#f: wicked little letters | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dev1lm4n · 1 year

Text

familiar face

ko-fi | series masterlist

pairing: porn star!joel miller x f!reader

summary: you're wicked fantasies' number one fan, who would've guessed that he'd be a part of your host family.

word count: 3.9k

warnings: explicit (18+), pre-apocalypse, masturbation, internet porn, age gap (joel's in his mid 30's and reader is in her early 20's), reader is an exchange student but nationality is not mentioned

notes: this is set on 2013 like the game, but characters are potrayed like how they did in the series. send me a req or chat me!

To say you’re obsessed would be an understatement to the severity of your addiction.

Enslaved to this certain habit of yours, your mind was wrapped around it like a wrapper to a gas station lollipop. Tacky and overzealous. A constant revolting urge that needed relieving, tension that made guts throb and lungs squeaking out for dear life when not pleased. This addiction of yours wasn’t as customary as slender rolls of cigarettes and weed brownies, it was a little odd and shameful to admit to. Still, it was a part of you. Even when you’d rather shuffle it into a dark corner than be confronted by it.

You couldn’t remember how it all started, but it seems to have taken on a life of its own. Would it be shameless if you openly admit that you always open up a schedule for it? It became a routine. Perhaps the unfinished papers, the impossibly low marks, and the frequent suffering was what drove you to it. It served as an easy release. No hassle. No awkward ha-ha-has and faking ah-ah-ahs. No mindless chattering over football or the current state of the government to earn what you truly want: a good fucking orgasm.

This addiction comes in the form of a man.

A man who exists within the confines of your 13-inch laptop. More precisely, within a specific site that begins with the abbreviation for pornography and ends with hub.

Your eyes cruised over the edge of your lousy laptop, which still continues to emit a weird helicopter noise despite your latest visit to a technician, to find the time. To your pleasure, it marked precisely 11 PM, the exact time in which you promised yourself to put an end to your essay despite how unmethodical it looked. A silent smile made its way to your lips as your cursor quickly pressed the x button, before surely making its way to create a new tab.

“P”

Just the single letter quickly brought up your most frequent website. A simple website predominantly black with splashes of yellow accents, though what was exceptionally appealing was the instant stimuli given from the front page. Your eyes twinkled like a starved pervert. What greeted your eyes first was a lady facing your way. Preppy rounded glasses with a shade of mauve lipstick you’re quite fond of, dressed in what you could only assume to be a dollar tree medical gown. She looked like she’s in pure bliss, like the curved cock stuffing her cunt was enough to leave her boneless. “Creepy Doctor Convinces Young Asian Medical Intern to Fuck to Get Ahead” - what an odd title you remark internally.

You scrolled lower with two fingers on the track pad as if it’d get interesting - you knew it wouldn’t, but you couldn’t help feeling curious at what other people jerk off to. “Amateur FOURSOME have FUN. Rough, wet, & sloppy” was what caught your eyes next by the sheer visual it played out as a preview. Two girls were slobbering on two separate weeping cocks. Blinding porn lighting harsh against their faces as they forced their heads down it with overdone expressions. You knew it didn’t feel good. Not when he’s rubbing her labia like a DJ. Not when he’s pistoning in her like he’s a horse in heat with no tempo whatsoever. Were you being way too tough on porn production? Unreasonably so.

Just like you’re programmed in your line of codes, you typed out his channel next.

“Wicked Fantasies”

His channel popped up on top with 150K subscribers, 4.1K friends, and 50.7M video views. For a minute, your mind raced to imagine if you’d stood out to him compared to the rest of his 149.999 subscribers. If he'd like you. If you're pretty enough to join his selected pick of co-stars. It’s stupid, you’re painfully aware, to fantasize about getting personal with a porn actor. You shook the silly thought away immediately as you slowly glided your fingers across your touchpad to admire his works. He was just so.. breathtaking in every single video despite the lack of face in some. A diverse line of co-stars - pale, tanned, dark - did nothing but help put his devilish charms forth.

You let your fingers stroke the inside of your thigh, the part that’s lightly exposed. It’s shameful to admit that you’ve watched all his videos, but you did. Each and every one of them with no fail. Despite the familiarity, every footage presented on his page does nothing but rile you up, sending you to a frenzied madness. You let out a small longing sigh. Your gentle fingers slowly brush over the thin material of your panties, over your throbbing hole, feeling the moisture grow there.

“20 year old Babysitter takes a rough fucking for extra cash Watch her face when it goes in!” appealed to you more than anything. Partially because you’d wish you could babysit his children if it meant you’d be able to get that kind of method of transaction, you practically salivate at the thought alone. The preview played. Short clips compiled together to compel watchers and god damn was it working. Your breath grew shallow as if the oxygen surrounding you was as good as solid matter. Still, you worked your way down the page to evaluate all your options thoroughly.

“Please cum in my pussy. Sweet May earns a huge creampie after a deep sensual fucking” was what you settled with. His promise was what drew you in, to cum in her pussy and show his masterpiece. The way you clicked onto the title was feverish, even more when you had it on full screen. Your laptop was cushioned on a haphazard of pillows, allowing you to get into a more accommodating position. You laid on your side, before shuffling off your shorts from the waist band. A nervous puff of air barely escaped your lips as you clicked play.

The video ran.

Your throat bobbed nervously.

His videos were always edited in a way that shows his age. Cursive letters noting down his and his co-star’s name - with a font you knew only people over the age of thirty would use - entered your screen for a split second before it quickly cuts off to another scene. What you could only describe as a reassuring grunt seeped through your cable earphones and onto your nerve receptors, causing your hole to twitch impatiently.

You could see him clearly now.

Well, not all that clear, but you could see his half hard cock prodding the girl’s soft lips. Her dirty blonde hair framed her face prettily as she took him in with such expertise. He molded her mouth to the shape of his cock - slow but sure - right to the very hilt, before pulling her back out. A sloppy wet trail left behind to gleam under the dim lights. It’s incredibly sensual, none of the obviously fake porny moans in motion, and it left you wondering if he’d morph your chaste mouth to the size of his as well. Would he like that?

Another scene cuts through the view. This time he was gently running his calloused fingers down her core, barely over the thick stripe of hair, then it went over her hip bone and back to her thighs. May, who you knew by heart from all the videos she had with him, didn’t say a word. Not even a small hitch in her breath. If you were there, you’d sure to be a whimpering mess just by him touching. Just by that throaty chuckle he lets out when he's amused.

You’re five minutes into the video when he finally relieved you of your suffering. He was on his knees, bending her pliant body down on her fours. His large hands gripped over the skin on May’s hip for support as he sheathed himself in one go. It went deep, you know that for sure from the way she let out a satisfied moan. Her face contorted when he pulled back and thrusted all the way in once more. You could feel it now; the way your pelvis spasmed at the sight even when you’re barely hovering your palm over your clothed center. She was the one getting fucked, but you could feel his phantom thrust pounding slowly. Over and over again.

He was cut off right by the shoulder, but he made an appearance when he slightly leaned down to gather her hair into a loose bundle and he was a dream. Dark hair with light speckles of grays you could barely make out from the quality of the video. His brown eyes pierced into the camera - as if he’s watching your needy expression, making fun of the way you couldn’t help but rub your fingers over your sensitive nub because God does it feel good. It sent shivers right down your spine,

You were entirely sure he was trying to edge you, because the next scene had you bucking your knees forward to add that extra pressure. He had May down on her back with his camera hovering over her, capturing the way in which he forced his way in. His ruddy tip nudged her hole as if it was a gentle knock to a neighbor’s door. It wasn’t enough anymore, you had to pull your panties to the side. With your bare cunt exposed, you gently tapped your clit with the tip of your finger, feeling the sensitivity start to build at the directness.

Your unoccupied hand slowly slipped under your shirt, tracing over your oversensitive skin before it nestled around your nipple, squeezing and running your fingers right on the center of the hardened lump. May didn’t even resemble you, but you could fantasize yourself in her position. He abandoned the camera spotlighting his close-ups to bend her in a nicer position. With her legs up together facing the ceiling above them, in order to create a nice tightness for him to make use of. May bit her thumb in exchange. A chorus of soft, feather-light feminine moans followed his every move. You could hear him now, breathing terribly unstable as he found a way to insert himself deeper.

“Such a smart girl,” he whispered.

He had her in a mating press. His large forearm supported the rock of his hips and you obsessed over it, how it’d perhaps feel when he held her by the thighs. How it’d feel if it found its way around your neck to constrict it, to choke you as he bullied his cock in your leaking pussy. You let your pointer finger spread the slickness down your heat, making its rounds around your clit, before probing it right inside. Just one because that's all you managed to get confident in. The cushy feeling was way too familiar for you and you wished it was someone else’s finger - maybe a larger one like Wicked Fantasies’ - but you’re well grateful with yours.

“Yeah. You like it deep?”

He asked with that Texan twang of his. The teasing lilt of his voice does well to compliment the skillful way in which he stretched May’s hole. You could barely see him in frame, but you’d catch glimpses of his boyish grin each time. It drove you to pump your finger faster, In and out, in and out, steady to the way he moved his hips.

“You feel it in your tummy?”

He attempted once again, but the helpless girl could only moan out a barely there response. You were reacting frantically though. So turned on by the sight alone that you had to dig your canines onto the tender skin of your hand. You wanted him so badly, it’s making you spill all over. Slick ran down your thighs to your unmade bed, drool spread across your hand as you continued to muffle out your pathetic noises.

“Please cum in my pussy,” May could hardly whimper. The desperation in her voice made you grind your pelvis onto your palm in an equally desperate manner.

“You want me to cum in your pussy? Want me to fill you up?”

Yes, please, please fill me up, plagued your mind. You curled your fingers inside, a pathetic attempt to stroke that sweet spot inside.

Over and over again as the man in the video groaned lowly. When he let out an almost animalistic growl to end his rodeo, you faltered quickly. Your leg twitched as your orgasm began to taper. Quickly like a full sweep on a bowling course, knocking down all that’s left of your dignity. You managed to keep your voice low, but you couldn’t say the same about the absurd amount of wetness soiling your bed sheets. The scene cut off to him showing off his pearlescent load deep inside of her and it almost made you cum a second time.

Wicked Fantasies had 149.999 other subscribers, but you’re sure you were the filthiest out of all of them.

Austin was nothing like you’d expect. The vibrant blue van you’ve rode in for an entire day or so slowly rolled to a stop in front of a classic suburban home. Empty roads and loud calls of cockerels audible even from within the confines of metal walls. The van’s engine hummed softly as it idled, tinted windows reflecting the honeyed rays of the morning sun. This was your stop. A house of character with an eye-catching letter eleven hammered sloppily down the porch, a lone pick-up truck parked right down the center, and a red mailbox that was stuffed to the very brim with spam.

As you stepped out, you were quickly enveloped by warm air, causing beads to form evidently on your forehead. The humid climate was a good reminder that you’ve stepped into another realm, a new page to your life which held Texas’ scorching sun and faint whiffs of leather. You looked rather.. constipated standing on the very end of the driveway. Like a knock-off salesman with a large tote slung over your left shoulder and a suitcase tight against your right. The look on your face didn’t help either, a concoction of sleep deprived and nervous.

You willed yourself to march towards the front porch.

That went well.

What came next was to knock and you swore you get entirely weak in the knees when the realization came sweeping in.

After a series of pacing back-and-forth and tugging at both ends of your lips to train a polite smile on, you knocked on the large front door. Once. Twice. Then, one last time. Wooden doors always sound incredibly heavy and imposing, you cringed at the mere sound.

A few hurried thuds echoed to where you’re standing and you’ve never felt more desperate to make a run for it before someone made it to the front door. What if they’re a sleazy nasty couple who’d want to traffic you into some weird foot-fetish chain? What if they’re a pair of delusional flat earth believers that unironically declined the existence of climate change? What if-

The door swung open in one grand motion.

You had always been a pessimist - the world always seems to fuck you up in the most creative way possible - but what met your gaze was a young girl. Her hair was like coils of pure earth, softly reflecting the light of the sun; each curl trembled subtly in a humid breeze, a compliment to her doe eyes. She greeted you with a gentle smile. One that speaks language the two of you understood without fail. In return, you tilted your head in a friendly manner as you adorned a sheepish look.

“Hey. You’re the exchange student, right? Come inside!” She invited you in with an astonishing amount of energy considering it’s barely past six. “I’ve been waiting for you all morning, y’know.”

You nodded surely as you awkwardly shimmied your way around her lithe figure. It’s taking all of you to not do a full head-to-toe scan of what she looks like out of sheer curiosity, but you thrive in the short glances you could catch of her. Was she the daughter in this family? It’d be nice to have someone you could relate to, maybe.. maybe you could even paint your nails together and relish in fun girly activities.

“Sorry. Our van broke down on the highway,” you gave your lousy excuse.

“No need. My dad’s not even up yet,” she spoke with a small sigh. Her long fingers massaged circles on her knotted temple as if emphasizing her irritation. “Just put your bags down here. I’ll sort ‘em out for you this afternoon.”

With her confirmation in mind, you pushed your suitcase over to one side of the hallway, along with the tote which weighed more than you do. Without the accessories you’ve been holding onto from the very start of your trip, you felt naked and exposed. Unsure of how to position your arms and legs. It wasn’t a good look, but you stood entirely still like a Barbie display. Both of your eyes stared down at the younger girl as she swayed her hips to the light music, cooking up something skillfully with the flip of her hand.

“What’s your name?”

“Sarah. Sarah Miller. I know what yours is from my dad,” she looked over her shoulder cheekily.

“Sarah’s a nice name.”

“Is it? I think it sounds aggressively Texan. Like I’d go yeehaw, howdy young lady with cowboy boots and a good plaid shirt on,” she chuckled. “Oh and then I’d lasso you real good.”

Her remarks were as refreshing as a summer breeze even when they’re a tad bit snarky. You already knew that she’s going to get along incredibly well with you. Witnessing her shimmy her shoulders carelessly made you unaware of the heavy thump steadily making its way down the stairs.

“There’s the genius who landed me the name,” Sarah whistled out, pulling you out of your hazy daze.

You turned your head in a one-eighty motion, every last inch of self-control being betrayed at the motion of being finally able to see the man who’d house you. The head of the house who’d you continue to see for the rest of the year. There was a lot of expectation you bore on your shoulders, but what fell beneath your eyes exceeded everything. You weren’t even doing a good job in pretending you’re not entirely taken aback, wide-eyes bulged out of your sockets and you looked more like a cartoon sheep more than anything.

He was beautiful.

“Hey, babygirl,” he greeted Sarah with that rugged voice of his. You could hear the weight of his step as he made his way over to his daughter. Every move that he made, even the part where he hastily tucked his shirt in his worn-out jeans, made your blood drain. At his arrival, he wrapped his large forearm around her shoulders before landing a sweet kiss on top of her head.

“Our guest has arrived, hm?”

“Yes. You were rude not to greet her in front of our door,” Sarah protested openly as she took hold of the plates she cooked up. She made a double trip from the kitchen to the dining table for the first time in forever since they’re finally upgrading to a three person party.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he offered her a gentle apology before taking a seat in front of the piping hot plates. His legs spread out enough to occupy two leg spaces, though he was left in a masculine position that was charming enough to have you forgive the action. Sarah placed a carton of orange juice on the table aggressively. Some of the containings spurted out and left a pooling mess right by his plate.

“No coffee for you today, dad,” she huffed. Sarah was impatient in starting her breakfast, cutleries already in hand as she dug into the charred sausages.

That was until she realized that you were still standing there on the edge of the room, as out-of-place as ever, looking down at the two as if you’re watching a live sitcom show.

“You’re invited to breakfast too, y’know,” she laughed good-naturedly.

“Oh yeah. Sorry,” you muttered out a brief apology at that before making your way over to the empty seat between the two Millers.

For once, you hoped Sarah wasn’t observant enough to notice the way in which you had your eyes stuck to Mr. Miller’s face with every step that you took. He had the kind of face that stopped people in their tracks. You guessed he must get used to that, the sudden pause in a person's natural expression when they looked his way followed by overcompensating with a weak, embarrassed smile. It didn't help that he wasn’t so modest with it. You weren’t sure if you’re imagining things, but you swore his every movement held intention. What his intention was you couldn’t figure out just yet.

“So you’re in your third year of college?” He attempted small talk. You knew it was small talk, but the way he looked in your eyes with such grave intensity had you faltering.

“Yeah. I am.”

“Thought I’d bring a college gal in to bring good influence to this naughty daughter of mine,” he grinned. “She’s been slackin’ off as of lately.”

Sarah beamed him a petulant pout, in which he responded with a handsome smile. His dark brown hair bounced around seamlessly and for a second, just for a split second, he looked rather.. familiar. Was he an old neighbor of yours by chance?

“What d’ya major in?”

“Computer science. I know. Real nerdy, but I swear I’m not a nerd,” you explained before stuffing your mouth with a generous amount of scrambled eggs.

“I don’t know. You’re not all that believable,” Sarah teased. “Bet you read weird comic books for a hobby.”

You jutted out your lips playfully at her response, which earned a hearty set of snickers from your side. Mr. Miller was thoroughly amused by the banter you’ve played out in front of him and in response, blessed you with an array of gruff chuckles. One in which you swore you’ve heard before. The memory was right there on the back of your head, but you could barely reach out for it at the moment.

“Such a smart girl,” he spoke mindlessly.

It was the exact phrase that made your mind slot in the last piece of puzzle to what you’ve been searching for, a reason of why you think he was oddly familiar when you knew for a fact that he lived miles away from you. You weren’t hallucinating, nor were you delusional.

You knew him.

Far better than you knew anyone else.

He was the man you’ve been watching every day of the week, whether in the depth of the evening or the early mornings. He was the exact man you’ve fantasized for years on end, stuffing your pussy with your fingers or even your toothbrush if you’re feeling adventurous to the thought of him ravaging you. You knew every part of his body, every beauty mark and calluses. You knew which things he liked the most, how he enjoyed being licked on his tip or how he enjoyed plunging into the very hilt. You knew the noises and praises he’d let out.

You knew him in the foulest manner possible.

“Are you okay?” Sarah’s voice brought you back into the real world. The world in which you’re sitting across your porn star crush, eating a good plate of breakfast as if everything is normal.

“Yeah,” you breathed out the palpable tension.

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

pls reblog n comment if u enjoyed this!

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #the last of us fic #the last of us #joel miller fic #joel miller tlou #joel miller #tlou #the last of us imagine #the last of us x reader

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kiwisbell · 22 days

Text

helen ; chapter four

nowhere to run

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the capture.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, hitman!joel, husband!joel, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship (and blasphemy), sacrilege in the name of romance, flashbacks, graphic violence, guns, blood + injuries, tommy gets stuck with the babysitting gig, joel is still a bit of an idiot, childhood/religious trauma, joel in a church, violence against pastors, criminal underworld, secrecy/lies, betrayal, Big Angst, we're getting there though, the smut returns, fingering, conflicting emotions, kidnapping, Angry!Joel, cliffhanger (oopsie daisy), the typical alcohol/smoking/profanity, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 9k a/n: fucking hell. i'm so sorry for how long it took me to bring this chapter to you, friends! my thesis sucked all the life from me and i had to go on a quick trip to the underworld and back to get it back again. thank you so much to my baby @cavillscurls for beta reading and as always being the biggest goddamn help throughout the process. below is the moodboard that mya made for this chapter and the reason i'm her no. 1 lovergirl. prev | next

When he was young, he fed stray dogs on the street.

He would steal sandwiches, pluck out the meat to gnaw on himself, and toss the bread onto the pavement. He would sit back on his haunches just like them and lick his chops when he was finished. Being a runner earned him good money, but it was hard to find jobs that would take a scrawny eight-year-old with dirt on his nose. His memories of those days are far away, foggy around the edges, but he still smells the eye-watering prickle of trash, cigarette smoke, wet fur of the dogs. He still remembers the moist scratch of soaked-through denim after a night sleeping outside in the rain, the bone-deep chill that lasted for days in winter.

One night, a Sunday in July, a hand stretched out toward him. He had not eaten in days, and he’d begun to feel the stretch of his skin around his ribs. A skeleton haunting the wrong body. The face is blurred now, but he remembers the hand. Long-fingered and a little wrinkled, a bracelet dangling from the bluish vein-ringed wrist, a charm in the shape of a cross.

The hand brought him from his bed of ratty blankets and old newspapers to a giant cathedral. The bold lettering above the grand doors read The Sisters of Saint Eustace. Joel had been too small, too weak, to reach up and touch the golden words, but they were tarnished with age and buffed around the edges. He looked up at the owner of the hand—the hand which then lowered onto his shoulder, collarbones protruding, and squeezed just hard enough to sting.

He felt the warm soak of the daytime breeze on his face.

“You must come inside with me,” said the woman. He remembers that the hand belonged to a woman. There was a black hood around her head that made her appear as wraithlike as death itself.

The Creation of Adam was immortalised on the north wall. It was the first thing he saw when he walked inside.

“I can’t go inside,” he said.

“And why not?”

He turned his head away from the image of Adam and God, whom he did not know at the time, and could never have hoped to know. How could he, after all, when God had never appeared to him? Then, God was only a man, frail and old, reaching out a wrinkled hand. Why should the weak ask for aid from the strong?

“The dogs need someone to feed them,” he said.

He still does not know God. He does not suspect he ever will. But there’s a warm, soft palm encasing the skin and muscle over his heart, irradiating down to the bone. There’s an intermittent puff of air on the back of his neck, slow and ticklish, the way snow melts. The dog that still lives in the core of him shows its belly.

You’ve moved closer in the night, your soft skin warming his back where your shirt rides up. You breathe silently, catlike, as measured as the rise and fall of the winter sun. He listens for a while, his chest pushing out to match you. As he settles into the new rhythm, he feels for a moment as if it’s all been a dream. As if he never lost you, never lied.

His name leaves your sleeping mouth and his heart ceases altogether. It’s the breathless sound of need, of a desire he supposes you’ve forgotten. In your sleep, some stale withered flower blooms under a fresh rainfall, and he wonders what you’re dreaming about.

Before Joel put his mouth between your legs for the first time, you had forgotten what pleasure tasted like.

It was July, sweltering, and you were draped across the sofa with his head in your lap. It was date night, and his turn to choose the movie: some god-awful karate action film that was a sequel to a sequel to a sequel and so on, infinitely repeating. Neither of you were paying attention to the exchange of staged punches. You were occupying yourself with threading your fingers through Joel’s hair, and he’d taken to toying with the little bow that held up the waistband of your shorts. You watched him pull the strings until they unfurled only to tie them again with one hand. The white noise of on-screen blows lulled you into a gentle doze as you both lay idle.

“Joel.”

“Hm,” he said, the scratch of his beard tickling your belly.

“The door,” you said. “Someone’s knocking.”

“Hm,” he said again, his questioning pitch the only indication he was truly listening.

“You should probably get it.”

His sleep-soaked eyes fluttered shut, his lashes brushing your skin. He gently squeezed your hip. “I’m just fine here.”

“What if I told you I had a surprise for you? And what if I told you I worked very hard to find your surprise?” you cooed.

Joel blinked up at you. “You got me somethin’?”

Your heart swelled. “Yeah, I did. Come on, cowboy.”

Outside, Tommy lounged against the hood of the surprise as you guided Joel outside, your fingers over his eyes.

“I don't like bein’ blind,” he grumbled. “Can't you just tell me?”

“How about I show you?”

You lifted your hands. For a moment, Joel blinked, his eyes adjusting to the blazing light of the sunset, and his lips parted at the sight before him.

“Jesus,” he said under his breath. “You… got me a car?”

“It's not just a car. Boss Mustang 429,” you said sheepishly. “1969. You know, the one you never shut up about. I thought this might help.”

Joel’s breath hitched, and you watched him swallow it. “How…”

“Tommy called me a while back. He'd sourced it from another garage; it was bound for the dump, but I wanted to surprise you by fixing it up. So… surprise.”

Tommy tossed the keys to Joel, who caught them without even looking. “Your girl can get her hands dirty. Helped me fix up the whole damn thing.”

You tried to gauge his reaction, the slight hollow in his throat where he seemed to store the falling sunlight, a faint sheen of sweat turning him gold. Your heart plummeted into your stomach when he didn't say a word.

“It's too soon.”

His head whipped around, his brows curving up in the middle. “What?”

You wetted your lips, panic closing your throat in at all sides. “I know we haven't been dating long, but… I don't know, I couldn't pass up the chance. But now I know it's too soon. I shouldn't have presumed—”

Faintly, he shook his head, his eyes darting across your face as if he were trying to trace it, and closed the distance between you. You gasped as he slanted his mouth over yours, his hands cradling your face, old paper and salt and your perfume. You threw your arms around his neck, a buoy for the drowning man whose arms wound around your waist and pulled you so close he could disappear altogether. Maybe he was trying to. Selfishly, you would let him.

Tommy grumbled something—“You’re welcome, asshole,” probably—and his own car roared to life as it pulled away.

The car keys jingled in the bowl in your foyer as Joel tossed them blindly behind him, his heel shutting the front door. He kissed you like you were a fever he needed to burn out, and you felt the match strike where his hand curled its heavy weight around your neck.

“What time do you fly out?” he grumbled against your mouth.

“Not until morning,” you said breathlessly, watching him drop to his knees in front of you, taking your little shorts with him. Your chest heaved at the sight of your Joel, made humble at your feet, pressing his searing-hot lips to the bare skin of your belly. “Joel…”

“Nobody,” he said, his voice the velvety drag of night, “is like you. Not a goddamn soul.”

The admission caught in your throat the way a web ensnares dewdrops. The intricate folds of your brain would forever carry the imprint of the words—words no one else had ever said.

A starving artist, an old teacher of yours had said, remembers every kind word said about their art. They eat from them when there's no other food in the house.

“You're it for me,” he told you. “There's nothing else.”

You wake slowly, serenely, a yawning ache blossoming in the core of you.

Maybe that's why, even now, you cannot forget the way he touched you that night. You still recall every thumbprint, every stroke of his tongue, every soft cry into the otherwise empty room.

The fact is that nobody can love you the way Joel Miller does. Not even when his love hurts more than anything else.

He's watching you now. His eyes are half-open but alert, instinct pulling him closer to your side of the bed. Or, maybe you're the one who’s crawled closer to him.

“Joel…”

He doesn’t speak, but you feel the pads of his fingers on your belly, the soft fabric of your shirt bunching over his bruised knuckles, and his eyes shutter at the touch alone, a worn sinner.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispers, and it's chipped porcelain, the sound of his voice.

A part of you wants to cry, to let the pressure build until it crests, to feel the salt settle in the pores at the sight of him so close, so open. But you've shed your tears and he’s slept in your bed, and now his fingers brush the hem of your panties, not begging entrance, but asking, wondering—

You say so weakly, “I need you to touch me,” and he nods because he knows, because he's Joel, because your body has not become foreign to him even if you've made your heart a stranger.

You shiver as his hand dips beneath the cotton, two fingers sliding through the gathering wetness between your legs. Joel's gaze is fixed on you, black as the sky, his bicep flexing as he parts your folds with his fingers. Absently, possessed, you sling your leg up over his hip to spread your thighs.

The shockwave brings you down as he slides his middle finger inside you, sinking to the knuckle. The gasp that leaves your mouth feels like inhaling glass. You cup the back of his neck for purchase, tugging the little curls at his scalp, and watch as he bares his teeth.

“That's it, baby,” he says brokenly, the heel of his palm applying pressure to your clit as you writhe. Back in his arms, your heart thunders in your chest, the ache of his absence ringing in each rib like the aftershocks of a blow. He pumps his fingers inside you, curling up against the spot he knows as intimately as his own hand, studying your face as if he has become the artist and you the muse. For a moment, you think you see the reflection of your face in the whites of his eyes, and you’re overcome with a shudder that compresses your spine.

He’s too close. Too far away. Your hand curls around the scruff of his neck, a misbehaved dog. You’ve let him in, it’s too late, too soon, and you’ve assumed all the blood he’s spilled, taken it inside your body with the press of his fingertips past your begging entrance.

