“...do you know why snow is white?”

You were on the phone with your fiancé when Leon first realized that he wanted to fuck you.

It was three days out from your wedding, dead of July. The air was hot — the sort of hot that gets tangled up in your lungs. With the windows closed, Leon could still feel the oxygen molecules outside rearranging themselves into something thick and oppressive, something closer to jam or gel than air. It draped itself over the sky, stiff and heavy, miserable enough to make men go mad.

You were in the passenger’s side, face pressed up against the A.C. — they never lent Leon the good cars, so this one never got quite as cold as it was supposed to and rattled something awful when the road inclined. Your fiancé’s voice buzzed against the dash, low and unintelligible. Leon hadn’t met your fiancé yet. Somehow. He’d caught sight of him in your lockscreen, heard the way you spoke to him over the phone, but there’d always been something keeping them from speaking directly — a couples’ errand, last minute-cancellations, conflicting plans. You’d wanted to introduce him properly — over tea or coffee or something else Leon pretended to drink when guests were over. Instead, your finger slipped down the screen, ticked up the volume just enough for Leon to hear:

“—And wear that bra again tonight. Makes your tits look bigger.”

He’d hung up before you responded. Gone with the wind. Gone with the cell tower. You cleared your throat, fingertips drumming across your lap in that way they always did when you were nervous.

“He, um… he was just kidding, dad.”

The way you’d kept tense throughout the entirety of the call said otherwise, but Leon kept his mouth shut. Not by choice. His mind was reeling hard enough to launch him back into the hangover he’d just nursed off. Your fiancé had the sort of voice that made Leon wonder just where things had gone wrong with you. Something between the nasally way he’d said bra and the way he’d drawn out the word tits, like you needed help remembering what tits were. You didn’t. He knew his girl; his girl had a good head on her shoulders and a better rack under them.

“That was your fiancé?”

“Mhm.” You accentuate the period more than the word, shutting off the conversation like a tap. It’s disturbing. He’s not used to leaving words unsaid with you. He’s not used to giving up his place in your life, either, but there’s more inevitability to that. Not this — this is odd.

“Have you been talking to your mama again?”

Dumb question. Mama’s been ignoring you since your eleventh birthday, save for that text she’d sent you the following Christmas. It’d been meant for him — something about leases or assets or another legal word you didn’t quite understand. But running off with a week’s notice to marry a guy who ended conversations with things like makes your tits look bigger seemed like something your mama would advise — not you. Not his angel. You cock your head to the side after you shake your head, ‘cause you’re too lovely to call your dad dumb outright.

“No, it’s been… well,” you start to count the years that’ve passed since Mama’s acknowledged you on your fingers. Leon slips a hand off the wheel and presses it to yours, pushing your fingers back down.

“Don’t worry about that. Just wondering,” he pats the back of your hand. “Thought you might’ve sent her an invitation.”

“I did,” you admit — of course you did. There’s a heart of gold between your lungs, Leon thinks. Unfortunately, your mama’s got something shriveled up and rotten between hers — he knew she’d never mailed back before he’d thought to ask.

The drive home was that stiff sort of quiet Leon had come to associate with doctor’s appointments and Ada Wong. Two things dawned upon him as he watched you step out, dialing your fiancé again:

One: You were a pretty girl. Prettiest he’d ever seen. Too pretty for him to make peace with giving away.

Two: Pretty girls are bound to get married and leave their fathers all alone.

Leon had found out that you were getting married six days in advance. You swore up and down that you’d meant to tell him sooner. Pinky promised. It’d just all happened so suddenly, you’d explained. Suddenly enough to make your brain fog over with expenses and invitations and catering and consummation. He took some creative liberties with your thought process, but regardless, you didn’t seem to think of him at all. He’d become an afterthought, a memory, the invitation shuffled to the bottom of the stack. So he blamed your fiancé. He blamed your mama. He blamed whoever had decided it was good and natural for pretty girls to grow up and marry nasally men that talk about push-up bras over the phone.

His head starts to hurt the second you walk away. There’s not a voice in this world he hates more than yours when you talk to your fiancé. It’s the same way Ashley used to talk to him, inhibited and dreamy. After she got married, it stiffened up. Bruised his ego. He doesn’t hate it in the same way he hates your fiancé’s voice; anyone with a working set of ears should hate the way your fiancé speaks, but he wouldn’t hate your tone if he was the one you spoke to like that. Like he was the only thing in the world that really mattered to you. He wouldn’t hate sweetheart and baby coming from your mouth if he was on the other end of the line. He wouldn’t hate the sight of you in love if he was the one you were in love with.

Right. He loves you.

The thought makes his head stop spinning for half a second. Being in love with you made sense in a way nothing else did after Raccoon City. If nothing else, he’s excelled at moving on. When his daddy started hitting him, he learned how to cake mama’s concealer down his neck before school. When your mama left in the middle of the night, he got up early the next morning to make you breakfast. When his grief started to resurface, he drank himself to sleep. But whiskey doesn’t smooth things over when it comes to you. Whether he’s one shot down or half a bottle, it’s violently apparent that you’re getting married, and it’s violently apparent that you’re not marrying him. Of course he’s in love with you. For the first time in his life, he’s bad at coping.

Then half a second passes, and he remembers why it’s not at all good or natural to be in love with you. It’s the sort of realization that makes his heart drop, sear a hole through his gut, and keep falling. He’s in love with his fucking daughter. His hand shoots out, clammy and uncoordinated, like it’s trying to get away from the rest of him. It barely makes it to the counter. Fuck, he wanted to rot. If he killed himself now, he’d be past rigor mortis by the wedding. Past anything good or presentable or composed. Just like he needed to be.

The room spins and his stomach churns and for a moment, Leon’s not sure if his lungs are working right or not. He didn’t blame them for giving up on him. All he’d done with 48 years of air was drink and fantasize about his own daughter. Tough luck, being part of him. None of the breathing exercises his work-mandated shrink forced on him work right when he thinks about you. Deep breaths get caught and jam somewhere in the middle of his throat when your wedding crosses his mind. The numbers get jumbled up when he tries to count down from five or ten or twenty. His chest feels like it’s about to pop open — one of his organs must be giving out. Probably his liver. Feels like his heart.

Then he feels your hand on his forearm and his heart finally stills. He’d have spells like that, sometimes — the sort that made him freeze up in the middle of whatever he was doing when something sounded a little too much like Raccoon city or bootcamp or Spain. Never over something like this. You had a way of seeing through him that he’s never hated more than now. The look on your face makes his stomach churn — brows etched in concern he didn’t deserve, eyes widened in sympathy for something you didn’t understand. Makes him fucking sick.

“Everything okay?” you ask, hand benignly draped over his forearm. Leon nods slowly, gaze settled on the way your fingers splayed across his sleeve.

“I’m alright, baby. Just thinking,” he says. It’s not a total lie. The wedding’s drained you, too — he can see it in the way your shoulders droop and your eyes stay closed a moment too long whenever you blink. “I’ve been tired.”

You lean in a little closer before you reply, oblivious to the way his heart drops and wedges itself somewhere in his guts. “You do look really tired…” you sigh, settling back flat on your feet. “Make sure not to worry too much about all of this, okay? We’re right on schedule. Promise.”

Quite frankly, Leon couldn’t have given less of a fuck about your wedding preparations, but he still put on a show of being relieved. Maybe you were right — he’d not slept well since academy. Exhaustion had a way of catching up to him. He’d put off sleeping for a week straight after Raccoon. Caved in when the psychosis scared him worse than the nightmares. Maybe that’s what this was — first he thought that the zombies were still after him, and now he thinks that he wants to fuck his daughter. All delusion. Nothing a couple of pills couldn’t fix. He’d be fine.

You’re in his dream that night.

Leon’s no stranger to nightmares. Flashbacks, mostly, but his mind likes to wander on occasion. Comes back with some variation of Sherry dying or Ashley dying or Claire dying — him dying, if he’s lucky. This time, it came back with you, thighs splayed apart and ass settled neatly on his pillow. He’s never made a point to think about how you’d look half-naked and legs spread, but his mind’s filled in the gaps for him. You’re lovely as ever. Lovely enough to make him freeze up when you lean in and press your lips up against his — lovely enough to make him kiss you back. He’s never kissed a woman as easily as he kisses you, never felt as right or satisfied or happy as he does with you in his bed.

You break the kiss with a pop, lips swollen and breaths laden with arousal. There’s a moment of silence, a moment where you shift your bra down your shoulders, a moment where he suddenly remembers why he bothered with your mama at all. You had the prettiest tits he’d ever seen. Any tits attached to you would’ve sufficed, but yours mold into his palm when he cups them, nipples puffed up just right between his fingers. Your skin’s soft enough to make his thoughts go muggy. For once, he doesn’t mind fucking up his head a little more. He feels your fingers trail along his thigh, settling on his clothed cock — gently wrapping around it through the fabric of his boxers.

“Jesus, angel—“ he mutters, forehead resting against yours. Your thumb grazes his tip through the fabric softly enough to make his hips buck up. Fuck, even your fingers are pretty. He loves you too much to look you in the eyes right then. It’d stop his heart right there, he’s convinced. Knock the breath out of his lungs and kill him in your hands. There’s something poetic about that — something his brain’s too muddled to process.

You look up, then, lips parting like you’re about to say something. Before you can, Leon wakes up, heart pounding and harder than he’s ever been in his goddamn life.

He sits up, eyes bleary as they flit over to his clock’s display — 4:52 A.M. It’s five in the fucking morning and he’s dreaming about having sex with his daughter. It takes a minute to resonate in his skull, takes another for his brain to process much of anything — but the second it does, his veins constrict and his muscles go rigid. Fuck, he’s losing it. Really losing it. Doesn’t help that he’s still hard. That’s what’s getting to him, more than the dream itself; it’d taken three Viagra to conceive you. Two to get it to chub up when Ada came around — and Ada had always done right by his dick. It was supposed to be broken now, like it was for every other woman in his life, but it wasn’t. Not for you. Not for his flesh and blood.

Leon swears it’s the heat getting to him, fucking with his head, melting down his brain. He’s never dreamt of you like that before, never even thought about sleeping with you — honest. Leon’s always had it out for those incest freaks on the news, always narrowed his eyes a little when one of their mugshots came through. You just happen to be the most perfect girl in the entire world.

It’d be easier if he was more like his own daddy. All of this would. His daddy wouldn’t have cared enough about his kid to begin with to start dreaming about them. His daddy wouldn’t have been told that there was a wedding at all — and nobody would miss him during the ceremony, because nobody particularly liked Leon’s daddy. Leon most of all — from your first breath, he’d vowed to do right by you, vowed to be everything his father wasn’t and keep away from everything his father was. Keeping away from the bottle never did much good, but he loved you more than he ever planned on loving anybody. He loves you in a way that makes his stomach churn and his veins tight. Love let you get too cozy between his ribs. Now you wanted out. He didn’t expect you to want out. He’d let the bone grow over your back, let himself get dependent on you. This wedding was going to crack his ribcage wide open, splay his heart out on the altar, kill him at your feet.

You drag him out around noon to meet your fiancé in-person. Leon behaves. He doesn’t let his eyes linger on you and he doesn’t mention the call. For your sake, not his — your fiancé doesn’t have a cell of shame. He’s about what Leon expected; that makes things unfortunate. Not a drop of shame in his blood and not an ounce of charisma in his bones. He drives a sputtering car with a beaten-in hood and never stays quiet for more than thirty seconds. Leon knows that he’s being unfair — that he’s lost count of the number of cars he’s crashed and doesn’t mind chatter when it’s from anyone else, but quite frankly, it wouldn’t have mattered if your fiancé was a lawyer or a doctor or a billionaire. He was your fiancé, and that made him rancid by default.

It’s not that he blames you. Leon and your mama were divorced well before they were ever married, but he understands you well enough. People get married when they get horny. Probably something to do with blood rushing away from your head. He never paid much mind to his psychologist. If Ada asked him to marry her tomorrow, he’d do it for a shot at fucking her raw and seeing her thrice a year. Or twice a year. Or just once. He’s not picky. Point is, he gets it, even if you’re a little young and your fiancé is a little ugly.

Even if he’s starting to regret you for the first time in his life.

Regardless, his denial’s cooled into resolve, and he loves you too much to involve you with something like this. When alcohol fails as a distraction, sex doesn’t. Most of the time. For a while. Sex tends to be Leon’s last resort. When it doesn’t go well — and it usually doesn’t — he has something new to haunt him before he drifts off, something divorced from gore and romance and you.

“Hello?”

And suddenly his composure’s melted down into something irredeemable. Leon hadn’t expected to hear anyone actually pick up the phone. Really, he hadn’t expected the number to still be in service at all. Ada never kept a number longer than she needed it. Something about being tracked. He clears his throat away from the speaker, bringing it back to his face when his voice was steady: “Hey.”

“Leon?” the voice shifts into a different sort of confusion. “How did you get this number?”

Leon sighs and thinks about hanging up for a moment. Only for a moment — the damage was done. “You gave it to me.”

“I did? When?”

“Four years ago. When we met at that motel.”

“Right,” she says, voice distant through the speaker. “I told you to call if you were ever in town. Are you in town?”

“Uh,” Leon pauses to clear his throat again. Something about Ada makes it abnormally dry. “No.”

“Then why are you calling me?”

To convince you to drop everything and have sex with me so I can forget about fucking my daughter. “Felt nostalgic. Missed talking to you.”

“Because you usually call me when you just want to talk,” she says a little too stiffly to pass off as a joke.

“No, no, really, I do,” he lies, “Haven’t heard from you in a long time, Ada.”

“And who’s fault is that?”

“The phone works both ways.”

“Usually. You didn’t bother giving me your number,” Ada’s microphone crackled slightly, “I couldn’t have called you if I wanted to.”

Leon sighs again, more emphatically this time — Ada’s right, and he knows that she’s right, but something’s blocking him from conceding. “Since when is it wrong to call up a pretty girl for some fun, anyway?”

“Please, never say that to me again.”

“Answer the question.”

“I never said it was wrong,” she starts, and Leon waits for her voice to waiver — for her tone to cave into something angry or desperate or disgusted. It doesn’t. “I’m just not personally interested in being used.”

“So it’s alright for you to use me, but this— this isn’t good enough for you?” Leon snaps, chest constricting. He doesn’t mean it, honestly — he doesn’t even really want to have sex with Ada, but her indifference hurts in a way he didn’t expect it to.

“That was twenty-seven years ago, Leon. I’m retired,” she huffs, “Aren’t you?”

Leon blinks. Retirement hadn’t crossed his mind nearly as much as it should’ve at forty-eight. It seemed unlikely. Why would they let him go now? Why would he want to leave now? What was left for him? “No, I’m not. You’re retired?”

“I am. Why else would I keep the same phone for four years?”

“Fair,” he laughs at a joke she wasn’t trying to make, “How come you retired?”

Ada pauses for a moment before she answers him. “I got sick of being Ada Wong.”

“How? You’re still Ada.”

“No, Leon, I’m not,” she sighs — it’s not as rewarding as he imagined. “I’m living as someone else, now. That name is dead to me. I’ve wanted it to be dead for a long time.”

“Oh,” he starts, fully intending to follow with something insightful — nothing comes to mind. “What’s your new name?”

“I can’t tell you that,” she says, tone inhibited. “I’ve moved on. You should, too.”

The line goes dead after that. His bedroom’s oxygen supply starts to clump up, then — he lets it sit heavy at the bottom of his lungs, lets it weigh him down. Moving on must be easy when you don’t have children, he‘s decided. If Ada laid eyes on your fiancé, she’d understand Leon — hell, she’d take it all back. Hold his gun steady while he took the shot. Help him bury the bones. She’d understand if she had a daughter.

There’s a day until the wedding. Leon’s hardly slept for three.

“Do you think I look okay?” you ask after you set the phone down, fidgeting with the edge of one of your new strip lashes. You’d never bothered with strip lashes before. Said they made your eyes water. Leon hates how they look on you, hates how they cover up those pretty lashes you got from your mama, hates how you only started wearing them after your fiancé said they brought out your eyes — but for your sake, he lies through his teeth.

“You look great, sweetheart,” Leon calls back, tone hollow. He means it. You do look great. There’s not a head in the world you couldn’t turn, not a pair of eyes in the city you couldn’t catch. That’s why he doesn’t bother looking — unfortunately, you catch onto the way his eyes don’t shift from the wall.

“You didn’t even look.”

He shrugs. “Bad luck to see the bride before the wedding.”

You pause, setting down the lash. The air gets a little stiffer. “Dad… that’s just for the person marrying me.”

Fuck, you’re right. You’re right and Freud is grinning in his coffin. Stupid bastard. He laughs, not making eye contact when you turn your head. “And the wedding’s not till tomorrow. Tough crowd.”

“No, it was just a bad joke,” you grin at him through the mirror. Shit makes his stomach churn. You think he’ll be around when you come back from the bachelorette party tonight, waiting to walk you down the aisle tomorrow. And he’s not going to tell you any different. You’d stay home if he did. Hell, you’d call off the whole wedding and reschedule it after the psych ward discharged him, just so he could give you away. He shouldn’t have raised you as well as he did.

Leon’s not killing himself just because you’re getting married. He’s killing himself because he wants to fuck you, for one, but it’s also a matter of convenience. He’d rather die than sleep in an empty apartment and have dinner alone. He’d rather die than watch another man knock you up and pass him the bundle. He’d rather die than keep on like this — the exact sort of man he’s long despised. Without you depending on him, he’s really got no reason to keep himself safe during missions. Bioterrorism has a way of jading you. Watching people die has a way of making the soul turn in on itself. If he kills himself now, no poor custodian will have to peel his entrails off the floor, and no poor coroner will have to piece him back into something presentable for his funeral — everyone wins, except for you.

In the time Leon’s been feeling sorry for himself, you’ve picked up another call from your fiancé. It’s different, this time around — you look tense. Tired. Your brows knit together and your eyes shut and you look like you’d rather be talking to anyone else.

“I can’t talk to you right now. I’m leaving in, like, five minutes,” you sigh, propping the phone up on your shoulder. “And stop calling me angel, please. I don’t like angel.”

The call unceremoniously ends after that. You sigh again, leaving your cellphone to balance itself out on your shoulder. Leon catches it when it starts to slip off.

“What’s wrong with angel?” he asks, returning the phone to your outstretched hand. “I call you angel.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” you slide it into the front pocket of your purse. “Just reminds me of you. It’s like if I called him dad, or something.”

It’s odd. Leon never planned on telling you that he had feelings for you — whatever those feelings were — but suddenly, he’s on the phone with Ada again, realizing that things really aren’t going to work out. He’s back in eleventh grade, asking a girl out and watching her grimace. Tough times. Things would be worse off if you did want to fuck him; he knows that. But there’s something about your tone that feels like rejection, something that makes the filter in his brain disintegrate before he can collect himself.

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

You pause, shoulders going stiff as you look up at him; he keeps going, for some fucking reason. “I mean, this wedding… it just doesn’t seem like you, baby.”

“What doesn’t seem like me?” you ask, tone verging on defensive. Not defensive yet, but rapidly approaching. “I’ve helped with everything.”

“How?” he asks, tone a little too blunt for your liking — he softens it up when your brows raise. “You’re wearing your mother-in-law’s dress and having the ceremony at his parents’ venue. Feels like you didn’t get a say.”

“I did get a say,” you purse your lips a little, “I said it was a good idea to save the money.”

“I’ve got money, baby—“ He really doesn’t; he hardly remembers how much weddings are supposed to cost, but he’s been talking out his ass for the past thirty seconds and hasn’t figured out how to stop. “I don’t want you to settle. Doesn’t this feel rushed to you?”

“I’m not settling,” you say, pausing to readjust the strip lash jamming into your cornea, “I don’t want money, dad. Just be there tomorrow and I’ll be happy.”

He doesn’t say anything else, so you leave. It takes all of twenty minutes for Leon to get the handgun his in mouth — nineteen to draft a suicide note. He considered being honest, at first. Natural instinct. Nothing’s supposed to matter when you’re not alive to see it — his pride had died long ago. Unfortunately, its ghost picked the right moment to come back, stilled his hand before he could confess to hating half his friends and wanting to fuck his daughter. He blamed the government instead — went on for three pages before he realized that you’d be the one facing the music for it. That left him with nothing to say, so he shredded the paper and picked up the gun.

It’s funny. He’s been contemplating suicide since he was ten, and for the first time, he’s getting cold feet about it. The barrel rests heavily on his bottom lip — for some reason, his pulse is racing. He’s not consciously frightened — consciously, he’s thinking about you, bedroom-eyed and kneeling before another man. Consciously, he’s watching you hike up your wedding skirt and wrap your thighs around somebody else. It’s enough to curl his finger around the trigger; something stops him from pressing it. His finger’s twitching against it like an upturned spider, held hostage by whatever sense of self-preservation he’d retained.

He tries to think of what his father would say, what mama would say, what you would say — anything to beat down his sudden will to live. Anything to make him hate himself just a little more than he usually does. Nothing works. His index stays in limbo. His eyes drift to the single photo he’s bothered to keep at his bedside — it’s a picture of you, smiling beside a zoo exhibit. Your mama’s in the frame too, but he’d folded her over years ago. Obscured her face as payback for ruining his life. It didn’t matter. She didn’t matter. Truly, you’re the only thing in the goddamn universe that matters to him. He sets the gun down, slowly, and reaches for the frame instead.

It’s you. It’s always been you. He thought of you when he was wounded, when he was drinking, when he needed a reason to keep breathing — drenched in viscera and surrounded by the undead, he thought of you. Now, he thinks of you again, dressed in white while he’s stuck teething on a handgun. He couldn’t let you end up with this man. If he has any reason to live, it’s that — keeping you away from him.

It’s an atrocious wedding.

Leon’s biased. Admittedly so. But he’s almost entirely sure that Hunnigan would agree, and Hunnigan is the most objective person in his contacts. He’d not made a point to invite her, or anyone for that matter — thankfully. Your fiancé had picked an ugly little venue sat atop an ugly little hill, paint peeling and air conditioner rattling beneath the July sun. If he wasn’t so embarrassed for you, he’d be embarrassed of you.

He’d managed to sneak in without having to make eye contact with any of your fiancé’s family. Somehow. They’d stationed greeters at the main entrance — the only doors in the building Leon was completely sure wouldn’t trigger some sort of fire alarm. He’d tagged along behind a group of strangers and split off into another room, listening in when nobody lingered around.

He feels along one of the walls for a light switch, grimacing when his hand comes back dusty. It’s an ugly venue — maybe the ugliest venue in the entire world. Everyone he’s bumped into is ugly and sentimental over it; they’re ugly and sentimental over your fiancé, too, but listening in on that only pisses him off. He knows better, fortunately — knows you better than you know yourself, and if nothing else, he knows that you don’t belong here. He cleans the dust off his hand in the sink, silently reassuring himself. Everything would work out fine. He’d rather have you home and angry than here and happy.

It doesn’t take him long to find you. The building is oddly hollow — not unlike the one he’d tracked back to Ashley in Spain. This wasn’t different, really. He was saving you too, even if you’d not come to terms with it yet. Even if you resented him a little. He clicks the lock out of place, letting the door creak open.

“Dad?”

