why am i so in love with fear?

Suguru stands before the doorway for a moment. As it had opened, a faint surge of cursed energy had waved over him—nothing to fear, yet odd nonetheless. He spots the source right away. Something on the bed. A figure. Human-like, yet not.

It’s obvious what it is, and still, he finds himself asking, “What is that?”

Satoru lumps against his back with his chin on his shoulder, “It’s your present, of course,” then pushes him inside.

He locks the door again behind him and redoes the veil, keeping their activities hidden from passersby.

“What exactly are you thinking, Satoru?” The other boy asks, apprehensive with his black eyes fixed on you—the curse on the bed, tied up with seals, squirming while looking up at the two of them. You’re no threat, but still, the question remains—why are you here?

“It’s up to you, Suguru. It’s your birthday,” the asked answers nonchalantly once returning. He gestures in the air with his hand. “You can wrap it up into one of your marbles and eat it like a birthday cake or…”

Suguru’s eyes snap to his at the suggestive tone, teetering on coquettish—no, not teetering, definitely coquettish—but no matter how shameless he is, he can’t possibly be proposing they do something like that with a curse.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Suguru,” the blue-eyed one defends with a pout. “I mean, look at it—have yah ever seen a curse so...” he continues but falls short. He chuckles lightly and deems any explanation unnecessary. “Well, you have eyes, so don’t deny it.” 

Both black and blue orbs fall back on you, one still with an uncertain gaze and the other with a heavy, unashamed leer.

Suguru’s throat grows tight, and he swallows thickly to replenish, then asks, “And after?” He looks back at his friend. “You plan on just killing it?”

Satoru gives it a thought, thumbing his chin with a pout before revealing, “Maybe… Or keepin’ it…” He laughs again, taking a step closer to the bed before crouching down—his blue eyes wide and visibly terrifying to you, if the way you shuffle away is any tell. He doesn’t let it deter him, reaching out his hand to touch you anyway. “I wouldn’t mind havin’ an exotic pet. Depends on how fun this is—”

He's stopped. Hand waiting mid-air as a heavier one grabs his shoulder.

“I thought it was my present,” Suguru states from behind him.

Satoru looks up at him for a moment—first kind of annoyed, but then quickly amused. He smiles, “Well, excuse me—it sounded like you didn’t want it.” He stands up with an animated sigh. “Besides, thought you might share with your best mate since I went through all the trouble.” 

He’s got this sheepish beggar’s look painted upon his face—totally unconvincing by Suguru’s judgment. Still, he caves—not so much out of sympathy, but rather because there's no way he’s doing this all by himself—in such crimes, it’s better to be accomplices in order to share the shame. And, suppose he can admit it’s more fun with the white-haired freak around…

“Fine,” he mutters for the second time that night, hoping he won’t regret it.

“Sweet,” Satoru cheers in turn. “Never had a curse before—this’ll be interesting.”

He returns to you and pulls the seal off your lips. You flinch and hold your eyes squeezed tightly shut. Your bound wrists and ankles are also freed, and still, you don’t move from where you’re huddled up in the corner of where the bed meets the walls—as far away from them as possible.

After getting a closer look at you, your obedience doesn’t surprise Suguru. Flecks of cursed blood splatter litter your skin and clothing—there must have been others before Satoru made a show of himself—no wonder you’re so scared.

“Can you talk?” said show-boating sorcerer asked.

You carefully peel your eyes open again. Lips warbling unsurely. It sort of looks as though you want to speak but don’t exactly know how. It’s to be expected with a weak curse like you. 

They hadn’t expected as much, so they figured it was all the same until, “Yea-yes.”

You stutter, but still, you speak.

“That’s surprising—you’re not all that strong,” Satoru expresses. “But I guess it’s a good thing.” 

Suguru can only guess what motives he has for saying that, and still, he’s quite sure he knows why—he’s always been partial to the louder ones, after all.

“My name’s Satoru, and my friend here is Suguru,” he introduces with gestures. “Don’t forget it, okay?” His eyes give warning as much as his words, no matter his playful tone. “You’re gonna do what we tell you, or I’m gonna paint the wall with you just like I did all your other friends, understand?”

Your lip trembles, and you clutch yourself closer, looking to hide yourself but recognizing you’re trapped prey for two much stronger predators. You nod your head.

“If you can talk, then say it,” the white-haired one demands—tone brisker than before, making your stomach fold and heart flinch.

“Yes, sa-Satoru.” It’s all foreign on your tongue, yet you manage—like how animals learn to swim when thrown upon the open waters.

It makes him smile, and you feel some relief in listening to him coo, “Perfect.”

The vision of your fellow curses getting squished like trampled grapes haunts you. You can tell this new sorcerer is just as strong. You don’t know what they’re after, but you know it’s best if they’re happy with you—so you aim to keep it that way.

The one asking you questions looks away toward the other one.

“Wanna do the honors, birthday boy, or should I?”

He seems to be contemplating something before calmly deciding. “I’ll eat it first. Then it’ll be bound to me and won’t struggle.”

“Smart—though that is some of the fun,” your original capturer responds with lackluster, then shrugs. “But it’s your birthday, you decide.”

The raven-haired one raises a hand, energy building within his palm. “I have. So don’t pout—”

Eat it? Do they mean you? You feel the pull of something sucking you from your safe spot. “Wah-wait! Don’t—don’t eat me, please!” you squeal with lifted hands, first flat with sprung fingers in surrender, then clasped together as you take a deep bow with your forehead buried in the plume. “I-I’ll listen! I’ll be a good-good curse, I promise! Please!”

Both sorcerers’ are stumped by the display. It’s an odd declaration for a curse. Of course, you could be a ploy, yet they sense absolutely zero hostility.

Satoru looks at his friend with puppy-dog eyes, whispering to him in low and needy little whimpers, all laced with awe, “Oh, come on, Suguru. Can’t it wait? You can always eat it after, right? Look at it—it won’t fight.”

Suguru grinds his teeth, but even he can’t deny he’s curious now. He huffs and lowers his arm, “Fine. But if you fail to obey even a single command, I won’t hesitate to eat you on the spot.”

You raise your head, pretty grateful tears in your eyes—an even odder sight from a curse. “Oh-okay… Su-Suguru… thank you.”

It’s utterly embarrassing and even somewhat horrifying, but the way his name trembles off of your tongue all sweetly like that is enough to make him blush. He steals himself in spite of it. You’re still a curse—nothing worth going easy on.

“Strip,” he commands.

You tilt your head at the word, eyes round and brows cinched. “Strip?”

Satoru comes to the rescue—overwhelmed with your cuteness as he’d been since he first saw you, unable to harm even a hair on your head. “It’s just a wittle curse, Suguru—you can’t expect it to understand everything you say. We gotta use simple terms.” 

If he could, he’d like to undress you himself, but he agrees that there’s some pleasure to be found in watching you do so for them. 

He gives you a reassuring look and a somewhat kind smile. “He means take off your clothes.”

“Oh... okay.” You light up upon understanding, hoping not to anger them. You don’t ask why. You just listen, balling your dress at the hips and lifting it up and off over your head—leaving you bare.

“Is that what I think it is?” Suguru utters, eyes zoned in on your lower belly and the pink markings there—swirled symbols mocking the shape of a winged heart right atop your womb.

“It sure looks like it,” Satoru whistles in turn. “How lucky are we, huh?”

Their conversation goes over your head—just as most of what they say. Part of you is still wary that they’re going to eat you—undressing would make that easier for them, wouldn’t it? Maybe you’d just fallen right into their trap…

You blink when spotting them getting undressed, too. Maybe it’s some type of ritual? You wouldn’t know…

Once they’re both naked, your throat tightens, and your gut stirs with an ache of sorts—you wouldn’t know why as to that either, but you rub your thighs together in hopes it would soothe it. But no, it blooms instead into a hunger the more you look, and the black of your eyes bleed out into a pool deep enough to get lost in. You don’t even notice you're drooling. All you know is that they’re getting closer, and your skin simmers for their touch.

And still, you’re confused once you’re on your back with the raven-haired one looming above you. Breathing heavily, you gasp with the spring of a moan once his fingers trace the pulsing glow of your pink marking. You’ve never seen it do that before—it’s a little scary.

“Ah—what—what are you doing?” Half of you wishes to nudge his hand away—it’s so sensitive—and yet, the other half wants nothing but to succumb to it, plead for more. It’s confusing.

“Oh? How can you be a succubus and not know?” he asks calmly, teasingly now with a sympathy he lacked before.

You’re so hot—you’re burning—something’s wet—between your thighs—it pulses on time with your mark. His hand moves down toward it—the feeling intensifies, and your breath flares, quickens, and stutters in your chest. It feels good, but it also feels…

“That feels weird—” you protest with no amount of conviction, rather just in a statement.

“But you like it,” he argues, also more in a statement. Nursing you through the doubt with sweetly slow strokes.

It’s good that he took the reins before Satoru—he wouldn’t be this considerate.

“Don’t worry, pretty curse,” he soothes, sliding his digits through the wet, then slipping two within—inside you—into some spot that makes your toes curl. “I’ll help you find your purpose.”

“Ah!” you squeal—wide swivel-eyed and panting, staring at his ministrations—where he pumps you on his knuckles and how you weep with fluid. What’s going on?

“How does that feel?” he purrs and presses a thumb down on the drumming pearl crowning the mouth—as though it were a button to push and have you unlock.

Suguru watches as your eyes morph—pupils going from round black to glowing pink hearts.

It feels… it feels… “Good… so good—please, give me more.”

You don’t have to beg them twice.

You know heaven for curses doesn’t exist, but you think you’ve just stumbled upon a loophole. 

“I can’t believe she’s taking us both—” Suguru stutters as he jerks his hips up into the downy softness of your ass, burying himself deep alongside the other.

“Well—she’s made for it, ain’t she?” Satoru whimpers in turn.

They both hold your thighs up, having you folded in half, lifted between them—your back resting against the broad warmth of Suguru’s chest, with Satoru in front of you—both stuffing your gushing hole as one.

“More—more...” you blubber—heart eyes half-mast and mouth apart in dewy breaths.

Satoru knows you’re a curse, but he can’t help himself, feeling your hands cling to his back, holding on tightly—he knows you’re a curse, but he leans in and kisses you anyway.

And it’s sweet—sweet like candy. Your spit and your tongue—his new favorite syrup. He can’t stop—feeding you the entire length of his tongue in need to explore your mouth, drink you up—feeling desperately parched without it.

The sight makes Suguru’s gut fizzle. It’s so wrong, yet it feels so right. He thinks he’ll cum soon, but he doesn’t want to—he wants to keep going.

“I’m gonna—” Satoru whines as he breaks for air.

“Me too—” Suguru groans in turn.

They jitter, spines aligned and pulsing with each other—filling you up with a mixture of both.

It’s a feeling like none other for all three of you—euphoric and transcendent—you think you might die from the pleasure, feeling the crushing weight of paradise dawn on you in rapids.

You all collapse on the bed next to each other, you in the middle. They don’t take themselves out, and you prefer it that way—you fear the loneliness if they would. Right now, it’s warm. You’d like to stay there forever.

“I’m sorry…” Suguru apologizes suddenly—much to your confusion until you see him raise his palm like before. “But this is for the best.”

Weakened, you’re warped into the pretty confines of a pink marble within just a second. He holds you for a moment, feeling somewhat guilty, but doesn’t waste long before swallowing you up—down his throat until settling neatly in the prison of his stomach.

Satoru doesn’t look surprised. After all, Suguru’s right—it is for the best. He can’t exactly keep you in his room forever without discovery. This way, you’re kept safe from other sorcerers as well as just a call away from them whenever they wish to see you.

“What’ she taste like?” he asks nonchalantly. 

The birthday boy licks his lips and then smiles. “Like cake.”

Looking up, the person staring back at you looks no different from a life-sized porcelain doll. Pristine, mint condition, fit to be put behind glass. In your frilly dress, petticoat and stockings. Just like Alice down the rabbit hole.

The only thing that betrays the illusion is the leather collar on your throat and the chain running from it to the middle of the floor. But no matter.

He’s got a giddy smile on his face— chest swelled with pride at his work. You’re his most prized possession. You really are! There isn’t a single toy in this room that can compete with you.

He’s not wearing anything special to match. Bedhead, undressed, still in his pajama pants. Why wouldn’t he be? This is his playroom, after all—his downtime—where he can be a boy with his toy. Though, calling him a boy isn’t exactly right—what with him being nearly in his thirties. Not to mention that he’s about two heads taller than you, with abs like an athlete, toned and chiseled and hard to the touch, hard enough to strain your wrists when he bears down on you. Oh, and that thing in his pants.

You bite your tongue and steal yourself. It would be easy to cry, but he only gets weirder about it then. So you stifle it, even though you look so stupid you want to act like an animal. Tear the dress to shreds and rub your makeup into a mess—scream, bite, spit on him. You’d done all that once before to no avail other than punishments that still keep you up at night. Once was enough. He didn’t play nice with you.

But then again, when does he ever?

“Hmm, think I’m done…” he announces after having dallied with the lace of your corset for a quarter-hour—it’s so tight you have to appreciate every breath. “Time to have some fun.”

He treats you no different from a doll either. Scooping you up into his arms like an inanimate object and carrying off to the princess bed—the one that looks like a girl’s birthday cake with a veil on top, and mountains of pillows all too soft.

He places you down on top of the duvet and it seems to swallow you like an ocean. He dives after, covering you like a fishnet. You take a final breath before he can drown, your hand on his chest, holding him at a distance.

“I was thinking, uhm…” you start, the words coming out odd, barely recognizable as your voice—only noticing now how long it had been since you’d spoken last. “I was…” you restart, but it’s still no easier. His eyes are large and unblinking, staring down at you as though he’s just as surprised as you are to found out you speak. “Hoping we could play… a little differently this time?”