You hate that your body still sings for him, that your eyes cannot shutter, that you cannot shuck the curtains closed despite all he’s done. You hate that his eyes still hold the sorrow you’d seen in him since that very first night, and you hate that you existed so happily, so blindly, with him, in spite of the arid darkness that has always lingered just under the brown you thought you knew so well.

But he’s always known you, and that may be what hurts the most.

He’s always been keenly aware of your moods, your tastes, your body, and he plays you now like a pipe, lending his body to yours in supplication. Your heart aches as you let him inside, some feeble breach of contract, as if nothing is wrong, as if nothing was a lie.

He slides his fingers from you and spreads them before your eyes, the sight of the slick webbing eliciting a gasp you can barely hear. He licks his fingers clean and dips them back between your bodies, circling your clit with a renewed fervour.

“Fuck.” Your eyelids droop, your stomach tightens, and the glint of Joel’s bared teeth is that of a wolf’s in the dark. “I’m… fuck, I’m…”

“I know,” he says, “I know,” and you wish he wouldn’t.

The rhythmic, meticulous path of his fingers is nothing like the desperate writhing of your hips, the feverish grinding, the cries. Prey caught in a trap, you grasp the iron bars of his shoulders tight and beg for mercy.

And it feels so good, so right, that it slashes open your heart and spills the blood. The cold bite of his wedding ring bumps up against your opening as you blossom, brittle as a new bud, his fingers pumping in, out, in—

“Oh, God,” you whimper, burying your face in his throat, sinking into the familiar warmth.

Joel grunts, his nose sliding across your temple. “C’mon, baby girl, c’mon… I’ve got you… Can feel it…”

Normally, you would lick and bite and kiss the sweet, humid skin of his throat until you came, soft as dough in his arms. There’s a steel edge to the way you come now, fingers stiffly prickling his scalp, eyes bleeding tears into the crook of his neck. It feels good—good to slash at the bars that cage you in, good to weep over the loss of some willpower you let dissolve.

He doesn’t stop until he’s wrung every drop, inhaling the cloying smell of soiled linen and sticky perfume and saltwater. He closes his eyes against your temple and you can feel the caress of his lashes—wet, like yours.

His lips always carried the faint bitter bite of black coffee, and he always said yours tasted sweet. Like goddamn honey, he’d whispered into your throat the first night you let him inside, and you’d laughed—maybe the graze of his mouth was ticklish, or maybe you thought it was funny: the idea that you could be so sweet.

Now, you’re splintering as your eyes flicker down to his mouth, plush lips moist but split from the blow of an enemy. If you kissed him now, he would only feel a sharp sting. If you kissed him now, you’d let the blood win out. You would only hurt him and yourself alike.

“What are we doing, Joel?”

His eyes shimmer in the dark, his palm tentatively cradling the crown of your head. The hollow of his throat deepens, and you hold your breath.

“I’ll be anything you want me to be,” says Joel. “If you want me just to use me, then use me. You can have me whenever you want. I just wanna be someone you need—even if you don’t need me the way you used to.”

The sob lurches out of your throat, your forehead dropping to his as the climax burns out, smoke from a snuffed candle.

When you can breathe again, you push yourself upright and cross the room to gather your toiletries. “I’m not going to use you. I never should have done this.”

“Stop.” Joel grunts as he stands, apparently forgetting about his wounded ankle. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Joel, let’s just—”

“I don't want it to be like this,” he says. “I don’t want it to hurt when I touch you.”

“It doesn't,” you whisper, hugging your bag to your chest along with a bundle of clothes. “That's what scares me.”

His brows curve upward in the middle and you're overcome by the need to fix your eyes to the floor. “Baby, please… Please just look at me.”

You swipe your thumbs under your eyes and pin him with your gaze. “I feel like I’m mourning a marriage that didn't even end,” you tell him, and Joel lurches forward as if he means to grab the words in mid-air.

“And maybe we did lose it,” you say softly, though the words sting on the way out of your mouth. “But maybe that's… good. I don't want a relationship based on lies, Joel. I don’t want to wake up every morning next to the man I love and wonder what he’s still keeping from me.”

Joel lowers himself into the chair by the table like a weight is tied to his chest. He's still shirtless, his wound bleeding through the gauze around his arm, but he's staring at you. Suffocating you.

Twisting his wedding band around his finger, he says, “If there's even the smallest chance that you really could still love me… that this ain't over, even though I’ve done everything wrong by you… I’m gonna fight for it.”

Not everything, you want to say. Not everything, or I wouldn't be so hurt right now. It’s funny that the words won't take shape—wraithlike as the black ink snaking up and down his back. “I know you will.”

“And if you want all the truth I‘ve got, even if it's bloody, I’ll give it to you.” He leans forward, muscles flexing under inked skin. “You’re my everything. Nothin’ about that has changed. Not one goddamn thing.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, the tang of iron flooding into your mouth. “It’s not just about the lies,” you say, dropping into the chair across from him. “You've put me on a pedestal. You may be strong and you may know how to fight, and everyone in the world may know your name, but… I don't think I can survive being all that you breathe for. Not if it leads to this.”

He remembers waking up each morning in the orphanage, sunlight turning technicolour through stained glass images of praying hands. He’d always thought the sun was so strong, gathering pieces of itself just to wake half the world, reviving dead plants, rattling the bones that stirred dead in the earth. He’d put his fingers through the many colours just to watch them dance. He’d wiggle his digits and remember he was alive.

He watched you walk down the long aisle toward him in a white dress, a bouquet of daisies in your hands, the sun carving your path. His hand flexed at his side like it did on those long-gone mornings, and he briefly doubted he’d be able to touch you at all—like you’d disappear, smoke curling around the contours of his fingers, a dream.

“My heart hurts, Joel,” you say brokenly, your palm flattening against your chest. “I’m not as strong as you are. I’m just a girl who married the man she loved. One day, you're going to realise that I don't bleed gold. I’m not a deity. I’m not someone you go to war over. I’m not fucking perfect, and if you keep treating me like I am, you’re only going to be disappointed.”

Joel just watches the tears fall, somewhat enraptured by the way they linger like dew on your lashes, until you blink them away and they cascade down the curve of your cheek. He wonders if this is how it feels to be the painter, desperate to capture even a brushstroke of the subject in front of him. He used to watch you paint for hours, holed up in your studio, covered in splotches of oils he would later take his time to wash away. The colours would curl around the drain, a snake poised to strike, and he’d kiss you, his canvas, tasting the poison of paint at the corner of your mouth.

He’s made something dark of the light that grew inside you. He’s tainted your image with the blood he’s shed, and every one of the thousand cuts has struck true. He thought he was protecting you.

He was only hurting you.

“I just wanted to have you. And you wanted to forget.” Your eyes no longer meet his, tracing the lifelines in the oak table back and forth. “So where do we go from here?”

There’s a troubled tic in his brow, punctuating the feverish flitting of his eyes between each of yours, always restless. “You think I fell in love with you because I thought you were invincible?”

You lift your head, the whites of your eyes gleaming. Joel brings his chair closer to yours, and you don’t make a move to pull away.

“I fell in love with you because you’re human,” he says. “Because you’re kind. Because you have a heart bigger than any I’ve seen. Because you’re funny, and talented, and you love to make art, and when you find something you love, you give your soul to it. I love you because you’re an angry drunk and you hate mornings and you’re so fuckin’ frustrating when you won’t give up. I fell in love with you because you were the only person who’s ever taken a real shot at lovin’ me.”

Your bottom lip quivers and he wants to coax the heavy ache from your very soul, venom from the wound.

“You are my everything, baby. You are. And I know it ain't healthy, but I don't care. If that means I see you as a god, fine. You think I can stop lovin’ you the way I do? I can’t. But I never once thought you were perfect. Perfect people don’t fall in love with men like me.”

You laugh a little, but it’s taut, stuck in the back of your throat.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me. I’m not even sure I want that. But I do want to be the kind of man you’re willing to love again. You’re my best friend, and I’ll do whatever it takes, you hear me? I’m not givin’ up.”

You sniffle, your quivering hands folded into one another atop the table. He wants to reach out and touch you, pull you back into his gravity, smell your perfume. He wants to do a thousand other things he does not deserve.

“You’ve killed Manuel’s son,” you say quietly. “There’s still a contract on your head.”

Joel nods. “And he’s gonna pull it.”

You shake your head, lips parted around words you choose not to say. Instead, you look away, and he feels he's lost something he'd been holding.

“Do what you need to do,” you say, and every syllable cuts him along the bias of the bone.

He has known your hurt, your anger, your sadness. Something in an artist’s heart has never seen a day of peace, you told him once. He thought it was a joke; he may have even laughed.

I loved you.

Joel swallows. “I need you—”

“—to stay here.” The corner of your mouth pulls up despite your sombre tone. “Yeah, I know.”

There’s a knock at the door before he can open his mouth to reply. You stay apprehensively glued to your seat as Joel peers through the peephole only to unlatch the chain on the door.

“Anyone see you come in?” he asks Tommy.

“I’m sure plenty of people saw me, brother. But they can’t do anything, now, can they?”

A muscle in Joel’s jaw feathers. “You bring everything?”

Tommy scoffs, gesturing toward the bags weighing down his arms. “Everything on your fuckin’ mile-long list? Yeah. You gonna let me in?”

Joel ushers him inside and triple-checks the hallway to make sure nobody is lurking nearby. Your voice brightens by a fraction and it feels like an electric shock tingling at his fingertips.

“Tommy.”

“Hey, sweetheart.” He squeezes your shoulder and drops the bags at your feet. “You hangin’ in there?”

Joel watches from the shadows of the hall, his heart leaden at the sight of you smiling for someone else. He’ll do anything to earn that. He’ll forsake all he has, all he is. He’ll crawl on his hands and knees all the way back through hell; he already knows the way.

“Brought your supplies,” says Tommy, kneeling at your feet and opening the bags. Your brows knit together at the sight of your oils from home, your brushes, your pallets long ago stained with colour. “Heard you were feeling inspired.”

Your gaze lifts to Joel, eyes narrowed. “Is that right?”

He’s sheepish, ducking his head. “Just… thought you might be goin’ crazy, stuck in here.”

“That's not why I’m going crazy,” you grumble.

Tommy chuckles. “Well, if anything’s missin’, it's his fault. Most of your canvases were destroyed, but these are all good.”

Your heart feels a little lighter now that you can smell the tangy, cloying scent of your paints and run your fingers over the bristle of your brushes. You give Tommy’s hand a pulse, your thank-you barely snaking past the lump in your throat. “Tell Maria I said hi.”

He gives you a knowing look. “I’m holdin’ you to your promise, y’know. You still have to paint the nursery.”

You cast your eyes toward Joel, who leans against the wall in the dark corridor. “Yeah,” you say softly, stripped to the bone by the way he watches you, unblinking. “I don't break my promises.”

His fingers twitch at his sides, and the gleam of his wedding ring lingers in your periphery long after you've torn your gaze away.

“Tommy’s gonna stay with you,” says Joel, “while I take care of the rest.”

The rest. Of course. “Why now?”

“He just killed Cabrera’s son,” says Tommy. “And we don't want to risk anyone comin’ around, lookin’ for revenge.”

“But you said no business can be conducted here.”

“For enough money, a person will break any rule.”

“That kind of undermines the entire concept of your entire Underworld, doesn't it?” you say. “Rules aren't really rules.”

“But there are consequences,” says Tommy. “Just… if you’ve got enough money, you can hide from ‘em for a while.”

“Until they hunt you down,” you utter, looking across the room at Joel. His silence feels like hot hands on your bare skin. You turn back to Tommy. “What about Maria?”

“She's with her mom this weekend,” says Tommy. “Won't even notice I left the house. You need someone to model, I’m your guy.”

“No,” says Joel.

“I didn’t mean I’d get naked,” says Tommy.

Joel clips Tommy’s shoulder on his way to you, and his brother takes the hint to make himself scarce, disappearing into the bathroom. Joel kneels at your feet and places his hand on your calf. The weight of it is warm, carrying words he has no time left to give.

“This will be over soon,” he says, and he sounds so sure that you almost believe it.

“And then what, Joel?”

He sets his jaw. There's little of the predator, of the boogeyman, in his eyes. All that rich brown betrays now is a quiet resolve. A promise.

“Home,” says your husband. “We’ll make another.”

You squeeze your eyes shut only to open them again and find the hand that rests on your skin. He's bruised, bloodied, and violent, but he does not squeeze or press. He never once has. You wonder idly how often he's put those hands on your body while thinking of a time he'd taken the life of another.

“And what if we can’t?” you ask him.

The first time you'd unveiled a piece to him—the first piece you'd ever painted of you and him, together—Joel had instinctively touched the supple blue skin beneath the woman’s breast, as quickly as a nurse finds a vein.

“She’s blue,” he said. “Is that… how you feel? Like you’re… blue?”

“Blue doesn't just mean sadness,” you told him. “It could almost mean serenity. Stability.”

He looked at you, puzzled, for a while, his hand still extended, pressed to the barely-dry canvas. “Where I grew up,” he said, “I was never really taught anything besides black and white.”

“Colours are different that way,” you said. “They mean a thousand things to a thousand people. They can all look at the same painting and feel something unique.” You gave him a wry smile. “You look at a painting of us having sex and see sadness. I’m trying not to read into it.”

He chuckled. “You should know that's not true. And I like the way you think.”

“You never told me what you think about the painting,” you said playfully. “Do you like it?”

Joel’s hand travelled from the woman’s breast to her hand as if pondering the wash of blues that coloured her skin. Her fingers, intertwined with her lover’s, squeezed down on him—a lifeline.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It's the way I feel when you touch me,” you said. “Like I’m falling apart and coming together at the same time.”

Joel tentatively reaches for your hand and turns it over in your lap, palm to the ceiling. “If you decide a home isn't what you want with me,” he says, tracing your lifeline, “then that’s all right. But I just… I want to know if—”

“Don’t,” you whisper, pressure accumulating behind the inner corners of your eyes. Joel meets your gaze and it takes all you have to suppress the shudder at the feeling of his thumb making its ghostly pilgrimage across your palm. “Don't ask me yet. Please.”

He bows his head and his hand slips from yours, and you choke on the memory of a love uncompromising, effortless, simplistic.

“Just come back alive,” you tell him. “Come back to me, okay?”

Joel rises to his feet, and a kiss plants its roots at your hairline. “Always.”

“When he said to watch me, I don't think he meant the whole time.”

Beside you, Tommy clears his throat, averting his gaze to the floor. “Sorry. Just… it’s impressive, what you do.”

You’re still outlining the tangled limbs of the man and woman, their bodies disappearing into one another, each line indistinguishable from the next. “Well, if it helps, I don't know how cars work.”

He laughs. “Yeah, all right.”

You set down your pencil, casting a glance out the window. Outside, the stars wink down at you. “Will he be okay?” you say softly.

Tommy sighs. Now that he no longer needs to hide the fact that it isn't his brother doing the books, the sting of the reminder rings in your chest with the sound of his binder closing.

“I don't blame you, y’know,” he says, “for stayin’ pissed at him.”

“Good,” you reply, “because he's an idiot.”

“Yeah, that's one thing that's never gonna change.” Tommy leans back in the chair, taking a swig from his beer. “I tried to tell him he was makin’ a mistake. He's a stubborn bastard.”

“He is,” you say, frowning at the curl you've drawn over your subject’s forehead. He looks back at you, brow furrowed, one eye visible, the other blending with hers. It's gruesome, in a way: the frenetic lines, the frantic way their fingers dimple one another’s flesh. “But I can be stubborn, too.”

Tommy leans forward, studying the beginnings of your sketch. “I know he's made mistakes, and Christ knows I’m crazy for defending my dumbass brother. But if you knew how much he loved you…”

“Tommy,” you cut in, setting down your pencil. “Loving me isn’t the problem.” The outline of the bodies on your canvas blur as your eyes burn with tears. “I wonder if he ever really left—in his heart, I mean.”

Tommy’s voice is quiet. He’s twirling a small switchblade in his hand. “All he's ever wanted is peace.”

You cast your eyes toward the ceiling to stop the tears from spilling over, or to find some answer spelled in stars you cannot see. “Then why couldn't he just stay out?” you whisper. “Why did he have to come back?”

“You know, when we were kids, Joel would take all my beatings,” says Tommy, flicking out the blade. It glimmers in a way that catches the light as easily as a flame on kindling. “He'd say everything was his fault when it was really me who knocked over a shitty old vase or vandalised a fresco. And he'd just fuckin’ grin and bear it because that's who he is.”

He’d just been a kid. Just a kid who wanted to protect his little brother, who took every beating, who grew up in a faith he never had faith in.

The fragile wobble in your voice betrays the steel wall of your back. “He let me fall in love with him, Tommy. He let me give my soul to him.”

He ducks his head, folding the blade back into its wooden hilt. “Yeah, I know,” he says softly.

“And Maria?” You let out an airy laugh. “How did she react when you told her about all this?”

He doesn't meet your eye, and you feel your stomach turn over as he sets the blade on the table, bringing his hand over his jaw.

“Oh,” you say.

“We all do things we’re not proud of. Anyway, I had it easier,” he says, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “I’m just a mechanic.”

“And my husband’s a killer, right?”

Tommy sighs. “I know you shouldn't take my word for it. But he does want peace. And he came back because he didn't see another choice.”

On the canvas, the man holds the woman close, pulling her tight to his chest, as if he knows she's about to fall. “I hate it,” you say softly, “knowing he's felt so much pain, and I can't make it better. I hate that this is something he needs to figure out himself, Tommy. I hate that I can't be the person he thinks I am.”

“I think you don't give yourself enough credit.” When you turn to face him, Tommy puts the switchblade in your open palm. Your fingers reflexively close around it, and it's cool to the touch. Smooth. The grain in the wood looks like the wriggling lifelines in a human hand. “You made him leave this life. You got him to care enough to make a real one, and you didn't even know it.”

You flick open the switchblade. “This is beautiful.”

“Gave it to me for safekeeping when he retired,” says Tommy. “It was the prize for completing his first job.”

You frown at your reflection, angling the knife up and down. “How old was he?”

Tommy covers the blade with his hand and retracts it. “Keep it,” he says. “It never belonged to me.”

You try to push it toward him, suddenly repulsed. You've heard from his own mouth about the lives he's taken, but the thought of your Joel holding the very same weapon, sinking it into flesh, slicing through the strings that hold a person together, makes your fingers tremble. “It doesn't belong to me either, Tommy.”

“Maybe not,” he says, “but I think you’d know what to do with it better than me.”

You swallow hard. “A man declares war because he wants peace.” Your thumb slides along the smooth edge of the hilt before you hide it inside your bag. “I can't pretend to understand what you both went through, Tommy. But know that I’m glad you found a good life. And know that if you break Maria’s heart, I’ll make you swallow paint.”

Tommy nods sombrely. “I’ll tip the can myself. We're thinking green for the nursery.”

“Green is good.” You give him a conciliatory smile.

“Joel’s a good man,” he says. “He's just… misguided.”

“Are you a man of God, Tommy?”

He laughs. “I don't think anyone who came out of that place alive still believes there's a God. If only the Sisters could see us now.”

“I hope they never do,” you tell him. “I hope they never get the satisfaction of knowing they hurt him.”

“I don't think they’d be much satisfied,” says Tommy, “if they knew he'd found peace after all.”

Hours unfold. The canvas sits untouched as you and Tommy sit next to one another, the moon outside slowly enveloped by clouds. The silver silhouette casts a halo through the grey, and you think of your Joel, alone on his warpath, bloodying the ring on his finger. You think of your name on his back, nestled above the praying hands, and the pit of restlessness yawns wide open.

“He should be back by now.”

Tommy rubs his palms over his thighs, a behaviour you've noticed in Joel. “Yeah, he should.”

“But he'll be okay,” you say, a minute warble colouring your voice, “right?”

“He's Joel,” is all he gives you in return.

Your fingers twist themselves into knots in your lap until the jab of a car horn outside jolts you back to life. “Tommy,” you rasp, wetting your lips. “Go find him.”

He nods, standing abruptly from his chair and yanking his coat free from the hook by the door. “He’ll kill me for leavin’ you alone,” he says.

“We both know he needs you,” you say, turning your head to watch the moon peek out from behind the sheet of grey. “Just bring my husband back.”

There's a distinct sensation that erupts across the skin of a nonbeliever who crosses the threshold of a church. It begins in the floorboards, where the soul of a supposed Christ lingers, and radiates up through the soles of the feet, through the knees, until it circles the brain, persistent as a murder of crows. You don't belong here.

The little church is nothing extravagant, which Joel has to find a little funny. Five rows of pews on either side, a basin of holy water next to the pulpit, a smattering of devotees kneeling on the padded seats in front of them. He swallows the burn and approaches the pastor.

“My son,” says the man, spreading his arms wide as if welcoming Joel back from a pilgrimage. “Welcome. What troubles your heart today?”

Joel pulls the Benelli from his canvas bag and blows out the pastor’s kneecap.

His deafening roar echoes off the domed ceiling and reverberates through the stained-glass paintings of the Virgin Mary. “Fuck!” cries the pastor, scrambling backward with a hand covering his bloodied leg. “Fucking cunt, fucking asshole, vete a la mierda! What the fuck is your problem?”

Joel turns and fires another two shots at the guards on the balcony. One of them tumbles over the edge. The kneeling figures flee the scene, some screaming, some praying.

“Donde esta Cabrera?” Joel growls, bunching the pastor’s white collar in his bloodstained fist. When he doesn't reply, Joel applies pressure to the wound in his knee between his thumb and forefinger. “Habla.”

“Fuck!” he howls. “He isn't here. Hijo de puta, he's not here!”

“Fine,” says Joel, hauling the man upright with little regard for his obliterated knee. “Then we're takin’ a little field trip.”

Joel knew many of Cabrera’s secrets during his time working for the bastard. He would have changed the codes to the vault, but it’s the same nonetheless. Joel shoves the pastor down the winding staircase and aims the barrel of the shotgun between his eyes.

“Open the vault.”

“Manuel will kill me,” pleads the pastor.

Joel lifts a brow. “You see me cryin’?”

A pale, trembling hand rises to the keypad and types in the code. Inside the vault, two women are counting piles of cash behind the counter. Joel gestures toward the door with his shotgun. “Ladies,” he greets, “out.”

They scurry out of the vault with their hands in the air. Inside the small concrete cell, safes are embedded in the walls, twice Joel’s height, one of them unlocked and brimming with neatly piled heaps of bound bills and documents. Joel reaches up and unlatches a shelf, watching the avalanche of blood money cascade onto the floor around his feet. With one hand, he produces a lighter from his pocket and flicks on the flame. It ignites the piles of cash and papers as Joel walks out, leaving the wounded pastor on the floor.

A whisper goes up in flames behind his back. “El espectro.”

At the aggressive slam of car doors, Joel climbs the staircase to the balcony and looks over the rear exit. Outside, Manuel Cabrera and his men cross the concrete toward the church. Joel curses, ejecting the shell from his shotgun and inserting a new clip. The stained glass crumbles with the first shot as he puts a bullet in a bodyguard’s head. The shouts flutter toward the sky in the ensuing panic. Joel hears Manuel cry out his orders: Around the back. You two, flank him. The bastard’s here; go fucking kill him.

The smell of smoke begins to stick to his throat as he takes another shot. The sound of dress shoes clatters, echoing, across the floorboards below him. “Goddamn it,” he growls. He’ll be flushed out before long if he doesn't move. Joel checks his clip, fruitlessly searches the body on the balcony for more ammunition, and kicks him over the edge. The resounding thud of his corpse against the pews is somewhat gratifying. Cabrera’s men crowd the dead man, which gives Joel just enough time to descend the staircase and shoulder open the back door. The parking lot teems with Cabrera’s army ants, creeping around parked cars as they search for the boogeyman.

One of the bodyguards ducks behind a Range Rover, and Joel bares his teeth, the wolf at the hunt. He shoots out the front tires, which deflates the car just enough to give him a glimpse of the man’s head. He takes the shot.

“Puta!” someone cries. Joel ducks as a shot pings off the front bumper of the Cadillac next to him, and he briefly takes stock of his ammunition. Fuck. He would have really liked to keep the fucking high ground. Now, he's as trapped as they are. Rats in a maze of shiny new cars.

Joel peeks around the corner and feels the heat of a bullet seat through the sleeve of his jacket. He shoulders the sting of the new wound and rounds the corner, raising his weapon and firing. He counts another two, three, five dead, and the moist air begins to cling to the back of his neck, sweat lining his collar, blood soaking his sleeve. He calls Cabrera’s name. He calls again.

“Let's end this,” he growls. “Come out, and I’ll spare the rest of them.”

An explosion nearby sets him off-kilter, rattling the earth beneath him. The church goes up easily, flames licking the sky, sirens blaring several blocks over, the steady eruption of chaos like golden nectar in his mouth. Joel rises to his feet and continues his charge.

He calls Cabrera’s name again. He thinks of your body, prone and cold on the floor, reaching for him. He thinks of that night and imagines himself saving you before any of it happened. He imagines turning out of the restaurant that very first night, retreating into the darkness where it was comfortable and you were safe.

No—he'd gone to the light. He’d let it all topple, and he'd do it again. This world is not where he belongs. You are what the word has led him to. All the gospel and the hymnals and the nights spent praying on his knees to a false god led him to your soft, supple side, not to the jagged edges of this unforgiving Underworld.

He calls Cabrera’s name again, but he hears the roar of the engine too late. The circle of vehicles crowds him, claustrophobic, and it's Manuel Cabrera who steps out.

He looks the same as he did eight years ago, when Joel approached him and asked to be released from his contract, if not a little more grey. He's dressed in an Italian suit and his shoes are unscuffed. His hair is combed back and his eyes are sunken into his face.

Something strikes Joel in the back of his head, and he sees the Creation of Adam on the north wall of the orphanage, the wrinkled old hand, the stray dogs.

The starchy scent of the canvas sack jolts him awake. Someone yanks it up over his head, and he blinks in the harsh light of day.

He's in a giant empty warehouse. Light filters through the broken glass windows high above their heads, shards and empty bullet casings and cigarette butts crunching underfoot. Judging from the scuffling of feet around him, ten or so men surround him where he sits in an old folding chair, bound by the wrists. He feels a throbbing ache in his skull and winces. You’ll give him hell for this.

“It’s good to see you, Joel,” says the silhouette sitting across from him, flanked by two more shadows. Joel blinks them into focus. “It’s been a long time.”

The edges soften until he can see the whites of the eyes, the cool detached gaze, the glimmer of a silver watch. “Manuel,” says Joel. “¿Cómo está su hijo?”

A huff of air is all he gets in reply. Manuel sheds his long coat and leans forward on his elbows. “You know, Joel, my son was a fucking moron.”

“I could've told you that,” says Joel, “and I would've saved you a lot of breath.”

“My son,” growls Manuel, “was a moron, but he was my son. I told him as much—told him there was nothing he could do, not when Joel Miller was hunting him down. And when I asked him what he had done to warrant the boogeyman’s vengeance, he said it was because of a girl.”

Manuel rubs his hand over his stubbled jaw, laughing like the situation is amusing. “Well, that’s good for you, Joel. Good to finally find something you care about, to find a reason. I see you're putting your retirement to good use. Fighting for your very own Helen of Troy.”

Joel says nothing, studying the manic glint in Cabrera’s eye. He recalls that same look from the night he asked to leave, placing his gun on the desk between them.

“I want out,” he said.

“Out?” said Cabrera. “And why, Joel, would you ever want out?”

“Because I’m done here,” he said. “I'm done in this world and I’m done with you.”

Joel wonders if Cabrera had been waiting for that exact moment: for Joel Miller, the ghost in the corner of the Underworld’s bedroom, to step forward and give Manuel Cabrera the opportunity he needed to rise to the very top.

“Very well,” he said after a long silence. “But I want you to consider whether your freedom is worth what I’m about to ask of you. It will not be easy.”

“It’s worth it,” said Joel. “Now tell me what I need to do.”

Cabrera sits across from Joel the same way he did eight years ago, the same insidious gleam in those black eyes, smiling smugly without moving his face at all.

