Friendly girl

Moonlight lit up the pale blue wallpaper and revealed his shadow. His body seemed tense, but not from nerves, but from the thrill. His head was slightly bent downward, like a monster readying itself to leap onto its prey. You knew that he knew, that you saw him.

You straightened your back slowly as you rose to your feet deliberately. Tears were still running down your cheeks silently and your jaw was clenched shut in a vice manner. You backed away from the man and turned so your whole body was facing Blade.

The world came to an halt as he emerged from the shadows. His dark blue hair covered parts of his face. His eyes however remained visible as they bored into yours. His eyes were unblinking as they drowned you in their pools of blood. The corners of his mouth pulled back up into a sharp grin. Blade’s eyes moved from your cowering figure to the deceased man. His smile widened as he studied his bloody handiwork. He was visibly pleased with himself.

Like a knife cutting through thick butter you broke the silence. “You- you monster. How dare you?” your voice a broken sneer.

At the sound of your voice, Blade’s eyes lit up. “Monster? If that’s what you want to call me, I won’t stop you” he took a step closer to you, resulting in you backing away. “I only did you a favour. He was not who he said he was. When I threatened him he said that I could take your life instead” he chuckled and tilted his head “What kind of lover does that anyway?”

“He didn’t say such thing. Don’t lie” you hissed, anger boiling in your veins.

“I am only telling you the truth. I have no reason not to” his smile faded slightly as his brows furrowed. “Did you seriously think I would ever let you run away with him? I would never allow it. I would have killed everyone on this damned planet if necessary. I still will, if I have to” he took a few steps. He was closer, almost too close. You could now clearly see the different red colour specks in his eyes. “You belong to me. You are mine” it was nothing but a declaration, the truth. He leaned in, giving you no space to run. Behind you was your dead former lover, in front of you was your future “lover”. It was first now that you noticed the small drops of blood adoring his cheekbones. They were small and gentle, just like the droplets of summer rain that rested on the lush grass of your garden early in the morning. It was the blood of your former boyfriend, the thing that gave him life now clinging to the skin of the man who only knew destruction. The sight made you sick and you felt helpless. Utterly helpless.

Blade’s intense gaze softened upon the new stream of tears that ran down your face. You could see the way his rotten heart clenched and you hated how human he looked. You couldn’t take it. “Kill me. Please. Just kill me. I cannot bear being in your presence. I hate you. More than anything. So just kill me” you took a step closer to him leaving only a few centimetres between your bodies. “I know you want to” your voice was broken and almost inaudible due to your sobs.

At your words the Stellaron Hunter narrowed his eyes. His lips tightened and his jaw clenched. “No. Never. We will be together forever” he took your trembling hand in his and brought it up to his lips. His lips were surprisingly soft as the gentle kissed your skin. “I have only known suffering and death. My days have been filled with pain and rot, but you- you have changed that. From the first time I saw you, I have known it has to be you. My world has regained its colour and death does not seem as appealing anymore” he spoke with a more softer voice you would have never thought was possible for a man of his calibre. “So how can I let you go? How can I ignore this all consuming feeling that’s filling me with life, but at the same time killing me? I simply cannot.”

You blinked a few times, completely at loss for words. “Wha-”

“Elio has given me the blessing. It would be rude of me to ignore it. I owe him my respect after all” he gently squeezed your hand, his cold bandaged fingers wrapping around your wrist. “I will never part with you. Ever. Our souls are one, never to be separated” black pupils blown wide, wanting to lure you down the darkness and forever trap you. “You are never going to escape me grasp now. I’m done with playing cat and mouse. It was fun as long as it lasted” his cold lips kissed yours, finally sealing off your destiny.

Taglist:

On your feet, now, nearly tripping over the guitar case at your feet as you passed the narrow width of the alleyway. You could call him. Despite everything, Toji had never missed one of your calls, even if he made texting a waking nightmare. But, calling him would mean you had to hear his voice that much sooner, and as desperate as you were to see him, a small part of you was quietly thankful for every moment you didn’t have to spend in his company. After every well-paying job, you’d luxuriate in the time you spent away from him, savor every day that passed without a looming figure in your peripheral or an overly large hand cupped over yours, pretending you didn’t know how to aim a pistol. That was after you got paid, though. If he was much later, you could kiss this check good—

A hand on your shoulder, a presence immediately behind you. You reached for the handgun tucked into your belt, but your assailant was faster – wrapping a strong arm around your midriff and pinning your arms to the side. You tried to kick out, but you were already being hauled off your feet, dragged against a broad chest as you struggled and thrashed. Your mind flashed to possible threats – a rival bounty hunter, a rouge sorcerer – and then practical solutions, like the knife strapped to your right calf or the case of cursed energy infused ammunition in your left boot. You’d just started to swing your knee up to your chest when, as suddenly as you’d been attacked, you were dropped and the alleyway was filled with a deep, rolling laugh. You blinked, humiliation-tinged rage slowly taking the place of primal fear.

Toji stood above you, terrible and gloating. He looked as tall as the skyscrapers on either side of you, the dark masking every feature of his expression save for that manic, self-satisfied grin. You let your eyes drop to the floor and pushed yourself up, pointedly ignoring the hand he offered to you.

“You’re late,” you grumbled, nearly under your breath. “The target arrived twenty minutes ago.”

“Thought you’d count your sweet ass lucky that I bothered to come at all. ‘specially with the way you talk to me.”

He kicked your guitar case upright, catching the handle haphazardly in one hand and holding it out to you – a peace offering, you figured. You snatched it away from him, slinging it over your shoulder protectively.

“It’s important. I wanted to be on the roof by the time he got to his room, catch him—”

“—with his pants down and his dick in his hand, got it.” He breezed past you, making his way to the locked door at the end of the alleyway. Begrudgingly, you followed after him. “Relax. You know you’re in good hands, right?”

Not right. You were prepared to tell him as much, too, but then he glanced over his shoulder and you were swallowing your tongue, suddenly only capable of staring pointedly at the ground. You hated what he did to you, forcing you to be so deeply, painfully aware that you were a very new player in a very old game. You hated how he made you feel, like you were just a puppy biting at the ankles of a mountain lion. You hated how you sounded around him – all whining and chirping, too childish to be respectable. You hated what he made you into.

You hated him.

Not that it mattered. In the end, you said the same thing you always did – nothing. Toji paused, cocking his head to the side. “Right, princess?”

A grimace, a stilted nod. It was a meager sacrifice, but it satisfied the beast. He marched on without another word.

You had planned to pick the lock, but Toji shattered the deadbolt with the heel of his foot. He shrugged past the door, and you followed after him, a lesser shadow fixed to the soles of something greater.

Work was quick with Toji, efficient. You’d seen him enjoy himself, watched him gut self-righteous sorcerers like the mindless cattle they were, but that wasn’t his usual motif. You stuck to back-halls and service corridors, disabling security cameras as you went. He communicated through glances and grunts, and you did what you could not to say anything at all. You avoided employees, but had you run into one, they would’ve been dispatched. Witnesses were a mess neither of you had the patience to clean up. You could deal with the guilt on a full stomach.

Finally, you slipped through an emergency exit and onto the roof. The line of sight from the west ledge was ideal, aligned perfectly with the penthouse of the hotel next-door. Toji scoped it out while you threw down your guitar case, unlatching it to reveal a perfectly calibrated, perfectly maintained sniper rifle just waiting to be put to use. It was your prized possession, your baby. You didn’t hold onto much, but you’d cling to your gun ‘till the day you died.