He blinks at the request, having fallen completely still above you.

“Really? How?” The suddenness of his words make you flinch. You don’t know what you had expected—maybe a smile and something dismissive. It had been a while since he’d spoken directly to you like that—and not to himself in absentminded comments about you.

You recover some time, seeing him stare down at you all expectantly in wait. He follows when you guide him into sitting instead of looming over you, putting yourself in his lap—straddling him. “Mh, like this. Maybe?”

It’s a gamble. He’d never had you on top before, nor ever shown an interest in it. Setting aside the time you’d been sprawled on your belly over his thighs, his hand riddled in your hair and his other hand branding your ass with his very own toy company logo.

His expression is unreadable—perhaps a little confused if you were to take a guess.

“Oh!” he erupts with a smile you hope is the good sort. “You mean I play the toy and you the master?” He laughs brightly, falling on his back with a hand over his face, cackling through his fingers as though it were the most absurd proposal he’d ever heard.

But despite his obvious amusement, you still feel it—his toy poking into you from beneath.

He settles after a moment. “Alright then, why not?” Looking up at you—his hair a tousled mess splayed upon the bed, eyes as gleeful as the quirk on his lips. “Who knows… it could be fun.”

He props his arms behind his head, lounging comfortably.

“I did call you a cake-topper, after all,” he snickers. “I’ll lie perfectly still, like a good toy, while you play with me. Sound good?”

You can’t believe how open he was to it. Still a little apprehensive, you nod your head.

And then the game begins…

He doesn’t exactly stay true to his word. But you suppose that would be too much to ask. His head still rests pretty on the pillow with his eyes closed, smiling in satisfaction—for now, sated with your performance. Groaning in absentminded bliss, “You’re right. This is fun~”

But he hadn’t stayed perfectly still like he’d said. He’d reached out when you’d finally begun riding and now his arms keep you snug against his chest, fine-pressed sweaty skin against your frilly bust, more in a lock than a hug. It makes it kind of difficult to do what he wants, but you try your best—knees and toes planted in the mattress for stability as you jerk your hips on his lap. It’s awkward, but riding him like this is still better than the alternative, after all.

You keep your arms around the back of his neck, resting your face in the cradle it creates beneath his chin, panting lowly—eyes closed in focus away from the pain, brows tight with your tongue between your teeth, trying to maintain the rhythm despite the blossoming ache that’s started to spread from your hips down your thighs—another ill sting in the small of your back crawling up your spine. It’s hard staying bent over like this, and your movements are turning sluggish…

There’s a sigh from above you, pitchy and just awful. “Aww, is it really time already?” he whines—previous satisfaction dwindling—bordering on something else entirely now, the opposite and so much worse—boredom with a hint of disappointment—a spoiled child with a toy that’s run out of battery.

You shake your head, burying your face in his neck and tightening your grip, stealing yourself with newfound strength to maintain the tempo you had before while muffling out a desperate, “No, I can keep going—”

He lets out another sound, this time in thought. “Hmm...” It doesn’t give you much confidence—how lax a sound it is—as if he isn’t even close to being spent yet. “I don’t know… You’re so slow. I’m gonna get soft if this is all you got, y’know?”

He starts moving—sitting up. He takes his own hold on your hips, and you know what that means. And you can’t handle being played with, not when he damn near breaks you each and evert time.

“No, wait! I can keep going, please, just a little longer?” you insist, both palms pushed flat on his chest with your round eyes looking at him hopelessly in plead for a second chance—even though you know he isn’t one with the patience to give you one.

He stares blankly back, big-eyed in surprise at your outburst. Though still not convinced it would be worth humoring you. If he was being honest, he’d enjoyed it more than he thought he would but had now had his fill and wanted to take charge as usual and finish the job. However…

Oh, you’re being so uncharacteristically cute today—and that pathetic look of desperation on your face is truly something else…

He smiles deceptively softly, so brightly it reaches his eyes. He very nearly looks innocent like that, but you know him too well—so well that the sight of his lips curling gives you nothing but a churning stomach.

“Okay then, doll. You convinced me.”

Suppose it doesn’t hurt letting you have your way sometimes. You have been on very good behavior lately, after all. He ought to reward you.

“I’ll be your toy a little longer.” He murmurs with a lazy smirk, nose-kissing you—patronizing, as though he’s doing you a big favor.

It doesn’t grant you any peace, and neither does the way he keeps his hold on your hips, rubbing smooth circles into the fat leisurely, letting you know he wouldn't be removing them—it serves as some type of encouragement as you start moving again.

It’s easier now when you’re upright. Holding his shoulders, you can jump rather than buck—up and down, up and down, up and down—it’s simple enough. Or it was for a moment, at least, before he planted your hips down.

“Not like that,” he shakes his head softly. “Like this.” He moves you after his will, wanting you to grind instead—putting you back in square one.

Your movement staggers, and you mask a wince with a moan—fuck, your muscles are so sore, maintaining this movement is enough to make your loins scream, feeling all but set on fire.

With one hand keeping you seated, the other takes hold of your leash and pulls you in close, his lips on the dew of your rouge-dusted cheek—you feel the grin, and like prey threatened by a hunter’s teeth, you shiver in respect of it. “Come on, dolly, ride or die, faster,” he simpers, voice laced with mockery and amusement.

Your thighs are shaking now, tightened up in anguish, begging for a break—soon to take it without your permission. How much you can take reaches a point, and everything goes slack not a second too soon.

“And now you’re done,” he snickers hotly under his breath, planting a kiss on the side of your glossy lips while you exhaustedly and gingerly take your break with a feeling of defeat. He speaks low, and you dread every eerie lick of his words, “My turn to play.”

You want to protest, but you know it’s no use. He’d made up his mind now, and challenging it any further would only turn you into a nuisance—toys are supposed to enjoy being played with, after all—best take it with grace and shut up before he reminds you.

He flips the both of you around with ease, reclaiming his spot—on top. He loves you like this, splayed out beneath him like a puppet—just waiting to have all your strings pulled.

It was good while it lasted, you think—maybe if you get better, you can make him finish and not have to endure what comes next.

“Don’t pout, dolly—that was fun,” he kisses you lips as they start to tremble. “But you suit being my toy so much better.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Denki, Mirio ♡ JJK – Mahito, Gojo ♡ HQ – Oikawa, Miya twins, Tendou ♡ BLLK – Nagi, Bachira

The four members of the Bakusquad are all gobsmacked at the domestic sight—the boss, their boss, their hard-headed macho boss, bending over and apologizing to this little omega half his size.

“Are you hungry?” you ask, peaking over the breadth of his hunched shoulders to the others with a warm smile on your pretty face. “I just finished dinner.”

“No,” Katsuki growls grumpily and winds his arms around you—like an old, tired dog, voice gruff, “Uninvited intruders don’t get my dinner.”

You only giggle it off, brushing his stubble with a soft hand, gently handling him further down to your level so you could place a kiss on his other cheek. “Oh, stop, Katsuki. Be nice to your friends.” 

Then you walk off to the kitchen.

Calling out sweetly over your shoulder, “I went a little overboard, so there’s more than enough for everyone.”

And by god, if they don't fall in love with you right then before they’ve even got a single word out.

But love at first sight isn't all so strange. None of them have ever seen an Omega outside of on film—much less been hit with the scent of one. They're all bewitched and confused at the feeling as they trail after you as if they've been compelled by some higher power.

"Please sit," you smile, gesturing to the long table where only two seats have been made. "Katsuki, hon, help me, please"

They all scoot into each their unplaced seat while your big lousy Alpha begrudgingly helps set the table for the unwanted dinner guests. They remain silent as you serve them like the perfect homemaker—all crimson-cheeked and ashamed at how they sniff after you as you pass them by.

You sit just as brightly despite the awkward tension. "Please, enjoy."

They all obey, eating in utter silence—every single one of them trying hard not to stare—and all failing miserably.

Kaminari's the first to speak, having been left shaken by curiosity he no longer could contain.

"So... did he kidnap you, or?"

It's a fair question to some extent. Omega's are a dime a dozen, all regulated strictly by protective institutions. You can't just find one to mate like in the old days. You need to apply for one and be vetted—not to mention they cost a fortune.

"Denki!" Kirishima whisper-shouts in admonishment, shaking his head from across the table.

"What? I'm I the only one who's thinking it?" he throws his hands up and defends.

Katsuki's fist strains around his fork, but you lay your mit atop his, and he calms down shortly.

“Don't worry, Mitsuki and Masaru made the arrangements and paid the dowry," you giggle, running your hand through your Alpha's ashen hair with fondness in your eyes. "I was a graduation present of sorts. They worried Katsuki wouldn't take care of himself once he started working and thought having a mate might help him with his busy day.”

If Katsuki appreciates you spilling his business like that, he doesn't say anything about it—just continues eating.

Denki sighs and sags in his chair. “I always knew Bakugou’s folks were loaded. How nice...”

Sero grins, “Your jealousy is showing.”

Denki pouts, “I’m not exactly tryna hide it.”

"Yeah..." Mina pipes up. "Can't deny I'm jealous, too."

Sero's grin falls as well with his confession, "Yeah, me neither, actually."

You keep smiling sympathetically, "Well, you're all welcome here—I don't mind the extra company."

"Really?" Denki lights up.

Mina and Sero, too—in awe and in unison, saying, "She's an angel."

"Get yer own," Katsuki grumbles. "Now shut up and finish your food. Then you're leavin'—all of you."

"Oh, come on, man," Denki whines. "Have a little pitty for your fellow Alphas."

"Let's stay respectful, guys," Krishima buds in lightheartedly. "Think about what you're asking."

Then, rethinking the conversation, the other three all realized how it had sounded, even though they hadn't meant it that way. And they all blush even darker than before.

And still, you just smile—alphas are all so cute.

Especially your hyper-protective one.

Okay, fine, so you’re a little mean. So what? Is it really so wrong of you to play with him just a little bit? No. Or… at least not entirely. Think about it—in a way, you’re making his day with your little tricks. How you return his long longing stares with your own lingering looks and coy smiles—taking him outside with you to smoke during your break, talking to him in giggles over small inside jokes you’ve developed between just the two of you, applying your lipgloss all exaggeratingly as they do in the movies, borrowing his jacket when it gets too cold for you in your inappropriate tops, squeezing your arms tightly over your chest, making your tits squish up to meet him and his shameful leer.

Truly, adults shouldn't act this way—but you just can’t help yourself!

And it’s not as if he isn’t equally guilty! Looking at you like that! It’s not as if you don’t know exactly what perverted little thoughts go tumbling through his head—picturing you naked in compromising positions, probably playing with your image like a toy doll, dressing you up in kinky clothes to fit all his dirty fantasies, making you say all sorts of vile things for him.

You’re both awful! So it’s fine. A quid pro quo, as they call it. A tit for tat if you’re nasty.

And honestly, a nerdy guy like him should know better. A pretty girl like you—popular and a sweetheart, to top it all off—he can’t seriously believe he has an actual chance, can he? Of course not—that would make him delusional. You’re not torturing him. In any case, he’s torturing himself!

And you seriously think he might just keep it up forever.

But you might be going too far this time—laying it on too thick—stretching him too thin—asking him to drive you home after an office party, giggling and all but moaning all your words in the passenger seat next to him, wearing nothing but a short little black slip, no bra, no nothing except for a pair of strappy little heals. 

“Oh! What a night—these shoes are killing me!” you sigh while taking them both off as he drives. Even in your drunk state, you can see the way his hands tighten around the wheel and how he shifts all uncomfortably in his seat, breathing thickly—it makes you smile.

You throw your head back in relief once they’re both off—chest jutting forth as you rub your thighs together. And he swallows thickly—jaw clenched so tight, he couldn’t say anything even if he had anything to say. But you know he doesn’t—you, with your milky skin on display, have rendered him speechless. 

Your smile curls at the corners, and you know it’s cruel, but you have absolutely no idea how to reel it in anymore. He makes you feel like an untouchable goddess being worshipped—makes you want to laugh as he bows his head in the dirt and prays to you with all he has.

Oh, the poor boy, you’ve got him wound so tightly around your little finger—you don’t even know how to release him anymore. You’re both in way too deep, it’s getting hard for either of you to think clearly anymore.

“I’ll follow you in—just to make sure you get to bed safely,” he offers once stopping outside your place. And lost to the wine in your bloodstream, you haven’t the slightest little hang-up over how he knows your address without having asked.

Completely oblivious, you keep floating on cloud nine, smiling while murmuring, “What a nice guy~ How ‘bout you carry me up the steps as well—” 

You’d meant it as a tease, but he takes it in all manners of seriousness, rounding the car, opening your door, and then scooping you up before your bare feet even have the chance of meeting the pavement below—but you don’t complain.

Only cheering, “Oh~” 

It’s surprising, maybe even a little bit impressive. He’s tall, but he looks more lean than anything—like an overgrown boy—a far cry from a rugged man of strength, but here he is, acting just so, carrying you like a princess—with ease, you might add. But you suppose it’s been hard for you to tell his true build from beneath those big, cozy sweaters he always wears. Resting on it now, you can tell his chest is actually quite firm.

“I didn’t know you were so strong~" You keep flirting, paying no mind to how his hands grope into your exposed skin—you can allow him that much. Otherwise, feeling too swept up in your own feminine guiles—aroused by your sheer seductiveness—hot and bothered and thinking you’re going to touch yourself to yourself tonight and laugh about how you have the poor office loser waiting on you, hands and knees.

You find your keys in your clutch and unlock the door from the cradle of his arms—before you’re carried inside like a queen, all the way to your bedroom, where he lays you down gently on your bed. 

You sigh happily at the soft, nice embrace—feeling successful while melting into the cakey mattress—all but ready to find your vibe and ride the high.  That is, until feeling a certain pair of hands start undressing you.