You’re situated in front of the mirror, brows raised and eyes wide. His lungs give when the sun shifts a little, when it finally lets him see you clearly. His mind stops ringing. The parts of his brain that’ve been bruised and battered and otherwise broken click back into place when you come into view. He hardly processes that your face is contorted in shock — you’ve got these gorgeous doe lashes. Renders the rest of your face irrelevant. The veil falls benignly around your shoulders, frames your cheeks prettily enough to take his breath away. It doesn’t bother him. You’re the sort of beautiful he wouldn’t mind dying beside.

“Oh, sweetheart…” he draws out the words nice and slow to make you forget that he’s not supposed to be there, “You look beautiful.”

You soften a little, straightening up — he tries not to stare at the way your dress frames your tits. Gentlemanly stuff. “Thank you,” you clear your throat, “Did you get lost or something?”

“Uh, yeah,” Leon says, silently praying you won’t notice where he chipped the paint while picking the lock. He’s not the best with that sort of thing; usually, there’s someone with him to take care of the dirty work. “Weird place.”

“I guess it is a little weird,” you glance back at the mirror for a moment. “At least it was you. Could’ve sworn I locked the door, but this building is, like… two centuries old.”

It’s torture, listening to you settle. Reminds him a little too much of the way he used to talk to your mama. Uncanny valley. Sickening, even. He cuts you off before you can go on, for the sake of his stomach: “You really wanna get married here?”

You drop the pleasantries and give him the same look you gave him yesterday when he tried to talk you out of getting married in the bathroom. Some variant of it, anyway. There’s a little less understanding between your eyes this time around. “Dad,” you huff; it echoes down the hall. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything. I’m asking you a question,” Leon holds his hands up in a way that’s made Claire give him the cold shoulder one too many times. “Why do you want to get married here? It’s not you.”

“We’ve been over this; it’s convenient. His family owns the place. They let us do it for free. What part of that don’t you understand?”

You raise your voice; he follows suit. It’s an odd feeling — you’ve never yelled at each other like this before. He has to pull the tone from his throat. “Since when are weddings about convenience?”

“All I said was that it’s nice to save money— god, can you just tell me what you want?” you pinch the bridge of your nose. “Please, get to the point.”

The point. Leon hadn’t decided just how honest he wanted to be with you — really, he’d not decided anything before picking the lock. Just that he wanted you away from here, from this wedding, from these people. “I think you’re making a mistake,” he settles on, tone firm in a way he never is with you, “I want you to come home.”

You blink — once, twice, three times. Pointedly so. Like it’s taking everything in you not to tear your dress in two and wrap your hands around his neck. You smooth your skirt instead, hands rigid. “I’m not going home. Please leave.”

There it is again, that odd sense of rejection. You have a way of making him feel twenty. Back when he bothered with vulnerability. Back when he looked more like you and less like his daddy. He’d go back if he could, turn himself into something you’d actually consider marrying. Maybe you’d be more willing to fuck him if he’d done a worse job at raising you. “I wasn’t asking. You’re not getting married today. Lay down,” he locks the door behind him, hand resting over the bulge of his handgun.

You don’t notice immediately — instead, you stand up, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “What? No, stop—“

“Lay down,” he repeats, sliding the handgun from his pocket. He’d brought it along as a last resort, assumed you’d be a little more consciously miserable. This is your fiancé’s fault, really — his fault for brainwashing you. Leon’s a good father for taking the time to save you, for being assertive. Even if the way you’re staring at him is breaking his heart. All trembling lips and constricted pupils. A bad father would walk away here; Leon locks the door and cocks the gun.

“You’re not gonna shoot me,” you insist, voice shaky as you take a step back. “I’m your daughter, you wouldn’t sh—“

You feel the gun before you see it move; the barrel knocks into your cheekbone hard enough to make your head spin. Makes your vision go white. Tears rise on reflex, at first — you raise a hand to your own cheek, tracing over the already-rising welt with trembling fingertips. Leon can see the exact moment that you give up, the exact moment it sinks in that your father just hit you for the first time in your life — your eyes dim a little and your tears fatten up. Shit makes his cock leak.

Leon’s never raped a girl. Cross his heart. He’s never even thought about it — not really. Nothing beyond fantasy. Fantasies he’d force himself to bury. But you’re here now. You’re here, teary-eyed and trembling, and his cock’s hard enough to make him dizzy. It doesn’t matter how you feel about him, now — it doesn’t matter what appearance he keeps up around you because you’re stuck with him. Why shouldn’t he marry you instead? Why shouldn’t he save you from everyone else? Why shouldn’t he be allowed to fuck his wife?

He wants to tell you that he’s sorry for this, that he’s sorry for what’s going to happen. The word gnaws at the back of his throat, eats a hole in his tongue, tries to force his teeth apart. He keeps his composure instead. “Lay down before I hit you again.”

You nod frantically, eyeing the gun with this raw sort of terror — the sort of terror Leon’s never had the pleasure of causing. It’s the same look he’d caught sight of back at the RPD, the same look he’d get when something got a little too close to tearing out his jugular or hacking into his abdomen. Looks good on you. Better than it ever did on him. You slowly ease yourself onto one of the benches, limbs rigid and chest heaving. Puffs out your tits nicely. Leon thinks you should panic more often.

He traces the muzzle up to your temple while he looks you over, nice and slow. Keeps you tense. You flinch when the metal presses into your skin a little too suddenly; his dick throbs hard enough to make his head fuzzy. Both heads. Someone really should step in and put him down, but they won’t — the door’s locked tight and your lips are sealed tighter.

There’s a certain realization that washes over your face when Leon finally tugs your collar below your tits, something cold. Like you’d known where this was going — because you had. You’d known that there was no reason for him to force you down if he wasn’t planning on raping you, but you’d held out anyway, held out till your breast found itself settled neatly into his palm. He can feel your heart beating underneath, rattling hard enough to crack your ribs open, but he ignores it in favor of watching your nipples pebble up in the cold air. Cute. Thank God he made you.

“You don’t have to do this,“ your voice is hushed, eyes nervously flitting between him and the gun. “Please, dad, don’t—“

He clamps his hand over your mouth before you can keep talking, before the guilt sears a hole in his gut. He can’t look you in the eye right now, not like this, not with a gun pressed up against your head. You’d forgive him eventually. You forgave him when he drank between AA meetings and missed your graduations. You’d come back around — you always do, so he pushes your skirt up past your hips and opens your legs like an envelope.

“You’re awfully dressed up,” he slips his index under the elastic of your panties, this little lacy number unlike anything he’s caught sight of in your laundry. Marriage was already corrupting you. That didn’t bother him as much as it should have. His finger pries the fabric away from your pussy; you squeeze your eyes shut. Nothing better to do with a gun against your head. Leon tugs the panties down your thighs, one after the other. Same way he used to get you dressed for school.

“There we go...”

You’re prettiest like this, Leon thinks — eyes watery and tits out. Pretty enough to make his heart stop and start back up again at the base of his dick. Pretty enough to make dad rape you two doors down from the ceremony. God’s fault, not his. It’s God's fault for giving him such a lovely daughter. Leon can’t help that your mascara suits you better when it runs and your dress suits you better when it’s bunched up around your waist. Time slurs together when you look like this; his cock finds its way into his hand, flushed and leaking into his palm. You kick on instinct, legs jolting in abject disgust; Leon cocks the gun. “Stop squirming. You’re gonna make it hurt.” He doesn’t particularly care if you hurt or cry or bleed, really, but the venue echoes an awful lot and he has no intention of going to court.

You flinch when he presses the head against your hole. Makes his cock flinch, too, twitching up against his palm in offense. The way you’re crying almost makes him settle for something kinder, ‘till he remembers how often your mama made him settle. He’d spent enough nights locked in missionary to curve his spine inward — and that bitch still left him. You were leaving him, too. Going off to pump out babies for that sleaze outside the door and die like Emily Webb. That’s enough to make him grab your thighs by the fat and loop your legs over his shoulders. No point in being conservative about raping you. Not when you’d hate him anyway. Gentle rapists are the ones that get reported, according to his gut. He’d know. His own scared him silent. Your thighs clamp together like you’re trying to suffocate his dick. It works out for him — when he nudges them apart, he gets a better view of your pretty cunt.

Fuck, he knows why you didn’t want him to see her — you’re begging him to leave while she’s begging for her daddy to give her a baby. Your slick beads around the tip, clit puffy like she’s been crying. Compliments your eyes. He doesn’t blame you; he’d get off to rape too if he had a fiancé as incompetent as yours. He watches you tense up as he eases into your cunt, calves going rigid over his shoulders. Feels like someone’s pulling your muscles taut over your bones, like fabric over a canopy. It works out in his favor; you’re tighter this way. Fits his dick like a lock.

“You’re a lucky girl, y’know,” he grunts, gritting his teeth when someone passes by the door — they move on before he considers pulling out. Your face falls into this odd cross between shellshock and astonishment. He’d laugh, but that feels cruel. You look like you’ve seen an angel. One of those biblically accurate ones you showed him once. Yeah, that’s his dick — Biblically accurate angel. “I mean it. You’re lucky.”

“How?” you croak out when he slides his hand away from your face. It doesn’t sync with the way your mouth moves. “You’re—“

You wince when he bottoms out — he likes to imagine that it’s because he’s the biggest you’ve taken. You’re wet enough for it to trail down his cock when he pulls back. “This could be a lot worse for you, sweetheart. A whole lot worse.”

That’s obvious, really, but pity tends to prompt forgiveness. In women, anyway. Unless you’re Ada or Hunnigan or Claire or your mama or his mama. “When it happened to me, I bled— fuckin’ everywhere. Really. Gagged so hard my eyes burned. You’re not gagging, are you?”

You shake your head reluctantly. You could start — easily. This whole ordeal makes you want to scream until your lungs constrict. The gun keeps you polite. He pumps his cock into you a little more forcefully, furrows his brow when your pussy clenches around him. You’d like to be anywhere else, but she’s perfectly happy right here — getting fucked by the cock that made her.

“So good, baby… you’re doin’ so good. Gonna marry you,” he slurs, breaths ragged and mind foggy as he ruts into you. Leon fucks you like a doll because you’re still like one. He knows that you’re cooperating for your safety, that you’re being quiet because he’s got a handgun pressed against your head, but it’s nice to think that you’re keeping sweet because you like him. Your cunt likes him plenty. Makes him feel special. He dips his hand from your chest to your clit, thumbs the bud nice and slow — your face scrunches up like you’re about to cry again. You look like your mama when you make that face. Like you think you’re better than letting him get you off. His hand stills when the light beneath the door shifts, shadows extending across the floor.

“Shh, shh, quiet…” he hushes you, going rigid when there’s a knock at the door. Once. Twice. Three times.

“Hey, are you ready? You’re walking down the aisle in, like… ten minutes,” a voice calls from outside. Leon’s never heard it before. Your expression flashes — he can see you think about it for a moment. You could call for help. You could scream. You could say something, anything to get you out of here, anything to get you away from this bastard and back where you should be — but his gun nudges itself a little more firmly against your temple before you can open your mouth. The hope drains from your face as quickly as it surged.

“Um, yeah… almost ready,” you call back, scarcely composed. It’s that look of quiet resignation in your eyes that makes him cum, this rapidly disintegrating dignity behind your pupils — in that instant, he knows why his daddy did it, why mama did it, why Krauser did it. He’s not unlucky or cursed or divinely punished — just nice to knock around. Nice to beat. Nice to rape. You inherited the gene, wore it even better than him. He’d never cum as hard as he just had, watching your face fall back into something defeated and hollow. Came too fast to pull out, pumped you full before he realized what was happening. It dribbles down his length as he pulls out of you, sticky down your thighs.

He smiles at you when you sit up, sappy and braindead — you burst into tears. Clockwork. Leon tenses up reflexively. It’s not that he expected you to be bedroom-eyed already. Really. He’s not crazy. He just hadn’t expected you to be that upset about it. Almost makes him feel bad, until he remembers who you would’ve ended up with otherwise.

You’re better off like this. As much as you hate it now, you’re better off. Like a vaccine. He knew you; you’d come to accept things. You always did.

“No, no, it wasn’t you… I’m not lying! It wasn’t! Please, don’t blame yourself—“

Your fiancé’s voice rattles from the car’s speaker, grating in the way it always is. Leon’s got one hand on the wheel and the other on his handgun, thumb gently settled against the safety. It’s better than before. You’ve got the freedom to cry or scream or writhe without cold metal pushing back against your temple. You don’t. Instead, you sit perfectly rigid.

You shift uncomfortably in the passenger’s side, arms angled over your chest. Leon really does wish he had something better on hand. Unfortunately, freeing your hands meant risking you snatching the phone off of the dashboard and dialing 911. So he made do with the duct tape in his trunk. He’d make it up to you sometime. Cook you dinner. Buy you lingerie online. Whatever husbands were supposed to do for their wives.

“No, I can’t tell you where I am— I’m serious, I can’t… I can’t tell you why, I’m sorry…”

He knows it’s cruel, forcing you to break things off with your fiancé over the phone. The way you’re tearing up really is making his chest hurt, something between heartburn and a heart attack. It hurts worse to think about what he did to you. He’d been able to work through it without killing himself thus far. Somehow.

“No— No, don’t hang up, I’ll—“

The call ends abruptly. You don’t look at Leon, or much of anything. Your eyes have this blank quality to them, behind the puffiness and runny mascara. One of your false lashes didn’t make it out of the venue. You’ve never looked more beautiful.

Leon doesn’t say anything — just reaches over and thumbs little circles into your wrists through the duct tape. It’s the same motion he used when you were little. Back when he could pick you up without popping his back. Used to put you to sleep. Now, it just makes you cry harder, shoulders falling forward and trembling something awful. He lets you — you’ll have plenty of time to cry for the rest of your life.

“I hate you,” you choke out, hysterical in a way he’d never seen on you. Your face crumples like a beer can when he doesn’t respond, so you say it again. And again. And again. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate—“

Right now, he doesn’t care if you hate him or not because your headstone is going to read Kennedy. He has twenty years to smooth things over with you. Hopefully. If his liver doesn’t give out before then. For once, part of him wants to live. In a way. He’ll get over it soon.

You flinch when he holds your wrist again, but otherwise, you keep still. This is how you’d die, he’s decided. Father and daughter, hand in hand, grave by grave.

How you’d gotten tangled up with him was a mystery to even yourself. An old tale of someone you once held close getting locked up in the warden’s quarters, and for every visit, you found yourself less excited to see them, and instead, Wriothesley was the face you anticipated seeing within those cold, metal walls.

He took quite the liking to you himself. Eventually, you only started showing up for him. And he’d keep you held beside, beneath, or on top of him until the sun came up. Until his name was one you could remember better than your own, and only then would he let up, hold your face in his calloused hand and plant firm kisses all over the surface of your spent body until he soothed you to a much-needed sleep.

The things that initially drew you to him, you saw in Varka, too. The selflessness. The subtle longing in his eyes, one that can only come from prolonged hope held tight even after a life filled with betrayal. A look you wanted to mend. A hope you wanted to fuel.

Then there was the shape of him, the sheer mass of his biceps, a physical strength sculpted beautifully from battle. Broad shoulders, sharp expression, rough hands with the shocking ability to be so gentle when they want to be. When you thought of him, sometimes it was hard to remember who it was on your mind.

Varka or Wriothesley.

You made the most of Varka’s visit. You spoke to him whenever you got the chance, and every so often, something would slip past his lips that sounded an awful lot like flirting, but he’d always cover it up with a cough, a lighthearted joke, or blame it on his habit of day-drinking. He was a gentleman, after all.

For weeks, you were caught between your exploratory conversations, vivid fantasies, and suggestive encounters with Varka during the day, and your deep talks, mind-shattering sex, and worshiping touches with Wriothesley at night.

Guilt caught up fast. Were you betraying your established-non-established relationship with Wriothesley by letting someone else infiltrate your thoughts in the most improper of ways? If Varka lost his self control, finally took your shorter skirts or sultry looks as an invitation to let up the gentleman act for one night, would you even be able to face Wriothesley again after?

Maybe he’d never have to find out. Varka surely had no clue that no matter how much he got you worked up during your interactions, you were getting more than adequately taken care of either way. If you got the chance to have your way with Varka during his visit, it could be your one moment of selfishness. He would have to return home eventually, anyway…

The idea seemed a lot more probable when you were sure they would never cross paths. Varka had no business in the prison, and Wriothesley rarely had reasons to come above the surface. You always went to him, besides the occasional date he’d take you on in The Court of Fontaine, none of which had overlapped with Varka’s vacation so far.

Until you were getting coffee with Varka early one morning, and you were both handed your own respective invitations to a grand party taking place the next night, the event planned by Miss Furina herself, with assistance from the Iudex.

Your heart dropped when you realized who else would 100% be getting an invite, even more when Varka invited you as his date, even more when you said yes, and as if it couldn’t get worse, Wriothesley wasn’t one to give you a break from his antics in public places.

“Shit.”

-----

“Might I say, you look beautiful tonight.” Varka compliments, offering you his arm when the two of you step onto the venue’s property. You scan the area before taking him up on his offer, hand wrapping around his bicep. “Not that you don’t always.”

You smile, letting him guide you up the stone walkway leading up to the stairs. Music blasts from inside, and every familiar face makes you swallow a gasp, though none have been who you’re worried about thus far.

Maybe Wriothesley wouldn’t care. It’s not as if you two had conversations about exclusivity. For all you know, he could have other partners. Plenty of them. He could be with one right now.

It, so selfishly, makes your heart drop to imagine that might be true.

“Maybe you’ve never been this sober looking at me before,” You joke, which makes Varka cough out a laugh that heats your skin with a warmth you’ve known about once before this moment.

“Well, booze makes you have more of an appetite. Perhaps we wouldn’t have spent so many lunches together otherwise.” He peers down at you as you two walk along, neater than usual blonde locks falling in front of his forehead. You urge to lift a hand, gently swiping it away, and then you imagine tenderly rubbing your thumb over the X-shaped scar on his cheek.

The same way you do to the scar under Wriothesley’s eye...

You clear your throat. “That would’ve been quite the shame.”

“I’d say so.”

Varka opens the door for you, mumbling something about knightly-duties, and you step into the venue.

The world stops spinning, and your throat goes dry.

You spot him. Well, his back. The Duke is talking to some people you barely recognize as guards who work at the Fortress, his hip against an unoccupied table and a glass of some alcohol you’re sure he doesn’t enjoy planted in his left hand.

“Hey, you okay?”

You turn your head so fast you almost get whiplash, forcing a smile when you see Varka’s concerned face, one of his hands pressed against your lower back. “Yeah, I’m fine. We should…”

You pause, stealing another glance in Wriothesley’s direction, and you grip Varka’s wrist hard the moment you see him start to turn around. “Go! Let’s go!”

You drag him to the left, ducking behind a large group of people to hopefully conceal yourself from the Duke’s view. Varka chuckles from behind you, planting a hand on your hip and helping you navigate the crowd in the direction of the bar. “Someone’s real excited to get me drunk.”

“I could give you every ounce of alcohol in here twice and you’d barely be tipsy, Mister Grand Master.”

He groans. “You and the formalities.” You reach the bar, and you swing your head back to try and spot where Wriothesley was while Varka takes a seat on a stool. “And you underestimate a knight’s tolerance. Three times, at least, if you want to see me tipsy.”

You spot him. You can see his side profile from this angle, in the same spot as before, talking to one of his guards with a half-smile planted across his handsome features. Varka being dressed the most formally you’d seen from him, that was no surprise. But the Duke—He cleans up nice for such a high-profile event.

Gods, you wanted to take that suit right off…

You turn back to Varka. You’re standing close enough to his seated body that he could easily take you by the hips and drag you between his knees.

“And if I want to see you drunk?” You answer finally, teasing.

He smirks, and like you have some kind of third eye, he takes your body between his hands and pulls you between his spread legs. “Ah, well, a man can get drunk off a lot of things.”

As if your heart wasn’t beating fast enough, it speeds up even more, and you flatten your palms against his chest. You peer down at him, and the lust in his eyes is contained very poorly, like he’s in a fight with himself still trying be a gentleman.

You hum. “And what’s your tolerance in that territory, Sir Varka?”

He takes a deep breath, his voice coming out deep and tortured. “For you, I might already be too far gone.”

You’re so close now that you can feel his breath on your lips, and your surroundings seem to fade into nothingness for a moment. Your palms are pressed against his shoulders now, but his heart is still pounding enough that you’re counting the beats in your head.

His mouth ghosts over yours, and right when you think he might finally snap, a booming voice snaps you right out of it.

“Hey, I had no idea you would be here!”

Your head flies up.

Wriothesley is about six feet away from you, squeezing through the crowd to get to the bar. However, his eyes aren’t on you. You’re not sure he even notices you—He’s walking right up to the bartender.

Oh shit.

“Ah, Your Grace!” The bartender greets, and Wriothesley takes a seat at one of the stools with a growing smile. “It’s nice to see you above the surface.”

“You too.” The Duke retorts politely. The bartender must have been an inmate at Meropide at some point. The conversations drags on, but you’ve ducked down enough so Varka’s seated form can conceal you from the only other man that has ever had the effect on you that has currently caused a noticeable dampness beneath your dress.

Varka’s breath hitches before falling into a low laugh. “Scandalous. However, I don’t think—”

“I’m not—” You quickly confirm, heat overtaking your cheeks. You are technically knelt in front of his lap right now. In public. With people everywhere. One of the closest being the last person who needs to find you in this incriminating position. You straighten up a bit. “I have to run to the bathroom.”

“Do you want me to come with—”

“No, no. That’s alright. I’ll be quick.” You swiftly shoot down, still needing him to be a human shield as you turn towards the bathroom sign found in the far left corner of the venue. You stay as low as you can without looking crazy, and you slip into the hallway and out of sight.

You raise a hand to clutch the chain of your necklace, leaning your back against the wall and using the empty space to catch your breath. Varka and Wriothesley are currently seated about five feet away from each other. How are you supposed to return and not get both of their attentions? You told Wriothesley you weren’t even going to this thing, because you knew he’d ask you to join him, and this predicament is complicated enough.

You hoped he wouldn’t go without you as a date, but date or no date, he showed.

Perfect.

You’re suddenly terrified of hurting him. For him to have to find out you not only lied about not coming, but you also came with another man…

You truly like him so much. Everything about him has enchanted you since the very first time his icy blue eyes met yours, the first time you heard his voice, the way he would laugh and mutter out half-hearted apologies when you scolded his common jokes about his own mortality or his past. A past he opened up to you about with a vulnerability you had only seen before in yourself, and that was when you were with him.

You never wanted to hurt him, but Varka… You like him too. So much, and every bone in your body wants to see where this thing with him goes. And it’s stupid that you got yourself in this situation, that you weren’t transparent with both of them ever since Varka arrived in Fontaine.

Now look where you are.

“Fuck,” You curse, putting your hands on your forehead. “Archons.”

You turn, using the wall for support and slipping into one of the single-person bathrooms. You turn the lock, taking quick steps over to the sink and putting your hands under the tap, letting the warmth soak into you and calm your nerves a bit. You dry your hands, fix your hair, and try to think of a way to get out of this.

