𝐀𝐍𝐔𝐁𝐈𝐒

LIMERENCE | jeon jungkook

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lim·er·ence

noun

the state of being infatuated or obsessed with another person, typically experienced involuntarily and characterized by a strong desire for reciprocation of one's feelings but not primarily for a sexual relationship.

LIMERENCE | 18+ | s | a … ex!jungkook

ONE SHOT

summary: a recent discovery of old VCR tapes takes you down a rabbit hole of self-pity, remembering what you once had and how it all went down the drain over youthful mistakes. suddenly, you find yourself playing back the old tapes of the best relationship you’ve ever had and all you can think about is how to get it back—if you could get it back

․ ∘ ⊹ ✰ ┆ exes au | Y2K | grunge┆ ✰ ⊹ ∘ .

warnings: TBD. angst. smut. [jk and oc in videos: 18-20 | jk and oc now: 26]

COMING SOON

[ song inspo : do I wanna know — arctic monkeys {crawling back to you, ever thought of calling when you’ve had a few?}]

VIDEO LOGS :

․ ∘ ⊹ ✰ ┆ JJK 3 ┆ ✰ ⊹ ∘ .

COMING SOON

․ ∘ ⊹ ✰ ┆ JJK 8 ┆ ✰ ⊹ ∘ .

COMING SOON

․ ∘ ⊹ ✰ ┆ JJK 11 ┆ ✰ ⊹ ∘ .

COMING SOON

․ ∘ ⊹ ✰ ┆ JJK 14 ┆ ✰ ⊹ ∘ .

COMING SOON

․ ∘ ⊹ ✰ ┆ JJK 19 ┆ ✰ ⊹ ∘ .

COMING SOON

․ ∘ ⊹ ✰ ┆ JJK 22 ┆ ✰ ⊹ ∘ .

COMING SOON

․ ∘ ⊹ ✰ ┆ JJK 24 ┆ ✰ ⊹ ∘ .

COMING SOON

…

permanent taglist: @notmyfaultbutours @rerefundslocals @fandems @sugaluvmyg @guvgguk @kimyishin @libra04 @kooromiwrld @classycreationcupcake-blog g @alwaysdreamingnotsleeping @cherrymonlightt @nikkiordonez12 @asking4-sanity @thvlover r @saweetspoiled @uwu2rawr @shaybts-blog @babycandy111 @tearyjjeon @joons-uparupa @jeonninja @yellowcupid08 @02010802faves @knudsenheggedel @skzthinker @unnatae @aurorthi @beautywine @95ene @taekookstata @lilliankoo @shescharlie @annenakamura a @lesoleile @burnahtsw @babybella337 @kooloveys @ku-ku @chaelvrx @minnie-mouser22 @Imeneghd @whoa-jo @evajeonsworld @marvelbun @sunnikthv @kochycooky @heyhowyoudoin3 @acielelyseen @giselleswifeee @jeonjk25 @ilikeitlikethatt @bangmechanpls @lvr2seok @badbyeyoongi @jaerisdiction @watermelonjuice15 @artmsmaid @xyahrinx @angeleen777 @jooniesxbby @brillantdarling

kerosene

ghost x f!reader. 17k words. cw: noncon. kidnapping. gun violence. free use. smut. mentions of involuntary groinal responses lol. simon is a smug asshole and reader is into it you get robbed at gun point while working the lone register at a nowhere petrol station. the money in the till is not the only thing he takes with him. or [read on ao3]

Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, so they say. 

The devil should have been busy with you, then. Malignant boredom had taken root in you, rankled in every crevice and swell, metastasized like knobbly tumours that parasitised on your will to live until only the gritty alluvium was left. 

You began your shift behind the till at the Gulf station in the late afternoon, shy of four p.m., as you had done yesterday and as you would tomorrow. You took over from Mitchell, who worked the morning shift, the old man with a wiry grey beard and eyebrow hairs like corkscrews sticking haywire out of his forehead. You’d work until midnight, when you would be replaced by Charlie, a pinguid twenty-something with legs like beanpoles and eyes so sunken they were hollow as caves in his skull. 

They had been your co-workers for the better part of three years, yet they might as well have been strangers to you. The scant exchanges you would share with them were a few words at shift change, if that. Mitch would prattle on about some rude geezer and tell the same story about his ex-wife that he had every other week. Charlie, bedecked in his cheap headphones and carrying an egg sandwich cling-wrapped by his grandmother, would only give you a nod and ask been busy? with little attention paid to your answer. 

You had been offered the morning shift when you first started. 

The owner of the franchise station, Dave, was uneasy about the prospect of a ripe (his word) young woman working alone behind the register after dark, at a nowhere white-pole station in the sticks, where the only customers were long-haulers and on-the-way-home farmers. A just concern, you supposed, and a part of you had considered taking him up on his offer. 

You refused, in the end. 

Told him that someone like Mitch (frail, near-blind, on the cusp of Alzheimer’s) would far more likely be victimised by the ilk of patrons that trudged through the station. In your experience, anyway, most of the late-night customers that came through the push-door understood the implication of a burly old man being served by a young woman on her own. They’d tread more carefully, offer you kind smiles, sometimes mention their wives to make sure you understood they were not a threat to you. 

There was always the odd lecher, though. Goes without saying. 

The kinds of yellow-toothed men that would lean too far over the counter, talk to you like they knew you, overly familiar. The type to ask you to smile for them, or for a discount, or for your number. Ones that would joke about coming back, just to visit you. That would say you’re too pretty to be working in a dump like this, you should be in a bar instead. Maybe on a pole. Maybe in the passenger seat of their truck, to keep them company. 

It never frightened you, really, because nothing ever happened. You stuck with the late shift because it offered the fanciful possibility that something interesting might come to pass. Maybe, if you were lucky, there would be a car wreck outside the station, or a patron threatening enough to justify hitting the panic button, or a fire set off by the fuel pump and you’d finally be able to put the ten-year-old extinguisher to use. 

But you were confident that every shift would be the same, as always. 

Nothing would happen, you would drive home to your shoddy seventies cottage in the pit-stop hamlet of Dunhill, eat a frozen pastry, sleep alone, and do it all over again. Days came and went like empty boxes on a trundling conveyor belt, your life a deserted factory, only still whirring because the last attendant forgot to switch off the machinery when they left. 

Today was no different. 

You perused the grocery shelves with cheap earbuds stuffed in your ears, the kind with squishy mushroom plugs that made it sound like you were underwater. Shuffling through the same playlist you had been slowly adding to over the last year — you liked the songs you already knew every word to, creature of habit that you were. Busied yourself by twisting the canned foods so that their labels all faced outwards, then backwards, just for a laugh. 

It got to half-nine, the sun had long since set, and you had served one customer since your shift started. A middle-aged man with a muddy van, who bought three RedBulls and a pack of Chesterfields, and half a tank of diesel. He scarcely acknowledged you, a hi when he walked in and a cheers when he left. 

Your meal for the evening was a pack of Walkers salt and vinegar crisps and a bottle of chocolate milk, plucked from the shelves and not logged. Leaned back in the plastic chair behind the till with your Chucks propped up on the counter, some Sally Rooney book with its spine broken folded in half in your hand. 

You had milk in your mouth when you heard the characteristic thud of a closing car door, a harsher slam than you were used to. Attuned to the noise even while your ears were plugged. You swallowed it hard when you heard the chime of the bell, the swing of the door, the thuds of boots. New customer. 

Sat upright, you peered over the register to see who had entered the station, and you were flummoxed when there was nobody there. 

You grabbed your earbuds by the flimsy cord and tugged them from your ears with a pop — there were footsteps, someone was there, you weren’t crazy. You could hear the sound of provisions being swept from shelves and shoved into a bag, the bonking of cans and the crinkling of plastic. 

Only once you stood did you see the head above the shelves. 

Black hood up, you only saw the side of him as he wandered down the aisle, towering beast shuffling along and torpidly picking things up just to put them down again. A foot taller than the racks he meandered between. Wore a black leather bomber over his hooded sweater, well-worn hide, turned tawny brown in the creases and at the edges. All bulky, padded up. His shoulders swayed with the bravado of a gladiator who spent his life unchallenged.

Had you any remaining hospitality in your system you’d have greeted him, but you circumspectly held your tongue. 

There was something in his presence that did not augur well. Something crooked, something bent. Turned the tired air inside the station dyspneic, too dense and thick to comfortably breathe. 

Call it a woman’s intuition, if you believed in such a thing. 

Simon hadn’t accounted for a bird at the till. 

He’d have expected some ruddy-cheeked man with buck teeth and brown-bordered sweat stains on his shirt. The typical clerk at a shithole backroads petrol station, in his experience. They’d shoot him a grimy look, eye him up-and-down with a curl in their lip, all ruffian until he brandished the Sig Sauer he had tucked in the waistband of his jeans. 

That was what he had prepared for. He came to stick the gunmetal barrel in the face of the old bloke behind the register, demand every stack of cash from the till drawer and anything valuable he had on his person, maybe fire at the ceiling if he moved too slowly. Piece of cake. In and out. 

Instead, it was you. 

Sneakers propped up by the register, sucking the crisp dust off your fingers with pink lips. Reading a book as disinterestedly as you might watching paint dry. 

Unlucky for you, it didn’t make a difference that you had a pair of tits. He wanted that money. 

Your chary little head poked up from behind the counter once he was done collecting his supplies. A few cans of Baked Beans, couple bags of crisps, some vacuum-sealed biersticks. A roll of gauze and a bottle of Dettol for the flesh wound in his thigh. Pack of tissues. Bic lighter. KitKat for a treat. All shoved in the duffle bag he held in his fist, heavy with the wads of cash he had already collected from the last pit-stop on his trip north — an offy in a piss-stained back alley in Cheltenham. Grabbed a few pilsners for the road from there, too. 

He forsook his urgency as he approached the register, measured pace, duffle in hand. Eyeing you up with each step as if you were a candybar on a display rack. 

Pretty wee thing. 

He hadn’t even shown you his gun yet, and your eyes were already peeled wide, glistening in the bright fluorescent lights hanging overhead. 

None of the goods he intended to pay for. He didn’t need to make that any clearer to you, the assumption was already plastered on your face as he loomed towards you. Had his mask on, after all; thick black ski mask pulled over his head, jagged holes cut out for his eyes. No doubt that made quite plain his intentions. 

You stood pin straight, curling the purple cord of your earbuds between your fingers as if some attempt to ground yourself. Not a drop of makeup on, he could see the satin sheen of sweat on your forehead, the plum rings unconcealed under your eyes. Nobody to impress out here. Still pretty. 

“Um, which pump?” You asked flatly, tone meek, in denial of the obvious. 

Your stupefied stare followed his hand as it ventured to the base of his sweatshirt, a frown fluttering in your brows as you all but tilted your head in anxious confusion. He reeled up the heavy fleece, white t-shirt underneath — but that wasn’t what your eyes clung to. 

His hand curled around the grip of his handgun, plucking it out from the waistband and holding it insouciantly at his side. No need to point it at you, not yet. 

Your skin turned cadaver grey as your blood flooded to your feet, eyes bulging with the instantaneous panic that wracked you as though you had been smacked in the face with it. 

“Oh my god — ohm — oh my god,” you squeaked, tongue knotting in your mouth, tears quick to fill your kittenish eyes. “Oh my god — y-you—”

It was this, the histrionics, that he hoped to avoid. The tears, Christ, the fucking tears. There wasn’t anything to cry about, not yet, but your eyes glowed sanguine, and the tears that oozed from them were clear and glittery. Rolled dramatically from their wells and dripped from your chin, seeped into the corners of your trembling mouth. All flushed and glossy and he hadn’t even spoken yet. 

There was no blood-curdling outburst, though. You didn’t scream, didn’t wail, didn't scurry around hysterically like a decollated hen. You were stiff as a board, arms pinned flat to your sides. Merely whispered the Lord’s name in vain over and over as if he might answer your call. 

“Please — ohmygod — please don’t hurt me,” you cried, lungs seizing with every word, hiccuping and spluttering like you had just been pulled ashore. “What do you want, you can — you can take anything. P-please—”

“Shut up,” he barked, and you flinched at his aggression. “Just open the fuckin’ till.”

You nodded so vehemently he thought your head might roll off your shoulders, and your pallid hands began raking over your body in desperate search of the pocket you kept your keys in. His glare followed keenly as they ran over your hips, waist, unabashedly caressing your arse in the search. After finding them in a back pocket you tried to orient the keys in your grip, but your fingers trembled so vigorously that you immediately dropped them to the linoleum floor. 

“Fuck — I’m sorry,” you bleated as you bent down to pick them up, eyes still riveted to him, “I’m sorry, let me just — please, I’m sorry—”

He let out a grunt of exasperation as he marched around to the other side of the counter, your feet remained planted still as though you were bolted to the floor, leery eyes following him while your head kept rigid. 

A deer in headlights. Fawn, more like. Small and doe-eyed and too stupid to get out of his way. 

You only whimpered when he jostled you away from the till, physically driving you to the wall with his hands under your arms, clearing his path. He took your shaky little hand in a fist and peeled it open, plucking the keys from your sweaty palm. 

The register was old, something from the nineties, yellow-faded plastic with cube-clacky buttons. He shoved the tiny key into its slot on the drawer, gave it a good shimmy to loosen it up, and it popped open with a ding. 

Pretty much empty. 

“The fuck is this?” He growled, fingering through the notes in the drawer — all twenty-two of them. “There’s fuckin’ nothing in ‘ere!” 

Your face screwed up like a wrung cloth when his glare shot to you. Great gulping sobs, your eyes squeezed into fleshy little crescents and spewed tears from either corner, terror rilling from your nose and making your lips all wet. 

“I’m sorry — it’s not my — I think Mitch m-must have done the cash drop this morning,” you wailed, “Please — it’s not my f-f-fault!” 

“Shut up,” he snapped, jutting the mouth of his Sig Sauer at you, callously reminding you of the fate he held in his grip. 

He snarled to himself as he plucked out all of the notes, flipped through them to count it up. Nine fivers, six tenners, five twenties, two fifties. A few quid worth of coins floating around unorganised between the compartments. A prodigious spoil of three-hundred-and-five pounds. 

Fucking joke. 

He rancorously shoved all the paper in the bag — left the coins, ego too tall to fish out the petty change. 

“Piss take,” he grumbled as he slammed shut the till drawer. “What else y’got.” 

You blinked up at him timorously as he tucked his gun into his jeans and marched towards you, almost buckling over as though you could curl up into a shell to protect yourself from him. 

Only cried as he spread your arms, shamelessly smearing his hands over your body to feel for something in a pocket. Down your waist, stomach, hips; all pillowy under the pressure of his hands, soft even through your t-shirt. Prodded the undersides of your breasts with shameless fingers, checking for anything tucked in your bra, and your lips curled in disgust as you looked away from him. 

He almost cracked a smile at your diffidence. Maybe another time, pretty thing. 

He flipped you around, manhandling you until your nose pressed into the wall. Hands smoothed down your back, before finding something rectangular tucked into the tight pocket of your skinny jeans. You squeaked in dispute as he stuck his fingers in the pocket, flush with your arse, but he had no time to enjoy it. 

Little red wallet. 

He flicked through it — a visa debit card, expired Primark gift card, two quid in the zipped pocket and a tenner note folded in a card sleeve. Eyed your license for longer than necessary — cute little photo of you, a tiny smirk in your lips as you gazed at the camera. 

“Pretty name,” he said wryly, and you only huffed with your forehead pressed against the wall. 

He didn’t bother taking any of the change. Looked like you needed it as much as he did. You winced when he pushed a finger in your back pocket, tugging it open so he could shove your wallet back in. 

He instead returned his attention to the checkout, scouring the counters for anything else that could be deemed at all valuable. Nothing, obviously. Merely cardboard display racks of chewing gum and cheap candies. There was a cigarette cabinet behind the till, at least — after some fiddling he found the key on the chain that fit the lock, broke open the steel door, and swept an entire rack of cartons into the duffle bag. 

As a last resort, he dropped the bag and crouched down, wiped underneath the countertops with gloved hands, hoping for a vault, a hidden compartment, or—

His fingers brushed plastic, creasing and soft; something wrapped in film, taped to the underside of the counter. He tore it off with a zip, held it in a tight hand; a stack of notes, more than a centimetre thick, wrapped with a hair tie and shoved in a zip-seal sandwich bag. 

You let out a remorseful sob as you sunk to the floor with your back against the wall; thighs tucked to your chest, head dropped to your knees. 

A grin peeled his lips from his teeth as the realisation settled. “This yours?” 

“No,” you chirped, a pitiful attempt at a lie — he was unsure why you wouldn’t admit to it, it wasn’t as though he’d have informed your boss. 

“Skimming, eh?” He snorted, peeling open the yellow seam of the plastic pouch and fishing out the stack. Flipped through them — mostly tens and twenties — easily a couple grand, at the very least. 

“I just—” you sobbed, shoulders hunched, “I was just saving up. It doesn’t matter. Just t-take it.” 

“Saving?” He asked incredulously, voice thick with amused derision. “Little thief. No better than me, are ya?” 

“Whatever,” you bellyached, arms wrapped around your knees, snivelling on the floor. 

He sucked his teeth as he dumped the stack in his bag. Too bad. His now. 

As he went to stand, though, he went dead still — eyes hooked on a flashing blue light under the counter. Squinting, he leaned closer, to substantiate his hunch—

A fucking panic button. 

His rage burst like a purulent blister, apoplectic with it, he ripped his handgun from his jeans and steamed towards you. 

“You fuckin’ hit the alarm?” He roared, and you shrieked in terror as he took the collar of your t-shirt in a fist and heaved you up from the ground. 

“I — I’m — I didn’t—”

Your spluttering only enkindled his fury. You cried out in despairing dread when he shoved the mouth of his pistol into the soft flesh under your chin, and he held his teeth to your cheek. 

“Why the fuck would you go and do that, eh?” He growled, inexplicably disappointed. Thought you were smarter than that. 

“I’m sorry,” you bawled, shaking your head, wet eyes bolted to the ceiling. “I didn’t know what to do, I just — I thought I was s’posed to, I’m s-sorry. Please — god, please, don’t kill me.”

He huffed, jaw rigid. 

He wouldn’t put a bullet in you, pretty thing. Too lovely to mire with lead, that butter-soft skin. 

It was a shame you were such a thorn in his side, fractious girl, because otherwise he would have just left you be. Would have taken his cash and been done with it, left you in your piss-wet jeans to cry to your boss about the ordeal and rightfully request some weeks off to escape to somewhere more therapeutic for the soul than fucking Dunhill. 

“Would be a damn waste,” he grunted, finally pulling his gun from under your chin, sticking the barrel into his jeans. A moan of relief leaked from your throat once the instrument of your imminent death was no longer kissing your jaw. 

Premature relief, love. He grappled you away from the wall, and with a shove, had you in front of him. You yelped when he collared you with a tight hand around the back of your neck, stumbled over your feet as he began driving you forward.

“What are you—”

“Use those legs, girl,” he barked, as he reached to hoist up his duffle bag from where he left it on the floor. 

You blubbered like a toddler, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing, as if your tears might engender pity from him. “Are you t-taking me?” 

“Not gonna leave you to blab to the cops, am I?” 

Another sob. “No — I wouldn’t — I won’t say anything, I don’t even know what you look like. Please—”

“Christ, you’re a whinger, aren’t you?” He rumbled, barrelling through the swinging door and hauling you across the asphalt of the forecourt.

The air was thick with the greasy smell of petrol seeping from lousy fuel pumps, amalgamated with the distant fumes of factory farms and cow manure that hung in a blanketing smog from there to Birmingham. Only the corrugated metal infrastructure of beef and dairy industries for miles in any direction out there. 

He couldn’t fathom what a bird like you was doing with her feet in the mud, stagnating in such a miserable shithole. Maybe he was doing you a favour. 

He tore open the passenger door of his twenty-year-old Mitsubishi L200 — a rusty black pickup he bought with cash from a shrivelled old man on Gumtree, with hopefully just enough life in it to last the drive north. 

You stuck your hand out and planted it on the edge of the door as he pushed you towards it, vigorously shaking your head. “No, n-no — I’m not going with you, I’m not—”

He snorted, and when you didn’t capitulate with a shove, he swept an arm under your knees and hoisted you upward before dumping you into the passenger seat whether you liked it or not. You landed with a squeak, and before you could spew out any more vacant refusals he slammed shut the door. 

He stormed around to the drivers side and hopped in beside you, tossing his duffle bag back between the seats, hastily igniting the engine as he shut his own door. Hit the central lock button and the entire truck locked shut with a clunk — you whimpered when you heard it, and turned your knees away from him.

“Where are you taking me?” You cried, as he revved the truck and rapidly accelerated, tearing out of the forecourt and over the curb, landing on the road with a sharp bounce and a tire screech. 

He paid little attention to your whimpering as he sped off down the dilapidated country road, eyes flicking to the rearview every odd second to make sure he saw no flashing lights in pursuit. The vehicle dipped and recoiled over every pothole on the crumbling old road — motorway would be preferable, but he decided heading in the opposite direction to loop back around would be the safest bet. 

You only sobbed quietly to yourself in his silence, no doubt his lack of response was a threat in itself. 

He had no issue frightening you. Served you right. 

Took some morbid glee in considering what you imagined he planned on doing with you. Whether you considered weighing up your chances. Might you survive if you were to attack him? Would he go easy on you? Might he enjoy the struggle? 

Perhaps you were girding yourself for what he might do next. 

Truth was, he hadn’t decided yet. 

His decision to take you was as impulsive as it was inexorable. 

You weeped until your tear troughs were droughted and nothing more could bleed from their ducts. Cheeks had gone sticky with it, salt dried gritty on your flushed skin, lips shrivelled and thirsty. 

Transient thoughts of rebellion had been ignited and snuffed out in the ten minutes since he had abducted you from the station — you could have reached over and pulled the gun from his waistband, could have tried to kick through the passenger window, could have thrown a nuclear tantrum and bucked and screamed until he was forced to pull over. 

All would have been futile. You weren’t stupid. 

He had that gun in his immediate reach; in fact he kept a heavy hand resting high up on his thigh, prepared to yank it out of its nest above his crotch at any given opportunity. He had made abundantly clear the shortness of his fuse, and that his reflexive reaction to annoyance was to threaten your life. 

Best you settle down, you thought — wait until his guard was down, until he pulled over somewhere, then consider something more drastic. While you were trapped in a car with him such an opportunity was unlikely to present itself. 

There were no streetlights out this way; your abductor had bypassed Dunhill entirely, sticking to unmaintained back roads that had you bouncing up and down in your seat. Not the motion alone that made you queasy, but the fact he was driving even deeper into nowhere, where the only sources of light were the headlights of his truck, illuminating the dark road ahead like something out of a found-footage horror film. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” you croaked, voice abraded to the point of gurgling stones. 

You felt his head turn to look at you, but you kept your stare pointed out your window. Knees turned so far away from him that they burrowed into the door. 

“Eh?” He huffed dryly. 

Sipped a cautious breath before repeating yourself. “Where are you taking me?” 

“I’m ‘eaded north,” he said, no elaboration. 

“Where north,” you asked more firmly, warily frustrated. 

He let out a breathy chortle, as though surprised you’d interrogate him. “Scotland.” 

You cocked your head back in bewilderment and turned to glower at him. “Scotland?” 

“S’what I said.” 

“I don’t want to go to Scotland,” you whined, realising quickly the length of the drive — easily six hours to Glasgow if he stuck to the motorways, but you got the sense he was avoiding them. 

“That’s a shame,” he said. 

“I don’t understand,” you pleaded, terror thick in your throat. “What do you — what do you want from me?”

You regretted the question as soon as you uttered it, because there was some comfort to be found in uncertainty — that is, the possibility that he wasn’t going to throw you into the bed of his truck and rape you in the pitch dark of the backcountry night. 

He looked at you again, eyes tar-black in the shadows of his balaclava, and you held shut your thighs on instinct. 

“Dunno yet,” he said. 

You might have cried if you had any tears left to give. Instead you blinked at him uneasily, petrified into a surreal state of milky numbness — maybe you were in shock, you had heard of that before. 

“So you — you just took me because you felt like it?” 

He shrugged with a single shoulder. “‘Spose so.” 

A minute of stodgy silence settled in the cab as you stared blankly ahead down the spotlighted country road. You weren’t sure what you should do with yourself, and it made you itch all over. From the pits of you echoed screams to put up a fucking fight, to do something — instead you sat quietly, vacantly, erosively indecisive. Waiting for something to happen. For the other shoe to drop. 

“Are you going to shoot me?” You timidly asked, words eking out like dripping water from a tight faucet. 

“Hopefully not.” 

“Then — then why did you take me?”

His head rocked back and bounced off the headrest as he let out an exasperated puff of air. “Y’make a lot o’ noise, don’t you?” 

“Well there would be no noise if you hadn’t.” 

He laughed at that, you could see the fine lines creasing in the corner of his puckering eyes through his mask. “Got me there.” 

“So then why don’t you just let me out?” You pestered, only emboldened by his droning indifference. Apathy exuded from him like serum from an open wound, oily yet salutary, and you found it grotesquely reassuring. 

“Don’t want to,” he bluntly replied. 

“Why not?” 

He was twitchy. On a razor edge. He lasered a glare at you and it stung, and you shrunk into yourself under the heat of it. 

“Because I don’t want to.” He repeated, jaw tight. 

You should have heeded the venom in his throat as a warning to shut up, but despite effort to wire your jaw shut, your compulsion to fill the silence was pathological. 

“Are you — are you going to—” Couldn’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. The tail of it sat heavy and sour on your tongue. 

“Goin’ to what.” 

A quivering breath leaked through your teeth. “Rape me.” 

He sighed heavily, languidly rocking his head to the side, and you felt his hard eyes on you. Excoriating you from legs to lips. 

“Thought about it,” he said. 

Ribs closed like dog jaws around your lungs. 

Said with such torpor that it didn’t cut you like a threat. Instead it made your heart tight and hot, shuddering rather than beating, pumping out needly adrenaline that made your hairs spike up and your stomach drop heavy. 

“And?” You creaked, voice scratching in your trachea. 

“Wouldn’t mind a fuck,” he grunted indifferently. “But I don’t like crying.” 

A mortifying heat feathered over your cheeks. Something pre-programmed, an evolutionary reaction to the suggestion of sex at all, consensual or otherwise — that’s what you told yourself, when you felt a reflexive shiver between your legs, and your ears turned hot. 

“So that’s why you took me,” you mumbled anxiously. 

“To fuck?”

You shot him a pointed lour in place of a response. 

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

Fucking weird girl. 

Your curiosity was potently unsettling, riveting in the same breath. Didn’t make sense to him, that you’d ask him so unabashedly whether or not he intended on defiling you. What answer were you hoping for? Did you simply want to make sure he said no? 

You blinked at him vacantly after his candid response. No use in lying to you. 

It wasn’t his style to brutalise himself into a bird, to bulldoze through wails and shrieks of refusal, physical capability to do so notwithstanding. He simply didn’t like tears. Felt beneath him, really, the impotent sadism needed to enjoy milking them. The only wetness he liked in a girl was a wet mouth and a wet cunt. 

He was partial to a hisser, though. Liked his spitters and scratchers. The kinds of girls that would gripe and grouse about his brutishness but turned treacly sweet when he inevitably overpowered them. 

Perhaps you’d be a hisser. 

He would have liked to find out. What noises you might have made. What the skin of your thighs might have felt like when free of their denim sheaths. How your nipples might spike up in the invasive cool of the September evening, or under the unwelcome brush of his fingers. 

There was a glimmer in the pools of your eyes, fretful yet inquisitive. He was probably only seeing what he wanted to see. 

