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miiyas · 2 days ago
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OH MY GOD HE'S ROWING HE'S A CREWER HE'S A CREWER GUYS IT'S ME IT'S ME !!!!!
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good mate daichi side questing
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unintentionalseductress · 3 days ago
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How To Court A Dragon
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Warnings: MDNI, sex, monster fucking, DVP, explicit genitalia descriptions, double pp, size kink, mentions of breeding Summary: You unintentionally became his mate. Of course, you have some questions. A/n: Hey ya'll! I used to be called nanamiscocksleeve! Here it is! Now...I hope this isn't something people will shy away from because it took me a lot of effort to write this, not to mention all the weird questions I asked Google about reptilian mating parts (there's a sentence I never thought I'd write!). Also, the things about the pp...I was imagining this scene from The Shape of Water 🤭🤭🤭. Enjoy my fellow monster lovers!
“Sylus?” You glance over at the large, intimidating dragon occupying about half the space on the large fur rug you’re both lying on. The dragon, idly fiddling with a gilded coin, glances at you with a bored look in his ruby eyes.
“Yes, kitten?” he asks in his usual growl as he flicks the coin away onto a pile of gold. 
“We’ve known each other for quite some time.”
Sylus raises an eyebrow. “Yes, I suppose we have.”
“I was wondering…if I could ask some questions.”
“Questions?” Sylus looks at you with mild curiosity. “Hmm, let me consult my schedule... ah yes, I have a free moment between ‘hoarding treasure’ and ‘menacing villagers.’ Make it quick." He flashes you a sarcastic grin and you roll your eyes.
“Can you ever just speak normally? Wait that’s not my question!” You add hastily as Sylus’s eyes flash in amusement, clearly about to reply and further annoy you by not answering what you really had in mind. 
A deep, rumbling chuckle emanates from Sylus’s throat. “Go ahead, sweetie.”
You fiddle with the rug, wondering how to phrase your question. You had been living with, if it could be called that, a dragon for a reasonable amount of time now. Between the cave and Tarus City, there wasn’t a glimpse of another human for miles, and now, he was the closest thing to companionship that you had. 
Initially, you were worried he wasn’t interested in you beyond consuming you as a meal but as time progressed, the two of you had struck a balanced relationship. Now whenever you and Sylus ventured out into Tarus City, the inhabitants had begun to refer to you as the dragon’s mate. The thought had initially made you blush because ‘mate’ referred to something more carnal and intimate than whatever you two were. However, Sylus had made no effort to correct them, and now you had unwittingly accepted the title, and it had become part of your identity. 
There was a cavern within the long and winding cave filled with books from faraway lands and one day when you had nothing else to do, you’d come across a book entitled “The Courtship of Dragons”. It was obviously written from a human point of view but you’d read things that had left you with many questions; most of it seemed to be a work of fantasy like the author had made up some parts just to keep the reader’s attention. You’d turned these thoughts over and over in your head until you decided enough was enough and that you needed to get the answers straight from the dragon’s mouth. 
“I read something about…dragon mating. And I’m a little confused by it.” You venture out the topic hesitantly, looking at him for a reaction. Sylus’s face remains impassive as he regards you.  
“Dragon mating?” he chuckles as you avert your eyes back onto the rug, plucking at the fur as you do so. “Whatever did you read? Tell me. I’m quite curious to know.”
You clear your throat before continuing. “Well, the author said dragons have an innate sense about recognizing their mates and that they don’t…nest with other dragons. Is that true?”
Sylus rolls over onto his side contemplating. “Yes, that’s true. Dragons do mate for life. Once they find the one, they become their own unit. They make their own lair, and no other dragon is allowed to enter it. We get highly territorial if this is violated.” 
“I see.” You twiddle your thumbs together. “And…what if…your real mate is out there somewhere? Wouldn’t my presence be a downside?”
“My real mate?” Sylus asks in a vexing tone. “I’m not sure I follow.”
You look at him in disbelief before hedging on. “You know, your real mate. The dragon you’re supposed to be with.”
“You keep forgetting I’m only half dragon. Chances of my mate being completely dragon aren’t high.”
You click your tongue impatiently. “Fine, the other half-dragon or whatever. Isn’t she still out there? If she turns up in your life one day, then doesn’t that mean…” Your voice trails as you consider the implications. 
“Yes?” Sylus prompts you. 
“Well we’d have to shake hands and part ways right?” You rest your cheek on your palm, bearing your weight on your elbow as you turn to look at him. “I wouldn’t be allowed here anymore since you have a mate.”
“What makes you think my mate would be a dragon hybrid?”
The question exasperates you. “Aren’t you the one who said your mate wouldn’t be completely dragon?”
“I did. But you seem to be forgetting another possibility.”
“What? Is there a percentage of dragon she has to be for this to work?” 
Sylus lets out a booming laugh, the noise echoing richly off the walls of his cave. You look at him confoundedly, unable to fathom what made him laugh like this. 
“There’s no need to mock me.” You huff irritably as you watch his abdomen quiver from his mirth. “I’m just trying to familiarize myself with dragon etiquette.”
Sylus quiets down at your tone before he reaches out a clawed hand and flicks your forehead. “Can you really not think of another possibility?”
“No.” You curtly bite out the word. “And I don't appreciate being teased.”
The dragon shakes his head, a wide grin forming on his chiseled face. 
“You seem oblivious to the possibility that she could also be human.” The tone with which he says the words render you momentarily speechless. You hadn’t in fact, considered that as a possibility at all. How could a normal human become a mate to a dragon?
Almost as if Sylus had sensed your curiosity, he explains. “I didn’t make the rules, sweetie. Dragon hybrids are known to find human mates more often than not. Perhaps with the hope that their offspring have a chance to become completely human.” 
Fascinated with this bit of information, you turn it over in your head. “Aren’t you interested in finding her?”
“Finding her?” Sylus chuckles. “Why would I put in that effort when she’s been with me this whole time?” He raises an eyebrow at you as you process his words, then falter as the meaning finally washes over you. 
“Me?!” You sputter as Sylus watches amusedly, his tail swishing across the rug. “Just because the villagers of Tarus City think I’m your mate doesn’t make it true!”
“Indeed, it doesn’t,” Sylus agrees almost maddeningly. “What makes it true is the mark I left on your neck.” 
Your breath hitches and the moment seems to stand still, stuck in time like a black-and-white photograph. Instinctively, your fingers reach for the bite mark Sylus had left on the crook of your neck when he’d first met you. “What about it?” you ask defensively. 
Enjoying the flustered look on your face, the dragon calmly explains. “The mark would have faded by now if you weren’t fated for me. Mate marks last forever, no matter when they’re given.” He smirks, revealing his sharp teeth. 
“Why didn’t you say anything?!” You burst out, overwhelmed by this reveal. “ I’ve been sitting here day after day thinking at some point you’ll find your true mate and I’d have to think about how to fend for myself!”
“I’m sorry, but I’m confused about which of these is more distressing to you. The idea of moving out, or realizing you’re my mate?” Sylus asks the question with a lilt and you resist the urge to punch him, knowing you’d injure yourself against those scales.
“Both,” you say swiftly, then turn away from him. You’re taken aback as his tail suddenly wraps around your waist and pulls you against him. His chest is warm against your back and his breath tickles your neck as you squirm in his grasp. 
“Where do you think you’re going my little one?” Sylus purrs in your ears. Determined not to let him get a rise out of you, you sulk, ceasing all movements even as your heart pounds in your chest. His chin brushes against the top of your head like a territorial cat. “What? All bark and no bite?” A soft laugh emanates from him as he continues to hold your body against his and you realize…
“Are you snuggling me?” You resist the urge to look over your shoulder and Sylus presses a kiss to it in response.
“Yes. Snuggling between a dragon and their mate isn’t uncommon. Was that not in your readings?” He teases as he continues nuzzling into your warm skin which was steadily heating up under his attention. 
“But when did we become mates?” You rack your brains, trying to think amidst the fluffy fog now filling your brain as Sylus continues to show his affection. 
“It’s not something you become. It’s something you are. Do you ask the water why it flows, or why the sun is bright?” Sylus’s tail wraps further around you, the smooth scales feeling comfortably warm against your skin. “You just are. I knew it. The inhabitants of Tarus City knew it.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me.” You quip sarcastically as his nose buries itself into your hair, smelling the sweet scent of the soap you’d used earlier in the day. 
“Would you have believed me?” His inhalations were sending tingles across your scalp and you tried not to melt into his embrace which was surprisingly warm and secure. 
“I-I suppose not,” you admit begrudgingly before your eyes flutter closed. Sylus continues his tender handling, and with a sigh, you finally give in, rolling to face him and letting him embrace you against his chest. He doesn’t say anything but cups the back of your head, claws gently scratching through your scalp and you drowsily let him caress the silky locks. 
Noticing your unwillingness starting to fade, Sylus murmurs, “Does the prospect of being my mate seem less daunting now?” 
His tail wraps around the backs of your thighs and you glance up at him, blushing when you see him gazing back at you intently. Those brilliant ruby eyes, akin to those in his treasury, had an intensity you couldn’t place. It was almost like they could pierce into your very soul and see all of you bare. The thought made you feel exposed and you blink, trying to gather your thoughts. The sharp, dagger-like tip of his tail now rested on your hip, and you hesitantly began to finger it, unsure what to say.