You could sneak over and very quickly pull Varka back into the crowd, and bring him somewhere you can only hope Wriothesley has no business being. You could seduce him, convince him to get you out of here as soon as possible so…

So much for calming down. You pick at the fabric of your dress, feeling the way your panties have suctioned to your cunt from all the places your mind has gone tonight.

You unlock the bathroom door, slipping back into the hallway. Maybe you could find a familiar face and have them talk to Varka for you, have him join you somewhere else?

That could work. You slip out of the hallway, back into the main part of the venue, and you spot Varka at the bar. His head pops up, and he locks eyes with you.

Wriothesley isn’t behind him. You didn’t anticipate him moving spots.

Varka nods. Oh Gods, is he gesturing you over? You—

Something wraps around your wrists, and before you can react, you hear it.

Click.

You’re tugged back into the hallway as you gasp out, the front of your body being pressed flush against the cold wall, and something, someone, is pressing against your back, your cuffed hands pinned under them.

“Adultery might not be a crime, but it is very, very, frowned upon.” The warmth against the shell of your ear comes before the voice.

“Wriothesley,” You whisper, breathlessly. “I—Adultery?” Is he serious? “We’re—”

He shushes you. “However…” A beat passes, just long enough for one of his hands to slide to your hip and squeeze hard. “Lying to law enforcement, that is a crime.” His head drops, his breath now ghosting over your exposed shoulder. "You said you weren't coming."

Your stomach churns. “I—I didn’t… I’m sorry…”

“How well do you think sorry holds up in court, baby?”

Your eyes flutter closed, forehead pressed against the wall. “Not well.”

“Clever girl,” He praises, and your hips press back against his almost instinctively. All it would take is one person to round the corner, and he could be locked up in his own prison for public indecency.

That’s when you remember.

Varka. He was standing right there, he probably saw—

You’re swiftly tugged off the wall, forcing you out of your head. Wriothesley keeps his hands just above your elbows, your wrists still bound behind your back, and he leads you all the way to the end of the hallway toward a staircase you didn’t notice before.

“I could bring you to get checked in,” He speaks, his otherwise rushed movements more careful as he guides you up the stairs. “Keep you locked up in the Fortress with me. Wouldn’t that be fun, baby? Just me and you, all the time?”

Yes.

You reach the top of the stairs, and he’s not done speaking as he continues to pull you along. “I would never have to be done with you. But the Fortress, I think I like you too much to stick you there.”

Huh?

“But what kind of warden would I be if I didn’t punish those who have done wrong?”

Oh. 

“Have you done wrong, baby?”

“Yes,” You gasp out.

As Wriothesley drags you along, he sticks a hand out to check every door. Most are locked, but finally, he comes across one that isn’t.

You’re pushed through the doorway, and an arm wrapping around your waist catches you before you fall forward. Wriothesley pulls you to a couch off to the side of the room, which appears to be someone’s office, and sits you down on his lap. Your back to his front.

With your hands still pinned behind your back from the handcuffs, you manage to find and palm his bulge through his slacks. He groans, his feet snaking between yours before spreading, forcing your legs open wide. 

You gasp, and one of his hands grip your chin to force your mouth to his, swallowing the sound. You whimper, hips grinding against nothing as he leaves his free arm swung over the front of your body.

You moan his name, desperately, urging him to touch you as you’re left completely at his disposal.

He grins against your mouth, and just then, you jump at the sound of the door creaking open and slamming shut.

We’re caught, you think, snapping your head forward, expecting to see the panicked, mortified eyes of one of the other guests, likely whoever this office belongs to.

The blue hues staring back at you are far from what you expected.

Your throat goes dry. “Varka.”

He shrugs his suit jacket off, slowly stalking over to the couch. Wriothesley’s hand is still wrapped around your chin, and he forces your head back to press his mouth to your ear.

“What was the plan? You were going to hide from me all night?”

“And I was your shield of choice?” Varka continues, the smirk on his face and the tone of Wriothesley’s voice suggesting neither them are as upset as you feared they would be. No, this, what they’re actually feeling, didn’t even cross your mind.

They must’ve spoken when you ran off to the bathroom. Surely Wriothesley spotted you all cozied up between Varka’s knees, and used the bartender as an excuse to get close enough to confirm his suspicions. You storming off was the perfect opportunity for him to figure out what was going on.

Honestly, you couldn’t be happier.

You shudder, Wriothesley’s hand that isn’t gripping your face moving to your hip. He pulls your dress up, scrunching it around your waist, leaving your soaked panties on display. You whine, and his thumb circles your hipbone in a comforting, encouraging, gesture.

“I didn’t think you’d show,” You mumble, talking to Wriothesley.

He chuckles. “You bet a lot on that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, baby.” He shoots down, his lips finding your neck, and you moan when he bites down. “But you could’ve just told me.”

Your eyes find Varka as he drops his suit jacket on the armrest of the couch, and the lust he was working so hard to keep control of earlier, he seems to have fully let loose now. The look in his gaze is so maddeningly erotic that you try to snap your legs closed just to get some friction, but Wriothesley’s feet keep you spread.

Your eyes fall closed, head tipping back against Wriothesley's shoulder. “I didn’t want you to be upset.”

He laughs once. “I might’ve been a little upset.”

You lean up enough to be able to crane your neck to see him.

“But I’m not,” He finishes quickly. “Not now.”

You turn to Varka.

He smiles. “Neither am I.”

You slowly relax against Wriothesley’s chest again, rolling your bottom lip into your mouth and biting down. He hums approvingly, and your eyes trail Varka’s movements as he approaches you.

He drops to his knees between your legs.

You gasp, and Wriothesley is quick to steady you with one hand on your hip, the other resting gently around your throat.

You understand their plan now.

Varka’s hands find each of your exposed legs, rubbing up and down the warmed skin like he’s committing the feeling of you to memory. You wonder if he does this a lot. He has quite a few years on you, more than Wriothesley does, but the stories he loves to tell you always suggested a lack of time to get laid.

“You alright?” Varka mumbles, dropping his head to kiss up your inner thigh, approaching the apex that is in desperate need of either his or Wriothesley’s attention.

You nod. Part of you wants to stop him just to have him tell you exactly what conversation led to him and Wriothesley coming to this consensus, but, you know how to pick your battles, and staying silent feels like a notable win.

You moan when he presses feather-light kisses against you through the embarrassingly soaked fabric of your underwear, his tongue darting out to apply gentle pressure to your clit. You choke out his name, bucking your hips and dropping your head back. Every movement is curious as he learns the workings of your body in the presence of someone who probably knows how to get you off better than you do.

“So greedy,” Wriothesley murmurs, biting your earlobe. “Wanting both of us so badly. Was I not filling you up well enough, baby? Is that it?”

You rapidly shake your head, which makes him laugh lowly.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

Varka’s fingers hook around the waistband of your underwear, and Wriothesley frees one of your feet just so Varka can tug them off before holding you open again. Your hands start to work at his bulge again, even though the pressure of being pinned between two bodies is starting to be numbing. He groans, pressing his face against your neck, and before you can relish in the sound, Varka is pressing his face against your bare cunt.

You moan out, back arching as he quickly begins to lap up at the arousal the two of them have already contributed to. One hand rests on your thigh, and the other holds down the hip that Wriothesley isn’t already attending to. You’re completely vulnerable to both of their pleasurable antics, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Varka,” You nearly cry, and Wriothesley is quick to swallow the sound with his own mouth. You can barely reciprocate when Varka wraps his lips around your clit and sucks gently, but the Duke doesn’t seem to have any complaints, greedily drinking up every sound that emerges from your throat.

“Shh…” Wriothesley coaxes. “Don’t want anyone to hear you, do you, baby?”

“Mmm… No.”

“That’s right,” He praises, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth and biting gently. “That’s a good girl.”

You whine, forcing your mouth against his again to try and muffle your sounds as Varka hungrily eats you out. His tongue swipes over your fluttering hole before dipping inside, making you choke. Wriothesley’s calloused hand is now wrapped firmly around your throat, holding you in place. 

You’re so overwhelmed with the sensations, the shock, the reality of the situation. You went into tonight anxious that these two men would come within 20 feet of each other, and now they’re both eagerly pleasuring you with no signs of anger or sadness. If anything, the thought of working together to make you come apart seems to be spurring them on, Wriothesley’s cock hardening beneath you every time Varka elicits a high-pitched moan from deep in your chest, and Varka working more tirelessly at your pussy when he catches a glimpse of Wriothesley’s hand clutching your throat.

Whether its competitiveness or something else entirely, it’s working out in your favour.

Varka’s hand retreats from your thigh, and you gasp when his rough fingertips trail over your hole, clenching around nothing. He sucks and nips at your clit with less fervor as his eyes flit up to watch your face when he dips his middle finger inside of you.

“Oh,” You exhale, barely getting the word out as Wriothesley’s hand tightens around your throat. He cranes his neck to watch your face, studying your reactions.

Varka’s finger drags along the inside of your cunt, in and out, his tongue still lazily circling your nerves. You whine, hungry for more, and he picks up on that quickly, a second finger pressing into you.

Your back arches again, your position shifting as your bound wrists lift to rest somewhere higher, and you now have the option to shamelessly grind back against Wriothesley’s cock.

And you do.

The thrust of Varka’s digits are slow and experimental at first, his eyes still pinned on you, the heat of his gaze urging you to press back against Wriothesley’s crotch. The Duke’s hand that was on your hip travels to fully wrap around your waist, helping you along as he gasps and groans right in your ear. Varka chases the desperate movements of your hips with newfound vigor, curling his fingers against your spongy walls and flattening his tongue against your clit.

Wriothesley’s tongue dips out to drag along the shell of your ear. “Close, baby?”

You nod, chasing Varka’s mouth and arching your neck enough that the top of your head grazes the fabric of the couch Wriothesley sits on. A lewd mixture of both their names keeps emerging from your throat, like your mind can't register which one of them to thank for this feeling.

The pads of Varka’s fingers find the perfect spot inside of you, abusing the patch of nerves until you’re gushing around his fingers, hips retreating and grinding firmly against Wriothesley, who nearly chokes.

Varka keeps lapping at your clit through your orgasm, only pulling away when you whine and squirm at the overstimulation. He’s quick to resort to trailing kisses upwards, to the hem of your dress which is still bunched around your waist.

“Uncuff her.”

Wriothesley grunts. “Sit up for me.”

You do, panting, leaning forward enough that Wriothesley can access your cuffed wrists. Varka takes this as an opportunity to steal his very first kiss from you, and you hum at the taste of yourself on his lips.

His hand grips the back of your neck, still on his knees in front of you, and you feel like you’re being worshiped as his tongue desperately dances with yours. You hear the soft click from earlier again, and Wriothesley tosses the cuffs aside before gently massaging your wrists until the numbness subsides. He leans forward enough to gently bite your shoulder. 

“You okay?” He mumbles, one of his hands finding your clothed ribcage and resting it there comfortingly.

You nod, pulling back from Varka, a string of saliva connecting your lips. He groans loudly at the sight, reaching down to adjust the crotch of his slacks. You lick your lips.

“Good,” Wriothesley says, sliding his hands under your dress to tug it the rest of the way off. You put your hands up to assist him, and he throws the garment over the arm rest to join Varka’s coat. “Because you’re not done yet.”

Thank the gods.

Wriothesley tugs you to your feet, and you barely even have time to process the change of position before your chest is pressed flush against the cold wood of the desk. 

“Careful,” Varka scolds lightheartedly, coming up beside the desk to tenderly stroke your hair. You angle your head to look up at him, his knuckles grazing the soft skin on your cheek. He looks utterly enchanted by the fucked-out expression on your face. It’s the same way he looked at you when he came to get you at the start of the night and saw you all dolled up for him.

“I know what she likes,” Wriothesley remarks.

Competitiveness.

You can’t pretend you don’t find it really hot.

Varka barks out a laugh, flattening his palm over your head, sliding down your back and snapping open your bra clasp with skill. Guess that rules out your virgin theory, though you were already skeptical about that. Like, look at him. “And what does she like?”

Wriothesley grabs your waist, lifting you enough that Varka can pull off your bra. The second it’s off, each of them are palming one of your breasts with an equal amount of need. “She likes to be a real good girl,” He answers, taking your nipple between two of his fingers and exhaling shakily at the way you whine his name. “She likes to take everything I give her. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” You moan out.

He rests you down again, his palm pressing against the middle of your back to urge you to arch it. He kicks your ankles, opening your legs.

“Might as well demonstrate.”

The familiar sound of his belt unbuckling makes your knees weak, and Wriothesley continues to shrug his slacks off one-handed so he can steady your hips with the other. You're sure the desk beneath you is already majorly coated with your sweat, and you're so aroused that the evidence of such must be dripping.

Varka’s heavy footsteps circle the desk, and you turn your head to watch him as he drops down in the desk chair. You whine, grabbing the side of the desk closest to him, and he smirks before reaching out to engulf your hand in his large one, rubbing your pulse point with his thumb.

You hear Wriothesley’s slacks hit the ground, and then you feel the head of his cock nudging your cunt, and you already greedily try to suck him in by pressing your hips back.

“So needy,” Wriothesley scolds, but there’s no real distaste in his voice. You know he wants it just as bad as you.

“Yes,” You agree shamelessly. “Please.”

He bends over your back to trail kisses down your spine. “This is supposed to be a punishment, mind you.”

You desperately try to push your hips back again. “This feels plenty punishing, Your Grace.” 

Wriothesley laughs at that, leaning off of you, and you can feel him line his cock up with you again.

“I think she’s been very remorseful,” Varka adds, voice thick with his own arousal.

You nod in agreement.

Wriothesley sighs, one hand on your hip and the other sliding up to your shoulder. 

“Very well.”

He presses half his length into you in one firm thrust.

You sob, squeezing Varka’s hand and pressing your forehead to the desk. You’ve taken him so many times, plenty just like this, bent over his desk at Meropide, but he’s just so thick that you’re not sure your body will ever fully adjust to the sheer size of him.

Wriothesley shushes you, leaning down to kiss your shoulder as he slowly begins to slide further in, inch by inch. “There—Fuck.” His head falls forward. “Taking me so well. So good, baby.”

You clench around him at the praise, and he grunts before bottoming out in one more fell swoop.

His weight is relieved off your back, just for his hand that was previously on your shoulder to tangle up in your hair and tug your head back. You moan, ass grinding back.

“Greedy,” He notes again.

Hell yeah, you were.

He pulls nearly all the way out, until just the tip is left inside of you, and then he presses all the way back in to the hilt.

You nearly scream, biting down on your lip to muffle yourself. You’re suddenly aware of all the voices floating into the room from downstairs, the event still roaring with life, and how the shaking desk along with your desperate moans might quickly paint a very clear picture of what’s going on in here.

As if reading your mind, Varka unwraps his hand from yours and instead grips your chin, his thumb pressing against your lips. You take it in your mouth, closing your teeth around it and swirling your tongue. He grunts at the sight, and you catch a glimpse of him palming himself through his pants.

The effect you have on him makes your body greedily clench around Wriothesley’s cock, and the sensation urges him to begin thrusting inside of you. He sets a steady pace, every ridge of his cock dragging against you in the best of ways.

You cry out his name, muffled by Varka’s thumb shoved in your mouth. One of your palms press flat against the wood as you arch your back to accommodate the Duke’s deep thrusts, and the other wraps around Varka’s wrist.

Wriothesley uses his grips on your hip and hair to repeatedly pull you to meet his thrusts with force, and every nudge of his cock deep inside your cunt makes you see stars behind your eyelids. He chokes out small praises, telling you how beautiful you are, how good you are for him, his own way of reminding you how much it matters to him that you let him have you like this. Even with his rough treatment, he's always made sure you know that you're the only person who could ever get him worked up like this.

And you thought, for even a second, that he could’ve been fucking someone else. You would laugh if you hadn’t lost the ability to do anything except murmur pleas incoherently. 

You’re a complete mess, and the sight of you coming undone is something unlike anything either men have known before. The way Wriothesley fucks you has you convinced you’re going to fuse with the desk, and seeing how needy and pliant you have already grown for when Varka gets his turn with you… His cock is begging to be freed from his slacks, and if he weren’t brought up with the selfless and patient values of a knight, he would’ve shoved Wriothesley clean out of the way if it meant getting inside you sooner.

Wriothesley angles his thrusts to hit that spot inside of you he knows gets you, and the way you’re drooling and mumbling around Varka’s thumb has him even closer to tipping over the edge with you. His hand drops from your hair, circling your stomach, and his forehead drops to your shoulder as his thrusts stutter. His grunts are desperate, and the occasional needy whimper-like sound that you evoke from him makes your nerves feel like fucking fireworks.

“Good girl,” He gasps out, his hand around your body sliding down to circle your swollen clit with two fingers. You choke, tilting your head back, wanting the closeness, and he picks up on that when he smears kisses across your shoulder, your cheek, a lewd yet tender action as he spills inside of you at the same time you gush around his cock, screaming against Varka’s hand.

He fucks you through your orgasm, panting heavily against your skin.

Varka gently pulls his thumb from your mouth, letting you slacken against the desk.

“Wriothesley,” You murmur.

He leans off of you. “You did so well.” His palm rubs up and down your spine in a comforting gesture. “You’re such a good girl, baby.”

You manage a lazy smile as he slowly pulls his length from inside of you, cursing at the way his release immediately begins to spill out. You suppose you would’ve had to bring that up to Varka before the two of you had sex either way, that you and Wriothesley rarely bothered with protection.

You were sure he could tell now.

Wriothesley pulls you up, spinning you to face him and cupping your face. He kisses you tenderly, and you grip his arms and hum.

“Okay,” He says gently, pressing a few more kisses to your collarbone and chest. You watch as he redresses his boxers and slacks, and then he spins you towards an inviting face.

“Come here, sweetheart.”

You approach him on wobbly legs, and Varka brings you down to straddle his lap when you reach him. You clutch the neckline of his dress shirt, and he kisses you slow, eyes half lidded, like he’s analyzing you again.

“Tired?” He teases.

“Drunk?” You retort.

“You think I’ve had time for booze?”

You slide your hands down to rest on his sides. “The other drunk.”

“Oh—Fuck, sweetheart, I’m wasted.”

You grin, and then you reach down to start undoing his belt. He grunts, letting you unbuckle it and pull it out of the loops. Wriothesley leans against the wall next to the chair, and he just watches you.

The look on his face, you're sure he’ll be up for another go once Varka is done with you.

You're never getting out of this office.

You toss the belt aside as Varka hastily lifts his hips to tug his pants and briefs down. His cock stands at attention, precum dripping from the tip that you so desperately want to lap up. It’s definitely a little bigger than anything you’ve taken before, but you anticipated that. Wriothesley was the biggest man you’d ever seen in your life until you saw Varka.

“You sure?” He murmurs, leaning forward to kiss your neck. “If you’re tired, sweetheart…”

“Quit being such a knight,” You mumble.

“Yeah. You’re making me look bad.”

You glare at Wriothesley, and you can only guess that the smirk that appears on his face is because of how non-threatening you look right now. Fucked-out, tired, and still desperate for more. 

You push up on your knees, taking the base of Varka’s cock in your palm and pumping him slowly. His hands squeeze your hips, grunting and thrusting up into your hand. You bite your lip. 

You position yourself above his throbbing erection, and you gasp when his tip gets caught in your oversensitive cunt. You’re so overwhelmed already, not sure how much more you can take, but the Grand Master seems to be an impressively patient man.

He slowly helps you lower yourself down, every inch of him stretching you open with such a good ache. Your hands grip his shoulders, and you feel Wriothesley’s eyes on you… You might pass out.

Varka’s hands on your hips guide his cock deeper into you until you’re seated, taking all of him.

“Good girl.” He cups your face, forcing your gaze to meet his. His blue eyes are glossed over and so full of need, and you want to give him everything he seems so depraved of. “Just take it easy for me, sweetheart.”

You nod, lifting one of your hands and gently touching the scar on his face with the tips of your fingers. His eyes are locked on your face, your parted lips, your half-lidded eyes, the absolute fucking mess of your hair…

“Fuck.”

His fists close around your hips hard enough to bruise, and then he’s lifting you up just to force you back down on his cock. You sob, falling forward, and all you can do is cling to him as he starts to bounce you up and down. His groans and your moans blend together, and you thank the gods that his knightly patience finally snapped.

He ruts up into you, chasing a high he’s been craving ever since he first saw you. You try to keep your face buried in his neck, but you’re abruptly pulled back by a hand in your hair.

When your eyes fade back into focus, Wriothesley’s cock is in front of your face.

So, like a good girl, you drop your jaw.

He curses, using his grip on your hair to push your mouth halfway down on his cock, and he eagerly strokes the base with his free hand. You suck around him, moaning and drooling to create a view that might be doing more for him than anything else.

Varka steadies your hips, instead just thrusting up into you instead of bouncing you up and down. You try to focus on getting Wriothesley off, too, but when Varka’s thumb pokes out to rub your clit, you’re immediately a goner.

You go mindless, just a crying, moaning mess as you get fucked through your third orgasm. Soon enough, Varka’s head falls back against the chair with a heavy groan, releasing inside of you to join what was left of Wriothesley’s seed. Speaking of which, only a few more pumps have Wriothesley coming in your mouth, and with the last of your strength, you seal your lips around him and greedily drink it all down.

“Shit.” Wriothesley pulls from your mouth with a pop, and you fall against Varka’s chest with heavy breaths. Varka uses his hold on your hips to gently lift you off his cock, pulling just his boxers back on before settling you more comfortably against him.

Your cheek rests against his shoulder, face turned toward his chest, and he strokes your back.

Wriothesley gets redressed before coming up beside you and tucking your sweaty hair behind your ear. He nods to Varka.

“How close to here are you staying?”

Varka’s arms wrap around you, and he sits up a bit. “Let’s go. Grab her dress.”

---

The next time you feel even slightly awake, you’re lying down in the middle of a double-bed. The sheets beneath you smell like a newly familiar scent, and the large shirt thrown over your body smells like one you’ve known for months. 

You sit up, wiping your eyes and yawning.

“Hey, lay back down.” The mattress dips to your right, and you look down to see Wriothesley, settling next to you and pulling the covers over you both.

You obey without hassle, tiredness still pulling at your limbs, and a dull ache resting between your legs. You know you aren’t doing anything tomorrow. Or today?

“Varka cleaned you up, you’re all good, baby.”

You hum, curling into his chest contently. Just then, the mattress dips again on your left.

“She awake?”

“Not anymore, I don’t think.”

You’re too exhausted to share the state of your semi-consciousness, especially when another comforting warmth presses against your back, and you're now sandwiched between two soothing forms.

You and Leon are trying something new. Now, he’s no stranger to it, his moonlight trysts with Pornhub show that he’s an expert at it in fact. But that was back in his late twenties. Op in Spain made his brain go funny, and maybe it’s ‘cause Ashley is the perfect subject for it - DDLG that is. She batted her lashes up at, clung to his arms, and she needed him, relied on him. In turn, he spent his days balls deep in videos like Daddy’s Little Girl Punished For Staying Up Past 8 PM, and even classier ones like Big Cock Daddy Fucks Tiny Tit Teen Girlfriend Till She Squirts (ANAL + THROATFUCKING)! Even the occasional Step-Daughter Chokes On Step-Daddy’s Fat Cock While Mommy Sleeps! Very tasteful, very nuanced, very discreet. So yeah, not to brag, but Leon’s kind of a porn connoisseur. Dabbled in every category.

