Boss Era — Jaehyun [insp.]

heartbeat between your teeth

Summary: A pleasant afternoon with your husband is rudely interrupted by a phone call.

or; Disco interrupts your beach day tryst with a very inconvenient call. Neither of you are particularly concerned with the panic of the auction house; you'd much rather indulge in pleasures of the flesh, and talk of your (seventh) spontaneous wedding.

wc: 3.8k~ (SICKENING)

cw: fem!reader (AFAB + she/her pronouns), light mentions of (canon typical) human trafficking and drugs, mentions of violence, spoilers for sabaody arc!, reader is morally grey, some violent imagery, mentions of food, smut, praise, feminine petnames ('good girl', etc), light dacryphilia, light come eating, fingering, p in v, overstim, low-key dumbification(?) reader has a thing for hands

AN: majority of the phonecall dialogue is pulled directly from doffy's cameo in saboady. also shoutout to nyla (@ofoceansandtombsanew) for helping me with doffy's spanish dialogue because my spanish is. less then stellar LMAO you're a real one girl <33 (english TL is in the end notes!)

heart divider is by the lovely @/enchanthings ! mdni banner by @/arminsumi !

The sea is in good spirits today, and so are you.

You watch the gentle lull of the tide against the shore. Doffy picked a good spot: your shared folding chair is tucked neatly beside a little glass table, whose attached umbrella spared you from the worst of the sun. The rest of the family is out of sight and mind; it’s quiet without their antics but you're both grateful for this rare moment of privacy. It would be a long while before another chance presented itself like this, so you pounced on it, ushering those who didn’t want to stay onboard the ship into town (and Doffy putting up a mini Birdcage just to be sure). And so you find yourself sprawled across your husband's lap, legs dangling over the arms of the chair, savoring every sun-soaked second alone like a rare delicacy.  

The island you’ve stopped at is an easygoing one. A nice change of pace from the chaotic highs and lows of the Grand Line’s open waters. It’s something plucked straight from a postcard– lush palm trees dancing with the breeze, streaks of white clouds spilled against the blue of the sky like paint on a canvas. It’s warm, but pleasantly so; enough to soften the tension in your shoulders. A distant seagull cries out in what you decide is delight at the good weather.

Beneath you, Doffy shifts, his big hand stroking fondly at your thigh. He lingers at the border of your sundress but keeps his touch tame. "I hope that smile is my doing," he says, and you feel your grin widen at the pleasant rumble of his voice. 

"Well, it is now," you giggle. "I was just thinking about how happy the birds are today."

He chuckles, dimples peeking out. "The birds?"

"The seagulls, specifically. I hear them singing about how nice the weather is."

"Ah, I see. I wasn’t aware that you spoke seagull.”

“It isn’t too difficult of a language. Most of it is screaming, really. Sometimes for food other times to warn one another of predators–or, like today, sometimes they just scream for joy.”

“I thought they were singing?’

“Screaming is singing in their culture.”

Doffy laughs, a sound like rolling thunder. “However did you become so acquainted with the particulars of seagull culture?”

“Trebol and Diamante,” you deadpan. “They aren’t seagulls but with the way they eat they may as well be.”

He hums. The conversation ebbs away with the tide. You nestle into the comforting silence and the crook of your husband’s shoulder. The buttons on his shirt are half-way undone and you take advantage of his exposed skin; Doffy’s heat is soothing, cozy in the way a fireplace is on a wintry night. You press your cheek to it with a contented sigh. He slides his palm up your leg and lets it settle at your hip. Your fingers decide they want to wander too, so they creep up his stomach to his chest, tracing lazy circles over his heart. Doffy gives you a squeeze in return and kisses the crown of your head.

“We still have some time before we need to report back in,” he murmurs into your hair. “Where would you like to go next?”

“Do we have to go anywhere at all? I’m more than content right here.”

“Is that so?”

“Mmhmm.” You press an open mouthed kiss to his throat. He gives you another squeeze. “I quite like this little island. They have a nice beach,” kiss, “and mangos,” kiss, “that one bookstore looked cute,” kiss, “and did you hear? Their honorary mayor is a cat named Señor Bigotes. Señor Bigotes, Doffy! Is that not the most adorable thing you’ve ever heard?”

Mischief pulls his lips into a smirk. “I can think of a few things actually–” and without warning, his hand shoots up to fondle your breast. A startled sound leaps from your throat, a breathy thing somewhere between a whine and a yelp. “ –that sound being one of them.” 

You smack at his bicep. “Ass!”

Not a shred of remorse is reflected in his sunglasses. “Would you have me any other way?”

You sigh, not without fondness. “I suppose not. But, like I was saying, I’m just fine staying here.”

He nods. “Then it’s here we’ll stay,” he says, and that was that. Once Doffy made up his mind about something there was nothing anyone could do to change it. 

“And since we’re staying…” gently, he tilts your head up by the chin. “Why don’t we get married?”

You just manage to hold back a laugh. Seven times Donquixote Doflamingo has asked you to marry him. All seven times you have said yes. And so you have had seven different weddings, on seven different islands, followed by seven different honeymoons. And yet each time he asks this question, it is with the same tenderness and sincerity as the first. As if he were cracking himself open and inviting you to hold his bloody, beating heart. 

You press your palm flat over the space where it beats. A steady tune drums beneath his skin; your favorite song. 

(Sometimes, you think that if he could, he would pull it from the cage of his ribs and give it to you. Sometimes, you wish you could do the same for him. Give yourself to him in whole.)

“You flatter me, Doffy,” you coo. “Really? You’d do it again?”

His mouth twitches down. “Are you doubting me?”

“No, never.”

“Then what’ll it be?”

You really do laugh this time–he sounds so serious. “Do you honestly have to ask? My answer will always be the same; you should know that by now!”

His grin is as brilliant as a diamond. “Is that a yes?”

Something soft and petaled unfurls between your ribs. You answer with a kiss– a proper one, this time. He tastes like sea salt and the syrupy sweet of mango juice. Groaning, he kisses back heatedly. He cradles your head to pull you in deeper, closer. You allow him to guide you in, shifting to straddle his waist.

You're flushed tight against each other, no room for air; it’s not enough. You want to pry open your chest cavity like an oyster and tuck him safe inside you, your treasure. You want him to eat your heart like a pomegranate so you can lick the red of your life from his chin. You want to meld to him like the fabled soulmates of Plato, four arms, four legs, two souls as one.

You want him to fuck you. 

Thin cotton is the only barrier between your clothed sexes. He twitches under you, already eager to bury himself inside you. Arousal coils tight in your core. You give your hips a languid roll, deepening the kiss. Wandering hands run down your back, dip beneath your dress–

Pere-pere-pere-pere-pere! Pere-pere-pere-pere-pere!

Doffy's head lolls back with a frustrated groan. You bite your cheek, holding back a curse. 

The snail transponder. 

It had sat, mostly ignored, next to his drink on the table. Now it springs to life, stalked eyes wide and alert, it's droning a reminder of other priorities. Reluctantly, you situate yourself in your original positions. Doffy gives the device a withering glare; pleasure will have to wait for business. 

"Someone had better be dead," he grumbles, snatching the receiver.

Before Doffy can even get a word in there's an explosion of noise. A man's voice babbling almost incoherently. You catch the words Sabaody, and pirates, but everything else slips through your fingers with his sniveling. 

“Stop blubbering and tell me the situation,” Doffy cuts in. “State your name and business!”

The man on the other end coughs, a wet rasping noise that reminds you of rusted blades. “Th..this is Disco, reporting from the Auction House in Sabaody Archipelago!” Disco takes a gasping breath. “Mister Doflamingo! We need you here right now! It’s terrible–the biggest disaster we’ve ever seen–!” another gasp, “A celestial dragon has been attacked! All of our merchandise has escaped!”

You blink, surprised. Someone attacked a celestial dragon? On Sabaody, so close to the marine base? What kind of idiot would do something like that? 

You see Doffy’s eyebrows perk and know he’s having similar thoughts. “Who?”

“Straw hat,” Disco wheezes. “Straw hat Luffy and his crew.”

‘Straw hat’? That sounded familiar; one of the rookies, maybe? If you think hard enough you can conjure a shaky image in your mind, a wide grin and the red-ribboned hat that gave him his name. You’ll have to ask Doffy about it later.

And from the looks of it, Doffy does know something; he’s laughing. A full bodied, belly deep laugh. 

“This is no laughing matter!” Disco wheezes. You think, idly, that he might have been stabbed. “This is your shop, you know! Mister Doflamingo,” he pleads, shakily, “Where are you right now?! The shop has lost all credibility, and then there’s Roswald’s family too! They’re definitely going to lash out at us–do something to fix things!”

Doffy is still laughing. “Seriously…Human trafficking is so old fashioned, you idiot.” 

“...Eh?”

“It’s all about smiles now!” Doffy explains plainly, as if speaking to a small child. “Smiles!”

Now that you know this isn’t  actually important you’re impatient for this call to end; the excitement from earlier begins to stir once more. You nip at his collar. Doffy glances at you. Locking gazes, you lick a hot stripe up his throat. He grins wickedly at the want in your eyes. “Soon,” he mouths, patting your thigh.

“Disco,” he coos, “I’m giving the shop to you. So don’t be callin’ me anymore!” Another laugh bubbles out of him as you lave your tongue along his jaw. 

“What?!” Disco shrieks, appalled. “You’re abandoning us during the worst crisis we’ve ever had?!”

You feel him tense at the outburst. You rub soothingly at his chest and continue to pepper kisses onto him but this does not dull the sharpness of his tone. “Quiet, you annoying bastard! While you sit there blaming me for your own misfortune, a “New-Era” draws ever closer, Disco-kun. The navy has given orders forcing me–no, us–into active duty!”

Doffy reaches for his mango juice and takes a languid a sip from his straw, giving the ice a swirl. He downs the rest of it with a satisfied “ah!”

“Knowing this, what do you see on the horizon, Disco-kun?” The empty glass clinks heavily against the table. You’re more than a little distracted by the way the sunlight glimmers on his golden bracelet. “The Whitebeard Pirates versus the Seven Warlords of the Sea!”

Again, Doffy laughs, rich and deep. Disco can only gape in shock. Before he can start gibbering again Doffy ends the call. Go-cha! The snail transponder closes its eyes and droops, a puppet with no strings, lifeless. 

“Now then,” Doffy purrs. “I do believe that I was proposing?”

You run a finger down the path of the gold winding down his arm, tracing the curve of his bicep. “Oh, I think you were doing a little more than that.”

“Really?" he smirks. He pulls off his sunglasses, rosy eyes darkened with lust.  "I can’t seem to recall. Care to remind me?”

“But of course.” You move to straddle him once more. This time there is no teasing, no hesitation. Doffy slips a hand beneath your dress skirt and yanks your panties down. The fabric is left bunched mid-way on your legs. You widen your stance a little more, sucking a mark onto his neck, as he traces circles on the inside of your thigh. 

“Doffy,” you whine, leaning into his touch. “Please…”

He ghosts the pads of his fingers along your vulva. They come away slick. “Please what, my sweet?”

Fire burns your cheeks, your neck, your center. You want it to consume you. “Inside,” you plead. “Put ‘em inside me, please.”

He kisses behind your ear. “Good girl.” 

You whine again, pulsing at his words. “Doffy…”

Teeth press against your bottom lip as he finally slips his middle and ring fingers into you. You grasp at his shirt for purchase; their familiar length curls upwards within you, seeking out the spot that makes you see stars. You arch forward, pushing the heel of his palm against yourself in a way that makes your walls clench. He shifts a touch the left; you suck in a breath, eyes fluttering shut. You feel him smirk. There. 

What began as gentle exploration becomes a merciless charge forwards. Rhythmically, he pumps in and out, in and out, striking his target without mercy.

“Come on, sweet girl,” he says hotly into your ear. “Give it to me. Almost there.”

Nails brand red crescent moons into his shoulders. Every part of you burns. If you lose your grip, you think you'll be engulfed by the flames, turn to ash in his arms. You want it more than anything. “Doffy!”

“Almost,” he pants. “So close, just a little more–!”

With a final thrust, you are undone. Pleasure burns you away to nothing. A mewling noise falls from your lips as you scrabble desperately at his back. Cruel fingers wring you for all you can give, continuing their administrations until you’re teetering on the edge of madness, crying your husband’s name with every movement.

There are tears pricking your eyes when Doffy unzips his pants. You whimper, but not in fear. Pearly rivulets of pre-cum trickle down the head of his blushing cock; he’s big, thick too, and throbbing with desire. 

He swipes some onto his thumb. He need not even ask; your mouth is already open and waiting when he presents it to you. “Good girl,” he praises as you lick him clean. It’s a bit salty, but with a sweet undertone. And all yours. 

He pulls out of your mouth and squishes your cheeks, fingers damp with your saliva, to cant your head back. It takes a moment to realize, your mind clouded under the thick haze of passion, but you let out a breathy laugh when it clicks; he’s admiring the teardrops swimming in your eyes. 

“What a sight you are,” he sighs, reverent. “An angel, caught right in my arms.”

All you can manage is a soft moan in response. You feel as if you are both floating and sinking, caught between the height of ecstasy and the depths of hedonism. You think you might be drooling in more ways than one. Le petit mort, some call it. ‘The little death’. If this is what it feels like to die, you would cross into eternity with a smile. 

Doffy positions himself at your entrance, giving his shaft an idle stroke. 

“Do you think you can handle all of me, my angel?” he asks. “Use your words.”

You ball his shirt in your fists, grounding yourself. “Yes,” you manage, nodding. “I can take it, I want it.”

His lips meet yours in a searing kiss. It is want and ache and a bloody heart. “Good girl.”

Slowly, gently, he begins to ease into you. Big hands hold you steady as you take deep breaths. Deeper, deeper, deeper. You welcome all of him into you, feel your walls flutter around each inch as it sinks in. He hisses, twitching, but keeps hold of his last threads of composure. Finally, he stops. 

A tear falls through your lashes. You’re stretched, full, and it feels divine. You squeeze your eyes shut and take in one last deep breath. 

Doffy kisses the wetness from your cheek. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

As always, he starts slow. A careful drag of his hips that has you digging your nails into him again. Then back in. His jaw is ticking in anticipation, wanting more, more, but he keeps the beast muzzled a few moments longer. When you start to bounce on your own, juices running down your legs, he knows you're ready. 

He grips the plush of your hips tight as he grunts, thrusting forcefully into you. All illusions of restraint are shattered; the beast is free, and it is hungry. He pistons into you with such beautiful brutality that you weep, shuddering as another orgasm rips through you like lightning.

You slump onto his shoulder, eyes rolling back as he continues to fuck you. Your body is limp, pliant and soft like fresh clay, his hold the only thing preserving your shape.

“Such a good girl,” he pants, “taking me so well. You want it, huh? Want me to, ngh, fill you up real good?”

Tears are streaming down your face. “Please,” you slur, squeezing around him. 

He curses. Impossibly, he starts to move faster. That familiar tightness builds in your core and you sob as you cum for a third time, pleasure and pain swirling around your skull in an all encompassing mix.

“Doffy,” you gasp, “Doffy, I love you–!”

A burst of warmth floods inside you. “Ngh–fuck!” he curses, stilling as his own climax overtakes him. He rests his chin atop your head, breathing heavily. “Cariño,” he groans. “Mi cariño. Te quiero, ángel. Te quiero demasiado. Tienes todo mi corazón.”

You hug him tight, drink in the tenderness of his words, the comfort of his scent. You hold all that he is in your arms and it is perfect. “I know, Doffy.” You kiss the teeth marks you left on his throat. “You have mine too. I’m all yours.”

You both stay like that for a little while, each recovering from your respective highs, holding one the other for as long as they need. 

When your mixed juices begin to overflow and dribble out of you Doffy shifts, slowly pulling out of you. You come apart with a squelch so lewd that you can’t help but flush. It’s then that you remember that you are exposed in every sense of the word; the beach is thankfully empty thanks to the Birdcage, but still. The open air has you feeling self-conscious, and you hastily pull your underwear back into place. 

Already, his sunglasses are back in place. “No one saw,” he assures, picking up on your nerves. “I would have killed any voyeur that dared to try.”

“I know,” you say, giving your surroundings a hasty look. “Just need to make sure, I guess. I think I might actually die if anyone but you saw me like that!”

“Well, we can’t have that,” he chides. “We have a wedding to attend, remember?”

The petaled thing in your chest blooms once more. “However could I forget?” you swoon, cozying up to his chest. Tucked safely beneath your ear, his heart carries on its familiar music. "When were we thinking? Tomorrow morning?”

“Mm, we wed in the morning last time. I had an evening ceremony in mind.”

You perk up. It paints a pretty picture, making your vows on the bony white sand, starlight dappling the ocean waves. “Could we have it right here, by the shore?” “I don’t see why not,” he shrugs. Then the mischief returns to his voice. “it’s fitting, seeing that we’ve already consummated the marriage here. Perhaps we should commit fully and wear the same clothes?”

You flush, mortified at the thought. “God, no!”

He nudges you teasingly. “Oh come on. It’s not like anyone would know.”

“I would. I would know. And even worse, you would know! And I know you, Doffy, I know exactly how you would act.”

“And how would I act?”

“Like yourself. So, you know. A bastard.”

He grins. “Would you have me any other way?”

You smile, soft. “No, never.”

“Good,” he chuckles, giving your thigh an affectionate pat. Then, after a pause, “I think I’ll wear my black suit. The one with the white overcoat.” 

You trace the rim of his bracelet. “This too?”

“You really do like that piece, don’t you?”

“It draws attention to your hands,” you say dreamily. “And you know how much I love your hands.”

“That I do,” he smirks. As if to prove this point, he holds the one not stroking your thigh up to you. You take it between both of yours and pepper little kisses along his fingertips and knuckles. 

“If this is the kind of treatment it’ll earn me, I’ll wear this everyday,” he chuckles.

“You should,” you hum, pressing your lips to his wrist. “If you do, I will give you ten million kisses every day for ever and ever.”

“When you put it that way, I’d be a fool not to.”

You laugh deviously, rubbing your cheek against his palm like a cat. “All according to plan. Now you have to wear it to the wedding and for the rest of your life!”

“How evil you are,” he snickers. “It appears I’ve finally started to rub off on you.”

“It was inevitable,” you nod solemnly. “All I need is a pink-feathered coat and a Warlord title.”

“Speaking of; I think you should wear your pink dress for the ceremony. Pearls, too.”

“Off the shoulder or lace sleeves?”

“Lace.” He toys with your dress skirt. “I’d appreciate some lace underneath the dress as well.”

“That can be arranged…” You shift to look up at him. “Serious question; do you think we could get Señor Bigotes to officiate?”

Doffy raises an eyebrow. “Darling. I would pull the moon and all its stars from the sky if you asked me to. I think I can manage to wrangle one cat.”

His earnesty makes your breath stutter. You know if you look at him any longer you’ll get too mushy and start crying again, so you snuggle back up to the crook of his neck. Doffy knows when you’ve had enough so lets you retreat. The crashing of the waves is more than enough to fill the silence. The seagulls chime in occasionally, which makes you chuckle.

“We’re getting married,” you sing, after you’ve settled.

He kisses your head. “We are,” he says, in that honey-suckle sweet voice just for you. “We should also get you cleaned up.”

You groan. “But I’m comfortable.”

“And you will continue to be comfortable,” he assures, hooking his arm under your knees. “I’ll carry you.”

You circle your arms around his neck as the world lurches upward. It used to make you nervous, being so far from the ground, but your husband is as strong as he is tall–if not even moreso. He won’t drop you.

“What are we thinking of for the cake?” he asks as he starts toward the ship. “Last time we did a marble so that one is out.”

“Hmm, red velvet?”

“We had that on our fourth.”

“Chocolate?”

“Did that on our first.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, thoughtful. “Vanilla?”

He hums. “Vanilla…simple, but elegant. Vanilla it is.”

You kiss his chest. “We’re getting married,” kiss, “on the beach,” kiss, “with a cat–an office holding cat!–to officiate,” kiss, “and a vanilla wedding cake.”

“Sounds heavenly.”

The beat of his heart thrums steadily by your ear. “Yes. It sounds perfect.”

additional AN: title is from the poem 'devotion' by ocean vuong--you can read it here on poetry foundation !

TL for the spanish portion: "Darling. My darling. I love you, angel. I love you so much. You have all of my heart."

everyone's favorite furball

𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 (pt. 2) — 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘺

playlist pt. 1 pt. 2 pt. 3 pt. 4 pt. 5 pt. 6 pt. 7 pt. 8 (10/24)

𝘨𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘹 𝘧!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺 — 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵'𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘭𝘢𝘸, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘸𝘤 — 14.5𝘬

𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦 — 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵

𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴/𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴 — 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵!𝘢𝘶, 141𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘨!𝘢𝘶, 𝘨𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘥𝘰𝘮!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘷𝘪𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘯!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 (10𝘺𝘳𝘴), 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘩𝘰𝘭, 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 & 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘢 (nothing too graphic but please be warned!!), 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘮𝘢, 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘮𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘫𝘰𝘣, 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘬

note: it's here 🤲 header gunslinger ghost render by @ave661

the next morning you woke, Ghost was gone again, much to your chagrin. you were beginning to pick up on a pattern—a strong tendency to disappear without a trace. his clothes were absent from your room and the kitchen table, where you haphazardly undressed him without thinking about the evidence left behind for an unsuspecting one-four-one and Kate to see. 

the only trace of Ghost’s presence in your room last night was the neat pile of undergarments and clothes on the ottoman nestled in the corner of the room. after washing up, you slowly redressed that morning. in the mirror, your neck was covered in swollen purple patches—a parallel image to the softness of your bruised inner thighs. you were lucky enough to have been lent a high-collared blouse from Kate, mulling over everything with a bitter distaste in your mouth. 

it only grew when you stepped into the back room, Soap looking positively smug and Gaz avoiding your eyes. John looked undisturbed as he paged through a book, sipping at his coffee mug with his boot neatly crossed over the other beneath the kitchen table.

