romance and shit

So despite the hike to work every day, toing and froing between your rural home and bustling Linkon, you can still appreciate the scenery.

You take a turn. You can’t see the bend ahead until you’ve already made it, and the visibility isn’t helped by the thin fog rolling in. But again, drivers are seldom seen in these parts... Not that you’ve completely stopped being alert of your surroundings- with all the towering obstacles flanking you that’s a recipe for disaster- but you allow yourself to relax a bit.

For all of a few minutes, anyway, before looking at one of the mirrors and doing an immediate double take.

Someone is tailing you.

Sorry- not just someone. An officer.

And no you’re not doing anything illegal. But you can’t help but tense up regardless, check your speed (all good, of course; even if almost always alone on this road, you don’t use the solitude as an opportunity to break the law- even if your ETA might like if you did), your lights.

The whole path is shaded under the canopy. The leaves too thick to see the sun if it was there; now, it disappears under a swath of clouds, steadily sinking low as the sugary, evening sky deepens into a blazing blue.

The last of its light, just a spark really, fades from the hood of your car.

The coming of nightfall only worsens that pit of unease in your belly, and you find yourself asking why the unwanted company at this hour.

But it’s fine. You’re not doing anything you shouldn’t be. Your house- the little cabin handed down to you, humble and rickety but cozy, the best you could do- isn’t far off.

Some miles more, a few songs on the radio, and you’ll be there.

Something you like is playing now, put on loop. But it crackles over the radio. Static abruptly spiking.

Perhaps that is the one and only indicator given to you that something is about to go wrong.

Go wrong it does.

Another uncertain glance tossed to the square reflector and all the color seeps from your face as the perch above the car behind you lights up.

Reds and blues flash, bouncing off the trees as they darken around you. And right when you think it’s a little theatrical for just the two of you on one road, the sirens wail.

Great.

Heart in your throat, you pull up ahead and to the side.

It’s fine. It’s fine. The officer’s probably just… Just on an evening patrol down a new route- or happens to be passing through and raised a brow at your presence.

I mean, there’s no telling who you could be, yet even as countless reassurances flip through your brain, you squint in the mirror as he smoothly parks behind you. Trying to make out a face behind those tinted windows.

A woman? A man? Tall and lanky or does he have a donut in hand? Tonight’s already derailing fast, but you wouldn’t be so upset if you got off with a light warning from Officer Friendly rather than a dictatorial cop on a power trip.

If nothing else, one is certainly better than the other.

Your wheel is damp with sweat by the time that door swings open.

The polished black boot that steps out precedes the dark aviators and the sharp, stubbled jaw as he heads over.

The gravel thuds underfoot. The rhythm of his heels making one powerful metronome.

And as he approaches— tall, yes, you note that, but not lanky. No, he’s six foot something, broad, and looks very capable of whatever the hell the job requires of him.

That doesn’t calm your nerves by much. Even if it should.

Call it a day’s fatigue or even gut instinct, but some voice in the back of your head is squeaking for you to leave.

But… you don’t particularly like the sound of being cuffed and hurled into the backseat of some cop’s cruiser all because you pettily resisted what’s probably a routine, harmless check-up.

He’ll ask a few questions, you remind yourself, maybe throw in some small talk about the weather to make the whole thing less awkward. And then you’ll be on your merry way.

It’s not a big deal.

His shades stay on. Even when he swaggers up to your car window and you hurry to roll it down with a polite, if not timid smile to spare yourself the knock.

Shadows set quickly and emphasize the hewn structure of his face, his jaw, as a pure blue clings to him like a second skin. Before long, the moonlight will replace it.

You’re sure that this whole ordeal will be over by then, though.

You assume he’s looking at you, though it’s impossible to confirm. You don’t catch so much as a glint under the lens as wayward threads of his silvery hair fall over them. Effortlessly stylish.

The added layer of anonymity certainly doesn’t lessen the tension plaguing you— nor the lack of a badge as your eyes sweep over him and linger on the leather standard jacket, his identification just out of view.

The guy braces a hand against the roof of your car.

“Evening,” he greets.

More than definitely, there’s a gun wedged between himself and his waistband, yet you think with the frame of a veritable model and a voice like syrup, the man must be perfectly dangerous without it.

Save for a spray of clouds, the skies are peacefully clear. The sound of his voice is so deep and rich that the first idea brought to mind is thunder still.

Something in the depths of your soul responds with a tremble. A pink tongue darting out to wet his lip when he says, “Do you know why I pulled you over, Miss?”

Cliche... But no, really, that opener is to be expected.

In spite of that, it does plant a seed of doubt in your belly.

There’s just a second or two of silence you take to ponder your response (first impressions are very important, after all) as well as how long he could’ve been following you. Depending on the answer to that niggling question- one you quietly put on the backburner to focus on the present- he should’ve been able to thoroughly take note of your safe driving.

It’s your turn to wet your lip— not out of conscious thought as nerves leave your stomach a whirling mess.

A polite, if not somewhat tight smile is what you give him, yet even then you can’t help the rather unprepared sound that escapes you. “A-Ah, no,” you chuckle to recover, “I can’t say I do.”

He chuckles back.

A bit meaner about it, though.

In the distance, loud only because the window is open, a crow caws.

And if you’re starting to feel uneasy, that ambience should be held at least partly accountable.

The wind chafes at your cheeks. There for a beat and then whisking out, absconding through the pine.

Again, you find yourself quietly wishing for solitude but pretend otherwise as he puts a hand on his belt, adjusting his stance.

The air about him is… oddly refined for a man of his career— oh, the professionalism is hardly a surprise, his field has its standards, you know that, but the cool sophistication is. For a moment you think he’s better suited to be the chairman of some big shot company, or at the very least chief of police.

The authority in his tone would corroborate that.

Seems to study you for a moment, then dips his chin and goes, “Is this… vehicle yours, Miss?”

First of all, you don’t miss the sardonicism leaching off the word, and secondly, more importantly—

“Yes,” you assert, rather gobsmacked. It’s hard not to be when that ask came so out of the blue that you can’t stop your brow from furrowing in time, most of your propriety shattered in an instant.

“Of course it is,” you murmur as damage control when his lips part, head giving the slightest of cocks at you. “W-Why? Is something wrong?”

Officer hums. Mentally, you’ve decided that this matter must be very important- he wouldn’t have stopped you otherwise- so when he looks down, or you think he does, and he thumbs over his belt to ponder something, almost bored, it makes you squint.

“I ran your license plate, but nothing came back,” He cooly informs, yet if you didn’t know any better you’d think it’s amusement that lightens his drawl, “I guess I was hoping you’d tell me.”

There it is again, that crow squawking, circling somewhere overhead. On this go-around, it marks you with irritation.

Maybe it’s just your anxiety translating to anger, but the longer this headstrong guy stands outside your car and indirectly holds you hostage, keeping you from a warm shower and a meal, the more you grow impatient for it.

“Have you registered this vehicle?”

You’re being polite, you are, “Yes, sir. It’s been registered,” but a particle of curtness slips in and you hope he’s as understanding as he is willing to run your plate for no apparent reason.

He bluntly asks, “Do you have an ID on you, Miss?

You blink, “yes,” already reaching for the pocket of your jeans, and at this point, perhaps you should be thankful he doesn’t pull his gun out and tell you slow. He’s that suspicious of you.

With a velvety hum, he takes the card and studies it.

For two seconds, anyway.

You get the feeling there isn’t anything there he hasn’t already seen.

Handing it back, “Not bad,” he says apropos to seemingly nothing, yet it’s the slip of his glasses down his nose that makes something seize in your chest as you catch a flash of vibrant, carmine red.

Free of that ID, that gloved hand now rests on the open sill of your window. Too close for comfort, maybe, but that’s not where most of your concern lies right now.

“So… C-Can I go?” You don’t mean to stutter.

Again he hums, sounding like he’s using all his will to coax it from the barrel of his chest- clearly unimpressed with you- and then he reaches up to remove those shades entirely.

Viewing him completely unhindered now— God, he’s every bit handsome and then some, but you’re so bristled by the encounter that you can’t even find it in you to admire him.

His garnet gaze sweeps along you; you can see that now, too, the glint of… interest-? whatever it is, it’s unbridled- that takes up the bulk of his eyes, the whites of them barely there.

A little unnerving, yes.

Again. Other pressing matters at hand.

“If you can prove to me you’re telling the truth. Then by all means.” He lilts, not particularly kind.

Linkon is a fairly decent city; its people don’t have a reputation quite as spick and span as the folks do in the wooded areas you live, sure, but they’re nice. Having dealt with their kind for so long, he really shouldn’t be so suspicious of you.

Evidently, he is.

And you’ll put this on your life, your mother, even—

You haven’t the slightest clue why.

Your mouth, parted in an ‘O’ shape, is slack before you even go to speak, practically throwing your license back into his hands.

“Everything you need to know is right here, Sir. I- I don’t understand.”

Ever polite, the bastard declines to take it. “Oh no, I saw enough.”

He sounds overly smug as he does, and the vestige of humor that reshapes his face, scant in nature yet impossible to ignore as it curls those pouty, lush lips, only ruffles you further.

“So what’s wrong with it?” You all but deflate, withering in on yourself as the stirrings of defeat sink in. Your license should tell him everything he needs to know.

Whatever initial optimism you held- mainly the idea that you’d be getting home in no time- is long dead.

For a moment, the officer simply contemplates.

“…With your ID? Oh, nothing’s wrong with that. It’s the real thing, alright,” he observes, tone oddly light as his eyes rake over your expression- no doubt one full of abject confusion. You can’t imagine how stupid you look right now, caught off guard and at a lack for words.

A few years down the line, this memory will haunt you for all its humiliation, you’re sure.

“Like I said, Sweetie,” the word drips with sheer condescension, marinated in it. In that moment you feel so, so uncertain of yourself, made so small and insignificant, that you have no choice but to offer up a quiet prayer and hope that the man doesn’t notice the way your brow flutters with raw, unexpected hurt.

Nonetheless, something tells you not much evades his scrutiny.

“…It’s the registration that’s the issue. For whatever reason, this vehicle isn’t tracking back to you. So. Until you contribute something to help me solve this- or… confess,” he tacks on nonchalantly, “You won’t be leaving. This could be somebody else’s car, after all,” he finishes, long fingers briefly tapping against your car.

“I’m sure we both want to go home, wouldn’t you agree? Let’s make this quick.”

After the initial bitterness sets within you and leaves, it’s puzzlement that has its turn.

“What?”

He sighs at that, not conveying one emotion in particular.

It’s boredom, though, terrible and blatant, when he warns, “It’s not advisable to lie in the face of the law. Playing dumb can fall under that umbrella, too. Personally, I wouldn’t try either one.”

You can’t comment on the veracity of that statement- you’d hope he’s telling you nothing but the pure, unadulterated truth- but that’s not what your brain struggles to process as a little knot forms between your eyebrows.

Amidst your intense observation of him, treating every little tell his body language offered up like a tutorial to placate him, you almost didn’t pick up on it…

The discrepancy between his two statements.

“Are you saying this is somebody else’s car? That I stole it?”

He adjusts his belt, brazen. “It was implied.”

The moment this whole ordeal started feeling like Officer Friendly here was stalling on something, you can’t pinpoint, but you don’t waste any time with your own response.

“But that’s not what you said at first- You said the vehicle was unregistered. So which is true, Officer?”

For what seems like the umpteenth time, your stare thoughtlessly dips below, searching for the badge number, a name- anything at all to identify him.

Nothing.

When your eyes meet his again, all pretenses are thrown out the window. What remains in that gaze is frigid and unchecked— a raw desire for something that no longer bothers to cover its tracks.

Although it can’t be, it feels like an eon that drags by, your throat steadily tightening in the silence.

Still, there’s somehow not enough time to take back your snarky comment and say you’re sorry as his face darkens- that damned bird cawing one last time, effectively frying your patience- something undeniably predatory assuming whatever facade he maintained just seconds ago.

“So you were listening. Alright,” he purrs, smooth as ever despite having just been clocked, “Kitten, why don’t we put your other facilities to the test then?”

Okay, you tell yourself before cold panic sets in- corrupt or not: surely he cares enough about his job to not put it all on the line in a single interaction.

“Get out. Let’s check your sobriety.”

You balk, cringing back in your seat. The headrest remains stiff behind you- all your sinking into it be damned.

“You- You can’t be serious.”

“Really? Huh… But I’m in a very serious mood tonight,” he breathes in, then out, cocking his head like some beast given a challenge.

If the pointed coolness of his tone means anything, it’s that he’ll accept it.

Red eyes sharpen, open and rapt. They remind you of pools of blood; a lake of hellfire as he stares down the barrel of his nose at you.

Stupid— you must look so stupid.

“I won’t repeat myself: Get out. Stand on the road. If you’re worried… Well, don’t be. I don’t see any passersby,… do you? If you fail and embarrass yourself, an audience won’t be a concern.”

Despite his attempt to console you, it seems to have the opposite effect; the reminder that you are absolutely alone with him out here- with no hope of rescue or a flare to shoot off into the night sky- sends something akin to nausea coursing through you, tongue feeling like sand in your mouth.

A moment of silence passes.

To honor the death of your pride and whatever was left of the decent day you were having, perhaps.

He doesn’t tell you again, true to his word, but instead parries your hesitance with a foreboding, quiet stare. Bend the knee, it says.

Silly, dangerous thoughts creep in, through the passage of fear as they muddle the already fogged workings of your brain.

You can leave. Get away. He’s lying, he’s making things up. He’s looking at you like it’s his birthright to take you right here and now and unravel you with his teeth and nails and—

God, just smite this man.

Help me.

A nervous laugh rings out, strangled, almost. Yours, to be certain.

You can leave. He’s a bad man. Cop or not- you’re not shackled by subservience to the law if its enforcer doesn’t even obey it himself.

You can leave. You won’t get in trouble if you do- not with the others.

A hand crawls up beside you, trembling as it brushes over the head of the gear stick—

The sound of a gun clinks. And you realize two things in tandem before swiveling back to gawk at him: one, he’s now resting his hand on the weapon in his waistband- something you’re not dumb enough to believe is anything but an unspoken threat, and two, you can protect neither yourself nor your reputation if he so chooses to tarnish them.

You’re completely at his mercy.

“Am I being detained?” Is all you can whisper.

He eyes you over, prevaricating. Your hand returns to your lap, stunned into obedience. Confused.

He’s corrupt, yes. That’s been established, that’s been bared. Wherever that corruption has its apogee, however, has not been, and you won’t put that or his patience to the test.

…Would he shoot you, really?

In lieu of an answer, he says, “The stakes are too high for you to stay in there. Come out.”

Clink.

That’s not his gun this time, but rather the door to your car opening to prevent such— and then falling shut with a slow, shaking swing of your hand.

Fine. If he’s some irredeemable jerk on a power trip that’s deemed you as his unfortunate toy for the evening, needing a million indicators of your innocence until he lets you go— you’ll just have to play along and prove it to him. You’re not guilty of anything here- save for filing a report against him later, which you’ll definitely do.