The DDLG thing got boxed up and shelved away quick. Made him feel guilty, post-nut clarity set in the second he’d milked himself dry. Then he’d lay there for hours with a sticky palm and a heavy heart. Hasn’t thought about it in years, these days Leon’s more into Busty Dom Mommy Pegs Scrawny, Ugly, Sissy Slut In Business Suit! and if he’s really feeling up for it Stupid Fucking Bitch Takes Two Dicks At Once! The titular bitch actually only took one dick at a time despite the two dicks present, quite misleading in his humble opinion. No more creepy daddy stuff though. Those days are over; he hasn’t thought about it in twenty years give or take. Claire sent him this ‘Get porn sites taken down for women blah blah blah’ petition, he signed it, clicked out of the tab and got down to watching some silly slut get fucked within an inch of her life.

It’s more of a boredom thing. Honest. Leon watches porn to fill in gaps of space throughout his day; he nods his head thoughtfully when the man so affectionately titled Blue-Collar Bear slams into the Preppy Spoiled Twink. This is all getting away from him, the point is, Leon hasn’t thought about the dreaded topic of DDLG for literal decades. Then you walk in, and Leon’s sat there listening to you prattle on about Pompompurin and Chococat, an entire lineup of characters that he now knows off by heart.

Oh, is that right, sweetheart? Cinnamoroll’s a puppy, not a bunny? Wow, I didn’t know that, baby, fascinating ain’t it? Miffy‘s from the Netherlands, god, she’s gotta be careful over there in Amsterdam, honey. They don’t call that place Sin City for no reason, the red light district is no joke. Oh, I see, she’s from Utrecht? Ah, guess she’s safe then, I’m glad. What’s her name? That’s your favourite, Cogimyun? That’s a mouthful, ain’t it? She looks like a cloud. No? She's not? She’s a what-? Made of wheat flour? Oh! Well, that’s real funny, baby. Bet she don’t do well on windy days.

You don’t tell him outright. But he knows. Leon tries to tell himself that you’re just like this, that you buy cutesy, girly stickers to make yourself happy, that you fill his bedroom with soft toys ‘cause you simply like ‘em, turn them around when you fuck as a joke. But it’s clear, the headspace you’re left in after sex gives it away, haven’t let the D word slip so far, Leon’s banking on it being soon though.

He pets your head before you leave the house one day, you beam up at him, apples of your cheeks rounded with how hard you're smiling. “Love you, daddy!” You chirp all too loudly, jaw dropping open a moment later at your own blunder. Then you skitter out the front door unnervingly like a deer with CWD.

Called it. Made a bet on it even. Leon takes fifty out of his savings account, owes it to himself. You looked awful upset, he sends you a message, tells you to be safe, text him when you meet your friends. You do. Somehow, even the message is clipped. Poor baby, you’re embarrassed. The colour had drained from his face when you said it. You’d noticed for sure.

You’re younger than him, much younger. Too many years younger. An age gap that makes his head spin. Leon tries not to dwell on it, but it gets real hard. Claire’s always down his throat about it. When you go out in public together, he’ll sneak a hand in your back pocket and get stared down by every passer-by. He’s been asked if he’s your dad before. Blow to his ego. Considered botox and filler for the entirety of the following week. Certainly not your dad, possibly your daddy. Now you’ve cemented that in place - you want Leon to be your daddy, and he’ll fill those shoes.

Even if it leaves a bad taste on his tongue, even if it makes his skin crawl. Leon is willing to lay down his life for you half of the time, best thing that ever happened to him, so what harm is a little DDLG gonna do? He just needs to get comfortable with it, refamiliarise himself with all the lingo. How hard could it be? The guilt? He can get over it, even if it clings to him like a festering scab.

When you come back home it’s late, he barely hears your footsteps. You’ve learnt how to make yourself scarce when returning on late nights, Leon’s a light sleeper. A jumpy one at that. He smells jasmine when you pull back the covers, the mattress dips and he turns to face you.

“Fuck!” You gasp, brows pinched together, he runs his thumb over the divot that’s formed between them. “You scared me, Leon.”

“Not that ugly am I?” He juts his bottom lip out, it pulls a laugh out of you, and that makes him smile. You were emanating gloom and doom the second you stepped into the bedroom. Clear skies now.

“Never, you’re sooo handsome.” You kiss the tip of his nose, smear pink Vaseline on it.

“You know just what I wanna hear, don’t you, baby?” Apart from daddy. He’d make the joke, but you’d likely flip out. Leon shuts his mouth. He’s gotten better at doing that lately. Must be the effect you’ve had on him. “Baby?”

“Yes?”

“About today—“

“Leon.” It’s a warning.

“Baby.”

“Leon.” Clearly you want to brush it under the rug. “It was just a slip-up, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, so can we just drop it?” Uh, woah, someone’s defensive.

“Baby, it didn’t make me uncomfortable,” Leon strokes your cheek, his cold hands warmed by the heat of your dewy skin. It made him mildly uncomfortable. That’s ‘cause he grapples with all these I’m a dirty old man that deserves to be crucified, Claire’s right I’m a fucking cradlerobber, I should let her go, I’ll be dead by the time she’s ready to get married thoughts. You’re this pretty young thing and it makes him tremendously nervous.

“I saw your face, Leon, I’m not stupid.” You’re getting huffy now, fluffing the pillows and turning away from him.

“Babe, I was just surprised, pinky promise.” Leon sticks his pinky finger into your line of sight, there’s silence, then the sheets ruffle and you’ve lifted your hand, shorter pinky wrapping around his.

“Like, pinky swear, Leon?” You sound so small, so scared, his heart aches.

“Baby,” he coos, “light of my life, angel, apple of my fuckin’ eye, sugar, dollface,” you hang onto every word, eyes getting bigger and wider by the second, “I knew the minute you showed me those Sylvanian Families.” You smack his chest and he laughs in your face.

“You’re an asshole and I hate you so much.” When he touches your cheek again, you’re burning up, he places a kiss behind your ear. “Stupid old man.”

“C’mon, baby, you think I’m dumb? You gave them names.” The Persian Cat triplets are named Serena, Nate and Blair. From Gossip Girl of course, he didn’t know what that was. Tedious is his review. Leon thought Henry, Tommy and Jimmy were more fitting names. You didn’t understand the reference. “You buy ‘em little plates and forks and cups, they’re living better than us, baby.” And that’s a fact. You splurged on a Red Roof Country House. Far nicer than his apartment, once empty, now filled with junk like that. No, it’s not junk, it’s his baby’s stuff, trinkets that make her happy.

“What if I just liked them?” You’re glaring at him, cutely of course, everything you do is saccharine.

“Just adds up, don’t it?” Leon gives you a big, wet kiss on your pouty lips. Tastes roses. Literally. He just swallowed a bunch of pink Vaseline. “What I wanted to say ‘fore you got all pissy on me,” he swallows the lump in his throat, fuck it, how bad could it go, he’s just making his favourite girl happy, “I don’t mind tryin’ it out.”

Rules are implemented the following morning, albeit loosely. Leon doesn’t have a lot of control over things, the DSO has jurisdiction over him, got him by the balls. And in turn, Leon’s just learnt how to take it like a good bitch. You handed him a pink glitter pen and a page from your Hello Kitty notebook. Asked him so sweetly to make a general set of rules, so you know how to be a good girl for daddy. Leon sprung a boner so fast he got nauseous. And that’s not even the sex part of this arrangement. He uses his black ballpoint pen, pink glitter isn’t his thing. Plus, it doesn’t show up on the paper.

You giggle when he hands them over to you; Leon’s ears flush pink. He’ll get better at it, swear. He wants to do well for you. Wants you to feel satisfied with his quote caregiving unquote.

It starts off slow, you hand him your toothbrush in the morning, Leon blinks at you in pure and utter befuddlement. You say Ah! like you would at the dentist and he gets it. Leon sits you on the closed lid of the toilet seat, making sure to get your molars, your canines, front teeth, and all the remaining ones. Five seconds each. Or he tries at least. You’re quite meticulous in this headspace, letting out a disgruntled noise when he fails to be precise.

Then you sit on the mat while he showers, like a puppy, didn’t even notice you were there until he opened the sliding door. “Hi there, babydoll.” Leon wraps a towel around his waist, “whatcha doin’ down there?”

“Waiting for daddy.” You tell him plainly, then trail after him as he gets ready. Right. He’s gotta pick out your clothes. What if you don’t like them? You’re so fussy with your style, spend hours tossing piece after piece out of the wardrobe, stomp your feet when the blouse you wanted to wear is in the laundry. Right now, you’re totally placid, lifting your arms when he asks as he puts you in a ribbed pink sweater and the frilly skirt you’re so fond of, knee high socks per usual, Mary Janes to finish it off. Oh. Yeah. This is bad. He’s in deep. You’re too cute. He thinks he wants to be your daddy forever.

“My dad’s been wanting to see you, Leon.” Ashley’s all grown up now, which makes him feel a bit sappy. Hypocritical really, he’s got a college girl back at home calling him daddy.

Dad… Daddy, I love you, when are you coming home?

Leon blinks to clear his mind, gives Ashley a plastic smile. “How’s he been?”

“Oh, you know how it is, he got a little sick over Halloween, but that guy, he’s always up and kicking.” Ashley brings a vanity out of her pocket, reapplies her lipstick. “Overall, he’s been good.”

Good girl, am I a good girl, daddy?

Jesus Christ, get a grip, man. “I’m glad, should take a rest that guy.”

“I know!” Ashley moves her plate to the side and lays out her entire makeup case on the table, picking out mascara. When he looks closely, her round mirror is printed with a vaguely familiar cartoon bunny. “He never listens, hasn’t been President for decades and he just works and works and works. That’s why you should call, tell him to take it easy.”

“What’s her name?” Leon frowns, jabs his thumb towards the compact.

“My Melody!” She answers, grinning at him with her pearly whites.

My Melody, Kitty, Keroppi, and Mimi, did you write that down, daddy? And there’s—

“Aren’t you too old for that, Ash?” Leon raises his brow, he’s not serious though, and she can tell.

“Hey, I liked Sanrio before it was cool in 2004, okay?” She tosses it all back in her clutch. Ashley’s too nice, if it were Claire she’d bite back with Aren’t you too old for your girlfriend, loser? And that would shut him up. “It was nice seeing you, Leon, I wanna meet your girlfriend next time, she seems sweet. And don’t forget to call dad, I’ll drop his number later.”

Call dad… Daddy? Daddy.

“Leon, don’t you think Chris looks like our dad?” Claire’s hijacked the DSO break room once again, she’s in town for some TerraSave presentation thingy. He wasn’t listening. Eyes glassed over as he gazes endlessly at her phone screen.

Dad. Dada. Daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy.

“Huh?” Leon says dumbly.

Claire levels him with her stare. “You’ve been out of it today, what’s up?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs nonchalantly, wipes his clammy palms on his jeans. “Just didn’t sleep well.”

“Uh huh.” Claire’s not convinced. Shit. She totally knows. She sees right through you, Leon. She knows what dirty shit you’ve been up to, can see the shame on your face, and she’s building her case against you. “Anyway,” she begins, voice holding onto it’s suspicious edge, “I was saying, I found this photo album of our parents, doesn’t Chris look so much like dad?”

Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Fuck. He needs a lobotomy. Stat. This is taking over his fucking life. A sizable chunk of his brain was removed in his sleep, and it’s been replaced by pink mushy goo. Different to the pinkish brain matter that resides inside one’s head. More a glittery pink goop that morphs into the shape of you. You’re jumping around in there, sliding down the sulci and fissures in his brain, lodging yourself deep in his mind. Making it your playground.

“You’re fucking impossible to talk to, Leon. You know that?” What’d you say Claire? He can’t hear you over the impossibly disgusting, perverted thoughts running through his mind.

The second he gets home, Leon is on you. Face between your tits, knee keeping your thighs open, kissing you breathless. “Daddy!” You giggle, delighted by the wave of affection.

“Babydoll,” Leon rubs his stubble against your cheeks to hear you squeal, “Daddy missed you so much.”

“I missed daddy sooo much too!”

“Oh, yeah? How much did you miss daddy?”

You stretch your arms as wide as they go. “This much, daddy!” Fuck. Holy fucking shit. He needs to start going to weekly mass again.

“Yeah?” Leon peppers kisses all over your little face, forehead to your neck, “what’d ya get up to?”

“Mmm,” you hum, tapping a finger against your lip thoughtfully, “coloured, ate ‘n got sleepy, daddy.”

“What an eventful day that is, baby.” Leon kisses your nose. “You colour something for daddy?” He needs to put his dick in you before he explodes.

“Mhm,” your lashes flutter when he sneaks a hand up your loose sweater, hanging off your shoulders, swallowing you up, “I put it in daddy’s office…” Your breath hitches when he rolls your pebbled nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“Daddy’s gonna hang it on the fridge tonight then.” Leon mumbles, too busy shoving his naughty hand down your pyjama shorts, cupping your mound. Your fingers tremble as you lift the hem of your sweater, baring your tits for him, he takes your nipple into his mouth. Bites down to hear you gasp. Latches on like a damn baby, groping the other tit roughly.

“Daddy,” you whimper, and the sound alone makes his dick twitch. Leon pulls off with a pop, spit dripping down his chin.

“I know, baby,” Leon coos, “daddy’s gonna take care of you.” Dirty old man! blares Claire’s voice in the back of his mind. Leon can’t find it in himself to care. Watch this, bitch. “You want daddy to play with your princess parts, babydoll?” You heard that right, princess parts. He’s been sucked in that deep.

You nod, brows pinched together as you bunch up the sheets in your curled fists. Leon clicks his tongue, presses a kiss below your belly button. “Words, baby.” He reminds you, his tone delicate, only lightly chiding.

“Need daddy… need him to play with me,” it’s barely a mumble, but Leon takes it. He knows how jumbled your head gets in this mindset. Poor baby, play with your clit and it turns you all stupid.

Leon gets to work. He’s been waiting for it all day, to get his mouth on this perfect cunt. He spreads you out, urges you to go wider, as far as you can. Licks over the fabric of your cotton panties, his nose nestled against your swollen clit, sucking on the wet patch on the gusset. The constant nudge of his nose against your clit is making you antsy, your chest rises and falls, your fingers itch to tug at his hair, but you’re an obedient girl so you keep them down by your sides. Clutch at the sheets till your nails break.

He continues to lick and suck at your leaky centre through the fabric for an eternity. You have your complaints, but you can’t say no to daddy. That’s, like, against the rules. So Leon has his fun, maybe a little too much fun. You let out a strained noise, and enough is enough, you’re being so good for him, so patient. His little girl deserves a treat. Once you’ve creamed your panties that is.

“God,” you toss your head back and melt when his tongue flattens over your bare folds, he’d thrown your panties into the laundry basket a minute prior, good aim.

“Hey, give me some credit, baby,” Leon takes a break from tongueing you down, “God’s not doing shit down here, it’s all your daddy.”

That makes you giggle. Then you call out daddy so sweetly his brain blanks. He spits on your sticky core, you’re wet enough, but Leon likes it sloppy, wants to feel your mess dripping down his chin. His teeth scrape your clit, pulls the hood back, kitten licks it, kisses it three times for good luck.

“Don’t cover your mouth, baby,” Leon places a big hand on your hip, holds you in place, “Daddy didn’t say you could do that.”

“Sorry… ‘M sorry, daddy,” you whine, the hand once clasped over your mouth falling limp, and you’re moaning like a fucking pornstar. He can’t handle it. That word does something to him, something evil and degenerate.

He pushes your cushiony lips together, pinches your clit when it sticks out, makes the nastiest sounds known to mankind. Messy eater. Schlurping, schmacking, gulping. What he’s gulping down? God knows. Two fingers slip into you, knuckle-deep, wriggle around, scissor you open, his palm mashed into your clit. Leon’s face is resting on your plush thigh, admiring his own handiwork. Your slick cunt, drooling all down his wrist, covered his face in it, now you're cumming in messy spurts.

“Atta girl,” Leon croons, lays it on thick with the praise ‘cause he knows you get shy about this, “that’s right, dollface, just let it all out for, daddy, huh?”

Panting, you curl into yourself, kick your legs a little when his nimble fingers find your sticky clit, he can feel you throbbing. “No more, daddy.” You beg, rubbed raw from the back-to-back orgasms.

“Too much, baby?” Leon’s hand comes to cop a feel, his nose pressing into the nape of your neck. “Can you get daddy off?”

The energy seems to zap back into you within an instant. You nod, head bobbing up and down like it should be doing on his dick. You love having your mouth full, keep his cock down your throat till you go numb. Suckle on it with pride and integrity. You gaze up at him with those eyes, heart-shaped pupils and all, blowjob eyes.

“How’d you want daddy?” Leon asks, you roll over, laying flat on your back, you want him like that? Alright, naughty girl. With your head between his meaty thighs, Leon guides his weeping tip past your swollen lips, you lap at the slit, collecting droplets of his precum on your tongue.

“Shit,” Leon gets out through gritted teeth, covers it with a cough, he shouldn’t really be saying bad words, not setting a good example for his baby. The suction is crazy, feels like he stuck his dick into the tube of a vacuum cleaner. Your cheeks hollow out as he thrusts his hips forwards, tip hitting the back of your throat, making you gag each time. Still take it like a champ though. You always do, his good fucking girl. “Doin’ so damn well, baby, makin’ daddy cum.”

Your little hand comes to rest on his abdomen, Leon eases up, lets his fat cock slip out of your mouth, he thinks you’ve had enough, but you go for his balls instead. Open your mouth wide as you try to fit ‘em in your mouth. “No chance, baby.” Leon smiles, patting your head, you lick along the seam and his dick is fucking throbbing. Hail fucking Mary. “Not gonna last, babydoll, can daddy fuck you now or ya need a break?”

You nod, he raises a brow, “No, daddy, I’m fine, daddy. Need daddy in me so bad.” You croak out, throat sore from the time spent with his cock lodged in your windpipe.

That makes him groan. The non-explicit dirty talk is fuckin’ weird, turns him on in ways he can’t explain. He loves when you avoid saying the word pussy, can’t say cock, makes it sound even dirtier. Maybe it’s the control aspect. You can’t say those words ‘cause daddy said so, ‘cause Leon said so.

His dick jumps the second he tries to slide in, bumps against your sensitive clit, shit, that hasn’t happened since he was twenty. Leon grabs your ankles, kisses one before he throws them over his shoulders, uses one hand to guide his dick to your sloppy hole and the other is intertwined with your smaller one. Tender, sappy, sweet. Oh, don’t make him tear up, princess. With age he’s softened up. For you Leon has softened up. Brought back part of who he was before it all went wrong.

“My pretty girl,” he pets your cheek like he does the neighbour’s well-fed cat, and you lean into it all the same. He fills you up so well. No matter how much Leon plays with your pussy, there’s always a stretch, and he can tell by the look on your face. Nose scrunching, lips parting, letting out a sharp breath as the weight of his cock knocks against your cervix. “All done, baby.” Leon tells you, and you open your eyes, sit up on your elbows to see where the two of you meet in a sticky, squelching embrace. “Well done, baby, you’re such a big girl, takin’ all of daddy, aren’t you?” Leon presses his hand down on your lower tummy, his cock angles upwards so he can hit that spongy spot deep inside, the one that makes you sob. “Is it there?”

The cry you let out is the confirmation he needs. He bullies his cock into you, fucks you rough ‘cause he loves you. Making love is for mornings, when you’re sleepy and pliant, nasty fucking is for after work. When he’s pent up, when you’ve been on his mind all day. Leon pulls out, only his tip keeping your cunt spread open, then he slams back in, and you begin to sniffle, squeezing his hand so tight you cut off his blood circulation.

“Daddy,” You drop his hand, nails clawing down his back, his lonely hand suffering from a severe case of pins and needles, “daddy, daddy, daddy— oh, daddy!” It’s the only thing you can say. Stuffed your cunt and your head is full of him too. Leon adores you. Prettiest girl in the whole world and you’re here speared on his cock. Dexterous fingers find your clit once more, helping you reach the edge.

“You can do it, baby, don’t worry, daddy’s here.” Leon dips his head down, kisses you and swallows up your sounds, stringy spit keeping the two of you connected. Red string of fate or whatever. “Daddy’s right here, daddy loves you.”

All it took was the L word, and you’re squirting. Pushing his cock out, dripping down his heavy balls, digging your nails into his back, chanting daddy like your life depends on it. And Leon can’t take it, he’s been ready to bust the second he got home, his stomach contracts, spills his seed into your wet cunt. Messy just how he likes it.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Leon lets his full weight drop on top of you.

You grunt softly, “Heavy, daddy.”

“Yeah, I know, gimme a second.” Leon grumbles, teeth tugging on your earlobe. “How’d you rate me? Five stars? Ten out of ten?”

You yawn into his hair, “Stop bein’ silly, daddy.”

“Dine with us in two days. That fancy place with the mood lighting and the wine you like so much,” Shanks had said, and rose on his knees, free hand cupping your face so that you were forced to meet vermillion eyes, “It’s been too long since we’ve shown you off, baby.”

You’d flushed and agreed easily, excited that they had wanted to take you out. Hell, that they had time to take you out. Again though.

You should have known better than that.

By now, you’d gone through nearly the entire bottle of wine, having demanded that the waiter leave it at the table once the first hour had passed by. You were drunk, but still sober enough to recognize the pitying looks that neighboring tables were sending you. A scoff rips from your throat, and you drain the rest of your glass before you stand, snatching the bottle as you begin to strut out of the restaurant.

The expensive fabric of your dress billows around you, and you ignore the concerned waiter who tries to stop you from leaving the building. You welcome the cold when the doors open, winter air whipping around you, heels clicking against the sidewalk. You know this was a stupid idea, leaving like this. You were vulnerable out in the open, and the twins had enemies.

But you didn’t give a fuck right now. You were too hurt. Too pissed off to think about any of that right now. This hadn’t been the first date they had blown off. They had made you look like a fool more times than you can count, sitting there, all alone in a big fancy restaurant, drinking yourself into an early grave.

So here you are, stalking down the busy streets of New York City, back to the apartment that you shared with the twins.

Somehow, between dodging creepy men and leering women, you actually make it back home. Still feeling just as bad, you flip the door man off and strut into the lobby, sniffling as you find an elevator and slap at the buttons until the penthouse floor lights up. You take big heaving swigs from your bottle of wine, mascara running black down your face as you slump against the wall of the elevator.

You sniff again and wipe your face on your coat. At least it was warm.

Inside the apartment, you drop the bottle of wine after you fumble your way past the keycard. It spills into the carpet and over your shoes, but you don’t even notice the sticky mess as you shuffle into the living room and straight to the liquor cabinet Shanks keeps near the balcony.

Shamrock had said it was foolish to keep it there, but Shanks had insisted that the massive oak caberete looked cool where it was. The older twin had dropped the argument, not caring enough to continue it.

You forced the latch open and grabbed a bottle at random, unscrewing the cap and taking a swig big enough that it spilled past your lips and down your chin. You whined when it kept going, eyes going misty when the liquor soaked into the fabric of your dress. You sniff again and sit where you are, shoulders shaking as you begin to cry.