“good morning,” Soap sang, practically skipping to you and handing you a sticky, cinnamon bun, rolled up in a sweet delight.

“thank you,” you said with a polite dip of your head, sitting beside John at the table.

“you know, Gaz,” Soap said suddenly, turning to his friend who only paled in response, his face looking sour. “i could’ve sworn i heard something last night—”

you withered with shame, but luckily, Gaz kicked him hard in the shin to shut him up. immediately they began to bicker, and John only gave a disapproving grunt.

“where’s Kate?” you asked, meek, and desperate to escape the three men in the room. 

John jerked his head in the direction of the main store room, and you whispered a quick thank you to him, wiping the last crumbs on the back of your split skirt rudely before making a beeline out the room.

Kate was tending to the shop, lounging behind the counter as two customers perused the catalog. she was stitching together pieces of leather with a wax thread and needle. 

you carefully noted the absence of Ghost in the store room as well, but didn’t comment on it when she shot you a fleeting, knowing look. it was gone as soon as it came and yet it made you burn with shame nonetheless.

“Ghost is out on business again,” she explained, sewing with a practiced hand, and you frowned.

“I wasn't…” the words died in your throat. instead, you implored, “let me join one-four-one today.”

she paused her ministrations and sent you a look of grief. “why? so you can run away?”

that irked you. “you know i won’t.” in a meek voice, you added, “where would i even run too?”

she shrugged, returning to her leather pieces. “i don’t know. maybe off into your own rich glory.”

you resisted rolling your eyes. smoothing the front of your split skirt, you folded your hands politely, posture straightening.

“are you really going to ransom me to my daddy?” you challenged, and her hands paused

“because if you are, i know your secret base of operations. i know all your names, one-four-one’s, and Simon’s. i know what one-four-one looks like and that you’re working with los vaqueros.” 

her eyes narrowed, brow pinching.

you continued. “i think all that information would come very handy for Turner and my daddy.”

“so what are you going to do?” she snapped, “run straight to Turner and cry at your daddy’s feet?”

“no,” you said cooly, “i think you don’t plan on giving me back to my daddy at all.”

her eyes flashed and you contented with her glare, meeting it with the strongest one you could muster.

“because if you did plan on it, i’d tell them all that and more in a heartbeat. so why’d you let me in on all that information in the first place?”

taking a shaky inhale, you hoped to god you were right. “i know too much. i think you’re planning something else for me.”

she stared at you for a long moment before heaving a long sigh, screwing her eyes shut, surprising you when her mouth twisted into a tight-lipped grin, her blue eyes crinkled with a wild look.

“Ghost said you were a smart girl.”

she returned back to the leather work, finishing off the needlework by snapping the string with her teeth, pulling it taught with a knot.

“but no,” she said with finality, and you balked.

“no…?”

“let’s say that maybe Ghost is planning something for you. something big,” she dramatized with a mocking smirk. “you’re still our hostage. you stay here, the boys ride out. simple.”

she shot you a displeased look when she finished. “if you weren’t here, i’d be riding out too.”

you swallowed, shoulders falling slowly. all that pent up energy deflated from you like a balloon, defeat curling in your stomach. looking out the front store windows, you saw Sugar dozing at her fence post. you eyed her saddle on a rack behind the store counter. 

nodding, like you were deep in thought, you stepped away from the counter. “right,” was all you offered and she gave you a mixed look of pity and irritation. 

as if on queue, the one-four-one boys clambered from the back room, murmuring low words to Kate so that you couldn’t hear. Soap tipped his hat to you on the way out, and he began to turn away when you clutched at his elbow. 

“where are you going?” you asked, casual, and his brows raised, looking from you to John to Kate.

after a long look, she just gave him a slight nod.

“five miles north. ‘nother nearby town,” he relented with a shrug, and the way his lips tightened let you know he was leaving something else out. you cocked his head at him, pressing with curious eyes, and his mouth fell open but Gaz grabbed him by the back of his collar and pulled him out the store, Soap shouting in protest.

“be back before sunset,” John said, gruff, closing the door behind them with a resounding thud. 

you watched as they saddled up in the bright noon light. Kate sighed. the look on her face let you know she was lamenting just as much about their departing as you.

you lazed about the main store room, eyes flicking between the leather crafts items. belts, wallets, holsters, a few couple saddles. the clicking of the wooden clock suspended on the opposite wall served as your entertainment for the afternoon.

when Kate finally excused herself to close the shop for a lunch break, washing up first, you knew you had to make quick haste. sneaking down the hallway, you passed by the bathroom as quietly as you could, you were surprised to find the basement door unlocked.

maybe they did trust you, a small voice spoke in wonder, but you mentally swatted it away. your desire to find out what the hell was going on burned brighter than anything else.

you descended quickly down the stairs, wincing at every creak and thud, till your feet met cobblestone. sweeping around in the darkness, you pulled out the matches you pocketed last night. lighting one with a quick stroke, the room lit up in a warm orange glow and you scrutinized the place.

in one main room, preserves of fruits and veggies, miscellaneous barrels, and leather working stations littered with various tools and supplies crowded the room. you could only assume the doors branching from the main room were one-four-one’s bedrooms, and you confirmed as much when you tried turning the knob of each one, finding them all firmly locked.

cursing, you wished you could remember that lock picking trick Tommy used at the schoolhouse to prank teachers in your childhood. you clambered through the space, squeezing between a nook of filled shelves, pausing when an old bookcase caught your eye. by it was a small circlet of space, several chairs, and a desk sprawling with papers. you walked to it, hand smoothing over the map littered with marks, lines, needles shoved into the wood at certain locations.

the writings made no sense, all in their own code. a large portion was circled in red with a big T scribbled in the middle. you squinted. Turner, most likely.

it was north of the town you were currently in, or so you assumed by the small star bead shaped from an ivory bone pinned down on the map. like Ghost said, you were on the border of southern california, your mama and daddy most likely twenty miles to the east in Arizona. below southern california lay another red circled portion, dipping into mexico and southern texas. LV, it read, in a smaller, less menacing font. los vaqueros.

blue circles stretched from the west to the east, centered around towns and cities, big and small. one location in particular was familiar—jackson county, missouri. all that blue, stretching from california to louisiana, was one-four-one territory. you balked at the physical size of it.

the more passing seconds you took to study the map, the more you worried Kate may emerge from the restroom and find you snooping in their basement. if she did, you dreaded the thought of being locked up in your room for the remainder of your possibly indefinite stay.

a piece of paper caught your eye. it was a letter addressed to Turner from your… your daddy. you poured over the note, running over the quill grooves in your hands.

Mr. T,

my darling belle has been stolen by the devil. you promised me that working with you meant no harm to my family. i want her back. i don’t want no man getting the idea that they can steal my things from me.

you shuddered. his things, he had called you.

i want your men on every one of one-four-one’s outposts. none of their towns will be safe. i’ll round up my men and join the effort in two weeks time after we conjoin at the social. there, we can talk finances.

your eyes ran over the line again. social?

if Ghost won’t give me my daughter, i’ll make him.

your daddy didn’t sign off the letter. carefully, you put it back down in its place. how did the letter even get there in the first place? had Ghost intercepted its messenger during a shootout in a northern town?

you swallowed. did Ghost find it in your own daddy’s house? your house?

the thought of your daddy, keeled over his desk with a bullet wound in his temple, blood oozing out in a puddle as Ghost loomed overhead, pocketing Daddy’s letter in his trench coat, made you sick to your stomach. 

you thought of what Ghost said the night prior. i searched half the plains for your horse.

did that include your daddy and mama’s house? your breath hitched. was your mama alright?

you steadied yourself against the nearby bookshelf, distracting yourself with its contents instead. fictional literature stared back at you, and you brushed your fingers down their spines in a slow descent until you met the very bottom row. a line of small journals, so small you could squeeze them into the extra space in your pocket, stared back at you. picking one on the very edge, your eyes widened at the title scrawled over it. 

GHOST.

you opened it to its latest entry, dating back to the day you were taken by Ghost. in all capital letters it read:

PICKED UP GIRL FROM ARIZONA HOMESTEAD.

beneath it was a sketch of your profile and… numbers. there wasn’t an exact order or sense of them but they littered the page.

despite the numerical mystery, you found your eyes lingering on the catch of light conveyed through Ghost’s drawing, the twinkle in your eyes and the barest smile on your lips. you admired the attention to detail before flipping through to earlier pages.

a familiar, blaring title stuck out to you that dated back several weeks ago.

PICK UP GIRL FROM ARIZONA HOMESTEAD.

there was more writing below it.

RANSOM: $25,000 REFUSAL → PHASE TWO

you flipped to the page after it to find another entry on a typical grocery list. you thumbed through more pages with a frustrated huff, finding nothing more on phase two or a ransom. just more sketches of wildlife, horses, and scribbled dull paragraphs on irrelevant business investments.

you mulled over the strange entry and its date from weeks prior. the night Ghost had taken you had been an arranged dinner out of the blue with only a few days of notice. but the date of this entry suggested that Ghost had been arranging the dinner for much longer. 

more than that, Ghost had forced your daddy to make a decision at the dinner table—pay up or let Ghost steal his daughter as collateral.

Ghost didn’t necessarily know that your daddy would go with the latter. but the entry already had a resolute ransom for your safe return, and a phase two plan for when your daddy refused the ransom. which, to your knowledge, has not happened yet.

in spite of your confusion, there was a relief knowing that your suspicions from the conversation with Kate earlier had been confirmed. they wouldn’t be giving you back to your daddy.

right?

quickly, you pocketed it, hoping no one noticed its absence as you weaved out the basement and up the stairs. the door was still shut as you left it, and you blew out the match, slowly opening the door, your heart hammering. there was a silence on the upper floor, a warm draft passing through the narrow hallway, blinding light streaming in through the windows.

you noticed movement beneath the bathroom door, and let out a shaky breath. what felt like hours in the basement was only minutes.

but you knew you didn’t have much time left.

you made your way down the hallway and into the main store room. hooking Sugar’s saddle over your forearm, you made a quick haste to your horse who lazily drank at the water basin by the fence. patting her shoulder, you saddled her up in record time, hitching the cinch tightly with the grind of your teeth. untying the reins, you grabbed the horn, hoisting yourself up by the stirrup.

as you backed Sugar away from the leather crafts store, you heard Kate shout, your head whipping to see her already moving with a terrifying speed to her own horse, a burly and strong looking thoroughbred that snorted heavily.

with a slap of your reigns against Sugar’s shoulder, and your heel digging into her flank, she took off with a pitched whiny. you always thought she was a crazy wild thing, but you were more glad for it now than ever.

the rush of the wind at your face didn’t help the scramble through your mind for the mental image of the town. the bell tower pointed to the north—head on a swivel, you pressed a hand on your stetson to keep it from flying away. conveniently, the thing chimed, making it known it was two hours past noon to the town

you pulled sharp on Sugar’s reigns, spurring her on through the sparse crowd that scurried out of your way as you headed straight for the tower, and out the town. the cobblestone path underfoot quickly fell into a dusty dirt and you headed dead on into the forest.

weaving between the sparse trees, ducking beneath them, and wincing when some prickly pines brushed at the exposed skin on your cheeks, you steadied on for a gallop for as long as you could muster before you were sure Sugar needed a break.

when you slowed to a standstill, listening for the breaking of a horse through bushes and leaves, met only with chirping and the rush of the forest, you nudged Sugar to walk on.

she hung her head low, winded, and you rubbed at her neck in comfort. 

Soap had said the town was five miles north. your eyes sweeping across the barren terrain, you hoped that you wouldn’t come across a different town five miles north of one-four-one’s hidden base.

after another thirty minutes of short gallops, followed by slower canters and trots, you eventually wandered far enough to spot a town on the distance of the horizon.

you startled when a big boom resounded across the land, shaking the earth beneath you. something—a building maybe—that spearheaded the sky fell with a crash. Sugar whinied wildly, stuttering backwards with jerky movements, but you urged her on ahead with clucks and a heeled boot at her flank.

you rode fast to the town, swerving around the masses of people running around it. a woman, tugging on her floral, broad brimmed hat, carried two children under her arms and ran into the woods with next to nothing. some men rode out on horses, charging ahead without a glance back. 

as you neared the outer wall of the town, you could hear the ricocheting gunshots, loud shouting, screaming, crying, the beating of horse hooves.

you cursed yourself for not thinking to grab a firearm. trotting along the wall, between a stretch of two buildings a man rode past in a flying gallop, twisted back to shoot at something—someone riding after him. you recognized his raucous, wild laughter.

Soap.

you spurred Sugar forward, creeping through a break in the walls where more townspeople leaked out in a panic. on the main dirt pathway, a horse tied to its fencepost tossed its head wildly. a revolver flashed in its saddlebag.

riding around the building, narrowly avoiding running people underfoot, you flanked the horse and pulled the revolver from the horse, then leaned down to untie the poor, squirming thing so it wasn’t in the line of fire. you grit your teeth, trying to mentally will your own horse from wriggling so much. once its reins were pulled loose, the horse bucked and made a beeline for the woods.

“hey!” an older man, beard flecked with gray, ran at your horse with a wobbling, drunk ire. the owner, you presumed, by the gun he was loading in his hand.

pressing hard into Sugar’s flank, she sidestepped him and you took the butt of your newfound revolver, jamming it into his jaw hard. he slumped to the ground ungraciously.

turning your horse in a fast pan, you rode from street to street, revolver swinging as you searched for familiar faces. it was a dizzying panic. you didn’t know who was who, or what was what, in the mass alarm. 

“that’s her!” whipping your head over your shoulder, a group of men sharply turned their horses in your direction. Turner’s men.

cursing, you spurred Sugar on in a wild gallop as they pursued you.

you checked the cylinder of it—it was only half full. three bullets. cursing yourself over and over again, you gave them a wild chase, weaving between buildings and people into a marketplace. a cart of vegetables went flying as Sugar lurched, last second, to leap over it.

the movement jerked you, and you slipped to the side, world turning over as you fell to the dirt and skidded a good ten feet, knocking back into another cart. your revolver lay discarded a short length away, stetson thrown somewhere else.

Sugar galloped off without a second to look back.

scrambling to pick up the revolver as the group of Turner’s men approached fast on horseback, you gasped when your ankle completely gave out on you, falling once more to the ground. the adrenaline pumping through your veins didn’t give you a second to hesitate, crawling forward to grab the gun.

you shot into the group blindly, satisfied when one man shrieked, holding his arm where crimson poured, and slipped off the side of his horse. picking yourself up, you limp as fast your could leg could let you move down a branching dirt path, thunderous hooves coming from behind you. 

you checked over your shoulder. they were dangerously close now.

the closest man’s hand—a turquoise bracelet glinting on his wrist—came down and swooped for your hair, missing when you ducked. but he groped for a hold on your clothes, when suddenly, he crumpled into the dirt behind you. blood splattered across your back, and you bit back a scream when a strong arm hefted you up onto their moving horse.

“i got you, darlin’,” John gritted out, and you clambered into the front of his saddle, clutching desperately at the mane of his chestnut mare as he spurred his horse on faster through the streets with one arm around your waist.

a rider approached your right flank, trying to maneuver close enough to shoot John and not you, but John was too fast and blew his head clean off. you couldn’t suppress the scream that tore from your throat. 

John barked over the roar of the wind. “i’m gonna need you to cover my blindspots, eh?” 

you nodded rapidly, panning your revolver over your shoulder as another rider neared.

“deep breath,” he commanded, swerving his mare to get out of range, bullets whizzing past your head.

you took a deep breath, watching the rider edge closer to your left as he slapped the reins against his horse’s shoulder, willing it to go faster. his eyes blew wide when you caught a glimpse of his gaze under the brim of his stetson, mouth parting in shock when you fired.

the bullet hit his chest dead on, and you watched in horror as his eyes went cold and empty, whole body slack as his shoulder crumbled forward in the saddle of his horse, before slowly slipping off the side and falling to the ground with a crash. his horse thundered on without him, blood soaking the dirt in a crimson halo around the corpse.

“good bloody shot!” John roared in your ear, and you turned your attention front again. the roads were emptier now with the stragglers having evacuated the town.

John slowed as he neared the town’s center square, and one man on a grulla and the other on a bay circled the fountain square in a pan, shooting at the men who came barreling down each pathway. each one dropped like a fly.

you counted about a dozen bodies on the floor of the square.

the man on the grulla laughed maniacally, who you instantly recognized as Soap. the other rode with a tight rein with a mechanic movement.

John pulled his horse to a sliding halt, almost making you fly over the shoulder of his chestnut if it weren’t for the arm around your waist.

“picked up a straggler!” he shouted, turning into the fray as another trio of Turner’s men came down an alleyway on horseback.

Soap flanked your horse, shooting two of Turner’s men down as John finished off the other. flies were whirling around the dead bodies on the ground. you wanted to puke.

“first time gunslingin’?” Soap asked, a poisonous glint in his steel eyes.

you didn’t have time to respond because Gaz was shouting— “your left!”

John was whirled, but not in enough time before two bullets hit his chestnut with sickening thuds. she whinied, rearing, and for a second time, you were sliding to the dirt, ungracefully landing on top of John in a winded pile.

you scrambled off him and he crawled to his knees as he reloaded his revolver. your own was thrown somewhere away—obscured from view as a couple of Turner’s men slid off their horses, striding towards you at a dangerous pace.

head on a swivel, you scurried backwards, a low throb in your ankle blooming. the adrenaline was wearing off as a thickening dread seized you. Gaz and Soap were occupied, grappling a thickening trickle of Turner’s men into the town square.

a man with a gold tooth, you recognized as an affiliate of the man with the turquoise bracelet from a few minutes prior, swung his leg back and kicked John straight across his cheek.

two other men seized you by the front of your blouse to hoist you up, but you kicked and screamed, biting down hard on a hand that came to pull on your hair. he cursed, throwing you back down into the dirt, and you skidded till your back struck something hard. 

eyes widening, you twised your arm behind you to feel a familiar, cool handle. this time, you let them yank you up, letting the revolver fall into the loose cuff of your loose sleeve and holding it there.

the man with the gold tooth gripped your cheeks tightly and spat at your feet. his breath was grimy, alcoholic, and made your skin crawl.

“you’ve been giving us a hell of a time, angel.” his other hand stroked down your chest.

you twisted to bite his fingers and he slapped you, the strong sting bringing tears to your eyes. the two men were holding your arms back in a bind, one pressing his front into your shoulder, mouth almost to your ear.

“he’ll kill you,” you seethed, dead serious. the man with the gold tooth laughed.

“so you really are the devil’s angel?” he leaned back, hands on his holster, a menacing look twisting his lips. “thought Mr. Tuner was bein’ dramatic. looks like Ghost’s got a pretty missy now.”

the man by your ear chuckled, hot breath down your neck and you reeled, fighting against him.

“i’ll kill you myself if i have to,” you hissed, both to the man in front of you and to the one digging his hand into your backside, squeezing.

the third man sounded considerably younger, more nervous. “whadda’ we do with her, Charles?”

your eyes went wide. you remembered the man at the cabin, the one who said—

let’s move quick. Turner said the first man to lay hands on the girl gets dibs.

that’s what he had said.

a coiling fear seized your chest, your breath trapped and lungs stuttering. you looked to John, flattened and forgotten by Charles’s feet. you internally begged him to get up. when he didn’t move, you looked up behind Charles to Gaz and Soap, bloodied and firing round after round. 

when the men hefted you to your feet, half-dragging you down the dirt road, you struggled, tears welling in your eyes. “no—” Charles tried to cover your mouth but you bit his hand hard and he snarled.

“no!” you screamed, fighting even when they yanked you into an empty saloon and threw you against the bar top.

Charles held you down with an iron grip, and other man unbuckled himself with a malicious grin. you felt overcome with an intense fear, trying to squirm up the side of the bar counter, but Charles held you steady. 

you should’ve never come here. this was your fault. this was your fault.

the third man was just a boy, shaking as he stared at you splayed across the counter. 

help me, you mouthed, but he just turned away so his back was to you.

this was your fault, this was your fault, this was your fault.

soon, your struggling subsided, and your mind drifted to a far, far, far off place.

the cool gun tight in your grip kept you tethered to your sanity when Charles kissed your now exposed calf. you tightened around the handle, feeling its silver embroidery, the men too distracted to notice the click of the safety.

an eerie calm drifted up in you as they continued their movements, Charles’s hand slipping underneath your skirt and drawers. you noted the glass bottle half full of beer abandoned right above your head.

you waited for the second man to float upwards, till his mouth was on your neck, and you shoved your sleeve right under his chin.

his eyes widened in surprise at your compliant behavior, humming something like approval before you pulled the trigger and blew clean through his face. he fell to the floor with a thud, half of his face gone, and Charles shrieked, looking down at his body in horror. that’s when you snatched the glass bottle of beer over your head and lurched off the counter to strike him in the head—over and over and over again.

your body was a machine, moving mechanically. the bottle shattered and alcohol pooled into blood. you didn’t stop until you couldn’t see the gold shine in his gaping mouth, until two arms gripped at your wrists, pulling your back into a broad, strong chest.

the musk of bourbon, smoke, and earth cleared your mind.

