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suzdin · 8 months

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Two For One: Ch. 2

(Dave York x Max Phillips x f!reader)

Part One Here

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, pre-vampire Max, pre-Equalizer 2 Dave, small age gap (unspecified), no use of y/n, some angst, mention of weapons, romance, some fluff, alcohol use, smut, graphic depictions of sex, rough sex, degradation, sadism, kinda dubcon, dom!Dave, spanking, fingering, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, anal

Notes: This is a Dave heavy chapter and Max is kind of an afterthought, sorry if you’re here because of him. He’ll make a larger appearance in the next chapter, I promise! 🤪

——

“Careful, it’s a bit heavy—“ you say as you pass your bag to Dave. “—there’s glass,” you add for good measure, Dave’s fingers brushing yours as he grabs at the straps to hoist it over his shoulder. You watch as your bottle of Smirnoff lists to one side, breath catching in your throat until it eventually tips back.

Ignoring the almost-fiasco of it crashing to the sidewalk, Dave eyes you up and down once he settles everything, which causes your cheeks to heat. “What are you in the mood for?” he asks, his eyes large and brown, reminding you almost comically of a baby cow.

“Um,” you answer awkwardly, not sure what to say. You don’t want to pick something on the pricier side, your impoverished upbringing screaming at you in your head. “I don’t really have a lot of money, so…there’s a Burger King around the corner?” you suggest.

Dave shakes his head in disagreement, his lips tilting into a smirk, the skin around his eyes crinkling in a way that makes him look soft. Inviting. “You don’t have to worry about that. I’m paying.”

And herein lies a new dilemma: you don’t want him to assume you’re gouging him for money. It isn’t like the restaurants in your neighborhood are high class, but they certainly aren’t cheap, either.

“Oh, um, well…” you begin. “What are you in the mood for?” you ask, deflecting the question back to him.

Dave knows what you’re doing; you don’t want to choose something that might leave a bad taste in his mouth, literally and figuratively. He can’t help to admit it strokes his ego a little that you want to make a good first impression; he thinks that bodes well for him. He tries not to let his gaze linger longer than necessary.

He cants his head forward, gesturing for you to follow him. Together, the two of you start down the street.

“Well,” he begins, raising his eyebrows in contemplation. “There’s Italian straight ahead. An Irish pub called Quinn’s that has decent enough food across from that. Greek and Indian on Broadway…” he trails off idly, hoping any of those sound appetizing.

“Greek is good. I like Greek. Hummus actually sounds killer right about now,” you admit, your stomach grumbling audibly at the mention of food. You clutch at yourself as if that will stop it. “Sorry.”

He re-adjusts the bag on his shoulder and smiles over at you, pointedly ignoring your wailing stomach. It isn’t heavy, not really. Not for a big guy like Dave. “Mythos it is.”

——

The restaurant isn’t far. You walk, shoulder to shoulder, mostly in silence. Dave can’t stop thinking about you or the sounds you’d made for Max; his dick fighting with his brain, trying to keep himself in check now that he’s this close to you.

He clocks right away how different you are from Carol, who would have vetoed every restaurant in the city and then complained about being hungry later. Carol, whom he’d met at his church—back when he gave a shit about such things—only a few months before being sent away to the Marine Corps, so that he hastily rushed into a marriage that neither of them ended up being happy in.

Carol liked to present herself as a godly, Christian woman, though from Dave’s experience, he knew that to be far from the truth.

You, on the other hand, did not give off such vibes, the way you often slept in until noon on Sundays (when you didn’t happen to be working, that was), the somewhat revealing cut of your clothes, or the fact that you didn’t care enough to keep your debauchery stowed away, if the constant slew of alcohol and cigarettes had anything to say about that.

Not to mention how you allowed yourself to be manhandled in a public space with little to no concern of being discovered.

Would you let him drink with you later? he wonders.

Would you let him touch you? Fuck you?

As if on cue, you pull a cigarette loose from your purse. “Is this okay?” you ask as you draw it up to your lips.

There’s something in his eyes you can’t quite read.

“By all means,” he responds, and you let go of a breath. His eyes track the way your lips curl around the filter as you bring the lighter up; the way you cup your other hand to block the wind as you walk. He’s never been more jealous of a cigarette in his entire life.

“Want one?” you offer, assuming that’s why he’s staring.

“No, thanks,” he replies with a small laugh. “Gave them up years ago when I left the Marines.”

Marines? This guy couldn’t possibly be anymore different from Jonathan, you think.

Jonathan, the tortured artist. Jonathan, who once tried to make his own beer and failed horribly, which landed you in the ER several months ago. Jonathan, who dragged you from your home state all the way to Massachusetts, depleting your life savings, and now you don’t have enough money to get home.

He was your type, once. Maybe Dave is what you need.

Maybe Max is what you need, you ponder, a particularly brisk step reminding you of the soreness blooming between your legs.

You don’t need a relationship, you think. What you need right now is no-strings-attached sex, which is exactly what Max seems to be able to offer you.

Dave is cute, though. And seems nice. You can’t deny there’s something reticent about him, however. Something tucked away.

It fascinates you.

You’re about half done with the cigarette by the time you reach the restaurant. You snuff it out on the ground and cram the remainder back into your purse.

It’s a small, hole in the wall sort of place with outdoor seating off to one side, somewhat hidden from view of the street. The inside is intimately lit, and seems a touch cramped for your taste.

“Inside or outside?” Dave asks.

“Out, if that’s okay,” you reply. It’s a cool September evening, which means it will be pleasant enough to sit outdoors, unlike back home this time of year. It’s a nice night and you’d like to enjoy it a bit longer.

“Yeah. Of course.” He tries to quell his nerves when he notices how empty the patio is; were you trying to hint at something? he wonders.

You realize at the same time Dave does that the patio is devoid of other patrons, and you hope you didn’t give off the wrong impression, but it’s too late to say anything by the time he tells the host to seat you there.

The patio is situated between two buildings, adorned with standard metal grid outdoor tables and chairs, a few planter boxes flanking the walls, and string lights strewn above your heads. The host seats you by one of the tables nearest a wall and tells you someone will be by to take your order shortly.

“This is nice,” Dave says, taking time to pull out your chair for you before you sit. It stokes something in you; none of the men you’ve dated ever took such a simple gesture into consideration.

It probably shouldn’t, though. You barely know him.

You shuffle uncomfortably under the table. It’s been a long time since you’ve been on a date, if that was in fact what this was, and you aren’t really sure how to feel about it; how to act and what to say.

“So, where are you from?” he asks, breaking the ice for you.

He is, of course, only making small talk out of formality; he already knows where you’re from. All the places you’ve lived, the jobs you’ve had, your relatives, your financial situation. Social media links. By simply finding out your name and knowing where you work, he was able to obtain more information about you in hours than he had in months of watching you.

It wasn’t enough. He needed to know more.

“Texas,” you answer. The waitress is here now, and she takes your drink orders. Dave orders a Diet Coke and you start to order a water—your go to because it’s free—but change your mind at the last second and order the same thing.

“Be right back with your drinks,” she speaks in what you assume is a Greek accent. You mumble a polite thank you out of habit.

“How about you?” Your turn to ask now.

“Baltimore. Parents were in the FBI, so we stayed close to D.C. for a reason,” he replies with a smile. You make a face of admiration because you don’t know how else to respond to that.

“Wow,” you say as a placeholder. “The FBI? Impressive.”

He preens and shakes his head with a small laugh. “Yeah, I guess so.”

And then you settle into another drawn out silence. It should feel jarring, but to you, it’s a reprieve. You were never good at carrying a conversation. You start looking over the menu to fill the time, even though you already know what you’re getting.

“So. You want hummus, right? I’ll order some when she comes back,” Dave says.

“I’m getting that as my meal,” you state and it’s true. You would normally get an entree if you were just eating alone and save it for later, but you’re being polite. Besides, you’re really jonesing for some hummus right now.

“You sure?” he asks. “You can get anything you want.”

“I know. Thank you. But I— the hummus sounds good,” you reiterate. He concedes, brushing a hand through his sweat damp hair.

“Dolmas, then,” he suggests, pointing it out on the menu. Your menu, in fact, so that his arm briefly comes into contact with yours.

“Yeah. That sounds nice,” you agree quietly.

He can’t stop himself from smiling at you. You’re so kind. So polite. So shy. Everything that Carol isn’t.

He almost couldn’t believe what you’d let Max do to you. The sinful noises you’d made as a result.

Your duality captivates him. Not unlike yourself, he has his own duality.

He’s already growing stiff under the table. He can’t help it. He wishes you would make the same noises for him.

The waitress comes back a few minutes later with the drinks and takes your orders. “It will be out shortly,” she says when she’s done, tapping her pen against the ticket book as she strides away.

Dave starts asking you about your family. He already knows, of course. But he wants to hear you say it, perhaps to elaborate the details, see how much you’re willing to open up. He nods along patiently as you talk about your sick grandmother and how your mom takes care of her full-time. That you send money to them every once in a while, which is just one other thing that keeps you from saving, although you omit that last part.

You briefly touch on the subject of your brother—your only sibling—and how he’s been in and out of jail and rehab for years, but you don’t expound on that more than necessary.

