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holybibly · 3 months

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Pretty Flushed | MATZ x Reader | Part I

Genre: smut, hybrids!Au

Word Count: 10.6k

Summary: Debts must always be repaid, even if they are not your own, and you will learn this cruel lesson from your own bitter sweet experience.

Or where innocent bunnies are the most delicious dessert for the big bad wolf

Part II

WARNING: Unprotected sex, Mommy/Alpha! Seonghwa, Daddy/Alpha! Hongjoong, Omega/Bunny! Reader, оral knotting, stomach bulge, vaginal knotting, breeding, fingering, choking, degrading, pet names, spit kink, size kink, face fucking, hair pulling, manhandling, threesomes, dirty talk, explicit sexual content, explicit language, squirting, pussy slapping, dacryphilia, oral, cum eating, overstimulation and more.

Tag list: @jeolmeunday @meowmeeps @wayzatiny @stolasisyourparent @iweirdthingsblog @staytinyville @yoonivjpg @spooo00oky @kibs-and-bits @yunnieo @avantalem @dreamingofyeo @uuviey @mxnsxngie @bahngchatsfx @yeosang-dot-mp3 @zzz-zzs @yeos-bunny @seonghwasstar @fvlvy @bunnyluvr25 @watermelon2319 @weedforthoughtz @teez-the-time @bakarilennox @atinyreads @bluesungshine @kihyuns-military-wife @seventhcallisto @maximofftrash @0325tiny @edusweah @haven-cove @nhari @sanhwalvr @hecateslittlewitchling @icecold2baby @readerofallthingss @appleschre @wannabebarbiesworld @kpopmonstur @ohflorah @yoongiigolden @unxverxse @kuromiiy @cherryynoir @mitchikeli @atinism @minaizum1 @st4rhwa @kayleigh-28 @onedumbho3 @imthetempter @soobiverse

A/N: I hadn't planned to split this into two parts, but I'm not good at writing anything under 25k, so Part 1 is here today.This universe will evolve, and there are a few more works to come. I'm kind of obsessed with them. Sorry, but I'm on my knees in front of men in furs, and I'm not ashamed of it at all. I hope you all look forward to Part 2 as much as I did.

All comments and reblogs are very much appreciated and are a great motivation for me. Feel free to ask me anything; questions and private messages are open.

The whole tag list will also be relevant for the second part. I may add 10-15 more people to the second part tag, so if you want to be tagged, please leave a comment under this post.

divider by @cafekitsune

Have fun, bunnies; the heat is on.

Ever since you were born, your mother has always said to you, "Good bunnies should be submissive and grateful; they shouldn't cause any problems," and you have always followed her words with an exceptional level of obedience.

Responsive, soft, and gentle, you were the perfect embodiment of all the best qualities of your breed. You were the best bunny in the litter, something you were undoubtedly proud of and always justified with your perfect behaviour.

You were so tender, affectionate, and charming—the absolute image of a good girl. Always helpful, understanding, and ready to help in any situation. Despite the mocking nickname "Goody Two Shoes" given to you by the other bunnies on the farm, you were happy to be who you were.

"Good bunnies are obedient bunnies" was the simple truth of your entire life.

You bowed your head and bared your neck in respect, went to church on Sundays, helped breastfeed the younger bunnies in the nursery, studied hard, and, of course, had a clean and pure reputation.

It's not that you didn't have a clue what sex was. You'd gotten your fair share of heats, but unfortunately, you were too shy and indecisive to get laid with someone. You spent all of your heats in the company of a cute little glass dildo and a silver plug that was adorned with a shiny pink stone.

The obscene thoughts and pornographic images that filled your mind at the time always made you feel extremely ashamed. But what could you do when you were literally born to be a beautiful sex toy? It was a rather humiliating fact for your species, but all rabbits were something of a slut for a big fat cock. Their primitive reproductive instincts were stronger than any sense of decency they had.

From your point of view, this was the one and only blemish on your otherwise "saintly" image. A black mark on your spotless reputation. Your small guilty pleasure.

In everything else, you followed strict rules and remained a naive, obedient girl.

At the moment, the situation in which you found yourself was a traumatic one for your fragile, isolated mind, to say the least. On top of that, your heat was coming on relentlessly, and the growing excitement tingling beneath the surface of your skin was making it a hundred times worse. All the more so when it was being fuelled by the heavy, seductive pheromones emanating from the man sitting in front of you.

In all the time you'd been in this room, you hadn't even dared to look at him.

Torn between the deep-seated prey instinct that urges you to run and hide and the forbidden dark desire to submit to the dominant species, your mind goes haywire, causing almost physical pain.

It was a choice between fuck and death, and you were stuck in the middle. If you dared to turn your back on him, he wouldn't hesitate to rip your throat out with his teeth or rape you right there on the fluffy carpet, rough and animalistic.

In spite of the very real danger, the nymphomaniac half of your brain was happily imagining how nice it would be to feel the soft pile of the carpet against your skin as you were put on all fours and fucked senseless.

Embarrassing as it was to admit, bunnies weren't the smartest of creatures, more concerned with mating and satisfying an insatiable sex drive than anything else. Sometimes they lacked intelligence and common sense in situations where it was needed, and this was one of those times. So it was not surprising that you thought more about the carpet under your feet and the cock between your legs than the real and obvious threat to your fragile life.

All air and glass, too brittle and soft for this world; you were easily broken.

"Haven't they taught you any manners, pretty thing? Stop staring at the floor. I'll never believe he's more attractive than me, so lift your head up, bunny, and let me have a good look at your sweet face." The voice was deep and rich, with a kind of chocolate smoothness that glided over your skin like a forbidden caress.

The sensation was so clear and vivid that a pleasant warmth spread over your entire body with a gentle blush, and a tingling sensation began to tingle palpably in your lower abdomen.

You almost start to whimper in response, but you manage to suppress the humiliating sound deep in your throat and bite the inside of your cheek in pain.

His presence is so strong and commanding, so suffocating, that it feels like the whole world has frozen at his feet. The sensation burns you to the bone, and a primal, little-used instinct signals the impending danger, sending an icy shiver down the length of your spine.

The bunny's submissive nature can't help but react to such blatant dominance, and your body responds by sending out signals of submission, causing you to tilt your head slightly to the side to show him your gently exposed neck.

Your long ears flutter weakly at the sound of a velvety purr escaping the man's lips, and you let the muscles that are taut as silk ribbons relax a little, knowing he's accepted your gesture of submission.

"A good bunny is an obedient bunny," so as soon as the dynamic between you is cleared, you immediately follow the command he gave you earlier.

"I... I don't... Excuse me, sir." You stammer as you awkwardly try to formulate the right words and finally raise your head to look at the gorgeous man in front of you with the glassy stare of big, wide, open eyes.

"There you are, my cuddly little bunny. Such good manners, my pet. I wonder if you are always such a docile sugar thing, obediently following all instructions." He chuckles slightly, the mockery of it clearly audible in the soft sound. "Do you like what you see?" As if inviting a kiss, the tip of his pointed tongue flicks sensually across his voluptuous, plump lips. There is a flash of something in his seductive, languid gaze. A sense of knowledge. Feeling of power. Every move and every word were deliberate.

This was the beginning of the game between predator and prey. He seduced her only to tear her to pieces once she was in his clawed hands.

No one asked questions on your farm; you were always told what to do and how to answer. So his question, to put it mildly, has you confused, and you don't know what to say to him, or rather, what answer he expects from you.

The man before you is magnificent. The majestic face is like that of a fierce beast of prey and an angel of death rolled into one. Warmth surged to your face at the mere sight of him and sank to the depths of your soul in the same moment. What could you say? Are you the most beautiful thing I've ever seen? Even that wouldn't have been enough.

A pair of pointed ears could be seen between silky black curls that twitched with interest at every sound. Silver fur that felt so soft to the touch. Not as soft as your own, perhaps, but that did not diminish the desire to be touched in any way. The same silver shimmered in the lazy movements of his thick tail.

He was half-reclining in a large leather chair, as if he were sitting on a royal throne. His long legs were spread wide and covered in a pair of designer jeans that drew attention to his crotch. The outline of a large, thick cock was clearly visible through the fabric.

At the mere sight of him, lust spills deep into your loins. The sweet voice of approaching heat sings happily in your head, "The perfect mate, just what you need. He'll destroy you, satiate you, and tie you up with his big fat knot." These thoughts were so sickening, but that's what you get for being a bunny.

You had to shake them off. Good girls don't think about dicks. Especially when their lives are literally on the brink of death.

Tattoo lines ran down the length of his slender neck. There was a small scar where the mating bite had taken place. His skin was uneven and swollen in places. It was as if teeth had sunk into him several times in a row, overlapping the bites.

But there was one detail in the whole of his stunning appearance that made your eyes widen in fear, and the space between his thighs filled with the liquid honey of desire.

Wool in all shades of brown and sand, harmoniously woven into a massive, voluminous fur coat. It didn't take a genius to figure out who he was, and your pheromone-fogged brain would only belatedly realise that you were in serious trouble. There was only one species that could afford to wear fur in such a provocative and shameless manner.

A wolf. And an Alpha at that.

The ultimate predator. He was cunning, stealthy, and tantalising when he wanted to be.

The moment of realisation hits you like a lightning bolt. A nervous shiver runs down your spine, and your hands start to shake as you crumple up the hem of your white skirt. You look a little ridiculous in your pretty white outfit—all frills and lace. It was your idea of a sweet outfit. But it looks naively childish, almost silly, compared to the Alpha's luxurious furs and designer clothes.

He's clearly amused by your nervousness. The corners of his luscious, perfectly sculpted lips curve into a mocking, devilish smile. The sharp tips of his fangs are revealed, and your pulse races.

You've heard many stories from other bunnies about how tempting predators can be to natural prey like you, like moths seduced by flames and such. But how could you, such a gentle and sweet girl, be attracted to this alpha standing before you?

The way you squeezed your thighs together clearly showed how excited you were. The Alpha sniffs at this and then laughs deeply and darkly.

"Ah, you obviously like what you see, don't you, little slut? It turns out the rumours were true; all bunnies are such whores for dick. I was under the impression that we had an innocent creature on our hands here. Mmm, that's a shame, sweetheart."

You open your mouth to object, but all you hear is a soft whimper that makes him laugh even harder. The sound practically vibrates against your heated skin, a deep shade of burgundy spilling over your chubby cheeks in a humiliating blush.

And yet, you're a very stupid bunny.

"I want to see more of that slutty nature, but we'll get back to that later, sweetheart. Now tell me, do you know what you're doing here, Fluffy?" You squirm under the intensity of his gaze. His eyes are dark and so predatory. There's a hunger in them that's hard to hide, and it makes your heart beat so fast that you can feel every beat in your ribs, and your legs start to tremble harder than ever, but underneath all that fear, there's something else.

The tugging feeling of arousal in your lower abdomen grows stronger by the second, drops of viscous mucus moisten the silky folds of your pussy, and your panties suddenly become very uncomfortable, clinging uncomfortably to your crotch.

A new wave of sweet, tempting pheromones fills the room, smothering you with delicious sweetness, responding to your actions. Your head begins to spin, a numb sensation of excitement crawling out from under your skin and spreading throughout your body until it spills over your chubby cheeks in a bright red blush.

It was too twisted for your fragile mind, and you were furious at the terror and bliss hidden beneath it, but the attraction was too strong to deny. But for silly, sweet bunnies, it was the world's biggest mistake to feel and react like that. You're supposed to be this calm and brave bunny, not trembling with lust under that hypnotic black gaze. And you certainly shouldn't have found this wolf to be so attractive and so sexy.

But some part of you had already surrendered to him before you were even aware of it, and your body seemed to be unable to overcome the perverse attraction you were feeling.

You tried to convince yourself that it was all about the deep-seated instinct to procreate—the very natural rabbit instinct and the impending heat—but that would be self-destructive.

Good girls always end up with the big bad guy's dick in their mouth. And that wolf was big and mean. The fear of his sharp teeth sinking into your neck practically melted away at the thought of him tying you in a knot and fuck you so good you'd forget your name.

"Я... I don't know, sir. I'm a good bunny. I'm very obedient. Please believe me..." Your mind is a mess; you can't form coherent thoughts, and you speak in scrappy phrases that make no sense.

Your eyes start to water, and a lump forms in your throat, making it hard to breathe. It's like a sudden temper hysteria, as if all of your senses have been rebooted at once and you can't make up your mind how to react at the moment. Something inside of you snap, like a self-defence mechanism that has just been activated, and crystal tears will begin to flow down your face.

Here you are, a cute little bunny in a wolf's lair, left to be eaten by a big, bad wolf.

You finally realise that all this is happening in a wolf's den, where you are completely helpless and vulnerable to the danger represented by the handsome man sitting in front of you. The most important thing is that you have absolutely no idea why you have been brought here. The head of your farm has asked you to ride with him, and of course you have obediently agreed; you would never dare to refuse; it would be so disrespectful and rude, as your mother has always told you....

Oh my God, Mum! Did she know where you were? She must be worried. Isn't she?

Your heart is pounding in your chest, fear is coursing through your veins, and hot tears are stinging your eyes. Your left heel hits the ground a few times in a convulsive manner. The panicked sound is drowned out by the softness of the carpet—the same carpet that pleased you just a few minutes ago.

The wolf's eyes grew hungrier, lust blazing in them like a golden flame, and he licked his lips sensuously. The moan he lets out is nothing less than pure porn, and you shudder. Whether it's from sheer terror or from excitement, you can't tell.

His long tongue traced the outline of his full lips once more, and you understood the meaning of what he was doing.

He's tasting your fear. Oh, fuck.

It was no secret that all wolves were a little sexually perverted; they always found the display of primal fear extremely arousing and had a tendency towards dacryphilia.

One day, one of the bunny girls from your farm spent her mating season with one of the wolves from a neighbouring clan. She came back looking as if she'd been abused for years—bites, wounds, bruises, and hickeys—but her blissful sighs and her belly, swollen from all the sperm she'd received, said she had no regrets about choosing a mate.

For a bunny like you, sex with a wolf was like flirting with death. He'd tear you to pieces, and you'd be grateful. If you survived, of course.

Yet there was something deeply erotic about being at the mercy of this ferocious, godlike creature; helpless and defenceless against his cruel touch, his fierce stare, and his razor-sharp fangs.

You're almost feverish. Your cheeks are beginning to burn from the shameful excitement building up between your legs, your lower lip is quivering with barely suppressed sobs, and your palms are sweating from the hot, lingering, perverse sense of temptation that is bubbling under your skin like scalding water. It's so deadly and dangerous that it's almost blissfully pleasurable.

Cotton tail twitches nervously, and your long ears flatten against your head, the whole body trying to curl up into a ball in the hope of escaping that greedy gaze.

In the wolf's eyes, you become even more appetising—such a sweet little thing for his taste. He smiles sweetly at you—as sweet as a wolf's smile can be. This sudden change in his demeanour makes you swallow noisily the viscous saliva that has gathered in your mouth. The smile on those beautiful lips is so much softer, gentler, and almost motherly, and your body unconsciously relaxes, fooled by the feigned kindness.

Stupid, stupid bunny.

"Didn't they tell you, my sweet little bunny?" His voice is a wicked, velvety purr. Your fluffy cotton tail twitches nervously, as if warning you of impending danger, and you squeak weakly. "You're completely empty-headed, sweetheart."

Almost lazily, Alpha brings the glass of amber-coloured whisky to his lips and takes a small sip from it. His tongue is slowly rolling the liquid in his mouth; it is poking at his cheek in a vulgar way that is too obvious to be an accident. It's a deliberate move. The glass is set on the table with a soft clink, the echo of which is matched by your heel hitting the floor.

When he speaks again, his lips are wet, glistening with drops of alcohol, and you realise with a sense of humiliation that your silk panties are getting much wetter.

"My name is Seonghwa and I am the Alpha Leader of this house. Your farm owes me a debt of gratitude, my little one. I've been patient enough to wait for a while, but you bunnies are such damned greedy things, always wanting to take and expecting to get away with it just because of your pretty face. But you don't. It's time to pay your bills, and you're my sweet girl; you're going to pay me back everything your farm owes me. That's what you're here for." Seonghwa tilted his head sideways, almost childishly, and added mockingly. "Do you understand me, pretty thing, or do I have to repeat it to you again so that your tiny brain can understand it?"

He is blatantly humiliating you and openly mocking, knowing full well that rabbits are a little on the small side mentally and sometimes have a hard time taking in information correctly at first go.

You let out a half-whine, half-squeal, and shake your head negatively. Your fluffy blonde curls fall over your flushed face and stick uncomfortably to the thick candy-pink gloss on your lips. Right now, you look absolutely nothing like the well-behaved bunny you are.

"That… that's not true… Please don't do this to me, my farm; we are very good bunnies. Seong…sir, I am a good girl, the best bunny in the litter, and I have never taken anything from anyone." You respond with a soft whimper that turns into a loud sob.

You're a pretty pathetic sight to behold, but that only seems to turn him all the more.

Seonghwa places a dainty palm on the inside of his thigh, too high for propriety, and you shiver at the sound of his dark laughter. This action is a subtle, almost primitive, act of dominance. It is designed to draw attention to his large, hard cock hidden beneath the fabric of his jeans. His knot must be huge.

Your mouth fills with saliva at the thought and you swallow loudly, fluffy tail quivering and flicking slightly in response to his behaviour. Thoughts of what it would be like to be tied up by an alpha, for once in your life, make your breath catch in your throat. Apart from the gossip you've heard from the other bunnies, you're not even aware of it. You are wondering what it will feel like when the Alpha is tying you up with his knot and stretching your pussy wide open around it.

It's something that's on the edge of your sanity, and you're both scared and eager to rub your face on his cock, drooling all over it like a proper slut.

All of your nerves are stretched to the breaking point, and your mind is consumed by a fog of hormones and a mixture of terror. Your skin melts from the sensory overload, and your body begins to prepare itself for the fact that this man is about to ruin your life. You are almost desperate for what is about to happen.

His aura grows heavier, and finally, for the first time all night, you get a whiff of him. It's thick, enveloping, and evil—the smell of bitter almonds with notes of whisky, black cherry, and something else. Your nose twitched as you tried to catch the subtle note, and when you did, you sobbed loudly. There was a faint, subtle scent of blood emanating from it, a scent common to all predators.

In a reflexive response, you try to put as much distance as possible between yourself and the predator by taking small steps backwards. Somewhere in your chest, a feeling of panic is building up, and you can hear your heart beating frantically, pumping blood.

Even through the fog of excitement, your brain is responding to the real danger, telling you to back away, and you obediently follow its advice before your back hits something that's both hard and incredibly soft at the same time. As your trembling fingers sink into the luxuriously thick fur, the feeling of terror returns with redoubled force.

Somebody else was here.

Seonghwa growls, his eyes rolling back as he throws his head back. His mouth opens in noisy, deep breaths, as if he were choking to death, and the sweet pheromones fill the room even more than before. His thick tail flicks behind his back like a whip, and his body shakes a little, overflowing with the energy and lust he has suppressed. Your fear is like sweet ambrosia on his tongue, and he craves more; he wants to hear your scream, your hot tears, your terror, and your excitement pouring out of your tiny cunt.

Oh, baby, he's going to tear you to hell.

His hand squeezes his cock hard under the fabric of his jeans a couple of times, causing him to let out a passionate moan. It's a deep, animal sound, full of dangerous warnings.

And there's nothing but hunger in his eyes when he looks at you again. Seonghwa looks like he wants to rape you until you're numb, to fuck you to death, and to fill you to the brim until your belly swells with all the cum he's going to pour into you. And there's so much of it—somuch that it'll be pouring out of you for hours.

You whimper, every nerve in your body vibrating and tingling, and you try to take another step back, but the hard body behind you won't budge an inch.

"Oh, Fluffy, are you leaving us already? I just came to play." His voice was soft and a little feminine, and you could hear a barely concealed evil chuckle in it. He purred in your ear in a sensual way, and a pair of strong arms wrapped themselves around you in a tight embrace. Painfully digging into your soft curves were fingers adorned with massive silver rings. The man behind you mooed with satisfaction as he squeezed you even tighter into his arms. "Mmm… what a pretty pet we have here, Seonghwa. A tiny, sweet doll, how lucky we are to have you, huh? Such a silly, innocent little bunny in a den of big wolves". Soft fur wraps around you like a blanket as his cold, sharp nose burrows deep into the curve of your neck. Taking a deep breath, the wolf runs his nose along the pulsating scent gland. He must really like the smell, because you can feel the slight vibration of his growling against your skin. "You smell good - so delicious, fluffy - like peaches and cream. Makes me want to eat you alive." The man chuckles, playfully clicking his teeth against your neck as the slippery liquid moistens your thighs.

"As always on time, Hongjoong." Seonghwa remarks with an irritated tone.

"Don't be so greedy, Hwa. The scent of her excitement wafts through the house like an invitation." The Alpha behind you continues to fiddle with your throat. He runs his nose over your skin almost lazily, as if he has all the time in the world. "You can literally feel her taste on your tongue; you should have a look at Mingi and Yunho right now." He chuckles again and weakly bites the skin of your neck. You tremble all over in his arms, your fear heightened by the mention of other wolves, but with it comes a shameful sense of arousal, and you're clearly aware of how much is dripping from you. The thick, clear liquid is dripping down your legs and soaking into the fabric of your shoes.

Your heart flutters as they speak of you so casually, as if you are nothing more than a thing, a shiny new toy that has caught their attention. It's a knowledge that is simultaneously exhilarating and frightening.

So you try to speak to them again, to ask them to let you go to the farm, but all your words fall on deaf ears.

"Please..." Your voice sounds rather pathetic, more like a plea for their dicks than for a safe return to the farm. "I don't... I don't know what you're talking about. I'm a good, obedient bunny, and I owe nothing to anyone. You've got to be mistaken." You stammered, sobbing, turning your full attention back to the black-haired Alpha, belatedly noticing how faintly the blood-red frame of his bottomless black irises glimmered. "Let me go home, please. My mom is worried."