That’s how the twins found you some hours later. The moon was high in the sky by now, and both of them looked worse for wear. Knuckles split, and blood stuck under their fingernails. Shanks had a busted lip, and it looked like someone had taken a live wire to Shamrock’s hair. Both looked like they’d been brawling in the streets, and that’s exactly what they had been doing.

Taking care of business.

“Did you send a message to _?” Shamrock rumbled as they pushed open the door to the penthouse. They stall immediately at the smell of booze in the air, and Shanks feels dread pool low in his stomach.

He swallows hard and looks at his twin, “I thought you said you’d do it this time.”

Shamrock snaps a hand out and grabs Shanks by his shirt, ripping the fabric even more than it already was when he jerked his brother around to snarl in his face, “Did you. Text her?”

Shanks grabbed his wrist, brow notching down in a frown as he glared right back at the other man, “No, man. Like I said, I thought you were gonna do it this time.”

“You fool,” Shamrock spits and shoves his idiotic brother away from him with a scoff, “I told you to do it.”

He sighs and drags a hand over his face, taking a deep breath, “Find her, Shanks.”

It doesn’t take very long to find you. All they have to do is follow the footprints left behind from your wine-soaked shoes to find you slumped against the cabaret. There is a bottle of that ridiculously expensive whiskey that Shamrock likes clutched in your hand, and you are snoring loudly in your sleep.

You look pitiful, makeup smeared over your face, and clothes stained with alcohol. Shanks makes a wounded sound and drops to your side, reaching out to gently pry the bottle from your hands.

“Oh, baby,” he breathes and cups your face after he sets the bottle aside. Shanks feels like trash, like the absolute scum of the earth.

“This is your fault,” Shamrock hisses at his twin and shoves him away from you. His brother lets it happen, too stunned by seeing you like this to protest. Shamrock gathers you up in his arms and stands, stalking to the ensuite bathroom and starting the shower with one arm, the other keeping you tucked neatly against his chest.

Shanks appears behind him, eyes glassy and stricken as he stares at your flushed face. You look sad even in your sleep, your brow pinched, and your hand clutching Shamrock’s arm for dear life.

“Do something useful and get her undressed,” Shamrock barked at him, and Shanks darted forward, sliding his arms under your own and balancing your weight against his chest. Carefully, he started to strip you down, tossing the soiled clothes on the floor without a care. You were far more important than some fabric.

Shamrock undresses in quick, jerky movements, tossing his own filthy clothes into the growing pile and taking you back once Shanks got you down to nothing. You sputter when hot water cascades over your face, eyes shooting open only to slam shut the second after. You whine and shove at Shamrock, a frown on your face.

“Lemme go,” you slur roughly and push at his chest when Shamrock just tightens his grip on your hips. Shanks is there in the next heartbeat, sliding in behind you so that you are bracketed in back by the twins on either side. You thrash between them, sliding on the wet tiles.

“Let me go!”

Shamrock grits his teeth, brow furrowing heavily as he tightens his grip on your hips again and tugs you into his chest, making Shanks take a step forward, properly pinning you between them.

“That is enough.”

You flinch at the cool tone Shamrock hits you with, but then you just get even more pissed off when you move and realize that they still haven’t let you go.

“Stop,” you whined loudly and wiggled between them, “I don’t want you to touch me. You don’t get to touch me after -hic- after what you did to me today.”

Shanks frowns. His chest aches. You were the woman he loved. His other half, the one for whom he got up and did all of this bullshit for, and he hurt you. He was the one responsible for your pain. Christ. He didn't deserve to be in your presence.

Shamrock was, too, but it wasn’t like it was he who forgot to text you about shit hitting the fan earlier today.

“Darling-,”

“No!” You cut Shamrock off and shove at him again, nearly frantic with your drunken need to get away from them, “Don’t darling me, Sham. The two of you planned this date, and then just left me there.”

Sham glares at his twin over your shoulder, furious at him for doing this to you. He clutches you tighter, fingers digging in hard enough that there would most likely be bruises later on.

“Not the first fuckin’ time either,” you continue, slurring painfully, “Probably won’t be the last, and I’m -hic- the idiot who keeps letting it happen.”

You sniff loudly, pitiful and hurt, “I don’t even understand why you are with me other than for sex. It’s the only time I see either of you anymore.” Both of them looked stricken with your wailed words, your voice slurred, but there was no imagining the agony that dripped from every word that you spoke. Fat tears fall from your eyes and slide down your puffy cheeks, and the hot spray of the shower is quick to wash them away.

Shamrock swallowed thickly, chest tight with the kind of feelings he isn't accustomed to having. He looked at his twin, and Shanks wasn’t any better off than he was. The other man looked crushed, his expression so heartbroken that even Shamrock felt a little bad for the moron.

But both of them could see where you were coming from with the harsh statement. They hadn't been around very often, and if they were, it was for a quick romp of passion and maybe breakfast before duty called and they were back making sure that their territory remained theirs. But that wasn't an excuse to not have seen how badly their absence had started affecting you.

“Baby,” Shanks whined and pressed himself against your back, slotting his body along your own like he was made to be there. His hands splayed wide around your ribs, fingers digging into your flesh as he sniffed against your hair, “Fuck, baby. We're so sorry.”

Shamrock dropped his head, pressing his face into your wet hair, burgundy eyes squeezing shut, “You know better than to think that, my love.”

You shiver and cry between them, hands going from shoving to clutching them so quickly it's like whiplash. But you were still drunk, and they were here and warm, and all you wanted was for them to hold you and promise that they still wanted you.

“Of course, we still want you, flower,” Shamrock cooed and nosed at your ear. Shanks kissed the back of your head, his grip easing into something a little less desperate.

“Yeah, doll,” Shanks rasps lowly and scatters kisses along your shoulders, his touch reverent, “You're the reason we keep doing this. It's all to keep our most precious treasure safe.”

You sniff and shiver between them, lips quivering with so many emotions that you’re having a hard time dealing with what’s what. You lift a hand and scrub at your face, shoulders slumping as the fight drains out of you.

Now you just feel sad.

“No, it’s not,” You say after a moment and finally lift your head, finding vermillion and burgundy eyes watching you closely. You swallow around the lump in your throat, “You’d be doing the same thing if I wasn’t here.”

Your words strike a chord within them, and neither seems to be able to find the right words to argue against you. They can’t because you are right. They can claim that their actions are for your benefit until they are blue in the face, but it still wouldn’t be the only reason for their continued business ventures.

They were greedy bastards when it came down to it. They didn’t let go of what they considered theirs, and they very much considered you theirs.

“You’re right,” Shamrock rasps, voice low and reluctant as he agrees with you, “But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re important to us and that we hurt you.”

“And that’s the last thing that we ever want to do to you, baby,” Shanks murmurs behind you, and shifts, dropping to his knees so that he can press deep kisses along your back, smoothing down your spine until he brushes the tops of your cheeks.

“Let us make it up to you.”

You squirm between them, familiar heat pooling low in your belly when you look down to see Shanks watching you under the heavy curtain of his wet hair. Shamrock catches your attention when he leans down, his nose brushing over your temple, his lips against your cheek.

“We’ll show you how sorry we are, darling,” Shamrock purrs lowly and presses a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth, “How much we adore you.”

Calloused fingers creep between your thighs, gently stroking the soft skin there, before a pair of chapped lips join them. Shanks lavishes attention there, sweet kisses and careful nips of his teeth as he tries his best to distract you from the hurt that he’d caused you. His hands grip your thighs, and he groans at the give of them.

“Fuckin’ love your legs, baby,” Shanks coos and kisses your right thigh, just under the swell of your ass, before he nips your cheek, “I could die happy stuck between them.”

You know that you should stop them. That you should thrash and yell and throw a tantrum for how callously they’ve been treating you lately, but you’re still drunk, and they feel good pressed in on either side of you, and you can already feel your brain going mushy with pleasure.

The twins share a look when you sigh between them, the tense line of your spine loosening as their touch drags the anger out of you bit by bit.

Shamrock smooths his hands up your hips, big palms cupping your breastsm thumbs gently stroking over peaked nipples. He ducks his head and groans, lips tugging, and his tongue lapping at your flesh. He circles your nipple, nipping with just enough pressure to make you hiss.

Devious fingers slide further up, short, blunt nails scatching along your skin until Shanks can stroke across your sticky core, tips of his fingers dipping past silky folds. He can feel how wet you are even past the warm water from the shower, and it makes something in his chest purr with satisfaction.

“That’s it, baby,” Shanks coos and circles your entrance, his face pressed against the meat of your thigh, mouth hot against your skin as he mouthed at you, “Already fuckin’ soaked for us.”

You whine and whither between them, brow furrowed with growing pleasure. Shamrock flicks his eyes up, watching your face, wanting to see the gratification cross your features from their touch.

Shanks whispers filth against you, and you shudder, one hand dropping to his hair while the other drags manicured nails over his twin. He slides his fingers through sticky, slick, and drags them up, smirking when he hears you hiss at his touch. His thumb draws slow figure eights over your clit, and that heat explodes in your lower stomach.

“Start with two,” Shamrock rumbles above him, and presses kisses up from the valley of your breasts and up to your mouth, dragging his tongue over your bottom lip, “She likes the stretch.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Shanks grunted and glared at his twin before focusing back on his task. He kisses the curve of your ass again and then nudges two fingers forward anyway, humming at the way your cunt seemed all too happy to welcome him inside.

“Obviously, you don’t,” Shamrock snarks right back. He slides one hand through your hair, gathering the sodden mess and lifting it so that he can lave your throat and the slope of your shoulder with more kisses. His other hand grips your hip, keeping you still so that his twin can work, “Or she wouldn’t feel like you don’t love her.”

“Fuck off,” Shanks snarled at his twin, and his pace stumbled in his frustration at the other men, “Don’t say shit like that.”

Shamrock sneered at his brother, burgundy eyes narrowed, “See. You can’t even own up to your mistakes. You’re nothing but a failure, just as you’ve always been-”

“Please,” You suddenly whine between them, and the tension in the air tightens a notch, “Please stop fighting.”

Shamrock frowns but eases back right away. The last thing he wanted to do was make you even more upset. He was just pissed at his brother.

“I apologize, my love,” Sham rumble and kisses you, licking into your mouth to distract you once more, “I allowed my anger to get the best of me.”

“Prick,” Shanks grumbled into your flesh and then shifted, gently nudging your thighs apart. His hand works you slowly, fingers dragging over velvet walls until he finds that spot that made you toss your head back and gasp. He grins and bullies that spot, wrapping his free arm around your leg to keep you nice and spread open for him.

You come with a startled cry, and then Shamrock is there, his lips against yours as he swallows each breathy whimper that spills past your lips. He kisses you through your orgasm, his tongue curling around your own and gently sucking the slick muscle into his own mouth.

You don’t remember them shutting off the shower or drying you off. You don’t remember them moving you around until you lie on top of Shamrock, the tip of his cock pressing past your lower lips, his hands like a vice around your hips. But you do feel the way he slowly slides in, your cunt stretching around the thick girth of his cock until he is fully seated.

Shanks kneels behind you on his knees, draped across your back, his fingers working you open. They didn’t do this often; both men were on the bigger side, and you always needed a few TLC days after taking them at the same time, but the act never failed to remind you how much they owned you.

The younger of the two wraps his bicep around your throat in a headlock, thick muscles pressing tight against your airway. He tugs your head up, careful not to allow the position to be too painful, and forces you to face his twin.

“Are you paying attention, my love?” Shamrock demands. There is a fine layer of sweat over his brow, and his pace never falters even as he speaks. He only continues when you give a barely there, fucked out nod, eyes glassy but alert enough to answer him.

“Do you feel me fucking this pretty pussy open?” He demands and smirks when he receives another nod. He snaps his hips and grinds deep, groaning when your eyes flutter, “That means she’s mine. Means that she and you belong to me.”

“Us,” Shanks hisses behind you and flexes his bicep, making you wheeze until he lets up, and you can suck in a sharp breath that makes your ribs ache, “So’s this ass, and this body.”

He twists his fingers, scissoring them until he feels like you are ready for a third one. Carefully, he works another in beside the other two, stopping when you give any signs of discomfort. He presses a kiss to the back of your neck, lingering.

“Every thought in that pretty head of yours belongs to us.”

Shamrock slows to a lazy grind when Shanks shifts behind you, and he moves, meeting his twin halfway over your shoulder for a filthy kiss. You groan at the sight, pupils blowing wide and cunt clenching tight around the cock stuffed inside of you.

It wasn’t often that they shared that kind of affection, but it was like an addiction to you, every kiss shared between the twins like a fresh hit to your system. Your nails dig into Sham’s chest when you see him drag a hand into Shanks’ hair, fisting the short strands while he licked into the younger man’s mouth. The sight and sound they made were obscene, but to you, they were perfect.

“Fucking voyeur,” Shanks rasps against his twin’s lips when he catches you watching them. He smirks, eyes heavy with arousal and growing heat when Shamrock mouths against his jaw, teeth scraping over his facial hair and leaving behind a red mark that would fade by the end of the night.

“She likes it,” Sham murmurs back and kisses his twin again, hips never once slowing from that crawling drag of his cock that leaves you drooling. Shanks huffs a smug laugh and then pulls away, releasing your throat to allow you to take your first full breath.

“I know,” Shanks hums and snags the bottle of lube that had nearly rolled off the bed. He drizzles it over your backside and where he has three of his fingers stuffed inside your ass, “She’s a lil freak. I fuckin’ love it.”

Shanks twists his fingers again, making sure that you stay nice and open for him while he slicks his dick up with his free hand. Shamrock bounced you on his prick, cockhead kissing your cervix with every drag inside. Slowly, Shanks replaced his fingers with his cock, hissing when you clenched around him and sucked him in greedily.

“Always so god damn tight,” Shanks hissed when he eventually bottomed out. Shamrock was taking deep breaths, shoving away the need to spill inside of you. He could feel his twin, the added pressure making you feel even tighter than you already is.

You shudder between them, so gone and cock drunk that you can’t think past the multon pleasure that your twins bring you. Fuck. You don’t even remember why you’d been upset in the first place. The only thing you can give a thought to is how good it feels to be stretched open.

“Christ,” Shamrock breathes and reaches for Shanks, sliding his hand back into his twin’s hair and tugging him so that he could see your face. Your cheek is pressed against Sham’s chest, eyes half-lidded and blown with lust, drool leaking past your lips to slide down and smear over his chest, “Look at her, Shanks.”

“I know,” His twin whines and begins a slow rhythm. He reaches down, past your hip and to his brother’s, fingers digging into hard flesh as he leads the two of them, making Sham match his pace. The rhythmic rocking makes your eyes roll back, breathless moans spilling from between your lips like a paid whore.

“Can’t let her forget,” Shanks mutters lowly. His nails bite into his brother’s flesh, but Sham just groans at the sting, hips stuttering as pleasure spikes in his gut, “How much she owns us.”

Words fall away after that, and the room is nothing but a chorus of whines and low grunts, the three of you tangled together and lost in a haze of pleasure. You lose count of how many times they bring you to that edge and then shove you off, switching up at some point and leading you right back up to that cliff so that they can toss you over it again.

Your body is a mess by the time it’s over. They are sweat slicked and tired, cocks stiff, half hard as they lie tucked around you.

Shanks has you cuddled close to his chest, your face pressed against his throat, while Shamrock presses in on your other side, pinning you between the two of them. They share slow kisses while you rest, listening to your even breathing and keeping you held tightly. Shamrock pulls away and rests his brow against his twins, his eyes lingering on your face.

“We must do better for her,” He murmurs and lifts a hand, smoothing his fingers over the swell of your cheek and down to your jaw, “We can not keep failing her.”

Shanks sighs and presses back, eyes sliding shut as he nods, the motion a slow dip of his chin. He tightens his grip on you and his twin, breathing them in, “We will. She deserves that much.”

He falls silent when you stir, a soft groan leaving your lips and then your voice, rough from sleep and sex, “Everything okay?”

Shamrock shushes you and kisses the back of your head, Shanks following his lead, and his lips find your brow. They hadn’t meant to wake you.

“Everything's fine, baby,” Shanks assures you and kisses your forehead again, lingering this time with a soft sigh, “Go back to sleep, hun.”

You make a soft sound and then fall quiet again, assured that the twins were still here and wrapped around you. They share a look and stroke your back and sides, their touch soft and reverent. They know they have to do better, but like hell would they ever let you leave them. You were theirs, just as much as they were yours.

And if they needed to keep reminding you of that? Well, that wasn’t a problem.

They began to stay over more often, and you would kick them out later and later until you simply stopped doing it at all. Shanks would find you during your work hours, a bright smile on his face and your favorite coffee in hand. You were furious at first, annoyed that the men who you'd let into your home had invaded your work, but even that, eventually, faded away. Replaced with a fond look whenever you see the redhead waiting for you during lunch.

You would come home to them already inside your apartment, Shamrock making the kitchen his home as he cooked dinner, always mindful of your favorites. Shanks would take your coat and lead you to the couch, crouching by your side and rubbing your sore ankles from having to wear heels most of the day. His touch would become heavy, wanting, and his lips would find the inside of your thigh, skirt tucked up around your hips and a devious tongue seeking out your weeping slit.

The twins made sure to pamper you, to whisper sweet nothings in your ear, to assure you that they were the only ones you would ever need. Shamrock would lean over the couch, long hair ticking your ear, his lips insistent upon your throat as he left behind marks that claimed you as theirs.

“You love it when we touch you like this, don't you darling? How could you ever live without us?”

You would whine and try to deny him, but then Shanks would distract you, lips wrapping around your throbbing clit and sucking harshly. Shamrock would grin against your throat, eyes heavy-lidded with desire. He would cup your cheek, turning you his way so that he could press his lips to your own, drinking down the sound of your low sounds of pleasure.

Whenever you came to your senses, you would try to kick them out, face red and temper high after Shanks had made you late to work that morning. Shamrock would stand behind you, big hands on your shoulders, and Shanks would be in front of you, his single hand on your hip, fingers curling around your hip, eyes big and pitiful.

“You don't mean that, baby. You shouldn't have to work anyway, you know we'd take care of you.”

It would take a while, but they would wear you down, hands gentle but demanding of your attention, pressed in on either side by lean, muscled bodies. You would sigh and make them promise you that they would never make you late again, but that promise would never last.

Time would pass, and eventually, they would press and press you to move in with them. They lived in a townhouse with plenty of room, bigger and nicer than the apartment you lived in. You would protest each time, arguing that they lived too far away for you to comfortably travel to work. Shanks and Shamrock would back off, sharing an exasperated look, knowing that they would try again once you calmed down.

But when your apartment, situated on the bottom floor, suddenly flooded and you had nowhere else to go, why, they were giddy when you rang them, tears in your throat while you asked to stay with them until you could find somewhere else to go. They would move you and your meager belongings into their home that very night, and that is where you would stay.

They pushed away any attempt or idea of you moving out, bodies curled around you, making you miss the open house that you had planned to visit. You would scoff and snip at them, but in the end, you would concede like always. Even if you somehow moved away, the twins would make sure you ended up back with them anyway.

“You'll miss us too much, baby. How could you ever want to leave us?”

“Aren't you happy with us, darling? Who else could fuck you like we do?”

But then you began to miss work again, and that same old argument would start right back up. You had worked hard to get to where you are now, so how could you just give it all up? Shanks would whine at you, and Shamrock would point out that while you should be proud, you had them to take care of everything now. He would point out that they already paid for everything, utilities, food, anything that you paid even the slightest attention to. You did not need to work.

It all came to a head when you were let go, as suddenly as your apartment flooded, your boss was calling you into their office and telling you to pack your desk. You had called the twins, crying and in a panic, and they were there, sharing a knowing look over your head as they cuddled you close and promised to take care of everything.

Like with moving out, they shot down any attempt for you to get another job. Your interviews never went well, either ghosted or never a call back, but the twins were there each time, assuring you that there was nothing wrong with you, that you were amazing and could have anything you ever wanted, all you needed to do was ask.

Eventually, you would get used to not having to go to work and would spend your hours tucked away between two redheads, eyes closed and legs open for greedy mouths and demanding hands. You were nothing without them, could do nothing without them. The Figarland Twins are your world, so how could you deny them when the topic of marriage came about?

“Marry us, sweetheart. Let's make this official, yeah?”

“The Figarland name suits you well, my love. Just say yes, and we'll take care of it all.”

Weeks later, you walk down the aisle to two men dressed in dark suits. It's a small ceremony, with only their father and Shanks’ closest friends attending. Afterward, they would sweep you away for a month-long honeymoon, just the three of them and a small cottage tucked away on their private beach. They would fuck you, wild and animalistic, stuffing you full of hot cum and making sure that none went to waste.

Shamrock would twine his hand with yours, rings clinking together and making something dark within him snarl with satisfaction. He would press into you from behind, cock bullying into your sore cunt, lips pressed against the side of your neck. Shanks would stroke your sweaty brow, a kind smile on his face, though his eyes burned with an obsession he had kept hidden from you until now.

“You're so pretty like this, sweetheart. Gonna make you a momma, and Sham and I will be the best daddies in the world.”

“Our child will be beautiful, just like our sweet wife. Look at her, Shanks. Isn’t she perfect?”

You would come away from the honeymoon pregnant and exhausted, two men bracketing you in from both sides. They would dote on you even more through the rough months of your pregnancy, even when you snapped and snarled them, only to whine for them over the slightest of hurt feelings. They loved it, they loved you, and nothing would ever take you away from them.

The figure before you was gigantic, and the scandalous state of undress did nothing to hide his monumental form. Sun-kissed skin, stretched taut over a terrain of thick muscle, was marred by a map of silvery scars that spoke of countless battles. A light dusting of golden hair, catching the dappled forest light, traced the hard lines of his torso, leading down past the stark V of his hips.

His face held a wild charm, a rough stubble dusting a jaw that looked capable of crushing bone. And his eyes… they were a blue so piercing and knowing it felt uncanny. They saw the tremor in your hands, the traitorous hitch in your breath, the coil of heat tightening low in your belly despite your terror. Two large wolf ears, a shade darker than his tousled blonde hair, twitched and pivoted at your every whimper, attuned to the frantic rabbit-beat of your heart. Behind him, a magnificent golden tail lashed once through the air with a soft swish, betraying his interest.

But your gaze, horrified and helplessly fascinated, was dragged downward. Between his tree-trunk thighs, utterly unabashed, it stood – a thick, ruddy, obscene length of flesh, heavy with prominent veins. It wasn't fully upright but jutted forward with a weighty promise, the tapered tip already beading with a single pearl of moisture that caught the dappled forest light. It gave a slight bob as you stared, making your own breath stutter in response. The air grew thick, charged with the scent of pine, musk, and something feral.

You stumbled back with a shriek, clutching the basket and holding it in front of you like a shield. “S-stay back!”

The sound that rumbled from his chest was deep and grating, startling you for a second. 

“Whoa there, lil’ Red! Easy! I don’t bite… much.” He took a casual step forward, his nostrils flaring. “Gods. That smell...” He inhaled deeply, and a smile spread across his face, revealing sharp canines. “The sweetest pie.”

“Take it then!” you squealed, thrusting the basket toward him, squeezing your eyes shut. “Just take the pie and don’t hurt me!”