Dave knows everything so he only lets you tell him what you’re comfortable sharing. He knows about the armed robberies, and that when you say jail, what you really mean is prison.

He notices how disquieted talking about your brother makes you. He’s overcome with the urge to kiss you, again. Take away the hurt. He settles on gently squeezing your shoulder instead. You don’t cringe away this time. He lets his hand dally a touch too long, perhaps, but you don’t say anything.

The dolmas come out a few minutes later. You admit to Dave you’ve never had them before, but after trying the first one, you’re hooked. They’re earthy, lemony and savory; everything you would expect and more.

“Glad you’re enjoying them,” Dave says affectionately. “They’re my favorite.”

You start to relax, a little. But you’re still mostly a bundle of raw nerves and when staff is out of view, you bend over to dig in your grocery bag to retrieve the vodka. It’s been such a long—and bizarre—day. It cannot be helped how you’re feeling or that you need relief.

You don’t catch Dave’s eyes on the droop of your chest as you bend…or the way he licks his lips salaciously, imagining how your nipples would taste against his tongue.

“Would you like any?” you query as you unscrew the top and dump what looks about a shot’s worth into your soda, swirling it with your straw.

Dave should say no. Lord knows he can barely contain himself as it is, stone cold sober.

But like most things having to do with you, he can’t resist, so he doesn’t. You pour some of the clear liquid into his cup.

And it continues like that for a while; adding another shot after every refill, halfway to being drunk by the time your food arrives, your anxiety dissipating with every drop of alcohol in your bloodstream.

Dave’s little touches grow more frequent, as well. Your hands and arms, your nearest shoulder, your knees. A few times, he has to stop himself from gripping your knees to spread them apart for him. It’s been a while since he’s been drunk; you’re probably handling it better than he is.

“What about you, then? Tell me about your family,” you pry, adding another shot to each of your cups.

Dave tells you about his parents, his siblings—one brother and one sister, both older. One lives in Rhode Island and the other in Florida. He says he doesn’t see them as often as he’d like.

“What do you do for work?” you question.

“I’m retired from the CIA,” he answers honestly, pointedly leaving out the part where he still acts as a consultant from time to time. He does not elaborate more than that.

Your eyes go wide, your brows shooting up your forehead. Dave must be the most decorated person you know. “CIA? This isn’t a situation where you have to kill me now that you’ve told me, right?” you ask playfully, and Dave laughs, his fingers grazing your hand.

“I’ll just pretend I didn’t,” he says around a laugh. You melt into a soft smile and he almost grabs you. Almost drags your mouth to his.

His control is waning by the minute.

“What brought you to Boston, anyway?” he finally asks. He knows already, of course, but he wants your side of it.

You’d been avoiding the subject, but the words flow easier now that you’re inebriated. You tell him about Jonathan; how you’d met online, fell in love—or so you thought—moved halfway across the country for him, only for him to leave you for another woman. Your cheeks shade red with anger.

You clock how hard Dave’s face gets while you’re recounting everything. It’s sort of amazing how swiftly his visage shifts from light to dark in the span of mere seconds. It’s unsettling in its own right, really, so you wave your hand dismissively, in order to change the subject.

“What about you? What brought you to Boston?”

He shifts back in his chair, knee brushing yours and bumping it aside ever so slightly. But he isn’t listening, his bubbling thoughts like a dull roar between his ears; he’s thinking of all the ways he would torture Jonathan before killing him. He’d killed many men, both for the Marines and the CIA. He enjoyed it. Got off on it. So what’s a little more blood in his ledger, in the shape of two men named Max and Jonathan?

He would kill them both as soon as he got the chance. The first in years.

“Dave? You okay?” you ask, placing a tentative hand on top of his where it grips the edge of the table, your thumb skimming the hills and valleys of his knuckles. His gaze snaps to yours, and he recognizes the worry in your eyes. You’re worried about him. It’s been a long time since anyone has worried about him.

That small reciprocative touch from you is all it takes to provoke him, drunk as he is. His opposite hand moves suddenly to your throat, then to the nape of your neck, and he pulls you into him, mouth crashing against yours, needy and messy, all teeth and lips until you open your mouth to him and he’s laving at you with broad strokes of his tongue.

You taste like vodka and heaven.

He swallows your whimper as it works its way up from the depths of your throat; as much as you can’t believe you’re kissing a man you’ve only just officially met, you’re impervious to stop him. This is exactly what you were wanting, what you were needing earlier, with Max. That intimacy, that connection, that Max had denied you. That Dave is offering freely. It’s what you wanted so badly and you only stop when Dave does, pulling apart from you to catch his breath, panting against each other’s lips.

You swipe your tongue against his bottom lip after a few moments, enticing him to return, and he takes advantage of the invitation with a deep groan, prodding his tongue hungrily into your mouth. He palms himself over his shorts as he does so—he can’t help it. You drive him fucking crazy.

You’re letting him touch you. He cannot believe you’re letting him. He wonders how much farther he could go.

His hand moves to your chest, curling lightly against the rise of your upper breast, skirting, testing. When you don’t object, he moves lower, gently cupping you from underneath, cradling the weight in his hand. He grunts into your mouth, dragging his thumb up to circle the stem of your nipple. Might as well go for it as long as you seem receptive.

You pull apart, panting hard, lust-drunk and intoxicated. His hand doesn’t move from your breast, his thumb deftly doing laps around the circumference of your stiffened peak, and it feels better than you could have ever imagined, your head draping over the back of the chair.

You need to know how his thumb would feel circling the bundle of nerves between your legs. You know how fucked it is, how fast everything is moving between the two of you, but you find yourself unable to give a shit after the year you’ve had.

You take his hand and move it down to the cradle of your lap as your legs splay wide for him. He cups your heat with his hand, wrist cocked, completely swallowing you in its mass.

His eyes go impossibly dark. Almost unreadable. His lips pull tight, and you think you see the promise of a smirk there, but you can’t be too sure. His brow is furrowed into a heavy line, lending him a feral—almost dangerous—appearance. And he absolutely is, right now—he’d wanted you for so long and he finally has you. Target acquired. God help anyone who might try to take you from him.

His hand doesn’t move right away and you almost think you’ve offended him. You start to cant your hips, seeking friction, and he stills you with the other hand, wide palm holding you in place against the chair.

The thin bike shorts don’t leave much to the imagination; he can feel your soft folds against his fingers and the dampness that is already creeping through. He starts to stroke with his fore and middle fingers along your seam, his thumb firmly pressed to your clothed clit, rolling tight circles.

It’s all so much that you would buck into his hand if he wasn’t holding you down. You mewl pathetically in his wake, and you’re certain you do see his lips curving into a grin now.

You feel like a rabbit locked in the jaws of a wolf.

“Feels so pretty for me,” Dave murmurs against your lips, his forehead pressed to yours as he holds your gaze in his. “What else would you let me do to you, huh?”

You swallow. Your heart is slamming in your chest. The hero facade from earlier is gone and the real Dave is now bared right in front of you.

“Whatever you want,” you respond in a shaky breath. You’re scared of him, but you kind of like it. The fear consuming you is enrapturing.

“That’s a dangerous proposition,” Dave tuts, tongue clicking between his teeth. Thumb continuously circling your sensitive nub.

A moan slips free and you find it nearly impossible to stay in one spot, even in his clutches. He eventually resigns himself and lets go, hand coming up to squeeze just under your jaw.

“Would you let me put a finger in you? Right here?” he rumbles lowly, his voice deep, dark. It almost doesn’t sound like a question, coming from him.

You already know the answer to such a devious question. You’d let Max almost do the same, after all, and you don’t even like Max.

“Yes,” you admit. “Yes…please.”

“Fucking filthy.” His eyes shine and his lips curl into a wicked smile. Carol would have never agreed to something like that; as if he hadn’t asked on multiple occasions. But that never stopped her from fucking a neighbor at a Christmas party several years ago.

The ache in his cock is burgeoning on painful. His grip under your chin tightens; still very much controlled, but enough to get his point across. “Grab my cock.”

Your breath catches. He leans in to kiss you again, your fingers skating along the inner plane of his thigh, snaking into the opening of his shorts. You find his stiffened member readily, lacing your fingers around the ample girth and stroking it along the ridges of your palm, slowing down when you reach the head. Precum leaks down your wrist. He’s warm and hard as steel and feels amazing. He grunts into your mouth, hips rolling forward, chasing your touch.

“Fuck,” he whispers. He’s spent so long dreaming of this exact scenario that now that it’s happening, it’s too much. Too much and not enough all at once. He breathes headily into your mouth, sucking and biting at your lips. He wonders if you’d suck him off under the table; he knows from listening to you earlier that Max hadn’t claimed your mouth. He wanted to be the one to claim that before Max, spill himself down your throat and mark you from the inside out.

It’s so much that he won’t last long if you keep touching him like that, your soft warm hand doing slow, rounded strokes on his cock. He stills your hand and you exchange a glance.

“Lean back, sweetheart.” His words go straight to your core. Max had also called you that, but the cadence was different, more derivative. Dave’s movements are deliberate and controlled, unlike Max’s more chaotic approach. Cold and calculating; yet something in the low pitch of his voice makes you want to trust him.