“Not less daunting,” you start, observing how his tail flicks gently in response to your touch, the sharp, hooked scales at the very end softening and flattening against your palm. “Not in the least. You are ancient, powerful, eternal. People fear you even as they look at you in awe. A dragon is timeless, and as a human, I’m like a fleeting ember, a mere second in your life. I might have a thirst for revenge on those who wronged me, but I am an ordinary human. I don’t understand why you believe I would be a suitable mate.” 
 You steal another look at him and see that his pupils are starting to dilate, the dark center of them consuming the red. Sylus lets out a noise of frustration, seemingly ready to give up trying to convince you, but to your surprise, he takes a deep breath of fortifying patience, then grasps your chin with his fingers, ensuring you can see his face. 
“I’m going to give you one, final, absolute, piece of proof. And if you still don’t believe it, then I will eat you so that I don’t have to listen to your maddening doubts anymore.” His tone implies he’s being humorous, but you cautiously watch him, fully aware that you have no defenses against those teeth and claws. You nod, his fingers dipping with the movement. 
“You and I share half of each other’s soul. A typical human vessel wouldn’t be capable of such a thing. Not unless you are fated.” He lets go of your face and brings your ear to his chest. His heartbeat was a steady thud-thud-thud, and yet…it felt like a call. Like something was there inviting you to come home, even though you didn’t know where it was, and suddenly, you feel your own heartbeat start to resonate with his, automatically following his rhythm, inexplicable, deep, primal. He waits and you realize what he’s been trying to say all along. There was no reasoning behind mates. You just knew.
You swallow, feeling like you’d been doused with a bucket of cold water, then place your hand over his heart, feeling a little thrill as he covers it with his. A shaky breath forces its way out of you as you lean your forehead against him, a sense of enlightenment washing over you. 
“Understand now?” Sylus asks almost imploringly and your heart clenches at the tone. 
“Yes.” You gather courage and look him in the eyes. “I do.” Then in a much softer tone, you add, “I’m sorry.”
At your apology, Sylus gathers you in his arms, his embrace almost suffocating as he holds you. Your hands wrap around his back, feeling the points in his skin where the wings sprouted from his body. It felt strangely intimate to touch something like this, and you couldn’t help but run your fingers along the ridges, fascinated by the texture. Sylus’s breath catches in his throat and he loosens his grip, easing you back onto the rug. 
With confidence, you raise a hand to cup his face, your chest swelling with joy as he turns into your touch, his lips grazing your palm. You’d never seen him so vulnerable and defenseless, the fact that he was baring a secretive part of himself to you humbling. You don’t stop him as he lays over you, nuzzling your neck and letting out a series of low growls that sound strangely affectionate. 
You giggle, and he pauses, looking at you with keen interest. “Something amusing you, my love?”
“You’re like a cat,” you tease, then pet the hair between his horns. Even as his expression changes to being miffed, his eyelids become half closed. 
“I am most certainly not a cat.” He sounds affronted but makes no move to stop your petting, and more low growls escape his throat. You can’t control your mirth and the giggles now bubble out of you uncontrollably. 
“Then how come you’re purring?” You stop petting his hair and cup his face with both hands, a wide smile forming on your face as Sylus opens his eyes, which are hazy and languid. 
"That... that isn't purring," The dragon hybrid says with a slight huff. "That was a growl, and you know it."
“Or is that just how dragons purr?” You playfully run your fingers behind his ears, massaging the lobes and then back into his scalp at the base of both horns. 
Sylus tries to keep up his facade of stubbornness, but the gentle massages make him shiver with pleasure. "No, that's a growl. Purring sounds like..." He attempts to imitate a cat's purring, but it came out more like a deep rumbling that vibrated throughout his chest.
You snicker, and then an uncontrollable fit of laughter seizes you, the kind that makes your shoulders and chest shake. Here was this mythical creature, feared and worshipped, yet somehow, trying to imitate a cat despite insisting he was not behaving like one. You brush away a tear from your eye, then look at Sylus who’s sulking, his cheeks turning an adorable shade of crimson. Was this the same dragon that you had worried about being a mate to?
"You-you're insufferable, you know that?" He grumbled, even as he nuzzled his face against your neck; he couldn’t seem to help himself. You reassuringly pat his back. 
“If this is how dragons treat their mate, then I’m no longer worried.” 
“Is that so?” Sylus retreats so that he can gaze down at you. You can see how his expression is softening, betraying the depth of his fondness for you. 
“Yeah. I’m starting to come around.”
“Good. I’m glad I was able to change your mind.” Sylus takes your hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing your knuckles and causing your heart to flip-flop inside your chest. Your free hand idly strokes his back, still engrossed with the different textures of his skin where the wings began. 
“You seem to have a lot of thoughts about my wings,” Sylus observes as you fondle the leathery base.
“How big are they?” You ask curiously, then gasp as Sylus suddenly pins you under him, then with a rustling noise, his wings fully extend for your viewing pleasure. You look at them, enthralled by the contrasting marbled red and black membranes, little spikes lining the upper ridges. 
“About ten feet each,” Sylus says gruffly with a hint of pride. “Pure dragons are much bigger though.”
You reach out a finger, watching for signs of resistance and when he doesn’t show any, gently trace the membranes, observing how the sunlight illuminated through them like a backdrop. 
Sylus hums at your exploration, his wings twitching slightly before he lies flush against you, putting them in easier reach of your wandering fingers. He resumes that low growling as you do so, and as you watch him close his eyes, another question forms in your head.
“Sylus…are your wings sensitive when touched?”
He cracks his eyes open, and there’s a quality to them that wasn’t present before. A hint of…nervousness? 
“Yes.” He admits after a gap in a slightly breathless tone. “But only when you touch them.” 
His words only make you more captivated, and you continue to delicately stroke down the leathery expanses, the surfaces almost silky to your touch. As you do so, Sylus suddenly squeezes his eyes closed and lets out a rough moan, like he is doing his best to not lose his restraint. 
Your hands freeze as you feel his claws scrape against your clothes, digging into your soft skin as his wings swiftly drop from their extended positions, cocooning you in a swaddle of red and black.
Unsure what just happened, you gently try stroking his hair again. There had been no mention of dragons behaving like this in the books you’d read, and you were burning to ask him, but not if he wasn’t in the right state of mind.
“Sylus?” You call his name softly and hear him hum in response. “Are you ok?”
He lets out a few uneven breaths before resting his head on your chest just underneath your chin. “Yes…I’m fine. No need to worry.” 
“Is it all right if I ask something else?”
“Does it have to do with those ridiculous readings of yours again?” 
You’re about to protest but decide against it. He was behaving in a completely unprecedented manner and you weren’t about to kill the adorable mood. 
“Why are your wings wrapped around me like this?” Your hands rest on his flanks, feeling his tail swishing as it lightly hits your feet. 
It seems to take him a great deal of willpower to bring himself into a state where he can answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is a low, mesmerizing, rumble, and you feel yourself tremble in response.
"When a dragon has a mate, it's not uncommon to wrap our wings around them. It's like a protective shield, a barrier that symbolizes possession. You might say it’s our way of claiming our beloved as ours." Sylus’s mouth ghosts your ear, and his next words cause gooseflesh to erupt on your skin. 
“Sometimes, the urge to mate becomes too strong and dragons don’t particularly enjoy being watched. The size of our wings is significant because they must be able to completely wrap around their mate as our primal instincts take over. Hides them from unwanted eyes. After all, there can be no treasure more precious to a dragon than our mate.”
A claw gently pushes away a stray lock of hair from your face and Sylus gazes longly at your face. Swallowing, you press on with your questions, despite feeling a steady rise of tingling heat beginning in your belly and slowly flooding into your chest and sex. 
“And when dragons mate…is it similar to other animals going into a rut?” 
Sylus chuckles, and his tail slides up your body, slithering between your breasts, the feel of each scale brushing against you sparking little flames of desire under your skin. His forehead rests against yours and his wings seem to tighten around you even more. 
“Rut would be the wrong word. A rut would imply something quick and with little intention other than impregnation. Dragons do not rut like most basic animals…we have a long and sensual ritual, lasting for a significant period, and the end goal is to ensure our mate’s satisfaction. Also, dragons do not have a set season like most animals. Rituals can occur anytime provided both mates are willing.”
Your mouth goes dry at the explanation, and you can see the edges of his scarlet irises beginning to darken even more, like bits of smoke mixing with magma. “A-A r-ritual?” Your tongue feels like it’s too big for your mouth and you stumble over the words. 
“Yes my little one,” Sylus purrs, and this time when his lips touch your ear, he follows it with a wet lick of his tongue, awakening a heady, primal, storm inside your gut. “The dragon breeding ritual. A crucial part of dragon courtship. During this time, the male will go into a rather intense state of need. Nothing matters beyond being close to and satisfying his mate. And the female must be prepared for a rather… passionate experience."
Your next words fall out of your mouth before you can stop yourself. 
“Are a dragon’s organs compatible with a human’s?” You cover your mouth as soon as you ask, face flushing with embarrassment. You hadn’t meant to ask it so crudely, but too little too late. 
