#yandere bitch | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

stickyspeckledlight · 1 month

Text

Sunrise, Sunset, My Destroyed Body in the Onset [Yan!Aventurine x GN!Reader]

The cotton in your mind protects you.

Ao3

word count: 11.4k

TW: Stockholm syndrome, implied/referenced noncon, suicidal thoughts (not detailed but reader does mention having them and thinking about the act), mild gore (little actual gore but the prose uses gory language), reader goes through it and let’s just say aventurine is a terrible influence, tonal whiplash for my own sanity, wow aventurine are you really this emotionally constipated

Note: My first ever yan work! This is a bit of a mess, but I’ll bet five dollars and janitorial duty at Taco Bell that it’s a good mess 👍

(Written before 2.1)

The sun sets as you both bask in the afterglow. Clouds streak the baby blue sky, hued in soft yellows, calm oranges, and blushing pink.

(And it reminds you of his eyes)

Sights like these made nights spent in a casino a bit more bearable. You take a deep breath, sighing in contentment and exhaustion, and you wish you could shut your eyes and stretch this moment for an eternity. To remain in the setting eye of the sun, softly breathing as you press against the gentle beating of his heart. To have his hand lazily draped over your waist, the other caressing your head, fingers softly entangled with your locks. Your tears have dried, too. Yes, you’d like to live in this singular moment, divorced from everything else.

But as you’ve learned during your time with Aventurine, time is a rapid to move with.

You shiver a bit. Noticing this, he pulls up a thin blanket. The difference is small. But still, the serenity of the moment is shattered. The soft silk is meant to cage you in for whatever happens next. You don’t mind, anymore. Or, when you’re more lucid, when you let the torrent that is your mind flow, that’s what you decide.

You’re not stupid, but you wish you were. If you were stupid, you wouldn’t ever be forced to trek away from your home. Wouldn’t grab the attention of anyone smart and shrewd (though you did hear about one ‘Dr. Ratio,’ committed to remedies of ignorance). Even if you somehow did and ended up where you were, maybe your mind would be filled with cotton rather than thoughts. That you could enjoy everything all the time.

But you’re not stupid, nor are you a genius who could hope to outwit the man who holds the aventurine of stratagem. Knowing how normal you are compared to him only makes you more hopeless, so you do your best to fill your mind with cotton again. You feel your inner voice berate you for your willing ignorance but it also cries at its necessity.

Cotton. You needed to fill your head with cotton, because if you didn’t in time (and that time was short when you were with Aventurine) you might just sob again then and there. You think too much. So you won’t think. At least around him. Because…you still don’t want to acknowledge it in your mind. You protect yourself from the brunt of it and effectively live a lie.

“You’re clenching your jaw,” Aventurine’s voice possesses a perpetual drawl, but in moments like this it softens a little. Almost like he’s talking to a person and not something to use. “Just what could it be you’re thinking about?”

Could you even be called a thinking creature right now? Cotton absorbs color, and right now the sun, so big it could engulf you, is so beautiful. You tell him the truth. “The sunset’s beautiful. Really, really beautiful. A lot more beautiful than the others.”

He hums. He knows you’re not lying, but you haven’t answered his question. “You’ve made your affinity for the sight quite clear,” he says, and you only notice that odd edge in his voice from your sheer exposure to the man. Whatever Aventurine has against this sight, you’re not sure. He seems to like sunrises, though, if you can trust the times you’ve woken up and see him watching it. And whenever there is no sun, you wake up to him gone or kissing you awake. Though lately, you’ve been steadily receding from your habit of oversleeping, so you more often wake to the sound of his morning rituals. The hand in your hair tightens, and there’s a small tug, firm but not painful, at your roots. He still wants his answer.

Your mind, chosen to be wrecked with cotton, doesn’t know what to think. You say the only other thing in your absent mind. “This one looks like your eyes.”

You think he likes that because you feel him shift to look at it. You can’t see his face, but you assume he’s taken off his usual smile. Smiling all the time sounded torturous, and you rub your cheek at the phantom pain of your own imagination.

“Hmm…” and you feel him shift again, and you really have no idea what he wants. From the intonation, he’s about to do something either mischievous or ‘flirtatious.’ “You know, sweetheart,” he purrs, the word heavy on his tongue. He shifts, so you lay on the bed and he lays directly across from you. If this were earlier in your relationship you’d fantasize about ripping his throat for robbing you of the sunset; and he’d tut and make sure to evaporate those thoughts. His hair is messed up, his smile soft but still unreadable. The sun shines on the mark on his neck, and something about the sight makes you a bit…happy. And angry. He takes your face in his hands and locks your eyes. You tense a bit out of instinct. Aventurine’s full attention on you was intense and overwhelming, like a bright sun and a feral beast; the bit of dried blood on his lips is proof of it. You make a note to yourself to do more work on hammering your justified instinct away. Your heart feels like it will burst, as his gaze bores into your own. From apprehension or anticipation, you’re not sure. “If that’s the case,” one of his hands trails down your jaw, the ghost of his touch fluttering against the marks he’s painted on your neck. He’d have no issue finding more all around your body. He softly, lovingly holds your neck like he’s prepared to snap it and equally prepared to drown you in his affection. His thumb finds and lightly presses on a mark, one he drew blood from. “Why not take in the real thing, hm?” His thumb presses harder, and you blink back a wince at the pain. He notices, eyes softening impossibly further before relinquishing his thumb and kissing the irritated skin. “Sorry,” he says, but it’s said the same way a cat licks a mouse’s carcass. But you don’t mind. You’ve made sure you don’t mind a lot of things, and it’s made you equally content and miserable. Maybe you hold onto that latter feeling in stubborn defiance, because losing that shred of yourself would turn you into something that You wouldn’t necessarily hate if it were anyone else, but when it’s You becoming that—that, that, You hate.

But you do enjoy being close to someone like this, and hum contentedly to try and focus on that instead. But Aventurine is perceptive, and though his head is below you, you feel as if you’ve been chained up when you once again lock eyes. “I can hear your thoughts, darling,” He returns to his former position, “I hate seeing you all stressed out,” he says, as if his veins weren’t running with anticipation when you were saddled with debt and when your parents got hit with unfortunate ‘accidents’ that insurance couldn’t cover and he didn’t love the day you became his. “Didn’t you say that open and honest communication is important in a healthy relationship? I’m rather fond of our little romance, and I’d hate for it to crumble.” He nearly pouts—doesn’t surprise you much anymore, but there’ll always be a little bit of whiplash that doesn’t quite go away. Though, You feel a slight hint of bitterness—‘crumble?’ Some cotton burns away. Did he mean that for himself? …Or might it have been a vague threat to you…? You think, but you’re quick to fill your head back up with cotton. The process isn’t immediate, however.

“Our relationship is the furthest thing from healthy,” you point out. You don’t add in that you never sought out romance in the first place, “and it hasn’t exactly been built on a sturdy foundation.”

“You’ve got me there,” He chuckles. “Well, let’s put it like this,” he brushes a lock of hair from your face, “I see that my lover’s been saddled with all these thoughts, and it’s gotten them so awfully quiet,” Lover? No, that’s hyperbole. He tucks his fingers underneath your chin, stroking the soft, unmarked skin; the only area spared from his assault. “Makes a guy worry, you know? The last time you were this quiet was when you first moved in.”

Yes. It was mostly because You spent the majority of your free time sobbing, leaving your voice all but spent by the time he got back. And it wasn’t like you could be the goofy and sometimes witty and sometimes not buffoonish person You were when You were so miserable. When you wanted to do everything you could to retreat into your own skin—but Aventurine simply ripped you out, exposed, bloody, and sniffling. After that thought, the cotton has completely grown back.

“…And…?” Through the cotton, you can only wonder what he’s talking about.

His smile becomes sharper, and you wonder if he might feel insulted. Does he think you want to leave him, see him get what he deserved and some actual help like You used to? “C’mon don’t you…” you blink a little vacantly, and he seems to realize something. “Or, maybe you’re…” but his voice suggests something knowing. Suggests experience. And the gears in his mind click. “Oh, I know that look!” He laughs, delightedly or derangedly, you don’t bother to differentiate. Either way it makes you shiver.

“Huh? What look?” You asked, filtered through cotton. He doesn’t answer and cuts to the chase.

He playfully flicks your forehead, and you imagine a bullet going through it, “Riddle me this: what do you want, sweetheart?”

You blink. What do you want? When you first got here, it was security and his or your death. After some time had passed, it was peace. But now…you want whatever storm that’s inside of you to stop. But he doesn’t need to know what you want deep in your soul. So you tell him the truth, filtered through cotton.

You do something that would’ve been unthinkable to You, and worse, it’s subconsciously without a second thought. You push him back down on the bed by laying on him—flopping on him like a fish, You think, for your mind is such a silly little thing—lay your head over his heart, and take in the sunset. The sun’s nearly below the ground. “…If it’s fine, and only if you want…” you ask, because You detest the idea of being controlling, “I’d like you to…” you flush, “…h-hold me, um, like you are right now, until the sun’s down and, um…” your heart is going to burst and there’ll be a hole of viscera through your chest and maybe Aventurine will admire your pathetic, desperate corpse before burning it, “we can take a bath. And,” you look up at him, “I’ll look into your eyes, as much as you want…” You tell yourself it's because you need to appease him. But you know of the primal thing that lives in your chest.

It’s true. But Aventurine puts it perfectly.

His smile speaks of years of clawing his way up with honeyed words and masked expressions. “You’re not lying. Thank you. That’s such a sweet wish,” he says kindly (you’re no longer scared of his kind voice), stroking your head like you are an obedient dog, one that he adores and veers on despising, and then wraps his other arm beneath your thighs, “but you know I’d like the truth.” He then says, primally, ready to carve out a space in your body to inhabit, “To know what storm’s brewing in that little head of yours,” he takes in a shuddering breath, and his eyes light with perverse excitement, “if it’s begun to…crack and burn up.” He sits up and carries you away. You’re slightly disappointed you won’t be seeing the sunset in its entirety, but you’ve gotten good at forgetting. Aventurine sighs wistfully. “But…” he grasps your chin, forcing you to look at him, “I don’t mind that second proposition of yours,” his voice is husky, and he kisses you. You flush, and the cotton is the only thing that prevents you from tearing into him with your canines.

As the sun moves further and further away, You think yourself a fool for thinking it would engulf you. Aventurine wouldn’t leave anything left of you, whenever he decided he was done with you.

—

This is your only choice, and it was everything you could do to not shut down the instant you realized.

You were in denial, at first. It was all just a coincidence, right? You’d always feared this sort of thing—financial struggle—and so getting hit with it should be something you take in stride, and come out of it either in a wreck or just barely getting by. And, if you wanted to get a little nerdy, capitalist economies have to crash into recession eventually, so maybe now was just that time of the era. No place was hiring you, and your parents were getting buried in bills they couldn’t pay.