“Hey—what’re you doing?” you jolt, gripping your dress in a panic—looking shock-eyed into his round ones.

“Just making you comfortable,” he says softly, looking a little bit like a kicked pup—making your nerves return calm. 

Oh, of course, he is—you can’t blame a guy for trying. However, there are limits to what’s allowed in this little game of yours. And you think that’s crossing one.

“Thanks, but…” You chuckle—faking being shy while batting your lashes. “That wouldn’t be appropriate. You see—” Voice sultry as you admit, “I’m not wearing anything underneath.”

How you have the gall to keep teasing him is beyond you, and so you keep blaming it all on liquid courage—otherwise, certain the devil is making you do it.

“Thanks for taking me home, though.”

You smile before turning to rest on your side, facing away from where he stands by your bedside with hope in his poor eyes—oh, you almost feel bad—if only your well-fed ego weren’t already making you feel on top of the world. 

“You can leave the key beneath the welcome matt. Drive safely. I’ll see you on Monday.”

Eyes closed in bliss while grinning from ear to ear, you’ve come to terms with your terrible nature and have found the perfect way of sleeping at night despite it. Your poor colleague, so hopelessly infatuated with you and such a sucker for it—making you relive your mean girl queen bee school days all over again.

It’s the drink! You swear! It makes you feel all types of demonic—wanting to play with your favorite toy—see just how far you can take it before making him break. But, as always, one should be careful what one wishes for.

“You know…” A dark voice occupies your bedroom. From behind you. You’d thought he’d left already—gone out to his car to beat his blue-balled cock to his fantasy of you, but no. 

“Playing hard to get is one thing…” he continues. “Being a stuck-up bitch is another.”

You try to whip around, but it’s too late by then.

“You’ve had your fun with me. It’s time I have my fun with you.”

Nothing could have prepared you for his sudden change—the moment when all your teasing and tricks finally made him snap! 

He’s on top of your back. Straddling you—a heavy hand in your hair, pushing your face back down into the soft mattress below, while the other hand picks your dress up, pulling over your butt and leaving it exposed.

“Hey! What are you—” You try to make him calm down—to stop—but it’s as though nothing you say has any impact—or, no—instead, it has the complete opposite effect of what you want.

A sharp feeling blossoms across your ass cheek. It takes a moment before you realize he’d hit you—spanked you.

His grip on your hair tightens, pulls your face up to meet him where he leans down to your ear—voice venom-laced and shy of unhinged, “You’ve enjoyed yourself tonight, haven’t you? Teasing and toying with me—thinking I’ll just sit back and take it.”

His hand digs between your thighs—slipping through despite how you mend them shut—now dragging his fingers through your puffy slit, forcing two inside your tightly needy hole, uncaring to the cry it reaps from you.

“I’m the one who made your pussy wet like this, so it’s only right I have my way with it.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Shoto, Shigaraki, Shinso ♡ JJK – Nanami, Yuuta, Choso ♡ HQ – Kageyama ♡ CSM – Yoshida ♡ BLLK – Isagi ♡ WB – Sakura, Suo

“What am I doing here?” you end up asking—not putting much real sentiment in it, as you’ve been witness to your own undoing more times than one by being thorns and no flower. You’ve learnt that, with any type of man, it’s best to be the flower.

Which is why you ask stupid questions like that as if you don’t already know. You’re a pretty girl, and pretty women, just like that cut of venison on your plate, is something people want. And this man in front of you, whoever he is, seems to be a man with certain influence if the size of this living complex is any tell. Working kitchen and living room with a fucking TV, and other doors leading to more luxury amenities, you’re sure.

Without doubt, this is the type of man who gets what he wants. “Are you gonna–”

He sets his utensils down firmly, effectively cutting you off as he reaches for the napkin draped over his lap, using it to wipe his mouth and stache before grabbing the pint of beer standing next to his plate. Dripping with dew, it leaves a ring on the tablecloth while he swallows a third of its contents in a few large gulps, exhaling with mighty satisfaction once he resurfaces.

And only after setting the mug down in its designated spot again does he bother to finally answer you with a curt and ambiguous, “That’s up to you.”

He picks up the steak knife and fork again, then continues with his meal. 

Explaining as he goes, “You can be a smart girl and show appreciation for all I’ve done for you today, and I’ll provide you with all your basic needs and more, such as good food, clean clothes, warm showers, and a safe place to sleep at night,” listing the circumstances as matter-of-factly as you would in any other life or death situation, and giving you the ultimatum just as straighforwardly, “Or you can decline, and be sent to the barracks instead, where you’ll have to do manual labor like the rest.”

So that’s the gist of this place, you suppose. A typical cast system, with the top brass living comfortably in their own chambers like the kings and queens in those fairytales from the before-times you’ve read about, leaders of the lower classes who do all the heavy lifting for only a fraction of the spoils.

Seems like your good looks have landed you the golden ticket.

Making a forestalling decision, you pick up the cutlery, eyeing the meat on your plate and sucking back the well of spit beneath your tongue before cutting yourself a chunk. Slowly, you put the small piece to your lips with a pause before opening your mouth and pulling it off the fork using your teeth. Once it’s on your tongue, your mouth seems to go into a rampage. You’d survived off of dog food and Twinkies for so long now, you’d all but forgotten the taste of real food, giving it only a couple of impatient chews before swallowing roughly and quickly succeeding the motion in a rushed set of repeats—all but throwing yourself over your plate like a wild animal.

“Slow down,” comes a stoic order from across the table. 

You look up with your cheeks stuffed, breath flared, gazing up at the dour set of eyes staring back at you. You swallow thickly, then promptly straighten your back again before grabbing the napkin—still folded into a neat flower on your right—you dab your lips, and iron it out against your lap just the same as him. Offering a quiet, “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t reply to that, only keeps looking at you—assessing you, you would guess. Hopefully, concluding that you are the so-called smart girl he’d requested and not something they ought to throw back out.

“I won’t be forcing myself on you,” he states then, a little out of the blue. Or, at least you thought so until you spotted his plate, cleared already, with his beer halfway gone. “You understand?”

Nodding in return, you don’t think much of it other than a half-way sarcastic how nice of him, biting back a scoff while reverting your attention back to your meal.

But then he clears his throat, “I won’t be forcing myself on you, so you need to show me how badly you want it.”

Your features draw back just a bit as his meaning dawns on you. “Oh…”

You look back at your meal again, now halfway finished and way past going back—it’s like you’ve already signed some type of contract, with his side of the deal already squared and settled in your belly.

You’re not overly happy about it, feeling at a disadvantage, and yet, you had an idea of what you’d signed up for when you took that first bite.

“How?” you ask him then.

He reaches for his beer again, making you bitterly yearn for one of your own once more, thinking it’s kind of cruel of him to be the one drinking, when you’re the one who’s more in need of it, what with what he means for you to give him tonight—that is, if you’re not misunderstanding him.

“Smile, for starters. Make small talk,” he says. “Tell me about yourself.”

You rethink your situation—what cards you could play and which ones you’d better hold on to. Making a quick judgment as you consider the pink little dress you’ve been made to wear, and other details about his demeanor, especially that hungry way he eyes you, talking to you like you’re something in need of direction. You conclude that he, like most other men, wants them sweet—possibly a little clueless as well, a little ditzy even.

Yeah… you think you can manage that.

“Oh, well… I don’t really know if there’s so much to say about me, honestly…” you start, biting your lip anxiously, just for his amusement. “I don’t think I did much before it all started—I was really young, so… I don’t know what my parents did either, can’t really remember. Actually, I don’t even remember their names. I don’t think I’d stopped calling them mom and dad yet.” 

You decide to sprinkle a little sense of lost lamb in there, as well as playing your best sympathy card. Every man his age loves a girl with daddy issues, after all. You’ll make sure he thinks he’s found the perfect one, you decide while looking into your lap, all sadly, fiddling with your fingers as you lower your voice into a mumble, “They died early on…”

And then you expertly fake changing the subject at just the right moment, smiling that eager-to-please good-girl smile you know they get weak for, as you continue, “But uhm… What did you do before?” Appealing to his ego to further secure your place. There ain’t a man left in the world who can resist the urge to talk about themselves when given the opportunity, especially when there’s a pretty young thing taking an interest. “You know, before it started.”

It seems to please him, answering with pride, “I was a cop,” before giving you a patronizing look. “You know what that is?”

You play along, humming in thought, “Uhm, I think so.” Giving your best airheaded answer, “It’s a person who makes sure everyone follows the rules.”

That earns you a chuckle, soaked in ridicule and condescending amusement. “That’s right, for the most part.”

You take it in stride, acting like it goes over your head as you continue making that small talk he’d wanted, “That must be, uhm… pretty practical, right? Even now.”

He scoffs at it like the silly question you’d meant for it to be, “I wouldn't be sitting here otherwise.”

You’re successfully endearing yourself to him more and more by the second, you think, continuing the act with a chagrinned look. Smiling submissively with your voice coming out soft, “Right…”

He doesn’t stand a chance. Fully convinced it’s your true nature, he’s completely clueless as to how you could have your steak knife plunged all the way down to the hilt in his neck in the matter of a second if only given one short opportune moment, with the false sense of security you’ve lured him into.

“It’s a miracle you survived,” he states.

Deadly wrong, and yet you agree with a sheepish little mumble, “Yeah…”

He sighs in something closely related to sympathy,  “I bet it’s been hard out there.” And it’s with that that you know you’ve really hooked him, appealed to his protective nature so bad he’s started wanting to care for you like his own babe.

You admire your own work for a moment, silently, picking up your napkin again and smiling cockily to yourself, hidden from his sight. “At times. Not always,” you reveal pensively, like you’re about to bear your life’s trauma for him. “We’ve had peace in places like this. Made it work as long as we could, but nothing ever lasts… People die, taking more with them once they come back as the dead, and you don’t even have time to mourn before there’s another one gone.”

Yeah, it’s a real tear-jerker, ain’t it?

“You know? Before I got here, I was convinced I was just another corpse—just walking around aimlessly, eating scraps to stay alive, covered in death so thoroughly you wouldn’t even be able to tell us apart.”

You leave out the part of sacrificing men like him to the eaters so that you yourself could get away, as you doubt he’d find that part equally heart-rending.

“But now I’m here…” You give him a tiny smile as you finish your story, paired with adoring eyes as you behold him like he’s the savior you’ve been praying for each night. Voice fragile as though you’ve reached the final breaking point and are in desperate need of him to catch you before you fall. “I just hope it lasts.” 

Of course, he bites the bait.

Vowing, “You’re safe here.”

However… It’s not with the level of earnest you’d been aiming for. 

It’s got you miffed for a moment. But you suppose some guys are harder to wrap around your finger. 

No matter. You still have time. They all crack in the end, after all.

He sighs, shaking his head. You’re not sure if it’s at you or something else.

“People always blame the monsters… But here we acknowledge the truth.”

Oh, here comes the lecture. 

Lucky you.

“It’s people who are the real trouble. It was like that before the world turned to shit, and it’s like that still. That’s why it’s so important to have structure,” he chastises, giving you the same speech all men like him preach. You have to refrain from shaking your head and rolling your eyes while remaining perfectly doe-faced.

Only for the next words to slap it into reality.

“And why, when you’re finished with your plate, you’re gonna clear the table, do the dishes in that sink over there, until everything is nice and tidy. Then you’re gonna come to the bedroom, undress, and put away your clothes in the closet, before coming to bed and proving to me that you deserve to have dishes to clean and clothes to pick and choose from. Do we agree?”

You blink. Feeling, somehow, a little powerless suddenly, and not just as an act this time, but for real. You don’t know… It’s as though, somewhere along the meal, you’d accidentally swallowed your pride as well without even noticing.

It was clear now. This man, whoever he is, wouldn’t be as easily manipulated as the ones you’d dealt with in the past. Not that you think he’s on to you, but rather, that whatever act you put on, it’s not going to cut it either way—at least not without your face and body being the main part of the deal.

“Yes,” you end up agreeing, to which he promptly shakes his head.

“Sir,” he corrects you. “If you understand, you say yes, sir.”

And you do just that, repeating it back to him pliantly before even granting yourself the time to give it a thought, “Yes, sir.”

He smiles at that. “Good.” And then he gets up, leaving everything on the table for you to clear, as he walks over to a door at the other end of the room. “Don’t take too long now. I’ll be waiting.”

He closes it behind him, and you sit there. Feeling a little sick and confused as to why, only for you to place the feeling a little moment later. You’re scared. For the first time in a while, you’re not the one in control. You’d thrown your very best at him, and though he seemed to have enjoyed it, it wasn’t like the others before him. Throughout the dinner, there hadn’t been a single moment, not even one fleeting second of opportunity for you to strike. You’d been eyeing the teeth on your knife, envisioning how you’d plant it right through his Adam’s apple when he let his guard down, but it never did. Not once.

You look at the door you’d initially gone through when you’d been brought here. You even have all the twists and turns of the hallways behind it mapped out perfectly in your head, despite the sack that had been covering your head the entire way—you’d know exactly where to go to get out if you broke through.

But somehow, you’re not as confident anymore. He’s left you in the room all by yourself with every means of taking the chance, but instead of making you feel like reaching out and grabbing it, you hesitate, consumed by the feeling that it’s all a trap.

Breath abnormally tense, you start doing what he’d said, rinsing the dishes by hand before putting them away neatly in the cupboards above. It’s not something you’ve done often, and yet it still comes pretty naturally. 

You’re done too soon.

And so you use another moment to steel yourself—new plan. Continuing the charade, you’re going to get yourself well and good under his skin before making any moves. This one was going to take time, you could tell. Trying anything right now would be too risky.