You pieced your weapon together while Toji gave you the run down.

“Lights are on but no one’s home. Saw him and a civilian head into the shower a few minutes ago – we’d be better off waiting them out.”

“And the windows?”

“Warded, but not bullet proof. They weren’t expecting us.”

They never were. The only things sorcerers cared about were invisible monsters and the profits they could earn from slaughtering them. Threats like you and Toji didn’t make the radar.

You shook a few specialized bullets out of your carrying case – nothing fancy, but engraved with just the right runes to break through any base-level spiritual protections. When your rifle was loaded and your jaw let, you laid on your stomach, propped your barrel on the ledge, and waited.

Toji was right – you’d be here for a while. The bedsheets were disheveled, the bathroom door ajar and steam pouring through the empty gap. You kept your finger on the trigger and your scope trained on the doorway. If this took more than fifteen minutes, you’d trade out with Toji for five so you could rest your eyes. You hoped it wouldn’t, though. You liked being able to deal the killing blow.

So concentrated on your target, you didn’t notice Toji behind you until you felt something bulky settle between your legs, his hands coming to rest on the backs of your calves. You winced, but stayed focused. This was nothing new. Toji liked to fuck with you. He’d get bored and leave you alone, eventually.

You counted out a minute, then another. Toji’s hands drifted, finding your ass. It was only when he started to knead that you snapped over your shoulder, glaring. “I’m trying to work.”

“Don’t let me stop you.” His tone dripped with something thick and sweet. “I’m just enjoying the view.”

Grimacing, you turned back to your scope, hoping your disinterest would be enough to shake him off. If he’d been in a kinder mood, it might’ve.

He wasn’t feeling very kind tonight, though.

“I like you.” He said it like a compliment, like praise. Calloused fingertips bit into the plush of your ass, then found higher ground, bracing around your hips. “Didn’t think I would. When Shiu told me I’d be training one of his newbies, I told him to shove it.”

He’d already told you this story. Sometimes, he mentioned changing his mind after seeing a picture of you or planning to leave a bullet in your head the first time you were paired together. Tonight, he was merciful enough to spare you the details.

“The whole ‘young and hungry’ thing really won me over. I’ve always had a soft spot for strays. Guess it comes with age.” Your hold tightened around the grip. A light flickered in the sorcerer's hotel room. “The pretty face helps, too. Love the way you look at me – all pouty and doe-eyed. Like I’m gonna take a bite out of you.”

He leaned over you, his crotch pressing into your ass. You could feel the outline of something stiff, something hot, and his right hand slipped underneath you, cupping your cunt through your jeans. You nearly pulled the trigger on reflex.

“Careful, there. I won’t be as nice if I have to clean up your mess.” He ground the heel of his palm against your clit. Rather than shutting your eyes, or kicking, or running, you poured yourself into your rifle. Toji wasn’t serious. Whatever he was saying wasn’t serious. All that mattered was you, the bullets in your chamber, and where you were going to aim them.

Not that Toji was easy to ignore. When you failed to react, he applied more pressure, lowered his head so that you could feel his breath against the nape of your neck. Your body felt too warm, too rigid. You needed him to stop touching you. You needed to be somewhere else – on a different rooftop, in a different city. You needed your target to come out so you could shoot something and be done with this.

“Eyes forward, mind off,” he muttered, voice nearly muffled by the proximity. “Just like I taught you.”

Two broad fingers pushed underneath your waistband. You heard your own voice before you realized you were talking.

“Please don’t.”

Toji pulled back. “One more time, dollface?”

“Please don’t.” You dug your nails into unforgiving plastic, gritting your teeth. The words seemed to scrape and claw at your throat, urging you to spit them out, to avoid disappointing your senior without cause. You wouldn’t. You couldn’t. You’d sooner die than—

Toji’s thumb toyed with the button of your fly, and you didn’t have a choice.

“I haven’t—” You flinched, swallowed. A hand wrapped around the bathroom doorframe. “I haven’t done this, before.”

His laugh was throaty and terrible. Slowly, he pulled away, pushing himself back onto his feet. “Too good to lose it on the clock, huh?”

Yes. When it came to Toji, at least.

You focused on the silver linings. He wasn’t touching you, anymore. He’d backed off when you put your foot down (or, you could convince yourself he had, at least). You’d be able to go home and take a shower hot enough to burn the feeling of his hands on your body away. You were fine. Everything was good. You were fine.

And yet, when a figure finally stepped into view, you didn’t check to see who it was before pulling the trigger.

~

You stopped answering Toji’s calls, after that job. You still picked up for Shiu, but you didn’t want to talk to Toji, didn’t want to think about him while life was good and you had cash to burn. You avoided laying on your stomach, or turning your back to strange men whenever you could help it. It took him a couple weeks, but eventually, he got the message. There were a few wonderful days of blessed radio silence, and then, he asked if you wanted something to eat.

An hour later, you were standing outside of a restaurant three tiers above your designated tax bracket, wearing a borrowed cocktail dress and hoping your desperation wouldn’t be too apparent.

He’d booked a private room. It was a business dinner, technically, which meant you choked down double your wait in pork and beef and calamari while Toji and Shiu reminisced on memories made while you were still in grade-school. Toji told you about the day he’d fought Gojo Satoru and beaten him to such a pulp, Japan’s strongest sorcerer had to buy him out of his bounty just to survive the match, and you pretended the story didn’t make your heart beat just a little faster. Shiu ordered sake, and you picked the brand. As you polished off the last of the bottle, Toji gestured for you to come to their side of the booth, and without thinking, you obeyed.

He pulled you into his lap as soon as you’d rounded the table. You should’ve pulled away, but he’d done this kind of thing before – made you sit on his knee while going over reconnaissance for a job, rested his hand on your thigh during a late-night train ride – and the alcohol made it easier not to care. Shiu chuckled as you settled into place, a thick arm barred over your waist to keep you where you were.

You tried to rest your head on his shoulder, but his free hand came up, catching your chin. He pinched your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger, earning an annoyed whine from somewhere deep in your throat.

“Pay attention. I was just telling Shiu about our last job.” You grimaced at the thought. Shiu’s expression turned pitying, but Toji went on uninterrupted. “You got a boyfriend yet?”

“…I don’t.” There’d been a few guys off and on, but nothing serious, nothing lasting. Isolation suited you too well to give up so easily.

Toji grinned. “Keep it that way. Me and him – we’re the only men you need in your life.”

“’s not true,” you mumbled, one word ebbing into the next. “Only one of you pays my bills.”

There was a bark of a laugh, a quick kiss pressed into your forehead. “Just say the word. I’ll have you moved into my place by tomorrow morning.”

You tried to picture where Toji might’ve lived, but you’d only just managed to visualize the beer cans and pin-ups when Shiu cleared his thoat, crossing his arms over the table. “Put her down, Fushiguro. She’s had too much.”

“She can decide for herself.” He turned to you, resting his thumb on your bottom lip. “Wanna stick with me, dollface?”

“I want—” Warmth. Locked doors. Open air. Your eyes skirted over the table. “—more meat.”

Another laugh, this one more exasperated than the first. You were deposited unceremoniously onto the seat while Toji got up, either flagging down your waiter or grabbing another drink - you couldn’t be sure. Shiu waited until he was sight before edging closer to you.

“Have you had a chance to think about my offer?” He asked, keeping his voice low. “I’ve got a few smaller jobs coming up. They won’t pay as well, but you’ll be able to work alone.” And then, as if he thought you couldn’t spell it out on your own, “Away from Fushiguro.”