“You've changed,” he says. “You’re softer, Joel. That wedding ring must've done a number on my killer.”

“Maybe I never stopped bein’ a killer,” says Joel.

“Maybe not. But the difference is that now, you have a reason to keep living.” Cabrera has the gall to feign remorse as he shrugs his shoulders. “You took my son from me, Joel. You understand how this world works.”

Joel kicks out his leg instinctively, baring his teeth at Cabrera like a caged dog. Two henchmen clap down on his shoulders and abruptly pull him backward in the chair. The rope around his wrists chafe.

“When I signed that contract,” he growled, “I had nothing to live for. Nobody to love. Until the day she showed up in my life. She gave me a word to follow that wasn’t yours or your God’s.” His mouth hardly fits around the name. Yours has always felt softer on his tongue. “Trust that Emiliano deserved worse than the death I gave him.”

“A woman above God,” Cabrera utters under his breath, rubbing his palms over his thighs before he rises to his feet and grabs Joel by the hair at the scruff of his neck. Joel winces at the prickling sensation erupting across his scalp. Cabrera’s breath stinks of weed. “El espectro,” he says mockingly. “The fuckin’ boogeyman. You're not so scary like this.”

Cabrera forces Joel to look up at him. The pressure accumulates behind his nose, painful enough to make his eyes water. “You burned my church down, Joel,” says his captor. “Money is replaceable, sure, but the leverage I had on this city… Hijo de puta. Just for a fuckin’ girl, Joel?”

Joel can't help but sneer. “Yeah, I enjoyed that part.”

It earns him a blow across the jaw, and he relishes the electric lash that wriggles down his side. Cabrera lets go of his hair and gestures with a glance to his men before he turns away, plucking his coat from the chair.

“Manuel.”

He watches Cabrera consider it: to indulge Joel, or to let him rot.

The first hit he executed on Cabrera’s behalf earned him just ten thousand. Then thirty-something, having long ago left the Sisters, the hard wooden floors worn with the pressure of so many kneeling bodies, the Marines, and the sound of warfare, Joel didn’t have many places to stay. He took the red money, earned from the body and probably the pockets of a dead senator, and rented a place.

Nighttime in the city didn't mean quiet, not outside nor in. That night, Joel sat on the side of his bed in a cockroach-infested Brooklyn apartment whose walls smelled of cigarette smoke, and he put his face in his hands. Leaving one war only to enter another, Cabrera told him, is just the way of life. You, Joel, are a killer.

But that can’t be all, he thinks now, his hands bound and his blood singing in his heart. He wonders if you're asleep by now, if you've taken to his side of the bed like you used to, if you've stretched your hand across the linen for a taste of the memory of that love-like-sunlight.

It's your blood, he realises, that courses through him. Your blood that tastes sweet as ichor, your blood that runs in his blue-green veins. It's your blood he hears whispering to him when the dreams go black as pitch and he cannot hope to breathe.

The last contract he took for Cabrera earned him no prize but his freedom. Nothing but the smell of your perfume and your warm body tucked neatly into his every night and the cool kiss of your twin wedding bands could have satisfied him. He was not just a killer. He’d proven it. He’d lived it in eight years of gentle mornings, kissing you awake starting at the roots of your hair, and he’d loved it as much as they all had tried to make him love a God that never loved him.

He’d never forgotten how to kill. But he hasn't forgotten how to love, either. That, he figured out all on his own.

“All I wanted was peace. And your son took that from me.” Joel lifts his head to watch Cabrera: the way his spine stiffens, the way his eyes narrow minutely. “He killed my peace and so I killed him. So you can either pull your contract,” Joel says, feeling the snarl pull at his vocal cords like jagged claws as his voice begins to rise, “or you can die screaming like your bastard son.”

He barely lurches forward in the chair before a plastic bag is shucked over his head, suctioned tight around his throat. Two men hold him down as Joel struggles against his bonds, gasping against the cool plastic. He's overpowered, hands wrenching his shoulders back against the chair. He kicks out for leverage, but his strength is waning, and the brief high of losing consciousness brings him back to you.

He took you to Greece for your honeymoon—or, rather, you took him. You were more travelled, more comfortable in the bright spots of the world, more settled in the spotlight. He thinks about how the sun adorned your skin like sequins, how eyes followed you everywhere you went, how you would see him frowning at all the attention and quietly take his hand.

They don't exist, you would tell him. You're all mine now, Joel Miller. And it’s just you and me.

Maybe there's a scrap of truth to fate. He's always been yours, long before he ever knew your face.

He basks in the sunlight on the beach for the time being. You wore his sunglasses when yours broke. You let him apply your sunscreen and you tucked your head into his shoulder on the luxurious chair. You fell asleep with your hand on his chest. Joel spent an hour studying the band around your ring finger.

Maybe Greece was a dream. Maybe the sun was a trick of the light and the clouds were smoke and the sky was black and the memory dwindles to a pinprick and he's grasping onto the image, your smile, your laugh, bells and perfume and a candle set at the foot of a golden statue—

“Stop.”

“Stop,” says a voice, and the air comes rushing back in. Joel wheezes, blinking hard to clear the spots or maybe to preserve the picture. But you're gone, slipping softly away as the brush of your knuckle over his cheek, and Joel is alive again.

“Tommy?”

His brother doesn't look at him, but Joel sees the brief shimmer of gunmetal hidden in his waistband.

He can feel the bruises blooming in a circle of fire around his throat. You’ll really be furious with him.

Joel watches his brother pull the handgun and feels the ropes cut into the tender skin of his wrists, helpless as he feels now. “What in the hell…”

“I’m sorry, brother,” says Tommy, turning the gun on Joel.

#fic: helen #kiwisbell's fics #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us #the last of us hbo #tlou fic #joel miller angst #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller au #john wick au

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pennyellee · 5 months

Text

CHAPTER VI - súton

LACRIMOSA | MYG MAFIA YANDERE AU

pairings: mafia leader!yoongi x f!reader genre: mafia!au, yandere au, historical au

summary: Their interlocking gaze served as a butterfly effect on his heart, stirring it to the core. She, in turn, only dreams to find a way to escape. But perchance, over time she might forcefully learn to love the man who has taken so much from her.

Thus unfolds a twisted tale of love and loss, of hope and despair, of life and death. The music reverberated through the dimly-lit streets. Tears of sorrow, weeping symphony - reflects the hurt, the scars that linger deep within and the wounds that never healed. Lacrimosa.

chapter warnings: minors dni 18+ | mafia au, dark!yoongi, mafia!yoongi, yandere, manipulation, possessive/obsessive behaviour, angst, mentions of God, mentions of alcohol, manhandling, mentions of murder, gun use, abduction, attempted non-con, gaslighting, vomiting, anxiety, choking, decapitation, strong language, smut, loss of virginity

beta read by @chaoticpuff17

word count: 11,1K

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain depictions of violence, blood shed, death, mentions of abuse, smoking, alcohol drinking, illegal activities, old social norms and traditions, which we do not condone.

m.list CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VII

súton (n.) twilight; the approach of death or the end of something

Images flashed through her mind like fragments of a dream, mixing reality with a disorienting haze. Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest as she braced herself for what was to come. She was still in her temporary private quarters. Was it all just a dream? Confusion ran through Y/N like the hot blood inside her veins.

The engine of the roaring car pierced her ears and her vision was still blurry. “Where am I?” she whispered, her voice slowly progressing to realise the situation. She grabbed the letter seat, trying to pull herself up.

“Chan-yeol?” she asked, pressured.

“Little bird, are you ready to fly away?” he laughed. Y/N looked at him with terror in her pupils.

“Are you out of your mind? You just signed your own death certificate Chan-yeol!” This is bad. Her thoughts spoke to her in distress, each and one of them telling her to do something.

“What, a sudden change of heart? Did you not want me to ship you off to the new land?” said the man, accelerating the car.

“He’s going to slaughter everyone!” she screamed.

“You did not think of that when you ran the last time or the time before, why now Y/N?” He spitted his words out, looking at her through the mirror. Y/N took a deep breath, trying to collect herself before she would lose her mind for good.

“He has the whole family on a silver platter there Chan-yeol! Turn the car right now!”

“We’re almost there.” He declared.

“Yoongi?!” was the first name that came to her mind. Voice full of fear. The sound of urgent footsteps echoed around her, crescendoing with the abrupt swing of the door. However, the one she sought, the man whose name she called, was not in her sight.

“Namjoon?” she called out, the surprise evident in her voice, interwoven with a thread of relief.

“How do you feel?” He asked, slowly approaching her petite form.

“What— I don’t understand,” she struggled to articulate her bewildered thoughts.

“You’ll thank me later.”

Chan-yeol’s words cut through the frosty air. He steered the car to the side of the road. Snow was everywhere she could see, each surface draped in ethereal white. Without waiting for the vehicle to come to a complete halt, Y/N flung the car door open, her steps bold as she ventured out into the wilderness.

The direction from which they arrived became a backdrop as she briskly distanced herself from Chan-yeol’s presence.

“This might be your last chance to flee this wicked world, girl.” His voice, heightened in intensity, reached her ears. Y/N stopped in tracks — the ultimatum clear.

Her family on one side, her newfound reality on the other – a choice lay before her.

“You have no idea what you just did!” she screamed defiantly, she refused to spare him a glance. “You’ve ruined everything!”

“Y/N?” a different voice echoed and her eyes widened at the unexpected interruption.

“I did not, Namjoon. I did not try to run away. You have to believe me!” Her words tumbled out in a frantic attempt to convey her innocence. Namjoon, his touch gentle, enveloped her small hands in his.

“Shhh… I know, it’s alright.” Namjoon cooed at the bride. And that’s when every single picture came back to her mind.

“How—how did you get here, for the love of God?” Y/N pivoted towards the speaking man, memories of their shared past flooding back as if the study hall of Shenyang’s University was just yesterday.

“I came for you,” he declared.

“For me?” She asked, disbelief in her voice.

“For me?!” she repeated, a frustrated laugh bubbling up. “Now you’re coming for me.” Y/N recalled the day he declared that she was in this battle alone, a stark contrast to their current proximity. They were never that close, he was too afraid to even hold her hand or maintain prolonged eye contact. But she considered him to be a friend, nonetheless.

“I love you,” he confessed, staring directly into her eyes.

“You love me?” She asked, mocking him, a bitter edge to her tone.

“Where was this love when I needed to run the hell out of the continent, huh?” She closed the distance between them, pushing him with aggressive force.

“You're a coward, Han Chen,” she spat, the venom in her voice cutting through the tension.

“I have a plan, Y/N,” he replied, brushing off her words even as they stung.

“Hmm… you have a plan. And what is this plan exactly?”

“He won’t want you if you’re ruined, Y/N.”

His words hit her like a cold gust of wind, and she gasped at the implications.

The haunting melody of that familiar song resonated in her mind once again.

“He—he attempted to rape me.” Y/N looked through her teary eyes directly at Namjoon's, whose mimics told her, she is right.

“He paid for that with his life.”

“You’re going to kill us all!” Her words became the truth once the first bullet was fired, finding its mark in Chen’s head. Y/N witnessed his eyes blackening, a vacancy replacing the spark of life.

He was gone. Blood dripped down his neck, staining her chest, her breath hitching as her vision blurred. Chan-yeol swore and fumbled with his gun, leaving Y/N to crumple to the ground, as he was tightly holding her down for the devil’s messenger to do the unforgivable.

Her eyes narrowed at the white sky. Chen’s lifeless body collapsing onto her smaller frame. Y/N’s hands trembled as she mustered the strength to slowly push his corpse away.

“Are you alright?” she heard him before she saw him above her.

“What about the wedding?” she asked, curiosity mingling with the shock that gripped her.

“We’ll proceed—” he answered, addressing yet another of her fears.

Speech and vision eluded her. “Y/N?” he asked again, gently throwing Chen’s lifeless body off her. “Darling, please say something.” His concern was palpable.

“Let me go, you fuckers!” Chan-yeol’s enraged screams echoed nearby. He hadn’t made a clean escape after all.

Hoseok helped her sit. Y/N’s eyes mirrored the emptiness that had claimed Chen’s.

“Darling?” Hoseok urged, attempting to coax her back to the present.

“—and hold a trial tomorrow.”

“Trail?” she asked, her voice fragile.

“Chan-yeol was a part of our clan. He is a traitor, and we’ll treat him as such.”

“And what about—”

She cast one more glance at Chen’s lifeless form before shifting her attention to Chan-yeol, struggling on the ground, surrounded by Min soldiers from whom she only recognised Jungkook.

“I want to go back, Hoseok-ssi. Please take me back.” Her voice wavered. Hoseok breathed out, relieved, helping her stand. As she turned to look at Chan-yeol, his screams pierced the air.

“Don’t look that way, sweetie,” Hoseok intervened, guiding her away from the chaotic scene. Only when they reached the parked cars, a good half a mile away from the unfolding drama, did she exhale and allow herself to close her eyes.

“Yoongi is beyond pissed. We could have avoided this if you would tell him about that foolish boy.”

“I swear, Namjoon, we were not... we did not—” she stammered.

“—I did not know he would come look for me nor do that….”

“Do not tell that to me, princess,” he sighed.

“I need you to get dressed. We have already postponed it, and we cannot do it any longer.”

“Sure,” were her only words to him.

“She called for you, brother,” the right-hand man spoke as he entered the boss’s office, where Yoongi was finally getting ready for the wedding.

“Explain,” the young groom responded while fixing his tux in front of the mirror.

“She called your name when she woke up.”

“Did she?” Yoongi felt a spark of hope that he would indeed become her person, her lover, her everything, just as she was to him.

The right-hand man chuckled at his questioning response, knowing it warmed Yoongi’s heart.

“Damn this one tradition; you should go and see her.”

“I would, but that would ruin the thrill, wouldn’t it, hmm,” he hummed.

“You’re getting married, brother.”

“Yes, today I’m getting married, and tomorrow I have to deal with a man who kidnapped my woman and let the other fucker almost rape her,” Yoongi spat, hitting the wall next to the mirror. He never felt greater anxiety than when Xiaoli said she was taken away from him. How ironic that he is to be the one who feels anxious.

Her mother crying, father screaming at everyone, younger sister praying. Yoongi had a feeling that she would not be that stupid to run away when he had her family inside the hotel.

“Nothing else will go wrong.”

“Did you greet the Yamamotos?” The Yakuza clan was invited to the wedding, a bold move, and what was even bolder—they accepted and arrived.

“I surely did, brother,” said Namjoon.

“Good,” Yoongi smirked, not expecting what is yet to come.

“Everything is as it should be.”

“I don’t want Y/N’s father near her until the wedding, Jungkook-ah,” requested Yoongi from the passive listener, seated just a few meters away on the sofa, sipping on his glass of white liquor.

“As you wish, Hyung,” he put the glass down and stood up, fixing his tux and putting on his white hat.

“And for fuck’s sake, patch those knuckles, aight?” Yoongi screamed playfully after him.

The temple, a sanctuary of weary souls, stood solemnly bearing witness to the union unfolding within its hallowed walls.

The bride, adorned in a crimson hanfu dress, with beautiful shining golden details on her long sleeves, walked the creaking wooden path towards the temple’s entrance, her steps heavy with the knowledge of what is awaiting her. The rich fabric of her dress billowed like a blood-red sea, a stark contrast to the pallor of her face that concealed emotions that dared not surface.

The courtyard was adorned with bright red and white paper lanterns when she passed it. She did not dare to look around at all the noble underground hats who had gathered to witness the union of two syndicates.

The flickering candles cast eerie, dancing shadows upon the ancient murals depicting forgotten legends. The distant sounds of the city, with its bustling streets and restless souls, provided a haunting contrast to the stillness of this timeless ceremony. The soft strains of the gayageum and the rhythmic beats of the janggu filled the air.

At the temple’s altar, the groom, equally somber in attire, awaited the bride. His eyes, like deep pools, hinted at the secrets he carried, secrets buried beneath, he wished to share with her.

The chants of the officiating monk resonated through the temple; a haunting reminder of the spiritual solace sought amidst the chaos of the outside world. Their union was a flicker of defiance against the oppressive forces that sought to extinguish the spirit of a nation. She was not initially meant to be his, fate seemed to have favoured him, and Yoongi thanked the almighty for bringing her to him.

Y/N dared not look at him, her breath unsteady, visible puffs in the cold air. The gal held her head high nonetheless, she was desperately trying not to give in to her intrusive thoughts and turn around, flee for her life, try one last time.

The gun pressed to Daiyu’s back served as a grim reminder, preventing her from succumbing to intrusive thoughts. She could see the tears that were in her eyes as she held tightly her little son. Chan-yeol, held captive and beaten for sins he performed.

The eyes of the guests felt heavy, especially her father’s, still unamused by the young leader’s audacity, keeping his hand tightly on his neck. Forbidden from seeing his own daughter before the ceremony, he seethed with anger, his frustration directed at the young Kkangpae.

Y/N’s heartbeat echoed loudly as she climbed the stairs to stand face-to-face with Yoongi, trying to find the courage to look at him. His eyes were full of expectations, he was waiting for this moment.

The exchange of bows signified respect and commitment. If this would be a traditional wedding, not minding their social status in the syndicates, they would continue with drinking rice wine sikhye, symbolizing the blending of their lives.

But this was not a common wedding. This ceremony was different. Altered by the traditions of the Min Clan. The moment arrived when Y/N extended her palm to take the knife from Yoongi’s hands. A cup of rice wine awaited underneath, capturing every drop of her blood. Their union, a pledge of loyalty through soul, blood, and mind.

Y/N met Yoongi’s eyes as she applied pressure to the hand holding the knife, slicing through his skin. A sadistic flicker seemed to pass through his eyes, as if he was enjoying the pain she was inflicting on him.

The rice wine now mixed with their blood and the heavy silence was driving Y/N mad.

The young Kkangpae lifted the cup to her lips, her eyes locked with Yoongi’s. Observing his actions closely, she followed suit, and he took a far bigger sip than her, almost devouring it all.

Setting the cup down they both extended their wounded hands. The golden wedding band that Yoongi slipped onto her finger, seemed to match her engagement ring that sat before it, closer to her knuckle. Y/N couldn’t stop looking at her hand. This was an explicit symbol of her being a taken woman now. No one else to touch, to have, and in their world — to own.

“Darling,” Yoongi whispered quietly, but still managed to keep the demand in his tone visible. Y/N shook her head to get herself to think straight again, realising she had lingered too long on the rings, delaying the public ceremony’s final step.

Huffing out collected air, she slipped the wedding band onto Yoongi’s finger, uniting them.

The monk placed a thick crimson ribbon over their hands, proclaiming them man and wife. No vows echoed like in the far west, no intimate encounters within the public ceremony, despite Yoongi’s yearning to press his lips against hers.

Y/N knew very well that her father scoffed and cursed at the young leader yet again for choosing to follow his wedding traditions and not theirs. And ultimately, there was no paying respect to the elders.

Kkangpae does not bow down to anyone. Nor will his new bride.

Y/N was especially glad she does not have to do that nor the tea ceremony she always found dull. Not that she particularly enjoyed being controlled and swept by the demands of Yoongi’s clan.

The monk’s chants grew louder again, filling the temple with an eerie resonance. Y/N and Yoongi turned to face the gathered members of their syndicates, their families, and the underworld elite who had come to witness this union.

The banquet that followed was a lavish affair as is fit for the Min clan. The tables groaned under the weight of sumptuous dishes, and the air filled with the tantalizing aroma of delicacies prepared by the finest chefs. Nonetheless, Y/N could sense the atmosphere that was charged with tension. As if everyone was prepared to cast guns and kill each other.

Y/N felt the weight of her father’s glare before she could see him eye to eye. Her mimicry has shown nothing more but pure disgust when Wang Zemo shook the scarred leader’s hand congratulating them on their marriage. Y/N did not trust her father. His judgment was always clouded by power.

“You do not seem pleased, father,” Y/N remarked, exposing him. Her mother nervously laughed, hoping to prevent a disturbance between the two clans. She eyed him, expecting an answer from him.

“I’m not pleased that your husband allowed you to be kidnapped,” he retorted, making Yoongi squeeze Y/N’s hip, a possessive gesture.

“But he aided a rescue team in no time, daddy. Meanwhile, you could not even keep me at home,” Y/N fired back, laughing in her father’s face, not believing her own words defended the young Kkangpae that was now amusingly smirking next to her. She could see how her father’s brows furrowed and eyes narrowed, fuming at his daughter. Y/N can do that now, she does not owe her father loyalty anymore.

Her mother stopped him before he could raise his hand causing commotion within the two clans, instead he lifted his free arm pointing a warning finger at her. Y/N smiled sweetly and watched her mother pull his arm until he walked with her. Only when he was far away did she ask her new husband.

“Did he give you trouble when you asked for Xiaoli’s hand in marriage on behalf of Taehyung?” The young leader only hummed in response, his eyes were focused on something different from her now, and Y/N could not help but turn her head in the same direction as he was looking.

What unsettled her the most was the presence of Yamamotos. Yoongi nor anyone did not mention single tweet about these poisonous guests. Therefore, she felt her stomach rotate when they were approaching and for the first time in forever, Y/N pressed herself closer to Yoongi, intertwining their fingers together.

Of course, she feared them. She always viewed her father’s tactics and measures quite cruel. But if Wang Zemo was cruel than Yamamoto was brutal. And it was only natural to fear such a brutal syndicate as Yakuza.

“Congratulations, Min,” said the older male in Japanese. He did not bother to speak the tongue of his enemy’s territory, but he knew they would understand perfectly. The man had such a strong and intense aura around him. He ruled with fear, that thing was obvious.

He held his hand to Yoongi who accepted it for both your and his behalf, shaking it with firm grip, piercing his eyes alongside.

“You got yourself a fine woman, Min, —” he leered at Y/N, his gaze filled with hunger. A wave of disgust washed over her.

“She has caused you quite a bit of trouble, has she not?” he continued, finishing his remark. Y/N understood that their marriage was a calculated move that would redefine the power dynamics within the criminal underworld. Whether Yamamoto perceived the Mins as a threat remained an assumption on her part.

“Not as much trouble as you sending that foolish boy to his death,” Yoongi added, causing Y/N’s breath to hitch. Slowly, her eyes lifted to Yoongi, whose gaze now held an intensity that made the scar glow with anger. Y/N did not understand any bit of it. Had he not come willingly? No, that simply cannot be, there had to be an ulterior motive to commit such a sin.

“Certainly, we knew you would handle him and your bride just as you saw fit.”

“Surely, —” Yoongi replied with a dark undertone and a sinister smile. A wave of nausea rolled through Y/N. If they lingered in the presence of the Japanese Yakuza any longer, she might empty her stomach right there. Thankfully, they bid a seemingly cordial farewell, leaving to take their seats behind the tables and Y/N could at least breathe out.

“Yoongi—” she began once they were out of earshot. He cast her a brief glance before pivoting to examine her, noting her even paler face.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she stumbled the words out of her system fast. Y/N released Yoongi’s hand to cover her mouth.

“Oh God,” her sister’s whisper reached her ears, a reminder of their public setting, alerting her that she is still in public, and the eyes will pry.

Y/N swiftly walked — not ran, to avoid drawing attention — towards the nearest door leading outside to the cold. Once in the cold air again, she emptied her stomach.

“It’s okay,” Y/N heard her sister’s voice yet again, just before her hands were soothingly rubbing her back. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe the cold air in. She was grateful it was her sister offering comfort, not the groom. At least Xiaoli realized that Y/N wouldn’t want Yoongi to see her now. Nor any other prying eyes.

“It’s not okay, Xiaoli,” said Y/N through tears, feeling a profound, heart-wrenching anxiety and fear settling in her core.

“They fucking sent him to rape me, and God knows what else.”

“And he did not manage to do that. Hoseok took care of that. Jungkook took care of that, —”

Y/N recalled, her mind flashing to Jungkook storming into her room, his concern evident as he bombarded her with questions about her well-being. Guilt weighed on him for getting entangled with Chan-yeol instead of going straight to her. As her new brother, he felt an obligation to protect her, just like Hoseok, who would go to any lengths for her.

And that leaves Y/N to wonder. She pondered the sincerity behind their sympathy. Was it because of her supposed relationship with their brother, or was there a genuine connection forming? For a fleeting moment, she wondered if her aunt sensed the potential for them to become family, to be her home.

“—Leader Min will see to it that he is brought to justice,” Xiaoli continued, always sure to express her love for Yoongi.

Y/N looked down at her stained dress with a sense of pity, both for herself and the situation. A deep sense of sadness remained.

“I just wish it did not have to be this way,” she confessed, her voice filled with sorrow. “I wish I could have chosen this path for myself, rather than having it forced upon me.”

“But this is not the world or lifetime where you could do that,” her sister replied, and for a brief moment, Y/N felt a glimmer of understanding.

“I know,” she whispered quietly. “He used to be my friend; you know. Despite what he did, I never thought he would die in front of my eyes, —” her words held honesty, tinged with something else.

“And I never thought that I would be relieved they came in time and shot him dead, Xiaoli,” Y/N admitted, finally getting it off her chest.

“Taehyung-oppa said they paid him to do it.” Xiaoli disclosed. Y/N dreaded this scenario; she suspected that Chen did not act out of love for her. No one who loved someone would commit such a horrendous act.

Y/N scoffed, a desperate laugh escaping her. “Do you know what will happen to Chan-yeol?” She hadn’t had the chance to discuss this with Yoongi, leaving her in the dark and feeling consumed by it.

“He is held captive. That is all I know,” Xiaoli replied while helping Y/N stand. She needed to change her dress; there was no way she could return in this state.

“Y/N?” Xiaoli asked. Her older sister only hummed in response.

“If you attempt to run ever again, Daiyu is going to die—” Y/N paused for a moment.

“—He won’t hurt me, I’ll be betrothed to Taehyung-oppa. But Daiyu is still in the open.”

“Did you talk to her?” She asked.

“No,” Xiaoli replied, “but I talked to Kkangpae Min. He confirmed his intentions.”

“And it did not move you one bit?” Said Y/N surprised with what degree of calmness her sister is speaking of this.

Yoongi wanted to make it abundantly clear that he would take drastic measures if she attempted to escape again. He wanted her to fear the consequences, to be consumed by the dread of what might happen if she defied him; deliberately informing Xiaoli, knowing the bond between the sisters was a weak point for Y/N.

“I would not dare to go against his word.” Y/N only smiled sadly at her sister’s words. She does not understand. How could she?

The way to her chamber felt endless. Y/N was acutely aware of her disheveled state and the need for privacy. Another set of footsteps behind her and Xiaoli quickened her heart with anxiety.

“Y/N?” The soothing voice of the doctor, Seokjin, reached her ears, and she could not have been more relieved. Without turning around, she responded.

“I just need to change. I’m fine, Seokjin.”

Y/N wasted no time in stepping inside her room once they finally reached it. Seokjin followed, his demeanour calm and professional, yet she sensed a hint of concern in his eyes.

As she began changing out of the crimson robe from the wedding ceremony, Y/N couldn’t deny the unease that lingered within her.

“You can tell him I will be back in a little while, Seokjin.” Y/N turned to Seokjin, offering a weak smile.

“Are you sure you are feeling well?” Seokjin nodded; his expression was gentle.

“It’s just the anxiety.” Said Y/N. Her face still bore the traces of tears and turmoil, but she resolved to face the celebration with as much grace as she could muster. She knew that in the world she inhabited, appearances were everything.

Seokjin stood by the door, waiting patiently. “I’ll change and come right away,” she promised to the older male.

“Very well,” he answered simply and closed the door behind him leaving her and Xiaoli alone.

The intricate layers of fabric and silk were carefully removed, revealing a simpler, yet equally elegant, hanfu beneath — this one was a shade of soft lavender.

“Do you want to wear the hanbok instead?” Xiaoli asked. Does she? Just this morning, she insisted that her wedding dress will be a representation of the culture she is coming from. Looking over at the beautiful crimson and royal blue hanbok that she was supposed to wear as her wedding dress, Y/N hesitated.