“Simon?” you squeaked, returning to yourself. 

the familiar cold of his mask against your neck brought you back down to the ground. 

he slowly pried the shattered bottle from your hand, only the neck and jagged shoulder left behind. he folded your hands into his gloved ones, crossing over your chest in a tight bind, crushing you to him.

you should’ve felt like you were debilitated, or trapped even, but you never felt more safe in his arms as you sobbed, tears streaming down your face. he was the only thing holding together the pieces of you right now.

he shushed you, smoothing a big hand over your chest as he rocked your entwined bodies.

“it’s alright, lovely.”

“it’s my fault,” you chanted, voice raw with effort. “it’s my fault, it’s my fault, it’s my fault.”

Ghost didn’t respond to that, and instead began explaining with a calculated, low murmur into your ear. “i told the boys that there would be some Turner boys in this town. nothing they couldn’t handle. but there was an ambush.”

your breath hitched at that, cries dying in your throat.

“i was stationed with Alejandro and a lot of his boys in a town two miles west of this. we thought Turner would tear through there.” his thumb smoothed over your exposed neck. “he didn’t.”

it fell into pieces now. one-four-one stationed here, expecting less than a dozen of Turner’s men, when instead, they crawled through this town like ants. an ambush.

“Kate rode into town like a wild animal. i thought someone died.” his voice dropped to a deadly whisper. “i thought you died.”

you remembered the lashing tendrils of panic you felt in pressed against the wall in the back room, Ghost bleeding out a couple feet in front of you, the billiard parlor up in flames across the street.

had he felt the same?

“the boys,” you began instead, pushing the memory away, “how are they?”

he gripped your chin, turning your face to his and pressing his forehead to yours. the swirling darkness of his eyes was more comforting than anything you had ever known.

“they’ll live.”

you shivered at that and he soothed you with a shush, gently pulling you to your feet. wincing, he caught your wobbling body immediately.

“hurt?” he asked cooly, but you could hear a sharp edge in it.

you gave him a sheepish look. “my ankle.”

he just nodded, sweeping you into his arms like you were his bride. even if it was so improper, the exhaustion that furled around you like a fog had you curled into his chest as he stepped over pools of blood.

over his shoulder, your stomach curdled at the sight of Charles, his face a gaping wound of pink, mangled flesh. he was half-beaten into the ground, and his associate was sprawled near his shoulder. the boy was nowhere to be seen.

you closed your eyes against Ghost’s neck, pressing your nose to its steady pulse. you barely registered the light that enveloped you when he stepped outside, the light crunching of dusty dirt under his boots a mile away. there was murmuring, new and foreign voices coupled with old ones. no more gunshots. no more shouting.

you let the foggy undertow pull you somewhere softer and sweeter—right into the roughness of your mama’s hands brushing your hair by the fireplace, Daddy reading an old book aloud behind your shoulder.

it was the rhythmic clatter of steel tracks against steel rail that stirred you from a light slumber. your sweet dreams had stretched into grotesque, bloody depictions the further they ran on, replaying scenes over and over in your head.

Charles’s face split open on the floor. red running from Daddy’s temple. a knife through your mama’s heart. Turner’s wrinkly hand on your thigh as he shoots three bullets through Ghost’s heart—his eyes wide as blood poured down his maskless face. but beneath the blood, he was faceless, skin smoothed over and pale, till his face morphed into Charles's deformed flesh and it replayed again.

a soft stroking along your thigh brought you further from the murky haze, and you pushed up against a solid form. you opened your eyes to find Ghost’s, blinking down at you.

there was an endless, crushing relief to see his mask still firmly clasped to his face. 

you tried to push away any lingering curious voices in your head, but they pushed through the weak pockets of your mental blockade, whispering out, what’s under it? 

you prayed that you wouldn’t find a faceless form beneath the red gleam of it.

his arm was wrapped around your shoulders and back, fingers digging into your waist and thigh. you were practically half in his lap, cheek pressed to his chest, his big trench coat slung over your curled up body.

for the first time, you realized, you awoke to Ghost’s presence by your side. you would’ve happily nuzzled back into his warmth and fallen back into the nightmares that clutched at you, if you didn’t realize that you had an audience.

eyes snapping open, and sitting up straighter, you blearily tried to shake the sleep away as you met the stares of several foreign faces sitting in chairs opposing you. save for the weary one-four-one—John dozing lightly, a new splint in bandage over his nose, Soap’s face a remote grim shade, Gaz’s and Kate’s attention trained on you.

you noticed Soap’s arm in a sling with a bitterness.

shifting, you looked out the train compartment window moving through the arid, weedy forest, sun dipping far into the horizon in a crimson-purple hue. 

“good morning,” Ghost greeted, pressing the nose of his mask to your hair. muffling a squeak, you tried to shift away because it was improper, but his strength held you close, hot gaze burning into your cheek.

you cleared your throat, looking to the man nearest to you. his hair was slicked back in dark curls, a toothpick between his teeth. he gave you a wild grin.

“we finally meet, chica,” he said in a beautifully lilted accent. he stood to offer his hand politely, and you would’ve stood to curtsy if Ghost’s hold on you wasn't so… possessive.

instead you put your hand in his and he kissed the back of it with a sly look.

Ghost tutted, muttering an impatient, “Alejandro.”

your brows rose when Alejandro released your hand with a laugh. he gestured to a clean-shaven, handsome man beside him.

“this is my most trusted right hand—Rodolfo.”

he smiled at you politely with a slight nod but made no move to shake your hand.

you nodded back. “pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Alejandro gestured to the other men littered around the room, leaning back in their plush seats. “and these are my men. los vaqueros.”

your breath hitched, looking around the room in a slight awe. these men were legends you heard of in childhood—iron fists of justice in the south that grappled with corrupt conglomerates and drug-dealing cartels. they also dabbled in their own bouts of illegal trouble. their hard-lined faces stared back at you.

instead you croaked, “where are we? and where are we going?”

you jumped a little when Ghost thumbed at your cheek, almost forgetting he was there. “we’re mid-way through southern california, bound for san francisco.”

your eyes ran over the los vaqueros, donned with bandoliers and sombreros, then one-four-one, looking much smaller and more meager. you couldn’t help but give them a weary smile, a warmth spreading in you when Soap perked up a smile of his own.

“why?”

Kate leaned back in her seat, arms crossed over her chest. you were eternally grateful for the comfort in at least one other female presence.

“we’re going to war.”

you stiffened. “what?”

Soap quickly followed. “against the Turner boys.” his eyes darkened. “they’re wreckin’ all our towns. they won’t stop and we don’t have enough boys to get ‘em.”

Ghost’s grip on your hip tightened. Gaz pushed on. “we’re going straight to the source.”

in san francisco?

you remembered the map in the basement, the large red circle over midwest california that included the bustling hub that was san francisco, with a scribbled T in the middle. a feeling of dread gripped your stomach. this was going to develop into a gang war—or something like it at least.

“does it really have to come to that?”

you grimaced when a terse silence followed.

“this is more than about money, lovely,” Ghost said with a thickness to his accent. “this is about revenge.”

you summed that much up from the dangerous flicker in Soap’s eyes, but you worried more about where you fit into the equation. you thought back to Ghost’s journal, a sudden apprehension for the arm coiled around you tightly. 

did phase two include you? were you of use once your daddy refused Ghost’s proposed ransom? and if you weren’t?

Ghost’s journal burned a hole through the pocket of your split skirt—maybe it was selfish, maybe it was childish, but a flurrying panic rose in you at the thought of going back home. you just couldn’t.

you bit back your tongue as Kate and a half-awake John moved to discuss with Alejandro in quiet murmurs that you couldn’t hear. they circled around a table, Soap and Gaz leaning into the conversation behind them.

you felt Ghost’s hand twitch on your hip as he shifted, gaze still trained on you.

sighing, you inclined your head in their direction. “go.”

he pressed his masked lips to your cheek in, what you deciphered as, a silent thank you. 

you just swatted at him with a blush as he helped you to your feet, drawing his trench coat tighter around your shoulders. Rodolfo lended you a gracious arm to lean on as Ghost neared the table, your ankle an irritable throb in the back of your mind. the crowd split, his broad form pushing through, and merged again, Ghost’s stetson half-obscured from view.

you wanted to join their circle, or lean in at least, and absorb their low murmurs, but instead Rodolfo helped you limp out of the train compartment into a plush hall.

you must’ve been in a first class sleeping car because you had not seen something so lush—springy green carpet beneath your boots and a ruby red wallpaper that crawled with patterns of roses and prickly vines. the lights overhead were gilded in gold.

Rodolfo must’ve caught your gaze because he gave you a half-smile, clarifying, “Kate pulled some strings.”

you just nodded weakly. the thought of one-four-one’s influence spreading to big railway conglomerates was staggering, but at this point, didn’t sweep you into shock.

he led you to a door with a carved brass knob and chiseled key hole, fumbling with a circlet of keys in his hand. you looked down the hall and startled when, at the end of the hallway compartment, you spotted a man staring straight back at you. he wore a fashionable black jacket with silver buttons and embellishments, a cap on his head that read pullman porter on a brass plating.

his eyes flickered from you to the door Rodolfo opened with a soft click, before he drew the hallway compartment door shut with a slam. you watched him stride away fast through the window, other first class passengers lounging lazily in the opposite compartment. 

“senorita?”

Rodolfo held the door open for you and you thanked him quickly, pulling yourself together and stepping into the luscious, but cramped, bedroom. politely, he closed the door, and you were left in a relief crushing silence.

the bed bowed beneath your weight as you sunk into it, kicking off your boots and laying out Ghost’s trench coat, falling back on it. you itched to loosen the strings of your corset but it was buried beneath too many layers of clothes for you to care about that now.

instead, you emptied the pockets of your fraying split skirt. you lined up Ghost’s journal, the matches, bunch of rope, and extra ammo on the bed. at the sight of it, you couldn’t help but lament the continuous absence of a revolver in your inventory.

you wondered if it was one-four-one’s intention to keep it that way as you picked through the room. there was an oil lamp on the nightstand—a carved cherry wood piece you took a moment to admire before moving to the equally exquisite armoire. opening it with a gasp, a bright bunch of fabric spilling into your face and almost knocking you back.

the thing was stuffed full of dresses and fancy garments—dresses, skirts, blouses in silk and chiffon with lacey embellishments. for a moment, you panicked. was this your designated room?

from outside the door, you heard someone taking slow steps down the hall. the knob was hallway turned when you swept up the stolen items you had laid out on the bed and shoved them back into your pockets. 

Ghost slinked into the room without so much as a word and a tired look. your heart was still beating out of your chest.

“ever heard of knocking?” you frowned deeply. “what if i was indecent?”

he huffed an amused sound at that, eyes twinkling as he sat on the bed. “i’ve seen you indecent before.”

your stomach curled at the memory. suddenly, being in such close proximity alone with Ghost felt like a sinful thing, and a heat snaked under your skin, traveling up to your cheeks till it burned in your ears.

he cocked his head at you but not unkindly. “we need to talk, lovely.”

you nodded. “yes.” then, curiosity overtook you. “but what’s this?” you gestured to the open doors of the armoire behind you. 

he cleared his throat and avoided your eyes, shifting on the bed. “they’re for you.”

your brows shot up. that’s what this was?

you looked from Ghost twitching on the bed to the stuffed armoire. you could imagine him picking out dresses and blouses and skirts at a tailor shop with Kate by his shoulder as you slept away the afternoon’s traumatizing events, then boarding the luxurious train with you curled into his arms.

a romantic gesture?

before you let your thoughts run away from you, sitting beside him on the bed, you had wanted to thank him in that polite manner your mama has always taught you, but you find yourself wanting to tease the apprehensive tenseness in his shoulders instead.

“it’s going to take a lot more than money to charm me, Simon,” you called softly, leaning into his side.

even if he had plenty of it, you thought dreamily, eyes running over the expensive fabric of his black suit.

he just scoffed, turning his head completely from you, but didn’t lean away. you inched behind him to smooth your hands over his shoulders which seemed to impossibly tighten even more.

“so tense,” you said in his ear, massaging your thumbs into the fleshy parts of his back. head tipping back slightly, his slow, deflating exhale didn’t go unnoticed. 

“we need to talk,” he repeated, voice gruff. you leaned over his shoulder to peer at his face, but his eyes had already slid shut beneath his mask.

humming, you rubbed circles into the back of his neck, then inching back down between his shoulder blades and along his spine. one hand on his back, you slid the other to the front, watching the way his shoulders laxed with wonder.

when your fingers fiddled with the button of his vest, his gloved hand caught your wrist, heavy eyes looking over his shoulder at you with a warning that dripped with something darker. you squirmed under his gaze, skin feeling impossibly hot, a familiar clench in your stomach.

“you minx,” he said, voice a low rumble that coaxed a whine from your throat and only darkened the look in Ghost’s eyes.

he began to push you over to the bed with a hand on your chest, towering over you with a glint in his eye, but you yelped, squirming away from his hold. the movement tipped you over the edge of the bed and you crashed into the nightstand, almost knocking over the oil lamp. your ankle screamed in protest, but the images flashing through your head cut right through the pain.

the man unbuckling his belt. Charles’s hand holding you down in an iron vice, rough lips against your skin. his hand digging into your naked flesh beneath your undergarments. both of them looming over you with black eyes, and the glint of gold—

“lovely?” Ghost steadied you with an arm around your waist—but not in a way that constricted you. his eyes searched your own.

“what is it?” he demanded, and you swallowed hard, shaking your head.

“nothing.” you laxed, curling over him and instead pressed him down so his back hit the bed with a thud. “it’s nothing.”

you clambered over him clumsily, allowing his hands to guide you to a comfortable position, legs hooked around his waist and hands braced against his chest. it was solid and warm beneath you, like a rock that swelled slowly. you bit down on your lower lip, trying to the best of your ability to ignore the sharp stabbing of your ankle.

“you sure?” from his warm grip on your hips, and the narrow of his eyes, you knew he didn’t believe you for a second. you didn’t think he was stupid enough to not know why.

but you nodded with a stuttering breath anyway. “just let me…” you searched for the words, finding your head back in the place where you laid with him only a night ago. “take care of you.”

you unbuttoned his vest as he worked on your blouse, pulling it off with an ease that sent chills down your spine. you squeaked with surprise when he pulled you flush to his chest, sitting up to throw his vest to the floor and strip off his dress shirt. untangling yourself from him, you stood to undo your skirt, letting it pool around your ankles.

you looked up to Ghost who watched you from the bed, eyes a hungry, smoky glare. you studied the muscled gleam of his torso, breath hitching at the sight of his stitches. the wound was a raw pink and dangerously loose.

huffing an impatient noise, you yelped when he pulled you back onto his lap, pressing his mask into your neck and hair. it screamed such a Simon gesture that it had you melting into him, clutching at the fabric on the back of his head. 

this was Simon. any dread furling at the edges of your mind dissipated. but still, you couldn’t hold yourself back from worrying— 

“your stitches?” you gasped, feeling him pull up the fabric of his mask and press his hot lips to your neck, tongue sliding out.

a breathy noise left your lips and you squirmed, bracing your hands against the brawn of his shoulders to push him back down to the bed again. he gave way easily, to your surprise.

in the low light of the day, his lips looked pretty and full as he licked them. “they’re fine.”

you ran your hands over his chest, gasping when he pressed his hips up gently into you. there was a hardness in his pants that felt delicious against that painful ache of your core.

you muffled a sigh, allowing his hands to drag you over that hardness once more, then you gasped again. your eyes snapped up to his and he smirked, teeth glinting in the light.

“feel good?”

your head tipped back, hands scrambling for purchase. you gripped tightly at his forearms.

“i’m supposed to be taking care of you,” you whined out as he rocked you back and forth.

“you are,” he grunted through gritted teeth, head lolling back against the pillows, his muscled neck bobbing with a heavy swallow. your eyes followed the movement with a hunger, feeling a strange desire to lick over it.

even through your drawers, the friction felt like heaven, and as his movements grew faster, the tightness of your corset felt constricting around the heavy pants of your breast.

noticing this, Ghost moved to quickly unstring it, your hips endlessly canting against him. you felt a wonderful burn in your core, traveling up to your chest, throat, and tingling behind your eyes that were screwed shut.

you gasped when the corset fell away, a coolness enveloping your bare skin, jolting when you felt something hot and wet at your nipples. looking down, you moaned at the sight of his tongue swirling around the hardened buds of your breast, suckling one into his mouth. it left your chest tingling, the feeling raw and sensitive and foreign, but you only wanted more.

“that’s it. moan for me, princess,” he purred, one hand trailing down your bare spine and stopping at your backside, massaging it down into his hardness, spurring your hips forward.

you barely registered his words, biting down hard on your lip to keep the growing noises at bay as Ghost led you closer and closer to an inevitable precipice. he drew away his tongue from your chest, looking up at you with narrowed eyes. you whimpered in its absence.

“louder, pretty thing.” he tugged back a bit on your hair, so your head tilted back and your lax jaw fell open, releasing a slew of pretty sighs that had him humming approvingly.

“good girl.”

his husky words sent you hurtling over the edge, and your body shook with pleasured delight, vibrating across your skin in seizing spams. you would’ve toppled over if it weren’t for the strong arms that circled your middle.

“Simon…” you whined, clutching weakly at his arms as he scattered kisses all across your jaw, neck, chest, breasts till the murky colors exploding in your vision faded.

he lowered you back down to the bed, and you collapsed beside him, panting. he stroked at your hair, turning onto his side with a warm fullness in his gaze. your lips stretched into a weak smile and you craned up to kiss his neck softly, licking over that swollen appendage in its center like you had wanted to earlier.

you relished in the way his breath hitched. eyeing over his body, there was still a bulge in his dress pants that stirred your curiosity.

sending him a silent question with your gaze, his knuckles dragged over your exposed arm. he cocked his head. “i’m alright, lovely.”

“but…” your face heated up. “i want to see.”

he shifted on the bed, black eyes darting over your face. for the first time since you’d known him, Ghost looked… nervous.

“why do you want to see?”

“because…” the words died in your throat. his lips stretched into a wry grin.

“you don’t need to. i like you like this,” he sighed, twirling your loose hair between his fingers.

your brow furrowed. “like what?”

his grin grew fuller. “innocent.”

you mustered your most bitter look and threw it at him, mood plummeting when he let out a throaty laugh.

“you really want to see that bad?” his eyes went dark again, and you nodded eagerly.

with a long look, a hand twitching at his side, he just sighed and willed you closer with a beckoning hand. you sat up with a sharp clarity to your mind, inching forward towards his pants. he remained leaned back against the pillows, one arm stretched over his body and cradling the back of his head as he unbuckled his pants with one hand.

he pulled himself out of his undergarments, the flesh heavy, swollen, firm, and drooling a thick fluid at the flushed tip. your whole body heated up with something—shame, embarrassment, longing, or something even deeper.

“oh,” you squeaked, avoiding his gaze entirely, though you knew it was burning into your cheek. he grabbed your chin, turning your head to meet it.

“we can stop here, but i don’t know if i can hold back if you just—” he swallowed hard, “watch me like that.”

“like what?” you asked, lips parting and eyes growing doe-like.

he cursed, and you watched in amazement when his hand flexed around his length, abdominal muscles flexing in time with it, tip oozing out more fluid. weirdly, saliva pooled in your mouth, and you resisted the urge to swallow it back.

you wanted to put your tongue on it.

“like that,” he rasped, throat strained with effort. 

you gazed at him wordlessly, hands feeling restless. you wanted to touch him.

he cocked his head. “what’s wrong?” 

when you said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin line, starting to tuck himself back into his pants, and you felt a growing panic in you. “i told you i’m alright pretty girl—”

“no!” you lurched forward to snatch his wrist away, his length straining against his stomach. his eyes snapped up in surprise and you felt your entire face go red with embarrassment. “i mean,” you inhaled deep, “no. i… i want to…”

you swallowed hard. Ghost lips twitched, a very amused expression stretching his face.

“can i…?”

his hand rubbed over your thigh, squeezing. “can you what, pretty thing?”

you whimpered, clutching at his hand. “want to put my mouth on it.”

the growl from the back of his throat should’ve scared you but it only spurred you forward, settling closer to the side of him, your thigh firmly pressed against his as you sat your backside over your ankles. one experienced a stabbing pain, but the sight in front of you cut right through the nagging sensation.

Ghost’s gaze was intense, heavier than you ever felt before, even with his body laxed back into the pillows, one arm hooked behind his head.

“go ahead, lovely.”

tentatively, you reached out, brushing your fingertips over the very tip of it where all the fluids were spilling out in rolls down his length. the hiss he let out made your core shiver, vibrating back to life in slow, hot pulses.

“what does it feel like?” you whispered, and his eyes closed.

“good.”

“how good?” you pressed, dragging your fingertips down the underside and back up again. his breath hitched when you brushed over a sensitive spot nestled beneath the tip. massaging at it with your thumb experimentally, his eyes snapped open again, snatching up your wrist.

your heart skipped a beat, a new worry clouding your mind. had you done something wrong?

on the verge of apology, you stopped short when he pressed a kiss to your inner wrist.

“you have to tell me if you want to keep going or not.” his eyes flashed. “if we do, i won’t want to stop, and i don’t want to scare you.”

even beneath the layers of his mask, the way his jaw was set in a grim clench, you could see the sincerity in his face.