"Do you think we should let the bunny go, Hwa? She's so courteous, and she's got mum worrying about her." The Alpha behind you, Hongjoon, brings his hand up to stroke the velour base of your ears, and you make a small squeal as his fingers touch the sensitive spot.

"Aren't you just the most adorable pet, Princess? Don't worry, you've got another mommy to look after you now."

As Hongjoong rubbed the soft base of your ear harder, all rational awareness left you completely. Your ears have always been your erogenous zone, and you never let anyone touch them. You stifled a long, whimpering moan when your large front teeth dug painfully into your lower lip. You had to cross your knees to relieve the throbbing between your legs. But that only made more slick run down your legs.

Alpha presses his hips against your plump arse, and you can clearly feel the sheer size of his cock; it's hard, massive, almost palpably hot, even through the fabric, and despite the numbing excitement and lust of your impending heat, you realise that you'll never be able to fit something so thick and large inside you.

You let out a loud squeal at the thought and immediately covered your mouth with the palm of your hand, but it was of no use at all. Through the veil of tears, you can see Seonghwa's fluffy tail swaying upwards, interested in the sound, and Hongjoong letting out a long, languorous moan into your skin.

Wolves and their twisted, lustful minds.

All of it is driving them mad, making their cocks throb painfully in their trousers, and releasing even more of their pheromones. Your crystal-sweet tears on your cheeks, flushed with humiliation and desire; the terror frozen in your wide open eyes; that vulnerable, helpless look; and of course, the thick, creamy scent of your slime.

"My innocent bunny, hasn't anyone told you that there are many bad people in this world?" Seonghwa says with an exaggerated tenderness that makes his plump lips pucker up cutely. Every word that he says is a pure sneer at you, wrapped up in the velvety purr of his deep voice.

"Hwa, it's too hard for our sweet little pet; she's got air in her head." Hongjoong chuckling tauntingly again, and you notice, not without horror, that the distance between you and Seonghwa has shrunk to the extent that you are standing between his spread legs, the toes of your pretty pink satin shoes touching the hem of his luxurious fur coat. Hongjoong's actions were so distracting that you didn't even notice that he was bringing you closer to the main Alpha. Wrapped in a haze of seductive pheromones and lust, your head was indeed empty and light.

A sweet, empty-headed bunny. Such a perfect toy to be used for their amusement.

All Seonghwa has to do is reach out to stroke the soft silk of your thighs, and judging by the way his gaze slides to the edge of your skirt, which frankly left little to the imagination, and his nostrils flare as he inhales the creamy peach scent, the thought crosses his mind as well. And it would appear that he's not the only one.

Hongjoong's fingernails scratch the thin skin on the inside of your thigh like delicate, sharp claws, causing a stream of warm liquid to flow from your pussy. He growls contentedly as the sticky, sweet-smelling moisture remains on his fingertips.

"Is someone excited, fluffy?" His tongue is hot and wet, licking languidly over the swollen, scented gland, and your cunt clenches reflexively. Your face flares with humiliation. "You're such a dirty girl, my darling."

"I'm a good bunny." Slapping your heel against the floor, you protest weakly. Your lips curl into a cute pout by themselves, almost childish.

The scent of Alpha rises, and for the second time tonight, you lose your head at it—it's something so delicious, almost sinful, with notes of chocolate, rum, spice, and pink pepper. A sharp spark of excitement runs through your body, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

Your knees buckle, and if Hongjoon wasn't literally holding you, you'd be lying on the floor at their feet. That's where you belong. Turning you to face him, he wraps his fingers around your chin.

Hongjoon's just as strikingly handsome as Seonghwa, but unlike the long-haired Alpha's sensually seductive features, this one has sharper, almost demonic ones.

A truly wolfish smile—all fangs and hunger—plays on his red lips. A pair of pointed white ears twitch interestedly at your attention, and his tail sways lazily behind his back. He's also dressed in furs, a toxic orange and scarlet, and you can't help but notice how perfectly they fit him. It's as bold as his owner.

"Come on, fluffy; don't cry; let daddy take care of that sweet face." In long, slow motion, he licks the tears from your cheeks. Something seems to be breaking inside him as the Alpha rolls his eyes and moans gutturally.

Afraid to even take a breath, you freeze completely in his arms. The excitement rushes through your vagina, and your pussy clenches desperately against nothing. Your big, wet eyes don't move from his face until he meets your gaze once more. A look so dark and predatory that it makes you want to cry even harder than before. Only you can't tell if you're afraid of him or if you want to continue to please him.

"Bunny…you're just asking for a knot, aren't you? All these tears… you're driving me crazy, my angel." His purr is sweet as sugar. His hot tongue licks away your tears as his lips press against your plump, wet cheeks. "Let me explain this to you, my darling. Your "wonderful" farm gave you away to pay off a debt. My fragile little girl, you belong to us now. Ours to play, ours to fuck, ours to breed."

"Hongjoong is absolutely right, princess. From this day on, you belong to us, my bunny. You are such a jewel for our house. Maybe we'll even let the younger wolves play with you a bit. They're a bit rough around the edges, but I promise they'll be on their best behaviour around a beautiful thing like you. If they bite you, they'll lick your tiny cunt to make up for it."

Your left heel taps the floor a few times, and you manage to make a low squeaking noise.

"I'm not an object." You didn't even know who you were trying to convince—you or them. Of course you were a thing in their hands, nothing more than a pretty cock sleeve, and the words Hongjoong and Seonghwa had said a moment before had accurately described your position in their house.

The black-haired Alpha rose from his seat and towered over you. Up close, he's not just beautiful; he's godlike. Instinctively, you arch your back and tilt your head back so that your eyes meet his. His gaze is so searing, so sharp, that you feel your skin burning underneath as you begin to wriggle and whimper in Hongjoong's tight grip, the two Alphas chuckling merrily.

"Aren't you?" He raises an eyebrow at you in a mocking manner. The corners of his lips curl up in a mischievous grin, just enough to reveal the tips of his pointed fangs. "So tell me, bunny, what shall I call you?"

"Y/N." Your voice is no more than a whisper to him. Seonghwa's ears twitch in your direction with interest, and Hongjoong's warm breath kisses the sensitive skin on the back of your neck. They heard you very well. But that doesn't stop them from addressing you with a certain harshness.

Seonghwa's hand runs gently through your hair before he grabs a handful and pulls it out sharply. You squeak shrilly, and the sound echoes with their laughter, velvety and mocking.

They are large, warm, and deadly, and you look tiny in the midst of them; the difference in your size is so obvious.

"Speak up, fluffy. I want to hear that pretty little voice of yours loud and clear."

In the meantime, Hongjoong's fingers are already pulling at your hair on the other side, without any ceremony at all. His claws scratch your scalp for a second, and the stinging prick sends a shiver down the length of your back.

"Be gentle, Hongjoong; you don't want to break it before its time, do you? The puppies will go mad if they can't get their teeth into the bunny." Seonghwa chuckles.

He tilts his face towards you to lick away your tears as he watches you squirm in his mate's arms with sadistic pleasure. You can't help but notice that Seonghwa's tongue is much longer than the other Alpha's, so attuned are you to their every action.

"Be a good girl and do as you're told. You don't want to disappoint mommy, do you, Fluffy?"

Be good. That's what you've always been told. Be obedient, because that's what the perfect little bunny should be, and you would never dare break that rule. It's literally tattooed on the subcortex of your brain. Standards of behaviour and obedience have been pounded into your pretty little head for years, and even if your instincts weren't to please your more dominant partner, prey, or predator, it doesn't matter; your obedience reflex would definitely be kicking in.

"Y/N." This time, you speak clearly and loudly as you are asked. "My name is Y/N."

"Y/N." Seonghwa pulls. As if tasting your name. "Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, it sounds so sweet, bunny. Mommy likes it." He grins broadly at you, showing his sharp teeth, and your cunt clenches shamefacedly in response, releasing another copious amount of mucus.

You make a soft sound, something between a squeak and a wheeze, your tail tucking in, your long ears drooping and flattening against your head.

"So what are we going to do with you, Y/N?" Hongjoong rolls your name over his tongue as if he's licking you between your legs, sounding almost pornographic. You want to hear it over and over again, any way you can.

"I don't know..." It's such a shame, but your instincts take over your mind, making you flow like a waterfall, dumbing yourself down for their pleasure.

"Mmm, my little angel, don't you know?" Hongjoong's lips touched the bowl of your ear, the tip of his tongue licking the soft skin and teasing your already shy nature. "Do you want daddy to spoil you, fluffy?" He purrs, making your cheeks burn shamefully, and you desperately shake your head to say yes, heated and embarrassed.

All rational thought becomes a blur, and your clouded mind focuses only on the growing sensation of the void between your legs and the puddle of liquid flowing from it.

"Please." Tears roll down your face, and your knees buckle as you shake violently and begin to go limp in the grip of the wolf. Seonghwa sucks aggressively at the skin of your swollen scent gland, leaving a mark of his right to you, a mark of his superiority. You're nothing more than a pretty fuck toy, the cutest sleeve for his cock, and the perfect bitch for him to breed with. "Ah-alpha, I beg you..."

"Look at her, Hwa, such a polite girl. Begging and pleading like a well-mannered pet. Shouldn't we have a reward for her?" He puts wet kisses on your throat. The sound of his purring voice sends signals straight to your quivering, warm pussy. "Don't you want the big, scary wolves to breed this small, narrow cunt?" You draw in a sharp breath as you feel Hongjoong's hand move down, squeezing the inside of your thigh and forcing your legs to spread apart.

As the palm of his hand cups your pussy in a possessive manner, you wheeze for air, and Hongjoong gasps slightly at the sensation of how wet you are. A shiver runs through your body as the Alpha slowly rubs his fingers along your folds through your silk panties, filling the room with a wet slurping sound as the fluid pours out. His fingers glide over your needy clit, trailing lightly as you fall deeper and deeper.

"My angel, daddy is going to make sure that this sweet pussy is always fed and filled with his warm cum." His fingers rub roughly over your throbbing clit, through your damp panties. They slide lower, pushing the panties lightly into your hole, mockingly watching your body jerk weakly. The touch stings, the sensitive edges of your hole tightening instinctively around his fingertips.

You want to spread your legs as wide as possible for the Alphas in front of you. To show how ready you are to be used, to be stuffed with their cocks, and, of course, to be tied with their big knots. To let their rough, long tongues hit the weakest places inside you, to let them eat you up all night long until you pass out from screaming their names and the number of orgasms you've had.

"Alpha..." You say, your hips arching shamelessly as you try to push Hongjoong's fingers as deep as possible. Your chubby butt swings from side to side in a motion that invites him in. Eliciting a hiss from him through clenched teeth, your soft buttocks rub against the large, firm bulge. "P-please spoil me... I-I'm begging-I need you, p-please, I need you so much..."At the moment, you're openly sobbing.

Seonghwa's long fingers are running along the side of your jaw, lifting your face as you stare into his mesmerised eyes, completely losing all sense of reason.

He's so close; the luxurious fur of his coat caresses your naked skin, burning where they touch. Their expensive furs envelop you, trapping you in a cage of hot bodies. The only thought in your head is the desire for them to spread you out on those furs and fuck until you can't stand it anymore, and even after. All you need is for them to stuff you full and knotting up your needy hole.

You're going to be a good girl for them—the best bunny they ever had.

"Shhh, don't cry; mommy will take care of you, my princess. Come to me." Seonghwa's voice seems to have dropped a few octaves, becoming more hoarse and hungrier than it was before. "Give me a taste of that sweet mouth."

Your face lifts obediently as he asks, and the next thing you know, his lips are burrowing into yours, burning painfully. Your eyes widen for a moment, and you are in a state of panic.

You weren't good at kissing. All those lazy, soft touches of lips you exchanged with some of the bunnies on the farm could hardly be called a full-fledged kiss, and they certainly didn't compare to the way Seonghwa devoured your mouth.

He pulls away from you for a moment as you squeal against his lips. While you're distracted by Seonghwa, Hongjoong slide the fabric of your panties to the side. His nimble fingers push the sticky, swollen folds apart and give you incredible pleasure. Cottontail twitches, your breath catching in your throat.

"Feeling good, sweetheart? Do you like the way daddy is stroking your needy cunt?"

"Yeshhh, it feels so good."

"Don't let yourself get distracted." Seonghwa digs her fingers into your skin and turns the touch into a painful grip. "Now mommy will teach you how to kiss properly. Open your mouth for me, darling." In obedience to his command, you open your mouth to find his lips attacking you with renewed force. As you unconsciously reach out to him and press harder against those plump, plush lips, the Alpha moans in approval. He sucks your lower lip between his sharp teeth before biting down hard on it, only to then stick out his tongue and run the rough appendage over your bruised lip in a soothing manner. An action that leaves you gasping and clutching the luxurious fur of his coat with your hands.

Seonghwa's long tongue slides between your teeth and presses against yours, licking your palate and pushing deep into your throat, literally licking your mouth from the inside out. His silky appendage moves sinfully, sliding and twirling in teasing motions that make you dizzy and your toes curl. You are intoxicated by the sweetness of the pheromones on his tongue, which enter your mouth with his saliva. Liquid desire builds up between your thighs. Viscous, transparent strands of your juices flow directly into the palm of Hongjoong's hand, down his wrist, and soak into the sleeve of his fur coat. The pain between your thighs is almost unbearable; your stomach twists and clenches, and you moan long and hard.

As his lips pull away from yours, thin strands of saliva hold your lips together before they break apart and fall to the side of your chin. The soft petals of his mouth slide down your face before he licks your lips, collecting saliva.

"Stick out your tongue, little slut." Hongjoong's subtle order echoes in your ears, and of course you do as you are told right away.

Your tongue is sticking out as you open your mouth as wide as possible. With glassy, tear-filled eyes, you watch as Seonghwa collects the saliva in his mouth and spits it out onto your waiting tongue. He purrs at the sight of a thick, viscous droplet rolling down your pink tongue.

"Swallow, darling." And you obliged.

"Aren't you the loveliest pet we've ever had? Such an obedient bunny for mommy." He leaned in again to kiss you almost innocently, which contradicted what he said next. "Now kiss Hongjoong and give him a taste of this fucking honey mouth before I spread you out on any available surface and stick my tongue so deep into your tight, wet cunt that you won't be able to live a day without it."

Your heel hits the floor a couple of times in a nervous manner, and Seonghwa runs his long fingers through your fluffy curls and turns your head in the direction of Hongjoong with all his might. His rings are clinging to your blonde strands, pulling them painfully as he moves, practically ripping them out of your head.

"There you are,, my angel; give daddy a kiss." He purses his lips sweetly and looks at you expectantly, the devil's delight and apparent derision dancing in his eyes. Oh, he is having so much fun watching you squirm.

"But, I... I thought that..." You babble confusedly.

"Don't be a disappointment to daddy, princess. You were told to kiss him." Seonghwa is pulling at your hair again, and it is hurting you.

In a clumsy attempt to repeat what Seonghwa had done to you, you tentatively reach for the other Alpha's lips. You stick out the tip of your tongue and lick weakly at the plump lower lip. Then you scrape at it with your big front teeth.

"Stupid bunny, do you even know how to do that?" Hongjoong laughs. Finally, he pulls his hand out from under your skirt and wraps it around your cheeks, his fingers digging painfully into the flesh as he does so. His fingers are wet and glistening with your own slime, and thick drops of it run down your cheeks where he is holding you.

Your velour ears twitch slightly as a whimper rises in your throat.

"You can't do anything on your own, can you, pretty? Of course, you don't. After all, you're just a cock sleeve; you have absolutely no intelligence. But daddy is going to teach you everything, sweetheart. Don't worry."

Hongjoong's kiss is as hungry and cruel as his humiliating words. His teeth are sharp, and his breath is intermittent and hot. You mindlessly submit to every insistent movement of his lips, letting him push his tongue into your supple mouth. Alpha kisses like he's hungry for it, deep and loud. Before you know it, you're moaning into his mouth and gripping the front of his gorgeous fur coat as if you'll slip away if you don't.

You've never been kissed like this before, and the sensation is like a current against your skin—painful, searing, traumatic, and shudderingly pleasurable—awakening something inside you you didn't know existed. Your insides are burning like fire, the desire blazing in your veins and roaring in your ears. All caution is long forgotten; you feel like you have a fever. Gasping through kissed lips, you look straight into Seonghwa's eyes as Hongjoong begins to kiss your slime-stained cheek and jaw.

Hwa is licking the top row of his fanged teeth and slowly rubbing his thumb over your swollen scent gland.

You whimper as Hongjoong presses his mouth to the other side of your neck again and again, worshipping the skin with his lips and tongue before finally nuzzling his face into the curve of your throat and inhaling noisily.

"Daddy..." It feels like you're drunk; your hormones are working so hard. Your hands come up to tangle in his auburn locks—so soft and silky—and you run your fingers through them as he plants long, lingering kisses on your throat and the curves of your breasts where the organza blouse allows.

"My sweet bunny, it's time for your reward." Seonghwa murmured somewhere deep in his throat with a soft grin. "Are you ready to take mommy's knot?" The word 'knot' made you whine even louder. Yes, yes, you want his knot. A thousand times yes.

"I want it; I want it badly, please." You beg, tugging at the collar of his fur coat.

"I'm sorry, what was that, fluffy?" Hongjoong's voice becomes very deep, yours in contrast sticking in your throat as he growls angrily: "I didn't hear you, angel..." Your breath caught in your throat again as his hand found its way under your skirt once more, his fingers pressing painfully against your throbbing clit, causing you to twitch and new tears to roll down your swollen cheeks.

"Please daddy, please mommy, knot me; I've been a very good girl."

"This is my little pet."

Hongjoong lets go of you, and his hands replace Seonghwa's as the tall Alpha turns you around in one sharp motion, pushing your body down. Your body practically falls into his large leather chair. He quickly throws your legs over the armrests; your short skirt scuffs up; and Seonghwa runs his fingertips over your wet panties, causing you to wriggle and squirm. Your legs are bent and spread, and you squeal softly as the Alpha kneels down in front of you, his luxurious fur spreading out on the floor all around him.

Hongjoong kneels beside you too, his fingers rubbing the base of your long ear. Your hands fly up to cover your face, flushed with embarrassment.

"Put them down now, bunny. I want to see you crumble under my tongue." Seonghwa growled, and you nodded in pure submission, slowly lowering your hands and breathing the words out of your lips before you could choke on them.

"Yes, mommy."

"Don't you think you have too many clothes on, Fluffy?" It's a question that doesn't have to have an answer and has a clear command at the end. "I want to see your boobs. Take your clothes off.

You obediently obey, despite how shaky your fingers are and how humiliated you must look right now—your legs spread wide, long strands of slime dripping from your knickers, forming a shiny puddle on the soft carpet, your cheeks red, and your mouth swollen and wet from being kissed.

Your tentative hands undo the buttons of your blouse, revealing your plump, heavy tits encased in a silk bra.

Once your blouse is completely undone, Hongjoong's insatiable mouth is immediately on your breasts, caressing them with hot, open-mouthed kisses. He squeezes your breasts together over your bra and lifts his eyes to you as you let out a shrill moan. You want to bring your legs together, whimpering and squirming in the uncomfortable position, but Seonghwa's broad palms hold your thighs painfully.

"They are very sensitive; please be gentle." You barely speak; the words are solid breaths and whimpers, your heart pounding in your chest as the top of your bra is pulled down, exposing your swollen, wet nipples to the two hungry Alphas.

The smell of milk fills the room with a new wave of pheromones, this time coming from both Seonghwa and Hongjoong.

A sharp, hot tongue slides over your nipple as Hongjoong stares at you through his half-closed eyelids. His mouth closes around the pink-candy flesh, the tip of his tongue slowly circling around it as he pulls back his cheeks and swallows the sweet liquid that pours into his mouth. Your other breast is lazily squeezed by Seonghwa's warm hand, making you tremble and whimper from the intense stimulation. It feels so good and new—not at all like feeding babies on a farm.

"Aren't you a complete delight, princess? Sweeter than sweet." More like a cat than a wolf, Seonghwa's tongue finds your other nipple and licks it slowly.

"I...Hm...I was helping to feed the little bunnies; we're short of helpers and nobody wants to, so I...oh..."

Hongjoong moans at the taste of it, and pulls away from your breasts for a moment to tear the strap of the bra with strength, tearing the thin silk fabric. Your tits are now completely exposed to them, the milk still gushing out and trickling down the length of your body. You are a dreadful mess, not at all like your normal tidy self. What would your mother say if she saw you now?

"Look at you, all flushed and ready for us, my angel".

At that moment, you felt Seonghwa bury his nose in your folds and take a deep breath. It sent a shiver of pleasure down your spine.

"Mommy, please…"

"You smell like peaches and cream, princess, I wonder if you taste the same." Seonghwa licks a long strip of the silk, his tongue hot and rough with saliva dripping from it, and God, it's too much for your innocent mind, but you can't tear your eyes away for more than a second.

Hongjoong takes your nipple in his mouth again, sucking hard, and you can feel the streams of mucus flowing freely from the folds of your wet vagina from all the stimulation you're experiencing.

Seonghwa lazily sucks on the silk partition between his mouth and your needy cunt. He makes soft sounds of approval as he licks and licks again, as if the taste of your mucus is something he desperately needs. Strong hands hold your hips still, even though you desperately want to try and close them around the handsome face of the dark-haired Alpha, to squeeze his tongue until you cum.

Your panties are pulled to the side so that Seonghwa can press his face against the warm, slippery folds and slowly begin to lick your labia. The pressure of the wet, open-mouthed kisses and the deceptively soft, caressing licks on your sweet skin are almost unbearable. A helpless sob comes from your throat as Seonghwa's tongue plunges into the heat of your sensitive hole, and you clench around it, trying to hold the sensation as long as possible.

Teeth slip out now and then, reaching out to the side of your vulva, teasing seductively, a sweet reminder that no matter how nice the Alpha is being to you, no matter how cute his fluffy tail is wagging, when he's eating your cunt, he's deadly. This simple fact makes your pussy throbbing with desire.