You lean against the chair, hips sliding forward. Dave wets two fingers against his tongue and, resuming the onslaught of his mouth on yours, pulls back the band of your skin tight shorts to slip the other hand inside.

Your head lolls back against the chair and your eyes flutter shut. Your head swims; what is wrong with you? The waitress could come back to find Dave knuckles deep inside of you at any second.

But that’s part of the allure.

His hand dips lower, skimming the soft curls of your mound, tracing your shape. He’s only inches away from discovering your drenched and waiting hole when a new sound penetrates the fog of your mind. It takes a moment for understanding to settle over you, and then hits you abruptly: someone is clearing their throat.

Your eyes snap open and Dave yanks his hand back so hard he elbows the arm of the chair, a quiet hiss escaping from his lips as he tries to downplay the hurt. You look up to see the waitress peering down at you.

“I was going to ask if you wanted dessert, but seems you’ve already started,” she points out. She looks more amused than angry, but it doesn’t stop the shame that blooms hot in your cheeks at being so careless.

“I’m sorry,” you tell her softly.

“Just the check,” Dave says, doing his best to feign innocence. He bites the inside of his cheek. “Thanks.”

You both burst into laughter like a pair of teenagers as soon as she’s out of earshot. You look down at your half eaten plate of hummus and pitas. “Shit, I should have asked for a box too,” you say, acting as though you didn’t just have hands down the other’s pants. He chuckles, brushing a hand through short, dark hair.

“Yeah, guess so.” His mouth hooks into a crooked smirk.

The air of the moment is gone as you fall into a silence that is more comfortable than the one before, his hand lingering on your knee, thumb circling your kneecap as a gentle reminder.

The waitress returns and she is a saint. Not only has she brought the check, she’s also brought boxes for your leftovers and something in a smaller to-go box. “Baklava, for after,” she says, giving you a knowing wink. You blush. “On the house.”

Dave pays the check and leaves a generous tip as quickly as he is able to do so.

——

Dave’s hands are all over you the entire way home.

Not in a gratuitous way; he’s learned his lesson there. But that doesn’t stop him from sliding his fingers up and down your back as you walk together, or the way his hand curls taut around your hip and ass to pull you in close to nip at your neck. You giggle and playfully try to fend him off, but it does very little to dissuade him, of which you don’t mind.

He’s grateful he chose to wear loose fitting shorts to jog in today. Anything tighter and it would leave very little to the imagination. He’s sure he’s showing enough already, but he can’t be arsed enough to care, or help how deranged you make him feel. He would have taken you at the restaurant, if you had let him. If the two of you could have gotten away with it.

You arrive at the passage between your buildings after what seems like an eternity of walking. You feel his fingers dig a little harder into your backside as soon as you round the corner, and then he’s turning you, pressing your back flush against his building the same way Max had done to you earlier against yours. The similarities between both men is eerie.

His mouth finds your neck and he sucks a line of red marks down to your shoulder, leaving behind a trail of hickies that won’t be going anyway anytime soon, but you’re too fucked out already to mind.

“My place or yours?” Dave asks. His pelvis crowds into you, erection grinding at your center, the thin fabrics of your outfits a blessing as you feel every hard press of him into you.

“Yours,” you mutter without a second thought. You don’t know if you could handle two men in your space in a single day. You’d barely had time to gather your thoughts from earlier, much less clean up after yourself.

If only you knew what Dave knows. What he did.

Dave pulls away from you, one hand circling your wrist as he drags you with him, the other digging into his pocket to retrieve the keycard from his wallet. You need the same for your building, he thinks. Safer that way, less chance of being tampered with, and he would be able to rest easier.

He readjusts the grocery bag on his shoulder as he slides the keycard into the lock and pushes the door open. “After you,” he says, motioning ahead. You do as he asks, stepping over the threshold and into the building, Dave following at your heels.

His building is nicer than yours, a little more modern and kept up. A bank of mail boxes sits off to your right, a seating area to the left. There’s a staircase directly in front of you and an elevator beyond that. He gestures you up the stairs.

“I’m just on the second floor, last door on the left,” he instructs, and you dutifully begin your ascent, slowly, as you’re still more than just slightly tipsy.

Dave falls in line behind you. A moment later, you feel his hands spanning the width of your ass, kneading your flesh against his palms, landing a soft smack to your right cheek; just hard enough to let you know that he’s there and what he’s about to do to you.

“I’ve thought about this ass a lot,” Dave says in a low pitch, “Feels just as nice as I imagined it would.”

You reach the landing and make your way down the narrow corridor until you reach a door with 2A emblazoned on it, canting your eyes towards Dave for conformation. He nods and you step aside as he moves to unlock the door.

The interior of Dave’s apartment is larger than your own. It has an actual bedroom, for one. It’s also more tidy—there isn’t a lot of furniture, very few personal items, which means less clutter. No pictures hung on the walls. Just the bare necessities. A man’s apartment.

Dave puts your bag on the kitchen counter and he’s on you before you can even slide your purse off, removing the burdensome item for you, tossing it thoughtlessly behind him to join the other. His lips crash into yours, needy and desperate, tongue licking into your mouth as his hands roam over your chest to cup both breasts.

You feel better than he could have ever imagined. Like your body was made just for him, the way it slots perfectly against his own.

You make a chirp of surprise as he scoops you up with a low growl, one arm across your back and the other in the bend of your knees as he carries you to the bedroom down the hall. His mouth doesn’t relent, sucking and biting at your lips, your jaw.

“Going to ruin you tonight,” he moans against your mouth.

He puts you down on the edge of the bed when you make it to the bedroom. It’s just as sparse of the rest of the apartment, with plain black sheets and a plain black comforter. At least the bed isn’t made up; that makes you feel a little better about how you live.

He crouches in front of you, large brown eyes darkening a shade as he studies your face. Hands gripping your thighs.

“Just so you know, darling, I don’t play nice,” he forewarns, hands sliding down your legs to stroke your bare calves. Going off of what he heard earlier, he’s sure that won’t be a problem. “Before we start, is there anything off the table?”

You consider his question for a moment, thoughtfully biting your lip. “Yes. I’m not on birth control, so…” you trail off with a nervous giggle. Your condoms are of no use back at your apartment.

His jaw clenches. Of course he doesn’t have any condoms either, as he hasn’t had a need for them in quite some time. He supposes he understands. It isn’t like he needs more kids, anyway.

“Guess I have to cum in one of your other holes, then,” he muses, squeezing and kneading your calves. His hands are large and warm and they feel fucking amazing. “If at any point you want me to stop, you say ‘foxglove’. Otherwise, I assume anything goes. Clear?”

“Clear,” you confirm, inclining your head in a small nod, a tremor slithering its way through you as you consider the possibilities.

Dave’s expression hardens as a hand lifts to your face, landing a smack across your cheek just hard enough to sting but not hurt. Not yet.

“Tell me what you say if it’s too much. I need to hear you say it,” his voice dark and heavy.

“Foxglove. The safe word…is foxglove.”

One corner of his mouth slants upwards into a smirk, his eyes remaining dark. Glassy. “Atta girl,” he says with a wink.

He begins removing your clothing, yanking and manipulating the fabric free from your form until you’re completely nude, your skin pebbling as cool air rushes over you. His gaze traverses your curves, drinking you in with his eyes as he licks his lips hungrily. He can see bruises forming where Max’s fingers gripped you, where they dug in. He surprises himself when it only serves to further turn him on, the head of his dick beading with precum as he pictures how Max must have fucked you. Part of him wishes he had been able to see it for himself.

He slaps you again, harder this time, hand moving to your throat to shove you down until your back makes contact with the mattress, a small gasp rushing out of you. Moving from the floor to the bed, he seats himself at your side, grabbing one of your knees to spread you open.

He drags a finger along your soaked seam, revering how wet you already are for him, how easily the tip of his finger slips inside. “Fuck, is this just for me?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. You nod in response. “Fuckin’ slut.”

He sinks his finger to the last knuckle, pumping a few times, adding a second a moment later. You mewl and writhe underneath him, craving more friction between your legs.

“Just fuck me, Dave, please. Want your cock in me.”

He chuckles, balls pulsing in response to your words as he removes his fingers from your dripping heat. “My cock, pretty girl?” he purrs. “Who’s calling the shots here?” he asks you, pinching and twisting one of your nipples as retribution. The pain makes you cry out, tears stinging your eyes, your back arching.

When you don’t answer, he repeats himself, tugging harder this time. “Who?” he snarls.

“Y-you! You!” you whine, moving your hand over your breast to soothe the hurt, but Dave knocks it back, pinning it to the bed.

“Don’t move your hands. I mean it.”

Your body trembles. This isn’t the mild mannered Dave from earlier; the juxtaposition absolutely terrifies you and it’s fucked how much you like it.

“You,” you repeat for good measure. “You do.”

Dave beams down at you, caressing your cheek. “Good girl.”

His fingers move to curve inside of you, adding a third this time, splitting you open for him. You keen at the sting of being stretched around his knuckles, hips instinctively bucking against him. You whimper when his palm bumps your clit.

He stills you with his opposite hand and you flinch, anticipating more retaliation.

“Easy,” he soothes, flattening his palm against your hip as he strokes. “I got you.”