Sylus gives you an appraising look, his lips curling. “Well…simply put, yes. They’re compatible with human mating organs but they’re certainly not visually similar.” His reply astounds you and you blink, unprepared for his answer, rendered speechless. Questions buzz in your head as you mull over what you’ve been told.
“I’m guessing there’s more?” Sylus’s eyes glitter with mischief. 
“Ah…well….” You recall one last thing you had read and it was so outlandish that you weren’t sure how to put it into words. Sylus watches you patiently as you try to get your words together. “The book…the book said…that dragons are…that they have…” 
You swallow and bite the bullet. “That dragons have two.” 
Silence follows your words and Sylus’s eyes widen, before he composes himself.
“Heh. Were you purposely saving the interesting questions for last sweetie?” A cheeky grin quirks his lips and you turn your face to hide in his wings. 
“Now now. Don’t get all embarrassed with it out in the open.” Sylus grasps your chin and turns you to face him. “It looks like at least one thing in that book was right.”
Your eyes become as wide as dinner plates. “Really?”
“Yes. That bit of information is true. Male dragons do in fact have two mating organs.” 
The casual way Sylus says these words, like he’s giving a biology lecture contrasts your shell-shocked expression. Your mind could now only attempt to imagine what it looked like and it was going haywire at the discovery. 
Observing the stunned look on your face, Sylus gently nudges you. “Perhaps you shouldn’t ask questions that you’re not ready to hear the answers to, kitten.” 
Your eyes rove down over his body, taking in the wide view of his chest, leading down to narrower hips and legs that seemed to stretch for days. Then his tail, an appendage adding another 6 feet to his whole length. And somewhere in between all this, tucked away under his leather trousers were not one, but two, dragon penises. 
You try to recall your last encounter with a man, a knight, who had been keen on showing his abilities. It was fine, for lack of a better word, and you remembered how the man’s decently sized single organ shrunk once everything was over. Were Sylus’s similarly shrunken and stacked one above the other at this very moment?
At your lack of response, Sylus chuckles, then in an unexpected gesture of tenderness, strokes your hair. “I can tell this isn’t the end of it. Go on. Get it all out.”
Your mind seems to have lost its ability to think. Wetting your lips, you try to think of something reasonable to say but words have lost all meaning. After a few more minutes of silence, during which Sylus has wrapped you up again in his arms and tail, enjoying your closeness, do you finally venture forward with an inquiry.  
“Why two?”
Sylus makes an odd noise like he was choking down a laugh. He lets out a puff of air, chortling. “Ah, kitten. If only I knew. There are two theories, both of which don’t have much evidence to support them.” Sylus turns onto his side and you yip as you’re sandwiched between his wings, the upper one covering you like a blanket as Sylus moves into a more comfortable position, moving your body closer to his.
“The first theory is that because dragon pairings are rare, two organs help increase the chances of a successful pregnancy. The other…” he trails off and his smile becomes positively wicked before he continues. “The other suggests that having two serves no other purpose than to heighten the woman’s pleasure.”
An uncontrollable shiver runs down your spine and you feel your entire body become hot. Your voice is hushed as you ask, “And they…both…go into the same…?”
Catching on to what you were implying, Sylus chuckles at your reaction, your embarrassment only fueling his enjoyment. It was so tempting to tease you into a flustered mess.
"Ah, you're catching on, aren't you? Yes, both of them go... in the same place. And together, no less." He leans in, his mouth close to your ear again. "Can't you picture it, my dear? The sensation of both of them, inside you at the same time..."
You squeak at the graphic description and bury your face into his chest. “Ok, I’ve heard enough! Stop!” You try to calm your racing heart but Sylus’s low purr as he’d explained dragon anatomy was still ringing in your ears. There was a burning curiosity to ask him how it worked, how it fit but you were positive you would drop dead from the embarrassment. 
You twitch when Sylus puts his calloused hands on your back, soothingly stroking your skin. “It’s all right my jewel. I know it’s a lot of information to process. Take your time. I’m yours after all.” 
At his last few words, you lean away and glance at his face. “You’re mine?”
“Yes,” Sylus murmurs, the tenderness in his eyes becoming more evident. “As you are mine. I’m equally your mate as well.” There’s a tinge of possessiveness in his voice that you hadn’t heard before and it was making you feel weak; the thought of belonging to Sylus, of him belonging to you. There was an ancient concept of souls being bound at play and suddenly you find that you’re highly attuned to his mood; the atmosphere has changed, and part of you can feel the intense want that’s filling Sylus’s bloodstream, can sense the depth of his emotional bond as it echoes in his chest. Your body seems to synergize with his, each rush of blood, each dilation of the pupils, and every sigh that’s being shoved back all come into clarity. You reach out to touch his neck and the mating mark on yours seems to hum with life, drawing you closer to Sylus’s physical state. 
Sylus looks intoxicated as he drinks in the sight of you, soft and pliant in his arms despite having done nothing but talk to you about courtship. You were still shy, but he can sense there’s now a primal instinct that’s beginning to take over. His restraint was at a limit but he waits for you to make the first move, knowing he’d regret it if his first act of intimacy with you was for his own selfishness. His voice dropped even lower,  a rough, possessive growl.
“Be mine, my precious treasure. Be with me. Be Mine to claim, mine to protect, and mine to possess."
His words resonate deep within you and the overwhelming feelings you’d been holding back break like a dam. With trembling fingers, you stroke his cheek, dragging a fingertip across his lips, your breath catching as Sylus nibbles the digit. 
Gathering courage, you ask him softly, “Can I see?”
A thrum seems to vibrate through the air and Sylus nods. “You wish to see all of me? I’m yours.”
Sensing you were too timid at the moment, Sylus undoes his trousers, and they rustle as he slips them down his legs. Still in his embrace, covered with his wings, you wait, then trail your hands down his heated abdomen. His heart pounds in his chest as you do so, feeling the unfamiliar terrain of skin and scales before your hand finally reaches its destination. Sylus’s harsh breathing can be heard as he waits for you to touch him but when you do so, you’re slightly puzzled. 
Your fingers brush against smooth scales where a normal man’s genitals would be. You venture further, wondering. 
“Sylus? They are here right?” 
You hear a choked laugh, then he nuzzles the top of your head. 
“Yes, my love. Like I said, visually, I’m not like a man.” His voice is gruff as he tries to explain. His hands roam across your body, squeezing the soft flesh and purring at the feeling. 
“Then where…?”
“They're hidden beneath my scales, darling.” There’s a breathless quality as he speaks. “Just keep…petting me there.” 
Sylus closes his eyes for a moment, his body trembling as you continue to touch him. The sensation of your fingers tracing the scales on his skin was both soothing and arousing, making it difficult to hold back the possessive roar that threatened to escape his throat. Watching your reaction as you explored the area where his scales ended and something more intimate began was threatening to snap his will in two like a twig. 
“Oh!” Your eyes widen as you suddenly feel a bump starting to make itself evident. 
“There…” Sylus’s voice is gravelly. “Go ahead, my dear... Lift my scales gently. Just a little...”
You feel like little electric currents are running nonstop under your skin as you follow his orders. Your sex pulses between your closed legs, all the courtship explanations still fresh in your mind. You carefully start to lift the scales over the bump, curiosity piqued as they give way to a sort of shallow slit, then before you can go any deeper, you feel something hard and moist rise out of the patch. 
Whatever you had been imagining didn’t even come close to the real thing. You watch, transfixed, as Sylus’s twin cocks spring free, standing proudly in your palm. One was higher up on his body, and the other sat lower, and the lower one was slightly longer than the upper. Both of them were hot to the touch, beads of precum weeping from their slits. Colossal compared to a human, their surfaces were smooth but ridged in parts, in a way that resembled scales, yet softer. They were both coated in a sort of viscous, translucent, liquid, exuding from the cocks. 
Sylus groans as he feels the heat of your palm against his cocks. In a constricted voice he asks, “Well? What do you think?”
Fascinated, you gently grip the lower one, silently noting the size of it compared to your forearm, and wrap your fingers around it, barely managing to make them meet around the engorged column. A low growl leaves Sylus as you start to pump the smooth, velvety, column, observing how the shorter top one also responds, pulsing in time with its pair. A slick, wet noise fills the air as you stroke him and Sylus’s hips begin to rock against your movements. His mouth is open and he’s panting, sweat gathering on his brow as you experimentally continue to touch him. 
The scales that lined his cock were incredibly squishy and malleable, not at all having resemblance to the hard and sharp ridges on the rest of his body. As more of the lubricating fluid began to gather on his lengths, you wonder at the texture of those scales against the palm of your hand, and suddenly, start imagining how they would feel inside your cunt. Rubbing, stroking, providing extra stimulation as they nestled deep inside you. You bite your lip and steal a look at Sylus, heart jolting when you find him gazing right at you, and judging by his expression, he can feel the longing building deep inside your body. 
“I can smell it, kitten.” He inhales deeply, your scent filling his senses like an aphrodisiac. “Your arousal. It’s as potent as the daturas on the mountainside.” His cheek brushes against yours and you freeze as he kisses the corner of your lips. It was so unexpected and sweet and you turn towards him. 