"That's right, bunny; let mommy enjoy your sweet cunt. I don't think I'll ever get enough of you; you really do taste like peaches and cream. Joong, you should have a taste of her; she's a real treat. Sweet, silly bunny." Seonghwa cooed and gave the thin strip of silk panties back to you, moving it so that it was between your labia. He pulls it a little tighter, causing that painful pressure on your swollen clit and friction between the sensitive folds. You feel a shuddering sensation, but the Alpha just laughs at it. "Don't be so greedy, fluffy, and say thank you. Otherwise, I won't let Joong play with you.".

Much to Seonghwa's delight, you react immediately and show obedience.

"Thanks mommy." A response that shows just how desperately you wanted to be tasted and gobbled up.

As soon as Seonghwa steps aside, Hongjoong is between your legs. You can finally enjoy the devilish beauty of this Alpha as his red-orange fur coat spreads across the carpet like a poisonous puddle. Hongjoong's face is unjustly handsome. It's stunningly framed by strands of soft brown hair; the red lips are insidiously parted in a broad but hungry wolfish grin; and the gaze is sharp and predatory. There is a dark, terrifying glint in it, like that of an animal that has found its perfect prey.

The prey instinct in you kicks in again, causing you to squirm and writhe, trying to close your thighs and squeeze yourself into a ball. Your hormones and your slutty bunny nature, on the other hand, want you to spread your legs even wider so that the Alpha can eat your pussy more comfortably.

"Is that all for me, angel?" He runs the palms of his hands down your trembling thighs, leaving long streaks of nails on your milky skin. Rude. "You look so sweet, blushing, and needy, like a feast ready for the wolf to eat, don't you, bunny?

"I...aah...I'm g-ready for you." It was hard to concentrate on the words as Seonghwa's hands started to squeeze your boobs again, causing even more milk to flow down your chest and body. Your pretty clothes were all ruined; what a shame.

"My good little bunny girl. Let's get rid of all the excess." Your knickers come off in one sharp motion, completely exposing your pink, oozing pussy to the two hungry wolves.

The new influx of sweet liquid oozing from the soft petal-like folds makes Hongjoong growl, his fangs showing, his gaze never leaving your wet, tantalising pussy for a second.

"Lick her already, Joong, or I swear I'll kick you out of here and keep her all to myself, or I'll let Wooyoung get to her first." Seonghwa's tail whips irritably behind his back like a whip, and he rolls his eyes at Hongjoong.

"If you let his pretty face bump into that pussy, you'll have to deal with a whole bunch of impatient puppies who can't keep their dicks in their trousers. Is that what you want, Hwa?" The auburn-haired alpha chuckles evilly and finally presses against your cunt, a dirty, open-mouthed kiss.

Tears of vague relief run down your face, and you feel Seonghwa's rough, long tongue on your cheeks again.

Your heel tried in vain to kick at the air, and your whole body shook with the fine tremors of Hongjoong's sharp, stinging kisses. Wet as syrup, the wolf's grinning lips cling to your hypersensitive, swollen clit and refuse to let go. Your back arched in an awkward position, and you pressed your pussy closer to his face, literally rubbing against him. His nose is pressed tightly against your wet mound, and his jaw works with every eating movement.

Your slick is everywhere—on his cheeks, his lips, his chin, dripping down his neck, and over the collar of his white t-shirt.

God, it's fucking dirty.

He is ruthless, the movements of his tongue wild, sloppy, and hungry as he digs greedily between your trembling thighs and dripping folds, sucking the sweet nectar of your excitement from the contracting orifice. Lips suck roughly at the edge of the swollen pink flesh, and your shamefully wet insides clench in a disappointing void. Clawed fingers dig painfully into the softness of your thighs, leaving blackened bruises.

A high-pitched squeal gets stuck in your throat as Hongjoong's thumbs force your tender labia apart and his tongue slides deeper. The sensation is almost heavenly. Streams of viscous mucus pour out of you like a waterfall into that beautiful, insatiable mouth, and your whole body shudders in short spasms. Your heel twitches desperately in the air, kicking in vain, and your ears fall back to your face, drooping and muffled with pleasure.

"Ahhhh... daddy."

Seonghwa's fingers wrap around your chin, squeezing painfully, and you lift your head so you're looking into his eyes.

"All your pleasure is mine. Only I will decide when to fuck you, who will fuck you, and how long it will last. When you cum, you will look at me and only me, no matter whose face or cock is in your cunt or tight arse. Do you understand, mommy, my sweet slut?"

Barely aware of all that is happening, you at least try to answer; your mouth opens, but the only sound you make is a long, drawn-out moan.

Apparently that wasn't the answer he wanted, because his other hand snakes down your body, slapping your clit with palpable force. Electric shocks shoot through your body, and you wriggle in the tight grip of the two Alphas, practically folded in half in the uncomfortable leather chair.

"Do you understand me, pet?"

"Yeah, yeah, I understand... I understand you, mommy." You shake your head like a doll to confirm this, and a new wave of sobbing sweeps over you.

Hongjoong pulls away from you for a second, his whole face soaked in your sweet slime, and his gaze is wild and unfocused, as if he's drunk.

"Fuck, I can never get enough of you, fluffy. Daddy's precious princess has the sweetest, most beautiful cunt in the whole world."

"Of course, Joong, that's our bunny." Hwa presses his fingers even harder into your face, the touch turning into a brutal grip. His fluffy tail swishes enthusiastically behind his back. The gaze of Seonghwa's bottomless, hypnotic eyes turns to Hongjoong. His sensual, kissable lips stretch into the exact same toothy smile as the Alpha between your thighs. "Do you want to make it even sweeter?"

It's only a moment before the palm of Seonghwa's hand slaps your swollen, mistreated clit once more. Your body ripples with sharp pain mixed with blissful pleasure. It's a wild mixture of sensations, resembling a combination of sweetness and sharpness.

"Try it, it's definitely better now." He laughed joyfully, like a child, looking down at you.

As soon as the burning sensation has subsided, Hongjoong's mouth locks onto your battered clit, mercilessly sucking and licking it with his hot tongue. He's so insatiable, possessively devouring his beautiful princess's exciting cunt, his face practically smothered in pussy. His hungry mouth is vicious, and his appetite is endless as he devours his selfishly greedy pleasure and demonic features soaked in the sugar nectar of your slime.

As the ferocity of his mouth grows—hungrier and hungrier—you try to pull away, too sensitive and overwhelmed, but a painful slap on your thigh stops all movement.

"And where are you going, fluffy? Daddy's not done playing with you."

Long fingers slide between your delicate creases, opening them wider for second Alpha. Hongjoong moans in appreciation as he gains more access to your quivering hole, swallowing the juices pouring from you with a loud grunt.

He chuckles in sadistic amusement, gazing up at you through impossibly long and thick eyelashes before his predatory wolf lips pull away from your clit to tell:

"Cum for daddy, bunny. Fill me with your cum."

It only takes a second for your body to obediently follow his command, and you come with a high-pitched moan. Huge jets of fluid are spurting out of your used pussy, forming a puddle of it under your arse and dripping down onto the floor.

Your glorious, twisted screams of agonised ecstasy and super-sensual sobs filling the room are music to the ears of these two Alphas.

Seonghwa bends his face over your cunt in order to prolong your orgasm and sucks all the juices out of you as if he were dying of thirst. The sound is utterly animalistic and disgusting, but it makes the fucking slime squirt even harder. Hongjoong's mouth keeps up, sucking mercilessly and lapping at the lush, honey-soaked folds.

The only sounds that come out of your dolly lips are the whimpers and hoarse moans of despair that are so beautiful to them. In the eyes of Seonghwa and Hongjoong, you look amazing - a gorgeous, broken thing, all flushed and obedient for their pleasure.

You should know what disgusting and perverse things they will do to you and how much they will ravage your innocent and fragile body. The party has just started.

These thoughts make their cocks throb and flow in pain, and the knot at the base of it swells up. Seonghwa and Hongjoong look at each other as they keep licking you methodically. Their tongues meet in long, sweeping strokes, caressing each other and mixing all your flavours together. You twitched weakly, half lying back in the chair, limp and exhausted from orgasming.

"Don't you dare fall asleep, honey. We were just at the beginning of our game."

2K notes · View notes

astonmartinii · 1 year

Text

babysitter duty | max verstappen social media au

pairing: max verstappen x reader

an emergency meeting at red bull means max finally meets the horner family babysitter and chaos ensues

note: i will obviously not be using christian's real kids in this, this is a work of fiction. there will be no real pictures of his kids, neither will i use their real names (i actually have no clue what they are and cannot be bothered to google it lol)

yourusername added to their story

[caption: when all the big businessmen crash baking night]

yourusername

liked by yourbff and others

tagged: yourbff

yourusername: last weekend before the eff won starts again i.e. my last weekend before my only friends are literal children

view all 27 comments

yourbff bring the kids out me thinks

yourusername my boss literally follows this account dumbass

christianhorner do not take my children clubbing

yourusername YES SIR 🫡

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, christianhorner and 223 others

yourusername: wasn't raining in oxford for once so a picnic was only necessary

view all 10 comments

yourbff they're so so precious

christianhorner who taught her that sign?

yourusername you did??? stop swearing so much in drive to survive sir

maxverstappen1 she's not wrong

christianhorner why are you here?

maxverstappen1

liked by danielricciardo, yourusername and 601,778 others

maxverstappen1 best way to start the season and to end a ten year drought in Bahrain!! thank you to everyone in the garage and all the fans in the stands

view all 10,865 comments

yourusername smashed it maxy

maxverstappen1 why thank you i'm blushing

user67 what. the. fuck. is that ^^^

themaxverstappenstan33 i am actually bamboozled

danielricciardo ignoring whatever meltdown is happening in these comments - congrats max !!

yourusername added to their story

[caption: school run days]

maxverstappen1 added to their story

f1wagsupdates

liked by f1girly77, likedbypierre and 77 others

f1wagsupdates this is y/n y/ln, she's a live-in babysitter for christian horner and more recently, she seems to be the one catching max verstappen's attention. as far as we know they first met after the top officials at red bull met for an emergency meeting at christian horner's home - we know she was present because she posted on her story with one of the kids baking during the meeting. since then she has been commenting on his posts and max posted a picture of him with a girl on his story in an outfit y/n has posted in before. do you think they're cute?

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yourusername someone fancies themselves a detective

user34 oof she gagged yall

hugsforcharles tbf she has a point, you guys are digging way too into all of it

lilacverstappen i know this is a gross invasion of privacy but i kinda think they're cute

user33 you're not wrong

maxverstappen1

liked by yourusername, pierregasly and 1,206,781 others

tagged: yourusername

maxverstappen1 fuck u sherlock holmes i'll decide when i announce my relationship ... anyhow, you're cute, sorry christian but you're going to have to find a new babysitter

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yourusername I LOVE YOU MAXY but i love those kids more so looks like you're movign to oxford

maxverstappen1 i never agreed to that

yourusername say goodbye to the tax free life and say hello to crayons and picnics

christianhorner you'll have three very angry kids to deal with max, but aside from that, i'm very happy for the both of you

yourusername love you bossman

maxverstappen1 love you bossman

danielricciardo this is not usually how this plot line ends

landonorris STOP RIGHT THERE OLD MAN THIS IS A WHOLESOME POST

yourusername

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yourusername add max moving into christian's house to ur f1 bingo cards - you can't take me away from these kids, they're kinda my only friends

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maxverstappen1 i've been here one day and i'm convinced @christianhorner ur kids are evil geniuses

yourusername obvs they are maxy, they're salty spice's kids

user46 omg she calls him salty spice as well

christianhorner don't make me regret giving you a room near mine

yourusername GET YOUR MIND OUT OF THE GUTTER CHRISTIAN... maybe invest in some ear plugs ;)

christianhorner consider this your eviction notice

note: bit of a random one lol but i had fun. i know people don't like christian (for good reason) but he's the one it worked with. ALSO my asks are open now !!! so ask away xx

#f1 imagine #f1 instagram au #f1 x reader #f1 #f1 x you #max verstappen #max verstappen instagram au #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine

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tamurilofrivendell · 9 months

Text

Arranged | Thranduil x Reader

Read on AO3

Pairing: Thranduil x Female Reader

Summary: The Mirkwood courts having successfully pushed Thranduil into accepting a new queen through an arranged marriage. However, he cannot seem to help comparing them to his former wife. When tensions run high and reader calls the whole thing off, Thranduil realises the error of his ways.

Content etc: Thranduil being a little bit of an ass I guess. Angst. Fluff.

Prompt: number 32 & 39 on this list

requested by anonymous (I’m sorry this took literally forever and I’m sorry if it isn’t exactly what you wanted!)

word count: 4.6k

tags: @firelightinferno, @achromaticerebus, @coopsgirl, @birbixo0912, @desert-fern, @ancient-rime, @lady-of-imladris, @weepingdreammarvel, @asianbutnotjapanese, @deadlymistletoe

“This is wrong.” Thranduil’s voice snapped you out of your tangled thoughts and you lifted your head with a confused frown, looking back at him.

"What is?" You asked, not even having had any clue as to what it was that he was working on over there on the sprawling couch of his large private library.

Thranduil looked up and met your gaze. "The guards you have picked." He gestured to the paper in his hands as if it should be obvious. "They are not of a high enough level to guard the Queen."

“Oh.” You gave him a quizzical look, tilting your head. You weren’t entirely sure about levels and the like. Nobody had said anything yesterday. Nobody had even really told you much at all, in all honesty, you had been sort of left to fend for yourself. “I... didn’t know anything about that. I just had to watch them fight and pick, you said. They appeared good enough for me. I think they would do just fine.”

The Elvenking blinked at you for a moment, his thoughts more critical than he would have liked. If you had not been sure, why had you not asked? Deep down, he knew that you could not possibly have known to ask because he had not told you that you could, or should. He’d told you to pick your own guards and then left you in the training grounds to attend a council meeting. However, Thranduil had simply assumed you would have asked for help or clarification if you had needed it. And clearly you had if this list was anything to go by. As it was, you had not wanted to cause a fuss, or look foolish, or add more work to the king’s heavy load. The soldiers showing off their skills had seemed capable enough and that had been all you’d thought you needed to look for. Besides, how would you know anything about their levels? You still did not yet know everybody here.

Thranduil’s silence was uncomfortable but then he simply tsk'd and lowered his gaze again. He shrugged, almost to himself, but he did not sign off on the document. He simply scored something out before setting it to one side to go back to later. He would pick, he decided. If he let you choose low levelled guards, how would they protect you?

She would have chosen better, he thought, though it was there and gone again so quickly that he did not notice he’d thought it at all.

You eyed him for another long moment before you moved to leave the library, heading away down the corridor. He had been in a fairly strange mood all day and you supposed you should leave him to it. Not bad, exactly, just... distracted, perhaps.

Most likely he was still struggling a little with this entire situation and you couldn't really blame him for that because it was still so very strange for you too. To have wound up in an arranged marriage with the King of Mirkwood. You yourself were from Lothlórien, daughter of an important elf in the Lord and Lady's court.

While unexpected, you could see the positives in such an arrangement and, truthfully, you liked Thranduil. He had been kind to you, at least when you first met and agreed to this. However, now that you had actually moved here, it seemed a little like he had been taking offence to every single decision you made. He’d give you things to do and then seem unsatisfied with the way you had done them. It was frustrating but you could only assume he was stressed and that he would soon relax.

You went to sleep that night hopeful that tomorrow he would be in a better mood.

You found him in his study the following afternoon and felt relief when he looked up and smiled at you. "I hope you slept well. Are you prepared for the feast tonight?" He asked, holding his hand out to bid you closer.

"Mostly. I just have to decide what to wear." You told him, moving into the room and seating yourself beside him. “It is still between two dresses.”

He sat there looking at you with an expression that you couldn’t quite decipher and it was almost as if he was studying something in your very soul. “Oh? You are not... set by now?” It seemed far too late to not have the entire outfit prepared.

You shrugged, always having been a bit more carefree and lazy in your decision making. You were a bit of a procrastinator and did not altogether mind if you left things to the last minute. Sometimes this was simply because you just... forgot. A far cry from the King beside you, of course. Also unbeknownst to you, a far cry from the Queen who had come before.

Thranduil raised an eyebrow but said nothing more. His displeasure, however, radiated from him in waves in the silence that followed as he looked back down at the paperwork on the desk before him.

"Thranduil?"

"What?" He did not look up.

“Something troubles you.”

He responded with a non-committal grunt and you frowned at him, watching as he pretended to read whatever was on the desk but you could tell his mind was now elsewhere. You sighed and stood to leave the room.

As you turned, Thranduil’s hand suddenly reached out and grasped your own. You turned to find him looking at you, a soft smile on his lips once more. “You will look beautiful whatever you wear.”

Returning his smile, you ducked your head to hide the blush you could feel about to spread over your cheeks, and quickly took your leave.

Thranduil watched you go and then leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh. He liked you, he always had, but you were not quite what he had expected when he had finally relented to the pushing of his court to take a new Queen.

He had obviously agreed you would be a good choice. Your station in Lothlórien, your family tree, put you in a very good position to knowing how things worked... yet not entirely, it seemed. Something was a little... off now that you were actually here in Mirkwood with him.

Oh, you were beautiful, there was no doubt about that. You made him laugh. He enjoyed your company. There was simply something niggling at him in the back of his mind, something he couldn’t quite figure out.

The feast came quickly, too quickly for you as the time just flew past. You had gotten caught up doing something completely unrelated and frowned when a maid rushed in to find you. Her relief was palpable but you didn’t understand it until you realised the time and she had ushered you back to your room to get ready.

Thranduil was irritated. There had been a delay - nobody had been able to find you - and you were not ready for the feast. You were not here, and it took so long that he had to walk into the room alone and act as though nothing were amiss. He had promptly sat down and thrown back a rather large gulp of strong wine, irritated by the hold up.

When you entered the room - finally - you were a vision. He took in your hair, the ornamentation in it and around your neck, and the royal blue dress with pleased eyes that did much to allay his frustration.

Then, you went and tripped over the hem of the damned thing because you had not bothered to see that it had been properly fitted.

Luckily, you were close enough to the table at this point for him to grab you by the arm and keep you upright, but his irritation only grew at the scene that your little stumble had caused. The attention you caught was not the type he wished for, nor were the titters of laughter around the room.

She would never have left the fit of the dress to chance, nor would she have embarrassed him as such.

This time, Thranduil did catch the thought, but he quickly dismissed it as a simple stray musing that did not mean anything.

“Are you alright?” He asked, a little tersely, as he refilled his glass of wine.

You nodded, hardly noticing his tone yet as you willed the embarrassed flush in your cheeks to go away. You felt like the entire room had seen that and you cursed yourself for not even thinking that the dress might need proper attention. It just had not occurred to you.

“Yes. Thank you.”

He grunted and you finally looked up at him and noticed the frustration he was trying to bury shining in his eyes. You frowned, feeling even worse. He could not be... angry at you? Could he?

After picking at the food on your plate and watching one dance (you dare not join in with your dress!), you rose and made your way from the table out of the room without a word. You were not in the mood now. Reaching up, you tore the circlet from your head as you walked down the hallway as quickly as you could.

“Where are you going?” Thranduil’s voice came from the door you had just exited and you realised that he had followed you out.

Turning, you eyed him cautiously for a moment, trying to ascertain his mood, but once more he was quite the mask. “I am tired, Thranduil. I am going to bed.”

He nodded, moving closer. His gaze dropped to the circlet in your hands. “You could not have waited until you were behind a closed door?”

“What does it matter?” You asked, shrugging at him.

Thranduil didn’t respond but his brow creased just the slightest bit. Did it matter? He began to walk down the hallway and you turned to walk with him since it seemed that he was heading in the same direction you were anyway.

“Are you upset?” You ventured after a while, watching him come to a halt as your question reached his ears.

Thranduil blinked. Was he upset? He supposed that he was feeling frustrated. Annoyed. Angry, perhaps. Why? He turned his head to look at you, a soft frown of confusion on his face as he shrugged. “I suppose I am. A little.”

“What’s the matter?”

He didn’t answer right away because, truthfully, Thranduil could not fully put into words what his problem was. What had gotten him so riled up over something that, logically, he told himself did not truly matter. Thranduil shook his head. “I am not rightly sure.” He offered his arm then. “Come, I will escort you to your room.”

But you would not be shut down quite so easily, and you shook your head. “You must know what is wrong.” You insisted. “How can I help you if you do not tell me?”

Thranduil frowned at you, his frustration growing once more. “I do not need your help.” He stated firmly, moving his arm closer so you would take it, but you still did not take it.

“Well, you need something. You-”

“Stop. Please.” He snapped lightly, dropping his arm since it had become clear that you were not going to take it. He turned around and took a step away, not wishing to engage in this right now.

“Thranduil!” Was he truly going to just turn away and leave? In the middle of a conversation? You could not quite believe it. “Just tell me what is wrong! Tell me!”

“She would not behave thus!” He thundered as he spun back to face you, and then immediately fell silent. Horror seemed to fill him as he realised what he had just said.

You frowned softly back at him, shaking your head. “Who-” Your mouth snapped shut as you stared back at him, suddenly understanding with a sick sort of certainty.

She. Her. His deceased wife.

She would not behave in this manner. She would not behave how you were behaving. She would do things ‘the right’ way. She would do better.

You could not hide the hurt that bled across your face as the two of you stared back at each other in the long, deathly silence that followed. Thranduil seemed to be frozen, utterly stricken, but you did not see it past your own dismay. Then, you were gone. Turning and fleeing from him, away down the corridor towards your own rooms.

Thranduil did not see you for two days.

He tried to seek you out that same night but he had not been able to find you and, so, retired to his chamber to wait until you were ready to talk. However, it seemed that you were not willing to talk at all as, two days later, he received word that you had been seen sneaking into the stables with a bag full of your things.