You went quiet after that, at least. For the best. Kept your little knees nailed together as you glowered out your passenger window, pleasantly pacified for the time being. Sulking like a fucking child, but he supposed he couldn’t blame you. 

He wasn’t stupid enough to expect that you’d be cheerful after he kidnapped you. And he wasn’t in denial, either — he did kidnap you. There was no dancing around it. He threatened to kill you and then he abducted you, because he felt like it. Because he liked the look of you. 

Not remorseful, though. It would be a cold day in hell before he ever felt sorry for anything. His brain just didn’t function that way. If he wanted something, it was his. No use wasting time feeling guilt over something not even he could prevent. 

He spent his time in your silence considering how to make it worth his while. Whether he would, in fact, drag you all the way to Scotland with him. Whether he’d have you aid and abet his next robbery to make up for the piss-poor spoils he purloined from your petrol station. Whether he would find a way to fuck you on the way, or perhaps once he got to his destination. 

Maybe he’d let you keep some of your savings if you showed him your pussy. He looked at you briefly as he thought about it. Wondered how badly you needed the money. 

“What were you savin’ for, eh?” He asked suddenly, and you flinched at the sound of his voice. 

Soft little girl. He’d need to harden you up. 

“What do you mean,” you murmured, hardly a croak. 

“Don’t play dumb,” he gritted.

You sighed warily, eyeing him before you answered. “Doesn’t even matter,” you grumbled. “You took it, so now I haven’t saved anything.” 

He glowered at you, and something in his dissatisfied stare must have compelled you to elaborate. He had that effect on people. Birds, especially. Intimidation coursed through his blood and emanated out of his skin, it didn’t take much effort. 

“I wanted to leave Dunhill, obviously,” you groaned, reluctant to spill every word. 

“Yeah?” He asked, “where were y’off to?”

“Fucked if I know,” you muttered. “Literally anywhere else.” 

He snorted at that. “Couldn’t do that without skimming, eh?” 

“What, do you disapprove?” You hissed, scowling at him. “At least I don’t kidnap people when I need money.” 

“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” he crooned through a grin. “M’only impressed.” 

“Whatever,” you groused, crossing your arms and glaring out the window. “I only took it because I owe a bunch of money.” 

He quirked a brow at that. “To who?” 

“Why do you care.” 

He shrugged. “Boring drive.”

You let out a petulant huff before you inevitably decided to answer him. 

“I’m behind on rent,” you said, through gritted teeth. “Like, four months behind. And I’m still paying off my car, which I just needed to get repaired, so now I also owe money to the mechanic who did me the favour. Fucking owe money to the government, too, because they found out I was on the dole while I was working at the station.” 

A curl tugged in his lips, brows raised in intrigue. No surprise you had managed to find yourself burdened by so many favours — landlord giving you grace, mechanics fixing your cars without payment upfront. Pretty thing like you, though, he’d expect you’d get everything for free. Couldn’t imagine what kind of penny-pinching wankers would still demand money from you when you looked like that. 

Shame you didn’t cross his path sooner, he’d have fixed your car for you. No charge. Might have even let you squat at his place rent-free, assuming you made it worth his while. 

Started to imagine it, despite himself. Pictured having a pretty thing like you to come home to. Standing in the kitchen in his t-shirt, nothing under it. He’d bend you over the counter and fuck you right there while you stirred your tea. Wouldn’t have taken much to get your cunt nice and wet, he thought. You seemed like you’d be easy to please, bored little thing, hopelessly awaiting a man like him to show you what’s worth living for. 

Maybe he would take you all the way to Scotland, after all.  

“What about you,” you asked dully, snapping him from his reverie. “Why do you need the money.” 

He glanced at you, you picked your fingernails and glared at his hands on the wheel. 

“Must need it pretty bad,” you muttered, scorn bubbling in your throat. 

He tapped the steering wheel. “Long story.” 

“What, are you a fugitive, or something?” You asked, contemptuous eyes raking over him. 

“Is it that obvious?” He asked, through a chortle. 

You gulped, almost cartoonishly. So scared of him. He was sure the mask didn’t help, but he didn’t feel like taking it off yet. 

“What’d you do?” You questioned, that pang of anxiousness never quite leaving your voice, despite your attempts at feigning bravery. “Kill someone?” 

“Worse than that,” he said frankly. 

Your brows knitted together worriedly, fingers knotting. Nervous fidgeting. “Some kind of rapist, then?” 

“Not quite,” he replied facetiously, certain you must have found his amusement at the prospect ill-placed. 

“Then what?” 

“Got in trouble with people you shouldn’t get in trouble with,” he explained, purposefully vague. He enjoyed your inquisitiveness. 

“A gang?” 

“Could call it that,” he jeered. “Special air service.” 

Probably shouldn’t have told you that. Couldn’t help himself. 

“Special — wait, you’re in the army?” 

“Not anymore,” he said. 

You frowned uneasily. “What happened?” 

“That’s a tale for another day,” he grunted, and you turned to glare out the window again, spiteful now that he left your curiosity unsated. Little brat. 

Twenty uneventful minutes passed uninterrupted, then, and Simon focused on the route he had set out to follow. Had successfully avoided main roads for the better part of an hour, now electing it safe enough to return to the highway. Took a few dark turn offs, and every time the truck slowed, you visibly tensed up; so terrified that he’d pull over for a rest stop and drag you into the grass on the side of the road.

He didn’t like the streetlights. They were confrontational, accusatory, as though their beams of light were enough to alert every cop in the vicinity to his presence underneath them. 

The highway was largely empty, at least. Only one car passed in the opposite direction as he cruised along the smooth asphalt, decidedly more comfortable to drive on than the tattered backroads. Meant he could drive a lot faster, too. Might have been able to cut his trip by an hour, if he stuck to eighty-five miles an hour for the stretch between there and Birmingham. 

Your girlish little hands clutched the armrest of the door as he accelerated, the speed of the vehicle pushing you against the window as he followed a curve in the wide road. 

“You’re driving too fast,” you said quietly. 

He cracked a grin. How endearing that you thought to warn him. You were lucky he was trying to keep a low profile, in any other circumstance he’d be brushing a hundred. Then he’d really scare you, wouldn’t he? You could do with some toughening up, he thought. 

“Now you’re worried about the law, eh?” He sneered. 

“I just don’t want to die in a car wreck,” you bit. 

Seemed his docility was emboldening you. Perhaps you were a hisser, after all. Wondered if he needed to correct your behaviour. Maybe you’d spit on him if he reached over the centre console and fixed his hand to your thigh. 

“You’ll be fine,” he said. 

He avoided the arterial motorway that cut through Birmingham, choosing instead to stick to the A roads that bounced between exits and junctions in a zigzag. Hardly efficient, such a route would tack on an extra three hours of travel between there and Manchester, but at least far less monitored than the M5. 

He got cocky, he supposed. 

Saw the flashing red-and-blue lights before the sirens started blaring, and you jumped like a bunny — your head wracked around with a speed that made your neck crick, glaring at the cop car through the back windscreen. 

“Fuck,” he barked, through a clenched jaw, eyes jumping between the cruiser in his rearview and the highway ahead of him. 

He could have shoved his foot down, pressed the accelerator flat to the floor and fled the likely jaded cop patrolling the country highway at eleven p.m. on a Tuesday. There was a chance the fat old bastard wouldn’t give chase, but that chance was slim. Simon didn’t need the attention. 

He sunk his foot into the brake and slowed to sixty, veering into the shoulder. “Fuckin’ tosser.” 

And didn’t you perk up? Itching all over to bounce out of your seat, head swinging back to look at the police car twice a second. All twitchy and riled up. He could see what you were thinking, it was printed in your cheeks, bright in your eyes; now’s your chance. 

He hoped you weren’t that stupid. 

“You gonna be a good girl?” He asked rigidly. 

“What do you mean,” you squeaked, panicked, eyes peeled wide and skin glossy with sweat. 

“Means keep your fuckin’ mouth shut,” he snapped, lifting up his jersey, and you gawped at the gun against his stomach. “You make a scene, I’ll have to shoot him. And then I’ll have to shoot you. Y’understand?”

You nodded tightly, wiping under your eyes with your palms, some paltry attempt to collect yourself. He sincerely hoped you’d behave. He didn’t want to kill you. Would be a waste of a pretty bird. Not to mention a fucking pain in the arse to hide not one, but two bodies. 

“Good,” he muttered, as he tore off his mask and tossed it on the ground between his feet, slowing the car to a stop on the side of the highway. Rubbed his hand over his buzzed head on instinct, cropped hair velveteen under his palm. Hopeful the knit didn’t leave suspicious imprints in his skin. 

Your lips went a little slack when you looked up to see him unmasked, and a grin creased in his cheeks. Saw plain as day that glimmer in your little eyes, as they scoured over his face as if reading the pages of a book. 

Didn’t think he’d be pretty, did you? He was not ignorant of his looks, and wasn’t humble about them either. So blatant in your flustered expression that you liked what you saw, only too virtuous to admit it to yourself. 

He wound down his window before the policeman approached. He was adept at pretending to be a good boy. Spent decades licking boots in the military, and cops were even easier to please. 

The officer was middle-aged and saggy-eyed, just as jaded as Simon had predicted. The truck was taller than him, so his hatted head peered through the center of the open window, assessing the cab with his lips in a line. 

“Evenin’,” Simon said simply. 

“Heading home, are we?” The officer asked, eyeing up the bird next to the driver, lathering you in more attention than necessary. 

Could’ve clubbed him in the nose for so shamelessly drooling over you — as far as the cop was likely concerned, you were his bird, not some slapper along for the ride. He had king-hit men for less. 

“You bet,” was all he said. 

“Must be in a hurry,” the cop said derisively, glare finally returning to the driver. “Any clue how fast you were going, mate?” 

Mate made Simon twitch. Swallowed back the urge to spit not your fucking mate, instead offering a placating grin and a pat of the steering wheel. 

“We are in a bit of a hurry.” 

“Yeah? Enough of a hurry to be going twenty over the limit?” 

“Bird tells me to hurry home, I hurry home,” Simon jeered. “Y’know what I mean.” 

The officer almost tutted, until your voice cut across from the passenger seat, and Simon’s knuckles turned white on the wheel. 

“Don’t blame me,” you snapped. “It’s not my fault you can’t control yourself.” 

To Simon’s surprise, the cop chuckled at that. 

“Need to rein your fella in, love.” 

“I tried,” you lamented. “I told him he was going too fast and he was going to get pulled over. I told him so. Bastard doesn’t listen to me.”

Simon blinked in your direction, to see you sitting upright with your arms spitefully crossed over your chest, cheeks red-hot with panic and knee bouncing in frustration. If he didn’t know the root of your unease was the fact he had abducted you, he’d have believed you were a contemptuous bird itching to castigate her reckless partner for getting in trouble. 

Seemed the cop believed that, too. “Bird’s smarter than you, eh?” 

Simon snorted, deciding to play along. “That she is.” 

“Looks like you’re in plenty of trouble, then,” he taunted.

Simon looked at you, again, to see you scowling at him before you glowered out the windshield. “Mh. Think so.”  

“You’re lucky I’m not in the mood to do the paperwork,” the policeman said sternly. “I’ve got your plate, though, so slow down, yeah? Way down. No excuse for eighty-five in a sixty.” 

“Understood.” 

“Don’t let me catch you again, eh?” 

Simon smiled politely, concealing the chortle that curdled in his throat. Cop wouldn’t be seeing him again at all, ever, because he was fucking off to a different country and intended to stay there for as long as he remained under the radar. 

He’d have to dump the car, though. With the plate on the record it was fated for the scrapyard. 

“Appreciate it,” Simon said through an artificial grin. “Have a good one.” 

The cop only nodded, patted the car door with a flat hand, before waddling back to his cruiser without another word. 

Simon was humiliated to admit the relief that doused him was sobering, letting out a ragged sigh as he rolled up the window and twisted the keys in the ignition. He was certain that the encounter would have been far uglier — felt his hand twitching towards the gun on his stomach more than once, imagined how quickly it could have been over if he simply tore it out and pointed it at the wanker’s forehead. 

You, strange girl, saved his arse. Whether or not you had intended to help him, you did. His eyes fixed to you as he pulled back onto the motorway, speedometer creeping back up to sixty and staying there, while the police car was still in sight. 

“‘Bastard doesn’t listen to me’?” He quoted with a brow raised, incredulous amusement rich in his tone.  

“What,” you muttered derisively, staring rigidly out of the passenger window, arms tightly interlocked. 

“Think of that on the spot, did ya?” 

Seemed you were avoiding eye contact with him now, glare fastened out into the moonlit countryside and head bolted still. Ashamed, perhaps, that you had thwarted your only real opportunity to escape him. Or, worried that if you looked at him for too long, your fear of him might have mutated into something far more difficult to justify. He smirked at the thought. 

“You should be grateful,” you grumbled. 

“Should I?” 

“You didn’t get arrested because of me.” 

He chortled at that. Maybe your tactic to ingratiate yourself was to help him, but he got the sense that wasn’t your intention.

“In that case, ‘course I’m grateful.”

“Then say thank you,” you spat, finally swivelling your head on your neck to pin your grouchy little lour to him. 

“Thank you,” he crooned, grin sharp. 

“Whatever,” you griped, slumping back into your seat with a huff. 

He wasn’t sure if he preferred you whining and crying to pouting like a teenager, either option tested his patience. He at least found the latter vaguely amusing, only slightly more endearing than a whimpering abductee in his passenger seat. 

“Thanks not good enough for you?” He asked mordantly, and you scoffed. “What, do I have to lick your cunt to prove it?” 

Your stare cut to him out of the corner of your eyes, head impudently bowed to avoid facing him head-on. 

“Don’t say things like that,” you murmured uneasily, eyes glittering under the streetlight that passed by.

“Like what?” He sneered, “don’t want me to talk about licking your cunt?” 

“Shut up,” you chirped, stiff-lipped, tipping your knees away from him and once again scowling out of your window. 

He snickered at you, couldn’t help it, watching you get all tight and restless when he said it again. Certain you were involuntarily picturing his head between your legs, whether you liked it or not. 

“Don’t like the word cunt?” He teased, winding you up for his own enjoyment. “Or don’t like thinking of me licking it?” 

“Stop it,” you whined, shrivelling up like a raisin. 

He grinned. “I can call it your pussy instead.”

“You’re disgusting.” 

“Uh-huh,” he laughed. 

You turned to tug at the door handle, yanking at it unrelentingly, and it only thumped as you failed to break through the lock. “Let me out.” 

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” 

“Open the fucking door,” you spat, spite simmering in the back of your throat. “Let me out.” 

He liked this better. Hissing derision, contemptuous attempts to escape, to demand your freedom. Much more enjoyable than your earlier weeping, all snotty and puffy-eyed. 

“Not gonna happen,” he said.

“You’re a pervert,” you growled.  

“So?” 

“Let me go,” you repeated, glaring daggers at him. 

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he said candidly, tone as rigid as he intended it to be. He meant it. 

Again stymied, you slouched over and turned away from him, and went petulantly silent. Simon drove ahead unruffled, took another exit off the motorway — once again trundling over a poorly kept rural road, heading in the direction of the next highway junction half an hour north. 

It was evident being off the beaten track put you on edge, pellucid in the way you tightened your arms around yourself once the streetlights became fewer and further between. He couldn’t blame you, it was certainly slasher-esque to cart you around backroads, where the only buildings were abandoned barns and grain silos. Lucky for you, he wasn’t a murderer. Not anymore. Besides, all of his past killing was government sanctioned. Most of it, anyway. 

You kept your mouth shut for the next long while, huffing and puffing every now and again, making sure not to let him forget how unhappy you were with your circumstances. Strangely enough, he found it endearing.

“I need to pee,” you said suddenly, a squeak, shy to say so. 

He snorted. “Think I’m thick?” 

“I — I’m being serious,” you stammered. Unconvincing. 

“Hold it,” he said unsympathetically, turning a left corner, the momentum making you tip into the centre console, your shoulder nudging against his before you spitefully tugged yourself away.

“I can’t,” you grouched. 

“Piss yourself then,” he sneered. “I’m not keepin’ this car.” 

Your brows scrunched up in disappointment. “I don’t want to — to pee on myself. That’s just gross.” 

He smiled. Something cute about you. 

“You can piss when we stop for the night,” he said. “How’s that?” 

“We’re stopping?” You asked quietly, blinking at him charily, as if he’d change his mind if you spoke too loud.  

“Been a long fuckin’ day,” he grumbled. “I’m not driving for nine hours straight.” 

“Nine hours?” You pestered, “I thought we were going to Scotland?” 

He couldn’t help but grin at that. Perhaps it was a Freudian slip — we. Maybe you had come to terms with it already, the ineludible fact that you were stuck with him for however long he wanted to keep you. So far, that looked like a good while. 

“Taking the long way,” he answered. 

“What the hell, how many people are looking for you?” You asked, pouting in worry. 

He sucked his teeth. “Not enough to find me.” 

You didn’t need to pee at all. 

In fact, your nerves had sucked up every drop of water that remained in your body after your deluge of tears. They were glutted with it. All swollen and pinging with panic every odd moment, when you remembered you were supposed to be in fight-or-flight. 

You were seething, though, that you had failed to convince him. 

The plan was poorly conceived, in fairness — you only imagined getting as far as an unlocked door, girding your legs to bolt off into the endless fields on the side of the road in whichever direction they took you. Didn’t spend a moment considering whether you could outrun the goliath, or how rough he’d be when he predictably tackled you. Maybe he’d simply have shot you as you ran away, turned it into a game of target practice for his own amusement. 

There was shame brewing within you, now. 

Sweltering, emetic, frothy as it crawled up your throat — you were disgusted with yourself, at how pathetic you were being, at how little you had done in the interest of your own escape. How you had let all of it happen. 

You always imagined yourself a fighter, it was easy to imagine such a thing. In hypotheticals you would kick and scream, could easily overpower your assailants by sheer will, your resolve to survive so strong that capitulation was inconceivable. 

Reality stung. 

You weren’t a kicker or a screamer. You were a sit-and-waiter, and that realisation was sobering as it was disappointing. 

Humiliated that you had forsaken a real opportunity at rescue for no discernable reason. No reason you could truly justify. Perhaps you had done it to save the police officer; if you hadn’t intervened, your deranged captor would have shot the innocent man for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, and it would have been your fault for making a fuss. 

Terror was the next excuse, but that didn’t quite justify it either. If you were so terrified that the man would shoot you, you would not have uttered a word. No, you would have been quiet, a good girl, just as he ordered you to be. 

It assuaged your fear, you thought, to see his face. 

You were surprised to see a face at all beneath the mask, forgetting he was a man and not some caricature of chaos and violence. He looked like a soldier, too. All scarred and cynical, disillusionment was inlaid in his features despite how caustically he grinned at you. 

His hair was freshly buzzed, sandy blond velvet coating his head, long pink cicatrices carved lines into his scalp as if someone had attempted to cut through it and peel it from his skull. He was tattooed, you could tell, by the teal-black engravings that crept up the side of his neck, the rest concealed by the thick hood of his sweatshirt. Nose a little swollen at the bridge, fractured once and poorly healed. 

The shame was even more potent when you caught yourself eyeing him for too long, flicking over to him every now and again just to get a glance, the shortest possible eye contact to ensure he didn’t catch you staring. 

Fucking mortifying that he was good-looking. 

That your mind even allowed you to think so, that your eolithic subconscious had considered your abductor’s appearance at all. The way he had rakishly smirked at you was arrogance manifest, you could see in his russet-brown eyes a patent awareness of your attraction. As if he could smell it on you, goading you to admit it, ego stroked every time you caught his eye. 

So you didn’t. 

You kept your body tilted away from him, gaze locked out of your passenger window, sweaty hands clamped together. Every now and then you felt his glare on the back of your neck, heard him breathing in your direction — it felt as though you were counting down the minutes until he felt compelled to reach over the console and touch you. 

It was only a matter of time, undoubtedly. That’s what he took you for, you were certain, despite his supposed ambivalence. The thought made your heart sit fat in your throat. Stopping for the night was a deadline.

“Where are we stopping?” You asked weakly, voice aimed at the passenger door. 

He let out an exasperated breath. “Not sure yet.”

“Are you going to sleep in the car?” 

He seemed to find that amusing. “I might not look it, love, but I’m a creature of comfort,” he said. “I’ll get us a bed.” 

Us. You shivered when he said it. 

A scornful refusal knocked at the back of your teeth, but you knew how he’d twist it, would mock your aversion. He’d make another foul little quip about your pussy, you thought. 

You didn’t want to give him the chance to say the word again. Not simply because it was revolting to listen to the degenerate joke about eating you out — licking your cunt, it echoed in the sauna of your skull — but because the mere mention of it turned your cheeks claret-red and the back of your neck all clammy. 

What was worse, is that you knew he could see it on you. Plainly emboldened by how much it ruffled you. Could decipher your unease as an effort to conceal some biomechanical reaction, one provoked by the mere suggestion of it, by the vibrations of his voice as he said it. 

“Do me a favour,” He suddenly demanded.

You refused to turn and look at him. “What.” 

“Grab me a fag, will ya?” 

Animosity congealed in your mouth. The fucking gall to request favours of you. “From where?” 

“Bag in the back there,” he said simply, “light’s in there too.” 

“Fine.” 

You peered behind the headrest, his unzipped duffle bag was dumped on the back seat; just out of reach if you were to extend an arm between the gap. Instead you had to twist your entire body and contort yourself through the middle, waist between the front seats as you climbed over the console.

You resented being in such a position, arse jutting out towards the windshield, unable to see the driver that sat so close to you — so you were quick about it, burrowing through the sack, stuffed to the brim with junk, and myriad different brands of cigarette cartons. 

“Which ones do you want,” you asked impatiently.

He huffed as he thought about it. “What’ve we got?” 

“Um,” you murmured, digging through the cardboard cartons. “Mayfairs, Richmonds… uh. Embassies, Davidoffs—”

“Mh. Gi’s a davidoff,” he interrupted. 

You followed his instruction and plucked out the trim red box, and an orange Bic lighter once you found it at the bottom of the bag, wedged between wads of cash. You peeled away the thin plastic covering and flipped open the card lid as you reeled your body back between the seats — immediately you caught him lavishing your rear in attention. He sniffed casually when he caught your eye, utterly shameless. 

Heart shuddered in your ears as you sat back down in your seat, gooseflesh prickling up in your skin as you held the carton out for him to pluck out a roll. 

He pinched the end of one and stuck it between lips curled over his teeth, before gesturing wordlessly for you to give him the lighter. 

“You’re a doll,” he said, muffled by the filter in his lips. Jaw jutted out to angle up the cigarette, he flicked the lighter in his fist with his thumb, little orange flame hovering under the end of the roll as he sucked it. 

“Whatever,” you grumbled, swiftly turning away from him to return your attention to the road out the window. 

Seemed he was approaching some area of population, little brick houses began popping up on the side of the street, lampposts peppering the road ahead. A surge of adrenaline made your hackles spike up — bystanders, you thought, people who might have heard you if you screamed loud enough. 

“Want a puff?” He asked indifferently. 

“I don’t smoke,” you snarked, distracted. 

He snorted. “Goodie girl, are ya?” 

“No,” you said curtly. 

“Mh, that’s right — you’re a little thief,” he taunted. “Not a good girl at all.” 

There was no response that would spare you his teasing, so you kept your mouth shut. Stayed silent for the remainder of the drive, in fact, a solid quarter-hour — until the car bounced over something and you jolted in your seat. Quickly realised he had pulled up into a parking lot as the truck began to slow. 

A two-star Travelodge, evidently, one planted directly on the side of the northbound highway. It looked barren, coral bricks all grimy with lichen and sludgy brown water stains, every window blocked by shut curtains. Not a single light glowed from within a hotel room, only the dim yellow lantern bolted to the wall above the sliding door at the entrance. 

You held your tongue in your teeth as he drove to a park at the very back of the lot, under a low-hanging tree branch, concealed by shadow. Your skin began to itch, crawling with bugs and alight with adrenaline — you could run, now, if he opened your door. Maybe you could sprint to the nearest building and hammer on the door, shriek that you’d been kidnapped, and to please please call the police. Or, maybe you could try to snatch his gun from him and shoot him in the fucking head. 

Instead you sat still in your seat. Felt your chest breaking out in a panic rash. 

“Righ’,” he said casually as he killed the engine, the suspension of the truck bouncing under the weight of him as he adjusted in his seat. “Look at me.” 

You shook your head in refusal. Entire body stiff as wood. Anticipation frayed your nerves and made your hairs stand on end. It was suddenly real. 

You kept your eyes pinned away from him, but it was futile, because he reached a massive arm across the gap and seized your jaw in a single hand. Fingers dimpled your cheeks as he twisted your head to face him, and you attempted to scowl at him, but your quivering lip made plain your alarm. 

“You gonna make a fuss?” He asked stiffly, pinching his cigarette with his free fingers, silvery smoke clouding out from behind his teeth. 

You just about said no on reflex, but bit down on it instead, because it likely would have been a lie. Only pouted at him scornfully and shivered in his grip. 

“What d’you think will happen if you do.” 

You swallowed. “You’ll shoot me.” 

He shook his head. “Would be an uncomfortable night for you, though, I can tell y’that.” 

A crease pulled between your brows. “Are you going to — to beat me up, or something?” 

He chuckled at that, a cocksure grin; you suddenly felt a weight in your chest, burning hot, made your ribs sink and your heart flutter. 

You hadn’t yet seen his face up close. His cheeks were stubbled, skin peppered with freckles and the creases of early aging. Teeth were sharp and unexpectedly white, raffishly crooked with pointed canines, a silver cap on a premolar. His lips were full, pale, a single scar running through the top one, white stripe in the ruddy pink. 

The shame returned with a kick to the stomach when you noticed yourself staring at his mouth, and you tried to look away from him, but he riveted your head in place. 

“Don’t plan on it,” he said, after a beat too long. 

Sweat pricked along your hairline. “Then what.”

“I’d like to have a nice long snooze,” he grumbled. “I don’t wanna be up all night wrangling you. So if you throw a tantrum you’ll be sleeping tied up with a sock in your throat. S’that what you want?” 

“No,” you chirped. 

He nodded approvingly. “I don’t want that either. I like the sound o’ your voice. Be a shame to snuff it out, wouldn’t it?” 

You attempted to nod, and though his hand kept you still he understood the intention. With a ragged sigh he finally released you, giving you a condescending pat on the cheek. 

With a grunt he suddenly twisted and leaned between the seats, gargantuan body taking up the entire cab as he reached behind you to grab his duffle bag, and you wedged yourself against the door to avoid touching him. 

Clambered about as he reeled the giant bag back to the front, before snatching the car keys out of the ignition and unlocking the driver side door. He kicked it open and hopped out with a huff, immediately slamming it shut behind him — only unlocked your door with his keys only once he was directly outside it, pre-empting any of your attempts to slip away. 

He opened the door for you with a clunk, and the biting air of the late autumn night made your entire body tighten up. 

“Get out,” he said.  

You nodded, swivelling yourself on your bottom and sliding out of the truck cab, landing directly in front of him. He flicked his cigarette to the ground and left the stub smoking on the concrete. 

“C’mon.” He fixed a hand to your bicep and yanked you away from the car, shutting the door with a slam. 

You were light on your feet as he ferried you towards the entrance to the cheap hotel, his other fist white-knuckled around the strap of his bag. 

“You don’t need—” you chirped, almost tripping over your feet, “—to hold me so tight.” 

“No?” He snorted. 

“I’m not gonna run,” you spat, hushed despite yourself. 

“Obviously.”

The sliding glass doors trundled open as you approached them, a tired ding echoing out to welcome you. The reception was quiet, poorly lit by vibrating fluorescent bars, stunk of fresh linen toilet spray and floor cleaner. 