But, if anyone with half a brain took a step back, they’d call out the bullshit excuse you concocted in your mind, to deny the ridiculous truth. Because whatever recession was happening, it seemed to only affect you; not to mention that this wasn’t even how recessions worked. The truth that you, you, were the apple of someone’s eye (for lack of a better term—you aren’t delusional—you’re just as disposable as the next person, as much as you wish for the universe to cease operating like it).

Preposterous! Scandalous! You, a complete idiot, catching someone’s fancy? How the fuck did that happen?! Were pigs flying now? …You take that back, there are indeed flying species of the hog persuasion gallivanting about in the cosmos. But this does not detract from your point. One might say “bimbo vibes,” but you know for a fact, even taking into account your own bias and self-perpetuation of your self-esteem issues (which makes you still having them even worse, but you’ve already gone down that spiral more than you could count), that you do not have anywhere near enough bimbo energy to attract anyone with that kink. Or the looks. This was your knee-jerk reaction to the situation. And to an extent, still is, because thinking about it like that gives the situation a bit of levity you desperately need. You can’t wrap your head around it in the slightest. But you can’t dispute fact. And the fact is that you are wanted by someone else, and you can’t even begin to understand why. Least of all the person who wants you.

The man who hides behind the name ‘Aventurine.’ That fact alone already makes you not want to be so closely associated, and it makes everything more insane and stupid. An IPC executive has no use for you. If he wants to extort you for unpaid or cheap labor, he’s already got a vast selection of underpaid grunts to do his bidding. If there’s one thing the IPC knows how to do, it’s keeping those desperate enough or arrogant enough trapped. You’re not either of those things; though you admit you’ve adapted the former trait in light of recent bullshittery, but you digress.

Most of what you come up with is met with an easy counter. Aventurine, a sleazy businessman obsessed with sex? He has money—he can just hire a prostitute; hell, you’re sure there are plenty of people who’d throw themselves at him for no charge. Sure, most of them would be coming into it with their own agendas, but he’s sharper than that. Aventurine, a man with insatiable greed? Again, he’s already rich as fuck, and the only way he’s getting any more money is if he looks up the pecking order. Whatever wealth you offer as an asset (the thought churns your stomach) is barely a drop in the bucket. Aventurine, a gambler who loved seeing his opponents fall into ruin? That was actually plausible to some extent, but you’ve made it very clear you’re no gambler (not in tangible matters at least, but you keep your card close to your heart). Then maybe he wants to try and push you over the edge? Try to make you take a risk bigger than yourself?

So, you’ve settled for this: Aventurine, a man who cannot stand to be sober from the drink called “power.” Desiring complete domination over someone. A personal matter, and briefly you hear the echo of a quote: “We desire that which we do not have.” What doesn’t Aventurine have?

…A relationship? Well, you shoot that down easily. Whatever kind of relationship this leads to ends with you ruined and him hunting after his next prey.

He’s a bit like a serial killer, you muse, and you just so happen to meet his criteria for victimhood. But unlike a killer, he’s merely going to make you wish you were dead. If you wanted death, it’d have to be at your own hands. If he gave you that option at all. Another thought you have is that he might use you for snuff or something else equally or more horrific. That’s…you haven’t pursued the thought any further.

You’ve been robbed of much of your control, but you still control the hand that knocks at the door. If you’re going down, it’ll be on your own terms. This is your last, desperate attempt to pretend you have any control at all. You make sure your bangs cover your eyes.

You just wish your heart didn’t feel like it would explode. You wish that you weren’t actively holding back from breaking down into a sobbing mess. You wish you were made of the same steel heroes were, but you cannot be what you are doomed to not be.

Aventurine opens the door, giving you a grin that makes you retch. He’s dressed in his usual peacock-esque finery, and something about it makes you frown. Maybe it’s because he’s dressed in the colors you love—forest green, the blue of the sky, the black of where the moon does not shine—and it feels so wrong for something that wants to destroy you to be clad in them. “Sweetheart!” he coos out the wretched (and cringe-worthy) pet name with faux surprise; it propels you to roll your eyes even now. He knew you were coming; otherwise, you’d be detained by hotel staff. It didn’t quite help that you didn’t really bother to dress up either. It made you stick out like a sore thumb, and you’re glad that this is the only time you’ll be at a gaudy hotel. “You’ve come to visit little ol’ me! I’m charmed. Aren’t I a lucky man?”

You fantasize about his guts strewn about on the floor, accompanied by your maniacal laughter and sobs of elated despair. “...You could say that, Mr. Aventurine,” you aren’t foolish enough to be curt, so you settle for polite and cordial. Professional and businesslike, though you know that gives him a slight advantage. “There’s something I wish to discuss with you. I think that’s best accomplished behind closed doors.”

He clicks his tongue playfully. “No need to be so cold. We’re friends here, aren’t we?”

“I suggest you drop the ‘sweetheart,’ then. Friends don’t call each other that, Mr. Aventurine.”

He raises his hand in mock surrender, and you want him to get to the fucking point before you lose your nerve. “Oh, fine. Then,” he gestures to the lion’s den. If only he were the gentleman he was pretending to be. “Walk on in, darling.” You cannot suppress the groan that comes out of you. His smile widens; you're sure he gets some kick at riling you up.

You don’t have the energy to deal with him, and you certainly don’t have enough to suppress the sigh of irritation you let out. He seems to look like…some sort of positive emotion that you don’t know what to name. You’re not sure if you want to name it.

The sunlight catches his predatory yet enrapturing eyes. His eye twitches, clearly trying not to shut. Maybe, you muse, the sun hates him as much as you do. It brings a weak smile to your face. You make sure to take your sweet time to enter. You won’t take off your shoes, either. He can deal with a bit of tracked dirt, you think, but then you notice that he’s wearing his shoes as well. In his own place. And here you thought he was monstrous enough.

But when the door shuts, any semblance of levity you could summon dissipates, and you’re reminded of what you’re here to do. Aventurine’s hand snakes up on your shoulder, and you want to rip it off and feed it to the birds. Thankfully, he just leads you to the living room. The sun is cast overhead.

“So,” he circles till he’s in front of you, “What could be so important that you’ve come to see me this time of day?” The cat purrs to the mouse, petting it with claws retracted; for the time being. It makes you abandon courtesy for curtness.

“Don’t act like you didn’t cancel some business meeting to make this happen.”

“Oh! You’ve got me!” he chuckles, “My, you’ve already gotten to know me so well. Don’t you think we’re like two peas in a pod?” He teases, and you know he specifically means for it to piss you off. Not to mention it’s an incredible reach. But to his credit, it works.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you spit, and his hand lets you back away from him. “I was thinking about…” you take a sharp breath—you can’t lose your nerve now, “...the ‘deal,’ you gave me a little while ago. The gamble, to be more precise.”

His smile stretches so wide it seems to crack his face, and you feel phantom pain radiating along your own mouth. His eyes, those alluring and dangerous rims of pink and electric blue, are spiked with adrenaline. You wonder if his eyes are dilating, but you don’t want to look at his eyes any longer than you have to. “I knew you would come around. But I see it in your eyes—you want to discuss the terms, right?”

He’s right. “Yes.”

“Admirable,” he says lazily, “but before you start, you should know that I’m not budging on my reward.”

“I know,” you bitterly say, “this is about my reward.”

Interest ignites, burning the blue of his eyes hot with intrigue.

“If I win, then I want you to reimburse my family, and then some, for all of the shit you’re making them go through. And then I want you to leave them the hell alone and not harm them.”

You can’t tell if he looks more interested or disappointed. “That’s hardly different from our original deal. The only difference is that you’re not getting any compensation.” At least he doesn’t deny that he’s the one the source of your family woes this time. Likely because you two already jumped through that point. You may not be sharp, but there are things even you can’t be gaslit on, and you think Aventurine realized this and decided not to bother. “Do you really hate the idea of getting money from me? You do remember that I told you that you can use me however you want, right?”

Money that’s sourced from less than savory grounds, you think. You hate how he wants to use you, and you equally hate using anybody. “Yes. You made that very clear. I know what I’m doing. Now, come on.”

“Don’t be so hasty. I’ll have to modify my will so—”

“No need. Get the gun already.” You aren’t too worried anyway. Businessmen like him know to honor their deals. He’ll probably dismiss it easily and assume you’ll either donate it to charity or give it to your family.

He laughs, not so dissimilar from nails digging into a chalkboard, “You’re that eager to kill me? And you were so against it too! I wouldn’t have expected your morals to shift so quickly.”

You bite your lip. “You don’t seem to be all too worried about dying,” you point out, “You were the one who proposed this in the first place.” Another reason you don’t want to associate with this man. He treats his own life far too callously, and it doesn’t take a genius to know that whatever there is to unpack, it’s bursting at the seams. Normally you would’ve been sympathetic, but this is the manner of man that wants to seize you. You don’t want to know what would happen to you, under his dominion.

Still, at least you know that he prizes adrenaline above all else. Why else would he risk his life for a hit of it? It’s useful info and also the only wrinkle in your plan…but you’re not banking on this entirely.

Aventurine doesn’t respond, but his eyes accentuate his mirthful grin. It reminds you of yourself, muttering a joke under your breath. You do like inside jokes, but you cannot say the same for the ones you’re left out of. No matter how demented this man’s humor is, knowing what he finds funny would at least give you more to glean on him. A part of you does enjoy piecing together puzzles, even ones you can’t solve.

He produces a simple revolver from his jacket. Sleek and as dark as a moonless night, even you can tell that its craftsmanship is more than deserving of admiration. But it spikes your anxiety. You want to dig a hole and suffocate, to feel your lungs burn like lava and to have your fingers raw when you have second thoughts and desperately try to claw your way out. You blink back tears, but you know what you must do.

He takes his sweet time with the gun, but you don’t pay attention. Your eyes are trained on the ground as you try and fail to psych yourself up. You know what you're doing. Your parents would tell you this was a bad choice, and you agree, but you weren’t given very many good choices.

A shot rings out. Glass shatters from behind you. The coffee table. Your breath halts. Something searing and hard digs into your chin, forcing you to look up. Your gaze is misty from the pain, for you’re more resilient to the cold, not the heat.

“Sweetheart,” he smiles kindly, “I don’t like being ignored.” Despite your best efforts, a tear has rolled down your cheek. Your chin feels like it will be seared and forever be fiery hot. You need to get this over with before your mouth starts to uncontrollably twitch into a frown. He roughly lodges the gun from your chin, but replaces it with a kind touch that sends spiders crawling down your back. “Aw…” he coos, his cheeks faintly dusted with pink as he begins to lean in, “there’s no need to cry, dear.”