His fingers pump lazily through your slick, sinking to the hilt, allowing himself to feel every ridge and ripple of your tunnel. Memorizing it. You’re so wet for him; he still can’t believe that you’re letting him do this. How did he get so lucky?

He fishes his phone from his pocket in a moment of insight; he doesn’t want to take any chances in case you never let him do this again. His eyes move to your face as he does so, awaiting any kind of objection, only to continue when he finds there is none. You watch with curiosity from your perspective as he flicks open the camera app and begins to film, training the lens where his fingers are currently disappearing inside of you.

It goes on for several minutes like that, Dave filming as he fucks you with his fingers, the wet squelch of his digits driving into you paired with the accompanying sounds of your gradually building pleasure more than a little gratuitous, as if it was straight from a porno.

He can tell by the way your inner walls are tightening that you’re getting close. He wants to get you off before he does, prepare you for the inevitable stretch of him so he can properly ruin you on his cock.

He passes the phone to you now, scooting higher up on the bed. You watch him through the phone screen and realize he’s still completely clothed, the lewd bulge of his erection more than obvious even through the phone. As if on cue, he palms himself before settling in next to you.

He nibbles down the rise of your shoulder, trailing to your breast, leaving small suckling bites until his mouth reaches the hard peak of your nipple. His tongue laves over it, circling it, sucking it into his mouth and taking it between his teeth. It sends a shockwave of pain through you, your cunt clenching down on Dave’s fingers, momentarily blinded by your pleasure.

You do as best you can to capture everything on camera, but there’s so much going on, your brain so swimmy you can barely see straight.

“Mmf,” he groans against the stiffened bud. “Doing so well already,” he praises.

His teeth move to the pillowy flesh of your outer breast, biting down harder than you would have imagined he would—to the point of nearly drawing blood—another lance of pain shooting through you with a strangled cry. It’s at that moment an orgasm unexpectedly washes over you, taking you by complete surprise as you scream Dave’s name loud enough for the entire building to hear.

His cock pulses with the need to be buried in your dark, wet heat as he rides out the ebbs and flows of your ecstasy, hand still fucking into you, harder and faster than before, and before you even realize what’s happening, a second orgasm surges through you like an arc of lightning on the tail end of the first, your vision pulling white for what seems like a lifetime.

“Fuck,” you mewl, your voice almost a sob. “Fuck, Dave.”

He keeps pumping until the aftershocks of your back to back orgasms starts to be too much, burgeoning on painful, and you plead for him to stop, grabbing at his wrist without giving it much thought.

“You know what to say if you want me to stop.” His face contorts into a wicked sneer. “I like when you tell me no.”

You let out a sigh of relief when you get a brief reprieve from the overstimulation as he pulls his fingers out of you, leaning forward to force your mouth open with his fingers. “Clean them off. Taste yourself. Taste what I did to you.”

You do your best to turn the camera to your face as you suck obediently, tasting a mixture of yourself and the salt of his skin, murmuring low in your throat as your eyes move to examine his face. He’s drunk on lust and on you, slack-jawed, dark eyes shimmering with dubiousness. Somehow, if it’s possible, it makes you even wetter than before.

When he removes his hand, a string of saliva connects your mouth to the tip of his middle finger, which you most definitely capture on the camera.

“My turn,” he says, sliding into a stand, removing his shirt and letting it join yours on the floor. The first thing you notice are his shoulders, endlessly broad and well defined, flexing with every movement. You’re unable to pull your attention away from the vastness of them until he’s kneeling again, grabbing you by the hips and pulling your ass to hang over the edge of the bed.

His face is buried between the juncture of your thighs a moment later, arched Roman nose nudging your overly sensitive bundle of nerves. His tongue dips to penetrate you, lips forming a tight seal around your entrance as his tongue scrubs at your inner walls, groaning deep in his throat as he tastes you for the first time.

“Taste so fucking good, baby,” he moans against your folds. “Best I’ve ever tasted.”

“No, Dave, stop,” you beg, weakly pushing at one of his shoulders with your free hand, so overstimulated it hurts. Between him and Max, they’ve already done a number on you today, and Dave hasn’t even properly fucked you yet. Your words don’t make Dave stall, however; if anything, he speeds up.

You know what to say if you want me to stop. His words echo in your mind as a single teardrop clings to your waterline. You could just say it, foxglove—a type of poisonous flower, aptly fitting—and you’re certain he would stop. But you’re willing to see how far you’re able to go, how much you can take, the word fading away behind your lips along with your considerations.

“Stop,” you whimper to spur him on, intentionally antagonizing him now, and he growls, animalistic, heady, unrelenting as he grazes his teeth over your sensitive nub, making you cry out before returning to his previous task of eating you out like a man starved.

It isn’t long before he drags a third orgasm out of you, your hips bucking completely off the bed to chase the fleeting stimulation, his name a chant on your tongue. Your fingers curl into the sheets to anchor yourself.

Dave falls back on his calves, chest heaving as he takes a moment to collect his breath, likewise allowing you to catch yours.

He runs a hand over his face, wiping away the sweat that wants to fall. He often stopped using his air conditioning after summer, and he’s feeling the effects now as perspiration beads up and rolls down his back.

“Are you ready for my cock?” he asks, his face cast in shadow, lending him an insidious appearance. It makes you shiver.

“Yes. Need your cock in me,” you whine, knowing how sore you’ll be after this, how sore you are now. You can’t find yourself able to care.

Dave rises, one hand on his hip, cock pulsing and leaking with arousal at the chance to fully bury himself in you. He goes over to the side of the bed, hauling you up the rest of the way by your arm, which makes you yelp.

He takes the phone from you and places it on the nightstand, angling it so that it faces the bed. You aren’t sure how much you were able to capture with his head between your legs, so you’re happy to be relieved of film maker duty.

He’s on top of you an instant later, shorts somehow shed in a frenzy of movement, lining himself up at your entrance and then pushing inside in one smooth, devastating go. His head rocking back to slump against his shoulders at how amazing you feel, how tight you are for him despite being with Max, how subservient you’ve been and how well you’re taking him. It takes every fiber of his being not to offload into you on the first thrust.

His hands lace around your throat as he begins to pump, squeezing into the meat of your neck. “Look at me,” he snarls.

You look up at him, brown eyes shifted to black, a dark band of shadow covering his visage, making him seem that much more sinister. He isn’t fully railing into you yet, but he isn’t exactly going easy on you, either, every thrust into you more tender than the previous.

“Open your mouth for me like the whore you are,” Dave commands, tightening his grip until the edges of the room start to blot away. “And stick out your tongue.”

Your lips part and you curl your tongue outward, thinking you know what’s coming, but still being taken aback when you feel a thick glob of saliva land directly onto your waiting tongue. You don’t give him a chance to tell you to swallow; you do it on your own, opening wider for more.

“Does my little slut want seconds?” Dave asks, and you nod. He smirks, spitting directly into your mouth again, watching intently as you swallow. “Filthy. Should make you eat my cum, too.”

You nod in wanton agreement, but you’re unable to speak with his massive hands digging into your windpipe as they are. The flash in his gaze tells you his understanding, though, and he starts fucking you harder, instructing you to lift your legs so he can slam into you as deep as he possibly can, the head of his dick knocking at the delicate spongy area at the back of your tunnel.

And then a fourth orgasm rolls over you, vision fading away momentarily as your head rocks back against the pillow, choked cry clawing its way out of your throat.

You aren’t sure how much more you can take, which Dave must admit is more than he expected you to. Your body is numb and your head is pounding; you hope for your sake he cums soon.

He loosens his hold on your neck, and you’re able to breathe again, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath him as you catch up. He taps the side of your face, softly, almost affectionate in comparison to how hard he slapped you before. Then he pulls out of you, wrapping his hand around his thick cock, slowly pumping himself with your slick and cum.

“Maybe I won’t spill into that pretty little whore mouth of yours,” he muses. “Maybe I should take your tight little asshole instead.”

Your heart palpitates faster, eyes going wide. You’ve never done anal more than just a finger or two and Dave is so girthy—the idea gives you pause, admittedly.

Dave expects you to say no. Like, actually say no, this time. The veins running the length of his shaft pulsing as he imagines how your ass would feel sheathed on his cock, but he isn’t pressing the issue, so he’s more than pleasantly shocked when you don’t abstain.

“Okay,” you mumble, hardly above a whisper. “Need you to fuck my ass, Dave.” You look up at him through your lashes and it stirs something primal in him, hearing those words come from your sweet mouth.

He wastes no time in flipping you over, pulling you up to your knees as he notches himself at your star of muscle.

“Have you ever done it before?”

“N-never, no. Just fingers,” you admit, biting back your trepidation.

“I’ll start off slow, then. Get you nice and stretched out. But I won’t be able to control myself for long, knowing I’m the first one who gets to claim your ass. I won’t go easy on you after that point.”

You swallow and nod. The alcohol will definitely help to loosen things up, but you aren’t sure how much.

Dave tilts your hips up, spreading your cheeks to spit directly onto the ring of muscle. He slips a thumb inside, pumping it easily a few times, groaning at how you squeeze him.

“So tight,” he growls. “Going to feel so fucking good.”

He slides his thumb out and spits again, first at your entrance and then into his palm, smearing the cocktail of saliva, slick and precum over himself. He grips your cheeks and spreads you open as wide as possible, positioning his head between them.