Your abductor let go of your arm abruptly when he noticed the receptionist — a teenage boy with headphones on, who disinterestedly looked up from a Nintendo Switch to address the tall brute that sauntered in with you in tow. 

“Y’after a room?” The kid asks monotonously. 

“Standard double.”

The receptionist clicked around on the computer, smacking chewing gum between his teeth “How many nights.” 

“Just the one.” 

Click click. “It’s sixty-eight for the night.” 

“Y’take cash?” 

The kid frowned dubiously at that, jaw hanging open as he rolled the wad of white gum along his tongue. “Sure.” 

“Lovely,” your abductor grunted, unzipping the flap of his duffle bag and fishing out a thick wad of paper notes. 

Jaw gaped as you watched him unashamedly finger between the notes to pluck out three twenties and a tenner, slapping them on the counter of the reception before tucking the stack away again. As agog as the receptionist at his brazenness, all but showing off his spoils, plainly stolen. 

The kid pouted skeptically as he swiped the notes and counted them again, tucking them aside, and you wondered if he used the same technique as you. 

He dropped a keycard on the counter. “Room thirteen,” he said. 

“Cheers.” 

Your abductor scooped up his bag and planted his other hand on the small of your back, nudging you ahead of him towards the narrow hallway, never allowing more than two feet to grow between his body and yours. 

You glanced around feverishly as you wandered meekly down the corridor, identical doors mirroring each other for as far as you could see, until the hall turned a corner. Eyes clung to the glowing green emergency exit lights dotted along the ceiling, as if they might lead you to your salvation. 

“Can’t believe you actually paid for a room,” you murmured spitefully, when he nudged you forward by the arse as if guiding a ewe. 

“Wouldn’t want to break the law,” he chuffed. 

In any other circumstance you would’ve giggled. You might have found him funny if he weren’t the deranged fugitive who had kidnapped you. 

A yank of your shirt stopped you in your tracks, tugging you back — your abductor had flippantly taken your t-shirt in a fist, as he shoved the key card into its slot under the handle of a door behind you. 

“In,” he snipped, shoving you through the door once he had pushed it open. 

The room was small. Hardly enough room for the double bed in the middle of it, skinny end tables wedged on either side. The only amenities were a shin-height fridge and a kettle on a bench, tucked into a nook by the door. It was hot in there, too — radiator bubbling all day, you guessed, to counteract the cold weather. 

Immediately you fixed your stare on the window by the bed; a good metre across, brown aluminium trim, lumpy textured glass that distorted the view of whatever sat directly outside the hotel room. Ground floor, you thought, easy to slip out, if you could open it —

Noticed, then, that there was no indication it could be opened at all. No hinges, no frames, no handles. Simply a flat plane of glass stuck in the wall. 

Your stomach wrung itself, and you did your best not to keel over. The air was suddenly infinitely stuffier, sweltering, torrid in your lungs. 

He flipped shut the bolt on the door, and landed a pat on your shoulder. You could unlatch it, obviously, but the old thing was squeaky, clanking old brass, and undoing it would certainly alert him. 

He nudged you out of his way and dumped his duffle bag on the floor beside the bed, evidently claiming the side closest to the door, as if prepared to catch you should you try to slip around him. 

In truth, the notion of escape was scarcely a whisper. Supplanted by a nauseating docility — a survival instinct, you thought, to simply behave. To do as you were told. 

He began undressing himself, uninterested in whether you observed him; shucked off his old leather jacket and hung it over the back of his bag, unlaced and kicked off his muddy old boots. Your toes curled involuntarily into the soles of your shoes, watching him like a degenerate, as he tore off his hoodie and t-shirt and tossed them to the floor. 

Something out of a movie, you thought; gargantuan beast of a man, broad-shouldered and cladded in such a dizzying mass of muscle and adipose bulk that he looked encumbered by it all. The icteric light of the sconces by the bed carved out the divots in his back, the valley of his spine, the symmetrical dimples above the waistband of his jeans — you felt sick with yourself, that you even let your eyes venture there, but they cleaved fast to him despite your chagrin. 

He was slathered in tattoos as you had imagined, all flames and skulls and barbed wire, broken up by the occasional stamp of something more meaningful — a sacred heart, serif-font numbers, somebody’s name with a date beneath it. You could read it from where you stood; Johnny, 11.23.

You were only thankful he hadn’t turned around — couldn’t see you leering at him, and spared you having to see him from the front. 

“Still need to piss?” He asked roughly, and your lips twisted. 

“No,” you said, still standing awkwardly by the door. 

He snickered. “Seemed pretty desperate before.” 

“I — yeah,” you stammered, “I don’t know. I’m fine.” 

Gave you a shrug as he lumbered into the ensuite bathroom, and you heard the unbuckling of a belt and zip of a fly, the clunk of metal on a counter, then the steady stream of his piss landing in the toilet water. 

You scoffed in revulsion. Fucking pig. Couldn’t even close the door. You heard him rinse off his hands at least, though you couldn’t be sure he had used any soap. 

He emerged from the bathroom rubbing his shaven head and with his belt undone, leather straps hanging loose from his hips, zipper of his jeans wide open. His gun was gone. Plaid boxers bunched up, distended by the mass within and protruding through his fly — you felt yourself turn berry pink, more repulsed by yourself than him. 

This time he caught you staring, and he was manifestly pleased about it. A smug grin pulled in his lips as he shuffled towards you, and you rested your weight on your back foot. 

“Y’want a Valium?” He asked you, and you frowned at him bewilderedly. 

“What?” 

In front of you, now, you panted like a cornered animal in the shadow he cast. “Might help you sleep.” 

You grimaced at him. “You just want to knock me out.” 

He snorted. “Why would I do that?” 

The daggers you stared at him served as your only reply, and he half-heartedly rolled his eyes at you. 

“You reckon I’d want to fuck a sleeping bird?” 

“Probably,” you muttered, averting his gaze when he uttered the word. 

“No fun in that,” he said simply. “No nice noises if you’re asleep.” 

You scoffed, perturbed by how he discussed it happening with you as if it were an inevitability. “What, like screaming?”

He cracked a grin. “Screamer, are ya?”

Your blood went runny. “Stop it.” 

He brushed a knuckle under your chin, and you flinched — but to your relief, he relented. Turned away from you and squeezed the back of his neck as if to release tension. 

“Get into bed,” he grumbled, plodding towards the bathroom, returning swiftly with his gun in hand. 

You went cold. “Why?” 

“The fuck do you think?” He replied curtly, shoving his pistol under his pillow, before he pulled his jeans down and your mouth went dry. 

“I don’t want to,” you squeaked. 

He chuffed at that. “Christ, fucking is the only thing on your mind, in’t it?” He taunted, “don’t get all worked up.” 

“I’m — I’m not worked up, you—”

“I’m too tired for this shit,” he grunted, “‘n I’m not havin’ you up and about while I’m sleeping. Get into bed or I’ll put you in bed.” 

There was no give in his expression, it was a final order. He did look tired — eyes were sunken and beset with aubergine rings, lids heavy with frustration and exhaustion. He stood with hands hooked on his hips as he impatiently awaited your acquiescence, and you sensed you were on a short timer.  

“Fine,” you murmured, shuffling around the end of the bed with your arms crossed tightly, eyes averting him.

He watched you, though. Scrutinised your every move as you bent over to untie your shoelaces, pulling off your converses and dumping them on the carpet. 

“Sleepin’ in your jeans?” He jeered, when you reached to pull back the blankets.

“I’m not taking my clothes off,” you retorted, sitting on the mattress and swiftly tucking yourself under the covers. The mattress was foamy, soft, sunk deep as though permanently impressed by all the bodies that have ever slept in it. 

“Hardly comfortable,” he said, smirking, decidedly amused. 

“Don’t care,” you groused, rolling onto your side away from him, blanket up to your ears. 

He chuckled. “Suit yourself.”

You bounced on the mattress as he fell into it, springs moaning as they sunk deep beneath him, and you felt your body tip back towards him — you curled up, as close to the edge of the bed as you could get without toppling over the side. 

He switched off the sconce above the bed, and the room was abruptly black as pitch. 

The mattress recoiled as he adjusted himself, settling into bed with a gruff sigh, and you felt his warm breathing on the back of your head. 

He seemed to find comfort quickly; exhales turning deep and languid, you sensed he had fallen asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. 

There was some relief in that. Temporarily escaping him while he was unconscious. 

With your heart thundering in your ears, though, sleep was impossibly out of reach for you. You could hardly keep your eyes shut, they fluttered and twitched as you tried to close them, and they’d bolt back open as though spring-loaded. 

Now’s your chance — it echoed ad nauseum in your skull like the chiming of a clock, over and over until your ears rang. 

You could have slithered out of bed and scurried to the door, unbolted it and ran down the hallway if you were quick enough. You could have used the steel-legged chair in the corner to shatter the window and sprint into the night. You could have slipped a hand under his pillow nice and slow, snatched his gun from under his head and shot him while he slept. 

Instead you lay dead still, save for the trembling that never quite subsided. 

You tried to vivisect your own mind while you stagnated in the bed. Attempted to determine why you failed to enact your own rescue, why you actively avoided pursuing your freedom. 

The answer eluded you, in concrete terms anyway. 

Truth was, you didn’t know where you’d go. 

Literally, of course — you had no idea where you were, no phone with you, no sense of direction. You could run to a bystander and ask, of course, but you didn’t want to do that either. 

It was as if you didn’t want to go back. 

The thought of it nauseated you almost as gruesomely as the uncertainty of the path ahead. Of being dragged back to Dunhill, of being back to square one, of having no money, no prospects, no future. 

It was the obscurity, you thought, that kept you there. Something new. Something different, albeit terrifying. The ambiguity of any future, however short, was somehow preferable than the certainty of not having one at all. 

Worse to admit was whatever churning you felt between your legs. What seed he had planted when he took you had taken root, tendrils burrowing into the recesses of you and tumescing with a reluctant anticipation. You all but throbbed with it, as if your body were preparing itself for the inevitable, manipulating your mind into assenting to it. 

It made you feel sick, and your skin was febrile, sticky with apprehension. 

You were baking — the air was thick with it, stifling heat, though in truth it was likely your thundering nerves that set your body alight. Too anxious to release yourself from under the covers, or to roll into a cooler position, or to flip over your pillow to the cooler side. 

You lay cocooned for as long as you could bear the heat, but your blood was molten and your head began to ache, and you resorted to uncovering yourself. 

You did it desperately slowly, peeling the cover away from you inch by inch, and even in the air you found no relief. Your last resort was to turn off the radiator — if you could — but you’d need to get out of bed for that. 

Slinked a leg over the edge of the mattress, whisper-slow, used your elbow to prop yourself up—

You felt a hand grab at your hip, and you were unceremoniously yanked back into the bed with a squeak. 

“Where d’you think you’re goin’,” he grunted, voice gratingly hoarse after a half-hour sleep. 

A ten-tonne arm was suddenly hooked over your waist, and you were flush with his back, his knees folded in behind yours. 

“I just wanted to turn the heater off,” you whispered, hoping he wouldn’t hear you. 

“Too hot, eh?” 

You exhaled shakily. “Yeah.” 

“Y’know why you’re too hot,” he murmured, and you felt him stick his fingers into the back of your skinny jeans, tugging the stretchy waistband and snapping it against your lower back.  

“I just can’t s-sleep when it’s warm,” you stuttered, tongue tangling in your mouth. 

“Bit restless, are ya?” 

You felt his hand glide over your belly, and your muscles turned to stone, entire body tensing up with the touch. 

“I’m not havin’ you tossing and turning all night,” he grumbled, thumbing at the button of your jeans, unfastening it with a pinch. 

“Don’t do that,” you breathed, heart plugging your trachea, unable to swallow a real breath. 

He persisted unimpeded as if he had not heard you, pushing down your zipper and stuffing his hand unhesitantly down the front of your underwear. 

You squeaked in fright the moment his fingers brushed your mons — every millilitre of blood in your body flooded out of your extremities and pooled between your legs, a reflexive reaction that fired off every nerve ending under your skin. 

“No, d-don’t—” your whimpers of refusal eked out between your teeth on instinct, but their root lay more in humiliation than fear. 

His hand was icy against your feverish skin, and goosebumps bristled out from his touch — your vision went foggy as a cold middle finger the size of two of yours slid along your seam, lips went slack as the tip burrowed deeper. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he grunted, his stony voice tickling the hairs on the nape of your neck, “you are warm, aren’t ya?”

“Stop it,” you whined, half-heartedly, defeat viscid on your tongue. 

His finger snaked deeper between your legs, the others flush with the puffy outer lips of your cunt, thumb burrowing into your groin as he wedged his hand in the tight gap between your pussy and your jeans. 

He chortled under breath when the tip of his finger broached your entrance, dipping into the mortifying abundance of your fluid that had pooled there. God, there was so much of it, you were humiliated — you had been in denial, ignoring it, even as you felt it slicken the gusset of your underwear, maybe even the inseam of your jeans. It was only instinctive, you told yourself, it wasn’t like that—

“Jesus Christ, girl,” he chuffed, breathless, and you could not for the life of you tell whether he was proud or disgusted. “Made you wait too long, did I?” 

You shivered, cunt pulsing around nothing, felt the nettle sting of adrenaline crawling down your spine. 

“N-no, I—”

Bit down on your tongue as his slippery finger dragged up between your folds, catching your clitoris with a swipe and making your legs clamp together in a vice. 

He only scoffed in awe. “Sensitive thing.” 

“Stop doing that,” you mewled, so embarrassed that your cheeks were aflame, ears burning red-hot, heart galloping in your chest. 

He didn’t believe your attempts at refusal, and you weren’t certain you did either — not when he stroked your clit with the palp of his finger, up and down, all of his movement honed in on the one spot that made you choke on air. 

“Not so bad, is it,” he sneered. 

You curled up like a cat, but he kept you fastened to him, immovable hand burrowed deep in your jeans. His finger slid between your folds effortlessly despite how hard you pressed your legs together — there was no escaping it, every brush of his fingertip against your slippery clit burned more than the last, igniting an inferno in the core of you that seemed inextinguishable. 

Fucking humiliating, degrading, shameful, that the brute who had abducted you could make you feel that good, do so little to have you so, so—

“You’re a fuckin’ furnace,” he jabbed, and he swiftly tugged his hand from between your legs and out of your jeans. 

Whatever remorseful noise spilled from your mouth was beyond you, high-pitched and so wanton it made you sick to hear it, but he only snickered. 

“Quit whingein’,” he chided, taking your waistband in a fist.

He hiked your jeans down with a violent tug, tearing them down to your thighs, underwear pulled down with them. What little abnegation you had left turned to sugar on your tongue, dissolving in your saliva and sliding down your throat. 

The blanket was gone, then, pulled off and pooled at the end of the bed — the slightly cooler air biting at your bare skin scarcely settled your tempers, even less so when he roughly shoved his hand between your legs again, now unobstructed. Three avid fingers prodded against your hole as if to collect the syrup that pooled there, slickening themselves before they dragged back up. 

You yelped like a kicked puppy when he kneaded your clit, pads of his fingers pressing and pulling in firm circles, bud swollen and shuddering and so sensitive it was sore. 

You could only whine about it, now unwilling to fight him off and likely incapable even if you wanted to. He had you riveted to him, chest solid against your back, heaving arm locking you in place. Your compunctions had melted, deliquescing into the stodgy recesses of your mind; usurped by the revoltingly animal, blood-thinning want that thundered in your temples and made your mouth all wet. 

“Don’t, p-please, you’re—”

“Tha’s it, girl,” he rumbled, directly into the back of your skull, and it made you dizzy. “Let it happen.” 

Your core tightened up, cunt constricting as tight as a vice, painfully empty — the surge was as sudden as a flash flood, just as violent, and you drowned in it as it swept you under. You came beneath his fingers with a winded whimper, so forcefully you bucked your legs to evade him, bullied clit ablaze and spasming in waves that made your heart stop with each contraction. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he chortled, easing his infliction but not yet stopping. “Listen to you.” 

“Shut up,” you whined, unable to catch your breath. 

“That’ll help you sleep, eh?” He teased, fingers finally retreating, trailing your slick up your mons before he landed flat on his back with a huff.

You were molten, sweaty hair clinging to the nape of your neck, and you wanted nothing more than to take off all your clothes and have a cold shower. All you could muster was your jeans, though, already half-off — you used your feet to peel them down to your calves, kicking them off into nowhere. Your shame had dissolved, now, utterly irretrievable. 

The stale air was cool against the wetness of your inflamed cunt when you rolled onto your back; a potent relief, despite how unbecoming you felt it to leave yourself so exposed in the company of a bedlamite.

“Now stop fussing,” he grunted, settling into the mattress, hand resting on his stomach. “Don’t want you wakin’ me up again.” 

You couldn’t have fussed, even if you tried. Body utterly siphoned of all energy, mind as foggy and blank as smoke. 

It took you less than a minute to fall asleep. 

Morning came with rain. 

The glow of daylight through the embossed window was powdery white, you heard the gentle patter of raindrops landing on the pane, the loud dripping of a leaky gutter pipe somewhere outside. 

Your mouth was chalky, tongue swollen, vision too blurry to identify where you were at a glance. 

The realisation rinsed you like cold water when you heard the gruff breathing from beside you. Heavy and deep, the warmth of a body lying too close to you, you felt the hirsute skin of a leg against yours. 

You were nauseous as you remembered the night before, when your legs brushed together and you noticed they were bare — no underwear on either, the sheets tangled up between your feet and your hair greasy on your forehead. Your cunt was still sticky and it made you wince to move and feel it, remembering how he had touched you, that his fingers were likely still covered in the dried residue of the orgasm he had milked from you. 

The remorse was as pounding as a migraine. Brontide in your skull that made the room spin, and you wanted nothing more than a glass of icy water and some ibuprofen.  

You peered over your shoulder at your abductor; lying on his side with an arm folded under his pillow, shoulders rising and collapsing with each heavy breath, scarred face somehow peaceful in his slumber. It was surreal to witness him like that, observing him in his most vulnerable state — you knew his gun was under that pillow, but the thought of trying to steal it faltered as fast as it came. 

Instead you slipped out of the bed, pattering on the soft soles of bare feet to the tiny kitchenette, and filled up a brown glass mug with tap water. You drank it all in three hard gulps, then filled up another. 

He didn’t stir, not even slightly. In such a deep sleep that you likely could have put your jeans back on and unbolted the door without even waking him. 

Instead you went into the ensuite, shutting the door behind you. The bulbous knob had a push-button to lock it, but it was loose, and no matter how many times you pushed it, it failed. You gave up quickly, though — didn’t want to wake him up yet. 

The bathroom was arranged nonsensically — the toilet sat by the door, the vanity across from the shower that was tucked into the corner. Its glass walls were grimy with limescale, every amenity made of faded ivory acrylic and stained brown at the edges where the janitors had failed to clean it.  

You flushed the toilet when you saw that he hadn’t and swore under your breath in disgust. Fucking animal. You quickly peed, rinsed out your mouth with water from the sink, then turned on the shower. You only had a t-shirt to take off, revolted that it was all you had worn during the night. You hung it on the towel rail. 

You kept the water lukewarm, too sensitive for cold and too feverish for hot. An array of cheap mini soaps and shampoos lined the tiny in-built caddy, and you were not frugal in using them. Used almost the entire bottle of body wash to lather every crevice of your body, washing away the sweat of panic and ignominious lust that mired your skin. Shampooed and conditioned your hair with products that smelt like pine and citrus with an undercurrent of battery acid. 

The water was cleansing, a pleasant distraction, and you shut your eyes as you rinsed off your face, rubbing the grease off your skin. 

You rubbed your eyes before you opened them — immediately spotted a silhouette outside the shower, and a blood-curdling scream erupted from your chest as you sprung from the ground. Almost slipped over when you landed on the PVC floor, but you managed to catch yourself with your hands on the glass.

“What the fuck!” You shrieked, heart galloping so rapidly you worried it would break a rib. 

He was blurry through the spray of water landing on the shower walls, but you could see him lumber towards the shower door. You shrunk into the corner when he cracked it open, back firm against the square tiles as if you could slip through the fractures in the grout. 

He stepped into the shower as if he hadn’t noticed you there, leviathan that he was, his body took up two thirds of the space in the narrow glass box. Boxers were gone, his cock hung heavy and unashamedly, and your stare caught on it like a fish on a hook. Fucking bludgeon of a thing; it swung as though prideful, thick from root to head, roped with veins and sheathed in rosy foreskin. Half-hard, it just out from his bed of wheaten curls at a forty-five degree angle, and it bounced as he took a step. 

You looked at it for too long, breath caught in your gullet, and he noticed. 

“Settle down,” he taunted, hardly a croak, morning voice abraded and gurgling from his throat. He shut the shower door behind him. 

You had a plethora of disputes to mount — get the fuck out, how dare you, you didn’t even knock — but they all fizzled at the back of your throat, when he hauled you out of the corner by the hips, swivelling you around until your nose was flush with the shower wall. Kept you there with a hand cuffed around the back of your neck, wet hair knotting in his fingers. 

“You can’t—”

“Prettier than I thought,” he murmured to himself, a rough hand smoothing from your hip to your ass, brazenly taking a handful and squeezing hard enough to make you chirp.

“Get off—”

You choked on the rest of your dispute when he packed his hand between your legs, the gap tight where you held your thighs together — he gave no warning when he snaked his finger between your folds, nudging for an entrance. 

It happened so fast you couldn’t catch a breath — he found it quickly when your hole twitched at the intrusion, and you yelped in shock when he unhesitantly pushed it inside you to the knuckle, palm flush with the base of you. 

“Lovely little cunt.” 

And despite every effort to maintain some dignity, every bulwark you had attempted to erect against succumbing to your baser appetites, came toppling down in the quake of his words. Scruples sloughed off from you like the shed of a snake, and whatever slithered free was as shameless as she was hungry. 

“Mh, still nice and warm after last night, in’t she,” he crooned, flexing his finger to push it deeper before raking it out. 

He was priming you, evident in how he stretched you open around his thick finger, pumping it in and out of you as though assessing how deep he could go. You pressed your forehead against the cold tile, toes curling into the plastic shower floor, whimpering like a wounded animal.

You felt like one, when he tried to push a second finger in — he had to wriggle it to wedge it in, bully it deeper before your hole could stretch to fit it. It stung where the fragile skin pulled taut, but it was a delicious pain, like the burn of liquor or the sting of pulled hair. 

“Christ, that’s tight,” he grunted into the shell of your ear, and a chill prickled down the side of your neck. 

He ran out of patience, you supposed, because he slid his fingers out of you and your cunt spasmed in protest of its emptiness. He had spun you around then, handling your body like a ragdoll, moving you right where he wanted you — had his hands under your ass in a blink, and he deftly hoisted you upward, back grinding against the tile wall. 

You hooked your legs around his hips on instinct, arms slung over his shoulders when he put them there, his face level with yours. Water ran in rivulets down his face, dripping from his hairline and off his chin. Pupils distended and black as tar, beady as a shark, and glaring into the depths of them made your tongue even wetter. 

His titanic arms held you up without exertion, and one released your thigh to scoop underneath you — held his cock upright in a fist, and with no pause he lodged the clubbed head of his cock against your opening. He pushed in with his full weight, reaming you open on the girth of it, and your eyes glassed over. 

The noises you made were animal, mewling and gasping, coughing when he landed against the spongy plug of your womb, cock as hard as a gun barrel and just about as threatening. 

“Fu-hu-huck,” he chuffed into your cheek, voice oozing ardent satisfaction, vibrating directly into your skull. “Tha’s heaven.” 

It tracked that he was a talker, given how chatty he was for the duration of the drive — but you liked it. God, you liked it. Mortifying, yet liberating to admit to yourself, that you wanted to hear him talk; you wanted to hear him tell you how lovely, how pretty, how perfect you were. 

“All sweet now, aren’t ya?” He purred, bouncing you upward as he rutted hard. “Just what she needed, mh?”

You almost said it aloud — yes crept along your tongue and prickled at the tip, but you weren’t quite ready to let loose the confession. It escaped instead as a moan, head rocking back and knocking against the tile, and he let out a low chuckle, because you said it in all but words. 

“Yeah,” he grunted, panting, pelvis grinding against yours as he pistoned into you, somehow deeper every thrust. “Fuckin’ knew it. Barmy for it the second I walked in, weren’t ya?” 

He grabbed your face by the jaw, angling your head to look directly at him, the squeeze of his fingers forcing your lips to pucker. His cheeks were ruddy, blood fresh and hot under his skin, eyes rabid with hunger and pride. They scoured every feature on your face and you melted beneath their attention. 

“Gorgeous girl, aren’t you?” 

He rutted with purpose, chasing his own end with no mind paid to your squeaks of sore rapture, grunting as his cock reeled out and stuffed you full again in steady rhythm. You could only burrow your fingernails into the meat of his back, carving into his wet skin as if holding on for dear life. 

“Just fuckin’ perfect,” he grunted, a tirade that persisted through every thrust, 

“Sweetest thing I ever stole.” 

“Who needs fuckin’ money, eh?” 

“Hit the jackpot with you, din’t I?” 

“Might just keep you forever.” 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t ya, sweetheart?” 

Perhaps your brain had been knocked against your skull one too many times, turned soggy and stupid in the heat, because you whimpered; “Y-yeah.” 

His brows shot up at that, shocked — but that surprise quickly gave way to a lavish conceit, a vicious smile that oozed pride for having conquered your inhibitions without even having to try. You’d have been embarrassed if you had the capacity for it anymore, but all shame had been bled from you. 

“Yeah?” He goaded, grin wide and jaw loose, panting through his teeth. “Want me to steal you away, eh?” 

You nodded as much as he would allow you to, and his lips planted on your chin as though tempted to bite you. 

“I can do that, love,” he crooned, “I can take y’where no one will ever find ya. Keep you all for m’self.” 

You whined when he only fucked you harder, tender skin of your back chafing against the grout with every jolt. Seemed he was approaching the summit of his own pleasure — huffing like a bull, thrusting with anger, not nearly as chatty as he had been for the rest of it. 

“Agh, shit—” he groaned, mouth landing on your shoulder, teeth catching your skin. “Fuckin’ hell—”

He hastily reached underneath you to unsheathe his cock from your hole, leaving your cunt bitterly empty and convulsing in its sudden vacuity — his entire body jerked against you as he came, you felt his cock jolt beneath the cleft of you as it spurted ropes come against the tiled wall he held you to. 

His climactic groans were music, to you, little lecher that you were. Some foul part of you was remorseful he hadn’t come inside you instead, hadn’t carelessly pumped you full of it — not a drop of rationality left within you, evidently. 

You didn’t expect him to kiss you, but he did; planted a slovenly kiss on the side of your neck, pillowy lips wet with saliva and the water of the still-running shower. 

He released you, then — didn’t quite drop you, lowered you as gracefully as he could before letting you land on your feet with a thud. Gave you a pet on the head as though to praise you, a prideful kiss into your scalp. 

He shut off the water with a shove of the chipping lever, and the showerhead continued to leak fat drops of water despite it being shut off. He pushed opened the shower door for you, and you slipped out, sodden feet landing on the bathmat. 

There were scant words exchanged as you handed him one of the towels, using the other to dry yourself off. You couldn’t help but watch him as he rubbed himself down with the teal-blue cotton, polishing his head like a bowling ball, flossing under his arms, unabashedly rubbing the towel under his balls to dry between his legs. Something in his nonchalance, unapologetically going about it all as if it were normal, was endearing to you. Made your hackles soften, if they were still at all raised. 

You put your t-shirt back on, wishing you had a change of clothes, and ventured back into the bedroom — the air was still thick with the dusty warmth of the heater, and ripe with the musk of both of the worked up bodies that had spent the night in it. 