You can’t stop it. You let out something that sounds like a growl, and shove him off of you. “You don’t get to touch me,” you hiss, a sound you didn’t know you were capable of, “Hands to yourself,” For some indiscernible reason, another tear falls, “you haven’t won anything yet.”

He’s not fazed. “Ah, I suppose I’ll have to concede there,” for now, “Here you go then, friend,” Despite his claim of concession he yanks your arm up and forces it in your grip, “Let’s see who luck favors.”

You shake, a little, but you’re not shaken enough to lose all your rationality. “Is there still a bullet in here?”

“Yep,” he pops the p, like you two were old pals, “though I suppose I should roll the chamber again. Give me a second.” He takes the gun away and gets to work. You’re both thankful and sobbing on the inside. At this rate, your ribs will be dust from how your heart hammers into them.

It’s back in your hand after what feels like an eternity and a microsecond. “Now there shouldn’t be any problems. Feel free to start shooting,” he purrs, adjusting it to point toward his chest. He moves to secure the barrel to his chest, and you must act now. You’re shaking and you want to die—

Ah.

Good.

You won’t lose your nerve then.

“Actually,” your words shake with imminent tears and ramping fears, “there’s another term I wanted to discuss.” Your words aren’t threatening, but it’s ominous enough to give Aventurine pause. Now that he’s given you the inch, you’re taking the mile. You take a deep breath. It could be one of your last.

You’ve forced the barrel against your forehead. You’ve either gasped or Aventurine’s breath has hitched. You feel tears welling up, but you’ve made it too far for things to end here. You will yourself through your terror. “If I get shot, I win. If I don’t, you win.”

A tense silence whistles about. The air is almost electric from shock. But you know what you’re doing. You know it’s stupid, but you’re hopeless and this is the closest thing to a shred of hope you can grasp. See, you did a bit of research (on a library computer; you weren’t taking your chances). You found out that there are a few stories (very few, buried underneath the announcements of a music video and interviews and what-have-you) about Aventurine playing roulette—and even more about how he’s made numerous casino goers lose everything. In other words, he’s a lucky bitch.

And you’re not that lucky. You doubt your luck is good enough for a regular gamble, but for your life? You treasure it, and sealing the gun to your head leaves you on the cusp of a breakdown. This is what you’re banking on: you’re not lucky enough to win a gamble, but you’re unfortunate enough to lose your life over something so inconsequential. Your parents would murder you if they saw you. Say you owe them nothing, and you do agree—but you can’t shake your habit of overpaying them. You’ve left a note at home for them to dig up, but it wouldn’t be an apology. If there’s an afterlife, you’ll apologize for eternity. You think the only way you can apologize is by searing your soul in the hells till nothing is left of you.

You do have a more selfish reason for taking this approach, but it’s also incorrigible and unreasonable. You don’t need to dissect it.

You think he’ll take it up. Sure, maybe the adrenaline he’ll get won’t be as great if he were the target, but so far he’s been the type to take pleasure in pushing others down a peg. He smiles at your distress, after all. So surely your quivering, sniveling form is giving him a kick? And surely, surely he’ll want to see your eyes glassy, your expression forever contorted in a fearful, desperate sob?

But Aventurine’s voice is missing its usual lilt. It’s hard, no longer deceptively light. Not playfully pushy but demanding. Maybe this is how he speaks to his enemies, you think, suppressing the urge to crawl into yourself. “…What?” A shard of ice is lodged in your back and makes your heart skip a beat from the surprise. But you can deal with the cold. It helps that it numbs the piercing pain in your back.

“I said what I said,” you push the terrifying thing harder into your skull, “these are my terms.” You’re more adamant than ever to not look into his eyes. You fixate on your shoes. You won’t speak more than necessary.

He seemingly contemplates for a moment. You’re about to push further when he finally speaks. “Do you remember what I said when I first proposed this gamble?”

Your mind is too fear-stricken for recollection. “You say a lot of things. C-can’t remember all of them.” Shit, your mouth has twitched a bit.

Shockingly Aventurine doesn’t poke fun at that, and is unusually focused. “I don’t take deals where I’m on the losing end. You’ve skewed this far too much in your favor.”

No. Oh, no. You were wrong about something. Lava starts to sting at your eyes. If you were wrong about this, then what else were you wrong about?!

“W-what? You’re not the one risking your life!” You exclaim, and it makes you look up at him, “How are you on the losing end?!” You shriek, because you aren’t a composed person at heart.

His eyes, lifeless and intense, widen as they bore into your own, pinning you down. If you squirm, you think he would stab knives in them to keep you down. You’re afraid of even blinking. He isn’t smiling and your knees want to shake. “Let’s go through this one by one, so you understand. One: what do I want?”

“W-wha?”

He repeats himself, harsher. “What. Do. I. Want?”

You settle for the safest answer. Your heart feels dead. You’re sure it will wither to dust. “M-me?”

“Bingo.” It scares you that he’s not saying that with a lilt. It scares you that he’s not trying to manipulate you. It scares you how there’s only a thread between him ripping you in half. “And here’s something very, very important to know about me,” his hand caresses your cheekbone, positioned to catch any tears that fall, or to crush your skull, “I do whatever it takes to get what I want.”

“Then how is this different?! You’re still taking the risk of not getting what you want no matter how you slice it!”

The smile he gives you is all at once angelic and biting. “I don’t like it when I don’t get what I want.” His pupils dilate. Your eyes well up looking into the malice and…something, that plunges you in ice water. “If I can’t get what I want…hm, how do I describe it?” his voice begins to regain its lilt, fueled by your increasing distress. He smiles like he’s teaching a child a lesson, but you swear his eyes are growing duller. “Well, it’s like being trapped in a land without dawn,” his other hand softly holds your shoulder and it feels so wrong because you swear he’s holding back from brutalizing you, “there are chains around your neck, ankles, wrists, waist, eyes…” he chuckles sardonically, and a vindictive grin spreads as he leans in, till you can feel the ghost of his breath, “your life is a living hell, but the cold of the metal seeps down to your very bone.” You yelp; his grip has tightened. “Something stirs in your chest,” the hand caressing your face comes to rest over your heart, “begging to destroy everything and everyone that’s made you suffer.” His fingers dig into your chest, as if he’ll rip out your heart. “Tell me, my friend, do you want a man like that alive?”

You want to close your eyes so badly. Your mind is an inky landscape, blackening every single thought you hold. A soft flutter to your cheek knocks you out of your stupor. You register expensive perfume, something tickling your skin, and soft lips kissing away your tears. Immediately you shove away the opportunistic beast and stumble in your escape.

You’re in too deep. You need to make this work, because as much as you're terrified, something deep within you purrs at the weakness he’s given you.

But it’s good to know how spiteful he is. You already feel much better about your own plan. Both parts of you purr in delight: one knows you must twist the knife, and the other has been waiting for the opportunity.

“Coward,” your mouth is faster than your mind, “you coward!” Your meager wit and anguish over the past few months begin to tumble out uncontrollably, “I don’t care about your shit—you’ve hardly given me any say about anything. You’ve had the upper hand this entire time, and now you want to backpedal? This is too much risk for you?!” You heave, and you’re too enraged to care about how disgusting you must look, “You said to me there’s nothing you like more than a good gamble. Well, I’ve got a GREAT gamble for you, and if you’re upset you’ve got no one but yourself to blame! You wormed your way into my life, you orchestrated its steady decline, and you pushed me right here! You don’t get to back out of this like a coward!” You’re breathing heavily, and your vision is watery red, and you throw the gun in what you think is his general direction, and your vitriol spills out of you, “Take it and take whatever fucking risk exists! Languish for a month or a day or an hour because you didn’t get what you want like a little baby! If I’m going down, you’re coming down with me!” You’re heaving at this point, and you absently lean on the couch so you don’t collapse. Your composure is in shambles, but you’ll try to save a complete breakdown for when your choices catch up to you and you’re choking on your own blood.

You hear a slow, rhythmic clap, and it shocks you that your ears aren’t flooding with blood at it. You hesitantly look up to see Aventurine grinning like a beast.

“You, dragging me down…” the lilt has come back, and you realize that he likes something about this; that he’s schemed a part of it, “...so I see.” He drawls. He tilts his head, regarding you with the interest one has in an animal displayed in a zoo. “I’ll admit,” each slow step he takes toward you makes you sink further into the couch, “I was expecting you to cave with that. Yet you still insist…sweetheart,” should you be glad he’s calling you that again? “Let me be the first to tell you that it’s a great honor to push people like you into a corner. You were correct to fear me to try and avoid this.” So you were right on one thing, but it’s only a single thing. He’s inching ever so closely, and before you can start getting away he’s pounced on you.

You yelp in surprise and begin to thrash, “You—get, get off of me!” You attempt to be intimidating, but your intense terror makes you seem like nothing more than a child scared to get a shot. Perfume burns your nostrils. More tears are shed, but he’s merciful enough to not lap them up just yet.

He giggles and just pins you down. He waits until you're humiliated and exhausted before continuing. Your mouth twitches, and against your better judgment a sob brews in your chest. Your mind floods with ink, now. You try to tell yourself to keep it together, but the more you repeat it the more terrified you become. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d change the terms like this,” you squirm and look away—you don’t have the bravery to look at him directly right now. He lets you. “I was sort of expecting you to try and stand up for yourself, or maybe even demand I put in two bullets…but, you’ve run counter to my expectations. For one, I didn’t have you pinned to be this spiteful, nor this willing to give up your life.” You flinch and make a hateful sound as he starts to pat your head, continuing on as if this was the most normal conversation in the world, like he was the most normal person in the room, as he smiles so warmly—you’re a frog being boiled, but you’re too tired and afraid to retort, “Heh, this must’ve taken all of your guts to do, right?” The affection in his voice forms a lump in your throat. “I’m proud of you. Take pride in that,” he wipes away a tear, “and you’re right.” Suddenly, all warmness is gone and you’re blasted with heat. His grin shows his teeth, and for a moment you think you’ve really died. “I’ve always loved the thrill of going all in.” He laughs, a depraved sound of hedonism and complete despair, “If I win, it’s the jackpot. I get you, and you get me.” Get him? “And if I lose,” your head is tipped up by the cooled barrel of the gun to look into his eyes—

You whimper. The only thing that registers in your mind is that you’ve found yourself in a fox’s jaw about ready to clamp down.

“I live with my loss at the hands of a nobody. And it’ll gnaw at me from the inside…” he says breathlessly, “Yes, that’s a risk I can see myself getting behind,” Ink has made your soul quiver further. “And only taking deals on the winning end…I do that enough for business. That's to say…” he suddenly pulls you up, causing you to stumble and lean into him. He chuckles as your addled mind and body reorient, but the arm slung around your waist prevents you from straying too far. It’s the pillar you must rely on, but one wrong step and it will crumble to dust.