“I don’t feel like wearing a wedding dress anymore, Xiaoli.” Her sister nodded in understanding, but beneath her supportive gaze, there lingered a hint of disappointment. Xiaoli had hoped that Y/N would fully embrace the culture of the Min clan, a desire likely shared by the clan’s leader. However, Y/N’s desire was to stay true to her Chinese roots for a little bit longer. If this is the only way she can remain herself, she is willing to rebel against him as long as she can.

She heard her sister sigh as she handed her the crimson flowery qipao. “You could at least meet him in the middle.” Xiaoli muttered, her disappointment evident.

“Xiaoli, if you did not notice I’m having a really bad day today.” Y/N’s patience was wearing thin. She had endured enough turmoil for one day, and the idea of appeasing Yoongi’s wishes no longer held much appeal.

“I understand—” Xiaoli wanted to say before Y/N interrupted her with the welling tears in her eyes and raised voice.

“No, you do not understand, Xiaoli!” Said Y/N, sliding down to a lower cushion chair, hugging her head with her small hands.

“But you are not even trying, Y/N,” Xiaoli retorted.

“Because I’m gasping for air every single time! I’m drowning, and yet I cannot learn to swim—” she cried out, clutching the fabric of her hanfu to the point she feared it would tear.

“All of you are blindly trying to convince me that this is the best that could ever happen to me—” she continued.

“—like you’re some kind of Gods that shall decide one’s fate.”

Xiaoli sighed, her frustration and discomfort evident. “All we do is care for you, truly, madly, deeply.”

Y/N looked up, her eyes filled with a mixture of despair and defiance.

“Are you listening to yourself, sister?!” Y/N did not even give her a chance to answer.

“—We are family, by blood, Xiaoli, I thought you cared about me to be more than just a pawn—” this time Xiaoli interrupted her older sister.

“And because we are family, I am trying to protect what matters to all of us.” Xiaoli knelt beside her, trying to console Y/N.

“What about what matters to me?” Y/N retorted; her voice shaky. “What about my dreams, my choices? He took that from me.”

Xiaoli hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “We all have to make sacrifices. And I know that you will make the best out of this.”

Y/N looked at her sister, a mix of disbelief and sadness in her eyes. “Is this the price of my freedom?”

“If this was another life, you could have what you truly desire.” Said Xiaoli. Y/N wiped away her tears before she spoke.

“I won’t let—” Y/N inquired.

“The consequences will be severe.” Said Xiaoli before Y/N could utter her thought as if she knew what she wanted to say.

“Remember that before you will do anything.”

The distant strains of music and laughter reached their ears when Xiaoli opened the door, walking through it in the direction of the celebration. Y/N put on a mask of composure, her posture regal, and her expression neutral. She couldn’t let anyone see the turmoil within her. Tonight, she would play the role expected of her, all while strategizing her next moves in this complex and dangerous game.

“Min Buin?!” a voice called out, unfamiliar and tinged with a strange mixture of reverence and unease — it sent a shiver down her spine.

A man stood right in the middle of the hall behind her. He was dressed in a dark, tailored suit that exuded authority, a stark departure from the opulence of the occasion.

Y/N couldn’t help but wonder who this enigmatic figure was and why he had singled her out with that title,

“Min Buin?!” He repeated again. Y/N turned her head slightly to Xiaoli, now a few steps closer to the banquet, her expression wary.

“Who’s asking?” she demanded, a hint of protectiveness in her voice. The man did not seem to be perturbed by Y/N’s defensive stance. Instead, he offered a faint, cryptic smile.

“Do you not know?” His tone took a different direction. He stepped closer to them.

“Y/N,” Xiaoli gulped down, her voice trembling. “That is Yamamoto Itsuki.” By how her sister spoke Y/N understood that this is the very man she was supposed to marry.

“Go.” She whispered to her sister who did not hesitate to run down the corridor and alert anyone. Only once Y/N was sure that her sister was far away did she speak.

“What is your business with me?” Y/N asked, her voice steady despite the turmoil within her. The man’s smile widened slightly, revealing teeth that seemed unnaturally sharp in the dim light.

“Business?” He laughed. Y/N’s mind raced as she absorbed his words. She had been thrust into this world, initially a pawn in a dangerous game, but now it seemed that her role was evolving.

“I have unfinished business with you, yes.” He said after a few silent moments. Only her heavy breathing could be heard.

“I’m very much sure that a business between us never started in the first place; therefore, it seems to me we have nothing to talk about,” said Y/N, swiftly turning her body back to its original position, ready to flee to the banquet and seek help.

As she predicted, this day could only get worse as she found herself pinned to the nearest wall. Y/N could feel his breath on her face, a strong large hand enveloped her throat, pressing her to the wall harder and making it hard to breathe. Y/N’s breathing skipped intervals.

“You are one greedy ungrateful little bitch, are you not?” He spat the words into her face, squeezing her neck even tighter. Her hands automatically rose to his arm, trying to push him away. Her head started to spin, and she could feel the redness that rushed to her cheeks as she gasped for air that would fill her lungs.

“You were supposed to be mine!” His scream echoed in the empty corridor. Out of all the endings of her life, she truly did not foresee this one. There was a strike of a quick moment where she thought that death would be her redemption and eternal freedom she wished for. However, Y/N still had the will to fight for her life. She dug her nails into his arm, trying to push his hand away one more time, but he was too strong.

A click of a reloading gun seemed too muffled for her ears to notice, but when the sudden absence of pressure on her throat disappeared, and she could finally welcome the air in, she thanked God for being still in his favour.

Her knees have denounced their service, and she found herself on the ground. She went to touch her sore throat when a familiar hand did it before her. Y/N’s breath was still rocky, and she heard an annoying ringing in her ears. She barely could hear what Yoongi was screaming at the man who was recently near killing her.

“Y/N?” She heard Jimin’s voice, but she could not figure out where it was coming from. Her head was spinning like a carousel, and her vision was still a bit blurry. She wanted to speak up but she found it hard to do so.

“Can you breathe for me, darling?” She tried to stabilize her breathing but couldn’t stop panting for air.

“You have to try and calm down.” Seokjin was speaking to her, and by her blurry vision she saw another four figures around her. Two holding the younger Yamamoto for Yoongi, the other two attending to her.

Y/N went to try to speak again, even though she was fully aware that only high-pitched tones would come out that would make her words unrecognisable.

“I—” she tried, “I want—” she finally gulped down the little amount of saliva she had in her mouth.

“Bring her water right now.” Seokjin understood quickly. Her hearing was coming back to life and same for her vision. She could now see Jungkook and Hoseok dragging the man away from them, and Yoongi swiftly turning to examine the damage the man had done to his beloved.

By the time he fell down to his knees, cupping her cheeks, trying to read from her eyes, Jimin had returned with the water she needed. Yoongi helped her to hold the glass in both of her hands and drink it whole in one go.

“I do not want to stay here tonight,” she said with a raspy voice, feeling every muscle in her throat. Yoongi looked at her with worry in his eyes. He promised she would be safe with him, and within less than twelve hours, she was abducted, almost raped, and nearly choked to death.

“I am so sorry, baby,” said the young leader with remorse. “I am going to make it better, I promise.” Y/N’s ‘better’ however, contained something else than his ‘better’.

“We cannot leave right away—” tears escaped her eyes, falling heavy and hot on her dress. Yoongi was the Kkangpae and the enemy’s clan member just assaulted his wife. This cannot slip out without consequences.

“How dare you disrespect me and my wife this way,” said Yoongi to the older male from Yamamoto’s clan who had barely sat down in Yoongi’s office.

The younger offender, who had laid his hand on Y/N, was still firmly held by Hoseok and Jungkook. She sat in Yoongi’s office chair, a blanket draped over her shoulders, the purple bruises on her neck stark against her skin, certainly not flattering jewelry.

“How dare you disrespect our clan, Kkangpae Min.” The older male retorted, testing the younger leader’s patience. Yoongi clenched his hand into a fist, struggling to maintain control.

“This is far too unforgivable against what you assume I did,” he spat out quickly. Y/N wished she could just hide away and never come back, but as the Kkangpae’s wife, a Buin, she had to be present.

Yamamoto scoffed. “You are playing the game dirty, so are we—”

“Take this as a payback for meddling in our affairs, Kkangpae Min—” the older male started.

“And as far as traditions goes, she is yet to be your woman by our law and God’s will,” alluding to the inevitable — they had to consummate the marriage. Y/N knew this and had been making peace with the fact throughout the day.

“You won’t have to worry about that, Mr. Yamamoto,” Yoongi was always known for his cockiness whilst dealing with enemies, but he was also the most cautious man alive, however today was a misstep he did not wish to ever make. All this only proved he could not leave her alone — not because she might flee, but because someone could take her away from him. And he would never let her go.

“Watch me fucking continue meddling—” Yoongi retorted. “I see that you know the goddamn rules; I shall have his hand.” Y/N’s eyes widened in shock. She did not expect him to go unpunished for what he did to her, which would make Yoongi look unfit to rule. Itsuki started to squirm in their hold, attempting to break free.

“You want a war?” Yamamoto asked with venom in his voice.

“You apparently desire to have it when you assaulted my wife twice in one day.” Yoongi spat and signaled to Hoseok to bring Itsuki forward. Jungkook grabbed the hand that had been on Y/N’s neck less than an hour ago.

“Father!” Itsuki screamed with madness in his voice.

“Here you have it, you impatient imbecile!” his father screamed back at him, frustrated with both himself and his son. The plan had been to warn the Mins, not infuriate them.

Y/N watched Yoongi wordlessly as he took a short katana from Namjoon who appeared out of nowhere. The blade was sharp as a viper’s fang, and it gleamed in the dim light sourcing from the fireplace. The hilt, wrapped in silk, the colour of dried blood, felt cool and ominous in Yoongi’s hand.

She knew he’d have to swing it more than once to actually cut off Itsuki’s hand. Y/N gulped down her fear, pressing both hands to her mouth to stifle the scream that escaped when he first wielded the blade, piercing through Itsuki’s skin and colliding with bone, breaking it open. Burgundy blood streamed down to the wooden floor. Y/N clenched her eyes shut at the painful scream that followed and bounced slightly on the chair at the loud thump of the hand hitting the ground.

“You have one hour to leave our land,” Yoongi declared, aiming the katana at the leading Yamamoto. The son dropped to the ground, cradling his arm, staring at the severed hand and screaming in pain, muttering threats to the Min clan.

“You chose.” The older male looked over to Y/N who was still very much speechless and in utter shock from what occurred before her eyes. Yoongi’s gaze, momentarily lingering on his wife with furrowed brows, but quickly returned to Yamamoto. Their eyes locked, and the older man extended his hand to retrieve his injured son from the floor, leading him out of the room.

Yoongi dropped the katana onto the ground, tilting his head backwards in a brief prayer to the Lord. The room remained cloaked in heavy silence — not a peaceful silence, but one pregnant with the weight of a grim decision. A choice had been made, and its consequences were bound to unfold in darkness. This was a proclamation of war.

Y/N’s eyes remained fixed on the spot where Yamamoto’s hand was laying limp in a pool of fresh blood. As Yoongi straightened and turned his gaze toward her, his eyes were a tempest of conflicting emotions.

“You chose.”

Yoongi echoed Yamamoto’s words more as a question, his voice carrying a low, sombre resignation. He did not demand an answer; he knew what Yamamoto was talking about. Glancing down at his black shoes, now soaked with the blood of his enemy, Yoongi let out a soft laugh at the irony of her choosing him.

He understood the possibility that her choice might stem from self-preservation, realizing he could annihilate her entire family the moment she disappeared. Yet, his own selfishness shielded him from that harsh reality. Yoongi desperately wanted to believe that she returned to him and him alone.

Her eyes grew too heavy to stay open during the car ride back to the sanctuary. She allowed them a brief respite, letting the weight of exhaustion pull her into a momentary rest. The events of this day had been like a tempest, tearing through the delicate fabric of her reality and leaving chaos in its wake.

Y/N’s strength was something Yoongi admired, yet even he recognized the toll this day had taken on her. The hypocrite in him thinking that kind of evil will lead her to seek solace in him, perhaps finding that this was where she truly belonged — by his side.

She could have turned and run when the chance presented itself, disappearing into the wild. But she did not, and that is what mattered to Yoongi. For the first time, Y/N found herself yearning to return to the sanctuary, back to her golden cage.

Y/N knew that this night would be a reflection of the complexities of their relationship, a dance between desire and the darkness that surrounded them. Y/N understood that despite the arduous day, this had to be done. Bracing herself, she stepped out of the car and into the dark.

She walked slightly behind her now husband, letting him lead the way to the house she did not quite recognise. Before she mustered the courage to ask questions, he spoke first.

“I grew up in this house—” he whispered into the cold air, “a hot spring is right behind it.”

Y/N observed the house built into the massive stone walls of the valley, surrounded by tall pine trees. It was too dark for her to see just how tall they actually are, but the little flickering lights visible through the windows granted her a little peak.

“I want to spend tonight with you here,” he turned to face her. Yoongi could not tear his gaze away from her, adoring every detail—her eyes, cheeks, nose, hair, mouth. But if you would ask him, how did he come to be so obsessed with her, he would not give a cohesive answer. The inexplicable obsession he felt seemed right, like two puzzle pieces fitting together. He believed that even if she did not feel it now, she would eventually.

“Just the two of us.”

He took a little step to be closer to her. If Y/N understood correctly, this is the only place where they can be truly alone without prying eyes and ears. Yoongi wanted to talk and what’s more, he intended to do more than just talk tonight.

“Aight,” she replied slowly with her still sore throat. He had never seen her this calm, and he wanted to enjoy every minute she is not fighting against him — despite the disturbing circumstances that led to her current state of mind.

“Can we have some tea first?” she asked with little hope that he would agree to slow down a little bit. He chuckled at her sudden innocence and extended his arm to caress her cheek.

“Course we can, my love,” he smiled softly.

And so, they found themselves once again by the comforting embrace of a fireplace, patiently waiting for the tea to brew in the teapot’s gentle whistle.

There was something about this scenery that Yoongi could not help but love. Y/N, seated on the fur rug next to the warmth of the crackling flames, found solace in these quiet moments. After the tumultuous events of the day, it was a sanctuary they both needed. At least, she felt at peace in moments like these.

“I am sorry.” he suddenly confessed, his eyes revealing the genuine sorrow within. Today had left Yoongi conflicted, riding the highs of marrying the woman he desired while being weighed down by guilt for the day’s events.

Y/N met his gaze, her voice devoid of emotion as she calmly asked, “About what exact part?”

“All of it,” he shook his head. Y/N chuckled, and confusion flickered in Yoongi’s eyes.

“Are you not going to punish me, Kkangpae?” Here she goes.

“I do desire to know your relation to the boy, I won’t lie, but no.”

“There is no relation.”

“Are you sure? We talked about this already — no lies.”

“I’m not lying, he did fancy me, yes—” Yoongi’s grip on his hands tightened.

“—I thought we were friends, but he was not keen to flee away with me when I needed to,” she admitted.

“Do you mourn him?” Yoongi’s voice held a serious tone.

“I mourn the boy he was, not what he apparently became after we parted—” she began, carefully, collecting her thoughts.

“—they paid him to go and attempt rape me, Yoongi. I pray for his soul to find its peace after what sins he committed,” a tear escaped her eye, a sob followed. Yoongi leaned in, holding her small hands in an attempt to provide comfort.

“It was horrible,” she cried out and finally, she opened up to him.

“Amidst all the bad today, I’m so proud of you—” Y/N raised her blurry eyesight to meet him, awaiting an explanation.

“—You could have run, and you did not. You chose to come back to me.”

“I promise, I swear to you — I will never ever let that happen again—” he assured, moving closer to her.

She took a deep breath, summoning the courage to address the yet unspoken. “Can I get the letter, please?” Y/N whispered.

“In the morning.” He answered, intending to prolong it to ensure her continued good behaviour and obedience.

“Do we?-” She interrupted, praying for a change of his mind, though fully aware of the inevitability. He needed to ensure no loopholes in their marriage for others to exploit or for her to negotiate over. She knows this is mandatory.

“Yes, we do,” he acknowledged after some thought. Knowing what she had been through that day, he recognised the potential impact, but he also saw it as a way to fully claim her. It was a selfish desire, perhaps, but one he had long awaited.

Yoongi longed to feel her skin to skin. It was indeed selfish, he knew that much. Some would say it is careless of him to demand such an intimate act to happen after all she has been through. But he wanted to show her that this is a part of their marriage she can truly enjoy. Yoongi wanted to give a final full stop to their relationship by solidifying the union rightfully, as the tradition goes.

The flickering flames of the fireplace danced in the dimly lit room, casting a warm glow upon Y/N and Yoongi. Consummating the marriage was a private but necessary measure.

His selfishness had not gone unnoticed by the syndicate elders, who questioned his insistence on not just any hotel room but the house where generations of memories had been created. He deliberately wanted to spend the night in the house he grew up in, where his father started a family, and his grandfather, and his grandfather and so on down the history line.

Yoongi, having lost his parents at a young age, yearned to start his own family. He wanted to witness the growth of his children, their marriages, and their own families.

Y/N knew this day would come, sooner or later, and as a young woman, she had learnt to protect herself from unplanned consequences. She understood his desire for a child, though he never explicitly discussed it with her. But she was far from being ready to surrender to the life fate had planned for her, not just yet.

Heaven had given her a sign, a slight hope when she found a particular herb in the garden before the first snow fell. Y/N had kept it discreet, asking the maid to dry the flowers and serve them as tea in the morning. Tonight, she was calm, knowing it could not happen, even if he wished otherwise.

Yoongi observed her hesitance, her eyes reflecting a mixture of fear and resilience. The room, with its walls that held generations of memories, seemed to echo with the weight of tradition and expectation. But as he reached out to touch her cheek gently, his eyes softened.

The sharp sound of a loud whistle from the tea kettle startled them both, tearing them out of the cocoon of their thoughts. The iron kettle hung gracefully over the open flame, steam rising in wisps as if trying to escape the weight of the night. Yoongi carefully prepared the tea, his movements deliberate and unhurried. The aroma of freshly brewed leaves filled the air. The porcelain teapot, an heirloom passed down through generations, sat patiently on the wooden small table that was next to them. As he poured the tea into delicate cups, he eyed her small physique yet again, searching for any signs.

She accepted the cup he offered her, the warmth seeping through the delicate porcelain. Her mind briefly paused when she recognised the familiar scent. She chuckled and Yoongi raised his eyebrows in surprise, awaiting her words. Y/N took a few careful sips from the cup, accepting what it offered.

“Are you afraid, Kkangpae?” She asked, taking another sip. Yoongi put his cup on the wooden table and looked directly in her eyes.

“Me? No,” he pointed at himself, hiding a smile.

“So why did you choose to make tea from Valerian root?” Her studies that surely included herbalism had escaped Yoongi’s mind.

“I knew this night would be difficult for you, and I — I wanted to ensure it went as smoothly as possible,” he confessed.

“Considerate,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. Yoongi’s gaze faltered, and he looked away momentarily.

“I want you to enjoy it—”

“Then make me enjoy it,” she interrupted him yet again, gulping down the contents of her cup, setting it down with a gentle clink next to his almost full one.

“I intend to,” he said. The complexities of tradition, the weight of the syndicate expectations, seemed to press down on them like the heavy beams of the hanok. Yet, he was thrilled at the prospect of laying her down and making love to her, while she tried to make peace with the path ahead.

A mixture of emotions played across Y/N’s face, the tension in the air made her anxious. The tea flowed in her system, calming her. The steps were set, and she cannot back down now.

His hands cradled her face, a gesture that held both tenderness and an unspoken understanding. But Y/N knows he will never understand. And thus, the night unfolded.

The hanok, with its wooden beams and paper windows, seemed to breathe with the rhythm of their footsteps. The aroma of tea still lingered within the walls, all the way back in the house.

“Pray with me?” a soft plea that resonated with the hallowed surroundings. They settled on top of the low cushion bed; he held both her hands in his. The subtle sounds of the valley outside, muffled by the hanji-covered windows, crackling fire nearby — the low hum of their shared prayer filled the room, blending with the whispers of the winter wind outside.

As they concluded their prayers, the world outside the hanok continued its silent ballet with nature. Yoongi slowly let her hands fall into her lap. Y/N kept looking at her hands, biting her lower lip.

He extended his hands pulling out the golden pins from her hair, releasing them.

“You are magnificent,” he whispered into her lips that were anticipating his. She looked into his eyes one last time before she slowly closed them, awaiting him to take the first step. Y/N could feel both his hands on the swell of her bottom, slightly squeezing it and thus making her pant into his mouth. He pulled her into his lap, not distancing their close proximity. Not now. Not ever.

A deep groan released from his throat when she fully sat down in his lap. Y/N was straddling him, feeling his stiff manhood tightly pressed against her core making her breath hitch. He moved his hand from its place on her butt cheek to the swell of her clothed breast.

“Let me make love to you.” He kissed her lips very gently, waiting for her response. She knew he would do so even if she would not give him her consent. And once she shyly nodded her head, he dove right in and kissed her very deeply, slipping his tongue into her mouth. He was hungry and only she could sate him.

He continued to press himself against her core, creating at least some friction in between, aiming to hit the right spot and make her sing for him.

Yoongi was trying to trace down the opening of her qipao, feeling the delicately made buttons on her chest. Not for a moment he stopped kissing her, unbuttoning her dress and hiking it up from its hem on her thighs, showing her undergarments and pulling it all the way up her head —throwing the peace of clothing that provided her warmth, perhaps even a security blanket, away.

Her neck was his next target. He bent his head making hers to lean back to allow him access. Yoongi layered down butterfly kisses all over her, now, naked, bruised neckline. “You are such a good girl.” He muttered into her skin, caressing her bottom while he placed his hand back to her right breast.

Y/N could feel her nipples stiffen under the change of temperature, or perhaps the excitement her body was going through, which she did not want to admit. He took one of her hands who were inactive till now and placed it on his chest near the small buttons of his shirt. Trying to send a mental message for her to touch him too — undress him too.

Y/N took a shaky breath, trying to come to her senses. Out of this ectasis. But she could not. His work on her neck was becoming troublesome, not mentioning his roaming hands. She was never touched by man lovingly, but she could not deny that he is making her heart skip just by teasing her.

Her small shaky fingers finally reached to the buttons whilst he was abusing her chest with hot kisses. She unbuttoned the first one, then the second until she reached the last. “That’s it baby.” He encouraged her to continue slipping his shirt down from his body.

He straightened himself and looked deeply into her eyes, his voice filled with desire and longing. “I love you.” Said Yoongi when he slowly slid his hand in between them cupping her clothed heat. Millions of little butterflies erupted in her lower belly, her breath hitched, silent moan coming out of her swollen lips when he started to rub circles, moving her clitoris through the fabric. She could feel herself leaning into him, her body responding to his touch.

The room was filled with an intoxicating blend of desire and anticipation. He caressed her back until he reached the opening of her western style cone bra that she wore under the dress. Popping it open her eyes snapped open too. But the pleasure was overshadowing her sound judgment, and he knew she would at some point try to resent him a little, that’s why he did not hesitate to throw it the same direction as her qipao, not wasting time and taking her already hard nipple into his mouth. Her eyes widened; pupils dilated.

He was taking his sweet time loving her every inch before he laid her down on the bed, hovering above her. Dominating her. Yoongi’s hands moved with a gentle urgency, his kisses becoming more fervent as their passion ignited. He hooked his fingers into her undergarments, not giving her a chance to protest when he quickly pulled them down her legs, tepid air hitting her centre.

It’s when he went to spread her legs touching her knees she took his wrist into her small hand, looking deep down into his eyes, tears swelling in, realisation hitting her. Yoongi did not seem to be angry or displeased. He understood why this action triggered her and therefore he led her hands to his belt, giving her a chance to yet again give him her consent to proceed. He wanted her to fall in love with him, not to fear him. He dreaded the day when he will have to use different measures to convince, she is his woman and no one else can touch her.

The little rat was a big mistake. Yoongi did not expect him to go as far as to attempt to rape her. But he knew that the boy was coming. He knew it’s Yakuza’s move, and he knew when they would strike,and he was ready. What he wasn’t ready for was Chan-yeol’s betrayal. Nobody is betraying Kkangpae Min, nor no one will dare to touch his wife after what he will do to the traitor.

“You’re alright, baby.” He attempted to assure her, putting her small hands on his belt. Y/N’s fingers were yet again shaking when she was undoing his belt. She was now fully aware of her laying naked body. She could feel the goosebumps forming on her skin.

As Yoongi’s belt came undone, he couldn’t help but marvel at the strength and resilience that radiated from her. She had endured so much in such a short span of time, yet here she was, willingly surrendering herself to him.

He pulled down the pants, together with his undergarments. A loud thud followed once they fell down to the floor. He bent down to her belly and placed a small kiss just below her belly button and one slightly lower to her yet uninhabited womb.

“I need to help you relax your muscles a little.” Said he. She felt his hot breath on her inner thighs, shaking in his hold. He slid his hand down to her core yet again, touching her without any barrier for the first time. Y/N took a deep breath and another one when he slid his finger down her folds and up, making her pussy produce wet juices. His lips were on her collarbone when he unexpectedly slid his index finger inside her making her moan loudly, yelp even.

“Shhh…” He cooked at her, kissing her lips passionately, while thrusting his finger slowly in and out of her heat. She could feel a prick of pain in the area Yoongi’s finger occupied. Y/N’s moans became a mix of moderate pain and pleasure altogether.

She could feel his other hand move away from caressing her hip to his member which he started to slowly stroke. Y/N could see that he was more than ready — his cock big, stiff and red, pre-cum leaking from its tip. He wanted to dive into her heat badly. But he needed to stretch her out a little more, so she won’t suffer that much pain. Yoongi smiled when he spotted her eyeing his body through half-lidded eyes, panting, yet being focused specifically on his manhood.

He towered above her, pulling his finger out of her heat. Sudden emptiness surrounded her walls that were finally adjusting to the intruder. She gasped when she felt his hands pulling her closer to him. Her legs were on each side of his hips. Y/N observed his body, his toned skin, slight muscles, his well-built torso — all the way down his V line, adorned with soft hair.

She snapped out of her thought train once he climbed on top of her and pressed his manhood in between her folds, sliding it up and down, covering it in her juices. Moan escaped her mouth once he put a little bit of pressure, stimulating her clitoris. He moved his hips slowly, trying to hold himself to not to thrust it in just yet.

He raised his left hand and intertwined his fingers with hers pinning it above her head while attacking her lips again. Y/N’s hand instinctively slapped his chest trying to push him away just a little, but his little smirk into her lips assured her that he wanted that kind of reaction from her.

And when she awaited it the least, he thrust himself into her, making her bite down his lower lip. He groaned at the sensation. His lip was bleeding, but he could not care less. “No—” She let go of his lip and an incoherent sound came out of her throat, eyes welling up with tears.

“Yoongi, it hurts too much.” She stated the obvious, crying whilst trying to breath. Enormous heat wave just hit her, and she was desperately wanting to make her head stop spinning.

“I know, baby. I know.” He whispered into her lips, trying to take his own breathing under control. She feels like heaven to him. His everlasting home. His love. This is where he was supposed to be all his life.

He tried to move very slowly, making her cry even more, but he couldn't stop. “It will stop I promise.” He kissed her tears away, stretching her walls to the fullest with his manhood. Silently moaning into her lips.

It took quite a while for her to adjust to the stretch and tension, fullness inside of her. Yoongi explored every inch of her naked body, his hands caressing her with a gentleness that belied his previous actions. In this moment, she was not defined by the traumas of her past or the expectations of their marriage. Their bodies moved in perfect sync once the pain yielded a little.

The room was filled with the sounds of their mingled loud moans and the crackling of the fire. The warmth of the fireplace mirrored the growing heat between them, intensifying the pleasure that coursed through their veins.

Yoongi’s movements became a little faster, more deliberate to draw as much pleasure from her as he could. He wanted to show her that their union was not solely physical but a one of love. With each whisper of reassurance and each gentle caress, he aimed to erase any lingering fears and insecurities that she held.