Sure, he’s not actually done anything to you yet, but you’ve cottoned onto the subtle, wordless threats and all the circling he’s done around presenting you with a real, solid accusation.

Maybe there is a guilty person out here, somewhere out of the city’s bounds, with a bounty put on their head. Maybe he’s mistaken you for them.

Maybe he’s right to look at you like you’re a dirty criminal. Maybe he can’t tell you all the details quite yet— and that’s why he’s been so fucking confusing about it.

But right now, it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like he’s playing with his food.

It feels unfair.

“Alright,” you swallow, firm despite the less than two feet serving as a pathetic barrier between you both. You know if he wanted to hurt you you would not be able to stop him- but you won’t give him any reason or excuse to.

You’ll do this sobriety test, pass it with flying colors, and convince him he’s got the wrong person.

“But I want to go home after this,” you declare, fists shaking at your sides.

Whether or not your tough act comes from a place of bravery or is just a manifestation of fear, he rewards it with a little smirk.

As proud as a lion.

“You don’t scare easily, do you? How about this, Sweetie, I’ll do you one better… If you clear this, I’ll even give you my name... That’s what you were looking for all along, right? Or… was there something else you wanted to see?”

There it is again- that cruel crossbreed between a smile and a grimace. Your cheeks burst with warmth at it, and he lets out a low laugh.

Officer Friendly’s eyes darken impossibly- yet a whole new wave of unease curls over you when you watch them give you a once-over, lids fluttering as his chest swells in a hefty sigh.

When he steps forward with an arm out, your knees are too locked to slip away in time as his palm, gloved and broad, snatches your jaw to look up at him.

Heart thudding a fast, overlapping R&B tune in your ribs, all that’s left to do is pen the lyrics.

“S-Stop,” as winded as you are, adrenaline making a pulp of your vocal chords, it’d be a surprise if he even understood the word.

He does. Chest-to-chest, in far too intimate a position, he mumbles back, “Stop what? A certain someone is making this harder than it needs to be.”

You’ve no choice but to return his unnervingly intense, rapt stare as he drinks you in, fingers pinching your chin and digging when your own wrap around his forearm in an attempt made in barely-veiled desperation to push him away.

Tall, handsome, evidently very strong— what is he not?

(Benevolent.)

Officer Friendly sucks in a breath, thin through pearly teeth as he thumbs over your trembling bottom lip.

Something comes from left field, blitzing through and rattling your composure once more.

It’s when he murmurs, “You’re breathtaking,” and for once during this whole awful encounter, you know that he’s devoid of deception.

Amid a cry bubbling up in your throat and your lungs shuddering, you wonder if he’s staring at the glossy remnants of the pumpkin-something chapstick you applied earlier or the tears that begin to descend them.

It’s okay, you tell yourself, struggling to come to terms with the situation. A misunderstanding.

Somehow it’s all just one big misunderstanding.

“I had a less-than-pleasant day, you know. No time to fit you into my schedule,” he scoffs, “They had me running all over Linkon... Still. I do prefer to take the initiative, and it’s not so bad to just… have you like this, either.”

A bunch forms between your brow just in time for your mouth to finally break open, that stubbornness you’d been holding onto departing in a strangled, gusty sigh.

Is he crazy? Insane? Is that why he’s doing this? Not because he’s mistaken you or is some heartless bastard, but because he’s mentally ill and clearly projecting some false reality- or fucked up fantasy- on you?

What is he talking about?

“I dont want any trouble, officer,” you cave nonetheless, appeasing. Better to show your belly, you think, than to continue baring your teeth.

His are sharper.

“Please. I swear, sir, I- whatever I did, I didn’t know, okay…? I’m sorry. I just want go home- I’m, I’m going straight there.”

“Mm, I know,” he nearly groans, his jaw ticking as a flash of something- dark, barely controlled- swims past the scarlet rings of his eye. They’re hardly there anymore as he pores over you, just thin circlets of ruby-red usurped by the dilation of his pupils.

“But Kitten, I want you to stay here for a while. With me.” His broad chest swells as he whispers. It’s… inexplicably tender, although fleeting, and you gape up at him like a victim of whiplash would.

“Could you do that?”

No.

The word, the scream, doesn’t come out. Lodged in your throat and there to stay.

His leather jacket smells of smoke. Faint traces of bergamot clinging to it like citrus carried by summer wind, strangely sweet— you focus on that as the gloved pad of his finger appreciatively roves over you, pressing down onto your wobbling lip.

Not the half-hard bulge poking against your belly.

“You can be a good girl,” he tells rather than inquires. Up until now, you’ve been playing a game of charades with him, and right now he seems very satisfied to designate this moment as the stopping point to it.

That’s not with your full submission, though.

Your phone sits in your pocket- a now-heavy weight in your ripped jeans as he finally releases your jaw in favor of seizing your middle and hefting you over his shoulder in one fell swoop.

Your world flips upside down. Blood gushing to the top of your head and roaring as you’re forced to bob along with his movements.

Your phone. Your phone. The second the opportunity presents itself, when he’s not looking or by some miracle you disarm him, you’ll fish it out and call the—

A short gasp. And then a full-on sob, wretched and indignant, tears out from you.

If it came down to it, if it’s his word pitted against yours- Would they even listen to you?

As if reading your mind, he croons. “You poor thing.”

“Please,” you croak. Inescapable doom is weighing over you, as thick and black as a storm cloud threatening idyllic skies, and you don’t know how to stop it from coming your way. You don’t know if you can.

Frankly, he’s stronger than you. Bigger. They wouldn’t believe you- not over him.

You don’t even know his name and-

“You could let me go,” your own voice interrupts your thoughts, cutting through the crunch of gravel underfoot like a knife, but neither of which sound any more confident or composed than the other. Both are warbling and horrified.

“I could let you go,” he agrees in a light tone, much to your surprise. A spark of hope stirs within: the singular twinkle in an otherwise caliginous sky.

…Though his next words are quick to expunge whatever relief was on its way, your turtleneck failing to wick up the sweat as it glides up your nape— and it’s fear that swoops in next when he sets you down, propping you on the hood of his car. Its talons keep your heart as quarry.

“But where’s the fun in that?”

A large palm takes one thigh, hitches it up against his hip and you feel febrile, weak to his advances, as he closes in and smashes his lips to yours.

“You’ve made me wait for too long,” he growls.

Perhaps that- his evident, albeit inexplicable frustration- is why he operates as if he’s making up for lost time. Quick to rip your jeans down your legs in a blink until your shoes are lying on the road, your sock-clad feet being pushed apart so he can kneel in between and study your panties next.

No wind-burn holds a candle to the way that makes your cheeks alight.

Your heart walloping in your chest for an entirely different reason, he hums, eyes so lidded you can barely see the iris. Giving what you can only presume to be his approval in the crude form of a tongue darting out to wet his lip.

Your jeans, your boots- hell, even your self respect- all lie discarded and tattered in one way or another. Perhaps, then, you should thank him for not piecing apart your underwear next, but it’s hard to do that when he sniggers and pockets it after a moment of intense scrutiny, baring you to the crisp air wholly against your will.

God. For as cruel as his words are, the baritone voice imparting them is so kind to your ears, “Pink? How cute. I might like the reminder of you later, sweetie, so I’ll be taking these off your hands in advance. Although,”

He starts, unease on a primal level ravaging your insides as something beyond arousal darkens his timbre, “I kind of want more than just your panties to remember you by. To be honest.”

He smiles a sardonic, yet oh-so ravenous grin, and a pang of confusion, piercing as deep as a stake stomped into pliant earth, hits as you slowly pick up on the sense that he may not want just a quick, cold fuck out of you after all. No, the glint in draconian, garnet eyes, reminding you too much of a dog with a bone, tells you you might be in over your head here.

As bad as it sounds, you would prefer that between the two, you know: the ruthless taking of your sex in lieu of some future follow-up to this shitshow— a brief, senseless assault rather than a crime with a deeper, more… personal motive.

You realize what he is doing now reads more like obsession and less like whim. Drawing back to his earlier words, the ones you’d been too shaken to properly digest, fills you with dismay all over again.

He was following you. Yes- He was following you, you quietly conclude, too paralyzed with fear to offer anything beyond the occasional mouse-like squeak as his fingers burrow into the plush of your inner, naked thighs. And he was doing it long before you started your commute home.

The officer keeps his gloves on, and that jacket to obscure his credentials.

Bastard.

Bastard bastard bastard, you—

A moan. Obscene and guttural; his as he forces his face between your parted legs.

You’re so disgusted that bugs might as well be crawling on you when that hot tongue first descends upon your pussy, the length of it swallowing your clit whole. Yet you can’t even say it’s a fully unpleasant feeling (a-and it is), because it’s so, so warm as you shiver, and fuck if it doesn’t feel like he has every intention to make you come on the spot. The quick addition of his thumb is a proof of that.

It rubs at that puffy nub while he kitten-licks between your folds, delving into your tight hole. And you’re not aroused, oh no, you still have the single goal to drive home, tearfully write an essay on why this son of a bitch should be fired, and then take a hot shower in hopes to scorch the memory of him away.

No, see- the wetness that begins to pool on the hood of his car beneath you is…

Beyond your control.

You shut your eyes in shame. In an attempt to block him out. To ignore the autumn cold as it strips the skin off your bare thighs, warmed only by the stranger’s cruel touch.

At this point, you don’t even know if you want someone to drive by anymore— the optics aren’t looking good for you. You wonder if any hypothetical witnesses would even be able to spot the signs of distress on your end in time before swerving off.

I mean, far as they can tell- head tossed back, eyes screwed shut as a regrettably attractive man coaxes into your cunt with as much passion as expertise- you’re enjoying this. A badge bunny eager to hop into the lap of a hot, all too willing cop.

There’s a portion of time where your brain shuts off, the shroud of shame and horror thinning out to make way for the growing pleasure that begins to demand full control of each of your senses. In those moments, you don’t speak, jaw held tightly despite the little whines that threaten to jump out.

You don’t even dare to toss a look down at him until he grumbles out something, the vibration of his voice mind-numbing.

“I was right,” he smacks his lips between your thighs, the smooth flesh held open by his hands, “You taste delicious,” He husks.

With a stare that borders on inebriated, he looks thoroughly pleased with his meal. You think of that sobriety test he invoked earlier and the harsh, humorless laugh you make is awfully mingled with a girlish moan.

The officer positively beams at that, doubling down on his efforts with a wolfish smirk.

His chin glistens with your juices and his saliva, the onset of night shedding grey moon over his stupidly handsome, chiseled features, illuminating it.

You’d have been perfectly fine if it didn’t bring your fluids— your traitorous display of arousal— to your attention, but there’s no unseeing it now.

You want to go home. But you’re painfully sure that the image of him, the touch, the unsettling subtext underlying this awful experience, will haunt you there too, regardless of the safety it’s meant to impart.

Rescue is nowhere to be found. As he groans, his thumb disappearing to accommodate the two centermost fingers he uses to dip into your primed cunt, it seems all there’s left to do is drop a fist into his silver hair to help ground yourself and piously ignore the way he melts at your taste.

“That’s it,” he slurs, lewd as anything could be. “You’re being such a good girl… If you keep acting so cute, I might have to make you come again later. What do you think?” He purrs. “Should I spoil you, a little?”

Distantly, you feel another bout of unease rush within; something cutting through the heady smell of his cologne that warns you with acrid clarity to listen to his heated words and act accordingly. To get out while you still can.

Your cheeks flush, and you hear most of nothing.

Well, just the muffled sounds of your little sobs and hiccuping gasps as you clamp a hand over your mouth, begging your own body not to betray you as he undoes you at the literal seem, slick oozing down his wrist. Perhaps the best evidence of this ever happening, of this offense, would be your DNA seeped into the stitching of his jacket; the fruits of your impending climax staining the leather.

Not going to lie, it’s a silly idea at getting justice afterwards, the barest hope of it— but for the later you. The you that he leaves discarded in your vehicle as soon as he’s claimed his pound of flesh and had his fill, the you that’s been returned to planet earth in tarnished form.

Right now, your headspace consists of two things: the man fervently devouring your cunt and how you’ll go about pretending he isn’t while your insides churn deliciously.

Nonetheless, another fear trickles in- falling to the hands of a corrupt official be damned:

You think you might actually come for him.

He demands just that, “Why don’t you let go? You’re- holding back still?” Harsh breaths punctuate his words. And then a wicked, low laugh adds more insult to injury.

“Mm. But I guess that’s not entirely true. Look, you’ve got me all wet. What would you even tell everyone when this is all over, hm?” a vulgar slurp. You make the attempt to shut your legs around his head but he rebuffs it quickly.

Wincing, you bluster back, “I-I’ll tell them what you are. A filthy rapist,” as if to mock you, his tongue flicks at that little bud of nerves, a barrage of suckles and kisses to it sending your rationale straight to the gutter. By a small miracle, you tether yourself back to earth- to the hood of this man’s cruiser- and continue anew, sniveling pathetically.

“I’ll- I’ll tell them you lied and cornered me and used your authority to hurt me-“

A hum cuts you off. Sultry, attentive. Yet he doesn’t sound particularly upset at the accusations- all true, by the way- you catapult at him, nor does he sound very pressed to correct any of them.

Amusement is possibly the most tone-deaf response to your diatribe- second only to endearment- but that is what you watch him give back, eyes glittering with both as he peers up between your legs.

Satisfied, grossly.

“Maybe they’ll believe you, Kitten… If you’re going to go into detail, though,” he whispers thickly, barely audible what with all the other overlapping, lewd noises, “I want you to add how prettily you cried for me. How tight your cute little pussy hugged me back after it drooled all over my car. I want you to tell them,” a fucking feral exhale, “You came so hard for me-“

To drive home the point, his fingers pump inside and kiss your cervix, demolishing whatever restraint you clung to. Stars burst across your vision in tandem with the intensity of what you realize are his vows.

“That you might as well have- ngh- consented to it in the first place.”

The rapid licks at your clit have the edges of your sight whiting out. Your whole world, the spinning canopy of the firs, blotted in greyscale.

Phosphenes swirl chaotically.

“No-“ you discordantly gasp, split seconds before the very atoms around you fizzle and explode, your eyelids fluttering unceremoniously. “Let me go-“ You tug his hair so hard you wonder if the responding grunt he offers is because of the sting of his scalp or the way you toss your head back like a goddess and—

A wretched, animalistic, downright whorish sound fumbles out from your control and you can’t stop it from coming in time, nor the tsunami of pleasure that reaches its apex and utterly crushes you.

“Nonono- let me—!”

The engine rumbles. Roars down the road.

Lucky? That’s… not the first word you’d use to describe the miniature hell you just experienced- but it might be one that fits considering the extra cruelty- mainly being forced to your knees on the pavement to suck his cock, or bent over without dignity like a dog, worser yet, killed- you were spared.