It scares you.

But.

There’s another side to your fear. What sort of things do we fear, you think? These months have taught you that people hate that which they fear. When the fear amps up, so does the hate. You aren’t blind to how he looks at you. He’d vivisect you if it got him what he wanted. Your teeth grind. Oh, you hate him, you hate him so much. But your hate doesn’t burn, nor does it freeze. It’s a part of you; it hums through your veins; it thrums with the beat of your heart. There is nothing special about what is merely a fact of life. You are its vessel, and for that it sustains you.

You won’t see the fallout of your victory, but the mere idea sends a wave of ecstasy through you.

The barrel of the revolver presses against your heart.

“I accept your terms.” His voice edges with adrenaline and delight, but, and rather exquisitely, your instincts think, an edge that he must be the one to win this gamble—that in this moment, for him to live with loss is completely undesirable. It pleases you greatly, that you seemed to have ever so slightly peeled off his mask. But unfortunately for him, you’re not lucky enough to avoid a stupid death. You quiver, but not with fear; not entirely. Still, a part of you wonders if he’s just been testing you with his easy agreement. Should you be glad if you got full marks? Or should you hope you’ve failed?

Still, a brief feeling of levity blooms in your chest, and you seize it immediately.

You did it. And unexpectedly, rather than further terror, relief washes over the heat and ink, because now that you’ve felt dead so often in such a short time, death is salvation. But just as quickly as the water came, a blizzard freezes the sea.

Click. His lips are against yours.

Of course. He wouldn’t let your final moments be pleasant.

He takes advantage of your inexperience to entangle your tongues, and his hand against your head pushes you deeper and deeper as he tries to devour you. You gasp and tear up when he bites and bruises your lips. You’d like to fight back, but you want to get this over with. Even if it means being taken advantage of in your last moments, mother death’s repentance is merely a chamber or two away.

But still, no matter how demented you are in the moment, you are human, and the instinctual desire to survive makes you recoil. The eye contact exacerbates it. His eyes hold a sea. On the surface, you can freely see the coral and starfish, difficult to understand but beautiful. But deeper, where the sunlight does not shine, the predators have taken to hunting one another, having wiped out the prey. And when only one is left, then it can only move up and up, until it’s the only thing left standing. And now it looks to consume you to satiate its unending appetite. Your lungs burn.

You’d love to shut your eyes, but doing so feels like losing. At least when you do so, you can see yourself be devoured. Your awareness of yourself is the only agency you have right now.

Click. He pulls away, and you take in a greedy breath. You feel a deep imprint on your lips; a bite, just barely not drawing blood. Your heart beats and a tear trickles; you’re not dead yet. That’s ok. You’ll be dead in a moment.

“You look so certain you’ll win,” he observes, “it’s a good look on you.”

You scrunch your nose. “Pull the trigger. I’m getting sick of looking at you.”

“But, if I do, then you might breathe your last,” his eyes narrow, though you’re not sure if it’s predatory or softening, “can’t I take the sight of you in?”

“Ha!” You cough it out. “For a man who dresses to the nines, you sure have bad taste.”

“Aw, don’t demean yourself like that,” he mockingly reassures, “I’ll have you know you’re perfectly enchanting.”

You decide to play along because banter is banter, and no matter how spiteful you are, you’ll take comfort and levity where you can find it. “And you’re a Knight of Beauty.” Absently, you wonder how terrible you must look. You feel your eyes still well with tears, still sniffling back bits of snot every now and then.

You’re not sure if everything’s just catching up to you, or if the thought has propelled you to the realization, but you’re so, so, so tired. It does make your tears dry, a little, and your muscles relax.

You see he’s starting to lean in again, and you immediately put a hand between you and his lips. “Don’t.” You growl. “Just…just shoot,” you sigh in exhaustion, “I’m tired. Just shoot. If you’re not satisfied, then you’ll have my corpse.” The implication is disgusting but he’s disgusting, and you really just want to sleep. You’re pretty sure he would’ve done it even without you saying.

His hand drifts down to your waist. “Can’t say the image is pleasant.” Is his voice colder? Tired? Distant? Or are you finally losing it?

“I’m already a teary mess. It’ll just be colder and a little stiff.”

He scoffs, “If I wanted someone steely, you wouldn’t be here.” True.

You bite your cheek and look at your feet. “Shoot.”

There’s a pause in the air. You wonder if he’s contemplating on saying something to you, or just getting it over with. Both would make sense. You close your eyes. You will yourself to not think, because you know if you do that your life will just flash before your eyes. And if that happens, you’ll die completely miserable.

Click.

You’re breathing. His hand is on your waist. The gun’s pressed to your chest. Nothing’s changed. Why aren’t you on the ground choking on blood?

“I win.” You hear. You shut your eyes when sunlight gets into them.

Oh. Oh. Oh.

You’re still here.

It didn’t work. It didn’t pay off. Your knees give out as you finally are no longer able to keep your tears at bay. You feel fluttering around your eyes, and you dare not open them. Shhh, shhh, you hear, but you only cry more. Everything has come to impale you, and you cry as you feel your organs spill. You’re his. You’re his. You want to die. Everything is coated in ink. You process nothing but the terror and rage and fear and despair and laughter and anything and everything you’ve ever experienced. You try to curl in on yourself, but you’re stopped by a beast’s hold, warm and predatory.

“Shhh, it’s alright…” a hand strokes you to soothe, but it’s more akin to sandpaper rubbing on raw skin, “Let it all out…we have plenty of time. I don’t have to hold back and neither do you,” he reassures. It makes you sob harder.

You heave and sob. All you can think about is the unknown future that awaits you. You barely register being placed on a plush surface.

When your sobs finally quiet, you’re forced to look into his eyes. There’s a flush on his cheek, a slight inconsistency in his breathing, and his eyes have dilated with adrenaline and…and…you’ve never seen that emotion before, whatever it is.

You wonder what face you’re making, as he smiles ferally. “You were right. That was great,” he hisses with elation and laughs. “Oh, you’re beautiful.”

The world spins. You’re lying, and he’s on top of you.

Oh…oh no…You begin to flinch and twitch uncontrollably. You aren’t thinking. You flail, kick, and cry even as you exhaust your meager energy, but he doesn’t budge. You need to get away get away get away get away—

“One last thing, to really seal the deal,” he smiles, insidiously kind and horrifying, “to commemorate my victory and your defeat.”

He bites into your neck, and you scream.

The fox swallows you whole.

—

He lets you roam freely, whenever he’s gone. To say you were baffled and suspicious was putting it lightly, so you refrained from taking advantage of it for a long, long time. In fact, when you found out his spaceship-apartment-thing was mounted with surveillance in every nook and cranny, rather than walk out the door, you found a cramped closet to hide in for a few days. Curling into a ball all day wasn’t easy on the joints, but you were taking any semblance of privacy you could get. But Aventurine, petty and cruel, forced you to seal off your haven with your own hands before he tore into you. If he wants you in his sights or roaming about, he should just make up his mind already.

But, for this one occasion, you choose to abuse this privilege. You usually come back around the same time he does to appease him, but you finally decided you needed a vacation after he forced you into one of his stupid gambles and forced you to fulfill another of his especially perverted fantasies; on top of forcing you to help him get acquainted with a gacha you played—and he’d be the direct cause of your cake turning out burnt. Sure, there are those big moments where lava and ink converge, but it’s the little things which sting and nick that pile up. The real kicker was when he forced you two to share a plate of pasta one night and when, of course, you two landed on the same noodle, he had the brilliant idea to suck it up at the speed of light; likely hoping it would get him to your lips sooner. How romantic, making out while you both had half chewed food in your mouths; you truly could not commend this man’s genius enough! Unfortunately for his plans and your sanity, you couldn’t keep up, and that is why you know what it’s like to have tomato sauce in your eyes. Not to mention that there were pepperoncinis in there. You were washing it out for days. At least he seemed genuinely apologetic over it, but copious amounts of jewelry don’t supplement how he never asks if you even want or like it.

So, yeah, you’re no fan of how he fucks with you. You gladly made this choice, and all the risk it came with.

“So, this is where you’ve been.” You think he’s still a little surprised, just as you are. You haven’t done much in the way of defiance, both because you wanted nothing more than to remain within yourself, and because you feared his retaliation (very, very much). The few risks you have taken never pay off. Even this one didn’t pay off in full: for you didn’t even go to see your parents. You tried to tell them the horrible truth and because they deserved to know their child’s fate, but every time you approached their house, something stopped you. Shame, fear, embarrassment, sheepishness…you don’t know. You almost laugh. To think, a quarter of why you’re here is because of the danger they were placed in, yet you can’t even muster the courage to talk to them. Maybe you want them to think you’re dead, because then that’s the version of you that’ll be eternal in their minds: loving, goofy, brimming with potential and optimistic pessimism; and not the pathetic wimp you truly are. The mere risk of seeing disappointment shine in their eyes (they wouldn’t but what if they did? What if?) was enough to scare you off. You dismiss them from your mind because you have to deal with Aventurine, unfortunately. You wonder if you’ll forget them, if you cast them out of your mind enough. “I’m charmed. Our special place.”

You scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself. This was mine before you ever came here, and it still is.”

You met each other here on a moonlit night. You couldn’t see each others’ faces, but it didn’t stop you from conversing. You don’t bother to think about it more, because what started as a memory that made you feel warm now enshrouds you in a volcanic blizzard. You’ve already mulled over it plenty anyway—on how such a mundane conversation started all of…this.

Now, the sun is setting. It calms you down.

“Darling, this is a national park. You don’t own it.”

You tsk. “Shut up. I don’t feel like dealing with you right now. And you literally called this place ‘ours,’ you conniving bastard.”

“Unfortunate,” his arm slings across your shoulders, “because it’s been such a lonely week without you…” you don’t share the sentiment. His other arm cages you by the waist. You imagine his body rupturing and exploding, showering blood and guts that you’d dance in. Or would you soak yourself in his organs, to savor his defeat? Maybe you’d open your mouth, let your mouth and throat be coated in his blood so you—

Huh. Something’s off again. You are no stranger to violent thoughts, but lately, at rare times, your fantasies get accompanied by something strange you can’t quite put your finger on.

You make a face, as you look at him over your shoulder with a deadpan glare, “And you’ve let me parade about.”

He giggles. “What? I had no clue you were here till a few hours ago! Honest.”

“Says the surveillance freak.” You wave your phone, “Not to mention I’ve so conveniently kept this tracker with me.”

