss. You didn’t deny him, but if he noticed how robotic it was, he didn’t comment on it. You’d met Mr. Falcone’s driver a handful of times, and you gave the familiar man a tight smile as he opened the backseat door for you. Oz was peeling out of the parking lot before you could even get in, and as you stared after his car, you had the strangest urge to look up.

You did.

The windows of the Shoreline Lofts above the club were lit up, and you could see a couple of men moving around inside. You briefly wondered if that was where Oz always had to go when he needed to see Mr. Falcone. The moving figures didn’t hold your interest but instead the still figure standing just on the other side of one of the windows did. It wasn’t hard to guess that he was staring down into the parking lot, and something in you told you that the seemingly tall man was the very same who ruined your night.

With a huff, you slid into the expensive car, taking off your painful heels the moment the door was shut.

Things between you and Oz were a little icy.

Both of you held some blame but you stood by the opinion that Oz held most of it. More apologies came in the form of flowers and jewelry, but you were learning in real time that the allure and grandeur of those things start to lose their luster after a while. You loved him, but every day you wondered if it was enough. There was no telling when Oz’s next day off would be to properly make it up to you, but if the way things were going was any indication, you surmised that it was going to be a while.

Mr. Falcone had Oz running up and down the streets of Gotham like your boyfriend was the one actually running the city. On the days where you even saw him—which were becoming far and few in between—the interactions felt like they lasted only minutes. He always needed to go, always had something to drop off or pick up, or something to handle.

“Just come with me tonight,” he said to you one day. “We barely see each other, and I know you think I haven’t noticed or don’t care, but I promise you I do.”

“I don’t know…”

He knew how you felt about that place, and it’s not like he was asking you to sit in his office this time—Oz was talking about the 44 Below. You’d heard whispers of a club within the club that was the Iceberg Lounge, but you had never given the validity of it much thought. After all, it wasn’t your crowd nor something you concerned yourself with. One of your friends had referred to it as a mob hangout, and you’d laughed in her face then.

Since meeting Oz though, the idea became less funny to you.

While you may not have known what Mr. Falcone did exactly, the last few years certainly made you less naive about how Gotham really worked and how men like him really stayed above water. There were days when you struggled not to linger on Oz’s part in that food chain. 

The man in question sat beside you on his bed, taking your hand.

“You’re still pissed about the other week, I ain’t stupid, but until I can really make it up to you, let me do what I can,” he offered, and you sighed. “I miss you, and you miss me…yeah?”

You reluctantly nodded, and Oz bent his head, trying to catch your eye.

“Whadaya say?”

You threw your hands up with a slow smile, and Oz let out that haughty laugh of his you’d grown to love. He was doing what he could to spend more time with you, and even if you didn’t completely agree with the way he was going about it, it mattered to you that he was trying. Besides, it wasn’t like you were opposed to the idea of becoming more familiar with exactly what Oz did for a living.

That was how you found yourself in the 44 Below for the first time, lips pressed together and eyes taking it all in as you observed the kind of men you never expected to find in a place like this. Oz’s talk with you on the way here was helpful, yes, but it still hadn’t fully prepared you for the full scale of corruption in this city.

“People do what they gotta do to make a living here. You understand?” he’d said, glancing at you. “Don’t stare too long or make a big deal about whoever you might see down there.”

That was what he’d said to you, but it was still quite the shock. Police officers were one thing, but the politicians that ran this city were something else entirely. Your hand was tight in your boyfriend’s as he led you through the dimly lit club, this atmosphere much quieter and more intimate than what was going on upstairs. 

Oz got you a drink and sat you down in a corner and told you he’d be right back.

You were used to being seen as “Oz’s girl”, and if you were being completely honest with yourself, you didn’t hate it, but the weight it seemed to hold in the 44 Below was different from the Iceberg Lounge. Most of the people upstairs were casual party goers who just knew Oz as someone managing the club and you as his girlfriend. Down here though…

You were the girlfriend of the man next to Carmine Falcone, and it was the first time that it felt like it carried a significant amount of weight. Most people didn’t even make eye contact with you, and if they did, it either didn’t last for long or was accompanied with a nervous smile...as if they didn’t want to get on your bad side. Strangely enough, it didn’t make you feel powerful or anything of the sort but instead…lonely—isolated. You didn’t think you liked it, but before you could linger on that feeling for a few moments more, your isolation was breached.

“What was Oz thinking sticking you in this corner by yourself?”

The familiar voice made your skin grow cold.

Carmine Falcone was a face you hadn’t stared directly into for a few months, now, and truthfully, you could’ve gone a few more. He didn’t scare you, but that didn’t change the fact that something about him was not only intimidating but constantly reminded you that he wasn’t some warm and fuzzy kind of guy. When you tore your eyes away from the bar, you weren’t surprised to find those dark shades covering his eyes even in this lighting.

You were sure you’d never seen him without them.

He towered over you as he stood at your table, and you almost wanted to stand too just to make this interaction feel more equal. The few times you’d been in Mr. Falcone’s presence, you’d never felt quite equal, and you didn’t know if it was the huge gap in income or authority or just the way he coolly stared at you from behind those shades. In this moment, you reminded yourself to stop being so hard on Oz. You didn’t even work for the man, and he could easily make you feel so small, so you didn’t like to imagine the headspace he put Oz in when his money was on the line.

Reminding yourself that he spoke to you, you cleared your throat.

“He said he’d be right back,” you replied.

You swore that Mr. Falcone wore the hint of a smile on his lips, and you liked it less than the stony expression that was almost always on his face. For a few seconds, it felt like he was privy to some joke you weren’t in on, and you glanced around, feeling more isolated than ever as everyone in the club absolutely refused to look in your direction now.

“He’s upstairs handling something for me,” he told you. “You shouldn’t be waiting for him down here.”

When Mr. Falcone gestured to someone, you shouldn’t have been surprised when Kenzie seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

“Get her up to the loft,” the other man told him, a frown on his face behind those shades. “She doesn’t need to be down here with the rest of these people.”

The way he said those last two words made you feel like he looked down on the very men and women working for him and supplying him with business, and that made you frown too. However, once you realized what he’d said to Kenzie before that, it clicked for you that you weren’t going to the club upstairs but instead the Shoreline Lofts, a place you figured was always off limits for you.

You felt it was best not to question it as Kenzie gestured for you to join him, and as you neared him with your drink in hand, you didn’t miss the way Mr. Falcone refused to move, forcing your shoulder to brush against his chest.

“Don’t be a stranger,” your boyfriend’s boss said from behind your back.

You couldn’t even find it in yourself to throw him a fake smile in response.

You stared out over Gotham as your boyfriend hit another billiard ball, the sound drowning out the low conversation he and Mr. Falcone were having. You didn’t particularly care to know what they were talking about, but you had to admit that your curiosity had long been piqued along with your frustration at how long this conversation seemed to last. 

One errand turned into an entirely separate dropoff which then turned into a conversation about the details of said dropoff that had long shifted into something else entirely. You reminded yourself that you were here because Oz wanted to try and be around you more, and you accepted that you would much rather be here than at his place wondering where he was at three o’clock in the morning and if he was safe.

He was trying, and that’s what mattered.

When you glanced over, you saw that Oz had his back to you while his boss stood on the other side of the pool table. Like always, those dark shades hid his eyes from view, and while he was engaged in a conversation with Oz, you couldn’t shake the feeling that his gaze was on you. It was a strange thought to have—at least, it was a strange thought to have.

You’d never been around Mr. Falcone as much as you had lately, and you’d found yourself questioning if he’d always been so inquisitive and hovering. Maybe those words were too strong because it wasn’t as if the other man was grilling you every time you were in his presence, but every now and then a question about your relationship with Oz was thrown at you or he’d ask about your job and how you liked it there. You and Mr. Falcone were only a step away from strangers, and he didn’t strike you as the type of man to engage in friendly chats.

“He don’t mean nothing by it, sweetheart,” Oz told you one night. “You’re around a lot more, and he’s just trying to feel you out, you know.”

You had hummed, not quite understanding that, and that was what you’d told him.

“I mean we’ve been together for what? A few years now? I’ve been to his home, I’ve had casual chats with his daughter, you don’t think it’s a little late to start wondering if I can be trusted?”

“It’s different now,” was all your boyfriend said. “You’re around the business more. It’s not the same.”

His words had silenced you that night, your mind instead going to what ‘the business’ entailed and why your sudden presence around it would change things. It once again sparked questions about your relationship with Oz, and what you wanted for your future. You liked the perks that came with his line of work just fine, but you knew better than anyone that the novelty wouldn’t last. A day would come where you’d question if it was truly worth it, and you didn’t want to be in too deep when you finally had that conversation.

Your name was already associated with Oz in certain circles, and your frequent appearances at the 44 Below these days didn’t help. When you came and left with Oz, it was fine. You loved him and always felt safe with him, so you learned to remain unbothered by the way people looked at you when you were next to him. Mr. Falcone was a whole other story…

You detested the nights when Oz got held up, Kenzie being the one to greet you and escort you out or in. Kenzie you didn’t mind all that much, but sometimes it was your boyfriend’s boss instead, and you couldn’t ignore the way you were treated when you were next to him even if you wanted to. You didn’t like the way people eyed you whenever Mr. Falcone guided you to that elevator, his footsteps mirroring your own in a way that made you feel like you were being stalked.

They looked like they didn’t know whether to suck up to you or avoid you at all costs, your proximity to the kingpin bringing out conflicting feelings of fear and possible opportunities.

“You’ll get used to it.”

That was what Mr. Falcone had said to you one night in that elevator, and you hadn’t known what he meant at first, but it clicked somehow with one look at his face. You remembered how unnerved you’d felt that he’d been able to read your thoughts on your face so clearly that night. You hadn’t liked it, at all, looking ahead just as he spoke again.

“The nice jewelry and fancy purses…” you’d tightened your hold on your handbag at that. “...aren’t the only perks that come with this line of work.”

You’d kept your gaze on the elevator doors.

“People start to fear you, respect you, and while you don’t seem like the kind of woman who’d be into that, you’d be surprised at what people will do for you solely for some proximity to you in some way. Anything to get ahead…”

He’d moved closer to you while he said this, and you couldn’t step away fast enough as the elevator stopped, Mr. Falcone’s arm reaching out to make sure the doors stayed open. Fighting to settle your mind, you quietly thanked him, thinking to yourself that you couldn’t get to Oz’s side fast enough. 

You’d never cared for Mr. Falcone before, but getting to be around him more had the opposite effect one would think it’d have. The more you got to know him, the less you wanted to be around him, and you told yourself that it was for the obvious reasons. His business was shady and he treated Oz like crap and there was probably even a small element of danger in his presence, but no matter how much you tried to ignore it, he didn’t feel dangerous like Oz was dangerous. 

Whenever you were alone with him, it felt painfully obvious that you were a woman and he was a man, and you knew deep down that it stood out to him too.

“Carmine says hello.”

You barely glanced up from the magazine in your lap as Oz’s words reached you, your boyfriend hanging up the phone. You only swallowed, flipping the page and listening as Oz limped towards the kitchen. You tried not to linger on what he said, but pretty soon the words and pictures before you began to go out of focus and you closed the flimsy book.

Oz’s attempts to spend more time with you by whatever means necessary unfortunately resulted in you spending more time with his boss. Granted, it wasn’t like you were around the man for hours, but you were seeing him more often than you ever had before. If he wasn’t there in the loft with Oz then he was greeting you in the 44 Below before making Kenzie escort you upstairs while he and Oz discussed business. You shuddered to think of his attempts at small talk and pleasantries, thinking to yourself how Oz couldn’t see how strange it was that Carmine Falcone was sending his regards to you through Oz.

Your gaze traveled to the vase of flowers on the dining room table, a gift of apology from Oz’s boss to you for keeping your boyfriend so late one night. You’d eyed it for what felt like hours when it was delivered to your door, and Oz’s answer to your question that night hadn’t satisfied you.

“His driver took you home, sweetheart, and you’re with me. Why wouldn’t he know where you live?”

The man may not have scared you, but that didn’t mean you relished the thought of being so comfortable and casual with him. Had you known that tagging along with Oz more would birth whatever this new development was, you would’ve never agreed to it, but as it were, you felt like it was too late to do anything about it. You feared that seeing Oz less wouldn’t change this new trajectory.

Of course, had you known how things would eventually end up, you would’ve long resigned yourself to never seeing Oz again, at all.

You should’ve known that something was off when Oz came by completely quiet one day. He never hesitated to jump right into whatever happened at the club that you just had to hear about. The change was noticeable, and when you’d asked him if he was alright, he’d given you a solid ‘yeah’. You’d tried to ignore the look on his face and his strange demeanor, but you knew the truth.

Oz was lying.

“Sweetheart…”

His voice was softer than normal from over your shoulder as you cleaned off your bed, and when you looked at him, he didn’t look like his normal cocky self. He looked almost…defeated. It was a strange thing to witness because Oz was never defeated even when he ‘lost’. You loved that about him, but at the moment, he seemed so unrecognizable. 

“We gotta talk.”

He jerked his head, and although a little unsure and nervous, you sat down on the edge of your bed. Your boyfriend stood in the doorway for what felt like too long before eventually limping towards you, hesitating a bit and then sitting down too. The length of the silence made you more uneasy, and although you and Oz had been having a few problems lately, you were suddenly hit with the possibility of him breaking up with you.

You swallowed, voicing your thoughts.

“Are you breaking up with me?”

Oz frowned almost as soon as you said it, and that relieved you.

“No, no, doll, never that,” he hurried to reassure you, and you let out a sigh of relief.

However, you wondered if that was premature because nothing about Oz’s demeanor was comforting.

“Look…Carmine is offering me a chance to move up…”

His words made you blink, and you eventually nodded.

“...okay. That’s good, right? That’s what you want…?”

Oz let out a sharp laugh.

“Hell, yeah, it’s what I want,” he told you. “More money, more authority, and I’ll officially be his right hand man. Hell, the way he’s painting it, there’s a chance I might take over things eventually instead of that lazy son of his…”

You wanted to give Oz a small and encouraging smile, but a heavy ‘but’ lingered in the air. This sounded like everything Oz ever wanted, and you wanted to be happy for him, but at the moment, he didn’t even seem happy for himself. You reached for his arm, gently squeezing it.

“Do you think I don’t approve or…?”

Your boyfriend shook his head, and you only grew more confused.

“I don’t got the position yet.”

You stared at him, and you watched as Oz rubbed his forehead, and you were sure you could never recall a time you’d seen him so…antsy. You felt safe around Oz because he was always so sure, so confident, and now he was none of those things, and it was a strange place to be in for you.

“...but that’s where you come in.”

“Me?”

Those words threw you all the way off, and a feeling of dread settled in your stomach as Oz took your hand.

“Carmine…”

You studied Oz’s face, trying to decipher what he was going to say before he said it.

“He likes you, sweetheart.”

You stared at him and he stared at you.

“I…don’t follow. What does that have to do with–?”

“Do you want me to get this job?”

You sighed, choosing to be truthful while being careful with your words.

“I want what you want, and I know you really want this, so…yeah,” you honestly told him.

Your boyfriend slowly nodded at your answer, and you watched him swipe his tongue between his lips.

“Look, I’m not saying how far you have to go, but…Carmine likes you, and if you just make yourself available to–.”

Oz cut himself off as you jumped to your feet, your eyes comically wide and lips parted as you stared at him in shock. Understanding finally dawned on you, and you looked at Oz as if he’d lost his mind. That dreaded feeling in your stomach had morphed into full blown nausea, and you were positive you were going to be sick.

When he said that Carmine liked you, you didn’t think… You’d thought it was his way of saying the man was no longer suspicious of you, that you were trusted now and he’d stop asking so many questions and paying so much attention to you. Not once had it ever been a possibility to you that he meant…

You opened and closed your mouth.

“Is this a joke? Oz, tell me you’re not serious,” you whispered. 

Your boyfriend’s face twisted into a deep frown, that scary frown that you hated.

“You think this is easy for me? Huh?” he threw at you, joining you and standing too.

“Oh my God, you’re serious,” you breathed, feeling like you’d gotten the wind knocked out of you as you looked away.

“This is a big deal for me,” Oz told you. “Do you know how much this could change things? I’m not asking you to…sleep with the guy…”

You faced him again, expression twisted into disbelief at what you were hearing.

“Just get dolled up like you do and let ‘em treat you. Make him feel real special, you know,” he waved his hands, and you blinked back tears.

“Oz,” you hissed, disgusted. “I am your girlfriend. Not some girl at the club who charges half a grand per person to get passed around. I am your girlfriend!”

“You don’t think I know that? Huh? Wh-what you wanted me to tell Carmine no? Huh?”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing, and you tearfully looked away.

“I told him I’d think about it…”

“I can’t believe this,” you choked out, rushing out of your bedroom.

You could hear your boyfriend’s footsteps behind you.

“Carmine Falcone is not the kind of guy you just say no to, sweetheart. You think this is something I’d ask you to do all willy nilly?”

You paced around your apartment, actually feeling like you were going to be sick as Oz continued to talk, as he continued to plead his case for why you should basically whore yourself out to his boss.

“...and Carmine could have any girl he wants. If he wanted some easy piece of ass, there’s girls at the club for that,” you heard him say, his voice sounding muffled by the loud ringing in your ear. “...but he expressed interest in you.”

“...because he’s sick! How do you not see that, Oz?”

Your boyfriend shook his head at you, a sneer on his lips and a scathing remark on his tongue no doubt when you beat him to it.

“He’s dangling this position in front of your face and telling you it can be yours so long as you let him humiliate you and treat me like I'm not even human!”

“Doll–.”