His mercy, you suppose, goes only to a degree, though.

Your wrists, bound by zip ties at your front, are just loose enough to not hurt when left alone. But whenever his eyes skim away from the rearview mirror- otherwise occupied by traffic and the strange ombré made as dark forest bleeds back into city lights- and you try to take action to get them off, it burns. So do your ankles.

Groggily, using up most of your remaining energy, humiliated and stripped just short of full nudity, you glance up from where you’re splayed over the backseat. He was… surprisingly gentle when he put you in, but you’re a bit too scared, and bitter, to count yourself fortunate just because of that.

Not when he’s ruined you in just about every other regard.

His name. You have distinct memory of him making a vow to give that to you- plus permission to go home.

And you know, it’s funny, because you’d almost be able to call him a man of his word despite the initial trap he laid for you, but he’s still yet to deliver the other half of that promise, and the more time drags on the more you think he never will.

In the distance, a train shrieks on its course.

Congested roads bring about the occasional honk and peel of tires. You think you even see your workplace through the window at some point, its glowing, blinking sign under the moon.

It strikes you as mockery to see the big, harmless letters there, if only because you can’t reach out and touch them.

Silver tears dry your cheeks on the way. Sticky, unpleasant.

You wonder if he passes through here often; if it’s part of his commute to the station.

“You said I could go home,” you softly warble.

From the front seat, he makes a noise, relatively unbothered. A pop of scarlet flashing once more in the mirror to bestow you a pitying, yet overwhelmingly satisfied look.

Sylus cattily throws back in italics, “We are.”

It’s not in his nature to roll belly-up, but he’ll meet you halfway somewhere on his side.

It’s not the first time he bent a knee for you, anyway, and certainly won’t be the last. Still, Sylus holds abundant self-awareness and knows this is more than a bad look for him; fortunately, his weak spots only ever reveal themselves in the privacy of his manor’s walls where you hold it down in his absence.

The twins- Luke and Kieran- they won’t enter your bedroom, not tonight, regardless if there’s a mess or not. Onychinus’s leader has plans for you and no intentions of allowing any interuptions. With a watchful eye trampolining between the fragments underfoot and your rounded shoulders as you curl up to the headboard and tremble, Sylus decides he can handle this little issue fine enough himself.

With a set jaw, he trawls through the glittering pieces until his gaze darts to something particularly shiny.

He lets out a breath.

…So you did throw it out; Sylus wondered what you were fidgeting with behind your back moments before your sudden outburst, but it’s with a pang of startle- and hurt- that he unearths the nitid wedding ring buried beneath layers of geometric shards. Discarded no different than trash would be.

It’s not like he needs physical proof to boast your marriage— even strangers can spare one look at the two of you- the arm forever wrapped around your shoulder or middle, the possessive flair in his eyes paired with a doting, bottomless affection- and make the conclusion that some sort of intimacy runs deep there...

So no, some filed-down gemstone, dazzling as it may be, doesn’t determine your relationship. It certainly makes him feel good, though, to see it wrapped around your finger as a perfect match to his- a tangible token of your bond. It’s a beautiful reminder of you that he absently toys with throughout the evenings to the backdrop of a silent stopwatch, mentally counting down the seconds until he can return home to you.

It’s all the more reason to adorn you in pretty things, anyway. Jewelry and twinkling beads that clang loudly together no matter how quietly your feet fall.

And he likes that, to be fair- not to be superficial, but it’s one of his simpler joys, to pamper you like a princess in every sense of the word.

You don’t need to like it, to want for it; Sylus has always stared at you like you were the epitome of royalty. And royalty only deserves the best, doesn’t it?

He dresses you in fine silks that you slip out of as soon as he’ll allow, trading designer brands you can’t even name out in favor of one of his sweaters or shirts. Stood behind you, he’ll insist on threading dainty, flax chains around your neck, smiling softly in the reflection of the full-body mirror.

You never meet him in the eye, then, too put off by the delight that practically oozes off him as he spoils you rotten to look at him right.

Sometime later that night, his hand- large but always careful- will resume that chain’s place around your neck, and thumb over your pulse affectionately.

You never did find much use, or joy, in any of his glitzy expenditures.

If- If you’re being perfectly honest you’d much rather he buy you a ticket home. Maybe that’s the one wish of yours he’ll never bring life to, much less humor in the first place.

But you’re nothing if not persistent. Oh, sweetie, Sylus has been made abundantly aware of that fact. He takes it like water off his back, though: just another little quirk of yours to catalogue to memory and dote over.

His stubborn, precious girl.

Tonight, frustration reaches its zenith in you and you snap. Grow teeth and snarl in his face.

You don’t want to be angry— ugly— God knows you loathe what’s becoming of you, but your captor doesn’t leave many other options on the table.

You shriek when he tries to coax you towards the plush fur draped over the bed and he watches with a resigned sort of sorrow as you throw things off the coffee table and shout.

You scream your throat hoarse. You taste copper on your tongue as if you’ve been running. Maybe, the truth isn’t all that far off. A man like Sylus is something to run from; all sentient beings with a sense of self preservation, no matter how small, would take off on foot immediately.

There’s not many places you can run to, though. Not when there’s constant surveillance on you- iron-wrought gates and a damned bird that soars watchfully overhead if you so much as step into the courtyard.

Your tantrum lasts all of three minutes before you retreat to the nearest corner- Sylus’s lavish bed- and quietly lick your proverbial wounds.

He’s never hit you before, no, not physically, but he’s the kind of man to leave everything within his radius reeling sooner or later. Doesn’t matter where his loyalties lie. It will happen.

And, you know, he’ll treat you like you’re some exception to that rule- to his streak of cruelty and the chaos that he lets unravel around him- but you’re not. You’re really not and you just desperately wish he could see that—

“Talk to me, sweetie,” a low tone draws you from your reverie.

You don’t let your eyelids flutter open right away; you’re re-experiencing a vivid memory in your head- a sunny afternoon in Linkon with a warm hand woven in yours by the shore- and don’t want it to slip away just yet. It’s a comforting piece of your past you want to hold onto.

As pathetic as that may be, despite Sylus having all but birched your hope for rescue to a bloody pulp, you still look back on better days with bittersweet longing and pray someone will come and save you. If not them- your old buddies in the Hunters Association and your closer friends that Sylus has voiced a particular enmity to- then yourself. You want more than anything to save yourself, but it’s not like he gives much opportunity for that.

This is your home, now. It always was. He’s dogged in his attempts to prove it to you, purring in your ear while he fucks you slow and deep that he’ll take as long as it needs to convince you of that simple fact. It’s indisputable: you’re his.

You’ll… come around to it eventually, Sweetie.

Biting your tongue, you hold off on responding to him.

There was nothing to say, really- you’d already just screamed your throat raw and still it wasn’t enough to make him budge or even at least reconsider this awful arrangement he’d launched you into a number of months ago.

If you open your mouth, you tell yourself in a mix of childish bravery and cooling ire, sloped against the headboard defiantly, it’ll be to bite him. Certainly not talk to him. Especially not in any civil manner. You think he’s lost that right ages ago- the priviledge of your softness.

You hear him heave a faint sigh, but for the moment, he leaves it at that. “Okay, then,” he murmurs with a tinge of understanding that you hate, “You cool off, sweetie. Take slow, deep breaths. Lie down if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

You remain sat upright. One half of it is because you don’t quite feel safe going prone right now with adrenaline still buzzing in your veins, and the other half is for the sole purpose of spiting him.

Sometimes it feels like you can’t. Spite him, you mean. His wounded eyes, which resemble a kicked puppy’s to a shocking degree, are as rare as they are effective. You really shouldn’t harbor any capacity of guilt for the man, but you’re human. Glaringly human. And his forlorn little frowns after you’ve winced under his harmless pets or refuse to face him after he’s fucked you within an inch of your life and wants to curl up to you like some overgrown cat- they tug on a vulnerable part of you.

It’s- It’s not Stockholm Syndrome at all, or even the latent stirrings of it. It’s just— It’s just a basic human trait to feel, and…

You suppose that might be the one veritable thing he hasn’t quite ripped from you. Maybe more so for his benefit than yours.

After Sylus is done sweeping up your mess, he approaches the bed and caresses the blade of your shoulder. The movement is just barely hesitant, like he doesn’t want to send you flying five feet in the air with some violent flinch response. It’s happened before on more than one occasion.

You don’t know whether to count his caution as endearing, oddly sweet, or fucking maddening. Perhaps it’s a fair combination of all of that as well as sickening.

Your consolation that came in the form of a now distant memory peters out into heavy, intermittent throbs of your chest. Sadness thumping a gentle song. The smell of sea salt spraying up from the ocean fully wafts away as he brings a hand up to your forehead, gentle as ever, and guides you to turn to face him.

His own scent- a base amber with notes of vanilla underneath, in two words: warm and rich- replaces that. You draw it in in small, shallow breaths and feel it tingle behind the bridge of your nose.

Sometimes it comes like a precursor to his hands- something that’ll have you bracing for impact in fetal position. Other times, when he’e got your thighs pinned either side of your head and his cock delving in and out of your pussy, hitting so deep in your belly you think nothing will sate your appetite for days, it’s a dizzying smell.

Consuming and concentrated, rubbing off on you like a bad influence as he grabs and gropes and nips.

You hate to admit it (and don’t know how it got to this point) but on occasion, Sylus’s scent is even comforting.

You would never tell him that. In fear of it getting to his head, if nothing else.

His warmth tickles the shell of your ear, his lips peppering a chaste kiss to your shoulder as he settles in beside you. Your frenzied heart, just as it began to slow, begins to thump faster, but you remain otherwise composed. When he moves a hand to lift the blanket over you, fuzzy and stupid-expensive, you make a grunting sound and shove his wrist away.

Stubborn, Sylus thinks, and bold.

But his. His and perfect.

Behind you, his chest rumbles. He lets out a laugh, gentle and light, but you wonder if it’s the remnants of exasperation that’s interwoven in it. He nestles up at your back and curls a possessive hand around your middle, his other brushing some hair off your shoulder.

You’re not quite dumb enough to interfere with it this time. Or, for that matter, the glittering ring he puts on your finger- back to its rightful spot- and reverently slips down to the slim base of your knuckle.

“You’re not cold, kitten?” He mumbles at your ear, taking you in through slow, decadent breaths,”I guess you did work yourself up by a few degrees, huh?” The proximity used to raise the little hairs on the back of your neck, but he has dulled your fight-or-flight response considerably over the past handful of months.

Kudos to him, for that.

He’s not entirely wrong, though. Your cheeks still feel toasty with anger, your fingers twitching and unfurling by your lap as if to test your own mood.

“Are you…” he starts, contemplative, “still frustrated?”

…Are you still frustrated? You don’t know. Maybe just sad.

Everything you want you can’t have. Everything you want- your veritable livelihood- he’s plucked you out of no different than a mother would her errant puppy, by the scruff. With possessive teeth that latch on painlessly and say mine.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, before quickly remedying the part of you that grows anxious at admitting your own vulnerabilities to him- “yes. I’m upset.”

Sylus gives a little sigh.

Long fingers skim the column of your arm. He leaves behind small goosebumps and a warmth that somehow feels cold over your human flesh; a brush that tingles like a static shock.

“Don’t be,” he murmurs, voice becoming oddly heavy. Breathy, rugged. And you wryly suppose the solution he offered is just so helpful, isn’t it?

The palm laced around your middle gradually slips downward, his hooked nose pressing into your jugular like he can smell the hot blood beneath and it’s appetizing, before a feeling of dread overtakes you.

Dread, and another feeling you don’t want to name— a thrill of excitement ghosting down your spine.

When he cups the seat of your panties, you shiver and revolt as if you’ve been burned.

“N-No—“

He’s ready for that, your… hesitance. His other arm, the one that doesn’t end nestled between your bare thighs, keeps you lassoed to him, his breath heavy at your collar. Growing more labored by the second.

He hushes you, using his cheek to stroke against your hair since his hands are otherwise occupied. You don’t give any more fight other than that- the violent flinch- but you remain stiff as a board as he notes your trembling with a genuine, deep frown. Furrowed, sad brows and all as if he actually has the fucking capacity to feel sorry for something—

“It’s okay, kitten,” he breathes out, “Hush.” Four fingers deliver a series of slow, tantalizing rubs to your pussy, marking the beginning of his painless assault as his thumb toys with the waistband of your panties, and you shudder against your will.

You scramble to hold onto his thick forearm, straightening against him as he leisurely works you into a writhing, fiery mess. Your veins warm, but not out of anger- not anymore, at least. Traitorous flames sprout in the pit of your belly, fanning heat across your face— hot-blooded and filled with want over just a few of his touches.

Oh, you hate him.

“Just relax, loosen up. I’ll make you come,” he murmurs against your neck, laving the fleshy space there with amorous kisses.

Man with a mission. Man with a promise. If you know him, then you’ll know he keeps them.

He suckles gently at the sensitive skin before breaking off with a soft pop, a hot tongue lolling out to chase away the redness, rendering you speechless. Speechless and on the brink of forgetting just why exactly you loathe him so much— but a vestige of that repulsion remains, melancholic and weak, and you try one last time to push him away, throwing an ineffective elbow.

He glues his front to your back completely, locking your joints in place, and slips his fingers down your panties. His knuckles peek out from the lacy hem.

Sylus lets out a little groan when you call his name, shivering behind you.

He doesn’t care if you say it like it’s a perjorative or an invocation of some reprehensible, filthy spirit— if he had it his way, it’d sound coated in honey, but he’s learned to take what he can get with you. It still makes his cock throb beneath the white folds of his robe. In any case, it’ll sound real sweet soon enough, ringing out from your lips in pretty, gasping moans as you gouge your nails into his back.

Grudge him all you want, honey. He’ll make you shake and scream, tonight. Squash all the enmity you doggedly hold for him within the span of an hour with worshipful hands and concentrated, ardent thrusts that leave you with little choice but to take it and moan.

When your struggling stops altogether, Sylus takes ahold of your little hand and appreciatively thumbs over your ring finger. “What sort of husband would I be if I left you all hot and bothered, hm? A poor one,” he answers for you.

Gently, he maneuvers you onto your back and insinuates himself between your legs. His eyes are aflame. The look in them steals the last of your shivering breath, your heart doing a perfect backflip in your chest.

Ruby eyes flutter with passion, his pupils so big you can hardly spot the red glint as they dilate unevenly, his lashes dewy. He sucks in oxygen with short, winded intakes, his silvery hair- still slightly damp from his shower- falling over his brow. And to be fair that’s bunched together, too; all the little muscles in his face tight and strained as he lets out a clipped sigh.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers on his perusal. His gaze flits all over the place when he hoists shiny silk up your breast (tonight, a royal-blue negligee) and unwraps a stringy pair of panties from your legs.

“You’ll be good for me tonight, won’t you? Or is there any more… frustration you need to let out?”

The invisible apple of your throat bobs. You retain your silence.

He dryly comments, “I guess I owe you that.”