“Hmm?” He plucked the basket from your trembling hands, sniffed it once, and threw it aside without a glance. “No, no, silly thing. Not that pie.”

A large hand closed around your wrist. You gasped, eyes opening wide to meet his blazing blues. They were glazed, half-lidded with a hunger you barely understood. 

“Name’s Varka, lil’ Red,” he growled, “and I’ve just caught the ripest scent in whole damn Wolvendom.”

“No!” You tried to pull back, but his grip was iron. “Let me go! I have to go to my grandmother!”

“Grandma can wait,” he purred, his other hand coming up to push the hood of your cloak back. His fingers tangled in your hair, appreciating your beautiful locks before yanking you against the unyielding wall of his body. The impact knocked the air from your lungs, and you were acutely aware of every sculpted ridge of his abdomen and chest pressed against you. The hard line of his erection, throbbing with a slow pulse, pressed against your belly, searing hot even through the layers of your dress. You whimpered in pure terror, and your high-pitched sound ignited something feral in his eyes.

A terrified “Please!” was all you managed before his fingers, tipped with claws that lightly scored the fabric, closed on the front of your dress. With a brutal tear, the pretty red fabric turned into a shredded remnant in his massive fist. You stumbled backwards, and your ass hit the soft moss of the forest floor. 

Varka kneeled and loomed over you, a mountain of scarred muscle and primal intent, blotting out the sky. His blue eyes, the pupils dilated into dark pools, glinted with a heat that had nothing to do with violence. His gaze lingered on your exposed belly and the tender swell of your breasts rising and falling with panicked breaths. Instinctively, you crossed your arms over your chest, a futile shield.

“Still tryin' to be modest, sweet Red?” Varka rumbled fondly, a low growl lacing the words. His knee, rough with hair and corded muscle, pressed insistently between your thighs, using his overwhelming weight to force your shaking legs apart. The cool forest air kissed your skin, making you shudder. “No need for that. Let’s have a proper look at what’s makin' all that sweet smell.”

You thrashed like the sweetest prey, your red stockings snagging and tearing against something in the moss. “Please, no – the pie, take the pie!”

“Hah! I’ve told you,” he snarled, leaning down so his hot breath, carrying the wild scent of his arousal, fanned your face. His rough stubble scratched your cheek as he nipped at your earlobe. “I’m not interested in the one in the basket.”

You felt his hands, rough like weathered bark, completely engulf your hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of your inner thighs as he spread you open wider. With another rip, this one accompanied by the sickening sound of torn lace, the remaining skirts and your delicate panties were rendered into useless shreds. You screamed, kicking back wildly. Your heel connected with the solid rock of his thigh, which only made his cock, now fully erect and angrily red, jump and leak a thick strand of precum onto your inner thigh.

“Feisty! I like the fight in ya!” Varka laughed wholeheartedly, and his wolf ears flattened against his skull in concentration. His lips find the shell of your ear, whispering intimately, “Gon’ lick ya stupid, lil’ Red. Gotta taste what I'm goin’ to destroy...”

Before you could plead again, his mouth descended. His lips and tongue were a brand of fire, trailing down, sucking violent hickeys into the tender skin of your neck, your collarbone, the trembling swell of your breast. Varka stopped over your pert nipple, sucking the innocent flesh deep into the scorching cavern of his mouth, teasing the poor bud mercilessly with the rasp of his rough tongue, then bit slightly around it, his sharp canines leaving a perfect red circle of indents around your tortured peak. 

The mix of pain and shocking pleasure made you grab fistfuls of unruly hair near his ears and tug. This only elicited a low growl of approval from him as he released your poor flesh with an obscene pop. 

“Tha’s it… Ya startin’ to look like mine, Red.” He admired the darkening mark with a possessive gleam in his eye before continuing his relentless journey south, licking a broad stripe down your belly, his nose inhaling deeply, savoring the salt of your sweat and the sweet feminine scent beneath. As his handsome face came level with your loins, hidden in shy curls and glistening with your own betraying arousal, Varka stared at your slit, appreciating the delicacy of his next meal. 

"Here's the pie I crave," he murmured, and buried his nose in your curls, sniffing like a starved bloodhound at a feast. A rumbling groan of appreciation rattled in his chest, and, drunk on your scent, he finally licked a burning path from your dripping entrance all the way up to your swollen clit.

You jerked as if struck by lightning, a broken cry torn from your throat at the white-hot bolt of pleasure that seared through the numbness of your terror. Your toes coiled against the damp moss, and your hips gave an involuntary jerk towards his greedy mouth. Varka growled, the sound shaking his entire frame and vibrating deliciously against your labia.

“Oh, fuck,” his voice was muffled against your slick folds. He lapped at you again, broader, slower, more proprietary, his broad nose nudging insistently against your clit as his tongue parted your inner lips, prodding at your leaking hole, savouring the taste. “Hit a jackpot. Cunt sweet as honey and ripe as a fucking peach. You knew what you did, coming into my woods ovulating, didn’t ya?”

With that, Varka hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, the red wool of your torn stocking being a stark contrast against his sun-tanned skin. Dipping back, he pressed his face to your cunt so tight that his nose flattened your poor clit, and his tongue became relentless when you whimpered at the sensation. It speared inside you, fucking you with shallow thrusts that made you sob and gush more of your honey into his thirsty mouth. Then it flattened, dragging over your clit in tight, dizzying circles that had your back arching off the ground against your will, your hands flying to his head once again. 

This time, though, you didn't try push him away. Instead, your fingers tangled in his hair, the gesture caught between a plea to stop and a desperate pull for more. Varka held you down easily, one huge hand splaying possessively over your lower belly, pinning you, urging you to gush out more sweetness against his face. 

With his tongue on you, in you, you were becoming boneless, melting slowly, the forest canopy spinning above you. Tears of shame and pleasure streaked your temples.

“Va– Vah–!” you tried to plead, but found yourself unable to speak when he sucked at your clit again.

“Sho– shooo fuckin’ shweet,” he snarled between licks, his hands coming up to cruelly pinch and roll your neglected nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, kneading the soft swell afterwards. He shifted, nuzzling lower, his wet nose tracing a path further down. His tongue, eager and curious, darted to tease the tight pucker of your other hole, kissing and licking it with blunt pressure.

“Ah! N-not there!” you shrieked, jolting as if struck.

“Everywhere,” Varka corrected hungrily, his voice muffled between your thighs. “But for now…” His tongue returned to your weeping slit with renewed fervor, drinking from you, licking up like a starved mutt, then sucking your raw clit into his mouth with obscene gusto, smearing more of your juices all over his stubbled cheeks and chin, biting at the tender nub ever so gently with his teeth. 

The culmination was too vast to fight, and, with another teasing nip, you came, body convulsing violently under the prison of his mouth and hands, your vision whiting out as waves of shameful pleasure wracked you. Varka tugged at your nipples again and drank every spasm, every drop, his growls of satisfaction vibrating through your very core.

“Fuck yeah,” he panted, lifting his head, his face glistening with your release. “Jus’ a small appetizer before the main feast.” As you lay there trembling, utterly wrecked and puddled on your own red cloak, he moved up your body. His immense weight settled over you, supported only by his forearms, deliciously crushing the air from your lungs. The intimidating length of his fully erect cock, its ruddy skin flushed dark and slick with his pre-cum, pressed insistently against your quivering entrance. He nudged impatiently, and you felt the tapered tip catch and begin to part your swollen hole.

“W-wait!”

Varka did not. 

With a single, powerful, and utterly devastating thrust, he fully sheathed himself inside you, and white-hot pain obliterated everything. You didn’t hear yourself scream, and didn’t feel how your nails dug into his scarred shoulders, scoring thin red lines over old silvered wounds, as more tears escaped your eyes. There was a tearing in your abdomen, a stretching beyond comprehension, a burning invasion that split you open around a thickness you could not fathom, and a hot trickle of blood joining the mess of fluids between your legs.

Varka halted, his entire body going rigid above you. His nostrils flared, sniffing audibly at the coppery new scent mingling with your arousal in the air. His pupils dilated into vast pools, the blazing blue nearly swallowed whole by dawning realization.

“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he breathed, his voice a thick rumble of lust and sudden wonder. He pulled back just enough to look down between your joined bodies. A smear of vivid crimson painted the thick root of his cock, a stark, virgin red glistening around the veined flesh and the swollen knot at its base. A profound change came over him. The rowdy predator was still there, thrumming in the tense cord of his muscles, but it was now layered with something else – an almost reverent gentleness. The low growl in his chest softened into a deep purr, and his tail began to thump a joyful rhythm against the moss behind him. 

“Ah, sweetheart...” he murmured, the words gravelly with awe. Varka lowered his head, his stubbled jaw scraping gently against your cheek as he nuzzled you, his large wolf ears swiveling forward to catch every hitched breath. He licked the tears from your skin with surprisingly soft licks, the action slow and soothing, like a dog trying to calm his owner.

“Shhh, lil’ Red, you’re good… Givin’ your first to a Big Bad Wolf…” He kissed your eyelids, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth, his actions bizarrely tender even as his monstrous erection stayed lodged deep inside your pussy, the heat of him a brand on your very core, stretching you with a fullness that bordered on torture.

“Gonna make it so good for you, you’ll beg for more, yeah? For now, be a good girl and relax, ‘key?”

Varka stayed like that for long minutes, kissing and cooing, letting his weight envelop you, letting your body adjust to his monstrous invasion. The burning pain slowly began to transmute into an unbearable fullness. You felt stuffed, speared, owned. And as he began to move – a shallow rock of his hips – withdrawing almost all the way before sliding back in with aching slowness, the pain melted into a pleasure so intense it felt like dying.

“M–more!” you sobbed, back arching into him needily.

He cradled your head in his calloused palms, kissing your face as he thrusted. Each gradually deepening move punched a soft whimper from your lips. Needing to anchor yourself, your hands found his bulging forearms, clinging weakly. Varka made a pleased sound deep in his chest and gathered you closer, the hot, musky scent of his sweat and skin enveloping you.

“That’s it,” he grunted, his composure beginning to fracture as the rut reclaimed him, his gentle rhythm growing more insistent, the slap-slap-slap of his flesh against yours growing louder in the quiet glade. “Submit, lil’ Red. It’ll feel even better...”

Slowly, but surely, the world broke apart. Each piston-like drive of his hips punched the breath from your lungs and smashed the tapered tip of his cockhead against the mouth of your womb, making you see stars. The wet, filthy sound of him pounding your sloppy cunny filled the air, louder than your cries.

“That’s it, baby,” Varka roared, his own composure shattering, his claws extending just enough to prick the skin of your hips, “So tight, so hot around me– fuck! Gon’ knot you so full!”

One hand gripped your hip so hard you knew there would be bruises in the shape of his fingers. The other wrapped in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat for his biting, sucking, kissing. His teeth grazed your pulse point, not breaking skin, but promising the mark. Your breasts, freed from your dress, bounced and jiggled wildly with every brutal thrust.

You were beyond thought at this point. Cock-drunk, mindless, pounded into the wet moss by a Big Bad Wolf himself. Your legs, which had been pushing weakly at his sides, now locked around his waist, your heels digging into the small of his back, just above the base of his thrashing tail, trying to pull him deeper, to feel the burgeoning pressure of his knot against your ravaged hole.

“Va– Varka! P-please… mo– ore!” you heard yourself beg, the words slurred and shattered by each devastating plunge.

He laughed, a joyous sound echoing in his chest. “Such a greedy little virgin I caught! Wants it all, doesn’t she?” His eyes, glowing with feral adoration, devoured your mindless form. “Ride it then, baby! Take what you need from me!”

In a dizzying display of strength, he rolled onto his back, keeping you seamlessly impaled. Your world spun as you found yourself straddling him, your hands on his hairy chest, his shaft buried to the hilt inside your clutching pussy. Varka folded his powerful arms behind his head, muscles bulging, and grinned up at you with wolfish delight, his golden tail thumping against the moss. “Earn your cream, lil’ Red. Show this ol’ wolf what yer made of.”

You tried to move, but managed only a shallow rise before sinking back down, a needy sob catching in your throat. Seeing your struggle, the vestige of the predator vanished, replaced by a guiding lust. 

“Aww, poor Red... Let the Big Bad Wolf help ya,” Varka murmured, and his large hands settled on your hips. He began to guide you, lifting you with ease until just the swollen tip of him remained inside, then pulling you down slowly, sheathing you back onto his girth like a toy.

“Like that, yeah?” he encouraged, his blue eyes holding yours. “Use me, darlin’. Take a ride.” 

With his help, you found a rhythm – a slow, deep, rolling grind that dragged every inch of his veined shaft against places that made you see Celestia behind your eyelids. You rose and fell with a wet plap-plap-plap, aided by the upward thrusts of his own hips, meeting him in a syncopated dance of mounting frenzy, your head thrown back in abandon.

“Look at ya,” he panted, his hands leaving your hips to cup your breasts, kneading the soft flesh with rough reverence. “First timer, and already ridin’ that cock like a pro, yeah? Bouncing on it like you were born for it. Want my cream tha’ bad?”

“Please! Varka! Give it to me– I need it– I need you!” You nodded frantically, slamming yourself down onto him despite the tang of pain in your cunny, meeting his upward thrusts desperately. The base of his shaft, that threatening swell of his knot, began to stretch you even wider with every bounce.

“Come on my cock then!” he ordered, his voice a guttural snarl. “Squeeze it out of my balls! Let me put a litter in you!”

“I’m gonna– Please–!” You shattered. Your orgasm was a tidal wave, violent and all-consuming. Your cunt clamped down on him like a vise, rippling and convulsing around the intrusive thickness, milking his length in rhythmic, desperate pulses. 

“That’s my good girl!” Varka howled, his heart banging against his ribs, eyes rolling back. His vision whited out, and in that void, the only image was you.

“Gon’ cum!” was his final warning. His face contorted in ecstatic release as he sat up halfway, wrapping his arms around your waist in a crushing embrace. With one final, powerful upward surge of his hips, his knot slid past your resisting entrance with a wet pop, locking him inside you. At the same moment, you felt the tip of his cock kiss your cervix, delivering hot his spent right into your fertile little womb.

For a blinding second, his vision whited out entirely, and in the void, Varka swore he saw you – not the trembling girl on top of him, but a maker wearing your face, baring teeth in a sharp smile of absolute approval.

Ah, fuck.

The realization was a different kind of punch, landing in the gut as his body was still wracked by the last waves of release. 

Letting you go? Ha! Absolute bullshit!

Not now. Not ever. Not after he’d just nutted his very fucking soul and brain into your shy cunny. Not when you’d taken him – all of him, the fear and the fury and the frantic need – and met his frenzy with an eager rhythm of your own. Not when your shattered moans of his name had sounded less like pleas and more like a prayer.

“Mine,” Varka finally decided, hands flying to the meat of your bruised thighs, making sure that he marked them with his fingertips properly, “My pretty Red…”

You collapsed forward onto his chest, sending you two to fall on the soft moss, sobbing through the endless pulses that filled you, feeling your belly grow warm and heavy.

Varka held you through it all, one rough hand splayed over your lower back, the other groping and spreading your ass, his middle finger teasingly pressing an insistent circle against your butt in a promise for later. Even when you went limp, his hips never stopped their shallow jerks, pumping his cum against your cervix in spurts until he was utterly spent and sure it would take. When he could speak, Varka looked down on you, draped so fucking adorably over his massive body. His blue eyes were sated, possessive. 

“So, my lil’ Red,” he murmured, his thumb stroking over your hip. He shifted slightly, making you both aware of the warm seep of his spend already beginning to leak out around the knot still plugging you. “Grandma’s not getting her pie. Not now, not later, not ever.” 

You lifted your face to stare at him, and his tail began a happy wag against the moss at the sight of your dazed, fucked-out, questioning expression. Varka leaned in, licking a broad stripe from the corner of your swollen lips up to your temple, and you blushed adorably, hiding your beautiful face in his hairy chest and nuzzling into it like a needy pup. “But her granddaughter… she’s getting all the pies she deserves.”

As the knot began to soften, he pulled from your tarnished cunt with an obscene sound, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness and the flood of gush that followed.

In one swift motion, Varka stood, tossing you over his broad shoulder like a prize. Your head hung down his back, your sore cunt openly dripping its creamy load in a thick trail down the inside of your leg and onto the forest floor. He turned his head, his blue eyes darkening with renewed hunger as he watched the evidence of his claim leak from your raw cunny. Smirking, he ran a hot tongue up your outer thigh. 

“Breedin’ season’s on us, my lil’ mate,” Varka growled, the words a hot rumble against your skin as his fingers dug possessively into the soft flesh of your ass. He began to move, walking deeper into his territory, his thick tail lashing with primal satisfaction. “My den’s where you belong. Gon’ take you home and keep that pie full of my cream ‘til you’re properly fat with my pups.”

He leaned down, his breath scalding against your skin before his teeth sank in, making you tremble and marking the curve of your ass, a promise of bruises and bite marks to come. A low, predatory chuckle vibrated through him as he laved the stinging spot with a broad, rough stroke of his tongue. 

“And Big Bad Wolf has lots of cream to share.”

.

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Series Masterlist: Creatures Features

Next part: Pride Rock (Hard) (LionHybrid!JingYuan x fem!reader)

Honestly, I liked it so much when I'd finished the first draft. But after I edited it... I don't know, it feels kinda drier than I intended it to be. I need to know if I'm the only one who thinks so, so please, don't hesitate to leave a comment! c:

My darlings (taglist): @nazifa613, @spookydragonsong, @noentalrae, @fayebyte, @melimelisworld, @itslovelyangel, @cum-fvk, @forbidden-permission, @luv-isolde, @rinki-tinki, @alwaysseventypercent, @koseyisntcozy, @rochunsfw ...

it was by pure coincidence that you had stumbled on him. he was a sad sight: huddled and shivering behind the dumpster in the alley next to your apartment. yeah, you didn’t want to own a pet, but could you really leave a stray out in the cold like that? so you took him in—‘leon,’ the name on his collar read—bathed, fed him, and gave him a place to sleep.

you showed him a kindness he's never experienced before; cold rain and hard surfaces are all he’s known his whole life, but you’re different. you’re warm and soft and sweet—everything he imagined the perfect owner to be.

so it’s no surprise how quickly he grew to love you. a lot.

but sometimes, he wishes he wasn’t so obsessed with you.

because it'll be hours before you're home again, away at something called 'work,' before he can hug and lick and kiss you. the thought of waiting that long makes the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

leon lets out a sad whine for only the empty apartment to hear. he misses you.

some comfort is all he needs right now. he pads over to your room, where your scent is the strongest, and climbs on the bed to bury himself into your pillow. the smell of your shampoo fills his nose as he sniffs all over the fabric before digging his face in it, trying to drown in your scent and pretend it's you. for a moment, it works. he imagines burying his face in your tits like this, imagines you scratching behind his ears and calling him a good boy in that sweet voice of yours. his tail wags at the thought.

but... it's not enough. he grows restless—the pillow isn't warm. it doesn't pet his hair or kiss his forehead or tell him he's a good boy. it's not you.

another frustrated whine. he sits up, tail thumping on the bed, unsure of what to do. he needs more. something that will satiate him for the next few long hours without you. nose hiked in the air, he sniffs around the room before catching a whiff of your scent coming from your closet. and then he sees it: your laundry hamper.

he feels no shame rifling through the dirty clothes nose-first. there's nothing wrong with missing you, with wanting to be comforted, right? it’s innocent enough—him sniffing out whatever article of clothing it is that smells the most like you and pulling it out with his teeth:

a pair of panties.

he carefully tucks them in his mouth and goes back over to your bed, settling down on your side again. he sniffs at it and something stirs in his tummy, but he’s not quite sure what it is. the fabric is thick with that sweet, heady scent, unmistakably yours. this is just what he needed. it smells so good, exactly like you and that spot between your legs.

leon takes another inhale and lets out a low whine, that feeling in his tummy stirring again, but stronger this time. it’s an unfamiliar ache. a dull heat that pools between his legs and leaves him dizzy the further he digs his face into your underwear. he’s not entirely sure why he lolls out his tongue and licks at the fabric, but the taste of you only makes the ache burn hotter. it triggers something; a throb so strong that it nearly makes him yelp.

he looks down at his body, to where it's hot and aching the most—his cock. fully erect, stiff and drooling against his abdomen, tip flushed a bright red. he whimpers sadly at the sight. it’s starting to border on painful but he's not sure what to do about it. he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to think about you.

with an experimental roll of his hips, leon lets his cock brush onto the mattress. he’s completely unprepared for the rush of pleasure it brings, making his body grow taut, back arched and tail stiffening. a shiver runs through him. it feels… good. he does it again, harder, this time letting out an unabashedly loud moan.

soon he's rutting himself on the bed while he slobbers and drools all over your panties. all he can think about is licking you like this, laving his tongue in that spot between your legs. the thought sends another hot pulse straight to his cock and him into a frenzy, hips are a blur as he licks at the crotch of the fabric, moaning over and over and over. he can’t stop. he's so far gone, lost in this new addictive pleasure that he doesn't even hear the click of the front door opening.

you frown. normally leon's greeting you with licks and hugs the moment you step foot through the front door, but your pup is nowhere to be seen today.

the apartment is small, and all it takes is a quick glance for you to see he's not in the living or dining room. the bedroom is the last place to check—and that's where you find your puppyboy sprawled on the bed face-first in a pair of your panties, letting out high-pitched cries as he humps the mattress fervently, too busy chasing his high to notice you're even here.

the sudden touch of your hand to his hair breaks him out of his trance. his dumb pup brain is so muddled with lust it takes him a few seconds to realize it’s you—you’re here, real, stroking his ears and smiling at him, and it's not just his imagination. immediately he pounces on you, wrapping you in a tight hug that knocks you back onto the bed.

his tail wags furiously as he smushes his face into you. "missed you. p-please, need you," he mumbles.

he's never felt this way before. feverish, sensitive to the point that he's uncomfortable in his own skin. consumed by some sort of need, an insatiable heat that gnaws at his chest and threatens to swallow him whole if he doesn't do something about it.

your touch comforts him briefly—the kiss to his sweaty forehead and your hands on his back allow him to relax a little. "my poor baby. puppy just wanted to taste me, hm?" you ask, looking over to your now chewed-up panties crumpled on the far side of the bed.

a low whimper is all he can respond with. part of him feels ashamed for what he did, for accidentally ruining some of your clothing. and maybe if his brain wasn't so dizzy with need right now he'd think about the consequences of his actions and apologize. but instead what comes out is, "please... c-can i?"

your voice is sweet but your words are not. "i dunno, leon. you're a bad dog, ruining my underwear like that."

you practically watch his heart break in those wide, innocent eyes of his. "n-no, please, 'm a good boy, 'm your good boy..." he cries, clutching you tighter. a bad dog? the reprimand hurts worse than any other punishment possibly could.