“It doesn’t matter what I agree to because he already won,” you choked out, shaking your head at him. “He tells you that he wants your girlfriend, and you didn’t tell him no.”

You stared at Oz with tears in your eyes, unable to believe this was happening.

“You didn’t tell him no, Oz, he…” you scoffed. “You’ve shown him that you would do anything for his approval, anything to be where he is.”

Your chest and throat were so tight, and you wondered if this was what heartbreak felt like. The silence in your apartment was loud, and you could barely stand to look at Oz, in shock that he would even come to you with this. You sniffed, and when Oz stepped towards you, you moved back, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“...and what happens if I refuse? You can kiss this promotion goodbye?”

His silence was deafening, and you let out a humorless chuckle.

Your eyes passed over the dying flowers on your table, and you felt goosebumps rise on your skin. You stared at them for what felt like the longest time, reminding yourself that Mr. Falcone never seemed the type for small talk and genuine pleasantries. There was always something ulterior with him, and you felt sick to your stomach as you thought about every time you were alone with him.

“Get out,” you whispered to Oz.

It seemed like he didn’t hear you at first, but with a quickness, you stomped towards your table and almost immediately after, the vase of flowers was airborne. Oz ducked just in time, and you only screamed for him to get out two more times before he finally accepted that you were serious. You were right behind him as he left your apartment, taking off every piece of jewelry he’d given you that you were currently wearing.

“In case it needs to be said… We’re done,” you spat. “Find some other way to get your promotion.”

You slammed your door shut behind him, unconcerned with how it may have disturbed your neighbors.

Your breakup with Oz hit you much harder than you thought it would. After all, he did a shitty thing, and in that moment, you were positive that you hated him. However, once the dust cleared and everything had settled, you realized that hate and love did indeed require the same level of passion, and you’d cried yourself to sleep two weeks in a row.

Oz was so far from perfect, but you loved him, and while he was capable of so many things, you’d never considered he’d be capable of even the things you didn’t want him to be capable of. You thought that he loved you too, and maybe on some level he did—choosing to give him some credit—but it was plain as day that he would never love you more than he loved the future where he wasn’t the underdog anymore.

You’d foolishly thought that you took priority over power.

Every phone call of his went ignored, and the only time you texted him was with a date and time when he could come get the rest of his things. You, on the other hand, didn’t want anything you’d left behind at his place. You wanted his shit gone, and nothing returned to you that would make you think of him in his absence. In the span of a month, your life as you knew it had turned completely upside down.

You’d been on edge all day when that knock finally sounded at your door. You weren’t concerned with falling into old habits, but just how painful it’d be to face Oz again after that night. Some days you still found it hard to believe that he’d been so willing to sell you out so easily. You’d never forget the way he’d talked to you, like it was just assumed you’d go along with it because you wanted better for him.

It ate you up inside to think that he didn’t know you, at all.

You’d rehearsed how this would go probably a million times since he’d agreed on the date and time, but everything—every word—you’d practiced was in vain because it wasn’t your ex-boyfriend standing on the other side of the door once you’d opened it. If you’d been holding something, you would’ve for sure dropped it as you stared at the face of Carmine Falcone.

Funnily enough, you hadn’t given the man much thought since the breakup. After all, Oz was the one who’d betrayed you, hurt you so deeply. Mr. Falcone hadn’t done anything surprising, only being the man you knew him to be—a man who always wanted more and used his money and power to get it. You’d never pegged him as a man with morals—with a code—so as much as it disgusted you to realize what he’d been plotting this whole time, you weren’t blindsided by the knowledge that he wanted to fuck his subordinate’s girlfriend and was willing to play dirty to make it happen.

“Where is Oz?” you finally breathed.

“May I come in?” he responded, completely ignoring your question.

Your lips parted, an immediate no on your lips when you only just noticed the figures behind him. You narrowed your eyes at the sight of Kenzie and some other man you didn’t recognize in the hall, and the nausea you felt that night with Oz was almost nothing in comparison to how you felt at the sight before you. Oz was supposed to get his things, but instead his boss showed up at your door—the same boss who was the catalyst for your disastrous breakup in the first place.

You licked your lips.

“I feel like if I say no…you’re going to do what you want, anyway.”

Mr. Falcone didn’t respond to that, but the corner of his lips curved upwards so subtly that if you weren’t so used to his stony countenance, you would’ve missed it. His only response was to move towards you, and against what you wanted, you moved out of his way. You stood at the door as he brushed by you, and your gaze darted between Kenzie and the other man. You were sure there was an almost pleading look in your eyes as you gazed at the familiar man, but Kenzie stared right through you.

“You can close the door.”

Pulling your lip between your teeth, you did just that, staring at the wood for a while before turning around.

“Oz…?” you repeated.

“He’s handling something for me.”

“Of course, he is,” you sighed. “I take it you came all this way just to get his things for him?”

When you looked at him, his back was to you, and you didn’t like the way he was taking in the layout of your apartment. Your eyes darted towards the kitchen, weighing your options if you actually managed to kill this man. Of course, that was assuming you even made it to the kitchen. When you looked at Mr. Falcone again, his gaze was on you, now, and you knew you’d been caught.

He chuckled to himself, so low that it barely reached your ears.

“Let’s talk…”

You frowned when he gestured for you to sit down, and his lips twitched again when you refused to move. He made the decision to sit down first, and you reluctantly followed his lead. That feeling that you always felt whenever you were alone with him washed over you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from fidgeting.

“I know that Oz hurt you.”

You gave him a look at how he chose to start this conversation, the elephant in the room just casually lingering between you.

“...he didn’t do it by himself,” you replied.

Mr. Falcone seemed to weigh that in his mind, tilting his head from side to side.

“That’s debatable.”

“How do you figure that?”

“He could’ve told me no.”

Your heart skipped a beat as he acknowledged it outloud, and you chuckled.

“We both know that’s not true,” you whispered. “No one denies Carmine Falcone.”

You said the words mockingly, and you didn’t miss the way all humor drained from his face.

“You know how badly Oz wants to make a name for himself. An actual legitimate name for himself where he’s respected and revered and not seen as some joke, and you took advantage of that,” you spat. “You saw an opportunity to kill several birds with one stone, and you took it.”

The man before you didn’t respond right away, and you watched him stand, making you nervous. You only started to relax when he made his way towards the bar Oz had given you as a gift one year, the damned thing installed into the wall so you couldn’t even give it back. You said nothing as Mr. Falcone fixed himself a drink in your apartment with your stuff.

“Would you like one?”

“No,” you immediately answered, somehow still shocked at his audacity.

He ignored the malice in your tone and took his time, and the whole time you just kept wondering why he was here. You watched him take a sip of his creation, and it wasn’t lost on you that he was standing while you were sitting, and he was making you feel small once again.

“You said I saw an opportunity to kill several birds with one stone…”

You rolled your eyes.

“You own this city, everyone knows it, and you saw an opportunity to get what you want just because you wanted it all the while humiliating both Oz and myself and making him prove his loyalty to you,” you slowly told him. “I’m sure the breakup that gave him more time to devote himself to your business was just a bonus.”

Mr. Falcone responded by taking a sip of the drink he’d made, humming.

“You didn’t consider any other motives…?”

You watched him make his way across the room to sit back down in the seat across from you, eyeing you behind those dark shades as you frowned at his question. No. You hadn’t, and truthfully why would you? You couldn’t think of any other reason for why he did what he did. Part of you even considered that he didn’t even really want you so much as he wanted something Oz had.

“Hmm?” he wondered at your silence, and you only shook your head.

You watched him finish his drink.

“I didn’t expect Oz to say yes–.”

“I don’t believe that,” you cut him off, and the look he fixed you with didn’t scare you one bit.

You stared at each other for a few moments before he continued.

“I do want you, that much is true,” he told you, making you uncomfortable under his unwavering stare. “You’re beautiful and you take no shit and I see why Oz pursued you so hard.”

You didn’t like that he knew the details of how you and Oz began.

“I can have anything I want, you’re right, but even still…I didn’t expect Oz to say yes.”

Oddly enough, you were sure you believed him now, and you didn’t know how to feel about the fact that Mr. Falcone had been testing him…and Oz hadn’t passed.

“...but now we both know what you mean to him.”

His words forced tears to your eyes, but his next words made them spill over altogether.

“If I were in Oz’s position, I would’ve told me to go to hell.”

Your blood ran cold as you stared at him, your brows pulling together at his interesting choice of words. Mr. Falcone wasn’t in Oz’s position and never would be, but the more you stared at him and the longer the silence dragged on…you realized that he wanted to be. You looked away from him, standing on shaky legs.

“Whatever Oz gifted you, whatever he did for you, I can make it all look like child’s play,” he offered, and you felt your stomach churn.

There was no telling what Mr. Falcone would’ve done had Oz just said no, but because Oz was Oz, he hadn’t said no, and that had produced a lose-lose situation for him. Oz said yes, and that meant that either Mr. Falcone would get what he wanted—even if only for a night—or you would leave Oz, and  an opportunity would present itself for him to still get what he wanted.

“I wasn’t with Oz for his money,” you sneered, tears kissing your eyes as you glared at the other man.

“...but I’m sure it didn’t hurt.”

You actually laughed at that, the sound lacking humor and filled with so much bitterness and frustration. Of all the things to take from this situation, what stood out the most was how absolutely misunderstood you were. Oz actually thought you were the kind of woman who would sacrifice her dignity and morals just to help him get ahead, and Mr. Falcone actually thought you were the kind of woman who could be bought. 

It was an upsetting mix of maddening and frustrating.

“Get out,” you heard yourself whispering, feeling a sense of deja vu. “Take Oz’s things, and get out of my house.”

You watched Mr. Falcone straighten in his seat, reaching up to undo the buttons of his suit jacket.

“No.”

You blinked at him, not expecting that but also not surprised by his response either.

“Fine,” you breathed, making your way towards the hook on the wall where your purse hung.

You didn’t care if he had a hundred men outside of your door, you weren’t staying in this apartment with a man who basically offered to buy access to you for a night. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he used your breakup as an opportunity to buy permanent access to you. You were reminded that Mr. Falcone felt dangerous to you in a way Oz didn’t, and just when your hand landed on the doorknob, he showed you why.

You didn’t even have a chance to scream, a choked gasp getting caught in your throat at the feel of silk material pulling against your neck. He tightened it the more you pulled on it, and the soles of your feet kicked against the door, the shoes you’d just slid in falling off. Every attempt to dig your feet into the floor was in vain, and when your legs started to fail you, only then did Mr. Falcone let you go.

It all happened so fast that when you finally registered the dangerous position you found yourself in, it was too late.

“You’re really going to make me do this, huh,” he casually mused, his deep voice reaching your ears as he caged you in his arms between him and the floor.

Your vision was blurry, but you took note of the way he’d slipped out of his suit jacket, the first few buttons of his shirt undone and his tie…missing. The tips of your fingers grazed against that silk material that was still around your neck, and you tried so hard not to linger on how seamlessly he’d done that, like it was second nature to him.

His warm body was on top of yours, nestled between your legs, and you mustered up enough strength to dig your nails into his face. The scream he let out satisfied you, and when your knee came up between you both, it allowed for you to slide out from under him. Your throat felt sore as you crawled away, struggling to get to your feet when the tie still around your neck was yanked on once again. He tightened it around his hand, pulling you against him, and a winded squeak left your lips as he forced you to bend over the bar.

You pulled and clawed at the silk material, fighting to breathe, all the while he fumbled between you both with his free hand.

One of your hands let the tie go to drag your nails along the wood of the bar when Carmine Falcone forced his cock into you. His hips slammed against your backside as he fucked you, and you were caught between trying to loosen the material around your neck, and fighting to find something to hang onto and ground yourself with.

You could feel his face pressed into your hair, breathing you in with every thrust. The bar beneath you trembled from the force of his movements, and your vision started to blur again from the lack of oxygen. You clawed at your throat with one hand and at the bar with the other. The man behind you seemed to be in his own world, lost in the feel of you wrapped around him.

When dark spots started to appear in your vision—almost as if he knew that—Carmine loosened his hold on the tie around your neck. The rush of air into your lungs had you gasping, and to your horror, he replaced the tie with his arm. His arm hooked around your neck and forced you back against him as he leaned back a bit.

The only sound in the apartment was heavy breathing—yours from trying to suck in as much oxygen as possible and him from pushing himself into you over and over again.

“Oz felt like such a big man with you on his arm,” he said against your skin. “It almost made me feel sorry for you.”

You hit your hand against the bar.

“I don’t need you on my arm to feel like a big man. That’s the difference between us…”

He pushed you back down against the bar again, a hand harshly pressing into the small of your back to keep you in place. You couldn’t stop crying no matter how much you tried to, distraught at the harsh lesson on why you should fear Carmine Falcone. It’s just that this never occurred to you…or maybe it did on some level, and you were too afraid to acknowledge what it was.

Oz would never do this. There was a softness to him that Carmine lacked, and maybe that was what you’d sensed all this time, that Carmine was the kind of man without any limits. That he was the type to hurt anyone—man or woman—but just in whatever way he knew would hurt the most…no matter how depraved.

When he came inside of you, you didn’t even try to hold back the disgusted sob that left your lips. You almost collapsed to the floor when he pulled away from you, your shirt—one that Oz had left behind, you realized—fell back into place as you heard him righting himself. Your heart was still beating wildly in your chest, and you almost didn’t want to believe what’d just happened.

Funnily enough, Carmine was gentle in sliding his tie from around your neck, the fabric whispering against your skin as he did so, and you shuddered when his fingers grazed your throat in the process. You didn’t doubt that a nasty ring would color your skin in the morning. When his lips found your hair again, you shrunk away from him, still trembling from his assault.

His parting words finally made you throw up what you’d been pushing down for weeks.

WEAK HERO CLASS : ONE A quiet but deadly student takes on ruthless bullies with brains and brutal fists in a high school where survival means fighting back.

YEON SIEUN ──★

Twisted : Walking home used to be routine. Easy. Safe. Now? Every step feels like a mistake. There's this feeling that's clinging to me like a second skin that I'm not alone. That someone... is always just out of sight. (completed)

The Bystander Effect : He stepped closer again, and this time your back hit the edge of a desk. His voice came out low, slow, like a knife dragged across glass. “You stood there.” You shook your head. “No—I—” “You watched. You didn’t stop it.” (completed)

AHN SUHO ──★

The Package Deal : "Fuck,” Suho groaned, head falling forward against your chest as he bottomed out. “So fucking tight…” You cried out, the sound raw and shattering, but Sieun caught it, swallowed it with his mouth against your cheek. “Breathe,” he whispered, voice like silk. “Let him in.” (completed)

featuring : Yeon Sieun ☆

OH BEOMSEOK ──★

Word for Word : “You ever meet someone who just feels off?” you ask, stabbing your straw into a watery iced americano. Suho and Sieun trade a glance—Suho half-hidden in his hoodie, Sieun boredly tearing at his sandwich. “That Beom-seok guy?” Sieun says. (completed)

WEAK HERO CLASS : TWO A quiet but lethal student battles ruthless bullies using sharp intellect and ruthless fists in a high school where loyalty is rare and survival demands strength.

SERIES 𝜗𝜚⋆

Pretty Mouth : You get shoved into the bathroom by Seongje, the door slamming shut behind you and before you can even catch your breath, the lock clicks into place. “You’re not leaving, not until we fix that mouth of yours.” (completed)

featuring : Geum Seong Je ☆ Na Baekjin ☆ Park Humin

(part one) ✩ (part two) ✩ (part three)

GEUM SEONG JE ──★

Pretty Little Thing : His smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The kind that said he wasn’t seeing a person. Just… something he could get his hands on. “Well, well,” he said, voice smooth like oil over something sharp. “Didn’t know you came with accessories, Hyun-Tak.” (completed)

You made it hurt : "See?" he whispered, his voice husky but perfectly clear, devoid of real passion. "This is better. Isn't it? When you stop fighting it. It doesn't have to hurt this much. You make it hurt." You did this. Your struggle caused this pain. (completed)

NA BAEKJIN ──★

Sing for Me : “Babe,” he said, breathless, eyes wide, already rewriting the moment in his head. “I’m so sorry.” He reached for you. “Don’t fucking touch me.” Your voice didn’t sound like it belonged to you. (completed)

TRIGGER A quiet but deadly student becomes entangled in an underground world of illegal firearms and merciless violence to survive brutal enemies in a high school where power belongs to whoever pulls the trigger first.

KANG SEONGJOON ──★

This is all you're good for : Across the room, Seongjoon stares at you with a promise in his eyes. You smile back. You did promise your dad you’d stay out of trouble. You just never promised you wouldn’t enjoy it when it found you.(completed)

featuring : Park Gyujin ☆

STUDY GROUP a school where fists speak louder than books, a quiet student joins a brutal fight club to protect his friends and prove brains can brawl too.

MINHWAN MA ──★

Hide & Seek : Just as the metallic click of Min-Hwan’s modified gun froze her veins, a whisper “I see you” came from behind, and when she turned, he was already there. (completed)

PI HANWOOL ──★

Casualty : You didn’t know how long the lock would last. But you did know something: They were going to get in and when they did, they won’t hold back. (completed)

featuring : Minhwan Ma ☆

VIGILANTE A model student by day and ruthless vigilante by night, he hunts down criminals the law lets slip through, delivering justice in a society where the system is broken.

KIM JIYONG ──★

You See, Baby….. : “That’s better.” Jiyong’s voice softened, but his smile stayed sharp as he twirled the knife like a toy, stepping slowly toward the bed. “You were always mine, baby. You just didn’t know it yet.” (completed)

BLOODHOUNDS S1 Two fearless young boxers team up to take down a ruthless loan shark empire, using loyalty, brutal strength, and relentless determination to protect the innocent in a world where debt destroys lives and mercy is rare.