Had it not been for you carrying your own belongings, Thranduil might have dismissed it and told them to simply follow you from a safe distance to keep you safe. As it was, he was immediately up from his chair and out of the door before the guard who reported to him could blink.

He rushed to the stables, finding you still trying to attach a bag to your horse, clearly frustrated that you could not get it secure. The animal, too, seemed unamused with your attention - blowing air through its nostrils and scuffing its feet.

“Going somewhere?” He asked quietly from the doorway, causing you to jump because you had not even heard him arrive, too focused on your irritation.

You stared at him for a second and found that looking at him hurt. You did not respond, you just turned your attention back to the horse and continued fiddling with the bag but nothing would attach the damn thing to the animal so you eventually huffed in exasperation and let it drop to the floor of the stall.

A silence followed.

You could feel Thranduil’s eyes on you but you did not look up at him.

“I never meant to hurt you” Thranduil said softly after another moment and you could hear the regret in his voice but you still didn’t look up at him.

Instead, you shrugged. “But you did.”

“Yes.” He agreed quietly, sighing. “I did.”

Of course, you did not resent him thinking of his wife. How could you ever? She had been a good Queen and an even better wife from all that you had heard of her. You had never met her, not even on a trip she’d taken with the King long ago to Lothlórien. But you had heard a lot about her and she sounded amazing. She was the love of his life, the mother of his only son, and you truly had never expected to replace her but to have him compare you in such a way... it had hurt, you could not deny that.

You were so different, you understood that, but... you were two completely different people and it did not feel fair for Thranduil to hold you to this standard that you had not even realised you had to meet. Yes, you were to be a queen and yes, you had a lot still to learn especially about Mirkwood and its own politics... but you were trying. You really were! All you needed was his help, not criticism. How could he not see that?

“Please just talk to me.” He said, his voice full of obvious unhappiness. His eyes dropped to the bag on the ground. “Where are you going?”

You held in a sharp comeback about why you should be expected to talk to him when he did not wish to do the same two nights ago. At his question, your gaze turned to the bag and you sighed, shaking your head. You bent down to pick it back up and began once more attempting to fasten it securely to the horse. “Home.” You said.

Thranduil blinked. “This is home.”

You frowned and your head snapped up to look at him. “This is your home... and clearly I am not welcome in it.” You hated how your voice shook just a little. You wanted to sound brave and firm, not like a hurt little girl. “I am returning to Lothlórien. You can call off all the arrangements.”

Thranduil stared at you then, watching while you struggled with the bag, as the reality hit him. You were going home, you were... calling off the wedding?

His arm shot out and he took hold of the bag, wrenching it gently but firmly from your grip. You gave a sigh and lifted your eyes to his face. Gods, why did he have to be so handsome? You shook your head at him, throwing your hands up in a defeated manner.

“Do not leave.” He said, his voice quieter than he would have liked. He was certain it shook a little... but you did not notice.

“Why?” Was all you could ask, scoffing a little as you shook your head again. “Why should I stay here, Thranduil? I did not come here because I have no other options, I came here because I... I like you and I trust you and...” You trailed off, lowering your gaze for a moment, one of your shoes (which were absolutely not suitable for riding a horse in the first place) kicking at the straw covered ground. “I will not... settle for a life where I am never good enough, where I am always second best. A life in the shadow of a memory. A beautiful memory, do not misunderstand, and one I would never want you to forget... but I am not her, Thranduil! I am not her and I never will be and I am sorry but... I cannot stay here, not like this.”

Another silence filled the stable.

You looked away, at the horse, running your fingers through its mane. The animal was no longer in a mood now that you had stopped messing with the bag. You watched as it lazily chewed on some hay. Thranduil still had your bag in his hands, his fingers anxiously fiddling with the strap, his eyes on his hands. He felt ashamed and for a long moment he could not speak.

“You were never second place to me.” He whispered eventually, his eyes filling up with tears as he realised just what he had done. What he had made you feel. What he had made you think. “Never. You are not. I...” He faltered, grasping for the right words but he could not find them. “I know... what I said, what I have done, it was wrong. I cannot excuse myself, I do not even know why I...” He paused, frowning.

You didn’t look up, though you could see him in your peripheral vision. He seemed to be struggling. He was not always good with words when it was not about politics or battle.

“I did not realise I was doing it at first,” he continued after gathering his thoughts once more. “There is no excuse and I do not say this to make one. I simply... she is the only queen to have ever graced my rule. I was thrust onto the throne so quickly... and I was grieving and she had to... truthfully, she had no choice but to take control of many things until I was more... present.” More in the moment after watching his father die, after that dreadful day, after suddenly becoming a king. “My mother died long before I even began to pay real, proper attention to anything... royal. I... my wife was the only queen I have ever known here, I remember how she did everything, I grew used to it. I forgot that you... do not know and I did not help you properly when I know that I should have. So I compared you to her and it was not fair of me. You did nothing wrong. I am sorry. So, so sorry.” He did not really expect forgiveness, he did not feel that he deserved it, he did not feel that he should receive it. To have hurt you... it pained him. “I love you.”

You turned your head from the horse to Thranduil’s face, the shock evident as you stared back at him for a few very long minutes. Had you heard that correctly? Did he... did he say...?

Over this time, you had developed your own feelings towards the king. He was not perfect, though to outsiders he may look it, but that was probably part of why you’d fallen for him in the first place. You had not been able to help yourself.

In the beginning, after he had approached you and your father with the idea from his council of an arranged marriage, it was not something either of you had rushed into. He had spent some time getting to know you better, for he did not wish to wed somebody he did not at least get along with. He’d been clear on that with his councillors and advisors. He’d written you letters after he returned to Mirkwood, he arranged visits for you to come and spend time with him. He showed up in Lórien once with no other reason than to offer you a bouquet of wildflowers he had picked himself, then he took you on a walk through the forest and the two of you just... talked. After all of that, it had been so easy. To say yes. To agree. Though you had known, you had known, that he would never love you. He cared for you enough, you knew that, but as a friend. He would never love you as he loved her. At least that’s what you had presumed.

“You...?” Was all you could say, still staring at him in absolute shock.

Thranduil nodded, the tears in his eyes that he’d managed to keep at bay finally beginning to spill down his cheeks as he blinked. He glanced down, embarrassed, lifting his thumb to his face and swiping away a tear. “Yes.” He whispered. “I... I should have said it before, I should have... shown it better. I am so sorry... but please.” He lifted his head again, his eyes wide as he looked at you quite desperately. “Stay. Please... do not leave me.”

You were staring at him, frozen for what felt like a long time, and Thranduil began to lose hope. You would leave and he would never see you again all because of his own stupidity. He knew you did not love him that way, that you had agreed to this as his friend, but he needed you to stay here, he could not bear to lose you.

When your voice finally came, it was but a whisper, and there were now tears in your own eyes to match Thranduil’s. “...I love you too.”

Now it was Thranduil’s turn to stare at you. He looked like he could not comprehend what had just come out of your mouth. He looked like he did not dare believe it. You stepped towards him, your hand dropping from the horse as you reached for the bag in his hands. He let you take it and you swung it up onto your shoulder out of the way, taking one of his hands in yours. You were still hurt but you could not believe this had happened... and maybe this was just something you both had needed to go through, to be able to get past it. Something his mind had needed to work through.

“I love you.” You said again, a little louder. You felt his hand squeeze yours and you lifted your free one to his face, wiping away his tears. He looked like he dared not even hope that what you had just said was true.

“You do?” He asked then, his eyes softening as he gazed down at you while you wiped his tears away. His heart was threatening to burst out of his chest as he looked back at you. He was not fully sure he had even entirely admitted to himself that he loved you until right now. He’d felt it, he’d been aware of how fond he was growing of you despite those other thoughts, but he hadn’t fully come to terms with his feelings - he had not felt such love in a thousand years.

You nodded, your anger fading away, leaving both your hurt and your love behind. “Yes... I do.” You confirmed, sighing as you took his other hand. You heard his breath catch in his throat and you gave him a sad little smile. “I’m sor-”

“Don’t.” Thranduil said immediately, shaking his head firmly as he cut you off. “Do not. You have nothing to apologise for, you did absolutely nothing wrong. I am the one who was in the wrong. You will make a good queen. I should have told you this... I should not have gotten upset over such trivial things. Dresses...” He scoffed at himself. “None of that matters.” He said, glancing down shamefully. “I do not want you to think that I... that I do not appreciate you for who you are or that I wish you to be somebody else... because I do not.” He shook his head. “I love who you are, I love everything about you. I am so sorry.”

You could practically feel your heart soaring to the heavens. You simply could not believe that Thranduil felt this way about you and, despite your hurt over his words, you were quite overjoyed. You finally smiled and Thranduil took a steadying breath before he moved. He leaned towards you, slowly so you could turn or pull away if you did not wish it, but you stayed perfectly still and waited for him to kiss you.

When he finally did, it was like electricity. It was like something you had been missing your whole life suddenly clicked into place and you removed your hands from his to loop your arms around his neck and pull him closer. His own tentatively moved to hold you gently by the waist. When he broke the kiss and you opened your eyes again, you could tell by his expression that he truly felt the same, that he was floored by all of this, and you could see how deeply he regretted hurting you, making you feel inferior, second best.

“You will stay?” He asked then, still sounding a little uncertain, despite the fact you had kissed him and admitted you felt the same way. He was worried he might have ruined everything before he even got the chance.

You gazed up at him and you nodded. “Yes... I will stay. Of course I will.”

There was still a sadness in your eyes that broke Thranduil’s heart to know that he was the one who put it there and he vowed to do everything in his power to make up for what he had done.

“I will never make you feel that way again.” Thranduil told you, his voice extremely firm, his gaze sharp but loving. He lifted a hand to your face, cupping your cheek. “I promise.”

You smiled and he kissed you once more before he took your hand, leading you from the stables and back into the palace, back to the future with you that he was more grateful than he could ever express to have not forever ruined.

#thranduil x reader #thranduil x you #thranduil fanfic #lotr x reader #hobbit x reader #thranduil fanfiction

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asdfghjklmals · 1 year

Text

BLAME GAME✩༶‧˚

GENRE + T/W: sfw, fluff. daddy joke. WORD COUNT: 0.9k words. TAGS: boyfriend!gojo, satoru gojo x fem!oc. established couple. adoptedkiddo! megumi makes a small appearance.

SYNOPSIS: oc gojo girlfriend tries to play a prank on satoru, but he slips up and gets himself in trouble instead... AUTHOR'S NOTE: lol i saw a funny reel of this girl pranking her boyfriend and i got inspired. also used something from the jjk short stories. 😉 REMINDER: if you want to imagine yourself in oc gojo girlfriend's character descriptions instead, please do!

“satoru gojo!” you bellowed from the bedroom.

you heard his feet promptly shuffling to your room as your white-haired boyfriend peaked his head through the bedroom door. you repeated his name again.

“satoru gojo!”

“uh? yeah? that's me...” he stared at you, concerned and confused, walking slowly to the foot of your king sized bed.

“come here.” you said with no emotion in your face, using your index finger to lure him towards you. it took all of you to not burst out laughing in his face. it was amusing to see the soft and bewildered look on his face. he was really such an attentive boyfriend who loved you silly and he was truly worried.

“why are you calling me by my—wait, you never use my government name. we go by babe, baby, sweet cheeks, honey, and sometimes daddy in this household!” he stomped his feet jokingly, trying not to laugh because he couldn’t tell if this was a dangerous situation and if he needed to tread lightly. your lips twitched as you also tried not to laugh either or your cover would be blown.

“satoru, honey.” you said more calmly, but with a hint of danger in your tone. god, you deserved an emmy award for your acting.

satoru was going through all the events that happened today in his head, trying to figure out what he did wrong along the way. “we went shopping today, i made you your morning coffee perfectly may i add, i took out the trash, megumi did the laundry, and i didn't leave my socks around the apartment… so why are you using my government name like that?!”

“what do you think it is?” you questioned him.

“i literally have no clue. you should be having a good sunday so far and i was enjoying my day until you used my full name instead of baby. i haven’t even done anything yet!” satoru defended himself, scratching the back of his head. he was out of back up plans, it was time to resort to an emergency measure. kisses. lots of kisses.

he swiftly made his way over to your side of the bed and sat down next to your side, he grinned at you and tried to sneak a kiss on your cheek but you stopped him just shy of your face. his lips hit your palm instead. “you know what you did.”

“babe, what did i do? just tell me and i promise i’ll make everything right again,” he whispered as he kissed your ear. you felt the hairs on the back of your neck raise as you shuddered. he stared at you with piercing azure eyes, his sunglasses sliding down his nose bridge.

“why are you whispering?” you started giggling.

satoru gojo was a smart and calculated man (most days), but today, he was really at a loss. “why are you laughing?” he demanded to know.

“i saw the funniest video of a girl doing this exact thing to her boyfriend and you had the same reaction as him.” you kept giggling after explaining. your bright smile made your green eyes disappear, crows feet wrinkle, and your pearly whites glisten.

as much as satoru could melt by watching you laugh, he kissed his teeth in annoyance. “i really thought you were upset with me! you never use my full name unless i’m in trouble with you. i thought my ass was going to be sleeping on the couch tonight for sure. my neck already started to hurt thinking about it.” he dramatized as he massaged the back of his neck, but it wouldn’t be satoru gojo without the theatrics.

“i had to go through all the things in my head that would’ve upset you like not taking out the garbage, leaving my socks around the house, fighting with megumi, not putting down the toilet seat after peeing cause of that one time you fell in, not separating the white and dark laundry colors, or even when the kids and i were at the maid cafe last wee—”

and that’s when satoru gojo saw his life flash before his eyes. he covered his mouth quickly with his free hand, his eyes wide open in terror. you glared into his panicked blue eyes.

“satoru gojo! you went where?! and you took megumi too?!” this time, there was no acting in your tone.

EXTRA:

“come on, megumi, pick up the damn phone. don’t forget that i pay for your phone bill.” satoru gritted through his teeth. he had just received a 20 minute lecture on how megumi and yuji didn’t need to be in a maid cafe and that he didn’t have any business being there either. it was actually an honest accident that they ended up there. the kids followed him into the maid cafe where he was scoping out an abandoned building where some curses were lingering across the street. he wanted to use the building as his afternoon lesson with his students.

“what do you want?” the younger fushiguro picked up, annoyance in his tone of voice.

“well, that’s not a polite way of answering the phone that your guardian pays the cell phone bill for.” satoru quipped.

“it’s always something with you, gojo-sensei,” megumi sighed. 10 years of putting up with satoru gojo did that to people. megumi wondered how you dealt with him. you deserved a nobel peace prize in his eyes.

“well, (y/n) found out about the maid cafe,”

“and you’re in trouble with the boss. cool, i’ll see you at home la—”

“no, no. not just me, we are in trouble.”

“it was your stupid idea to go there! who the hell scopes out an abandoned building at a freakin’ maid cafe?” megumi couldn’t believe that he was being dragged into a punishment too. last time he got in trouble, you took away his kindle that you and satoru had gotten him for christmas last year.

the white haired sorcerer pulled a picture out from his wallet. it was a picture of megumi and yuji from the maid cafe. satoru cunningly suggested a scapegoat, “how do we somehow put the blame on yuji?”

DIVIDERS PROVIDED BY @/ANLIAN-AISHANG

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fatesundress · 1 year

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⭑ patience, please, and thank you. tom riddle x reader

summary. you and tom have always sought to best one another in school. it doesn’t help that upon graduating, you work for opposing shops.

tags. rivals to … rivals with benefits? lovers? there’s no real animosity just #flirting so i don’t know, SMUTT minors begone, fluff that may be ooc to some but Not Me, reader literally learns archaic latin for this man, poor boy x rich girl trope if you squint, pureblood reader (and mentions of pureblood marriage politics), explicitly f!reader this time sorry!, fem anatomy, fingering, piv, tldr tom riddle would be turned on by the culminated tension of an eight-year-long academic rivalry.

note. i was 5k words into something else (that is probably better) before this came to me and would not go away so. here it is. don't know where all the smut is coming from. head empty

word count. 6.4k

The bell to Borgin and Burkes knells low and hollow in your ear as you enter, and there he is. Prim waistcoat and perfect hair, tucking books away with a wave of his wand. Far too pretty a thing for a dusty place like this, you think, and you smile with your head held high, pretending to take in the inventory as if that's ever been your reason for coming here.

“You mightn't consider leaving at all," Tom says, regarding you briefly before returning to his books, “if you're going to return this often."

“Oh, Riddle, but then what would you do without my company? Talk to the bones?"

“A tempting offer when considering my alternative.”

He leans against the counter to watch you as you make your way down the aisle, fingers jolting as they brush the shelves of dark paraphernalia, preemptively casting a locking jinx on a particularly nasty skeletal hand that grabbed you once last year.

“Is there anything you're looking for?"

“Nothing in particular,” you hum as you peruse, “Curiosities of your friendly competitors.”

“Friendly,” he repeats, like he’s tasting a strange flavour.

You smile with just enough polished barb that you hope it bothers him. “Most cordial. And I am nothing if not the dutiful volunteer for the task."

It is an objective truth that you are good at many things. Tom is good at all of them and perhaps one more: being pushed significantly and never showing symptoms of breaking. You'd like to be the one to change that.

“I presume you intend to leave with something?" There's a challenge in his voice, clear as day, as he stands straighter, but — not bothered. Not bothered, just intrigued. His hands fold behind his back and his chin comes up, daring you to say a single snarky thing that isn't true — that you're here to taunt him. Not to buy a thing, and not to enjoy his company.

It was such a boring day before this. If he only knew, he might have a tad more sympathy.

“Breathe, Riddle — if you can through all the dust in here — I've plenty of money to spare; there’s no need to fret about me leaving empty-handed." You select a book at random to prove your point, waltzing closer to hand Tom four sickles from your coin purse.

You're pleasantly surprised to see him actually smile, the corners of his mouth stretching with only the slightest degree of mirth. He reaches out and takes the coins, setting both upon the counter before turning up his nose at the book in your hands. “It must be an enthralling read to capture your attention."

You smooth the cover over with manicured hands and shrug at the indecipherable title. “Well, I’m remiss not to have a clue. I believe it's in Latin."

He runs his hand along the book, thumbing the pages with a raised brow. “It’s a history text. Ancient Roman institutes of magic.” His gaze returns to you. “Will that be all?”

You roll your eyes. He would know a dead language — it's such a remarkably Riddle thing to do — probably just for the sake of knowing it.

“Yes, if that's satisfactory enough that I may be permitted to walk the premises without causing offence."

“Of course. Though I do expect a review of it soon," he adds, “to know whether my time hasn't been entirely wasted."

“A review?" You laugh. “And I suppose you ask that of all your customers? Mind the matter of it being in a language I don't know; it would take me a few months for a crude translation at best."

“Only my best customers," he says with a small shrug, as if that isn't a completely arbitrary standard he's just pulled out of nowhere. “In that case, you've the better part of a year to read it," he adds, and the smile on his face is less thin, less restrained, more cocky.

You raise a brow, scanning over the words on the first page as if hoping something will stick out. It's all gibberish. “I'm being timed now, am I? I don't recall accepting the task."

"Do you not?"

You scoff. "Of course I do."

“Or perhaps I could translate for you?" he suggests, “It's really no bother for me."

You should be offended — he's eternally eager to see you fail — but your stomach flips at the premise of a challenge you haven't felt since you were in school together, and most importantly, you never fail. “Give me a date, Riddle.”

“I think by Christmas would be fair. Does that give you enough time, or shall I set it a bit later?"

“Christmas," you agree, shaking his hand with all professionalism you can muster (this is, after all, a very professional exchange), turning away, and smiling to yourself as the shop bell tolls again.

It’s only weeks before Christmas when it occurs to you that this isn’t even for anything. There’s no prize should you win, no one else is aware of it, it’s a great waste of time when what began as a passable weekend hobby has now drowned you in English-Latin dictionaries and histories of Ancient Rome. The shop surpasses last year’s sales and you’re dozing off into your mother’s pastry dish during the family celebration. Even your father telling a rather pitiful tale of his Polyjuiced visit to Borgin and Burkes can’t keep your attention when he drones on about how easily he fooled Mr Borgin into remembering the details of some spat twenty years ago. Your brain is in a half-scattered language. It tugs you to what might be the most depressing December 25th of your life if you’re forced to give Tom the gift of your failure.

So you double-down. Your social life is nonexistent. You’re three quarters through the textbook and dreaming about duelling Tom under the Arch of Constantine, and he wins, and he wins, and he wins each time. It only propels you more. You’re downing Invigoration Draughts like a drunkard with a cradle of firewhisky.

And you do it.

You finish the damn book, you think you might have actually fucking learned Latin with how deep the words have rooted in your skull, and you win.

You win, in your prettiest dinner dress, snow clinging to your hair, wrapped in a brand new coat as the shop bell tolls and you step inside.

You’re grateful you don’t say as much (which you were planning on doing — planning on slamming the door shut behind you and carolling your bloody success) because it’s Mr Burke at the counter this Christmas evening, not Tom.

“...Miss?” He regards you with perplexity behind the counter.

You blink, recollecting yourself and stepping forward to shake his hand. “Mr Burke. My family wished to extend their best wishes for the new year.”

“Quite a gesture," comes a familiar voice from behind you as Tom steps out from the staircase, dressed in a dark suit and overcoat, like he’s just been out. He’s smiling. He looks disgustingly well.

You glance between the two men, and Burke bows curtly as if made aware of something he’d previously been warned of. “To yours as well, miss.” And then he’s off to assist the only other customer, an elderly woman in fur-lined green with so many glittering pins in her hair she resembles a Christmas tree.

“Riddle,” you say, facing him, unable to hide the triumphant grin that digs into your cheeks. You hand him the book, and atop it, your three pages of articulate, edited review.

“You made it. You read it," he acknowledges, though you doubt he’s surprised, and then nods to the stairs. “Come.”