His thrusts were becoming sloppy after a while, he could feel her shaking against him. But not from fear but from pleasure. He mustered what he could to take her over the edge for the very first time in her life. Y/N could feel the butterflies in her stomach tying somewhat knot that she wanted them to release badly. Her hand slipped into his hair, tucking it tightly whilst he was thrusting into her heat, making her moan loudly into his mouth. He was very close, but he wanted her to come with her. And as they were reaching the peak of passion, their bodies trembling with pleasure, Yoongi held Y/N close, their hearts beating in sync.

Their moans became louder and louder every second they were nearing the summit. “Yoongi—!” she screamed his name out when she was sure the knot was about to burst. “Baby—” he could not even finish a sentence he meant to say once she came undone under him, trembling from the pleasure, her mouth agape, eyes tightly closed — her walls still vibrating around him. Not even a second later his loud cry followed as he spilled thick ropes of cum inside of her. His eyes closed, and he was breathing heavily. When he opened his eyes, she was already looking at him, her mouth still slightly open as she was panting. Her eyes seemed glossy but so were his. He caressed the side of her thigh whilst gently kissing her swollen lips, whispering how much he loves her.

Slowly pulling out of her heat, substituting with his fingers plunging his cum mixed with hints for crimson blood, back into her heat he lowered his body yet again to her belly. Kissing where he assumed her womb was, he whispered a prayer.

“May the Lord bless us with a miracle.”

I N T E R L O G U E

The father’s rage reverberated in the confined space of the car. “You could not have just fucking waited, you little prick!” his frustration boiling over.

Still grappling with the pain of his missing arm, the one-handed son shot back defiantly, blood seeping through the bandages “You said everything would work out in our favour!”

The car they were sitting in was slowing down until it stopped altogether. The older male looked around in confusion. They were nowhere near the docks for their escape to Fukuoka.

“It would if you’d just shut your damn cock instincts, you stupid boy!” the Yakuza leader hissed, attempting to keep his anger in check.

Blinded by fury, he failed to notice the car taking a series of wrong turns, leading them into a desolate no man’s land. When the driver turned to face them, blood reached his ears.

“Kkangpae Min sends you good wishes on your journey to hell.”

to be continued

©pennyellee. please do not repost

author's note: f finally yall!!!!! as I already said this chapter was a lot, ain't gonna lie about that, but everything is going according to the plan so don't worry. This was my first smut in english and I'm so scared of yall's reaction... Nonetheless, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, it was an emotional roller-coaster to write, especially the implied non-con and smut after all the reader had to endure, poor gal. I love to see your comments that basically express that you understand the story's essence and for that I love you all so much ♥ We'll see what will happen in next chapter :))

shout-out to Bex, the queen @chaoticpuff17, for beta another chapter! Love you bae!!!!

Love you all!! ♥

Don't be a silent reader, comment, re-blog, heart, asks are more than welcome ♥

keep in mind - I'm not an expert on chinese, korean and japanese culture, but I tried to research everything realistic I wanted to add to the story. Nonetheless, take it as a fiction.

let's be friends chummers ♥

lots of love, 𝖕𝖊𝖓𝖓𝖞𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖊

tag list: @beautifulcloudfestival - @chaoticpuff17 - @honsoolgloss - @jingerbreadoutofstock - @moscow778 - @januara26 - @dinosolecito - @yoongislatinagff - @xyahrinx - @hi12345567 - @nochuel - @deltamoon666 - @bbkissme99 - @darkuni63 - @nansasa - @sazsazsaz - @missmin - @strxwbloody - @royallyjjk - @jaiuneamesolitaiire - @shadowyjellyfishfest - @bbgniecyy - @elayne321 - @seojunandsoju - @bun-27 - @whipwhoops - @wobblewobble822 - @whofan88 - @haneyyyyyy - @lostgirlinthewoodss - @secfir - @btspurplesky - @elleflying07 - @pamzn - @megseungmin - @selenophileforlife - @idkjustlovingbts

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sporadicthingcollection · 7 months

Text

Smash or Pass: Part 1/4 (LA!Buggy the Clown x F!Reader)

Summary: It's the last stop before the Grand Line and you slink away for a quiet evening. The universe, however, decides to clown on you. Sequel to Kiss, Marry, Kill. Pairing: LA!Buggy the Clown x F!Reader Rating: Semi-explicit. Warnings: Alcohol, death threats, implied threat of sexual assault. Word Count: ~3.1k.

Mama told me what I should know

"Too much candy's gonna rot your soul

If she loves you, let her go'

Cause love only gets you down!"

---

PART 1: In which you are threatened with a knife, a gun, and a good time.

You thought the night would be fine. You thought no one in this bar would bother you. You thought you’d have a little nightcap or three and head back to the ship. You thought you’d have one last night to spend on your own before sharing a small space with five other people for the foreseeable future.

But nothing worked out as you’d hoped.

As soon as you got comfy at a table in the corner, a horde of rough-looking sailors descended and lit up the place. Loud. Rowdy. Obnoxious.

Ugh. At least they’re not Marines. You can lay low. Sink deep in your chair and focus on your drink.

Gazing into the scrying beer glass, you let your mind wander among the swirls. Thoughts ebb and flow.

Like how you need to remember to get more sutures before you cast off. Or how heavy your fingers feel under all the jewelry. How naked your ring fingers look with no adornment. Your family would be nagging you to get married by now. They’d like Sanji.

But they wouldn’t like that stupid, stupid clown.

He’s been on your mind a lot lately. You hate it. But how could he not be? Made you an offer you had to refuse. You tell yourself it wouldn’t have worked out. Where was he last month when you were looking for an escape? You hope you never see him again.

…but if you did see him again, you wouldn’t complain. He’d probably sidle up to you and say something like—

“Well, hello, gorgeous."

Yeah, that's exactly what he would say.

Wait. That was loud. That wasn’t your thoughts. It can’t be. You turn.

Buggy the Clown grins at you. “Fancy meeting you here, Miss Sawbones."

You dive to the floor as he pulls a knife from his sleeve and throws it at you, sinking up to the handle in the wall. You clamber to your feet, put on your best snarl, and raise your fists.

All eyes are on you and Buggy as you size him up. The clink of chains and scrape of drawn swords sounds all around you. You’re not sure who your allies are, but you’re grateful for the support.

Especially because there’s just as many goons behind Buggy. He looks as surprised as you feel. His stance softens as he glances around. You could get a punch in while his guard is down—

“Hey!”

A gravelly voice splits the very air of the room. Like a child caught in the cookie jar, you freeze. You’re in big trouble.

Buggy freezes too. His shoulders hunch and his eyes go wide. He glances at you, and then to the side. You look in the same direction.

Standing behind the bar is a stout woman in an apron. A cigar dangles from her lips and she wields a wicked glare. Along with a very, very large shotgun.

She points at a big sign hung above the shelves. NO FiTiN IN DaH baR in big red letters on weathered wooden planks.

“‘No fittin’…?'” Buggy mutters.

“If you’re gonna kill each other,” the matron says, “do it outside.”

Due to a sudden lapse in self-preservation, you speak up. “He started it—“

Everyone jumps as she fires into the ceiling. “And I’m ending it. Get along or get out.”

You glance at Buggy. He glances back. You can see the whites of his eyes, even from all the way over here. Slowly, he replaces his knives back into his jacket.

You lower your fists, feeling awful sheepish.

The bar matron nods. “Back to your drinks, all of you,” she says.

You can’t help but feel a little embarrassed as the crowd disperses. You can read. You’re very literate. How’d you miss that?

“Guess we both need glasses,” Buggy says right next to your ear.

You jump and nearly swing on him again, but you pull the punch. You have no interest in being shot tonight. “What the hell are you doing here?!”

“Getting a drink, same as you. Last stop before the Grand Line.” His voice dips low and he leans in close. “And last chance I’ll likely get to cut you and your little captain’s throats.”

You scowl. “Over my dead body,” you growl.

“That’s the idea.” The matron clears her throat loudly. He flinches and pulls back, but the glare remains. “Once you leave, babe— snnckt!” He draws his finger across his throat and his head rolls off his shoulders and into his arms. You yelp and he cackles as he puts it back.

Well, now you’re in it. This wouldn’t have happened if you stayed on the ship, you dumb lush. You could have just drank with Zoro. Or shot the shit with Usopp while he shot at shit. Or let Sanji hit on you while you sharpened his knives. Literally anything would have been better than this.

But here you are. Time to get yourself out of it. Somehow.

"Well, I’m not going anywhere," you tell Buggy. You sit back down at your table. "So get comfy, clown."

He places his hat on the table and plops into the seat across from you. He snatches up the mug -- your mug -- and takes a long, long, long pull. He tips his head all the way back, throat bobbing with every swallow.

You try and fail to drag your eyes away. You like sharp throats.

When it's drained, he slams it back down on the table. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and how he doesn't smudge his makeup, you'll never know.

“Don’t mind if I do.” He kicks up his boots onto the table. “So what’re we drinkin’? Rum? Ale? Whiskey? Bet you’re a rum kinda gal.”

This is gonna be a night.

---

One bottle in. You glower at him and he smiles back, eyes twinkling in the dim light.

Second bottle. The sun is fully down. He’s started chattering about nothing and everything. Rage roils inside you.

Third bottle. The room slowly spins. He’s still talking. You might leave just so you can strangle him.

Fourth bottle. You flip him the bird. He just giggles.

Fifth bottle. You mix it up a bit and order some shots. The matron brings the glasses and leaves the bottle.

“Hey, the good shit.” Buggy pours two glasses and raises one. “Cheers.”

Something bubbles up in your chest. The urge to speak. You’re gonna say something stupid. You just know it. And you’re just lubricated enough that it slides through.

You raise your glass. “Another day, another bender. No retreat, no surrender.” You toss it back and it scorches your throat on its way down.

Your head is so full of cotton that it takes you a moment to notice the laughter. Strong. Sharp. Bellyful. Contagious. You like that laugh. You’d like to hear more of it.

And then you realize it’s coming from Buggy. He has his head tossed back and his eyes scrunched and he’s letting out the most glorious laughter you’ve ever heard.

Before you can be properly disgusted with yourself, he recovers. “I got one.” He pours another pair of shots and slides one to you. “Here’s to our wives and girlfriends. May they never meet.”

Two more shots tossed back and two more glasses slammed on the table. It’s all going right to your head and the more it does, the more you’re enjoying yourself.

“Everyone knows that one,” you say. You pour. “One drink is good, two at the most. Three I’m under the table, four I’m under the host.”

His eyebrows shoot up, lips pursed into a circle. Then he laughs again. “Workin’ blue tonight! Alright!” Two more shots poured. “It ain’t the length, it ain’t the size, it’s how often I can make it rise.”

You weren’t expecting that and you almost spit the shot out. You hack and sputter as it goes down the wrong pipe, but you recover.

Though now you’re thinking about Buggy’s dick. You should probably stop that. You wonder if it’s small and that’s why he is how he is.

“Y’alright, babe?” He takes a pull right from the bottle and spills some on his chin and shirt. He’s sauced too. Small comfort.

One more comes to mind. You reach across and snatch the bottle. “Now he lays me down to screw.” You pour one shot. “I pray this clown knows what to do.” You pour the other. “If he should cum before I end…” You raise yours. “I swear to God I’ll fuck his friend!”

He stares at you a moment, grinless, just long enough for you to worry. And then it returns with a howling cackle. He slams his glass into yours hard enough to slosh some whiskey out and you both shoot it back.

You stare at each other, giggling like hyenas. Some part of you knows this is ridiculous. You’re getting smashed with a guy who tried to kill you and your friends. Who was just ready to kill you. Who is plotting to slit your throat right when you’re not expecting it.

You just laugh harder. What’s your life come to?

You come back down to see him staring at you, head resting on his hand. "You laugh cute."

“Nuh-uh.” You take a swig from the whiskey bottle. “I laugh like a News Coo.”

“News Coos are adorable!” He snatches the bottle back and takes a pull. “We switchin’ back to rum after this one? Or do we wanna get avden— abvench— adventurous?”

A good question. "Let's go nuts."

"My kinda woman!" He slams the table to catch the matron's attention. "Bring us something strong!"

---

Bottle six is gin. Neither of you like it and you both down the whole thing. Bottle seven, you're back to ale.

On eight, you wonder if the throat-cutting threat was a ruse and he's really just going to give you alcohol poisoning.

At least it's a fun way to go.

"So there I am," Buggy says, "looking at the giant hole in the hull where the cannon once was, holding a cannonball like this--" He jumps to his feet, pops his head off, and clutches it to his chest like it weighs fifty pounds. "--when the first mate himself walks in."

Your jaw drops. "What'd you do?"

"Only thing I could do.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Threw the cannonball at him!"

He lobs his head to you. You squeal in surprise, just barely managing to catch him before you fall out of your chair. The giggles flow from you like water from a spigot.

He grins as you look at him. "Gotcha," he says with a wink.

Maybe it's the booze. Maybe it's the surprise. Your cheeks heat up all the same. You throw the head back and clamber to your feet.

A moment of clarity hits you as you sit back down. "Why are we drinking together? You wanna kill me."

"It's not that weird. Best drinkin' buddies I ever had tried to kill me. When I tried to skip out on the tab, but... y'know." He takes a gulp from his mug. "’Sides, I like you."

"Why?"

“Barber. Cute laugh. Helluva haymaker." Another swig. “You'd do better with me than that group of losers."

"I am not joining your crew."

He watches the ale swirl in his mug, tracing the rim with his fingers. His lips purse and he glances everywhere but your face.

You try to wait for him to speak, but music catches your attention before he can reply. A lively tune, one perfect for dancing. It looks like some of the pirates pulled out instruments and are entertaining their fellows.

"Aw, I love this song," you chirp. “Luffy’s right, we gotta get us a musician already.”

A chain of dancers sails past. You wish you could hop in, but you’ve got two left feet in ill-fitting high heels when you’re sober on a good day.

Buggy watches you watch them. “Go cut a rug. I’ll watch your shit.”

You shake your head a little too hard and the universe spins. “No way. Can’t dance worth a damn.”

“I’ll give you a hand.” His left hand detaches with a little flourish. “Or two.” Off goes the other one. “Or all of me, if you want.”

“Then who’s gonna watch my shit?”

He blinks, then sits back. “Whatever. I gotta piss anyways,” he mutters. He tries to stand, only for his feet to slip out from under him. “Can I get a hand?”

“Alright, but I’m not helping you aim.” You’re less sober than he is, but you’re drunk enough to try. Hauling yourself to your feet, you offer your hand. He takes it, pulling himself upwards.

And then you see the smile on his face. In a burst of coordination, he pulls you into the throng of people.

Oooooh no. No. No no no. He whirls you around, making your head spin. You step on someone’s foot. “I. Cannot. Dance.”

“Can’t?” He lifts you up, moves you to the side, and places you down again. “Or won’t?”

“Both!”

“Bullshit. Hand here.” He plants your hand on his shoulder and places his own on your—

You slap the smile off his face. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make your point. He accepts it.

“Sorry, thought you were shorter,” he mutters. He puts his hand on your waist. Even through his glove, you can feel his warmth. “Stand on my feet.”

“I’m not a child!” You try to pull away, only to collide with a very large man and get knocked back into Buggy. You’re trapped. No way out but to dance.

You know what? Fine. You stand on his feet — making sure to stamp his toes good — and glower at him. “What’s next?”

The smile returns. “Hold on tight, sweetheart.”

You clutch him as tight as you dare. And thank God you do, because soon you’re spinning like a top.

He guides you over and under, side to side, forward and back. And you don’t trip once. Neither of you do. You don’t even feel nauseous. How is he doing this? Is he magic? Is he just that good?

You glance down. Detached from his ankles, his feet support yours as they scoot around. The rest of him glides through the air, guiding you among the other dancers.

It might as well be magic.

"Light off your feet!" you say.

Buggy's chest thrums with a chuckle. Your stomach jumps into your throat as he drops you into a dip just long enough for him to wink at you. "Ain't I clever?"

He pulls you back up and your stomach slides into your boots. The dance continues.

Whirling, twirling, ducking, weaving, bouncing, bobbing… Is this what a dolphin feels like, swirled around by ocean currents? Or a kite, floating on the breeze? Or a princess swept off her feet by a dashing scoundrel?

Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, you ponder what your life has come to. A pirate, dancing on the feet of a clown who tried to kill you and your friends. Who then stole several kisses from you and made your heart flutter and got really drunk with you and now you're a little in lo--

No. Don't say it. If you don't say it, it won't come true. Unless it's the other way around?

It is the other way around. If you say it, you'll jinx it and it won't happen. So you admit it to yourself: you're smitten with this psychotic jackass.

The laughter bubbles forth and it just won't stop. You don't want it to stop. You never want this to stop. This feeling, this dance, this fit of hysterics.

But it must, as all things do. With one final fiddle run, the music stops and everyone applauds. You would join them, but you’re too busy holding onto Buggy for dear life, catching your breath and trying to stop the room from spinning.

“Can’t dance, huh?”

He’s as breathless as you, mouth parted as he takes breaths deep enough to shake his shoulders. Sweat glistens on his face. Glows, even. A few shimmering strands of hair have slipped from his bandanna and stick to his forehead.

What little breath you’ve recovered vanishes from your lungs. Your heart flutters — no, it flaps, like a gull fighting a gust.

You wanna kiss him, but that last shred of self-restraint stops you. “Let’s go again,” you say instead.

His face lights up. “Lemme-- Lemme get rid of this.“

His forearms slip out of his coat and fly to his shoulders, catching his coat as he shrugs out of it. They zip over toward your table. Pretty slick, you admit to yourself.

And then it gets caught on a chair. The arms yank and yank, but it’s snagged good. You giggle.

“C’mon, you piece of…!” He huffs. He pecks your cheek. “Don’t go anywhere.”

He scrambles over to the snag, tripping on every table and chair along the way.

And then you realize he kissed you. Your spine goes rigid.

A tap on your shoulder knocks you out of your stun and you turn. You half-expect it to be one of his hands, but a rather large pirate is there.

“My captain fancies you,” he rumbles. He nods at a smug-looking blond with the worst come-hither face you’ve ever seen. “He would like the pleasure of your company.”

Nnnnno, you think. “Nnnnno,” you say. Buggy has freed his coat and is draining the rest of the bottle you’d abandoned. “Already spoken for.”

The man’s hand engulfs your shoulder and pulls you around. “It wasn’t a request.”

The blond snakes his arm around your trunk, his hand going to your breast. You try to pull away, but the goon’s grip is like iron.

A sharp whistle makes everyone turn. Buggy stands there, arms behind his back. His expression is neutral, but you see his clenched jaw and the bulging tendon in his neck.

“And where are you going with my leading lady?” He’s got the showman voice on. “Our number isn’t over.”

The captain smiles. “I’ll return her once we’ve had our fun,” he says.

He takes a few meandering steps towards them. “Look, gentlemen: we can play this as a tragedy or a comedy. Your choice.”

The goon straightens up. He cracks his knuckles with a chorus of pops. The captain draws a rapier. You’re not sure how well a Chop Chop man handles being stabbed.

Buggy glances between the two of them, nonplussed. “Comedy it is.”

Two disembodied hands slam a bottle over each man’s head. Shards of glass and drops of rum fly everywhere. The pirates’ grips go slack, and you jump away as they hit the floor with dull thuds.

Chaos erupts.

---

⬅⬅⬅ | To the "Curious Courtship" Masterpost | To the Mastahpost | To the Tip Jar | ➡➡➡

#buggy the clown #buggy x reader #buggy x you #buggy the clown x reader #kiss marry kill #one piece x reader #one piece #one piece live action #fan fiction #one piece fanfiction #reader insert #x reader #emberly writes #smash or pass #the curious courtship of buggy the clown

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wildemaven · 10 months

Text

bloom : one | joel miller

→ pairing: no outbreak joel miller x f!reader

→ WC: 2494

→ warnings: meet cute vibes, reader is single mom, small injury at work, Joel to the rescue using nontraditional techniques to help (I don't want to give it away), daughter is a teen and bleeds sarcasm, fluff and more fluff, mention of divorce and adoption.

→ a/n: some of you are probably like “wait, what is happening?!” i started this series on another account that i was using to take a break from this one. I had plans to finish this series out over there and then just abandon the account and move back here. but i love this series and want it to live here with my other work. so, im getting things set up so i can post part two later this week and move back to this account for good. also, this is series is a TLOU AU, so I've fudged all timelines and relationships to make it work for me. Ihope you like it, am very nervous to share it with you all.

two | series masterlist | main masterlist

You’re staring.

It would feel less awkward if it were somewhere else, anywhere but where you are right now. Like sitting a table away at a packed restaurant, enough people crowded around to lessen your obvious ogling of a handsome stranger, eyes locked on his profile as you hide behind the empty glass you’re pretending to sip from. The crossing of paths in a grocery store would also feel less awkward, a quick glance back over your shoulder after your carts squeeze through the nearly claustrophobic aisle, your gaze on him as he stares at the shelves filled with sugary snacks— he most definitely would have a wicked sweet tooth you think.

Unfortunately for you, or fortunately depending on how you look at it, it’s just you and him, alone in the store front of the floral shop— your floral shop.

He’d walked by the front window, stopping instantly to read the shop’s name in gold letters above the entrance, then hands cupped over his eyes and face pressed close to the glass contemplating the shop’s worthiness of his time.

It’s a corner spot, sitting at the crossroads of two of the town’s busiest shopping streets— prime location. Bold was a chance you took with painting the exterior black, even with the apprehension of the city council deeming it too “gothic” for the town's rather conservative appeal. The dark exterior paired with black and white striped awning over the door was the perfect balance of moody and romantic.

It was worthy enough, pushing the front door open he stepped inside, the automated bell signaling through the shop. The heaviness of his boots scuff across the wood floor a few steps, his broad body stopping in front of one of the cold displays that held an array of dramatic arrangements. His hands tucked securely into his pockets as he looks around aimlessly, it’s evident this isn’t a regular occurrence for him.

“Welcome to Wilder Floral. Is there anything I can help you with today?” You greet him from your workbench.

Your hands busily work to trim the ends and dethorn the stems of a bundle of antique mauve roses, one of your best sellers, then trimming off the lower leaves before placing them in a bucket of water.

“Not really sure at the moment. Just browsin’ for now.” His deep voice sounds through the small space, the raspy tone sending a tingle down your spine.

“Okay. Well, if you have any questions don’t hesitate to ask.” He nods to you, catching the way his gaze doesn’t immediately break from you, he gives you a half smile then continues to look over everything again.

You’re staring.

Your mind is filled with thoughts of only this handsome stranger, quietly watching him over the now full bucket of cleaned roses.

You note the way his hip cocks out to the side as he stands with his large hands secure against his small waist. His eyebrows pinch together briefly, a look of deep thought painted over his face accentuating the little crinkles around his eyes. After a moment, his beautiful face relaxes into a calmer expression.

You can make out every muscle that runs the length of his arms, the weight of the arrangement he’s now holding provoking the defined musculature. His arms lifting and turning the vase with ease, examining every detail of the floral design you created.

You’re still staring. You can’t help it though. Actually, you can, but your brain convinces you that you are just admiring, so that makes it more than okay— right?

“You know, if you take a picture it lasts longer!” A hushed voice pops up from behind you.

“Ouch!! God dammit, Ellie! Why do you do that?!” You yelp, tossing the rose stem you were holding onto the table.

“It’s too easy! You were lost in la la land over some grumpy guy looking at flowers. I saw an opportunity, so I took it.” She laughs, pushing your buttons brings her a weird satisfaction.

There’s a throbbing pain coming from your hand. Looking down you see part of a thorn had broken off and was now embedded deep into the pad of your finger— a rookie mistake at this point in your career. You wrap your other hand around the base of your fingers, hoping some pressure will elevate the pain.

“I’m glad you enjoyed this. Can you just go grab the first aid kit in the back, please!”

“Yeah, yeah. Try not to fall for him too hard while I’m gone— don’t think you have enough bandages to fix that mess.” She sulks away into the back room.

“Shit!” You hiss, the pain getting more intense and now radiating through your entire finger.

“You okay ma’am?” The handsome customer asks you, stealthy in his approach to where you’re standing, still clutching your hand.

He places the floral arrangement he was holding down on your work table, his feet still moving in an urgent manner until he is standing in front of you.

“Yeah— actually, no… The thorn broke off and it’s in there real good. It hurts and I’m trying really hard to not be a baby about it. Someone’s getting a first aid kit out of the back for me.” You hold your pained finger up to him.

“Do you want me to take a look at it?” His hands slowly reach out, your lips parted and ready to speak but words fail you, only managing to nod a response.

Your mind briefly wonders what Ellie is up to, but the thought vanishes instantly once his hands wrap around your wrist and he brings your injured finger closer to his face.

“My name is Joel.” He looks over to you, heat pricks over your cheeks as he holds your gaze. It’s a cosmic thing, his touch activating warmth you’ve longed for. A corner of his mouth lifts, you can’t help but fixate on the dimple that forms resulting in a barrage of flutters erupting in your chest.

“Hi Joel.” Giving him yours in return, his smile growing louder as he repeats it back to you softly, like he couldn’t wait to say it out loud.

He refocuses back on your injury. A pinched expression, similar to the one he wore earlier, is even more adorable up close— zeroing in on the small wound that was tormenting you.

Joel’s movements are dizzying, an unbridled enthusiasm that elicits a sudden burst of desire you hadn’t experienced in ages, but he senses you trust him at your willingness to let him take control of the situation. Bringing your finger to his mouth, he wraps his pillowy lips around the tip of your finger and sucks with a gentle pressure. You watch him unabashedly, completely mesmerized by the way he jumped into action, how his cheeks draw in from the suction.

Your eyes lock when he looks up from your hand, sensing your eyes already on him, his thumbs drawing circles over your wrist, soothing over your racing pulse, as he continues to suck at the fleshy pad of your finger. It feels nearly overwhelming, the fierceness of his warm brown eyes has an inebriating feeling blooming inside you.

A gasp shoots through your throat at the feeling of his tongue slightly flicks over the part of your finger that is in his mouth, pressing the back of your other hand against your lips, embarrassed by your reaction to the erogenous sensation.

The whole thing is over as quickly as it began. Joel is pulling your finger from his lips, his grip still holding on to your wrist as he lowers your arm down to your side. You watch as the tip of his tongue breaches his lips, his pointer finger and thumb picking at the small little thorn that was once lodged into your skin, now resting on his tongue. He rubs his lips together almost nervously, the weight of the whole situation kind of sinking in.

“Got it!” He rasps, holding the annoying culprit up between his fingers.

“How did you know that would work? I usually have to dig those out with tweezers. That was— wow, thank you.”

“I get splinters regularly— I’m a carpenter. Sometimes when I’m out on the job, gotta use what you have. I hope I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable, just knew it needed to come out— the last thing you want is an infected finger.” He rubs nervously at the back of his neck, hoping he didn’t over step in anyway.

“No! Not uncomfortable in the slightest!! Thank you, seriously. Rose thorns can cause a mean infection too. I appreciate it—“

“I leave for two minutes and you’ve already moved onto second base with the guy?!” Ellie announces her reemergence, holding the first aid kit in her hands and a grossed out look on her face.

“Ellie!” Your body runs cold, completely mortified, ready to crawl into the nearest hole.

“He had your finger in his mouth— probably more like rounding to third if I’m being honest.”

You grab the kit from her hands, setting it on the counter, turning to see Joel still rooted in the same spot with his hands tucked into his front pockets and a tinge of red across his cheeks.

“I’m so sorry! Sometimes I think my daughter forgets she has a filter and that she can actively choose to use it before she speaks.” You try to make sure he isn’t the one who feels uncomfortable now.

“Adopted daughter, actually.” You roll your eyes at her need for technicalities. Adopted, yes, but daughter nonetheless. “Also, in case you were wondering, cause I’m sure you are, she’s single.”

“Ellie!” You look back at her with a sternness in your voice, eyes blown wide in hopes she picks up that she can stop at any point in time. Turning back to Joel, you mouth an ‘I’m sorry’, your shoulders dropping in defeat.