BLOODHOUNDS S2 Two battle-hardened boxers are thrown into an even deadlier fight when a brutal underground international boxing league begins targeting them and the people they love.

YUN TAE GEOM ──★

Camera Shy : "Oh, matching." Tae-geom's voice came from somewhere above the blade. ""This for someone? Gun-woo or Woo-jin?" His hand landed on your chest. (completed)

LEE DOO YOUNG ──★

No, sweetie. None of that : "No, no, sweetie. None of that." His voice dropped to a croon, soft and implacable as a closing coffin lid. "You are gonna take this. And you're gonna swallow. Every. Last. Drop." (completed)

TOMORROW A struggling young man’s life changes forever after a near-fatal accident leaves him caught between life and death, forcing him to work with a team of grim reapers.

PARK JOONG GIL ──★

Desperate for approval : "And here I thought hell-spawn were supposed to be difficult." Another stroke down your spine. "Turns out you're just like all the others. Desperate for approval. Desperate to be good at something." His lips brush your temple. "Even if that something is this." (completed)

ONE: HIGH SCHOOL HEROES A group of undercover student heroes fight evil in disguise, protecting their school from dark forces in a world where courage means standing tall behind a mask.

TAXI DRIVER A mysterious but relentless driver delivers justice with calculated moves and brutal force in a world where the law fails and revenge is the only road to redemption.

PARK SEUNGTAE ──★

Failure Has Consequences : “Ah,” he murmured, voice dark with satisfaction. “You look so good like this.” His free hand curled possessively around my hip. “So when I ask you to do something,” he whispered, his tone now hushed and dangerous. “I expect it done. Got it?" (completed)

OH HAJOON ──★

Kindness Will Get You Nowhere : “Eyes on me, love,” he whispered. You resisted. Just for a second. Then your gaze met his. Dark eyes. Unblinking. Hungry not with lust, but with power. Like he was savoring this moment, holding it between his teeth. (completed)

SWEET HOME When a reclusive teenager moves into a crumbling apartment complex after losing his family, his lonely world descends into unimaginable horror as humans begin transforming into grotesque monsters driven by their deepest desires.

SERIES 𝜗𝜚⋆

The Anatomy of Ego - (ongoing)

Alter Ego : You learned that the worst monsters do not lurk in the dark, no they stand right in front of you. They call you pretty. They tell you to take it. And you do, because what else is there? (completed)

featuring : Cha Hyun-Su ☆ with a hint of Lee Eun-Hyuk

Fragile Ego : Danger was a pulse in the walls. Dread was the air you breathed. And Eun-hyuk, he was the god of this small, terrible universe, and you were on your knees before him, exactly where he wanted you. (completed)

featuring : Lee Eun-Hyuk ☆ with a hint of Cha Hyun-Su

I, THE EXECUTIONER A relentless veteran detective and an ambitious rookie are pulled into a brutal manhunt when a mysterious vigilante begins executing criminals who escaped justice, turning public outrage into dangerous admiration.

PARK SUNWOO ──★

Picture Perfect : You should be happy that your friend is happy. You really should be. But there's something is off with your friend's new boyfriend. (completed)

THE WITCH: PART 1. THE SUBVERSION follows a seemingly ordinary teenage girl whose quiet life begins to fracture when fragments of a violent past resurface, drawing dangerous forces back into her world.

THE NOBELMAN ──★

Did I? : He tilts his head, that predator's gesture, his eyes drinking in your terror like it's fine wine. "Did I?" he asks, his voice dripping with faux concern. "That sucks." He whistles. (completed)

BRAVE CITIZEN a once-fiery boxer turned teacher fights back against injustice in her school, proving you don’t need a ring to stand up for what's right.

HAN SUGANG ──★

You Poor Thing : Being a foreign exchange student in a Korean high school isn’t just hard — it feels like a cruel social experiment. But none of that compares to Han Su-Gang. (completed)

MIDNIGHT A sadistic serial killer stalks the city streets at night, toying with his victims in silence as he hunts a deaf woman who could expose him, turning cruelty into a deadly game of control.

DO-SIK ──★

Run, Rabbit : “If you’d just kept quiet,” he said with a smile, “this poor girl wouldn’t have to die tonight.” He looked at you then. “Run, little rabbit. I’ll give you a head start.” (completed)

*

Your eyes open to nothing but darkness, faced pressed onto the wet, murky surface. You’ve never really known what mud tastes like—childhood spent with charcoal and a few colours away from the rowdiness of your playmates—that was the only though that your mind could think of as you got pushed into the ground.

The taste of it felt sordid in your mouth and yet you part them as you continue to plead. Squeezing your eyes shut as the rough stones scratch on your cheek.

You hear a rough grunt behind you, but the voice is quickly dissipated as your ears rung, a haggard tune; like the one that scattering birds sing when an enemy approaches. You briefly wonder if you had hit your head too hard.

Your hands carefully hold on to the hardened paper scale, inserting it into the array of scales embedded onto the body. Tanselle continues to work on the tail and the lower body, painting it with a multitude of strong, dark, beautiful colours.

You grab onto another scale, sighing as you curl and flex your fingers, a light ache passing through them. You most certainly stomped your own foot by deciding to work on the upper half all by yourself.

You’re only done with half of the body; unpainted scales still littered on the floor. You dip the brush into the dark red ink; coating an even layer onto it. A few strokes of muddy brown atop and then a darkened earthy green, finally coating it with a small amount of the shiny yellow that your puppeteer had mixed together herself. Fingers pushing it into the body again and letting it dry.

You take a step back to admire its beauty, the eyes of it gleaming. The small iridescent marbled you had found fit perfectly into place.

The dragon in front of you looks almost as real as the ones your forefathers had seen about, a deep sense of pride flowing through at the reap of your hard work. The two of you had been working on it for weeks, and now finally it felt like it had come to life.

You couldn’t wait for night to fall; its body would move so wonderfully as the men worked underneath it and Tanselle had a trick of her own to make its breathing fire come to life.

Lip tugged to the corners; mind distracted you feel the low-lying anticipation flow through you. The taller girl walks towards your side grabbing a few scales along with the brush in her hand as she slowly steps forward to paint, a gesture your grateful for as your smile resembles hers.

You think of all the people gathered around, the kids seated with their eyes wide open as they stare in awe of your wonderful creation. Tonight’s play would most certainly remembered for moons to come.

“Too tight?”, she questions as she wraps the chain mail around your body, the hauberger had been specified to make one that would not weigh too much and yet you still found it to be heavier than what you’d expected.

You shake your head uncaringly, stretching your hands and rolling your shoulders as you fix the costume placed upon you. Your hair is neatly tied in place as she moves to cover on your head. Her eyes linger on you with doubt, you shake body excitedly as you grab onto the prop; made with glinting metal and nicely shaped sword and shield, showing her your vigor. You’ve dealt with costumes much worse than this.

You slowly tap your fingers on the pommel as you wait behind the curtains for the final act. You hear the low whistle intended to inform you of your entrance, swishing through the curtains now facing the great beast.

Tanselle’s voice soars like an eagle as she narrates the events of the story. You compose yourself in front of the mighty dragon, swinging forward to attack it with all your might; Its attack not unexpected as your dodge the fire it breaths through its paper lungs. The crowd in front of you holler in surprise, the sound of their hands clapping on par with the loud noises your troop was making from behind the dark curtains to imitate the angry creature.

Another loud flame blows through towards you and you mark the sword upright, taking in a deep breath as you lunge to attack. The sword pierces through and the dragon cries, the boisterous applause of the crowed emerges but it dies down almost immediately.

The gasp in their voices resembles the fear of something more dangerous, the tent now almost uncomfortably quite as you hear the heat of the fire float through the room.

You turn around and look in confusion, eyes widening as your body goes still. You feel the rise of a heavy tide of dread as you gaze at the figure standing at the center of the tent.

If his prestige had not been obvious with the way the other spectators cowered and moved away from him—making the crowded tent almost seem spacious for a moment—then the royal guards around him most certainly did.

But none of these were what you had first noticed, the sight that had made you still and go numb for a second had been his house’s most defining trait.

The silver of his short strands had shined through everything, unconcealable by the dim lit tent. He tilts his head as he stares at you, his gaze hard and his face composed in a way that you cannot decipher.

You feel your fingers grip around the sword, unsure of what to do other than to continue on with the play. A royal audience meant that you had to be more meticulous in your performance.

You pull the sword out, the red scrapes made to resemble its blood flying out to cover you as you launch the sword to the ground below and yet nobody moves. You stomp your feet again and the three men underneath the costume finally realize of their role and fall to the ground. You look over to find a dazed Tanselle, shaking your head you give her a pointed look as she looks back at you, confusion written all over her face.

You tilt your head to the side as you swirl your sword again, she finally recovers from her lost thoughts and continuous to narrate, albeit voice now not as strong as before.

Her words come to an end and you bow at your audience yet all you receive is silence. The young prince still has his gaze set towards you, his nostrils flair as he darts his tongue to the side pressing it to his cheek.

His feet steps back as he slowly moves, an unimpressed jerk of his head as turns around as leaves, his guards immediately following him. He leaves behind a silence that was never seen in this tent before, it lingers… until you hear the sound of small hands clapping against each other. 

You feel the tightness it the air suddenly break apart at that as a hooded little boy stands up continuing to cheer, and it is soon followed by the soft cheer all around you. The others come out and your party bows down to them again thanking the audience for their time.

The glee of the night shines through the lanterns lit all around, a hearty meal was followed after the play and after chatting well into the night you part ways, Tanselle had gone back to speak with the carpenter to make a few more arrangements for the props needed.

You take a detour to get to your tent, walking along the stream flowing nearby in hopes of finding a few more of those pretty stones, if you found a bigger one perhaps you could make a nice necklace with it for the dark-haired girl.

You slowly walk with your head down, eyes searching through the ground below.

“That was some show you put.”

You yelp as you turn at the sudden incursion of the voice in such a quite atmosphere.

Lo and behold casually leaning against a tree stood Aerion Targaryen, the young royal prince of the dragon house. He pushes himself of the bark and walks towards you. You take a small step back before stopping yourself as his brows slightly frown, you would not want to come off as disrespectful.

“Thank you my lord.” Your head bows, voice barely audible but he hears you nonetheless as you receive a hum in return.

You look around in search of his Kingsgaurd but find none, the two of you the only souls around, the fluttery flowing stream the only life in the vicinity.

You feel your breath being caught up in your throat, had he been following you? The silver of his hair shine brighter now and the violets of eyes; gods… they sparkle underneath the moon. His entire presence fills you with anxiousness that makes your spine tingle. You had never mingled with nobility let alone royalty and now you are put right in front of Targaryen blood. You know not how to speak or what to say, you can only hope you answer him appropriately.

“You made it yourself… the beast?” he questions, you feel a lightness course through as you’re chanced upon a question to which you will not stumble.

“Yes! My prince, me and my friend, we built it together. Paper and clay mostly, some wood here and there.”

He ponders on the answer, lips pursing as he takes you in. Eyes dragging over you from head to toe, you feel squeamish at his presence as you pretend to not have noticed his look. You suppose it must be quite displeasing to look at your ragged cottons as compared to his soft silk, the red fibers of it shiny as it hugs is form.

“…and the fire?”

“Pollen sir, we pick them along our travels. They change along region; some burn brighter than others.”

He crosses his hands behind as he steps forward, eyes squinting at you. The look on his face suddenly changes, his expression hardening as his jaw clicks.

“And I suppose is it this travelling that has made you haughty enough to insult our royal house?”

You voice sounds like pins and needles as you scramble for and answer, confused at the sudden change of his tone.

“No- no of course not sir, I- I meant no disrespect,”

He moves forward hastily, his hands cupping your cheek harshly. Your eyes flinch as he moves your face to his whim.

“You insult the sigil of my house, cut it, tear the beast apart and then you raise your voice at me?”

Your legs fall back at the force with which he pushes your body, back hitting the length of a tree nearby. His fingers dig into your cheeks hurting you further as you try to speak.

He removes his hand moving it to rest on his hip as the other leans against the lower branch, caging you in-between him and the furrowed bark. The anger in his chest on par with the fear in yours.

“Do they never teach you peasants anything, huh?” he growls, eyes skimming over you. Your voice comes out in nothing but a whimper; overwhelmed and scared of him. His hand moves to touch your finger and then graze against your palm. Hot breath fan against your skin as the hand then moves up, pressing through your body, it rests against your chest and he squeezes the flesh in between his fingers.

You squirm at his touch, eye widening, disgusted by the feel of it as you harshly push his hand away. He lets out a surprised huff at that, head titling as he licks his lips, eyes boring into you.

“You raise your hands against royal blood,” he tsk’s, the mockery in his tone evident but it still scares you none the less, “such offense…”

You feel your eyes tearing up as you hiccup, “I didn’t- I wouldn’t-

The hand placed above you bends down as he twists your arm, “Exactly you don’t fight back, you accept the punishment that I see fit,” he orders as you cry out at the pain reeling through your arm.

His other hand moves to remove the object hidden away in his back pocket, the sharpness of the silver shines as he raises it towards you.

You wail out with fear blinding you now, as he presses the metal against your skin. His right hand leaves your arm moving above to push your shoulder harshly. You nearly cough out at the force of it as the knife digs deeper into your neck.

You cry out as you plead for him to stop, the tip of it cutting into your soft flesh, pain searing through as small drops of blood flow through.

He moves his hand back for a second looking at you as he presses his lips together. He brings the knife to his mouth biting the tip of it as he thinks, “Now, what kind of royalty would I be if I don’t heed to pleas of my servants?” he hums shaking the knife in front of you, “Afterall I cannot afford to be as foolish as your kind. A life is precious I suppose.”

He murmurs the last part as his hand slowly move to curl around your neck. He squeezes his fingers tightly, eyes callously watching the way your voice breaks and eyes bulge as you struggle to breath.

He lets loose of his strength but his fingers still remain on your neck. You greedily grasp onto the little air you get as you feel your throat burn. The other hand drags the knife back to your chest, cutting into the center of the thin flimsy cotton. He rips the front of it apart, lavender eyes gaping at the way your chest rise and fall, hot breath falling from his nose.

He drags the knife over your skin, from your chest to your stomach. Palm groping at your bosom again as you wail at the harshness of his touch, thumb rubbing painfully over your nip.

He pulls you off the tree and throws you down. Your body on instinct tries to land on your hands to save you some pain, but the blow on your chest and stomach as you fall is no less painful.

You try to lift your knee, palms bruised, body pushing its limits to push yourself up only for the ground to cave down below you. He pushes you down further and you feel the heavy weight of him as lands on you, hand griping on to your hair as he pulls you back with it, the grunts and insults from his mouth don’t reduce as he hikes your skirt up.

The sudden cool air dances on you exposed bare ass as a fresh wave of tears and embarrassment rises. It takes him no time at all to undo his breaches.

He pushes himself inside you with such rough force your body jerks forward. Lips parting to scream at the pain of the intrusion only for it to come out in a muffled wail as his hand covers your mouth.

His fingers close around you nose as well, tears blurring your sight as you struggle to breath. His cock inside of you feels like hot metal as he harshly thrusts into you, without ever allowing you a moment to adjust to the girth of him.

He move himself closer to you, balancing himself on his knees to press his body on top of yours as he rams into you, the pain makes you grit your teeth together as you shut your eyes close.

You feel another bout of shame course through you as finally feel wetness pool between your legs as hands continue to grope you from your bosom to your hip. His force still brutal seem to feel less harsh as your body tries its best to ease your pain.

He pulls himself out of you, your core convulses at the painful hollow left behind. You yelp as he flips you over to face him now, hovering over as he kneels above you. He slaps his cock over your hardened bud as your feel a sharp shock flow through your body. Your toes curl as he slaps it on you again now accompanied with a sharp slap of his palm on your cheek

He bends down pushing onto your shoulder with his hand, harsh breath against you as his face leans closer pushing you deeper into the mud below as he grounds himself above you.

He sinks himself deeper into you than before, the other hand hastily spreading your thighs apart. More tears fall down onto your cheek, your eyes blurry as you look up the night sky, the darkness of it clouded with a fear much darker in your eyes.

His thrusts become faster as he moves with the precision and rage of a hunter trying to catch their pray. His hand grips on to your hair tightly making you wail, twisting his fingers around them as he pulls you closer, mouth dancing as he presses the bridge of his nose to your neck.

He feels the rise of something anticipated and his body moves like that of a rabid animal as he chases it. Something in him snaps as he shivers with a final push, lips parting as he grunts out a moan, his teeth sinking into your neck as he revels in bliss.

You hiss at the pain in your neck but it was nothing compared to the pain you felt in your core or that in your heart. Skin prickling at the feeling of him spilled inside you, the warmth and wetness of it, torture as he continuous to slowly thrust through his pleasure.

Your body lies still on the ground, unable to move a single muscle. Twisting your head to the side as your eyes find the dark earth, unable to look at anything else as the pain and humiliation consume you. He finally pulls himself out with a grunt, face above yours as he lets out a harsh breath. His tongue darting out, curving up as he places it on the tip on his lips.

His eyes flit down on to his cock; he scoffs and then lets out a harsh laugh, gaze unwavering at the red smeared all over it. His fingers moving to rub over the length of it as he holds it his palm, pressed to your thigh as you feel him harden again.

He presses his nose to your cheek “Untouched little flower, aren’t you?” he derides, “Well, aren’t you blessed? to have your womanhood gifted to you by a dragon.”

Your eyes sting, fingers gripping into your own palm as you clump onto the earth beneath.

He snaps your neck towards him, fingers harshly pushing your cheeks as your lips pout. Fear overrides every other emotion as your eyes find his in hopes to not anger him any further.