This, you didn’t have to think about. “I told you, I’m—”

“Only interested in the pay-out, I know.” He drummed his fingers impatiently. “He’s been saying the same thing. Like I’m not giving him my best gigs hand over fist.”

His eyes narrowed, and for one awful, everlasting second, you were convinced he was angry with you. You were bad with anger, especially without a gun in your hand. Toji never got angry.

Then he sighed, and it was over as quickly as it started. He wasn’t angry, just exhausted, disappointed. That was fine. Disappointment, you could stand. “Fushiguro’s picking up the check, tonight. Can you guess the last time I saw him foot a bill?”

You shook your head, and Shiu frowned. “When he was paying for his fucking wife.”

Oh.

It was almost impressive, just how quickly your appetite died out. By the time Toji found his way back, a bottle of red wine in one hand and a platter of overly fatty, overly rich meat in the other, you couldn’t fathom feeling anything other than hollow.

Shiu made his exit hastily. With a soft groan, he pushed himself up, already fishing an all-but crushed carton of cigarettes out of his suit pocket. “I’m done for the night. Need a ride, kid?”

You thought about it for longer than you should’ve. You liked Shiu, how quickly he would let your conversation lull into silence when you made it clear you had nothing to say. You liked the stench of second-hand smoke and expensive cologne that clung to him like a second skin. You liked that, for as long as you’d known him, he’d never once touched you. It was a miracle, really. You’d been so desperate for work when you came to him, you would’ve done anything he asked you to.

Toji draped an arm over your shoulders. “Let the poor girl finish her meal. I’ll make sure she gets home safe.”

Shiu raised a brow, sending you a pointed look. Had he asked again, you probably would’ve shrugged Toji off and gone with him. Had he taken you by the wrist and pulled, you probably would’ve done whatever he said.

“…I’m alright,” you offered, leaning into Toji’s shoulder. “He and I should talk about our next job.”

There was a second of hesitation, a tight-lipped frown, but that was the extent of his protest. You would offer to pay for your half after he’d gone, but Toji only waved you off, insisting that you were already well taken care of.

~

Something went wrong.

You couldn’t be sure what. The last few hours of your life were a blur – all light and noise with no shapes or words to make sense of the overstimulation. You were trailing a pink-haired sorcerer, your rifle tucked under your arm and your bullets heavy against your ankle, and then, you were slung over Toji’s shoulder, the back of your head pulsing and every nerve in your body on fire. Time passed in clumps – glimpses of white hair and startlingly blue eyes, your gun being dragged out of your hands, Toji’s panting in your ear as he hauled you halfway across the city. You didn’t fully come-to until your back hit the stiff surface of an old mattress – a mattress that didn’t belong to you.

You jolted up, but Toji was already gone. You found yourself alone in a sparsely decorated bedroom, all blank walls and dim lighting. A collection of paperwork was spread over the unremarkable bedside table – a few folders from old cases, a couple crumpled contracts, and a single polaroid of a teenage boy with messy black hair and two dogs. You picked it up without thinking, the same way you might collect something your target dropped. You were still looking over it when Toji came back, falling onto the edge of the mattress.

He was in bad shape, too. Fresh bruises rotted across his left cheek, and his shirt was missing, replaced by a thin layer of bandage that covered most of his right shoulder. “For your head,” he grunted, holding two white pills up to your lips. You opened your mouth and swallowed without complaint.

“Where’s my gun?”

“In pieces where you dropped it. It was either you or the weaponry.”

Damnit. You wished he’d gone for the gun. There was a good chance that, between the three of you, it had the most value. “Who got us?”

Toji sneered, eyes darting toward the ceiling. “The Gojo kid. Fucking Six Eyes. The brat must’ve been one of his students.”

You felt your heart drop. Satoru.

You never thought you’d see him again, and he’d tried to kill you.

Biting down hard on the inside of your cheek, you forced yourself to think of something else – anything else. You thrust the polaroid into Toji’s chest. “You’re taking solo jobs.”

Toji’s grin was wide, immediate. “There’s nothing to cry about. You know I’m worthless without you.” He glanced at the picture once before setting it down just out of sight. “It’s my son. The Zenin clan took him off my hands a few years ago.” And then, with an airy laugh, “He probably thinks I’m dead.”

You could taste blood, flowing thick and heavy where your teeth had pierced flesh. “They can all rot in hell.”

“That might just be the longest sentence I’ve ever heard you string together,” Toji laughed. “Bad run-in with a Zenin?”

You should’ve nodded and let him believe what he wanted to. You should’ve told him you were fine and dragged yourself back to your own shitty apartment, your own uncomfortable bed. You should’ve kept your mouth shut, and yet, you found your lips parting, your shoulders raising as something inside of you tore own and spilled. “It was the Gojo Clan.”

He hummed, unsurprised. “I know. A distant cousin, right?”

“Usually they’d leave us alone, but Satoru had just started training, and—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “They were looking for another miracle case. The ones with little to no cursed energy got it the worst. Put us through hell and left us on the streets as soon as we turned eighteen. There just wasn’t enough to go around for the non-sorcerers to get a share, I guess.”

You felt Toji’s hand on your cheek, then the top of your head, petting gently through your hair. Despite yourself, you leaned into it.

“That’s a long time on your own.”

“Not really.” Your eyes moved to the door, then the windows, charting escape routes. The latter were barred and former had a deadbolt on the wrong side. “Only a couple years.”

“Long enough.” You tried to push yourself to your feet. Toji wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you back down, laughing. “C’mon, princess. We both know you weren’t made to be alone.”

His hand was on your hip, now. You felt the other cupping your cheek, turning your head toward him, and every good, self-preserving fiber of your being screamed for you to get up, to run. The rest when catatonic as Toji kissed you, paralyzed by the stifling warmth of his lips against the numbing frost that seemed to coat your skin. Distantly, you could hear him groan into your mouth, feel his tongue move over your bottom lips, but the sensations were only skin-deep – your body processing information and nothing more. In a way, it reminded you of growing up, the way your tutors used to have you walk across burning coals or starve yourself for days in hopes of provoking a drop of cursed energy, a reaction. It’d never worked. Of course, it’d never worked.

No matter how deep you cut, you just didn’t have anything to bleed.

He was pulling away, now, grinning as his lips fell to your neck, your collarbone. “You look scared,” he muttered, voice deep against your skin. And then, lifting his head, “Was that your first kiss?”

You didn’t say anything. Rather, you pulled back a fist and punched him square in the jaw.

It hit hard, but not hard enough. He let out a barking laugh, and then he was on top of you, wrestling you down to the mattress despite your best attempts to throw him off. He was strong – stronger than you and stronger than Satoru and too strong – and it was all you could do to slam your balled fists into his chest as he straddled your lower stomach, hands slipping underneath your top. Your teeth were grit, but he still made a softened, hushing sound as he worked the ruined material over your head. He could’ve torn through it easily if he’d wanted to, but there was something careful, almost gentleabout the way he undressed you. Your pants removed with the same sense of delicacy, and he settled into the space between your now bare legs. The only thing he rushed was your panties – caught under his ring finger and snapped in the same motion.

He didn’t kiss you again, but it was only because you would’ve bitten through his tongue. Instead, his lips trailed down your chest, pausing to latch onto the curve of your breast. His tongue laved over your nipple before drifting downward, pressing open-mouthed kisses into your midriff, your navel, your stomach. You tried to weigh your options, but that would’ve meant having options in the first place. Your hands were free, but trying to affect Toji was like clawing at a brick wall. You were only going to hurt yourself.