You just need to get through this next part, that's all. It shouldn’t be any harder than what you’ve had to do out in the badlands. And you’ve already gotten a meal out of it. No, most definitely, you’ve done way worse for way less before.

You enter the bedroom silently, locking the door with a soft click behind you.

It’s dark, and warm, and smells of cologne mixed with personal musk—intimate—like you’d just stepped inside a den. And suppose that’s exactly what you’d done. 

Already undressed, he doesn’t say anything, only nods towards the open wardrobe where his things have already been neatly hung and folded. 

You take the hint without looking below his waist. Spinning around with haste as you scurry over to the closet, trying to keep it together as you feel your cheeks heat. Taking a moment as you stand there with your back to him and your heart in your throat, before shucking the spaghetti straps down your shoulders.

It makes goosebumps sprout across your skin, giving you a chill. You ignore it as you push the bunched fabric down your hips until it falls and pools at your feet before bending over to pick it up as you step out of both it and your heels.

You spot your hands shaking as you reach for the hanger, standing there, in the pretty little lingerie set you’d been told to change into after your shower this morning, when you’d been informed of how one of the officers had taken an interest in you.

Before that, you’d spent the better half of a month inside a container with other stragglers they’d found, all waiting to know what they planned on doing with you. A week in and you’d been convinced you were a living meat locker, the way one after the other would disappear. 

In all honesty, this is probably the best you could have hoped for.

Still, you flinch when his voice calls out. “Come here.”

Shaken from your thoughts, you breathe steadily through your nose, swallowing thickly before turning around again. You’re tense, looking at your toes as you slowly make your way over, crossing the carpeted floors in silence until you stand before him.

Still keeping your eyes fixed off to the side, you jolt when a thick finger slides up under your chin, lifting your head and gaze to look at him. Your eyes flicker as you do, breath a little hitched—and you’d love to tell yourself you’re still just playing the part of the weakly animal praying by the feet of the hunter, but you’re not so convinced anymore.

“On your knees,” he says, softly yet firmly, dragging his digit up and flicking it off your bottom lip before placing his hand atop your head and giving it a gentle but sturdy push, making you bend your knees until they were softly settled against the fuzzy floors below.

He smiles from above you, and you’re mind goes blank, feeling all but overrun by this sense of inaction, as if the very choice of doing anything but what was asked of you was out of your hands.

“Have you ever sucked cock before?” he asks after a moment of stroking your hair, enjoying the sight of you, it would seem, now that your wide eyes had finally taken in the thing looming right above your head, stroked lazily in his other hand.

You gulp softly, voice shaking just a bit as you answer. “No, sir.”

He makes a sound, kind of like a chuckle, but deeper and laxer than that, saying, “That's alright. It’s easy.” 

Despite his words, his fingers rake into your roots, getting a good grip as though silently telling you to pay close attention while he explains, “Keep your mouth open as wide as possible, tongue out, no teeth, and your throat as loose as you can. Understand?”

You promptly nod your head, slow and soft for him. Feeling bound by an invisible force, making you heed every word slavishly, even though you felt a tight knot in your stomach strangle itself as though punishing you for suddenly having become so docile.

“I don’t mind if you gag or throw up—just do what I tell you and it’ll be alright.”

Another chill runs rampant down your spine. “Yes, sir.”

Another smile stretches out across his face. “Good girl.”

Hands in your lap while you receive the words, you give yourself a squeeze just as your thighs do the same. Feeling something treacherous start to swish about down below—heart getting caught in the storm and tugging your breath along with it, rendering you but a feverish ball of anticipation. Mouth in the same state it was before tasting the venison.

"Now then..."

He hums, and you think it’s very likely that he has been able to see right through you all along.

“Let's put that silver tongue of yours to better use.”

♡ BNHA – oldman Bakugou, Enji, AFO ♡ JJK – cynical Nanami, Geto, Naoya, Toji, Kusakabe ♡ CSM – Kishibe ♡ AOT – cynical Erwin ♡ COD – Price

You cast a glance over your shoulder. Heart, now definitively, in your throat, with shudders running through you at the sight of the hooded figure at your back.

You walk a little faster. Eyes skittering around to see if there are any others around to witness the worst of your fears. Seeing you’re alone, you pick up the pace even more. Any faster now and you’d be jogging. Yet, you don’t want to be too presumptuous. After all, you don’t know if the guy’s even following you. It would be rude to treat him like he’s already committed a crime, when he isn’t guilty of anything other than walking home. And so, out of courtesy,  you give him the benefit of the doubt and stick to power-walking. 

Gratefully, you make it to your outergate. Keys already in your hands. You're happy to find the keyhole on your first try. Even so, with thoughts regarding the worst still unpleasantly lingering in the back of your head, when you pull the door to yourself, you make sure to crack it open just wide enough for only you to slip through. Wanting it to close behind you quickly, so that the automatic lock could do its job and shut out whoever it was that might be following you. 

You skip along, through the passage leading to the inner-yard, paranoid with a simultaneous feeling of being silly for feeling paranoid, side-eying the gate again before you turn the corner—utterly horrified upon what you catch in your peripheral. 

Shit, fuck-fuck-fuck, he made it inside. It's official then, he’s definitely fucking following you. 

This time you skip jogging and go straight to running to reach the door to your block. Hands shaking a little too much to make it on the first try this time, but somehow you manage in your scramble, making sure to pull the door closed behind you, hearing it click in place, signalling that it’s been locked tight. Despite it, just in case you still straight jump up the stairs, two at a time to reach your flat.

You can’t see it, but you hear it—how he makes it through the second door.

Feeling a mix of terror and confusion all at once. You don’t understand, you’re certain you heard the door lock, but somehow now it’s open again. Your keys jingle as you steady them to open your door in a panic. Listening to the stranger climb the stairs. Once it’s open you nearly tumble inside your apartment, all but slamming it shut to lock it—only… along with your keys, there’s another pair jingling in the staircase.

That's when you realize. He’s not following you. He lives here. He’s your fucking neighbour. 

He lives in the apartment under you. He lives in the apartment under you and you’d clearly just treated him like some sort of a criminal. He’s your neighbor and you’d all but slammed two doors in his face and sprinted away from him.

Embarrassment takes the place of your fear, filling it with regret and guilt. “Shit.”

But can he blame you though? Dressed like that? Dark hood hiding his face, like some sort of thief in the night. What were you supposed to do? Hold the door open for him and say “Heya there, mysterious stranger, you wanna come join me for a nightcap?”

“Shit,” you repeat to no one but yourself. Now you’re just being sarcastic because you feel bad. 

You sigh, then decide you’ll apologize next time you see him. A most dreaded and most-certainly awkward event which turns out to be as soon as the next day.

“Oh! Hey!” Newly awoken from your drunken slumber, you’d just stepped out after a failed mission to find some breakfast in your fridge—having found it completely empty except for a couple of expired tubes of condiments. “Hey, you!”

You rush down the steps, seeing the guy from last night lurking outside his apartment door, keys in hand like he’s just locking up to go as well. He pulls out his earphones once he sees you, a little taken aback by the sight of you panting, all out of breath in front of him.

Jeez, you need to start taking the gym more seriously, you think to yourself as you catch your breath. “Hey, listen, I’m real’ sorry ‘bout the other night. That was so rude and uncalled for,” you apologize. Face all riddled with embarrassment and guilt, smiling at him in the awkward hope of his understanding forgiveness.

The only problem is, he’s got no idea who you are or “What’re you on about?”

Oh, you pause, maybe he hadn’t noticed you? Still, you start explaining, “Last night, or well, this morning I guess, we came home at the same time. I was sorta… nearly, kinda running away from you? I was drunk and paranoid—I didn’t know you live here—I should have held the door open. Anyway, I just wanted to say sorry.”

His chin tilts up in recognition after that, “Ah, right, yeah,” then waves his hand, saying, “No worries. I know how it is. Dressed the way you were, I'd have been scared too. Hardly recognized you without that little dress you had on.”

You look down at yourself, all covered up in baggy sweatpants and a hoodie—a far cry from yesterday’s get-up—now make-up free, not to mention your hair in a messy updo. No wonder he didn’t put two and two together.

“Right,” you giggle then, suddenly feeling embarrassed for a whole other reason. You were just going to pop in and out to the store—you hadn’t exactly accounted for anyone to see you. “Yeah, I was just gonna grab some breakfast. Mornin’ after and all that—need something fatty, you know?”

He returns your smile, way cooler than you, eyeing you like he’s amused before offering, only with a small pause, “How ‘bout we go to the bakery around the corner? I'll forgive you for yesterday if you pay.”

It stuns you. Thinking, that’s brazen—a little impressed by his forwardness. Your smile gets brighter with another laugh. This was not the morning you were expecting. But heck, why not?

“A’right, sure,” you agree, before putting up your pointer, jokingly stating, “But then we better be square.”

He whistles, “Sounds good to me.”

And that’s how you end up having breakfast with your downstairs neighbour.

And as you sit there, opposite each other, you let your eyes wander because holy cow, he’s absolutely massive. You’d noticed when you were standing inside as well, but you’d been too busy making your awkward apology to really have taken him in.

No wonder your female heart was cowering in your chest last night, it must have sensed the size of the guy from the sound of his footsteps. You're completely flabbergasted how you’ve never seen him before. Two meters easily, big broad shoulders with a back you could build a house on and two gigantic arms that could easily lift it straight above his head and toss it across a football field if he wanted to.

He's a cop, you learn over breakfast. He hits the gym early and comes home during the day or works the late shift and comes home in the morning, which explains why you’ve never run into him except last night. He’s a bit of a routine junkie, he admits. 

And, well, though he doesn’t come clean about it, it’s not hard to tell how he’s also a bit of a flirt.

“I gotta be honest, I thought you’d lost your pants or something,” he chuckles, smirking at you playfully from atop his coffee cup, forcing a permanent heat in your cheeks as well as a cramp from the bashful smile you’re unable to make settle through all his teasing.

“Quit bullying my dress!” you nearly whine. “It’s cute. You can’t deny it’s cute.”

He gives a can’t-argue-with-that type of shrug. “I mean, yeah, I've just never seen such a thing besides on film,” he says, then inquires, “What were you up to anyway?”

“Oh, you know…” You pluck the last blueberry off your plate, wondering if you should order more pancakes. “Just’ at the club with some friends. Dancin’.” 

Popping the berry in your mouth, you decide against another round as you suck the cream off your digits—thinking you should show some restraint in front of the gym-freak across from you. You wouldn't want to come across as a complete glutton either.

Besides, just looking at him is a meal enough on its own, and you can tell he’s enjoying you the same way. And so, you lay it on extra thick for him. “It gets hot in there, so the less you wear the better.”

He scoffs, “Oh, really?” brows raised, grinning at your display. “You sure it ain’t got nothin’ to do with makin’ people look?”

You make a show out of getting offended with a fake gasp, before bringing forth your wrists. Your voice thick with sardonic theatrics, speaking your words through a pout, “Well, arrest me, officer. I didn’t know that was a crime.”

Shaking his head, he chuckles some more at you. “Nah, you’re good. But maybe I should come along to chaperone you next time—you know, make sure you get home all safe and sound.”

He takes another sip of coffee while watching his words and how they affect you. Yeah, he knows exactly what he’s doing, the scoundrel—you know he knows, shamelessly making you gush like this. 

You bite your lip—it’s all you can do to keep yourself from kicking your feet. A man hasn’t flirted with you in broad daylight like this in some time, you don’t even know how long, and you’re not going to lie, it’s making you weak.

“You don’t have work?” you ask—perhaps a little too eager.

But he doesn’t seem to think so, answering with charm, “I get time off just like everyone else.”

You bite your lip, trying to force yourself into acting casual even though you’re squealing on the inside, “Okay, sure, why not? But you gotta promise you won’t be all police-like and stuff though.”

He chuckles again. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave my gun at home.”

Yeah… You end up dating. 

In fact, you make pasta together and fuck that very same night. Multiple times, multiple positions, multiple rooms, and, most important of all, multiple orgasms. 

You’ve never been with a guy like him, outside of your fantasies. A monster truck of a man, he’s practically herculean—he could literally carry you on his back up a mountain if he wanted to. So of course the sex is amazing. He puts you in all kinds of crazy states you’ve never been in before—full-nelson, pile-driver, standing missionary—he fucking rails you like a jack hammer until your positively destroyed.

Honestly you weren’t too sure you liked muscle freaks who could manhandle you any way they want, but now you can say you’ve been fully baptised into the church of size difference and you’re afraid there will be no going back. 

Not only is he built for it, but he’s good at it too. He knows how to foreplay, how to get you going, how to tease and make you all hot and bothered and desperate for it. Not just sexy, but playful. Always joking when knocking on your door—saying FBI open up while posted there in his uniform—roleplaying with it, frisking you after putting you under arrest with real handcuffs, even using his gun sometimes—unloaded, of course.

Outside of sex, he’s a real gentleman too. Takes you out for dates—dinners, parks, movies. Tells you that you look good and wraps you in his jacket when you’re looking chilly—or when he spots other guys leering.

He’s just a really good guy overall. You actually really like him. And that’s saying a lot, given how many shitty dating situationships you’ve had over the past years. This might be something real.

Is what you thought until, well… 

After a few weeks, it's revealed he doesn't like it when you go out by yourself.

It’s nothing, at first—not something you pay much mind to. He’s just a bit protective, is all—any decent man who cares for his girlfriend will show some instinct regarding her safety when he’s not around. It’s normal. 

Still though, you can’t help that it rubs you the wrong way just a bit.

It’s dangerous, he’ll argue, and you can’t really disagree when you've already admitted to being scared going home alone. But even though you know it comes from a good place—that he’s just looking out for you—it’s still a little… you don’t know. Patronizing? 