“If only you learnt to put those hands to better use you whore, I’d have been generous enough to spend some gold on you.”

The cruelty and conceit in him surpassing that of his royal house. His lavender gaze resolute; lips tugging between his teeth, voice almost soft and yet patronizing, “I hope you’ve learned your lesson… the dragon ought never lose.”

The lords would hear her guttural sobs and pleas as he pins her down, taking her with such ferocity it could be clearly heard from behind the semi-sheer curtain. The harsh slapping sound of his hips colliding with her flesh would have them wincing. They hear her words; at first, she's begging him to stop, and then it turns in to her pleading for him to slow down, be less rough, and then finally she's only able to pathetically sob "no" and "no more". It's been over an hour, and she's so exhausted and hurt she can barely move.

But then he's off of her for a moment, and with a sudden spurt of energy, the Blackfyre girl is scrambling towards the edge of the bed, her hand appearing through the curtains as she grabs at the corner post of the bed. As quick as it happens, the lords are watching her hand disappear once more, clearly being ripped back with a snarl by her new husband and shoved onto her back, Aerion crawling over her and pinning her down. She's crying again, even louder this time, but the lords hear Aerion's taunts that no one will save a traitor's daughter.

He's telling them how slick she is, too, addressing the lords by name. That he's come in her more than once, and yet her greedy cunt wants more. He wants her to know exactly who has witnessed this. He'd pause for a while every now and then, and the lords would think he's done (as would his new wife) and go to get up, but then he'd command them to sit back down, and his wife's heart sinks.

When he's finally done, hours after they first entered the room, and the curtains are finally ripped down by Aerion, an audible gasp comes from one of the lords. The blood on his cock is the least shocking sight – his new wife is exposed, with bruises and red bloody bite marks on her body. There's a sheet managing to drape over her backside, but the entire expanse of her back and the length of her legs are visible, as are the scratches he'd left on her. She's despondent, hair messily spread across the mattress, and wet from her tears. She’d certainly not been treated like a proper lady, but had he even treated her like a human?

She doesn't make it out of her chamber for a week. Aerion had come to take her the following days, never relenting in his brutality. He'd commanded the maids to dress her each morning in a pretty nightgown for him to rip off, and with each new maid, she feels the shame take hold even more. She sees the new maid's shocked expression at the deep, slowly healing bite mark on her hip, left there as a claim by Aerion on their wedding night. He'd bitten so cleanly that they could make out the dent of each individual tooth in her skin. (No matter how long it's been, even once the bite has fully healed and become a scar years later, every new maid's shock remains the same).

But then, by a small miracle, Aerion's going on a hunting trip, leaving her alone for a few days. She's so hopeful, excited for a reprieve from her insatiable husband and eager for a moment of freedom, only to realise her mistake immediately after leaving on the first morning she's alone. They treat her like vermin, sneering at her when she walks past. They'll look at her, whispering and judging, but not a single person talks to her, only about her. She's a Blackfyre and a whore now, and she's a stain on the court.

Clark was fast asleep in his bed, and the sight of his bulge under the covers made you throb. You’d told yourself it was only going to be once, but using him felt too good. It was addictive. In a way, it was the best of both worlds: You both got pleasure, and Clark got none of the guilt. Things didn't get complicated. 

It was wrong to do it like this, but it wasn’t wrong that you were cousins. Clark was wrong about that, too susceptible to overthinking. In ancient times, there never would have been a question about whether it was okay. Not on Earth, anyway. On Earth, it was still legal in some places. 

Pinching the quilted comforter near his knees, you gently tugged it down his body and observed his more detailed silhouette under the satin sheets. Running your hand up his meaty thigh, your palm glided over the smooth satin, then arrived at the warm, hefty lump of his crotch. There, your breath hitched, and your hand slowed, but you didn’t pause. You slid your palm up his solid torso, over the ripples of his abdomen, before taking the sheet down. As you pulled the fabric down, you let the heel of your palm skim his package once more. 

It wasn't the softest you'd ever felt him. That was for sure. Before bed, you’d rubbed one out from just two rooms away, all too aware that his superhearing would catch every breath and moan from your lips in high definition audio. He already had a semi-hard on that was just waiting to be roused to a state you could do something with.

"Yeah," you whispered as he hardened under the light stroke of your palm. His legs were akimbo, and he wore boxers that were short but loose enough to let his balls breathe. 

You flicked open the button in front of his boxers. Slipping your hand in through that front door, you gently held his chubby cock, and your heart skipped a beat at his flaccid girth. As you adjusted his manhood to point upward toward his face, which remained peaceful. Then you mounted the hill of his crotch with your bare cunt against the soft, striped cotton. 

Your clit twitched as you let just a fraction of your weight onto his warm, thick package, ready to help him reach full mast. Your thighs were spread wide, and your pussy lips softly hugged the silhouette of his girth. You bent forward, with your clit seeking pressure against the spine of his hardening erection.

The width of his shaft nearly covered the entire space between your legs. A few weeks prior, you weren’t sure you could take this kind of girth, but you were Supergirl. 

Rocking your hips gently, you rubbed your swollen clit against his arousal. As he hardened in the moonlight, his lips parted, and his brows slightly furrowed.

You touched your breasts, turning yourself on even more, gasping as your nipples came to peaks and goosebumps sprinted over your shoulders. As you grinded on him, you watched beautiful sleeping face, and when his dick twitched against you, your pussy spasmed and gushed.

A short, breathy moan escaped your lips, with mounting pleasure swelling behind your clit and spreading to consume your abdomen.  When the pressure burst, you throbbed against him, with your lips forming an O as your hips slowed down. With your pleasure center throbbing against his stiff cock, ohh God, it felt good. Your inner walls buzzed, begged to have him in their grasp.

The slick pleasure drooling from your cunt was wetting the front of his boxers. With your cunt terribly empty, you lifted yourself off his boxers and quickly slid your hand inside the cotton door to free his hard cock. After allowing a moment to admire his perfect organ, your heart pounded with need at the sight of precum pearling at his tip.

As much as it made you salivate, you couldn’t wait any longer to have him inside you. You dabbed the shiny bead of arousal onto your clit and ran the head of his cock through your slippery seam before helping his broad tip find your dripping entrance. 

Pleasure shot through your breasts as you began to lower yourself onto his thick manhood. You sank down enough for the broad head of his cock to spread the first bit of your walls. When your outer lips began to catch on his girthy tip, you lifted yourself again and used your fingers to help spread yourself, and keep you spread. When you sank down on his shaft again, nothing hitched but your breath. It was a smooth, slow ride down his shaft, taking it like no one else could, you imagined.

His girth divided your insides, taking your breath away as his flesh filled yours. After taking nearly all of his length, you rocked your hips to help yourself fully sheathe his massive cock in your sweet little pussy.

Oh, fuck. 

“Oh, fuck,” you muttered in a whisper, so full of him you weren't sure how you'd ever give this up. 

You rolled your hips as you rode him in his sleep, and his cock twitched. Then, so did his eyebrows… and his mouth… Then, his lips parted with a moan you hadn't heard before.

Your heart skipped a beat, and you froze. There was no way you could explain what you were doing.

You felt him waking up. His heart rate rose steadily to a near-awake rhythm. His hips lifted, pushing his cock deeper in you, then lifted sharply, and you struggled not to grunt as your cervix caught the punch of the thrust. 

Your heart raced. His hips were awake before he was. His hands even came to your hips, and he mumbled, “Ohh, that's good,” as you slowly let your hips move again. “Mmmmm,” he sighed, “Ohh, gosh.” His cock twitched in your depths, a twitch that echoed in your body, but just a twitch. 

He sucked in air through his teeth, then his eyelashes fluttered, and his steely eyes squinted at you.

His breath seemed to stop before his chest rose, his heart thumped, and his eyes narrowed.

He squinted, chest heaving. His eyes poured over your tits, down your stomach, then his gaze settled at where your bodies were joined. His lips parted, but nothing came out. His cock twitched, thick and stiff as ever in your guts.

“Good gosh,” he whispered, and his eyes darkened as they rose to your face.

All you could think to do was overwhelm him with pleasure and hope that it outweighed his guilt.. Or his sense of violation… or whatever his resistance was. If you could make him come, all the better. His hips began to move again, then he closed his eyes and stilled his body, but he couldn’t stop the throbbing of his cock in the wet hug of your warmth. 

“You really wanna stop?” you whispered.

He kept breathing with his eyes closed, barely successful at slowing his heart rate.

“We can go back to sleep,” you offered. You bit your lip as you bent forward, still fully of his cock, ready to rest your head on his chest.

His eyes opened, and his hand wrapped around your throat. His fingers and thumb reached the back of your skull, his chest heaved, and when his soft grip added just a little pressure, your cunt spasmed. He shot upright, and with one hand on your neck and another on your waist, he pried you off his cock. 

The force of the action threw you up against the ceiling, and you couldn’t help but let out a giggle at the joy of him tossing you around. 

“Clark,” you scolded him saucily. “I didn't know you had it in you.”

“You’re sick,” he said, then demanded, “You need to get this out of your head.”

“It wasn’t in my head, Clark,” you corrected him, hovering over the bed, admiring his pumped up muscles, and his cock still poking big and proud out of his boxers. A drop of arousal fell from your cunt to his thigh. You floated down toward him. 

“You think this is okay?” he asked. 

“No,” you admitted, “But don’t say it didn't feel good….” 

“Do you get off on me being asleep?” he asked. 

“Let's see if I get off on you being awake,” you replied. 

You lowered yourself all the way to the bed, and his lips formed a small “o” as he blew. The force of his breath made you hit the far wall of the bedroom. 

“Ow,” you said, and let yourself slide down the wall. 

“What do you want with me?” He asked as he tucked his cock away. 

“It's not complicated,” you assured him dismissively, resisting a passing urge to spell out C-O-C-K. 

“Why ME?” He asked. “You could have anyone.” 

“No,” you disagreed. 

“Anyone in the galaxy would be lucky,” he insisted, and as your eyebrows rose at the end of his sentence, he winced at himself. 

“You're right,” you nodded. “And so would any girl.” 

“There it is,” he condescended your predictability, gesturing toward you as rose to his knees, thighs swelling out from below his boxers. 

“And yeah, I can't stand the thought of it,” you admitted. With emotion creeping into the back of your throat, you added, “No one can love you like I do… We’re built for each other.” You stood and took two slow steps toward the bed with him watching you closely. “We could save the Kryptonian race,” you mused.

His eyes darkened, and he flew right at you, slamming you against the wall. He growled through his teeth, “You sound like our fathers, you know that?”

“You’re the one who sounds like an alien,” you retorted. “Whatever happened to being so human? People fuck, Clark. Humans are messy.” 

“SHUT UP!” His voice was dark and hoarse from sleep. He held you against the wall, up off the floor.

With his body against yours, his hard cock prodded your lower abdomen. Your abs flexed, and you glanced down. He swallowed and closed his eyes in frustration for a moment. His mouth twitched, and he tightened his lips together as he composed himself, then opened his eyes. 

“Golly…” he chuckled your name darkly. “Even for you…” 

“Oh, come on,” you replied. “You wish you didn't wake up.” 

“Thank Rao I woke up.” 

“Feels like you want it,” you reached down and he snatched your wrist, then pinned both of them above your head. He glanced down at your breasts and appeared visibly pained by the inviting peaks of your nipples. Hope shone in your eyes as you clocked his difficulty suppressing interest. 

“I’m going to forget this happened, and you’re going to leave me alone,” he declared.

“You’re a real pill,” you grumbled. 

He raised his voice. “I’M a real pill?”  His hand tightened around your wrists. 

“Yeah,” you said. “The guy who loves Game of Thrones can’t cope with his cousin–”

“--Oh, come off it,” he interrupted. “It's fiction, Kara.” 

“And what’s wrong with it in real life? Don’t say laws. We’re not on Krypton.” 

“In the real-world, there are consequences…” A look of horror came over his face as he thought it through. “Are you milking me? Is that what this is?”

“What?”

“Are you trying to get pregnant?” he demanded. “I thought you didn't even want–”

“I don't really,” you responded. “I don't even think we can. But if we could” your eyes said the rest of it. His grip softened and so did his eyes, for a moment.  “There'd be no better father,” you added in a whisper. 

“I don't have time to be a father,” Clark said, raising his voice. “I barely have time to be a man.” 

His words saddened you and saddened him. You could tell by the way he swallowed. His eyes fell down your body, and his nostrils flared. 

“Then be a man,” you whispered. 

With one hand still pinning your wrists, his other hand grabbed your waist.

Before he could throw or blow you against another wall, you used your superstrength to unpin your wrists and punched him in the jaw. 

He sailed backwards a few feet and shook the impact off. You flew toward him with your knees bent, thighs spread, and wrapped your legs around his broad hips again. Your wet pussy throbbed against  the hardness in his boxers. The striped article of clothing seemed to shrink with each passing moment as the argument became more heated and his muscles swelled. He half-heartedly pulled at your legs, but your grip stayed firm. His cock was weeping under the cotton, pinned to his abdomen by your cunt.  You froze his hands in place once they hit your hips. 

“Jeez,” he said. 

“You ever think about me fucking other guys?” you asked him.

He propelled both of you to the opposite side of the room until your back hit the wall with less force than the initial slam.

“Why would I think about that?” He asked.

“I dunno, why do you?” You retorted.  “No one else on this planet could handle me. And no one else could handle you,” you said with a glance toward his cock. 

“Would you stop,” he asked and freed one of his hands, with effort, to grab your jaw. The other hand stayed on your hip. “You did this,” he said. 

“You did, too,” you bit back. “I feel it every time you think about me when you come. You know that. You feel it, too.”

His face darkened, he squeezed your jaw, and your lips parted wider, then he spat in your mouth, making your cheeks blazing hot. You swallowed, then kept on, “I knew you didn't wanna make that choice, so I made it for you.”

“It wasn't yours to make,” he said and flew you into a corner. 

“Good luck forgetting what I feel like inside,” you said.

Then it turned into an all out brawl. 

A flurry of limbs, breath, and wind, shredded boxers, bodies crashing into walls, holes punched in drywall, a window half shattered. Shouting and grunting, breathing and heaving. 

. . .

“FUCK,” you yelled, squirming with one leg around him as he used heat vision on your tits. “CLARK,” you dropped your leg and started to kick him away, when he stopped you with a hand around your waist. You used your own heat vision on his nipples, and finally he snapped out of it. He let go.

Clark's blood ran hot with adrenaline. You hit him with a cooling breath in just the right moment, and he calmed down enough to really look at you again. You were all disheveled and marked up from the fight. Your tits were a little burned from his heat vision. And looking at you, he felt… different. 

In the heat of all that, some wires must have gotten crossed. His body was reading rage as lust. When he looked at you, instead of a rapist, he saw: his beautiful cousin, with her cheeks flushed, hair out of place, lips swollen, tits perky… and, as his eyes traveled downward… a nearly ethereal light skidding off a shine between her thighs.

He flew behind you with a swoosh and put you in a headlock, with his big elbow nestled between your tits. 

He was taking control. 

Taking control of the situation. 

Control of himself. 

And yet, his cock throbbed angrily against your back. God, it throbbed. With each throb, a bead of precum warmed your back, already dewy with sweat. 

You floated there together in the middle of the room. 

Clark growled your name, and almost as soon as you felt his bicep loosen around your throat, he'd spun you around to face him and smacked the front of your body against his, with your tits smashed into the bottom of his hard pecs.  

He shuddered, his jaw clenched, and he gripped your ass with one hand, cock throbbing, with that steady trickle of precum now against your belly. His fingers dug into the plush of your ass as he lifted you, and used his other hand to hike up your knee and hold it against his hip. When he put you back down, it was right on his cock, with his broad tip nestled against your dripping entrance. His nostrils flared, then he slammed his length into you, dividing your soft, warm walls to make a place for his aching cock. It was bigger, stiffer than you’d ever felt it. He bottomed out with a shudder, and you were breathless, all but choking on the fullness. 

You watched in his eyes as all his moral objections, all his sensibility melted away. Over the course of two deep breaths with his cock fully seated in your cunt, his muscles tensed, and his jaw clenched. His lips twitched. The power radiating from his massive form made you feel small. He held you like a cock sleeve, and his hips began to snap. His cock clobbered into your guts as he held you steady, and a curl of hair bounced on his forehead.

You gasped and your tits bounced, everything bounced and shook with the impact. 

His voice was commanding, only slightly broken by the effort of the pummeling: “You'll take whatever I give you. Every second of it, every inch-” 

“I’d take every drop,” you choked out. 

He growled and pounded you harder. His reservations were distant memories, and your chest fluttered with excitement.

You whimpered with the pleasure growing and swirling, swelling behind your belly button. You looked down and saw the shape of his cock faintly with each unforgiving thrust. He looked down and groaned at the sight, angling his thrusts to see his massive silhouette inside you. 

“God, you—ohh,” he moaned, “How do you,” his eyes were fixed between your bodies. “Fu—oh, you–”

“We were—” you panted. 

He slowed down, but didn’t ease up on the power. “What. Say it,” he demanded. 

“We’re made for—I—I told you we were built—” 

‘“What.” 

“Oh, fuck,” you moaned. “Built for each other,” you repeated. 

“Built for me to split open,” he said, and pressed his thumb to your belly to feel his cock ramming you.  

Your skin was slippery with sweat sliding against each other. You carded your fingers into his dark curls, dragging your nails along his scalp, making him shudder as he fucked you hard. Abandoning the view, he held you close against him, grunting with each deep thrust. Still fucking you mid-air, at this point you were hovering over the bed, until Clark slammed you down onto it. 