"then why don't you prove it, baby?" you spread your thighs apart and that's all the direction leon needs.

he wastes no time shoving his face beneath your skirt and bringing himself face-to-face with your still-clothed cunt and inhaling. your pillow, your panties—neither of them even compare to the source, or give him the same rush of pleasure that dragging his tongue up your labia does. he curls your panties to the side with a finger, giving him enough access so that he can slurp at your slick just like he imagined earlier.

he's so eager, so starved of your taste and approval and love that he grows pussydrunk too quickly, practically making more sounds than you, whining and moaning as he all but devours you whole, laving his tongue anywhere he can reach and pressing his face as far in as poassible. that heated ache from between his legs is even worse than before, when he licked at your panties like this, and if he let himself grind his puppycock on the bed right now he'd cum immediately, but he ignores it.

because all he can think about are your words earlier—bad dog. nonono, that's not him; he wants to hear you praise him, hear you moan his name all pretty and tell him he's doing a good job. so he pays attention to your every reaction instead, how you twitch and hum when he flicks his tongue over that sensitive spot on the top. he focuses there, puppylicking your swollen clit over and over and over, even when your thighs clamp tightly his head and threaten to squeeze him away he still doesn't stop, slobbering and sucking at your pussy til you're creaming all over his lips with a sob of his name, because he's desperate to be your good boy again.

that gives him the reaction he wants—the sounds you make are so pretty, his ears perked up to your every breathy moan as you buck your hips into his face and ride out your high, leon licking up every bit of cum that drips down your perineum.

when you squirm from the sensitivity and shove his face away, leon moves back up your body. he rests his chin on your chest and looks up at you with puppydog eyes, his tail wagging in slow, broad strokes. "did i do good?"

it takes you several seconds to reply. you lay there, ruffling his hair and ears mindlessly, still reeling from your orgasm. "y-yeah, puppy did such a good job. good boy, leon."

finally.

he's so happy he can't help but crash his mouth onto yours and kiss you. it's sloppy, a mess of teeth and tongue, but you find yourself meeting him with equal desperation. you let him lick into your mouth, tongue heavy with the taste of yourself as it slips against your own in a heated kiss. that's all he wanted to hear and he's so excited right now he could die.

and his heart nearly stops when you wrap your legs around his hips and murmur, "please, leon." the need in your tone makes his head buzz with adoration. his tip bumps against your labia clumsily and leon lets out a noise from the back of his throat. he's so pent up, basically edging himself all day and leaving his cock swollen and aching so hard that he could probably cum untouched right now.

and the moment he pushes inside you, he does.

he didn't mean to. but you're so wet, soaked from your orgasm and spit and now his spurts of thick cum, that it's impossible for his eyes not to roll to the back of his head. his entire body trembles from the overstimulation but he pushes further and further in, cock still stiff even after cumming, splitting you open until he's buried balls deep and his pelvis rests against yours. the drag of him in and out of you is loud, he's so loud, whining with every slow thrust that fucks his cum deep inside you, the squelch of your creamy pussy milking his cock and making him lose his fucking mind.

it’s not long before he’s fucking you with that same horny puppy pace that he fucked the mattress with earlier, only you feel so much better. better than he could ever imagine—hot and wet and addicting. he can't slow down, thrusts so so sloppy while he fucks himself dumb in your perfect cunt, tongue lolling out and eyes going crossed, poor puppy brain so overstimulated it's all he can do to not cum a second time right now.

"i wan' it," he slurs. it feels like words are impossible to form, his tongue too heavy and thick for his mouth right now. "wanna cum again, inside you."

"yeah? puppy wants to breed me?" you hum.

breed. that word sets him off.

pure instinct. that's what he's driven by as he humps you even faster, rutting his puppycock inside you so desperately, needing nothing more than to knock you up and make you his. "yesyesyes please," he begs. "wanna breed you, wanna litter of pups. please-"

his babbling is cut short by his own choked gasp as your legs wrap around his hips and lock him there, forcing him deep inside and unable to pull out.

"cum for me, leon."

and he's gone, cumming hot, thick ropes, filling you with nothing but him, claiming, marking you in the most primal way possible.

you're his, and no one else's.

---

Gross dad Leon who tells you that the mouth kisses you two share are normal and all daddy’s and their girls do this, you don’t think anything about of it anymore. Completely use to this routine now. You kiss dad all the time, some gentle, some harder than usual, and sometimes. Gross dad Leon would make weird sounds while doing it. And makes you rub his….area over his jean, he swears it’s okay for the two of you to do it. So you do.

Gross dad Leon who tricks you into sucking him off by telling you it’s like giving him a massage,

“you want dad to feel good right? Go on, thaaats it, and no- oh fuck, no teeth baby, m’Kay?”. Your warm mouth slowly sucking him off, drooling slightly while he plays with your hair. Eventually, he cums and when you ask what the white stuff is he just tells you, “It’s just what happens when a man’s body is really relaxed”. You don’t think anything of it, you trust your dad. He would never do anything to hurt you… right?

Gross dad Leon who gets hard whenever you call him dad for any and everything, using how you sound as fapping fuel for later at night in his stuffy bedroom. Sometimes getting soft when the voices in his head tells him how fucked this is, jerking off to his daughter who he’s supposedly to take care of. But in the end he always ends up shooting his load at the thought of crossing that line and making you take his cock.

Gross dad Leon who drugs you during dinner, ending up sloppily making out with you while you’re trying to hold onto consciousness. Breaking away from the forced kiss to ask, “why are you doing this dad?”, all pouty and teary eyed. Leon ignores you, pulling you into your childhood bedroom and humping your pussy.

Your panties becoming sticky from his precum leaking through, "So good" he whispers to himself, rolling his eyes from how hard he's rocking into you. The contrast of his quiet grunts, your confused ones, and the heavy creaking of the bed as he humps away at you like a dog over your panties until he cums in his underwear. Like a boy instead of a man.

Gross dad Leon who loves to eat you out while you're asleep, quietly shuffling into your bedroom. Straddling you, squeezing your peaking nipples and rubbing them in loose circles with his rough thumb over your thin tank top. Gently getting off you to slowly peel your thick comforter off your legs, tracing his index finger from between the valley of your chest to the slit of your clothed cunt.

Humming at the feeling of his fingers exploring your pussy growing wet under his perverted touch, laying his tongue flat against your slit. Getting your underwear covered in his spit before pulling them down your legs, leaving it hanging on one of your ankles that he placed over his shoulders. Leon wasting no time in devouring you, his eager mouth finding your clit, sucking on the little bud with a pleased moan from how sweet you taste.Your sleeping body coming undone with a shudder, still deep in sleep, creaming all over your dads tongue.

Gross dad Leon who tricks you into letting him stretch and fill your virgin cunt. Telling you that he’s just checking your temperature a different kind of way…. After finally getting you wet enough for him to fit, he lays you on your back, spreading your cunt lips with his thumb and index to watch him stretch you. “Fuck, so warm in here baby” he grunts as he watches his cock being swallowed by your tight pussy.

You’re watching him on your elbows, grabbing the sheets from how much it hurts. “So am I sick dad? It h-hurtss ” You whine, wanting this to be over quickly. “Mhmm so sick baby, but don’t worry, dad knows how to make you feel better”. His hips begins picking up speed, fucking into you harder. You start to question whether your dad’s lying or not…..

Gross dad Leon who practically forces you to be his daughter wife, which becomes slightly more annoying at night when he forces you to lay with him.Trapping you under his heavy body. You try and search for sleep while he’s letting soft whines slip out from the nightmare plaguing his dreams, something tells you to soothe him. And you try to. Brushing his sweaty strands out of his face, rubbing his back until he stops his tremors. Returning to a steady stream of regular breathing.

Gross dad Leon with a breeding kink. He knows how wrong it is, how fucked up he is for wanting to stuff his cum deep in his daughter’s cunt but he can’t stop himself from wanting to fill you up. You push him over the edge with how you’re always desperately begging for him not to pull out. How can he say no to his little girl?

Gross dad Leon who feels bad about how far he's made you stray from innocence, moaning “I'm sorry” and “I love you” in your ears while defiling you in the same bed he made you in with your mom, fucking you in a way that would turn her stomach in knots if she was here to see. Seeing her daughter stuffed to the brim with her father's cum night after night, in various positions and locations around the same house she bought with him long before you were born. But he can’t help it, you’re his special girl!

Fawn: spreading the gross dad Leon agenda all 2026 xx

Drink. More laughing. Nope, less laughing. More confusion. “Why am I so sleepy…?” You’re out. Head thumping against the counter, like the idiot you are. 

“Yes, I know her. Daughter of a friend. Yes, take care.” Who cares who takes you home? Not the bartenders when they get paid minimum wage. You looked like the perfect victim in the back of his car. Unassuming. And so beautiful. 

“Stop crying like that, fucking god,” he rasps, squeezing your face hurt enough that he knows it’ll bruise in the morning. Leon is trying to be somewhat decent but you’re making this so hard. Why can’t you appreciate that at least you’re getting raped in missionary? Isn’t that somewhat romantic? You can see his face and hopefully when you stop getting on his nerves, you’ll see how much he “adores” you. 

You can both hear your sloppy cunt squelching on his dick, his balls slapping against your ass. You want this. You’ve been asking for it all night. It’s almost as if you can read his thoughts, frantically shaking your head when he tries to kiss you. Strings of your arousal cling to the tufts of hair around his shaft, a ring of frothy cum and blood at the base of his cock. Leon bets it would be so easy to knock you up, to just cum inside you without a care in the world after battering up your cervix.  

He missed this. It felt like heaven dragging you inside and tearing your clothes off. You have the cutest pussy he’s seen in a while, and it feels fucking good to be the one to ruin it. To ruin you. Bruise you up. Bite you everywhere. Leave you bleeding. His breathing grows uneven and the familiar tingle of his growing orgasm starts to bloom, a sick smile spreading across his wrinkled face. “Shit, gonna cum. Be still, hey, I said be still.” You start to thrash because you know what it’ll mean if he does cum instead. A shriek escapes your lips as you leave bloody scratches on his arms, your entire body starting to weirdly shake. “What the fuck- Jesus Christ, you didnt!” Between the alcohol and the drugging and the sheer amount of panic your mind and body is under, you piss yourself. All on his dick, soaking his abdomen and the sheets like some feral dog. It feels like an orgasm in the most humiliating way possible, your legs trembling around Leon’s waist while you scream. 

“Okay, you know what?” It really does get to a point for Leon. He’s fifty-one, which is fifty-one years too old to be giving himself headaches. You barely register him peeling himself off of you and pulling out before the back of his hand makes contact with your face once more, knocking you out. 

Leon is, much to his own embarrassment, a big consumer of porn.

The internet is amazing because how else can you go from watching stepmom porn to something that borders a snuff film? It’s always been a hidden fantasy of his to make his own sex tape, especially when he was young and still getting action. 

He still owns an old VHS camera he bought back in the day. In fact, it made a visit last night. Propped up on his nightstand so he could record himself fucking you. Fucking evil. 

You’re painfully sober now that it’s morning. The sheets have been changed on the bed but the smell of piss and sex still lingers. Your face is swollen from being slapped and your eyes are puffy. It hurt when Leon manhandled you into his lap, your cunt so sore you nearly screamed. By now you’re left with the dreadful truth that you’ve been raped, possibly knocked up, and being held captive. 

It’s still dark. Curtains are drawn over the windows. There’s bottles of pills scattered on Leon’s dresser. Dirty clothes on the floor. Yours from last night look like ribbons, torn up at the foot of the bed. Playboys stacked high on his desk with what looks like work documents. A fucking gun on his nighstand along with that stupid camera. And a TV mounted on the wall across from his bed, complete with a VHS player connected to it. For some stupid reason you thought that after a certain point in time, you couldn’t use VHS players with modern TVs. Unfortunately, you were wrong.

He mumbles threats in your ears and he makes you swear you’ll hold still, silent tears rolling down your cheeks as he gives his cock a few lazy pumps. “Come on, work with me here,” he grumbles, slapping your thigh and pushing you off his lap enough to rub the tip of his cock against your abused folds. Like before, there’s no pleasure or intimacy to this. Of being held in his lap, your back nestled into his chest. Len’s filthy fucking dick hurts as he carves its way into your cunt, staring dumbly at the TV. 

And then it comes to life with a click of the TV remote. The video is grainy and the audio is shit but you know for a fact that’s you. Sobbing, pinned under Leon while he fucks you. For a moment, he almost smiles at you before you try to bite him and he starts shouting complaints at you again. 

“So dramatic,” he grumbles into your ear, rocking you in his lap and letting out a low groan. “Pissing on me, really?” He turns the volume up, and you gag. It’s filthy. You watch yourself, your bodies mockingly interlocked in a seemingly romantic embrace with your chests pressed together. He’s already thinking ahead into the future just watching this, of fucking you in this same position on your wedding night. 

Marital rape always had a very nice ring to Leon’s ears. And he’s a sucker for wedding lingerie.

You start to sob again as he bounces you on his dick, covering your face as you listen to yourself. But Leon’s patience is a short fuse and before you know it, his arm is wrapping around your neck to choke the air out of you. All you can do is babble pathetic sorries and wheeze, your tears dripping onto his bicep. 

He asked you, a new hire at the bar where Dante frequented. He had expected Sam – the usual bartender who served him at this hour, but no. It was you. Not that he was going to complain, you were pretty, but you looked young. Too young for him anyway.

You've heard from your coworker about Dante. He was a regular who usually ordered a strawberry sundae even though this wasn't a diner, but he frequented it here so much that the manager decided to add it to the menu. Preparing the dessert, you could feel the older man's gaze on you before looking back at the TV above the bar.

It made you wonder why he was glancing at you now and then. Did you have something on your uniform? Did your lipstick smudge when you went out on your fifteen-minute break to eat a sandwich?

Handing him his order, he thanked you with a grin, making you tilt your head to the side, curious as to why he was smiling.

"Thanks, doll." "Do you call all of the female staff here 'doll', or..." "Only the cute ones, and there aren't many female hires here, y'know, so you're a sight for sore eyes."

You flush at the compliment, not expecting it. Was he... Flirting with you? Deciding to shake it off, you scoffed softly.

"What? I'm serious, doll. You're pretty."

Dante continued, grinning as he saw the pink hue spreading through your face and ears. You were adorable.

"You don't get flirted with a lot, don't ya, sweetheart?" "Sweetheart..? Seriously?" "Yeah. And I'm betting, you're a sweet little angel, aren't ya?"

Dante teased, causing you to flush further, knowing what he meant by 'Sweet little angel'. He didn't have to know you were a virgin and a prude with no sexual experience whatsoever. He shouldn't.

But it was obvious in Dante's eyes—your innocent yet defiant behaviour towards his teasing and flirting was proof of it.

Maybe it was the alcohol—it was not—but Dante decided to do something he might either regret or enjoy later.

"Doll, are you free after your shift?" "I—yes..? I don't really go out after 1 AM. Why?" "Because I'm bringing you home tonight."

His confession surprised you, making you raise an eyebrow at him. He was taking you home with him?

"You're joking, right? I don't even know you. Stranger-danger and all." "Doll, I know you're old enough to use your cute little head, so use it. You can always say no, and I'll back off."

That was tempting. Saying no, but something inside you wanted to experience something. Anything, really.

You've kissed boys and dated before, sure. But the moment sex came into the mix? You always chickened out, telling yourself it wasn't the right time yet.

Throwing caution to the wind, you took a deep breath before looking back at Dante with a determined yet doubtful expression.

"I.. I'll go. But we go to my place. Not yours." "Alright, pretty girl."

Dante could feel your gaze on him for the rest of your shift, glancing at him while you tended other customers or while wiping the counter.

It was curiosity that made you agree, and he wasn't going to ruin his chances by acting like some creep. He didn't want that.

After your shift, you took off your bar uniform and changed back into your casual clothes, sighing in soft relief that you were finally clocking out.

Heading toward the back door, you were startled by Dante, who seemed to have been waiting for you.

Right. You really were going to do this.

"Don't tell me you forgot about me, doll." "I didn't, I just got startled." "Well, sorry for that then... I don't wanna seem like a threat to you, so we'll take this slow, hm?" "Okay..?" "Good, good. I'm Dante."

You answered back with your own name, Dante muttering it a couple of times, as if trying to get used to saying it.

"Mmm, you have a pretty face and a pretty name." "Thanks.." "No problem."

The silence following your conversation was awkward, but not unpleasant. Both of you walked towards your apartment, the building not too far from the bar, surprising Dante when he saw that it was just three blocks away from Devil May Cry.

"Well, hey, would you look at that." "Huh?" "You don't live far from me.. My shop is just about three blocks that way." "You own that Devil May something shop?"

You ask, Dante snorting softly at your attempt to name his shop.

"It's Devil May Cry, and yeah. I own it, why?" "Nothing..."

You mumbled, looking away from him, your face getting covered by your hair.

You never thought that the hot, older guy you had seen around the block was the same scruffy man in front of you.

He looked different. But it wasn't a bad type of different. You couldn't admit it to yourself, but his scruffiness made him a bit hotter.

Going up to your apartment, you unlocked your front door before entering, letting Dante in along with you. Taking your shoes and coat off, you looked up at the man not too far from you, who was looking around your place.

"Neat place. You live alone?" "Yeah, I do.. I, uh, I don't really like sharing my space." "Ah, I see. So, uh..."

He trailed off, grinning smugly to cover his awkwardness, though the air was thick with it, along with the tension which had been building up since he teased you during your shift.

"Would you like some water..?" "Huh-?" "Water." "Oh, sure, I'd like that."

You walked over to your kitchen, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge before handing it to Dante, your fingers gently grazing. Even if it was a short moment, it sent a shock through your body. Why did a small touch like that make you feel so warm inside? Were you okay?

As if Dante read your mind, he spoke, looking slightly concerned, but more curious.

"You good, doll?" "Oh- yes-! I- uhm, I'm fine.." "You seem red, are you sure you're fine?"

He started his teasing again, opening the water before taking a swig of it, some water dripping down his neck to the collar of his shirt—

It made you slap yourself mentally, telling yourself that you were supposed to be taking this slow, even if you had just invited a random hot man into your apartment.

Once Dante finished the water, he crushed the bottle before throwing it away. He turned back to you with a slight head tilt, seeing you zone out a bit.

He patted your cheek to get you out of your head, causing you to jump and blink up at him.

"You zoned out a bit there, sweetheart." "I- just.. I found you drinking water kind of hot." "Pfft– yeah?"

You blurted that out of impulse, admitting what you were thinking of to him. He didn't seem to mind it—no, Dante seemed intrigued by your slightly bolder behaviour.

"Are you trying to flirt with me, doll?" "What if I am?" "Continue with that and you'll find yourself under me getting fucked until you can't think of a proper sentence."

He murmured boldly, and your face burned as your eyes widened at the vivid description. You could feel yourself clenching around nothing, heat building up in your lower abdomen from Dante's words alone.

God, were you so touch-starved that a simple confession like that made you wet?

The answer was yes, and you wanted to get railed in the way he just described. But you were so unsure of what to do or how to even start, which made this whole situation awkward for both of you.

Yet, Dante was patient. He didn't want to rush you, but he could see how your body reacted to his words. How you inhaled sharply, how your jaw clenched, and how you reeked of that sweet scent he probably won't be able to get enough of.

"Doll." "Y-yeah..?" "C'mere."

He led you to your couch, sitting down before pulling you onto his lap, making you straddle one of his thighs.

And holy shit, he was big. Bigger than you expected from this distance.

"Is this okay?" "Yeah- yeah, it is.." "Do you know how to kiss, sweetheart?" "I—"

You scoffed the second time this evening, the question offending you. Kind of.

"Of course, I know how to kiss!" "Do ya, doll? Because the way I kiss ain't sweet little kisses like those times with your little boyfriends." "Try me—"

With that, Dante grabbed the back of your neck, pulling you closer until both your faces were inches from each other, breaths mingling.

"Last chance to back out, doll." "I wanted this. Give it to me." "Alright, ya wanted it.."

He leaned in, pressing what seemed like a soft kiss at first, testing the waters with you. He soon darted his tongue out, sliding over your lip, surprising you slightly, and causing him to pull back.

But with him pulling back, you chased his lips. It made him lean back in, pressing a more heated kiss against your mouth, grunting at your eagerness.

You opened your mouth for him when he darted out his tongue this time, letting Dante slide his tongue in, a soft mewl leaving you when your tongue swirled with his.

Your hands moved from your lap to his shoulders, grounding yourself as you kissed him.

Tilting his head, Dante deepened the kiss, practically fucking his tongue into your mouth now, not letting you catch up as you tried. He was getting carried away. You just tasted so sweet.

He soon got a grip of himself, turning the kiss back into something you could handle. The small noises coming out of your throat were sending blood down to his dick, making it twitch in interest.

You squirming on his lap wasn't helping his situation either.

"Ya can grind against me, sweetheart.. come on, make yourself feel good."

He muttered against your lips, his free hand moving to your hip, helping you to properly rock your hips against his thigh.

"That's it... Atta girl." "Dante–" "I know, sweetpea, I gotcha."

The new pet name made your cheeks flush, reminding you that he was indeed still older than you. Continuing to kiss him clumsily, you whimpered against his lips again when you felt your clit rub just right against the hard seam of your jeans, your grip tightening around his shoulders.

"Fuck... That feels good, hm?" "Yeah—" "Keep doing that then, pretty girl." "Mmh.. Dante." "Yeah?" "Want it..."

You murmured, Dante's ears twitching at your words, knowing what you meant but still playing dumb. Too quick. You wouldn't be able to handle it, he told himself.

"Not yet, sweetheart." "Why-?"

You pouted against his lips, Dante holding out a smile at how adorable you were, begging for his cock.

He would've gladly given it to you now if he hadn't known you were inexperienced, but you were, and you probably were a virgin too.

"Gotta get your pretty pussy ready f'me first."

He picked you up by the back of your thighs, respectfully close to your ass before standing up. You immediately clung onto him like a koala, a small chuckle coming out of him.

"Where's your bedroom, doll?" "There.."

Bringing you to your bedroom, Dante gently placed you on the edge of your bed, making sure you were sitting before kneeling down between your legs.

"Gonna eat you out and fuck you with my fingers first before giving you my cock..."

He easily pulled your jeans down, leaving your panties on for now, seeing the pink polka dot material. He raised an eyebrow at you teasingly, probably because he expected you weren't planning to get laid tonight.

"Cute panties, sweetheart." "Shut up.." "Is that what you say to the man who's about to eat you out?" "I—no.. sorry." "Good girl."

The small praise made you want to clench your thighs together, but Dante was in the way. He soon slid your panties down, discarding—pocketing them into his pants—it along with your jeans.

Seeing your glistening slit was a sight to behold for him. Fuck, you were so wet.

He wanted to immediately delve into your cunt, ravage you until you came around his fingers and tongue, but he had to be patient.

"Dante, please—"

You pleaded impatiently as he continued to look at your pussy in a trance, your skin feeling hot in embarrassment for being so exposed.

"Sorry, sweetheart, you just look so..."

Finally moving forward, Dante flattened his hot tongue against your pussy lips, causing your hands to fly to his hair and grip onto it while your thighs closed around him.

He grunted softly at the action, knowing you weren't used to this just yet.

"Here, let me just.." "D–Dante—" "Shh, I know, pretty girl, but you need to spread your legs for me, so I can eat this pretty cunt out properly."

You listened, wanting to feel the pleasure, you spread your legs for him once more, giving him the space he needed between your legs to be comfortable.