There’s an awkward silence that settles over the three of you. Joel looks like he doesn’t really seem to know how to diffuse the awkwardness at hand, Ellie has a shit eating grin she wears proudly when she knows she’s embarrassed you just enough, and you simply would like to evaporate into thin air.

“So, this is the part where you give your relationship status to her— makes this whole ‘her finger in your mouth’ thing feel a little less weird for all of us.” She has a point. You had been wondering that very thing, but how were you supposed to bring it up when he’s sucking a thorn out of your finger with his gorgeous mouth.

“Single— very much single.” He laughs at how forward she is, knowing she’s just looking out for you. “I do have a daughter, probably about your age too.”

“What, your wife die or something?” Ellie asks with zero hesitation.

“No. Just an ole fashion divorce. Anythin’ else you wanna to know?” He looks to Ellie, ready for whatever comes next.

She studies Joel for a beat, “Nope, that’s all.”

You release the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, grateful to what ever greater power decided to switch Ellie’s filter back on.

Ellie turns to head to the back room, where she had previously been working on her homework, but turns on her heels in the process to look back at Joel and you.

“One last thing, she needs to be wined and dined before you even think about kissing her.” Then she's gone before you can say anything else.

The awkwardness creeps back into the room, you’re not really sure how to come back from all of that. You open the first aid box, rifling through the contents for a cleaning pad and small bandage.

“She seems like a fun kid.” Joel decides to take the lead, watching you swipe the alcohol pad over your finger.

“She is— she definitely keeps me on my toes at all times. But, she’s got a big heart under all her sarcasm.” You tell him. You grab for the bandage, but Joel beats you to it, snagging it off the table and ripping it open before you get the chance.

You hold your finger out in front of you, ready for him to wrap it up properly for you, but instead of sticking gauze, your wounded finger is met with his plush lips for a few seconds.

“Obviously, a kiss to make it better.” He smiles again and you melt, biting at your lower lip as he wraps the dressing around your finger.

“Thank you, Joel.”

“Speaking of daughters— mine is the reason I came here in the first place. I was wanting to get this arrangement for her. She passed a test she’d been stressin’ about. Thought I’d get her a little something to celebrate her.” Joel points to the flowers on the cash stand that he had been holding earlier, grabbing his wallet out of his back pocket and pulling out his credit card ready to pay.

“They’re on the house today.” You tell him as you walk up to your computer, imputing the information to zero out the sale.

“No— no, I can’t let you do that. Lemme pay for them please. Least I can do for all your time and talent you put in.” Holding his card out to you, insisting he pay in full.

“You practically saved my life,” A slight exaggeration, but he laughs anyway. “How about you come here for all your flowers in the future, instead of my competitors, and we’ll call it even.”

“I can do that. I might just have a need for flowers soon then, I’m sure I can find an excuse to come back for more— you think you can handle that?”

“Yeah— I can handle that.” Handing him the vase of flowers, hoping he does find an excuse to come back and tell you how much his daughter enjoyed them.

Joel walks a few feet in the direction of the door then stops, turning back to see you’re already busily back to work with a handful of flowers. He says your name, falling from his lips like sweet honey, and you don’t think you could ever get tired of him saying it the way he does. “I’ll be seein’ you around. Try to be safe until then, m’kay?”

“See you around Joel. I’ll keep the injuries to a minimum until then.”

“I’d prefer no injuries at all, actually.”

“I’ll do my best.”

You exchange goodbyes, watching him cross the street and get settled into his truck from the store front window. You’re not sure why you miss him, having only just met, but there’s a longing that’s started to burn inside your heart.

Joel’s truck merges onto the road, he takes one last glance in your direction, his hand thrown out the window waving at you as he drives off, planning his next visit so he can see you again.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #bloom series #no outbreak!joel miller #tlou au #pedrostories

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bunnie-babe · 9 months

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i’ve got hobie brown thoughts so i thought i’d share with the class.

because he carries his guitar with him literally everywhere, he has sooo many guitar picks. in the pockets of his vest, pockets on his jeans, in drawers, on tables, on floors, in other dimensions. little pieces of him pop up in the shape of guitar picks. each one a bit different.

you can find him mindlessly using a guitar pick punch on a piece of nylon during down time. or doodling a spider on each one. an ‘x’ drawn with the letters F N S M occupying the open spaces.

bonus: imagine hobie giving picks to the kids he saves. “pretty brave, kid. really wicked what you did.”

bonus x2: hobie giving the spider gang their own custom picks. like different colours, their spider insignias or inside jokes written on them. definetly don’t think about how they would turn the picks into charms on braclets or necklaces.

#i cant stop thinking about this #i hope this makes some kind of sense im writing this at 3am #hobie brown #astv hobie #hobie brown x reader #hobie brown astv #across the spiderverse #spider punk #spider man #hobie x reader #pavitr prabhakar #miles molares #gwen stacy #spider woman #ghost spider

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forsworned · 1 year

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⃘ ֹ ִ 🎧 ֹ ִ 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐎𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒 ֹ ★ ִ ꒱

ㅤㅤ

♡ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄. HIII I TOLD YALL ID B POSTING SOON EJKEMDKRND sorry it took me so long life has been v v v cruel to me but here is to my gyomei lovers

♡ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. smexy situations ahead, edging, m*sturb*ting, sub! gyomei x f. dom! reader

♡ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 hubby gyomei comes back from a long trip and he is begging for some release heheheh

Early mornings in May were slightly brisk and always nipping at your naked skin as you slid off your kimono to enter the waters. You hummed to yourself as you tread over to the man that was nearly just as tall as the waterfall that he was sitting under massaging his sore muscles from the mission he was on. Only the upper part of his toned body was exposed and his tanned skin glistened in the sunlight.

His eyes were closed as you approached him and a small smile etched at his handsome lips.

“Good morning. I missed you, yome.” He murmured.

A smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as you pressed your body flush against his sturdy chest and his hand reclaimed the small of your back pulling you closer to him.

“I missed you too, dannasan.” You mused at him in a sing songy voice.

His cheeks warmed at the added cuteness of the nickname you had already given him. His touch felt electrifying against your naked skin and your felt his warm breath against your forehead before he pressed a chaste kiss to it.

“That’s all you’re going to give to your sweet yome.” You teased as you pushed your chest against his.

His blush spread to the tips of his ears as he hid his face in the crook of your neck causing you to giggle.

“Don’t I deserve a little more?” Your fingers danced along his spine as they slowly disappeared under the water.

“[name]!” He jolted slightly at your touch but it was soon accompanied by a moan.

“You left me for so long, Gyo.” You pouted as your hand teased at his tip.

And he really had. It had been two weeks since the last time you had seen him. He had, however, gotten some random villager to help write letters to send out to you.

Unfortunately, it was nothing explicit, but it was still enough to make said villager blush as they wrote down his thoughtful and compassionate words.

“Forgive me…” He breathed out, but you weren’t letting up as you picked up your pace. Your free hand had cupped his cheek and raised his head so that you could take in every pleasured expression.

You bit your lip at your hunky husband who was putty in your hands as you pumped away at his hard member that was now fully erect.

“Forgive you?” You paused your ministries for a moment and he pouted at you.

“Am I not worthy of forgiveness?”

His lip quivered as he touched his forehead against yours and his member twitched in your hand. Something about Gyomei looking utterly submissive and downright resistless really turned you on. His puffy unkissed lips that jut out at you, his thick scrunched up brows, onyx black hair that was completely wet and the way his buff chest had rose and fell so deeply with every touch. Your touch.

“Only if you beg for it.” A wicked grin had made its way onto your lips and a small whimper has escaped his throat.

“I’m sorry, [name].” He moaned out as you slowly started to pump him again, but not nearly enough to send him over the edge.

“More.”

“I’m sorry, [name]. Please forgive me.” He groaned as he shifted uncomfortably as you squeezed the tip.

“And?” Your tone was pressing.

“Please let me cum.” He whimpered softly against your lips.

If there was one thing that satisfied you, it was your hunky husband begging you to make him cum. And even if someone were passing by, the rushing sound of the waterfall would muffle every moan. But this was your safe haven. You two had claimed it long ago, and it was rare whenever either of you were bothered.

“As you wish.” You whispered as you pressed your lips against his capturing a moan while you stroked his dick at the pace he loved. It wasn’t too quick and it wasn’t too slow and oh how it made him weak in the knees when you squeezed it just right.

“I’m going to…” His voice quivered and then melted into another moan as his body faltered against the rocks and his member and your hand surfaced.

His member was hard and agitated, ready to release at any given moment. Precum had covered the tip almost immediately, but you felt a little merciful so you had continuing your strokes, indulging in every strained moan.

His large hand had grasped at your hip and the other on your ass as you were getting him closer and closer. The knot in his lower abdomen was slowly unraveling with every stroke until he couldn’t take it anymore.

“...cum.” He finished as he came in long, thick, white spurts that covered your hand. His body gave out as he completely laid back against the rock formation that the water had carved out that somehow perfectly fit his stature. His chest heaved as slowly collected himself from his climax. You giggled as climbed on top of him and kissed his lips. His hands instinctively find themselves around hips and he shyly smiled at you. Gyomei’s pretty rosy lips glistened from the sun’s rays.

“Thank you, yome.” He breathed as he traced patterns on your thighs.

“No need to thank me.” You replied as your traced your fingers against his lips. “Soon these lips will be coated with my cum.”

As if his face couldn’t get any redder! You giggled at his flustered expression, but he was already tugging at your body to get you ready.

“Don’t you need a little break?” You laughed trying to grip at his biceps.

He shook his head as he glanced up from his position adjusting you to get ready to sit on his face. A shit eating grin that resembled your own was now on his pretty lips. He eagerly licked them causing your pussy to throb.

“I don’t need a break. Not when I’m going to make you shiver at every touch."

#kny #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #demon slayer x reader #gyomei smut #gyomei x reader #kny gyomei #himejima gyomei #gyomei imagines #kny x reader #kny smut #demon slayer smut #demon slayer x y/n #demon slayer x you #gyomei x y/n #gyomei x you

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dollwritesarchive · 2 years

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𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓃𝑔 𝑔𝑜𝒹 ⎹ 𝓟.𝓓.𝓐

❝ ғᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ⤻ one piece / kinktober 2022 / @dollsanime-library

❝ ғᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇᴅ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀs ⤻ portgas d. ace x ex pirate captain!reader ( f! )

❝ ʀᴀᴛɪɴɢ ⤻ nsfw! none of my writings are meant for anyone under the age of 18, and any minors interacting will be blocked on site.

❝ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs ⤻ this is a dark fic! literally all smut, noncon, cockwarmimg, light bondage, nonconsensual branding ( tattooing ), blood mention, name calling ( bitch, whore ), belly bulge & size kink

❝ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ ⤻ 1k / mini musing

❝ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴍᴇ ⤻ i do not consent to having my work reposted / translated / stolen in any capacity for any reason. please reblog and leave a comment to support content creators! my work is very rarely proof read so mistakes may be present. all characters / pairings i write for are 18+ with no exceptions.

“Where ya goin’, spitfire?” Ace grinned, and what a wicked grin it was, and planted two, massive palms against your bare hips. you’d been keeping your thigh muscles tight, trying to take just the engorged tip of his cock, but the treacherous bastard wasn’t having it anymore— especially not when you squirmed in a futile escape to pull yourself off his lap completely. the sting of the tattoo being forcefully etched into your chest deepening to an almost unbearable burn when the blade skirts over your clavicle. “We ain’t done yet.”

with a powerful shove, he overwhelms your strength and forces you flush to his groin, filling you with every neglected inch. you cry out, though it’s muffled, and furrow your brows, spitting obscenities and threats through the thick knot of rope forced between your teeth. god, if you could only tell him just how you were going to kill him for this, but you couldn’t even form a coherent word, drooling over your chest and your bound hands that covered your breasts. the artist only chuckles, wiping your slobber away from his work, and continues digging away, inking the C into your skin.

PROPERTY OF PORTGAS D. AC

it didn’t take a genius to decipher what the tattoo would read when it was finished. it was the entire plane of your chest, from shoulder to shoulder, and the flesh around the finished lettering was raised and tender. the blood from the brand that had dribbled down to your belly was ignored, leaving it to turn dark brown and tacky, cocktailing with the perspiration and salt from the sea air that clung there.

“That’s better, let me fill that little cunt.” Ace hums, one hand reaching around to grip your thigh tight. you glanced down and felt your stomach flip. you could feel him throbbing inside you, still and stretching you open, but it was another thing entirely to see the way you sat flat against his lap, only his swollen balls exposed. there’s a thick protrusion against your belly, and you knew it was the shape of his cock poking out of you. a soft gasp, and you clamped around him tighter, and he grunts in approval. “That’s the tight, fucking fit I wanted.”

damn him.

it was even worse that he was so fucking big, your walls fluttered in protest against the forced stretch, snapping back to hug him tight. every single, pulsing vein massages your sensitive canal, and he was lengthy enough to hit a depth unbeknownst to even you, remaining static to leave you in a permanent state of intense sensation.

you hiss against the rope, glaring at him over your shoulder. he takes note of the fire in your eyes, using his free hand to flip the sizable knife around, and he scoffs. “If looks could kill, eh, bitch?” with a soft grunt, he jams the blade into the arm of the chair and leans forward; the way you flinch when he does so doesn’t escape him, and he presses his bare, solid chest against your back. “Too bad they can’t. Glarin’ daggers ain’t gonna make this ship yours again, ain’t gonna make you captain again, and sure as shit ain’t gonna keep you from bein’ my little whore, whether you want to or not.” his head tilts to one side, tongue running over his front teeth, and the hand on your thigh careens upwards, “If I’m bein’ honest, I couldn’t care less about this piece of shit you call a ship, or your half-cocked crew. But you,” his fingers clamp around your swollen clit and you mewl, hoping to keep your eyes from rolling back. he chuckles at the way you wiggled, and his open mouth grazed over the rope leaving a burn in the corner of your mouth, “I just had to have you. Take ownership over this pussy, and I think you wanted me to own you, too.” you shake your head, but he’s pinching that little bundle of nerves, and you’re whimpering and squirming. your interior clenches around his girth, which only feels better, and you bite down on the rope to keep from moaning out in pleasure. “No?” he teases, before rubbing your bud between his fingers until they were shiny with your slick, “Then why are you so fucking wet just sittin’ on my cock?”

“Frck you!” you grumble through the gag, refusing to give him the satisfaction of bending to his will, attempting to jerk away from him, but the tattooist arched a brow and placed a strong hand against your throat, pushing you back against Ace.

“Keep ‘er still, will ya?” he mumbled.

Ace laughs, rubbing in fierce circles, and nips at your cheek with his teeth, “I’d stay steady if I were you,” he hisses, “how else are folks gonna know that you’re my little breedin’ bitch if your brand ain’t just so?” his free hand runs along the underside of your breast before dancing higher, his thumb grazing the tender, tattooed flesh, and you wince, “Be a good whore. Sit pretty, full ‘a cock, while you’re marked with my name, and maybe— just maybe— I won’t lead you ‘round the deck on all fours, leaking my cum from every, abused hole you have, and let those men that used to be loyal to you see just how I fuckin’ ruined their untouchable, little captain.”

#ace x reader #ace x you #ace smut #portgas d. ace #portgas d ace x reader #portgas d ace x you #portgas d ace smut #one piece #one piece x reader #one piece x you #one piece smut #kinktober 2022

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ssspringroll · 2 months

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ok time for an info post about my edited stuff folder and also some new additions to it

a lot of these are pyxis edits, but the others are also creators who dont seem to be active anymore. but if anyone is the original creator of one of the things ive edited and you're mad at me for posting my edit... sowwy. ill take it down if you ask nicely ♥

ssspringrollIntergalacticSpotsM.package

edit of: https://pyxiidis.blogspot.com/2018/02/intergalactic-supernatural-overlays.html

description: so it turns out all these years, the fem frame version of the intergalactic overlay was a little different from the masc frame and i never noticed. so i made a little add on edited version of the fem frame overlay so it fits the masc frame.

before -> after (there's shoulder spots now)

its available in all the original colors. theres 2 versions of each color though, since there were slightly different leg opacities for the masc and fem versions and i couldnt decide which one to go with. they are very minuscule differences, the shoulder spots are really the main event.

feel free to recolor this in other palettes, id appreciate it actually. took a lot of fiddling to get those spots to line up right, please! please use my edit and make recolors!

this shows up in cas (for m frame only, theres no point for f frame, they already have it) as a separate cas part. the thumbnail is the same as the original, except i slapped the word 'EDITED' over top in big red letters. hopefully you will see it.

ssspringrollPrettyVisitorsHeterochromia.package

edit of: http://pyxiidis.blogspot.com/2017/04/pretty-visitors-eyeset.html

description: heterochromia. the meshes are by me (not that i can take much credit for them, its an ea eyeball thats slightly larger than usual. thats it.) but there are L and R meshes for each age (infant to TYAE) feel free to recolor in other eye sets, the mesh follows my usual TOU. the textures, obviously, are not mine. i don't know if i managed to squeeze every swatch from the pretty visitors eyes in there, but i know for a fact all the human colors, the pooklet colors, and some other alien colors are in there. I did not do the vampire colors. sorry. maybe some day.

found in face scar and neck scar (in skin details) but feel free to re slot them to other categories for your convenience. left and right cheek might also be a good spot for them. there are two cas items, L and R, so i wanted them to be sort of close together, thats the only reason i picked the spots i did.

incompatible with glasses.

demondays

edit of: https://pyxiidis.tumblr.com/post/177241795736/demon-days-vampire-stuff-by-pyxis-some-things

description: the original texture of the gradient limb overlays was bleeding out of the leg area a little bit, which clipped into the texture area of some wicked whims body parts, making unexpected splotches. i just trimmed it back a little so it shouldn't do that anymore.

eyes

edit of: https://pyxiidis.blogspot.com/2017/11/arachnophobia-accessory-spider-eyes.html AND https://www.patreon.com/posts/29118520 (v2)

description: converted for all ages. the meshes are addons and should be installed alongside the originals, the arachnophobia overlays (PYXIS_Arachnophobia_SpiderEyes_FaceMarkingDetails_upperRightArmTat.package, etc.) are direct edits of the original package files. Delete the old packages with the same names and replace them with my edits, if you want the overlays to be available for all ages. You don't need the overlays for the meshes to work, though.

An additional slot has been made available for infants -> children in the eye details section. The meshes will not be found in that category for teens and up, just the tots.

Waay'los' folder

this sections formatted a lil different. dont worry about it.

PYXIS_Siren_MermaidGills

edit of: http://pyxiidis.blogspot.com/2018/05/siren-mermaid-accessories.html

description: edited warehouse data so that necklaces can be worn at the same time as the gills. the mesh has not been edited, so compatibility with very close-fitting necklaces like chokers is not likely (gills are bulky and will clip) but i figured thats no reason to close off the option entirely. so necklaces are allowed now. also, i changed the categories. the packages claiming to be necklaces are found in mouth scar and the ones claiming to be rings are found in face scar (skin details section, towards the bottom near acne)

⚠ NSFW [MiniGiles]LoveBelow SkyrimFantasies Reptilia Male

edit of: i dont think this ones available anymore i will be honest. i can't find a link

description: tweaked positioning of the mesh so it lines up a little better with animations. also tweaked the weight painting and uv map. it doesnt animate quite right all the time, but it gets the job done. should still show up in the ww body selector (does for me, anyway)

⚠ NSFW ssspringrollReptiliaOverlays.package

edit of: this ones original content

description: gradient overlays for the reptilia body parts in the same basic rainbow palette as my overlay minipack. found in body scar (right leg). really nothing fancy, just for a little bit of personalization. should be color slider mod compatible

no custom thumbnail

ssspringrollHorns

edit of: https://flapjack-sims.tumblr.com/post/114810983191/horns-for-sims-4-ive-noticed-the-lack-of-horns-in (MESH) https://cherryvanillasims.tumblr.com/post/163956398575/flapjacks-thicc-horns-forehead-in-noodles (RECOLORS)

description: moved the uv map and textures so now the horns are compatible with hats (and any other accessories that use the hat texture space, like lots and lots of the wing cc thats out there)

changed the category to acne. there's two packages of these horns, i think the textures are ever so slightly different between them, but its negligible. I'd recommend the ssspringrollHornsEditedForMyBoy.package version, if you don't want to grab both (which you can, they appear as two separate cas parts)

no custom thumbnail. i dont know if these require the mesh. i dont remember.

Disclaimers:

Just because I've edited these pieces of cc does not mean I'm adopting them. I cannot promise I will offer support if something breaks.

Lots of these are edits of my own personal package files, rather than edits of freshly downloaded versions. They may have been batch fixed, re-slotted, renamed, or otherwise edited over the years I have had them in ways I no longer remember.

Okay looks like thats everything for now.

I will probably add to this pile eventually, but until then, bye bye.

shoutout to @/occultradio for requesting most of the edits that aren't in the Waay'los folder. i straight up did not notice the shoulder spots until they pointed it out and likely wouldnt have done any of the other stuff either if they hadn't asked lol

#my cc

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sadhours · 1 year

Text

Wicked Sensation

part seven // billy hargrove x f!reader

word count: 6.2k

warnings: 18+ minors dni, ABUSE, neil hargrove being the worst, angst, Karen Wheeler but it's brief, smut, p in v, brief mention of masturbation. i think that's it?

taglist!(thank you so much): @blue-eyed-lion @bbyhargrove @briefmongerfishzonk-blog @sweet-villain @actuallyspencerreid

Billy stared down at the slew of Polaroids of you on the beach, the red bikini adorned on your body leaving little to his imagine.

He’d been tasked with collecting the mail from your house while your family was on vacation, his dad thinking it was a perfect opportunity to show some responsibility. And to Billy’s luxury, it provided the convenience for you to send Billy the letter and photos.

He’d pleasured himself while looking at them the very night he’d received them. He kept the stack of mail on the counter of his kitchen but the envelope addressed to him with hearts and lipstick kisses littered on the envelope had a home in his nightstand with his girly magazines.

Billy bit his lip, holding the one you’d scribbled Let’s Get Physical on in messy handwriting. The poses weren’t nearly as suggestive as the ones in his magazines but his mind was able to make up for that, he’d seen you in such sensual and erotic forms that he didn’t need you spread out in photos. Besides, it was funner to remember actual experiences.

Neil doesn’t knock on the door before kicking the door open, causing Billy to quickly shuffle your photo under his pillows. He stands up expectantly, facing his father and pushing the lustful thoughts he was having to the back of his mind.

“Susan and I are going Christmas shopping. Don’t let Max out of your sight. There’s money for pizza on the counter,” Neil says but his eyes are trained where Billy had shoved the photos. He’d have to hide them better, knowing when Neil had a moment he’d be tearing through his room to find whatever it was.

“Okay,” Billy says, hands defensively slid into his back pockets.

Billy had asked for one thing for Christmas he was sure he wasn’t getting, a ticket to California. He’d requested to go for two weeks once summer started and he promised he’d be back to find a job before starting trade school. He missed the sun, he told his dad, wanted to surf. A part of him twinged in jealousy when you sent him the photos, seeing the ocean behind you. Billy figured he’d be lucky to get a couple pairs of socks, maybe a part to tune up his Camaro with.

“Bye!” Susan calls out when they leave, Billy and Max standing in the doorway.

Once they’re alone, Billy heads towards the fridge for a beer and Max asks if he misses you.

“Why the hell do you care?” he challenges but her question is answered when the phone in his room rings and he runs to answer it.

“Hello?” he answers eagerly, his shoulders falling when he hears the voice on the other end. “Oh, hi, Molly.”

He converses with her out of pure boredom for a while, fingers gripped around his favorite Polaroid the entire time. He glances at his alarm clock, telling her he’s gotta to call for the pizza now.

After ordering, his phone rings again and he’s sure it’s you.

“Hello?” he sounds hopeful and you grin, hearing the voice you missed so much on the other end.

“Expecting my call?” you tease.

“More like praying for it,” he exhales, eyes falling on your face in the photo.

“Aw, Billy, that’s so sweet,” you gush and he blushes, completely alone in his room but still embarrassed.

“Did you go to the beach today?” he changes the subject in an instant.

He did this every night, asking you to describe the ocean to him. He fantasized about moving back to California the day he turned 18, wanting more than nothing to get back on the waves.

“Yes,” you purr through the receiver, “It was pretty choppy today, I didn’t get in the water.”

Billy sighs, dropping the photograph and looking up at his ceiling, trying to recreate the feeling of being at home on a surf board in his head. He tries to hear the sounds of the waves crashing on the sand, the steady lull of it all. For a moment, he’s peaceful.

“God, I miss it,” he mumbles, eyes opening without realizing he’d even closed them.

“I know, babe. Soon enough you’ll be there again,” you comfort over the line, oblivious to the fact that when he imagined heading that way after graduation, you were always by his side. The possibility of you not wanting to deterred him from asking. Understandably, Billy didn’t too well with rejection. His self esteem kind of tacked on people wanting him around. He didn’t understand why his mom couldn’t take him with her, why she didn’t want him around but all these other people did. Sometimes it didn’t matter because he just wanted her, the other people in his life making him feel empty. His dad made sure he didn’t express such things from an early age, in fact the day his mom left his dad punished him for crying, telling Billy “Never cry over whores.” He didn’t think his mom was one but he had took it as all women and never let a relationship get to him emotionally. You were slowly breaking through that barrier, Billy hadn’t told a girl he loved her and actually meant it before. He’d said it in the past to appease girlfriends. But you were different, your arms were like the beach to him, a place he could let go of everything.

“Can you see the beach now? Like from your room?” he asks.

“No, it’s a couple blocks away,” you inform him and he heaves a disappointed sigh. “What did you do today?” you ask to distract him, you can tell he’s in his head and you don’t like when Billy’s sad.

He sits up and peers out his window when he sees headlight, worried Neil and Susan are back earlier than promised but he’s relieved when it’s the pizza guy.

“Not much, just some laundry. Listen, I’ve got to go, I ordered a pizza for Max and I and it’s here,” he says, standing up and opening his door.

“Oh, okay. Call me back?”

“‘Course,” Billy smiles.

“I love you,” you chide into the phone.

“I love you too,” he says before hanging the phone up, hearing the doorbell.

After he gets the pizza and tosses it on the table he calls out for Max but doesn’t get a response. He groans, heading down the hall and swinging her door open, “Can you not fucking hear me?”

But her rooms empty. Little shit, he thinks before slamming the door again. He storms to his room, sliding his boots on before grabbing his keys.

His first thought is the arcade, pulling into the parking lot and almost taking out a group of kids loitering too close to the street. They berate him as he steps out but he chooses to ignore it, a bigger battle at hand. He swings the door open and scans the room, not seeing red hair initially so he stalks through the columns until he makes it up to the counter, the employee distractedly munching down cheese puffs as he zones out, looking at nothing in particular.

“Have you seen a girl, red hair, skateboard, total bitch?” he asks, snapping his fingers in front of the guys face.

“Madmax…” the guy hums, chewing loudly.

“Where is she?”

The guy shrugs, “Hasn’t been in here tonight.”

Billy groans, grabbing the bag from the guys hands and dumping the snacks on the ground. “Thanks a lot, asshole,” he seethes before storming back outside.

He tries the houses of three friends but to no avail, every parent leading him to a different house.

“God damn it, Max!” he yells out once he’s back in his car, turning the key in the ignition.

The Camaro lurches down the street of the Wheelers, Mrs. Sinclair had written their address down on a napkin and Billy was hopeful, she’d said all the kids hung out there. He pulls up to the bright, big house and shakes his head. It made sense this is where Nancy came from. He hadn’t had any interaction with her really but he’d heard what a bitch she was. He thinks all rich girls are, so seeing the luxury she lives in compared to his humble home makes him chuckle.

Mrs. Wheeler answers the door, Billy has been looking around aimlessly since it took a good three minutes for someone to come out.

“Hi,” he grins, seeing in nothing but a robe and well, he’s only human. The charm kind of kicked on without him thinking, it was a bit of a coping mechanism.

“You must be here for Nancy,” she says and Billy laughs.