You moaned his name, and he opened his mouth wide, then latched onto your neck, thrusting his cock into you deep and slow as he sucked hard enough to bruise. 

Then he put his hand on your chest, and hung his head, with a curly lock of hair dangling on his forehead as he watched your body swallow his huge cock. His thrusts were fluid and smooth, slow enough to watch the way your pussy gripped his girth and pulled on his shaft, then his pace sped up again, and his eyes had the sheen of an animal. 

Your legs wrapped around him, pulling him closer. His grunts were primal, your breaths were as heavy as his, peppered with moans and sighs. 

The force of the pleasure brought tears to your eyes. Something violent in him had taken over, and this was more than okay. It was as though he was possessed by some other force that moved his hips. You couldn't speak, could hardly breathe. Just enough oxygen to writhe in pleasure under him. It was the power of pent up want. It told you how much he desired you all along. How much  something in him had been dying to get out. 

Everything swelled and tightened in your insides, pulling back like a slingshot until you unraveled, whimpering on his cock, as Clark growled. The veins of his arms swelled. He held you down with a primal groan and did the last thing you expected: slammed to the hilt and began to erupt, all the way inside. 

Long, hot ropes, with barely any time between them. A steady twitch and throb, unleashing massive bursts that made your insides sticky, then full. Then it was dripping down your inner thighs as pressure mounted in your belly with no sign of him stopping. With his forearm barred across your chest and a hand possessively on your breast, he held you firmly in place, lest you want to escape.

You didn’t. Not even to relieve the pressure as he emptied his balls until you felt bloated with his cum.

After he finally finished, he let his weight onto you and caught his breath. 

You fingered his curls as his body relaxed, and his pumped up veins returned to normal. His cock began to soften, and you felt his breathing steady as he fell asleep. His cock slid out as he rolled over onto his back, still in a deep sleep. 

He sank into the slumber so quickly and so deeply, it made you wonder:

What now?

After watching his glistening chest rise and fall, you got up and put your pajamas on, then innocently slipped back into his bed. 

You kept your hands to yourself, but in the night, he rolled over and laid an arm over you. 

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate your comments, asks, and encouragement ❤️❤️❤️

I have one that's kinda the opposite, wherein Clark has his way with her when she's sleeping: No return 🔥 dark!Clark

And I have an AU/Series that's less dark: 🍋 lemonzest

The rain lashed against your apartment windows like frantic fingers trying to get in. It matched the frantic beat of your own heart ever since the news about Jason, your roommate Chloe’s boyfriend, broke two days ago. Found in the old mill on the edge of town, dead. Just like the investment banker, the award-winning chef, and the tech entrepreneur before him – all once unremarkable kids from your graduating class, now horrifically remarkable in death.

A sharp, authoritative knock echoed through your small living room, making you jump. Peering through the peephole confirmed it: two men in dark suits, badges held up against the distorted fisheye lens. FBI. Or so they claimed. The town was crawling with them lately, a grim infestation.

You took a shaky breath and opened the door. The damp evening air rushed in, carrying the scent of ozone and wet pavement.

"Agents," you greeted, your voice tighter than you intended.

The shorter man stepped forward first. He had close-cropped dark hair, sharp green eyes that scanned you quickly but professionally, and a build that suggested he could handle himself. He offered a tight, reassuring smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. 

"Ma'am. Agent Reed. This is my partner, Agent Smith." His voice was gravelly but not unkind. "We apologize for the late hour. May we come in?"

You nodded mutely, stepping aside. "Of course. It's… it’s been awful."

As they entered, your attention was immediately drawn to Agent Smith. He was taller than Reed by several inches, with dark, slightly too-long hair slicked back from a sharp widow's peak. His eyes, a deep, unsettling hazel that seemed to shift color in the low light of your entryway, swept over you slowly – not just taking you in, but assessing you. It wasn't professional scrutiny; it felt like being cataloged. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips as his gaze lingered for a fraction too long on your neckline before meeting your eyes. He radiated a cool detachment that contrasted starkly with the grim purpose of their visit.

"Appreciate you seeing us," Smith said, his voice smooth as polished stone. It lacked the warmth Reed had attempted. He moved past you into the living room without waiting for further invitation, his long stride purposeful.

"Can I… get you anything? Coffee? Water?" you offered, needing something to do with your hands.

Reed answered while subtly positioning himself between you and his partner who was already wandering towards your bookshelf. 

"Water would be fine, thank you."

Smith picked up a framed photo of you and Chloe at graduation. "Strong bonds," he commented, his tone flat, almost bored. He set it down without looking at it again. "Your roommate. Chloe Miller. She hasn't been seen since before her boyfriend's body was discovered. You two were close?"

His directness felt like a physical probe. "Yes. Very," you said, moving towards the kitchenette, suddenly grateful for the counter as a barrier. You filled two glasses with water, your hands trembling slightly. "We shared this place. She was… devastated when she heard about Jason."

"Devastated enough to disappear?" Smith asked, turning to face you fully. He leaned against the doorframe leading into the kitchen, his tall frame dominating the small space. His hazel eyes locked onto yours with unnerving intensity. There was no empathy there, only a sharp, predatory curiosity. He seemed utterly uninterested in Chloe's emotional state, focused solely on you. "Did she say anything unusual before she left? Act strangely?"

"Agent Smith," Reed interjected, stepping closer to the kitchen entrance, his voice holding a note of warning. He accepted the water glass you handed him with a grateful nod. "Let's allow her to answer in her own time." He turned back to you, his green eyes softer. "Take your time. We understand this is difficult."

You recounted the last few days – Chloe's frantic worry when Jason didn't come home, her increasingly desperate phone calls, her packing a small bag saying she needed air… and then silence. No calls, no texts for over 48 hours.

Smith listened, but his gaze never truly left you. It felt heavy, invasive. As you spoke about Chloe's fear, his eyes traced the line of your jaw, dipped briefly to your throat again, then drifted lower over your sweater before returning to your face. It wasn't overtly lewd, but it was unmistakably appreciative, completely incongruous with the horror you were describing. It made your skin crawl.

"Interesting," Smith murmured when you finished, pushing off the doorframe and taking a slow step towards the counter where you stood frozen. He ignored his water glass. 

"And you? How are you handling all this… death, so close?" He leaned in slightly, invading your personal space. His scent was clean but cold, like rainwater on granite. "You seem remarkably composed." The faint smirk returned.

"I'm terrified," you whispered, the truth ripped out by the sheer discomfort of his proximity and that unnerving stare.

"Understandable," Reed said firmly, stepping decisively between you and Smith. He shot his partner a look that held clear disapproval. "We have what we need for now, ma'am. Thank you for your cooperation." He placed his untouched water glass down. "We'll be in touch if we have further questions or any news about your friend." Then he placed a business card on the table. “Don’t hesitate to reach out if you think of anything else.”

He placed a hand firmly on Smith's arm. Smith didn't resist being turned, but as Reed guided him towards the door, Smith cast one last look back over his shoulder at you. That hazel gaze swept over you again, slow and deliberate, lingering on your hips before meeting your eyes one final time. It wasn't just interest; it felt like possession. Like he was marking you.

You stood frozen as Reed practically propelled Smith out into the rainy night. The door clicked shut behind them, but you remained rooted to the spot, trembling.

Outside, muffled but still audible through the thin door panel, came Reed’s sharp whisper: "Dammit, Sam! Empathy! Remember? We’re supposed to be finding a killer, not undressing witnesses with your goddamn eyes! Control yourself!” A low chuckle was Smith’s only response before their footsteps receded down the hallway.

Silence crashed back into the apartment, heavier than before. The feeling of those hazel eyes felt like oil on your skin. You rushed to lock the door, leaning your forehead against the cool wood, trying to catch your breath. Death was everywhere. Chloe was gone. And something inhuman had just looked at you like you were its next meal.

A bath. You needed a bath. Scalding hot water to scrub away the phantom sensation of that gaze, the chill of Agent Smith's detached interest that felt more violating than any explicit leer. You filled the tub, adding lavender oil that usually soothed you, and sank into the near-scalding water.

But it didn't work.

The steam couldn't penetrate the icy dread Smith had left behind. The lavender scent couldn't mask the phantom sensation of being watched, dissected. Images flashed: Jason's pale face in the morgue photo leaked online, Chloe’s frantic eyes as she packed her bag, and always… those hazel eyes fixed on you with chilling intensity.

Mindless TV failed too. The laugh tracks sounded grotesque against the backdrop of your reality.

Frustration coiled tight in your chest, mixing with fear until it became a volatile cocktail. Enough. You climbed out of the tepid water, skin flushed but soul still cold. Wrapping yourself in a robe that felt flimsy armor, you padded barefoot to the kitchen cabinet.

The bottle of cheap whiskey Chloe kept for emergencies glinted under the overhead light. An emergency felt like now. You poured a generous measure into a tumbler – 2 cubes of ice – ignoring the tremor in your hand. The amber liquid burned a harsh trail down your throat, a welcome counterpoint to the internal chill.

You took another gulp, bigger this time. The heat spread through your core, a temporary shield against the creeping terror and the lingering memory of that look. Leaning back against the counter, you closed your eyes, willing the whiskey to blur the edges of fear and scrub Agent Smith's predatory gaze from your mind's eye.

The silence of the apartment pressed in again, broken only by the relentless drumming of rain on the windows... and the faintest sound that might have been a floorboard creaking in Chloe’s empty room down the hall.

Or maybe it was just the ice settling in your glass... wasn't it?

The cheap whiskey’s burn had long since faded into a dull throb behind your temples, replaced by a heavy, uneasy sleep on the lumpy couch. The TV droned on, casting flickering shadows across your face still wrapped in the thin terrycloth robe. Rain still lashed the windows, a monotonous counterpoint to your troubled dreams filled with hazel eyes and Chloe’s frantic whispers.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The urgent hammering ripped you from sleep so violently your heart slammed against your ribs like a trapped bird. Disoriented, you scrambled upright, the robe gaping slightly at the neck. Fear, cold and immediate, flooded your veins. Chloe.

You stumbled to the door, peering through the distorted peephole. Agent Smith’s face filled the fisheye lens, rain plastering strands of his dark hair to his forehead. His expression was etched with a convincing mask of concern, lips pressed thin, those unsettling hazel eyes wide with an urgency that sent a fresh wave of terror crashing through you. Had they found her? Was she…?

The thought was a knife to the gut. He knocked again, sharper this time. "Open up! It’s urgent! Please!" His voice, usually smooth as stone, held a strained edge. "I have news! You could be in danger!"

Danger. The word echoed the fear already clawing at your throat. You could be next. Panic overrode caution. Your trembling fingers fumbled with the deadbolt, the chain lock. The door swung open, a gust of rain-chilled air hitting you.

He filled the doorway, taller and more imposing than you remembered, his suit jacket darkened by the rain. Relief warred with dread on his face as he stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. "Thank god," he breathed, his gaze sweeping the room quickly before snapping back to you.

Before you could even frame a question, his hand shot out, not towards you, but to the door itself. With a swift, decisive motion, he slammed it shut. The sharp thud reverberated through the small apartment. Then came the distinct, final click of the deadbolt being thrown. The chain lock rattled as he secured it.

Your breath hitched. The ritualistic locking of the door felt… wrong. Too deliberate. Too final. "Agent Smith?" Your voice was thin, strained. "Where… where’s Agent Reed? What’s happened?"

He turned slowly. The mask of concern hadn’t completely vanished; it had merely slipped, revealing something colder, sharper beneath it. A predator momentarily pretending at civility. "Reed’s handling something else," he said, his voice losing its strained urgency, regaining that polished smoothness as he took a step towards you. "This needed my immediate attention."

Instinct screamed. You took a step back towards the living room, putting the arm of the couch between you and him. He mirrored your retreat with an easy step forward, closing the distance you’d tried to create. You backed up again, past the couch, towards the kitchenette. He followed, relentless, his hazel eyes fixed on you with unnerving intensity. There was no pretense of empathy now; it was pure focus.

Your back bumped against the cold edge of the kitchen island countertop. Trapped. The counter dug into your spine. Panic fluttered wildly beneath your ribs.

He stopped barely a foot away, his height looming over you in the dim light filtering from the TV. The scent of rain and something colder, like damp stone, clung to him. You needed space. You needed to think. Words tumbled out, desperate and automatic: "C-Can I get you a drink? Water? I… I have some whiskey left…"

A slow, dangerous smirk curled his lips. It wasn't amusement; it was triumph. Recognition. He looked down at your hand, still clutching the edge of your robe where it had fallen open near your throat.

"Trying to be polite?" he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register that scraped over your nerves. His gaze lifted from your hand to your eyes, holding them captive.

Then he moved.

His large hand shot out, not for a glass, but for your hand on the robe collar. His fingers closed over yours, not painfully, but with absolute, unyielding strength. It was warm and terrifyingly possessive. Before you could jerk away, his other hand was in your hair, fingers tangling roughly near your scalp.

A startled gasp escaped you as he yanked your head back sharply, forcing your chin up and exposing your throat. The sudden pain brought involuntary tears to your eyes.

He leaned down, bringing his face inches from yours. His breath fanned hot against your lips as that cruel smirk widened into something predatory. A low, dark chuckle vibrated in his chest. "Shouldn't have let me in," he breathed, the words laced with dark satisfaction.

He tilted his head slightly, his nose brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear where your pulse hammered wildly against your throat. You flinched violently at the contact, a tremor running through your whole body. You could feel him inhale near your pulse point, as if savoring the frantic rhythm of your fear.

"Shouldn't have unlocked the door," he murmured again, his lips hovering dangerously close to your skin. "But you did."

His grip in your hair tightened infinitesimally, a silent reminder of his control. Every nerve ending screamed. The pretense was gone, shattered like glass. This wasn't an agent delivering bad news. This was something else entirely.

You took a shuddering breath, forcing your voice past the lump of terror in your throat. It came out barely a whisper, raw with dawning horror: "You're... you're not FBI... are you?"

His chuckle this time was deeper, colder, devoid of any warmth or humor. It was the sound of a predator acknowledging its prey has finally understood the trap. His fingers tightened viciously in your hair, pulling a sharp gasp of pain from you as he leaned even closer, his hazel eyes boring into yours with chilling amusement.

"Nope."

The single syllable hung in the air, thick and suffocating as smoke. Nope. It confirmed everything and nothing, a terrifying admission that stripped away the last shred of pretense. His grip in your hair was an iron anchor, forcing you to stare into those deep hazel pits. Fear, cold and sharp, flooded your veins, a primal scream trapped behind your clenched teeth.

Then his gaze dropped. Not to your eyes, but to the frantic pulse hammering against the vulnerable column of your throat. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face, utterly devoid of warmth. "There it is," he breathed, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your trapped skull. "That beautiful, terrified little heartbeat." His free hand, large and impossibly strong, slid from yours – which had gone limp with shock – up your arm, over the thin terrycloth of your robe. His touch wasn't gentle; it was possessive, mapping territory he’d already decided to claim.

He leaned in, his nose brushing the spot where your pulse raced. You flinched, a whimper escaping before you could stop it. He chuckled, dark and satisfied. "Don't fight it, sweetheart. It just makes it sweeter." His lips found the frantic pulse point. Not a kiss, but a harsh, open-mouthed suck that sent a jolt of pure terror – and something else, shameful and unwelcome – straight down your spine. Heat pooled low in your belly, a traitorous response your mind screamed against.

He moved lower, his mouth rough and demanding against the slope of your shoulder, teeth scraping lightly, then harder, leaving a mark you couldn’t see but felt burn. He shoved the robe aside, exposing your collarbone. His lips and tongue traced the delicate bone, biting down just enough to make you gasp. Each harsh kiss, each scrape of teeth, was a violation, yet your body betrayed you. Arousal coiled tight alongside the terror, slick heat gathering between your thighs despite the icy dread freezing your limbs.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to see your face. Your eyes were wide, pupils blown with fear… and something else. He saw it. His smirk deepened into something cruel and knowing. "See?" he murmured, his thumb brushing roughly over your kiss-swollen lower lip. "You like it. You like the fear. You like me.”

"No!" The denial ripped from you, raw and desperate. Shame warred with terror. "I don't! I'm scared! Let me go!" You tried to twist your head, but his grip in your hair tightened viciously, holding you immobile.

He laughed, a low, dark sound that echoed in the silent apartment. "Liar," he whispered, his breath hot against your cheek. "Your body doesn't lie. I can smell it on you." He inhaled deeply near your neck, making your skin crawl. "Sweet fear… and sweet, slick want.”

Suddenly, his grip in your hair loosened. Not released, but the vicious pull eased. His other hand fell away from your face. He took a deliberate step back, putting a foot of space between you. The sudden lack of contact was almost as jarring as his assault. You swayed, dizzy, your back still pressed against the cold counter edge.

He watched you, those hazel eyes gleaming with unholy amusement. "Alright," he said, his voice dropping to a silken purr. "Let's play."

Your breath hitched. Play? What did that mean?

"Three minutes," he stated, holding up three long fingers. His gaze never left yours. "Hide. Anywhere in this little cage. If I don't find you…" He shrugged, the gesture terrifyingly casual. "I walk out that door. You never see me again."

Hope, fragile and desperate, flickered. Could you? Was it possible?

His smile turned predatory again. "But…” He leaned forward, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. His whisper was a venomous caress. "If I find you…" He paused, letting the implication hang thick and suffocating in the air. "I'm going to fuck you. Hard. Right where I find you. And you're going to come for me, screaming."

Your heart hammered against your ribs like a frantic bird. Run? Hide? Or… stay? The conflicting impulses paralyzed you for a split second – the desperate hope of escape warring with the terrifying, shameful pull of the promise in his eyes, the phantom ache between your legs.