He could feel how tense you were from how tightly you were holding onto his hair, and he wanted to soothe you, not tense you up.

"Babygirl, hold my hand. Come on, it'll be better than my hair.. unless you want me to go bald." "Pfft—"

You couldn't hold in your giggle, loosening up at his joke, and your grip loosened from his hair, taking his hand instead. He was right—it did feel better. And it grounded you from the thoughts you were having.

Warm hand, ragged breaths against your mound, and Dante. You could do this.

Once he felt like you were more relaxed, he squeezed your hand before speaking softly.

"Let go of my hand if you feel too overwhelmed, mmkay? We'll take as long as you like, but I'm going to leave you a crying mess around my cock by the end of this night."

That promise from him left you gaping, looking at him with a flushed expression.

He was going to leave you a crying mess around his cock by the end of the night.

You just nodded gently, not being able to speak before Dante delved back into eating you out.

He gently darted his tongue out once more, spreading your slit as he licked up from your hole to your pudgy nub.

The sensation was toe-curling, the feeling of getting head for the first time overwhelming you, but you didn't let go of Dante's hand—instead you only squeezed, making him hum softly.

He went slow, getting you used to everything, watching you whimper and writhe while he slurped and messily made out with your cunt. Dante tested your limits, checking what made you squeal and whine.

Once you were a writhing and sloppy mess, and your walls were spasming around his tongue, he pulled away, his hand that was holding your thigh moving to wipe his lips.

"Wh–why'd you stop-?" "You were gonna cum, sweetheart. I need to tease you somehow, hm?"

He grinned, tilting his head and leaning against your thigh.

Dante waited for you to cool down before going back with the same intensity, the feeling building up your orgasm once more, not being able to hold it in.

You squealed whilst squeezing his hand tightly, squirting on his face as whimpering moans left you.

"That's it, just—fuck, this is so hot.."

He groaned, lapping up your release, his erection painfully aching in his pants, but he ignored it. He was going to focus on your pleasure before his.

The mere fact that he made you squirt almost made him cum in his pants like a teenager.

When you came down from your high, he gently tapped your thigh, bringing you out of your trance.

"You okay, sweetheart?" "Y—yeah, I just, wow." "This your first time coming this hard?" "I–I.. yeah." "Good, because I'm about to give you three more before you can tap out. Can you handle that?"

The question burned into your brain. Three times. Three hard orgasms.

You only managed to nod, earning a smile and a soft "atta girl" from him before he moved away from your messy cunt, and pressed a kiss on your forehead.

Dante started undressing, taking his shirt off first, revealing his toned chest and abdomen. Your eyes trailed from his slightly hairy chest down to his V-line, seeing the happy trail and a distinct vein before seeing the massive tent in his pants.

"Like what you see, doll?" "Mhm.." "All shy and sweet for me now after I made you cum?" "What, no—shut up.." "Ah, there she is."

He chuckled when your brows furrowed and you huffed. It was cute to rile you up and embarrass you. The pink tinting of your cheeks was just too satisfying to see.

Then, he started undoing his belt, discarding it into the small pile of clothes. He soon unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, pushing them down and taking them off, leaving him in his boxer briefs which were strained from his erection.

Your thighs clenched and a whimper came out of your throat the moment he pushed his boxer briefs down, revealing his cock—thick and long, with a reddish tip—which was already pebbling precum at the tip.

"That won't fit—" "It will, sweetheart, I promise... We'll go slow."

He reassured you and soothed you by rubbing your inner thigh with his thumb and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

Dante then started grinding himself against your folds, lubricating himself with your juices. His tip was hitting your clit, causing you to gasp out softly at the pressure. Once he was fully covered in your slick, he positioned his tip at your entrance only to remember about condoms.

"Fuck.." "What is it-?" "I didn't bring any condoms with me." "Do me raw... I— I take birth control." "Are you sure, sweetheart?" "Y-yeah, I—I want it, Dante."

You pulled him closer, determined to get fucked tonight, your brain hazy with pleasure. That needy look in your eyes was going to be the death of him at this point, his thoughts filled with being able to fuck this sweet thing raw.

"Fuck, fuck, okay, shit—"

He was muttering to himself before finally pushing in slowly, having to close his eyes tightly from how good your tight heat was squeezing him even if it was only the tip inside.

You were holding onto him desperately, clawing Dante's back as he pushed his cock further into you until he finally bottomed out, his tip kissing your cervix.

Dante was panting, because fuck, if it didn't feel good to be inside such a tight cunt after a shitty day at work. He was on cloud nine with the feeling of your pulsing pussy getting used to the stretch of his length.

"Dante—" "I know, baby, I know.."

He kissed your forehead once more, seeing your face contorting in both pleasure and discomfort. Dante made sure to not move much to let you get comfortable with his cock.

The moment you gave him the green light, panting a soft "move", he complied. Moving slowly, he pulled his hips back before snapping back gently.

It made your toes curl. You've never felt something so good, your pussy sucking Dante's cock with every gentle thrust.

"Nnghh—" "That feels good, don't it, sweetheart? Don't worry, I'll take care of you."

He whispered almost sweetly, panting against your ear as he held onto your thighs. His pace got more intense once you got used to him, soft moans leaving your lips with every thrust, the sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the room.

You were babbling at this point, cockdrunk and pliant for him. It was one hell of a sight that ignited something in Dante.

"This pussy's mine now, right? No other man will have this pussy but me, doll?" "Mnhm-! Only yours." "Good, good, because I'm gonna breed this little hole full of my cum. Is that okay?"

He asked, flustering you. You hadn't thought about him coming inside, but now that he mentioned it, you wanted him to do that. So, you just nodded.

"Perfect— you're so beautiful like this, doll... fucked out and soft."

Dante moved one of your legs, pushing it up and slinging it over his shoulder so he could go deeper, your vision going white as you pathetically moaned.

He then moved his free hand to your clit, rubbing the neglected nub roughly, timing it perfectly with his movements.

That was your undoing, screaming his name as you came around his dick, your cunt spasming around him, milking him for his orgasm.

"Gonna cum in this pussy, make you mine, fuck, fuck—" "Dante, fuck–!"

Soon, spurts of hot cum filled your insides, painting your walls white. Your thighs were trembling as Dante's softening cock stayed inside you. Your back was arched off the bed, nails digging into his sweaty skin, and it was perfect.

By the time you recovered, you were still a panting mess, and Dante was already pulling out which made you whine.

"Would you look at that— good lord.. your pussy's perfect, dripping with my cum." "Again.. I wanna go again." "Really now? You liked my cock that much? Want me to breed you into the bed?"

His dirty talk made your cunt clench, more cum coming out of your used hole which made his dick twitch again, getting hard at the sight.

"Shit, okay, doll, you asked for it."

Gaze locked on his defiant little show, you raise a brow. “I could call a guard right no—“

“Then do it.” He smirks though you pretend not to see it out of your peripheral vision. “If you find me so presumptuous and repugnant then do it and I will be removed from your service permanently.”

What little courage you contained to begin with has surely taken its last breath. You now dare to look up from the hard, half exposed length to catch him looking down at you.

“Are you in love with me, Princess?”

“I may…” you trail off, swallowing thickly. “I may have found myself very fond of the mythology surrounding The Devil of the Killing Fields at one point in my life though that is no secret.”

Nor is it a crime. Embarrassing? Unfathomably so, even more such when it’s being used as a means to confront you. Clearly amused by his own antics, you watch in shock while he lifts his palm to his mouth to spit into it.

“But how about me, Ser Dante? The man himself?” He rasps, drool dripping from his lower lip.

Heat shoots from your cheeks to your chest and lower, your stomach and the paradise between your legs, watching such an erotic display. You don’t stop him though, mouth widening in surprise and closing tightly.

“What’s got your tongue today?” He coos, closing his hand around the heavy length and girth of himself that he pulls free from leather. “It is quite unlike you to have so little to say.”

You turn your head insolently, refusing to participate in his sick game.

“Come on. I have always been honest with you, your grace.”

Now you turn to face him incredulously, eyes wide with fury. “No you have not been.”

“When?”

Laughing humorlessly, you toss your hands up.

“You cannot find even the faintest memory of me in your head before now?”

Focused on his pleasure rather than your hysterics, he worries his lower lip between his teeth and stares at you with heavily lidded eyes. The emotions on your face are near priceless and broad in their feelings - horror from arousal to frustration and back - and the strength of such emotions spurs him to continue.

Clearly this is a good way to get a rise out of you. He’s always in search of those.

“On my sixteenth birthday you told me you would marry me someday.”

His eyes widen in surprise that you cannot find it in yourself to believe is from pleasure. He was 31 years old and one night away from returning to a war he believed may take his life.

“Ah yes, it appears now you recall,” you smirk.

You’re angry, seething even, but he’s too good to look away from. He clearly isn’t disturbed enough to stop his self pleasure, hissing under his breath while you continue and bracing himself with one hand on the top of your vanity.

In fact, you think it may be the very thing spurring him on. Your heart aches, selfish as ever where the brave youngest son of Sparda is concerned. You’ve been possessive of him your entire life though your will mattered little while you had less power, forced to share him with battlefield and diplomat alike.

The anger in you grows, more than a decade's worth of frustration clawing its way up your throat.

“I went to bed that evening believing more than I’d ever believed in anything that you would someday be my husband.” Now you’re chuckling though it lacks the same merriment as his. “Then you left the next day to go fight a battle, bloody as any have ever been in our history.”

Exhaling, you center yourself and focus on the movement of his knuckles and the veins you can make out that run on both the top and bottom of his shaft between his movements.

“So to answer your utterly priggish question Ser Dante, yes I am in love with you.

Gnawing your lower lip, nearly succumbing to the temptation just beyond the reach of your fingertips, you look up at him. “I have been since my girlhood to my great shame.”

Shame appears to have left the building, the knight not merely smiling but grinning ear to ear. He recalls that night only vaguely - a drunken blur thanks to a night of debauchery before the inevitable morning and orders to report to battle took effect.

He does not remember making such a promise but cannot say for certain he didn’t.

“We ca - fuck - we cannot marry now that you’ve made me your knight,” he reminds you while maintaining the same pressure of his stroke, making a circle with his index finger and thumb to squeeze the heavy crown of himself.

“True as that may be, I can at least be assured of your safety if you’re with me.”

His smile dims slightly, taken aback.

“I believe you may have this protector and protected business confused.”

Shaking your head, you inhale to center yourself.

“Of the pair of us, I am the one with the power here.”

His hand makes another pass from his tip to his base and back. “Is that so?”

“Unless things have changed and I missed it,” you toss back at him, reaching to join his ministrations on his shaft only to be stopped halfway.

His hand wraps around your wrist. “No.”

Twice in one evening he’s told you no. It must be a record for anyone to do such a thing.

“You have my sword,” he grunts.

“My soul.”

Another low howl from his chest that makes you whimper in response, heat crawling through your body.

“My life if you so call for it.”

His panting grows heavy, chest heaving and dotted with sweat. You memorize every outline of well honed muscle and each scar your hungry eyes can drink in, arm still locked in his firm but gentle grasp.

“Even my heart as well.”

You gasp cautiously, uncertain if he’s continuing to poke at your embarrassment. Choosing cautious optimism, your eyes dart between his handsome features and his beautiful balls that sway gently with his hard strokes.

“But perhaps I will make you wait for this until you are less petulant and quicker to be honest, Princess. What do you think about that?“

Suddenly that cleavage gets closer to his eyes. You lean in, now propping your head up with a fist beneath your chin.

“If you recall, I actually like you, something you’ve been told several times.”

“Then why the antics?”

“They get my message across, don’t they?”

A question with a question.

Your little efforts to remain mysterious amuse the man who has more than a decade over you greatly but you’re playing a game he invented.

“So, you’re just advertising yourself to me then?”

Another question and clearly this one strikes a nerve, your posture changing entirely, a humorless laugh escaping pretty lips.

“That makes me sound a bit cheap,” you mumble, clearly annoyed he’s likened you to a woman selling herself for his amusement.

Does he take you seriously at all?

Aware he’s struck a nerve, he finally exhales sharply, leaning in as close as you are.

“I’m really not trying to be an asshole, sweetheart.”

The term of endearment at least slightly unruffles your feathers. He watches your shoulders drop though your eyes remain narrowed at him.

“As many times as you’ve told me you like me, I’ve told you I don’t have anything to offer you and that hasn’t changed.”

“Then obviously you’ve misunderstood me this entire time.”

Dropping the flirtatious act, you place the cherry back at the top of his drink.

“I don’t want something from you. I want you.”

There’s no lightness in your words. None of your usual fluff and fussing and sing-songy teasing.

“And I think I’m running out of ways to say it,” you admit softly, looking away from him.

Oddly, his heart squeezes seeing you so vulnerable.

There’s more than just smirking and joking and frivolity beneath whatever front you put on to confuse people about who you really are.

You fancy yourself a prowling beast, lithe and undetectable, trawling for prey.

He knows better and so do you.

“What do you mean?”

The question is designed to goad you on, to give him a few more peeks at the woman beneath the carefully maintained mask. You look up at him, mouth downturned into a frown.

Dante realizes he doesn’t like seeing you that way quickly, reaching back into the drink to grab the cherry you discarded and holding it out to you.

“Keep it,” you tell him. “Sorry for taking it to begin with.”

“Oh don’t be like that,” he chuckles as he speaks, attempting to lighten the mood.

You don’t laugh along with him, instead reaching for your bag to pull it into your lap, preparing to leave.

Unexpectedly, Dante leans in closer to you, looking around to make sure nobody can overhear what he’s about to say.

“I like you too.”

Now you’re the one glancing at him with an incredulously raised brow, mouth set in a firm line.

Finding himself once again amused by your little fit, he simply shakes his head and looks down at you through overgrown hair. He thinks about himself, his life, his choices.

Then he thinks about you.

You really are sweet when you aren’t desperately trying to bother him. There’s a brightness inside of you he finds himself inexplicably drawn to — a moth to a flame, watching it flicker and dance and enjoying being on the periphery of its warmth.

It won’t work. Nothing like you can ever stay in his life.

Clearing his throat again, dry and tired and raspy, he continues.

“But I mean it when I say that I have nothing to offer you…not a single thing you can’t get from someone else.”

Lowering your head, you look up at him through your lashes.

“And I told you that I don’t care, why is that so hard to believe? Have I ever lied to you before?”

“I dunno, do you consider this little show you put on a lie or the truth?”

You scoff, sliding your bag onto your shoulder.

“The truth, even if you don’t want to accept that someone in this big world covets the opportunity to be the person you come home to.”

Covets.

The word weighs down on the man watching you rise from the seat across from him, digging through your bag to toss cash on the table.

“Enjoy the rest of your night, Dante.”

He looks over his shoulder, turning in the high seat to watch you walk away without even a second glance toward him. Your heels click across the tile, audible even over the noisy bar and you disappear into the night as quickly as you entered his life.

You want him to chase you, that much has been proven true so far, but there’s a time to think and there’s a time to run. Right now, he takes his time to think, turning back toward the seat you were just sitting in, sighing at its emptiness.

Yet without further deliberation, he finds himself following in your footsteps, rising to stand and heading toward the door himself. There’s a chance he could still catch you before you’ve made your way into a cab.

Combing his fingers through his hair anxiously, he flings the door open and looks on either side of the street. He spots you in the distance, walking, coat gathered around your shoulders.

“Hey!” he calls but you don’t turn around.

You covet the opportunity to be with him. Nobody’s ever coveted a thing from him in his life unless you count his brother’s stupid obsession with power.

With another heavy sigh, he takes off in your direction, long legs carrying him quickly, your words looping through his mind.

He’d been nursing fresh wounds after a brutal fight with another stray when you passed by.

He’d expected you to hurry away like the rest. Instead, you crouched down, just far enough to be safe, and placed a wrapped meal beside him.

"You look like you’ve had a rough day."

It was the best damn thing he’d ever eaten.

He should’ve let it end there.

But the scent of you lingered on the wrappers, and something primal in his chest ached.

Tracking you wasn’t hard. His nose led him through the city, past dim street lights and wary pedestrians, until he found your apartment. A small, cozy place with potted plants by the window. He watched from the shadows as you moved inside, humming to yourself.

-----

You didn’t expect to see him again.

But the next morning, there he was, looming in your doorway, battered and bleeding.

"You!... You’re hurt!" You rushed forward without thinking.

Gallagher let you touch him. His tail gave a slow wag.

You weren’t sure what to do with him.

Gallagher was huge, taller than you when he stood at his full height, his broad frame taking up far too much space in your small living room. His ears twitched at every sound, his tail flicking lazily as he watched you rummage through the first-aid kit.

You reached for the worn tag hanging from his neck, but he jerked back with a low growl, baring just the slightest hint of fang.

"Okay, okay...no touching the tag," you murmured, pulling your hand away. "But… Gallagher, right? That’s what it says."

His ears perked at his name, and his tail gave a single, heavy thump against the floor.

"Do you have somewhere to go? An owner? A… pack?"

Silence.

His eyes just stared, unblinking, as if daring you to suggest the one thing he really didn’t want to hear.

"I can’t just keep you here," you said, more to yourself than to him. "Maybe a shelter could—"

A deep, warning growl rumbled in his chest. His claws flexed against the floor, leaving faint scratches in the wood.

"Alright, no shelter." you amended quickly.

You chewed your lip, brainstorming alternatives, maybe a rescue organization, a hybrid-friendly vet, anything, but Gallagher had other plans.

His nose nudged your wrist. Then your elbow. Then your shoulder.

"Gallagher—"

You turned to face him, and he pounced, not aggressively, crowding you against the couch, his massive body caging you in. His breath was warm against your neck, his tail wagging deliberately.

Mine.

Later that night, you came home with a new collar, dark leather, sturdy, with a fresh tag engraved with his name.

You literally had no other choices.

Gallagher’s eyes gleamed when he saw it.

And when you finally reached for the old, rusted tag around his neck?

This time, he let you.

-----

Gallagher was, surprisingly, the most well-trained stray you’d ever met.

He carried your groceries without being asked. He nudged your forgotten coffee toward you before it went cold. He even learned how to operate the blender after watching you make smoothies once.

You were starting to suspect he hadn’t always been a stray.

"Gallagher," you said one evening, eyeing him as he effortlessly lifted a stack of books you’d been struggling with. "Were you, like… someone’s service hybrid or something?"

His ears twitched. He set the books down neatly, then knocked over a framed photo of you and a coworker, pretending it was an accident.

"Rude."

He gave you an innocent blink, tail wagging.

But the real mystery was his obsession with scent.

You came home from a friend’s birthday party, hugged Gallagher hello like usual, and he immediately sneezed, recoiling like you’d just doused yourself in acid.

"What? Do I smell weird?" You lifted your arm to sniff your sleeve.

Gallagher’s nose wrinkled. His tail went rigid. His entire body language screamed:

"WHO TOUCHED YOU."

Before you could react, he bolted to the laundry basket, dug out your favorite hoodie, and rubbed his face all over it like a cat in catnip. Then he dragged it to his bed and curled up on top of it, glaring at you like you were the weird one.

"Okay…?"

It got worse.

When a coworker gave you a pat on the shoulder? Gallagher "accidentally" bumped into you with his entire body, smearing his scent all over you like a living, breathing essential oil diffuser.

You dared to hug your best friend Hannah? Gallagher materialized behind you like a horror movie villain, resting his chin on your head and exhaling loudly, as if to say, "There. Now you smell like ME instead."

You caught him spraying your perfume on himself once.

"GALLAGHER!"

He froze, ears flattening guiltily, then slowly, spritzed himself one more time before putting it down.

The final straw was when you came home from a date.

You hadn’t even kissed the guy, but Gallagher took one whiff of you and lost his damn mind.

He dragged every blanket in the house into a nest on the couch.

He licked your hand like he was trying to disinfect it.

You stared at him.

He stared back, panting proudly.

Mission accomplished.

-----

Hannah wasn’t wrong. Gallagher was obsessed with you.

But in his mind, it wasn’t obsession. It was duty.

You were his human.

And yet, despite his best efforts (licking your coffee cups, stealing your hoodies, glaring daggers at anyone who so much as glanced at you), you still treated him like… well, like a pet.

A very spoiled, very possessive pet, but still just a pet.

And that wasn’t enough.

"You have to see how weird this is," Hannah insisted, gesturing at Gallagher, who was currently draped over your lap like a living, breathing weighted blanket. "He’s not just clingy, he’s territorial. Like, aggressively territorial."

Gallagher’s ear twitched.

"He’s fine," you said, scratching behind his ears. "Just a little protective."

"A little?!" Hannah threw her hands up. "He growled at Mark when he tried to ask you out for drinks!"

Hannah leaned in, lowering her voice like Gallagher couldn’t hear her. "Look, I get that he’s helpful around the house, but this isn’t normal. You should really consider—"

That’s when Gallagher made his move.

He nuzzled into the crook of your neck, rubbing his scent glands against your skin. Then he flicked his gaze toward Hannah, his eyes gleaming with smug satisfaction.

See? Y/n lets me do this.

Hannah’s eye twitched. "Did he just—?"

You sighed. "Yeah... He does that."

Gallagher knew he’d won that battle.

But the war wasn’t over.

Because as long as you saw him as just a 'pet', you’d never truly be his.

So he needed to change that.

That night started like any other, until you came home wasted.

Your cheeks were flushed, your steps wobbly, and your words slurred in a way that made his ears twitch with amusement. You stumbled through the door, giggling at nothing, and immediately face-planted onto the couch.

"Waaaaater," you groaned, flopping an arm dramatically over your eyes. "Gallagherrrr, wateeer."

He should’ve just brought you a glass.

But where was the fun in that?

Instead of water, Gallagher handed you a full water bottle—unopened.

You blinked at it, slow and confused, before fumbling with the cap. "Mmnngh… open it."

Gallagher smirked. Make me.

You scowled. Then, with all the drunken authority of a tiny, furious monarch, you grabbed his collar and yanked him down to your level.

"I said," you hissed, "OPEN. IT."

This was new.

He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear as he rumbled, "Kiss first."

You stared at him.

Then, without hesitation, you grabbed his face, shoved your lips against his in a messy, aggressive mwah!, and immediately pulled back, wiping your mouth with your sleeve.

"There. Happy? Now open it."

Gallagher’s brain short-circuited.

Holy shit.

Somehow, it got worse. (Or better. Depending on who you asked.)

When he finally opened the bottle, you snatched it from him, took a sip, then poured the rest into his mouth like he was a disobedient houseplant.

When he tried to nuzzle into your neck, you shoved him onto the couch and climbed on top of him, pinning him down with your knees on either side of his hips.

"You’re annoying!" you slurred, poking his chest. "If you don’t behave, I’m taking your stupid collar away."

Gallagher’s tail thumped against the cushions.

Oh no. Please don’t.

You smacked his shoulder for good measure. "And no more being a brat! Got it?!"

Gallagher’s ears flattened.

Got it.

You passed out shortly after, collapsing face-first onto his chest.

Gallagher lay there for a solid minute, staring at the ceiling, trying to process what the hell just happened.

Then, carefully, he lifted you into his arms and carried you to bed.

As he tucked you in, he couldn’t resist one last act of rebellion, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

"Mine." he murmured.

Then he paused.

...Maybe he’d pretend to misbehave tomorrow.