“Get dressed,” came a demand from behind you, followed by a coaxing pat on your bare arse. “Need to hit the road.” 

You looked over your shoulder at him, watching as he pulled on his boxers, tucking his cock away and snapping the elastic waistband around his hips. You picked up your knickers from where they had landed on the carpet the night before, shimmying up your legs. 

Couldn’t yet believe what you were girding yourself for. What you had already accepted as the next step you would take. 

You caught his eye, a pout in your lips; 

“Can we get breakfast first?” 

ೀ⋆OCT 16TH CLUELESS ━━ megumi fushiguro + step-cest !

୨୧ — caution, you are now watching. megumi fushiguro + step-cest. are you totally buggin’ or is your college-goer, goody two shoes step-brother kinda into messing around with you? (7.6K)

୨୧ — rated r. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact ! nsfw, heavy smut, dark content, characters aged up to 20s, college!au, enemies to lovers (?), step-cest, photos, videos, fingering, choking, praise kink, panty sniffing, body worship, riding stuffed animals, daddy kink, soft sex, unprotected sex, bimbo-ish + fem!reader, step-brother!megumi fushiguro.

୨୧ — director’s note. lets gooo another kinktober installment! i actually haven't written for megumi in ages and this is kinda long so...i hope this is okay? sorry this is late btw, please enjoy! <3 - m.list ⋆ kinktober m.list ⋆ taglist ✧

let’s get one thing straight. 

not all daddy’s girls are dumb.

on the contrary, you’re actually highly intelligent and thoroughly educated — graduating at the top of every single one of your classes in high school, despite negotiating a fair portion of your grades with your teachers. after school, however, you couldn’t quite figure out what you wanted to do and everyone else you knew spent their time growing up around you. daddy wanted you to go to college, get your degree so you could find your footing in the world…he would even pay for it too.

but like every other twenty-something year old girl your age, you were completely and utterly clueless about the direction you wanted to take.

perhaps that was the reason as to why your step-brother, megumi, annoyed you so much. indoctrinated into your family unit of two (yourself and your father, of course) — megumi had joined you to play happily-family when his mother married your father. their fast-paced union didn’t last long, however, for your parents were quickly divorced by the new year…and apparently, you can only divorce people. not children. meaning that your older half sibling had decided he would much rather stick around for the long haul.

it could even be said that megumi fushiguro was an even bigger daddy’s boy (or kiss ass) than you were a daddy’s girl. he went to college on daddy’s money, ate on daddy’s money and got jobs using daddy’s money and power. now, he’s some big time hot shot at an environmental law firm and it irks you just how much your father is pushing for you to be just like megumi. in everybody’s eyes, your step brother was the picture perfect child, an example to follow, a fine gem.

and since your father liked that so much; likes how responsible and diligent megumi is — it would explain why your older step-brother could get away with sneaking up on you in your own house (favourite child privileges). “what are you all dressed up for?” the husky lilt to his deep voice sends shockwaves through your system and a shiver down your spine, making you jump away from the fridge you’re rummaging through.

“a party.” you say frigidly. the dark haired male makes a face and you roll your eyes at him in a disapproving manner. as if megumi was in any position to judge you for your plans and late night endeavours. he was a boring old college student clinging to his younger step sister whilst you were doing society a favour and helping your friend get together with the guy she liked. 

it’s what you do! helping the less fortunate instead of studying for some boring piece of paper and graduate degree. 

you were such a good person. 

turning away from the cool air and dull hum of the fridge freezer, you tuck a few juices to be used as mixers for the party into your bag — ignoring the heaviness of your step brother’s admiral blue gaze as it slips over the curve of your waist, the expanse of your thighs and the bounce of your chest peeking out from your skimpy little get up. it’s funny, how you’ve never liked the way boys have looked at you in the past — but something about the way he drinks you in as if you’re the last glass of water on the plant makes your legs shaky and your breath turn short and…

“can i come?” 

with his lips pressed into a thin line and his emotions hidden behind the perfect mask of his perfect face — megumi slams the fridge door shut, to make you squeak again. his brows raising expectantly while he waits for your answer. “a-as if fushiguro.” you huff in annoyance, jabbing the older step-sibling in his shoulder as he towers over you. “aren’t you too old for house parties? i wouldn’t want you to cramp my style.” 

“i’m not that much older than you.” he laughs, it’s melodious sound sending a warmth through your body.

rolling your eyes, you snap back. “you’re old enough.” 

you make yourself small as you pass by him, attempting to escape his suffocating presence. he makes you feel weird, and you don’t exactly hate it — sure megumi is annoying, snarky and a little mean but he’s… attractive, like next level attractive. he’s got those dreamy sea-storm eyes that make you feel as though you’ll die and go to heaven, a sexy smirk that gets you hot and bothered even if it’s not directed at you. all of your friends have had crushes on your step brother at some point, ones that cause jealousy to brim just under the surface of your skin, pricking you like a thousand tiny needles. your jealousy totally doesn’t have anything to do with you trying to hook your friend up tonight by the way (lying to yourself makes you feel better).

however, feeling this way about megumi is wrong, nowhere near normal. anybody could have told you that — it’s just that your family relationships make things complicated and you don’t want to make this weird between you both. you’d never admit it, but you do enjoy the back and forth sibling-like banger the two of you have. would ruining that be worth it? even if your step-brother was like…everything you’d ever wanted in a guy; not like those snot-nosed, unhygienic, monkey-brained losers you used to go to school with. 

instead, megumi was smart, established and with his future practically set in stone. maybe that’s why you picked on him, why you acted like a spoiled brat whenever he was around, why you pretended to despise his every existence and wish he’d never become a part of your family. because megumi  constantly reminds you of your failures or what your future could be if you put your mind to it and actually tried. 

“maybe, college guys like me wouldn’t seem like such losers if you actually gave furthering your education a shot,” your step brother cuts through your thoughts, stalking behind you with his hands in his pockets as you leave the kitchen and head towards the foyer — getting ready to head out for the party. “just do what your daddy wants, angel. go to college, get your degree so he can get off my back and you can be smart like me. yeah?” 

“and why would i listen to you?” there’s nothing you can do to shake him — your older step brother tailing you as if he’s your own personal guardian. he stops walking when you stop walking, bumping into your back, while a shocked whimper lays flat on the seam on your lips. 

megumi passes you a jacket (which you slide on by yourself) whilst he chuckles again, the sound rumbling in his chest and through your body pressed hotly against his. “‘cause i’m your big brother.” his voice is almost scolding, playfully so, holding a darker tone that you almost recognise as lust whole his larger-than yours hands force their way down to the fat at your waist. “now c’mere, let me fix your outfit. can’t have you goin’ out like this…” megumi squeezes your hips, using his grip on them to spin you around so that you can face him. 

you expect him to tell you to cover up more — that your pretty white dress is too short and that you’re too promiscuous. what you don’t  expect is for the dark haired male to sink to his knees before you, soft and attentive fingers sliding up your inner leg to fix your thigh-highs as that have slipped down. you barely manage to choke back a needy moan. 

he doesn’t let up on the eye contact either; only serving to fog up your pretty little head. “s-step brother,” you manage to remind him gently, finding your voice. 

fushiguro rolls his eyes, poking his tongue into his cheek. “that was your take away, pretty girl?” he doesn’t stop touching you, going as far to peek his head up your skirt — pretending to finish fixing your socks despite the subtle press of his nose against your panties and longing them against your backside once done fondling you. “there we go, better.” 

he even goes as far to pat your bum in accomplishment too. 

you feel pathetic for letting your step brother touch you in such a taboo way, failing to push megumi off. but he’s never been so bold and you’ve never wanted him more — craving megumi through an insatiable burning in your chest. there’s always been a sexual tension brewing between you both, fuelled by your banter, your rage and mischievousness but how could you act on it? 

megumi was practically family. your family. it would be weird. you couldn’t be anything more without crossing the line of what’s deemed acceptable and what isn’t for step siblings. you have to remember who he is to you, an older brother, a menace to your friends who crush on him and someone who had called you selfish once upon a time. 

finally snapping back to reality, you force yourself away from the tendrils of your step-brother’s grip — swiping your purse from the entryway table and storming towards the door. “you’re buggin’ gumi!” you squeak from the porch. “stop being weird a-and stay out of my room!”  

the door slams harshly as you vacate the property in favour of the party, practically running down the steps with a rapid shake of your head. doing anything you can to rid yourself of all thoughts concerning the enigma that is your older step brother.

the party doesn’t help, and instead ends up a total disaster.

your plan to set your friends up completely falls apart when ex-best guy friend decides to make a move on you on the way home and drops you off in the middle of nowhere after rejecting him. to top it off, some asshole robs you for your fendi purse at a gas station and makes you lie down on the ground in your matching designer dress! 

the whole ordeal nearly reduces you to tears and forces you to call the one person you’d been trying to forget about all night. megumi. 

he picks you up without a word of protest, but you swear that you can feel his disappointment radiating off of him in thick, asphyxiating waves. “please don’t tell daddy,” you had sniffed, eyes big and teary. and megumi can’t bring himself to blame you or to be mad at you because you’re so sweet and sensitive and a little too good for this world. that and you have no idea how much seeing you cry fucks with his head. 

“you’re a smart girl, baby.” he’d replied softly — though his eyes were hard and his grip on the steering wheel even harder, indicated by the white of his knuckles. “you shouldn’t be messing around in places like this. it’s exactly why you should be in college.” 

like the good big (step) brother he is, fushiguro sneaks you back into the house without a word to your watchful father. instead, he spends the rest of the night comforting you with silly cartoons to heal your inner child. deep down, it means a lot — usually the two of you would argue over control of the remote, and he would always win. this time, megumi lets you be. 

“i don’t think i’m cut out for college,” you sigh after a moment’s silence, ren and stimpy providing the backing track to your vocalised thoughts. “‘m not much aside from my pretty face.” 

fushiguro rolls over so that you lay side by side, nudging you with his elbow playfully. “what would you do instead?” 

“i dunno,” growing bashful, you tuck your face into your shoulder — afraid that he might laugh. “start a fashion business, give people make overs? i think i’m good at that.” 

“you’re good at a lot of things, angel. and making people feel god about themselves is one of them,” rather than belittling your dreams, tearing them down like you’d expect — megumi encourages you, flashing you a small yet supportive smile. “you take care of people.” 

flustered by his praise, you lean into megumi’s side — playing footsie with him at the end of your bed shyly. “you’re better at taking care of me, though.” you whisper, nearly missing the way his eyes drop to your lip-gloss smudged lips. 

“yeah? s’what big brothers are for, right?” he whispers back, a breath’s width away from your lips, nose inches away from nudging yours as if he’s going to kiss you. he wouldn’t be your step-brother if he wasn’t so full of annoying surprises, instead of pulling you into a lip lock — megumi grasps at the remote on your other side in an attempt to change the channel to something more boring and scholarly. 

you protest in the form of a sibling play fight causing you both to roll around in the sheets — fighting for the remote or perhaps dominance over the sexual tension that thickens the air. heat rises throughout the room and your wrestling turns to megumi pinning you to your babyish pink sheets, straddling your waist. he grips your wrists, clasping them together between his large, veiny hands and forces them above your head.

everything happens so quickly, yet so slowly and all at once. one moment you’re fighting like siblings do and the next — megumi fushiguro is finally kissing you, tongue lapping at the crack between your parted lips from where you’ve gasped in shock. tasting every ounce and every essence of the remainder of your gloss, breathing weightily into your mouth as if it’s a relief to have it pressed against his own. you swallow everything he gives you and drink up his saliva as it pools into your mouth to the point where your head spins and you feel like he’s spiked you with arousal. 

this is wrong, on so many levels. as if you would ever make out with your step brother. but this isn’t some kind of twisted dream, it’s a reality you find yourself basking in. you pull megumi onto you by the roots of his dark hair, mewling each time your lips slot together perfectly and whining when his hips start to jut down to meet the softness of your tummy. or when his large hands push and pull at sensitive parts of your body. 

“you’re nothin’ like those college girls.” he tells you once you break apart for air. megumi’s nose nudges your cheek and his kisses dive lower into the crook of your neck while he waits for you to catch your breath. “you’re softer, prettier, you’re—“

he lets go of your wrists.

tilting your head back into your plush pillows, your shaky fingers tangle in the dark, unruly curls of your step brother’s baby hairs. “i’m what?” you tease through a series of pretty little moans, like music to megumi’s ears. you feel him twist against your inner thigh and the temperature of his body spikes to a sweltering degree. 

“perfect.” his rough tongue swipes over your prominent collarbones and over the fabric of your dress, slipping under the crevice where your breasts meets your rib cage. using his teeth, fushiguro pulls down your dress until it inches off of your shoulders, revealing more of your skin marked with scars, beauty and stretch marks. it comes off easily, exposing you to a pair of hungry, murky blue eyes. the dress remains bunched at your middle.

you must be tripping out — you’ve never seen this look in your step brother’s eyes before. he stares up at you, lips swollen and breath ragged, as if you’re the last meal on earth he’ll ever get to taste. the sexual tension was never obvious to you, and while you’ve always found megumi weird — it didn’t mean you disliked his company. 

“quite staring,” you whine, arching your back into megumi’s touch as it drags across your searing flesh. “it’s weird…you’re making it seem like it’s a bad thing…” 

he yanks down the front of your dress, smooths down the valley between your breasts and over your tummy as they rise and fall with each of your baited breaths. “you don’t like it when i look at you, pretty baby?” then suddenly, his thumb slips back over your naked nipple, curling your sensitive areola before applying a gentle pressure that makes you jolt up the bed. “there’s nothin’ bad about you.” 

fushiguro’s grip runs down to your sides like an easy stream of water, grasping at any flesh he can while simultaneously pulling your hips up to meet his — slotting perfectly against your body to make sure you can feel how hard he is for you. “i’m not like those college girls you’re usually into…” comes your shaky whisper. “‘m too dumb.”

it’s weird, megumi’s never made you nervous until now. 

“no. you’re smart, you’re perfect… you deserve more than the guys that you’re into. you shouldn’t waste your time.” 

his steady hands slide over the curve of your ass, dip beneath the hem of your dress to play with your doughy thighs and every note of his praise is sung over your quivering body.

“so what?” you go on, stepping into the dark to explore whatever the fuck this is with your step brother. “i should waste it on college boys like you?” 

the tail end of your words are lost in a gasped breath as megumi nudges a knuckle against the crotch of your underwear — chuckling softly at the wetness that pools in the seat of them. “you would be if you came with me.” a sort of sick and twisted expression, morphs on his handsome face. one that’s usually so stoic and unreactive to your whines and mewls. but this version of megumi seems to like watching you squirm, revels in the way your hips buck up on instinct the further he presses his fingers between your sticky, viscous folds. “god, sweetheart. your princess parts are already so wet for me.” 

heat flashes across your face, accompanied by the unfamiliar twinge of lust you for megumi you feel buzzing beneath your skin and swirling with the blood in your veins. the way he coos down at you, eyes hooded and tone condescending — it only serves to cloud your judgement and your mind. you shouldn’t be doing this. but you want to. so badly. 

“shut up.” you huff and look away, eyes threatening to roll back into your skull as megumi flicks at your clit from over your skimpy panties. the more he plays with you, rubs at his little sister’s cute pussy, the more your thighs twitch apart — revealing the treasure between them to his dirty-minded gaze. 

the groan that follows vibrates around in the cavity of megumi’s chest before shooting down to your glistening core as it convulses under his fingertips. “you’ll miss me when i go back, don’t deny it.” he tells you like he knows you, voice horse with growing desire. “you should really come with.” 

you scrunch your nose up at his request — of course he would choose now of all times to be annoying and tease you about college. “as if, megumi.” you warn, though it’s hard to stay mad at him when he presses two fingers against your spasming entrance, azure eyes darkening at a stream of your arousal dampens your panties — defining the shape of your puffy folds even more. 

“yeah, yeah. i know, baby. not the time, huh?” megumi hums in amusement, gaze flickering up to your face to watch it twist with euphoria as he continues to pinch and rub at your cunt until your chest is heaving. “you want it that bad. wanna be touched so bad. pretty girls like you can’t do anything without their big brothers...” while he rambles over the drool replacing logical words on his tongue, your step brother pulls his hand away from your sex briefly to push past the lace scalloping on your underwear and access your wetness. “all this, ‘cause of me?” 

“all ‘cause of you.” you breathe the words out like they’re air and nod shyly at your own admission despite the high pitched, babyish tone. to let your stupid older step brother know how much he affects you is embarrassing, borderline humiliating, but you can’t help but fall into him. megumi rewards you with two fingers stroking their way past the tight ring of your entrance, curling instantly to explore your gummy, oozing walls and locate the exact spots that make you tick.

he presses a chaste kiss to your sweaty cheek, body hunched over your shaky one as if to shield the scandalous sight from the world. his little sister split open on his fingers, drenching him in her scent and her slick as fushiguro scissors them and fucks you silly. “mhm, that’s my girl. so nice for me and my fingers. i like you better this way,” he slurs, long and dark lashes (ones that you’d die for) fluttering against your skin as his digits move faster and faster within your selfish, ribbed walls. “when all you can do is cry and make those pretty noises, instead of being a little brat to me all the time.” 

fushiguro pauses his ministrations, forcing yo i to wriggle and writhe and chase your pleasure for only a moment. “m-megumi!” your hips jut upwards in an attempt to coax some friction out of him, anything on your pulsing clit or against your pleasure spots dotted along your insides. “p-please. fuck, gumi— i need it.” 

he only smiles, his thumb finding your clit and his fingers pick up the pace — bearing down on your g-spot with every thrust into your tight heat. “that’s what i like to hear, none of that back talk. just your pretty voice, beggin’ for me.” he sweet talks you over the dirty, lewd and squishy sounds from your thoroughly fucked cunt as they ring out into the sex tainted air. they form a chorus with your hiccups and pathetic bleats for more — and if your body is a choir, megumi fushiguro is the conductor. he guides you to the gates of heaven, feeds you pieces of pleasure from the grapevine of sun and you let him. 

because he’s your big (step) brother, and you trust him after all. 

“fuck, you’re so pretty. could watch you make a mess of me all night.” 

the bricks bliss build up in your lower tummy, cemented together by megumi’s relentless fingers pumping in and out of your slick sex. you’re the perfect vision, a sight to behold — darling gem eyes shiny with tears, tongue tied to the roof of your mouth by strings of saliva and your body doused with a glimmer of perspiration. your step brother can’t help but create a copy of you grinding against his hand on his mind. filing it away for later. 

pulling his fingers from your selfish heat, megumi brings his hand down against it in a harsh slap — his entire body shuddering at the surprised wail you let out, and the stream of juices that fly up his arm as a result. “ooh, baby. what a pretty noise you just made.” he laments with a rough voice, soothing over the spank with soft flicks to your swollen clit. “can you do that again for me?” 

he doesn’t give you the chance to answer, spanking your pussy again, and again and again until his head is heavy with the sounds of your broken moans and your panties are soaked all the way through — darkened by the running two of your sweet honey nectar that allow his slender fingers to slip back inside you with ease. 

they tease at your stimulated walls and push and pull your tight little hole — and you swear you can practically see the stars that line the night sky with every new sensation. fushiguro is in no better state, cock painstakingly hard and straining against the insides of his sweats while his cool midnight eyes drink in the way your hips stutter and struggle to keep up with the pace of his digits inside of you. 

“‘gumi… i think i—“ your words escape you, drowned out by your own pussy as it squelches around megumi’s fingers. 

he kisses your forehead, contrasting my soft compared to the way he stretches you open and preps you for his cock. “i bet that feets good, huh? you feel like you’re gonna cum.” his tone turns into a mocking one, deep enough to send shivers down your spine and threaten to knock down the wall of mounting pleasure in your lower gut.

tears teeter over the edge of your waterline, streaking a hot path down the apples of your angelic cheeks as your hips lift off the bed — chasing the high only your big brother could give to you. “feels so good, p-please let me cum, ‘gumi.” 

you look to him for reassurance and permission, hiccuping as megumi pulls his fingers out of you to trace from your clit and down the length of your juicy slit. pride swirls in his blazing chest when your body jerks at the sensation, hips running after the source of pleasure. you’re such a good little thing, so pliant and naive — following after your step brother no matter what he does to you. maybe you’re right, maybe you’re a little too dumb for college. but it doesn’t matter right now, not with the way your creamy entrance clenched down on fushiguro lovingly, pleading with him to let you cum.

you’re so close and he knows it, he’d have given into you if he weren’t trying to make this last. 

“actually, i want you to do something for me.” he stops right before you’re about to burst, dragging his fingers out of your pulsating pussy to smear your wetness across your tummy and thighs. 

a babyish blubber bubbles up on the swell of your pouty lips, coated in a layer of salt from your free-flowing tears. “w-what? m-megumi! i was so close!” you say in a petulant manner, squishing your thigh together and trapping his hand between them as if to coax him back into making you cum.

“so spoilt, more like.” your step brother bites back, almost punishing you by removing his body from yours so that he can rid himself off all of his clothes. he tosses them off the bed, but not before pulling his phone from his sweatpants and setting it to the side.

you swallow thickly when his cock springs free and slaps against his washboard abs. megumi is lengthier than he has girth, his balls heavy with an incredulous amount of seed saved up just for you. his tip is pink, almost bright red but coated in a layer of pre that’s no doubtedly smeared along the inside of his sweats but it’s a delicious sight to see nonetheless. 

now you really must be bugging. you’re most certainly clueless to have never thought of megumi this way before today. 

your throat bobs when he grabs hold of his rock hard shaft, hissing at the first few lazy pumps he gives himself.  “i want you to do something for me. then i’ll make you cum.” fushiguro proposes gruffly, locking eyes with you carnally. “put on a show for me princess, ride one of your cute little stuffed animals over there so i can make a memory for when i go back to college.” 

his ask doesn’t register in your pretty little head, and megumi figures he might have left you dazed from withholding your orgasm. or maybe you’re distracted by the way in which he fists his cock, spreading webs of milky white up and down his shaft and over his mushroomed tip with each movement. you hardly notice the fact that he’s reached for his phone, setting it to record using his free hand. 

“you hear me, pretty… fuck…girl?” he curses in a low moan, squeezing himself. 

this time, your attention shoots to his face while your tongue darts out to wet your lips. “y-you want me to… fuck my stuffie?” 

you ask megumi so innocently, head tilted to the side like a sweet little puppy dog and he swears he might bust to you right then and there. 

“fuck…yes.” 

“and you won’t touch me?” 

“not until i’m satisfied, princess.” 

and like the bratty little sister you are, dress pushed down to your middle and makeup askew, you huff at your step-brother — all while grabbing your favourite and biggest stuffed bear to tuck against the ruined treasure between your thighs. 

“you’re so fuckin’ mean, ‘gumi,” you try to keep your cool, but you’re too sensitive — lowering your twitching sex onto the soft toy slowly. “o-oh…”

he angles the camera perfectly to record you, zooming in on your cute little cunt as it slips and slides over the bear with ease.

even beyond the camera, you’re a sight for megumi fushiguro’s sore eyes, each of your curves and dips illuminated by the glistening beads of sweat that roll over the expanse of your skin – catching the low, warm yellow light from up above. he always knew that his little step sister was pretty, practically an angel, but up until now he’d relied soley on his dirty imagination to picture the way you’d look fucking yourself for him. the stuffed toy easily disappears between the meat of your pudgy thighs as you rock back and forth over it, nudging your clit against the nose of the fluffy brown bear.

“feels good, right?” he mumbles lowly, the sound vibrating in his chest. megumi can’t help but be engrossed in your every move, the soft jut of your hips and the bite down on your plump and shiny lips, the way in which your fingers dare to dance up the salacious softness to your curves and skin. “my pretty little thing. i can see why your daddy loves you so much. you’re such a good girl, listening to everything i say.”

megumi’s words waft over your mind like a thick fog of lust, darkening every pure thought you’ve ever had. your whole body twitches at their patronising air, dopamine crackling about in your skull and shooting down to the heartbeat swirling around your fluttering hole. it gushes and gushes, like an endless stream of erotica and glazes over the apex of your thighs like the shin of a sugary treat.

one that makes your step brother’s mouth water with anticipation.

each of your sweet mewls and whistle-tone bleats run through his ears like thick honey, rotting him from the inside out. perhaps that’s what makes megumi so perverted and what makes him crush on his perfect and prim little sister, you’re a fool to have not noticed it before. how he looked at you then and how megumi looks at you now, midnight blue and stormy orbs drowning with lust. your gaze flutters down to his cock, standing tall and flushed against his creamy white skin, neglected as it leaks all over his stomach.

“oh you like that, huh? you shake so much when i talk to you like that.” fushiguro starts to fist his cock faster, matching the speed at which you shakily circle your hips over the poor stuffed animal — panting as it’s fabric darkens with your wetness. “a daddy’s girl through ‘n through.” he teases while you throw it back for his phone.

sure enough, the camera picks up his warm chocolate voice as it coos its praises to you. such a good girl. ride it out princess. all of it fills you to the brim with wanton and desire, makes you crumble before the glaring lense of fushiguro’s phone.

“s-shut up.” 

“uh-uh. and you were doing so well,” your step brother sounds almost cruel, reminding you of the reasons you didn’t get along before today. acting like a school boy picking on his crush, being mean to her because deep down he knows that she likes it. that you like it. “don’t be rude baby. put on a show for ‘gumi.” 

he takes to palming himself more, precum slinging across his knuckles and down his thighs the more turned on he gets. it clings to every vein on his shaft, spreads to the weight of his balls and no doubt can be heard through the camera since slick and lewd noises of the both of you touching yourselves echo throughout your bedroom. megumi does his best to keep the camera steady, but he can’t help himself — following your movements and thrusting up into his closed fist to mock your pussy while you ride your stuffie for dear life.

you’re still so sensitive, but your big brother can tell you’re trying so hard to keep up for him — fighting off your next orgasm as it builds up strong in your lower belly. you want to please megumi, at the end of the day. a smart girl like you knows  “that’s it, keep it movin’ for me…god, you make me wanna cum.” 

you pout at the praise, rutting over the face of your stuffed animal as you breath heavy. it feels way too good, you’re overwhelmed by too many senses and megumi watching you spill your juices about the place doesn’t seem to help. dragging a hand up to your bare chest, you tweak your nipples and tug them until  a needy squeal dancing on your wobbly bottom lip — doing your very best to please the dark haired college student.

you want him to cum, want him to memorise the way your eyes roll back and your moans and quivers — you feel so beautiful beneath his heavy, desire burdened stare. “m-megumi,” you say for the millionth time that night, squirming before his very eyes while you dream on the nose of your precious toy. “i-i’m close!” your hips burn holding back you release, exhaustion and just intertwining in your veins — combusting in your lungs. 

clueless. you were absolutely clueless as to how it would feel falling apart under the caring gaze of someone who loves you so much. 

“yeah, pretty girl?” fushiguro hums gently, giving his cock one last squeeze at the base — cutting off the stream of ore that he dribbles from the source. “c’mere, i gotcha.” he shuffles over to you on the bed, catching you before you fall with his lips pressed to your wet babyish cheeks. “i’ll let you cum, but only on my cock. you’ve got to stay good for me, okay?” 

nodding timidly, you accept a few more kisses from megumi — the ones that he peppers across your face, before he manoeuvres you onto your side and nestles in right behind you. “say you want me,” the words coast along the back of your neck and your body erupts in goosebumps. his voice will always be like a dragon breathing life into a fire. sure to be careful, megumi lifts one of your thighs and hooks it over his slender waist so that he can better access your sluice sex.

he tugs your underwear to the side with one hand and positions his cock at your entrance, sliding the length of his shaft through the strings of your arousal glueing your pussy lips together. both of you hiss in harmony when his bright red tip grinds messily against your pulsing pleasure bud. your unused hole clenches around nothing, pushing out juices as if to claim megumi. 

your head rolls back to rest on megumi’s broad shoulder and you reach a hand behind you to tangle in the dark mass of his sweaty locks — keeping him close. “i need you, ‘gumi. please.” you rasp weakly as his shaft breaches your silken walls, coating him in everything your body has to offer. you spoil megumi, giving him a moment to remember before he leaves for college again.

there’s a delicious residual burn from the way his girth stretches you out causing your cunt so selfishly squeezes down on every inch of your step brother’s milky cock. with a stuttered breath, fushiguro bottoms out until his balls are pressed hotly against your ass and his seedy mushroomed tip is just grazing your womb. 