“Bloom for me,” Sylus whispers before his lips lay over yours, capturing them in a deep and passionate kiss. Your breath catches in your throat and it’s like the kiss had opened a gate, all your raw desires coming loose. Like a ball of unwinding yarn, your arms draw around Sylus’s neck, pressing as possibly close as you can to him, your mouth opening sweetly to offer him your tongue.
The unbridled ardor of your reaction has Sylus groaning like a drowning man, his tongue slipping deeper into your wet cavern, sipping, sampling, and savoring the flavors that were unique to you. The rushing thrill of your surrender was a dizzying upward spiral as his hands roamed over your body, cupping your clothed breasts as his wings quivered from the tingling delight of being wrapped so snugly around your form. 
Sylus breaks the kiss and his long, dexterous, tongue licks a line down the side of your neck, sucking over the point where your pulse beat hotly, and into the crook of your shoulder. You gasp as his teeth sink into the flesh, a nip of pain flaring through you before Sylus soothes the sting with his tongue. 
“You taste as delicious as you smell my jewel,” he murmurs sensually, and continues his journey across your body, biting and sucking at your collarbone before resting between your breasts, nuzzling his face into the warmth. 
His tail has managed to slip between your legs and the jagged ridges have all smoothed into a streamlined piece of muscle, teasingly moving between your thighs, just high enough for the upper side to rub against your underwear, playing into the wetness that was already starting to gather. You moan at the stimulation, barely enough to even scratch the surface of your raging flames, and hook your leg over Sylus’s hip to give you more access. The thick tail presses into your slit, rhythmically dragging the fabric against your engorged clit as his hands busy themselves undoing the laces at the back of your dress. 
You shiver despite the rising heat as the dress falls apart at the back and Sylus drags the garment off over your head, his breath catching as he finally gets his first, unobscured look at you. His eyes rove appreciatively over your body, his blood humming in his veins as he watches your skin become ruddy, the light filtering over it through his wing casting a soft, shadowy glow. Your nipples were perked and hard, your skin smooth and creamy, with little curls of hair poking out from underneath the sides of your panties. 
You whimper as the very tip of his tail wedges into the apex of your folds, rubbing the soaked fabric directly onto your clit, sending skitters of electricity through your system. The air seems to become balmy as you breathe, harsh pants leaving you as want grows in your core, the overwhelming need to bite down and mark him back as he’d done for you becoming palpable with each passing second. 
Sylus raises a clawed finger and brings it to your mouth, which you obligingly suck, followed by a sharp bite that makes his eyes dilate and brings a grin to his lips. He slowly pulls the digit back, letting it slide between your lips and stroking the wetness onto a nipple, enjoying the way your breath becomes ragged and how your core clenches against his sinful ministrations. 
“Sylus…” you whimper, feeling tension curling in the pit of your stomach like a bow that’s been drawn too tight. His only response was a hum, his head dipping down leisurely to capture your other nipple, licking circles on it with the tip of his tongue, not unlike the motions his tail was currently drawing onto your puffy clit. His thumb and forefinger tweak your other hardened peak, pulling and pinching methodically as the moans of your pleasure fill the chamber. Now and then you feel the scrape of his monstrous teeth against the delicate skin of your nipple, just intense enough to bring a small lick of fear into you before you feel the reassuring slip of his tongue. 
Your sighs fill your head, body yielding to him, melting against the silken leathery embrace of his wings, eyes closing as the sweetening ache inside you builds. You stir as you feel his tail shift, and your panties are dragged down your legs, exposing your swollen sex. The unexpected feeling of his scales is suddenly made present as his tail lays flat between your folds, wetting itself with your slick and gliding smoothly against your aroused pussy. Your mouth opens to let out a high-pitched whine as the smoothened scales add extra stimuli to your bud, your hips moving with him and seeking out more friction. Sylus finally releases your nipple as he feels your desperate humps, and maneuvers you so that you’re straddling him, body balanced on his tail as it continues to pleasure you.
Your voice keens as your hands splay on his hard chest, the slippery appendage rocking against your clit, feeling the differences in the size of the scales while sliding closer to the base as the dagger-shaped tip tickles your chin. Your mouth instinctively moves to take it, sucking on it pacifyingly to ground yourself as your hips undulate over the rest of the sinew. You boldly glance at Sylus and his eyes are sanguineous, uninhibitedly gazing at the sight of you hot and bothered, seeking carnal satisfaction that he knows only his body can provide. 
The end of his tail withdraws from your mouth and teasingly draws back down to your breast, curling around a nipple and squeezing while he maintains the steady movement he knows you crave between your legs. With nothing to muffle your noises, your voice grows steadily louder, echoing off the high walls of the cave as Sylus guides you toward the abyss of gratification. 
“My body is yours little one,” Sylus says in a harsh whisper that has your senses on edge. You feel the flutter of his wings as they enfold you again, a little space of privacy where only you and he exist. 
“Use me for your pleasure.” His hand cups your cheek and his movements become frenzied, his eyes never leaving yours as he watches you writhe over him, trying to find release. 
A soft haze seems to settle around you as your body orgasms. You feel the repetitive little spasms of your clit mirrored in your core as they become longer and more intense, flooding your body with sinful delight as you sob out your need. Your eyes are shut tight, the world becoming an incoherent mix of color and light where nothing is solid except for your mate as he pushes you through your heady climax. Even as your heartbeat turns erratic, you can sense the changes in him too as he scents the salty tang of your relief as your body relaxes. You gasp, steadying yourself as Sylus gently withdraws his tail, letting you collapse on his chest as you try to come back down to earth.
You feel his claws soothingly scratch your back and gratefully nuzzle into his chest before taking a steadying breath and peering over your shoulder at his neglected cocks. They were still standing, colossal and proud, with thick pearlescent beads forming on the tip. The slippery viscous fluid was now being exuded copiously, lubricating the entire length.
You crawl over to them, and Sylus lets out a gasp of surprise as your tongue darts out to taste one, running it over the weeping head. You taste salt on his skin and bob your head down a little lower, taking as much as you can, and Sylus fists the rug, his teeth biting his lower lip as he tries to control the raging urge to take you right there. 
Barely able to deepthroat him, you come back up, letting the moistened cock slip out of your lips before you gather both between your hands, squeezing the bases together before sucking both tips back into your mouth. Your jaw stretches wide to accommodate them, only taking him about halfway before coming back up for air. The lubricant covering them was tasteless but aided their path into your mouth and towards the back of your throat. Sylus thrusts into the inviting wetness as he tries not to choke you. You suck playfully, wet noises issuing from your mouth as you do so before Sylus suddenly jerks your head back, strings of spit connecting your lips to both heads.
“Not like this…” His voice is ragged. Swiftly, he flips you onto your back, drawing your ankles to rest on his shoulders as your thighs part for him. Your hole is quivering with anticipation as you feel one of the thick erections probe your entrance. 
“Breathe sweetie,” Sylus reminds you, his eyes growing steadily more animalistic as he pushes into you. You gasp at the feeling, then your eyes widen as Sylus gently splits you apart, your folds giving way to his massive proportions. You sniff, tears in your eyes at his size. There was pain along with the pleasure as your walls adjusted to him. 
Sylus’s wings gather you close to him, cradling you against his body as he strokes your face, whispering encouragement to you as he continues to sheathe himself into the hot moisture of your cunt. You squirm, the stretch foreign and uncomfortable, unsure what to do.
“Relax my little one. It’s ok.” Sylus kisses away your tears. “Remember we were made for each other. We’re meant to fit.” He halts, nearly fully inside, and your sniffs fade as you slowly adjust to him. Sylus thrusts softly, and you whimper, feeling so full impaled helplessly on his generous size. As he continues those deep strokes, your body seems to easen, the tension trickling away and giving rise to a whole new sensation. Your breath catches as you feel the thick mushroom head kiss your cervix with each stroke, the lower cock slapping against your buttocks with each move. The scales you had been touching earlier dragged smoothly along your inner walls with minimal resistance, flattening every time he pushed in, and erotically stimulating them as he withdrew. Every inch of your sex felt like it was being touched all at once and your eyes close dreamily as you lose yourself to the growing flutters of ecstasy. 
The next set of delighted moans are music to his ears and Sylus sensually rolls his hips each time, determined to wring out every tiny noise possible from you. Your face scrunches up in pleasure as he takes you, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you keep thinking about how the second one would feel. Your breasts bounce as he fucks you, and soon you’re breathing his name, hands grasping his forearms as your bodies fuse together.  
Sylus sees your eyes glazing over with need, your mind switching to a state where all that mattered was the hedonistic rush of your bodies working together in harmony. He pauses, interrupting his rhythm as he angles his second cock at your entrance.
You moan as you feel it but when Sylus pushes, there’s no resistance, your cunt already sloppy from his previous thrusts. The action puts his upper cock in contact with your Gspot, and your cunt feels wonderfully pliant as you feel both of them working in tandem to bring you to another peak. The added thickness combined with the scales' stimulation on both surfaces brought you to a realm of delight you hadn’t thought was possible as he starts to fuck into you with purpose, certain that you are no longer in pain.