At least, that’s what it feels like…

Then again, he doesn’t strike you as very traditional. He’s supportive of your studies, comfortable watching chick flicks with you, doesn’t care when you dress like a slob, joins you shopping, cooks for you, he even goes down on you. Like you said, he’s a good guy. And you really like him.

But shit… this increasing need of his to chaperone your every move? You’re not going to lie, it’s getting a little annoying.

“Going somewhere?” he stops you on your way out.

You’d given one another the keys to each other’s apartment some time ago now, and he’d taken it as an invitation to come by anytime he wanted. You thought it was sweet at first, and you still do—your schedules don’t always line up, so it’s nice to keep it easy-access. It’s just, you already told him you’d be busy today.

“Yeah, just out with some girlfriends,” you repeat, sitting down to put on the pair of strappy black heels you’d just bought, excited to hear what the girls will say—already hearing them go silly with cat-calls, howling compliments at you.

“Like that?” he questions, standing with his shoulder leaning against the wall and arms crossed over his chest.

You get up and do a spin, wearing a tight but classy black cocktail dress. “What’s wrong with this?”

He throws his brows up, scratching the back of his neck while stepping closer. “Nothin’.” He releases a sigh, dwarfing your waist in his hands, pulling you flush against him. “You don’t think it's a little dressy for a girl’s night?”

You pout, placing your chin on his chest, batting your lashes with puppy-dog eyes looking up at him. “I like looking nice, is that so bad?”

His hands travel, over the small of your back, down the dome of your ass, swaying with you in his arms. “No. Of course not.” He sighs again, squeezing you tight. “I'm just jealous of whoever’s gonna get to look at you all night.”

You smile, thinking, despite how it gets on your nerves just a bit, it’s still kind of cute how needy he is.

“Where’ you going?” he asks, chin atop your crown, still keeping you close, as though charging himself up, knowing he’s going to be without you for the evening.

“Just the lounge down by the pier.”

He groans then, hauling you off by your forearms to give you a stern look. “You know I don't like when you drink when I'm not around.”

You tilt your head and return his look with a softly patronizing one of your own, silently trying to tell him he’s being childish again like the two of you’d spoken about. Because you had told him—how unreasonable it was. And as mentioned, you were beginning to get a little sick of having to tell him off about it.

When he doesn’t say anything, you roll your eyes and show him enough sympathy to reassure him of how “It’s just gonna be a glass of wine.”

“Mh…” he hums, looking at you, not fully convinced. “Give me five minutes and I'll join you.”

“No.” It slips before you give it much thought. And yet, even after having said it, despite it having been a bit rude, you still don’t regret it or make any proceedings to take it back.

“No?” he echoes. A little affronted—to be expected.

Still, you don’t let it deter you. “Well, it’s a girl’s night. You know…” you explain, hoping to appeal to his sense of reason. “It would be rude if I brought you when the rest of the girls have left their man at home.”

It doesn't seem to persuade him. His face just scrunches, as though the entire idea of a girl’s night is absurd in and of itself, arguing, “Tell ‘em to invite them then. Problem solved. None of you should be out on your own anyway.”

And it’s comments like that that really upset you. You bite your lip, trying to think of the most disarming response—not wanting to fight it out right now, thinking you could bring it up later at a better time.

“I'll be home before ten. I'll only have one glass of wine. I'll take a taxi home. And…” You give him a playful smile as you wrap your arms around his neck and give the locks on his nape a light tug. “I'll make it up to you all night long.”

You feel his frame tense up at the offer, enticed by your words until he, at long last, finally grumbles out a defeated, “Fine.” 

He releases you then, but doesn’t leave you alone for too long before grabbing your chin. 

“No need for a Taxi, I'll come pick you up,” he says firmly, laying it forth like a condition to his allowing you to go. “Stand ready outside at ten o’clock sharp.” 

Giving you a small kiss, he continues before you can voice any complaint. 

“Or else I really will have to spend all night long punishing you.”

It gives you goosebumps. And yet, because you don’t entirely hate the sound of it, you decide to treat it like a joke, and against reading all that deep into it—even though you’re aware there might be some small truth behind the warning. 

You know if your friends were to have heard it, they’d probably disapprove, but come on… Being threatened with sex is harmless enough. 

And so, you brush it off and play along, answering him with a bright and bushy-tailed, “Yes’sir.”

To which he proudly smiles, “Atta’ girl.”

Despite promises made, that first glass of wine disappears quickly. 

You never were much of a slow drinker. Not that you’re an alcoholic either, of course, it’s just… it’s hard pacing yourself when you’re in good company. And your girls? Well… let’s just say they know how to bring the party.

“Another round of wine?” Franny declares more than asks.

You shrink back a little in your chair. Not only not wanting to be a bummer, but also fearing how they’d most likely see right through it not being your decision, then actively begin to judge you for letting yourself be governed by your boyfriend. 

Still, you shake your head and hope they might not catch on. “I shouldn't—”

“What? Why?” Franny immediately boos, all but gawking at you from across the table like you’d just declared you were becoming a nun or something else equally baffling.

Carrie, on the other hand, doesn't seem surprised at all, throwing the rest of her wine back before mumbling, “Or else Mr. Officer will put her under arrest.”

Franny’s head snaps to her at that, again, gasping, “What? Really?”

Carrie throws up a brow, cool like a mean-girl about it, “Oh, you haven’t heard?” before cocking her head back at you, putting you on the spot, “Tell her then. Go on.”

You pout at her judgementalness, knowing you won’t be able to hide it either if she decides to push—which she most certainly will. “Come on, he’s not that bad...”

That’s when her cool demeanor takes a twist, all but banging her glass on the table with her outburst, “Girl, be so real! Man’s a total chauvinist, you gotta break up with him.”

You weren’t in the dark about her attitude regarding your relationship, so it doesn’t exactly come as a big shock to hear her criticize it to your face. It wouldn't kill her to learn some tact though. Even so, you’re willing to forgive her, given you know her tolerance to be rather low and her need to be candid evidently very high.

“I like him,” you defend under her disapproving glare and Franny’s wide-eyed stare, the both of them awaiting something more persuasive.

“Besides…” you drift, feeling the wine in your system forcing you to be a little more honest with both them and yourself. “He’s my neighbour, you know… If I break up with him I'll still have to run into him.”

Carrie deadpans at that. Looking at your square in the eye with dull ones of her own, her mouth catching flies, back to being as suave as always while stating in a more-than-obvious manner, “Start looking for places to move.”

You sigh, pouting even more while you whine, “But I like my apartment.”

There’s a moment of silence, as though in solidarity of your situation, letting you come to terms with what you have to do.

Franny lifts her glass after a moment. A sympathetic quirk on her lips, repeating, now suggestively in comfort, “Another round of wine?”

You look at her, then at Carrie, who just shrugs, also with her glass in hand—tone equally suggestive, “We won’t snitch.” 

You bite your lip, letting their mischief rub off on you like you do so well. Smiling. “Oh, fine. You win.”

The three of you chat more about each other’s hopeless love pursuits, how no men are perfect, how friendship is so much more reliable, and how being alone might just be the only reasonable thing for any one of you.

You like him, but you can see Carrie’s point. You’ve had the same concerns yourself, despite not wording them as harshly as her. Of course you don’t enjoy having to argue about going out with your friends or dressing the way you want. 

Having to ask permission for such things doesn’t make sense to you, and it never will. You’re a grown woman who pays her own bills. You don’t have to run your decisions by anyone. And even if you did feel the need, it would be out of pure consideration—simply to keep the other person in the loop, and not something to be discussed—at the very least not something to be prohibited. You’re not a prisoner, and you’re certainly no child either.

Shit, you don’t know… maybe dating the guy in your building wasn’t the brightest decision after all.

“I said ten,” he admonishes as you step towards the parking lot. 

It’s just gotten dark. You’d hadn’t seen him yet and so the sudden sound of his voice spooks you, making you slap a hand over your pulse with a gasp.

If he notices, he doesn’t seem to mind. Not offering you an apology. Rather the opposite. Standing there, posted against his squad car with his arms folded upon his chest—staring at you like some criminal, awaiting your confession.

“Sorry, it took some time figuring out the bill–”

“You're drunk,” he cuts you off, shaking his head in disapproval as he goes to grab your purse in one hand and your upper arm in the other.

“No,” you argue sharply, saying “I'm not drunk.” because you most certainly are not. In fact, between two glasses of wine and a whole meal, you wouldn't even describe it as being tipsy.

He ignores you while opening the door to the passenger seat, ushering you inside with a strict, “Get in the car.”

You have to roll your eyes. Sarcastically thanking him for not going so far as to place you in the back like an actual arrestee, muttering, “Yes, sir.” under your breath.

He then even leans across you to put on your seatbelt, prompting you to almost push him off. Saying, “Dude, chill. I had two glasses of wine. Like, how—”

“We agreed on one,” he cuts you off again, making it very clear how little interest he had in hearing  any of it.

Again, like his previous comments, it upsets you. In fact, it’s the last straw. “Yeah? Well, you’re not the boss of me. If I want another glass of wine, it’s in my rights to fucking have one.”

You don’t scream it, and yet, he acts like you do. Scolding you like you’re some child throwing a tantrum, nearly growling at you in return, “Lower your voice. I'm not having this discussion with you if you’re going to be yelling.”

You can only scoff, completely flabbergasted by him and his behaviour. “Ugh, you’re so infuriating sometimes,” you nearly shriek, though he shuts the door in your face before hearing it.

He gets in the driver’s seat, snaps his belt in place, and veers out of the lot in one swift movement. In any other circumstance, you’d find his capabilities assuring—maybe even a little arousing. But, right now it only serves to piss you off.

The rest of the drive is silent. You keep your gaze fixed out of the window, not even acknowledging the way his wrist go white wringing the wheel—probably sitting there waiting for you to beg his forgiveness or something stupid.

You don’t know what to say. All you know is that you’re going home by yourself. 

“Give me my purse,” you demand once you’re outside his apartment. Your hand stretched out, waiting for him to hand it to you. You’d abandon it if it weren't for the unfortunate fact that your keys and your phone were both confiscated within it.

“You’ll get it once we’re inside,” he sighs, his entire back bulking with the action, standing with it facing you as he unlocks the door. Again, flat-out ignoring you as if you had no say in the matter.

“No,” you protest, insisting, “I'm going to my own apartment, so give me my purse.”

With his hand once again around your upper arm, he tugs on you despite you planting your feet and pulling back. “Don’t be difficult.”

You grab his wrist, trying to twist it off, but failing. “I don’t need you to baby me—I’m not a fucking child.”

“Oh yeah? You could have fooled me, standing here throwing a fit for everyone to hear.” He only tightens his grip, tugging you harder—so hard you’re forced off balance and nearly fall straight into him. “Now get your butt inside before I throw you over my shoulder.”

He doesn’t give you any time or room to refuse, all but dragging you inside and placing you on the couch with a mean and very nearly brutal shove. “Sit down.”

He then gets down on one knee in front of you. Hands lifting your foot onto his thigh as he begins undoing the straps to your heels.

“I can do that myself—” you try to pry it away from him, but he only pulls it back into place.

“Just sit.”

You don’t know what to do at that point. Eyeing him and the way he was positively radiating annoyance. You’re equally frustrated, and still, you can’t help but be struck with this sensation that it doesn’t matter much when he’s more equipped in enacting his will. 

In the end, you just sit there like he’d commanded, at a loss for what you could do or say—and only getting more frustrated by it.

“Now this,” he declares once done, gesturing to your dress as he gets up, fingers clawing under the hem, beginning to pull it up.

“Stop it already. I said I can do it myself!” Your hands are on his chest then, having had enough—this time officially. “Ugh, just get off, I’m going home!”

You don’t know what happened, but something instinctual must have kicked in once it was clear he wouldn’t listen, because suddenly, without warning, you kicked him in the shin in order to get him off.

But little good it does you...

In fact, it only makes the following events that much worse.

“What's gotten into you, huh? Acting so fuckin’ bratty—” 

His hand is atop your mouth like a piece of duct tape, trapping all unwanted noise beneath it. He’s got you lying on your back now, himself on top of you. Your dress balled up in his other fist, this time opting to rip it off rather than tug you out of it. 

“I swear, nothing good ever comes from letting you women yap amongst yourselves—you always come back with so much attitude and dumb ideas I gott’a straighten out.” 

Your struggles seem to mean nothing to him—all efforts to thwart him, easily ignored. 

“You can bet your ass this is the last time I let you go anywhere with those sluts. I mean, just look at you—dressed like a fucking whore. A shitty fucking influence the lot of ‘em.” 

He succeeds in tearing the dress, throwing it across the floor like trash—passing little consideration to the way it has you squirming beneath him with fat tears now streaming down your cheeks, soaking his fingers in a way that should have been enough to reconsider.

And yet, his eyes seem more concerned with your other articles. 

“You even wear pretty underwear for ‘em—fuck’s that about, huh?” Clicking his tongue, the frown on his face is enough to make your stomach churn—fully terrified of what he meant to do next. 

“What’s left for me?” His eyes meet yours, demanding an answer from you even though your lips were sealed under his grip. “If you go parading around for the entire fucking world to see, what’s left?” 

His other hand balls up into a fist, then bangs against the back cushion to the side of your face, hard enough to make the entire couch skirt just a bit, making you let out a muffled scream, followed by a whimper as you shut your eyes hard and start praying.

“I’m the only one who’s supposed to see you like this. It’s supposed to be my fucking privilege. Something special for me to cherish.” 

You feel his touch return to you, and you tremble receiving it, despite it only softly stroking your skin in ticklish touches, down your chest and belly until stopping at the lace of your panties. 

There’s a heavy sigh, loud enough for the pursuing silence to feel deafening.

“But I guess… if you’re gonna act like a cheap whore, I might as well treat you like one.”