“Not at all,” he starts, “I’m actually looking for my sister, Maxine. I was told your place was the official hang out spot.”

Karen nods then, letting Billy inside and guiding him towards the kitchen. “All the kids are downstairs, I’ll go grab her…” and she’s down the hall before he can thank her. There’s a plate of cookies on the counter and Billy snags one, a pang of hunger rearing itself since he didn’t get to enjoy the pizza. Max and Karen wander into the kitchen and Billy gives his step sister a pointed look before his eyes glance back up at Nancy’s mom.

“You’re a life saver,” he purrs with a wink before ushering Max to his car.

Max curls into the door once they’re driving down the street, Billy speeding even faster than usual. She expects him to scream at her until his lungs give out so it’s shocking when he’s completely silent, eyes full of anger. She doesn’t know which is worse.

Billy’s stomach drops when he sees his dads car in the driveway. “Fuck,” he mutters, parking and sinking into the seat. He does not want to go inside. He knows what’s about to conspire and he wishes he could just keep driving, far away and never to be seen again.

“I’m sorry,” Max says, her voice a whisper, “It’s my fault, I’ll own up to it, Billy.”

“Stop, just stop,” he sighs, turning the car off and looking at her. He’d tried explaining that to Neil before, he knew it didn’t really matter. He looks back at the house, instructing Max, “Just go straight to your room. I’ll handle it, okay? Go into your room and put your headphones on.”

Max nods, reaching for Billy’s arm and giving it a squeeze as a thank you. He waits in his car for a bit, preparing for the war awaiting him inside. His footsteps are heavy up the walkway, he glanced towards your empty house for some semblance of comfort. It’s no use once he opens the front door, his father standing domineeringly in his path.

“Where were you?” he asks and Billy debates even answering, no answer would satisfy his dad. Billy thought his dad didn’t even really care, that he just wanted any excuse to get all his pent up anger out on Billy. Because that was the most frustrating part of this, he tried to be as perfect as he could be for his dad, he tried harder than he’s ever tried for anything. It was never good enough, Billy was never good enough.

“Max wanted to go to the arcade,” Billy fibs, lips tight while he looks at his dad. He’d surely earn a smack if he looked away. Billy used to fight back more but learned the hard way it was just easier to be passive.

“Then why the hell is there a whole pizza here?” Neil seethes, hand on the box before pushing it at Billy, slices falling to the floor and marinara sauce staining his white shirt. Billy keeps his face stoic, not daring to move a muscle. He can’t think of an excuse for that one but he doesn’t have to. “Did she sneak out again? Why aren’t you watching her? Susan and I ask for one god damn thing and you’re too fucking incompetent to do it!”

“Look, I’m sorry,” Billy atones, “It won’t happen again. I’ll do better.”

“Bullshit,” Neil sneers, “I’ve heard that for the last time.” He backhands Billy hard enough to thrust him into the counter. He’s thinking of how much he hates his father, how cowardly he is but his face is stalled.

“Clean this shit up, I don’t wanna see you for the rest of the week,” Neil spits, stalking off down the hall to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Billy sinks to the floor, tears welling up in his eyes as he brings his knees up to his chest, hugging his legs. He felt hopeless, even walking on eggshells and meticulously working to please his dad wouldn’t stop this. He hated crying over it, knew what Neil would do had he caught him crying, knew exactly what he’d say and Billy called himself those words in his head, pushing more tears out. After a beat, Billy calmly collects himself, cleaning up the pizza from the floor and disposing of the box before grabbing the mop. Once he’s sure the mess is cleaned to his dads liking, he locks himself in the bathroom and takes a steaming hot shower, the water burning his skin in a delightfully dulling way. He sits on the floor of the shower, remembering safer times.

Billy doesn’t call you back, retreating to his bed to stare at his ceiling until he’s comforted by the bliss that is his dreams.

Billy finds another envelope addressed to him in your mail, the day after Christmas and just one day before you come home. He masterfully conceals it in his jacket so Neil won’t see it. He tosses the rest of the mail on the pile accumulated on their counter, tailing back to his room and shoving the envelope in his nightstand, waiting for opportune moment to open it. He thinks about it endlessly throughout the day, eager to see what’s inside.

His Christmas wasn’t anything to write home about, he got socks and a couple of pairs of pants. Max got a brand new skateboard and he couldn’t help but feel jealous but she was just a kid and she deserved it. He didn’t want her to be treated how he was anyhow but he felt unappreciated, like he was just a live in babysitter for her. Neil and Susan didn’t get him and they didn’t care to.

During dinner that night, he can barely eat due to the anticipation of opening the letter from you figuring whatever was inside would make the holiday a special one. What Billy doesn’t expect is two round trip tickets to San Diego dated for late August with a letter from you.

Merry Christmas!! I figured August would give us time to save money for the trip. I love you so much.

Billy’s never smiled so big in his life, he couldn’t believe he would be back in California next year and with you by his side. He started planning, he’d have to get a job as soon as he graduated. You’d need a hotel and he’d have to rent a surfboard since Neil had made him sell his before the move.

He couldn’t wait to see you tomorrow to show you how appreciative of his gift he was. He sinks his hand under his bed and pulls out the bag he’d hidden, the present he’d gotten for you. It fell pretty short in comparison to your gift. He sighed, opening the bag and pulling out the jewelry box, flipping it open to look at the chain with a simple “B” charm. He’d struggled at what to get you but when he’d stumbled upon the necklace it made sense. A way to stake claim without it being too loud. But it sure as hell wasn’t tickets home. He falls back onto his mattress and sighs, trying to think of something he could tack on in less than 24 hours that would make his gift for you the exact thing you wanted.

Abruptly, Billy’s awoken by his alarm, the radio turning on and waking him with a Whitsnake song. He grumbles, opening one eye to look over at the time. 6:00 AM reads back to him. He loved Whitesnake but he thought maybe he ought to flip the switch back to the blaring alarm beeps instead of the radio, he was going to start associating some of his favorite songs with interrupting his dreams. Billy sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes. Neil wouldn’t let him sleep in even it was was winter break. And on cue, he hears his father knock on the door.

“I’m up!” he calls out, turning his alarm off.

He hears footsteps trailing away and heaves out a sigh. Neil said if he and Susan didn’t get a break from work then why should Billy? Some days, he would wait til they left and buried himself back under the sheets. Today, however, he was too excited to do that. You’re trip ended and you’d be home. He had an excuse to go over there, too. Grateful that he’d accepted the task of retrieving your family’s mail.

He’s so excited he actually makes breakfast for him and Max, unable to stop checking the time every few minutes.

“Just ‘cause you stare at the clock doesn’t mean it’ll move faster,” Max teases as she sits down for the pancakes. Billy doesn’t even let her get to him, sitting down himself to eat with an unchanging smile on his face. He just couldn’t wait to see you and thank you for the gift. While he’s eating, he decides he’s got the perfect idea to add to your gift. After he cleans up the mess, he spends about three hours creating the perfect mixtape for you. The arrangement of songs is perfect, but Billy knows the recording is shoddy, he cringes when he listens back to it and can hear himself mumbling to Max playing back on the recording. It’s quiet but he can still make out, “Little busy in here, Maxine!” He hopes you won’t notice, slipping the cassette in the bag and hiding it under his bed again.

It isn’t until after dinner that you guys get home and Neil tells him, “Give them a minute to settle in and then bring the mail to ‘em. I’m sick of looking at it,”.

“Yes, sir,” Billy nods, not looking up from the magazine he was thumbing through. He was just trying anything to pass the time.

Billy gives it thirty minutes before grabbing the stack of envelopes and jogging across the street, knocking on the door and stepping a foot back. He’s delighted when it’s you that answers the door, he wishes he could kiss you but he has a sneaking suspicion his dads watching. Though he notices, “You have no tan whatsoever.”

You shrug, taking the mail from his hand and you can see Neil standing in the window. “I just burn and peel. I used 100 spf.”

Billy laughs, but his shoulders tense, “I’ll see you soon. Gotta go.” He winks before turning around and heading back over to his house.

You close the door with your foot, flipping through the stack to make sure he actually got the gift you sent. When you don’t see anything addressed to him, you smile.

“Was that Billy?” your dad calls out, he’s loading the washer with dirty clothes.

“Yeah,” you set the mail on the table and walk to the fridge to grab yourself a beer.

“Did he get your gift?” your dads walking into the kitchen, following suit as he opens the fridge.

The grin on your face so big it might split it in half, “I think so.”

“Did he give you one?”

“I don’t know, his dad was watching so we couldn’t really talk,” you sigh, leaning against the counter. “Just about my nonexistent tan.”

“Your mom couldn’t tan either,” your dad points out with a smile.

You’re going through a magazine, listening to a cassette when you hear wrapping at your window. Finally, you think, uprooting yourself from the bed and unlatching the window, sliding it open to see the prettiest eyes you’ve ever seen staring back at you. You hold his hand to pull him in, his lips crashing into yours before you even have time to close the blinds, you always do, just in case. He drops the gift bag he’s holding by your feet and grabs onto your ass, Billy lifts you up and your legs wrap around his waist. He shows his appreciation for the tickets with his touch, pulling you tight against him and kissing you so hard you think it’ll bruise. When you two reluctantly pull away you’re both panting heavily, looking into each others eyes.

“Thank you,” he blurts out, you haven’t seen him ever look so genuinely happy. It almost makes you cry. He squeezes you in his arms and buries his face in your neck, just holding you.

“You deserve it,” you assure him, fingers combing through the longer part of his mullet.

“I love you,” he mumbles against your throat, placing a gentle kiss afterwards.

“I love you too.”

He sets you back on the ground and picks up the gift bag, shyly handing it to you as he says, “It’s not even close to what you gave me but it’s something.”

“It came from you so it’s just as special,” you say as you sit back on the mattress and take out the paper he’d haphazardly shoved inside. You pick up the cassette first, his messy handwriting scribbled on the label: From Billy. “A mixtape,” you announce, your heart skipping a beat. It was the perfect gift because it took time to make, you could just picture him recording it while sitting on the floor of his bedroom. “Put it on,” you hand it over and Billy obliges.

Burnin’ for You by Blue Öyster Cult starts filling your room and you giggle, it was a beautifully cheesy song to start with. You dig in the bag and pull out the small, velvet box. No one had ever gifted you jewelry before you think as Billy sits next to you, eyes trained on your face as you open the box. Your face flushes a deep pink, seeing the simple, diamond studded B charm attached to a delicate chain. “Oh, Billy…” you feel tears well in your eyes as you pull out the necklace and he grabs it, motioning for you to turn around so he can put it on for you. His fingers grace against your neck after he clasps it closed. You turn to kiss him, grabbing his jacket and pulling him into it.

“God, I missed you,” you stammer against his lips and you can feel him smile.

He pushes you onto your back, looking down at you. “I missed you, too,” he says, his cheeks a little pink while he dances his fingers against the side of your thigh.

“I got you something else!” you exclaim, remembering the knickknack tucked away in your suitcase. You launch yourself up and topple over to the hot pink case you couldn’t bother to unpack yet. You unzip it, grabbing the paper bag neatly tucked into your slipper. You present it to Billy, smiling wide. He looks up at you, your teased hair wild from the necking you two had just done. He lifts an eyebrow, fingers gripping the bag and opening it up and looking down. He pinches the silver key ring and pulls it out. It’s a keychain, a bright red surfboard with sunglasses and a smile painted on it. He laughs, looking back up to you, “It’s rad.” His tone is teasing but you can tell he likes it. He retrieves his car keys from his jacket pocket and adds the keychain to them, tucking it back in.

Billy’s hands grab at your waist, “You’re so cute.”

You shrug, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“You ever try surfing?” he inquires, his eyes darting across your face.

“Never, I’ve always been too scared,” you admit and straddle his lap.

Billy circles your waist to stabilize you, “I’ll teach you in August.”

“I can’t wait,” you say, pushing him down and kissing him softly. It’s incredible to touch him again, to look at his face and into his amazing ocean blue eyes. You’d done a relatively good job at memorizing his face, picturing it whenever you closed your eyes but nothing could compare to the real thing in your grasp. Billy brought out so many emotions from you, carnal and loving. Zero to one hundred in an instant, it’d always been there. It began with his terrifying good looks but once you got to know the truly gentle soul beneath, you fell so hard you couldn’t get back up. You’d never be able to recover if he broke your heart. The scary thing was you knew just how capable he was of doing such a thing. Unintentionally he’d crack it in small ways, unaware of how deeply you’d felt it when he’d snap at you or flirt in class with some other woman. He had you ripped wide open, the walls couldn’t rebuild, not with him. You had no fucking clue you’d done the same to Billy.

“I wanna make you feel good,” he whispers, rolling his hips up to you.

“You do, baby,” you tell him, pressing hands against his chest.

He laughs softly, hands moving from your hips to the swell of your ass to grind you against him. “Let me show you how much I appreciate the present you got me,” he purrs.

You gasp, biting your lip and nodding at him. “Show me.”

His fingers curl around your neck and pull you into his lips. You already felt his appreciation but you’d never say no to his touch. You pull back and sink off the bed, eyes on his while you unzip his boots and tug them off, along with his socks. He grins, looking a bit drunk but you know it’s on you. You stand up figuring you might as well put a show on for him, hearing the next song on the cassette play. Missing You by John Waite which isn’t something you could even imagine him listening to but the intention of the song in the mixtape has you giddy. You lock your eyes and pull your top over your head slowly, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your leggings and you peel them down. You awkwardly kick them off and your face flushes, hearing him chuckle lightly.

“I’m being sexy,” you inform him.

“Oh, I’m aware,” he laughs again.

“So you can’t laugh!” you exclaim, smacking his knee.

“Sorry, sorry! Oh my god, you’re so sexy! Keep taking your clothes off, please,” he smirks, hands raised defensively.

You scowl at him but do what he says, unclasping your bra and tossing it at his face. He tries to catch it but misses, heaving another laugh. Your hands cup your breasts, feeling a little self conscious for some reason. He’s seen you naked more than a dozen times. In fact, this man had made you cry out his name while doing unspeakable things, there shouldn’t be any embarrassment but alas, there was.

Your thoughts disrupted by the cassette, hearing Billy’s voice mumble something on the recording, you look down at him with a lifted eyebrow.

“Max was bugging me. Can’t re-record,” he shrugs, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Shh, makes it more personal,” you comfort him, peeling your underwear off finally.

Billy grins, eyes falling down to the heat between your legs. He beckons you with his finger and you follow like you’re under a spell, toppling into his lap. His hands meet your breasts, thumb fanning over your perked nipples.

“Billy,” you gasp out, looking into his eyes while he looks up at you with his jaw dropping slightly.

“Love it when you say my name,” he pinches the nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

You love saying it but you don’t say anything, rocking your hips against him. He grits his teeth and you can feel his erection straining against his jeans. You want to tease him more, not ready to give into the pressure brewing in the pit of your stomach. You grip onto his leather jacket, peeling it off his shoulders and immediately ripping his t-shirt off, your hands pushing him down as you lick against his nipple. Billy makes a noise unfamiliar to the both of you, swatting you away. You give another broad stroke, seeing the discomfort on his face in spite of the smile.

“That tickles!” He almost shrieks, his body recoiling at the sensation.

“Hmm,” you purse your lips, “Do it to me, lemme see if it tickles.”

Billy takes the opportunity, brushing his tongue against your nipple in rapid strokes. You feel a ripple down to your core, stilling your body as your back almost arches involuntarily.

“No,” you gasp out, “doesn’t tickle.”

As you say it, he sucks your nipple in-between his lips. His palm flattening at the small of your back as he continues, pulling back briefly to look up at you, gauging your reaction. You feel rushed suddenly, the desperate desire to have his cock filling you suddenly present, forcing your hands to roughly unbutton his 501’s.

“I need you,” you rasp out, a way to tell him to help. He nods, pushing his jeans and briefs to his thighs, his hard member springing to action between you. The look of it something you’ll never get used to, impassioned and leaking slightly under your gaze. You line his tip up with entrance and he moans at wetness he feels dripping there, his eyes glued to yours.

“God… damn,” he cursed out, as you take an inch of him, his eyes rolling to the back of his head.

His reaction pushes you, lowering yourself on him abruptly so he bottoms out. He grits his teeth, trying miserably to stifle a moan. You smirk, proud of yourself while rolling your hips gently.

He scratches at your thighs when you still, begging you to move without saying so. The eye contact something that egged you on, seeing him fall apart beneath you was the sexiest thing you’d laid eyes on. He pushed you in unbelievably wicked ways, as if you existed purely to please the Adonis under you. You roll your hips in rhythm with the music he’d catered for this very moment. The mixtape having innocent intentions at the beginning but the longer he sat with it the more his thoughts turned sinful.

“Say my name,” he begs, grabbing your wrists as he does so.

You whine it out, “Billy,” bouncing on his cock.

“Again,” he purrs, locking his fingers with yours.

“Billy! Billy, Billy!” you chant out his name, squeezing his hand between yours while you ride him relentlessly.

“God, I wanna cum all over that pretty little face,” he muses, eyes glazed as they stare into yours.

“Want it,” you whisper, “Wanna feel it all over me.”

“Yeah?” He gasps, hands grabbing handfuls of your ass, pulling the cheeks apart before planting a venomous smack.

You grunt out from the assault, loving how he grabs and slaps at you how pleases.

“All yours,” you hum, rutting against him, the way the head of his cock hits your spot in the most wonderful way has you absolutely at his well. This man could do anything to you and you’d thank him. You’re so sick with lust, desire and complete devotion to him. It even hurts, pushing you to impress him in these trysts. You don’t want him to seek out anything else. Any sick fantasy in his head you would wholeheartedly fill. He’s too good for anyone in this world, you’d hold him in your grasp to show him he deserved every last bit of happiness left in the world. You cry out, tears collecting at your ducts before leaking out. He sees them, reaching up to wipe them his palm.

“Choke me,” you whisper and be obeys, hand curling around your neck and squeezing. He’s just as intoxicated with arousal as you are.

You whimper, the sensation of climax wavering over you. You wanna see it on his face first, always more concerned with his pleasure than yours. He deserved it more, you thought. Billy’s feat for pleasure, for happiness, was more at risk than yours was. The least you could was pull an earth shattering orgasm from him. He adored you beyond your comprehension, the way he looked at you only telling you a fraction of it. He never had the words for it, his dad teaching him too early on to not express it. He fucking loved you and he knew he couldn’t show you nearly as deeply as he felt it.

“Baby,” he gasps out, grabbing your jaw and holding it tight. The eye contact was the only way he could tell you, never daring the vulnerable words to leave his lips. But you felt it, deep in your core, just how much this man yearned for you. He said it without ever really saying it.

“I love you!” you pant out, leaking desire out from his movements inside you. Your body rips through the stages of orgasm, tears falling steadily as you thrash above the man made claim to.

He was everything to you, the only person you wanted around. The only person you trusted entirely as you fell apart with his touch.

Billy’s quick behind you, breath heavily reciting your name as he empties inside you. You admire the warmth of it, the way it made you feel whole for a moment. Billy was utterly everything you could dream of and you had him like putty in your hands and you still allowed him all the power.

“I love you,” you cry, collapsing into him. “I love you, I love you!”

“Hey…” he purrs, squeezing you tightly. “It’s okay. I love you too. I really fucking love you.”

“Billy,” you can’t help the blubber, collapsing on top of him, your hands squeezing whatever part of him you can get a hold of.

“Baby,” Billy smiles, gripping your wrists and holding them out, “Breathe, it’s okay. I’m right here.”

You can’t stop the tears, spilling out, looking into Billy’s eyes, feeling him soften inside of you. He pulls out but wraps his arms around your center, pulling you close and peppering kisses all over your face and neck. Your hands snake into his hair, whispering his name again. You’re unable to help yourself, having no control over your mouth. He wipes your tears away again, looking concerned.

“Hey… you okay? What’s up?” he asks, hand on your face.

“I don’t know,” you sigh, “I’ve never felt like this. It’s just… it’s so much.”

He nods, curling up into you and not asking any other questions, like he understands. He kisses your cheek, “It’s good… right?”

“It’s extremely good, Billy. They’re happy tears, I couldn’t stop them… everything just felt so good and so much,” you try to explain.

He chuckles, “I did that well, huh? Fucked the tears right out of ya.”

“Ugh, shut up,” you playfully push him away but it’s no use, he’s pinning you down and kissing all over your face.

“Billy!” you shrill, wiggling beneath him.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled, pulling you close again. “You do something to me too, ya know? I…” he chuckles, like he can’t believe what he’s about to say, “I can go again.” It’s not what he was thinking but it’ll work. It’s the only way he knows how to say it.

“There’s gotta be a New Year’s party this weekend,” you change the subject, feeling like things were getting to heavy for him.

Billy’s hands soothe over your back, “Yeah, Tommy said something about a party. Ya wanna go?”

“With you?” you ask, eyes hopeful.

He sighs, “Of course I’ll drive but you know we can-“

“Would it be the end of the world if people saw us together?” you ask, knowing what he’ll say before he says it.

“Yeah, it would be,” he sits up, “I just don’t wanna risk it, if he knew it was you… I couldn’t be here right now..”

“Do you know for sure?” you peer up at him. “I mean, hell, when we go in August, you’ll have to tell him.”

“I can do that by then… I wanted to leave as soon as I turned eighteen but it’s too risky. Once I graduate, once I can leave then it doesn’t matter what I do.” he explains.

It’s no use to argue, it’s not truly your place even if him hiding you has taken a toll. “Okay… I, ya know.. I feel a little embarrassed, I’ve just never really cared before,” you start. “I mean I hadn’t really ever dated before so I guess I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”

Billy nods, fingertips grazing the curve of your breasts, “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s understandable you don’t want to hide. I bet it’s got to be so hard to not have your hands all over me.”

“You’re the worst,” you sigh, but you mean the opposite. He knows, so he pulls you to cuddle, kissing your neck and whispering sweet nothings until you’re both ready for round two.

#billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove x you #billy hargrove x f!reader #billy hargrove x y/n #billy hargrove angst #billy hargrove smut #billy hargrove x female reader #billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove fanfiction

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frostironfudge · 1 year

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Conversations With The Devil (Part 2) - Bucky Barnes

Summary: For the week 2 writing game by @the-slumberparty i chose to continue one of my first one shots submitted to a challenge, Conversations With The Devil (part one) can be read here. My opening line prompt was 'He was at a crossroads and whichever path he chose would ruin someone’s life.'

Pairing: Soft!Dark!Devil! Bucky x Desi! Female!Reader

Word Count: 6.9k || Dividers: @firefly-graphics

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, seances gone wrong, Oral F and M receiving, horror themes, smut, having sex with the devil?, a smidge of demon cock (nothing explicit just demon p grinding against human v), overstimulation, p in v, multiple orgasms, magic, sort of god complex, a little dark, whump, possession of a family member of the reader (not very horror-esque), protective bucky, horny bucky, devil bucky is a menace. please proceed with caution, you are responsible for your media consumption.

Masterlist || AO3

He was at a crossroads and whichever path he chose would ruin someone’s life. Not that he ever cared for either kind of critters that littered the realms he roamed. Bucky was more so concerned with himself, always himself and his concerns.

Even months ago when he stumbled across those three little humans during the seance.

He stares at the gold gleaming around his wrist, it was surprising this piece of magick. Remaining uncut by the most demonic and angelic of swords. The fire of hell did not melt the gold. Incantations that would have worlds collapsing did not break the chains.

A curse or blessing upon the human’s family. He scoffs, at least they were no longer binding his neck and right hand. Only one remained around his left wrist keeping the two of them coterminous across realms. He licks his lips remembering her taste on his tongue. His cock hardens, then Bucky focuses his eyes back on the demons arguing in his court. He resists the urge to roll his eyes at their repetitive blabber.

Tear apart limbs this, possess little red haired ragdoll that; Bucky groans internally.

Then a wicked smile stretches across his face. He should check in on his own little Doll. She did just tempt him. It had been days since he teased her from his throne. The tendrils bellow softly beneath his throne, making their way to the portal he had hidden.

Closing his eyes, Bucky visualises her, hmm, a different outfit than he’d seen her wear before. The long skirt shifts delicately with each step.

His gaze takes you in, your brows furrow as you turn in the empty corridor trying to discern why the feeling of being watched creeps up your spine. His fists clenched as he stopped himself from allowing you to feel his touch.

You would have to wait.

You’re at yet another boring pre wedding dinner with the entire family. Distant cousins, uncles and aunts all gathered around. The loved by all elders and hated by all cousins, cousin Shaiyana, beams brightly as she shows off her man.

Only the women in the family can see the faint gold chains that extend from her own bracelet to the boy’s neck and hands. You bite the inside of your cheek.

No one knew yet of Bucky or the fact that the chains had reduced from three to one over the span of six months. His intermittent visits and the one instance where he–no, he wasn’t there because of you. He had to cage that demon. He wasn’t there for you.

Your mind still brings forth that night, from four months ago.

Four Months Earlier.

Martin shrugs you off yet again, saying this time the seance would be foolproof. Lesser candles and Misha’s confidence lured you into the plan yet again. So there you all sat, fingers on the planchette.

Dread filled every crevice of your chest. The hairs on your body rising as the temperature dropped enough for you to see Misha’s breathy exhale followed by Martin’s sniffle.

“Why does this happen to us?” Martin questions, the planchette moves to the letters.

The two of them stare at you with accusatory gazes as your name is spelled out.

“What–,” Your words are cut off as the three of you are yanked into corners of the room. You wheeze out as a pressure builds upon your chest, your hands placed down an invisible force holding you down.

Misha’s voice echoes with the prayer followed by three claps, you breathe hard as the pressure vanishes.

“What the fuck was that?” They ask you.

You shake your head, “I don’t know.”

Checking your hands, three long lines manifest across your forearm as though scrapped. No words or responses form. Wordlessly you help them fix their living room and leave for your own home.

The studio apartment greets you as you had left it. Every little common sound, reasonable thump has you on edge. Part of you wonders if Bucky would know what that was, if he would even appear again.

The last time you saw him was when he raised his head from between your shaking thighs and licked his fingers and lips. Then he left. You knew he was still bound when your bracelet gleamed with three chains that seemingly went nowhere. As it did every day since that night two months ago.

You stare at the bracelet yet again and sigh a part of you sought him out. Wanting to know more, wanting to talk to him, feel him pressed against you again. Shaking the thoughts away, you go through your routine before bed.

Soon enough your earlier dread returns just on the cusp of sleep. Before you can utter the little prayer to defend yourself, the weight on your chest returns, heavier than before and you can hear the low growl above you.

Your bracelet shifts closer to your palms, your folded fingers brush over the chains. Your mind brings forth his deepening azure eyes.

The presence yet again holds your hands down. It reminds you of sleep paralysis only occurring when you’ve had the most tiring of days.

“Please–,” You rasp, “Let m-me g-go, p-please–,” The pressure adds onto your throat the tears pooling now brim over.

You can feel one breath remaining, it's a long shot you know.

“Bucky.” You whisper into the room, only resulting in the pressure intensifying on your chest.

There is a snarl from the edge of your apartment, darkness shrouds a tall looming figure. Your eyes widen fighting the urge to close. Your struggles increase and the figure moves closer, the shadowy tendrils move across the space wrapping around above you, around nothing and they pull. As soon as they pull away you cough the ability to breathe freely returns.

The darkness now towers above your bed. You watch the invisible creature appear with crooked limbs and bottomless pits for eyes. It is pulled to the ground and a portal closes just as it is dragged under ground.

You look up at the darkness, it clears, a horned creature watches you, its face covered in cracks as though marble damaged. The colour of its skin is a mix of grey and the cracks seemingly gold.

Its eyes blazing red with a catlike shape, trained upon you as it levitates upside down, you watch the gargoyle-like wings not open to their full expanse given the space, its lower body still covered by the bellowing tendrils. The demon settles across you on your bed.

It saved you.

Tilting its head it observes you silently. Lips unmoving just watching you.

Your hands move to where the other demon’s scratches grave your forearm, its eyes follow the movement. It grabs your forearm and pushes up your sleeve. The demon’s face morphs into surprise you think.