He starts to push slowly inward, the initial stretch painful, your vision temporarily reduced to nothing, tears stinging your eyes. It’s so much. He’s so much.

In spite of yourself, you do your best to relax, regulating your breathing and slackening your muscles. It seems to help as he claims another inch of you with a throaty reverberation. “Doing great, baby.”

You moan, an amalgamation of pleasure and pain when he pushes in about halfway, filling you in ways you never could have imagined. He pumps his hips languidly as he continues to gain ground, parting you slowly around his length, molding you into a desired shape for him, until he eventually bottoms out with a visceral groan.

“Fuck,” he pants. “So fucking perfect.”

He holds there a moment, relishing how fucking amazing you feel strangling his cock, knowing it won’t take much from this point to send him hurtling over the edge; he’ll have to make sure it counts.

He ruts into you a few times, gingerly, opening you further to ensure you have ample time to mentally prepare for the impending onslaught.

“How does it feel?” he asks, kneading your hips under his hands.

“G-good, so f-far,” you reply. “Okay.”

“That’s too bad,” Dave tuts. “We’ll have to fix that, won’t we, darling?”

He plants a hard smack to your ass, causing you to arch involuntarily with a high keening yelp, rocking you back into him as a dagger of pain courses through you. Dave grunts, snapping his hips into you, and you yelp again.

“That’s it, sweetheart. That’s it.”

He flattens his palm over where he made contact to soothe the hurt, but before you can settle he strikes you again, harder than before, gripping your hips with enough force to bruise as he begins riding you rough and frenzied, bucking his hips against yours.

His hand snakes around to your front and finds your swollen and overworked clit, administering quick tight circles to the delicate bud. Your initial instinct is to push him away, tell him to stop, and you do. You cry out for him to stop, because it’s so much, he’s so much, forgetting in your haste that it only spurs him on, makes him want you more. And it’s so much that he’s literally fucking you senseless, unable to breathe or even think.

Despite everything, that familiar tickle begins to build low in your abdomen again, the noises you make with every thrust inhuman and supplicant. You want him to stop but you don’t. You don’t know how much more you can withstand but at the same time want him to use you all night.

Dave rumbles from the depths of his chest, completely feral as he ruts into your ass, the noises you’re making driving him to the brink of insanity, the same ones you’d made earlier for Max. And he can feel his climax building, listening to your salacious inhuman noises, envisioning Max fucking you in your apartment and how much you’d fallen apart for him. And subsequently four times so far with himself.

“Whose ass is this?” Dave snarls, spanking you again, leaving an imprint of his hand behind.

“Yours, Dave, yours!” you cry.

“That’s right. No one else’s. Just mine. All mine,” he grunts. “Cum for me, baby. Need you to cum as I rail your ass.”

“I can’t, Dave, it’s so much…” you whine. Everything is disorientating. You’re glad you have tomorrow off because you aren’t certain you’ll be able to walk after this.

“Yes you can. Cum for me. Last one.”

He flicks the pads of his middle and index fingers over your clit, and when you think it isn’t going to be possible, another orgasm burns through you like a powder keg, your walls clamping down around nothing as Dave spears himself repeatedly into you. You see stars, crying out his name as your arms give out beneath you, the upper half of your body slumping into the bed.

Dave snaps his hips once, twice, three times more and then he’s cumming hard with a deep, animalistic snarl, pumping himself deep as he uses you to milk every last drop of himself.

He eventually slows to a halt, both of you panting hard, covered in a thin sheen of perspiration, your bodies like jello as you sink in tandem to the mattress below. Dave pulls out of you, rolling onto his back as he pants up at the ceiling.

He takes a moment to catch his breath and bearings before he scoots off the bed, checking to make sure you’re okay as he turns off the camera on his phone and then heads to the small en suite bathroom, the only one in the apartment. He starts the warm tap and retrieves a wash rag from the basket he keeps by the sink, running it under the water until it’s pleasantly warm.

He returns to you a moment later to find you already halfway to dozing, looking at him through sleepy, half-lidded eyes. It stokes something in the cold cockles of his heart seeing you like this, running an affectionate hand up the back of your thigh as he approaches you. “Here, open up.”

You hardly have any cognition left, yet you somehow manage to comprehend, spreading to allow him to clean you. The warmth of the rag is relieving against your sore and tender parts, and when he feels you’ve been sufficiently looked over, he seats himself next to you, brushing your hair from your eyes.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Mmhm,” you manage weakly, unable to keep your eyes open now. “Jus’ tired.”

“Rest,” Dave says, stroking along the edge of your jaw with his thumb. “You’ve earned it.”

He watches you a moment longer as you drift off, leaving your side only when he’s sufficiently sated on the image of you in his bed to go clean himself up in the bathroom. While he’s in there, he can’t help but think that being able to fuck you should have scratched that itch, scratched it enough that he could move past you, but now that he’s had you—he feels it growing even more restless than before, contorting into some kind of twisted, dangerous animal. He fears the things he would do for you. To you.

He needs to remember you like this. All fucked out and beautiful in your post-coitus glow, one hand rested under your cheek. He goes back to you, grabbing his phone to snap a picture of you. And then several more.

He has to see his daughters this weekend so his time with you is fleeting. And he won’t be around immediately after either, since he’s decided to make a little impromptu trip up to New York to pay a friendly visit to your ex.

He rejoins you in the bedroom, flipping on the wall unit air conditioning before sliding into bed next to you, wrapping you in his arms as he places kisses where he left marks on your neck. You utter a small, chirping sound, settling into his arms as the rest of your mind slips away to sleep.

——

You aren’t sure how long you were out.

Your mouth is parched and you’re simultaneously freezing and burning up, a layer of sweat between your bodies where your skin makes contact. He’s got you tangled up in his arms and he’s like a massive furnace, smothering you with his impressive body heat.

But the A/C is also going and everywhere the air touches is freezing, your skin bubbling with goosepimples.

You shift, hoping it will rouse him. You need to get home. When it doesn’t work, you move your limbs more, stretching and quietly murmuring his name. He eventually stirs, looking down at you with sleepy baby cow eyes, somehow soft in their regard of you, despite every debauched and depraved thing he did.

“Dave, I need to go.”

He frowns. He has to leave tomorrow morning for Virginia, but he was hoping you’d stay, wanting your face to be the last he sees before then.

“Spend the night. I make a mean bowl of cereal,” he jokes, the edge of his lip quirking up. “Or we can order in.”

You deliberate on it. Dave absolutely wrecked you, brought you the brink of losing yourself several times, frightened you and hurt you. You let him. You wanted it—you liked it. And you like him.

But your ex ruined you in the worst of ways. Things had moved quickly with him, you being absolutely starstruck in love from the start, and look where it got you. As much as you like Dave, you fear history repeating itself. You barely know him. You can’t risk going down the same road again.

“Next time,” you offer as compromise. He doesn’t do anything to hide his disappointment, but he nods in confirmation anyway. As much as he needs you to stay, he doesn’t want to push you away with his neediness.

“Next time,” he repeats with a nod. “Sure.”

You get up to use the rest room, slipping back into your clothes, checking yourself out in the mirror as you do so and notice how you’re absolutely riddled with marks. You can hide out in your apartment tomorrow, sure, but you aren’t sure what you’ll do for work. Wear a scarf, maybe.

“Let me walk you home,” Dave says as you gather your things, taking the grocery bag from you, even though it really isn’t that heavy. You lift heavier boxes of coffee at work, after all. “Please.”

“Dave,” you say with a laugh, “I live, like, a hundred feet from you.”

He offers a weak, nervous laugh of his own in response. He really is a man split right down the middle, personality wise. A study of duality. “I know. It’s just proper.”

You don’t fight it. You’re already turning down his request to stay; may as well give him this one. “Sure. Come on.”

He walks you down with his hand planted in the small of your back, gingerly stroking as you make your way outside. The air is stagnant and quiet, the faint sounds of traffic somewhere in the distance.

You reach the door of your building and turn to face Dave with a shy smile, your cheeks heating. You aren’t sure why, after what you let him do to you. “Well, this is me.”

“Yeah,” he says with a breathy laugh, placing his hands on his hips and looking you over. “I can walk you inside, if you want.”

“I think I can manage,” you reply with a smile. “Thanks, though. And thank you…for everything.”

As he passes you the bag, something else unspoken passes between the two of you, Dave rushing into you to plunge his tongue past your teeth, licking broad strokes into your mouth. You moan and sink your fingers into his hair without even thinking about it.

Fuck, he’s going to miss you.

He was hard again the moment you woke up naked in his arms, and he’s even harder now as he presses into you, cock twitching to feel you again.

“I have to go,” you plead against his lips. “I’ll see you this weekend. Promise.”

He frowns. He never told you about his daughters. Or his divorce. Now probably isn’t the most opportune time to bring it up, either.

“I’ll be out of town until next week,” he says. “But after. Yeah.”

It tugs at something in you, hearing his voice drop like that. You decide to compromise once again by offering your phone number up as penance.

“So, we’ll still be able to talk,” you say.

“Yeah. Sounds good.” He smiles, even though he doesn’t exactly feel up to it, the corners of his eyes wrinkling into crow’s feet.