He drops the act. “You didn’t even try to cover up your tracks.” He sighs, “I must say, your defeatism is probably the least attractive part of you. Can’t say I really understand.”

Then why does he still keep you around? It’s already been nearly half a year.

“You and I have no illusions that I can escape you, and I lost a bet. I try not to be a sore loser.”

“And yet you so often cry when you lose our games. Kick and scream sometimes.”

Your chest feels hollow, and you hate the feeling so much that you want to die right then and there. “What, should I be jumping for joy when you rape me?”

Silence. You can almost think he’s a little remorseful. But then his fingers snake up to pull at your collar. Peeling back your skin, to try and coax you out of it. More like tear you out.

You scoff, but your eyes heat up. “Seriously?” Your voice carries a mix of disappointment, anger, fear, and despair. It cracks, “Hardly three minutes and right after I—”

“Relax,” he’s so soothing that your muscles tense up and your heart beats to the nines—what a reassuring boyfriend! He continues his ministrations until he has a good view of your neck, and hums in pleasure, “I can’t say I’m entirely peachy with what you’ve done, but you haven’t been that bad—” you feel yourself slightly relax, “—so we’ll get a room first.” And your heart drops, but you did expect this. He hums, and you can practically hear the grin in his voice, “Unless…you’d like to really make this our special place?”

No. He can’t he can’t he can’t he can’t he won’t—The slightest bit of life crosses your relatively lifeless face. “Don’t you fucking dare—!”

He covers your mouth, silencing you, and squeezes tight when you try to speak; you feel something in you wither. “Alrighty, I get the idea,” He casually concedes, but you doubt he was all too adamant if he dropped it so easily. “We’ll both save ourselves for later. In the meantime, let’s keep quiet, mhm? We really wouldn’t want anyone to just interrupt us.”

You seethe, but then his grip becomes near painful. Humiliation wells in your chest, as the muzzle tightens. You forcibly relax, and reluctantly nod. Fresh air has never been sweeter. A drop of sweat trickles down your face.

“Good. Very good,” he purrs. “You’re always so good; thank you. I’m glad you see the mutual benefit in doing so.” He brushes a spot at your neck. It’s the spot he first bit you in, and thinking about it still makes you shake in pain. And he’s always sucking or biting at it to stake his stupid claim. You brace yourself. And right on cue he’s latched on, and your scream is muffled by your hand. You’d like to say you’ve gotten used to it, but you’ve never had a good tolerance for pain. Against your wishes, tears fall. Aventurine lunges at the opportunity, sensually licking them and leaving behind a disgusting trail of slime to dry. He kisses your cheekbone, leaving behind a weeping crimson flower, “You really are a crybaby…” his voice sends spiders crawling into your ear.

You desperately wipe your cheek with your sleeves, mostly because you know shoving him away doesn’t work when he gets like this. And then your short lived adrenaline fades.

“Shit!” He’s drawn blood. Again. And you liked this shirt! But you can see why he doesn’t—it was a high collar and a long sleeve, able to cover the mural of bites and bruises he leaves on your body. The majority were faded, but some of them were just a little more permanent. You briefly wonder why he’d ruin your shirt; he’s made it very clear that the mural is for his eyes alone. You suspect he wanted to create an excuse so you’d be forced to wear some jacket or shirt of his.

“Sorry,” he kisses the spot, but each kiss burns you. You don’t understand why he bothers to say the word when you both know he’s not capable of feeling remorse, at least, not for you. He keeps stinging your tender flesh.

You groan, blinking back mist. “You’re making it worse.”

“Sorry,” he repeats, giving you a bloody peck on the cheek, “but can you blame me? You’re not wearing any of my gifts. Makes a guy a little jealous, y’know?” He kisses your cheek again, firmer to imprint his bloody kiss.

“Yes, I can blame you for making conscious decisions,” you coldly snap, but you’re already tired, “Once again, jewelry is overrated and I reaffirm that your taste is shit.”

“I recall my jewelry and clothes were some of the first things you complemented.”

“Aye,” it’s true, but you see an opportunity for levity and take it, “but I have since evolved from my follious self.”

He’s getting that feral look in his eye again. Why?! You didn’t even do anything! You snap. “What is it? Spit it.”

“You’re doing it again.”

You can’t stand his touch any longer. “Doing what?” You hiss, shoving him away from you so you can face him. But you almost wish he didn’t let you, because there are few things he would trade for you in his hold.

He whistles. It feeds your frustration. You assume that it’s what he usually wants from you. “If this is some weird sexual innuendo then it’s fallen flat on its ass, you affluent horndog. I thought you said to wait later, anyway.”

He blinks in brief shock, before laughing—his canines shine in the orange sunset, “No, no no, not this time around. Let’s put it this way, and I’ll be very clear, just for you,”

As he calms down, an angelic smile spreads in his face, and you know you’re looking straight at damnation.

“I’ve learned that defeatists succumb to themselves. Pushing them past their limit helps, but it’s not entirely necessary.”

…In the back of your mind, you make a horrific realization.

You have tilled fields, so You may eventually sow them with cotton.

—

What does your face look like, right now? If you hazard a guess, it might be bestial. You only know your eyes are wide open and not flooding.

In an unexpected subversion, it is you who pins Aventurine to the ground. You don’t pay much mind to his expression: parted lips, breathless, glimmering interest and fulfilled desire in his eyes; it’s unusual and you would’ve drank it in if not for the tornado in your mind. It’s torn through some cotton, leaving the field barely clutching to life.

“What. Were. You. Thinking?” You do not recognize your own voice. You feel your body shaking and find that you’re breathing heavily.

He smiles. “You watch me gamble all the time, dearest.” His head tips in faux questioning, “I don’t see how that’s gotten you so worked up—and you’ve been so sweet lately.”

You grind your teeth. He hasn’t answered you. “You played Russian Roulette.”

The body of his opponent is slumped on the table across from you two. Their blood continually drips, crying out in defeat. You couldn’t care less about that, because there’s a thought playing on repeat in your mind.

That could’ve been his body.

His eyes twinkle as he smirks, “Are you jealous?” He cruelly teases, “Did you want to kill me, or were you hoping to take the bullet yourself?”

“No.” You’re not being sensible. The cotton in your mind is shredding. You want to balk at the idea, and You want to jump at the opportunity. “Answer my question.”

“Mmm,” he hums, and his nonchalance makes you shake, “well, I suppose I’m in no position to refuse. It was a good gamble with a good thrill, of course! I thought you knew this.”

He’s right. You know just how much pleasure he takes in putting everything on the line. Your question is answered, but for some reason it’s still not satisfied. The few surviving patches of cotton are still in your way.

That depraved feral look in his eyes only grows at your internal battle, and his gloved hand cups your cheek. “What’s wrong?” He goads. “Or have you finally come around to just how irresistible I am?”

For a moment, the cotton has come back, regrowing into a beautiful field. But then the scent of blood wafts to your nose, and all of your senses have increased tenfold. The drip of blood sounds like pouring rain, poking numerous holes; the tile below your palms are lifeless slabs of ice, sticking itself to you so you’d have to rip your skin off to get away; blood and perfume and spilled champagne root themselves into your sinuses, bleeding

them out; chocolate and salt roil on your tongue, scraping along like a rusty iron blade; and Aventurine, beautiful, cruel, loving Aventurine, has never looked clearer, so enthrallingly vivid and colorful you are tempted to sob at the beauty alone.

Hell hath flourished, and it burns the cotton to dust.

You begin to unravel.

“I want to hollow out your chest.” You admit maddeningly, and you wonder how much your insanity bleeds out. “And burrow into it, so I can listen to your heartbeat and feel the expanse of your lungs pressing into me with your every breath,” you think your breath has grown more erratic, “I want to breathe in your blood, taste your heart, blood, sustain myself on nothing, on nothing but you!” You’ve leaned closer till your breaths fan over each others’ faces. Small patches of water begin to drop onto Aventurine’s face—his face that is so breathtakingly and satanically beautiful without the cotton obstructing it—your breath hitches and your mouth twitches, as you take in a quivering breath. “If you die…I might just join you, because…there’s really nothing else for me…” and then something ugly sparks in your chest. “If you die…I’m pulling the trigger, not some random sap in a casino.”

The puddle of blood begins flowing toward you.

It completely burns the cotton, and that is the moment You are no longer safe. But hell is beautiful, you find, and you so gladly drench yourself in its flames. You are still painfully aware of how wrong it all is…but, the storm within you is starting to calm, you don’t cry with your every free moment and you no longer agonize about your parents. You…you think this is peace. To harbor obsession for the man who trapped you in this hell and tortured you and then drowned you in affection and obsession.

You sob, a sound of euphoric despair, and you confess the terrible truth,

“I love you, Aventurine,” you take in a shuddering gasp, “I love you…” you cough, no longer able to hold back as you break down, “I love you, I love you,” you hiccup and sob, “I love you I love you I love you I love you!” You’ve collapsed, curling in on yourself but resting your head atop his heart. “Don’t throw me away…don’t l-leave me…I need you, and it’s your f-fault I’m like this…please, please Aventurine, tell me you love me and won’t ever let me go!” Oh, you feel so ugly and you feel so much lighter and, and—

His breath shudders, and then swiftly takes you in his arms. You flinch out of your daze, but his grip doesn’t cease, like he wants your bodies to meld into each other. His grip is tight, almost biting, but in your mind free of cotton, it feels secure and adoring. He sits up, shifting so you straddle him. Red dusts his cheeks, a similar shade to the crimson pooling beneath you two. His eyes hold a hunger satiated and a new voracity, gleaming with animalistic intent that makes you shiver.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he shudders, grounding himself to hold back, “that was beautiful—you’re beautiful,” he’s panting, “how could I refuse such a heartfelt and adorable confession?” Your heart soars. “You’re so perfect. You’re the other side of my coin…yes,” he groans, “I’d love to bring you down with me, and to tear you apart if I’m back in that dawnless land.”

As the dawn shines on you both as he kisses you, it clicks.

He wanted someone just as desperate as him.

The whisper against your lips is almost reverent, “I knew you were the one,” His eyes are like a meadow, where you dance and sing and never leave, even as your feet howl in pain brushing against poison ivy and oak hidden amidst the grass and flowers. Now you recognize the emotion that drowns in them: an all consuming affection which threatens to erase your existence to everything but him. “Thank you, for destroying yourself for me. It’s truly an honor, sweetheart.”

Your tears flow, but the corners of your mouth twitch upwards. Insanity has sunk its claws into you, your stress and limits explode in a desperate supernova, and your very being trembles with ecstasy. Aventurine joins you, standing up and spinning you around in his firm hold as you both laugh and laugh in the dawn’s sunlight, with red not trailing too far behind. This is a spectacle you burn and freeze and drown in, witnessed by your spectator in rot.