He saw your hesitation. His hand tightened fractionally in your hair one last time, a silent warning. Then, he released you completely.

He leaned in impossibly close again, his lips grazing your ear lobe. The single word was a whip-crack, a command that bypassed your frozen mind and went straight to your legs.

"Run.”

You didn't think. You bolted.

Adrenaline surged, overriding the whiskey haze and the dizzying cocktail of fear and unwanted arousal. You stumbled away from the counter, your bare feet slapping against the cool floorboards. The apartment suddenly felt impossibly small. Where? Where?

The bedroom? Too obvious. The tiny bathroom? Nowhere to hide. Chloe’s room? Empty, just a bed and a dresser. The closet? Too shallow.

Panic fueled your movements. You darted past the couch, towards the short hallway leading to the bedrooms. Behind you, you heard him chuckle, a low, dark sound. Then, footsteps. Slow, deliberate, echoing in the sudden silence. Tap… tap… tap. Leather soles on wood.

And then… whistling. A soft, tuneless little melody. Carefree. Mocking. It floated down the hallway after you, chilling your blood more than any shout.

Fuck. Fuck! Your mind screamed. You skidded into Chloe’s room. The closet was useless. Under the bed? Too low. The window? Locked, and a sheer drop outside. The whistling grew louder, closer. He was taking his time, savoring the hunt.

In desperation, you scrambled behind the door as it opened inward, pressing yourself flat against the wall, hoping the darkness and the angle would hide you. You held your breath, every muscle locked tight, listening.

The footsteps stopped in the doorway. The whistling ceased. Silence pressed down, heavy and suffocating. You could hear your own blood roaring in your ears.

Then, a soft sigh. "Oh, sweetheart…" His voice was a velvet purr, laced with disappointment that wasn't disappointment at all. It was triumph.

The door swung slowly inward, bumping gently against your shoulder. Light from the hallway spilled in, illuminating your hiding spot perfectly.

He stood framed in the doorway, tall and dark, a predator who’d cornered his prey. His hazel eyes locked onto yours, gleaming with unholy satisfaction. That cruel smirk was back, wider than ever.

"Found you," he breathed.

He didn't hesitate. He stepped into the room, kicking the door shut behind him with a final thud that echoed your doom. In two long strides, he was upon you. His large hands grabbed your shoulders, spinning you roughly away from the wall. The thin robe offered no resistance as he shoved it off your shoulders, letting it pool at your feet, leaving you bare before him.

You gasped, trying to push against his chest, but it was like pushing stone. He caught your wrists easily in one hand, pinning them above your head against the wall. His other hand slid down your trembling flank, rough and possessive, cupping your ass and hauling you hard against him. You felt the thick, rigid length of him straining against his trousers, pressed against your lower belly.

"No!" you choked out, a final, futile denial.

He ignored it. His mouth crashed down on yours, not a kiss but a claiming. Hard, bruising, silencing your protest. His tongue forced its way past your lips, demanding, dominating. The taste of him – rain, cold stone, and something darkly metallic – flooded your senses. You struggled, twisting your head away, but he followed, his grip on your wrists unyielding.

He broke the brutal kiss, trailing his lips down your jaw, your throat, biting at the pulse point he loved so much. His free hand slid between your legs, fingers finding the slick heat you’d tried so hard to deny. He groaned, a sound of pure, dark pleasure. "Told you," he growled against your skin, his fingers sliding through your wetness with obscene ease. "Lying little thing."

He hooked two fingers inside you without warning, a rough, deep thrust that stole your breath. You cried out, a sound mixed of pain and shocking, unwanted pleasure. He chuckled, curling his fingers, finding a spot that sent an electric jolt through your core. Your hips jerked involuntarily against his hand.

"That's it," he murmured, his breath hot on your ear. "Give in. You belong to me now."

He withdrew his fingers, leaving you aching and empty. With terrifying efficiency, he unfastened his trousers, freeing himself. He was thick, hard, and intimidating. He didn't ask.

The other hand slid down your trembling side, rough and possessive, grabbing your bare thigh just below the ass.

"Let's see what you were hiding from me," he growled, his voice thick with dark intent.

With terrifying strength, he hauled your leg up, hooking your knee high over his hip. The movement forced you onto the very tips of your bare toes, straining for purchase on the floorboards. Your body was stretched taut, vulnerable, utterly exposed to him.  Now you were completely bare against the cool wall, your breasts thrust forward, your core wide open. His gaze raked over you, lingering on the flushed skin of your throat, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the glistening wetness he could already see between your thighs.

"Perfect," he purred, his free hand dropping to unfasten his trousers with brutal efficiency. The thick, rigid length of his cock sprang free, hard and intimidating. He gripped himself at the base, the head glistening. He didn't ask. He didn't prepare you. He simply pressed the thick tip against your slick entrance.

"You shouldn't have run, sweetheart," he taunted, leaning in close, his breath hot on your ear. "Now I have to punish you." And with a powerful surge of his hips, he slammed himself into you in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

The sudden, brutal invasion tore a ragged scream from your throat. The stretch was intense, burning, a violation that stole your breath. He paused for a heartbeat, buried impossibly deep, letting you feel every inch of him stretching you open. His hazel eyes burned into yours, drinking in your pain, your terror.

"Tight little thing," he rasped, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. He pulled back almost completely, leaving just the tip inside, before slamming forward again with punishing force. "So wet for me already." He began a relentless rhythm: long, powerful withdrawals followed by deep, punishing thrusts that drove you back against the wall with each impact, your body bouncing on your straining tiptoes.

His hand tightened bruisingly on your thigh, holding your leg impossibly high as he fucked you. His other hand kept your wrists pinned immobile above your head. You were utterly helpless, a toy for his dark pleasure.

He lowered his head, his mouth finding the frantic pulse in your throat again. This time, he sucked harshly, teeth scraping, marking you deliberately. You cried out as pain lanced through you, mixed with a shocking jolt of unwanted sensation that shot straight to your core. He moved lower, biting and sucking along your shoulder, leaving angry red marks and darkening bruises in his wake. He shoved his face between your breasts, his teeth scraping a peaked nipple before closing over it roughly, sucking hard enough to make you arch off the wall with a choked gasp.

"See?" he growled against your breast, his tongue flicking the abused peak before biting down again. "Your body knows what it needs." He thrust harder, deeper, the angle forcing a gasp from you. "Trying to deny it? Pathetic."

He lifted his head, his gaze locking onto yours again as he pistoned into you. His thrusts became faster, harder, more brutal. The rough friction, the overwhelming fullness, the sheer force of his possession began to build a terrifying pressure low in your belly. Shame warred with the undeniable coil of pleasure tightening inside you. You tried to clamp down, to fight it, but your inner muscles fluttered helplessly around his invading length.

He felt it. A dark groan ripped from his throat. "Fuck, yes," he hissed, his hips snapping forward with brutal precision. "That's it. Clench on my cock, sweetheart." He slammed into you again, hitting a spot that sent sparks behind your eyes. "Give it to me! Squeeze me like the desperate little slut you are!"

A sharp cry tore from you as your body betrayed you utterly. Your inner walls clenched violently around his thick shaft, a spasm of pure, unwanted ecstasy that you couldn't suppress. It ripped a moan from deep in your throat – a sound mixed with pain and shattering pleasure.

He threw his head back with a guttural roar of triumph. "YES!" He drove into you with punishing force, spurred on by your involuntary clenching. "That's right! Take it! You belong to me now!" He fucked you through the convulsions of your climax, his pace turning animalistic, desperate. "Come on! Scream for me! SCREAM!"

His command shattered the last shred of your control. Another wave, even more intense than the first, crashed over you as your climax crested again. A raw, ragged scream tore from your throat, echoing in the small room as your body convulsed wildly around him, milking his length with frantic pulses.

The sensation was too much. With a final, brutal thrust that buried him to the root, he roared your name – or some guttural sound – and held deep. You felt him swell impossibly larger inside you before hot jets of his release pulsed violently into your depths. He ground against you, forcing himself as deep as possible as he emptied himself completely inside you with low, possessive growls against your sweat-slicked shoulder.

He stayed like that for long moments, shuddering with the force of his release, pinning you against the wall with his weight and his cock still buried deep within you. His breath was hot and ragged against your skin.

Slowly, the tension bled out of him. His grip on your thigh slackened first, letting your trembling leg slide down his hip until your foot barely touched the floor. Then, with deliberate slowness, he released your wrists above your head. Without his support holding you up against the wall and balancing you on your toes, your legs gave way completely.

You slumped to the floor in a boneless heap at his feet, naked, trembling violently, slick with sweat and his release dripping down your inner thighs. The cold floorboards shocked your overheated skin. You couldn't move, couldn't think, overwhelmed by the violation and the terrifying aftershocks of pleasure still echoing through your ravaged body.

He looked down at you, a picture of shattered submission at his feet. He adjusted himself with casual indifference, tucking his softening cock back into his trousers and fastening them. He ran a hand through his dark hair, slightly mussed now. His gaze swept over you – the bruises blooming on your throat and shoulders, the bite marks on your breasts, the evidence of his possession leaking from between your thighs.

A satisfied smirk touched his lips. He crouched down suddenly, bringing his face level with yours where you huddled on the floor. His finger traced a possessive line along a particularly dark hickey on your collarbone.

"Remember this," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, devoid of any warmth. "Remember who owns this now." His hazel eyes held yours for one last, chilling moment. "I'll be seeing you soon." You sat frozen, for a moment a fleeting thought entered your mind… what if he really came back… what if he brought ‘agent’ Reed? was he as much of a monster?

He straightened up smoothly and walked to the door. He opened it without a backward glance and stepped out into the hallway, pulling it shut behind him with a soft, final click. Then you heard your front door close moments later.

“Mhm, n-no” you whine, trying to twist your head from under your father’s hand, bitting both your top and bottom lip in to avoid kissing him. “C’mon just one?” James moans with a mocking smirk, slamming his hips up into your leaky cunt that’s creaming and gushing all over him.

Thin tears pool from the side of your eyes that are tightly closed as you shake your head in refusal, moving your hands to james’ chest in an attempt to get away. “Nope, none of that, c’mon, c’monnn. Just a little longer and you can go back to bed okay?” Leon promises, letting your head go to pin your arms behind your back. Pressing his chest against your damp back, his cock splitting your gripping asshole. Stretched so full Leon can feel his brother’s cock inside your other hole, the thin wall of your cunt pulses from overstimulation.

One of James’ hands that was warming your stiff hips now rubbing fast circles on your messy cunt, pushing his head further in the pillow under him as your pussy clamps down on his drilling cock. “G-god, Leon she’s crying, it’s making me go soft man. F-fuck”

“Don’t worry, she’ll quiet down eventually. She just has to cum a few times and she’ll forgive you, she’s a real cock slut. trust me”

I love a good dp… sue me🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

All you could do was sit idle in your room and await the promise of a better future. Only it did not come and when silence haunted the grounds of Harrenhal and everything came to a halt, you were certain your family had lost the fight.

You were mere humans, with no possession of such an almighty being.

Dragons were Gods. To be worshiped and prayed — and one was prominently flying over the remains of Harrenhal.

Belonging to none other than Aemond Targaryen, who was once your beloved friend with whom you dreamt of riding on a dragon.

Aemond had promised you when you were younglings. A promise that once he has claimed himself a dragon, you would be the first person he'd take for a flight.

The irony of the situation broke your heart.

The same dragon had left your castle and people in ruins — Vhagar’s loud wails filling up the sky with terror. You knew very well that now your army had fallen, your father definitely slain, you were going to face the same fate as many women during war did.

A prisoner, meat for Aemond’s men.

The door was slammed open and you turned around in a swift motion, finding your servant standing there. A look of horror adorning her once serene features. “It is done. The Targaryen prince has won and we are the only ones left.”

Tears blurred your vision. You did not remember reaching for the sharp blade which you had placed on your side table, an escape from all the atrocities you would eventually be forced to face by the hands of your own closest friend.

War was war.

And with the stories of Aemond’s cruelty circulating about, you knew very well than to beg for mercy or even expect it. Long gone was the sweet prince who made you promises of protection, a dragon and long lasting friendship.

He was your foe now.

An enemy who had slayed the men of your house, your own blood.

As you attempted to cut your own throat, a hand prevented you from doing so. Guards, of house Targaryen. Your face paled and your tears finally rushed down your face in glossy streaks, your one chance of escape taken from you.

The men restrained you but you screamed, struggled even. To break free and somehow draw the blade closer to your throat, only a small cut and you would disappear. You did not care if this was considered weak, you were willing to do just about anything to keep your dignity and honor.

To not be some slave for a man to put his cock in.

“Stay still, woman!” One of the guards berated you but you didn't listen, worming in their grasp.

“Let me go! Release me, right now.” Your screams echoed in the expanse of your chamber as well as the castle and Aemond heard them too.

He had ordered the demise of everyone, everyone besides you. There was this ache, this need to lay his eye upon you for the first time in awhile. Last time he saw you when you were nine, a beautiful little girl who often came to the red keep with her father — member of the council.

Aemond and your friendship flourished when you defended him against Aegon, comforting him to not lose all hope for a dragon. It was you who encouraged him, who provided him with the mental strength to claim Vhagar.

Your words of strength lingered in the back of his mind when he took claim of the largest dragon.

And now he had caused destruction with the same dragon.

Fate had brought you both to this. Ruined every good thing which was left in his life and he knew that you would never, ever forgive him for destroying your home.

You were kind, loving, sweet. Rebellious too but always stood your ground and believed in achieving justice, by any means. Aemond wondered how you'd grown, how you appeared as an adult now.

Did you braid your dark hair the same way as his Targaryen sister did, since you'd grown so fond of their silver hair? Were your eyes still the same onyx dark as your hair, a stark contrast to his own purple ones and was your choice in clothes still so dreadful? Curiosity pinched at his abdomen.

Your screams boomed through Harrenhal and Aemond felt proud of your resistance, only he had no knowledge of what you were resisting for so prominently.

He had no idea all your desperation and fight was to end your life.

The guards pulled you apart, their blood stained hands managing to rip off the side of your dress which concealed your shoulder during all the commotion to get you to release the blade. You somehow managed to free yourself from one of the guard’s unbearable grip and slashed his face with the blade.

“Ah, you fucking bitch.” He screamed, holding his face with one hand while the other tried to reach for you.

Another guard extracted his revenge, striking you across your face and tugging at the already torn fabric, exposing more of your back.

Your face contorted in pain, wishing to rid yourself off this world. “Don't fucking touch me. Unhand me and I will slaughter you lot like pigs.”

Your threats were larger than your size and some guards found you amusing while some knew you were capable of what you had promised them. A hand reached for your wrist, to tame it but not being able to pry open your clingy fingers around the dagger with all their strength.

Your fingers had paled, losing all their pink hue and the blood had stopped pumping through the small veins. That was how strong your grip around the weapon was.

Being carried down the stairs, your gaze took in the sight of the place that was once your home. Broken and hopeless, you were dragged along to the main hall. Rain pattered over the stones, causing a nauseating feeling in your stomach as you took in the situation of your castle.

Thankfully, your blurry vision did not allow you to take more of the destruction. All you noticed was the daunting figure of your enemy, standing pridefully at the center of the hall, awaiting your arrival.

You were pushed towards someone, forced on your knees and the silky silver strands gave away at the person's identity. Prince Aemond Targaryen stood before you, with his back turned to you and hands clasped behind his back.

You attempted to gather the pieces of your torn dress, holding it over your chest since it was ripped evidently in the back. Aemond upon turning around, did not expect you to be in such ruins. Dress torn apart, dark hair all but a mess and he caught glimpse of the silver rings encircled around your strands.

Now in a complete frenzy.

The same silver you always wore in your hair, around your little braids.

Aemond glanced up at his guards and then back at you, watching you. Demeanor phlegmatic, lips sitting tediously on his face.

You didn't dare to lift up your eyes. It wasn't about possessing enough courage to look him in the eye but having no self control. You knew deep down if you looked at him, you'd lose all control and attack him.

“I don't recall ordering you lot to bring her in such a..” Aemond tilted his head, analyzing the state you were in. “disheveled state.”

“She fought back a lot, my Prince. Intended to cut her throat with that little blade of hers in her hand.” Aemond was slightly taken aback from the revelation but you were right to choose that as an option. Everyone in this room knew what happened to women during war, especially the beautiful ones such as yourself.

The highborns were craved more as they carried noble blood within them.

His one eye fell upon the blade you still held with great vigor in your hand and Aemond nearly snickered. You had not let go of that adamant personality of yours, carrying it with you in adulthood.

Aemond did not like how your beautiful skin was exposed to the lecherous eyes of his guards. This abrupt jealousy even left him bemused for a moment, nonetheless he diverted his attention back to you.

He stepped closer — frame towering over yours and you saw the perfect moment to attack him. A feeble and thoughtless action but it was either succumbing to horrors or extracting revenge. In a fraction of mere seconds, you had risen up from your knees and headed for him with the pointy end of the dagger in his direction.

The guards reached for you and before you could possibly injure the Prince regent, his fingers enveloped your wrist. With potent strength and fast reflexes, Aemond held you in place. A mischievous glint flashed in his one good eye, lips curving up in a malicious smirk.

He saw the raw hatred and hunger for revenge in your eyes — your hand unwavering and stable. You meant the attack. Nowhere was it under the sad emotions of losing your family.

“Bold of you to assume this would work on me, Dōna.” Aemond whispered, face only a few inches apart from yours. Only the dagger separating you. You acknowledged the name he'd called you, from when you were children and the anger inside you was fuelled more. (Sweet)

“Have I not trained in front of you, hm? Did you not see me wield a sword whenever you stayed in the red keep?”