You follow him up the narrow spiral into a short corridor, taking one look back at the old woman, now clasping a shrieking bauble you gladly turn away from. The door Tom opens is unlocked, presumably where he’d just come from, and — you feel a bit overwhelmed if you’re correct, but you have no idea what else it could be — presumably his flat.

When you enter, the door shuts behind you with an empty click of the latch. The room before you is rather sparse, a kitchenette in one corner, a cramped study in the other, with books upon books and scrolls stacked high on shelves along the dark walls. There's only the barest of seating, two armchairs beneath a dim desk lamp, a small table beside the fireplace, and… a bed, of all things, separated only by a thin divider and the courtesy of enough distance not to immediately draw the eye. You, of course, can't quite help it, gaze lingering on the tidy sheets and back to him.

It isn’t a thought you do well to dwell on. Too many directions for your imagination to roam.

“Well then," you say, hanging your coat at the door and trying not to display any overt anticipation as the parchment rustles in his hand, “Shall I just sit and await your evaluation?"

He raises a brow. “I was going to ask if you’d like tea. Do sit, though.”

Oh. Yes, right, you’re rushing things. Hospitality. Decorum. Consideration. You suppose Tom Riddle would extend those things for the sake of posterity if nothing else. “Something black, if you have any, please.”

The water comes to a boil quickly under the steady heat of his magic, and you’re sinking into a shockingly comfortable armchair taking in every shape and blemish of the room while you’re in it. You don’t have to guess that he doesn’t have many guests.

“Darjeeling,” Tom says as he offers you a steaming cup, “if that’s satisfactory.”

You resist a scowl at his mocking tone, placing the tea on a glass coaster and glancing purposefully at your work (your magnum opus, really) once more. “Perfectly.”

Tom notes your look with a smile, settling into the seat opposite yours.

You take a sip of tea and lean back. “Do go on.”

“Eager,” he mutters, but begins.

He skims over the opening line before flipping the book open as if to be sure you haven’t made it all up, and then you think you probably could have made it all up if you wanted. Read one of the hundreds of magical histories of Rome that certainly existed — probably in your own shop, at that — and gathered much the same conclusion. But you did not. Tom must know you did not.

The silence is thick as he reads, waned only by the crackle of the fireplace and the occasional turn of a page. His brows furrow the way you always remember catching in school, like he's concentrating on a particularly hard puzzle, and you have to busy yourself with a nearly empty cup of tea to pretend not to notice the way his beauty is something almost delicate. Framed by firelight and the indigo gloss of the night shining in through the window, you imagine his hair mussed, his long eyelashes speckled with snow, his cheeks pink from the cold. You wonder about him in a nicer suit than this. You could buy him one, if you liked.

And then, at last, he looks up over the parchment, expression carefully measured. “I'm impressed.”

You put your cup down and you can’t help it. You're smiling. You're proud. His approval is like bottling the tail of a rainbow (which you’ve been told is possible), and it's a feeling that’s been absent from you for so long, it's never come from him — Merlin, you've always wanted it to come from him, haven’t you?

“You’re impressed?” you ask, as you love nothing more than to push. “Is that all?”

He loves nothing more than to keep his face impassive, but there’s a twitch there. Something you’re aware you can only spot because of how much attention you pay him.

“I enjoyed your perspective on the Romans’ utilisation of firedrakes. It was well-thought.”

“Well-thought?”

“Quite good, yes.”

“Good," you say, grinning in the bulk of your triumph, “I suppose that means I win."

Win. You’re not winning anything but the implication that Tom is somehow losing. Still he does not break, and you think at seventeen he would have. At nearly twenty his smile just grows. “Have you ever done anything less?”

Is he pushing too? That could be fun.

“Oh, first year tribulations. Nothing since — you wouldn’t remember.”

“Hm, I do recall an unfortunate lesson with a matagot in Beasts, and that must have been, what—” He tilts his head as though to ponder it— “fourth year?”

You narrow your eyes. “Paid an ever-close watch on me, did you, Riddle?”

“As close as anyone else.”

“And by that you mean to say—?”

“Only that it’s a most fascinating custom, the matter of pureblood marriage. It was hard to avoid your name in a common room full of your particular politics.”

“Ah,” you hum, summoning the teapot from the kitchenette to pour another cup, “so my potential marital affairs are what drew your attention. And here I was thinking it was because I was the only person who could ever best you.”

He stops your tea mid-motion, and you still as he sends both the pot and the cup to the table beside you. “Can it not have begun as one and have become the other?”

“Well, your curiosity knows no end; I should be flattered by such multifaceted interest.”

“So you won’t mind my inquiring.”

“Whatever you wish, Riddle.”

“Upon the current status of your betrothal.”

You blink, and then laugh. “There is no betrothal. At present.”

“At present. Is it subject to change?”

“There’s always talk,” you offer, and it offers impressively little.

“Elaborate...”

“I don’t know that you’re in any position to be making demands,” you gibe, “considering I paid four sickles to prove you wrong and I haven’t anything to show for it but my pride.”

He smiles. “Not enough to sate your desire to make me grovel, it seems.”

“You? Grovel?” You gasp, fingers circling your knee idly. “What a fascinating concept… Wait now, I’m trying to paint the picture.”

“Is that not what you came for?” he asks, and it’s odd to see him amused by the idea. You push and push and he just continues to take. “To prove me wrong? To puncture my pride?”

You shrug innocently, even though you’d just said as much. “I’m here to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

He laughs, a warm, quiet laugh — more of a breath than anything — but true if you can read him at all, and that’s a bit alarming. “Of course. Near nine months of exhaustive translation all to bid me a nice holiday. It sounds almost like grovelling, doesn’t it? Wait, now, I’m trying to paint the picture.”

You bite back your smile. Damn him. He’s never been funny before. That’s a problematic development.

“Fine.” Your legs are already crossed and now you’re crossing your arms too, and you look very reserved compared to his relaxed stature. “A match would, of course, need to be of good title.”

“Of course,” Tom says, without even an attempt at masking his amusement.

“And he would need to be rich.”

“Naturally.”

“It would help to be from one of the Sacred Houses.”

“I should not expect anything less.”

“And I suppose age is a factor,” you go on. You push, and push, and push. Tom is impervious. He takes.

“What age would do well?”

“Near enough to my own. For health, of course.”

“For health,” he agrees delightedly.

What the hell are you talking about?

“It would be preferable that he be handsome.”

“And of his character?”

“Most agreeable.”

“Docile?”

“Hm, docile, yes.”

“It is a long list.”

“I’ve been told I’m a difficult woman to sate. Far too prideful, apparently.”

Your fingers are drawing figure-eights on your thigh now, and Tom’s eyes flash briefly to the motion. You stop as though caught, and you aren’t sure why.

“A defamatory accusation,” he says quietly.

You wonder if his voice has always had that tinge to it: the gravel underlining his polish like the crack of the fire, and — that must be why it’s so warm in here, too. It has been that way since you arrived, hasn’t it? Such polarising temperatures between your walk in the snow to this, you must have only just adjusted… an hour after arriving. It’s completely logical.

“So there are talks,” you repeat, if only because you’ve blanked on all else.

“Well,” he says, eyes boring into yours in a way that makes you feel transparent, “I wish you all the best. If it at all helps, you can now add a moderate understanding of Latin to your list of virtues.”

You drape an arm across your chair to match his easy posture. (And how is it he manages to look regal and informal at the same time?) “My list of virtues? Elaborate.”

He shakes his head with a small smile and you point an accusatory finger at him. “Ah, ah, Riddle — I won, remember? And I indulged your inquiring regardless.”

His eyes narrow. “You do want me to grovel.”

“It’s Christmas.”

“I don’t believe that’s the purpose of the day.”

“And that matters to you?”

He leans forward, looking over you as if your supposed virtues will reveal themselves upon scrutiny. It’s a bit offensive, really. You’d hope he could find more than enough with one glance.

He settles, after a long moment where you feel almost bare, on, “Your pride is agonising.”

It’s — not exactly what you were hoping for. Not quite grovelling, by any definition, but then, what did you expect from him?

“Excuse me?”

“Your stockings are ripped at the calf.”

“Riddle—”

“Your lipstick may have stained my teacup. It is a shade I’m rather fond of, but I do not wish to see a trace of it left behind.”

“Quite good,” you say through gritted teeth.

“And I should not be agonised — incautious and unfettered at a sliver of skin or the gesture of your mouth —” You realise with horror that he’s speaking through something constrained too — “and yet I am.”

It’s — is that a confession? Have you broken him? Have you won again? Your stomach flips and it doesn’t feel at all like winning. He certainly doesn’t look like a man who’s lost. In fact, he’s watching you intently, and at your lack of response, the constraint forming a taut line on his lips seems to slip back into something deliberate. Curious.

You recover to the best of your ability. “It is a short list.”

“Shall I go on?” he asks, and it’s an answer, too: no, you have most definitely not broken him. He looks a bit like he’s found a neat pathway to breaking you instead.

“I’d hate to debase you further.”

He leans in, and he might be about to stand, and that might be an irreversible thing to do. “Are you sure? I can’t imagine you’ve painted the picture yet.”

Oh, you’ve painted the picture. You’ve painted a gallery.

“I find the image regrettable half-done. No point finishing it now.”

You do not.

“And besides,” you add, “I know my virtues.”

He smiles, and he’s half orange in the firelight and half blue in the night, green somewhere in the middle, and he should be condemned for being this beautiful. “Elaborate.”

You shouldn’t. “I’m intelligent.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m a quick learner.”

“So I’ve seen,” he agrees, still leaning in.

“I’m good at my job.”

And then he stands.

It is an irreversible thing. Your heart lurches like it knows he’s going to do something that cannot be undone. Your heart lurches because it is a thing you’ve anticipated, quietly, on late nights in scrolls of Latin so you might be able to pretend to mistranslate them — you know, in your first tongue and any other, that you do not want it to be undone.

“Anything else?” he asks. You aren’t sure if you’re resentful of the proximity of his seat to yours or grateful for it, because it takes no time at all for him to be standing before you.

“I’m well-mannered,” you say, and it comes out quieter than you mean for it to. “Lettered in etiquette.”

“Etiquette," he repeats slowly, in a voice dripping with sarcasm, and you don't quite know how he manages an intonation like that, but there it is, dripping with so much contempt you’re surprised he doesn’t fall over.

It wouldn’t be terrible if he did. He’d land right on top of you and put this little game to rest.

Instead he reaches a hand to your cheek — your hair — and brushes it like it’s an absolutely standard thing to do. He pulls away just the same. As if his hand is familiar with the shape of your face because it’s been there before. You'd definitely remember if it had.

“Of course,” you breathe, “patience and pleases and thank yous.”

“In all your manners, you might provide an example.”

Fine. If he’s going to be difficult. “I’d say I’m displaying great patience right now.”

“Hm.” His hands find yours where they sit on either arm of your chair, and his figure is blocking all light now. It shines on his shoulders, casts him like an aura. “That’s one.”

You look at his lips, and don’t bother to look away. You incline forward as much as you can when you’re caged in like this, until his breath is on yours and you can smell his cologne.

“Please,” you say, and for the challenge in it you don’t feel too humbled.

He is most obliging.

His lips just barely brush yours at first, and you did say you were patient — so you wait. The feather-light touch of them stills before it deepens, his hands pressing down on yours. Your open mouth. His tongue. You're kissing him, breathlessly and frantically and completely, and it is all you want.

Tom pulls back and you instinctively push forward. You will your eyes to open and he’s still right there — he hasn’t gone anywhere (what a deranged concern that is) — lips an inch from yours, and he’s smiling.

“That’s two.”

Oh. Oh, he’s an aberration in human variance. There’s something incredibly wrong with him.

There isn’t a way of turning gratitude into a challenge, you think. It doesn’t ask for anything. It appreciates. In this case it would more closely resemble worship. Thank you for your kiss, Riddle, I’d be nothing without it.

So you search to find a way around it that still gets you what you want.

“I’ll need a bit more than a lousy kiss if you want to see me grovel, Riddle." Your voice is a bit rough. You don’t know that your confidence lands the way it typically does.

But you came here to — what was it — puncture his pride? Push him until he breaks? You’ve already made it halfway, and you are, after all, very good at it.

And you suppose he wants to earn the third, because he scowls and then he’s kissing you again and this time his hands are on your face, and perhaps they are somehow familiar with the shape because they fit around you in some inexplicably whole way, like they were made for it. With your hands free, you’re carding your fingers through his hair, hoping for that vision of him you imagined earlier, with thick, messy waves and flushed cheeks.

Tom brings a hand to your waist and tugs you in, and you’re partly pulled from the chair by his insistence and overwhelmingly pushing to get out of it yourself, lips never leaving his as you stumble past the meagre divider to his bed.

The backs of your thighs hit the footboard and your knees buckle, gasping away from Tom’s mouth as you reach for the bedpost. His breath is heavy as his hand curves to the small of your back to keep you steady, your dress bunched in his fist, and there’s a heat in him pressed against you, like a match being held to kindling. And in the flash of fire when it finally strikes, everything in his eyes is clear, singularly focused, and he's pushing you to your back, splayed across his tidy sheets as he kisses you with bruising ferocity.

There's an urgency now to his movements that wasn't there before, and it's a stark contrast to his usual calculated demeanour, but that feels like winning. That feels like breaking Tom Riddle, whittling years of practised constraint to… this. That draws the third: makes you nice and grateful like he asked, because no part of you wants his careful fortitude here. You want to ruin him.

He appears to want the very same from you, which wrecks the whole thing.

Your legs move to wrap around him and he stops you, one hand pinning you by the hip and then down, past where you think he’ll go, as he finds the hem of your dress and lifts it from your calf to your knee. He draws circles over the thinly-clothed skin and you can do nothing but lie there, panting a little, staring at him with less patience than you’d proclaimed to have. And then his fingers move upwards, and they’re drawing figure-eights, and you understand that if this isn’t a taunt, nothing is. He copies your earlier motions. He does not kiss you. His fingers trail higher and higher and they’re soft like the shadows framing his face.

Finally he finds the waistband of your stockings and begins to tug them down your hips, stopping when he reaches that sliver of skin revealed by a tear in the fabric, taking your leg and hiking it up so he can look closely. He smiles, finger sliding down the tear in such a precise, meticulous fashion you can’t help but think he’s doing it on purpose. The moment does not linger when he pulls away, shuffling your stockings down the rest of the way so your legs are unclad before him, your heels already kicked off somewhere across the floor.

He watches your sharp exhale when he ducks down to kiss the skin of your thigh. A shiver runs through you at his softness, another when you see his face, see his eyes go dark with want of you.

His constraint is back, and it’s fucking detrimental. The only silver lining you can find in it, and you hope to be correct (haven’t you been so far?), is that maybe that means Tom Riddle can be broken in litany. Maybe he amends his ruination now but you can carve it out of him again later.

“Come here,” you say, your voice ragged.

Tom frowns, one hand pursuing a dangerous path up the inside of your thigh. “And here I was under the impression you wanted me to grovel.”

“Oh,” you huff, “is that what this is? Not some feeble attempt at winning after I —”

You grip his hair as his fingers curl under the lace of your underwear, as he smiles at the dampness there, the way your argument dissipates beneath his touch. “Winning?” he derides, breathy to match your tone in a way that feels cruel rather than considerate. You nod even as your breathing accelerates and he lifts the skirt of your dress to rest over your thighs, his eyes darting between your legs and your own heavy gaze as if he can't decide which is more intriguing. And then he slides a finger across your heat and you think he’s made his choice. "Is that what you think I want?"

You blink, feeling a bit lost. "What else is there?"

“Will you thank me after this?”

Right. That. You swallow, head falling back on his pillow. “Doubtful.”

“Hm,” he mumbles, some kind of consideration that can only be answered by the movement of his fingers against you, slow as they seek to learn you.

You arrest the moan that rises in your throat, teeth clenching together as Tom climbs over you once more, his body keeping you in place to watch the sustained details of your expression as one of his fingers dips inside you. You hiss, and his gaze burns into you, his mouth parted with a degree of awe and you think perhaps this is the picture he painted — you, under him, eyebrows pinched together as your hands scramble for purchase on his chest, fighting to remain intact.

But then his thumb brushes up against your clit and you let out a sound — half a moan, half a mewl. Tom doesn't give you a second to recover as his lips come down on yours again, hard, desperate, like he's trying to inhale you. And you let him, you take the little bit of ruin he surrenders in the great expanse of yours.

Even if you could quiet your noises you stand to think Tom would feel them, taste them, bite down on them like he does your lower lip, a second finger coiling into you. Your hand smacks at his wrist, clutching his arm with such intensity you can feel every sinew of his movement as he works away at you. Your legs are trembling, pressing around his waist an act of simultaneous resistance and desperation as you push upwards for friction and conquest.

You find both. Undeniable hunger — how he groans softly against your open mouth, how the imprint against your thigh is hard under his trousers, how he wants you.

His ministrations only intensify when your hand searches for the buckle of his belt, gripping your jaw like he needs to watch you fall apart before you can find parity in your desperation. It isn’t an impossible wish; your mind is hazy at the push and pull of his fingers, curving where his thumb draws ceaselessly on the other side, and you think, as much as you’re able right now, that he could succeed. But you force your eyes open to the space where your hand is wedged between your bodies, yanking hastily at his belt and sighing into his shoulder as it unfastens.

His trousers are unbuttoned, unzipped, and you’re arching into him with laboured pants even when your hand slips past them to find skin you've never travelled before.

Tom’s motions stagger when your fingers brush experimentally over his length, and you suddenly understand his ardent focus. You can’t help but stare at the way his jaw ticks, a hiss parting through gritted teeth, and the fact that you’re doing this to him is almost enough to push you over the edge. You grip him in one hand, and his fingers move again like some act of defiance, tightening his hold on your jaw. And then you’re pumping slowly, carefully, the only way you think to with the intention of pleasing him. Of weakening him.

He turns your head so you’re gasping into the pillow, neck exposed for him to press his mouth to. His teeth and tongue are on you and your hand slips from him for a moment as you shudder. Fuck him. This isn’t enough. You won't lose like this.

You tug at his waistcoat now, snapping open the buttons until the last few are clinging on by cheap threads. You’ll buy him that suit, you think. One that you can shrug off as fervently as you like without worrying about tearing the seams.

Your removal of his shirt is not aided by the swelling fire inside you, how the attention of his fingers has remained steady through your squirming and it feels like it’s culminating to something fatal. Your fingers grow shakier but don't stop their pursuit until every button is undone and you can soothe their trembling by pressing your palms against the warm expanse of his chest.

And then they’re back in his trousers, pushing them down his thighs as he continues to chip away at you. You bite back moans and blink through your dizziness.

Tom stops, and it might be more devastating than if he hadn’t. Your body is taut, a fine, thrumming wire spared a moment before snapping.

“More,” is all you say, tracing the shape of him through his briefs.

“More?” he asks. There’s a small mercy in the rasp within in his voice, the uncertainty despite himself. “I suppose that means I win.”

“Win?”

His gall almost, almost pulls you back to reality. But he’s — he’s pulling his trousers further down and your body, like some separate entity to your mind, is flush against him when he’s finally free of all obstructions.

“Mhm,” he hums, and almost-reality dwindles away into fucking nothing — disappears before your eyes when he brings his finger to his tongue and tastes you.

You tear him back to your mouth with a sound that so desperate your humility shouldn’t be able to take it but that's all gone now. His lips are wet and swollen and you’re adjusting yourself so his hips are lined with yours, and your head rolls back when he positions himself against your core and stays there.

“I win,” you breathe. “Everything else is just—”

He moves, hands on your waist as he presses ever-so-slightly inside you. You clutch wildly at his arms, your eyes wrenching shut.

“Look at me,” he says softly. His thumb caresses your cheek as if any act of his acts of tenderness are at all actually tender and not depraved requests for your resignation.

You shake your head. “It’s ju-just—”

He sinks further, unhurried, and you feel like crying, your body clenching around him as the pressure deepens.

“Just what?” he asks, peppering kisses along your jaw.

“Just… um, just…”

“Hm?”

“I win... s’just… cheating…”

You feel him smiling against your neck, and then he detaches his lips to observe you, nodding with false sympathy. “You win.”

And he shifts himself forward so he’s pushed to the hilt.

It’s a lie. It’s a lie as Tom holds you against him, carving kisses into your skin that burn, as you shudder a moan into the thick, hot air, as he begins to move rhythmically inside you, your fingers digging crescent moons into his spine and dragging.

You don't win.

If you are steel honed over years, it’s this moment that you melt, and you think if you were to be fused again it would be in a different shape.

And you mean that. You honestly feel liquified when he splits you slow like this, rolling his hips as you cling to him for strength like he isn’t the thing shattering you.

You rock to meet him, you bury your nails in his back, you rest your moans with your teeth in his shoulder — whatever you can think to make this fair. Make true to your word. You are going to break, it's true, but you are going to break Tom Riddle too.

“Fingers,” you mutter, far too much of a demand for the way it almost stumbles into a sob, but Tom makes a strained sound in the back of his throat as if it gratifies him that you want it enough to ask.

“Thank me,” he answers on a harsh exhale.

You bite at his collar, shaking your head, but your legs are starting to shake and you wouldn’t ask if it was something you wanted — you mask it as an order because you need it. Because you imagine what he’s doing now combined with his thumb on your clit and it’s enough to make your abdomen clench just thinking about it.

Instead one of your hands forsakes the sweet curve of his muscles every time he thrusts into you so that it can snake between your own legs, and you mimic his earlier ministrations just long enough to drive a moan from your lips before Tom’s eyes dart from your lips, the rise and fall of your chest, to the hand missing from his back.

He grabs it with a scowl, pinning one wrist and then the other above your head.

“Stubborn,” he hisses, and he buries himself inside you like it's something personal, persistent in his strokes when his fingers finally rub over you how you wanted.

And you know you’ve done it when his head falls on your shoulder and you feel yourself tighten around him. His grip on your wrists is punishing. His mouth on your shoulder is stringent. He’s hard and full inside you and his fingers slide against you in delicate, torturous contrast. You know because it all stutters a bit when you pull him into a kiss, when you know you’re about to plummet into oblivion and he’s gripping you through it like you might steady him — like you aren’t the thing shattering him.