Sylus unties his robe, eyes glossy and intense.

He does so with an affected patience, knuckles moving ridiculously slow as he feigns autonomy over his own rampant emotions. You eye him with a misty desire as he does so, your hips giving an involuntary shimmy as you prepare for what’s to come.

Sylus grasps for the very last of his self-control like a beggar would the lavish tailcoats of passersby, but it’s all for naught. His fingers are shaking when he finally flips open his robe and shucks it from his broad shoulders. Oozing less confidence and more need than anything, the tips of his ears flushed a bright red that you don’t get to see often and nobody else gets to see at all.

He stoops over, then, laying his naked chest flat to your breasts.

“This,” he says, pinning your hand- the one with a flashy wedding band- onto the silky duvet and intwining your fingers with his. “This belongs, with you. So make a mess. Throw your fits and say those cruel things to try to get back at me, sweetie… But don’t ever take this off your ring finger, do you understand?”

He breaks off from your hickey-dotted neck to get a close look at you, pressing his forehead to yours. And right then you’re almost scared to look at him, an instinct existing deep in your gut saying you’ve just been taken into the maw of a big bad wolf— but his nose brushes with yours and he feels… human. Fleshy, warm. Shockingly vulnerable in the moment.

His hands that hold yours greedily are callous and big, sure- and you’ve seen firsthand the destruction they can raise- but they’re not clawed and malicious as they touch you. No, actually, they tremble with unbridled excitement at the opportunity to make you feel good.

And— And you hate him, y-you do.

Sylus cradles you close and nurses a few indulgent kisses from your lips, eating up every precious gasp you can’t stop from slipping in time.

Reluctantly, you return them all with budding desire.

“Do you understand?” He manages to heave out after a breathless moment. There’s no threat masquerading behind his candied words (no, he’s never been one to hold things over your head, surprisingly) but his timber is firm and meaningful. You have the implicit understanding that you must say yes- or, that’s your best option for the moment.

You look up at him and his eyes are wide, unblinking, not exactly the heavy-lidded picture you were expecting and had just witnessed mere moments prior.

And it’s a million things all in one— reverent and intense, enigmatic in its roots, you think, because you never could wrap your head around just what he saw in you and why, but he’s completely besotted. It brightly reflects in his eyes like chopped moonlight over calm waters- and you never once denied that. If you’re being honest, he made denying that- his very real, and unabashed feelings for you- an impossible task.

“Yes,” you mumble. “I understand.”

He seems contented, at that. Sighing and tempered.

He pants and nudges his brow to yours, one hand unloosening from its knot with yours to make a slow descent. Torturous and controlled like he wants you to shrivel up and die from the grudging need for his touch- for him to pivot deep up inside you and erase all conscious thought from your brain.

Sylus captures your lips in another kiss, more heated this time, raunchy and a bit toothy, as he takes his cock and, without any anticapitory strokes or anything, lines it up with your hole.

“M’ sorry, sweetie. I just don’t think I can stay away tonight. You…” His skull throbs with blunt, scalding want. “You’re worth all your trouble, you know that?”

A ripcurrent of fondness, unbidden but strong, gusts through your chest.

There’s just nothing in this world you can do to ward him off you, is there? No way to spook him?

The epiphany, dulled by a lust broiling between your thighs, is as comforting as it is horrifying. You don’t- You don’t know anything more. You just can’t be sure of what Sylus is to you, how he makes you feel— all his disservices done to you a cruel piece of your reality or not.

Tonight, you’ll blame it all on him.

He nudges apart your folds (growingly wet: an unfortunate discovery of yours that makes his chest puff with pride) with the fat head and begins his entrance. It’s grand but gentle; painstaking, almost, as his pelvis draws closer to yours but only at a snail’s rate.

A lewd squelch sounds out. You suppose you’re not entirely beyond the luxury of shame quite yet, because you toss your head to the side and refuse to meet his piercing gaze, embarrassed.

You… suppose you’re also a bit wetter than you’d thought, or wanted, for that matter.

You wince as he feeds inch after inch into you. Sylus is twitching; maybe you’re just hypersensitive or your fresh bout of anger has you experiencing everything in overabundance, but you can feel his long member writhe inside your gooey walls— every ridge and curve as you struggle to make room. On instinct, you clamp down on him and he hisses like he’s been slapped.

“R-Relax, kitten... Let me in. I’ll be gentle with you, I promise. Are… you scared?” He pants.

You swallow hard. Sylus tracks the movement with alarming precision, cardinal eyes watching your throat bob. Sweat beads there. He licks it up without thought, with half the brain to follow up his question with, “Don’t be. I would never hurt you,” he whispers. And to be perfectly honest, you believe him. In his own weird, roundabout way, he wouldn’t hurt you. Not in any physical regard, at least.

(Although, perhaps bullying his thick cock between your plushy, tooth-marked thighs is the exception to that statement.)

“Y-You’re mad at me,” you caterwaul, but it’s really a question in its own, uncertainty blipping past your wet eyes. “You’ll punish me.”

Something like hurt reshapes the hard lines of arousal in his face, tanned skin unfurling with brief sorrow. He looks sweet and puppyish- all momentary, of course, all his slips of vulnerability compiled into these isolated, intimate moments with you.

He frowns, “I won’t punish you, sweetie.”

“I broke the vase. Threw it, and- and my ring.” You reason in a thin voice, your fingers curling thoughtlessly. He takes them in his own. Kisses all the tips of them.

“So?” He dismisses with a breath, “I can buy a million more, honey. You forget who I am. As for your ring,” he pauses, gaze rapidly flipping across the bridge of your nose, as if trying to discern whether or not you’ll do it again somewhere down the line. Of course, it’s an impossible task to tell the future. Sylus wishes that wasn’t the case, though.

“…You wouldn’t do that again, would you? Throw it away, take it off. You’d cherish it, just as I do my own…” he alludes to the own band on his finger, resplendant and with a price tag you’d prefer not to count the zeroes on.

It glitters in the mellow lamp light when you briefly glance to it.

“I want you to look at it,” he decides after a beat, “and think of me. I want it to… make you happy.”

With that, you blink and he’s withdrawing, straightening his back to loom over you again- resuming that position of dominance without issue. He paints the most traditional idea of authority. Tall and muscled, with stoic eyes that glow with the silent dare to challenge him and hands that can make putty of the most rebellious spirit. He molds you like clay on a potter’s wheel. You reel underneath the unexpectedly soft ministrations of his worn palms.

Funnily enough, there was a time where you were convinced he wanted nothing more than to erase your person and rewrite your identity, but now you’re not so sure… It seems if anything, the only thing he wants to strip you of is your fear. Most notably, of him. He’s so violent but… painless. Sylus has always confused you, in that way.

With men like him, you’ve quietly wondered, maybe it’s just better to close your eyes and let your breathing slow.

“You’re doing so good,” he rewards with his words, “Relax your hips… yes, just like that. Maybe I’ve been away too much, mm? I’m sure the twins have been… more than talkative with you. Bothersome. Fuck,” he shudders.

“…You’re all pent up,” he determines out loud. “But don’t worry. I’ll make it better. I’m only asking that you’ll,” you think he gasps faintly, bringing a hand to touch over your belly, “make some room for me here. Could you do that for me, kitten?”

Without fully understanding the possible implications of his words, caught between the sweltering heat of his body and a confusing, inner blend of desire and fading resistance, you give a nod.

Sylus digs a fang in his bottom lip and forces himself to look away. His too-intense eyes settle on the syrupy juncture of your bodies, where he disappears into you and you, for once, eagerly invite him in.

“Sweet kitten.” His praise is cloying. Genuine, sappy. It sticks like frosting to the roof of your mouth— a feeling you can’t quite squirm away from because it’s lodged inside you. He’s smitten, and you think you hate him. You must. You were only screaming your head off about it moments prior and throwing precious, ornate vases to the floor, confessing your repulsion to the whole entire world (more accurately, Luke and Kieran, overhearing it from somewhere down the hall and the damned bird currently perched in his cage).

His words of encouragement, bitten and breathy, keep you from bucking your hips up and away, but only barely.

Your husband keeps you anchored beneath him with a fervid, loving stare and fingers that constantly remind themselves not to dig too deep into the fat of your hip lest they leave bruises. Save for the petal-like hickeys spiraling the pillar of your neck and your thighs- the ones that made you yelp with pleasure as he left them- Sylus doesn’t want to leave anything behind that exists for the sole purpose of hurting.

Right now, everything does. Your pussy lips mouthing around him and desperately trying to receive him, the prominent vein at the base of his cock throbbing under the tight fit.

It doesn’t matter how many times he’s nailed you against the headboard or taken you folded over the marble kitchen counters as the twins hurriedly scuttled out— you’ll never quite get used to the sheer length of him. All thick and pulsating, the upper half of it flushed and curved under its own weight.

Terrifying, the first time you saw it and he pried apart your legs all attentively and soft, tracking each and every expression that passed your face despite the drugs in you making every tiny muscle go almost entirely lax.

And it was terrifying the second and third time, too.

…It’s terrifying even now, but that sense of startle is buried deep down under gritty layers of hopelessness and bitterness and a disloyal arousal- your core throbbing with want as it nudges aside all rational thinking. It says to let him in. Let him inside your panties and heart but you still dream of homeward during every sleepless night, familiar, Linkon paths surrounded in hazy serenity. You dream of the sun, too, the buttery light that waits just outside of the N109 Zone and its boundless darkness—

Outside of him. Your stalker, your captor. With the recent addition of a big sparkling gem on your finger- your apparent husband.

Sylus is neat, down there; fine white hairs tickle above your clit as he bottoms out with a final groan- seconds before he stoops back over you and recoils his hips.

He fucks you good and slow. Expert thrusts that he pairs with tentative, darting looks from your pussy to your eyes to note every zipping emotion.

He coaxes honeyed moans out from you with relative ease. Admittedly, it feels heavenly where his body meets and parts with yours— your head made so dull, devoid of thought, your limbs weighed like bags of sand as he ruts into you like a man possessed.

He makes a pleasured sound, pulled deep from the barrel of his chest. “I love you.” You believe him. He definitely looks the part; in love. He can hardly speak. “Kitten. Tell me how it feels, tell me how you want it,”

“Good,” you cry breathlessly. “Feels good.” He watches you clamp your eyes shut and groans with dissatisfaction, taking your jaw in his whole hand and pressing his nose to yours. If he has one wish right now, it’s that you’ll understand in indisputable clarity that you make up the very atoms of his world, that in a wasteland of slate grey and white— you hold color. Hold it like a fully saturated sponge. With every piston of his hips, he drinks his fill from you.

Bitterly, you think with withering rationale, he drains.

“Then open your eyes. Look at me,” he demands. So close he’s near suffocating- every fibre of your being consumed by five letters and an adoration so heady it feels treacly. It emits from him like radiation, poisonous and insidious.

Sylus puffs out humid, minty breaths, and you take them in, recycling it between each other. Your lungs feel like a hearth. He’s gasping like he’s just concluded a several mile long run, perspiring at his temple.

Belatedly, you flutter open your eyes.

He’s handsome. He’s wolfishly handsome and the way he looks at you is both precious and earth-shattering all at once, crushing you under the sheer weight of it like a flimsy object placed under a hydraulic press: you stood no chance. Not against someone like him.

Obedient, you stare at him and whimper, half-tempted to cup his V-shaped jaw and indulge in the feeling.

Sylus moans and rewards you with a hot tongue pressed flatly to your neck. You slam your head as deep as it can go in the duvet. Your eyes fall back into your skull and you hold him tight- tighter than tight- squeezing his thick forearms like they’re fruit to juice. He doesn’t seem to mind.

Your back makes a crescent-moon. He relishes in the way you cling onto him for dear life, branding him with the tips of your fingers as he imparts mind-numbing pleasure. Euphoria thrums in your veins. It’s hard to breathe, your cheeks bloating before you dazedly remind yourself to breathe.

Your inner voice resembles Sylus’s to an unexpected degree.

“Breathe,” he really says, rasping. “Breathe, kitten.”

Your slick cunt winks around him with satisfaction, a gusty breath pouring down your throat.

Pointed teeth tickle your jugular. For a split second, you experience the very real, but perhaps needless fear that he’ll sink down and tear tendon from bone. That he’ll pull away with red spittle and a predatory smile and say, I’ve won. You’ve given in, sweetie.

It’s all for naught, however; instead, he washes you with sloppy, suckling kisses and you mewl unabashed for each and every one.

Molten pleasure sends a violent jolt through you, his saliva marking you and right then you feel no different than a bone to a dog.

Sylus wonders vaguely if you’ll ever come to the realization that while yes, he is a dog, you are his master— you give him name and purpose and occasional tugs on his leash that tell him where to go and what to do. He’ll trail you endlessly. Follow you to hell even if he smells the char clear ahead.

And you just don’t get that, do you? It’s as humorous as it is exasperating.

“Look me in the eyes, sweetie. Tell me how you feel. I want to know how- far you think I reach.” He shudders.

You whimper, “Far. S-So far, Sylus.”

A visible shiver racks his broad shoulders at the sound. His palm, callous and large, cups your chin tenderly and his damp lips shift against yours with every dull clap of his pelvis to yours. His free hand leaves its perch at your waist in favor of your breast, hovering over the valley of them with splayed fingers.

“And what about here?” He croaks, “Am I reaching this spot here?”

Your neck is straining as you plow it deeper into his fancy, expensive mattress. There’s a small uncertainty in you that raises the silent question of whether or not you’re trying to escape the man looming over you or you’re just overstimulated from his handling. Either way, it goes unanswered, put on the back burner to make room for a rattling pleasure.

Comprehension slips away. It’s taking you several seconds to grasp onto what Sylus is asking of you.

You take ahold of a pillow beside you and grab it so hard you think feathers might erupt from your fingertips. You’re getting close, you can feel it; a foamy wave in the distance growing taller and taller as it nears the shore. He’s not fairing any better, the threads of his composure splitting like dead ends.

Your heart, you finally realize in a blink. Is he reaching your heart? And it’s almost delicate, the response your chest has to it, your lungs drawing in a short breath and keeping it there for a long moment as if you need the extra time to process that morsel of information. That unexpected smidgen of fondness that bowls through you and scrunches your brow as you flit between his eyes. Cherry red and agog, wholly invested in your answer.

Before you can provide a real one— the wave crashes.

Bigger than you’d imagined, more powerful. Tsunami-like in nature: it casts its shadow over you in its entirety and steals the breath from your lungs as it curls and flattens. It rolls over you and sprawls to the crown of your head to the tips of your toes, your whole body convulsing as you’re swept up in its waters.

“Y-Yes,” you gasp without consciousness, fucked into perfect dumbness. “I love you, Sylus- I love you I love you I love you—“

Sylus’s hips stutter and fail.

“Fuck, sweetie!” He growls, “Do you mean it, do you—?” He delivers one last onerous ram into your twitching hole before letting out a roar and stilling completely. Rope after rope of hot cum glutting into you, your spasming walls feeling volcanic as he unloads his fat balls inside them.