Then you're devoured, but you’ve grown your own claws and fangs.

Driven by nothing more than instinct, in the throes of your tryst, you bury your head in the crook of his neck,

And bite.

#yandere #Yandere aventurine #yandere hsr #yandere hsr x reader #yandere aventurine x reader #aventurine x reader #yandere honkai star rail #Yandere x you #tw noncon #if you’re this far into the tags then hello welcome to hell #How are you? I’m chillin out it’s pretty nice #Dreading the day I must finally become a proper tool in capitalism (re: get an actual job so I do not starve to death and deprived of—#—basic human necessities. Like nestle water)#Ha didn’t expect capitalism depression in the tags of a yandere work didja well to that I say SIKE BITCH I’ve got you #But also every other post has espresso depresso abt capitalism so it’s kinda the norm at this point #Marx is rolling in his grave #Anyway go get a drink of water it’s very very important to be hydrated #Also you do not know how hard it is to not write good girl/boy in this FR—#Destroyed Onset

374 notes · View notes

kakushino · 8 months

Text

Lady in Red, Gentleman in Black

Tomioka Giyuu x Fem! Reader

Your boss had given you the responsibility of hosting that night. It led to something you didn't anticipate.

Tags: Mafia AU, mentioned character death, Yandere content, fluff, dub-con, smut, creampie, sub reader, mild bondage, mention of contraception/lack of it Word count: 6,8k

Masterlist

Your boss had given you the responsibility of hosting tonight; it was an honor to finally do an event solo - an important gala at that. Your boss had been secretive about the people who you were hosting though.

Makeup on point, hair styled to perfection.

You were ready.

At least once you found your neutral gray suit, you would be. Where was it? You swore you put it somewhere…

Oh, you were not ready.

You totally forgot to wash it. The suit of your choice was laying in the hamper, where you left it over a week ago. That meant only one thing… you had to wear the red dress your boss bought you for Christmas, or well, her money bought it - she’d given you a gift card to one of the fancier stores in the city so you had to make use of it. You’d planned to wear it to an event for fun not for work… it was even hardly suitable, with how low-cut the décolleté was. Had you not put on mascara already, tears of frustration would stream down your cheeks.

It was not going to be totally appropriate… but it would have to do. At least the skirt was flowy and not hugging your figure; it would have been hell on earth if you would have to be in a tight dress for the whole night.

You quickly found a pair of comfortable low heels, grabbed your purse and went to catch a taxi to the venue. It was still some hours before the start, but you had to make sure everything was perfect.

And it was. You’d spent weeks planning it with the knowledge the client was important and was not to be displeased. All the specifications were assented to by your boss before you finalized anything, so you were pretty confident in the client’s approval. The catering was on point, waiters ready, bars stocked, and the opening went without a hitch. You kept up your rounds checking on each staff group to keep things running smoothly.

There was only one thing that was… not perfect.

There was a man behind you from the start, though he kept his distance.

He was following you, that much was obvious to you. A gentleman in all black - black suit, black dress shirt, black tie, black hair, eyes dark like the night sky-

“Miss?”

You looked up from your flute of non-alcoholic champagne. A man in a dark blue suit with a green and yellow turtle-shell patterned tie approached you. “How may I help you?”

He gave you a friendly smile. “You just seemed lonely in your little corner. Thought you needed some company.” He grabbed a glass of wine from a passing waiter and raised it to you.

You hesitantly clinked glasses together, a polite smile on your face as you both drank your drink of choice. “That’s very kind of you, sir.”

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir’. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

You finished off your glass so you didn’t have to respond. He was quite forward, yet he hadn’t even given you his name.

And you weren’t willing to tell him yours first.

“Do you live nearby?” he asked, swirling the wine in his glass, seemingly uninterested yet hanging on every word you were about to say.

You regretted chugging your drink. Setting down the flute on a nearby table, you were about to answer-

“May I have this dance?”

You turned. It was not the man in front of you who asked. Instead, it was the gentleman in black who had been watching you the whole evening. His jaw was clenched, but expression was otherwise unreadable. His dark eyes were actually blue, and they pierced you with intensity you were not used to.

“Yes, thank you,” you shot an apologetic look to the man, who was speaking with you just moments before, and followed the gentleman to the dance floor.

“The name’s Giyuu, Tomioka Giyuu,” he murmured as he took you into his arms, slow waltz starting to play. His frame was solid, offering you all the support a follower could want in a leader; it was as if he had been dancing for years and years, and the first few steps confirmed it - that is, if he wasn’t just crazy talented.

You told him your name as he led you into a spin, making you feel like a princess as your skirt flowed in the motion. There weren’t many dancers on the parquet but you still felt very much alone there, with his warmth and strength leading you through the waltz. You didn’t want the dance to end.

Tomioka remained silent throughout the first song.

Thinking it was a one time deal, you stepped back from him once it ended. However, his grip on your hand did not let up.

“One more?” he asked quietly as a much faster music started to play. Yet another classic, a viennese waltz this time.

Though you weren’t sure if you could keep up with him, something made you agree. Perhaps it was the way he didn’t force needless small talk on you, or the way he offered you the support you needed to glide through the forms and figures of the dance. Maybe it was the way you two fit like a glove, or the way his darkness complimented your bright red dress.

Either way, you spent more time in his arms than out of it for the rest of the evening, orbiting each other like galaxies about to collide.

You still had to do your rounds, and it surprised you he kept you company even then, guarding your back as you did so. As the night wore on, you started to actually talk in between the conversations with the staff and the many, many dances.

He lived at the edge of the city, he didn’t have any pets, he liked the color blue, his favorite food was salmon with daikon.

You sat down for the first time of the night, moaning softly in relief. Your heels were comfortable, but not that comfortable.

Though he wasn’t as animated with his emotions, there were minimalistic expressions on his face that you were able to catch because… well, you were looking. Giyuu was an attractive man, and you wouldn’t mind at all if he asked-

“May I have your number?”

You looked up at him as he stood by your side, a silent protector. You wondered why he hadn’t sat down at all. “Only if I may have yours.” You smiled, face feeling hot.

You went out shopping before your first date. He'd told you to wear something classy, formal.

You were lucky to find a nice dark blue dress to your knees. It looked classy enough in the shop, but by the time it was five minutes until he was to pick you up, you were overthinking.

Was it formal enough? Was your make-up too slutty or was it just right? Should you wear higher heels or-

The doorbell rang.

All your thoughts vanished. Giyuu was here.

And gods did he look amazing. He wore a dark blue dress shirt, which was only slightly off-shade to your dress, and black suit, no tie.

Your face was flushed as he led you to his car - black and elegant, like him - while he complimented your dress.

Ever the gentleman, he opened the doors for you - the car, the restaurant - and pulled out the chair for you too. Chivalry wasn't dead.

The restaurant itself was fancy yet cozy, the type you thought you'd only see in movies. The tables were far apart to offer privacy yet close enough not to be completely isolated. It was situated in a high rise building, giving you a view of the city skyline in the sunset.

"I hope this setting is fine with you. I admit it has been a while since I'd gone out," Giyuu told you softly.

You smiled. "I've never been treated like this on the first date before. I think you're doing more than fine."

This seemed to please him, the corner of his lips quirking up a little. “Good. I didn't want to make you think I would harm you in any way… That's why I chose a public place to meet at first.”

Your heart squeezed a little at the quiet confession, touched and a little in love that he thought of your feelings about the subject. It was true - had your first date been somewhere isolated, you wouldn't say yes to it, the threat of… what happens to women, and men both, too vivid in your mind's eye.

"Thank you. I appreciate the thought, Giyuu." Your smile widened, your face feeling a little hot.

He only nodded in response, his eyes flitting between you and the rest of the room, as if he were keeping watch. He'd told you during the gala that he wasn't much for crowded spaces, so this kind of date was perfect.

"Have you been here before?" you asked when a waiter brought you the menus.

"A few times, yes." Giyuu opened his, more looking at you than the lists of food on paper. "I don't want you to look at the prices… I asked you to accompany me so I'm paying."

Chivalry was not dead indeed.

The conversation flowed smoothly, both of you relaxing in the push and pull of different topics, gentle waves on a calm sea. As you spoke, you placed your hand on the table, nearly touching his own. Second by second, you both inched closer unconsciously.

Your hands met, as did your eyes. Your face felt hot but you were smiling, delighted at the show of comfort and intimacy with this handsome man. His own lips were set in a relaxed line, not quite smiling but close, the deep sapphire of his eyes bright.

The waiter came and went, collecting the menus and your orders, leaving you alone again. A glint of a gold bracelet on the hand of one of the other guests reminded you of something.

“Do you like art, Giyuu?”

He tilted his head a little, the only reaction you got before he told you, “Art gives me a lot to think about.”

There was a deeper meaning to his words, but you could not decipher it just yet. His response was not negative however, and you latched onto that, hope budding in your chest. “There will be an art exhibition in town soon. It’s called ‘All gold that glitters’ - I don’t know if you’ve heard about it?”

Giyuu studied you for a moment, the silence just a few seconds short of becoming awkward. “Most of the display will be Gustav Klimt.”

Excited, you said, “Exactly! Once I heard it would be here, I wanted to see his works up close… Though I don’t know if I will get in. A friend told me the tickets might be sold out already. The painter is very famous after all.” All your energy evaporated as you realized the futility of the situation. “The crowds would be too much too… I’m sorry for rambling. I don’t know what has gotten into me.” You tried to laugh it off.

Giyuu looked at you for a moment longer before nodding. “You aren’t much for crowds either?”

You nearly sighed in relief when he accepted your diversion. It amazed you how receptive he was with these hints despite appearing stoic.

You smiled at him, “Not really. It sometimes gets too much. Even at work I…”

Even with your brief stumble in the conversation, you both enjoyed talking to each other for a long while. The topics flowed from one to another again, there wasn’t ever a lull in you sharing your thoughts. The gentle atmosphere of the restaurant added to your ease.

You were comfortable with him. And that surprised you - how quickly you let down your walls in front of a…

He could no longer be called a stranger. The time you spent together at the gala made you friends in your eyes. This outing was a date - could you say he was your boyfriend?

The food arrived, interrupting your thoughts.

His salmon with daikon looked delicious, and Giyuu must have thought so too, for he dug in very quickly, barely muttering out an “Itadakimasu,” before he munched away. You slowly started eating as well, looking at him.

Your face felt hot as you watched him. He looked so cute; he was clearly enjoying each bite, his cheeks full of the food.

He looked up only once, and he spoke, but you were not able to understand a word he said, his words sounding like gibberish to your ears. You could only giggle; you had never thought a gentleman like Giyuu would do this.