The quickening beat of your heart makes it hard to breathe while your eyes blow open wide at the feel of him tearing at the lace. Your sobbing turns more violent, while your hands fly to keep the flimsy garment in place. 

“No? You don’t want that?” he mocks without humor, and you try your best to shake your head under his hold, every thought begging him to stop. 

Teeth grit, he continues, “Then quit being difficult and start doing what I say. Can you do that?”

You peel your eyes open, now nearly choking on the tears clogging your nose. Sniveling as you give him pitiful nods, hoping it will suffice.

“Good,” he affirms. 

His hold relents after that, just enough for you to be able to suck in a breath. Sill though, calming down takes you a moment, and even then you never fully manage completely—just enough to turn your sobbing into softer bleating.

He allows you the time to recover, before getting up and demanding the same of you. 

“Come on. Bathroom.”

His hand’s on your nape, guiding you like a leash and collar. You keep your head bowed, feeling exposed as you shuffle along just in front of him. Regarding him like a beast on your heels.

You enter the bathroom, where he positions you in front of the sink.

“Let’s get all this clown shit off.” 

His actions are gentler now, but they still feel anything but. Still making you sniffle as you stand there, knees wobbly, stuck in shock as he proceeds to find your makeup remover.

Your breaths are wintry as you stand there, both hands shaking, holding onto the white marble, staring into the drain, terrified to meet his reflection in the mirror above as he starts to drag a wet wipe over your cheeks and lips, rubbing your no-doubt ruined make-up off. 

You watch as each cotton-cloth is discarded one after the other in the basin below, flecked with black mascara streaks and pink rouge, the latest one cleaner than the first few.

“There she is—that’s better,” he coos once done. Caressing your face in his hand as he lifts it up to look straight ahead. 

You don’t want to, but the way his fingers all rub against your jugular, is enough for you to take as a warning. Seeing yourself—your eyes puffy, lashes gathered in wet wisps, bottom lip trembling. 

“My pretty girl.”

He sags forward, lowering his mouth to your neck, kissing you there in slow but heavy mouthfuls. His other hand, the one not holding you by the throat, is snaked around your midriff with his arm across your body, pushing you against him and the way he angles his hips against your ass and grinds into you from the back.

“I’m sorry for getting upset,” he murmurs with a groan then, but it’s not an effective apology. “It’s just so frustrating, you know? To be here, worrying about you out there—epsecially when you don’t take any safety precautions. You just…” His mouth reaches your ear, nuzzling the shell, his breath making it burn. “You drive me fucking nuts.”

You don’t dare reply. You don’t dare do anything. You just keep clutching onto the sink, as though letting go would result in him pulling you away somewhere more dangerous.

“You’re so cruel—always leaving me with my dick in my hand.” His hands fall to your hips, his grip bruising as he kneads you against him and the hard thing jabbing itself against your ass.

“I’m sorry–” comes out of your mouth before you can think.

To which he releases a pent-up chuckle. “That’s okay…” 

He rests his chin on his shoulder, mouth perfectly level with your ear with words holding onto something utterly horrid, saying, “It’s like you said—you can make it up to me.”

You grab a carrot stick from your lunchbox, lifting it up to his mouth for him.

He smacks off your cheek then, grin even wider now, purring out a smug, “Good omega,” with another quick kiss to the wet swell he’d left on your cheek before opening his mouth to receive your offer.

“Stop calling me that,” you mutter, to which he just chuckles while chewing.

“Nah, don’t think I will.” Swallowing, he goes back to sticking his nose in your ear, playing with it—knowing how sensitive it is. “Rather, how ‘bout you bite the bullet and start callin’ me alpha, hm?”

Whining, “No,” you try and twist away, but it’s no use. His arms are long, wrapped around you like the heavy-duty seatbelt on a rollercoaster ride, and all your struggles only result in making him hold you tighter and closer.

Voice laced in mock-neediness, he makes fun of your own whimpering when crying out a “But why?”

You sigh, complaining, “It’s weird,” feeling flushed and frustrated and overall exhausted after having had to deal with him for so long, always wrapped around you like a leach. 

“Aw, you’ embarrassed?” he snickers, mouth back on your neck, sucking on the skin while mumbling, “You got no need to be. It’s the natural way of things. Besides, you shouldn’t worry about the opinions of anyone other than me, anyway.”

You hope for the bell to ring soon, even though you just sat down. He hasn’t even touched any of his five daily sandwiches yet. Too busy with you, marking your neck some more with a necklace of hickies. And now, something else…

Your claws curl into the wood of the table when feeling it swell beneath you. Eyes wide when hissing out a rushed, “Stop that.”

With no urgency of his own, he only drawls back in muffles, “Tack on a please, and call me alpha, and maybe I will.”

You squirm now, shuffling your legs in discomfort as the firm bump beneath presses up against the crevice between your thighs. “Okay, please,” you whisper under your breath, needing to grit your teeth as you say it, “Please, alpha—”

“Hah-fuck—” he sighs. “You’re so damn cute, you’re making this impossible.” With his forehead pressing into your shoulder, he holds back a growl. “How can you expect me to behave myself when you’re this much fun, hm? It’s like you’re begging me to play with you—treat you like a plushie right here in front of everyone–”

“You said you’d stop,” you interject, voice bright with humiliation.

“I remember saying maybe,” he chuckles again, now with heat in every exhale. “You really oughta know who you’re dealing with by now.”

His hips shift beneath you as he begins lightly rutting, using his arms to grind you back against the movement. 

“Okay, I get it—” you snap. “I’ll call you alpha all you want, so just– st–stop it already–”

He doesn’t seize entirely, but slows it down, nuzzling his chin into the grove of your shoulder with his mouth back on your throat, sighing, “You really are the furthest thing from a canine when you beg like that. And still, it makes me wanna breed yah so bad my balls hurt havin’ to contain myself.”

He sighs again, then kisses your neck some more, “When we finish classes today, we’re gonna go straight to my dorm and I’m gonna make you call me alpha all night long. Sound fair?”

You swear, he’s so needy, acting like he’s going to die without you. You have to scoff at the thought. “Fine, just cut it out with the hickies. It makes people stare.”

And again, he just chortles at you, “Psh, don’t be silly. You know you fuckin’ love it.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Shoto, Kirishima, Dabi, Hawks, Shinso ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Gojo ♡ HQ – Atsumu ♡ BLLK – Nagi, Isagi ♡ COD – Simon

“Leave you?” you mirror, eyes wide, feeling your heart drop down to the very pits of your stomach. “Who said anything about that!?”

Taking his face in your hands, you notice the heavy purple bags under his eyes—he must not have slept a wink. Or, actually, maybe that's not all… Judging by the looks of the red roots netting the white and the equally annoyed rouge of his cheeks, you suspect he'd been too busy crying to sleep.

He’s crying still, smothering his face back into your belly with his shoulders hunched up, voice breaking on a sob, whimpering loudly, “So you’re not leaving me?” 

You feel awful now. This isn't what you'd wanted. You just wanted to tell him off, just a bit, make him reflect on his actions a little, not torture himself.

“Of course I’m not leaving you!” you very nearly yell. “What are you talking about? I would never leave you–” You get down on your knees down alongside him, hugging him back tightly.

“So you forgive me?” he immediately whines into the cove of your neck, joined by tears smeared into your skin, pouring his overwhelming weight against you and very nearly making you fall backwards under the pressure.

“Yes, stupid, I forgive you!” you declare loudly from over his shoulder, feeling befuddled by the odd situation—unsure of what to do other than smoothing both your hands over his hunched back, as good as you could reach in any case, what with him nearly devouring you with his looming size and all. “It's okay, so, stop crying—everything’s alright—”

His head lifts, breaths hitchy and heavy, looking at you with enlarged puppy-dog eyes—the type you’d never think to see on him. “So you don’t hate me?”

You shake your head, both in disbelief and to negate the ridiculous question. “No! I’m not going anywhere, and I don’t hate you.”

His lip warbles, brows cinched, looking pathetic—and almost, to your utter guilt for even thinking it, a little comical—asking you further sillier questions with his voice in shambles, “So you still love me?”

You take his face back in your hands again, needing to hold it together now that the surprise and absurdity of it all were bordering on ridiculous enough to make you almost laugh against your will. You feel bad for it, of course, it's just... You didn't know he had this side to him. Heck, you haven't ever seen him with a single hair out of place, and now he's nothing short of all over the place.

“Yes, I still love you, I never stopped loving you,” you confirm, looking over his harrowed expression—sunken, swollen eyes looking at you in a weary and distant sort of way. “Jeez—you really need some sleep...”

“I can’t sleep without you.” He shakes his head, pouting. “I never can. I need you—without you I’m just a worthless mess—not an alpha—not even a man–”

A snort escapes you at that, needing to shake your head at his melodrama while suppressing a smile. You don't think he's aware of what he's saying, or at least not that he's admitting such things out loud.

Still, you deny it for him, “That’s not true–”

“Yes, it is,” he interrupts, insisting, with another almost theatrical whine.

“Don’t be silly—” You’re fully giggling now, though trying not to. You’d heard about getting high off of no sleep, but you’d never actually witnessed it—at least not to this degree. “Come, you’ll feel better once you eat. We’ll talk more after you’ve had a nap, alright? Everything’s going to be okay.”

He bites his lip, shutting his eyes with another sniffle, before conceding with a whisper, voice all hitched, “Okay…”

You help him eat and bring him along with you back to bed, letting him use you as a body pillow.

He’s out like a light faster than the bed settles. Fully exhausted, poor guy.

Stroking his head as he snores, you listen to him whir with little sleepy moans, holding you around the waist with his head drowned in your chest, drooling on you like a baby.

Your thoughts of him being upset with you and your stunt seem silly now.

It’s strange. All this time, you’ve thought of him as someone independent and unshakable. 

Never in your life would you think you’d ever get to see him, or any other Alpha for that matter, cry like that. You know it’s stigmatized, you know many would have you think it makes him less red-blooded. But honestly, if anything, it actually makes you feel kind of happy. 

Somehow, you don’t feel like you’re as different as you thought...

There’s a groan a few hours later, followed by a yawn coming from below, and you turn your head down to see his eyes, half-mast and dazed, slowly blinking the sleep off.

“Good morning,” you coo, smiling softly.

He immediately hides his face back in your chest with another apology getting muffled against your skin, “I’m sorry…”

You run a hand over his locks, stroking him sweetly. “It’s okay,” you repeat from earlier. “I didn’t mean for it to be such a big deal, it really wasn’t–”

“No,” he interrupts—head popping up and looking at you, eyes big and earnest, stating, “You have every right to be upset,” before continuing with another ramble, “I just barged in and pounced on you, I didn’t even ask first—it was late, and you were all ready to go to bed, trying to tell me something and I just completely ignored you like a fucking dickhead.” His head drops down again, burying itself in shame with another muffled utterance, “I’m the worst.”

“No, you’re not,” you deny, placing a kiss on the top of his head. Smiling as you give him credit, “Though… I’m glad you understand why I was upset.”

It’s quiet for a moment. He tugs your body closer, both arms snaked tight around your waist as though he was afraid you'd suddenly disappear somewhere, turning his head upward, he exposes his face to the air again, with his ear resting flat against your heart.

“There’s more to it, though... isn't there?” he mumbles, a little hesitantly—anxiously even. “Something you’re not telling me—something you wanted to talk about... Something that’s wrong–”

You shake your head, cutting him off, “No, no, nothing’s wrong—” You scooch down until your heads level, holding his face in both palms with eyes locked. “I promise, everything’s okay now—it wasn’t really that big a deal to begin with, just me in my head. Honestly, we can forget all about it now.”

“No,” He returns the gesture, layering his hands on top of yours, pulling them down and holding them between you. “Please, tell me.”

You bite your lip at that. Thinking it over once again.

During his nap, you’d actually decided it wasn’t all that necessary to talk after all. You’d been feeling bad because you weren’t sure whether you were being seen or heard, but this whole episode has proved those thoughts wrong.

Though… you suppose, things weren’t all resolved. 

“Well… it’s just,” you start, not feeling as prepared as you’d done yesterday. You’d written down what you’d wanted to say, and now it’s like you’ve forgotten every word. “I guess…” Though you suppose it wasn’t really all that complicated at the end of the day. “I just want you to talk to me more.” 

Because that’s really what this has been all about. Misunderstandings and whatnot.

You sigh, feeling good about having cleared that up, but catching his gaze, you realize it hadn’t been all that clear at all—a halfway cocked eyebrow raised expectantly over his eye, silently hoping for a little more context.

You go flushed then, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed. Rushing to continue with half-though-out sentences, “Or, well, it’s not like you don’t talk to me—what I mean is—I want you to include me in, uhm… like… decision-making and stuff–” 

Feeling overheated with stupidity, the tops of your cheeks and tips of your ears both burn. You sigh again, needing to catch your breath and calm down, at least enough to slow your voice down before continuing, now more relaxed as you go, “I want you to confide in me with your thoughts and feelings and if, you know, you’re struggling with anything—even if it’s just work-related stuff, I just… want to help you like you help me.” 

You’re the one who wants to hide your face now. But even so, you steal yourself and look up at him through your lashes. “Is that okay?”

It catches him off guard, by the looks of his mouth opening and closing again with only a dumb “Uh,” leaving them. But he as well, manages to reel himself in enough to form an answer.

“Of course it is, yes, I—” he says, stumbling a bit as he thinks. “I guess I just always thought those things were an Alphas responsibility… To provide and protect you, and never burden you with anything–”

“And I love that about you,” you assure, giving his hands a squeeze where they in turn squeeze yours. “But I don't want that to mean protecting me from life.” You smile. “We’re supposed to be building it together, aren’t we? I want us to take those challenges on and figure them out side by side. Don’t you?”

He looks at you, staring, face a little unreadable. You feel a little anxious in the wait for his answer, but then it comes.