“just what i wanted to hear,” he purrs into the shell of your ear — nipping it tenderly. you blubber softly into the satin pillows, prepped with a fresh set of tears as you push back onto megumi to meet the push and pull of his dick into your tight, creamy sex. “you’ve always needed me, pretty thing. my precious baby sister, relyin’ on me for everything. even this.”

your entire body burns bright with desire for megumi, you’re surprised you’ve gone this long without him before today. maybe you’ve always needed to feel his sticky tip grind against your juicy walls or his hot breath fanning against your shoulders and neck. you’ve always needed your step brother to guide you in the right direction. you’ve always needed megumi.

“f-fuck, g-gumi!” 

fushiguro fucks you slow and softly, pouring all of his affections into you — letting it buzz in the sex scented air between your salt slicked bodies. his fingertips leave their paw prints along your tiger striped thighs and soft tummy, he’ll kiss them better later, but for now he just wants you to know how much he’s always needed you.  “oh i know pretty girl, i know.” comes megumi’s low, bristling simper — adding to the stacks of pleasure cementing together in your lower tummy. “you’re so good, taking me just right. i’ve always known you’d be good for me.” 

your back arches away from the molten centre of your step brother’s chest but he refuses to let you run from him — wrapping a strong arm around your middle to anchor you and your pussy down on his throbbing cock. “i never wanted to ruin you.” he drawls hungrily, but that doesn’t stop the salacious buck of his hips upwards and the way his hands traverse over each of your perfect imperfections. “but you’re such a sweet thing… you always have been. god, baby, you drive me crazy.” 

fumbling around on the bed, megumi gasps at the phone and hits record once more — propping the device up on the nightstand opposite you so that he can remain hands free. “this body, this princess cunt… the way you grip my hair—“ as if on cue, your fingers tighten at his dark roots and tug him down for a sloppy, spit swapping kiss. “everything about you, s’perfect.” 

the room spins with ecstasy and your pathetic screams die in your throat at the feeling of megumi’s abs contacting against your back, his cock hitting that spongy spot inside of you over and over again. you drip sweet nectar onto the sheets, his pelvis and his thighs — tainting him with your precious sin. everything burns with exertion and exhaustion, so you’re forced to slump against your big brother and rely on him to carry you to the high heavens of pleasure.

he doesn’t disappoint, cupping your swaying breasts as you jolt up the bed from the force of his pounding thrusts, flicking at your nipples while keeping himself tucked in your squishy insides. you’re pleasured from every possible angle and it’s all caught on grainy film for megumi to take to college when he leaves without you. 

“‘m so fucking happy… t-that our parents got divorced. s-so that i can…have you like this.” fushiguro tongues at the pulse point under your ear, giving you one hard thrust to emphasise the point, it makes you jump, pushing you that little bit closer to the edge. your step brother never stops pumping himself in and out of you, hardly giving you a second to breathe between sucking on your tongue and slapping a hand down on your slit. 

“aren’t you happy?” he goes on to ask, carving the shape of his dick into your raw sex. “take a deep breath for me, gorgeous.” 

megumi wraps a hand around your throat from behind, squeezing ever so slightly and your glistening doe eyes tear away from the camera to focus on him. you witness the stars align in his azure orbs, the adoration they hold for you and a cry-baby wail slips from between your cherry bitten lips in response. 

“look so pretty with my hand around your throat ‘n my cock in your pussy… look at that. it’s like your body was made for me.” he chimes up again, watching the drool deep from the corner of your mouth as it hangs open with dry moans, like a a cute puppy panting. “how lucky are we?”

“o-oh! gumi!” you sniff blearily, not caring that there isn’t enough air in your brain to think straight. you’re swallowing down his cock and he’s leaking fat droplets of precum against the ridges of your walls — only adding to your wetness. megumi can’t expect a single logical thought to escape you this way. “‘m s-so glad. s-so lucky! so happy! i-i love you.”

the stuttered admission brings out the worst in megumi, causing him to lose his shit. your panties are rubbing his shaft raw, your pussy’s so good that he feels like he’s fucking high, not to mention you sound so pretty he could die here and be the happiest man alive. a feral desire takes over your step brother, his snapping his hips into you so hardly that your headboard repeatedly smashes against the wall.

your panties are completely soaked through at this point, equally as ruined as your cunt… but megumi doesn’t care. “love you too. my good girl, my good fucking girl.” he coos, his thrusts growing animalistic and erratic — your bodies dancing to the tune of desire as you chase release. “can you cum for me, pretty? wanna see it, bet you’re so gorgeous when you’re cumming for me little sis.” 

despite being fucked brainless, you still manage to do what you’re told — your hips back onto his from their own accord, puffy pussy locking down on megumi’s base to keep him inside. “i’m close… r-right there gumi!” you choke out.

“right here, baby?” is all he manages to respond with, moaning pornographically into your sweaty shoulder while he shifts the angle of his thrusts. “wanna feel you fish all fucking over me.” 

that’s all you need to hear before your toe curling orgasm comes crashing down on you like a large tidal wave. the knot in your tummy finally unravels and you break beneath the pressure of it all, waves of your juices splashing out onto the sheets and megumi’s pelvis — rewarding him for fucking you this good. you cum so hard that it’s enough to force megumi from your twitching hole, expelling a musky scent into the air.

“f-fucking shit, fuuuck me…” fushiguro stumbles off the edge not long after, using the seam of your panties to finish himself off while you twitch through the aftershocks of your high. he just barely makes it, fucking your underwear and nudging his sensitive cockhead against your abused mound until he’s filling the seat of your panties with fat globs of white hot seed. “jesus…’hmygod, baby. you’re such an angel...d-did so fucking well for me.” 

he peppers you with smooches until you’re calmed down enough to be rolled onto your back. megumi is careful to pull away from you, staying close while you sniffle and come back down to earth. he babies you throughout, lifting the rest of your dress over your head and waiting until you say he can move before grabbing you a spare shirt from your dresser.

“let me see you.” megumi whispers lovingly when he crawls back onto the bed to join you. he grabs his phone from the nightstand and ends its recording, pushing your thighs apart to snap pictures of your cum soaked undies and the thick white that clings to your fat pussy lips and clit. “perfect, you’re so perfect. 

“i am?” you whinge — camera shy. but you don’t tell him to stop, letting your older step brother rub his sensitive and overworked cock over your crotch, smearing the last evidence of your orgasms against you for a quick video. another one that’ll be added to his spank bank for later. “‘gumi…” you warn once you start to feel overstimulated.

he chuckles at how whiny you are, tugging your clean shirt over your head before he pulls you into his arms. “i got it, i’m sorry.” rocking you both back and forth, fushiguro kisses the crown of your head. “yanno… if you’re so serious about not joining me at college. i’ll try and convince your dad to let you stay in town. as long as you keep up your promise and try to start a business.” 

your heart skips a beat, and you cast a glance upwards at your step brother. “really?” 

“really. if it means that much to you.” 

sleep settles heavy in megumi’s bones and on his pretty face — one you didn’t realise you loved so much. “it does! thank you, ‘gumi,” you say quickly, pressing a chest kiss to his jaw. “m-maybe you college boys aren’t so bad.” 

“oh come on now, didn’t me fucking you stupid literally just prove that?” 

“maybe.” 

“so you’ll come visit me at college then. since you like me so much.” fushiguro quips cheekily, narrowly missing your swat to his chest. 

you roll your eyes and try to unravel yourself from your step brother’s affectionate grip, but don’t hide your smile. “ugh! as if, don’t get ahead of yourself.” 

but teasing megumi further only gets you dragged back into the sheets — two sets of laughter echoing throughout the room in what appears to be another sibling fight. 

except this time, you’re not as clueless. 

you know that something like this, and with megumi, means something much, much more.

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2023. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

General Yandere! Atsumu Miya Profile

Yandere! Atsumu Miya x fem! reader

Warnings: stalking, obsession, kidnapping, drugging, mentions of non/dub-con, masturbation, nonconsensual photography, mentions of physical abuse (Atsumu doesn't hit you, though), Stockholm syndrome, nonconsensual affection, fem! reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!

WC: 10.0K

DARLING PROFILE:

Honest

For Atsumu, trust is the most important thing in a relationship.

He’s always been dubbed a bit unreliable; his twin rolling his eyes and mentioning how he’s always late, past girlfriends crying and screaming at him about he’s throwing them away for some stupid sport, even his own reflection in the mirror telling him he’s too narrow minded, too obsessive, too abnormal to ever have a successful relationship.

It’s left Atsumu a bit jaded – he’s always wanted a lover, yes, but as his professional career has developed, his desire has dwindled. Too often he’s been accused to blowing off his significant other in favor of the sport, and while he's never been able to argue that point, it’s exhausting.

And so, having a partner that’s honest about how they’re feeling, how they want him to treat them would be perfect. He’s tired of having people have such high expectations of him without him even knowing, and when he inevitably doesn’t meet them he’s always the one with the door slamming in his face, shock and confusion stirring in his gut because what did he do wrong?

His darling must be painfully honest with him; he likes people who are able to be blunt while expressing their opinions, and while he doesn’t want a blatantly mean darling, one who is able to give him tough love is more than welcome. He likes the idea that his woman is capable of keeping him in line, and frankly, with every murmur of I wish you’d spend more time with me that falls past their lips, Atsumu is scrambling to let his coach know he’s taking a week off, that he’s calling in those favors he earned from staying late to so many practices.

He just wants a partner that will never pretend to be something they aren’t, and while they’re allowed to have secrets (in the beginning), Atsumu wants to know every fucking one.

So really, his darling should just be honest from the get go; it will attract his attention, yes, but isn’t it just so sweet to have the six foot tall, charismatic, talented professional athlete head over heels for you?

Opinionated

Don’t get it twisted – Atsumu doesn’t want someone who takes this trait to the very extreme. He still very much likes the idea that he’s the one in charge of the relationship, that he’s the one wearing the pants, that he calls any of the truly important shots.

However, when things really come down to it, Atsumu is a worshipper. He’s utterly and completely enraptured by his darling, blindsided by them and willing to do literally anything it takes to get them smiling at him, to hear those sweet words of praise falling from their lips.

He’s obsessed in every possible way, and to have a darling that doesn’t give things up easily only makes him fall more in love. He likes a darling with convictions; they have opinions and beliefs that they stand by, and it’s difficult to get them to budge.

He likes people with strong personalities, and a darling that fits this mold is his ideal type – he doesn’t have to agree with their beliefs necessarily, though it would be nice. He just likes the prospect of a darling who isn’t afraid to fight for what they believe in, and to voice what they think is right.

He’s not afraid to argue a bit, though he’ll always eventually give in, staring at his darling with wide, glossy brown eyes and parted pink lips, his cheeks stained red and his heart racing because wow, they look so damn sexy when they’re standing up for themselves.

Quite honestly, as his obsession develops, it becomes alarmingly easy for his body to react to his darling’s declarations of beliefs as well; the minute they say they support pro-choice causes, his pants are tight and he’s hiding his face, because as they keep listing off the reasons they believe in the cause, Atsumu can’t deny how fucking passionate they are, how pretty and smart and confident they seem.

It’s a turn on, truly, and while at the end of the day Atsumu’s opinion is the final say, having a darling with strong beliefs will help fuel his worshipper tendencies.

Competitive

Similarly to the other traits listed out for his darling, Atsumu needs someone with a bit of a competitive edge.

He doesn’t want this to overrun their relationship, but he likes the idea of small, domestic competitions; who can shoot the paper straw wrapper the furthest when he’s taking his darling out to a nice dinner (their table neighbors are less than pleased, but with the way his darling laughs and giggles, Atsumu doesn’t fucking care).

Little competitions of outwitting each other are mandatory for Atsumu; a partner that can tease him, sending him knowing glances and making fun of the stupid things he says makes his ears go red and his throat get all tight, but he fucking loves it.

He wants a partner that will compete to see who can go without stepping on a crack in the concrete the longest when he takes them out for a late night walk through the local park (eventually he’ll fudge the number just so he can win, and then he’ll offer to carry them home because they ‘obviously can’t avoid the cracks on yer own’, fully trying to pretend like the concept of touching his darling doesn’t make him break out in anxious shivers, beads of sweat covering his temples and hands).

He just likes a darling that can challenge him, and while he never seriously considers his darling actual competition, there’s something about seeing the way they focus on him as they try to beat him that makes his head swim.

There’s something so wonderful about how hyper focused they become on the things Atsumu accomplishes, and frankly it’s an opportunity to show off – he can show them how impressive he is, how capable, how strong and manly and romantic he can be. It’s perfect, and he needs a darling that fill these shoes – so really, don’t let Atsumu win, yeah?

Because once you win, his obsession just grows deeper, his fascination with you that bleeds into the wee hours of the morning as he clutches his pillow and desperately humps at it only getting stronger.

Stubborn

While Atsumu enjoys the idea of holding a certain amount of power over his darling, he doesn’t want someone who will easily roll over.

He likes the idea of a darling that is willing to stand up for themselves, and in particular a darling who is true to their word – and so, a more stubborn beloved would be perfect for Atsumu. He needs someone who isn’t willing to give up on what they want or believe so easily; of course, they can’t be too stubborn, as they need to be able to see the benefits of other perspectives sometimes.

(Specifically, they need to understand his perspective sometimes, even if it involves stalking them, kidnapping them, or even forcing them to sleep in the same bed as him.)

They need to be able to admit when they are wrong, but for the vast majority of the time Atsumu would love a darling that takes a bit of time before they’re willing to change their minds. He likes to idea of a darling that would only ever change their mind for him; it feeds into his possessiveness, and quells his delusions regarding his darling.

After all, they treat him unlike they treat everyone else – and isn’t that a sign? Doesn’t that mean they see him differently, think of him differently, perhaps even view him as someone special? The thought makes him giddy, his chest erupting in butterflies and the widest grin settling across his features, and he’ll remember each and every time his darling has ever changed their mind on something involving him.

It’s euphoric, the kind of thing he thinks about when he’s deep in his despair and missing his darling, but just remembering their pretty eyes looking up at him, the defeated and embarrassed look on their face when they say well, maybe you’re right…

It’s the stuff of both wholesome and wet dreams, and Atsumu will take it all with stride. After all, he’ll take anything his darling gives him.

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:

Clingy

In general, Atsumu is absolutely desperate for your attention.

He’s not unused to female praise and girls fawning over him, what with the sheer number that attend his games and cheer him on. He’s used to the screaming fans in the crowds at Jackals games, constant messages in his DMs containing nude photographs and attempts at beginning a relationship with him.

And yet, despite his popularity, there’s something about the idea of you supporting him, you giving him the time of day that gets him feeling hot, his stomach fluttery and his lips dry. There’s something about the idea of you taking the time to recognize him, to acknowledge him (even if it’s just through the tiniest of smiles, or a quick text wishing him luck in his next match) that gets him sighing like some lovesick school girl, the idea genuinely so pleasing that he tends to zone out, too busy imagining the way you’d hug him or kiss him or snuggle up beside him after a hard game.

As a result, Atsumu tends to flock to you every chance he gets; he wants to show off, to get you in awe and have your eyes on him, and he’s not subtle.

It’s more than obvious to anyone that knows him (his friends and team) that he’s trying too hard, that he’s pushing himself harder than he should in order to win your favor. They’re more than aware that he’s overworking himself at games he knows you’re attending, flexing every muscle in his body as hard as he can when he walks by you, laughing loudly and lowering his voice slightly when you’re nearby because he’s heard that women find huskier voices attractive.

It’s embarrassing, if Osamu, Suna and Sakusa are being honest, but Atsumu can’t help it.

He needs you to notice him, to let your gorgeous eyes flick over his form, a small smile curling on your lips, a finger tucking your hair behind your ear, your weight shifting from one hip to another, anything at all to show him that you notice him, that you see him and think of him and love him and want him and need him and can’t stand even a single moment away from him –

It’s intense, to the point that you’ll likely notice the way he resembles an adolescent boy with how badly he’s trying to catch your attention, and frankly, you’ll probably be flattered. After all, it’s the Atsumu Miya that keeps meeting your gaze, his brown eyes flicking away quickly as he fights a blush and nudges Suna rather harshly, telling him to laugh like I told a joke, dammit, or I’ll steal yer chuupet, and how could you not be flattered?

He’s a heartthrob, a volleyball star, someone every girl you know would love to date, and he’s choosing you of all people? It feels good, and you’ll bask in the attention for a while – giving into his little desperate cries for attention, having conversations with him, coming to practices, letting him catch dinner with you sometimes, everything he requests with that strangely vulnerable would ya mind if I – er, if I went with you?

It’s hard to say no after all, and while Atsumu is internally panicking every second you’re together because he’s terrified he’ll fuck up and ruin the chemistry you seem to have, he wouldn’t trade his time with you for the world.

You’re perfect, so utterly lovely in every possible way, and so with time slowly his clinginess grows more and more intense, stronger and difficult to control, until you start getting worried about how far he’s pushing things, why the line seems to be crossed between friendliness and questionable intent.

It’s strange when his knuckles keep brushing yours, much more often than what would be accidental, or the way his fingertips brush against yours and slightly curl, like he’s trying to be subtle and gauge your reaction to holding his hand.

It’s odd how his gaze lingers on your form for much longer than is normal, those brown eyes fixed on your figure as you walk away, as you squirm and uncomfortably stare at the ground as your friend talks about the recent history test they’d just taken while you’re out and about getting lunch.

It’s strange how he always seems to make direct eye contact with you during games, even when you’re buried up in the sea of people in the bleachers, or how he hands you a plastic sack before the next game with small keychains and little memorabilia on it that he thought ya would like, since yer always cheerin’… inside you’ll find stickers with MSBY’s logo, a few volleyball themed sticky notes, pens and banners, and a copious amount of yellow plushies; foxes, jaguars and little birds, things that seem to match the shade of his hair exactly, little stuffed animals in number a 13 jersey, even a few banners with the words I’m proud of you ‘Tsumu! written across it with handwriting that looks just slightly too similar to your own.

It’s weird, and frankly you’ll want to return all of the things, but guilt and the crushed expression on Atsumu’s face when you don’t wear the custom made t-shirt with his jersey number and last name on the back (the size is exactly right, much to your dismay) to the next game have you reluctant.

You’ll want to return everything, but when you aren’t jumping up and down and cheering with every set he makes, you’ll end up piling on the accessories and supporting Atsumu, letting him call you every night to ramble on about his latest plays and movies he loves, letting him take you to Osamu’s favorite onigiri stand after games, letting him hug you for much too long.

You’ll let it happen, and Atsumu couldn’t be happier – but be warned, when you give the blond an inch, he’ll take miles and miles and miles. After all, he just needs you, and if you’ve let him push the envelope so far already, what else will you allow?

Will you let him knock you out and lay you across the soft comforter that adorns the bed he’s set up for the two of you to share?

Maybe you’ll let him cuddle you and run his fingers through your hair, bury his face into your neck and inhale, hump you like an animal in heat as he begs for you to tell me ya love me, fuck princess tell me yer in love with me.

Atsumu sure hopes so, and you wouldn’t want to disappoint, right?

Possessive

Tying in with some of his clingier habits, Atsumu struggles to not completely involve himself in every possible aspect of your life. It’s not that he wants to be omnipresent, always there, peering over your shoulder like some overgrown guardian angel with a golden retriever’s need for attention, but he genuinely can’t help it.

He gets so anxious where you’re concerned, terrified that someone else will come along and sweep you off your feet, scared that you’ll find someone better that he just physically can’t sit still and let another man walk into your life.

He struggles to give you your own space, not quite sure how to balance his desire to make you happy and see him as the perfect partner and the other, more pressing part of him that’s desperate to keep every man on Earth away from you, to keep a healthy distance of at least fifty yards away from you at any given time.

He doesn’t want to even allow the opportunity for another person to steal your attention or time, and as a result Atsumu decides the best method to achieve this desire is to simply always be there. If he doesn’t allow an opening for another man to sweep you away, then surely it won’t happen, surely you won’t be speaking to anyone else without the blond at your hip, staring down with malicious eyes as some guy tries to make you laugh or smile, as they compliment your eyes.

He’ll stand there, towering over you with brown eyes narrowed, flexing each and every muscle in his upper body, the sleeves of his uniform shirt straining against the lean muscle of his bicep as the man splutters, terrified that the Atsumu Miya is glaring at him, scared that he’ll get punched or his reputation ruined.

He tends to start off with staring, trying to make the other man who was stupid (and brave) enough to approach you uncomfortable enough to leave the two of you alone. But if that doesn’t work (which, most of the time he’s too impatient to see through fruition), Atsumu will rely on other tactics to get you looking at him and only him, just as you should.

That is, it’s disturbingly easy to plaster a fake smile onto his lips, grabbing your arm and spinning you to face him, asking you in that sing song voice that’s just a bit too high if you want to grab something to eat, if you want to see the new serve he’s been working on, if you want to go bother Osamu with him.

He’s asking anything, everything to get you agreeing, whining for your attention and telling you that he needs ya, yer my good luck charm with ‘Samu and I want some onigiri, pouting like a child if you seem unsure or reject him.

When you eventually sigh and agree, apologizing to the other man and letting Atsumu drag you off to god knows where, the blond will throw a malicious glare over his shoulder, a proud smirk etched onto his lips as he mouths the words mine, before looking down at you and smiling once more, prattling on about some new accomplishment of his in an effort to impress you.

Generally, this works – Atsumu is terribly insistent and determined, wanting so badly and so impatiently to get your attention and drag you out of the situation that it’s nearly palpable, but he has this strange charm to him that has you always caving, making you sigh and bite your lip but ultimately say okay fine, but just this one time, okay?

Atsumu is strangely pitiable, someone that manages to master the kicked puppy look each time he begs and pleads for you to spend time with him, to just stay with him, to not ditch hangouts in favor of working overtime, to not join that recreational group you’ve been interested in because he needs you to watch his practice and haven’t ya seen the men in that group? Don’t ya see the way they look at yer ass when ya walk away? Ya’d be stupid to join ‘em, princess.

He’s oddly sweet, the validation that him constantly searching for your attention and praise gives you strangely addicting, so just let him put his hand on your waist, lean down to inhale the scent of your hair (and smile when he smells your familiar shampoo and not a single trace of cologne that isn’t his), smile and point at you when he makes a good set, grab your wrist and drag you behind the practice facility to press you against the nearest wall and shove his tongue down your throat because someone forgot who they fuckin’ belong to, huh baby?

Atsumu is strangely endearing in his desperation to keep you to himself, but don’t be fooled – underneath the jealous schoolboy act is a pathetic, dangerous man willing to do whatever it takes to keep you by his side, even if it involves dirtying his hands with chloroform, blood, or lies.

Delusional

The trouble with Atsumu is, of course, his determination.

He’s simply unable to let himself lose or let go of things he’s truly passionate about. And so, once his feelings for you form, you make that very short list of Atsumu’s priorities – right between volleyball, and, begrudgingly, his brother.

But while this in itself isn’t particularly strange, it’s the method with which Atsumu expresses his intense devotion to you that’s a bit alarming, that makes him qualify as a delusional man.

He’s very, very dedicated to making sure that he looks good in your eyes and that you like him. He’s obsessed with making sure that the two of you pan out, that you end up together, that he gets to hold and kiss you, to touch your pretty skin and slip a diamond studded ring on your finger while you whisper out that airy yes, I’ll marry you ‘Tsumu.

He’s driven by the fantasies he possesses of the two of you; mostly domestic things, embarrassingly enough. He likes to imagine waking up together in the mornings, the sunlight dancing along your face as you softly breath in and out.

He likes to imagine the way he’d snuggle up against you, pulling you against his chest so that your face is buried against his pectorals, his chin atop your head as he deeply breaths in your scent, relishing in the peacefulness and calmness of the moment.

He likes to imagine the way you’d smile when he compliments you, your flustered expression as you playfully smack his upper arm, trying to hide how embarrassed you are as he teases you. He imagines you’d shut him up with a kiss, whispering against his lips when you pull away that he’s just as pretty as me, the prettiest boy I’ll ever know.

He’s fueled by these desires, and while they aren’t explicitly dark, it’s the extreme to which Atsumu is willing to try to see them come to fruition that’s disturbing. It’s the way he’s holding himself to an impossible benchmark to encourage these feelings in you, to get you to reciprocate his infatuation.

It’s the way he’s simply not taking no for an answer; he’s always asking you to get food with him, to come to his games, to let him take you out to the park for ice cream, even just to call him – and if you decline his offers, Atsumu simultaneously feels his heart break and his resolve harden.

He feels as if it’s a sign that he’s not doing enough each time you reject him; obviously he’s not trying hard enough, not putting in the level of dedication and work that he must in order to get you falling in love with him.

His delusions lie in that he’s continually pushing himself harder to make you want him. He’s doing extensive research into the types of movies you watch, the books you read, the fanfiction you enjoy, the tropes and heartthrobs, anything and everything he can find about your tastes, even if it means digging through your browsing history.

He’s religiously watching and reading the media you like to consume, trying to find similarities so that he can emulate what the male lead always does.

Maybe he should dye his hair?

Maybe he should start wearing only shades of gray and black?

You always read stories where the lead brings the narrator flowers, so obviously you must want a bouquet, right?

Don’t be surprised when he shows up at your doorstep with a lovely, gorgeous bouquet of flowers in your favorite color, a blush dancing on his cheeks while he sheepishly asks if you’d like to come to the movies with me? There’s this new film coming out that I’ve been wanting to see, but it’s always depressing to eat popcorn alone, so…

He’s not really listening when you tell him that you’re not interested in dating anyone right now; you obviously just need some time, because there’s no way you can’t feel the desperation Atsumu feels for you.

There’s simply no fucking way you don’t realize how horribly, deeply he wants to call you his. Instead, he’ll just smile at you, that same too-wide grin while he pats your head (silently reveling in the feeling of your hair texture against his fingers because holy fuck he just touched you -) and tells you that it’s okay, I understand, no emotional commitment for ya, babe!

He’s not swayed by anything you could do or say to try and argue that his efforts aren’t working; Atsumu is determined, and he won’t let anything get in the way of earning your love and attention, including you. What you want matters to him, and he truly does want you to want him, but at the end of the day, his delusions cloud his mind into thinking that you do want him.

You may not know it yet – hell, you may not be willing to accept it yet, but Atsumu is okay with that. He can be patient, just for you. He can wait, lay the groundwork some more, woo you with every possible method he can think of, until you finally come to your senses and realize that no one can treat you like he does.

No one else will ever want you as badly as the blond does, and no one else would ever fight as hard to get you by their side.

No one else would be willing to rifle through your discarded trash just to see what food packages you were eating, what brand of soap and shampoo you like, what brand of tampons you use and what size.

No else would be willing to lace the food he has Osamu make for you (begrudgingly, but a few extra bucks thrown at the chef will do wonders) with vitamins, things to keep you healthier and happier, because he just cares about you.

No one else would do half of the shit he’s willing to do for you, and Atsumu is more than aware of this. Doesn’t that make him special?