“Sorry, sorry,” you looked down at your food with a secretive smile. It was endearing to see him so unguarded. Though you had to say that he seemed relaxed in your presence, that pleased you greatly.

You ate in silence, each stealing glances at the other.

One glance at him bestowed a gift upon you that you never thought you would see, yet again. Giyuu was smiling while he ate his dish. Not only that. He was a messy eater, little bits of the food sticking on his cheeks. He looked absolutely adorable. You were smiling wide and you had a sudden impulse - one which you acted upon.

Giyuu froze when you leaned forward, rising from your seat a little. The blue dress clung to your chest, trying to contain your breasts from spilling over, digging into your skin a little.

He forced his eyes away from your cleavage, staring you in the face instead, but you were focused on his lips-? Were you about to-?

You reached out, thumb wiping at his cheek gently, and sat back down.

“You had a bit of rice on your face,” you grinned and ate the grain off of your thumb.

His face was red, blush stretching all the way to his ears.

Giyuu realized that he was in trouble, because something happened - something he didn’t account for.

He fell, hard.

“Where are we going?”

Giyuu had picked you up at your apartment, dashing as always in his black clothes. You didn't know how he did it, but everything looked so elegant on him - even if it was just a short-sleeved fitted shirt and black pants.

"You'll see."

He'd offered you his arm, ever the gentleman, as you walked to his car.

The two of you were a study in contrast, he thought. Where Giyuu was the dark, you were the light. You’d chosen a white sundress today, loose and airy - innocent and pure. A white rabbit hopping around in its meadow of flowers, unaware of the presence of a predator hiding in the shadows - a starved wolf, ready to pounce and claim the rabbit for its own.

The analogy reminded him of the fact he hadn’t given you any flowers yet. Fuck. He should’ve gone and bought you some before this date. Would you even appreciate flowers?

The drive was filled with warmth, despite the near-silence. It didn’t feel uncomfortable to not talk, you both were very much content.

Or at least you were.

Giyuu had an urge to place his hand on your thigh, but he didn’t want to overstep or break the atmosphere, the comfort you were both in.

In the end, his willpower won.

The car pulled into a side street, and you drove through a steel bar gate, the gate-keeper nodding at Giyuu respectfully. It made you curious where you were going. A small part of you rang warning bells - you didn’t know where you were and you didn’t know what would happen to you. But you trusted him, despite meeting with him only twice so far - today being the third. You hoped your trust was not misplaced.

Giyuu parked and turned off the engine, quickly getting out of the car and locking it when you reached for the handle. You looked at him in confusion, but then he was on your side, opening the door for you. Like a gentleman.

Blood rushed to your cheeks as you smiled at him. How could you have doubted him? He was such a silly man, trying to be as accommodating as possible for you. Giyuu took your hand in his, a loose hold which you could get out of easily if you wanted to.

He led you inside through a clearly personnel-only door, making you curious what exactly he’d planned for you two.

An employee met you there, guiding you through various halls filled with wrapped… things? It looked like paintings but you couldn’t be sure.

“Enjoy your time,” the employee said, opening a door for you two at last. The light in the room turned on, reflecting golden hues off of every piece in the room.

This was it - ‘All gold that glitters’ was in front of you. But- it was supposed to open tomorrow, and there were no more tickets left, you’d checked, so how-?

You’d subconsciously stepped inside, letting go of his hand. You slowly looked around in awe, tears gathering in your eyes. You felt as if your soul had been caressed by Giyuu’s warm hands.

Here, illuminated by the professional lighting and surrounded by paintings, the only art he saw was you. You spun in a circle, your loose skirt flaring up a little, your eyes sparkling as you took in the exhibition - devoid of life, sans the two of you. If he hadn't fallen for you already, he would have now.

Giyuu closed the distance, taking your hand in his again, bringing it to his lips to kiss your knuckles. Your excited expression made all the trouble he went through to get you both here worth it.

Nevertheless, he asked, "Do you like it?"

You beamed. "I love it!"

You tugged at his hand, nearly skipping over to the first piece, absolutely delighted.

Flitting from piece to piece, you eventually let go of each other, content to enjoy the art at your own paces. There was no rush, no one to interrupt you two, you were there alone; just the two of you and the art.

You stood in front of Fulfillment, admiring the patterns. Each painting, each art piece, had a meaning and was supposed to evoke something in the viewer. Staring at the embrace of the two lovers, it gave you the same feeling you had when Giyuu took your hand for the first time - today. Dancing with him didn’t count, the restaurant didn’t count, that was you reaching out to him. Today was him seeking you out.

Butterflies danced in your tummy as you smiled.

“Enjoying yourself?”

You looked at him, your smile widening. “Yes. You don’t know how special this is for me,” you admitted, walking closer to Giyuu. Glancing to the side, your cheeks felt hot. He was standing in front of the arguably most famous piece by Gustav Klimt.

The Kiss.

Giyuu remained silent.

You took in the details of the painting - the flowers, the position, the intimacy. You wished you’d be kissed like that, at least once in your life. An image flashed in your mind’s eye - of Giyuu holding you exactly like that, of kissing you exactly like that - and you had to blink and look at him again to make sure it was just a daydream, and not reality.

He was staring, his focus not on you as a whole, but on your lips. Your breath hitched in your throat.

There was conflict in his eyes when they met yours. It seemed as if the world held its breath for the two of you.

The distance closed slowly as you gravitated towards each other, separate galaxies a hair’s width away from becoming one. So close yet so far.

You closed your eyes. Warmth touched your soul.

The first kiss was but a peck to the corner of your lips; your head tilted back slightly, one of his hands cradling the nape of your neck, the other cupping your jaw. You exhaled shakily. The first became second, right on the lips, soft and feather-light; then third, the air shared between the two of you.

There was a mist inside your mind, your thoughts incorporeal yet comforting, encompassing you in a blanket of Heavens. It didn’t feel wrong, nothing about this felt wrong; it was just right, being with Giyuu felt right. Each kiss stole your breath and returned it to you in the same second.

Giyuu felt as if life was filling his lungs for the first time in forever. Your warmth was everything, absolutely everything to him. You were so receptive to him, eyes closed and completely pliant in his hands. It felt as if you were made from the thinnest layer of gold leaf and one wrong move, one wrong touch would crumple you up, eternally lost.

Only when you both were nearly gasping for breath did you pull away. Giyuu was cradling you in his arms tenderly, a bright blush on his face, and you were hanging onto him for dear life, your own cheeks flushed.

It was a moment of understanding that you stood at the edge of something great blooming between the two of you, and neither wanted to stop it.

Giyuu signed the death certificate, numb.

Urokodaki Sabito, aged 28, dead.

The pen rolled off the table and clattered onto the ground but he didn't care. The slight incessant ache in his arm hardly bothered him, the ache where his heart was felt like a more life-threatening wound than a mere scratch.

Sabito had nothing to do with the Ubuyashiki family, except being the relative and a friend of its members; Urokodaki Sakonji's only adopted son and Tomioka Giyuu's very best friend lay dead, the corpse long gone cold in the morgue.

It had happened so fast too.

One moment, Giyuu and Sabito were talking about Sabito’s upcoming wedding, the next, both were diving for cover as bullets flew overhead. Sabito had had some training from Urokodaki, though he'd steered clear of the true depth of mastery despite his clear talent at it. He'd always been better than Giyuu, at everything.

So why?

Why was Sabito dead and Giyuu alive?

Why was Giyuu still breathing and Sabito's chest forever stilled?

More importantly, who targeted him - them? Why had they done so?

Were they going to strike again?

Oh no…

Not [Name].

Anything, anyone, but her.

He wanted to shout, to scream - She has nothing to do with this! Leave her alone!

He knew, however, that it would be in vain. Whoever targeted them had done so very deliberately. They knew who would be where and at what time.

And they could get to you too.

No.

He could not allow that to happen. He'd just gotten his first taste of you, an ambrosia for a mere mortal.

And it wasn't even by his own making. It had been Sabito who'd forced him to approach you that night of the gala. He'd noticed Giyuu was following you around like a lost puppy all evening. He'd noticed and acted on it.

Sabito's interference led to a few of his happiest days in his life - the gala itself, the dinner, the museum, and the days spent texting one another.

All this could be lost with a short crack of thunder, a bullet released from the barrel of a gun - so disgraceful in these parts, where family conflicts were best solved honorably, with swords.

He could not allow it to happen - no, he would not allow it to happen. He felt an intense hunger, his teeth ached with the need to bite, to tear flesh to shreds of those who would even think of hurting you, of those who would even look at you.

Giyuu's mind spiraled, a maelstrom pulling everything in reach down to treacherous depths. Plans made and discarded, his hand reached for his phone before he knew it, dialing your number before he could stop it.

"Hi," came your voice. Giyuu closed his eyes, enjoying the simplicity of hearing you, the knowledge you were still alive and well making his heart beat like a drum. "What's up?"

"Are you home?"

"Yeah. Why? Is something wrong?" Hearing the concern in your voice would have made his chest feel warm normally, but this time the warmth was brought by the fact you were home, home meant safety… at least for a little while. He needed to get you close, to hold you in his arms.

His eyes snapped open. “I have something planned for us.”

"Planned? It's so sudden… It is a little late now but-"

“You just have to trust me," he interrupted you. “Understood?” He'd never used this tone of voice on you, the mask of a killer slipping on subconsciously.

There was a brief moment of silence. "Alright, Giyuu… I trust you.”

I trust you.

He hoped you’d trust him with your safety and life too.

“Thank you, dear. Wear that red dress for me.”

He hung up, texting you his address along with 'Take your time' in the same breath.

Giyuu had some preparations to make, after all.

You got out of the car - a driver he’d called for you, making you wonder just what his job was to have these connections - and stared at the house. You checked your maps, and it was indeed the address Giyuu had given you.

The house was much bigger than you thought it would be. Sure, he was an elegant man, always put together but nothing about him screamed fancy… Okay, maybe a little. But this was a whole another level of-

The door opened.

Your heart leaped in your chest, a smile rising to your face. Giyuu looked- your smile wobbled a little - he looked like he carried the whole world on his shoulders. You hurried to his side, clutching your purse and the wine you found in your storage - you wanted to bring at least something when visiting his home for the first time. Now it seemed you’d be drinking away some stress instead of celebrating life.

“Are you alright?”

Instead of answering, he pulled you close, hugging you tightly, as if you’d run away from him if he was just a touch gentler. He buried his head into your neck, breathing you in. “You look beautiful… As beautiful as a rose in a bouquet…”

Yet another thing he failed to do… He didn’t prepare any flowers for you again. He kept ruining everything, didn’t he?

You hugged him back awkwardly, the things in your hands a bit uncomfortable to hold at the same time.