You tremble and lose your tether to reality, for one moment. Cut off completely and barred from it.

Eventually, he lets out a deep, sated sigh and collapses over you. Drawing your boneless body to his front, tucking you safely under his muscled wing.

You numbly slant yourself against him and press your cheek to the damp, hard planes of his chest. His heart is hammering wildly beneath your ear and you don’t know whether to feel flattered, startled, or a fair mix of both. Perhaps you’re beyond the point of caring- although, sometimes it’s hard to get over the knowledge that Sylus indeed has a functioning heart capable of sorrow and anger and joy.

It’s… confusing, to say the least.

A long while passes afterward.

In the dewy afterglow, he plants a lingering kiss to the crown of your head and uses his center fingers to move away the hair pasted to your forehead. You can tell he’s holding back on something, just don’t know quite what.

Then, he murmurs, with a vulnerability that will never not look stupefying on him— cocksure, devilishly-handsome face warping into the gentle portrait of doubt—

“Did you?” He blinks, slow as he drifts along your sleepy face and watches your eyes hazily lift to meet his. “Mean what you said? Just now, when you came... Did you mean it, kitten?” He whispers softly.

Your mouth opens and wavers.

A plethora of contradictory feelings make quick work of the last of your common sense: loathing, trading itself out for hesitant affection; deepseated fear ducking out the way for the inexplicable want to unfurl your tight limbs against him and allow yourself just to be held... By him, of all people.

Your captor, who utterly uprooted you from your home and cut off every string connecting you to the people you considered most dear. Your tormentor and kidnapper and husband, whether you liked it or not, the relation only recently scrawled in paper in sloping, flowery letters. You signed yourself to him. (Albeit, you had very little say in the whole ordeal.)

You shut your eyes, hard. Your jaw follows.

You don’t give him an answer. Maybe you don’t truly know it anymore, not for certain. What this man has done to you is all too confusing and he’s made you all too tired, tonight. Nothing can keep its foothold for long in your fogged brain.

With a rapid thump of his heart, devastation falling headlong into the pit of his belly, Sylus thinks your silence, that in itself, is your answer.

…Nonetheless. He’s nothing if not persistent. And you’re warming up to him, he can tell— those fuzzy, latent feelings part of your willing acknowledgement or not.

So he arms you impossibly closer and nuzzles his hooked nose into your hair.

You think it’s a wry little smile that prods your temple. “You’re still playing the long game, hm, kitten? …It’s alright,” he breathes. You note the microscopic hitch in his otherwise even words with an unwanted pang of guilt.

He buys you cute dresses and forces you to wear them. The really short ones where if you bend over he gets a full view of your panties, yeah those. Oh and he makes you wear this cute little collar that has a cute pendant on it. And on the pendant he engraved 'property of xx'

Yup, that meant the day you said "I do" you now belonged to him and only him.

He loves you though, well more like he loves having fun with you. He likes to sneak in when you're taking a shower and push you against the wall.

He likes the look on your face when you tell him to stop because you're trying to get clean. It just makes him want to do dirty things to you. He likes to spray you with the water and make you squeal, then fuck your cute cunt until you cum all over the shower floor. He loves how you look when he presses you up against the translucent glass door of the shower. The way your tits smush against the cold surface as he fucks you from behind.

He likes to come up from behind when you're washing dishes or making dinner and grope your body. His large hands grabbing your tits, and moving down to you tummy and then accidentally slipping into your panties. He likes when you groan and push him away, telling him you need to finish cooking. But he's hungry now, he can't wait until you're done. So he pushed you up on the counter and pulls down your underwear. Burying his face agaisnt your pussy as he eats you out until you cream. He has you begging him to stop but he doesn't want to. Afterall you're his wife. And he has to show you how much he loves you.

Oh but his favourite thing is to sneak in the room when you're ready asleep. He knows its pervy and borderline creepy. But he can't help it. Especially not when you wear those cute little nightgowns that bunch up by your waist when you shift on the bed. He loves coming in and just touching you a little. He flips up the nightgown and runs his fingers against your slit. Your body reacts so well to him. He licks his lips and pulls your undies down before fucking you. He tries to be gentle at first because he knows you're tired. Afterall being a housewife is hardworking but ... but sometimes he cant help it. He goes berserk and fucks you until you're crying. Your tears soak the pillow case as he thrusts into your cunt.

You hear him before you see him. It's not like he tries to hide his presence. There'd be no point to it. 

The water was warm. You were dozing off, close to falling asleep when his fingers grazed your lips. When your eyes flutter open, Suguru smiles. 

"You're back early," you say.

"We finished up faster than anticipated," Suguru responds. You nod, not prying. Nowadays, you know better than to enquire. 

Instead, you watch as he disrobes himself, dropping his yukata to the pristine bathroom floor. He's beautiful, despite the hell he's put you through, you've never once denied that. His body is broad and well-sculpted. Sliver scars litter his milky skin. There's one on his shoulder, another across his stomach. 

Suguru sighs when he sinks into the water with you. You let him pull you into his lap, your back against his bare chest. It's always a habit for you to check if he's brought his creatures with him, even when you can't see them. Still, you peer over the bathtub, looking for shadows, and ripples through the air. 

"It's just us." He consoles, sinking his head forward, letting his breath tickle your neck. He could always be lying, but you chose not to care, letting him spread lazy kisses across your shoulders. 

His black hair spills over. He's untied it. Dried blood clings to his strands. It isn't his. You frown. 

He grunts but doesn't make any protest when you lift yourself, turning around to fully settle into his lap. The soapy water is now slightly below your chest, giving no coverage. You ignore his wandering eyes. After all, he's done worse than simply look. 

"Close your eyes," you say softly, "I'll wash your hair." 

He stares at you, searching. You don't know what he finds but it's enough for Suguru to listen, slinking down, eyes drifting shut. You think you like him better like this. When he isn't reaching into your soul, eager to claw you out. 

It's a slow process. You have nothing but your hands, but Suguru doesn't seem to mind. He's handled worse, he has the scars to prove it, but you're still gentle with his hair. The position is a little awkward, with you practically straddling him, but neither of you mind. He hums when you massage his scalp with trepid fingers. The white suds get bigger and bigger, coating your hands as you glide them down his locks. It smells like jasmine and roses. 

You're diligent, if nothing else. You act like the favor is your job, ignoring the brief touches of his hands. Rough, calloused, pressing into your skin, right at your thighs, going higher and higher with no indication of stopping. 

You pull back with a frown, but if he truly wanted to, he wouldn't have let you go so easily. These days, he's softer with you. Perhaps that's because you've mellowed out too. There's no more tears, no more screams. The fifth stage of grief: acceptance. 

"Suguru," you say, not quite a warning, but there's a hint of disapproval in your tone, "I'm working." 

He laughs, condescending, filled with meaningless affection. In the end, Suguru relents, moving his fingers away to hold your hips instead, squeezing the flesh every so often. You suppose that's a bit better. 

When you give the slightest of tugs, Suguru leans into your bare chest, eyes still closed. It's not sexual. He's just there, close to your damp skin, relishing in your warmth. You wonder if he can hear your heartbeat. 

"You know, when I first saw you, the first thing I noticed was your hair," you murmur, sloping his locks up from his shoulders, "it was beautiful." 

"Really?" he asks, just as quietly. 

You hum in response. It's hard to remember those days, back when you just thought of him as a priest, sitting lavishly on his throne. When you were just one of the temple's many visitors, unaware of the trap you found yourself in. You often wondered why you caught his eye. You know you weren't anything special.

Maybe it was your malleability that enticed him. Your humanness, able to adapt to anything once you're out of tears. You could be anything, maybe even his. 

"You should take better care of it." You don't chide him. Rather, it's a small request. You've never asked him for anything before. You wonder if he notices. 

"I will," his smile is gone now, there's just a hint of wonder in his tone. Out the corner of your eye, you spot him grasp a lock of his own hair, inspecting it. Like he's trying to see the beauty you can. 

The flakes of blood have long disappeared by the time you rinse his scalp off. His hair is back to its natural state, sleek and glossy. When it dries, it will shine in the sun. And in the night, after he's done with you, you can run your fingers through it, one of the few comforts you have in this life. 

Suguru's eyes open. You're still messing with his hair, tweaking it into place when he grasps at your chin, forcing you to look at him. 

His teeth are at your neck, grazing at the skin, barely threatening to puncture. You freeze anyway. You shouldn't have been so surprised. It was amazing he held himself back at all with how his strained cock slapped your thighs every so often.

"Suguru," you say, but you've lost the tone in your voice. It's less consequential. It's not like you can stop him, not right now when his kisses are starting to get more violent.

He hums in acknowledgment but doesn't pull back. Instead, Suguru grabs you by the hips. His fingers delve to your naked cunt. You suck in a gasp when he swipes at your clit.

"So sensitive," he chides but his smile is wider.

"We're in the bath," your voice comes out in a sigh as he leans forward to bite at your breasts, lavishing his tongue over your chest.

"We'll-we'll get dirty again."

He hushes your mild protests, focusing on your skin, tasting it. You frown, but you don't dare struggle when he angles your hips just right to deliciously grind on his cock.

At least he's nice, you deliriously think when it slowly starts to stretch you out. He could have been worse, taken to just pounding you without any regard for your body. His gentleness always felt like a worse punishment.

He goes down inch by excruciating inch. Your walls flutter around him. Already, you can feel yourself grow wetter and wetter.

"I was gone for a while," he simply says, "you're so much tighter now."

As if to respond, you spasm on his cock. He gives another affectionate laugh, kissing you on the corner of your mouth.

When he sits you down fully, he's gentle enough to give you a moment. He's right, it had been a while. The stretch was already starting to be foreign to you. You gasp, unconsciously tightening your grip on his shoulder when he starts to move.

The pace is slow, casual. Despite how violent he inherently is, you've never known him to be anything like that to you. He's always moderated, in that sense. Even now, when his cock is strained and pulsing inside you, with you slowly teetering out of control, he remains the same, looking up at you with the slightest hitch in his breath.

You can't say the same. Your pussy tries to suck him back in, already feeling yourself start to let go. It's wet, your noises and whimpers are barely covered by the sloshing of water. You shudder when his cock hits that spot deep inside you over and over again. It's cruel in that sense, you aren't allowed not to go crazy.

"You always take me so well." Suguru leans forward, burying his head into your neck. His teeth are sharp enough for you to feel it, timed with another intentional thrust. You arch your back at the sensation, feeling your thighs go taut with tension. Your legs are practically shaking now, close to breaking.

"Suguru-"

As if he can sense you holding back, his hand traces your chest, squeezing, before he moves to your pussy. His thumb is insistent, rubbing tight circles around your swollen clit as your hips jolt at the added sensation.

"You can do it," Suguru coos in your ear sounding both loving and condescending at the exact same time, "Let go, dear."

It doesn't take long after that. You fall, crumpling against him as your pussy gushes around his cock, squeezing, almost choking him. Your release gets a rise out of him. If you were less fucked out, you'd admire the slightest hint of struggle between his brows, the clenched jaw, the way his hips and hand get a bit too rough. It'd be one of the few times a being like him has lost composure like that.

His own release comes right after yours, filling you up until you're sure you're leaking.

You collapse, your head falling into the crook of his neck. A large hand falls against your back, rubbing slow circles.

"I missed you," he mutters into your damp hair. You can only hum, still gathering yourself when he lifts your face with both hands.

He kisses you. Warm, and kind, and gentle. To him, you are the exception. The only one of the unworthy that's worth something to him.

"I love you," Suguru says into your lips, earnestly. And you know he truly does think that. He truly thinks that baths and soaps and pretty hair are all it takes to wash away the feeling of fear you still feel every time he touches you. 

"I love you," he repeats. 

It wasn’t bad music. You enjoyed his taste. You would just rather not hear it blasting through the walls at 2 am. 

A roommate disagreement. It’s the first one you’ve ever had. 

You want to do this right. Your biggest worry is offending him. You spend days figuring out the best way to approach him. You look up ways to gently bring up disagreements between your roommate. You fill a bag with treats and sweets–the kinds you’ve seen him munch on before. You even write a letter because you know how flighty you get in these situations, and you can’t thank him enough for all that he’s done for you, but if he could just maybe perhaps slightly–

“-So you just want me to turn the music down?” Gojo interrupts your rambling.

He’s sitting on the sofa, one leg across the other. You remain standing, too strung up to really relax. The paper you were reading out loud crinkles as you fold it back up. 

“Yeah.” You mumble. “If you can.” 

He takes another candy you’d gifted him, popping it in his mouth. 

“Yeah, sure.” He shrugs, as if it were hardly an inconvenience. 

You, on the other hand, nearly deflated in relief. You didn’t expect it to be so simple. You were half-preparing for the possibility that he’d blow up at you and go back to administration, demanding your eviction. Everything was resolved so easily. 

“Thank you.” A genuine smile graces your lips.

Gojo hums. The candy cracks between his teeth. 

“You’re pretty shy, huh?” He tilts his head, studying you.

A laugh escapes your throat. Nervous. 

“I just don’t like confrontation,” you admit. 

Gojo nods, returning your wave when you say your goodbyes. You think nothing of the exchange. Hours later, you’re still riding the high of how effortless it all went. 

⌂

Two things change today. 

First, Gojo is up this morning. 

He’s never up this early. Usually, you only hear him moving around at noon. You’re the early bird, not him. You never minded his routine. If anything, you appreciated that you ran on separate schedules. 

Second, he was naked. 

Gojo typically dresses conservatively: T-shirts, sweatpants, hoodies. He adorns the look of a typical college student most days. His tastes are a bit on the expensive side, considering how casually he wears luxury brands, but he’s mostly covered up.  

Today, Gojo walks around the kitchen in nothing but boxers.

You’re awkwardly standing in the hallway. You want to go back to your room and hide out until he leaves, but you’re already running late for class. Briefly, you think about keeping your head locked on the ground and slinking out the door. Maybe, if you’re lucky, he won’t notice you. 

You aren’t that lucky. 

Gojo looks at your miserable figure. There’s no embarrassment about how little he’s dressed. No apologies. No stutters that will make you feel the tiniest bit human. He bares his white teeth as he smiles. 

“‘Morning, roomie!” He chirps. 

You repeat the pleasantry with far less enthusiasm. You avoid looking at him directly, preferring to look at the counter, the floor, the refrigerator, anywhere that didn’t have Gojo in it. 

This was normal, you kept repeating to yourself. This is his house. You’re practically a squatter. He should be comfortable in his own home. He should wear whatever he wants. 

Besides, now you can make the most of your situation. You first considered skipping breakfast, given his situation. Now that the worst has happened, you could grab an apple or something. 

You slip past him. You think Gojo is making some type of smoothie, but you refuse to look directly at him to confirm. The fruit basket is right at your fingertips. You start to swipe the first one you can grab before making your escape.