“i want to make you feel good,” you said with finality, and his lips twitched up.

“i know you do.” he rubbed your cheek with affection. “such a polite girl.”

“tell me what to do,” you almost begged, squirming in his hold, and he guided your hand back down to his swollen length, gasping when he wrapped your entire hand around it.

it was wet, sticky, warm, throbbing.

“feels good when you squeeze tighter,” he said softly, eyes going hazy when you immediately obeyed. slowly, he dragged your hand up and down its length, going completely lax against the bed.

you watched in amazement, clenching your thighs together as your entire hand went up and down it in a rhythmic grind, the swells of his chest rising faster with every ministration. his eyes fluttered close periodically, sometimes tightening his hold on your hand, then going loose, altering speeds between painstaking slowness and a quick jerking movement.

“doin’ good, princess,” he panted, and you flushed at the praise because you really weren’t doing anything.

scanning over his body, you remembered the way his breath stopped short when your tongue was on his skin. 

you wanted to hear those sounds again. 

leaning down, you shyly mouthed over the skin at his neck, sucking there, and you were immediately spurred on with the low groan that left his lips.

your lips traveled down past his collarbones, to the plush muscle of his chest, tongue circling his nipples now, and he jolted in beneath you, hand stuttering almost to a stop.

“christ,” he gritted out as you sucked there, thighs squirming together for an ounce of relief.

you found it when Ghost snaked a hand beneath your drawers, seeking out your puffy clit and eagerly discovering it, rubbing firm circles against you.

your lips fell away from his chest, and you almost crumpled onto him, grinding down into his hand with a greediness that bloomed through your whole body. he hummed approvingly in your ear, kissing the shell of it gently, when you jerked your hand over his length on your own—matching the movements of his fingers on your clit.

“fuck, just like that,” he rasped, sounding a bit desperate now.

his hand fell away from yours around his length, gripping at your hip instead to steady you. when he sped up, so did your hand, sparks flying beneath your eyelids as you keened loud. his lips were on your neck, and your whole body went numb, but your gaze was intent on his own length that throbbed deliciously strong in your hand.

it twitched, then shuddered, and you felt Ghost muffle a groan against your neck as his hips stuttered up, watching in amazement as fluids spurted out from the tip in rhythmic pulses, rolling down over your hand in a milky substance.

you both shuddered through mutual pleasure, and once the last of the wracking waves struck you, you crashed forward into his chest, a sticky and sweaty mess.

you caught his eye, tired and half-lidded, a bead of sweat going down his neck as his chest rose rapidly, and you couldn’t help but laugh—feeling giddy from the open display of his own pleasure that Ghost had just revealed to you.

his lax face shifted into one of amusement, craning down to kiss your nose. that’s when you remembered—

“i didn’t put my mouth on it,” you realized with a cracking disappointment. 

looking down to his length, now softer and still covered in the fluids, you leaned down to press your tongue to it, but were pulled back suddenly by a soft hiss.

“don’t,” Ghost rasped, and you gave him a wide-eyed apologetic look. 

he just shook his head. “it’s different than this—” he smoothed a hand over your clothed cunt, and you gasped with embarrassment at the blunt movement, “—s’more sensitive after i orgasm.”

you tilted your head. “orgasm?”

he brushed the hair from your sweaty forehead. “your climax,” he elaborated in a seductively smooth voice and you blushed, pushing his hand away as he smirked. you knew what he meant.

your gaze traveled back to the pool of fluid on his stomach, a curiosity brewing in you. “is that what this is?”

he followed your gaze. “mhmm. it’s what this is, too.”

he snaked his hand back into your undergarments, and you jolted with a gasp, squirming when he pressed two fingers against your entrance. when he pulled them back to show you, there was a sticky wetness on them—similar to the one on his pelvis.

“oh,” you said, flushed with embarrassment at such blunt displays of education.

you mentally chided your mama for teaching you absolutely nothing about this. though, you assumed she would’ve told you before your marriage about… lovemaking.

before a crashing guilt could consume you, the view of Ghost wrapping his tongue around his fingers that were sticky with your orgasm startled you back to reality.

“Ghost!” you exclaimed, pulling his fingers out of his mouth. 

his brow furrowed as he huffed with frustration. “what?”

“that’s improper!” you slapped at his chest. “very improper! and…” your face screwed up. “unsanitary.”

that face-consuming smirk of his stretched his pretty lips. “don’t forget i was drinking it straight from the source last night.”

with your hand to your mouth, you gasped, pushing yourself completely off the bed as he shook with quiet laughter, delirious with it, even.

“i’m done with you,” you said with a roll of your eyes as he beseeched you to come back, but you refused to comply, clasping your corset back around you.

out of the corner of your eye, you watched him mop up the wetness on his body with his balled up dress shirt before he padded over, swiping your hair over your shoulder.

“let me help.”

you felt him lace the thing back up, and tug it close loosely. you sent him a look over your shoulder, instructing him to tighten it more, but he just grumbled, barely tugging it tight and you ended up shooing him away to do it yourself.

he gave you a grumpy, reproachful look and you had to bite back a grin at his behavior—that intimidating stoicism returned as promised as a rising ocean tide.

from the armoire, you picked out a loose nightgown, bodice embroidered with small bows and lace, sleeves pulling into a wide bell shape at your elbow. Ghost was still half-naked, leaning back on your bed with a sleepy gaze. he gave you a highly approving hum when you pulled it on before excusing yourself to wash up in the lavatory.

drawing Ghost’s trench coat back around your shoulders, and stepping into the hall, you muffled a shout when the same pullman porter was stationed at the end of the hallway, eyes boring into you. in the darkness of the night, shadows were cast strangely across his face, and his eyes looked like they were a pure black.

resisting the urge to step back into your room, where a very dangerous and strong outlaw lay, you just gave the porter a polite nod to move to a lavatory in the opposite direction. the porter stood stock still in the dark, not even moving to acknowledge you.

bitten with fear, you sighed in relief when you pushed into the private lavatory, locking the door behind you. inspecting your appearance in the mirror, you cringed at the disheveledness of it. there was a dark, purpling circle of exhaustion under your eyes and a swollen pink hue to your face—not to mention the frizzy circlets of hair defying gravity on your crown.

you took your own washcloth and dipped it in the basin, turning the faucet, praying for hot water. when none came after you stripped yourself of your nightgown, you grimaced as you scrubbed the cold washcloth over yourself. you wet your hair and brushed it back, splashing your face with the icy water, toweling off, then redressing yourself in the nightgown.

a hand on the lavatory knob, you worried about the porter at the end of the hallway. what if he had moved? what if, when you opened the door, you’d open it to his face—the all-encompassing black of his eyes?

suddenly, events just hours prior came crashing down on you. men looming over you. the sickening thud of the bullet hitting that man on his horse, face going black, before falling to the ground with a crunch. the clink of a belt.

gunshots were in your ears, an intense ringing after each click, trigger, pull, boom and smoke.

“no,” your hands shook as you slid down the lavatory wall, covering your ears. 

the banging became louder. with each boom another body dropped dead, blood unfurling around it like a bad omen, its tendrils snaking. snaking towards you. 

“no, no.” you couldn’t stop shaking.

this was your fault.

you had killed three men today. one, on the horse, second, bullet through the face, third, beat him to death in the ground. beat him to death.

this was your fault. this was your fault, this was your fault, this was your fault—

“HEY!” you jolted back to reality, breath in a dizzying flurry. really dizzying flurry. when you stood, you felt nauseous, almost keeling over and throwing up. you pressed your forehead to the cool of the wall, swallowing back the bile hard.

there was a banging knock on the door.

“how much fockin’ longer are ye going to take’n there?” you tried to work out your voice but all that came out was a scraping rasp.

“sweet mother of mary and jesus, what does a man need to do to piss ‘round here—”

you swung the door open suddenly and Soap jumped back with a yelp, pressed flat against the opposite of the narrow hallway. the soft, yellow lighting poured out into the dark hallway and bruises you didn’t notice before littered Soap’s cheeks, his right eye a pocket of swollen, purple flesh.

his anger dissipated in a second at the sight of you, giving you a nervous, wry smile.

“sorry, lassie, didn’t know it was you—” he paused suddenly, face contorting. “are ye cryin’, lassie?”

you touched your fingers to your numb face, pulling back to find a wetness on your fingertips. you just stared at him as he fumbled awkwardly, mouth opening and closing.

you spoke for him. “i killed three men.”

he didn’t even react, expression deflating as he nodded. “it happens, lass.”

he reached out a hand tentatively, just barely brushing his good hand over your shoulder, the other still hanging limp by his chest in a white sling.

how can murder be normal?

“no, i killed them. on purpose.” something in you broke. “i wanted them to die.”

he just shook his head again, gripping your shoulder tightly now. “they would’ve done worst te you if you didn’t, bonnie.”

you chewed that, finding it indigestible no matter how you looked at it.

Soap continued quickly, “i enlisted when i was sixteen. saw things in a war i shouldn't've. luckily one-four-one and Laswell had my back…”

he smiled fondly before shrugging. “war happens. death happens, lassie, whether you wish it on someone or not. those men had it comin’ for ‘em.”

nodding slowly, you barely mustered a tight-lipped smile when he patted your shoulder brazenly, beaming with a grin. behind him, a grumpy looking blonde materialized in the hallway, her hair tousled and still in full riding attire, grip tight at her holster. Soap’s grip dropped immediately.

“what’s goin’ on here?” Kate demanded, looking from you to Soap.

you jolted, the roughness of her expression pulling you back to reality. a creeping shame rose in you—crying in front of a man you barely knew, confessing your sins to him in your lacey nightgown in the middle of the dark, narrow hallway. Kate’s gaze hardened, and you balked, struggling to find an explanation when Soap interjected.

“i was just waitin’ to use the loo!” he tossed you a smile, but there was a mischievous glint in his eyes that told you to play along. “funny meetin’ you here in the hallway, princess!”

like ice water dumped over your head, you were strung back into your body. 

you rolled your eyes. “don’t call me that.”

“right,” Soap sang, “only Ghost can say it. apologies, lass.”

you stepped out of the lavatory with Ghost’s coat around you and Soap slid in after you, shutting the door. looking into Kate’s furrowed face, you could see the red-rimmed bloodshot of her eyes and the bags beneath them. she looked exhausted.

beyond her, down the hall in the compartment where you ventured from earlier, John, Alejandro, and Rodolfo were still engrossed in conversation.

Kate followed your gaze with a sigh. “don’t even ask, missy,” she warned with a warm hand at your back and you suppressed a smile.

you were grateful as she led you back down the narrow hallway to your room, the porter still in the same spot from earlier, eyes dead on you. eyes looking dead as well.

you tried your best to ignore him but his head jerked, cracking it, rolling back his shoulders from the stiff position. rushing a bit faster, you could feel Kate’s hand tighten against your spine as you fumbled with the room key.

you jolted when she called down the hall.

“what the hell’re you lookin’ at?” she griped at the porter, who finally turned his head to the window beside him.

her eyes narrowed, and she grumbled low into your ear, “don’t go venturing off in this train alone at night, as much as i know you love to explore.”

there was a dripping sarcasm in her voice that you chose to ignore as you swung the door open, bidding her a soft goodnight as she gave you a tight-lipped smile before it dropped from her face into a scowl. but the full look in her eyes made you feel as though you may have grown closer than you thought over just the past three days.

shutting the door behind you, you leaned against it, sighing out, before turning to find Ghost in a sprawled out position like before. your spent clothes for the day were folded in the corner on a plush chair as well as his own. you couldn’t help but smile at that seemingly persistent habit of neatness he had as you laid down his coat over the back of the chair.

you neared him but he didn’t turn to look at you, just leaned his head against the wall.

you crawled onto the bed and brushed your knuckles over the red mask. you were disappointed to see the black fabric beneath it pulled down over his jaw again.

“have a good wash?”

he blinked owlishly out the window on the opposing wall, desert passing by serenely, washed in a cool blue tone by the sweep of the moonlight. the rattling of the train clinked through the room.

you opened your mouth before swallowing down hard. 

no one has to know about your episode.

Soap had made sure of that in front of Kate, and you felt endlessly indebted to him. how would Ghost react if he knew you were having… mental struggles? you could only pray under your breath that it wouldn’t persist, but you doubted god was listening to your meek voice after the sins you’ve committed today.

shivering, you just nodded with a smile. “refreshing.”

“good.” his face swung to you, a hardness to his eyes. your brow furrowed but you buried it with another smile. “we need to talk.”

blinking, you slinked away from him and sat on the far edge of the bed, which wasn’t very far at all in the cramped room, his outstretched foot resting against your hip. you leaned back against the window, the moonlight casting his mask in a blue gleam.

“we do,” you agreed, though about what—you didn’t know where to begin.

what exactly would happen once you reached san francisco? would you be included in their business, or would they shut you out like before? a stranger and a hostage? 

you one-overed Ghost’s relaxed form, to the muscles of his torso, the veins spidering up his arms, and the distant look in his eyes.

what was going on between you and Ghost?

what exactly was phase two?

you thought back to this afternoon in the basement and what you had found—the intercepted letter from your daddy and Ghost’s journal. your eyes darted to the pile of clothes in the room.

“looking for this?”

you jolted when he tossed something onto the open space of the bed beside you, stomach dropping at the words scrawled over it.

GHOST.

a snaking dread sized you, any lingering warm feelings of your shared night sliding off your body like icy water.

your eyes snapped up to his—cold and dark. 

like the porter’s, a traitorous voice in you called out, but you immediately willed it away, because this was Simon.

“you can’t blame me for snooping.” your jaw clenched when he didn’t respond. “you took me and confined me to the shop. no one told me what would happen to me. i needed to know if…”

you swallowed around your next words. “...if you were going to ransom me back to my daddy.”

Ghost made no move, didn’t even blink, hand twitching on his bare chest.

“you want the truth?” holding your breath, you gave him a curt nod.

“i was going to,” he chewed out, and you blinked. “last night i was still deciding.”

last night. when you were curled up in his arms and he had taken your first bout of innocence from you. a spark of something dark lit within you. as of recent, it seems he’s taken a lot from you in general.

your gun, your innocence, your parents. your home.

“did you go see my daddy that day?”

that day when you said you were searching for Sugar, you wanted to challenge, was it all a lie?

you thought back to the intercepted letter—your daddy’s anger seething through the note, and his promise to wrung one-four-one of everything until he got you back. maybe the proper term was rescue.

Ghost’s jaw clenched. “yes.”

you sucked in a breath, a spiraling panic coming back to you like the one in the lavatory before. you willed it away best you could, pressing cool knuckles to your temple as you closed your eyes. images flashed—your daddy dead, blood everywhere, all over his papers, letters, clothes, a bullet in his temple and Ghost with a revolver to his head. was he dead?

did Ghost kill your daddy?

“is he alive?”

you waited for the answer with bated breath.

“‘course. even if he tried to kill me.”

a whoosh of air left you, and you leaned your head back against the cool window, taking in Ghost. his head was tilted, a curious glint in them that you ignored. 

his voice was cold. “anymore questions?”

you gave him a hard stare. “what changed your mind?”

“about?”

you scoffed. “not selling me away after…” last night. you couldn’t bring yourself to say it.

his foot pressed into your hip but you ignored it. he sighed out.

“i went to your father to offer a ransom.” your brow raised. “$25,000.”

this sounded familiar. 

“but he refused.”

you flinched at that, somewhere between a crushing weight of disappointment and embarrassment falling on you. you wiped away a brewing wetness in your eyes. Ghost couldn’t return you if your daddy didn’t want you in the first place.

“so?”

his foot dug deeper into your side.

“he told me something else.”

you finally met Ghost’s gaze, his head tipped forward and brows furrowed. you could tell from the way his eyes pinched with a haunted glare.

after a long silence ensued, you poked at his foot. “what was it?”

the void bluntness of his voice told you it wasn’t anything good.

“he refused the ransom because of his pride, but also because he didn’t want to ransom you when…” Ghost sucked in a breath, “when you already belonged to someone else.”

your mind reeled at that.

“what?”

“he thought it wasn’t fair he had to pay. he was already working with a businessman to make you his mistress.”

your stomach curdled, heart beating out your throat. “no, that’s…” you choked down some tears, “that’s not true.”

the end of your words turned up in a weak tremble that you desperately wanted to hide but Ghost pinned you down with his eyes.

“he was going to make you Turner’s mistress. that was part of their deal.”

your blood chilled at that, body going impossibly numb. what did this mean for you now? you scrambled to find purchase in your mind, in anything that would slow the spinning of the room. what did this mean for you now?

were you still of use to one-four-one? would they abandon you in san francisco to fight a war, leaving you to the streets? and if they did, would your daddy accept you back in his home, or turn you right over to Turner as his personal whore?

you shook, vision clouded over.

even if you didn’t choose your daddy, you still wish he chose you over everything.

you were his only daughter after all.

“that doesn’t make sense,” you said thickly, “why would he do that?”

Ghost was as still as a rock, his only sign of life was the hand that came down to play with the hem of your nightgown.

“bigger investment and more money, ” he said, voice eerily empty, and an iciness passed through you.

just another one of Daddy’s business transactions. 

you remember what Ghost called out at the dinner table that night.

you sell your daughter to investors for a buck. do you really want to talk about honor?

your eyes flickered to Ghost again. had he known all along? or had he just taken a great guess from doing so many years of business with your daddy—who you really didn’t seem to know at all?

a weak, strangled noise came from the back of your throat.

“but in that letter,” you groped, clawing for anything, “he said he would do anything to get me back. he said that.” 

your voice rose and Ghost’s eyes slid away from you to the window behind you.

you felt like a whining, whimpering child. a mile long chasm was being torn straight through the room, and when you looked to the other side, Ghost was the older, war-torn man he always was and you were just… you.

hopeful, naive, innocent.

you.

you balled up into your chest and let the tears stream from your eyes in the most silent sobs you could muster, only the gentle clinking of glass on metal in the room, train chugging on relentlessly, dragging you in tow.

had you really thought, only five days ago, that you could become a gunslinger alongside Ghost? a cowgirl with a great shot and a tough spirit?

you felt so far from all of it that you dug your nails into the soreness of your ankle, relishing the way the sharp waves of pain brought you back down to earth.

there was a sigh in your ear, and two strong arms that wrapped you up, but you twisted in them immediately, your nails digging into the flesh of Ghost’s arms as you shoved him away. 

“don’t you dare,” you hissed, pressing yourself as far as you could from him in the diminishing room. your eyes flickered to the ceiling above his head. it really looked like the room was getting smaller—the ceiling shrinking by the second.

he only watched you with an eerie calm, a nauseous feeling climbing in you.

“you did this,” you spat through tears. “a couple days ago i was with my mama and daddy and everything was fine until you showed up.”

your breath shook. “you devil.” 

whether Ghost was hurt by it, you couldn’t tell, because he only blinked harshly, but you regretted the words anyways. because you knew that Ghost was telling the truth. even if you did stay with your mama and daddy, and Ghost had never taken you, you would’ve been swept away to Turner’s big estate in san francisco anyway.

but the bile poured from you like a sweltering, infected wound. “i would’ve been married,” you cried out, tears dripping from your trembling chin onto the breast of your nightgown. of Ghost’s nightgown.

liar, a voice in you hissed, but you pushed it to the furthest corner of your mind. 

“you stole me from my parents, took my honor, and you’re a liar!”

Ghost cocked his head at you, eyes glazed over and mask glinting. you hated that stupid mask. you just wanted to rip it off his face.

you jolted when he spoke, grumbling out, “i didn’t mean to.”

if there was a revolver slung in your holster, you would’ve shot him dead three times in the heart by now, just like your mama said.

Mama, a little girl in you cried, i’m sorry. i should’ve listened to you that first night in the cabin when he fell asleep.

he continued with gritted teeth. “i wanted revenge against your father for betraying me and i wanted revenge on Turner.” he wouldn’t look at you now. “i wanted to steal something of theirs and make it mine.”

of all the things he could’ve said, nothing in the world prepared you then. you lurched for him, vision red and wrapped your hands around his neck, wanting to see a flicker of fear in his eyes—or something other than the cold, dead wall you were talking to.

but he just flipped you easily in a calculated movement, weight keeping you pinned as you mindlessly struggled, arms in a bind above your head.

he talked over your cries and shouts now, voice in your ear— “i knew your daddy had a daughter. but i didn’t know she was so young and full of spirit and…” your struggling subsided. the look in his eyes seemed something like defeat. “...lovely.”

you spat right onto his mask but he didn’t even flinch.

“liar,” you hissed, working up into a frenzy again, squirming against his bone-crushing hold. “liar, liar, liar, liar—”

“i thought his daughter would be some rich, prissy girl who didn’t want anything to do with outlaws. then she told me she hated her happy, small town life, and her two parents that loved her.”

“liar, liar, liar, liar—”

“she told me that she could be a gunslinger if she wanted to be. she rode like one, too.”

you tried to scream and shout over his words and block it out of your brain, but his low murmur against your ear cut right through it all.

“when i realized what’d i’d done, that i’d stolen a girl who was a thief, it was too late. you saved my life when i got shot. i thought you would’ve ran away and left me for dead.”

his voice dropped even lower, the forehead of his cool mask pressing against your jaw. “i wanted you to leave me for dead.”

at that, your struggling subsided, confusion welling up in you like a stormy cloud.

“i wanted you to leave me for dead.”

he pulled back to press your arms to your chest and loomed over you.