“And bring me back a souvenir from wherever you’re going,” you say in jest. “I’m kidding, by the way. Don’t.”

He chuckles. “I’ll bring you back a “‘Virginia is For Lovers’ shirt,” he responds.

“Virginia? Nice.” You nod. “But seriously, don’t. And have a nice trip.”

“I’ll try,” he admits. And then he kisses you again, less aggressively this time, hand trailing down to the curve of your buttock, resting there, but not squeezing. It’s taking everything in him not to pull your shorts down and fuck you within an inch of your life, again, in the open like this. But he refrains.

“Talk to you soon, Dave,” you say as you take a step away from him, punching in the door code on the keypad. Dave watches your fingers move, tucking the number away for later use. 6435#. Easy enough.

“Soon,” he agrees. “Have a good night,” he says, his voice dropping to an affectionate octave when he says your name.

He watches you go. Watches you leave him. He swallows back his pride, knowing he hasn’t driven you away fully yet, but more than a little concerned he doesn’t have you exactly where he wants you.

He returns to his apartment alone, which already feels empty without you.

He knows it will be impossible to sleep right now. He brews himself a cup of Earl Grey and takes it over to his computer, the screen shining a bright white in his irises as he sits down to do some digging on Jonathan. He has enough information to go on; now it’s just a matter of filling in the gaps.

He can’t wait to pay your ex a visit.

——

Max surprises himself when his heart drops at not seeing you at the shop the next day.

Maurizio is there, whom he greets unenthusiastically, his ex-schoolmate little more than an acquaintance at this point, but the interaction is amiable enough. And some kid with a face full of piercings manning the counter who’s maybe all of eighteen at best, as far as Max can tell.

At least that pink haired bitch isn’t working today, Max thinks.

He orders a large Americano and a cookie to go, his usual order. He asks if you’re working today. The metal-faced kid—whose name tag says Vincent, and whom he recognizes from yesterday—tells him you’re off today.

“Thanks.” Figures you wouldn’t be here. For whatever reason he can’t seem to fathom, he hasn’t been able to get you off his mind since yesterday. Even wore the same tie as a reminder, which is something that meticulous, obsessed-with-his-own-appearance Max does not do. Ever.

He takes his Americano and cookie and leaves, thinking about you on his way to work as he takes small sips of the subpar coffee. He wonders what you do in your free time. What you’re doing now.

He thinks, perhaps, he’ll drop in after work. He knows where you live now, after all.

He can’t wait to see your face when he shows up unannounced at your door.

@ohheypedrito @kateispunk @survivingandenduring @oberynslady @chronically-ghosted @onmysluttyknees @kellybelly1978 @annieispunk @sarap-77

Enjoy! 😘

#pedro pascal #writing #romance #smut #author #fanfic #pedro fanfic #dave york #max phillips #equalizer 2 #bloodsucking bastards

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helloescapist · 9 months

Text

In Another Life | Sanemi Shinazugawa

Word Count: 5272

Setting: Shinazugawa Sanemi x fem!reader (oiran reader), pining, short

Content Warnings: mentions of gore, abuse, and oiran/redlight district, and language

Summary: After hearing about Tengens success in the redlight district, Sanemi has decided to investigate one himself. His analysis leading him buried memories of the girl he had loved, and that faith had abandoned.

A/N: I am admittedly new to Tumblr, and very unfamiliar with how to interact. Until I figure it out, I just want to express how happy I am to see my work being read, and shared. I really do appreciate each and every one of you.

[Art work is not mine, credit goes to the artist!]

Lights glowed across the district; waves of visitors jostled amongst the path. Lanterns glowed in the growing night, bright enough to daze and confuse the senses. Human instincts humming whispers of slumber, and beckoned sleep snubbed out by the intense atmosphere.

Human instincts humming whispers, and beckoned sleep snubbed out by the intense atmosphere. The night delayed as it masqueraded as the day, masked in the glow of lanterns across the district. Incense and perfumes that dulled the senses, claimed the thoughts of men and women alike drawn by the intimate glow. Lanterns danced in the night air, as waves of visitors jostled along the paths that had been abandoned in the daylight. Buildings that loomed in the sky, grandiose in nature, dripping of the wealth of proprietors. Owners exhibiting their prosperity in embellished fabrics, banners hung intentionally to draw the eye. Windows alit with the readily available oirans. Hair meticulously styled for the run of the mill customer; adorning hairpins and fabrics no longer favored by higher ups. Their very being mere constructions of the tayu classes’ secondhand rejections. Either discarded due to outdated appearance, or simply deemed unfavorable for valued customer classes. Only the luckiest of them having adorned castoff rouge. Farmers and vendors alike appraising them through warped vision; having tossed away thoughts of their wives, partners, and family for the night, willing to overlook the product’s pitiful origins in favor of lust and personal benefits. The merchandize only dared to smile, eyes trained to the ground with the occasional fan pressed against lips. The customers only momentarily distracted from the coos and teases of women on the balcony, hoping to earn a night’s work. Dizzying waves of women who had taken to the streets to beckon passersby to their brothel. Kamuros dashing across the way, bending to the whims of their oiran’s command as they fetched every need one might possess.

It was enough to piss him off. The overbearing scents to mask the leftover musk of various customers. Perfumes intended to disguise the common prostitute as something angelic despite the usual fierce temperament. The smells burned his nostrils, and left his stomach nauseated. Far too many fragrances intermingling, none willing to compromise to the other. The lights were just as guilty, determined to set an intimate scene despite the obvious façade. The fabrics were bright, far too lavish, and often times revealing to provide a quick slip of clothes before delving into the job’s demands. Just as quick to conceal marks, and set off for their next target. Little more than assassins looking for their next meal ticket, enough to make his skin crawl. Not that he could blame them, their upbringing had been mangled as his own. Sold off by impoverish family members, they had been left to survive, much like the day he had taken to the mountain and left his own family behind. In the very same way, he had wielded various weapons snatched to his back in the dead of night, only daring to rest in the sunlight all those years ago, these women were just as lethal desperate to survive as himself. Parading as gentle, insightful women who tended to their proprietors willing to turn a favor to any coin, very few of them were in fact as kind as they claimed to be. Even less were compromising to their lesser attendants. Only a few baring gifts from their ward, more of them brandishing bruises and scratches. Smacked for the smallest of inconvenience, and baring the ravish of a scorned women confined to the life of servitude. Kamuros and shinzou alike, innocence robbed each night, bearing witness to the realities of the red-light district. He could feel the rage bubbling. He had always feared the chance of his own father coining his sisters off when he was a child, one of the many reasons Genya and he had worked so earnestly to care for their families. Their relief only realized in their father’s death. In his youth he had witnessed so many hardships, but being here. The familiar sear of incense, the telling whelps and bruises that formed at the corner of mouths of little girls, working to the bone despite the tears that threatened the corner of their eyes. Forced smiles, and facades of dreams, only reminded him of the girl he had left behind so many years ago. When his childhood had convinced him that he would experience happiness, a bride to call his own, and the hopes of a family on the way.

You were lovely in all the ways no one could compare. A demure smile that could captivate the heart of any man. Unusual hair color as pale as the sunlight, and as warm as the days of summer. Eyes that dared to captivate the sky, wide and furnished with long, thick eyelashes. Reticent despite such a young age. A gaze that danced across the lavish doll caught between your fingertips as you studied its features, so contrast to your own. Hair long and intricately weaved and pin with lavish hair pins, multiple kanzashi placed, an unusual sight for him at the time. Frozen in his tracks mid-delivery as he studied your delicate features, captivated by the sunlight under a Japanese maple whose leaves had already descended into waves of oranges and vivid reds. Such as the touch of rouge and blush that settled across your cheeks and lips, delicately painted. Brows drawn as you studied the doll, its black hair folded over your fingers. As well as the black painted eyes that deliberated your own. The heavy embellishments weaved into your intricate hairstyle were lavish, but nothing that compared to the many layers your small frame bore. Nearly wore down across the fabric. Vibrant folds and luxurious prints adorned over the fold of an attention drawing obi. He found himself leaning forward, his eyes tracing the stilt of your shoes, giving you height pass your natural frame. The enchanting length of your sleeves, a young Kamuro, he would later come to understand. For someone so beautiful, and obviously well cared for, the undeniable sorrow was visible. Stained upon your light make up, depicting a hidden hurt that he could not understand. Drawn to touch the surface, it was as though you were as beautiful as an untouched pond amidst this hidden garden. Only rippling at the boy whose fell forward, rolled off of steps and landed in a heap into your hidden world.

Your eyes, large and imploring, the startle gasp as you dropped your doll. Your surprise having drawn you backwards as, eyes tracing his silhouette. His clothing, far humbler than your own. The dirty covered samue covered with the day’s filth, and unassuming, a stark contrast to the intricate garments before him. The working class that derived from sweat and hard labor. The realization stilling his blood as his eyes met the ground, embarrassed to be caught in admiration of you. Especially given the circumstances. His intrusion into your seclusion far louder than he had expected, met with the growing realization that he very well could be beaten for having wandered into such an illustrious place. The growing commotion that grew from within the grand building, the raised voices of inquiring men, and that of shrills of surprised women. Your eyes having fallen to the doors of the veranda before falling back to him, your small steps rushed across the garden. Small, delicate fingers that clasped his own, pulling him from the ground. Tugging him behind you as you sought suffrage within the small grove of flourishing trees. Pressed against him, the shock radiating from his body as your small hand reached up to cover his mouth. Pressing a finger against your lips.