When you do, it’s something visceral. You think you might be spinning, or floating — screaming, maybe — spilling ill-mannered expletives in strings with his name because your hands are still trapped under his and your body can do nothing else. What you know, undoubtedly, is that you’re coming down from it for a long time, in a haze when you manage to breathe the words into his ear. “Thank you.”

Tom breaks. It’s the most beautiful you think he’s ever looked; eyebrows cinched and pink mouth parted, hair mussed like you wanted, neck tense as he stills inside you and you feel every part of him let go.

Your legs are too weak to cling to him through it, and you just pant under him, blinking languidly and in awe.

You stay like that for a long time.

He leans in when he finally pulls out of you, kissing you like one form of contact must be replaced with another. It's the same with his hands. He sinks into the space beside you and releases your wrists just to cup your face instead.

Yours come up instantly and shamelessly to his hair, craving nothing more than to curl your fingers through the dark mess of it. You trace the sharp shape of his cheeks, too, like his did to yours, like you need to memorize the lines of his expression and the heat of his skin before the world outside seeps in and it all goes cold.

But you pull away and you can't imagine it will.

There’s something in his eyes that feels new. Longing like he’s shed all pretence of acting like nine years of treading the lines of this rivalry has ever been anything but a pathetic display, like he knows you've shed it too. It makes you catch your breath to think this is what it feels like to be desired by Tom Riddle; that you desire him all the same; all this time.

“You know,” you say, and your voice sticks dry to your mouth, “I still win.”

He shakes his head. He smiles. You want terribly to kiss him again.

“I’ll just have to find something else to best you in, won’t I?”

You pretend like you’re considering it and not just staring at him.

“I think by Christmas would be fair.”

#tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle smut #tom marvolo riddle #voldemort #voldemort x reader #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle oneshot #harry potter fanfiction #wizarding world

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ginnsbaker · 1 month

Text

fic: if i bleed (you'll be the last to know) (4/?)

Part summary: Getting to know Leigh Shaw comes with some hardships—literally.

Pairing: Leigh Shaw x Fem!Reader | Word count for this part: 4.600 | Warnings/Tags: Pining | A/N: Still haven't decided how many parts will there be, but for now, enjoy reader's POV as her interest in Leigh grows :)

Masterlist | Part I Part II | Part III | Next

For some reason, you keep saying yes to Leigh Shaw.

Yes to providing your veterinary services for her.

Yes to divulging the private aspects of your relationship with Matt.

Yes to staying in her yoga class.

Yes to running very early in the morning, with a lung-busting pace that leaves you dehydrated and feeling queasy by the end of it.

As if to add insult to injury, Leigh Shaw doubles back to where you're lagging behind, barely hanging on for dear life. She flashes that cheeky grin, says, “Try to keep up,” and takes off again like it's nothing. You're left gasping for air, your heart screaming in agony as you attempt to match her pace, but Leigh's already a blur ahead.

She was right—your endurance is really nowhere to be seen. It's in these moments, as you're pushing past what you thought were your limits, that you start to get why Leigh's both a pain and a push that was kind of missing before in your life.

Leigh eventually vanishes around a corner, and consequently, you lose sight of her. You dig deep, pushing yourself to keep going, refusing to quit out of stubbornness and curiosity of what your body could do. By some miracle, you make it to the finish line, which turns out to be that park you've been to only once before with Matt. He had made it a special day with sandwiches and comics, while you got lost in a book he swore you’d love. You can’t shake off the feeling that this place is significant for Leigh and Matt too.

When you finally stumble in, there's Leigh, chilling on the grass, looking like she's lost in thought, her eyes dark with something you can't quite put your finger on. But then she spots you, and it's like someone flipped a switch. She’s back to the flippant Leigh—easygoing, as if nothing’s amiss.

“Was half expecting to find you passed out somewhere back there,” Leigh smirks up at you.

You can’t help but flop down next to her, letting the sun beat down on your face, feeling every bit of your skin that's exposed soaking up the warmth. Thirst claws at your throat, fierce and unforgiving. Gathering the little energy you have left, you manage to ask, “How long have you been waiting?”

Leigh glances at you, her casual ease belying the brief glimpse of concern you thought you'd seen earlier. “Oh, about five minutes,” she says, her tone light, as if the grueling run was nothing more than a leisurely stroll for her.

You pant out, “Why are you so fast, anyway?”

Leigh bursts into laughter, finding your question absurdly funny. “Fast? Me? That's hardly competitive speed, you're just... completely out of shape.”

You pout, feeling slightly offended but too exhausted to argue. Stretching out beside her, you let out a series of groans and pops, feeling your muscles protest and then slowly relax. “Feels like I'm a hundred years old,” you mutter with a heavy sigh.

Still chuckling, Leigh shakes her head. “I've been running for three years now. It's more of a hobby, really, but I need to stay active for my job at the Beautiful Beast. Or my mom will fire me.”

“Your family owns that place?”

Leigh corrects you quickly, “Not my family, just my mom. And being the owner's daughter doesn't give me a pass to slack off. I can't afford to be terrible at my job.”

Her distinction between “my family” and “my mom” sticks with you. It seems like a clue into her family dynamics. In the short time you've known her, Leigh comes across as straightforward, genuinely helpful, and yes, perhaps a bit quick-tempered, but overall...she's okay.

More than okay, actually. She must be incredible to those she truly cares about. So, what went wrong with her and Matt? How could he betray her like that? It’s even more baffling when you remember Leigh saying they were trying for a baby. That detail still turns your stomach, and you're endlessly grateful you never went down that path with him, despite once wishing things had gone differently.

Lost in your thoughts, you don't realize how intently you've been staring at Leigh until she calls you out on it. “What is it?” she asks, her voice pulling you back to the present.

Flustered, you find yourself asking the question that's been simmering in your mind, since you first pulled on your sneakers for that 5k this morning. “Why'd you bring me along for your run? Why are you even helping me?”

Leigh just gives an offhand shrug, says, “Well, you didn't have to show up, so you're actually helping yourself.”

“Fair enough,” you reply, but can't shake off a bit of disappointment. The truth is, you were hoping she'd say something that suggested she was up for being friends, or at least saw you as more than just another client of hers.

It's weird, really, why you keep wanting to be friends with Leigh Shaw.

Suddenly, Leigh glances at her watch and looks up at you. “Ready to go?” she asks, a bit impatiently.

“If I can still walk after this, sure,” you say, half-joking, half-serious, feeling the effects of the run in every muscle.

Leigh laughs at that, a genuine, hearty laugh that lights up her face. It's a sound that's real and unguarded, making you think that maybe, becoming friends with her isn't such a far-fetched idea after all.

Yoga sessions with Leigh stick to the script you first stumbled into. She's all business, only really tossing you a nod or a word when your form goes sideways. “Shoulders down, back straight,” she corrects you, her voice firm, yet not unkind. Outside of that, you might as well blend into the walls for all the personal attention she gives, just like anyone else there. Everyone gets the same treatment—tough love, dished out in equal measure.

Despite her imposing presence, there's something else, a depth to her that often seems just out of reach. You catch her sometimes, looking out the window with a distant gaze. But then she blinks, shakes it off, and is back, fully attentive and ready to guide the next pose.

“Focus on your breathing,” Leigh's voice snaps you out of your focus on her. “Inhale deeply, and as you exhale, sink deeper into the pose.”

Determined to excel, you pour all your effort into being the student Leigh doesn’t need to worry about. Ironically, your diligence only seems to make you more invisible to her. As you master the poses with less need for correction, Leigh's interactions with you dwindle further.

After class, you toy with the idea of approaching her. Maybe get some feedback, or even suggest grabbing dinner together so you don't have to eat alone. But as you're putting together what to say, you notice Leigh seems in a hurry. She exchanges a few quick words with another instructor who's just arrived, and before you can decide, she's excusing herself and heading out.

The moment to ask her has slipped away, leaving you to pack your yoga mat with a resigned sigh.

Another time, then, you think.

The next day, without another invite from Leigh for a run, you lace up your shoes and follow the same route you and Leigh took together. Just 20 minutes into the run, the solo effort feels more like a chore than the engaging challenge it was with company. You loop the route four times, hoping maybe to cross paths with Leigh purely by coincidence, but she’s nowhere to be found.

The studio had announced last night that Leigh’s yoga classes would be temporarily led by a different teacher, with her expected to return next week. This bit of news leaves you mulling about her absence, kind of hoping you might accidentally run into her to find out more. But as the week goes by without any such encounters, you realize you actually know very little about her daily routines or habits. Despite the nagging curiosity, you refrain from texting her, not wanting to intrude or anything.

Admittedly, your motivation to work out dipped slightly without Leigh being part of it.

When you finally talk yourself into visiting Matt’s grave, you do so just minutes before it could get really dark. You've chosen this time deliberately, betting on the common fear that keeps most people away from cemeteries as night approaches.

Your main concern isn't the general public, though; it's just Leigh. Past experiences have shown that encounters with her can happen unexpectedly and in the most random of places—like that night at the club when she ended up getting sick just a few inches away from you. You're not here out of a longing for Matt. Instead, you aim to properly close this chapter of your life, hoping to do so without running into his widow and giving her the wrong impression.

The air holds a chill that wasn't there when you left home, making you wrap your jacket tighter around yourself. It’s quiet, just the sound of your own footsteps crunching softly on the path. Being here as the day turns to night, watching shadows stretch out long and skinny, really gets you thinking about life, death, and everything else in-between. Maybe that's also why people avoid this place—it sort of forces you to face the music, making you curious if all the things you're wrapped up in are actually important or utterly pointless.

As for you, you haven't quite figured out where you stand on that yet. Lately, you've really come into your own in your career, especially now that you’re seeing the profits steadily rising each month. But that sense of achievement fades each evening as you return to your empty apartment. It's just you, night after night, pushing through the grind, pouring everything into your job. Yet, when you try to envision where you'll be in five years from now, the picture isn't clear. Will you be settling down with someone, or just picking up the pieces from another relationship that’s gone awry?

Finding Matt's grave takes a moment, but when you do, your heart clenches. It’s just a simple stone with his name, the years he was here, and a couple of words(you’re guessing it’s Leigh who wrote them) about him.

You kneel down, the grass cool and slightly damp beneath you, and lay the flowers you've brought on his grave. They look kind of bright against the dimming light. Like hope.

“Hey Matt,” you say, stepping into a silence that feels like it's hanging around, just waiting for you to fill it. Talking to a dead person feels ridiculous like they do in the movies, but it's not like anyone's around to hear you.

“You know, I met Leigh,” you begin. “Your wife you conveniently forgot to mention when you were busy asking me out.”

There's a sour edge to your voice, airing grievances to a guy who can't throw back excuses anymore. You can't help but chuckle, though it's more bitter than amused. You let your thoughts more freely now, like the barrier between you and Matt has thinned out with the honesty.

“Leigh is… beautiful, you know? Not in that runway or social media kind of way, but in a manner that's hard to just overlook.”

You could list a dozen more positive things about Leigh to tell Matt, but he already knew all that, didn't he?

“The first time I met her, I felt small, maybe even insecure. And now?” you shake your head, smiling slightly. “...I still do. But mostly, I'm just left thinking…” You pause. The next thought isn't really for Matt, not anymore.

It’s for you.

“I just can't wrap my head around why you'd want to be with me when you had her. I feel like the murder weapon that's trying to seek justice for its victim.” You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Not a great spot to be in, honestly. Makes me feel kind of helpless, you know?"

Sitting back, you take a moment, just looking at the headstone, at the name etched into the granite. The conversation, if you can call it that, feels like it's shifted something inside you. Not closure, exactly, but maybe the first step towards understanding—or at least accepting—that some things just don't make sense.

Standing up, you dust off your knees, taking one last look at the grave. “Anyway, Matt, I hope you've found peace. It looks like we're all searching for a little of that ourselves. Thanks for the book suggestions. Though, you might be a bit disappointed to hear Agatha Christie remains my top favorite.”

As you walk away from Matt's grave, it feels as though you're leaving a piece of yourself behind to rest with him. You decide then, as the cemetery gate closes behind you with a gentle click, that you won't let this page in your book define you. Maybe tomorrow, you'll try a new coffee shop, or take a different route to work. Small changes, but important ones.

Maybe you’ll even try that spin class that scares you so.

“Since when did you start living at the gym?” Suzie teases you from her spot across the desk, that signature playful, all-knowing arch to her eyebrow.

Suzie, who had originally come on board as a receptionist at your vet clinic with little more than enthusiasm and a genuine love for animals to her name, had quickly become much more than just a staff member. Her lack of relevant experience was initially a concern, but her dedication and the way she connected with both the animals and their owners made it clear she was a perfect fit. Over time, she evolved from being just the receptionist to a friend.

A friend who seems to enjoy teasing you, though.

“First off, it’s hardly the gym. It’s this fitness class I’ve been trying out—big distinction,” you clarify, eyes glued on your phone. The last half hour has been a slow crawl towards 5 PM, the magical hour when you can finally shut down and head to Leigh’s class at Beautiful Beast.

“Tomatoes, to-mah-toes,” she quips.

“Not the same thing,” you insist, still not fully engaged in the conversation, your focus on a food article you're reading.

Suzie just waves her hand dismissively. “Semantics. But seriously, you've been really into whatever this is. There's gotta be a guy making those sweat sessions worth it.”

You can't help but laugh, the idea so off base it circles back to being hilarious.

“Trust me, the allure isn't the sweat. It's those endorphins,” you say.

“Yeah, sure,” she drawls, unconvinced. “Come on. Who is it? I know you're not this amped to be all gross and sweaty for nothing.”

“There's no guy, Suzie.” Then, as if the thought just occurred to you, you add, “Or girl. But honestly, there's really no one.”

At that, Suzie's expression shifts from playful teasing to one of pleasant surprise and a touch of mock offense. “Hold up, you might be into girls? And here I was, shooting my shot in the dark this whole time!”

Your ears burn red at her blunt flirtation. “Suzie, come on,” you stammer.

“If I had known that was on the table, I would’ve upped my game ages ago,” she says, her wink sending your face from warm to inferno.

“You’re impossible,” you manage to say as you hurry to collect your things, ready to rush out the door.

“Impossibly into you,” she retorts saucily.

“I’m gonna have to fire you, you know,” you mutter jokingly, glancing at your watch. “Gotta run, bye!”

“Just so we're clear, the offer stands,” she adds, still grinning.

You feel a sense of relief seeing Leigh back in class.

Though the website clearly stated her schedule, you found yourself on edge until you could see Leigh with your own eyes. There's nothing noticeably different about her; Leigh seems just as composed and in control as ever. When she catches you looking, she offers a small, somewhat dismissive smile before turning her attention elsewhere.

You spend the whole session with your energy dialed up, partly because Leigh's presence just does that, and partly because you're already plotting. As soon as she calls time on the session, you're practically springing into action. Your belongings—a water bottle, towel, and the rest—land in a haphazard pile on the floor as you quickly stand up, eager to catch her before she disappears. You make your way toward her, determined not to let her slip away this time.

Leigh's busy packing up her own gear, her back to you as you close the distance. “Hey, Leigh,” you say, and it sounds like you've got this under control, even if your heart's hammering away in your chest. She turns, and there's a flicker of surprise in her expression. You’re hoping it’s the good kind of surprise.

“I'm really glad you're back,” you push on, hoping it doesn't sound as clumsy to her as it does in your head.

She takes a swig from her water bottle, giving you a once-over, and then says, “Thanks. Do you need anything?” There's an expectant look in her eyes, and in that moment, your confidence begins to wane, melting under her gaze. You're on the spot, scrambling for words, any words that don't involve asking her out for dinner, which suddenly seems like an insurmountable task.

“Uh, actually,” you start, your mind racing to find a safe topic, “I was wondering if you had any tips on improving my form?”

Leigh's expression softens, and she nods, setting her water bottle down. “Sure, I can show you a few things. Let's go back to the mats,” she suggests, leading the way. Despite feeling like your tank is on empty and your body crying for hydration, backing down doesn’t feel like an option.

Not when Leigh is already spreading her mat next to yours. She does so with a sort of blasé authority, and you can't help but think how this is Leigh all over—straight to the point, no fuss. You're tired, sure, and a part of you is suggesting that you're about to make a fool of yourself with your shaky legs and probably even shakier form. But then, Leigh starts talking, pointing out where you're going wrong and how to fix it, and suddenly, you're not thinking about dinner anymore. You’re too distracted now by the smell of her perfume mixed with the scent of her sweat.

The next few minutes turn into what feels like a whole new session under Leigh's watchful eyes. She's on you about everything—the angle of your arm, the set of your shoulders, even the way you're distributing your weight on your feet. Leigh's not mean about it, but she doesn't let anything slide. You're just trying to keep up, watching her move with that easy confidence. It's mesmerizing, really, how she can make something so complex look so simple.

By the time you're done, your muscles are burning, your breath is ragged, and you're pretty sure you've sweated out every last drop of water in your body. As you lie there, staring at the ceiling and asking yourself how a ten-minute guidance turned into an even harder session, you mentally kick yourself for not just admitting you wanted company for dinner. It was right there, and you were too scared to be rejected.

But why? Considering everything that's happened and the circumstances, Leigh turning you down seems like the more probable outcome anyway.

And then Leigh does something totally offbeat. She glances at the clock, then back at you, and out of nowhere, she's asking, “Want to grab something to eat?”

It's so unexpected, that for a moment, you're sure you misheard her. But Leigh's waiting for an answer, a slight smile playing on her lips, and suddenly, the fatigue feels a little less overwhelming. You sit up, a slow grin spreading across your face as you realize this is it—your chance, handed to you when you least expected it.

“Yeah,” you finally manage to say, almost tripping over your tongue. “Yeah, that'd be great.”

When Leigh mentioned grabbing something to eat, you expected a sit-down at some cozy restaurant serving healthy food. Instead, she pulls into the drive-thru of a fast-food joint, orders a mountain of fries and a couple of burgers, and parks the car in a secluded spot overlooking the city. It's laid-back, unpolished, and honestly, pretty perfect.

“So, how long have you been in town?” Leigh asks as she hands you a burger, the city lights twinkling below like a scattered deck of glowing cards.

“Just over a year,” you reply, taking a hearty bite of your burger. “Moved here for the business opportunity, but it’s been... you know, slow on the social front.”

Leigh nods, understandingly. “It can be tough, starting fresh somewhere. This place isn't the friendliest to newcomers.”

Your eyebrow lifts, curious whether she's speaking from her own experiences or perhaps someone else's.

“Yeah, most of my socializing happens online these days. My closest friends are scattered across different states,” you say.

Leigh just hums a bit, not really adding anything else. She doesn't go into details about her own friends, so you're left trying to think of something else to talk about. But everything that comes to mind feels too personal, like asking why she wasn't at the Beautiful Beast for a week, how she's dealing with being a widow, or questions about her family.

Small talk isn't really your thing, so the conversation fizzles out from here. Both of you just end up staring out at the city lights in silence. Leigh seems comfortable with it though, so you decide to just go with it and savor the quiet moment too.

After a while, Leigh breaks the silence. “I didn't think I'd be able to love another dog after Rogue,” she shares, not taking her eyes off the cityscape. “Matt and I had to put her down because she was sick. It was brutal. I swore off dogs after that.”

You look over at her and offer a soft, “I'm sorry.”

But there's no trace of sadness on her face. It’s so nonchalant, almost as if she’s just talking about the weather and not a painful memory.

“But then...I saw Visitor,” she goes on, a small smile cracking through. “I just knew he needed me. And, this might sound odd, but I realized I wanted to feel needed. When Matt—” She stumbles over his name, a rare falter, but she's quick to brush it off. “When he died, nobody needed me. And I struggled with that. Because being needed felt like a purpose.”

The idea of needing to be needed isn't something you've ever considered. Truth is, you've never really needed anyone. You've been a solo act for as long as you can remember, handling things on your own, relying solely on your own capabilities. And so, that also meant you couldn't imagine being on the other side of the spectrum—being needed by someone.

However, there's a part of you, unexpectedly, that feels a twinge of jealousy towards Leigh. To truly experience loss, there first has to be something meaningful to lose. You're not sure you've ever let yourself have that kind of bond with anyone. Not yet, anyway. It's a sobering thought, making you think about what you might be missing out on.

Leigh notices you're not saying much and says, “I don't even know why I'm telling you all this. I'm sorry.”

You shake your head slightly, “It's okay. I just... I don't think I've ever been in your shoes.”

Leigh looks a bit puzzled. “What do you mean? Are you talking about the dog thing, or…?”

“The other thing,” you clarify.

Leigh smirks. “Oh, I wish I was like that.”

You quickly realize how arrogant that must have sounded, so you rush to explain, “No, I'm not trying to brag or anything. It's just, I guess I've never really opened myself up to that kind of bond.”

“Not even with Matt?” she asks, and there it is—the topic of Matt you've been tiptoeing around. You're suddenly aware that Matt's shadow is something you'll have to get used to, just as Leigh apparently has, given the unceremonious way she alludes to your almost-affair with her late husband.

“No,” you whisper, looking straight into Leigh's eyes, hoping she’ll believe you. “We never needed each other like that.”

Leigh's eyes linger on yours a moment longer before she looks away. Eager to change the subject, you add, “Must've been rough, giving Visitor back to his real family.”

“Yeah. I mean, I shouldn't be, right? But part of me was actually angry at them for letting him get away like that. He could've been hit by a car or worse, all because they weren't careful. But at the end of the day,” she stops, a sigh escaping her, and that smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes comes back as she looks at you again. “He’s not mine.”

“Visitor really snuck into your heart, didn’t he?”

Leigh nods. “I wasn't expecting to care that much, you know?” Then, she offers a small, reflective chuckle. “Makes you think about the connections we allow ourselves to have, and the ones we avoid, doesn't it?”