That’s what you told yourself, at least, until his lips sealed around your clit and you acted on reflex, tangling your fingers in his hair and pulling. The only reaction you earned was a low grunt, a fist curled around your thigh to hold you steady. His grip flexed as he dipped lower, running the flat of his tongue over your cunt. The feeling, the heat – all of it was alien, prone to making your throat tighten up and something at the pit of your stomach burn. You felt prinks at the corners of your eyes, but few tears and a single, miserable whine wasn’t enough to distract from the feeling of Toji’s tongue trusting into you, spreading you open while the bridge of his nose ground into your clit. Your hips bucked involuntarily, chasing the warmth, the pressure, but that wasn’t right. You needed to get away. You needed to lock yourself up somewhere safe, somewhere quiet. You needed to find someone who could—

“Look at me.” You didn’t realize you’d shut your eyes until you heard his voice, hoarse and reverberating. “Need to see those pretty eyes when I make you cum, dollface.”

You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t. And yet, when his tongue curled inside you, you were gasping for air, burying your nails in his scalp, doing anything and everything you could to hold yourself together while that awful, terrifying pleasure washed over you. The only help Toji offered was his own impatience – pushing himself up and crashing his mouth into yours rather than drawing it out. You weren’t in a place to bite back, anymore.

You were sobbing by the time he lowered you onto your back, forced to watch though water-stained eyes as he freed his cock. It seemed beyond nightmarish to have something that size inside of you, but Toji only cooed as your breath hitched, letting his chest press into yours. “I’m going to take care of you, alright?” His mouth found the shell of your ear, and you felt something blunt and thick slot against you. “Everything going on out there, anyone who’s ever put their hands on you – it doesn’t fucking matter. You’re mine. That’s all you’ve gotta know.”

He pushed into you, and for a second, you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. For a second, you were so small, and so hungry, and so helpless all over again.

Then, Toji’s hand curled around your jaw, pushing your head back and your eyes onto him. “You’re mine,” he repeated, pushing a kiss into the corner of your lips. “Say it for me. You’re mine.”

And the worst part was, you couldn’t pretend it wasn’t true.

Sniffling, you wrapped your arms around his neck, dragging him that much closer. His cock pulsed inside you, but you could ignore that. At least you were full. At least you were warm.

At least you were safe.

You are charismatic, yes, but not the kind that smiles brightly or dances in the spotlight. Yours is the kind of allure that creeps into the bones. The kind that makes people dream of you before they’ve ever heard your name.

🕊️Cult leader!reader who is manipulative but maternal, the kind who brushes hair from their faces while whispering poison into their ears. You offer comfort and control in the same breath, feeding them doctrine with the tenderness of a lullaby. They trust you because you never raise your voice. You never need to.

“Rest now, my lamb. You’ve carried enough.”

You wear garments that seem to flow like smoke—white when you want to appear divine, midnight blue when you want to become the void. Your movements are slow and ritualistic, as if you float rather than walk, as though the earth itself dares not make a sound beneath your feet. Always barefoot, or always veiled but never both, that is your law. Only the chosen see your full face, and those who do often weep, unsure whether from awe or fear.

Above your heart, there is a mark: a tattoo, a scar, maybe both—shaped like a heart, but imperfect, split and fractured. As if even your symbol of love has been made into something sacred through suffering.

🕊️Cult leader!reader who carries the past like incense smoke, clinging, fragrant, and heavy. You escaped a devout and violent household, where your worth was measured in silence and obedience. You tore away from it, not quietly, but burning. You did not just survive, you resurrected and when the world refused to give you salvation, you made it yourself.

You became your own messiah.

Now, you give them what you never had: purpose, structure, worship. They think they follow you, but really, they kneel at the altar of your pain, and you let them. You let them believe you love them all equally.

After all… Mother loves all, but she chooses few.

🕯️The Martyr - Caleb

“Pain brings me closer to her. My body is hers to ruin if it pleases her.”

The Martyr, your purest soul, the one who believes that pain is the highest form of love.

He kneels before a shrine not one assigned to him, but one he built himself in secret. Tucked away in a candlelit alcove beneath the chapel, behind rusted metal gates and rotting wood beams, it is his personal altar to you.

He carved it by hand: a cracked, uneven stone slab with your symbol etched into the surface using fragments of leftover glass he stole from Rafayel. Draped in white cloth soaked with dried blood and scented with crushed petals from your garden, it stands as his most sacred place. Around it, he’s placed relics only he would dare collect—a lock of your hair fallen during a sermon, the faint outline of your footprint in dried soil, a strip of ribbon from your robes. To anyone else, it would look mad but to him, it is holy.

And it is here—in the candlelight, beneath the scent of wax and iron—that he kneels every night, bare from the waist up, body bowed in reverence. His back is a living scripture of faith: scars, open lashes, bruises. Each strike of the whip across his flesh is not just punishment, but an offering.

"Forgive me, Mother," he whispers, voice hoarse but unwavering. "Forgive me for wanting what I should not."

Because he does want you, he aches for you.

You, who reward him with a hand on his chest when he succeeds. You, who brush your lips across his cheek, just once, just enough. You call him “my purest soul,” and the moment you do, he goes rock hard, the shame rushing in so violently that he nearly weeps, but he doesn’t stop. 

He never pulls away.

Because shame is sharp and his skin receives it easily, desire is punishment, and pain is redemption.

He keeps a small pendant close to his heart—a worn locket engraved with a delicate apple design. To him, it is more than just a token from you; it is a symbol of his purest soul and the burden he carries. When doubt creeps in, he clutches the locket like a lifeline, clinging to its weight as a reminder of your presence and approval.

He once whispered that it reminded him of Adam and Eve—of temptation and fall, of innocence lost and the hope for redemption. But you silenced that notion with a soft reprimand: “Don’t use that nonsense. We are different.” And yet, in his heart, the image lingers, an emblem of the fragile line between sin and salvation that he walks every day for you.

He punishes himself not because you asked him to, but because he believes he must. Believes that every impure thought is a stain on the gift of your love, and only suffering can wash it away. Whether it be fasting, kneeling, bleeding and enduring, these are his prayers. This is how he loves you.

He craves your approval more than life. Your praise? A sacrament. Your gaze? A benediction and your silence? A trial he must pass. 

He never questions your commands. Not once. He is the first to obey, the last to rest, and the one who takes your silence as scripture. If you asked him to die, he would not hesitate. If you asked him to live in agony for eternity, he would thank you for the chance.

Sometimes he sleeps beside the shrine, curled on the cold stone, the whip still clutched in his hand like a rosary. He dreams of you—never as a woman, but as a saviour, bright and terrible. In his dreams, you never touch him. You only look, and that is enough to bring him to tears.

Because The Martyr suffers not for your love but because he believes your love must be earned.

🗡️ The Shield - Sylus

“Let me be your wrath, Mother. I will make them kneel.”

The Shield, your beast, your blade, your violence made flesh.

Sylus does not kneel, not unless you command it. His faith is not quiet or tear-streaked like the others. It is molten, violent and sacred in its rage. He does not pray with folded hands…he prays with blood. 

He guards your temple like a dragon coils around its treasure, unyielding, territorial, and ancient in his instincts. Every stone, every shadow belongs to him because they belong to you. He circles your sanctum barefoot and bare-chested, shoulders scarred, knuckles raw, the fire in his veins never cooling. His tattoo, your symbol, was not drawn but branded into his flesh during his initiation. 