“i wanted to be dead for what i was doing.”

you kicked out under his legs, knee connecting with something soft, and he dropped his hips with a hiss to pin you down.

“what were you doing?”

his voice was deceptively soft. “i was using you for revenge.”

more tears ran from the sides of your face like fleeing raindrops.

then a fast anger cooked in you, a slower simmer turning to a hot boil.

“i hate you,” you seethed, staring right into the wall of his mask. there wasn’t a human being beneath there.

just a calculated animal.

“i hate you,” you said again, voice breaking.

“good,” he nodded, though his tone was broken. “honest to god, i didn’t know your father was going to give you to Turner.”

you hissed, “how can you be honest to god?”

he ignored you. “i would’ve returned you to your family if they paid the ransom. even if they didn’t, i would’ve given you back eventually. but they didn’t want you and you didn’t want to go. it was always about Turner—we didn’t care about the money. your father happened to betray us and we found the perfect bloody outlet to Turner.”

you dug the side of your face into the side of the bed, refusing to look at him as he held you there. a pool of your tears formed beneath the swollen fleshiness of your cheek.

“i needed Turner to take the first step in this war. and he did. i got lucky when i happened to steal his future mistress.” his eyes flashed. “Turner hates it when his things are taken.”

“since, you’ve gotten what you want,” you cried, voice raw “what do you still need me for?” 

he closed his eyes. “i don’t know.”

“liar.” the word was becoming melded into your tongue. “you want to use me for revenge. is that all i’m useful for, then?” your throat cracked open, wide and full of emotion. “i’m just for your revenge? did you bed me for revenge?”

his gaze was half-lidded, tired. “yes.”

you fell limp at that, feeling every ounce of energy drain from you—like the devil was sucking away your life force.

you wanted that poisonous, gurgling voice inside you to breathe out another liar, to call Ghost’s bluff for what it was, but it fell silent the moment you needed it most.

closing your eyes, Ghost’s body draped over your own, warm and solid and flushed together. he pressed his mask into your hair. 

bourbon, cigarettes, and the musk of wood and dirt and sweet spruce. 

you couldn’t even fight it. you don’t even think you wanted to—because even if no one wanted you in the world, not even your daddy, Ghost did want you for something. one thing. 

revenge.

“get out,” you whispered, and he didn’t move, a big, swelling rock above you.

“get out!” you shouted, straight into his ear, but he didn’t even flinch. after another long pause he slid off you with a gentleness, a fleeting caress of his hand against your swollen ankle before he slinked away. there was a soft click of the door closing, Ghost’s boots thumping against the floor in the hallway.

you stayed in that position for a long time, pressed to the mattress right where he had left you. 

it was like, if you moved, the invisible imprint of him against your skin would disappear like his physical form, lost into the night. 

maybe this is what you needed, you decided. maybe, if you could convince one-four-one of your usefulness, that you were important to them, even beyond Ghost’s revenge ploys, you would become a permanent member and carve out a space in their lives. but not Ghost’s. never Ghost’s.

a withering, squirming dread in your stomach made it known that it would be impossible. at this point, you were too tired to even try and convince them to let you stay.

so you turned over and forced yourself into a relentless, exhausting sleep.

ok that was kinda crazy. but i promise the angst will not last forever. chapter 3 coming soon.........

i hope you guys enjoyed!! &lt;;33

taglist: @poohkie90 @kunikku @silverianni @doublesuicidewithme @cliosunshine @one17 @warenai @saturnknows @tomiesdiet @migueloharaapologist2 @keiva1000 @kenma-izhu @lilvampirina @deltottoro @maki-z @leeeenistop @danika1994 @stillinracooncity @saevitiaa @itsalwaysbetternottoknow @karagd13-blog @nattywatty @oyaoyaoyaoyaoyaoyaoyaoya @havoc973 @mr-sol

Will You Let Me?

Masterlist Here, Pollen Masterlist Here

Word count: 4,500+

Synopsis: Your crew was docked at a port, exploring a new land while you requested to remain behind. Enjoying being without the unruly bunch, your momentary calm was disrupted by the staggering step of your superior. Coughs, grunts and stuttering over his words: your concern grew more severe as you offered to help him through it.

Themes: pollen!killer x gn!reader, NSFW, mdni, 18+, smut, penetration reader!receiving, swearing, dubcon, begging, pleading, apologising, bruising, crying, rough, do not read if you do not enjoy the trope, fluff at the end, semi-ooc.

Notes: first time writing gn!reader smut! I enjoyed the challenge, but forgive me if there's a word that is used incorrectly! I am still learning inclusive language.

Pollen is a fun trope to play with, but please do not read if you don't enjoy.

Apprehensive Tag List: @sordidmusings @remisloves @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @since-im-already-here @mfreedomstuff @icy-spicy

The hot sun shone over the wooden deck of the Victoria Punk. The soft waves gently rocked the boat with a subtle lull, the screech of gulls only aiding your heart to swell in merry solitude.

It was a rare occasion that you were tasked to remain behind while the crew explored a foreign area. Your skills as a linguistics specialist usually meant your silver tongue was called for to coax a good deal, or to decipher scratchings on cave walls. Considering this area was only a port meant for resupply, Captain Kid deemed your skills unnecessary for the journey in land.

Never one to complain, and genuinely giddy at the notion of being secluded and alone for a change, you jumped at the opportunity to stay with the Victoria Punk. You adored your ship, and decided to utilise the opportunity to check over her planks, ropes, and panels that may be in need for repair.

As the day went on, you did not expect a member of your crew to return so suddenly: especially the hulking masked figure of Massacre Soldier Killer. Being the first-mate, he was usually by Kid's side, no matter the circumstances.

Coughing, sneezing and sputtering: Killer’s right hand shot out to grasp your left shoulder. The firmness of his grip was bordering on painful, prompting you to wince in response to the hard strangulation of flesh.

“Something gross hit me in the face,” he strained from behind the teal and ivory mask, “Stuck in my chest and my throat. Not feeling good. Gotta-... fuck-... I gotta lie down or something.”

Concern and worry knit itself over your face, examining the staggering movement of Killer’s body as he retreated below deck. He stuttered and gripped onto the wooden beams, walls and ceiling to stabilize his movement: his body almost giving way beneath the pressure.

“Kil, do you need-,” you began, halting as his voice raised over the top of yours.

“-‘M fine. D-Don’t worry, ‘kay?” he called over his shoulder before disappearing below deck. His large figure seemed to both be inflated and deflated with a foreign paralysis in his choppy, staggered steps. The waves did nothing to sooth him in his glide throughout the halls.

As soon as he reached crew-quarters, he all but shredded his clothes and cast them away from his body. His skin was alite with violent lust, his hands moving against his will to fist, claw and paw at the erogenous zones of his torso, stomach, legs, and his puckered nipples.

He arched his back as his hands gripped the base of his already steel-like cock, immediately pumping it in his right fist. His left hand clawed at the flesh of his chest and lay flat over his heart as he felt the rise in fluttered rapidity.

Scraping and gripping downwards with his left hand, he pushed hard on the base of his stomach, feeling how tightly wound the banded coil was wound in the pit of his stomach: bound hard enough to snap. Every muscle was tense, firm and aching for relief. He began sniffling and sobbing behind his mask, never truly experiencing the shame in the desperation his body was craving before.

He was the only one who managed to not avoid the hessian bag of powdered flowers falling from the rooftop of the naturopathic remedy building. Apologetic calls echoed down from the roof before panic began to rise in the workers. Killer could scarcely process voices above the throbbing ache in his lower abdomen.

Barely hearing several repetitions of Kid’s voice calling: “Killer, are you alright? Kil, are you alright?” All Killer could do was splutter and cough through the burning in his chest.

Golden flecks danced over his eyes beneath the mask, the pollen sucked immediately through the holes and embedded several clusters within the circular orifices. No matter how many times he wiped at the mask with his hands, he continued to inhale the sticky-sweet smell of herbal flowers within deep gulps of his lungs.

“Get him back home!” a hushed voice hurriedly spat at Captain Kid, “He needs a companion, someone to take care of him while he's going through this. Someone caring and kind enough to-.”

“-Don't tell me what to do! Kil, you know the way back to the ship from here?” Kid’s voice barked at Killer, prompting the blonde to spark a moment of clarity in his progressingly foggy mind, “The linguist is back there. They'll take care of ya’ if ya’ need it, okay?”

“Okay,” Killer managed to stutter out, his body scorching hot and violently in need.

“Okay!” Kid parrotted back, looking at the shopkeeper, “Okay, great. Now that's settled, we need a couple things from you. Let's get that sorted before-."

As Killer continued fisting at his cock, he felt release on the tip of his tongue. His eyes were scrunched tightly shut and his lips were parted wide. Unbeknownst to him, each time he panted through his heavy inhales and exhales; more of the toxic pollen punctured his lungs and poisoned his bloodstream with arousal.

He was consumed with lust, a beast untamed and unbridled. There was no release for him, no relief that came thereafter. He was isolated, confused, scared and manic. He needed something, someone, anyone-.

“-No,” Killer spoke aloud in a strangled whisper, “Not anyone. I need the linguist. I n-need-... fuck-... I need my linguist. Where i-is my linguist?”

Continuing about your task of ensuring all of the ropes were properly coiled and laid, your heart began to pang with guilt. You decided to cast aside all further self-induced tasks and seek out the first-mate you serve beside, attempting to offer him comfort through his illness. He seemed so adamant about isolation, but you felt called to be by his side.

Venturing below deck, his painful strain of wanton moans called to you. Muffled groans of pain exhumed from the room, cries of anguish falling through the door. Your deepest sympathies clawed at you to push through the door. Your hand hesitated it's rise against the wooden panel, your body almost walking away before you heard a gentle and heartfelt cry of your name falling from Killers lips.

“I-If you're there,” Killer’s voice again called for you, “Please come in. Please,” he chanted your name with a soft, strangled moan, “Please. I need you.”

Immediately, your body moved against your will. Twisting the knob to crew quarters, you swung the door wide and was immediately met with the sight of your first mate: glistening in beads of sweat and shed of all but his teal and ivory face covering, and viciously pulling at his cock.

“Killer! Why did you tell me to come in if you were doing that?” you shouted in a harsh whisper, immediately slamming the door shut behind you and scrunching your eyes tightly shut, “I don't want to watch that!”

Thick silence aside from the cruel pistoning of his firm hand slapping against his lower stimach engulfed the air. Soft huffs of muffled pants escaped gritted teeth, Killer's mask doing the heavy lifting in silencing his cries for you.

“I don't want you to watch,” Killer confessed in a soft, breathy whine, “Please don't watch,” he keened for you, “Participate.”

“Killer!” you shot over your shoulder at him with a warning tone, “What are you-?”

“-I would never a-ask if I didn't-...” He trained off in a strangled whimper, desperately clenching down on his tongue with his teeth and biting back his needy sobs, “...I-I need you. I need you. Only you.”

“Kil,” you sighed at him, your concern written over you'd face, “Have you taken something? Was it the gross thing from earlier? Did that have an effect on you? Like a drug-?”

“-Look at me,” a barked command exited the holes in the mask, “Please, look at me,” he pleaded, gasping as he grasped at his cock, fisting the flesh and whimpering as he was brought to the brink of ecstacy once again, “Just look at me, please. I just need your eyes on me. Eyes on me.”

“Killer,” you whimpered, finally turning to face him. As soon as your eyes met with the icy stare beneath his mask, you were entranced. Your body propelled you against forward, called to serve the needs of the first mate in a hypnotic trance.

“I need you,” he sobbed, reaching for you with his left hand as his right continued beating his weeping cock, “Only you. Please, let me have you?”

Your body continued reacting against your will, your brain becoming foggy as Killer’s lust thickened the air with all-consuming need. Shame coursed just as heavily throughout your body as the arousal at just the thought of taking Killer’s cock into you began coursing through your veins.

“Please,” he whined, his eyes holding your own as you stripped yourself of your clothes, “Please,” his lips spilt as you straddled his lap, “Please,” as you immediately began sinking yourself down over the tip of his knob.

His precum did little to prepare you your your descent, focussing on your wanton need to have him within you to open your body up to receive him. Killer moaned your name, crying out with baited breath as you slowly consumed all of his length with the grip of your tight hole.

As soon as he felt your heat take his entire length, he was already a babbling mess. There was no strings of cohesive thought as his length became strangled within your tight center. He immediately began shooting your body full of ropes of thick release, ribbon after ribbon of his pale translucent ecstasy.

He cried out for you in warning before painting your walls white with his sticky cum. The pearly beads of his lust coated your tight hole immediately, strings of praise falling from his lips as he rode through his high with you fully impaled on his thick cock.

But he remained firm, hard and desperate for more.

“Wha-...” he began, his understanding of his own arousal and relief not aiding him in the slightest as he thrust up into you. He moaned as he sheathed his lengthy shaft deep within you again, your own arousal now taking over as you started to roll your hips against him while sat fully engulfed by him.

“Killer, what's going on?” you questioned him, your confusion and worry knit on your face, “You're s-still hard.”

“I-I am,” he confirmed, a soft mewl of bliss echoed beneath his mask as he rolled his hips up into you, “What’s happening to me?”

His hands found your hips, rocking you above him as he began feeling another wave of need course through his veins. As his hands embedded into your hips, you winced at the sting. His strength depicted in his grasp, gripping you like a lifeline anchoring himself to the world surrounding him.

He tried.

He tried so hard to be gentle.

He wanted to be gentle for you. Needed to be gentle for you.

But his grip turned sinister, turned brutal and unforgiving as he thrust up into you. His end was coming to a close as he chased it with you writhing and pleading on his lap. His desperation enticed him to continue bullying your tight center with vicious snaps of his bruising slaps.

“Kil,” you called for him, feeling his cock touch a depth within you that had your back arching and mewling for him, “Oh, Kil. I'm close.”

“Please,” he begged, desperately thrusting up into your lap as his end stampeded before his eyes, “Please cum. Please. N-Need it.”

“Killer,” you called for him, feeling the band weave ever tighter within your abdomen, spiraling and coiling within the pit of your stomach, “Kil I'm gonna-.”

“-Oh, fuck!” he roared, his body immediately betraying him as he coated your insides with ropes of hot, sticky, and heavy cum for the second time. His balls sucked up inside his body, his entire being screaming in relief as his release was once again began satisfying his unbridled lust for you.

But his cock still remained firm.

Your eyes clenched firmly shut, the corners wincing at the slight pinch as the coil snapped deep within you. White-hot ecstacy coursed through your veins, your body releasing your bliss over yours, and Killers, bodies as you rode through your high seated on his lap.

His hands were firm, rocking you atop him with a guiding, harsh rhythm as you called his name. Your whole being was alight with passion, your eyes now opening and looking down at the man beneath you.

Killer didn't realize it until he felt his eyes roll back in his skull, his body immediately ushered into a third orgasm as your body milked him with the rhythmic thumps of your warm orgasm. But he still remained firm, hard and needy. He inhaled a deep, shaky breath: particles of pollen immediately spiraling in a cylindrical vacuum deep into his lungs.

“I c-can’t,” Killer called for you, immediately grappling you in his arms. He threw you beneath him, his vice-grip clawing at your hips as he pummeled down into your body, “I can't stop, I can't stop, I can't stop.”

You bit back a whimper, your body barely recovering from the prior spend of your hot release. Overstimulated, ill-prepared and encumbered with your new task at hand: Massacre Soldier Killer never let up. Not even for a moment.

In fact, he only got more intense, ferocious and brutal the moment your body began to milk his cock.

“P-Please know I'm sorry,” he choked out a strangled whimper. His fingers ached with the intensity he was gripping onto you with, leaving punctures of purple intents over your hip bones due to the butality he was burrowing into you.

“O-Oh fuck,” you sucked in your bottom lip, biting down hard as the corners of your eyes began pricking with tears, “It's okay, it's okay. I know. I can t-take it.”

You spoke through those words of confirmation, truly attempting to convince yourself of the ability to endure this rough treatment for as long as Killer needed to use your body for. Rough slaps of his hips smacked against your body, his veiny cock scraping itself through your body as his knob hit angles you didn't realize you could experience. It would equate to bliss if his grip wasn't so intense.

Excruciating agony and white-hot ecstacy were in a perfect marriage within your body beneath the hulking form of Massacre Soldier Killer. The harmonious entanglement driven further by the grunts, growls, roars from the man above you, only for them to turn into begging whimpers and pleas for you to endure just a moment longer.

“I kn-know this isn't-... f-fucking nnghm-... this isn't g-good for you,” his breathy whisper cut through his growls like a pick through ice, “I can't stop. I can't fucking stop.”

“It's okay, Kil. I p-promise it's okay,” you grit your teeth as his grip intensified on your hips, "You're good. You're b-being so good." His rhythm was unforgiving, the pace and rate his body rut into you was tormenting, brutal and punishing.

This was not the first-mate you knew. The beast in his stead was as violent as Killer was in battle, ripping bones and slashing through flesh. This was not at all what you anticipated from aiding Killer through this feat of lust.

His desperation was abhorrent, something he was repulsed by. He never dreamed of joining his body with yours in this strenuous and savage manner. He wanted to be kind, always kind, only ever kind, should you grant him the access to you he so desperately longed for from afar.

Softly spoken, dutiful and almost loving. That's who you knew him to be, and that's who he wanted to be for you. Your friend, your comrade in arms, your senior serving crewmate who you trusted to have your back.

How would you ever trust him again after this? How could he ever trust himself? That push and pull of chasing his relief with you caged beneath him coincided with the tug of his heart and the fog of his mind. He wants you to trust him after this. He wants you to look him in the eye and tell him you still want him. He needed that from you; the confirmation this was not only simply for now, but something he could have once again.

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” he sobbed into your neck, the cool surface of his mask grounded you. Huffs of his breath poked through the holes in his mask, his icy-blue eyes were scrunched tightly shut while his body remained alight like a beacon in darkness.

He had already reached his climax three times, shooting burst after burst of his sticky cum deep within you. Although relief was found immediately afterwards, his cock continued to remain stiff as the steel of a blade in a snow storm.

He just couldn't stop. Why couldn't he stop?

“Kil, I-I think you n-need-... ahh,” you mewled as he moved his hands up to your waist, his broad fingers splayed out to perch like a bird of prey against your skin. He rammed his full length in and out, your stomach beginning to ache with the bulge protruding deep within your abdomen.

“N-Need you,” he groaned in your ear, his hips stapling you against the floor with each cruel slap, “Need to keep going. Almost th-there again.”

“I know, Kil. I know,” you soothed his hair in your hands, trails of wet tears streaked your cheeks with how much sensations your body was taking, “Take what you need, I'm here.”

“I’m gonna-... I'm gonna- f-fuck. I'm gonna cum again,” he groaned deep within his mask, his voice picking up at the end in a small shuddery whimper, “Oh fuck, oh fuck. I'm cumming.”

Your head rolled back, eyes wide as you felt him empty himself within you for a fourth time. The sticky splashback of his hot cum trickled out of your needy hole, his cock buried up to the hilt with his spend leaking over his pubic hair and thighs. He huffed against your shoulder, his mask almost becoming loose over his face as he recovered.

“Good boy,” you cooed at him, pressing a soft kiss onto his bare shoulder as he shuddered and shook through his fourth spurt of ecstacy, “Good boy, Kil. Get it all out.” His cock twitched at your title bestowment, the hardness of his steely cock refusing to deflate no matter the amount of release he pumped into you.

“I-It’s not going down,” he whimpered into you, his hips beginning to roll against yours once more, “It's not going down. I don't know what to do,” his sobs began to shake at his shoulders.

“It's okay,” you winced out, feeling the heat of release exiting from your overspent body with ooze of fluid, “I-I think you need to take your mask off.”

“Wh-What?” he gasped at you, his hands continuing to hold you firmly against the mattress of his bed, “The mask off?”

“Some-... fuck, Kil-... something hit you in the face, ri-right?” your voice was several notes higher than your usual cadence, crying beneath him as he pummeled into you, “Might be still in your mask. Take it off. I'll close my eyes, I'll not tell a soul,” you winced, clamping your eyes tightly shut, “I'll be good. I'll tell no-one.”

Killer immediately halted his thrusting, his body in momentary stasis as your words reached him. His body screamed at him to keep going, to keep pummeling into you, to keep chasing his high that was just within reach. But he stopped, his cock sheathed deep within you.

“Look at me,” he purred down at you, his hands still firm on your waist. His grip grasped you tighter, misbehaving beneath Killer's pleading to hold you more gently.

Unclenching your scrunched eyes, you gazed up at him as his hands left your body and unclasped the mask from shrouding his face. Icy blue eyes, as pale as the sky and as deep as the ocean pierced you as his gaze met with yours. Your breath was stolen from within your lungs, choking back on your surprise at his appearance.

Massacre Soldier Killer was beautiful.

“Look up at m-me,” he stammered, his hips rolling against yours as his cock burrowed deep within your body, “Look at me. I n-need you to see me. I need you to see how desperately I need you.”

His eyelashes fluttered, his eyelids growing heavy as his rhythmic thrusts began to pick up their intensity. Your eyes never left his for a moment: not to look at his lips, not his beard, nor his angular cheekbones, nor his nose. His eyes were what captivated you most, holding you hostage as their glassy hue glazed over to chase his high within you.

“Y-You were right,” he huffed between thrusts, “My lungs aren't burning, and I-I think this is it. Th-This one is it.” His pace was excruciating, but the satisfaction you were beginning to feel build itself within you screamed at you to let him continue using you.