Doesn’t his devotion to you show that he’s serious about loving you? Isn’t it romantic that he’s willing to go so damn far for you? You should be flattered, really; you’ve caught the attention of the Atsumu Miya, a professional athlete and star of the MSBY Jackals.

He’s head over heels for you, obsessed in every sense of the word with having you be his girl, and how could you get any luckier? Especially with the way he watches your every move like your shadow because he just cares so much?

DEALING WITH RIVALS:

When it comes to jealousy, Atsumu is certainly no stranger. He’s dealt with the green eyed monster his whole life; having a twin was difficult, what with people constantly comparing him to Osamu.

He’s tired of being known as simply an extension of another person, and while this got better as he got older and the two Miyas developed their own, independent lives, he’s always held a shred of jealousy towards his brother. He’s quick to anger, and so once you’re in the picture?

Well, Atsumu may have grown and matured a lot since his high school days, but he’s still the same somewhat childish man at heart. And to see someone – something – he loves so much be threatened by another man makes his gut clench uncomfortably, his lips pulling into a grimace before he can even think about it.

His fists are clenching before any rational thought enters his brain, whatever poor object was in his hands nearly breaking with the sheer amount of force he puts into his grip. He’s gotten much better with handling his rage, but the reality is that the idea of you finding another man doesn’t simply enrage him – no, it terrifies him.

He’s scared that he’s not enough; sure, he’s got money, fame, a great physique, and a charming smile, but what about his personality? Is he funny enough? Smart enough? Kind enough? Can he make you laugh like you want him to, can he make you flustered and embarrassed with his compliments and cheeky comments?

He’s riddled with self-doubt when it comes to you, and while he tries to put up the façade of confidence most of the time, there’s moments where you’ll very clearly see the real Atsumu underneath those layers of charisma. The real, raw, emotional, desperate young man who wants nothing more than for you to choose him.

And so, it doesn’t take too terribly much to set off his jealousy. Generally speaking, the blond only ever feels jealous when your attention drifts away from him. He doesn’t enjoy seeing other men stare at you from afar, the way their eyes rake over your figure, thoughts surely flashing through their mind about what could be under your clothes, all manner of perverted intentions and fantasies being played out mentally.

He doesn’t enjoy it, but at least Atsumu knows that you can’t be tempted by what you don’t see – he knows the look men give when they’re imagining railing you into next week, when they’re contemplating whether to approach you, but you don’t.

You’re not aware of the fine art of decoding the male gaze; and so, why should Atsumu be worried? He’ll shoo the man away, laying his claim over you to try and (not) subtly show the stranger that you’re firmly claimed and taken.

However, when his jealousy really activates is when you show signs of interest in other men. When it’s your eyes trailing another man’s figure, when it’s your lips quirking up into a smile as you listen to another man’s voice and jokes.

It’s insecurity hitting him square in the chest as he wonders if this man could be better than him, if you’d prefer him over Atsumu, if you’re unhappy with the blond. And so, he must put a stop to the interaction before you can develop any sort of attachment to this new man – it would derail everything he’s worked so fucking hard for over the last few months.

Atsumu’s brows furrow inward as he watches the way you tap your foot and smile at the man in front of you in line.

You’re waiting to order your drink at the local coffeeshop he’d had the both of you meet up at. Surprisingly punctual when it comes to you, Atsumu had arrived earlier than the time he’d scheduled, and had subsequently gotten his iced coffee before you’d gotten the chance to enter the shop.

And now, he was deeply regretting his decision to caffeinate himself before you showed up; the man in front of you was tall, with dark hair and tan skin. A chiseled jaw line was obvious even from his distance away, as were his smoothly pressed, tucked in maroon dress shirt and black slacks. Atsumu frowned; his own pair of brown shorts and brightly patterned top seemed much too childish now.

Did you like men in muted colors, or bold designs?

Distantly, Atsumu made a note to look through more of your browsing history to find out. In the present, though, the blond was growing more and more irritated by the minute. You were clearly checking out the stranger; your eyes were obviously traveling down along his back, your pretty gaze settling in on the spot right above his thighs –

Atsumu sucked in a sharp breath, his cheeks feeling hot (surely red), before he was immediately bolting out of his chair, his legs moving faster than his mind could think.

You were not to be having this free of an attraction to another man – particularly one that looked nothing like Atsumu himself.

Were you more attracted to men with dark hair? Did you prefer tanner skin rather than Atsumu’s own paler self?

Shaking his head, he let his fists clench at his sides, his lip trapped between his teeth so hard it threatened to bleed. It’s horrible, having to watch this interaction – the man had turned around to ask you a question, and you’d responded with something that made him laugh.

He was laughing, his whole face lighting up with a smile brighter than the fucking sun and Atsumu wants to spike a ball at his head, to punch him across his stupidly sharp jawline and make him scream and cry and beg for his forgiveness for touching what’s his his his –

He sucks in an unsteady, shaky breath as the man makes some comment about you looking pretty, and you jump slightly, your brows shooting up at his forwardness. You stutter out a thanks, mentally shocked because was he flirting with you…? This handsome stranger?

You clear your throat, telling him you like the color of his shirt, and the man smiles knowingly at you.

Do you like my shirt, or do you like what’s underneath it?

Your lips part slightly, your brows furrowing a bit. Oh, um, no, I mean your shirt.

Something about the way the man’s brows rose and the smirk that settled across your lips was starting to unsettle you, his forwardness earlier seeming confident, though perhaps too confident.

Admittedly, self assurance was attractive, but as the man’s smirk grew wider and he took another step towards you, you found yourself stiffening up.

I’m sure you’d like what’s underneath it too, sugar, if you’d like to see. I’m in the gym every morning, promise, and I never skip arm day.

You smile shakily at him, a barely hidden grimace at his words, before taking a small step backwards and away from him. You’d been unaware of the way Atsumu had taken strides to get closer to the both of you, essentially hiding himself behind the nearest display shelf of coffee cups and mugs while he kept his eyes focused on the both of you, his ears wide open to take in every word.

And to say he was angry was a massive understatement – sure, this man may be attractive, but could he not see how uncomfortable he was making you?

Did he not understand that you weren’t fucking interested? Atsumu is frozen for a moment, internally weighing what to do, but as the man reaches out to tuck a piece of stray hair behind your ear, the blond snaps.

He’s immediately at your side, grabbing your arm and shuffling you behind him, paying no mind to the way that the man’s face sours, his lips settling into a pinched line as he stares at Atsumu.

They’re roughly the same height, and despite the man’s insistence of always hitting the gym, it’s more than clear that Atsumu has more strength, his professional career leaving him ridden with muscle, even if he’s not a spiker. Atsumu’s sending him the meanest, coldest look he possibly can, cutting off the man who attempts to say something. She’s not interested, dipshit.

The man’s nostrils flare, and distantly Atsumu scoffs that he was ever feeling insecure because of such a piece of shit. The man guffaws, crossing his arms, snapping out and how the hell would you know?

Atsumu nearly growls, his heart pounding in his chest out of anger and barely restrained rage, his every muscle begging to be let go, to punch this man across the face, to beat the shit out of him while you watch – maybe you’d be impressed, thinking of him as strong and capable, thinking of him as your protector, your manly, masculine boyfriend.

It’s a charming thought, but he steels himself and instead rolls his eyes at the man. Because yer a fucking creep, that’s why, harassin’ women and getting’ em all scared and nervous. Fuck off.

And with that, Atsumu is grabbing your wrist, swerving on his heel and dragging you behind him, taking the both of you outside of the coffee shop. He’d left his own iced coffee on the table, but he couldn’t care less.

Once the both of you were outside, he immediately turned around, hazel eyes searching yours as he examined every inch of your face and body for any sort of injury or tears.

Your mouth is parted slightly, your eyes wide, but Atsumu can only mutter out a ya okay, love?

You don’t answer him – instead, you’re crashing into his chest, throwing your arms around him and hugging him as tightly as you can. Atsumu squeaks, his cheeks flushing bright red because holy fuck, you’re hugging him –

You whisper out a thank you, shoving your face further into his chest, and Atsumu can only hug you back as tightly, a hand running down your hair in comforting motions. A tear slips down his cheek without even realizing it, his heart racing because the fear of thinking he’d lost you was still much too strong, the worry and pain slowly ebbing away, but not nearly fast enough.

He’s quick to buy you another coffee at a different shop, along with your favorite sweets, insisting that you take the day off of work and instead come watch his practice today, where he can make sure you’re not approached by anymore creeps.

You agree, and Atsumu goes to sleep that night with a wide, nearly crazed smile as he hugs his pillow tightly, remembering the way you’d touched him and cheered him on at practice, even giving him a kiss on the cheek when he’d made a particularly good set.

His hand slips down his torso as he relives the way your chest had felt against his own, his other hand opening his phone to the folder he has of pictures of you, your pretty face staring at him through the screen as his own face morphs into a pretty ‘o’, his brows shooting up and whimpers tumbling past his lips.

You’re just so perfect, and while he still worries you’ll find someone else, at least today you didn’t – today, you were his.

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

Quite honestly, Atsumu doesn’t particularly want to steal you away.

He’s still clinging onto the idea of having a normal, healthy relationship with you, and while he can’t deny the attraction of keeping you locked up in his penthouse apartment, he isn’t jumping at his heels to kidnap you.

There’s just something about it that leaves a sour taste in his mouth; he fell in love with you for you, and perhaps there’s some part of him that’s hesitant to force you into captivity for fear of changing who you are. He doesn’t want some brain-dead, Stockholm Syndrome induced lover.

No, he wants you, with your every flaw and strength bare before his eyes, so that he can know every bit of you as you are, not as he wants to mold you to be.

He’s not interested in forming you into his ideal lover; you already are, and he’d never forgive himself if he changed you just to make you a more obedient captive.

And so, the prospect of kidnapping you just doesn’t seem like a possibility to the setter – besides, his delusions reinforce the idea that eventually you’ll want to live with him. He’ll tell himself over and over that you don’t want to be kidnapped because you want to come willingly with him, and while he may have struggled to believe it at first, eventually he's swearing by the idea.

Because really, when he’s repeating it to himself like a mantra, chanting it under his breath as his fingers clutch at the bathroom counter and cool water runs down his face from the faucet still on below him, how is he supposed to doubt it?

How can he not believe that you’ll eventually want him, want the life he can give you by being his partner?

Atsumu is riddled with insecurities, but despite the way the idea of you makes them flare up, there’s something oddly therapeutic about imagining the way you’d be able to overcome them, how you’d accept him as he is, smiling and leaping into his arms as you tell him yes, yes I’d love to live with you! Let me pack up all my stuff and let the landlord know, you’ll have to get a bigger bed so we can both fit…

He’s convinced himself that you want to live with him, through sheer determination and repetition, and often when stress is eating him alive, his fingers tugging at his hair while he paces back and forth as he relives the way you smiled at that man today over and over and over again, it’s the thought of how you’d lovingly accept him eventually that keeps him going.

It’s a pleasant thought, really – and one that keeps his sanity in tact.

And so, when eventually the time comes and he gets this blushy, bashful look on his face, wringing his hands and struggling to make eye contact with you as he opens his mouth, just know that the scene will not be pretty. When he blurts out the words (stuttered a bit, hopefully you won’t notice), just know that when you inevitably reject his offer, Atsumu will seem a bit… off.

There’s something about the way his brown eyes darken, his hands falling limp in his lap, the chatter of the restaurant around you seeming so fucking loud as silence falls between you.

Atsumu’s in shock, really, unable to believe what he’s just heard – your rejection goes against everything he’s ever believed, every mantra he’s forced himself to believe, every little thing he’s repeated to himself over and over again until he’s crying and smiling like a fool, laughing and sobbing and whispering your name again and again and again –

He’s frozen, and you’ll eventually leave the restaurant with him, giving him an awkward hug and wishing him a good night, but when you get into your bed you’d best cherish it. Really, you must – because that’s the last time you’ll ever be seeing the familiar four walls of your bedroom, the familiar feel of your sheets, the same view from your window.

Because as you sleep, your pretty chest rising and falling peacefully, Atsumu’s at your doorway, his hand shaking as he breaths in unevenly, the rope and chloroform already at attention as he whispers you’ll love me, promise ya will, jus’ takes some time…

It’s a rude awakening the next morning, of course, with a stranger’s arms around you and his heavy breaths in your ear, but don’t take too long to adjust; after all, Atsumu is patient, but every man has his breaking point.

As a captor, Atsumu is mostly just clingy.

He’s not too terrible; he’s generally somewhat aware of your personal space, but he does have a habit of forcing you into unwanted affection. He’ll never put you into sexual scenarios, but more often than not you’ll notice he has wandering hands.

He’s always snaking his hand into yours, his fingers brushing against your soft skin and the pad of his thumb rubbing small circles against your hand, a small smile settling over his features.

He’s always wrapping his arms around you from behind, settling his head into the crook of your neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply and sighing out your name, some slurred compliment making shivers run up your spine.

(It’s normally something along the lines of smell so pretty today babe, ‘s that yer new shampoo? I like it, makes me wanna take a bite outta ya.)

He’s planting kisses against your cheeks and knuckles, letting his lips wander along the plains of your body under he’s reached your neck. He won’t actually kiss you, though – you’re grateful for that at least, because while he loves to leave his mark along your body (mostly on your forearms, ankles, stomach and collarbone), there’s something so intimate about kissing you, about pressing his lips against yours.

He wants you to initiate it, for you to lean forward, flutter your eyes closed and press your lips against his, for you to sigh lightly, to let your arms wrap around his neck as you kiss him deeply, slowly, meaningfully…

When he coughs into his fist and his gaze darts away from you while he’s got you snuggled up into his side on the couch, just know he could absolutely pin you down and kiss you until you’re gasping for breath, just like he wants to.

But Atsumu has promised himself to be patient with you, that the love he’s convinced you’ll eventually feel will come, but only if he treats you like a queen. And so, while you may have to deal with the (more than occasional) touches and cuddles, Atsumu mostly respects your personal boundaries.

He does not, however, respect your attention.

He wants it.

Constantly.

His clinginess doesn’t just manifest in physical ways, and while you may have believed he was bad before he’s stolen you away, it’s nothing compared to how he acts once you’re in his apartment, under his care – because now, you have no way of escaping those brown eyes that are always fixed on you.

His little whines and sing-songs of your name from across the apartment will be a constant presence in your life, the front door slamming closed while locks click into place and he calls for you to come to the door, I got ya a little present today from ‘Samu!

It’s onigiri he picked up, some homemade desserts from his brother, too, and Atsumu is oh so fucking pleased to show you what he has to offer. Because really, that’s Atsumu’s favorite thing to do; he wants to impress you, to prove to you that he’s worthy of your love, that he’s a good man and would be an even better husband, and what better way than to prove it to you?

He’s always trying to buy you things, both expensive and not. You’ll find new pieces of jewelry (all things you wouldn’t mind buying yourself, if you’d been on the outside of course), new articles of clothing (all fitting you perfectly, despite any irregularities on your body that make it difficult to size), new flowers sitting in vases on the kitchen table when you wake up.

He’s getting you your favorite candies, a constant supply in the kitchen cabinets of your favorite snacks and drinks, a separate credit card in his wallet reserved exclusively for your purchases. (It’s got roughly a million dollars on it – a good year of his own salary, but Atsumu thinks it’s worth it – anything for you to give him those pretty eyes, that gorgeous smile, to feel your hands on his body in a loving way.)

He’s mostly just pathetic; his desperation is palpable, and despite your best intentions, you likely will fall for him. He may be a delusional, mentally disturbed man that stole you away from the world and keeps you locked up where only he can see you, but at least he looks at you like you’re his whole world.

At least he treats you with delicacy, smiling in such a raw, emotional way at you that it makes you have to look away, the plain love and adoration glimmering in those honey eyes making you uncomfortable. At least he cares enough to get the finest things he can buy, all for your comfort and happiness.

And so, while his delusions are strong, eventually Atsumu will be right – because you will love him, eventually, even if you try to fight it. Because after all, when he’s the only one you see everyday, the only voice and touch you’ll know for the rest of your days, he’ll start to seem oddly cute.

Oddly handsome. Oddly endearing. Oddly enough, your only choice.

So really, just accept him – you’ll get unconditional love for the rest of your life, and Atsumu has more than enough money and adoration for you to last both of your lifetimes. So really, just let it happen.

PUNISHMENTS:

Because Atsumu has such strong worshipper tendencies, getting him mad is actually a bit of a challenge. And getting him actually mad at you is even harder.

He loves you – fuck does he love you, or at least as close to love as his obsession can get. And while he’s maybe not the most chivalrous man on Earth, Atsumu has always been taught that women are to be treated with respect and dignity. And so, he’ll never be one to physically strike you.

He hates the idea of you getting hurt just in general; the moment he sees a bruise on your pretty skin, a scratch along your knee or a papercut on your finger, he quite frankly loses his mind. His mind is racing with questions of how that injury possibly got there, how you could’ve been out of his sight long enough to hurt yourself, why he couldn’t stop you from getting it.

He’s blaming himself as the reason why you’re crying, your lip bit between your teeth as you hiss and stare at the small papercut, the stinging sensation not horribly painful, but certainly not pleasant. He’ll race up to you, eyes wide and his voice stuck in his throat, examining the injury with careful fingers.

His eyes will well with tears too, his heart breaking as he realizes he’s directly responsible, that although he wasn’t the hot water that burned your poor pinky, he let you touch the water. He may have been at work, just barely walking through the door, but it’s his responsibility to take care of you, just as a good partner should. And so, in order to get Atsumu mad, a few things need to happen;  a perfect storm must be created, and frankly almost none of it is your fault. Firstly, Atsumu’s day must have gone poorly.

He must’ve had a bad practice, lost a match, been insulted one too many times by Sakusa, or gotten chewed out by his mom or brother. Something must have happened to irritate him, serving his mood to be a bit fouler than usual.

He must have hit traffic on his way home to you, the clock in his nice, expensive car counting the minutes by, getting later and later as he anxiously taps his fingers against the wheel, letting his eyes dart from the stop-and-go traffic back to the dashboard again.

He has to have felt that he’ll be late in seeing you, that you must be suffering at home all alone without him, probably angry at him for not being home right on time like he always promises to be.

He must have gotten an urgent call as he finally pulled into the apartment’s parking lot, the caller his own coach hoping to go over some new training times with him that Atsumu frankly couldn’t give a shit about.

He must have accidentally fallen on the stairs leading up to the apartment (he never takes the elevator – always says it keeps him in shape, but really he’s noticed that you seem to like his smell when he's just slightly sweaty, the strong musk of his cologne attracting you in just enough to Atsumu’s heart racing), tripping and maybe dropping his phone by accident.

He must’ve had to struggle with the door’s lock for a few moments, his anticipation eating away at him as he fumbled with the keys, before finally – finally – the door is opened and he has access to you. And finally, he needs to see the way you jump up at his greeting, banging your hand against the hot oven stove as you cook yourself some eggs, causing you to yelp and clutch at the finger that has a slight burn.

It’s all of these events together that make Atsumu tip over the edge, the horrible day he’d had along with seeing you hurt yourself making everything collide into a storm, one that makes him drop his athletic bag, his chest heaving, eyes wide and lips parted.

It takes a bit for him to reach that point, but once he does, suddenly the Atsumu before you is no longer the one you recognize.

He’ll stare, unable to form words as you blink back some tears, the burn really not that bad, but your body just can’t help it.

You’re clutching at your finger and hissing under your breath, quickly running towards the sink and letting the cool water stream down over your finger. You sigh slightly in relief, and it’s only as you turn your head and smile briefly at Atsumu that he can feel his limbs again.

Hey, Atsumu. You call, turning back to the sink and putting your finger closer to the spigot, though you know it doesn’t help at all. Suddenly, a clamoring of desperate footsteps sounds behind you, and you stiffen up as hot breath pants against your ear.

Atsumu’s behind you, his body caging yours against the sink as he clambers your hands into his, his own fingers trembling as he stares down at where you were burned. He can barely breath, and as he starts murmuring under his breath, your brows furrow together.

You call his name questioningly, to which Atsumu only responds with don’t talk, just – fuck, just shut up. His voice is a whisper, and although it’s quiet it’s harsh, the sound something you’ve never heard Atsumu make.

Your heart is racing in your chest, a slight bit of fear rolling through you. Was he mad?

Soon he’s taking steps away from you, and you turn around to see him standing in the middle of the kitchen with his hands on his head, fingers grasping at the roots of his hair. He’s staring at the ground, his lips moving quickly but you can’t hear what he’s saying.

You call his name again, concern and fear flowing through you, but as you take careful steps to approach, Atsumu suddenly collapses to his knees, the hard linoleum floor crashing against his bare skin. You wince slightly, knowing that must’ve hurt, but Atsumu doesn’t seem to care – or notice, really.

He’s still murmuring to himself, cradling his head in his hands, and with a deep breath you kneel down in front of him, saying his name again and reaching out to lightly touch his shoulder. As your hand makes contact with the gray of his training shirt, Atsumu stiffens up, his chest no longer heaving, and for a moment you wonder if he’s stopped breathing.

Atsumu? Are you okay- You’re cut off by his hand knocking yours off his shoulder, exposing the way his eyes are wide as they stare down at his knees. ‘s my fault, my fault, my fault.

He’s murmuring to himself, his breath hoarse, and as you stare in concern, suddenly his eyes are snapping to you. He’s staring under his eyelashes, and before you have a chance to ask again if he’s okay, he’s suddenly lunging forward, springing so quickly you let out a small scream.

His hands are on your shoulders as he clutches at you so hard you’re afraid it’ll bruise.

His nose is mere centimeters from yours, his breath fanning across your lips as he heaves, the look in his eye chilling you to the bone. He looks scared, lost, angry, and so, so very unhinged. You gulp, your gaze darting between his eyes. I

t’s my fault. He whispers, to which you open and close your mouth, unsure what he’s talking about. ‘ve been bad, not been treating ya right. Makin’ you go off and hurt yerself, just to get my attention.

He’s still whispering, but somehow it’s getting louder, his every word making you shrink in on yourself. Been bein’ a bad boyfriend, huh? Makin’ ya cry, been treatin’ ya like shit. Your mouth is dry. No way ya love me, ya hear me? No fuckin’ way.

His hands are trembling as they hold you, you realize. It makes your whole body shake.

I fucked it up, made ya hate me. Ya hate me, don’t ya? He's asking you, you think, and you go to answer but he cuts you off. I disgust ya, huh? Rather hurt yerself than love me, huh?

You shake your head no, but Atsumu’s growling, hanging his head down in defeat. Made ya hate me, now you’ll never want me.

It’s silent for a moment, before you slowly – very slowly – shuffle closer to him, letting your arms wrap around his waist. He lets you, his breathing still harsh, and you stay still for a moment once he’s in your embrace.

Shh, I love you, stop doing this. You’re whispering to him, and though you’re just trying to comfort him, a small part of you wonders at how easily the words flow off your tongue. Breath with me, in, now out. In, then out.

Slowly, his breathing gets under control, and once you feel it’s alright, you use your finger to lift up his chin. Look at me, ‘Tsumu. His head snaps up, and for a moment you wonder if the wide eyed look he’s giving you is because of the nickname.

Your heart clenches at the tear tracks running down his cheeks. I love you, kay? I didn’t mean to hurt myself, it’s not your fault.

He’s gaping like a fish, but after a moment he whispers out ya love me?

It’s the most vulnerable, saddest thing you think you’ve ever heard, and without thinking you nod, surprising yourself. Atsumu stills for a moment, before a wide grin breaks across his face, and suddenly he’s on his feet with you in his arms. He spins around, dragging you with him, a laugh in his voice as he calls out ya love me, ya love me!

Soon he’ll stop and hold you close, your forehead to his as he smiles and closes his eyes, whispering the words under his breath.

Ya love me forever, I love ya forever.

Forever.

OVERALL DANGER:

 8/10

Really, Atsumu is not particularly dangerous. The thing that makes him an undesirable yandere, however, is his mixture of determination and delusion.

He’s very, very fixated on making you love him. He’s obsessed with the idea of you; your personality, your beauty, your words, your body, your mannerisms.

To him, everything you do is perfection – and he wants it to be all his, to be only his. He’s possessive, delusional, and frankly always in your business – clingy is a nice word for how often he’s stealing your attention.

He’s always calling your name, placing his hand on your arm, sending you flirty remarks (that are somewhat less effective because of the slight stutter in his voice and the harsh blush on his cheeks, but still oddly sweet, even if the words are a bit creepy).

He’s always in your vicinity, that same lovesick look on his face while he watches you: his brows are tilted slightly upwards, his honey eyes half lidded as he gazes at you, his lips in a slight smile as he rests his chin on his hand, leaning forward at the table he’s seated at to watch you you you.

Atsumu is consumed by thoughts of you at every moment of the day, to the point where even volleyball can’t be considered his love – it’s only you now, for better or for worse. And really, as suffocating and unnerving as having all of the Atsumu Miya’s delusional, twisted love for you is, you’ll eventually find yourself craving it.

After all, there’s something empowering about how you can get the professional athlete on his knees with just a snap of your fingers, practically drooling as he tells you he loves ya, I’d do anythin’ for ya, fuck baby yer so pretty, so good for me, love ya so much it fuckin’ hurts –

He’s a fool in love, truly, but be careful – because a rejection of this fool can land you in serious trouble.

The kind of trouble some twisted, fucked up part of you will grow to love, even if you hate yourself for it.

ch2/ch4

summary: You’d sworn you didn’t want anything to do with your father, or with your family business. You’d left the country for college, and by the time you’d started your second year of grad school your old life felt like a distant untrustworthy memory.

So when he calls you in late November to tell you he’s dying, your carefully constructed boundaries crumble. You agree to come home for Christmas, on the condition that you help him sort out his will.

By the time your plane lands, it’s too late. He’s died under mysterious circumstances while your plane was in the air. Chaos ensues, when millions of dollars, thousands of weapons, and a thriving criminal enterprise are willed directly to you - and your husband.

Just one problem? You’re not married. Yet.

genre: fluff, smut, angst

cws - mafia tropes, guns, threats, violence(physical), yan!oikawa for plot reasons, blood mention, drug mentions, reader’s father is dead, and in this chapter we have his funeral and she eulogizes him. All characters in their mid twenties. f!reader. reader’s skin shows bruises(sorry couldn’t get around this for plot reasons), readers celebrated christmas as a child.

Ch 3: Kuroo I

There’s an awkwardness as the meeting breaks up, it’s clear you’ve never received so much male attention, from your averted gaze and nervously dancing hands. People resist the urge to walk right up to you, so you take Kuroo’s drink out of his hand and sip it. He shakes his head,

“Kitten,” he snatches the drink back, somehow not spilling it on his perfectly pressed suit, “I thought you were too pure to steal.”

“I’ve stolen things!” You retort, non crutch hand flying to your hip in protest.

“Ah,” You hear behind you. You turn and see Akaashi, an apology clear in his gunmetal eyes. “I’d love to borrow the lady.”

“I’m sure you would.” Kuroo smirks. “Lyvochka can babysit.” Lev stands, pouting a little.

“Being your bodyguard is actually a demotion, just so you know,” he mumbles to you and Kuroo just shakes his head and waves you off. You crutch forward, moving awkwardly through the private country club room over to the bar. Lev follows, but Akaashi helps you into a tall stool handing your crutch to the huge blonde, then sitting next to you.

“So,” he says, shifting his weight. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.” He gets the waiter's attention, ordering a round of drinks with a wave.

“How are you?” You say, and he furrows his brow.

“It’s odd, to have you ask me that.” He looks out the window for a moment. “I’m alright, I suppose. I’m quite worried about you.”

“Am I um,” you lean forward, “What do you think of Kuroo?”

“He’s certainly been a trusted ally over the last few years.” Akaashi muses. “But he’s a dangerous arms dealer, no matter how charming he might be, there’s blood on his hands.” You feel Lev stiffen.