Maybe it wondered why you were not screaming? Or reciting pages of a holy scripture at it.

Your brows furrow, its touch is familiar. The long fingers with dark nails begin to morph as they hold your hand, its eyes once again angry. In a practised sequence the horns and wings disappear, then the body, hands and face turn more human.

“Bucky?” Your surprise makes him look away from the scratches. His eyes still red, he blinks and you’re greeted by the familiar azure.

“I’ll make him pay.” He assures, before the tendrils wrap around him, his hands begin to disappear.

You panic again, “No!”

“What is it?” His voice sounds irritable.

“I,” you swallow before meeting his hard gaze, “I wanted to say thank you for answering my call…”

“Your call?” He snorts, you feel his hand better again, “I’ve been trying to find that demon, he’s fucking up all my plans. Made a mess in hell. You think I would answer a mortal’s call? Isn’t that what your almighty above is for?” He sneers, thumb tracing delicately over the scratches a stark contrast to his words.

You watch as they fade, “Oh, well, thank you for um, getting rid of it?” you change the words around. He rolls his eyes.

He stands creating distance between the two of you.

“Don’t do anymore seances.” He warns, his demonic form taking over yet again before he disappears.

As Bucky stands before the bound demon, he raises his hand and forms a fist. The demon cries out in pain as all three hooked fingers on each of its four hands are crushed.

“You do not touch what is mine. You do not scare what is mine.” Bucky speaks calmly but his threat is clear.

“I’m sorry, Sire. My King I didn’t know that stupid mortal was your plaything–,”

The click of Bucky’s tongue has the demon cower back, the circle engraved onto the ground would not let the creature escape.

“You do not insult what is mine.” Bucky inhales, then closes his eyes, smiling as the demon’s pained screams surround him.

Days later Bucky watches as you go about your day, he’s noticed how you look at your bracelet with a sense of longing. Each time you do, there is a soft tug on the chains on his end. He was surprised when the other demons and creatures could not see the chains. It appeared only you and him could see them.

He follows you around, when one of your co-workers gets a little too close and reaches for your shoulder his unheard to you growl has the man retract his hand. You tilt your head as the co-worker scurries away. Bucky looks down at himself in disgust, what kind of human emotions was he resorting to, jealousy? He glares at you now and claws at the stupid chain around his neck.

When you return home, you squeak in response to seeing him lounging on your bed, legs crossed and arms behind his head. A pleasant yet devilish smile on his features. If he was stuck with you might as well have some fun.

“What are you doing here? Another demon escaped? Is Cerberus not guarding properly?” You set your bags down on the table.

He chuckles, “It's cute you think I have a pet dog.”

“What are you then? A cat person–creature?” You correct yourself, trying not to laugh at his exasperated look.

Blue eyes narrow and then rake over you, he did like the outfit. Your leggings tempt him to tear them away. One of his tendrils wraps around your ankle caressing it. You look down at it.

“Bucky, why are you here?”

The tendril moves higher, wrapping around your thigh.

“You didn’t thank me properly the other night.” He reprimands you, more tendrils superimpose the earlier one, you’re lifted off the floor and brought to him.

“I said thank you.” You tug at the hold on your hands.

“Hmm, I’d prefer if you thank me by getting on your knees.”

“I’m not–,”

“You know I can feel you because of these?” The chains appear then, then fade away, “Every little emotion that overtakes you,” He levitates to meet you above your bed, “Your joy, sadness, pain,” his eyes move to your bare forearm, “Even your arousal.”

Your chest tightens and your clit pulses at his words. He licks his bottom lip, teeth sinking into the pink flesh. Teasing you.

“Just as right this moment, she misses me doesn’t she?” Bucky chuckles as he feels your arousal permeate through his own body. He cups your mound, warmth seeping through your clothes, the tendrils make you grind against his palm.

You whimper, trying to close your legs.

“Admit it.” He urges, the tendrils tear apart your top, your bra tattered too, his tongue swirls against your nipple and you feel it circle your clit too, you cry out.

“Admit it, Doll.” He moves to the other, hardening it into a peak as well.

He rises above you, tendrils supporting you, your hands behind your back making you assume a kneeling position. You’re face to face with his cock, leaking precum. Your body thrums in remembrance.

“Admit it and you can have anything you want.” He cups your cheek, pushing away the stray locks.

“Want you.” You lean into his touch.

“Open your mouth, Doll.”

Your lips part, Bucky traces your bottom lip with his tip then sinks into your mouth inch by inch. You moan around him, his hand grips your head.

“Breathe, Doll. Taking me so well. So pretty with your mouth full.”

“You better keep that jaw slack, Doll. Gonna fuck your pretty face and then I’ll fill you up.” He promises, “Now,” He grunts as he thrusts and guides your mouth over his thick and veiny cock, “Remind me once we’re done to ask you about the little thought you had about my demon form.”

Your eyes widen, your body betrays you gathering more arousal over your folds. Bucky laughs. He guides your head over his cock, “Fucking velvet, so good. Fuck.”

He pulls out completely, “Oh, I’ll fuck you in my demon form too.” For a moment he morphs into his demon form, his cock thicker that your thumb and fingers wouldn’t meet wrapped around his cock.

You swallow at the size of him, “It won’t, it won’t, um, fit.” Your voice a rasp, his thumb traces your bottom lip.

“It will fit, you were made for me weren’t you?” He questions, ignoring as the chains glow.

You nod, the two of you are turned, he slides his cock over your folds, the more prominent veins rub over your clit and folds you jolt under him. He morphs into his human form, repeating the movement, drawing out the same response.

“Oh I’ve missed this pretty pussy wrapped all around me.” He taps your clit with his cock, making you shudder.

Your hands grip his arms, Bucky sinks into your waiting pussy, both of you moan in unison. Your walls pulse around him. The chain from around his neck fades away as he begins to thrust into you.

One leg around his waist the other thrown over his shoulder he sinks deeper, you cry out as each thrust is against your gspot, he builds your orgasm, his mouth around your nipple and one tendril tweaks the other. You feel his tongue flick your clit as well, all in tandem with his thrusts.

Your lips part in a plea of his name as pleasure floods your senses and you arch off of your bed, against Bucky. Your nails rake down his chest, marking him. He hisses.

Your walls spasm around him, coating him in your cum. He smirks as you thrash in his hold, he doesn’t allow you respite, repeating the same movements sending you barrelling into your second orgasm. Tears brim over your eyes, down your cheek to your neck.

Bucky lets go of your nipple, licking your sweet sweat-slicked skin and moaning at the taste of your pleasured tears.

“So good, Bucky–,” Your words cut off by a cry as you’re turned, now on top of him, his cock buried deeper, your arms reaching for his shoulders. Bucky watches as you meet his eyes with glazed over eyes, he cups your cheek. Leaning in he kisses you, bruising the tendrils and his grip on your hips guide you over him.

The tendrils tug and pull at your nipples, “One more sweet Doll, so fucking pretty, such a good girl aren’t you?”

You nod through the pleasured haze, “Your-yours,” You sob as his thrust is deep. Pleasure blooms like hellfire from your toes to your head.

“Mine, all mine.” He growls nipping at your flesh.

“Bucky, Bucky, Bucky, Bucky–,” Your third orgasm shatters through you, “Fill me up!” You cry out.

Bucky gives a few more hard thrusts before he moans your name, his cum coats your walls, you slump against his broad chest, sniffling as the aftershocks run through you.

“You’re still milking me, Doll.” He groans as your pussy clamps around him, keeping him inside you. Taking all of his seed.

You only hum in response, your head nuzzled into his chest. Taking in his scent your hands tracing over him lazily admiring him.

“You’re pretty, both forms.” You whisper, he laughs.

“I belive I’ve fucked you stupid.” He declares making you frown. Pulling away to look at him.

The urge to quell your sadness overtakes him,

“Doll.” He warns. This, what the fuck was all this emotion?

“I said you’re pretty.” Your index finger presses to his chest.

“Find a better word than pretty.” He bargains.

“Can’t think too much cum.” You shrug, if he could act coy so could you.

“Is that right?” He raises a brow, “Too bad, I wanted to go a few more times.”

“Hmm, I do have to thank you properly.” You agree with him, “So are you a demon or a devil?” You ask, holding onto him as you’re turned again laying on your back.

“Pillowtalk? Buy a devil dinner first.” A tendril tugs on your nipple and you swat it lightly.

“A few minutes more.” You pet it, Bucky blinks at your actions.

“What? I don’t have any pets of my own.” You shrug the tendril wraps around your wrist, you smile.

Bucky shakes his head, after round two, he’d leave. Create distance again.

He could not have your emotions meddle into him.

He is ruthless, calculative.

He is cunning.

He takes what he wants; he cares for no one but himself.

A king of Hell.

When you fall asleep, he gently moves away from you.

The tendril you petted pulls the blanket on you better. Bucky stares at it, hands on his hips.

“What part about no attachments isn’t understood?” He whispers. The tendril turns towards you then back at Bucky. “We are not involving ourselves with a human.” He warns the tendril.

The tendril points to your bracelet. As if to say we’re already involved.

“Just, open the damn portal.” Bucky huffs, as he descends into his realm, he watches the steady rise and fall of your chest and the way your hand sleepily seeks him out, you shifting closer to his residual warmth.

Present.

Warmth floods you at the memories.

It had been three weeks since his last appearance. Your legs begin parting under the table, the familiar tendril stokes your inner thighs and the remaining drag your lehenga upwards.

You shut your thighs, pushing the fabric down.

That blue and red eyed menace.

“Still three chains?” Your grandmother tuts, your eyes snap to her.

“I, it’s just been five months—,” Shaiyana stutters, her blonde highlights flailing around her, “It takes time…”

‘Hmm, we’re down to one chain, Doll.’ Bucky’s deep baritone whispers against your earlobe; you feel his teeth graze your flesh. You shudder; he isn't actually here.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, this is one of his horny tricks.

“Stop it.” You whisper, his lips ghost over your neck.

‘I quite like the neckline of this outfit, your chest looks fantastic and this skirt, hmm, could bend you over and just—,’

“Bucky.” You chastise, reaching for your bracelet, the thin gold chain appears and you yank it.

Bucky’s arm tugs him sideward on his throne. He grasps his end of the shared chain and yanks it as well.

His court of demons stare at him. Silence takes over the court.

“What are all of you looking at? What's next I don’t have all the time in the underworld.” He roars at them.

They look at him and then scutter about before resuming the arguments.

As a result you knock into the waiter putting the entrées onto your cousin brother’s plate, “I’m so sorry!”

“I’m not.” Your cousin beams as more food is dropped onto his plate, “These are my fave chicken tikkas.”

‘Where is my apology Doll?’ Bucky asks, you swat at the tendril on your knee.

“Y/N?” Your aunt looks at you with a raised brow.

“Oh just a fly.” You swat the other tendril you feel. You glare at the tendrils, they know you mean no harm.

‘You’re being a brat.’

“You were supposed to be here, we had a deal.” You remind him, trying not to let the disappointment get the best of you.

‘First explain about the chains. Also, I’m busy ruling.’

“You need to be here to ask grandma about it. And stop trying to demon mode sex if you’re so busy ruling a part of hell.” You grit out in a whisper.

“Who needs to ask grandma what?” Your grandma eyes you from where she stands coming to greet everyone at the table.

“Um just about the ch-,” Bucky’s ring circles your clit, “ah-chains.” You grip the seat of your chair cheeks heating. Oh this little devil of yours is going to pay.

‘It's cute how you think you can get revenge on me. You're getting tied up today, Doll.’ Bucky warns, all traces of him disappearing.

“Well?” Your grandmother asks yet again.

“Why do the chains—,”

“Grandma, if you could just see how good we are together.” The apple of everyone’s eye pleads cutting you off.

Your cousin brother mimics her whining, the cousins at your table suppress a laugh but giggles escape.

Your aunt shushes everyone.

“The chains are important dear. They tell everything.” She pats her head and then turns her eyes to the empty seat next to you. You wince. Her questioning came from her astute intuition.

“He’s preoccupied.” You answer, “Meetings, on his way though.”

She eyes you warily but moves on from your table.

You slump in your seat. You meet the gaze of your parents and they are disappointed. For an open minded desi family they are disappointed in the lack of presence of your love life compared to your cousins.

What would you tell them?

A devil creeps into your bed every few weeks?

That you wish he would stay?

That you googled how Persephone went to Hades just to know if it's viable for you to move there to hell?

You’ve laughed to the point of tears over this situation. You could only hope the lesser number of chains meant he would be freed.

Your theories of the chains fading because of sex was disproved earlier, the second only faded when he had appeared at the club your friends had dragged you to, where you got sick, the nausea from those weird mocktails and greasy food hadn’t agreed with your system.

All you remember from that night was Bucky carrying, well flying you home after your friends had disappeared with their various hook ups. You had woken up to him scowling at you all while thrusting tylenol, water and then your favourite food in your hands.

You didn’t think a devil would or could lecture you about parties, but there he was, eyes flickering between red and blue. Voice switching between demonic and human. The tendril you had befriended first had wrapped itself around your wrist offering comfort and Bucky glared at it.

“You cannot possibly think she isn’t to be told off.” He stares at the tendril.

It raises its body then lowers it like a shrug.

“Oh, alright, hm what if she got hurt?” He pauses then, masking his worry with ire.

“I didn’t mean to make you worry.” You look up at him, doe eyed. He inhales then exhales. The worrisome thought crosses his mind yet again. You feel his worry in your chest.

“I was not worried.” Bucky yells, voice fully demonic, you look away from him. His gaze softens.

He cups both your cheeks, “You need to be careful. We don’t know what these chains mean, I try to keep myself out of trouble too. You need to do the same, Doll.” It was the first time he used your nickname without a sexual context.

You both had watched then how the chain undid itself from around his right wrist.

Something in Bucky’s chest cracks, he swiftly ignores it. The little pang of worry that he may lose you sooner rather than later.

The hall doors swing open murmurs break out in their presence. You’re pulled out of your thoughts. You watch as Bucky walks in, crossing the threshold that held sacred verses over it with ease. Your jaw drops at his navy traditional sherwani attire. There are intricate velvet patterns on it that give it a raised emboss look. He dressed like that one Indian Film actor did in that one movie that you can no longer recall. All other images gone from your brain apart from this one.

The women of the family all turn to look at you. The chain speaking for Bucky and you before you could. Your grandmother takes your name as she eyes Bucky. He smiles at her. You stand walking to meet him halfway.

“I apologise for the delay, Grandma.” He takes her hand kissing the back of it. Her eyes narrow between the two of you.

“One chain?” She questions.

“We wanted to ask you about that–,”

“After the festivities. Enjoy the dinner, James.” She cuts you off then moves to her original table.

He raises a brow but only gives her a half smile. Bucky turns to you.

“You like?” He winks, admiring the way your cheeks heat.

“I-, you came?” You ask, Bucky hides his own mirth at the happiness blooming in your heart replacing the earlier loneliness he could feel.

Bucky wants to say something else, you feel his hesitation, “We had a deal.” He runs his hand through his hair, his ring gleaming in the light.

“Let's meet your parents.” He suggests taking your hand and leading you to their table.

The lies flow easily from Bucky’s mouth.

Who is he?

How the two of you met?

What does he do with his free time?

He even has pictures of his white fluffy cat on his phone– Alpine. You raise a brow.

“Cats are nice, misunderstood but nice.” He whispers, his lips brush over your earlobe, “You better not forget what your punishment is,” One arm moves to rest across your chair, his other rests on your thigh. The tendrils begin to work their way up again.

Bucky’s face is inches from yours, you look up at him. He smiles at you.

“Smile.” He says, you blink, “Smile, Doll.” The tendrils tickle your side, you giggle and the flash occurs. Bucky’s smile widens, taking over his face at the sound of your laugh.

Your younger cousin hands you the polaroid, it's still developing as you lean closer to him.

Your breath ghosts over his neck, “My little devil,” you giggle yet again as you feel his irritation,

“I’ll show you what’s little–,” He takes a sharp breath when you tug his earlobe and kiss the spot on his neck you had discovered the third time he slept with you.

“As I was asking, will you be in the picture?”

He sighs exasperated, your questions about all of this ranged from actually fun to answer to can he shut you up in creative ways using his mouth, fingers or cock?

“I’m not a vampire.” He shakes his head, the arm resting across your back softly traces over your arm.

“Hmm, cranky like a hungry one.” You tease.

“Well I haven’t eaten my favourite meal in days. I could eat and no one would know, well if you keep quiet, Doll.” His eyes switch colours, darkened with red rims.

Your brows furrow as you spot a bead of sweat. Before you can stop yourself you wipe it from his temple.

“This sherwani is warmer than I anticipated.” He brushes it off, the waiters place food on Bucky’s plate as well. You don’t look away from him.

“Is it the scriptures?” You ask, he chews the kebab then nods, eyes shifting to the books kept.

“You all prayed before this, correct?”

“I’m sorry, Bucky I didn’t realise it would be more than what is comfortable, do you want to go outside?” Your hand is placed on his chest.

He licks his lips, “Let me eat my dessert, it's a sin.”

“Are you sure it will help?” Were you actually considering this?

“Hey man, it's so nice of you to come down, she was getting all lonely staring at her phone.” Your cousin interrupts the conversation.

“Ah yes I was texting her minute by minute.” Bucky nods, you want to laugh.

You didn’t even have his number.

“So what do you do?” Bucky questions your cousin. Your mind blanks momentarily as you feel Bucky’s lips ghost along your inner thigh.

Your cousin replies but you hear nothing, you feel Bucky’s tongue delve through your folds. You grip his hand resting on your thigh.

‘Not a sound, Doll.’ He warns, ‘So fucking sweet. All for me.’

His moan reverberates against your core, you bite your lip as you feel his fingers delve into you. Thick digits curving deliciously. You reach for the glass of water, your fingers clamp around it as you feel yourself stretch around his ring.

‘Could stay between your legs for aeons, Doll.’

You feel him suck on your clit and you whimper, Bucky next to you presses his lips to your temple. Grounding you.

‘You love it when I get like this, taking you apart then putting you back together.’

His movements gain pace, sweet oblivion within reach and he stops. Your lehenga righted and he kissed your temple again.

“Seems like we aren’t the only sinners here.” He murmurs. You look at Shaiyana and her partner. The chains are down to two from three. Her hair dishevelled.

You glare at Bucky.

“Oh, no this is part of the punishment.” He grins.

“Bucky.” You all but whine.

“Needy little Doll aren’t you?” He whispers, “For each orgasm I deny I’m going to reward you.”

Around you both dinner continues, Bucky teases you relentlessly during the entire time. Thoroughly enjoying the way you squirm for him. Turning into his needy little mess. His greedy little, Doll.

The fifth time he edges you. You can’t take it, you know distance doesn’t matter he can always use his powers on you. You still excuse yourself from the table, heading to the washrooms. Your cheeks warm, flushed because of Bucky. You fix your dupatta’s draping in the mirror.

“You have got some nerve.” Shaiyana observes exiting the stall.

You raise a brow.

“Oh come on your boyfriend suddenly appears just as I debut mine and one chain? How many times has he fucked you?” She turns to face you.

“They don’t disappear just because of sex…” you trail off.

“Oh please, Grandma’s rules clearly state about bonds and binds. How they forge forever and how they break.” She scoffs, flipping her hair back.

“Shaiyana, how does the bond break?” You swallow, wondering if it is what you wanted, to lose Bucky.

She looks back in the mirror meeting your gaze through it, “Finally you’re away from, Sire.”

Her eyes turn fully black, no whites nor her dark brown irises visible. You take a step back.

“You have him distracted. We don’t like distractions. The only thing good about you? Your mortality.” Her voice haunts you, gooseflesh raising across your skin.

“He won’t appreciate you hurting me.” You warn, moving towards the bathroom door. You try not to let fear consume you.

You try to reach out to Bucky through the bond. You feel nothing.

Shaiyana cackles, “Aw, he isn’t your knight in shining armour.” She steps closer towards you. Her voice is akin to chalk screeching against a board.

You look at the bracelet, the chain does not manifest. You look back at your cousin just as her hand comes in contact with your cheekbone. The force of it pushing you against the granite counter, you groan as the corner hurts you.

Bucky’s brows furrow, you aren’t back yet. The side of the bond that allowed him to reach you was subdued. He walks up to your Grandma, she turns sensing him.

“I see your curiosity cannot wait.” She smiles standing up, he offers her his hand. She grasps it, leading her towards the balcony. His gaze everywhere trying to find you.

The tendrils move along the edges of the room, taking over the venue to find you.

“How did you know my name?” He questions her, there is a thrum around her, iridescent old magick exuding from her aura.

“I know quite a bit about the demons and Kings of Hell, boy. What I should be asking is what made you choose a mortal?” She raises a brow at him.

“I didn’t know about the curse until the binds—,”

“You know what I mean.” She gives him a knowing look, “You do know before the binding you were asked if you will explore this with her.”

Bucky looks out onto the city lights. He remembers the ancient words, he remembers his affirmative reply. He wanted you. Then reality seeped in. Bound to a mortal? Bonds that work across realms? Forcing himself to not seek you out for two months.

He looks back at her, “She was not supposed to become more.”

“And now? You want to break it?” Your grandmother watches him.

“What do the chains mean?” He questions.

Unease trickles across him as the tendrils return with no news. He looks at her. She senses his emotions.

“I have to find her.” Bucky returns to the hall then out into the hall.

He frowns, there was a corridor to the bathroom here why can’t he see it?

“You’re going to break the spell you have on our Master.” Shaiyana’s nails dig into your cheeks. The water overflowing from the taps, the cold seeps into your back. She was slamming your hand into the floor trying to get the bracelet to break.

There was something possessing her. You had to do something.

“I didn’t!” You cry out in pain that breaks across your knuckle. Moving up your palm.

“He keeps visiting this realm. He tortured demons over you. His own kind.” Shaiyana snarls and you feel the sting of a slap.

“He wants the bond gone.” She tells you. Your tear stained eyes meet her obsidian ones.

“How to break it?” You ask, “Did he send you?”

She smiles, “He did, oh you fell in love? You fell for the King? You, a mere mortal? Be worthy of him?” She laughs.

In her distraction you begin to pray, she takes her hands away as if burned by your skin. You push yourself away, slipping as you make your way to the door. Shit, shit, shit.

Shaiyana stands again, you pray again, slamming your hands against the door hoping someone would hear you. “Bucky!”

“Stop calling his name!” She warns moving closer to you.

Bucky hears a thump, he turns to the seemingly placed wall. He places his palm on it. It scalds his flesh. His eyes turn red. A seal placed upon the door. He presses both palms to the wall.

It begins to give way, he hears your pained cry of his name.

“Doll!” He calls out.

“Bucky!”

The tendrils slither through the cracks, the seal was drawn outside the door. As the tendrils latch onto it, “Get away from the door!” He yells. You step back, pausing the prayer. Shaiyana yanks you back by your hair.

The door burns as Bucky steps through it. The flames disappear, behind him the cream coloured door now blackened. He stands there anger coursing through his veins. The image of him right now exudes power.

You whimper as Shaiyana smiles up at him, her nails digging into your scalp, “I did as you said, Sire. The way to break the bond? Break the bracelet or kill her.” She adds.

“When did I place such a command? Are you trying to overthrow me?” He raises a brow, “Release her.”

“Bucky break it–,”

“No.” He cuts you off.

“I fear it is worse than we thought. He cares for her.” She taps her foot thrice.

A portal opens beneath the three of you. Bucky sends the tendrils forth to break your fall. He switches to his demon form. The tendrils pull you to him. Tucking you to his side. He snarls at the demons gathered around. Shaiyana lays on the ground, unconscious.

“You have to make a choice, Sire. A bewitching mortal or your duty as King.” The demon that was possessing her procures a blade. Your eyes widen.

Your hand grips his forearm, he looks down at you, “They would kill you?”

“They wouldn’t dare.” He looks back at the demons.

“Bucky, let me break it.” You plead.

“Why? Do you not want–,”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I won’t.”

The glimmer of the blade shines through the fires burning, you do the most mortal thing Bucky expects. Covering his form with yours, “Are you insane?! I need you alive!” He yells.

The blade is stopped by his hand. It burns his flesh.

“What is this sacrificial human bullshit? You do not die for love! Be selfish! Stay alive damn it.” He yells, throwing the blade back at the demon. His wings expand, covering the two of you and Shaiyana from the blades and hexes that are sent your way.

“But–,”

“No. I don’t want the bond to break. Do you know I was asked before the binding. If I wanted this? I agreed.”

“Then why were you gone?” You demand, the tendrils begin to branch out.

He raises the cracks in the ground. The demons around you stop their attack. All pausing because of the sigils made into the ground.

“I wanted you, Doll. Do you see this? The insubordination?” He glares at all the demons, he turns back to his human form.

“I kept a watch on you. I wanted to know what the chains meant. I dived into research but this is heirloom magick passed down between generations. Not kept in any scripture.” He explains, you blink several times.

“Wait, you said love?” You ask him, he stares at you.

“Just, just sit here and do not look at or touch anything.” He makes you sit on his throne before stepping away.

“Bucky?”

He turns back to look at you.

“I don’t want the bond to break too.” Your words make him smile, the familiar tendril wraps around your wrist.

The gold chain around his left wrist disappears, in its place a gold chain bracelet remains.

The two of you share a look, the bond thrums steadily between the two of you.

“Now let me go take care of these fools before I return to have you ride me while I sit on my throne.” He winks at you before turning yet again.

Your grandmother looks at Shaiyana asleep on the couch of the hotel lobby, then you, then Bucky.

“She was possessed?” Your Grandma questions.

Your devil and you nod.

“She was taken to hell?”

The devil and his human nod again.

“You both verbalised not wanting the bond to break?”

You both nod yet again.

“I see. Well I’m not going to deal with the six month crap Demeter had imposed.” She stares at Bucky.

“She’s free to travel realms.” He answers, thumb stroking over your hand.

“Hmm, trust the one who loves horror to snag a devil.” She teases you, “Alright now head on home. I’ll get someone to help with her.” Your grandmother heads back to the banquet hall.

Bucky chuckles, lips pressing to your temple. You close your eyes, when you open them you’re back in the throne room.

“I have to reward you.” He says sitting down on his throne, the tendrils help your lehenga bunch around you as you straddle him, his length pressing to your core.

“That you do, my little devil. My King.” You nip at the skin of his neck, he growls hands gripping your hips.

“Doll.” He warns, moaning as you grind against him.

“Yes?” You continue tracing your lips over his flesh leaving your own little marks upon him.

“After what you achieved today, exposing those who stand against me? You’re going to make a fine Queen and your first order of business?” He lifts you up, clothes melting away from your bodies, slowly he guides you down on his hard length. Your fingers tangle in his hair as you moan against his lips.

“You are to scream your King’s name, my Queen.” He tugs on your bottom lip before kissing you deeply, as he pulls away, “Did you know ancient heirloom magick is one of the strongest forms?”

You feel so full, the tendrils tease your nipples, “Bucky–,”

“I sensed the magick in you the minute I saw you.” He raises you and has you slide down on him again, controlling your movements.

You meet his eyes, they have red rims around the darkening irises. Bucky smirks, as he brings you closer to him. Your clit grinding against his trail of hair. You moan, he grasps your chin.

“You and your magick are both to be mine.” He kisses you then as you feel yourself fall backward, landing on a soft mattress, Bucky’s hands move over your skin. From your hips over your sides one hand remains around your neck, the gold chain of his bracelet gleams.

“All of it was for the magick?” You rasp, he studies your features.

He thrusts into you, your walls quiver around him, “Always so fucking beautiful and tight, such a good girl for me.”

Your nails leave little indents into his biceps, “James, answer–Oh–,”

You moan as his tip brushes over the spot that sparks the pleasured waves to thrum through you.

“All of it,” He thrusts into you deeper, rutting against you, your legs wrapping around him tighter, “Was for you, Doll.”

AN: i never thought i'd get to writing a part 2 for this one shot but here we are, i'm quite proud of it and i hope you enjoyed reading!

Permanent Bucky Taglist: @slutforsexyseabass

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