“You can do it, Kil,” you rolled your hips to match his pace, staring up through half-hooded lashes into his eyes, “Use me. Take me, I'm yours.”

“You're mine,” he moaned his growling voice down at you, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against your neck, “Perfect for me. Made for me.” His cock twitched deep within you, your body reacting to his needy chase and toppling over with his final release.

“F-Fuck, Kil!” you cried, your body beginning to throb, your thumps of bliss coaxing Killers balls to empty deep within, “I-I’m-... I’m cumming. Killer, I'm cumming!”

“Cum with me, cum with m-me,” he begged, his pace picking up as his cock finally began weeping it's spend for the fifth time deep within you, “With me. F-Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Pants of breath, fluttering of elevated heartbeats and joint cries of bliss ricocheted off the wooden walls of the crew-quarters of the Victoria Punk. Killer's mask lay discarded beside the door, lulling in the subtle rock of the waves over the floorboards as you both fell away from your mutual highs.

Killer moved his head away from your shoulder, gazing down to where your bodies remained joined together in awe. His lips were agape, his eyelashes fluttering as he pulled himself away from you. Watching the floodgates open from your abused entrance, your mutual juices coating both of your stomachs, thighs and soaking the mattress beneath you.

Killer looked to your hips, his lips parting and eyes becoming teary as he noticed the damage showcased on your body.

Marks littered your skin, deep hues of purple branded your flesh, depicting Killer's unrestrained lust and need for you. His bliss was eclipsed by deep sorrow as his fingers gently caressed the elevated indents in your skin. Sensing his unease, you immediately flung your hands up and collected his cheeks in your palms.

“I can handle it,” your eyes searched his, looking between his deep, blue orbs with your eyes only depicting support and affection, “I wouldn't have let you do it if I couldn't handle it.”

Killer turned his head, his lips meeting your palm with his whiskered chin tickling your flesh. This small moment of affection felt more sacred, more secret, and more intimate than the emassment of bodily fluids you shared moments prior.

“I shouldn't have been so rough with you,” he scolded himself, “I will never be rough with you again.” His fingertips caressed your hips, soothing over your aching flesh and wordlessly apologizing with deep, intentional touches.

“Are you feeling okay, Kil?” you asked him, lazily cocking your head to the side, “Don't need to go again?”

“Fuck, no,” he huffed through a small, squeak of laughter, “Not right now, at least.”

Smiling up at him, you propped yourself up on your elbows and gazed deeply into his eyes. You couldn't get enough of the luxury it was to gawk at the handsome man who just spent himself within you five times in consecutive succession.

He truly was beautiful.

“Does that mean you want to do this again?” you asked him while attempting to not show how eager you were. You began taking your time to examine his muscular physique before snapping your eyes back up to his blue orbs. A red hue tinted his cheeks, his eyes darting around the room before rejoining your own.

“I would like to, yes,” Killer admitted at last, sucking in a breath as he anticipated your refusal. Your smile spread up your face, prompting you to immediately spring yourself up to meet his body with your own.

“Crew’s still out for a while,” you shrugged, looking around the crew-quarters you had both tainted with the stains of your aroused fluids, “We should clean this up,” you drew your eyes up to meet his, coy and bashful, “And maybe we could have a bath together-?”

“-Please,” he spoke over you, far too quickly for his liking but too lost to hold back the floodgates of emotional excitement, “Let me bathe with you. I'll wash your hair, massage your body. I'll make sure you're so, so spoiled after all this, if you'll let me?”

A small squeal of joy found its way to your lips, buzzing at the notion that he not only wants to be with you again physically, but he desired to treat you to the luxury of continuing to gawk at his uncovered face further by bathing with you.

“Will you let me?” Killer asked, his voice still holding that eager anticipation that caused you to both melt and soar in unison. You eagerly nodded, prompting Killer to hook his arms beneath you and elevate you into his chest.

Your fingers quickly drew themselves up to his lengthy blonde hair, detangling the sweat-damp strands and toying with the soft curls framing his face. You hummed in contentment as his smile freed itself on his face, glancing at you as you continued enjoying his luscious, thick locks.

“Let's go then,” he cooed down at you, his lips finding your forehead as he cradled you against him, “Let me spoil you for being so good to me. I need to treat you right.”

“Don't forget your mask!” you quickly uttered, causing him to pause and search your face for clarification. You smiled at him, gently reaching your lips up to press against his cheek, “Gotta clean the damn thing, unless you want to experience all that again?”

“Good point,” he huffed, using his feet to kick along his mask to the bathroom as he chaperoned you within his arms, “I prefer my own desire to come from me,” he confessed as soon as he reached the door, “And I want to show you how much I truly do desire you.”

“I can't wait,” you smiled in return, wincing as your body’s adrenaline seeped out of your body and the pain caught up to you.

“I promise I'll be gentle with you,” he confessed, his eyes innocent and brows triangulating in a peak in the center of his forehead, “I won't be rough.”

“I can take a bit of rough treatment,” you challenged him in return, smiling into his bare chest as he began to run the bath.

“I know you can,” he smiled down at you, pressing a small kiss against your temple, “But you don't have to, unless you really want to.”

Shinso as a roommate w spice 👀

I can talk about this guy for hours. 🥵

Also send me an ask with a person from MHA and I will say how they are as a roommate. Please advise if you want some spice

I know that some people are sick of the cat and Shinso comparison but I think it is the perfect comparison for him when it comes to being a roommate.

You do not see him often when you first become roommates (and honestly unless you heard him leave his room to go to the bathroom or kitchen you were sure that he just wasn’t there) and it wasn’t uncommon to just say hi in passing once a week or so.

Something changed though once you had been roommates for around 6 months and he was more comfortable around you.

You started seeing him more and more but he did it pretty subtly. It started with him joining you for whatever tv show you were watching- and it rally did not matter what. He watched your (in his words) “pointless reality trash” or “tame horror films” and though he wouldn’t admit he liked them he also watched your “over dramatic teenage shows”.

It got to the point that it was common for you to knock on his bedroom door with a “take out will be here in thirty, I ordered your favorite ramen. Hurry up so we can finish the series tonight.”

What you weren’t expecting was for him to open his door clad in only a towel that was tied lowely on his lean hips as he ran another towel through his shoulder length hair.

“You’re home a bit earlier then usual” he stated, his voice low in a way that you knew he had just been smoking a joint. Just as you thought that you were hit with the smell, making your nose scrunch slightly.

You weren’t against weed but your job did randomly drug test throughout the year so you had not partaken since your first year of college.

“Oh shit, sorry I forgot to spray something before opening the door. I wasn’t quite expecting you home so early.”

“Oh, no worries. I get it.” You felt your heart race as your cheeks flushed with heat. You had seen Shinso shirtless. It actually wasn’t uncommon to see him that way when you two were watching TV or when he was cooking throughout the week.

He said it was because he ran hot, but you swear he continued to do it only after he saw you no so subtly check him out the first time you had seen him shirtless.

“Extra spicy?” He questioned as he back into his room, spraying an air freshener to help combat the smell. It never quite worked but it was nice that he tried.

“What?” You questioned, completely caught off guard as he turned around to look at you, his signature soft smirk pulling at the corner of his pink lips before he bit his bottom lip to try and make it go away. You couldn’t help but notice the blood rush to his bottom lip, making it a bit redder.

“My ramen, did you by chance get it extra spicy?”

“Oh yeah, yes I did. No worries, I know how you like it.”

You could feel the air continue to thicken as your tried to stare anywhere but him but you couldn’t quite take your eyes off of him.

While you had been attracted to Shinso the second you saw him (you mean, you weren’t blind) it had really been the past few months that your crush had gone from a small school yard crush to a full fledged stomach lurching infatuation.

You had honestly couldn’t remember the amount of times that you had spaced out thinking about the indigo haired man and you had definitely lost count of the nights that had ended with your hand down your panties getting off to the thought to him.

“Um, I’m going to get the show ready and listen for the takeout person. I’ll see you when you are ready.” You said quickly, embarrassment an understatement at this point as you got out of his room as quick as possible and walked to the couch.

It wasn’t long before you heard the trill of your doorbell, signaling the delivery guy. As you got up from the couch to get the food you saw Shinso emerge from the small hallway.

“I got it.” He said as he walked passed you quickly, your living room wasn’t very big.

“Oh I haven’t paid the guy yet, let me get it.” You insisted as you stood at the edge of the couch.

“I got it this time, you can get it next week.” Shinso reasoned as he opened the door while also digging into his black sweats for his wallet. He pulled out enough yen to cover the meal with a generous tip before grabbing the bag of takeout and muttering a thanks as he shut the door.

“You know, you said the same thing last week about me paying this week.” You said softly after Shinso had untied the bag and handed you your cup of ramen.

“Did I?” He muttered “must have slipped my mind. No worries, I’ll make sure you don’t get out of it again.” He said with a wink as he handed you your chopsticks.

You couldn’t help the warmth that spread across your chest and neck at the wink, butterflies erupting in your stomach as you thanked him while taking the lid off your food before placing it on the coffee table in front of you as you grabbed the remote to put on the last few episodes of the show that you two had been watching.

Dinner was quite as you tried to pay attention to the show you were watching but try as you might, you couldn’t get your brain to shut off. You made a mental note of needing to watch these episodes alone sometime soon because before this you had been wrapped into the story.

It wasn’t until the finale, the fourth episode you both had watched tonight, that you were able to pay attention. You were completely lost at this point, confused why the main character was in an abandoned farm but you tried to catch up as you watched.

A particularly frightening scene involving a chainsaw man that was wearing body parts of his most recent victims made you a bit jumpy and of course Shinso noticed right away.

“Come here” he whispered as he opened his arms while also putting his feet on the coffee table. It wasn’t completely uncommon for you two to cuddle but it was usually reserved for nights that one you have had a awful day and it never happened after so much sexual tension had been prevalent just hours earlier.

But you also knew not to look a gift horse in the mouth and you were basically crawling to his side without a second thought as you made yourself comfortable by placing your face onto to the chest of his white plain t shirt as he wrapped a long arm around you.

“No scary chainsaw man can get you know” he whispered into your hair. You could hear the grin in his voice as you slapped a hand onto his chest before moving to get up.

“Oh where do you think you’re going? I finally get you in my arms and you think you can leave?” As Shinso said this his arm tightened around you as the other one grabbed onto himself, effectively cocooning you into his side. You couldn’t help the laugh that erupted from your lips as you looked up to his face.

What you weren’t expecting was for his face to be so close to yours. Frozen from shock you continued to stare at him as he stared down at you.

Shinso couldn’t help but look from your eyes to your lips and quickly back to your eyes.

“Tell me to stop and I will.” He whispered as his head began to lean down towards you, his lips quickly capturing yours.

You could feel as he undid his embrace on you while also placing both of his hands on either side of your cheeks.

It didn’t take long before he was deepening the kiss and placing one hand on your hip as his skilled fingers drew random small shapes on your hip.

You broke the kiss, needing to breath. As you stared at him for a second you noticed that your hands had had a mind of their own and we’re both at the edge of his skull, pulling gently on his purple locks.

“Woah” you exhaled.

“Good woah, or ‘oh shit what the fuck did we just do’ kind of Woah” Shinso questioned with a quirk of his eyebrows. You noticed that when Shinso got nervous he talked a lot more the he normally would.

“More like ‘why the hell have we not done that sooner’ kind of Woah” you corrected with a smile.

“I’ve been wanting to kiss you since you became my roommate, but I also didn’t want to fuck anything up.” Shinso confessed.

Your eyes widened in surprise. Sure there had been some sexual tension, but he had thought you were attractive since you had two met? Why the hell did it take so long then?

“Maybe we shouldn’t waste anymore time then” you said, trying to sound very nonchalant but you could hear the tremor in your voice.

Shinso didn’t need to hear anything else as he grabbed you by your hips and placed you onto his lap.

Where the hell did he get so strong? You wondered as you widened your stance to allow both of your legs be flush with his hips as you straddled him.

Shinso placed a hand behind your head as he guided you back to him while whispering “if you want to stop at any point, tell me and I will. I don’t want to do anything that you don’t want to.”

You couldn’t help but feel your heart melt at the words. There was just something about your roommate that made him very different then most guys your age.

“Same goes for you” you whispered back before kissing him.

It wasn’t long of him kissing you that he began testing the waters by allowing his fingers to inch up a few inches up your shirt as he felt the skin beneath. You gave him permission to do whatever he wanted by tugging harshly onto his hair and moaning.

He quickly made work of taking off your oversized shirt, a twing of a smirk gracing his lips as he realizes it’s one of his black shirts that you must have stole at some point. He made a mental note to tease you a bit later, but for now he had way more important things to do.

As the shirt fell to the floor he couldn’t help but grown at the sight in front of him. He hadn’t realized due to the bagginess of the shirt but you were wearing a bra and damn if you didn’t have the pretties tits he had ever seen.

“No bra” he quipped as he cupped them in his large pale hands, loving the way your soft supple skin felt in them as your back arched a bit at the sensation of him kneading them softly, testing the waters to see what kind of pressure you wanted.

“Almost never when I’m in a baggie top.” You admitted with a flush.

“I’ll have to remember that for the future” he said with a shit eating grin before he latched onto your left nipple, rolling a very expert tongue around it.

You let out a louder moan then you meant to but this only seemed to spur Shinso on as he suckled harder.

“Shin, fuck, Shin, can we take this to one of our bedrooms? Not that fucking on the couch doesn’t sound fun, I just think I would rather be in a bed.”

“So demanding” he teased as his lips popped off of your bud, but in that same breath he grabbed you and hoisted both of you up off of the couch, his hands digging into the fat of your thighs. “My room? I just washed my sheets today.”

“We’re you hoping something was going to happen, Hitoshi?” You teased as you kissed his nose.

“Only every fucking day, also please continue to call me that. It sounds so fucking sexy coming from you and I can’t wait to hear you moan my name.”

“Well, just know I don’t just moan to inflate a persons ego, I have to mean it.” You quipped back.

“Don’t worry, you will.” Shinso said with a wink as he slapped your ass, making you giggle before attaching his lips to your neck and walking you to his bedroom.

Also, don’t worry. You moaned his name all night long.

serenade

synopsis: when top music critic sylus qin gives your new album a scathing review, you plan a performance to make him pay. 

tags: celebrity au, porn with plot, enemies to lovers (reader hates him, sylus is generally a bastard but just doing his job), mirror sex, p in v, light choking, moderate biting, size difference, dramatic reader, reader does some light internet stalking, brief angst only bc sylus’s review was mean, he does something nice at the end to make up for it, inspired by dandelion by ariana grande pairing: music critic!sylus x pop star!fem reader word count: 7.2k

a/n: writing this was a traumatic experience i literally decided i was going to finish and upload today 12 hours ago because i cannot have this in my drafts any longer

I. THE RATING

 “A fucking 4.7?!” you screech, hurling your phone across the bed in horror.

It must be a mistake. A typo, or maybe your eyesight has gotten worse since your last checkup. Paparazzi cameras can do that, your optometrist had told you once. Yes. You’re sure that’s the case.

Taking a moment to breathe—hyperventilate, more like—you snatch the device back up and double-check with wild eyes.

And sure enough, in big bold letters: Four. Point. Seven.

There was no way. No fucking way that that hard-ass snobby bastard Sylus Qin had given your new album—the record you’d poured your heart and soul into—a 4.7/10 rating.

You refresh and refresh, but the numbers stay the same. 4.7, followed by heartless jabs that carve into your chest like daggers. Failed. Uninspired. Noise. 

You must have died last night, somehow. You must be dead right now. And for some reason unbeknownst to you—you’ll have to talk it out with God if you ever get the chance—you had woken up in Hell. 

Life as you knew it was over. The little ghouls who hounded you online were going to throw you to the wolves. Your agent would be lucky to book you at a high school bake sale. The reporters—if you even counted as a celebrity anymore—would never let this go. And there was only one man to blame. 

Sylus Qin. 

The name alone struck fear into the hearts of the entire pop industry. Not even the living legends with decades-long careers were safe. 

The man himself was an enigma, with little known of him other than his unnaturally deep voice and moderately vampiric appearance. But the reputation that preceded him was that of the most renowned music critic alive. 

No one knew how he got his start—maybe he’d just spawned onto Earth one day, slashing dreams and breaking hearts. Or maybe his mother had played him the classics while she carried him, murmuring to her belly about what true music was, and he’d been ranting about artistic integrity and sonic evolution since before he could walk. 

No matter what his story was, the facts were that your peers lived in terror of a bad Sylus Qin review—or any Sylus Qin review, really. He’d ruined so many careers, it was like he had a yearly quota. 

And the prick had just given what you’d thought was your magnum opus the industry equivalent of a public hanging.

As frustrated tears well in your eyes, you take a look around the house you’d only just managed to buy—the cozy Gothic fireplace, the customized in-home studio, and the quaint little garden. It was all still so new to you. And just like that, you’d have to give it up soon. 

You were wholly, utterly, and hopelessly fucked. 

***

Death. You’d imagined it’d be…more peaceful. Less emotional devastation, more belated introspection. 

But as you shift under the weighted blanket you’d rolled yourself up in, the sudden movement disturbing the heap of tear-stained tissues on top of you, you realize how much you hate being wrong. 

Your life had officially been over for almost 22 hours. And in those hours, you’d stared at the wall, ignored 36 text messages, opened and immediately closed your socials countless times, and sobbed into your satin pillowcase. 

As you roll away from the sliver of sunlight slipping through your curtains with a pained hiss, you hear the heavy footsteps climbing up your marble staircase. 

Oh well, you shrug inwardly. Not like it can get any worse. If it’s an intruder, they can have at it. Put me out of my misery. 

But as a familiar pattern of knocks precedes the door swinging open, allowing more light than you’d seen in the last day to flood the room, you realize that this may be a fate worse than brutal murder. 

“You can’t answer your phone anymore or something?” the tenor voice of Devon, your beloved, overbearing manager cuts through the room. 

“Go away,” you mumble, the sound muffled by the heavy blanket covering your mouth. 

You hear an incredulous snort. “Go awa—Girl, get up,” he snaps, walking up to tug the blanket off of you. As he heaves it to the foot of the bed, the army of tissues scatters across the room like huge snowflakes of failure, and your jostled body ends up sprawled in an almost-perfect diagonal from the impact. 

“I’ve been calling you all morning! And not only do you not pick up, but you block my number? You had me rushing over here to do a wellness check like you died or something.” 

“Oh. Well,” you begin nonchalantly. “In case you haven’t heard, I did. Yesterday. And I’m finding it to be quite pleasant, actually,” you lie through your teeth and purse your lips, “so I’d like to continue being dead, please. Alone.” 

“Yeah. Right,” he responds, mouth wedged open in a clearly annoyed grimace. “Okay, we do not have time for this, girl. You got a fan engagement livestream scheduled for this evening. You’ve never canceled a stream, not even when you lost your voice from that virus that one time. You really gonna let that man break your streak?” 

At the mere reference to his existence, your face shrivels and you curl into a defensive ball. “Oh, what’s the point?” you wail, shoving your face into the mattress. “There will probably only be 4.7 viewers. And then the tabloids will be filled with news about how I’m talentless and unpopular.” 

Devon closes his eyes, pinches the mahogany skin of his prominent nose, and releases a slow, controlled exhale. 

“Okay,” he starts, visibly switching tactics. “If your own fans—you know, the people who made you famous—can’t get you out of bed, maybe this will.” He takes a deep breath, as if bracing for impact, before continuing. “I have it on good authority that Sylus Qin is doing a TV interview. Tonight.”

And in the middle of an agonized writhe, you freeze in place. 

“He never does interviews,” you say lowly, voice suddenly hard enough to cut diamond. “He’s never done an interview, D. Stop bullshitting.” 

“Dead serious,” he replies, shoving his too-bright phone in your still sideways face. And sure enough, mysterious critic act be damned, Sylus Qin’s name is in bright bold letters on the hottest talk show in the country’s latest social post. 

Failing to suppress the anxious pang in your chest, you swallow thickly. “It’s…real. You weren’t….he’s actually going to…right after…he…” The world starts spinning as you trail off, and when the dry heaves start up on their own, you wonder if it’s possible to die twice. 

“Chill! Girl, chill,” Devon yells, firmly sitting you up on the bed. “My contact in production said he’s not talking about his work. He’ll be there to announce something, so he shouldn’t mention you unless they ask.” 

“Unless they ask,” you cry, slapping your palms to your face. 

“Which they won’t,” he adds in unsuccessful reassurance. “I just figured it might wake you up a bit. You’ve never seen him before, right? Maybe some exposure therapy will help.” 

Chewing your bottom lip hard enough to leave marks, you consider your options. You could either kick your manager out and wallow in bed until you get a foreclosure notice, or get up, grit your teeth through the livestream, and rush back to your bedroom afterwards to hate-watch Sylus on national television and pray he doesn’t speak your name. 

Your conscience and the voice in your head confer, and it seems like your anxiety has beaten your depression this time. Second option it is. 

II. THE INTERVIEW

After an excruciating hour of smiling blankly, avoiding talking about your album, and pretending not to see cruel comments, the stream is over. 

It was time to stare Death in the face. 

With 8 minutes to spare, you run up the stairs from the streaming setup in your studio and catapult into your walk-in closet, ripping your intricate work clothes off and diving into the comfiest loungewear you can find. If you were going to do this, you were going to do it comfortably. 