Still red. Still raised. Still burning. A scar he gave himself to prove that his body was no longer his. It was yours.

Disrespect does not escape his notice. Even a glance too long, a voice too sharp, and Sylus is already moving, silent and brutal, as if the shadows learned how to kill. He does not wait for permission. He drags the offender out by the throat, slams them into stone, and breaks their bones like kindling. They disappear beneath the chapel’s roots, where even the worms do not speak of what they’ve seen.

“They didn’t deserve to look at you,” he mutters, breathless and trembling, not from regret, but restraint. 

The other followers part when he passes, instinctively, as prey parts for the predator. They don’t make eye contact. They don’t dare, but he softens at your voice. Only you can hush the fire that burns beneath his ribs. Only you can press a hand to the storm and make it still.

You don’t speak to him often, not like you do with the others. But when you do, it's always when no one's around. In the quiet of the night, when he’s standing guard outside your private chambers, you open the door just enough to place your hand against his chest, over the burn where his heart still beats too fast.

You say nothing. You never have to.

“Good boy,” you whisper once, and he nearly crumbles beneath the weight of it.

Sylus’s devotion to you is not gentle, it’s not even holy. It’s primordial.

He doesn’t crave your affection. He needs it, needs to know he still has purpose. That he is not a weapon forged in grief but one still worthy of being held. If he cannot be soft for you, then he will be sharp for you.

No one touches you without his permission. Not even the other followers, especially not the filthy ones.

Once, a young disciple confessed quite shamefully that he’d dreamt of you. Zayne told him, of course, he did. Sylus said nothing.

He found the man that evening and dragged him into the chapel’s dark corners. No words. No mercy. Just the sound of bone giving way under his boot. He shattered his jaw, then his hand, joint by joint, until the trembling stopped. When the others found the disciple, Sylus was already gone, but they knew.

Everyone knew. Even the bones beneath the chapel stirred. Even the maggots squirmed in silence. Even sin stepped back, humbled by his fury.

No one has spoken of dreams since.

And sometimes after punishments, his hands are stained—blood dried in the cracks of his knuckles. He says nothing as you kneel before him, setting down the basin. You take his hand without asking, lowering it into warm water. The blood dissolves in slow red threads.

“No one else should have to touch what I’ve done,” he mutters.

“Then you’ll just have to bear that it’s me,” you say, gently pressing the cloth to his skin.

Your fingers reach up, brushing damp strands of hair from his brow. “My dragon,” you whisper. “Even fire rests when I ask it to.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but the breath he releases trembles.

Because The Shield does not protect you in the hopes of being redeemed, he protects you because he doesn’t believe he ever will be and yet you still choose to touch him.

🖋️ The Poet - Rafayel

“Her voice is the gospel. Her breath, poetry. I only wish to immortalise her.”

The Poet, your artist, your dreamer, your architect of worship.

While the others bleed, strike and guard, Rafayel builds shrines not from stone, but from longing. He immortalises you. He is the one responsible for every image, every sculpture, every mural that graces the cult’s sanctuary halls. He carves your likeness into marble, into glass, into the damp earth around the temple walls until it blooms like a fever dream. Every brushstroke is a psalm in your name.

He designed the sanctuary itself—not a church, no, but a home. One that belongs to you and only you. He traced your silhouette into its every corner: the arch of your spine in the entryway, the curve of your lips in the window frames, the hollow of your throat echoed in the well at the centre of the grounds.

You do not walk through the cult’s home. You walk through his love for you.

People come not for the sermons, but for the visions. For the stained glass that catches your face in the morning light. For the marble statue that weeps in candlelight. For the paintings of you with stars in your eyes and entire galaxies blooming behind your ribs. He makes you look like salvation. Like pain and desire and God—all in one.

His work brings in more followers than any sermon Xavier could preach because Rafayel captures something no one else can: your holiness, your impossible and untouchable beauty.

And yet, the most sacred pieces—he hides. Behind the curtains, in locked rooms, those are only for him.

“No one else sees her like I do,” he once whispered to a blank canvas. “No one else ever will.”

Rafayel aches to be the one who understands you best—the only one who can read your silences, who sees you not as others do, but as something more: a divine pattern in motion, a living scripture only he has the eyes to decipher. He wants to capture what no one else notices. The curve of your smile before a command. The way your shadow falls differently at dusk. The weight of your gaze when you say his name.

He speaks of you as a muse, a god, and a lover—all in the same breath, never quite separating where worship ends and longing begins.

In the centre of the cult’s main hall stands a sculpture of you, your visage carved from white stone, perfect and still, the centrepiece of their sacred space. But hidden within that marble form is a detail only he knows: a faint, pressed handprint over your symbol, embedded in the clay before it hardened. 

His hand. His touch. It was the closest he dared to be near you. The only moment he allowed himself to pretend.

And sometimes, when you pass by his work, when your fingers trail along the frame of a painting or down the stone jaw of a statue, when you pause to say, “Beautiful,” in that hushed, reverent tone, he can hardly breathe. His hands tremble. His vision blurs. He nearly wept.

Because The Poet doesn’t worship you simply because you are divine, he worships you because he’s the one who made you divine.

🎼 The Voice - Xavier

“You’re lost. I can see it in your eyes. But she can fix you. Come with me.”

The Shepherd, your voice, your strategist, your judge of worth.

Where others kneel in agony or madness, Xavier stands. Not because he lacks devotion, but because his loyalty is structural, methodical and architected in clean lines and efficient systems. He speaks softly and acts deliberately.

To the outside world, he is the cult’s face—the one who recruits, organises, and filters. The one who guides new sheep to your light, weeding out the weak before they ever reach your presence and when they do reach you, it's only because he deemed them worthy. Only he is the one who can determine who may approach you. 

He doesn't call you a god. He calls you the anchor, the calm at the centre of their storm. He tells the others that you don’t offer salvation—you offer clarity, purpose, stillness, and they believe him.

Xavier makes belief sound rational, inevitable and pure. He is the one who draws borders around your world—who writes doctrine not as poetry, but as law. When there is unrest, he silences it not with punishment (that’s Sylus’s role), but with reason, with cold, intelligent words that make rebellion feel ridiculous and unworthy.

“She doesn’t demand faith. She deserves it.”

“If you doubt her, the fault lies with your understanding.”

“You don’t worship her because you’re weak. You worship her because, for once, something makes sense.”

He keeps records, files, names, sins, and schedules. No one knows the inner workings of the cult better than he does, not even you, and he likes it that way because it makes him indispensable.

He never touches you unless invited. He never oversteps, but he watches everything, and when you seek his opinion, he offers it with precision, not flattery. He knows how to speak so that you feel powerful just listening.

You once asked him, “Do you love me, my star?”

He replied, “More than love. I believe in you.”

Xavier shapes the cult’s structure like a cathedral of logic. He manages your image, your mythos, with precision, ensuring order where chaos might slip in. He does not see you as a myth, but as a destiny. Not a fantasy, but a certainty. A future that must be built and protected.

He doesn’t worship your body or your voice. He worships what you mean. What you could become. What the world will be when it is finally worthy of you.

He keeps a thick, leather-bound Book of Her—its pages filled with notes, observations, careful analyses: things you say, patterns in your behaviour, what pleases you, what doesn’t. It’s not an obsession, he says, it’s a strategy. 

Understanding you is the foundation upon which everything else must stand.