His teeth are gritted as Sylus ruts into you marveling at the tightness of your cunt, how every clench and spasm felt on his dicks, knowing he was responsible for each one. Your combined juices start to pool at the base of his cocks, leaving a sticky ring of arousal. The wet squelch of your cunt fills the air and Sylus sees your folds, still slick from the interaction with his tail and he’s determined to make you lose control another time. 
You whine in protest when you feel him halt again and Sylus hushes you as he withdraws his upper dick and lets it sit with a moist plop back between your folds. The runny juices slide down and coat your pussy and you can feel the soft ridged scales now nestled at your most sensitive spot and you realize what he intended to do a second before it happened. With a smooth brush, Sylus buries himself back in your cunt and you feel the tingling stimulation of the scaled ridges sliding through your folds and hitting your clit one after the other. You nearly shriek at the feeling, almost on the border of overstimulation as Sylus sets up a brutal pace, his hips slamming into yours. 
Your face screws up and your eyes are squeezed closed as all your pleasure spots are stroked at the same time, your gspot and clit pulsing wetly. Sylus growls, his body pistoning in hot need as he chases his orgasm, seeking release. Your entire being feels like it’s slipping away, your cries of delight the only thing that can be heard. 
“Cum for me my love,” Sylus says brokenly, breathless and enraptured at the way you look, his legs shaking from the effort of controlling his climax before you had yours. Your body arches off the rug to feel the slick push of his cock and scales at a different angle and your toes curl as you finally let go and orgasm for the second time. It robs you of your thoughts, little brushes from the spikes continuing to push through every tremor you feel as the hot waves of gratification flood your system. 
Sylus’s hips stutter as he feels your walls fluttering around him, and lets out a feral roar as his climax hits him, his balls tightening up in urgent release and they spill their load. His abdomen clenches, his breathing rough as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. You hold onto him as you feel each spasm of his cocks both inside and out, one filling your walls with thick jets of his seed, the other dripping his hot, sticky cum onto your clit, mixing with your fluids as it drips messily into your slit, marking you as his in the most primal way possible. 
It takes a while for him to recover, nestling against you, and you’re content to feel his weight on your body as you stroke his hair. After a period of silence Sylus hums and rolls you over so that you’re on top of him. The action dislodges his cock from your channel and you quickly clench your hole closed, determined to keep all of him inside you, even though your folds are dripping from his essence and leaking onto him. 
“Mine…” he purrs as he noses your neck and you smile at him, brushing his cheeks with your thumb. A deep sense of belonging and satisfaction courses through both of you as you lay together in the afterglow of your courtship. 
“Rest for now kitten.” Sylus’s eyes are heavy with sleep as he cradles you on his chest. Your body felt wonderfully achy from your lovemaking. 
“I hope the hatchlings look like you,” he murmurs tiredly, and you blink as your ability to process starts coming back to you. 
“Hatchlings?” 
“That’s what we call our young.” Sylus tenderly cups your cheek and kisses you. “I’ll be certain to fill you a few more times to ensure it happens.” 
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© unintentionalseductress original work | no copying, plagiarizing or translating
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gloomwitchwrites · 3 days ago
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Good evening to you. I thought about writing you many times but never had the courage to do so 😅 I saw a TikTok Trend some time ago and thought about the Reaction from our beloved task Force 141. How would they react when you "accidentally" sent them the message "He just left our house, you can come now. He'll be gone for some time". Basically pranking them by implying something shady. You can ignore this if it's weird of course. Thank you for your time and amazing writing 🙏😊
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I'm so glad you finally got the courage to send in a request because I had so much fun with this one! Many many thanks because I pretty much cackled and giggled the whole time I wrote this. I'm not exaggerating. I adored this prompt. It not only gave me room for a little humor, but it also gave me the opportunity to be a little naughty!
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
Task Force 141 x Female Reader
Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): established relationship, pranks & shenanigans, suggestive themes, mild sexual content, dirty talk, dirty thoughts, swearing, possessive behavior
Word Count: 1.5k
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series
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John Price
Five minutes.
Five. Minutes.
Five minutes and you're already causing problems.
John isn't surprised. Not in the least. Sometimes, you enjoy being on your worst behavior just because it stirs him into a frenzy.
John is sitting at a stoplight, staring down at his phone screen. A car honks but he ignores it.
He's gone. Come over.
There isn't anyone else. John knows this explicitly. Not because he completely trusts you—which he does—but because he knows your exact location at all times. He knows what you search on your phone and what things you look at on the internet. And because he knows that, he knows you're just trying to take the piss.
Locking his phone screen, John turns on his blinker. A few turns later and he's back home, marching through the door. He's not mad. Far from it. You just need a good lesson—a good spanking. Over his knee with a bare ass. That way he can watch it bounce, watch as you wiggle and squirm, hear you whimper, and watch as your arousal grows with each strike.
Then, and only then, will he keep you under him. Which is what you want anyway.
John walks silently and with purpose, approaching you as you casually lounge on the couch.
"You're home early."
John ignores the jab. "You're on one today, cabbage."
"Whatever do you mean?"
John holds up his phone. "Think I'm going to believe this?"
Your eyes widen but John can see the bluff. "I meant to send that to—"
"To me," interrupts John. “You meant to send it to me.”
"To a friend,” you correct, but John notices the smile you attempt to hide. “I meant to send it to a friend.”
No. You wanted John to come home—to be a bit neurotic, even a little possessive.
"Fine," growls John. "I'll bite."
He places one hand on the top of the back cushion while the other rests above your head. He leans in, lowering his voice.
"Who do you belong to?"
"You."
"Show me you mean it."
You tuck your knees in, drawing back your top and removing your lounge pants. When they're gone, you spread wide, revealing your glistening pussy. Your arousal is clear, and John cannot wait to sink inside.
"That's my good girl."
John "Soap" MacTavish
You sent the texts not long after Johnny left for work.
He’s gone. Won’t be home for hours. Come over.
At first, you believed that Johnny would get those texts and immediately turn around, to head home and bust down the door. He did no such thing. He didn’t even respond. Not a peep from him. You spent the rest of the day in limbo, unsure if Johnny received the texts at all.
So, when he does come home, you expect him to say something.
“Hey you,” he murmurs, going in for a kiss.
“How was work?” you ask.
“Good,” he replies, heading down the hall to the bedroom. “Had a briefing. We’ll be heading out for a mission next week.”
“Do you know when exactly?” you ask.
“Tuesday!” he calls back.
Nothing. This man is completely glossing over the fact that you sent those texts to him. When he reappears in nothing but a pair of sweatpants, you nearly swoon at his bare chest and stomach.
“What did you get up to today?” he asks, sauntering over to grasp your hips and pull you close.
“Nothing much,” you reply, and Johnny hums in reply, placing a kiss on your forehead.
“You know,” he says after a beat, fishing out his phone from his pocket. “You did send me a few odd texts earlier.” He taps away at the screen at turns it around to show you.
The texts you sent are right there, glowing brightly.
“Oh, those—”
“I checked the cameras.”
“Cameras?” you choke. “What cameras?”
Johnny grins and then he’s tapping away at his phone again. When he shifts the screen around, you see yourself and him in real time. You turn to the corner of the room from where the feed is coming from.
“I never saw anyone come over. But I did see this.”
Tapping again, he changes to an earlier time during the day. It’s a feed of the bedroom, and you’re masturbating. Johnny ups the volume and you hear yourself moan.
“There’s this, too,” he says, switching to the night before when he had you on all fours, ass in the air.
“Johnny!”
He tightens his hand on your hip, keeping you close. Lowering his voice, Johnny grins. “Try again, love.”
Simon "Ghost" Riley
You watch from the window as Simon’s car pulls out of the drive. You wait until he turns the corner before unlocking your phone and selecting his name.
He’s just left. Come over.
With a wicked grin, you hit send, knowing that the texts will reach Simon any second. Leaning against the window, you wait, and then smile wider as Simon’s car sharply turns the corner and speeds down the street back to the house.
He’s hardly parked the car before he’s exiting the vehicle, storming toward the house, malicious intent clear with every step. With a triumphant giggle, you rush to the bedroom and flop onto the bed, pretending that you’re up to nothing at all.
You hear the front door slam, then Simon’s thunderous footsteps followed by doors opening and closing. Sprawling out across the bed, you tap away at your phone, acting like you're not bothered at all.
When he appears in the doorway, you deliberately ignore him for five long seconds before you casually turn your head and smile.
"You're home early," you observe.
Simon looms in the doorway. "What the bloody hell was that text about?"
"What text?" you shrug, all innocence.
Simon, deadpan, replies "He's just left. Come over."
"Oh. That was for a friend."
"Which friend?"
"A friend."
Simon slowly walks up to the side of the bed. "You're fucking with me."
"Don't know what you're on about, Simon."
The murderous demeanor you saw earlier melts away, leaving behind a mischievous glint that you know all too well. With a viper-like quickness, Simon grasps your ankle and yanks you to the end of the bed.
"Simon!" you shriek, but he's already flipping you over onto your stomach.
He plants both knees on either side of you, keeping you trapped beneath him, his large hands coming down on your wrists to pin them above your head.
"Was last night not enough?" he asks, voice a gruff whisper. "Or do you need another lesson?"