3 minutes. You dim the lights and flip the TV on, having already set it to the right channel in a bout of paranoia hours ago. Your house is empty except for you, but you trot over to shut the door just in case. A potential humiliation ritual was a private affair. 

And with 30 seconds to go, you unmute the TV and slowly climb onto your bed, sitting cross-legged and letting out the kind of breath you’d spent hundreds on mastering in pilates. 

The cheery, inauthentic talk show theme fills your ears, and you lift your eyelids open in resolve. 

A corny host intro. A brief band performance. And then, a tall white-haired man is strolling across your screen. 

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the illustrious Sylus Qin! 

Your heart stops. 

“Thank you, it’s my pleasure to be here,” a baritone purr rings out. Unnaturally deep voice, huh. They’d been right about one thing.

And then he sits on the smooth leather couch, turning his body to face the camera. 

Sylus Qin is…young. Not some wrinkled up curmudgeon out to terrorize the youth in his bitter old age. By the looks of it, he hasn’t even reached his 40s yet. 

Another observation. Sylus Qin is big. To be tall is one thing—not that special in a world of models doubling as singers—but this guy nearly swallows the sofa with his huge, obviously muscled frame. You wonder how he finds the time to work out between ruining lives. 

And as you take in his chiseled appearance—certainly vampiric, you think—you realize with unprecedented dread: Sylus Qin is handsome. 

“Mr. Qin,” the host begins, “we know this opportunity is extremely rare, so let me just say—it is our absolute honor to have you here during such a busy time for you.” 

It’s an ambiguous reference, probably not even to his most recent work, but you flinch backwards anyway. 

“Not a problem at all,” he drawls smoothly. “And just ‘Sylus’ is fine. I heard you all like to…have fun on this show.” He finishes the reply with a conspiratorial smirk, and you can all but see the women in the audience swoon at his despicable charm. “Like you said, this is a rare moment. You’re here to ask, and I’m here to answer. So, ask away.” 

“Perfect,” the host starts. “So, Mr—ahem—Sylus, you’ve built your reputation through exclusive music correspondence for a variety of publications…” 

***

As the minutes tick by and your hatred turns to intrigue, you start to really study the man in front of you. Learn his unique cadence, contemplate the angle of his aristocratic nose. Take in the way his ruby eyes glint when he talks about music, the way he sounds older than the age listed on his Wikipedia. And his IMDb. And his famousbirthdays.com. You’d triple-checked. 

You note the way he smirks at difficult questions, as if welcoming the challenge and begging for something harder. The way he crosses and uncrosses his thick, long legs as he weaves his answers into an impromptu PR masterclass. The way he panders to the audience so subtly you’d think it natural—if not for the way his large palms open when he looks their way, as if luring them into his trap from the stage. 

Fuck, he’s hot. And you can’t even try to pretend otherwise. 

Until a particularly sore subject snaps you out of your ogling and draws you back into the conversation.

“Now, Sylus, you may be a critic, but you’ve received some criticism yourself lately for your ‘harsh and grating’ reviews, especially in the pop sphere. Some go as far as to claim you’re even biased against pop artists. What do you say to that?”

And Sylus Qin chuckles. The bastard chuckles. As if he actually finds it funny. 

“I give albums and their creators the reviews they earn,” he says evenly. “I didn’t get to where I am today by handing out participation trophies.” 

He’s doubling down. You can’t believe he’s doubling down. 

“I’ve heard that some recent articles of mine have…ruffled some feathers. There’s never a shortage of angry fans in my inbox,” he shrugs. “But it’s my job to speak up when projects are…uninspired. You all get better music that way,” he quips, spreading his palms once more. 

Uninspired. Uninspired. The word that’s flashed in your head nonstop for the past 36 hours. A failed ascent to the top of pop stardom reveals itself as little more than uninspired noise. 

That was the exact quote he’d left in his scathing review of your album—you remembered. Because you’d read it—cried to it—over. And over. And over. And he’d just alluded to it with a smirk on his face, the crowd eating straight from his outstretched hands, in front of the entire country. 

Ugly, uncontrollable shame heats your face as the all too familiar tears sting your eyes once more. As you search for the remote through blurry vision, your blood burns hotter than lava, and you curse yourself for letting your guard down. For seeing any redeeming qualities—even if only physical—in a man with his reputation. With his lack of empathy. 

When your fingers close around the controller and you stumble off the bed, more than ready to click the TV off and return to the glorious rot-until-you-get-kicked-out plan, you freeze as Sylus speaks again. 

“That said,” he continues, “I encourage any artists who’ve been offended by my commentary to come chat about it in person. That’s my reason for coming here, after all—to announce that I’ll be attending the annual Spirit Awards this year.” 

Thumb hovering over the “off” button, you blink your tears away in disbelief. The Spirit Awards. You know that show. You know that show well. Because as thanks for your viral performance at last year’s event, you’d been invited to sing in the main performance slot. 

You were going to headline. And Sylus Qin would be your audience. 

As the interview ends and his figure fades to black with the next commercial, a sudden realization talks you down from the ledge. 

This was your chance. To give the best damn show you’d ever put on, to reclaim the work whose meaning had been stolen from you. To sink his reputation, and to save yours. 

Maybe it’s a good thing he looks the way he does, you think, a slow smile spreading across your increasingly mischievous face.

Because for the first time in almost two days, you’re confident. Confident that you’ll not only get him to change his mind, but that you’ll get him. Period. 

Sylus Qin, we’ll see about that fucking 4.7 when I’m done with you.

III. THE PLAN

Bleary eyes. A full night of sleep lost. And three 12-ounce iced coffees delivered straight to your door. 

But after eight and a half hours, Operation: Silence Sylus was a go. 

After the interview, you’d set up a makeshift situation room in your studio. You’d hauled all your devices—phone, laptop, monitor, smart watch, you name it—into the space for backup. Anything that could find information, you needed. You’d have even dragged your smart microwave in here if you could figure out the wires. 

But, all things considered, the setup had been the easy part. Because what came after was an informal case study on the most elusive man in history. 

You’d started simple: his social media. 

There was more to work with than you’d expected, but nothing too crazy. He had 2.6 million followers—a fraction of yours, you’d smirked, but still good for someone whose work is out of the spotlight.

His photos had no discernible aesthetic, as if he posted them straight from his camera roll. And his upload patterns…the lack of marketing was so severe it sent a shiver down your spine. The man posted a few times a year, if that, and the captions he did include were vague and simple. He’s lying about his age, you’d decided, because this guy is old as fuck. 

But Sylus’s dire need for a social media manager was far from the most interesting thing you’d noticed. No, in all your 264 weeks’ worth of research—you’d scrolled until the app wouldn’t let you refresh anymore—not a single other person was featured on his feed. Like, there’d been more motorcycle pictures than humans on there. You’d have chalked it up to the narcissism typical of men like him, but he hardly even posted his own face. 

And as shameful as it was to stalk the man who’d publicly humiliated you’s Instagram to see if he had a girlfriend, it was absolutely necessary. If the answer was yes, it’d put the whole plan in jeopardy! You were simply doing your job as a diligent creative, covering all your bases in advance. How would you seduce him into changing his mind about you if he had a fucking girlfriend? Or worse? 

That would be your next stop, then, you’d nodded resolutely. His dating history. 

But no matter how many articles you read; how many variations of Sylus Qin girlfriend, sylus Qin single, Sylus qin married, sylus qin Boyfriend you’d put in the search bar; how many viruses you’d probably gotten on your laptop from clicking through trashy tabloid sites; there was nothing. No photos, no reported sightings, hardly even a rumor. You’d typed in Sylus Qin asexual as a last resort, but that came back empty, too. 

You’d sat in disbelief for a second, wondering how he could be so…clean. Even with his…glowing personality, his looks and success more than made up for any quirks. In this town, people should have been throwing themselves at him left and right, bogeyman allegations be damned. 

But there was no mistaking it. As far as romance was concerned, the man was a blank slate. 

Good thing you were coming for him with a big feather pen, ready to brand your name into his skin.

***

After analyzing his public image and making sure no…obstacles would block your path, it was time for a personality study. And where better to start than his full catalogue of reviews? His portfolio was practically front and center on his publication’s website—all 114 articles offered to you on a silver platter. 

Almost immediately, you’d taken a nervous breath and hastily clicked past the most recent page. The abject horror of the 4.7 was still too fresh on your mind, and you’d be damned if tonight ended with a traumatic episode. So you’d landed on the second most recent page, starting with reviews from a couple months ago. And you’d read. 

104 irritatingly confident articles. You’d read his praise, his disappointment, his bewilderment, his disgust. His beautifully packaged this-person-should-be-sent-to-prison-for-making-this-es. No matter how much you disagreed with some—most—of his takes, he was an incredible writer. 

He tolerated jazz the most, it seemed. The smooth melodies, the warm embrace of the trumpet, trombone, and sax. It was so incredibly old. But it suited him. 

“The riveting blend of brass and reed solos marks the triumphant rebirth of a fallen genre,” he’d complimented a band earlier this year. Looking at his preferences, it was no wonder why your synth-heavy pop beats seemed to have personally offended him. 

But for all the things Sylus thought he knew about you, he was missing a few key items:

You were desperate. To win back the public, to win his approval, to win him. 

You were planning a deluxe album with six new songs. And one of those songs said please fuck me disguised under a sensual trumpet solo. 

You were desperate enough to release said album and perform said song a month early, solely to prove a point. 

And with one screaming match of a phone call to Devon at 6 a.m., it’d been done. 

You hadn’t coordinated with your dancers yet. Or told your label. Or informed the Spirit Awards producers that you’d be changing your set. But in your sleep-deprived, caffeine-jittered mind, it was all but confirmed. Your next performance would be dedicated to Sylus Qin. 

There was only one more piece to put into place. With newfound conviction, you’d reopened his Instagram and clicked “Direct Message” before you could talk yourself out of it. And while you’d have liked to send him a colorful list of expletives, you maintained your professionalism. 

Hi! I heard you’re going to the Spirits next Sunday. Hope you’re in the crowd for my performance—would love to chat after :) 

The passive aggressive smiley face of doom. Sent and delivered. 

His fate was sealed, but he didn’t know it yet.  

Between excited bounces of your leg, you’d taken a final pass at his portfolio, and your eyes found your name before you could stop them. 

“Deeming the music passable is more of a compliment than any listener should be willing to give. A failed ascent to the top of pop stardom reveals itself as little more than uninspired noise.”

Failed. Uninspired. Noise. There they were again, the insults seared into the back of your mind. 

A reminder of your shame, but a motivator for you to make him eat his words. 

IV. THE PREP

You’d always loved awards shows.

The buzz of energy backstage, the rushed glimpses of peers and legends, the flamboyant accessories and vibrant strips of fabric strewn across the floor. The kind of chaos you’d learned to thrive in. 

After making the rounds of greetings and introductions, you take a break outside your dressing room in the main hall. Your stage outfit was already on and hidden under a frilly robe; you always liked to arrive early in case of any mishaps. (Lesson learned from the time you’d been fashionably late and had to go onstage in an unfashionable loose corset. That had slipped down mid-song.)

Chatting with your head dancer, you laugh at a video she shows you on her phone before spotting something in the corner of your eye: a flash of white hair. 

Your body goes rigid.

But the lightning-quick twitch in your eye is forcing you to turn around, and your breath hitches as soon as you do. 

Sylus Qin is here. 

Just as he said he’d be, you suppose, but it’s no less surreal seeing the object of your warring emotions in the flesh. 

Somehow, he’s taller than he looks on camera. Bigger, too. How someone whose job involved hunching over a laptop writing hate mail every day could be built like a professional athlete, you’d never know. 

Black slacks are snug around his strong legs, and he’s paired them with a silken, wine-red shirt that you’re sure would match the color of his eyes if he’d just turn arou—

It’s like he heard you. Felt you. 

Because before you can even finish your thought, Sylus Qin’s bewitching ruby eyes are on you. 

When your jaw drops slightly, his lips curl. And as that lazy, taunting, I’m-better-than-you smirk spreads across his gorgeous face, it reignites the feelings that got you here. The hatred and humiliation and unyielding spite.

So with flames in your eyes, you pat the dancer on the back and give her a cheerful platitude before storming—no, sauntering, you should saunter—over. 

When he bends his neck to accommodate your comparatively small stature, Sylus Qin watches you like you’re his favorite reality show. 

“Sylus!” you squeal, pulling him into a side hug. One thing you’d learned in the industry: overfamiliarity was the best form of offense. “It’s so nice to see you here! I’m glad you could make it.” 

You expect him to falter. To push away from you in a decidedly rude yet necessarily humanizing show of uncertainty. For that condescending smirk to waver in confusion, only a little. 

But to your surprise, he simply wraps a very muscled arm around you and returns your embrace. He’d been trained well, you lament with an inward groan. 

“It’s great to be here,” he says smoothly, and the way he rumbles your name makes you want to forego the performance entirely and beg him to take you here and now. “Especially since someone was nice enough to invite me to watch their performance. I get the opposite, usually—people typically fake illness when I watch them in person—so I just had to see this for myself,” he drawls. 

At some point, he’d laid his warm hand on your robe-clad shoulder, rubbing up and down in time with his slow words. But like that wasn’t enough, you’d almost been too wrapped up in his heady scent to notice. In his teasing embrace, the smell of spice, leather, and a hint of pomegranate envelop you, and you have to school your expression to look like you aren’t huffing it in. 

As you stare up at him blinking dumbly, you notice his smirk widen, and somewhere in the back of your head you remember that conversations are two-sided. 

“Y-yes,” you try to assert, cursing the way your voice shakes with need. “It’s right up your alley. I think—I know you’ll like it.” 

“You know, hm?” he quirks a brow, circling his thumb against your arm. 

“I know. It’s a new song, much more to your liking. Think of it as…a tribute. To your glowing review of me,” you reply coldly, untangling yourself from his hold despite your body’s protests. If you had any chance tonight, you had to level the playing field. Which meant Sylus Qin could not touch you anymore. 

“Mm,” he hums, eyes lingering on the spot you’d detached yourself from before flicking up to your face. “I reviewed your album, sweetie. Not you. Even so, nothing I said was untrue,” he shrugs as you bristle with rage. “But…if your performance is to my taste, as you claim, then you’ll know my review soon after. Before the end of the night, I’d say.”

His words are intentionally vague, as if he’s goading you into asking what he means. But under the heat of his gaze, you’re too prideful and angry and turned on to ask for clarification. 

“Then I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” you challenge him with a saccharine smile. 

He nods plainly, as if merely entertaining the idea of you ever impressing him. “I guess we will.” 

That twitch in your eye? It’s back with a vengeance. 

Before it can overtake your whole face, you spin on your heel and sashay away from him, pretending not to care if he watches you leave or not. 

Refusing to stop before you’re out of his sight, you disappear into your dressing room and slump into the nearest chair. As the stylists flock over to put the last touches on your hair and makeup, you try not to chew your nails off and ruin your fresh manicure. Damn him, you think for the 300th time in a week. 

***

In the center of the room, a monitor broadcasts the show’s live feed. The early portions go by in a blink—time flies when you have pre-seduction attempt anxiety, you guess—and before you know it, it’s 10 minutes to showtime. 

As soon as you’re clear to set up on stage, you make a beeline for the curtain and pull it back ever so slightly, looking for Sylus in the crowd. And just to your luck, there he is, sitting pretty in the second fucking row. Great if you don’t mess up, catastrophic if you do. 

Just as his all-knowing eyes shift toward the stage, as if he somehow felt your gaze from afar, you inch back into the inky shadows of the curtain. 

Two minutes to go. Clenching your hands into fists, you squeeze your eyes shut and breathe. 

It was time to channel the outrage, embarrassment, and devastatingly irritating lust into the performance of your life. 

V. THE SHOW

The soft swells of a trumpet float through the hushed arena.

The player, first chair in a local jazz ensemble, sways gently to the beat, his dark skin glowing in the warm stage lights. 

In time with the soulful melody, dozens of dancers fan out around the bar set, fiddling with prop bottles of fake booze. Your hours of research had pointed you in one direction: a speakeasy theme. 

Perfect for a jazz intro, and seductive enough to get your point across without getting you banned from live television. 

The outfit under your robe was a modern take on the 1920s: a bejeweled crimson flapper dress, sharp black stilettos, and a thick raven’s feather nestled in your hair. 

Just like you’d practiced, you stumble onto the set, miming drunken confusion as you trip into a male dancer’s arms. You shoot him a flirtatious smile when he steadies you, only for your attention to be captured by the trumpet still crooning in the background.

Enraptured by the player, you glide across the stage to lean against him, standing back-to-back with your hands on your heart. The tassels on your dress flow in time with the sultry swirls of your hips. 

A few more beats, and the intricate solo dwindles into the main riff that marks the true beginning of your set, to the audible gasps of the crowd. Look, you liked jazz as much as anyone—well, maybe not someone—but this was still your song. Your stage. And you were here to wake it up! As good as the player was, you had hypothetical sex to sing about. 

So the trumpet fades out, replaced by a poppy trap beat. Between each drum hit, your female dancers crowd you, tearing off the edges of your dress until you’re left in a shimmering red bodysuit. 

Strutting across the stage, you work through the lyrics of the first verse, eyeing the audience as you sing for someone special to come and take what he wants from you. 

The way you prowl from edge to edge is suggestive, inviting. The screams of the fans drown out the sound in your earpiece, but the winks you give them are only for show. You’d decided a week ago that you’d be a bad idol tonight. You’d make up for it later—a giveaway, follow spree, or something—but tonight, your focus was reserved for one man. 

As you ease into the chorus, your muscles glint under the twinkling lights, flexing in time with fluid spreads of your arms and gentle footwork. A siren song is what you’re singing, rhythmic pleas for a partner to make good on his promise falling from your lips. 

The next verse brings a slowdown in the melody that you meet with sensual rolls of your hips. Twisting your frame, you slide a purposeful hand down to rest just above your pelvis, tangling the other in your hair. 

The beat picks back up as you lead a line of men down the steps and into the audience, playfully evading their touches. It’s a calculated game of cat and mouse—one you’d hoped would pique the interest of the man you’d done this for. And as you parade right behind his row, boldly ghosting a hand over his shoulder in the dim crowd lighting, the tension in his muscles tells you you’d been right.

You can’t see his face, but the thought of him suffering right now is so satisfying, you have to fight to keep the vindictive smile off your face. Revitalized, you flounce back onstage right as the bridge melts into the final chorus—your favorite part of the show. 

Because while you’d been working the crowd, the crew had lined up seven shiny motorcycles at the front of the stage. Six were for your dancers, of course, but the seventh? That one was special. You’d gone through hell to get that bike on time—the same luxury model that was plastered all over Sylus Qin’s Instagram. The seventh bike was yours.

Taking your place in the center, you swing a leg over the seat and lower your hips gracefully, snapping back into the final moves of the choreography. 

With a daring raise of your eyebrow, you glance at his massive frame in the second row. He’s relaxed now, body no longer rigid with surprise. A bit too relaxed, you think, with the way his legs are spread apart, thumb swiping lazily across his smirking mouth. His gaze locks onto the familiar brand etched into the side of the bike before traveling up to yours, and the half a second of eye contact sends a shudder down your spine. 

Between hazy, hopefully covert blinks, you hum out the last note of the song to thunderous applause. When you release your ending pose, waving to the sea of cheering faces, your eyes find his seat once more.

But Sylus Qin is gone.

VI. THE AFTERMATH

The moment you step backstage, a flood of congratulations greets you. 

Dancers, friends, and strangers huddle all around you, whooping with joy at your undeniable triumph.

But between the friendly pats on your shoulders, sweaty hugs, and heaving breaths, you wonder if tonight can be called a success at all. 

Hours and hours of mourning your young career. Of research that, in any other circumstance, probably would have gotten you on a watchlist. Of hard work, of pivoting, of betting your entire future on the hope that he’d break. And he’d just…left. 

You were never one to stop a celebration early, but the burning pangs of defeat are too much to bear. With a tight smile and a flick of your card into the nearest hand—drinks are on you tonight—you trudge back to the solace of your dressing room. 

And the scent of leather and spice hits you a second too late. 

Because in all his wicked glory, Sylus Qin is in your empty dressing room, lounging in your chair like he owns the place. 

Your initial reaction—a startled jump and a choked squeak—has his eyes sparkling in satisfaction, and you stalk up to the mirror with a scowl before you can embarrass yourself any further.

Feigning nonchalance, you remove your accessories one by one, starting with the feather in your hair. As you place it gently on the marble counter, a firm chest presses against your back, and you see his frame nearly swallow yours in the glass before you. 

“If I were a bolder man, I’d think you were trying to send me a message just now,” he purrs into your ear. 

Glancing at his reflection, you shrug noncommittally. “Did you like it?”

You receive a soft hum in response. 

As you continue your act with trembling hands, Sylus cages you against the hard edge of the counter, admiring the remaining pieces of your costume with light, teasing touches. 

Once you make no effort to stop him, a large hand rises to close loosely around your throat. When his thumb brushes your bottom lip, you bite it hard enough to sting, and his deep chuckle worsens the throbbing between your legs. 

“I’m enough of a man to admit when I’m wrong. I underestimated you, it seems.” The low admission sends blood rushing through your ears, and you lean into him with a quiet gasp. “You have me right where you want me now, right? Then tell me—how did you come up with your little stunt?”

Tense seconds tick by as you debate your options. How humiliating it’d be to come clean in his arms. But then again, humiliated had been your main emotion as of late. With a deep exhale and slight tuck of your head, you begin your confession.