Xavier personally trains every recruit before they are allowed to see you. If they break too easily, he sends them away. If they ask too many questions, he sends them to Sylus.

There are moments when your hand brushes his shoulder in approval, or when you look at him and softly say, “I trust you,” he closes his eyes. Just for a moment. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move, but something inside him breaks open.

Because The Shepherd does not serve you because he is lost, he serves you because he wants to build a world where you are never lost again.

🗝️ The Confessor - Zayne

“You can tell me everything. She doesn’t need to hear your shame.”

The Confessor, your mercy, your hollow vessel, your gentle hands.

Zayne does not shout, just like you, he does not strike, he listens. When followers sob into his lap, broken by shame or longing, he holds their hands like sacred offerings and absorbs every whispered sin without judgment.

“Tell me,” he says, his voice like warm water. “Let me carry it for you. She will forgive you.” And they believe him because Zayne never flinches, he makes guilt feel survivable.

But the one secret he never speaks aloud—the one he would only ever whisper to you—is that he sins too. Because he dreams of you, because he wants you, and because every time he offers comfort to the others, he aches with the knowledge that he has no absolution of his own.

So he kneels alone with his forehead pressed to your feet, hands clutched in prayer that tremble.

“Forgive me, Mother. I try, I do, but I think of you and it never stops.”

Zayne is not only the keeper of your flock’s sins—he is their caretaker in the aftermath.

When Xavier’s training leaves someone broken, bruised from failure, Zayne is the one who finds them in the corner, cradling their ribs. When Sylus punishes without mercy, he is the one who returns with bandages and balm, unspoken understanding in his gaze. He never shames them for their weakness. He simply treats it like something holy.

Even when Rafayel injures himself—a slipped chisel, a cracked thumbnail from his artistic frenzy— Zayne says nothing. He simply takes the sculptor’s hand, cradles it with tenderness, and binds the wound like it is an offering.

He never calls it weakness. He treats every wound as something sacred.

“You endured for her,” he whispers as he cleans a split lip or wraps a shattered wrist. “She sees you still.” 

To be hurt in your name is not failure. It is proof of faith.

He’s especially close to Caleb, whose body bears more self-inflicted wounds than any punishment Sylus could deliver. Zayne has grown used to the sight of Caleb on his knees, bleeding and proud, face bowed before the shrine, but when it's over, Zayne is always there.

In quiet rooms behind drawn curtains, he unrolls linen, rinses blood from flesh, and presses cloth to bone. “You don’t have to hurt so much,” Zayne murmurs. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”

“Neither do you,” Caleb sometimes says in return.

It is the closest either of them comes to healing.

Zayne wears linen gloves during rituals—he claims it is out of respect, a sacred barrier between him and the divine. But the truth is far more fragile: he is terrified of what it would feel like to touch you with bare skin. That closeness, that physical connection, terrifies him in its intimacy.

When a follower threatens to leave, they always send Zayne in last because no one knows better how to twist doubt into something holy—how to cradle their fear and reshape it into reverence. His voice is soft, but his words cut deeper than any punishment.

And on the night he finally confesses, truly confesses, it is not in the chapel, not behind a veil or through whispered mantras. It is with his head bowed in your lap, trembling like a penitent child as your fingers thread gently through his hair.

His voice breaks over every word, every sin he’s kept hidden even from himself. He tells you of his guilt, of the doubts he’s buried, of the moments he feared he was unworthy to serve you.

You listen in silence, then, with the softness of a prayer, you say, “I don’t need you to be pure, only to be mine, my quiet one.”

The words struck him deeper than any punishment ever could.

He clutched the fabric of your robe, knuckles white, as a shudder tore through him—an unravelling he’d never dared admit. Tears welled, unbidden and fierce, tracing silent paths down his cheeks.

In that moment, the fortress he’d built from guilt and devotion crumbled into dust, leaving nothing but raw, aching need to belong.

You were flat-out broke. That was the only reason you considered the app in the first place. It had come to you in a desperate internet search for quick ways to make money on the side. Student loan payments were piling up and were at risk of going to collections, your car had finally bit the dust last week and would take far more to repair than it was worth, and you for sure couldn't afford a new one. The final cherry on top was your job cutting your hours. No announcement, no email, nothing. Just a gradual decline of your name on the schedule and some sleuthy coworkers putting two and two together. Everyone's hours were getting cut. At least you still qualified for health insurance. For now.

Most of the money-making schemes you found during your searches just weren't worth the trouble. You'd spent an hour filling out the most inane surveys for $10 and another three hours transcribing jail phone calls for lawyers just to earn less than a penny per word. You had begun to feel hopeless. And then it had popped up, like a boon from hell; Pussy Portal. Selling your body hadn't been out of the question. You had considered selling your feet pics online, and even found a website where you could send people your used panties for money. But the more you looked into it, the more you realized it would essentially be a full-time job if you wanted it to be lucrative, and one of the ways to make more money was to have a presence, put your face out there, let people see what they were buying. You weren't nearly confident enough for that. Pussy Portal on the other hand, sort of alleviated both of those concerns. The pay was pretty good, and no one was actually going to be looking at or interacting with you, you just had to give any creature of any nature, unfettered access to your pussy. Putting it bluntly, Pussy Portal was prostitution, but you wouldn't be meeting any of the clients and no one had to know who you were. You just couldn't think about it too hard.

So, here you were. App downloaded, background check and medical screenings passed, some sort of strange magi-tech contraption attached to your hip, now you just had to wait. You were promised by the Pussy Portal rep you'd been communicating with that your first time on the app would essentially be a quality check. One of their "testers" would get first dibs on you, give you a rating, and that was that; you were open for business.

The email they sent gave you a very large time frame, pretty much the entire day. You were glad you had off work, firstly, because you wouldn't have wanted to do this in the office (you most certainly would have been fired), and secondly, you were far too nervous to do anything else. You just settled onto your couch, turned the app on, and waited.

After about thirty minutes of staring at the ceiling while your stomach churned, you realized that you needed to distract yourself somehow or you'd go crazy with anticipation. So, you turned on your comfort show and doom scrolled for a while. You weren't sure if you needed to be in any sort of position for it to work; there weren't really any instructions on that, so you just lay back and tried not to focus on it. After a few hours, you started to wonder if anything was going to happen. You kept opening your email to double-check you had the date right, and pulling the band of your sweats down to check that the magi-tech device was still glowing green. You were almost tempted to email support. Maybe they'd mistyped the date. Then, when you were least expecting it, you felt it. A gentle prodding at your entrance. You sucked in a breath, the nerves gathering themselves in your stomach again. The being on the other end of the portal pushed into you slowly, your mouth fell open at the stretch. The app said it catered to all kinds of beings, and you weren't sure what creature might be currently pushing you open, but it was certainly larger and a bit more textured than a human. You were just grateful they hadn't decided to start with something huge like a minotaur. You weren't really sure what you should do now. Did you need to take your clothes off, or get into any certain position? You kept thinking about your thighs getting in the way, but it clearly wasn't an issue as you felt the cock begin moving slowly in and out of you. It felt odd not to do anything at all, so you adjusted yourself on the couch and spread your legs.

You were getting wetter by the second as the cock continued it's slow drag in and out of you, some of it's ridges catching on your insides and pushing on your sensitive spots. A moan fell from your lips, and you couldn't help but slip a hand inside the loose sweats you were wearing. Finding your clit, your fingers moved slow circles over it eased on by the juices now dripping out of you. It was strange to feel so full, to feel the push and pull of a cock in your tight cunt but not be able to see the dick itself. Your fingers travelled lower to your entrance where you felt your pussy being stretched by the invisible suitor.