Resolute and resounding, “The only thing I want is to make you happy.”

He brushes your forehead with his, nuzzling closer until the tips of your noses touch.  “And if this’ll make you happy, then I’ll be relying on you from now on.” 

He kisses you then, softly.

He tastes like salt from before, but you don’t mind.

No, the opposite actually. When you part, it’s with confidence enough to finally say it, whispering it against his lips, “One more thing.”

And he whispers back, just as softly, “What?”

Biting your lip again, your heart flutters dramatically in your chest, just as eager as the rest of you. “I know we haven’t spoken about it, but…” 

You’d been so nervous about it before today, but now, all those doubts have been settled, and you can’t really feel or think of a single reason to wait even a single second longer.

“I wanna have a baby.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Deku, Shoto, Kirishima, Touya, Hawks, Natsuo, Mirio ♡ JJK – Gojo ♡ HQ – Kuro, Bokuto, Atsumu, Osamu ♡ BLLK – Reo, Nagi, Yukimiya ♡ AOT – Eren ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi, Genya ♡ WB – Umemiya, Togame ♡ GA – Enjin, Zanka

It makes you feel guilty thinking about it, looking at the chunks of meat on the table. How, it’s not really their names or lives that concern you, no matter how you try to convince yourself of your own unshakable morals. Because in an awful way you’d never care to admit, you agree with him. It really is just meat.

That's not what bothers you. Not really.

What bothers you is that it's human. And you are human. It's the thought of how, if he wanted to and whenever he wants to, he could put you on the table and feast on you—that’s what’s causing that sick feeling deep down. This deep and primal fear you’re not used to—the fear of being eaten. 

Sure, you’ve heard of wolves and bears and big cats eating people, and you’re sure, if you were sitting in their lap, you’d feel the same way. But you’ve never been in that situation before. And this lap, though belonging to a beast, isn’t an animal you could excuse. 

Then again, you suppose human beings aren’t innocent either—far from it, in fact. 

You think about how farmers keep animals—how they treat them not much different from pets before slaughtering them for food. Is that what you are? Livestock?

“You think too much,” comes another chide from above, speaking through flesh between his teeth. “I don’t play with my food—and I definitely don’t bed it. If I were going to eat you, you’d be fertilizing the spiderlillies by now.”

Crude as ever, it doesn’t entirely ease your worries, but you suppose, since you have yet to ever catch him in a lie, there must be truth in his words. Though you could have done without the graphic imagery.

Funny enough, it relaxes you a bit. And then, cruel enough, your stomach growls.

The sound is loud and sudden enough to make you gasp and clutch yourself. Feeling heat rush to your cheeks and ears before a chuckle takes them over.

“Oh? Maybe I misunderstood…” he purrs, with a snicker to each word. “Maybe you’d like to try some?”

Immediately you shake your head, along with your entire body, jerking violently in protest. “No! That was just—I’m–I’m not hungry!” you explain, or try to at least, too busy squirming in his grip as he lifts a fork with a juicy cube of raw and bloody flesh and angles it to your face. “Please—no! Please–”

“You’re hilarious,” he keeps laughing and, thankfully, retracts the fork and puts it to his own lips instead. Then, speaking with a mouthful, he dandles you on his thigh like a child, “Freaking out over the smallest things, ‘n makin’ me so fucking hard for no good reason.”

His arm tugs your waist closer, brushing you over the rising bump in his slacks. Lips still bloody as his head dips down to bury himself into your neck, sucking a lovebite into the spot.

“Ew–don’t–the blood–” you cringe, the smell of iron making you sick and restless.

“Oh?” he chirps at that, speaking against your ear. “Maybe you wanna be my next meal after all, hm?”

In the next moment, you’re lifted up and placed down on the table, smack in the middle among the bits of meat, giving sound to a wet squelch, body splashing in a pool of blood and gore.

He laughs some more then—louder now, getting winded, as he easily holds your body down with a single hand placed between your ribs, watching you twist about like a bug on its back.

“It’d be too easy,” he says, bearing down over you, faces a few inches from yours. “Though there’d be fun in it, it’ be over in a second.”

You shiver in the wet seeping into your hair and robes, feeling it stain your skin red—nose wrinkling and brows cinching at the icky sensation.

“Nah…” he smiles, showing canines, and making you cough at the draft of his flesh-laced breath—which again, only results in him snickering at you and the little pout on your lips. Endeared by you for reasons he feels no need to explain further than how “You’re better off as my plaything.”

Just as quickly as he’d put you down, he hoists you back up, holding you like a princess as he starts carrying you off. “Come. Uraume will make you something more to your appetite while we wash.”

He doesn’t feel the need to tell you it’s for your sake, so that you won’t veer away and say something so rude as ‘ew’ when he tries to kiss you again.

“No meat,” you mumble in a whisper against his chest, eyes downcast, fidgeting with your fingers as if in regret of having said anything at all, feeling the blood on your skin get tacky as it dries into a thick red coat.

If you’re not careful, he might just eat you afterall… sweet as you are. 

“No meat,” he agrees, thinking he’ll spare you just this once. “Don’t you worry.”

It’s an odd thing to say, but his habit of making small talk right before a kill is something you’ve witnessed before.

For an act so human to be twisted like that used to make you stomach churn, now it just leaves you wanting him to speed it along. And so, you decide against indulging him with an answer.

Still, in your head, you give it a second. Thinking yes, you have, plenty of times, imagined just this. It’s a normal thing—to think about one’s death. Only the word he uses is a little ill-fitting. Sure, you’ve thought about it many times, though you wouldn't say it’s something you’ve dreamt about.

“I have,” he answers in your stead, unbothered by your silence as his fingertips press into your skin. “So many times.” 

It’s a weird feeling. Something within you or something encompassing you, you’re not sure, reacts to the touch. It’s your soul, you suppose—tremoring in suspense, in vivid dread of getting mangled into something unrecognizable.

“How I’d do it… How I’d touch you…”

It’s an awful ability. Something truly disgusting, and yet, the look on his face, he’s miles high like a child on Christmas morning, nearly innocent-looking while swallowing thickly beneath a heavy breath, eyes set on where he’s touching your soul and thinking about the possibilities of what to do with it now that it’s all his. 

It makes you want to vomit. But, strangely enough, your fear of it is nowhere. Instead, there’s this oddly comforting sense of acceptance draping you, keeping you warm in the moments before the coming cold, knowing it’s inevitable. This is fine, you think, and really believe it. You gave it your all, bled for it, and now you were going to die, leaving no regrets.

You close your eyes. Ready for the light.

“I’ve been curious about it…” he continues, and you fear he’s going to drag this out whether you indulge him or not. “You know… about humans and their need to be close.”

It gives you pause—unsure what he just said, unsure what he meant. And the confusion, fed uncomfortable conspiracies by the back of your head, makes your stomach fold abruptly.

Skin going cold, your eyes peel open, looking down at the curse before you with ears drawn back. He’s closer now—still keeping a keen glare at your core, looking through your flesh to the thing within it. His breath tickles the peachfuzz found there, making it shiver, and you swallow thickly while goosebumps break out on your nape, resulting in a shiver carving a path down your spine.

“It made me think about you…” he says, his voice low and unlike him with his hand flat, keeping calm on your stomach. “If you ever let someone close.”

Your skin prickles with a strange warmth—energetic—not entirely unlike the type you’ve felt when treated by Shoko. 

He’s healing you, you notice. Stitching your body back together with your soul as a conduit.

“I got a confession to make.” His gaze breaks from your torso as he looks up at you, still with his hand kept in place, now rubbing patterns into the fully healed flesh—eyes big. “I wanna be the one. The one you let close.”

You whimper then as a fear you’ve never felt the likes of festers in your chest, right beneath his godawful touch, and spreads with your beating heart in a rapid haste into every corner of your body.

And yet, despite your clear aversive dread, feeling you squirm before him, he presses on with his horrifying speech, “I wanna make you feel good.” Getting closer as his voice drops lower, just shy of frenzied. “I wanna hear you moan my name and beg me for more with pretty please on your tongue as I give your soul everything only I know it needs.” Rust shivering, he looks at your lips, then your neck, then the fast shutter of your winded chest. “Wanna make you need me… wanna make you incomplete without me.”

His other hand ascends—pointerfinger sharpening into something knifelike and used to slip under the remaining paths keeping your attire together before cutting them loose.

Your shirt falls to the floor once he’s done, leaving your upper body in your binder and your breath in your throat.

“I guess what I’m saying is… I’ve realized something new about my true nature.”

He presses his head against your chest, ear over your heart, listening to it patter with the shifty rise and fall of your lungs lulling him as he feels your soul swish about within you—such a reactive little thing. He can’t put his finger on when he started thinking it was cute. 

He holds your waist and nuzzles against you, mumbling under his breath that, “Hate and fear aren’t all that different from love.” Breath hot and dewy against your breast, he sighs—sinking further into you. “And I wanna know what yours will feel like.”

You’re trembling now, fully, violently. Feeling your chest cave at the weight of his head as the grim and dire distress leaves you mute, making you unable to form any other feelings except fear of the unthinkable.

“I can see it, you know?” His words are smeared against the fat of your tit, paying no regard to your struggle. “It’s all right here.” His cheek drags against your skin, turning his head until his lips are at your sternum, kissing the space with his words. “You haven’t had someone in a long time.”

He looks up at you, now with a smile, saying, “And how could you?” Making you whimper and shake your head, feeling his fingertips grace the skin of your midriff and slip beneath the band of your skirt. “When you’ve been so busy chasing me.”

He drags it down your hips, letting it drop atop your abandoned shirt.

“Don’t–” escapes from your lips. “Just–just kill me–”

“Don't start with that now,” he shakes his head. “We've done so much already. Don't tell me this is where you draw the line?”

His tongue rolls out, laying itself flat against your collar. You squeal through grit teeth, veering your head away from the assault, and cringing as you feel it drag itself up along your neck until finding your ear.

“Isn’t this natural, though?” he whispers. “All this time spent tussling with each other—don’t tell me you aren’t a little curious about me too?”

Again, his hands move—gently, trailing the brim of your boxers. 

“About what it would feel like…” he murmurs, the words hot inside your ear, inside your head as his fingers dip beyond the band and rake past it, and with the touch, drags them down. “To touch me…”

You whimper, barring your thighs together, trying to keep it from happening, but your underwear is removed regardless of the effort, and he continues, almost sweetly, “Be touched by me…”

The article drops down atop the other two before it, and although featherlight, you feel as though the crash creates an earthquake, making your head spin like a storm, only further spurred by his voice, “Feel me...”

His breath gets heavier as yours gets wilder, and he gives your earlobe a soft wet bite. “Be one together.”

It all puts your brain on ice. Or rather, pushes it out and replaces it with soaked cotton. Surreal, it no longer feels like your body hanging there. Overfull with all sorts of emotions, you don’t have the capacity to feel any one of them. You can’t think, can’t talk, can’t even move, can only wait—with a distant sense of being out of place, leaving you to hang there like dead meat as the coming events dawn on you like the happenings of someone far away, unrelated and unconcerning you.

Meanwhile, Mahito’s hand’s between your thighs with fingers tracing the lips found there, giving the slit tentative strokes.

“I've never done this before…” His voice shudders now—and caught in the dissociation, your troubled head is convinced this is all normal, as though you’re having drunk sex with someone you’ve known for a long time. “But I think I get the gist of it…” 

The reality of the situation lurks just behind the fantasy. Your mind suppresses it, protects you from it, and succeeds, even letting you moan when his finger pushes inside you. 

“Is that right?” he asks, sinking it in, down to the knuckle, before pulling it out to the tip again. “It’s wet…”

Voice in awe, he repeats the motion upon the discovery, moving quicker now—eagerly chasing your reactions as he collects them, feeling your insides, gummy and warm, tremoring just like your soul. It’s like nothing he’s ever done before.

“I get why you humans like this so much…”

Something in his pants wants the same attention. Something thick and equally warm, growing in size until it strains against it confines. He moans, almost whines at the feeling, rubbing it against your thigh for comfort as his hand reaches up to grab your face, cupping your chin. 

“Look at me” he very nearly begs, lips on your cheek, staring at you through halfmast eyes.

But your eyes remain shut. Knowing that if you open them now, you can no longer ignore what’s happening, no longer imagine something else, something more stomachable. 

“Come on, I’m bearing my soul here…” A light laugh escapes him at the sight of your face so close—not loud like his usual cackling, but airy, maybe even a little giddy, beholding the pretty dew on your cheeks as he insists, almost with a please, “Look at me.”

When you open your eyes, the tears slip free. Trekking down in thick rivers, reaching his mouth and tongue.

“Oh… you're breaking my heart,” he says—somewhat as a joke, and somewhat as something more honest as he sucks the salt of your cheek before humming with something ragged in his throat, “But that’s okay… As I said…”

Another finger joins the first down below as he angles your face towards his, ghosting your lips with his, speaking against them.

“There isn’t much difference between love and hate, anyway.”

It had been a while since you’d gotten this upset. Usually, you’d just play along—to a degree that was far from giving it your all, but still. You don’t know exactly what warranted a bigger reaction this time.

Possibly, it was the idea of it all that had you so shook.

The dress reminded you of the world outside and with it, the understanding of how utterly far removed from it you were and had been now for a very long time.

It was a really pretty dress, too—you’d have used any excuse to wear it, called your friends up, made plans on the spot to go out for no other reason than to paint the town red while looking drop-dead gorgeous.

It would bring tears to your eyes if you weren’t so angry, fuming where you’re standing, wanting to stab him to death, yet having settled for killing the dress instead, as it was a more likely target. 

“Oh?” is all he says without looking a smidgen worth of upset. “That’s too bad…”

He shakes his head, looking at the dress on the floor while holding his maw, pointer finger tapping on his chin.