You lift your head as Simon transfers both wrists beneath one hand. He has his phone, tapping away at the screen.
'What are you doing?"
"Telling Price I'm not coming in."
"But you're scheduled."
Simon locks the phone and then tosses it to the side. "He'll understand." Pressing his lips to the shell of your ear, his voice drops to a breathy whisper. "I have a woman to breed."
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
It's cruel, perhaps. Even mean. But getting Kyle worked up is so goddamn sweet.
He’s protective, sometimes even a bit possessive, and nothing is hotter to you than watching him stake his claim.
Which is why you sent those texts in the first place—a way to make his heartrate spike.
He just left. He'll be gone for hours.
Kyle bursts through the bedroom door, his chest heaving as if he just ran several miles.
“Where are they?” he asks, voice a growl.
Kyle heads for the bathroom. Throwing open the door, he storms inside, but finding nothing, retreats back into the bedroom.
"Where's who?" you ask in mock innocence as Kyle opens the closet, pushing aside clothes as if he’ll find someone hiding there.
Kyle exits the closet, hands on his hips. “I saw the texts.”
“What texts?” You casually retrieve your phone, already knowing what you’ll find there. Opening up the messaging app, you click on Kyle’s name, and laugh.
“Sorry,” you giggle. “I meant to send that to a friend.”
Kyle’s eyes shut, and the sigh he makes is so loud you laugh harder. Clutching his own phone in his hand, Kyle shakes it in his fist.
“You’re having a laugh,” he says.
"No," you giggle. "Just a mistake."
That thin line becomes a smirk. Kyle tosses his phone onto the bed and you immediately know you’re done for.
“I know you, love. Think you’re clever, yeah?”
He saunters forward, and you push up onto your hands, sliding back along the bed.
“Kyle,” you warn.
“Tricking me just to get me home. For what? Think I’m going to bend you over the nearest surface and fuck you?”
Yes. That’s exactly what I think.
You scoot away, sinking into the pile of pillows at the head of the bed. Kyle matches your movements until he’s nearly horizontal over you.
“You’re right,” he continues. “I will.” His gaze roams over your body and then returns to your face. “But first, I’m going to train you into never making a silly mistake like that ever again.”
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doberbutts · 3 days ago
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With this latest round of discourse being "trans men shouldn't complain about being kicked out of women's spaces", I felt the urge to write up a relatively long post regarding the topic, as I feel it is a long tangled mess and involves a significant amount of people simply talking past each other.
To begin, what is a woman's space? I ask this, because "women's spaces" often fall under one of three categories: medical services, social services, and social gatherings. Of the three, trans men need access to nearly everything if not everything included within "medical services" and "social services". These things often need to be considered co-ed anyway, but are still considered "for women" and often are labeled things like "women's health" or "women's defense". Social gatherings- things such as book clubs, concerts, festivals, and other similar outings- can have a nuanced and complicated history when it comes to the inclusion, or exclusion, of trans men.
As an example- I am a binary, gay trans man who has not yet been sterilized. If I become pregnant and need to seek out social services, I must do so via my provider's "Women and Babies" department. I am neither of those things, and yet regardless of whether I am completing or terminating the pregnancy, I must label myself a woman in order to receive care. If I wish to have a pap smear, receive birth control, or investigate my chances of ovarian and cervical cancer, I must do so via the "Women's Health Clinic". I am not a woman, but I must label myself as one in order to discuss sterilization options. Many trans men who have had their gender markers changed prior to sterilization have reported difficulty even booking an appointment, as well as difficulty convincing their insurance to pay for this appointment due to a discrepancy with gender markers vs gendered care. Many have discussed the realities of being a pregnant man, whether they remained pregnant until their child was born, or whether they terminated said pregnancy with an abortion.
It should come as no surprise that the statistics for trans men receiving quality gynecological care are abysmal. It should be equally unsurprising to hear how many trans men have died from botched abortions, untreated miscarriages, infections and cancers of the uterus and cervix and ovaries, and complications during pregnancy or birth. We belong in this space, despite it being labeled "for women", and the only thing pushing us out has done is quite literally what's been killing us.
This is, of course, not even taking into account the numbers of trans men who have been forced to become pregnant via their husbands or families as a means to detransition them, and those who have become pregnant as a result of corrective rape. There is a saying among trans men of my age- it isn't "we all know a guy this has happened to", it's "which of us haven't experienced this? who among us doesn't fear this? who will it happen to next?"
Which brings me to my next point: women's social services. As with women's medical care, nearly everything labeled "for women" as a social service must be inclusive to trans men. Shelters for domestic violence survivors, rape crisis centers, self defense classes, family planning, these are all things that honestly should already be co-ed. But, many times, they are exclusively targeted towards women. I understand why, I do. But with trans men being statistically more likely than cis women to experience the need for these services, it seems a cruelty to close their doors to a vulnerable demographic reaching out for help.
Where should trans men in crisis go? Shutting the door to us without addressing the reason we need to access these resources gives us a single ultimatum: detransition, or die. Go back to being a woman, or die knowing the likelihood that a woman's name will adorn your headstone, and "daughter, wife, mother" will be said in your obituary. Much like the medical services, this incomplete answer has lead many trans men to their deaths. Whether by their own hands, or by their attackers'.
But there are other social services out there that perhaps are not as dire. Women's scholarships, colleges, all girls schools. Girl Scouts, women's sport leagues, gym memberships. Trans men don't need access to these, right?
Well... is the trans man in question out? Has he been living as a man, or is he still closeted? Is it safe for him to come out? Does he pass, or has he just bought his first binder and given himself his first buzz cut? Is he living under the control of his parents, or is he able to freely decide for himself the type of person he'd like to be and the type of life he'd like to live?
You see, I was a Girl Scout once. And, if we are to believe to our core that trans men are men even before they know the words "transgender", this means I was a boy in a girl's space. I didn't know that being transgender was an option for me at the point where my troop disbanded, and another leader to replace the first within my local area was not found until after I had aged out.
But also... I was in 7th grade when my troop disbanded. Two years later, I would learn the word "transgender", and suddenly everything would make sense. Two years later, I would come out to my parents and my sisters. To put this into perspective, I graduated high school in 2010. The Boy Scouts officially allowed cisgender girls and transgender people of all genders to join all programs in 2019.
I was not expelled from my Girl Scout troop. My leader simply stopped showing up to meetings, and my troop disbanded to go our separate ways when leadership could not find someone quickly enough to replace her. But... if this had not happened, I would have been a recently out transgender boy in a girl's social service, still wearing push up bras and frilly shirts because that's all my parents would buy me until I became an adult and moved out and had a job with my own money to re-purchase myself a wardrobe. Indistinguishable from any of the others, outside of what went on inside my own mind.
I would not have been accepted into the Boy Scouts, if Girl Scouts had been taken from me as abruptly as it was from a different transgender boy in the same state I was born and raised. Which would have left me with... nothing. Neither. And the only reason I even joined the Girl Scouts was because I had wanted to join the Boy Scouts and the local troop had refused to allow me, because they had labeled me a girl.
I don't believe I'm the one that coined Schrodinger's Gender, but I do reference it often. In this situation, one is both a boy when it hurts, and a girl when it hurts. Even if that gender label changes by the second, the point is to use your gender and your assigned sex to hurt you.
But then, why do these services even have to be gendered to begin with? After all, Boy Scouts just updated to be The Scouts, and has removed (on paper) the insistence on gendering.
Well... I certainly agree that the majority of gendering these services is at this point a concept that needs to be reformed, but I'm unconvinced that we will be able to completely integrate without addressing the reason they were segregated by gender in the first place.
Women's gym memberships are gender segregated for two reasons. Women and girls- and anyone labeled as women and girls, regardless of true identity- are frequently not afforded the same access to resources as cisgender men and boys. Women and girls- and anyone labeled such- are frequently at high risk of predatory sexual behavior and physical violence. Both of these problems are symptoms of a larger system of misogyny at play, and both of these problems directly affect trans men especially those who have not transitioned in a way that makes them pass for cis men.
Regardless of the truth of my identity, the reality is that I was seen as and treated as a girl when it came to physical fitness, and thus barred from the same activities freely offered to the boys. Regardless of the truth of my identity, I have experienced predatory sexual behavior from cis men as young as 8 or 9 years old, continuing past when I came out and began to transition socially.
If the problem is not addressed, cis women cannot re-integrate with cis men. But, additionally, if the problem is not addressed, the choice still remains clear for trans men. Detransition, stay closeted, or go without.
A common complaint of trans men is the invisibility and erasure our demographic faces. It should be easy to see why this happens. The problem of a misogynistic society is one that continues to this day, and without addressing the problem we cannot hope for success in creating a more inclusive space. At the same time, trans men are being pushed out and isolated as they realize they must make a choice.
As for social gatherings, such as a woman's retreat or a woman's music festival? Of course, it may sound odd to say that a trans man should feel welcome there. But the truth of the matter is the majority of the trans men asking for the ability to stay are trans men who have been within that space for years already, prior to coming out, prior to realizing some things about their genders, prior to taking their first steps as men.