The cock picked up it's pace and you groaned, fingers moving back up to your clit. The being on the other side of the portal seemed to be nearing his end, his thrusts more frantic than before. You were nearing your climax too, and your fingers picked up speed in time with the thrusts in and out of you. You were so close when you felt the cock snap forward and bury itself deep, deeper than anyone had ever reached, a rush of semen filling you in warm spurts. That was what pushed you over the edge and you spasmed hard around the cock, your walls clenching down. Before you were ready, the being pulled out.

You stared up at the ceiling, hand still down the front of your pants, breathing heavy, contemplating what you had just done. You'd just let a stranger, a non-human creature, fuck you, and other than the nerves at the beginning, you enjoyed it. You threw your free arm over your eyes and laughed at the ridiculous state you found yourself in. You only decided to get up from your couch when a trickle of cum slipped from inside you and dribbled down your ass.

your eyes closed for just a moment, relaxing on the comfort of your bed. having to finally rest after the endless assignments and back to back examinations; you were free.

you could sleep in as much as you want and you didn’t have to worry about attending lectures for the next two months. everything was going great, until your stomach grumbled.

“shush. m’too tired to move” you’d argue with your stomach, but alas, it had a mind of its own.

and you felt the hunger.

you opened your eyes, tired of your stomach throwing a fit and haphazardly got out of bed, heading towards the kitchen and fridge only to find that you didn’t have groceries to even cook anything.

“right…” it was depression meals. your last semester just had to be your worst since all you spent on were on instant noodles and prayed it was enough to power through the day.

but as you opened the drawer, your source of food — which was purely made of preservatives — is finished. you stress ate last night, it was your final exam and it was the subject you were most worried about too, so you can’t necessarily beat yourself up for this . . . nope. you were a little bit of an idiot on finishing up for stock.

“damn it” you grumbled to yourself, opening the fridge once more in hopes that your parents home cooked meals would appear right in front of your eyes, but alas it didn’t. only some eggs are left in the fridge.

“scrambled it is,” you resigned to your fate. maybe you could find some bread somewhere for carbs, but for now, eggs will do. to satiate the hunger at least.

once you finished up your truly pathetic meal, you knew you had to do groceries at least. so you made a list, and you checked your money, it should be enough, shouldn’t it?

at least that’s what you prayed for when you went to the grocer. “holy fucking shit. almost 10 bucks for eggs? what the hell is wrong with the inflation” you whined to yourself mostly. change of plans, you need to get limited ingredients and a job.

you went back to your apartment, the grocery bag in your hands as you had to double check on the receipt because it mentally pained you having to see the total price to feed a singular person for a month.

you looked up to see the elevator door is closing, which made you rush in hopes you’ll get there in time and you did. because a man held it open for you. “thank you,” you murmured softly, giving him a smile and then looking at the buttons, seeing that you both share the same floor unit.

“you’re so pretty!” you hear a little girl’s voice and you blinked, looking down to see a girl, maybe the age of four, staring up at you with big doe eyes.

“that’s so sweet of you, sweetheart. thank you! you’re very pretty as well” you tell her gently as she giggled happily and tugged onto her father’s pants; the man who held the elevator for you.

“papa! they called me pretty” she says as her father smiles gently and picks her up, carrying her in his arms. “tell them thank you, kia,” she turned her head and gave you a bright smile, saying thank you as you had to internally coo at how cute she is.

the elevator rings, telling the three of you that you arrived at your floor, and you all went out. you were about to say goodbye to the little girl since it would’ve meant you splitting up from the father-daughter pair, but turns out fate had different plans.

you were heading in the same direction as them. it was awkward because you didn’t want to seem like a stalker but coincidentally, you were their next door neighbour. you blinked at this information and smiled sheepishly.

“it seems like we’re neighbours” you murmured, but the girl only smiled excitedly “yay! we’re neighbours with a pretty person!” her father just sighs before looking at you.

now that you actually took a good look at him, he’s . . . so fucking hot? how the hell did the universe decided to make a grown man, a dad, this good looking? you could swear that if you ever saw a picture of him when he’s your age, it wouldn’t beat the visuals you see now.

“i’m ian miller, and you are?” you snapped out of your thoughts and blinked before giving him a lopsided smile. “( name )… nice to finally meet my neighbour” you felt a bit awkward. after all, you’ve been here for three years yet you’ve never seen them.

then again, you’d leave your apartment only for lectures and you’d come back at night. so you don’t really see anyone that often. “the same goes here. i hope to see you around again. it seems that kia certainly likes you,” he chuckled.

well fuck your ass, you never thought you could get shivers down your spine at the sound of someone’s laughter, at the sound of a man who is most likely twice your age with a daughter to boot. you let out a sheepish laugh and nodded “i see… w-well, i’ll. uhm, go in now”

did you just stutter? you were doomed. you went into your pocket and found your keys before taking one last glance at them and waved a small goodbye before entering your apartment.

｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡

the sound of a movie was playing in the background — one of the equestria girls movies — he could assume while he was cooking up dinner for him and his little girl.

but his mind flashes back to what happened a few hours ago. he didn’t think he could finally meet the mystery neighbour that would be up and quietly squealing in the middle of the night. he didn’t think that the giggles he heard from the other side would show a cuter face to accompany it.

he’s heard your voice over the walls for years straight; words about complaining regarding the lecturers to your friends on a call, soft sobs on the deadlines and how you had so much to do but so little time.

and he was smitten from the moment he heard your voice.

he wanted to meet you ever so badly, wanting to know the face behind the angelic voice but it was too difficult.

your outings were sporadic. you had a schedule, and he was able to figure out about it, but then the schedule would change and he wouldn’t know when you’d go out or stay inside.

he wasn’t a free man either. he had a job to do, bills to pay, and a daughter to take care of. but hearing your voice late at night while kia was asleep, is a soothing balm to his tired and overworked soul.

there was guilt at first. he couldn’t be falling for someone who could possibly be younger than he is, maybe even half his age, but seeing you in person? it changed everything in his mind.

his morals were completely shattered when he saw you at the elevator, recognising the voice he would sleep to every night. you were younger than him, sure, and maybe the age difference is a little questionable, but you’re legal.

you are everything he ever dreamed of, and more. he needed to see you more, to hear your voice more, to see your cheeks softly flushing at the sound of his voice— fuck. he cannot be having a hard on while he’s cooking.

he still has his daughter in the room, and he was not to show her a filthy sight of her papa. so he calmed himself down, thought about work and how tiresome it is, and focused on cooking.

when kia was done, she had brushed her teeth and he had carried her to bed. he read her bedtime stories and she would fall asleep, just like clockwork.

he would retreat back to his room and the moment he did, all he could think about it you. your smile, the way your eyes crinkled, the sheepishness you had when interacting with him… he needed you.

he needed you like how his body needs air, how he needs food to sustain himself, how he needs money to pay for him and his daughter. he needs you, entirely, viscerally, wholly. and he will always get what he needs in the end.

from your little talks with your friends, he figured out which university you attended, he figured out who your lecturers were and knew your courses too. it’s just a shame that he couldn’t figure out your class schedule. but he does know your yearly one, and you are now on break.

and it’s a good thing that kia likes you. because then he could have an excuse to have his home smelling like you soon enough. and he cannot wait.

｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡

it’s been two days since you met your hot neighbour and frankly you can’t get him out of your mind. he is your eye candy, frankly he is your type all in all, but you shouldn’t romanticise a relationship with a man that is twice your age, right?

not only that, he could be married, and you didn’t want to title yourself as a homewrecker either.

regardless, you’ve been in your apartment for two days straight mainly because you didn’t have anything else to do except binge watch your favourite shows that you deprived yourself of during study week.

that was when you hear a knock at the door and you blinked. you didn’t have a package, despite your online shopping tendencies, so who’s at your door? when you opened it, ian was there, standing straight and looking at you with a gentle smile.

“oh! mr.miller, what brings you here?” you looked as if you had just gotten out of bed, and frankly you did. maybe you should’ve showered first and made yourself more presentable for him.

“i would like to make an offer to you, so would it be fine if i come inside?” he asked, and that’s when you noticed little kia peeking from his legs with sleep induced eyes and you almost wanted to coo at how adorable she is.

you nodded and let him enter your humble apartment space. you were just thankful that you spent most of your time in the bedroom, therefore your living room does not look like a rats nest.

he sat down on the sofa, bringing kia into his arms as she fell asleep once more while you sat down across from him. “are you perhaps looking for a job?” you paused, blinking a couple of times before nodding slowly “yes..? i’m on summer break currently and i was just thinking on applying for a job to pay for my groceries and all”

is he offering you a job? what a coincidental timing in all honesty. “you see, kia needs a babysitter. she’s rather picky and she didn’t like our last babysitter. so lately i’ve only been dropping her off at daycare and picking her up afterwards. would it be fine if you take care of her? i’ll pay you a generous amount of course”

a babysitting job? you weren’t entirely sure if you would be able to do so. your mood on kids depends on the time and how they act, but if it’s kia… maybe you’ll be able to do it? you were in deep thought before you looked at him and it was unintentional but a singular question popped up into your mind, about his partner.

he chuckled softly, seeing the question written all over your face. “her mother abandoned us a while back. told me that she doesn’t want to be responsible for her, and gave her to me” oh. now you felt bad for thinking about it. “i see.. alright then, i’ll take the job” you gave him a gentle smile and he smiled back.

“you’ll start tomorrow, if that’s alright with you?” that was too soon but at this point, something within your soul just wanted to be better than her mother, to be another parental figure that she could rely on. “yup, i’ll see you tomorrow then?”

he nodded and carried kia out, you waved your goodbye and closed the door. so you just got a job. great! but you needed to child proof the living room at least, just so that she doesn’t hurt herself or anything.

not only that, you’ll get to see ian again tomorrow, and the days after that. so you found yourself getting excited knowing what comes next.

｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡

ian had dropped kia off to your place before going to work. he would give you a gentlemanly smile and that would be the end of it, is what he thought.

until he heard you speak up ever so gently “have a good day at work, mr.miller.” he froze at that, looking at you before nodding. “thank you, ( name ). i’ll see you later on”

and he walked, and walked before he entered his car and let out a shaky sigh. that scene replayed in his mind a thousand times, and he felt his cock harden at the sight of you in your flat, dressed up comfortably and carrying kia in your arms.

he’s thankful to himself to be the type on coming to the office early, which meant he had a lot of time to himself in the car. he had to cover his mouth and rubbed himself off, only thinking about you and your smile, the sound of your voice and how perfect it would be to hear you moan out his name.

all he can imagine now is you cooking for kia, seeing her smile at her new parental figure and be comfortable with you. how you would cradle her to sleep and how you’d smile when she’s happy.

and god forbid him, all he wanted to do was to pound you into a sobbing mess, pump his cum deep inside you and watch it leak out of your hole. he wants to see the blissed out gaze, he wants to hear your whimpers, and he wants to hear you beg for more. to have his children, regardless if you were capable of bearing them.

maybe next time when you break into your apartment in the middle of the night he’ll jerk off to the sight of your sleeping face. or he’ll steal one of your used underwear and bring it home to keep for himself.

his hands rubbed faster, thinking about how he could take you anywhere in the house, shoving his fingers into your mouth to keep you quiet so you don’t wake up kia. he thinks about how warm you would be, how you’d squeeze his cock just right and how he’d have to hold himself back from cumming immediately.

“shit— fuck.. ( name )” he groaned out your name, his eyes rolled back as he imagined more scenarios about you. how messy you’ll take him in your mouth, how teary eyed you’d be, at how big he is but he’ll assure you that he can make it fit.

god, he can imagine peppering your face with gentle kisses as he fucks you stupid, drooling, and overstimulated because he is pent up. years of not having sex does a lot to a man, and with such a sweetheart like you who seemed to want to please him? he’s bound to go feral and break.

“fuuuckk” he moaned out, cumming right there in the car as he used a tissue to make sure it doesn’t make a mess. his cock softened with a twitch and he knew he just needed the right timing before he could slip into your warm hole.

he needs you, he needs your scent, he needs to feel you close and hold you in his arms. ian is a patient man, he’ll take his time and seduce you. he’ll make sure that soon, your only thoughts is about him, and how he’d fuck you so well.

he can pay for all of your expenses if he has to, he just wants you in his vicinity, in his home, and your scent filling the entire apartment.

he’ll take his time, but he’ll have you soon enough. because he’s the type of man who will always get what he wants.

｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡

the day was productive to say the least. you and kia had fun, and you both watched movies together. you helped her with reading and you got to know her diet, so now you knew all of her favourite foods to say the least.

the sky was dark, and you wondered what exactly was ian’s job for him to be out so late at night. you were.. a bit worried to say the least. but he could take care of himself, you’re sure about that.

for now, you focused on the sleepy kia and cradled her in your arms as you brought her to sleep.

after a few minutes of putting her to sleep, you hear a knock on your door and you could only assume it was ian. so, you got up with kia in your arms and slowly opened the door to see a tired ian.

“you look rough, mr.miller” you say gently as he mused at your words. “a lot of things happened at work, you could say” you nodded. seeing how tired he is, you spoke up softly “do you want me to put kia in her room? you seem too tired”

ian paused before giving you a gentle smile “if it isn’t too much trouble,” you shook your head. this was the least you could do. and plus, you live right next to each other anyhow. you left your unit for a moment and went into his.

he showed you where kia’s room is, and you brought her there, gently putting her on the bed and watching her sleep soundly. a small smile graced your lips before you left her room and closed the door.

“thank you for taking care of her today,” he says from behind you. you almost jumped in surprise to see how close he is to you, how his breath was near your ears and you felt something churning down your stomach.

“it’s no problem, sir” you say softly, turning around and catching his gaze. you can’t exactly explain nor tell what was going in his mind but it felt intense, hot, and you almost melted right then and there.

what was this man doing to you?

“you can call me ian, i prefer it that way” he gave you a gentle smile once more and the tension in the room finally dissipated. you nodded awkwardly and cleared your throat.

“i’ll see you again tomorrow?” you murmured out, suddenly feeling shy from the closed proximity and he nodded. “yes, you will” he says before his hand reached up and patted your head.

you shuddered at the contact and you left his unit with a sheepish smile, giving him a small wave and left back to your unit.

as you closed the door, your mind went back to how close you were to him and your face felt warm at the memory. so does your body. you wanted more of his touches, but you shook your head, preparing to go the bed instead.

“what’s wrong with me? i swear” you murmured to yourself. little did you know, he paid you a visit that night while you were asleep and stole one of your underwear.

it’s fine, you won’t notice since you still have a lot of them, don’t you?