Something presses against your back, caging you against the counter. You freeze. You feel hard muscle as Gojo reaches up to mess with the cabinets. 

“Sorry.” Gojo casually excuses, rifling through the shelves. “I’ll just be a second.”

One second. 

Five seconds. He’s still there. Your knuckles are white from how hard you’re gripping the counter. 

“Gojo–” 

“My music didn’t bother you last night, did it?” He asks. 

For a second, you wonder if that’s why he was doing this. Maybe you had offended him earlier with your complaint. But you don’t hear any resentment in his voice. He sounds cheerful. 

Delighted, even. 

“No,” you say, “it was fine.” 

He hums. When he finally pulls away, you get your autonomy back. You scramble away from the counter, not wanting to get caught again. 

“That’s good,” He says, “I’m glad you were upfront about this. We’re roommates! No use in hating eachother, right?” 

Temporary roommates, you correct in your head. 

“Also, we should use our first names from now on, roomie.” Gojo continues. “We should speak more comfortably.” 

Fine, whatever. You just wanted to leave. 

He suddenly leans in so he’s eye-to-eye with you. You hadn’t noticed it before, but his gaze is intense. You try to back away, but there’s nowhere to go. 

“Say it.” He lowers his voice. “Sa-to-ru.” 

It feels like he’s mocking you, but you can’t seem to find the joke. 

“Satoru,” you obey. 

He smiles. 

“Yeah.” He pulls away. “Just like that.” 

⌂

After a couple of washes, you finally notice its absence. 

It wasn’t the most expensive of your collection, but it was still pretty pricey. You liked the silk material and the dark red color. It was your favorite pair of panties. 

You skulk around the apartment, hoping it just fell from the basket. That, or the washer ate it. You tried not to think of the other option. 

 Days pass, and you give up searching. You decide to forget about it. You have other pairs. It’s not the end of the world. 

A part of you thinks about asking Satoru, but you’re quickly squashing it down. No way would you willingly ask him something so embarrassing. You just toss it to the back of your mind, hoping it will just show up again. 

And then, Satoru invites you into his room.

It’s not exactly an invitation. When you’re trudging home from class, he pops out from his room, excitedly telling you about a TV show before you’re being dragged inside. You’re not a big fan of the genre, and you have no interest in the show. It doesn’t matter to Satoru. You’re forced to sit on his bed as the characters on screen follow the script. 

He’s doing that a lot lately. Interrupting. Invading. You keep brushing off the thought that he’s testing you, somehow. 

“Roomie, this guy is so annoying.” Satoru comments. “Don’t worry, he dies in the next episode, so you don’t have to suffer for long.” 

You say nothing as he casually spoils the show for you. Honestly, you couldn’t care less. You were getting a little bored. Your eyes wander around his room. It’s cleaner than you thought it’d be. A few clothes are scattered around. A college hoodie hangs off the door. There are all sorts of papers on his desk, each is covered in meaningless algorithms you can’t decipher, and you suddenly remember he’s a physics major. You ask about maybe getting some math help from him later on, before you’re brushing that thought away. 

There’s a snap of fingers. Your gaze drifts back to Gojo. 

“Roomie, pay attention!” He whines, urging you back to the screen. 

There are only 10 minutes of the show left. Fine, you sit there, counting down the minutes until you can make your escape. 

Satoru’s hand brushes the edge of your bare thigh. 

He’s not exactly touching. You two are sitting pretty close. He was just sitting comfortably, resting his weight on his hands. It’s barely a touch, but it’s there. You can feel his fingers on your skin. 

He doesn’t move his hand back. It’s more likely because he doesn’t notice, you convince yourself. You’re overthinking things again. 

He shifts. His hand slips even closer. 

When you try to open your mouth, he hushes you with a, “This is the best part!” and all the courage leaves your body again. 

It feels like hours until the credits finally roll. Satoru steps off the bed to turn off the TV, and you make your move too, eager to find refuge in your room. 

“Oh yeah.” His voice stops you in your tracks. “What did you want to talk about earlier?” 

You stare. It feels crazy to bring up what happened just now. See? He didn’t even notice. 

But now, you have nothing to say, and saying nothing feels like a lie. 

“Did you see something in your laundry?” You blurt out before you can even think. 

Satoru encapsulates a picture-perfect replication of an innocent doe. He tilts his head in confusion. 

“Like what?” He asks. 

Dark red panties, with just the hint of lace. You can’t say it. You just can’t. 

“I think we might’ve swapped some clothes.” You unhelpfully murmur. “If you see anything…just let me know.” 

He nods. “Sure thing, Roomie!” He calls to you as you hurry back into your room and lock the door. 

Soon, Satoru’s actions turn less ambivalent. 

Sometimes, you’d hear him once or twice in the middle of the night. He’s loud. The walls thankfully muffle most of it, but you know what he’s doing. You usually just plug in your headphones and try not to look at him the next day. So far, things have worked out pretty well. 

Today, his door is wide open as he jerks off. 

You’re standing right next to your own door, mouth agape, forced to listen to his moans and babbles for five minutes. You’re already late for class.

But you can’t bring yourself to even open your door. 

To get out of the apartment, you’d have to cross Satoru’s room. The one that is currently open, where you’d see him stroking his dick. 

You know this is going too far. You needed to fucking do something already. There’s no way you can be kept a prisoner in your own home. 

And yet, you stay, forced to listen to him openly masturbate. 

“Fuck yes,” you can hear him say over and over again. “Just a little more, pretty girl. C’mon, just a bit–there we fucking go.” 

He’s talking to someone. No, that’s not right. He’s fantasizing about someone. 

More babblings and you’re squeezing your eyes shut as he comes. He curses again, and you stand there until you no longer want to melt into the floor. 

A few minutes later, you’re stomping around the room, trying to be as noisy as possible. You loudly adjust your bookbag and fiddle with your chair. You try to give him as much time as possible. 

By the time you come out, the apartment is back to normal. His door is still open. You stare straight ahead, ignoring the clear invitation to look as you pass his room. 

“Hey, Roomie.” Satoru casually calls from his place on the bed. 

You nearly trip over your own feet. Satoru gives a hiss. 

“You good?” He asks. 

No. 

“Yes.” You adjust your bag. “Just tripped.” 

“Okay.” You hear him shift. His bed creaks under the weight. “Have fun at class, pretty girl.” 

You slam the door a lot harder than you should. You were ten minutes late for class that day, but it doesn’t matter. As much as you tried to focus on your professor’s drones, your mind kept drifting to the name he called you right before you fled. 

No, no it couldn’t be. You needed to forget about it. 

Also, he was holding something in his hand. You didn’t know for sure, you didn’t want to stare but…

…it was a dark red piece of fabric. 

⌂

You like it when Satoru’s friends come over. They create a buffer between you and him. 

These days, you aren’t in the apartment as much. You’re out early. You come in late. You aren’t avoiding Satoru. You talk to him when he talks to you. You listen to whatever ramblings he has that day. You aren’t avoiding Satoru. 

Today is one of the few times he manages to catch you. Maybe you should count yourself lucky that he did it today, because Suguru was here. 

He lounges on the sofa as Satoru drags you behind him. Suguru barely glances up from his phone. He’s pretty used to Satoru’s antics. You aren’t. 

Satoru plops right next to his friend, picking up his remote. 

“Okay, we’re ready,” he says before frowning and glancing around. “There’s no more space.” 

He’s right. Both men are big, barely overcrowding the minuscule couch. You awkwardly loiter nearby as they both set up. You open your mouth, ready to say that you were fine with not joining, that you didn’t really care about a video game, no matter how awesomely Satoru described it. 

Satoru’s grin is filled with nothing but delight as he turns to you. 

“Here–” he eagerly pats his lap “–I've got plenty of space left, pretty girl.” 

You blanch, and his smile just grows wider. He starts to reach for you before his friend steps in. 

Suguru shoves him off the couch. Satoru dramatically collapses onto the floor. 

“Don’t be a dick.” Geto chides before motioning you to sit. 

You take a seat, with a relieved smile directed at Geto. Satoru grumbles from his spot on the floor, but he doesn’t try to move back as you thought he would. 

“I can’t believe you’re abusing me in my own home,” Satoru complains. “Where I pay rent.” 

“Your parents pay rent, you trust fund baby.” Geto is more than happy to refute. 

“Same thing.” Satoru rolls his eyes. “It’ll all go to me in the end.” 

Out of all of Satoru’s friends, Suguru seemed to have the biggest hold on his collar. They seemed close. Maybe their friendship had spanned years before college. You don’t know if anyone could bear to be around Satoru for that long, but maybe Suguru is that exception. 

You think you spend about an hour watching them play. You aren’t too interested in video games, much less combat games, but they seem to get a kick out of it. Eventually, Gojo demands to play with you. Geto relinquishes his remote to your reluctant hands, more than happy to go back to his phone. 

“Damn.” Satoru laughs as he kills you for the 4th time. “You’re bad at this.” 

You frown at the YOU LOSE on your side of the screen. 

“I haven’t played this before,” you respond. 

“I can tell.” 

He doesn’t seem particularly upset that his new gaming partner sucks. If anything, the more he kills you, the wider his smile gets. 

“We should place bets.” He suddenly pipes up. “However looses a round: strips.” 

You shrink. Geto rolls his eyes. 

“Satoru, stop bullying your roommate and play the game.” He leans back. “Let the poor thing breathe.” 

“Bullying?” Satoru sounds offended. “I’m joking. Y’know I’m joking, right?” 

He whirls around to look at you with wide eyes. You can’t tell whether he’s being genuine. You glance away. 

“Yeah.” You fiddle with the remote. “I know.” 

“See, it’s fine!” Instantly, Satoru forgets the game. He crowds into the couch to circle his arm around you, pulling you into his side. “You’re the only person who understands my humor, pretty girl.” He sighs. 

“This sounds more and more like a hostage situation.” Suguru idly comments. 

But when you look at him, really look at him, you can see the apathy clear in his eyes. 

Maybe that’s why they got along so well. 

“Shut up.” Satoru snaps. 

“You’ll tell me, though, right?” Satoru says as he snuggles even closer. “If I’m going too far?” 

You want him to get off of you. You know he knows, too. 

“I will.” You say instead. 

Satoru grins, continuing to swaddle you with his body. 

“See?” He blows a raspberry in Suguru’s direction. “My Roomie loves me.” 

⌂

Sometimes you prefer to be alone with Satoru. He just gets worse with more people around. 

The club he dragged you into was smoky, with the occasional lights that flicked and changed colors, illuminating the floor. It was crowded. Someone spilled a drink on the floor earlier that night. The sweet sticky scent lingered in the air. 

Satoru had brought a couple of other people too, more than happy to stuff the lot of you into his car before driving off. One of Satoru’s other friends, Shoko, was here somewhere. Suguru was here too, but you lost sight of him sometime back. You, standing against the wall, wonder if you could take a bus back to the apartment. 

The only person in your line of sight was Satoru. 

Earlier, he’d asked if you wanted to dance. You declined. You thought he’d make a bigger fuss out of it, like usually he does when you don’t fully accommodate him. Instead, he shrugged off your rejection, casually tossing over his shoulder to ‘join in at any time’. 

Someone else was with him. She was shorter than him, even with the heels. You watch as she drags manicured nails across his arms as he leans down to kiss her. You doubt they know each other. Satoru’s just like that. Overly friendly. 

It reminds you of all the people he brings over for ‘late-night study sessions’. Apart from the noise, you don’t mind the girls and guys. Most of them are pretty nice. They actually give you a lot of relief whenever you see them. For a second there, you thought that the reason Satoru was doing this to you was that he–

So yes, the people he brings over are a nice thing. 

Someone clears his throat. 

You don’t recognize him. His grin is sheepish. Polite, you smile back. 

The small talk is a bit awkward at first. It’s hard to hear him with the screaming crowd and music. You two exchange names. He comments on the phone case you have, claiming his sister likes that character too. He perks up when he says something that makes you laugh. 

“Did you come here with anyone?” He finally asks. 

“My roommate,” you offer, turning your head to point to Gojo. 

He isn’t there. Neither is the girl he danced with earlier. You wonder if he decided to ditch you and take her home. You don’t think you’d be surprised if he did. 

At the implication you aren’t seeing anyone, he asks: 

“Can I get you a drink?” 

You think you’re about to refuse. You know Satoru and the rest of his group will be drunk by the time the night ends. You’re pretty sure the only reason you were dragged along was to play babysitter and drive them home. 

You open your mouth for a polite rejection. 

Satoru does it for you. 

He was fast. You hadn’t noticed him until he was putting himself right between you and your conversational partner. 

Satoru’s smiling. It doesn’t look friendly. 

“Hey man,” Satoru casually says, “the fuck are you doing?” 

He can read between the lines, something you’re grateful for. Within seconds, the stranger is hurrying off. Lucky, you think to yourself, watching his back disappear into the crowd. Satoru lets him go so easily. 

Unlike you. 

He turns on you almost immediately. You want to sink into the wall. 

“We’re going.” He finally says. 

You pliantly nod, letting him lead you out the seedy club. Only when you get to his car do you realize he meant just you and him. 

“What about–” You cut yourself off when you see his eyes. 

Dark. They no longer resemble the color of cloudless skies. Now, they’re more like thunder and rain. 

You’ve never seen him more furious than the entire time you’ve known him. 

You remain silent as you slip into the passenger seat, tucking yourself into the seatbelt. Satoru starts the car with a distinct rumble. The locks click into place. 

You’ve always known Gojo to be an erratic driver. Tonight feels even worse. His knuckles are white from how hard he’s squeezing the steering wheel. The car keeps speeding up and up, careening past the speed limit. You can hear your heartbeat thudding in your chest. 

And Satoru? 

Satoru looks like he’s about to murder someone. 

“Who was that?” His voice is cold, devoid of all the playfulness he had earlier tonight. 

“I don’t–” 

“Who the fuck was he?” He demands. 

You flinch, and your hands curl into fists to keep them from shaking too much. You can’t do anything but stare into the window, watching the night sky dwindle past with all the other cars on the highway. 

“I didn’t know him.” You weakly tried to defend, even if you didn’t know why. Your instinct was to placate. “He just came up to me, and we started to talk.” 

He laughs. It’s dry, bitter, and sardonic. 

“Okay.” He tells you, turning the wheel so sharply that you press further into the door. “I let you outta’ my sight for two seconds, and you’re letting some fucker feel you up?” 

“I–” 

“What’d you two talk about?” He demands. “Did he ask if he could touch your pussy? If he did, you would’ve let him, right? I mean, you were practically throwing yourself at him like a slut, so maybe the guy thought he had a chance.” 

It hurts to breathe. Something stings in your eyes as your vision blurs. 

No one has ever said such horrible things to you before. 

“Nothing like that happened.” You insist. Why was he doing this? Why was he acting like this? “Please just–” 

“Shut up.” He snaps back. “What, you seriously thought anyone would fall for the shit you pull? You think he actually cared for you? Don’t make me laugh. He only wanted your tits and holes.” 