I'm pretty good friends with an older butch who told me that I am the first person they ever told that they were a nonbinary man. This person is in their 50s. They're married. But the wife doesn't like it, and they love their wife too much to cause friction in the relationship, so they keep it to themselves, and they keep quiet, and they don't say anything about being transgender, but in their head they aren't a woman. This person is not a woman, by their own insistence. Should this person be forcibly ejected from their local lesbian community, which they and the wife helped form decades ago? Should they divorce their wife, since that would make her not a lesbian anymore?
What harm is it, truly, to allow this person to stay? Social isolation kills people. The trans man suicide statistics are just as abysmal as any of the others I've mentioned here. Forcing someone to burn 20, 30, 40 years of their lives and their friends and their achievements because they are finally living as themselves is a deeply hurtful and isolating experience.
The majority of trans men asking to be included in these spaces are not trans men like me- who never really jived with the idea of womanhood and distanced ourselves as much as possible the moment we saw the opportunity. They are men like my friend, often existing outside of the binary, often with a deep love and appreciation for womanhood despite realizing that perhaps the label does not fit them as well as they once thought. They often have many years of connection, entire lives spent intwined in these spaces.
What good does it do to chase them out? What harm does it to do let them stay?
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beloveds-embrace · 2 days ago
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(non-sexual smell kink with simon riley 🙂‍↕️)
Simon wasn’t used to softness.
His life had been a long stretch of damp alleyways, stale cigarettes, and the kind of bars where the floor stuck to your boots if you stood still too long. Even the so-called clean places had a lingering scent of old beer and sweat, clinging to the air like a bad memory. He’d spent years thinking that was just how life smelled- musty, metallic, a little rotten around the edges.
Then you came along.
Simon never thought of himself as a man who cared much for scents, but you ruined him without even trying. It started with something small- your presence shifting the air in a room before he even saw you. A whisper of something clean and soft, clinging to your skin like an invisible halo.
You used body powder, he’d eventually learn, the kind that puffed into the air like smoke when you dusted it over your skin, leaving a faint, lingering trail wherever you went. He’d caught the scent of it the first time he stepped into your space, expecting the usual mix of cheap air fresheners or laundry detergent. Instead, he was hit with something warm, almost nostalgic, like fresh linens and a touch of vanilla.
It drove him mad in the best way.
Simon found himself leaning in when you passed by, subtle at first- just a slight tilt of his head when you moved close enough for your scent to brush against him. Then, less subtle- pulling you against his chest after long missions, face buried in your neck, inhaling deep enough to burn the memory of you into his lungs.
“You smell so good.” He muttered once, almost embarrassed by the admission.
You’d laughed, fingers brushing against the back of his head, free of the mask. “Yeah? What do I smell like?”
He hesitated, unsure how to explain it. Saying soft didn’t make sense. Neither did safe, even though that’s what it felt like. So he settled for: “Just… really good.”
You didn’t tease him for it. Just smiled, pressed a kiss to his jaw, and let him breathe you in.
And the first time Johnny met you, he almost had the same reaction.
Simon had warned him ahead of time- half because he wanted Johnny to behave and half because he wasn’t sure how his best mate would react to seeing Simon with someone so different from everything he’d ever known.
“Don’t be an idiot.” Simon had said.
Johnny had grinned at him. “Wouldd nae dream of it.”
You’d met at a quiet pub, one of the few places Simon could tolerate. Johnny had been his usual self, easygoing and full of charm especially for Simon’s missus, but the moment you’d leaned in to shake his hand, his expression shifted.
“Steamin’ Jesus…” Johnny blurted out, blinking at you.
Your brow furrowed in confusion, and your eyes shifted in hesitance towards Simon. “Uh. Nice to meet you too?”
Simon sighed, already knowing where this was going.
Johnny sniffed the air- actually sniffed- then gave Simon a look of utter betrayal. “You never told me she smelled this good.”
You let out a startled laugh. “What?”
Simon groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Don’t encourage him, lovie.”
Johnny, the bastard, ignored him completely. “I mean it, love, you smell incredible. It’s like-” He inhaled deeply again, thoughtful. “Powdered sugar. Or fresh sheets. Or- hell, I dunno. Just really, really nice.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Well, I do use a lot of body powder.”
“Where do you get it?” Johnny asked immediately.
Simon shot him a glare. “…Why?”
Johnny grinned, waggling his brows. “So I can get some for myself, obviously.”
Simon muttered something under his breath that made Johnny laugh, but he ignored them both, turning to you instead. “Sorry, love. Just didn’t expect my best mate to be walking around smelling like a bloody bakery all the time.”
You smiled at Simon, amused. “You didn’t tell him?”
Simon crossed his arms, feeling warm in a way that had nothing to do with the pub’s heating. You looked lovely. Content. Happy, leaning into him without fear. “Didn’t think it was relevant.”
Johnny scoffed. “Not relevant? if I had a lass smellin’ this nice, I’d be bragging all day.”
Simon just shook his head, reaching for his drink. But later that night, when it was just the two of you, he tucked you against him and pressed his face into your neck, breathing deep.
You smelled like home. Like warmth. Like the one thing in his life that had never felt dirty, no matter how much blood and grime he carried with him.
And he would never, ever get enough of it.
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damneddamsy · 3 days ago
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falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part i)
summary: Joel Miller never expected much out of Jackson—just a quiet place to live out the days he had left. But when a baby’s cries lead him to a mother unravelling under the pressure of nursing her child she never asked for, he finds himself tangled in something he can’t walk away from—no matter how much he tells himself he should.
a/n: this is soft daddy Joel like you've never seen before. angst, angst, angst. just heart-wrenching, gut-clenching, bucket-full-of-tears kind of flow. but I promise, I swear to you, it's going to get good!
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Joel had spent the past week trying to ignore it.
The sound was distant, muffled through the walls, but it was there—constant, sharp infant's cries cutting through the night like something wounded, something helpless. The baby never laughed, cooed, or made small, gurgling noises that kids were supposed to make. Just crying. Night after night, the same pitiful wails, like it was fighting sleep and didn’t know how to be comforted.
And the mother?
Leela. That was her name. Tommy and Maria had told him her family had been here before them, before all of this, that she’d grown up in Jackson, that the big house across from his had always been hers. He instantly believed it—her place didn’t look like the others. It was well-kept in a way that wasn’t just for show. The wood was aged but polished, the porch steps sturdy, and the windows wiped clean even in the dead of winter. A home, not just a shelter.
But it wasn’t warm.
Not with that sound in the night. Not when he never saw anyone else go inside.
No one knew who the kid’s father was, and Leela never said. She wouldn’t even let people help her—not Maria, not the older women in town who had tried, not even the ones who had kids of their own and knew what to do. And now, at the end of another long day, that fucking baby was crying again.
Joel had tried to let it be. Had forced himself to breathe calmly, stay in his house, shut the curtains, turn over in bed and pull the blanket over his head like some stubborn old bastard trying to pretend it wasn’t his problem.
But it was.
Because he could hear it. Because it sounded fucking miserable. Because he’d had enough.
When the cries began to get worse into the night, that was his last straw. With a frustrated sigh, he yanked on his jacket, shoved his arms through the sleeves, and stepped out into the cold, the door crashing shut behind him. The snow crunched beneath his boots as he crossed the road, hands tightening into fists, shoulders squared. The wind was sharp, biting at his skin, and when he reached her porch, he had half a mind to just bang on the damn door until she answered.
But then—he hesitated.
There was still a kid in there. The devilkin, probably. A baby nevertheless. And it's struggling mother.
He exhaled through his nose, loosened his fingers, and reached for the old metal knocker instead. Three firm, steady raps.
A pause. A paddle of footsteps down the staircase inside, light and hesitant. A sniffle. A sigh.
The curtains fluttered from nearby—just a fraction, just enough for him to catch the glint of an eye in the darkness, shedding a blade of light onto the frozen lawn. And then the door creaked open.
The poor mother looked like hell.
Her eyes—pretty, brown, red-rimmed, heavy-lidded—held the kind of exhaustion that settled deep, beyond sleep, beyond fixing. Her cheeks were hollowed, her lips chapped to brown, her hair falling loose from whatever attempt she’d made to pull it back.
And the baby—the cries hadn’t stopped. If anything, they were worse now. Closer. Desperate. The sound reached him in waves, piercing and thin, rattling against the walls of the house and clawing at something deep in his chest. A familiarity.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she murmured. Her voice was raw, barely holding together. “I just…”
She trailed off as if the words had run out, or maybe she didn’t have the strength to find them. Then the baby shrieked, and she flinched. A full-body recoil, like something had struck her. She turned away, pressing her wrist to her nose, shoulders curling inward, folding into herself as though she could disappear into the space she took up.
And Joel—well, he had been ready to lay into her. To tell her to do something, to figure it out, to stop letting that kid cry itself raw night after night. But looking at her now, standing there with her arms wrapped tight around herself, shaking from something that wasn’t just the cold…
He couldn’t do it.
Instead, against every instinct, every frustration, he surprised himself by saying—
“Let me try.”
X
Joel didn’t exactly wait for an answer.