“I was planning on taking you out in that.” He sucks his teeth casually, as if what he’d just said was any such thing as trivial, then sighs just as blithely. “Damn shame…”

A rush runs through you at the same time. Feeling a stab of regret fester in your chest before confusion’s able to overlap it, mingling with each other into this gross feeling of distress and disorientation—as if reality had just blended with a dream. 

You stare at him, head spinning, on edge, voice bitter as you take what you're sure's likely just bait, “What are you talking about?”

He doesn’t pay you the same regard, almost dismissing the entire conversation with a wave of his hand. “Oh, you know, what with it being our one-year anniversary and all…”

You continue to stare at him—knowing full well how utterly insane he is, though, not sure if this is one of those types of crazy where he forgets to lock away the knives, or if it’s the other type of crazy where he knows exactly what to say to make you feel just as mad as him.

“Why? Did you forget?” he continues, cocking a brow at you.

He is dressed nicely, you note. Not a full suit but something like it—a neat pair of trousers, a clean polo shirt, polished dress shoes…

Was he really planning on taking you outside?

“Well, it doesn’t really matter now…” he clicks his tongue, looking back at the ruined dress on the floor. “You don’t have anything to wear anymore–”

“No—I–” you interject before you’re able to think about how desperate you sound. “I have other dresses–I can–”

“No, don’t bother,” he cuts you off coldly, a hand held up to silence you. “It’s ruined now. We’ll try again next year.”

You swallow thickly at that, repeating it in your head—next year. It echoes back as a question—next year? But… but it’s so long until then. Too long.

“No! I’m sorry,” you blurt out, rushing over to him, hands splayed flat on his chest as you plead, looking up at him now with pathetic eyes and an even worse off voice, “Please, I–I wanna celebrate–I do–”

His head veers up, mouth pulling to the side as he cocks his head, looking at the ceiling while giving it a hum in thought, “Mh… m’ not really in the mood anymore.”

You heart rifts, “But–”

“I spent a lot of time picking out that dress for you, you know?” he cuts you off, looking down his nose at you. “Thought about how good it would look on you and everything.” 

He eyes your face like that, with this awfully jaded expression on his own, clicking his tongue, “It’s all a waste now, isn’t it?”

You shake your head, brows knitted. “N-no-I—I can still wear it.”

You rip yourself away from him while pulling off the shapeless shirt you were wearing, nearly naked now as you all but throw yourself onto the floor after the dress you’d tossed the same way.

“Just wait–”

You tussle it up into your arms before scrambling up to your feet again, hurried as you wrestle with it, pulling it up over your hips, then shoulders—a gash on the front of it marking where you’d cut it open.

“See? It’s not so bad,” you insist despite the obvious. “I can fix it—I just need to sew it and–”

You stop mid-ramble as he abruptly walks away, falling silent while you watch him bend down to the floor where the scissors had slipped to when you’d first thrown the dress at him.

He picks them up slowly, eyeing them for a moment, then walks back to you—unreadable expression on his face as he appraises the damage done to the dress with his free hand, running over the crude cut made on your stomach.

"You really think you could fix it?" He asks coolly while his digits climb higher, leaving the fabric in favor of tenderly thumbing your chin as he drinks in those big, hopeful eyes of yours as you nod your head all earnestly.

"Yeah?"

His fingertips slide across your cheek, tenderly yet oddly aloof in the action as he picks up a tress of your hair to play with.

He coils it around his pointer before bringing his other hand up and snipping the lock clean off.

Your ears draw back at the sharp sound, feeling the wisps brush your naked arm as they silently fall to the floor. You look down to see them lying there—not just a few strands, but a big and unforgiving chunk.

“D’you think you could fix that too?” comes a voice—brisk like the sound of the scissors.

You just blink, lips parted in stale shock.

“Well?” he asks then, quickly making another crude snip—this time even more—before the loss of the first has even finished dawning on you.

But you sober up with the sudden hand bundled in with the rest of your hair, fierce in his grip, nearly ripping it out from the roots, tangled at your nape and pulling you back, making you back curve and neck crane as a loud cry breaks free from your throat, “What’re you–why?”

“Why?” he jeers, then seethes, spitting through clenched teeth, “Why?” The scissors make another messy cut. “You shit on my gift, and you’re asking me why?”

Another chop and you’re thrown back down to the floor. You feel the hair beneath your hands where you brace yourself. Then the feeling of the scissors at your throat, stabbing into your chin as he uses them to lift your head up.

“You're fucking delusional if you think I'm taking a spoiled little brat out on a date when she doesn’t deserve it.”

The heavy tears running down your cheeks are nothing to him, as your hair falls in odd short lengths around your ears, burning with feelings you have no idea where to place. 

“Especially when you look like a fucking mess.”

He turns away after that. Dress shoes tapping on the floor in a business-esque fashion, taking him to the closet by the outer door, from which he grabs and throws on a coat-jacket, before just as callously leaving you altogether with a loud slam and a following lock.

It's silent after that as you catch up on your own breath.

It takes about an hour or so, at which point and for reasons unknown—as though afraid he’d be back so soon—you gather the hair from the floor and throw it away, along with the dress.

Then you shower and go to bed.

Several hours later, night falls, and yet, you’re still awake, hearing the tell-tale noise of him coming back. The pattern of his actions tells you it's after having had a few.

He kicks off his shoes but doesn’t bother undressing as he stumbles in through the bedroom door, throwing himself on top of the covers down next to where you lie. The strong scent of alcohol mixes in with his cologne and an underlying musk as he huddles in close, spooning you with his bigger body as a drape.

His nose runs along the crown of your head, lips on the crest, speaking against it in slurred mumbles, “I’m sorry I messed your hair up… I was just angry with you, you know—I try so hard to make you love me, and sometimes it feels like you just wanna fight me on every single little thing. You just—you drive me fucking crazy—but I still fucking love you, don't I?”

He kisses the top of your head a dozen times, messily, like in a frenzy, while squeezing you tight, before calming back down with a happy sigh.

“You know… I was thinking, you’d look good with short hair if we even it out a bit. We can watch a few videos and figure it out tomorrow, hm—what do you think? Wouldn't that be fun?”

Your bottom lip quivers, and you bite into it to make it stop. Only muttering back a soft, “Okay…”

He hums at that, keeping your head tucked under his chin as he shimmies to find the perfect position, making the entire bed shift beneath his weight. He sighs once again when finding it, this time through a big yawn, “I think it’ll be cute.”

Your lip is probably going to bruise come morning. You don’t even know if you’ll be able to sleep. 

“And you know, even if it isn’t, it’ll probably have grown out before our next anniversary anyway.”

♡ BNHA – Hawks, Touya, Shinso, Monoma ♡ JJK – Geto, Gojo, Naoya, Kamo ♡ HQ – Kuro, Lev, Oikawa, Atsumu ♡ BLLK – Reo ♡ WB – Suo

On Dragonstone, you’re free—on dragonback, for the most part. You’d long left the matters of the court to your brothers. Jace was the one who’d be King after your mother, while Luke would be Lord of Driftmark, and you’d stay here—on Dragonstone. By yourself and to yourself. You’d still have to marry, of course, there’s no way around it—but like your mother, you’d get to choose for yourself. That much, you have no doubt.

If you could, you’d always stay on Dragonstone, isolated from anywhere else, but it seems, once again, Kingslanding calls for your return. The King has taken a turn for the worse, and with it, your mother has grown wary of her claim. And so, the heir to the throne and her family along with her were all to voyage home.

You sigh as you look at the approaching castle. It’s not how you remember it, but whether it’s uglier or smaller or something else entirely isn’t clear to you as you watch from the ship. When all this bickering and uncertainty would end, you couldn't know but hoped it would be soon so that you could return swiftly. In a way and in a thought you would never voice out loud, the King’s death would bring about a much-needed calm in your family. Your mother would take the throne as is her birthright, and all else would be put to rest.

Oddly, no one came to welcome you when you arrived. Even your red Targaryen banners had turned green in your absence, as if the groundskeepers had neglected their duties and let the weeds grow as they pleased. No doubt, it would be yet another troubling topic over dinner.

But not one you’d bother yourself with. You make your way to refamiliarize yourself with the grounds instead—walking down a hundred turning memory lanes in the castle as if trying to find the center of a maze. You remember why you left this place—barren halls, all filled with nothing but the whispers of your hair color not being silver. Such things didn’t reach across the waters—they couldn’t touch you back on Dragonstone. Being back doesn’t feel much like a homecoming at all—more like a return to something foreign—even though that makes little sense.

You tell your assigned kingsguard to escort you to your chambers, but on the way, you hear the chimes of something more compelling. And following it, you find yourself on the balcony of the training arena.

And oh—you hardly recognize him. Tall and lean, all riddled with taut muscles he’s sharpened like the blade held in his grip. His hair is neatly combed, long, and perfectly silver like moonlight off a lake. The only thing disrupting it is the black leather patch covering his eye. And while you watch him swing his sword all so mercilessly but with a certain grace you’ve never before seen, you can't help but imagine you're the straw doll he's practicing on.

His eye meets yours without warning. One moment, he’s focused on his training and the next, he’s zeroed in on you.

You can’t help but flinch, skirting back as if the railing had suddenly burnt you. And then, well, shamefully, you very nearly ran away—skittering back into the maze as though wanting to find someplace to hide.

You want to return to Dragonstone. More than a yearning now, it’s almost a must. You’re nearly fetching your dragon from the pit to leave immediately, but you know that wouldn’t be proper. Your mother would be upset with you, and you’re not one to disappoint her. She has enough worries as is. You wouldn't make yourself one of them. And so you stay.

Your maids bathe you and then help you get dressed. And then you join the rest of your family for supper—dreading the presence you’d felt earlier, knowing he’d be there as well.

You keep your gaze fixed on your meal, and yet you can feel his one-eyed stare from across the dinner table. Neither of you looks anywhere else. And neither of you speak.

Aegon says many things—none of which you hear—though, possibly slights about your origin. It seems he and your brothers are arguing. But it’s nothing new. The King, your grandfather, the poor old man, shares words of family and love to defuse the tension once and for all. But you can’t agree—not when the one-eyed glare feels to lash out at you like the fire of an untamed dragon.

The Queen, of all people, salutes your mother. It seems genuine enough. And still, you don’t feel her sons share in her show of respect.

Jace rises and offers Helena to dance—ever the dutiful son. Luke follows in his lead and offers the same to Rhaena. And then, much to the twist of your own empty stomach—your plate of food untouched—Aegon also rises and takes a drunken step in your direction.

Still, he’s the lesser of two evils around the table. But shortly after taking his second step, he’s beaten to the punch by said greater evil. His hand reaches out, yet you don’t dare acknowledge the offer. Coated in goosebumps, you feel frozen.

“Didn’t you hear the King, dear niece?” he speaks—lowly in a hush. “The family feud has been resolved now. We ought to usher in its newfound peace while it lasts. You and I more than anyone. Take my hand and let us dance atop grievances, dead and buried.”

You recognize the threat in his words. To deny him would mean rejecting said peace. And so, with a deep exhale, you lay your hand in his death grip and follow him to the floor. And now you really feel no different from that battered straw doll in the arena.

“You’ve grown up rather beautifully since last we saw each other,” he says.

You know you ought to utter a thank you, but no words dare escape the choke of your throat as he positions an all but crippling paw on your waist—the other in the air pressed flatly against your own.

“I, on the other hand, am too hideous to look at, it seems,” he adds when you don’t answer. Voice lowering even more so into a brisk whisper that no one but you would be able to hear, “Won’t you face me, dear niece? And gaze upon the atrocity you dealt when we were children.”

Finally, you pick your head up. “I—” You falter just as quickly—his smile catches you completely off guard. Still, your eyes go to the scar escaping his patched eye—deep and unforgiving where you’d ruthlessly slashed your knife. You swallow thickly. “You have my deepest regrets, uncle. There hasn’t been a day I haven’t asked the Gods for forgiveness.”

To that, he laughs. “There’s no need. I long forgave you.”

There’s an utterly misplaced joy in his eye you’ve never before seen. And you’re left wondering if he’s really the same Aemond you remember.

“Not a blade has struck me since,” he says, simpering. “In a way, I ought to thank you for it. It seems it’s given me luck.”

He doesn’t seem grateful, despite his words. Yet, he doesn’t sound spiteful, either. You don’t know what to make of it. If anything, he seems satisfied with something.

“Anyway, it’s not right for a man to bear ill will towards his wife.”

Your brows furrow. And a creeping chill befalls you. Certainly, you heard him wrong, or he misspoke, or you’ve misunderstood something somehow.

“Oh? They haven’t told you?” he asks—his lips curling further at the corners. “Oh, dear niece—why do you think you’re here? Just visiting?” he snickers.

You still don’t understand. Or maybe it’s that you refuse to. Looking at him desperately in wait for him to stop laughing and explain the joke, even if it’s on you.

“The King spoke of peace, but peace, as you must know, isn’t brought about without payment.”

You remain silent. Still waiting to have your doubts eased.

“Oh, do I have to spell it out for you?”

Despite his sigh, he doesn’t look any ounce worth of exasperated—no, rather amused.

“You’re unwed. As am I,” he finally clarifies, and yet it does nothing to dispel your troubled head. “Marriage has always been the Targaryen way. I’m surprised you didn’t know,” he continues unbothered, a certain snideness to his tone, “But then again, you and your kin aren’t very Targaryen at all, are you?”

You don’t humor the insult. After all, you were way more concerned with what he’d said about marriage.

“Don’t worry. It’s not what matters. Not to me, at least,” he says. “I, for one, welcome our union.”

Your feet follow his lead as he dances with you in the palm of his hand.

“It’s rather poetic, isn’t it?” he smiles again. “You took my eye. And so, dear niece, I shall take your hand and everything attached to it.”