The words Satoru barks out are mean and vulgar. Your body freely shakes, you press yourself further up against the door, feeling tears stream down your cheeks. Satoru’s voice only softens when your hiccups and sobs fill the car. 

“Baby, no, I–I didn’t mean that shit.” His voice is oddly strained. You feel fingers brush against your neck, but you only shift away. 

You didn’t want to be in that club. You didn’t want to talk to that man. You didn’t want to get into Satoru’s car. You just wanted to go home. 

He can’t even let you have that. 

“No, pretty girl, it’s okay,” Satoru comforts, “Don’t–don’t cry–Fuck fuck.” 

The car slows to a stop right in an abandoned parking lot. Satoru kills the engine, letting the car hum into silence. Whatever happens, you think it will happen now. At this very moment. You prepare yourself for the worst, squeezing your eyes shut.

But it’s even worse. 

There’s a hiss of a zipper. Your eyes open just in time to see Satoru pull out his dripping cock. 

He’s already hard. His cock curves up, almost touching the steering wheel as he wraps his fingers around the base. The tip is painfully swollen as beads of pre-cum leak down his cock. Veins bulge against his skin as he frantically pushes his hand up and down. 

Your fear melts straight into horror as you stare at him. He’s staring right at you, desperately pumping his cock with his hand. The worst part is his eyes–wide, blown out like he’s high. He looks right at you like he wants to eat you alive. 

You’re immediately reaching for the handle. No matter how much you tug, the car won’t open. You’re trapped there, forced to watch as your roommate jerks himself off in front of you because your crying turned him on. 

Your sobs quieten. All you can hear in the car is his moans and the words he mouths, your name over and over again.

You think the worst part is that he still tries to talk to you, to comfort you. 

“You’re okay–you’re okay, baby.” He’s spitting the words out through his teeth as his hand throttles his pulsing dick. “Lemme–lemme–can’t help m’self–just–”, 

You flinch when he comes. His cock spurts white cum all over his hands. 

You’re fully silent. The only thing you can hear is his heavy breathing as he cleans up. 

You think he’s about to reach for you. His fingers never make contact. 

You stare out the window. Everything’s dark. Nobody was around. No one was around to see you. To hear you. 

Even if someone was around…what could you say? 

“Can we go home, please?” 

There’s a sharp inhale.

“Sure.”  The affection in his tone makes you nauseous. 

You close your eyes.

“Anything for you, pretty girl.” 

⌂

Ten minutes later, you’re still twiddling your fingers in the waiting room. 

Getting this appointment had been excruciatingly difficult. Constant last-minute cancellations. Reschedules. It felt like they were trying to deter you from entering the housing office. 

They promised you this was a temporary arrangement. You were only supposed to be at Satoru’s place for a month, maybe even less. But then one month turned to two. Two months turned to three. You don’t think you’d last another day in that apartment. 

He was getting worse each day. It was only a matter of them until he—

A man steps into the lounge. He’s tall and lanky, carrying a smile that screams dismissive. You perk up as he squints at you. When he calls your name, you immediately rise, following him into the back of his office. 

It’s stuffy. There are papers everywhere. You squish into a chair just before he starts talking. 

It’s the usual stuff. You spell out your name, and he pulls up your housing account. He squints at the computer. 

“You said this was a temporary assignment?” He asks. 

You eagerly nod, straightening your posture. 

“Yes,” you say. “My roommate wasn’t supposed to have another one, but there was a mix-up and—“

“No.” He taps on the screen. “You said it was temporary, but here it says it’s permanent.” 

You swallow. 

“What?” 

He messes around with his mouse for a bit. Your hands feel strangely clammy. 

“Ah, here it is.” He cleared his throat. “It says you came in a month ago wanting to make the change. I see your and your roommates' signatures. You must have come here a while ago.” 

You struggle to find the words. 

“I don’t—“ 

“In any case, it’s too late to change anything now. The deadline for reassignment passed weeks ago.” He gives you a sympathetic look that strangely cuts deep into your skin. 

“Are you and your roommate having issues?”

You think about the truth. 

“No,” you hear yourself say. “Everything is fine.” 

You don’t remember much after that. You think you were polite as you stood up. You think you shook his hand. You think you walked out of his stuffy office and out of that stifling building. Everything is a blur until you step into the sunlight, feeling it beat down your face. 

You don’t want to go back to the apartment. You still feel too raw, too fresh. 

You don’t have any classes left for today. You can’t hide out on campus. Satoru will find you. He always finds you. Maybe you should stay at a friend’s place and recuperate. 

Right, you don’t have any friends. Satoru made sure of that. 

Briefly, you think about going to the police. Could you maybe use them as a buffer somehow? At the very least, it might scare him from taking this any further. 

But then you glance over at the campus buildings. The name Gojo flashes brightly in the sun. 

You aren’t stupid. You may not know his family all that well, but you know the influence of his background. There is a reason his campus apartment is thrice the size of everyone else’s. There is a reason he wasn’t supposed to have a roommate in the first place. 

He is everything. He has everything. 

You are nothing. You have nothing. 

When you arrive at the apartment ten minutes later, Satoru is already lounging on the couch. 

He excitedly waves you over. When you get inside striking range, he reaches out, pulling you onto the cushions. You pretend not to notice the way he breathes in your scent as you settle on the sofa. An arm wraps around your body, pushing you into his side. 

“Where were you, roomie?” Satoru whines. “Didn’t class end an hour ago?” It would be a harmless question if his grip weren’t so tight. You won’t be surprised if you find a bruise there in a day or two. 

Something plays on the TV. Neither of you pays attention. 

“Sorry.” It’s all you can muster to say. 

He seems satisfied with your answer–the submission of it. You find yourself counting down the clock. Seven minutes go by before you speak up again. 

“Satoru?” You ask.

There’s a distant hum of an answer. 

“Did you tell Housing I was staying?” 

For the longest while, Satoru does not speak. Then, he relaxes. He groans, easily delving into your space. A hand rests on your thigh. 

“Oh, that.” There’s a yawn. “Yeah, I just went ahead and told them you didn’t need to move out. We were getting along so well, ‘makes no sense why you’d get a different apartment, right? Sounds like a hassle moving halfway through the semester.” 

Then he shifts. You can feel him stare right down at you. 

“Unless you have a problem with that?” 

He doesn’t even bother to hide it. Pure excitement. 

Was there ever a possibility you could’ve come out unscathed had you just stood up to him earlier? Maybe you should’ve been a bit less timid when speaking to him about his music. Maybe you should’ve commented on his lack of clothing around the house. 

Or maybe it was always going to end up this way. 

“No.” You tell him, staring straight at the TV. “I don’t have a problem with that.” 

A couple of days later, another pair of panties goes missing. 

Unlike last time, you don’t bother looking for it. 

⌂

You always locked your door at night, but looking back, it was stupid to assume Satoru didn’t have a spare key. 

This is his apartment, after all. 

The lock gives with barely a click. You’re already wide awake, body rigid, tucked underneath the covers as hallway light bleeds into the room. You’re facing the textured wall, watching as his shadow drifts into your bedroom. The door shuts in a way that sounds final. It’s dark again. 

He’s quiet. You can barely hear the sounds of his breath. There’s a footstep. Then, another. Eventually, he’s right behind you. 

You don’t know what he was doing. You’re too scared to turn and check. Naively, you think if you pretend to be asleep, he’ll leave. 

One minute. 

Two minutes. He’s so still, for a moment, you wonder if you imagined the whole thing. 

The edge of your blankets lifts. Your bed creaks under his weight. His chest presses against your back. Warm hands grasp your shoulders. 

He’ll leave eventually. If you pretend to be asleep, he’ll leave. 

You squeeze your eyes shut when his head nuzzles into the crook of your neck. He inhales. 

Fingers play with the ends of your shirt. 

He’ll leave soon. He’ll leave soon. He’ll leave–

“You’re not gonna stop me, are you?” His voice makes your shoulders tense. You can practically hear his smile. 

His fingers manage to slip under your shirt. You can barely hold in your gasp when he grabs a handful of your tits. He doesn’t even bother to be gentle, squeezing and pulling until you’re practically whining. 

“C’mon.” Satoru coos into your ear. There’s a kiss on your neck. “Say it. Tell me no.” 

He nibbles the skin right on your jawline. His hair tickles your cheek. 

Your hands reach out to grab his own. You squeeze, digging your nails into his skin. 

“Please stop.” 

He laughs–the kind of laugh you’d give to a toddler if they misbehave. It feels so mean. 

“You’re so cute.” Another kiss right at your ear.

“Stop.” You repeat. His hands don’t budge, not even when you start to draw blood. “Let go. Don’t–don’t touch me–” 

He flips you right on your back. From the streetlights peaking through the blinds, you can see his face. The widest smile is stretched over his pretty lips. It looks almost manic. 

Your eyes sting. 

“Can I kiss you?” He asks. It’s almost cruel how soft his voice is. 

You shake your head. His teeth gleam. 

“Please?” He leans closer. “Just one kiss?” 

It’s heartbreaking how sweet the kiss is. Soft, barely touching as he melds his lips with yours. He keeps a hand on your chin, holding you in place before the greed takes over and he ravages you. 

By the time he pulls away, your lips are bitten and bruised.

He sinks lower, face dipping into the skin of your neck as he makes himself home there. It’s laughingly pathetic how weak you were compared to him–how little you fare when he pulls off your shirt, then your shorts. Soon, his clothes join yours, leaving a small puddle of cloth at the foot of your bed. 

He pulls away from your body, looking over the whole of you. 

“Oh, baby.” His eyes are blown out like he’s high. “I…I just wanna do everything to you.” 

You can’t hold back the tears anymore. They drip down your face, sculpting your cheeks. He coos, sinking lower to pepper your face in kisses. 

“I’m sorry, baby.” The excitement in his voice betrays him. “Don’t cry. I won’t do anything bad, I promise.” 

Liar, you want to call him, but you don’t. You can’t. Your throat traps your voice as his fingers delve underneath your panties. 

There’s no tact as he presses into you, immediately filling you up with his finger. Your pussy can barely fit one of him, almost choking when he slips in another. There’s no rhythm, no grace for how fragile you are as he thrusts his fingers deeper and deeper. 

You can barely muffle your cries as he hits a spot deep inside you. 

“See?” he asks, toying with your clit. “Not bad things, right?” 

You don’t answer, barely able to keep the noises in check as he abruptly pulls out of you. His fingers are shiny from your pussy juices. He crudely wipes his fingers on your tits. 

You’ve seen his cock before, but it looks even bigger from this angle. It slaps against your inner thighs as he finishes yanking off your drenched panties. The mushroom-tipped head brushes against your slit. He tosses one of your legs over his shoulder, opening your hole just enough to get his cock in the perfect position. 

The fight comes in too late. You think you’re reaching up to claw at his face, those pretty blue eyes. 

It dies as he bottoms out inside your pussy in one thrust. 

He doesn’t wait for you to settle down; he’s not kind enough for that. As soon as his cock sits as deep as it can into your pussy, he’s immediately moving. Your abused cunt immediately tightens around his cock, almost like you’re trying to suck him back in. 

You squeeze your eyes shut as you feel Satoru collapse on top of you. His head drops into the crook of your neck. You can hear his ragged breaths as he fucks himself deeper and deeper into you. 

“‘need you to relax for me, baby.” He hisses like it’s your fault he can’t control himself. “Can–can barely fit into this cunt.” 

To emphasize his words, he reaches down. There’s a soft slap right on your clit. You yelp. He soothes you with gentle circles with his thumb. 

“Satoru,” you can barely get out from the pressure, “please just stop–” Another smack on your pussy. Harder. 

“Can’t stop.” His breaths are ragged, and his hips shift so he can plow into you at a different angle. “Can’t ever stop. Not when I know how good you feel.” 

There’s a rasp of a laugh as your own noises get louder and louder. Your back arches. Something hot writhes in your belly the more the fucks you. He’s gripping your waist so harshly that you know they’ll leave bruises. 

It’ll pair well with the clawmarks you leave on his back as you arch further into his raw cock. 

There’s a sharp hiss before he’s kissing you again. There’s a harsh thrust that makes you moan directly into his mouth. He reluctantly pulls away, licking the taste of you out of his mouth. 

“I’m so glad I found you.” He tells you, continuing to ram into your pussy. 

“Can’t even imagine how–how someone else would react to you just givin’ yourself to ‘em. Fuck, even thinkin’ about it makes me wanna kill someone.” 

Distantly, you think about all the times you could’ve stopped him. You think about what you could’ve done differently to never cross paths with a man like Gojo Satoru. 

“You’re all for me.” He sighs, leaning close so he’s whispering right in your ear. 

He wants you to hear this right before he makes you cum all over his cock. 

“It’s all you’ll ever be.” 

You're writhing against his cock as he forces you through an earth-shattering orgasm. Your pussy clenches hard around him, milking him for all he’s worth as your climax is reluctantly dragged out of your exhausted body. 

There’s a grunt, then a sigh as something fills you to the brim. His cock pumps his cum steadily into you. There’s so much your poor pussy can’t keep it all inside. It leaks crudely from your hole. 

He stays like that for a minute, breathing you in as you start to come down from your high. Then, Satoru flops to your side, gathering up in your arms. You’re forced to lie against his chest, listening to his quickening heartbeat. 

The anger comes too late to do anything about. 

“I hate you.” You hiss as he continues to cuddle you. “I hate you, I hate you–you sick, twisted–”

“Aw, you don’t gotta’ pretend to be mean with me, pretty girl.” Satoru coos, snuggling into your exhausted figure. You can feel the hard shape of his cock press right against your thigh. 

There’s a chaste kiss on the top of your head. 

You look past her again. The man is tall, bearded, and stoic. His expression is both cryptic yet deters approach. In the small sewing shop, his leather vest has him out-of-place. 

Arlene coughs before she can get her words out. She drops her hands behind the counter and wrings them. She’s a kind woman, in her late fifties, but she’s quiet. She keeps to her sewing mostly and barks at those who come in with gossip to keep it to themselves. 

“Sir,” she greets the man as he strides evenly across the shop. Three whole steps. Most of the space is shelves of watches and yards, and mannequins for display. “How might I help you today?” 

Her voice is wobbly, betraying her fear. You frown. She’s quiet but never afraid. At times, she’s even stern. When it comes to work, she’ll never shy away from telling you to redo a stitch. 

The man considers her. His eyes scan around and snag on you. It’s too late to feign ignorance. You can’t just turn around and go back to sorting spools. 

“Her.” He points. 

“Sir?” Arlene sniffs. 

“She can help me,” he insists. 

Arlene glances over at you. She nods as her lips tug down. She backs away from the counter and nears you. She touches your arm, an unusual gesture for her. 

“Do whatever he says, honey.” 

The tender epithet further tweaks your uncertainty. Who is this man? Why is she so afraid? 

She turns to flatten herself against the shelves to let you pass. You sidle by and approach the man. Her anxiety has your brewing with a whirlwind. 