“[LN]? Are you alright?” a male had called. The clack of shoes again the stone work. The pounding in Sanemi’s heart becoming panicked and nervous, smacking your hand from himself. “[LN]?” the man called, pressing forward. Only to cause you to further lean on Sanemi. As though in some way your small frame could ever hope to conceal his own. Your eyes caught on the advancing man, an attendant he had surmised.

“Sato, I sent [FN] on an errand.”

The distinct shift in atmosphere was evident. As though the entire garden had fallen under a spell of a different kind. A sultry voice that commanded attention, grace in her languid movements. Sanemi dared to peek over his shoulder, meeting black eyes that could only be compared to the night sky, and hair detailing’s that mirrored your own unique style despite the obvious difference in color. The hue of the woman before him reflective of the most extravagant ink blocks only afforded by the higher-ups. Elegance tinged on the older woman’s features, carefully painted as she met the attendant’s gaze. A hidden venom that coiled in extravagant fabrics, more than those you adorned. As she tilted her head, peering down at the man before her. “M-Madam,” he had sputtered, quick to bow his head. “I-I had heard a noise, and I thought perhaps [LN] had fallen.”

“Sato, I will not repeat myself.”

“Y-Yes madam.”

The momentary glimpse his way that chilled his bones. Her gaze had softened, especially in comparison to the man who escaped to chores, desperate to evade her piercing gaze. The small smile she quipped before clasping her fan. Her movements fluid as a Tiger Keelback, relaxed in the grass. Evidence of her deadly behavior that had been briefly expressed now stripped from her features. Recoiled under the foundation of a tender smile, and slight nod at the package he had been intending to delivered, dropped where he had fallen through the gardens. The press of your body having slipped from his as the woman disappeared into the grand building, a knowing smile tucked on her delicately painted face.

Your mother, you had shared to him between stolen ohagi bites. A grand tayu, one of the highest rankings in the area at that. Your smile as wide and delighted to meet him as he had been to witness you. As beautiful as the leaves above you; he had understood your duty. Listened to you explain that you were a kamuro as you accepted his package in exchange for another. For him, you had pressed into his care. Extra ohagi intended for his siblings, a rarity they would enjoy, you had insisted. Promised that the house would not notice their missing. Ignoring his obvious discomfort and the annoyance his bashful nature had forced upon the both of you. Over redden cheeks, and unable to ignore the way that you had once again boldly pressed into him as you forced the lavish fabric into his hands before separated from him. Dismissed his insistence that he could not afford to replace such delicacies. After all, no one would notice that they had gone, not to worry. Pulling his delivery into your hands, and allowing your shoe to slip from your sock as you pressed onto the veranda. Earnest eyes that captivated the sunset, bored into him. The small, undeniable sorrow that he had witnessed before was beginning to show as you waved to him. “Please, visit me again,” whispered in secret.

A vow he had not broken tucked shyly to his heart.

Seizing the opportunity to visit you any time his deliveries took him to the pleasure district. Secret rendezvous tucked under Japanese Maple trees, split over tea and ohagi you had snuck from the kitchens. Each encounter growing warmer and more familiar. At times, he would bring Genya along, and others, he would sneak away at the first opportunity. Unwilling to admit that at times, he felt envious of the way his brother could captivate your attention. Your over willingness to lean into him often earning a series of curses, rough in speech and manners, and Sanemi only to receive the softest of giggles. Having thrived at his attention, and company, there were times you would insist on assisting in his deliveries to other brothels. Familiar with the landscape, you had insisted, and unwilling to admit that he didn’t want to depart from you just yet, he would often fold. Determined to preserve his pride. When you had dared to adorn a lesser kamuro’s old tattered kimono and covered your hair in the soot remains of a snubbed lantern of the night, daring to leave the confines of your employment, your fingers tugged at the hem of his samue… he had begrudgingly allowed you to follow after him. A secret just between the two of you. Spitting out a demand you release him before shyly grasping your hand and leading you through the town, muttering that you were far too much like a child. On these rare days out, you would whisper to Koto, and Sumi would assist you in securing him to your back despite Sanemi’s obvious fretting. Concern that his family had asked to much of you, or that such labor would be far too exhaust. Your whispered wishes of a life such as this hushing such worries. Days left to Shuya, Teiko, and Hiroshi’s teasing. The time his siblings would dare to reveal such matters to you. Such as the way he held your hand in a crowd, the way he rerouted his travels around move to avoid mucking your borrowed kimono, or that day at the river. When you had longed to dare to skim across the surface. How shyly you had peered into the water, in awe of him having dared to walk in to its shallows without a second thought. How he had watched you fumble over your kimono, determined to follow after him, but unfamiliar with the workings of fishermen, or how to tie back your clothing. How he had uttered curses, accusing you of being a child. How his knees had met the stones submerged in the river. Without hesitation, his white hair soft and bright, as puffy as the clouds above you. How your heart had hammered in your chest as his calloused fingers, unfamiliar to you as they grazed across your calf. His words as usual had been harsh, yet just like all the other times, his touch was gentle. Calloused from a lifetime of work, yet gentle in the way they regarded you regardless if it was protecting you from a snake that had wandered into a garden, or a patron who had become too casual, he always regarded you with such care despite his tongue. How his eyes had met yours, shy and sputtering a curse as your fingers threaded through his hair, because just one time… just one time, you had wanted to run your fingers through the snow touched strands. Naïve and oblivious to the way the blush crawled down his collar. Although, the truth was, Sanemi had realized that he had been the one naïve. From the blemishes that would be liter your cheeks when your mother was not looking to the day, he had found you cornered in the district.

The rocks that had pattered against your hands as you struggled to shield yourself. Words such as hafu, konketsuji, ainoko, and mutt littered the air. Having been caught in the rain, the soot was washed from your hair. Revealing you to the general public, and how they had scorned you. Rocks thrown from peers, random ones hitting their marks, revealing the depth of malice others outside of the pleasure district had regarded you, why you had insisted on staining your hair at each visit to the outside world. He had never considered, and without a second thought, he had pinned your assailant to the ground. Sanemi’s fists met with his cheek. Forced him to the ground, and berated him with every insult he could think of. Bitter and full of rage and ignorant to the shrill of the neighborhood kids fleeing his fury. The boy who was under him, now snotty and bloodied was still not enough to cool his temper. It wasn’t enough—he would never forgive them. Practically boiling over until he felt the all too familiar tug of fingers on the hem of his sleeve. Biting back the rage that threatened to spew, did his best to conceal his temper. His wide eyes met your own. The sorrow inevitable, that same sadness that he had witnessed so long ago under maple leaves. Your chin dipped to your chest, avoiding his gaze as you quietly requested your assailant’s release. And how he hadn’t wanted to. How he had swallowed his temper, met with your dejection. Your eyes unwilling to meet his own even as his fingers swept across your face. Grazed against the blossoming bruise at your cheek, and caught the tears that tinged the corner of your eyes. His gaze soft and mournful. How naïve he had been not to realize you had been suffering. Not to have realized the implications foreign born imparted on your life as the daughter of a courtesan. How artless he had been not to realized his growing feelings, or to understand the depths of his desires. Nor the nativity he had born as the words left his lips without a thought, a vow. A promise. To stop crying dam nit. Because one day, one day it wouldn’t be like this. One day, one day you would be home with him. That no one would ever hurt you again.

Fucking naïve.

The distant memories plagued him as he sat crisscross on a tatami mat adorned with cushions. His eyes trained on his drink and snacks. Ribbons hung throughout the brothel, lined in a variety of perfumes and incenses that burned his nose, and left him with the aching memory of a life he had longed for, and had abandoned after the loss of his mother. He had hoped, in some small way that perhaps, Genya had taken you for a bride. Although the little shit having made an appearance at the demon corps made it clear that certainly happened. The thought pissing him off as much as the overbearing scents that clung to detailed décor. Hints of gold and lacquered woods, rich in finery and portraying the wealth of the cliental the brothel owners captivated. Tucked into an inner room, his uniform having caught one of the courtesan’s attentions—mistakenly assumed him of a higher rank of the Imperial Japanese Army. Securing him a seat in the inner areas from prying eyes, an opportunity he wouldn’t waste. He had never had the opportunity to dive into the inner world of the district, not like Tengen had—not that the Wind Hashira had even considered bring tag along on his investigation. The underhanded method of dragging his wives into his business was one that had secured weeding the upper moon out, but was a technique he would not employ. In part because his rash decisions had simply taken hold of him, and he had left without much thought. The remainder of this route unavailability to him was that he neither wanted to include others in his analysis, and even less were willing to volunteer to work alongside him. So, this opportunity presented was a valuable one at that, one he would not waste.