You try to gauge whether she's still talking about Visitor while also trying to figure out where you stand—the connections she's chosen or the ones she sidesteps? Before you find the courage to ask, Leigh starts the car and presses down on the clutch, ready to switch gears.

“I need to head back to the studio, so I can only drop you off somewhere on the way,” Leigh says, signaling the end of your time together for now.

You quickly decide that being dropped off at the studio is fine. “The Beautiful Beast works for me,” you reply, hoping to extend the time you have left with her, even if it's just by a few minutes.

The ride is quiet, the earlier ease replaced by a thoughtful silence. You're watching her, the way she's all eyes on the road but clearly lost in her head. Leigh, as you’ve noticed, is someone hard to get to open up, her walls built high and strong. She's this fortress of a person, but tonight felt different, like she accidentally left a window open and you caught a glimpse inside.

It just makes you crave for more.

As the studio comes into view, it feels like you've both made some progress with Leigh and yet, somehow, not made any at all. Stepping out of the car, you’re met by Jules, another staff member at the Beautiful Beast whom you've heard Leigh refer to numerous times, approaches. You barely catch her saying, “Danny is waiting for you inside,” to Leigh. You miss the frown on Jules's face or how Leigh instantly seems on edge.

“Thanks for the ride—and for dinner,” you say, feeling a bit out of place now.

“Don't get used to it,” she says, the corners of her lips twisting into a reluctant smile. “Was nice talking, though. Thanks for not making it weird.”

As she's quickly pulled away by whatever's going on inside, you hover for a second, debating if you should go in for a goodbye hug. But before you know it, Leigh is tossing a quick “Bye” in your direction as she strides towards the studio.

You're left there, floating in the aftermath, wondering about everything and nothing all at once.

#unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #leigh shaw x reader #leigh shaw x female reader #leigh shaw #sorry for your loss au #leigh shaw x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #sorry i had to tag wanda x reader for visibility

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blughxreader · 1 year

Note

hi! i dont think i can ever get enough of yan! platonic! Batfam 🥲 can i get a neglected reader who has successfully escaped, only to come back to gotham by some unprecedented causes a few years later? i have plans to write a fic like this and want some inspiration (and to fill the yandere batfam tag)

Platonic Yandere!Bruce, Dick, Jason with a darling who escaped and returned to Gotham

Headcanons, WC: 1,048

Notes: SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG! This ask is five months old lol. I had to cut out the baby boys to finish </3 If I can come up with ideas for Damian and Tim then I'll add to it.

Bruce

The weight of Bruce’s mistakes hangs over his head every day, but his mistakes with you are by-far the heaviest.

He should have appreciated you more. He should have told you what you meant to him. Instead, he let you feel invisible. It kills him.

When you’re spotted in Gotham years later, he can hardly believe it.

He’ll drop everything and go straight to you, deploying all the boys to ensure you don’t slip away. If it’s daytime, Bruce Wayne will make a rare appearance and corner you with paparazzi, and if it’s nighttime, then Batman will swipe you off the streets before you can cry out.

He’ll forgive every outburst you give. You’re furious and he understands—he considers your anger entirely his fault so he’ll give you a lot of slack.

Bruce will drown you in gifts. Because Batman takes up so much time (and it was lack of attention that drove you away in the first place) he’ll try every means at demonstrating his love. Gifts, vacation homes, front row seats to events (with strict supervision).

This version of Bruce would keep you under 50 cameras and a body guard at all times, but he’s also very conscious of your mental health. Where he’d be able to guiltlessly lock you up forever if he hasn’t neglected you, he can’t in this timeline. Your life would be heavily supervised, but you’d also get a lot of perks.

He would make a routine with you.

Every morning, he’d eat breakfast with you, and every Friday would be a special dinner with just the two of you. His hours are valuable so it means a lot for him to carve out the time just for you.

Dick Grayson

Dick prides himself on his strong leadership and generosity. Ask anyone whose ever met Dick to describe him, and they could list pages of positive traits. So it's a wonder how you, his precious little darling, managed to be overlooked by him.

Guilt literally eats him alive. Dick begins to second-guess every interaction with you, going over all clues he might have missed. He throws himself into the investigation looking for you, investigating every single fact you've ever mentioned about yourself.

When you finally return, he's dead-set on making up for lost time.

Dick wouldn’t approve of your reasoning for leaving. You should have told him--should have insisted on being heard--instead of leaving. He feels terrible that you were neglected, but he feels worse knowing that you’d rather be thrown to the wolves than seek their help.

It's a steep learning curve for him to realize you're not the lonely child you once were, but instead a bitter, jaded young adult who confides in only themself.

Dick drowns you in attention. He tries forcing your innocence back, not accepting your refusals and anger. You're still so young, and even if the sparkling child-like hope is missing from your eyes, Dick still believes he can make things right.

Family bonding time is a must. He arranges play-time with you and Damian. He insists on Sunday movie nights. He learns how to cook new dishes with you and Alfred. He will keep you busy.

These activities are only a surface solution for a deeper problem. Fundamentally, you've changed, and Dick knows this. He has no idea how to treat you now, so he resorts to what he does know--your childhood he missed out on.

Jason Todd

Jason is particularly torn. He knows what its like to feel abandoned, yet he realized too late that he was the perpetrator.

When you are finally back in the arms of the Batfamily, Jason has no idea what role to take in your life. He sees you turning down the family when they offer love and he doesn't know if his heart could take your rejection.

Jason is stand-offish. Playing the role of "tough older brother" doesn't bode well, so he needs time to rework his philosophy on handling siblings.

Instead, he does your bidding. He would help fix whatever unprecedented reasons that led you to return to Gotham, no questions asked. If you need to pass a letter on to a friend, Jason is your guy. His regular possessive yandere tendencies are hampered by his guilt, so he'll be very lenient with you as long as it's nothing dangerous.

The fact that you escape and survived by yourself cast you into a new light in Jason’s eyes. He thinks you’re impressive, dependable, capable. He wonders how he didn’t see it sooner.

That being said—you’re his little sibling. You shouldn’t have to be so strong, and Jason wants to ensure you’ll never have another reason to protect yourself.

He hopes that over time, you'll trust him. He wants to be able to sit with you and talk about whatever is on your mind, to be able to hug you as he leaves for work, and to send you off to bed when it's late.

But right now, you need space. He'll let you heal, and he'll take whatever anger you give him. Because he knows that this is the only way you'll let him into your life again.

Bonus: Y/N

Considering Y/N was clever enough to escape the Waynes while also having the willpower to return to Gotham shows that they’re intelligent, good-hearted, and forged from steel.

They probably rank somewhere between lawful-good to chaotic-neutral. (A lawful-neutral would be infuriated by the Waynes’ underhanded tactics, and probably wouldn’t return to Gotham.)

Y/N is done yearning for attention (or, if they were originally kidnapped, done with playing nice), so they’re immune to the Batfam’s manipulation.

Upon first glance at the Batfam after all those years, they’d immediately go fight or flight. Y/N would pull every dirty trick in the book to escape, and would be as hateful as possible to kill any affection they have for them.

After being kidnapped, Y/N gets very good at playing mind games and deflecting their submission tactics. They’d be able to manipulate the household like a giant game of chess.

Y/N’s only weakness is the child inside of them that still cries for their family’s approval.

The conflict revolves around how the Batfam can extort this weakness vs. how well Y/N can stay true to their values.

#batfam x reader #yandere x reader #platonic yandere batfam #yandere batfam #platonic yandere #platonic yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfam x reader #yandere jason todd #yandere dick grayson #yandere batman #yandere bruce waybe #dick grayson x reader #platonic yandere batman #jason todd x reader #bruce wayne x reader #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios

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i-have-zero-chill · 14 days

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I saw some tags when Tommy first got reintroduced that were like “he was a bigot and never apologized, people like that never change.” And I just. I feel like some people just don’t want people to change, which is missing one of the main points of the show. It’s like they want shit people to stay shit so it’s easier to think about morality as this completely black and white thing when it’s not. I know a lot of times people like that don’t change, but what if they did? Don’t we want to watch something that makes us believe they can? Something that makes us feel positive about humanity? Don’t we want to believe that people always have the option to become better if they make the choice to do so?

Also in the case of Tommy he was more just going along with the crowd, not the one saying the bigoted shit. That’s not to excuse his silence but some people are just cowards, which maybe he was at the time. That doesn’t mean he’s doomed to be shitty forever. Plus, knowing he was closeted adds a completely new layer to the whole thing that makes it even more interesting. Just because we didn’t get an apology scene doesn’t mean he’s not better now. This show has lots of characters and limited time, they’re not gonna show every single moment, especially with a side character. Like use fucking context clues. If Chim called him for help they’re obviously cool. Idk how you can still be like, “well there was no apology scene so clearly this character is an irredeemable piece of shit” when he’s literally been on screen for several episodes clearly being shown to be a good dude. I just fundamentally don’t understand that line of thinking.

People say they want to see character growth but whenever a character actually has a moral failing they need to grow from suddenly that’s not possible? Like it’s one thing if a real person is a piece of shit to you. Obviously even if they become a better person you’re not required to forgive people that have hurt you. But these aren’t real people, they’re just vehicles for a story. And one of the stories this show has literally been telling the whole time is “people are fundamentally good and have the ability to grow and change.” Anyway this was just something I’ve been thinking about.

#911 #tommy kinard #meta #mine

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elvisabutler · 1 year

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watch the smoke pour out the doors

summary: elvis presley, the real elvis presley, not whatever they like claiming is the man should be dead. at the very least he should be looking about two decades older than the man in front of you. and yet. elvis presley wishes the las vegas hilton- formerly the international- was a pile of rubble or ash. he enlists your help after a chance meeting. fandom: elvis presley | elvis ( 2022 ) | austin butler rating: m pairing: elvis presley x female reader word count: 8012 warnings: major character death! choking. stalking behavior. the colonel being the worst. being trapped in one place. general depression. elvis is an asshole in this. fade to back sex ( p in v ). kind of yandere elvis? blood. vampire bites and general vampire shenanigans. mention of burn scars. fire in relation to buildings. excessive use of nicknames like lil bunny and spitfire. author’s note: heed that first warning y'all. this does not have a happy ending. i've had this brewing since september/october of last year and it's partially based on @venus-haze's vampire elvis headcanons seen here. so what really stuck with me in her comment about the fact that she took "I’ve been playing this mausoleum for 1,000 years" and ran with it. i took bits and bobs from her headcanons and ta da. also the fire i reference happening in 1981 did actually happen. i hope y'all like this even if this ending is a doozy. y'all know the drill real elvis or austin elvis can be imagined- if the moodboard didn't clue you in. also for musical vibes i have literally only ever really truly listened to meant to be yours from the heathers musical. also i did not add a tag list because this is- this is a fic and i was not about to make any of y'all tumble into it without wanting to.

Las Vegas is hot and is so sun filled that you hate it. You've always hated it but that might not have been the city's fault. Once upon a time you thought it would be your salvation but isn't that always the joke with everyone when it comes to the city. The salvation away from LA, because if you fail there Las Vegas will welcome you with open arms and remind you that what happens there stays there. It keeps you from going back to Memphis with your tail between your legs and being forced to tell your parents that you failed at your big dream. The dream that they supported you on but always figured you'd fail at. Your job pays the bills and you keep your clothes on, which considering the amount of bills you have, well that was a feat for you to achieve.

Working the front desk at the Las Vegas Hilton was challenging, mostly due to the customers with their requests that occasionally bordered on silly and nonsensical but you could handle it. It was nothing too horrible and there was certain pleasure in learning that you managed to pull off keeping some of the higher class- the celebrity clients happy. Of course, nights like this- busy nights with half your staff gone because of any number of problems- made you want to set fire to the building so that you didn't have to deal with this job. Your boss has you running around in what you swear is every direction until she physically stops you with her hands, gripping your shoulders and forcing you to stay put for just a minute.

"Elvis wants a delivery to his room." She says, her face twisting into one of sheer displeasure.

You raise your eyebrow and shake your head. "You mean the Elvis impersonator up in the penthouse. Why does everyone insist on calling him Elvis? We all know it's not him him- like-" The look she gives you is one you've realized means you need to shut up right in that exact moment because if you didn't you were liable to get yourself in a whole lot of trouble so you swallow the rest of your sentence and roll your eyes. "Got it, me and penthouse and his delivery of whatever to his room. Got it."

Your boss mouths a quick thank you before pointing to the kitchen area. It doesn't take you very long to reach there despite your heels and aching feet but it does take the kitchen staff a minute to realize you're standing there all gussied up ready to take whatever it is Mr. Presley wants. What he wants is apparently a feast befitting of a king- heh- and more packs of cigars than you thought one human being capable of smoking in any reasonable time frame but you remember those pictures of him back in the day. The pictures you'd see in your parents' house, in your grandparents' house of him smoking something. Maybe it was just someone who was honestly committed to the bit even if it meant wrecking their lungs and their voice. Once you actually manage to get everything, it's a surprisingly quick walk to the elevator and to the penthouse. For once your heels don't wobble as they have an annoying tendency to do so when you get this much stuff needing to be carried and you easily make it to the door of the penthouse and knock only to realize that your series of knocks have made the door open all on its own.

The room itself is dark, the curtains drawn so not even the light of the strip finds its way into it. It feels not like a tomb, you reason, with the temperature reaching levels that feel almost as if you've entered one. The cold wraps around you and has you shivering in your light blouse and work pants as you look for a free space, a table really to set down the items he requested. Your eyes struggle to adjust to the lack of light but you manage to avoid hitting anything and set the tray onto what you're mostly positive is a table- be it an end table or an actual dining table. You straighten up after you set it down and something feels off to you, feels as if you're being watched. That can't be though, yes Elvis- or whoever it's supposed to be up here had requested the items but that didn't mean they were stalking you from the dark.

Except the feeling doesn't go away and you know so very well that you ought to move, that you should get out of the room and back downstairs where it's busy and you don't feel the faint sensation of worrying that you'll be murdered. You don't though, it's as if your feet are firmly planted in that spot, like you want to see just why you're feeling this particular way. After what feels like an eternity you feel the air around you shift, a small gust of warmth pass by your back and that is the cue for your body to finally turn around. What you see when you turn around shocks you to your very core and makes you think you've got to be hallucinating.

It's like you've seen a ghost when you realize who you're staring at in the darkness of the room. There's always been whispers that Elvis is actually still alive, that he's alive and the person who's been recording the music and performing shows was still him. After all, despite so much information about his relationship with his manager coming out there was no lawsuit coming from the family and that had to mean he was alive. Looking at the man in front of you, looking at the parts you can see of his face that aren't obscured by a half mask over his face- you think they might be right just not in the way everyone assumed. After all, if you take off the mask, the man in front of you looks like he hasn't aged a day since about 1972 or maybe 1974.

Your parents had pictures of him plastered among the walls of your childhood home so you're familiar with the shape of his jaw, his nose and those eyes- those stunning blue eyes. You're familiar with all the facial features that make up one Elvis Presley and seeing them up close and personal as opposed to on stage? There's no mistaking who's in front of you. It's Elvis fucking Presley in the flesh, looking nowhere near the almost 60 he should be. His eyes though- the eyes you're looking at are just as stunning as the blue ones you've always heard about but you can see a hint of what looks like red in the pupil. It confuses you enough to have you moving closer to him to investigate. He raises an eyebrow and tilts his head.

"That's new. Most of ya jus' hide and run away like scared cats." He huffs, allowing you to step closer and peer at his eyes.

"Do I seem like most people, Elvis?" You ask, you accent thickening as your hand against your will finds its way to his mask-covered cheek in an effort to pull him closer, only to have him practically snarl at you and grab your wrist.

"Do that and I'll rip your throat out with my teeth." His warning is accompanied by his eyes narrowing and his canines finding themselves on full display, showing you just how dangerous he could be. Yet, you find yourself raising your own eyebrows.

"Ya mean like you've done with a lot of my former coworkers?" It's suddenly making sense, how a lot of the times girls who went up here wouldn't come back and would suddenly have family emergencies. "Ya said it yourself, most of us jus' hide and run away. Do I look scared?"

The laugh that leaves his mouth sounds downright evil and sinister, like he truly is a devil waiting to ruin anyone who comes near him and you can't help the rush of arousal and fear that shudders through your system. His grip tightens on your wrist. "Oh, darlin'. Ya don't look it but that heart o' yours. Oh, she's betrayin' ya like nothin' else. Tellin' me you want to bolt like a lil scared bunny."

You hate how you swear you can feel your heart jump at those words, proving him right in the worst sort of way. You want to argue with him, want to tell him that his hearing must be going off and he's hearing someone else's heartbeat but you know better- you know from the glint you see in his eyes that there isn't a chance for that lie to fly. Instead you purse your lips and move to pull your wrist out of his grasp. "I haven't yet. And ya haven't tried to kill me yet."

His grip loosens but he takes the opportunity to pull you closer just enough so when he leans forward his lips are brushing your ear as his whisper is practically a short brush of air against it. "Yet." Finally, he lets go of your wrist and steps away from you, his eyes darting to the tray you brought. "All in one piece. You are better than the rest of 'em."

If anyone else were to say that, if you had heard it from an Elvis that looked the age he was supposed to be and didn't look like Dracula you might have preened, enjoying the compliment for what it was. Hearing it from him? Hearing it from a man who you feel will murder you the second you turn your back? All that accomplishes is making you shiver in fear. When you look at his face you see a grin that tells you that's exactly what he wanted to see.

You realize in that moment that you need to leave, you don't know if Elvis is planning on trying to hurt you or if he's just toying with you. Either way it's- it sets you on edge enough that your feet that had seemingly forgotten how to move manage to remember how as you turn away from Elvis, not bothering to give him a response beyond what your body had already inadvertently done.

"There we go, there's that runnin' I'm used to." Elvis chuckles, allowing you to move further away from him slowly inching to the door. "Even if ya practically movin' slow as molasses. Scared but bein' smart 'bout it, ain't cha?"

An answer dances on the tip of your tongue, a joke or a quip about how you'd be a fool to turn your back on a predator or to bolt from a predator. Either way you'd be seen as his prey and arguably easy prey at that. The answer dies on your lips as you feel a rush of air by you and see Elvis opening and holding the door to his room open for you. His grin looks full of promise and is all teeth in a way that sets you on edge.

"Go on, darlin', I'll let ya go. Ain't like I can't find ya 'round here." His eyes rake over your form and you'd think you'd be disgusted as you normally are when someone looks at you like that. Instead you have to suppress the shiver of something that passes through you. "'Specially if ya do that."

You don't dignify his words with a response as you exit hearing some whisper of the word fun and a dark laugh. If the speed of your steps increase once the door shuts. Well, that was your own business between you and whatever God saw fit to abandon you just a bit ago.

As it turns out Elvis is a very persistent man- a fact not tempered and instead heightened by the years he's lived. True to his word, he did know exactly where to find you though actually meeting up with you seemed to be beyond his reach. No, instead you found yourself being bombarded with gifts. Gifts you'd think Elvis couldn't provide and yet there they were. You wondered just how he was getting these things to you but the thought didn't fill you with any sort of delight so you chose not to dwell. It all comes to a head when before your shift one night there was a new outfit on your doorstep. A simple red blouse with a black pinstripe skirt. That in and of itself wouldn't be a problem and yet the true issue was the note.

Took a guess on your size, lil Bunny. You can tell me if I'm right tonight after my show.

It is your size and you have idea how he could tell that let alone how he knew these were your favorite colors and that you favored pinstripes for your dresswear. If you dwell on it for too long some sense of fear and flattered feelings settle deep within your stomach.

The only reason you wear the outfit is because every other work appropriate outfit you have is currently in the wash. A fact that is true purely due to your own laziness and is something you want to curse yourself for. You consider actually going to the show, entirely aware that you could but you're loath to give him the satisfaction. Instead you wait until around the time the show ends to make your way to his room utilizing your ability to have extra keys of rooms to make your way inside. He's not there yet so you sit in a chair and wait in the dark. Dramatic, yes, but you figure it seemed fitting given the circumstances. Perhaps he might even respect the flourish of it, the flourish of you waiting for his own dramatic person in the dark as if he couldn't rip your throat out in an instant.

You almost doze off waiting for him but when he finally arrives he opens his door with a sigh, completely ignoring you before he walks slowly over to you, silent as a church mouse. He opens his mouth to say something as his teeth glitter in the light of the strip coming from the window but you cut him off.

"Is this all supposed to charm me?" A simple question but one that has him chuckling lowly as you try and get up only to be stopped by his hand on your shoulder.

"It working?" His eyes zero in on your skirt before he shrugs. "Fits you like a damn glove. Knew I guessed right."

"You guessed-" You try and take his hand off your shoulder before realizing it only makes him push down just that little bit harder. "I didn't ask for clothes or jewelry or- for you to even still be trying to talk to me. What do you even want from me? My blood?"

"If I wanted to suck ya dry of all your blood, I'd've done it already darlin'. Nah, that'd be a damn waste of a spitfire like ya." Elvis murmurs as his eyes trace your form. "Think we'll have more fun with you alive and me alive as I'll ever be. 'Less ya gonna tell me you've gotta death wish."

You scoff at him, your lips curling up into a sneer. "I didn't even know ya were honestly still alive, what makes ya think ya were a part of any death wish I might have?"

"The fact that your heart insists on goin' a mile a minute 'round me. Or when you shivered like ya did. Might not have realized I was 'round but now that ya do-" His tongue darts out to wet his lips. "Think ya'd enjoy dyin' with me drainin' the life from ya."

You shouldn't think the idea is enjoyable but you can't help the way your legs reflexively clench together. "Mr. Pres-"

"Elvis. Lil bunny, lil spitfire of a woman. You were waitin' f'me in the dark. Could've rushed in 'n torn out that pretty lil throat of yours 'fore I realized it was you. And wouldn't that've been a cryin' shame. Waste of a woman like ya."