“Hello, sir,” you greet him. 

“Steve,” he insists. You nod and repeat his name. He glances once more at Arlene. “She doesn’t need help.” 

You peek over as Arlene flinches. Her eyes flick between you and the man as her face lines with concern. Her lips open and the lower one quivers. She shuts her mouth and nods. She turns and goes into the backroom. 

What the heck is going on? 

You face the man again. His dark blond hair is thick. The tails at the back flip out a little and his beard is grown long, curling around the shape of his jaw. His eyes are a bold blue and his thick brows add to his stern look. His nose is long and defined, complimenting his chiseled features.  

He shrugs and slips his vest down his arms. You watch him. He strips the vest off entirely and lays it on the counter. His scent tickles your nose as it clings to the leather. 

“Fix it.” He demands. 

You lower your eyes slowly to the vest. You lean in and reach for it warily. You peek at him, thinking he might snatch it back. He just stares at you. Your forehead speckles with heat. 

You focus on the vest and touch the seams at the shoulder. You cautiously examine every inch. On the back, a large emblem is imprinted on the leather. You touch the flaking decal. A print that was never going to last on the fabric. There’s only a bit of blue and red around the rings that incase an entirely black star. 

You step back and look under the counter. You reach beneath and he shifts. “What are you doing?” 

You pause and look up at him. You blink. “Getting my notebook so I can make notes.” 

He dips his chin and his forehead lines. You take your notebook and flip through to a blank page. You grab a pencil and start your notes. 

He sighs, “it’s only this.” He taps the emblem. 

“Oh, sure,” you scribble that down. “The patch here,” you extend the chest of the vest, “the thread is loose here. It will come off soon.” You gentle touch the collar, “may I turn it over?” 

He shrugs and and waves his hand derisively. You turn over the vest. As you expect, the lining shows its use. “I can redo the lining. I could show you some options.” You point across to the rolls of fabric. “As for the back, it might be best to go with an embroidery pattern rather than a print. We don’t do prints.” 

He puts his hands on the counter, fingers curled, tattoos above each knuckle. On his middle finger, you see the pommel of a sword, the blade extended down his finger but hidden in his fist. Your neck tingles hotly. Is he one of them? 

“How much are you gonna rob me for to do that?” He snips. 

“Mostly your time,” you answer thinly. “It takes time but I can do it.” You turn the vest again and feel along the remnants of the print. “One moment, please.” 

You look up at him. His eyes are unreadable. He tilts his head. 

You grab your pencil and bend over your notebook. You do your best to recreate what you can make out of the emblem. When you finish, you stand and show him the page. 

“Does that look correct?” 

He nods. 

“Alright, I can do that,” you assure him and set the pencil down. You frame the old print with your hands, “this is a good size?” 

He dips his chin again.  

Before you can retract your hand to make another note, he grabs it. You squeak and tug only once. He pulls your hand closer and with his other, extends your thumb. It’s swollen and poked up from your stubbornness. You forget your thimble often. 

“Looks painful,” he says. 

“My fault,” you assure him.  

His strength has you trapped. His hands are much large than yours, rough too. He lets you go and grips his hips as he blows out another breath through his nose. 

“How long?” He asks. 

“Not today, but when’s best for you, sir?” 

He considers you. Silently. You dare to look up and meet his blue irises. You still cannot read him. 

“July 4th. I need it then.” 

“I can have it done on the third. We’re closed for the 4th, sir.” 

He tuts. 

“The 4th.” He repeats, adding your name on the end. You nearly gasp at that before you remember your name tag pinned to your blouse. 

You hesitate. “Okay, I can meet you out front with it.” 

His eyes drift down and back up. He reaches up to his chest then stops himself. He grabs the vest and slides his hand into the lining. He slips free his wallet and unfolds it. He takes out several bills and holds them out. 

“That enough?” 

You look at them and pluck only three. “I’ll get you change.” 

“Keep it,” he grits. 

“Sir.”  

You fold up the money in your hand. He spins on his heel and marches to the door. You wait for him to turn back. Your heart is racing, you don’t know why. He leaves without another word or look. 

You stand in silence. You can’t move. You look down at the vest slowly then the money in your hand. 

“Honey...” Arlene’s voice startles you, her appearance more so as she emerges from the backroom with fright in her eyes. “Are you okay?” 

You face her and hold out the money. “He just needs an alteration.” 

She nears and takes the bills. Her cheeks are dimpled with chagrin. “Alright then, you do that for him. I’ll take on the rest of your tasks.” 

“Arlene, I can--” 

“No, you must do it right,” she says. “Be sure you do.” 

⭐

There’s a parade on the main street. You can hear it even from there. Three blocks down to the east.  

You wait outside the sewing shop as promised. You have a hanger with a garment bag draped over it. You have it hook over your fingers as you cross your arms and sway anxiously. 

A rumble cuts through the distant din of the celebrations. You turn and watch the motorcycle and its rider roll down the avenue. It steers toward the curb before you and you back up. You nearly collide with the brick wall behind you. 

You realise then it’s that man. Steve. He plants his feet and shuts off the roaring engine. He kicks the stand down and reaches for the strap of his helmet. He takes it off, his hair mussed and slightly shiny with his sweat. 

He climbs off the motorcycle and faces you. He hangs his helmet from the handlebar. He steps over the curb and approaches you. You make yourself move away from the wall. 

You hold up the hanger dumbly. You can’t speak. His arms are bare. He wears a navy shirt without sleeves, a small vee cut into the round neckline, a silver chain peeking out over a hint of his chest hair. His jeans are dark and worn out to fading, and his leather boots are studded with flat silver studs. 

He hooks two fingers in the top of the garment bag and tugs. You wince. 

“What’s this?” He growls. 

You gulp and fumble to unzip the bag. You nearly drop it all as you reach inside and struggle to free his vest. You slide it free. It’s heavy in just one hand. Real leather, you know. You were careful in your work. 

He takes it and you stare. He holds it up and examines the liner first, then the patches. You fixed more than one. He turns it and brings it closer to his face to check the emblem. He drapes it on his forearm and feels the thread; rich royal red and a bold blue, ivory too. 

He clicks his tongue. His eyes meet yours and he stands up straight. You feel smaller as he does. He puts the vest on. 

“Good work,” he praises. 

“Thanks, sir.” You fold the garment bag over the hanger. You peer up and down the street. “Well... happy 4th!” 

You teeter, ready to go. He stares at you. Or is he glaring? It’s hard to tell. His silence is as sweltering as the sun. 

“It’s my birthday.” He says. 

“Oh...happy birthday.” 

His gaze stays on you. Like an animal in a trap, you just stare back. He moves towards you suddenly. You swallow a squeak and lean back on your heels. He snatches the garment bag and the hanger. He marches down to the metal trash bin and stuffs it inside. 

“I-- sir?” 

“Can’t ride with all that,” he struts back toward you. 

You blink, confused. You watch him. 

He goes to his bike and grabs his helmet. He offers it to you. You look at it, then him. 

His mouth slants. He flips the helmet over and puts it on your head. His thumb brushes your chin as he secures the strap in the buckle. You stare at the crook of his neck. What’s happening? 

The same scent that wafted from his vest stains the helmet. It’s all you can smell. He backs up and taps the helmet lightly with his knuckles. 

He’s smirking at you. You shiver at the crack in his mask. That can’t be good. 

He turns and straddles the motorcycle. He looks over at you expectantly. You push your shoulders up. 

“Get on,” he demands. 

Your feet are stuck to the pavement. You were going to head down to the parade. Maybe by some funnel cake and slushie before you go hide at home. 

He watches you. You lift one foot, then the other. Your legs are heavy. Your mind screams ‘run’ but your body is bound up in terror. 

He kicks up the stands and straightens the motorcycle. He keeps it steady as you approach. You look at him then the seat behind him. 

“Grab onto my shoulder,” he commands. 

You obey. You use him to haul yourself up. You barely keep your skirt from flying up and flashing the neighbourhood... if anyone were there to see. They're all at the parade. 

You sit stiffly behind him. 

“Get close and hold on,” he demands over his shoulder. “You’ll fall off.” 

You carefully slide closer to him. You put your hands on his sides. He scoffs. He grabs your hands and pulls your arms around them, placing your palms on his stomach. You’re flush to him as he squeezes your fingers. 

You stay like that, turning your head so the helmet touches his back. He twists the throttle to kickstart the engine and you close your eyes. He steers the bike as he walks it away from the curb, then sets off down the street with a tear of diesel. 

You don’t know what scares you more; the motorcycle or the man. 

⭐

The bar looks old. The blend of wood and brick suggests a foundation built at least two centuries ago. The dimples in the pavement outside lend to its antiquity. You take it all in as Steve leads you up to the door. 

There’s a man in leather leaning against the wall, puffing on a thick cigar. He puffs out a cloud of grey and Steve swats him away. “Do that somewhere else.” 

The man quickly moves away, holding in his next exhale until he’s well away. Steve opens the door and nudges your lower back. You wince and stagger ahead. What are you doing here? 

The interior matches the exterior. Almost to a farcical degree. An old bar with leather trim and a man with a braided goatee behind it. All sorts of characters line the stools as they shout their orders, chatter incessantly at their companions, or drink grimly from a tall pint. 

A pool table clacks and a jukebox drones. Shelves of tinted bottles and portraits of a bygone error line the walls. The lighting is dim so that it all feels smoky. 

You glance back at the door. Steve snakes his arm around you and curls his fingers around your hip. You put your hand on his and squirm. 

“What--” you bite down on your question. 

“Don’t want to have my birthday drink alone.” He says plainly. 

He walks you across the bar. As he does, you notice the looks in his direction and how those who get in his path are just as quickly out of it. They know who he is and you are only getting the gist. He must be dangerous. 

He takes you to a table in the corner. A cushioned bench lines the corner of the wall. He points you in and quickly follows. He stretches his arm across the seat above you. You twiddle your thumbs and glance around. People pretend not to look but do. 

“Um...” you whittle away in the silence. “Do you like your vest?” 

He snorts. He bends his arm and touches your cap sleeve. A white blouse, simple, and a floral skirt with a bit of flare above your knees. You must stick out sorely among the denim and leather. 

“I like this,” he diverts. “Pretty.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“Steve,” he insists. 

“Steve,” you utter and cower as a man approaches the tables. 

“Usual for me,” Steve says to the man. “And something sweet for her.” 

The man nods and just as quickly stalks away. You shrink down even further. This must be some sort of game to him. 

“I like the vest,” he says at last. “I can see all that care you put into it.” He reaches to take your hand. He brushes your swollen thumb with his. “Blood, sweat, and all.” 

You stare at your hand in his. He brings it closer and kisses your soft skin. He purrs. You shake and he chuckles as he lowers your hand to rest on his thigh. 

“Can’t be alone on my birthday, can I?” 

You shake your head. He hums again and pulls you closer. The man returns with the drinks. A short, wide glass for Steve with black liquor; something red in a tall glass for you. The man ducks down and retreats. 

He lifts his glass and raises it. He hovers it. You take the other glass then slowly it clicks it. You clink it against his. 

“Happy birthday,” you murmur. 

“So far,” he drawls before he takes a swig. 

⭐

As soon as you reach the bottom of your glass, another appears. Three? Four? You’re not so sure. 

The alcohol softens the hard edges of the bar, and your anxiety. Still, you can’t help but be unsettled by the man at your side. His arm on your shoulders as he keeps you close like a possession. 

“Sweet enough for you?” He slides the drink closer. 

You shake your head sit back, your head pressing into his arm. “I think I need water.” 

He chuckles and lifts the glass. He brings it close to your lips. You seal them for just a moment then put them to the glass. He tips it and you drink. Half or so before he relents. 

You cover your mouth as a bubble works it way up to your throat. You exhale through the gas and cough.  

“Please, no more,” you beg. “I’m dizzy.” 

He puts the drink down and rubs your arm with his other hand. “You don’t wanna celebrate with me, sweetheart?” 

“I... am. I just...” you blink heavily. “I can’t...” you touch your forehead. “Oof.” 

“It’s okay, sweetheart, I got you,” he rubs your thigh and you flinch. You slap your hand down on his and tense. “Gonna be okay. So long as you’re with me.” 

You look up at him as his fingertips caress you through your skirt. You squirm and latch onto his thick fingers. Your head wobbles. 

“What?” You babble. 

“You know what these other men would do if you weren’t on my arm?” He growls as his nose presses to your cheekbone. “I won’t let them get their paws on you.” 

“Huh?” You utter. 

“Trust me, sweetheart, okay?” 

“I don’t... understand.” 

“Shh,” his hand slips from beneath yours. “You just be a good girl, alright, and give me my birthday present.” 

His fingers dance down your skirt to the hem. He delves below and tickles up your thigh. You wiggle and push on his forearm. You squeeze your legs together. 

“Steve?” You squeak. 

“You’re gonna wanna be quiet unless you want an audience, sweetheart,” he coaxes as he pets your upper thigh. “Now open up.” 

“Why-what--” 

He pushes his fingers between your thighs until it hurts. You grip his arm tight as your eyes sting. Your legs shake as fear courses through you. The tension lets out as you’re drained of all courage and strength. 

He shoves his hand between your legs as they slacken. You hold your breath as he pushes his fingers along the front of your cotton panties. His arm curls around your neck as he presses his lips to your temple and snarl. 

He rubs you through the fabric. As the friction builds, the cotton clings to your wet folds. He pushes your panties between your lips as the heat of his touch burns through. You hiccup and your head lolls into him. 

He brings his arm up to hug your head, petting your hair with his fingers. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he traces along the edge of your panties. “Be good for the birthday boy.” 

He pulls your panties to the side and his fingers glide up and down your folds. He teases you as you squirm. He flicks your clit and you spasm, choking on a whimper. He rolls his fingertips around as you writhe. 

You bat your lashes. There are shadows around you but you can’t see their eyes. You hope they’re not looking. You close your eyes and hide. From them, from him. 

He drags his fingers up and down, spreading your shame across your cunt. He angles his hand down and prods at your entrance. He dips a finger into you, wiggling as he slowly pushes deeper and deeper. 

He cradles your head in his large hand and exhales into your hair as he plays with you. He pulls his finger out and adds a second. He dives into you until the heel of his hand is against your clit. 

You bite your lip as your eyes roll back. Your head stirs in delirious delight as he plucks at your nerves. He rocks his hand as your thighs clench around him and you arch your back. He lets your head fall back and he kisses your throat. 

You moan as you fall into his embrace, too drunk to resist. His rhythm shakes your entire body on the bench as it quickens. You heave out breaths as you cover the back of his hand with your palm, urging him on mindlessly. 

“I want my gift, sweetheart. You gonna cum?” He rasps into you ear. “Go on and cum for the birthday boy.” 

You dig your nails into his hand and your hips buck. You quiver and push your head into his other hand as your orgasm bursts from your core. A ripple swells and spills from you, gushing out around his fingers. 

He purrs and chuckles against your cheek.