“I just wanted you to change your mind,” you whisper, watching as he unravels the satin ribbons on your bodysuit. 

 “I was so proud of that album, Sylus. Took me months to feel good enough to release it. And then I wake up to see the most respected voice in music calling it worthless.” 

Your voice wobbles at the mention of his review, and his fingers freeze on the lowest ribbon. 

“I thought my career was over. That’s what you do, right?” you ask, eyes flashing up at him. “Ruin people like me.”

Checking your teary gaze in the mirror, he has the decency to press a kiss to the skin between your neck and shoulder. 

“My manager had to do a wellness check,” you add with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I could barely get out of bed. But then he told me…I’d have a chance to see you that night. And I guess the anxiety of impending doom was enough of a motivator. So I got up, and I watched.” 

As your voice steadies, it grants him permission to undo the final ribbon. It loosens with a firm tug, and the slackened fabric sags around your body, waiting to be removed entirely. 

“I really did want to change your mind. To prove myself to you. But then I saw that stupid fucking interview…saw you for the first time, and I…”

“You what, sweetie?” he murmurs into your neck, spurring you on with a gentle kiss. 

“I wanted you, too.”

As he sucks in a breath, you take the moment to step out of your costume, tossing it to the floor below. You’re nearly bare before him, now, save for the thin tights and thong still blocking you from his sight. 

“That’s what all this was for,” you reveal, gesturing to the fallen fabric. “I wanted your attention—all of it—in any way I could get it. So you were right. I wanted to end up right here, with you.” 

For several seconds, his labored sighs are the only sounds in the room. You, unfortunately, are too afraid to breathe. But before long, warm hands grasp your hips, pulling you flush against his hardened lower half.

Catching your ear between sharp teeth, he floods your senses with a smooth whisper. “It seems you got what you wanted, then. Why don’t I tell you what I thought?”

And the second the “please” escapes your lips, he tears the thin layers left on your hips clean off your body. 

He uses your shock to his advantage, taking the chance to free his swollen cock and glide it across your slit, teasing your clenching hole with the pulsing length. When he’s coated in your wetness, he surges into you with a firm thrust, groaning at the squeeze of your fluttering walls. 

Allowing you a moment to adjust to the stretch, he gropes the fat of your hip before continuing. 

“You obviously did your research,” he rumbles, pumping in and out of you at a steady tempo. “Speakeasies were the home of jazz, for a time.” 

As the curve of his tip hits deep inside you, you wish you’d gotten a look at him. You’d expected him to be big, if the rest of his body was any indication, but the sheer fullness in your core feels like it should be illegal. 

“And the arrangement…paying homage with a modern twist. It was admirable. Bold,” he grits out, hissing as your cunt tightens at the compliment. 

Locking eyes with him in the mirror, you meet his thrusts with a high-pitched whine, asking for more—more pressure, more praise, more of all he could give. 

With a patronizing tsk, Sylus grips your jaw in one hand, pulling your face close to his. “How many ratings of mine did you read to pull this off? I wouldn't think you knew what real instruments were, based on that album.”

The barb snaps you out of docility, and you try to twist away from him with a sneer and grumble. But Sylus only pulls you back into his quickening strokes, a fond, terrorizing chuckle enveloping you. 

“Don’t run, sweetie. I’m flattered, really. Like I was when you got on that bike—my bike—and I wanted to pull you down from that stage,” he breathes, circling two fingers around your throbbing clit. “Because I knew in that moment, you were mine.”

As his claim rings through the air, he pinches your sensitive flesh and ups his pace, kissing your cervix with brutal strokes as the lewd slaps of skin on skin echo around you. Shaky breaths and soft whimpers leave your mouth, and you rut back into him as much as his firm grip on your hips allows.

“This was all for me, hm? For my attention, you said? Now you have it,” he murmurs huskily, and a sharp scratch of teeth against the pulse in your throat has you spilling over the edge with a desperate moan. 

Somewhere in the haze of your orgasm, he pulls out with a groan of his own, leaving you empty and shivering until you feel his warm release coat the curve of your back.

With the last of his strength, he turns your face to his and captures your lips in a heated kiss, your tongues tangling unhurriedly. You’re forced to pull away first, already more than drained of your stamina for the night. When you slump forward in exhaustion, he falls into you, folding you over the counter with his heavy weight. 

You groan at the impact but welcome the soothing pressure, and for a while, your heaving exhales mingle in the quiet of the room. 

Once his breathing evens out, his low drawl—raspier than usual—eclipses the silence. “So,” he begins, and you can tell he’s smirking above you without even seeing his face. “How would you rate my performance tonight?”

Too tired to scoff, you settle for a mocking hum. “Hmm…an 8. I’d say a 9, but you just lost a point for that line,” you smile softly. “The pacing was good, but the feeling was lacking. It felt a little…uninspired.”

VII. THE EPILOGUE

You can’t feel your limbs the next morning. 

You can’t feel your limbs, but your phone is ringing—has been for a few minutes now, you think groggily. 

With a pained grunt, you roll over and over in bed until the screen is within reach and put the call on speaker. 

“Check your texts!” Devon yells excitedly, damn near blasting your ears off. 

“What? What are you talking about?” you grumble. “And you know not to wake me up until at least 4 p.m. after a show.”

“Sure, girl, fire me if you want. Just check your texts!” he repeats, voice climbing to a near screech.

“Fine, just give me a—”

Your jaw drops. It has no choice but to drop.

Because sitting in your inbox, right there at the top, is an updated link to Sylus Qin’s review of your album.

And right there, where that dreaded 4.7 had stared you down, is a giant, boldface 8.

*:･ﾟ✧ Studio Ghibli Films + Colors ✧･ﾟ:*

beneath the skin | sylus

— summary: “who was that?” he simply asks, trying to mask the tinge of bitterness in his tone. “talk to me,” he coaxes after you hesitate, gently pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “a ghost,” you say on a shaky whisper, as if admitting it aloud is taboo, like you’ll accidentally conjure him back into existence. — cw: reader is not mc, femme reader, assassin reader, jealousy, stream of consciousness, rekindled feelings, self-indulgent af, not proofread, i’m delusional and wanted to write something about someone trying to steal you away from sylus — wc: ~3k — now playing: bad dream - lexie liu

You’re used to the attention; it’s your job to garner it. So, the occasional stare doesn’t perturb you much. Usually. 

But this one—it feels different. Like the uncomfortable pressure of a needle painstakingly driven beneath your nail, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. 

You try to dance it off. Swivel your hips, smile pretty, a bewitching laugh in your throat as you gyrate atop the bar counter at Lux. But even as you turn to face the crowd gathered at your feet, their hands tossed skyward, bodies sweaty beneath the red sweep of lights and heavy mist, it lingers. Strips you down to bone, leaving you raw and exposed. Vulnerable. Confused. 

You pivot to address your admirer. To get a good look at who or what makes your skin crawl. But what greets you robs the air from your lungs, and you err in your steps, nearly stumbling off the counter if not for the dancer beside you, steadying you with her fingers wrapped around your wrist.

You feel like you’ve seen a ghost. An echo from a past you worked your damndest to suppress. The warmth and color drain from your face. You’re ramrod stiff, mouth spilling open, eyes blooming wide. Your heart careens against your ribcage, seemingly stopping before restarting to thrum double time. 

He reminds you of a forest, eyes the color of wood watching you with unwavering intensity, undisturbed by the bodies swaying and brushing up against him. A sturdy oakwood tree untouched by deforestation and time. It’s perverse in a way, how he studies you, how his gaze softens the slightest bit. How he knows you even with the stretch of years keeping you apart like he’s peeling back the layers of your facade like an onion. 

His hair is feathery. Dark like coffee beans, brushing over sloped shoulders. It’s longer than you remember. Longer than the last time you’d seen him before he died. 

Dead. He’s dead. Been dead for years. 

But as if to drive your delusions home, that telltale beauty mark catches in the strobing light, perched atop full, red lips stretched taut—lips you still remember the texture of, the way they moved against yours, pouring unbidden feelings into the chasm of your chest. 

You forget what it means to breathe. Forget how to exist, the cacophony of the nightclub fading into obscurity around you. Muddled, and you’re stock-still, stricken by something untraceable. Grief? Fear? Rage? Maybe a combination. Whatever the feeling, it causes a prickling sensation to fill your head, and your heart plummets to your feet.

“—alright?”

It’s a faint call. A disordered sound, like your ears are trying to readjust after resurfacing from a pool. It breaks you from the spell he cast over you, alongside the firm press of fingers into your wrist, the tug, and you swivel your head to take in the wary look of your co-worker. 

“H-Huh?” you say when your voice returns. Swallow past the barbs in your throat, lick your lips. Blink rapidly, disoriented, as if snatched from a trance.

“I asked if you were alright?” 

Your lips crook with a shadow of a smile. You pat her hand on your wrist, tamping down the anxiety that swells like a tumultuous wave in your chest. 

“Fine,” you murmur to assuage her worries. She doesn’t look convinced but doesn’t press, letting you go after ensuring you won’t fall. 

You look back, expecting to see those eyes drilling into your soul. Expecting that heavy feeling in your stomach, expecting your breath to abandon you once more and the world to spin beneath your feet. But you’re remiss to see he’s gone, swallowed up by the crowd as if he was never there in the first place. 

With all the stress looming over your shoulders —the missions, the changes to your dynamic with your boss, the newest addition to your family—you’re sure you’re imagining things. Your mind’s playing tricks on you, trying to cope with the weight of your job. With the repressed trauma. The unreturned feelings. Seeking an out. A little reprieve. 

How the hell could a dead man come back to life? And why would he be here, of all places, haunting you like a specter with unresolved business? 

You really should stop drinking before you perform. 

—

It’s a typical Saturday night at Lux. 

Nothing seems amiss; no fights to break up, no opposition to snuff out. 

Sylus is safely tucked in his second-floor office, watching bodies sway behind the one-way, ceiling-to-floor window. 

It’s soundless inside—soundproof walls—save for his steady breathing and the typically erratic thud of his heartbeat. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, and he stands in a casual slouch, gaze uninterested. He almost wishes something would pop off. A breakup in the monotony, a reason to get his hands dirty. An excuse to flex his fingers, to ruffle the expensive pleat of his shirt. 

He catches sight of you in his periphery. The knock of your hips, how you drag your hands down the devastating curvature of your body. A smirk pulls at his lips. If nothing else, he can count on you to keep him entertained. His gorgeous distraction. His glittering, murderous doll poised to strike at the snap of his fingers.

He leans closer to the crisp glass, static prickling his face, and he’s entranced by that sultry smile. How you shine like a constellation, brighter than Lux’s other dancers, capturing the intrigue and envy of all those subjected to your performance. He falls prey to it, too. Then again, he’s always been a victim. Always been under your spell, even without the influence of your Evol. 

He doesn’t know when it started. The steady creep of feelings, the burning need to protect you. But it’s there, a pleasant, heavy pressure in his chest. A feeling he thought himself long dead to. 

He’s about to leave his office to draw you down from the counter, but—

His amusement peters when you turn and stiffen. When your hands fall listlessly at your sides, and even from this vantage point, he makes out your mouth falling open. He’s closer now, his nose nearly pressing into the glass. He squints, trying to glean what’s caught your attention. The muscles in his jaw flex and strain when he catches sight of a figure clad in white adjacent to you, stiff as stone.

Alarm bells sound in his head. He doesn’t like the way this man watches you. How his gaze lingers too long, and he can feel the tense set of your shoulders as if he’s filling your skin. Irritation thins his lips. He conquers the space between the window and the office’s door in three brisk strides, the swell of music from downstairs flooding inside.

He takes the staircase leading to the first floor two-by-two, urgency powering him forward. But by the time he reaches the floor—by the time he wends through the crowd, pushing towards you, searching above the bodies pressing against him for that haunting streak of white—the figure is gone. Vanished like a breath out as if he’d never been there. 

Sylus’ gaze snaps to you. He’s still a ways off; you hadn’t noticed him. He watches the dancer beside you try to calm you down. Watches as you anxiously sweep an errant lock of hair behind your ear—as you peer over your shoulder in search of something. How your expression dampens when you find nothing, and your shoulders slump.

Something’s got you spooked. 

Sylus stands in the midst of the dance floor for a bit longer, studying you as if you’ll disappear, too, if he looks away for too long. 

He doesn’t like this feeling—this unease curdling in his gut. 

Who and what was that? And why does he feel like it’s not the last of it?

—

It was supposed to be a typical exchange—a simple negotiation for a plot of land on the outskirts of the city. 

You weren’t entirely sure what Sylus intended to do with it, but you usually kept your questions to yourself. He’d fill you in on the intricacies of his plan as he saw fit. 

For now, you stand in good form behind him, hands clasped together in front of you. His secret weapon in case things get dicey. His right hand in case you’re needed.  

He sits in a red leather, pin-cushioned armchair, languidly sipping on his bourbon, his hair standing out beneath the lazy drag of the low light. You’d normally admire him from your vantage point—the line of his shoulders, that wispy sweep of hair, the virility he exudes without trying. But tonight, you’re tight-lipped and contemplative. Straight-backed as you wait for his guests, mind slinking back into the happenings of three nights ago.

You finally began to settle. Excused the specter you saw as a trick of the light, as a product of exhaustion and shitty eating. There was no way he could still be alive—the shadow from your past. And even if he were, he wouldn’t have waited so long to resurface. 

Would he?

“I can practically hear the gears turning in your head, sweetie,” drawls Sylus above the languid croon of the music inhabiting the office. 

He breaks through the noise of your mind, and you blink as if being drawn from a daze.

There’s a teasing fringe to his voice. You don’t have to fully see him to know he’s smirking, that devastating, charming pull to his lips. He turns his head slightly over his shoulder, peering at you. “What’s on your mind?”

You clear your throat, shifting your weight between your feet. He’s caught you drifting off again. He’s good at that, reading your silence, feeling the tension stretching between your shoulders.

“Nothing.”

“You sure?” he says after some time in deliberating silence. 

You know he means to press. He wants to, but he doesn’t—a part of him you admire. He never pushes you past what you’re willing to give. Never pries into your past, never drills into your skull, trying to discern what makes you tick. He very well could, the power of his right eye glowing a sinister shade of red when he cracks into the minds of his enemies. But he’s never used his power on you, at least from what you’ve gleaned, and you respect him even more for being ever patient with you.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lie through your teeth. Lips quirk, though the smile doesn’t reach your eyes. 

His mouth hovers around words as if he means to protest. He knows you better than you think. But he doesn’t get the chance to pry when the door to his office swings open, drawing your shared attention to it. 

You watch as a stout man strides in behind Kieran, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He looks unassuming. You roll your shoulders back, the tension once coiled in your limbs slowly unfurling. You don’t know what you were expecting. What you were hoping for, and you’re about to relax before another figure strolls in behind the gentleman. Unmistakable, tall, shouldered. 

Your breath catches.

The man’s eyes flick to you, briefly drinking you in. You don’t miss the glimmer of softness, the belying of emotions behind a rigid exterior. You watch him sit in the armchair adjacent to Sylus beside the older gent with glasses, and you can’t fucking breathe.

Yunho. 

His name echoes like an old hymnal—a forgotten praise—in your mind. Something tucked away in the furthest hulls of your subconscious, dredging up memories you’d long since compartmentalized.

Under different circumstances, you might’ve fainted. Instead, you tamp down the swell of fear in your chest. The lump of emotion blocking your throat. The heaviness of your tongue. He’s here—he’s real. He’s not dead, presented as flesh and bone before your very eyes, and you weren’t losing your shit that night at Lux when you saw him.

Your body hums with pressure, with static. You feel dizzy as if your legs could give way at any moment. You feel sick. Yet you maintain your poise, your decorum. You avert your eyes to the floor when Yunho’s gaze flits to you every so often as if he’s trying to convey something. Trying to make up for years of leaving you in the dark, for leaving you to fend for yourself, to pick up the jagged shards of your heart alone when you thought he was mere bone and dirt.

The meeting drags on with an unbearable tenseness. You feel like you’re out of your body throughout. You don’t follow what all three men are on about, too busy battling the static brewing between your eyes and your knees threatening to buckle beneath the weight of Yunho’s gaze when he thinks no one’s the wiser.

—

He’s grateful when the negotiations conclude, Sylus is. He hates these things—the pleasantries that go into them, the small talk before he can take what he needs.

He shakes the stout man’s hand with a rehearsed pull to his lips, sealing the deal. The land will be signed over to him without incident. Good. He’s been itching to open a new club just for you. Knows you’ve been dying to have something of your own, a place with your name in scrolling Marquee outside.

He reaches over the glass-top coffee table to shake the hand of the younger man who had accompanied the landowner, and it’s like he’s been electrified when their palms meet. It’s a familiar, uncomfortable surge of static pushing up his arm, curling in his chest. 

Sylus stiffens, eyes shooting up. He locks on to irises that remind him of blackened tar pits. Soulless. Yet behind the aloofness lies a heated intensity that would burn through flesh if Sylus were anyone but himself. He’s thrown back to the memory of three nights ago at Lux when he’d caught the same feeling after chasing away whatever spooked you.

Sylus squeezes his hand a little more firmly than necessary, a slight divot forming between his brows. The gentleman’s stare is equally unrelenting, and it’s like he knows something. He doesn’t miss how his gaze flicks over Sylus’ shoulder to briefly take you in before he releases his hand, and both men depart, leaving you and Sylus buried in heavy stillness. 

He’d been doing that quite a bit, that man. Sneaking little glances at you, sometimes lingering while Sylus was deep in conversation. He didn’t like it one bit, the way his gaze felt like it was stripping through your clothes. But he said nothing—you were a far cry from unsightly. It was only natural that other men couldn’t keep their eyes off you, couldn’t contain their intrigue. But this felt…different. 

He rolls the stiffness from his jaw as he stands up straight, hands stuffed in his pockets, still staring at the afterimage of his two guests long after they departed.

The strain in your body was palpable, too. He felt it rolling off you in waves, crashing into his back. Didn’t miss how you shifted your weight between your feet, the rustle of fabric behind him, an occasional tight breath slipping through your lips as unease fell onto your person. 

It’s unlike you to be so out of sorts. So on edge. So he breaks the quiet lull between you by clearing his throat and swiftly turning to face you, a question perched on his tongue. He nears you with measured strides. Paces towards you almost like a predator cornering prey, and the way you glance down to avoid the smolder of his gaze makes something pull in his chest.

“Who was that?” he simply asks, trying to mask the tinge of bitterness in his tone. His expression slackens when you look away, your jaw moving, and you’re squeezing your fingers at your back, so much the tips turn white.

You push out a weighted sigh, your voice shaky and sticky, as if you might cry. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, but you fall silent, unease etching into your features.

He’s close now. So close, your perfume curls around him, the welcomed heat from your smaller frame permeating his skin. He wars with himself for a moment. Turns over his subsequent actions in his mind like an old vinyl before softly pinching your chin between his forefinger and thumb. He tilts your head back until you’re forced to look at him from beneath those ruinous lashes, and the wet gleam of your eyes is enough to make his stomach flip. Make the tendons in his neck pull.

“Talk to me,” he coaxes. Gentle like he’s persuading a lover to reveal the inner mechanisms of their mind to him. He knows you’re not okay. Wants to get to the bottom of your flightiness. Wants to help in any way he can. He’s not used to seeing you so stone-faced and avoidant. 

You relinquish a breath, lips quivering. You search his eyes, and he wants nothing more than to draw you into the circle of his arms. To cover you like a blanket on a winter's day, to absorb you. 

“A ghost,” you say on a shaky whisper. As if saying it is taboo, like it’ll conjure him back into existence. 

Sylus’ brows furrow. He prides himself on not delving into your past life. But, dammit it all, he’s never burned to know about what molded you into the person you are today more.

His gaze falls to your lips as they wobble. He wants to kiss them. Wants to take whatever anguish plagues you into his own body. Wants to kiss away whatever worries you have into oblivion. But he’s not sure how you would feel about that. If you’d push him away and completely shut him off from your heart. He’s made his intentions clear, his feelings for you—at least, he thinks he has. He’s been patient, waiting for you to come around. Waiting for you to want him as much as he yearns for you.

You draw him from the slurry of his thoughts when your fingers suddenly curve around his wrist. Soft, cautious, scorching through layers of flesh. A tired smile rounds your lips. You pull his hand away from your face, glancing down.

“I’m alright. It’s nothing to worry about. I—just need to get a little rest. Clear my head. Don’t worry about me.”

You brush past him without another word, and his fingers are poised at your back when you leave as if to stop you. When the door clicks shut with your departure, his fingers curl inward towards his palm into a loose fist before falling listlessly at his side. 

“A ghost, huh?” he murmurs to no one in particular, the words heavy and acrid on his tongue. He doesn’t notice the smoky threads of his Evol leaking off him, spurred by the ire slowly building in his chest.

a g r e e m e n t

“idiot girl, you belong to me.”

kakuzu x reader | supernatural AU (barely) | 18+ eventually

you were desperate, alone, and so so tired. you’d heard … heard of making deals. with demons. they could give you anything you wanted, solve any problem, and all you had to give up was your soul in 10 years time. what you didn’t know was that your demon was no demon at all. his agreement was very different and involved more than just your mortal soul.

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✧ part one ❛ it’s the cruelest thing i could do. ❜ ✧ part two ❛ do you think i’d let anything happen to you? ❜ ✧ part three ❛ i broke my rules for you. ❜ ✧ part four ❛ it’s four am and you’re yelling at me. ❜