You glared at him. “I will kill you, either with poison or with a dagger. It is my promise to you, tyrant.”

“From raqiros to tyrant? You truly have grown, my Dōna.” He whispered malevolently, his warm breath with its own mind caressing the bridge of your nose, nearly with affectionate. (Friend)

Having spent most of your childhood in the red keep with the targaryens, especially Aemond, he was bound to teach you some high valyrian. You knew what raqiros meant, but he had never unveiled the meaning behind the nickname he gave you. Promising you he would once you two are grown enough.

Aemond looked up from your face to his men who stood on guard. Three of them, big and broad. His eyes raked over their hands and as he imagined those same hands mishandling you, ripping away at your clothes and prying open the corset which held your dress together, his jaw clenched.

“Ser Criston Cole,” he called out and the commander responded, head held high.

Aemond’s hand still prevented you from moving an inch, the pointy end of the dagger only a few inches away from his glistening, pale cheek.

“Behead them.” It was a simple command but it instilled fear in everyone in the room, including you. Even the commander was surprised by such a gruesome order and dared to ask. “Forgive me, my Prince but why?”

Aemond locked gaze with you. “They dared to lay hands on my prize, unveiled her dignity.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion as the Commander nodded, passing the order to his other guards. You heard the sounds of constant struggle, similar to yours as their pleas to live fell upon deaf ears.

“My Prince, please! Spare us, we were only acting upon your order!”

They were ignored, as Aemond continued to stare at you. His purple eye dropping to your lips for a second. He released you and you, on instinct, stepped back with the dagger still in your hand. It was proven that combat was definitely not how you could take down the prince.

Aemond had forced you to come along to the premises of Harrenhal, where his dragon rested. Strained and tired from the war she had indulged in. You had never seen Vhagar up close but knew that she was the second largest dragon, her first rider being Visenya Targaryen.

Your lips shuddered the more closer you were pulled next to the sleeping dragon.

“She can smell fear.” Aemond reminded you, staring ahead. “Conceal it unless you wish to burn to ashes.”

You inhaled a deep breath, closing your eyes and hoping to put an end to the growing fear in the presence of Vhagar.

When you opened your eyes, you were more calm now and in the right state of mind to admire the beast’s beauty. She was gorgeous, a shade of bronze mixed with green and blue highlights. Green, fierce eyes staring ahead and you would have congratulated Aemond on claiming a dragon if only the circumstances were different.

“You will ride with me to King’s Landing.”

“I will not.” You spat, taking a step back from him. That didn't seem to please Aemond as he closed the distance between you and grasped your arm, holding you in place. “Yes, you will.”

“I would rather be fed to your hounds than ride with you upon the back of the dragon which destroyed my home.” Your tone was venomous, full of anger and spite. Aemond knew there was no way calming you down or ridding you of your anger, so he did the next best thing that came to mind.

His slim hands slithered across your waist as he picked you up, settling you down on the dragon’s back. Vhagar released a roar and Aemond whispered something to her in high valyrian, causing her to calm down. Her head settling down, to rest.

He moved in front of you, taking a seat as well. “Hold on tight.”

You glued your hands to your sides, completely ignoring him. Aemond released a frustrated growl at your adamant behavior and lack of pliancy. He reached behind to grab your arms with his gloved hands, forcefully circling them around his small waist.

“Let go of me.” You struggled and Aemond looked back at you with irritation all over his beautiful face. “Do you wish to succumb to your death by falling? If so, feel free to let go.”

That was a lie as Aemond had already tied you to him with the brown belt — locking you with him. Even if you were to let go of him, his body weight restricted on his dragon would prevent you from falling and eventually meeting your demise. This was merely to get you to touch him.

To feel you against him, with little to no distance.

Your lips settled in a frown as you tightened your hold around him causing Aemond to grin. He patted his dragon’s back and then spoke. “Sōvēs, Vhagar.” (Fly)

The dragon shifted on its legs, preparing for the flight and you gasped when you felt it move more beneath you. Subconsciously, your fingers gripped the leather tunic of Aemond, chest pressing tightly over his broad back. Terror filled you as the dragon finally took flight, its huge wings flapping and the force of it made you realize how easy it must have been for Aemond to ruin your house.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, closing your lids shut and burying your face in Aemond’s shoulders.

This is exactly how he had anticipated your first ride on a dragon with him all these years, how you'd react to the beast moving and roaring. Your subtle touches, adorable reactions and soft sounds were just as Aemond had pictured them in his mind.

And he was fulfilling his promise to you.

Until now, Aemond never allowed anyone to ride with him. Only you were the exception and as gruesome the enmity between the two of you was, he could not simply suppress the overwhelming feelings he'd always harbored.

“Aemond..” You whispered, as the dragon took flight and it left you screaming. “Aemond! I'm fucking terrified.”

One hand holding onto his seat, the other reached over and settled on your hand around his chest. In an attempt to comfort you as Vhagar flew into the depths of the sky, Harrenhal nothing but a small scenery when you opened your eyes to look down at it.

A lone tear slid down your face.

This was not how you wished to ride with Aemond.

You hated him, disgust all over your face when you noticed how little and inferior everything appeared from up here. No wonder the Targaryens burned people and houses, as they felt superior being this close to Gods than the rest of you.

“Calm down, Dōna.” He said to you when his dragon had finally flew for King’s Landing.

You didn't say anything, only loosened your hold around him after realizing how awfully close were you to him.

Aemond noticed that and didn't like it.

“Vēzot, Vhagar. Vēzot.” Upon hearing Aemond’s command, the dragon changed route and flew high up in the air, going up tearing through the grey clouds. In fear of falling, your arms once again found themselves around the dragon rider’s small waist. (Up)

You had no idea what Aemond had said but it made his dragon fly up, defying gravity and leaving you gasping for air.

With a satisfied smile on his face, Aemond relished in the feeling of power he had over you and the power he'll soon have over others too. It was painfully evident his brother was incompetent and if something were to befall him, it would be Aemond next in line to inherit the throne.

Never did you ever think or expect that you would be brought back to the red keep as a prize, a symbol of victory — a slave most definitely for Aemond after how he behaved last time with the guards last time. He did not allow anyone to look at you, to touch you, besides your maidens who helped you doll up for the Prince.

His possessiveness was very well known to you when you both were children but you had expected him to grow out of it. How foolish of you to assume that.

Aemond was a possessive child. You recalled the time where he had forbade his siblings from playing with you — or when he did not let anyone touch his sword or even wield it. You remembered how the future lord of Casterly Rock was treated only because he had dared to pass a compliment to Aemond’s sword.

You could hear the cheers of the smallfolk and it disgusted you. He only won against you and your family, not the Blacks. It repulsed you how he was supporting a usurper and not the rightful heir. Your father died for the cause of Rhaenyra Targaryen, you would do too in a heartbeat.

You were lead inside the Red keep after the notorious flight with Aemond. The Prince’s orders were to his servants were to lead you to his own chambers and clean you up. You had no idea why, but you were not going to comply easily.

“I am not your mistress.” Your voice boomed loudly in the main hall, causing Aemond’s footsteps to come to a halt. “Neither am I your whore. Kill me because I too support Rhaenyra Targaryen’s claim to the throne. I shall die a honorable death as my father and kin did.”

You had dared to speak to him, like that, in the presence of not only the Queen but even the other council members.

Aemond’s hands balled up into fits. “Take her.”

You were forcefully dragged somewhere while you struggled, piercing screams enough to damage one's ears. Before you were pulled in a corridor, you made a promise. “I will get my revenge, Aemond Targaryen. You shall answer for the blood of my family that stains your hands. I will never forgive you!”

Alicent followed her son, your threats still lingering in her mind. You had screamed them with tremendous agony and will. She worried, for the kingdom.

“Do you believe you would be doing the realm anything good by bringing a blood thirsty enemy here?” Alicent questioned as she followed Aemond into the room where the council took place.

His fists shook, with poorly tamed rage. “She is anything but a weak girl.”

Alicent scoffed. “She is openly screaming threats. Either a fool would do that or a person who has got absolutely nothing to lose, Aemond.”

“Her screams will quiet down once I have managed to put a child in her.” Aemond spat at his mother, placing his sword down on the table.

She was appalled at what her son had evolved into. The monster he'd become and somewhere she doubted her own motherly skills.

You were forced into a beautiful, pale dress – the fabric as thin as a sheer curtain – after your bath. The maids obviously did not provide you with anything which could conceal your body in the see through white dress. It had embroidery done on the front, so it somewhat worked to cover your breasts.

But the longer it extended, the more it revealed everything underneath.

Pieces of your wavy dark hair were pinned behind, some braided with silver rings clipped around.

The maids soon excused themselves, leaving you to your solitude. Your body felt cold from the lack of clothes so you moved over to stand before the fireplace. Arms sliding up and down your frame to warm up yourself.

Truth to be told, you were suffering with trepidation. Were you prepared to sleep, to head to bed? But why in Aemond’s chambers? All sorts of vile and impure thoughts came rushing in your mind as you tried to keep them at bay.

The doors were soon opened and there stood Aemond, in a different set of clothes. You immediately stepped back, albeit him standing far away from you. He noticed that but no matter how many walls you tried to build between you two, Aemond was determined to break and crush each and every one of those.

He appeared enamored with you.

You were nothing less than an angel, standing underneath the moonlight illuminating your frame.

“Is this what you brought me here for, Prince Regent? To dress me up and warm your bed late at night?” You questioned with disgust and Aemond stepped froward.

You immediately retreated. “Do not dare to come any closer. I will not be one of your whores.”

“What makes you think I would let you become one of my whores?” Aemond asked with a soft tone. Your beauty had soothed all his irritation but it also ignited a fire within his core.

“You're a monster.” You whispered. “You have become a tyrant, a beast worse than those dragons of yours. It is a pity.”

Aemond was losing his patience with you. He didn't waste time, snapping and running towards you. The man pinned you against the wall, knocking over a vase resting on a table besides you. Pain bloomed in your back from the hardness of the wall — and being slammed into it.

The targaryen man locked eyes with you and let out a smile of satisfaction, witnessing the fear swimming in your innocent gaze. “Pity? You dare pity me when you are left with nothing of your house, nothing.”

The cruel reminder caused tears to well up in your eyes but your gaze stayed locked with Aemond’s. It did not waver and with all your strength, you pushed him away from you.

“I hate you.” You confessed, tears sliding down your face, a testament to the pain you were battling. “You were my friend, my fucking friend. How could you do this to me, to me? Your fucking Dōna, Aemond.”

When he heard the high valyrian word escape your lips, he growled. You saw him take a step further and this time decided to make a run for the door, trying to crawl over the bed hastily but Aemond was fast, vigilant as he grabbed you.

You fought back, slapping and punching him but it didn't work at all. He shoved his lips against yours and he did not care that you didn't want this. He wanted it, that was all that mattered. Aemond’s tongue forcefully entered your mouth as your hands continuously punched his chest.

He pushed you down on the both whilst staying locked to you, tasting your plump lips with vigor.

Head tilted, he pushed open your thighs and buried his knee between them. Rutting it against your cunt and you released a muffled cry in the liplock, hoping he would show some mercy but Aemond was too far gone.

The pressure on your clit – sheer fabric the cause of you and Aemond’s separation – was intense. A burgeoning need lighting up in your core as you struggled. There was no way you would give in, no matter how much you had admired him when you both were children. You knew better. You were only the daughter of some lord, meanwhile he was the Prince.

The fight for dominance was already won by Aemond as his tongue explored the inside of your sweet flesh. He broke apart from you to gaze upon you, a mess he'd turned you into. Face flushed, lips swollen and bloodied from how harshly he had sunk his canines into them.

Your dark hair with glinting silver in pure disarray, spread about everywhere on the bed. Aemond was fucking drunk and there was no stopping him.

“You said I'm a monster, right?” His voice was eerily low, causing you to panic. “I shall show you what monstrosity I am capable of.”

He tore the dress in a single tug, discarding the two pieces somewhere on the ground. Fear evident in your enlarged eyes as you struggled to conceal yourself with your arms but Aemond held them above your head, his fingers roughly pressing into your skin leaving marks.

“Aemond, please.” Tears fell and Aemond nearly softened.

If you'd been kind to him like how you were in the past, this compromising situation wouldn't have fallen you. He would've let you live, be a maid in the red keep but now, he had to prove it to you.

Just what he was capable of.

“Aemond,” you sweetly called out, hoping it would work. “My prince, don't do this. You do not wish to do this.”

“Too late for that sweet tone, my lady. If you do not wish for worse, I suggest you shut your goddamn mouth and take it.” His voice was so soft, so low but his words were as repulsive and cruel. It was what Aemond had become. A broken boy who sought out solace but was too afraid to ask for it, fearful of seeming weak — yet again becoming a target of his brother’s constant bullying.

In the process of becoming what he hated, Aemond lost you too.

One eye raked over your exposed breasts, full and round. You were no longer the little girl who used to chase him around the red keep, in her long dresses. You had flourished, flowered with grown tits and when his eye fell lower, he inhaled sharply. Plush, meaty thighs greeted them. He recalled how at one point you were as skinny as a boy, with no fat to your lean frame.

Now you had blossomed in a beautiful woman.

Your skin glowed neath the moonlight, your presence basking in its light. It showcased all the little minorities your features carried, what you had become, the delicate beauty that you were.

“You are certainly no little girl no more.” He reminded you, words no less than salt over your sounds.

Tears pearled on your waterline. “And you've grown into a fine man yourself.”

Your words were carried on obvious pain and Aemond pretended he did not catch a whiff of that. You continued, with a wavering voice, drained from all your rebellion and fight. “Fine but cruel, Aemond. I thought you were different, ought to be different. You proved me wrong.”

“Keep your lips sealed.” Aemond commanded, as your words nearly made his will to defile you falter. Being the daughter of a high lord, he was certain your maidenhead was still intact. You were never the type to engage in lecherous actions before the pure promise of a marriage.

Aemond’s rough hands took a handful of your breasts, fondling the fat. Thumbs swiping over your peebles, sending them upright. Undeniable pleasure shot through your body in the form of swarming heat as it settled in your lower stomach. A prominent gasp tore from your parted, swollen lips as Aemond stared at you in adoration.

“They are so full.” His comment about your body your pleasure-clad face form into one of grimace. “I wonder how your cunt looks now that you are older. You were always too innocent to consider our friendship anything more than what it was.”

Your back arched off the bed, the writhing of your hips increasing whenever Aemond rubbed his knee over your tiny pearl. You felt it swell up with need and wanton, a dull ache growing, begging to be burned out. The silver haired male pried your thighs open to lay eye on your pink cunt.

Aemond licked a wet tongue over his lips, his hunger to taste your seemingly delicious core pressing at him. He never once got overwhelmed with the urge to put his mouth on a woman's cunt — as the woman he got involved with whores. He had no interest in tasting something where most men found solace in.

But you were a virgin.

He knew that.

Yet he asked, surely to rile you up. “Has anyone been inside of you yet?”

Your eyes widened at the repulsive question of his. Brows scrunching in disgust and the rosette on your cheeks transcending into beetroot. Before you could control your imminent action, a strike echoed in the chambers. Tears had stalled, replaced with a hateful searing look and when Aemond recovered from the slap and faced you, chills enveloped you. Despite the impact, he was still poised. Eyes sheened with darkness and pure rage, his hand moved to reciprocate the harsh movement.

Only his slap hurt more — a scorching sensation awakening below your skin. A hint of red in the form of a hand imprinted on your face.

“Answer my question.”

You shook your head. Not only had the slap worked wonders to make you more pliant, it also made you realize that what Aemond was capable of.

His fingers ran along the line of your plumped up lips. “Use this pretty mouth of yours.”

“I'm not a low born.” You said through gritted teeth. “I'm chaste. Check for yourself if you are disbelieving of me.”

Aemond let out a scoff, fingers dimpling into your cheeks. The angry pout on your lips along with his hand print left behind on your cheek made you look ten times more endearing to him. “That I plan on doing, my lady.”

Hands lowering to your thighs, fingers dipping in the thickness. Aemond nestled his head between them, eyes gliding over your glistening cunt. It was true that you were still chaste and he was sure of it, there was no need to check it. He softly ran his tongue over your pearl, a sharp breath from you entering his ears.

“I don't want this.” Your tone had a hint of plea in it. “Please, Aemond. It is too repulsive, I cannot—”

Aemond growled. “Cannot, what? You cannot allow my cock inside you? Cannot allow me to put a babe in you? Or won't allow me to simply because I'm Aemond.”

“Targaryen with the largest dragon who put an end to my family line.” You finished, vision blurring. Aemond knew this conversation was pointless to carry and he instead closed his lips around your swollen bud, suckling like it would produce the sweetest of nectars in existence.

You tried to fight him off, pushing at his shoulders with the little strength left in your small fingers to no avail. He sucked with great vigor and your demeanor fell — back rising up from the ruined mattress and hips pushing your mound further into his cage. He pulled back, lapping at your swollen clit over and over again, like a dog in heat. Tears furiously caressed down your face as Aemond’s fingers came to collect your arousal from the center of your folds.

By the Gods, you were a waterfall.

“Never did I think I would grow this addicted to the taste of a woman's cunt.” Aemond whispered, his warm breath shooting jolts of pleasure through you. Your hand on its own accord pressed onto his head, palm flaccid and fingers twisting his Targaryen strands around. “The more I taste you, the more famished I become.”

“G-Get off me.” You somehow managed to utter. You were mortified. How your body ached for him to continue, hand forcing his mouth against your hot heat whilst the heavy fists of your morals thudded on the door of your hazed mind.

All but a futile endeavor to fight back.

Aemond pulled back and reached for his slacks, undoing them. You watched with a dazed out look as he released his cock from the confines of his breeches. His fingers moving to curve under the hem of his shirt, ridding himself of the leather as well as his small clothes.