It's flattering the way he calls you a spitfire and the way he leans close to you whispering it to you like a long lost lover. You reason your reaction stems from not being intimate with anyone for a while but truly perhaps it just is Elvis's natural charm. A shake of your head is all you manage to do before clearing your throat to speak. "Elvis. That- That was the point not- Ya needed to be caught off guard. Startled. And-"

The laugh he lets out is low and mocking. "Oh darlin' you wanted to surprise a vampire. You- God, you're somethin' else. Maybe- Stay here tonight. Don't got plans, know that."

The unfortunate truth of the matter that he's correct. You don't have plans but spending the night and staying there with him has you shaking your head once again. That is the exact opposite of anything you want to do. "No. Find- They'll send up another girl if ya ask them to or have- I don't know, I'm not staying here tonight."

His hand that's been on your shoulder moves to your neck and traces the lines of it gently as he leans forward and lets a nail act almost as if he's going to prepare it to be pierced by his teeth. "Not even if I have somethin' to tell ya. Somethin' interestin'?"

Your face perks up for a moment at the thought of just what he might want to tell you before you frown. "Not even- I want to go home Mr-"

"Elvis. Not. Mr. Presley. Not to ya." The words are growls in your ear and involuntarily your mouth opens up and lets out a soft whimper and whine. At the noise his hand moves to stroke your clavicle. "Just for tonight. Won't- Don't plan on doing what your body seems to want me t'do. Just wanna talk."

You use the fact that his hand isn't directly pushing you down to slip out of the chair. His eyes widen in shock before he moves to pull you into his arms. He doesn't bother to move fast, more preoccupied with seeing your reaction. You take a step or two back and he drops his arms to his side before motioning to the door. "'Nother night then, Y/N. 'Nother night." A beat. "I won't stop."

Whatever you want to say just comes out as a hiss of anger almost like you're a cat before you slink out the door. Once you're in the elevator you sink to the floor and try to steady your breathing, you try to tamp down on your arousal and try and ignore the part of your brain craving to find out just what he wanted to talk to you about.

That craving doesn't leave you and if you didn't know any better you'd think it was supernatural the way it worms its way into your mind and settles in popping up at the worst possible times. It only takes a week before you find yourself waiting for him in the dark again, wearing a pinstripe pair of pants and the red blouse he had given you. You don't mean to fall asleep waiting for him this time but you do, only to wake up when you feel the presence of something staring at you. By this point his show had been over for an hour and he's in a robe that looks- soft. "Rise n' shine, lil bunny."

You scramble a bit, shocked and mortified that you fell asleep before you look at Elvis who is just sitting casually as can be in a chair next to yours. Your eyes drift over him before you bite your lip. "I'm only here to- I want to know what ya were going to tell me last week. And I want ya to stop- I want to not have a bunch of gifts every day."

His shoulders move in a shrugging motion before he shakes his head. "I got no problem tellin' ya about it, but 'less you're gonna help, ya still gonna get the gifts."

"Why do ya- I don't want- That's not how you charm someone into helping ya." You cycle through words faster than you mean to, more confused than anything else at what he's saying. "What do ya even need my help for?"

It's a valid question, you figure, after all he's a vampire and you are still very much a human but he hums, waving off the question before moving his chair to face you and to essentially pin you into being stuck in your own chair. "It's how I figure you'll be charmed." He pauses. "Lil outta practice wit' th'other one. As for what I need ya help for-" He trails off and pulls off the mask obscuring part of his face to reveal a burn scar that is noticeable enough to have you gasping. "Need ya to help me avoid doin' this again. Don't feel like burnin' up like that on the other side. Let alone anywhere else."

Several moments pass before you finally find the words to articulate your question that aren't just straight confused noises. "Are ya asking me to help ya set fire to something?" He cannot be asking you to do that. You have to be dead and this is just a very vivid post death hallucination.

For his part Elvis nods slowly, looking you dead in the eye with the most laconic face as he answers you. "I'm askin' ya t'help me set fire to this place."

"The hotel?" Your tone shifts up about 2 octaves and you swear your voice just whistles instead of actually speak. "Where I work? Where you perform?"

That same laconic look doesn't leave Elvis's face. "The one I tried to set fire to in '81 only to burn half my face? That very one, lil bunny."

You can't help but laugh though it's not something normal and sensible that comes out of your mouth. No, it's a high pitched mildly terrified giggle that leaves your mouth. He's- He is asking you to commit arson with him. To help him set fire to a place he's performed at since the 1970s. That you work at. He cannot be serious. "You're- You're joking. I- I have Elvis Presley who is apparently a vampire stalking me so that I can help him set fire to a hotel because you fucked up the first time?"

The giggle is still there before his hand darts out and wraps around your throat, tightening just slightly. "Keep laughin' lil one. Keep laughin' and I'll rip that throat clean out. Won't even be recognizable."

His hand steals your breath away from you as you try to take a breath only to have him tighten it more. He- He won't kill you, you don't think, this is just to scare you, to make you want to do what he's asking for but your vision is starting to blur just a bit and you can't help the way your eyes are starting to roll back in your head before suddenly you can breathe. You cough a little violently as air rushes back into your lungs before you glare at him, pushing the chair back in order to stand up. "You keep threatening to kill me, ya sure ya want my help? I don't- I'm leaving. This is a joke. You're a joke just like ya were-"

In a rush Elvis has you pulled tightly to his chest, his arms snaking around you and tightening like a python. "Stopped being a joke the second this happened to me don't- Heard enough of that from all those goddamn tabloids and from the reports of my death."

You're going to die, this is how you're going to die. Not by starvation or homelessness or by some madman murdering you on the streets. No, you're going to die because a man who was a has been before he became a vampire and is even more of one now despite three more albums under his belt and another Grammy for that eighties gospel album. Still you have to fight him, he's not- if he wants your help he won't kill you. You're- he's obsessed with you, isn't he? Wants your help that bad?

"Elvis, I think you're just a lonely scared little boy in a man's- excuse me- vampire's body." You snarl, trying to wriggle out of his grasp, as if you have any chance of winning against a vampire with superhuman strength. As if you'd have any chance winning against him even if he was human. Elvis Presley never had been a small man and you had never been the strongest of women.

"And if I am? Ya gonna be my salvation? Gonna save me from this hell on Earth? This eternal damnation forced on me by a Dutch lyin' bastard?" He leans closer to you, his breath ghosting over your face, over your lips as he takes breaths he doesn't need to and as he watches your eyes have a fire in them that warms him from the inside out. "Gonna make me feel better about it, darlin'? Ya really think ya good enough t'do that? That I like ya 'nough for that t'work?"

"Ya haven't killed me yet." You spit at him, just narrowly avoiding actually spitting on him. "I'm still alive and ya seem pretty damn obsessed with getting me of all the people in this town to help ya. So, yes, I think ya like me just enough."

At your words Elvis's grip on you loosens and he steps back like you burned him for a moment before he practically hisses at you. "'m only obsessed 'cause ya seem like the only person who could do it." A beat and something flashes in his blue and red tinged eyes. "And ya- yer from home." Memphis is what he means but he doesn't think to clarify. He takes a step forward and grabs at your chin even as you let out a snarl of your own. "Ya hate this place as much as I do. And think ya'd like seein' it burn down 'round ya. Don't lie. Can tell if ya do."

A quick dart of your eyes to the side is all the answer you can give for a moment as you try to compose yourself. "Doesn't mean I wanna help ya. Doesn't mean I'm gonna help ya."

For the briefest of moments, Elvis looks human and looks like a little boy when he looks at you. He's- You recognize the look, it's almost practically begging. "Please. This place- it ain't good for anyone. Me, especially but can't tell me it's done a bit of good for anyone other than who owns it."

He's right, as much as you loathe to admit it and it shows in how you purse your lips. "I'm not- I ain't agreeing to this, but tell me just what your hairbrained plan is."

As it turns out, Elvis's plan takes until the break of dawn to explain and two orders of room service delivered by one man who goes back downstairs and a woman who- well, served as Elvis's food until she fell limp in arms. There was something enrapturing about watching the act, watching how her mouth contorted into one of pleasure as she came in his arms before you could slowly see the life drain from her until his mouth came off her neck with a pop and a squelch. When he looks at you his lips are covered in her blood and he can't help but give you a toothy grin. "Sounds like you're jealous of her and me. Can't risk killing ya but maybe- maybe soon lil one."

That morning you call in and dream of his lips against your neck and of the pleasure he'd give you because- he doesn't want to kill you. You'd just get all the joys of being fed from but none of the tragedy. If you avoid him that night, you blame it on your shift. He doesn't call you out on the lie.

Planning arson between two people, one of whom has a larger bank account but can't leave his residence and the other who has a smaller bank account but can roam as she pleases is harder than one would think. Yet you both persevere, meeting up every other night to gather the items needed. What's been tripping you up for ages has been the floor plans and it shows in how you've been getting snappier with Elvis each passing meeting. He gives back in spades, somehow being worse than he was your first and second meetings but tonight- tonight he seems a little melancholy and a melancholy Elvis is a very human Elvis and one you find- one you could see a future with perhaps. A twisted one but one that flutters into your brain on nights you can't sleep or nights you can sleep despite dreams of the two of you mouths red and snarling as you feed.

"At this point ya might as well kill me." Your accent has been returning with a vengeance the more time you spend with Elvis any acting classes you had to train it out of you falling by the wayside. "We ain't gonna find a proper floor plan and without that we can't-"

"Y/N." His tone is laced with a warning- don't test him, not tonight. "I got time- wanna get this done but 'nother week ain't gonna hurt."

"Says the man who hasn't fed from me and is gonna live forever." Your eyes are blazing when you look at him before you continue. "I wanna get this over with. Wanna have- Wanna see if you'll do somethin' if we get it done."

Elvis's eyes narrow looking at you for a moment before he rubs his hand over his mouth. "Oh. That's- Lil Bunny. That's the problem? Ya want me t'do somethin' to ya? Have my wicked way with ya?"

You can feel your heartbeat rushing in your ears before you can even articulate an answer. "That's not- Ya keep looking at me. Like- like I'm someone ya might wanna- No, I don't."

"Ya do." He moves to lean over your chair, putting your face at eye level with his chest. "Ya wanna know what it's like to be in my bed. Wanna know what it's like to please me."

You do, lord above you do. You're essentially committing a crime for him and for what? For the pleasure of knowing you've set fire to a horrible hotel? That you've freed him from this place? For nothing that gives you any satisfaction. "Is that so wrong? Ya won't kill me when there's a line of bodies I can probably trace back to your first year as a vampire. Ya won't feed from me because then where's your help for this silly scheme. Ya won't fuck me because-"

"Listen darlin, honey, satnin. I- I get a lil lonely up here. I know what ya gonna say- jus' leave but you've seen how it is." Seen how he can't leave the room for fear someone's going to actually realize that he's Elvis Presley and not some impersonator. Seen how people already mock the fact that he's still around- after all hadn't you? Seen how he looks out at the view of Vegas, almost wistful when he thinks you're not looking. "I haven't killed ya but- you're- ya remind me of how I was. Always been- the way I am but not not like this. Don't feel like ruinin' it is all."

His hand reaches out to touch your face and it's so gentle that you can't help but nuzzle into it and take a quick inhale of breath. "Elvis."

He hums, noting how your eyes shut and for the briefest of moments he remembers what it was like to have someone whisper his name like that. Like a prayer you're scared will float away and fail if you say it too loud. He's missed that, he's missed so much of what it was like to be human, to be able to live freely even if back in the day his freedom still had him confined. You just look so sweet nuzzling his palm, acting as if you're the love of his life, acting as if you belong there. Maybe that's why he had been cursed otherwise he doubts he would have made it to this decade or at least made it to this decade in a state you might have wanted him in. "Y/N?"

"Why are you being like this?" You whisper, still nuzzling at his palm. "You- From the stories I've heard you're- you've never been a completely good man. I haven't seen you be a good man."

Another hand, his free hand moves to cup the opposite side of your face and forces you to look up at him. His eyes always such a stormy blue with that ring of red since you came across him have taken on a lighter hue and it takes your breath away as you feel his thumbs stroke your cheek. "Haven't had a reason t'be one. Look where it got me, satnin. Haven't pushed ya away yet, maybe you're- maybe you're the thing to settle this violent angry head of mine. So pretty- so gentle when ya wanna be. Let me take care of ya, hm?"

His hand moves away from you and you chance it almost in a trance before you look at him and bite your lip. "Take care of me?" The subtext is clear as your heart starts to race and your legs clench together.

What was the harm in treating you tonight? Maybe it would give you the right incentive to find the floor plans, to look harder than you had been. Maybe that was the real trouble you were having. You were too distracted by your desire and want for him. His hand moves down to your chest, undoing the buttons of your blouse slowly. "Take care of ya. Jus' for tonight."

That night you find yourself gasping for air, screaming his name, arching your back and snarling all at once. You find that when you leave you play with the bite mark on your breast and shudder remembering his words said against your ear more than once. "Might make ya mine if ya do well enough."

It still takes another two weeks to get the floor plans, the proper up to date ones. Two weeks of finding yourself in Elvis's bed with him teasing you and making promises about his plans for you and him. But, as it turns out someone had been wanting to get a room at the hotel and well, you did work the front desk so you could handle getting them some accommodations for a fee of course. Elvis wastes no time in opening up the plans when you arrive that night with them in your hand, holding a bottle of champagne for you and the number of someone you had met on the bus for Elvis to enjoy his own drink. After she's on the floor and you're nursing your second flute of champagne you feel Elvis behind you wrapping his strong arms around your middle and pulling you close.

"Gonna turn ya when it's all ash. Won't be stuck here any longer, can do what I want again. Take ya all around the world." He whispers against the shell of your ear, nipping once he reaches your earlobe. "You're gonna look so fuckin' gourgous feedin'. Vicious as ya are. Ya did so good bringin' me dinner too. Wish I coulda shared her wit' ya. Soon, lil Bunny, soon."

There's an alarm in your head that goes off at those words, at the way he coos them while holding you. They feel off- fake somehow and you down that second glass the moment he lets go of you. Had- You knew very well he wasn't a nice man, you've known this from the second you first spoke but he- there's no way he has any intention of changing you. He might be obsessed with you but that's because you've been the only person who can handle herself well enough to do this, hadn't it? You were going to get him to the finish line of burning down the hotel only to what burn with it yourself? Take the fall for a dead man? You file away the thoughts in your head for a later moment, if you thought about them now Elvis would know.

You smile at him almost saccharine. "Ya mean it? I'll be your vicious lil vampire queen?"

He grabs your chin and pulls you in for a kiss not caring that he still has a trace of blood on his lips. "The second it's up in smoke. Promise."

Liar.

Las Vegas in August is disgusting, better than some places in the United States, but it's still hotter than Hades and feels nearly as suffocating despite the lack of humidity. A fact you keep pointing out to Elvis as you both hold small cans of gas.

"Should've killed ya like the res' of 'em. No one would've missed ya. Jus' another lil' girl in Vegas runnin' 'round thinkin' she could make it big." You see a flash of his teeth and you figure it's supposed to scare you but at this point you like to think you know better.

"If ya killed me who would be helpin' ya right now?" The way you speak is practically a sneer but you can't help it, not with how he just somewhat threatened to kill you. "Hurry up, people are going to start coming back and I don't-"

"It's 11PM and they're in Vegas the hell are they-" He starts before he starts to trot off to the area he's most familiar with- the stages. "Meet me by the damn elevator."

An eye roll is the only response he gets as he leaves you to your own thoughts as you pour the can of gasoline in a line between the already waiting containers of it. If all goes well the walls of fire you and Elvis hope to create will have the entire building up in smoke in no time at all. It makes it so you both have to be quick on each floor but you had taken precautions for this. You knew every way to get down the floors as quickly as you could and Elvis wouldn't leave you behind. After all, he kept talking about his lil' spitfire queen. Kept cooing the words at you in between planning and buying the gas and finding yourself spread across his sheets or above him.

And yet something felt different, you had that same feeling you did when he talked about how gorgeous you'd look feeding. It felt off. You try to shake the feeling away as you two reach the top of the building, his penthouse suite and cover it in extra gasoline. He wanted every bit of this room demolished, nothing salvageable but to do that you are currently feeling faintly high on the sheer amount of gasoline in the room and wondering just how no embers from the cigar he just lit have fallen yet. You almost miss the words he says when he looks over at you. "Ready to run?"

A shrug is your only answer before you try and take a deep breath. "Get in the elevator first, then toss it."

He obliges, letting you go first with a flourish that rather than delight you has your hackles raising. "Ladies first."

Elvis Presley used to be a gentleman. Elvis Presley is not a gentleman any more.

Right before the doors to the elevator close Elvis tosses his cigar between the door and as they shut you feel the rush of heat from the roaring blast it caused. This is the only floor you have to take the elevator for and it makes each consecutive floor easier. You both light a cigar and toss before running to the next floor, rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat even as Elvis pulls you in for a harsh kiss his eyes blazing in the fire he had started with his cigar, looking practically manic with delight. The fire brings out the red in his eyes. It scares you.

"Calm down, Lil' Bunny. Almost there." He shouts practically sing songing the words as you rush down yet another flight of stairs to the second floor. "One more floor and you're mine. We'll be free. I'll be free."

There it is again, that nagging feeling that you're a means to an end for him. You brush it off one final time as you start to cough, the floors of smoke and blaring alarms of a sprinkler system that hasn't produced any water getting to you. "Jus' want this done, 'Vis."

Finally you reach the final floor, the bottom floor which is the most complicated. There's an extra exit, a fire exit in the stage area so you both agree that's the last room, that's the last place to be set ablaze and Elvis finds it almost poetic when he thinks about it. He stares at the doors for a moment before he enters with you, as if he thinks he has all the time in the world. He might, he might be able to run out of there fast enough but the smoke is starting to get to you and the heat from the blaze above and around you is making the area around you sweltering. "You said you'd turn me, Elvis. Once we get outside, right?" You have to shout before you cough over the roar of the blaze and how somehow it's starting blow toward you as you shut the door to leave you and him in the lone area not on fire yet.

The cigar in his mouth is lit and he contemplates knocking off the tip, letting it start to catch everything ablaze before he stops himself and nods. "Course, gonna do it the second you get some air in ya."

Your own cigar- the last cigar is lit and you're about to toss it before you stare at him, stare at him because that tone- that tone betrays his actual plan. "Why not now? I can- I can barely breathe in here, Elvis."

Those words have him tossing his cigar and have a whoosh of fire come up behind him as he walks towards you. "You'll be fine, lil spitfire. Y/N. You don't- Patience. Don't wanna rush forever."

Your mind goes blank as you drop the cigar you were holding and have to jump out of the way as a bit of fire starts to separate you and Elvis. He glances at the fire and growls, realizing he's very quickly going to be boxed in before he wooshes to a spot next to you. "Tryin' to kill me? 'Cause I won't-"

A crash can be heard of a bit of wood falling onto the stage and you jump before you cut him off. "Because you're not plannin' on it. Ya gonna- You're plannin' on killin' me, aren't ya?"

"Eatin' ya, actually. It's what ya wanted back when ya first saw me eat. Wanted to be fucked then sucked. I fucked ya now-" His words are cut off with a slap that he allows you to do because it gives him the ability to grab at your wrist. "Loose end, lil one. Either you go down for this or ya die. Gave ya the more pleasurable option."

"While telling me you were going to change me!" You snarl half running toward the door even as you inhale another bit of smoke causing you to cough more. "You- You've been usin' me this whole damn time! I- you said you'd make me your little queen."

He's faster and he has you pinned up against a wall as he feels the flames starting to inch toward you both and as you keep swallowing more and more smoke. "Ya called me a damn has been and a joke. Darlin' ya don't wanna spend eternity wit' me, ya jus' wanna run around spending an eternity doing whatever the hell ya want to do. Ain't gonna give ya something you think is a gift."

"You- I'm- I can't breathe." You choke out as you try and take deep breaths only to realize that the room is filling with grey smoke. He's fine because he doesn't need to breathe but you- you need air.

"Shame I didn't change ya before. Didn't give ya what ya wanted to use me for. Don't care 'bout me. Lil Memphis spitfire don't care 'bout the thing everyone loves 'bout the place. No wonder your mama and daddy don't want ya to come back." His tone is mocking as he keeps you pinned to the wall, despite inching himself closer to the door. He was going to escape and you were going to die by smoke inhalation if the fire didn't kill you first.

A breath of air enters your lungs suddenly as you find that Elvis lets you go, a bit of the fire catching onto his pant leg right as he reaches the door with you. You seize the opportunity and hit at the door with your body, trying to force it open as he steps on the offending burning fabric. even as another crash can be heard on the stage and you see more and more paint chips fluttering around both of you, or maybe that's ash you've never seen a fire this big. The door finally flings open and more fresh air for your lungs and to feed the fire. Elvis whooshes over to you and attempts to block your way out but for once you have the upper hand, managing to be on the outside of the building while Elvis is still just barely in there. He realizes his mistake, realizes what you just very well might do to him in an instant.

"Lil Bunny- I'll- Don't be rash. I'll do it. I'll do what I said I would." He coos even as the fire rushes around him, his hair becoming more messed up the more he stands there. His face getting more ashes on it the longer he stands there.

"Liar. Liar." You tilt your head and move to push him inside. "Pants on fire."

His eyes look down thinking you're telling him his pants are literally on fire and you take that as your opportunity to shut the door, locking it in a way only you know how. Within a moment he starts to push at the door.

"Y/N!" He shouts through the door. "I'll do it, just let me outta here! I'm- Ya don't want this on your conscious! I wasn't gonna kill ya! Baby- Darlin- Lil Bunny, let me out!"

"Not gonna believe a lyin' dead man, Presley!" You shout, knowing that you sound insane before you start to move away because he's right you don't want that on your conscious. You hear him shouting promises you doubt he'll keep and feel the fresh bite he had made on your chest burn as you walk away but you're able to fake being a victim among the crowd, the ashes covering your face and the way you keep coughing as the building burns and as you swear you hear a series of Southern curses in the wind.

The bite scars over and aches from time to time.

They don't find his body. You try and not let it keep you up at night.

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