“Akaashi,” you say quickly, quietly, “If um, if you still, I mean if you ever, you know, loved me, I need your help.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he takes both your hands, “Of course I’m going to help.” You look out over the room, nodding.

“I need to know what to do.” Your voice is a teakettles whisper, high pitched and pained. “And I’m so scared of um, of what could happen if I choose wrong.” He takes your good hand. “I need you to tell me what to-” he cuts you off by bushing your hair out of your face.

“This is not a place we can discuss it.” He leans in, so close to you that you can count the freckles on his nose. “You’re alright, he’s treating you alright?” You feel his hand brush your waist and something heavy drop into your pocket. You don’t react at all, just nodding.

“He’s been a gentleman mostly.” You shiver. “He’s a little honest, but I suppose, ah, that’s not a terrible thing in a husband.” Akaashi does a little head shake, surprised.

“You’re thinking of picking him?”

“I am.” You take a sip of your drink. “I always liked dark hair.” The smallest smile crosses his face. “Plus, he’s smart, an ex med student, I could talk to him about my work, and about chemistry, and he’d be able to follow.” You blink a couple of times, remembering, “Oh wait, I’m so sorry, how’s your family, I should have asked, I’ve been so preoccupied with-”

“You buried your father today.” He says, a hand coming to rest on your knee. “I don’t expect you to be concerned with me,” he looks into your eyes, the delicate softness there is like running his hands over the lightest filigree sheets. He wonders, after all these years, if the scars and calluses would catch, and tear holes in you. “But of course you are, because you’re still you.”

“Are you still you?” You ask quickly, feeling the alcohol bringing the blood to your cheeks. You glance down at the scars on his hands, the bulge of the guns in their holsters on his shoulders. “Are you still um, you know, after everything, are you, still-”

“Sometimes.” He says, and the admission is painful, the words sharp enough in his throat to draw blood. “Sometimes I am.”

“I understand.” You say quietly, as he reaches out and inspects your bruise.

“I’ll kill him.” Akaashi mutters. “I’ll do it myself.”

“Please don’t.” You say quickly, and he cocks his head. “I mean, um, I just, I don’t want you to kill anyone.” He looks uncomfortable. “Not for me, at least.” He goes to respond but a Lev places a hand on your shoulder.

“Kuroo wants to leave.” He hands you the crutch. Akaashi gives you another quick hug.

“I’ll see you shortly.” He says. “I promise.” You nod, and Lev helps you out of the room, followed by the rest of Nekoma.

“Not going to let anyone else talk to me?” You say, when Kuroo takes his place at your side.

“I think it was rather generous of me to let you speak with Akaashi.” You slip your hand in your pocket, feeling something cool and glass. Akaashi had slipped you a cell phone. You do your best to keep your reaction from your face. Kuroo helps you into the car, your nostrils filled with the scent of clean leather again, as he pulls you next to him. “So,” he rolls up the partition, “Did I come through or what?” You nod slowly.

“You did for the most part.” You shift uncomfortably. “Oikawa is going hurt me. For sure.” You let out a long shaky breath and Kuroo inspects you for signs of acting, signs of a larger game, and finds none. Only genuine terror.

“I’ll see what I can do.” He says seriously.

“Not that I’m not grateful, but why?” You look up at his handsome face, he’s perfectly clean shaven, you realize, not a nick or a missed spot.

“Because when we’re married,” he says, and your mouth drops open, “I want you to remember what a good job I did taking care of you.” He picks you up and sets you in his lap with a soft grunt. “I want my wife to like me.”

“You do?” You give him a half smile as you stretch a bit to straddle his long legs in your tight black dress. His hands come to rest on your thighs.

“I do.” He says brightly, before leaning in to speak directly in your ear, “Which is why you’re going to show me what Akaashi slipped in your pocket, and I won’t punish you for not telling me the minute we got in the car.” Your blood runs cold,

“Kuroo I-”

“Shhh, Kitten,” He opens his hand, “It’s alright, like I said, you’re not in trouble, I’ll give it back, but I’d appreciate honesty from my fiancee.” You swallow and place the cell phone in his palm with trembling hands. “Oh,” he looks at you, sharply, seeing the fear on your face, “Oh you’re trembling, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He reaches out and cups your face with his free hand. “I’m going to do my best to take care of you, so any help you can offer would be appreciated.” You nod.

“What um,” you ask quietly, still in his lap as the car starts moving away from the country club, back to the city, “What does a punishment from you look like?” He considers.

“I’m a confident man.” He says, after a long period of silence. “I like to be in charge, and if we were married, to a degree, I would expect you to submit to me.” He says all of this without a hint of embarrassment or contrition. “Not I mean, day to day, I’m not going to tell you what to wear, or what to eat, unless you want that. But specifically, in the bedroom.”

“That’s so old fashioned!” You protest, and he shrugs.

“I think you’re going to find very few heads of mafia houses that don’t have similar tastes to me, and besides,” He straightens a little, “Tell me you don’t get a little turned on when I give you an order.” You shake your head, sighing. “Just tell me you don’t like this,” he says, reaching up and wrapping a huge hand around your neck, not squeezing, it’s very gently possessive. He smirks. “Your pupils are so dilated, kitten, it’s okay to say you want me to be in charge.”

“I hate you.” You mutter, looking away, and you feel him tighten his grip and pull your face closer to his own.

“See that kind of insubordination I just can’t tolerate.” He tightens his fist until you’re gasping.

“Kuroo, please,” You wheeze.

“Tell me you want me to stop.” He orders, and you bite your lower lip. He crows with laughter. “Should we see if you’re enjoying yourself?” Your eyes dart over your shoulder, and he shakes his head. “First of all, focus on me, second of all, I don’t give a shit who hears.” His tone gets cold for a second, “Sit still.” His fingers ghost your panties, slipping them to the side. “Awfully wet, kitten,” he purrs, basking in his victory as you shudder in anticipation, “Whatsa a matter, afraid they’ll take away your feminist card if you call me daddy?” Your mouth drops open,

“I’m not going to, ah,” he tightens his grip on your neck again. “Kuroo, I’m,” you gasp, “That’s,” your eyes start to water as you meet his burning amber gaze.

“I can do this all night,” He says flippantly, “You, not so much.”

“F-fine,” you croak, and he relaxes again, letting you breathe, his other hand still barely brushing your sex. He follows your gaze.

“No, if you want more,” he says, “You need to ask for it, and it’s a testament to my good will that after so much resistance I’m still interested in your pleasure at all. That will not always be the case, you have my word.”

“Please,” you beg, “please touch me.”

“A good start.” He says, eyes glinting. “But you’re a smart girl, right, you know what I’m waiting for.”

“Please touch me, daddy.” You plead with him, and he chuckles.

“You are just as cute as I thought you’d be, saying that.” He pushes a single finger inside you, and you nearly double over, but remembering what you’d learned in your limited experience, instead of catching yourself you wrap your arms behind your back, holding onto the opposite elbow. “Look at you!” Kuroo crows, “For that, you can cum when you want to, Kitten, I won’t make you beg.” He slips a second finger inside you, scissoring them a little. You gasp, and lean forward, “Sit up,” he says, “This time I want to watch you.” He’s incredibly skilled, making quick work of you, he’s already got you moaning softly, with gentle reminders to look at him, not to break eye contact, when he starts rubbing your clit with his thumb in addition to finding the spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll. You try your hardest to be good, to listen, but your eyes keep flicking to his muscled forearm, tensing as he fucks you with his long fingers.

“Oi,” He says sharply, “Final warning not to break eye contact with me.”

“Y-yes,” you choke out, “Daddy, thank you,” He softens a bit at the title,

“You’re getting close, I can feel it,” You nod emphatically, “Ask permission.”

“Please can I cum daddy,” the words spill from your lips and he smirks,

“Hmmm.”

“Please.” You beg, and he sighs, forcing another moan from your lips when he presses up against the spongey spot inside of you.

“Cum for me.” He orders, and you do, vaulting off the cliff of your orgasm, Kuroo lets go of your neck, and guides your face into his chest, “What a good little kitten,” he purrs as you tremble in his arms, dangling his fingers in your face, and to his shock and delight you seem to understand the implicit command, sucking his fingers gently until they’re clean.

“You just got lucky,” you mumble into his neck, “That I happen to be submissive most of the time in bed, you could be with someone who only likes to peg you.”

“I could sense it.” He brags, “Plus there’s no woman I can’t dominate, you’re all putty in my hands.”

“I think your feminist card is gonna get revoked.” You grumble. He shakes his head.

“Men get to keep ours no matter what, for letting you vote!” He boops your nose, and you roll your eyes, “Ah, ah,” he catches your chin gently.

“Fine.” You grumble, climbing off of him.

“So,” He hands you his cell phone, “I’ve been looking into volcanology programs in Tokyo, I’m not sure how your grades are but these seem to be decent.” You look up at him eyes narrowed. “Yes?”

“Ah,” you choose your words carefully. “Two things. One, um, you really think I’m going to choose you?”

“No one is going to give you as much freedom.” He shrugs. “And that’s what you want, I can tell. The second thing?”

“I think I’m struggling with the tension between the man who wants me to submit to him and the man who picked out two excellent volcanology grad programs for me based on a passing comment?” He shrugs.

“I looked into sedimentology,” He says, “But you’d need somewhere with a specific kind of coastline to get practical field experience in uh, the kind of facies profile, and uh,”

“That was very close.” You smile at him. “But yeah.”

“I have,” the car pulls into the mansion driveway. “Very little use for things that don’t have utility, beautiful women are nice, kitten, good to look at, enjoyable to fuck, but I could never love someone that was simply beautiful.” He pauses, “And listening to you talk today, about your parents, about the love you dreamed you’d have, if you choose me, I will endeavor to give that to you.”

“And the volcanology?” You say, he thinks about it, before opening the door.

“You may have witnessed love as a kind of worship, a kind of radical devotion, in the love your parents had for each other. For me, love is about a deep understanding one person can have of another.” He opens the car door. “You look surprised?”

“You’re still a brute.” You say, after a moment. “Still an arms dealer,” he chuckles, “Even if you’re smart and charming.”

“Sounds like you’re reminding yourself, and not me.” He hands your crutch to one of his men and plucks you off your feet while you squeal. “I have some work to do.” He says, opening the door to his home with his elbow, snow falling around you. “Unfortunately, due to your little untruth, earlier, I suppose,” he couches, when he sees your face fall, “A lie by omission is still a lie, kitten, I will have to restrain you, it’s just a formality, and I promise not to be more turned on by it than would be appropriate.”

“Kuroo!” You protest, and he chuckles.

“You’re adorable when you think your indignance is righteous, but I’ve already promised not to enjoy it.” “You said more than would be appropriate.” You squirm in his arms but he only holds you tighter, carrying you up the ornate staircase.

“And that would be very little, considering the circumstances.” You’re struck now, that you’re no longer in shock, how cozy Kuroo’s mansion is. The wood floors are a golden oak, the walls are soft cream adorned with art, and there are dark complex oriental rugs underneath the dark furniture. There are fireplaces crackling in nearly every room you pass, and the house is completely decked out for the holidays, pine branches adorning bannisters, filling the house with the sparking scent of christmas trees. Kuroo notices you looking. “Do you like it?” You feel a twinge of sadness.

“It looks like Christmas on TV.” You murmur, leaning against his broad chest.

“Did your father not celebrate?” He asks, as he elbows his way through a door to a more discreet stairwell.

“Not as a family, really. Especially after my mother passed.” He gives you a little squeeze. “I love Christmas though, in New York.” You sigh, “It’s like the whole world comes out, and everyone who lives there complains about the tourists, but I, I love it. The light is softer, and the snow gets gross but it’s just,” you struggle to find the words, “Sorry, it’s a feeling, I’m, I don’t have the words.”

“I’ve been to New York, but not for Christmas.” He says, reaching the top of the stairway to the third floor.

“Ah, am I being moved from where I slept last night?”

“Yes.” Kuroo says, opening another door with his elbow. “This is my room.” You look around, the walls are a deep green, with raw dark wood molding, and a huge wall of bookshelves. There’s a window seat that faces the front yard and the street, and you can see the snow swirling on the roof.

“Oh,” You look up at him.

“I won’t touch if you if you tell me you don’t want me to.” He says cheerfully. “But I think given what a sweet little thing you were in the car,” you feel your face burn, “There’s little danger in that.” He deposits you on the bed, being careful not to touch your wrist or foot. “I’m not sure, if you’re planning on sleeping your way through the most powerful men in Tokyo,” he goes over to dark wood antique armoire and starts rifling through the drawers. “But it’s not something I would hold against you, just so you’re aware.”

“Really?” You cock your head at him and he turns around, placing a hand over his heart.

“Do you really think me so petty that in my jealousy I might think less of you?”

“Kuroo we met twenty four hours ago.” He screws up his face.

“I keep forgetting. That’s a good sign, though I think.” He pauses for a moment. “I don’t think experience diminishes a woman, and furthermore,” his lips curl into a smirk, “If you were to, sleep with the rest of them, and decide I was the most skilled-”

“There it is.” You jump in.

“Kitten!” He pulls something from the drawer, a length of red rope. “You’ve got quite a mouth on you.” He says, as if he’s just deciding this now. “I like it, don’t get me wrong, but, I look forward to seeing what else it’s good for.” You laugh.

“You’re absurdly confident.”

“I know.” He says, gently moving you so that you’re lying on your side. “I’m not about to tie rope over your broken wrist,” he says, when he sees you flinch. Instead he carefully ties your elbows together in front of your face, and attaches the other end of the rope to the headboard. “It’s a little uncomfortable I’m sure.” He says, still cheerful. “But that’s what makes it a punishment.” You stretch a little and he carefully arranges your hair so that you can see. He then takes a pillow, and slips it under your broken ankle.

“Ah, Kuroo.” The adrenaline of the meeting and the funeral having worn off, you were in pain again. “The pain meds?” He thinks about it.

“You can’t have them unless your blood alcohol level is below a certain threshold, you had two drinks, straight liquor, one of them, very quickly,” he shakes his head at you, “Scotch is not meant to be gulped, by the way.” You roll your eyes at him and he chuckles dangerously. “Oh that’s such a bad idea for you, I’m keeping track of how many times you do it, by the way.” He looks up and to the left, doing some complex math in his head. “And, you may have one percocet in an hour. I’ll have Lev bring it up to you.”

“Why not now?” you ask, trying not to whine as the pain in your foot grows worse by the minute.

“Because you can’t mix alcohol and painkillers.” He says, “Sorry I don’t want you to die, I’m a spoilsport like that.” He pauses when he reaches the door handle. “Is there anything not drugs that I can have someone get for you?”

“Um, dinner?” He blinks a couple times.

“Of course.” And like that, he’s gone. Kuroo bounds down the stairs, stopping to give instructions to one of his servants before opening the secret paneled door to his study, where the rest of the men are waiting.

“You should have just kept her.” Kenma says, voice barely above a whisper as he pours over paperwork, sipping a glass of bourbon.

“I’m not fussed.” Kuroo shrugs. “She likes me.”

“Yeah,” Lev says, a note of annoyance in his voice, “I nearly crashed the car, those partitions aren’t exactly soundproof you know.” Kai looks sharply at Kuroo, who flops on the couch.

“Did you have sex with her?”

“No,” Kuroo shakes his head, pouring himself his own drink. “Just demonstrated to her that I was a person who would be interested primarily in taking care of her.”

“She’s right,” Lev grumbles, “That you’re just lucky that she’s submissive, Kuroo there are women who switch, and dom.”

“You’d know all about that.” Yaku says dryly.

“And so would you!” Lev grins, and Yaku’s face burns, “Nothing to be ashamed of,” he ruffles the shorter man’s sandy hair, “I love a woman who takes control.” He considers, “Sometimes it’s nice to just throw them where you want them though, that makes sense Kuroo.”

“Ah,” Kuroo says, “I know professional work environment went out the window when we started running guns but perhaps I don’t need to know the details of-”

“You fingered a girl to completion in the backseat of a car I was driving after her father’s funeral, and you made her call you daddy.” There’s a silence, Kuroo blanches, “Yeah, I think you might be going to hell.”

“I didn’t think about that,” Kuroo mutters, ears reddening.

“Oh my god,” Yaku says, “Kenma look, he’s actually capable of shame.” Kenma lifts his head, inspecting his friend and leader.

“We should be plotting our next move.” He says,and Kuroo nods.

“I have a point of order.” He turns to Lev and Yaku. “I want you to find out what happened between Oikawa and our guest.” Kenma sighs. “I assumed she was exaggerating when she arrived here, perhaps in shock due to the death of her father. But I pointed a gun at him and told him to leave her alone and he nearly didn’t back down.” He sighs again. “Shippments running smoothly?” Kenma nods.

“I’m moving them extra cautiously due to the general unrest after the stuff today,” He mumbles, “It’ll slow us down but it won’t cost anything.” Kuroo smiles at the younger man, who doesn’t return his warmth.

“Alright, everyone out.” There are a few grumbles, but Kuroo catches Kenma. “Except you.” Kenma nods, brushing back the strands of his hair that have escaped from his bun. Kuroo waits until they’re alone to speak.

“I need you to get on board here.” Kuroo says, sitting in front of his childhood friend, knees resting on his elbows.

“I’m on board.” Kenma lifts his head.

“I can tell that you aren’t.” Kuroo sighs, “Listen, I know-”

“You have to do this because of me.” Kenma says, and there’s a rare raw emotional edge to his voice, “This is my fault.”

“Absolutely not, you did what you thought was right-”

“But I was wrong, and you had to clean it up!” Kenma hisses, “I don’t, I’m never wrong.”

“There was no way for you to know he’d retaliate to something like that,” Kuroo rolls one of his shoulders, stiff from the time spent in the pew. “And, it’s not your fault you were taken, and of course I came for you, and,” he notices Kenma look away, “Look at me when I say this.” Kenma lifts his head. “I would shoot that bastard again. Right now. If he were here, for putting a gun to your head.”

“You’re going to marry his daughter.” Kenma whispers.

“And I’ll spend the rest of my life atoning for-”

“Love isn’t atonement, you can’t pretend that those emotions are going to coexist, that you’ll, that you’ll find peace, living like that.” Kenma interrupts him. “You didn’t want to get married.” Kuroo shrugs.

“Honestly,” His lips quirk into a half smile. “I like her. More than I should. She’s beautiful, sure, but she’s smart, nice birthing hips.” Kuroo teases, and Kenma full on shudders. “It’s important to me,” he says, pausing, choosing his words precisely, “That you know that I don’t take killing to save your life lightly, but that I’d do it again.”

“And now you’re going to go,” Kenma’s eyes burn with tears, “And fuck his daughter.” Kuroo stands groaning loudly.

“I like her, more than plenty of women I’ve fucked!” He pleads with Kenma, “Sometimes, things have to be done, and I can see, when I look at her, I can see the future, I can see breakfast, I can see fresh squeezed orange juice, I can see her teaching our kids to play piano, I-”

“She’s going to hate you, when she finds out.” Kenma says, bitterly.

“She’s not going to find out.” Kuroo rubs his face.

“You can’t keep a secret like that from the woman you intend to marry,” Kenma shakes his head.

“I want her,” The butterflies in his stomach are making him dizzy, “She’s, you saw her today, speaking in church, she wrote that eulogy in 12 hours, barely awake, slightly concussed, she’s getting an advanced degree in science and she desperately, desperately needs someone to take care of her.” Kenma shakes his head.

“You shot her father.”

“It turns out that was more complicated than we originally thought.” He rubs his eyes. “Listen. Don’t feel guilty. I like her, this is a great outcome for me. Possible stress relief, a wonderful woman who willingly engages with me intellectually, she even likes chemistry.” He pats Kenma’s head. “And I’d do it again.” There’s a pause, Kuroo walks towards the door, then stops. “But we have to,” he glances out the window, “We have to take responsibility for our actions. Whatever Oikawa’s got planned for her, she wants no part of it. We should assist in her avoiding that fate, regardless of what she can do for us.”

“You’re a saint.” Kenma says dryly.

“Hardly.” Kuroo’s tone has less humor in it. “I’m not a superstitious man, it pays in my line of work not to believe in an afterlife, or hell,” he shudders, “But today in church, listening to her speak, and sing, I just,” he considers, “That’s who I want eulogizing me.” Kenma looks at him sharply. “And I’ll give her excellent stories to tell.”

“It’s not like you to fall fast.” Kenma leans back in the couch, his suit wrinkling a little.

“It’s not, it’s not just romantic,” Kuroo pauses, “I feel a sense of responsibility, and I’m an excellent judge of character. I know who she is, and I like it. Also, you saw the way she was shaking when she turned up on our doorstep.”

“It would make me a bad advisor,” Kenma reaches out and takes a sip of whiskey, “If I didn’t point out the possibility of her having her own agenda.” Kuroo nods.

“I’m not blind to it. I promise.”

“You can be!” Kenma grins, “That’s what I’m here for.”

Kuroo makes his way up the stairs quietly, hoping not to disturb you, but the second he pushes the door open, your eyelids flutter, and you stir.

“Ah, sorry.” He says, ducking into his private bathroom to wash up.

“It’s okay,” you say, your voice more tired than you expect. “Are these your normal hours?”

“I don’t really keep normal hours.” He responds, splashing cool water on his face before reaching for his bottle of listerine, “I have painkillers for you though.” He dries his face and spits the mouthwash in the sink, slipping out of his loafers. “I have to admit, I’m a little nervous.” He watches you muster a smile. “Oh,” he sighs, realizing, “Oh, kitten, you’ve been crying, hold on,” He fumbles in his pocket for the little bottle of pills, he rushes to your bedside as you hide your face in the pillow.

“Sorry,” You say, throat painfully tight, “I just, my dad,” you sniff. “And everything hurts, Kuroo, and I’m scared, and I’m vulnerable, and I hate being vulnerable.” He dashes to the bathroom and comes back with a glass of water.

“Open your mouth.” He says firmly, and you obey, letting him place the purple pill on your tongue, then tip the glass of water into your mouth. You’re still dutifully attached to the headboard and he takes a moment to pat your head. “Just sit tight for a moment, and I’ll be there.” He rips himself out of his suit, tossing the clothes on an armchair and coming back over to the bed in only his boxers.

“I-is that how you sleep?” You choke out and he shrugs.

“It’s how I prefer to sleep, yes.” He reaches over and quickly unties you, letting you fold in on yourself. “Oh,” he coos again, “Come here, I’m so sorry, alright, I’m so sorry.” You sob against his bare chest.

“S-so embarrassing,” you get out between sharp breaths.

“It really isn’t.” He rubs your back. “The things you’ve been able to do today, speaking up at the meeting, eulogizing your father at all, coming here, even the decision to try and hide the phone from me-”

“I didn’t,” you sob, “Decide that, I was barely thinking at the time, I just,”

“Shhhh,” He rocks you back and forth, “When my father passed I was inconsolable for a week.” You snuggle against him, trying to modulate the ugly sounds coming from your throat. “You’ve been so strong, and you’ve been in so much pain, you’re going to sleep well tonight.” He kisses your forehead. “You know you’re safe, right?”

“Yeah,” You warble, “I know I’m safe with you, Kuroo.” You feel the painkiller numbing your limbs, making your head feel lighter as he kisses your head again. “Can I ask you something,” you say, and his heart jumps to his throat, could you have heard, somehow could you know- “Are you going to sleep with the lights on?”

“Ah no.” He says, barely maintaining his cool as he gets up and flicks the lights in the room off. “You’re fine with this amount of darkness?” You nod, stretching across the bed.

“Your sheets are nice.” You wipe your tears a little.

“Of course they are.” he climbs back in bed, joining you under the covers. “I told you, I like beautiful things that also have utility.”

“Okay follow up question,” you say, when you’re lying down together, “And then I’m done talking because I can feel myself unmooring from reality and I don’t want you to interrogate me while my subconscious is accessible.” He chuckles. “I feel like you’re being too kind to me. This feels like a trap.” He nods.

“I did tie you down?”

“Right but you keep comforting me.” You scoot a little closer. “And it doesn’t feel manipulative, but that means it probably is, I just, I keep trying to imagine and predict the actions of people around me I want, I want to be safe, and I want to do it myself.”

“And it’s the last point that’s sticking, isn’t it?” He props up his head on his palm. “That you want to save yourself, you don’t want me to protect you, or Akaashi, or Bo or Oikawa, you want to be back in your apartment making what, minimum wage, TAing three classes a semester, all because in that life you didn’t have to rely on anyone else.” You lie there in stunned silence. “I can tell that part of it is stubbornness, perhaps your father would have called it grit, or something American like that.”

“I can empathize with the need for independence,” He continues, “But what I don’t understand is denying yourself comfort and success in order to achieve it.” You sigh deeply, and even in the low light he can see that your eyes have glazed over. “So tell me the truth,” he reaches out and cups your face, stroking your cheek. “Why won’t you let me take care of you?”

“You’re an arms dealer.” You slur a little.

“And you’re that moral?” He watches you flop on your back, clearly you’re feeling the side effects now, moving more freely than he’s seen.

“I stole a toothbrush once.” You mumble, and he sits up, grinning. “No, none of that,” you swat at him absentmindedly. “I thought about it for months, years maybe, and I didn’t even do it on purpose.”

“I’m sure whatever corporation made that toothbrush really hurt from the ten cents loss.” Kuroo offers, smiling, but you scowl.

“That’s not the point, the point is that as soon as I was old enough to know what my father did was dangerous and illegal I was terrified for him. I didn’t want to join clubs, or make friends, for years I just completely isolated myself out of fear that if I didn’t my father could get hurt, or people I brought into my life could get hurt.”

“Oh shit,” Kuroo murmurs, floored, “You’re thinking about your kids.”

“Like you assholes don’t want to have your own goddamn kids. I’m not ready by the way,” you say, a slight slur to your words, and he chuckles darkly.

“We all do illegal things though.”

“Some of you do less illegal things, right, there has to be a scale,” you say desperately, “I don’t want to be taking my kids to visit daddy in jail!” His lips curl into a smile.

“First of all, love that you referred to me as daddy-”

“I didn’t-”

“Second of all, you and I are people of science. So let’s set benchmarks, and turn this into a set of actual criteria that you can use to know data wise who is the right person for you, so that you can ignore the data and follow your heart into my arms again.” You shake your head but when Kuroo flips the lights on he sees the smile you’re fighting. He grabs a notebook from his bedside table, and a pair of glasses.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, sitting up, and he smirks a little.

“Try not to drool, kitten.” His joke doesn’t have the effect he’s used to though, with the slight fuzziness of the pill you’ve taken it seems like you’re having a hard time controlling your genuine reactions in favor of snippy comebacks.

“Kuroo, when does an arms dealer have time to go to the gym?” He shrugs, smirk widening at how you can’t take your eyes off of his abs.

“I have a gym at home.” He explains. “I played volleyball at a pretty high level in high school and college, so I go crazy when I don’t work out.”

“Gym in the basement huh?” You scoot up on the bed and he takes the hint, moving you so that you’re nestled against his chest.”

“Is your foot okay?” He asks and you nod. “And no, the basement has other purposes.”

You shudder against him and he rubs comforting patterns on your upper arm. “Alright, so degree of illegality is important.” You nod. “What else?”

“I’d like to be romantically and intellectually attracted to them.” You mumble, and Kuroo nods. “And um, the amount of freedom they’d allow me, that’s important too.” He nods, scribbling on the pad. “What else,” He feels you relax against him, with your head on his chest, “Do you think is important?”