Left bare and naked before you, your gaze caught Aemond’s searing red cock. Head swollen and shining with leaking cum, veins traced up and down. You closed your eyes, in hopes that the nightmare before you would be over but that was only you losing last remnants of your hope.

“I-It won't fit.” You whispered to yourself, more tears sliding down your temples.

Aemond heard it, despite your voice being a low whisper. He reached over to grab your face between his large hand, fingers sinking into your cheeks. That caused you to flutter your weak lids open, staring back at him with a sheen in your pupils. “It will fit. Your maidenhead is still intact, so it might be painful. But who cares?”

Your bottom lip quivered as Aemond let go, holding his cock. He guided it across your wet slit, pushing its thick head past your folds and pressing into your pearl. Your breath was bated, perspiration dancing on your forehead. Your body had grown completely warm and you wished for someone, anyone to burn down the fire which was ignited in the fireplace.

Aemond gathered your arousal, in soft circulation around your pebble. You whined out, hands slapping at his broad shoulders to put an end to his obscenities. Yet he did not falter, will growing more profound and strengthened to a point of no return.

He soon aligned his cock along your hole with the disgusting intention to defile it and slipped in. Your walls squeezing around his cock head tightly, endeavoring to grow used to the size but Aemond did not wait. He pushed and your tears of sadness had now transformed into tears of pain.

Hot searing pain.

“It hurts, it hurts. Let me go, please let me go.” You cried, screamed even, nails scratching rapidly at his chest. You left evidence of your firmness, of your distaste for such degeneration. Long lacerations formed on a pale canvas as Aemond held you down with one hand circled around your throat while the other had pushed your leg up for more easy and open access.

You were crying relentlessly and it was beginning to annoy the young Prince. “Quiet now, or I will have your tongue.”

“I-It is too p-painful.” You sobbed and this time Aemond landed a tight slap to your other cheek, watching it imitate the shade of the other one. “I said, fucking quiet. If I hear anything other than sounds of pleasure out of these lips of yours, I will toss you to my guards.”

It was an empty threat.

Aemond would never, ever do that. You were for him, only him. Insignificant your view was about him.

You were his prize, a sign of victory.

Still Aemond stalled, not having the heart to pummel his cock fully into you. All he managed was to breach your maidenhead and you were already wailing like you'd been shot with an arrow. He waited it out, letting you grow accustomed to his length and thickness.

Once your agony-clad face recovered and softened, Aemond took it as a sign to move further. Your gummy walls sucking his cock in, caressing the rigid veins. Deeper, and deeper. He went slowly and carefully, which you didn't overlook. You felt him sheath his cock fully into you, arms extended out for him, in complete submission.

Aemond, silently surprised by such vulnerability and submission, took your hands into his and brought them to his nape. “Hold me, brace yourself, Dōna.”

That sweet tone of his.

It nearly warmed your heart but the constant reminder which took at Harrenhal haunted you like a ghost. A cursed bestowed upon you, no escape at all. Aemond melted within you, nestling against your spongey spot of nerves. Your lips fell when he found that sensitive spot of yours.

He didn't waste time pummeling his cock into your weeping cunt, growls of a beast escaping him. You could not bring yourself to look at him. Pulling him closer, you concealed your face within the crook of his neck as your hold clasped around his slender nape — fingers intertwining with silver roots. Aemond had only tried Sylvie, his first and last so when he felt you draw him closer, it ignited a fire impossible to end.

“Gods,” Aemond groaned in your ear, his sharp nose running along your cheek, both hands gripping your flesh. “If I had known laying with you would be this pleasurable, I would have done it when we were younglings.”

Disgust would have made path on yout face it it was not for the pleasure Aemond bestowed upon you. His thick cock head repeatedly bruised your cervix and all you could do was wail, your hold for dear life tightening around him. Aemond found delight on your innocent moans, your sweet little hiccups and sounds of pleasure. He pulled from you, to glance down and felt immense satisfaction at the ring of blood around his length. He had officially taken you, not exactly under the circumstances he wanted but pondering about that was futile now.

His one eye stayed focused on you. Examining the lines donning your forehead, dark brows furrowed and a sheen of sweat sitting on your forehead. Pale cheeks flustered and saccharine sweet lips parted, birthing little sounds.

An epitome of nobility and charm you were.

Aemond pulled out of you, just as you were beginning to reach your pounding climax.

He leaned on the head board of the bed, chest glistening with droplets of sweat. The fire crackling was not helping neither of you to find some cold. “Get on top of me.”

You weakly shook your head.

Aemond’s glare obliged you and you shifted on the bed, crawling on top of him. In the process, you caught the blood of your purity staining the pale bed sheets, as well as your thighs. A burning sensation prodded and you finally did what Aemond asked you to do. The evil man grinned, leaning forward to press a kiss to your temple.

“I'm sure you know your job here.”

Your lips trembled. “I-I am supposed to sit on it?”

Innocently you had voiced that question and Aemond almost cooed. He gave you a simple nod and watched as your cheeks burned with newfound embarrassment. You still did what you were told to, aware that fighting him back on this would only make him revoke the small kindness he'd shown you.

You grabbed a hold of his erect cock — pressing it over your soaked hole. As you slipped down on it, Aemond and you groaned in unison.

Your small hands found support on his bleeding chest, fingers swiping over his nipples accidentally and Aemond let out a choked gasp. The feeling of your walls clamping his cock mixed with the way your fingers brushed over his nipples was enough to send him fucking into you. Thrusting upwards into you while his large hand stayed locked on your hip.

Both of you moved simultaneously, greedily chasing after your own pleasure. Aemond saw a goddess in front of him — a weeping goddess who possessed the cunt of a hungry whore. Your small waist and bare tits bouncing with each move had him obsessed like a dog.

“Fuck, fuck, Dōna.”

He panted like his dragon, matching your pace with his, hand fondling your breasts. He was close but ripping an orgasm through you first was his priority and he was dedicated to it. Aemond felt your cunt squeeze him, watching as your tears fell in little pearls. “I am going to put a babe in you, Dōna. Can you believe it? Your childhood friend putting a babe in you.”

You couldn't even voice out your disagreement, Aemond was bound to do what he promised you. An intense feeling surged in your stomach, your pace slowing down and your sobbing growing more and more. Your orgasm tore through you in the form of essence, as your eyes disappeared behind your lids.

“Aemond, Aemond! Aemond.” You chanted his name out like a mantra and he slapped his cock deeper into you.

He fucking loved how submissive you were being now — entirely at his mercy and neath him. His own climax followed thoroughly, filling your walls with his spend. Spurting our rope after rope of white to fill up your expanded womb. Growls of need and ache echoed in the room and you couldn't stay still anymore, losing all your balance and colliding right in his chest.

Your little body was spent, fatigue and tiredness weakening you. Aemond was quick to wrap his arms around you, shushing you gently while you cried in his chest.

“It's over now.” He reassured but you knew very well that it was not. It was only for tonight that it was over.

Aemond comforted you, holding you against him with his cock still inside you.

“I hate you.” You cried, tears coating his chest as your forehead rested on his muscular chest. Aemond could only sigh, loathing the situation that bad befallen them. He did not resent you as you were the only one who had shown him true kindness.

But the war and throne were far more important.

“Rest, you need it.” He said, an order it was and you felt forced to comply. “Things will be very different from now on, Dōna. I will have the high sept marry us tomorrow, our child will not be a bastard.”

Probably took a wrong turn, probably wrestling a feral cat in an alley somewhere, probably already in deeper shit than you. Which was saying something.

“Screw it,” you muttered, and twisted the throttle.

The warehouse rose out of the heat haze like a concrete tumor. You killed the engine and coasted in, your boots crunching on gravel that had never seen a landscaping crew. Tae-geom was already out of the car, unfolding himself from the driver’s seat with that slow, deliberate menace guys practice in mirrors. Built like a refrigerator that had gone to anger management and flunked out. Allen stayed in the backseat, a pale smear behind the window, probably Googling “how to dispose of a body” or whatever the hell his job was.

You parked the bike, swung your leg off. “How’s it being Baek-jung’s bitch?” you said. “Pay good? Benefits package include knee pads?” Tae-geom’s face went through a fascinating color spectrum. Red to purple to that special shade of crimson a guy gets right before he does something his lawyer will later call “a momentary lapse.”

He came at you..

You snap-kicked him in the stomach with a roundhouse that folded him like a bad hand of poker, then followed up with a right cross that turned his nose into a faucet. Blood sprayed across the dust in a Jackson Pollock pattern. You wound up for another kick, the kind that ends conversations, but your balance was a quarter-second too slow and he snagged your thigh with hands like cinder blocks.

The world spun. Sky, gravel, sky, gravel. You hit the ground hard enough to taste your own spine.

He loomed over you, boot rising for a skull-crushing stomp, the kind of move that turns memories into closed-casket funerals. You barrel-rolled left and his heel cratered the dirt where your face had been. Gravel peppered your cheek. You kipped up, cat-quick, dusting off your jacket like he’d spilled a drink on you at a bar.

“Oh, baby,” you said, wagging a finger. “You gotta move a bit quicker than that. My grandma is faster than that, and she’s been dead six years.” His nostrils flared. A bubble of blood popped. “Does your mouth do anything else but talk shit?”

He threw a punch, a big looping hay maker meant to take your head off. You read it easy. Too easy. Because it wasn’t the punch. The punch was the distraction, the magic trick, the look-over-here. His real payload was the kick that slammed into your ribs like a steel girder with a grudge.

Pain detonated up your side. You felt it in your molars. You didn’t give him time to admire his work. You closed the distance and detonated a fist into his already-ruined nose. Cartilage crunched like celery. He staggered back and you buried another one in his gut, folding him forward, setting up the grand finale like a choreographer from hell.

“Night-night, sweet prince.”

Your foot connected with his groin with the kind of precision that would make a neurosurgeon weep. The sound he made wasn’t human. It was a squeaky-toy frequency, a dog-whistle of pure existential regret. He went down sideways, curling into a fetal comma, hands clamped protectively over the family jewels like he was praying to a god that had clearly abandoned him.

You stood over him, fist cocked for the knockout stamp on the envelope, feeling like a golden god in a leather jacket. Then your whole left side lit up like someone had plugged you into the national grid.

Fifty thousand volts went joyriding through your nervous system. Muscles you didn’t know you had seized up and screamed. You jerked around, the movement all wrong and puppet-like, and there was Allen, holding a taser against your ribs with the casual disinterest of a man checking his phone. “Fuck,” you managed, your tongue thick and useless. “I forgot about you.” Then the lights went out.

Your face snapped to the side like a whip crack, and the bright explosion of pain jerked you back into the world. "Ah, fuck," you croaked, tongue thick as a sock. Your eyes swam into focus. Allen's face was right there. Inches away. Nose to nose. You recoiled, chains rattling overhead. "Ew. Why you up in my face? Back the hell up."

He didn't move. His eyes were jittery little marbles, darting between you and something behind him. Nervous. But not for himself. For you. Which was worse somehow. Much worse. Your arms were hoisted above your head, wrists bound tight to a pipe running across the ceiling, and you were balanced on your tippy toes like a ballerina from a snuff film. The strain in your shoulders was a low, constant scream.

Tae-geom materialized from the shadows, stepping into the weak pool of industrial light. His nose was still a crime scene, crusted black with dried blood, swollen sideways like a failed renovation. You couldn't help yourself. "Ah shit, you should ice that. Maybe see a specialist. That's gonna heal ugly."

He smiled. It was a slow, deliberate thing. Then he backhanded you hard enough to make the chains sing. "Damn," you said, spitting a thick rope of blood onto the concrete. It landed with a splat that sounded too loud in the empty space. "And here I was being nice. Genuine medical advice. Wasted."

Tae-geom pulled up a chair, the metal legs screeching against the floor like something alive and wounded. He sat down in front of you, close enough that his knees brushed yours. His hands found your hips, fingers pressing into the bone like he was testing fruit for ripeness. "Allen," he said, not looking away from your face, "set the camera up."

The words landed in your gut like a swallowed stone. You followed his gaze to the corner of the room where Allen was fumbling with a tripod, adjusting a lens that glinted like a dead eye in the dim light. "What the fuck are you doing?" Tae-geom's thumbs traced slow circles on your hip bones. The gesture of a man who already had a plan for you. "Just gonna give Gun-woo and Woo-jin a show."

Something cold and primal dropped through you. You kicked out hard and your boot connected with his face with a wet crunch, snapping his head back. Fresh blood erupted from the wreckage of his nose. "Fuck! Allen, hold her!" Allen scrambled over, his hands clamping onto your hips from behind, fingers digging into the bruises already blooming there. You thrashed, chains shrieking, but physics was physics and leverage was a bitch.

Tae-geom rose from the chair, blood streaming down his chin and dripping onto his shirt in bright red coins. He moved with a new kind of stillness now, a deliberate calm that was infinitely more terrifying than rage. From his belt he pulled a knife. 

He pressed the flat of the blade against the side of your neck, the steel cold as a confession. His eyes locked onto yours and there was nothing in them. Nothing at all. No anger. No sadism. Just a vast, empty patience. "Give me a fucking reason not to slice this pretty neck open."

His voice was soft. Almost gentle. The blade kissed your skin. A single bead of blood welled up and traced a hot line down your throat, and you felt it go all the way down, and the room had gotten very quiet, and Allen's hands on your hips were trembling, and the camera's red light blinked in the corner like a pulse.

The knife whispered through your shirt. Then your jeans, the denim splitting open, peeling away from your legs like a skin that wasn't yours anymore. You were down to your bra and underwear. The air hit your bare stomach and it felt like something breathing on you.

"Oh, matching." Tae-geom's voice came from somewhere above the blade. "This for someone? Gun-woo or Woo-jin?" His hand landed on your chest. Heavy. The knife trailed down. Down. The tip kissed the top of your underwear and rested there, patient as a lover.

"Let's see what we have here."

The blade bit. Your underwear fell away. Then your bra. Cold air on your breasts. Cold air everywhere. And the scream that tore out of you wasn't a word, wasn't a no, wasn't anything human. "Stop. Stop. Stop." Screaming. Shouting it into his face. The words bounced off him like stones off water.

He grabbed your chin. Fingers sinking into your cheeks, mashing them together, making your lips purse out like a fish. He pulled your face close to his. So close you could smell the iron in the blood still crusted around his nostrils. So close the world was nothing but his eyes.

"I don't want to."

Said it soft. Soft as a lullaby. Then he shoved you backward into Allen. His hands found your breasts immediately. Kneading. Fingers spreading, squeezing, thumbs circling. You bucked, thrashed, tried to throw him off, but the chains held you and your toes barely scraped the concrete and there was no leverage, no angle, no way to make it stop.

Then fingers pushing inside you. Then a tongue. Wet and hot and searching. Your breath hitched. Seized. Became something you had to fight for. Allen's other hand wrapped around your throat, holding your head still, holding you there, making sure your face was pointed at the blinking red light in the corner.

Tae-geom pulled his fingers out slowly. Then something else replaced them. Cooler. Harder. The handle of the knife. He pushed it in and your body betrayed you by accepting it.

He started to fuck you with it, slow at first, then faster, his eyes never leaving yours. Never blinking. The handle going in and out with a wet sound that filled the warehouse like music. "Still got so much fight in those eyes."

You looked at him. Through him. Into the nothing place he came from. "Fuck you." And you spit in his face. He wiped it off with the back of his hand. Didn't even flinch. But your body was doing something now. Something you couldn't control. Something building low and hot and monstrous.

"Oh." His voice went sing-song. Mocking. "Are you gonna cum? From me fucking you with a knife?" He laughed, a bark of genuine delight. "Shit, I didn't take you for such a slut."

And you came. Came around the handle of a knife while a stranger held your throat and a camera recorded every second. Your body arched. Shuddered. Became something that wasn't yours. When it was over he pulled the knife out.

"Allen. Move."

Allen released you. You sagged forward, chains groaning. Tae-geom stepped behind you, grabbed your hips, bent you over. Your arms stretched above you, twisted now, shoulders screaming in their sockets. Facing the camera. Facing the red light. Facing them.

You heard his belt unbuckle. The zipper. The rustle of fabric.

"Don't you fucking dare. I'll fucking kill you. I'll kill—"

He pushed into you. The scream that came out wasn't yours. It belonged to someone else. "Allen. Bring the camera close." Allen's footsteps. The lens moving in. A glass eye that never blinked, never looked away. "Make sure you get her pretty face."

Tae-geom laughed. His grip on your hips was a vice. Bone grinding on bone. You'd have bruises for weeks. You'd have bruises for the rest of your life. "Such a tight cunt." A grunt. A thrust. "We should let Baek-jung have a go." Laughter. His and Allen's.

"Gonna fuck my cum into you and you're gonna fucking take it. Right, babe?" You felt him empty into you. Hot. Foreign. A poison taking root in your cells. Your legs would have given out if not for the chains. You'd have been a puddle. A stain. A thing that used to be a person.

He pulled out. The sound of him fixing his pants was the worst sound in the world because it meant this was over for him. This had been a task. A chore. Something to check off a list. "Allen. Send that video to Gun-woo."

"No. No, don't. Please. Please don't."

The word please tasted like vomit. Like surrender. Like the last thing you had. "Why not?"

Allen nodded. Task complete. Message sent. Somewhere, right now, a phone was buzzing. Somewhere, right now, Gun-woo was about to see what the inside of his friend looked like.

Tae-geom unchained you. Your arms dropped. Useless meat. You collapsed onto the cold concrete, naked and shaking and full of someone else. "Come on." His voice was casual now. Almost friendly.

"Baek-jung wants to see you."