Giyuu took a deep breath and pulled back enough to guide you inside. He closed the door and locked it. You placed the bottle and your purse both on the shoe cabinet at the side and embraced him again. He seemed to really need it.

A moment later, he whispered. “Maybe that’s a wrong metaphor. You aren’t just one of many. You deserve to be the sole focus of the beholder…” His hold on you tightened again. “The beholder being me.”

His tone of voice made you shiver a little. Giyuu seemed to still be out of it. You had never seen him being as clingy or heard him speak as possessively as you did now.

“You’re mine, right?”

The question was a bit out of character to how you knew him. He was usually so reserved and soft with you. You didn’t hate it per se, but it was certainly strange. “Of course.”

“That’s right, you’re mine. Never doubt that you’re mine and only mine.”

You were a little confused about why he was like this, but you stayed silent.

“You never know who you can trust these days.”

You shivered again. “Giyuu, maybe we should sit down, yeah? Where..?”

He stepped back and knelt at your feet, one of his hands raising your foot gently, the other pulling the straps of your shoes loose. Both heels fell to the ground, and he left them there, laying in the middle of the hall.

He stood up and took your hand in his, fingers intertwined and grip tight as if he never wanted to let go. Giyuu led you inside in a hurry, taking you through a spacious living room and up the stairs to- his bedroom?

“Don’t be afraid. You don’t need to be afraid of me,” he said lowly. “I’d never hurt you, my dear.” The pet name made blood rush to your cheeks.

Giyuu sat at the edge of the bed, guiding you to the space beside him, still clutching your hand.

“Giyuu, I know you’re probably going through something… You don’t have to tell me. But I’m here for you, you know that, right?”

He nodded. You both stayed silent for a time. Your thoughts kept looping back, trying to think of what could be going on in his head. You realized you knew him, but at the same time you knew nothing about him.

His voice interrupted your train of thought. “I worry a lot for you.”

You tilted your head, looking at him, “I worry for you too.”

Giyuu’s face relaxed minutely. He let go of your hand, stood up and grabbed you by your waist, moving you up the bed to lay on it, as he hovered above you, supporting his weight on his left hand beside your head. “From all the people I met in my life, from the billions I could have had - you are the One, and you are perfect. You’re perfect for me.” His right hand cupped your cheek, caressing your skin with his thumb. His eyes half-lidded, he leaned down for a slow and soft kiss.

The kiss was everything to him.

When he pulled back, you said, “I’m just me… I can’t be perfect.” Yet he made you feel like you were.

His eyebrows twitched, as if he held back a frown. “Don’t ever doubt your worth, lovely.”

The next kiss was just as slow as the previous one, but deeper, more sensual. It stole your breath away and conjured a fog over your mind; all you could focus on was him.

Giyuu trailed his lips over your jaw, pausing by your ear to whisper, “Nobody else can touch you but me.”

“Yessss…” you hissed lowly in a daze, arching your head back, allowing him to continue kissing down your neck unobstructed.

“I’ll have to warn you, my dear, I am the jealous type,” he murmured against your pulse point. You wondered if he could feel it drumming against his lips.

Giyuu bit down hard. You cried out in a mix of pain and surprise, waking up from the dreamy headspace he’d lulled you into.

“Giyuu!” You tried to struggle, but he held onto you, licking away the ache his teeth brought. Where before anticipation made your heart race, now it was fear, but you could only tremble in his grasp. There was no escaping the wolf now, and the wolf was starving.

He knew the effect this had on you. He knew that he wasn’t being as careful as he should be. It made his heart clench but it had to be done. He had to show everyone you were his. “There is no need to be scared as long as I’m here, my dear. I won’t hurt you and I won’t let anyone else touch you.” He won’t ever let you go.

You tried to slap him when he pulled back enough but he just caught your hand by the wrist, pulling it closer and kissing your palm gently. He maintained eye contact all the while, trailing his lips to the pulse point of your wrist. Your heartbeat grew faster against your will, the sensuality and intimacy of his gesture not lost to you.

His other hand reached into the back pocket of his pants, taking out a familiar green and yellow turtle shell necktie. "Please, don’t struggle so much," he whispered.

Giyuu placed the tie next to your head.

"You don’t want to see me angry, do you?"

You shook your head, this new version of him scaring you and arousing you at the same time. It was intoxicating.

Would you even be allowed to speak? Did that count as ‘struggling’? You didn’t want to test his patience.

“Strip.” He leaned back, sitting on your thighs and waiting for you to obey.

You couldn’t deny him. You knew he was strong, too strong to fight off or resist. You knew he’d take what he wanted regardless of what you tried to do. It was hot, your body felt hot all over. You felt like a freak for enjoying this, shame burning in your stomach as you undid the zipper on your side.

Giyuu watched you, eyes dark, while he himself undid the buttons on his black dress shirt one-handed. He shrugged off the material just as your dress slipped off your shoulders, leaving both of you bare from waist up.

He was covered in lean muscle, a few scars on his torso- his biceps was in a bandage, a bloodied bandage. Your eyes focused on it, but he was focused on something else entirely.

Giyuu took your hands and bound them to the headboard with the green tie. You tried to wiggle out of them but he only smirked, dragging the red dress off of your figure, leaving you only in your panties.

"I never do something halfway, my dear, and I do need to prepare you for me," he murmured against your lips, his hand slipping under the seam of your silky panties. You were wet since before he'd led you to bed, too excited at seeing him, too turned on by his voice and scent. Now it only made you feel shame, for it made things easier for him.

But you couldn't truly say you hated what he was doing, especially when his nimble fingers slowly pushed into you. You gasped at the feeling, and he stilled for a moment.

"Does it hurt?" You shook your head, spreading your legs wider.

Giyuu swept his thumb through your wet pussy lips to circle at your clit in soft and slow motions. He studied your face for any discomfort as he started to pump slowly.

"How do you want me to fuck you? Hard and fast or soft and slow? I will do whatever you ask of me, my dear." He curled his fingers inside of you, trying to find the spot that should make-

You moaned, flinching away from the shock of pleasure.

Giyuu swore later that your moans were the sweetest sounds he'd ever heard in his life; they were the only art a killer like him could create, and he intended to make a masterpiece of you.

As his right hand worked you up, he leaned down to kiss and bite at your throat, the vibrations against his lips feeling like Heaven on Earth.

His fingers played you like a string instrument, each flick and movement and curl dragging you higher and higher against your will, your moans pitching and breaking and finally cutting off in a silent scream as you came all over his hand.

"Beautiful…"

Giyuu withdrew his fingers, glistening with your cum, and brought them to his face, studying how the slick created a gooey string between them as he spread them apart. You had to look away from the lewd display, making his eyes snap back to your face.

You heard his belt buckle open, his weight briefly disappearing from your side. When the bed dipped again, his rough warm palms traced a path down your body, from your breasts, over your stomach, thumbs catching the fabric of your panties and pulling them down, down, down… off.

"To say you’re special is an understatement, [Name]," he whispered, spreading your legs and settling between them.

Your whole body trembled, your arms tugging at your restraints again, but you were too weak, your orgasm chipped away at any strength you had left to truly resist him.

“You don’t just make me want you…" His lips kissed along your neck with feather-light touches, breath hot against your skin. "…You make me need you.”

…Fuck if his confession didn't make you clench around nothing. Your mind fought against your heart and body in a three-way war, each trying to one-up the other. Your heart told you how deep you had fallen for him, how this was as good as a love confession. Your brain warned you you were in trouble, your boyfriend had lured you inside and was about to use you. Your body sang for the future pleasure he would bestow upon you, his talented fingers proving his skill.

"I'm keeping you here… for your own good."

What? No- and Oh yes, please-! echoed in your mind.

"You will stay with me, you will never leave me, you will be safe here."

Oh, but how could you fight this?

"I love you."

I love you.

Giyuu kissed you on the lips, deeply and passionately, setting you on fire with his touch.

You could feel him - feel his cock - against your body.

You could only shake in his all-encompassing arms.

He realized you were scared - of him. "I won’t harm you… I won’t ever, ever even think of harming you."

He kissed you again. He kissed you as if he needed it, needed you just to survive, like he needed you more than air itself. It was like he tried to devour you, a hungry wolf and a sweet rabbit.

And then he was sliding in. He'd prepared you to take him; even then the stretch was nearly too much anyway.

Giyuu slurred out a curse against your lips, the feeling of finally being enveloped by your snug warmth too much. His mind was nearly breaking, he'd never felt so loved, so intimate, so close to someone than he did as he bottomed out inside of your sopping wet cunt.

"You're perfect," he breathed out shakily, resting his forehead against yours.

He started slowly, letting you feel him inch by inch. You swore you could feel him in your throat, each glide felt as if he was pushing your organs apart, rearranging you from the inside to his liking.

Oh, but was it a delight. Fireworks exploded behind your lids every time his cock brushed against your sweet spot, earthquakes rocked your world, waves of pleasure crashed against each nerve under your skin. He set you aflame and quenched you in the same stroke.

You sang pretty moans for him, Giyuu joining you in the duet of passion the two of you shared. Skin rubbed against skin, sweat beaded at your brows, air was shared - Giyuu tilted his head and kissed you again, and again, and again.

He stole your heart, he stole your pleasure, he stole your breath, he stole you and yet…

“Let go for me, my dear-” he ground out between his teeth.

You went out with a whimper.

Toes curled, back arched, but all you could do was take it as Giyuu continued to thrust, chasing his own release inside your heat.

He kept staring at your blissed out face. "I'm gonna-" One, two, three slams of his hips and he released a shaky moan, spilling his seed deep into your pussy. "…stuff you full of my love."

The warmth of him inside, the firm muscles against your thighs, his scent, the dripping sweat-

He hadn't even asked if he could cum inside. He hadn't asked if you were on the pill. He truly intended to keep you, didn't he?

"I love you, my dear."

Tears welled up in your eyes and fell one by one down your cheeks. But damn him, you loved him too. You'd fallen in love with him, and he'd become your captor.

Giyuu slowly leaned even closer to embrace you. “Shhh, this was meant to be, my dear.” He buried his face into your neck. The kiss he placed there was wet with his own tears.

What was he crying about? You were the one he was going to shackle down. You were the one with no way out. You were the one losing everything but him.

“I know this will take some time to adjust to.”

How else was he supposed to keep you from harm? There was no other way. He couldn’t regret it, wouldn’t regret it.

“In the end… all you have left is-” he leaned closer to your ear, “me.” Giyuu buried his face in your neck again, taking in your scent and listening to your heart beat - steady and well. Alive.

You were far safer with him, under his roof - in your now-shared bedroom.

“It’s better this way.”

There was nothing he wouldn’t do for you. He would make sure you had everything you needed.

“Shhh, sleep now.”

banners by the amazing @/benkeibear

645 notes · View notes