“Well you’ve said you’re not ready to have kids, right?” You nod. “How long they’re willing to wait, because most of them are going to assume you’ll be ready right after the wedding.” You shiver again and he leans down and presses his lips to your forehead. “Daichi and I will look after you, alright?” The words fall from his lips before you can stop them, but he’s not entirely sure you understand. “No one is going to make you do anything you don’t want to do, as long as I’m alive.” You blink up at him, eyes unexpectedly wet.

“I just don’t understand why you care.” You whisper.

“Does it matter?” He stops rubbing your arm for a moment.

“I need to understand things.” You complain, melting against him again.

“We’ll use your ex as a benchmark.” He says quietly, changing the subject. “Rate him for me in those things out of ten.” You screw your face up.

“He wasn’t illegal,” you mumble, “So zero.”

“Really?” Kuroo says dryly and to his shock you consider.

“He wanted to be a politician,” you slur a little again, “So a two.” Kuroo laughs genuinely. “Give him a 6 on intellectual and romantic attraction, and a 7 on freedom, and a 4 on willing to wait till I was ready to have kids.” Kuroo notes it in the legal pad, and you yawn again. He reaches over and flicks off the light. “I’m surprised,” you mumble, “That you aren’t trying to seduce me right now.”

“You’re in no shape to have sex.” Kuroo says firmly. “You have at least two broken bones, and you’re definitely too incapacitated to consent.”

“And you care about that?” He reaches down and pinches your arm playfully

“Of course I do.” He pauses. “Are you scared, for tomorrow?” You swallow nervously.

“Akaashi seems different.” He nods.

“I’m gonna give you the phone back, but with our numbers in it. You can text Lev for minor issues, and me for major ones.”

“Minor issues?” You settle under the blanket next to him as he lies down again.

“I’m,” he pauses, “Sensitive to the fact that you’d likely have a female friend to discuss these matters with. Lev’s all I have to offer you, and I promise he is as simple as he looks.” You laugh lightly. “But if you’re in a situation where you’d like me to come save you, like the pretty little damsel you are,” you groan loudly, “You may reach out to me. Now sleep, Kitten, that’s an order.” You obey surprisingly quickly, the drugs in your system making you nearly pliant. He watches you for a bit, watches the muscles in your face relax, your breathing soften, and tries to imagine spending the rest of his life crawling into bed with you.

“You know,” he says quietly, knowing you can’t hear him, “You’re too smart for your own good.”

His windowseat faces the east and sun spills through it onto the stained wood floors, warming the room with a golden light. You stir, the painkillers having worn off, your foot and wrist throbbing gently.

“Mmm,” Kuroo groans softly. “Don’t move.” You realize you’re still nestled against his chest, cheek pressed to him, one hand resting at the center of his ribs, his arm wrapped around you, hand resting on your hip.

“Can we sleep in?” You whisper, and he nods without opening his eyes.

“Someone comes in to wake me up when things are important.” You sigh happily and close your eyes again, the tiniest alarm bell going off in your brain at how comfortable and safe you feel in his arms. You wake a few hours later, and untangle yourself from his limbs, hobbling to the bathroom while he snores softly. You brush your teeth and use his mouthwash, cleaning your face with his skincare, picking up one of the nearly untouched bottles.

“Kuroo,” you call, one hand on the counter so you don’t have to put any weight on your foot. “Do you even use this stuff?” He groans loudly.

“I don’t know what any of it’s for, it’s been sitting there since my birthday in November.” He rolls out of bed and follows you into his bathroom. “I hope you’re not putting weight on that.” He eyes your foot.

“I have to get around a bit!” You protest and he shakes his head.

“Hopefully the others will scare you into obedience so that I don’t have to.” He reaches for the first bottle. “So what does this do?” You snatch it from him, and examine the label.

“This is toner.” You set it back on the counter. “You have to wash your face first.” He grins.

“Do it for me.”

“What?” Your mouth drops open as he sits on the closed toilet, still shamelessly just in his briefs.

“You heard me,” He says, a lazy grin stretching across his handsome face. “I want you to wash my face for me.” You roll your eyes and he chuckles dangerously. “God you’re lucky you’re injured, I’d take you over my knee for that.” You squeak with fear and he nods. “There, that’s a healthy reaction. You shake your head, reaching for the cleanser and reading the label.

“This isn’t probably what I’d pick for you,” You explain, “Because your skin looks healthy and this is kind of astringent but ah, I’m not an expert.” He nods sagely, watching you squirt some of it onto a clean washcloth, then wet it. You hobble over to him, bracing your weight against the marble counter of his sink. He pats his thighs, and you hesitate for only a second before sitting on his lap, straddling him. He holds you steady, strong hands resting on your waist.

“Ooh,” he hisses, “That’s cold, Kitten.” You gently dab at his face with the soapy end of the washcloth, careful not to pull or put too much pressure on it. “Actually,” he mumbles, “That feels very nice.” You take the other end of the cloth and clean the soap off of him, then go to stand, but he holds you tightly.

“You have to let me get the rest of it!” You protest and he thinks about not letting you go, enjoying the warmth of your body on his thighs, but he releases you after a moment, and he watches you peruse the other bottles. You take your time with each step, and his hands drift lower, coming to rest on your hips, then your ass, by the time you’re gently working an oil-free sunscreen into his skin. “Okay,” you say, with as much cheer as you can muster, “You are free to go.” He takes you by the thighs and yanks you closer, so that your chest is flush against his.

“Yes, but you aren’t.” He says, standing, holding you by the thighs as he walks you back to the bed. You reach up and brush away the hair in his eyes.

“Your bedhead is wild.” he laughs, laying you down on the bed, looking, almost vulnerable for a moment.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, and you look so surprised for a moment he wonders if you understood.

“Ah, sure.” He laughs and climbs on top of you, carefully avoiding your wrist and ankle, but holding your free hand, pinning it to the mattress as he presses his lips to yours, and your struck immediately with how deftly and tenderly he kisses you. He moves his lips carefully, occasionally you feel the scrape of his teeth against your skin, immediately soothed by a swipe of his tongue. You grind your hips up against yours and he groans into your mouth.

“You’re going to be the death of me.” He mutters, “Someone’s coming to get me for a meeting in,” he glances at the clock, ten minutes.”

“Better make me cum before then,” you whisper, and he laughs loudly before shoving you roughly back on the bed.

“Who said,” he leans down and growls in your year, “That I give a shit about your pleasure,” you moan, almost involuntarily as he rips your pajama pants off you and parts your folds, “Lucky I’m even gonna prep you,” he buried his face in your neck, pulling more music out of your mouth, “Insubordinate,” you feel him bury two fingers inside you and curl them, you gasp at the odd mixture of pleasure and pain, “Fucking bitch.”

“Fuck,” you swear, as he starts pumping them inside you, “Daddy, please,”

“Daddy please,” he repeats, mocking you, “Think that’ll save you? Remembering what you call me is the bare goddamn minimum, kitten.” You’re warming up, slowly he can feel you start to drip around his fingers as he sinks his teeth into your neck.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, clinging to him, raking your nails down his back, the way his fingers are pressing against that one spot inside you, setting off fireworks on the back of your eyelids, your back arching off of the mattress. He leans back, conscious of the time, done prepping you, your ankles around his shoulders as he peels his boxers down and pumps his cock a few times, before pressing the tip of it to your folds, teasing you, despite the limited amount of time.

“Birth control?” He asks and you nod.

“Nuva ring.”

“We can fix that,” he says, with a manic glint in his eye as he shoves his entire length inside you, robbing you of the air in your lungs. He watches your face twist with pain, then melt to pleasure as he moves just a little inside you, a loud groan stuttering from his lips, “Oh my god,” he leans down again over you, “Oh my god, it feels,” he closes his eyes, “Fuck, can I move?” The squeezing of your walls around him, so wet, so warm, is making him dizzy, so when you nod, eyes squeezed shut, it feels like he’s been granted a goddesses blessing.

“Fuck,” he snarls, rolling his hips against yours, “Relax a little for me, alright, can, I can barely move in there,” you try your best, letting out soft whimper that drives even more blood below his waist.

“Daddy,” you warble, your beautiful eyes welling with tears as he fucks you, “Daddy, please,” He looks down at you, so beautiful, so helpless like this, the sunlight outside reflecting on the snow burning through the window, an illusion of warmth, of brightness in the window. He reaches down and palms your chest, rubbing then pinching your nipples, pulling a sharp keen from your lips as you struggle to form a sentence. “Please,” you get out again, all resistance forgotten, the early morning light making his eyes shine like embers, “Choke me, please, m’so close, wanna-” you're cut off by a huge hand curling around your throat, cutting off your air supply.

“You cum when I say so.” He orders, luxuriating in the feeling of being buried to the hilt in you, of having you writhe beneath him, so reactive to his touch.

“Ah,” you gasp, the tears in your eyes spilling over as the loud smack of his hips against your ass fills the quiet morning.

“M’gonna,” he grunts, “Gonna send to Bo with a pussy full of my cum, you want that?” You nod emphatically. “Beg for it.”

“Please,” your voice is small and hoarse, he tightens his grip, “Daddy, want, want your cum, please,” He reaches one hand down and rubs your clit while pounding into you and you can’t help it, your back practically arches off the mattress,

“Cum for me,” he orders, “Tell me who you belong to, and cum for me.” He takes another moment, committing this to memory, your blissed out face, teary cheeks, the sound of your voice when you say,

“You daddy, m yours please, please, please cum in me.” He groans loudly as you vault over the cliff of your orgasm muttering holy ecstasies in his ear, as he gets even harder inside you, before finishing with you, thrusts sporadic as he carries you through your high, before flopping, sweaty on the bed next to you, just as there’s a soft knock at the door.

“Ten minutes.” He calls, and then turns to you, desperate to observe you in one of the few moments he could be absolutely sure you weren’t playing him. You smile softly at him, and shudder as you feel the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“Be a good girl for me,” He says, “No unnecessary risks before you come back to me.” You laugh lightly. “I’m serious, come back to me relatively unscathed and I’ll give you a reward.”

“Ooooh,” you coo, “A reward?” He nods. “And can I assume, if the inverse proves true, I’ll be in for a punishment?” He cackles like a hyena.

“You’ll be all healed up then, kitten, so don’t push me.” You sigh deeply.

“I can’t believe I have to trust you.” You stare at his ceiling. “You’ve given me nothing but good reasons to believe you’re well intentioned, and I have almost no other allies in the entire country, and I have to trust you, of all people, exactly the type of man I’d cross the street to avoid.” He rolls over to look at you.

“And what type is that?”

“You’re all together too confident.” You mutter, still staring at the ceiling. “Every part of this feels like a trap, except,” he watches you catch yourself.

“Except what?”

“I can’t say it to you.” You mumble. “It’s naive.”

“Do you think I’d think less of you,” He reaches over, and fixes your hair, “If you were a little naive?”

“I don’t know.” You swallow. “I don’t know why I care what you think.” You groan, rubbing your eyes with your good hand. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He sits up a little. “I can’t believe my father doomed me to this.” You sit up, and pull your pajamas back up, reaching for your bra. “He must have hated me after all.”

“I”m sorry.” He says quietly, and you sigh again.

“If you were really sorry, you’d drive me to the embassy and let me get on a flight home.”

“Oikawa would have you in whatever dungeon you’re so afraid of in minutes.” He springs up, getting dressed. “I’m sorry that I can’t do more for you, I am, genuinely, kitten.” You sigh again, wriggling into a comfortable t shirt and leggings that Lev had grabbed for you, “And,” he says, raising a long slender finger, “You aren’t running away anyway, until you find out who killed your father, isn’t that right?” Your mouth drops open. “I’m an excellent reader of people.” He says with a shrug.

“If we’d met under any other circumstances,” You collapse into a chair, adjusting the brace on your wrist. “We would not be friends, I’m telling you this now, for your own good.” He chuckles, glancing at the bed.

“You knock out a quickie with friends often?”

“Go to hell.” You feel your pulse quicken, expecting swift retribution, but he just laughs.

“I’ll do ya better when you’re mine for real, promise.” He stands in front of a mirror, tying his tie. “Akaashi and Bo will be here for you in about half an hour,” he opens a drawer, “Here is the cell phone, with our phone numbers.” You remember something.

“Is Lev coming with me?” You ask and Kuroo shakes his head.

“Someone from your next place will be there, from Date Tech, I’d have to hazard a guess at Aone, maybe? If they could spare him.” Kuroo shakes his head. “He’s giant, like Lev but ah, wider?” You shudder. “Oh he’s very polite, and if he isn’t, you just give daddy a ring and I’ll-”

“Absolutely not, you may not refer to yourself in third person as daddy.” You interject and he smirks.

“Isn’t it wonderful how you have absolutely no say in the matter?”

Kuroo leaves you in one of the front sitting rooms with Lev, and Kai catches him on his way back to his office.

“You’ve slept with her then?”

“Only mostly literally,” Kuroo shrugs. “I don’t know. She’s resisting trusting me, but I think she’s getting there.” He rubs his eyes. “I,” he pauses, “I’m feeling unusually conflicted about lying to her about things. I find myself, doing everything I can to avoid it, changing the subject, pretending I didn’t hear her. It’s, it’s strange, it feels involuntary in the moment.” Kai shakes his head.

“That is unusual for you.” He muses, warm brown eyes searching his friend's face. Kuroo rubs his eyes more.

“I’m going to miss her, when she’s gone.” He leans against the wall and Kai smirks. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

You’re laying on the couch in the main room about an hour later, with a suitcase of the things Kuroo bought you sitting next to you as men bustle in and out of the sitting room. You’re halfway through Oryx and Crake, propped up on some pillows, when Kuroo rushes in, clearing his throat. The room empties of people immediately.

“They’ll be here in a few.” He says, and you nod. “I'm serious, if you need anything, please, please text one of us.” He hands you the phone. You smile at him.

“I will.”

“And remember what I said, about a reward for returning to me unscathed.” There’s a honk in the driveway and Lev sticks his head into the drawing room.

“They’re here.” He says.

“I remember.” You say quickly and Kuroo stands as you all hear, Hey hey hey!

“Bo came?” Kuroo says, and Lev shrugs. You glance out the window, Bokuto and a man you don’t recognize are sitting in the front seat of a vintage luxury car as Akaashi gets out of the backset. “Shit sweetheart,” he says to you, helping you to your feet. “You oughta feel important.”

“Trust me,” you look out and catch Akaashi’s eyes, reading his genuinely relieved expression. “I do.”

TANGLED IN YOUR TRANCE • part one

𖤐 MASTERLIST 𖤐

Warnings: mentions of divorce, reader’s clothing described, use of “big brother” and “little sister”, little to no suggestion because we are not there yet

Word Count: 1.5k

Note: pink dividers by @/adornedwithlight! chapters will be longer after this one. Consider this a little introduction. Also, I’ve been asked to start a taglist, so let me know if you want in on that <3

You’re seventeen when your parents get divorced and eighteen when they remarry within two months of each other. Your dad bags a lady who’s closer to your age than his, and your mother finds herself a man who loves living in luxury as well as in debt from his uncontrollable gambling addiction.

It causes your relationships with your parents—all four of them now—to grow tense, causes you to slam doors and spit curses and cover your ears with expensive headphones (courtesy of the stepfather trying to win your affections).

The only, only good thing about your dysfunctional family dynamic is your new step brother, Toma, who you don’t actually see very much, but whatever. You’d been an only child your entire life, lived with a very specific type of loneliness that is impossible to describe, and now suddenly you have an older brother. It’s weird, but there’s an unspoken solidarity between the two of you right off the bat. The marriage between your mom and his dad is absolutely fucked from the start; you know it, and Toma knows it. Just like you both know you’ll be the ones that’ll have to deal with the inevitable fallout.

Every week you pick who you want to stay with, the lesser of 2 evils entirely based on your mood. Do you stay with your father and his irritating wife who only knows how to bond through mani-pedis? Or do you brave the big house full of fake smiles, embellished anecdotes, and late night arguments that echo through the halls?

Usually, it’s the latter that wins out. At least you can seclude yourself in your room there and no one will pester you to go shopping or get your hair done. (The new wife means well, you know deep down. She’s just so fucking annoying.)

Staying with your mom and stepdad also gives you the chance to maybe see Toma if he’s not on tour, at practice, or giving guitar lessons at the nearby music store.

He’s kind of intense, deep frown permanently etched onto his face, popping pills like candy. Usually dressed in perfectly tattered T-shirts and leather pants, his hair is bleached and spiked, one of his eyebrows is pierced—looks like he plays guitar in a metal band.

Which he does.

He isn’t your best friend. You’d barely call him an acquaintance. But every once in a while, you find yourself alone with him in the kitchen or the den. He asks simple questions to make shitty small talk, but it eventually leads you to ask about his band, which always ends in the two of you sharing opinions on music, newly dropped albums, etc.

It’s about the closest you ever get to bonding those first couple years, but it’s good enough for you, makes you feel like you’re not totally alone in the household.

The first time you find a burnt CD on your nightstand happens the same night that Toma sticks up for you at the dinner table. He’s been off tour for a couple weeks, and despite still not knowing him super well, you can tell that the stagnancy is making him cagey.

So, when your stepdad makes an offhand comment about your aesthetic—the skirts and fishnets and combat boots, it doesn’t go over well.

“All that black isn’t exactly inviting, sweetheart. You won’t find a man leaving the house looking like you’re ready to beat someone up.”

You’re used to it by now, spent most of your adolescence listening to your mom and dad bitching about the hair you let cover your face and the gory graphics on your T-shirts. This isn’t anything new to you.

However…

“Why the hell would you even say something like that?” Toma gruffs, fork gripped just a little too tightly in his hand. “The way she dresses ain’t got nothin’ to do with you, so shut your trap about it.”

“Toma—” your stepdad tries to defend.

“No. And why are you so concerned about her looking inviting? What the fuck does that even mean? You tryin’ to marry her off or somethin’?”

All your stepdad can do is get red in the face and grumble an apology, obviously out of his depth.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Keep your shit opinions to yourself, old man.”

You flash Toma a weak but grateful smile, nods in return, and that’s that.

It’s only when you’re winding down for the night that you spot it, the clear case and the bright blue disc within. His handwriting is surprisingly legible, all caps spelling out PLAYLIST #1 followed by each track in smaller print.

You’re only a little nervous when you knock on Toma’s bedroom door. You’ve never been inside before, all the way at the end of the hallway with the door perpetually shut. Your step brother doesn’t intimidate you, exactly, you just don’t have the best read on him yet.

When Toma opens the door, he’s the most dressed down you’ve ever seen him, wearing a t-shirt full of holes and a pair of black sweatpants. His hair is down and damp, barefoot as he steps to the side, and the chain he never seems to take off is missing from around his neck.

It’s strange seeing him like this: no tough guy exterior, just a dude in his early twenties living with his parents.

That’s not to say you look like you’re ready to hit the town. Sporting an oversized Hello Kitty shirt and little pajama shorts, you were ready to crawl into bed before you found the CD. The difference here is that while you’re taken off guard by Toma’s relaxed appearance, he doesn’t even seem to notice yours. And why would he?

You hold up the disc with a raised eyebrow, “a gift?”

Toma shrugs, lifting his arm high enough to let you walk under it and into his room, shutting the door behind you. Around any other guy, an action like that would have made your stomach flip in anticipation, but not this time. Definitely not this time.

“A few of ‘em are from bands we’ve toured with, but most of it is just shit I’m into that I think you might like.”

All you can reply with is a lame, “cool, cool,” too distracted with glancing around his room.

“I’m guessin’ you haven’t listened to it yet?”

You shake your head, eyes landing back on him as he sits at an old desk, a guitar laid out in front of him. From the looks of it, he’s restringing it.

“Not yet. Saw it and just… came to say thanks, I guess.”

He nods toward the stereo system up against one of the walls and tells you, “pop it in, then. I can give you my, uh, expert commentary.”

“Wow, lucky me,” you joke, ejecting the disc that’s already in the player to replace it with yours. You hope your dry tone is enough to cover up the buzz of excitement you feel at the prospect of getting to know him a little better.

For the next hour, you halfway listen to the tracks, more interested in what Toma has to say about each of them. Some of his ‘commentary’ is about the musicality of each song, but he also tells you about how he stumbled upon the the more underground bands and what it was like to play with the ones he toured with.

You use this as an opportunity to explore his space, or the space he allows you to see. You’re not snooping in his closet or anything, but you aren’t subtle as you look over the bulletin board full of tickets and peruse his little bookshelf–music theory, some biographies, a couple of psychology books (one about gambling).

When you pick up a model motorcycle from a shelf, Toma snorts, mutters, “you really are a little sister, aren’t ya’?”

“Huh?” you put the little bike down and turn to him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean rifling through my shit is a little sister thing to do.”

“I’m not rifling through anything,” you tell him, sucking your teeth, “–rifling would be if I was, like, going through drawers or something. I am simply… cataloging.”

He snickers, shrugging broad shoulders, and for some reason you feel the need to add, “I’m not actually that much younger, ya’ know.”

“Three years.”

“Two and a half,” you immediately correct, which, granted, is a little childish, but you can’t help yourself. The last thing you want is for Toma to see you as a baby as someone he has nothing in common with, someone he’d be embarrassed to introduce his friends to.

“Fine,” he concedes, a little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “two and a half.”

You shouldn’t care what he thinks or how he perceives you. It doesn’t matter. He only just recently entered your life—a new, hastily written chapter in an eighteen-year-long story.

There’s a part of you, though, bigger than you’d like to admit, that desperately wants him to like you, to approve of you–just a little sister’s desire to be loved by her big brother.

𖤐 NEXT 𖤐

Teaser: Streams & Sheets 🔞 | JJK

Word Count: 10k+ words (im sry) Pairings: gamer!jungkook x reader Genre: gaming au, slice of life, established relationship

Summary: Nobody expected famous twitch streamer JJK to trend online when his mysterious girlfriend accidentally makes a cameo in one of his livestreams. The chaotic problem in question? You streamed a live sex tape. ( kofisips' masterlist )

Warnings: the holy trinity (smut, angst & fluff), dom!jungkook, long haired jungkook in a man bun and brow piercing, jungkook with his alphabet username (rip), unprotected sex, creampie, degrading, oral (f & m receiving), face fucking, multiple orgasm, slut shaming, dacryphilia, ass play, online humiliation, mentions of unsure breakup that's not clear with the characters, over thinking, slight ddlg

read: reply to this post or send an ask to be included in the taglist :)

As he takes a sip from his coffee, he hears your huffs and struggles to open the strawberry jam you wanted on your toast. He doesn’t intervene just yet, he stays quiet and waits for you to finally give up.

Mentally, he counts from one to three, then you turned your head and faced him with a pout, whispering his name in a soft voice, “Koo?” Your eyes emulated like that of a doe, “Can you help me out?”

“Alright, give it to me,” he chuckles, reaching for the jar and twisting it open with ease. Handing you the strawberry jam, he smiles as he watches you spread it on your toast merrily, “Anything else my baby wants?”

You hum as you thought, “Hmm, a cup of tea would be nice.”

Jungkook will never admit this, but he loves it when you ask for his help.

No matter how big or small it is, he’s willing to do anything you ask of him. Just call him in those three simple letters and he will literally cross an ocean just to help you out. Running errands is also just a breeze for him all because he knows you’d be needing help in reaching the high shelves or simply carrying anything you bought.

As selfish as it sounds, he adores the way he feels needed by you. He’s fine being called pussy whipped, the guy just loved taking good care of you.

During the first half of your relationship, he may or may not have gone overboard in looking after you. It came to a point where you felt somehow too dependent on him even when he says he doesn’t mind at all.

“Koo, I have hands,” you say sternly, pulling your heavy luggage away from his grip. Raising both of your hands in the air, you move it closer to his face, “See? I have two!”

“Baby, can’t you see this is too heavy for you to carry?” He retorts, not letting go of the handle.

For the rest of the ride to Busan, you stayed quiet. Too quiet for Jungkook’s liking. He would spare you a glance from time to time but not once did you ever meet his gaze. He didn’t understand why you had such a sour mood over a mere luggage, especially not when he’s always done things for you even when you don’t ask. 

When the silence was too much for him to bear, he finally spoke to you first, “Baby.” You finally looked at him, alright, but with an annoyed glare. “It wasn’t a big deal. I was just trying to help.”

“Not a big deal?” Your tone is slightly raised, making his forehead crease. He knows you’re about to call him by his government name next, “Jungkook, you’re always doing things for me, which I appreciate, but I can’t…I can’t keep feeling like a burden all the time.”

His eyes widened at your sudden outburst, “I– Y/N, I never meant for you to feel that way.” He reached for your hand, but not grabbing it. All he does is graze his finger over your knuckles soothingly, “I’m sorry if me constantly helping you made you feel like a burden, but I swear I just love to do things for you.”

Looking at how apologetic he truly was, there was no way you could stay mad at him. Letting out a sigh, you scoot closer to him and rest your head on his shoulder, “I understand, Koo. Just…just let me do things on my own and step in when I call for you.”

Bringing the back of your hand to his lips, he leaves a soft kiss and smiles against your skin, “Okay, love. Sounds fair.”

His favorite part of the day ever since the both of you had decided to live together was waking up entangled in silk sheets and seeing your face first thing in the morning. If there's any scent he can attribute to you, it would be the smell of coffee and cinnamon. 

That's the thing about you. You weren't a shot of espresso; you were a shot of tequila that burned a line to the throat. Aside from that, you were also good at playing video games and could smoke a whole team out if you decided to make gaming a career.

Like a support in the game, you revive him to be the best he can be. The love you give is enough for him to forget all the lower back strain he suffered from sitting on his chair for too long.

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No Harm List | Pt. 8

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Word Count: 11,800+

Summary: You live in a city where crime runs rampant. One day, you save a young boy’s life, not knowing that he is one of the most powerful crime lord’s heir. And you have just been put on the no harm list.

Warnings: cussing, mentions of drugs, mentions of sex, mentions of blow job, mentions of sex trafficking, metions of underage sex trafficking, descirption of panic attack

Genre: Gang/mafia AU, romance, angst, violence, fluff

Rating:  18+

Banner Credit: @mindays

Beta Reader: @punkisnotdead2318

A/N: I’m so sorry it’s been so long!!! I’ve missed you guys so much! University is crazy busy and as you’ll see this chapter was an emotional rollercoaster to write. I had it drafted for over a month but was still hesitent to share. Please note the trigger warnings!!! If you would still like to read I will have an additional warning at the spot where the sex trafficking stuff starts so you can skip that part. Please tell me what you think!!!

Prev.                                           Masterlist 

———————–

You tried not to fidget or appear nervous as you waited in the empty conference room in the East Wing of the Den. You still marveled at the fact that one side of the home was an upscale bachelor pad with all the amenities of a luxury apartment complex under one roof, while the other side held the sterile and professional atmosphere of an office building. 

You gave yourself a moment to take in the architecture of the room; there were three tall windows on the wall across from you, giving you a view of the manicured lawn and what looked to be a rose garden on the far left of the grounds. The walls were painted a deep blue, which gave an atmosphere of professionalism and restraint. The long, walnut-colored conference table was surrounded by black, straight-backed office chairs, and one of the far walls had what looked to be a roll-up projector screen. 

You passed some time imagining what kind of presentations a gang had any business doing in a conference room, amused by the thought of RM making powerpoint presentations for their organized crime. You wondered if RM likes his bar graphs in neutrals or earth tones. 

You adjusted your blouse to make sure it was falling perfectly and saw that the knuckles on your right hand were already showing faint signs of bruising. 

You knew you were too rough this morning. 

RM wasn’t able to meet until noon, so Jungkook insisted you started your morning on the West side of the Den, training with him in the private gym. In the past week and a half since Nox, a notorious smuggler and newly initiated member of the Black Tips followed you through the alleyways of the 7th Ward, Jungkook has been adamant about your protection. Proudly informing you, it was his duty to oversee your safety and surveillance, and that included your ability to defend yourself. 

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