Tucked beind sheer screens, the distinct pluck of a koto beginning to play. Another goddamn memory threatening to surface. You had spent hours practicing—Nope. Not fucking doing it. He bit back a bite of his snack, threatening the memory to remain buried from his presence as his large violet eyes surveyed his surroundings. Ribbons that hung decoratively from a variety of angles, intended to immulate the oiran’s kimonos if he had to guess their reason. Stupid at that, men clearly drowning in saki and desperate to escape their lives, and their wallets were veiled behind their own screens. From what he had gathered, one had in fact been a higher up—likely the reason the oiran who had guided him to this place had assumed he had been seeking a night off. Another, a rice man from a noble family that was bored of his second wife, although from the way he spoke, Sanemi had wondered how he had secured the first one. Brash, and demanding, and certainly not shy about grabbing at the waitresses. Their forced giggles revealing their annoyance as they gently reminded him that they were merely servants, not entertainers. Nothing worth pursuing in either of the occupants. Two places, he had discovered were empty, and available to incoming customers. Perhaps having too quickly busied themselves before big performance the oiran had promised him before ushering him in. Something about the Lady Kazaori’s impending betrothal allowing her only one more night of presentation, he had barbed at the name. Sending the oiran into a nervous fit, eager to be rid of the scarred customer. Fair enough. He had to remind himself that for courtesans, names meant little, and simply because the name bared familiarity didn’t mean… goddamn it this was pissing him off, he bit back another drink. His ears catching the koto and the murmured whispers of courtesans who had been invited to the booths next to him. One of the occupants having bathed in the attention offered, his sighs and teases evident as the drink on his breath and how heavy he sauntered. His words becoming nothing more than incoherent babbling, while the other resident had merely ignored the oiran’s interference. His eyes trained on the sheer screen before him. The courtesians desperate to draw his attention, having accepted that Sanemi was not willing to entertain them, or perhaps they were too afraid to inquiry. Not that he could give a shit, but something about the other man was different. Through delicate plucks on the koto, the enchanting melody that felt familiar to Sanemi’s ears, and warmed his heart. Goddamn it, his ears had managed to catch a snippet of the women’s conversation. “No one is paying attention to me.” A drawn-out pout intended to catch the man at her side’s attention, but fell on deaf ears. The man practically possessed by the performer before him.

“You should have known they wouldn’t,” one scolded. “He has always been Kazaori’s biggest fan. Besides, it’s Kazaori’s last night, you should wish her well.”

The indignant snort that retorted. “Why should I wish her well? Fate has done so itself.”

Pitter back and forth between the two, one clearly reserved and adjusted to her job, and the other ebbed in jealousy at the mere mention of the higher courtesan title the one Kazaori had earned. Bitter spats back and forth as the one woman had demanded the other remember her place, while the other could only lament that the Kazaori had secured a husband to be from a noble family. A second born of some beaucrat, born with a silver spoon his mouth. Apparently so enthralled by the tayu he had sputtered off some poem, and met with the keeper of the brothel without hesitation. Smacked double the woman’s amount without a second thought, even an additional fee for ensuring she would be ready in the days to follow. The woman obviously enamored by the idea of the other being spirited away, and perhaps wishing it for herself, the idea nauseated the wind hashira. The snip of bitter, “a hafu getting married like thaaa”. Hafu, the word barely processing before the woman’s voice had become mangled. The scream of her companion ringing in his ears and silencing the performance. Terror screeched across her features as she pushed pass the screens, desperate to flee the scene. The toss and clatter of her scatter leaving remnants of the once beautiful performance amuck. The toss of ornate furniture, women screaming and dashing. The imperial officer brandishing his weapon to no avail. Blood that spattered amongst the crowd. The glimpse of familiar sun-kissed hair, ushered by small kamuros before Sanemi had forced his way through the crowd. The demon who had masqueraded as a man having torn after the object of his affections. Leaving the woman whos throat he had crushed in ruins. Not even bothered to reveal in her flesh, discarded as though she were nothing more than mere garbage in his gaze.

Hand on his nichirin blade as he bolted down the halls, navigating the large building through the fury of screams and crying women who sought to escape. Blood quick to decorate—he was fast, but his trail leading Sanemi to the small form of a child, whose sobs were unmatched. Shrill, and screaming violently as the blood and snot marred her features. Her hair ornaments disarrayed, the hair on her scalp oozing, torn from their placement. The furniture she had smashed into severed beneath her light weight, glass littering her cheeks. He crouched down, his fingers grazing against her throat. Inspecting the bruising that had formed, but no clear abrasion. Nothing that had broken the skin. The bastard having merely tossed her in his wake, eyes too trained on the prize. Goddamn it. “L-Laadddy K-Kaa,” the little girl began to hick up in choked sobs. Her eyes meeting Sanemi’s. Fear marked into her skin, small… a child. She was just a child. “M-M-oonssste-“.

His found her hair. Gently twining his fingers across her scalp, gently patting her hair with care. “Did he take your lady?” Her tremble confirmed his question as he did his best to sooth her tears. “Where?” Her finger as his guide he offered one last soothing pat, “You did a good job, stay here.”

He was fucking livid. An internal storm that threatened to spew, a volcano that threated to erupt. The demon itself felt like a fucking waste of time, but goddamn it if he didn’t feel like the past was determined to fucking haunt him. The curse that he had spewed at the sight of you. From what he could gather, the demon had attempted to force itself upon you, promising eternity together. An offer you had refuted with a hair pin, jabbed with all of your might. Plunged into the side of his head, buried deep into his flesh, and irretrievable. Making the demon an easy target for Sanemi to slay, but goddamn he was pissed. From the way the bastard had dared to touch you, to taint your features with its very being. To the fact it dared to attempt to drag you into filth, to the fact that the very sight of you. Tears tinged at the corner of your eyes, your pride not allowing them to fall. Kimono torn open, hair unraveled and aslant. It was the fact that he hadn’t hesitated to captivate you in his arms. To trace calloused fingers of smeared rouge, inspecting your familiar face. The years had changed you, you had certainly grown. Merely the ghost of a child he had known before, to the very woman he had given his heart to so long ago. The shiver of recognition, your sky blessed eyes widening as you uttered his name. It pissed him off how he longed to hear you call his name once more, desiring to hear it between broken shudders. Your fingers clasped onto hem of his uniform like you had so many years ago. “Sanemi,” you whispered, begged him to look at you. Gritted his teeth as he attempted to turn from you. What pissed him off more than the fact that he had forgotten himself and embraced you as though you were still children longing for a fate that would never come—was that after all these years, here you were… waiting. Having risen through the ranks, claiming your mother’s title as your own, endured hardships he dared not think of, and yet, yet you looked at him with such adoration. As though you were still that little girl, faithfully waiting her fate… waiting. After all these years, you were still fucking waiting.

Soft fingers tracing the mar of his flesh, traced alongside the scars he had gathered through the years as you fell through broken sobs. He had told himself to leave, but the purr of your lips, the cries of disbelief that after all these years, he had come for you. You had money, you had sworn. Hidden away from sight, offered to him. Begged him to spirit you away, kidnap a bride before her day, to claim you as his own as he had sworn so many years ago. The press of your forehead against him, breathing in what you could only note as traces of spring that dared to escape your grasp. His heart settled against his ribcage for only a moment, whole and wishing for the day he had longed desperately for, but it was not to be.

“L-Lady, Kazaori!” a small voice cracked.

As though the chill of shifting winds had slid down his collar, your fingers still clutched to the hem of his uniform. His violet iridescent eyes found the little girl who charged through the entryway. Her hair still disheveled, the blood of her features only wiped half-assed as she wrapped around your waste. Her sobs staining the folds of your extravagant kimono. The Kamuro he had patted now stared up at him with wide yes, praising him between hick ups and attempting to catch her breath, and in the same fluid motion, she had brought him back to reality.

Wordlessly, his calloused fingers met your own, delicately unweaving their clutch on his clothing. Detaching himself from you, as though severing an invisible bond that you dared to reach for. Your shattered reality falling into your lap. The tears now falling, and out of grasp. He had separated from you, and in your heart, you knew what this moment was. What you had dreaded, and feared for all of these years. “S-Sanemi.”

The gentlest gaze, delicate. Fragile. The shatter of the wind of a cold night, distant and only enough to elicit shivers. Danced across snow flurries, and greeted the Japanese maple leaves. His smile curved and warm with all of the love he had held for you throughout the years. “Your husband is waiting.” Before slipping out the door, knowing all too well that he dared not look back. Dared not meet your broken gaze. Nor acknowledge the sound of knees meeting the wood floors, a collapse of distress, and the little kamuro far too innocent to the world of the pleasure district tired to console a broken woman. No, he did not dare. Because if he did, he would break, and in another life. He wouldn’t have to hesitate. Would not have to bid you farewell. Nor meet the cold air outside, this reality would not be his own.

No, in another life. His heart would be reeling from the yuinou. He would have been the one to present your mother with konbu, hemp, and dreams, with whatever money he had scrapped together from his jobs, with the hopes of growing old in one another’s embrace. In another life, it would be him beaming into the night air; him to protect you from your inheritance. Him to etch the memory of a furisode into his mind. Him to swear himself to you. Him to embrace you in the night, and his name you would bare, and the children to come. His name you would cry out, his touch you would lust for, and your body he would worship in adoration. It would be him. But in this life, he could only sever the bond of the girl who held his heart, and turn his back on the woman that faith had abandoned.

#sanemi x reader #sanemi shinazugawa #demon slayer x reader #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #wind hashira #in another life

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