Didn’t stop to think if he had the right. Didn’t question if she would let him in, because the noise was still there, splitting the air, working its way under his skin like a thorn that wouldn’t come out. His jaw tightened, his hands curled into fists, and the next thing he knew, he was pushing past her and her doorstep.
He wasn’t trying to be cruel. Well, he had been, just not anymore.
It was desperation. A need to stop that noise. That noise had been giving him sleepless nights for a week now. And with it, came the memories he’d spent years burying. He couldn't afford to let them resurface by the likes of this strange, terrible mother.
The house smelled faintly of old wood, dust, and something softer underneath—like linen, like the lingering scent of a person who lived there and never left. It was dark, too, save for the single glow spilling from a room upstairs. His boots were heavy against the worn floorboards, his breath tight in his chest as he took the stairs two at a time. Three doors on the second floor, but only one was open.
He stepped inside.
The first thing he saw was the cradle, right in the centre of the empty room, as if placed there on purpose, a little crib mobile fashioned into wooden horses, dangling mid-air.
Old. Hinges barely holding together. The wood had worn smooth from time, its edges dulled, like something that had been used for generations. The mattress inside was thin, its fabric stained with age, but the sheets were neatly tucked. Arranged properly. Everything was in its place.
This wasn’t neglect.
This was someone trying—someone failing.
And then the baby. No older than a month, wriggling in its white nappy, legs kicking in frantic little bursts, tiny fists curled so tight they trembled. Tears slicked its cheeks, its face blotchy and red, its mouth stretched wide in a scream so raw, so piercing, that it stole the breath straight from the lungs. It was exhausted. Starving.
But goddamn, if that wasn't one beautiful fucking baby.
Biggest brown eyes he’d ever seen, glassy with exhaustion, wet and searching. A head full of thick, dark hair, damp and curling at the ends. But it wasn’t chubby the way babies should be. Not soft enough. Too small, skin drawn tight, movements restless but weak. Malnourished.
His jaw clenched. He barely registered the sharp footsteps rushing up behind him until her voice cut through the noise.
“Hey, ‘scuse me, I didn’t let—”
He cut off her protest with an abrupt, “Boy or girl?”
She stopped short. Lips parting. Swallowing down whatever she’d been about to say.
“Girl.”
Joel’s gaze flicked back to the baby. He noticed the slight bloating around her belly, the way she arched and curled, restless, like she couldn’t find a position that didn’t hurt. That explained the shrieking. Colic, for sure.
“You fed her anything?”
There was a thoughtful pause, and then, quietly—
“I—I’ve been having trouble with…” She gestured vaguely to her chest, gaze dropping, almost ashamed. “I tried water... um... I don't know.”
Jesus Christ. Joel dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard through his nose. Too late at night or too early in the morning—he didn’t know which, and at this point, it didn’t matter. His head ached. His body ached. And this kid—this poor, starving little thing—had been too hapless to be born to this fucking clueless, stubborn mother.
“Need to call Maria,” he said under his breath.
Her eyes went wide. “I don’t need anybody’s help. I'm fine.”
He let out a sharp, humourless laugh, shaking his head. “You don't. Your girl sure does. And try saying that when this crib empties in the next week.”
She flinched, shoulders jerking.
He barely registered it. He was already moving, already slipping into old instinct, the one he thought had died a long time ago.
Stepping closer, Joel reached into the cradle, hands slipping beneath the baby’s small, rigid body. Carefully, he eased her onto her stomach, a shush falling from his lips, settling her against his forearm, palm spanning nearly the length of her body. Christ, she was so fucking small. Too small. Probably premature. A frail little thing, light as air, fists still curled, breath coming out in tiny, shuddering gasps between cries.
Leela stood stiff beside him, her breath uneven, arms wrapped around herself like she wasn’t sure if she should step forward or pull away.
Joel didn’t look at her. His focus stayed on the baby. The way her tiny limbs jerked, how her cries wavered like she couldn’t decide if she had the energy to keep going.
He started rubbing slow, steady circles against her back, the calloused warmth of his palm pressing gently but firmly over her fragile bones. Something old stirred in him—something buried deep, something that twisted like a knife. He didn’t think about it. Didn’t let himself. Just kept rubbing. Kept murmuring something low, quiet, something he wasn’t even aware of.
“Thatta, girl. There you go.”
“'Sokay, ssh. Ssh.”
“I got you.”
The wails started to waver, breaking apart in the middle, turning into stuttering hiccups, then snivels, a laughable baby burp that even had him breaking into a small smile. Then—
Silence. Oh, sweet, splendid silence.
Joel exhaled, keeping his touch steady as she shuddered against him, her tiny fingers twitching against the sleeve of his jacket.
“See?” His voice was rough. “Just needed a little push.”
Leela didn’t respond. She was staring. Not at him, exactly, but at his hands, at the way he held the baby. Like she wasn’t sure what to make of it. Observing him, learning.
When he glanced down, she was blinking up at him, half-lidded, her breath slowing, her little body going limp with exhaustion. She made a wet, little noise, almost a soft coo.
“She got a name?”
When the silence lingered, he lifted his head, caught Leela’s stare, and cocked a brow when she didn’t answer. Then, she silently shook her head.
Joel frowned. “You didn’t name your kid?”
And just like that, something clicked into place. The way she stood there, arms locked tight around herself. The way she hadn’t called the baby anything. The way she hadn't moved a step close to protect her baby from this stranger. The hesitation in her voice, the way she held herself together like she was bracing for something.
“She ain’t yours?”
Her gaze flickered. “She is.”
Soft. Firm. After a beat, she lifted the hem of her shirt, revealing the crisscross of stretch marks across her stomach, just above the line of her pants.
Joel sighed through his nose. His fingers ghosted over the baby’s small back before he finally let go, letting her rest in her mother's arms. It felt wrong—leaving the baby there like that—but he slipped his hand away, albeit unwillingly, and stroked her fine, dark hair once. Twice. Then forced himself to stop.
He exhaled sharply, standing upright, rubbing a hand over his face. His patience was hanging by a thread. His chest ached with something raw, something angry. He had no business being here, no reason to care, but—
"Look," he muttered, voice tight, "you shouldn't have had a kid if you were just gonna sit around and do nothing. Jesus, at least get yourself some help."
Leela cringed. It was barely noticeable, just a flicker of movement, but he caught it. She turned her face away, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear, and bit at what little was left of her nail, worrying it between her teeth.
The sight of it—it wasn’t what he expected. He had been bracing for an argument, for defensiveness, for anger. But there was nothing like that. Just the quiet gnawing of her thumbnail, the restless shifting of her fingers.
Something settled uneasily in his chest.
He exhaled sharply. "Maria’s coming in tomorrow," he said, firm. Like he was setting it in stone. "Whether you like it or not. She'll know what to do."
That made her glance up. And for the first time, he really saw her.
Not just the exhaustion, the red-rimmed eyes, or the way she curled in on herself like she was trying to take up as little space as possible—but the fear. That deep, paralyzing kind of fear that settled into a person’s bones, made a home there.
Then his eyes flicked downward, back to the baby. She had her mother’s eyes. Big, dark, and brimming with something wild, something untamed. Something fragile, caught on the verge of bolting. And in that moment, they both looked the same.
Wet. Trembling. Exhausted. Confused. Helpless.
Leela swallowed thickly, lips parting like she wanted to speak. But when she did, her voice barely made it past her throat. “Take her.”
Joel blinked. For a second, he thought he must’ve misheard.
But she was looking at him—really looking at him now, eyes wide and wet, breath uneven like she’d just sprinted a mile. And the way she was standing, trembling, fists curled into the fabric of her sleeves—She meant it. She was serious.
"You're right," she whispered, voice barely there. "I might kill her. Just take her away, please."
A slow, sinking dread pooled in his stomach. His fingers curled at his sides, restless, itching for something to hold onto.
The baby stirred weakly against Leela’s chest, small fingers twitching up to her mother's neck, dark lashes fluttering against flushed skin. She had gone quiet, her body still in that way newborns only got when they were too damn exhausted to keep crying.
His hands twitched at his sides. He knew what he should do. He should take the kid. That was the right thing, wasn’t it? He should lift her into his arms, swaddle her in a blanket, turn on his heel, and walk out the door. Hand her off to Maria, and let someone who actually knew what they were doing step in. Hell, she’d been talking about trying to set up a proper nursery in town, get the kids what they needed—she’d figure it out.
But Joel didn't move; couldn't move.
Because now that he was looking at her, really looking, he saw it—saw the fear clinging to her like a second skin. Not fear of him. Not fear of what people might say. Fear of herself. Conviction was a luxury.
She stood there, arms wrapped tight around herself, her body drawn inward like she was trying to make herself small as if shrinking could somehow erase the truth. The baby rested against her chest, quiet now, as if sensing the shift in the air. Her fingers barely touched her child, hesitant, light, the way someone might hold a delicate piece of glass they weren’t sure they could be trusted with.
Joel’s stomach turned.
“I—I'm not—I can’t do this.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, frayed at the edges, raw like an old wound that had never properly healed.
He felt something sharp and hot twist inside him, something he didn’t want to name.
“You ain’t givin’ her up.” His voice came out rough, low, unwavering.
Leela let out a breathy, broken laugh, shaking her head. “Do you think I have a choice here?”
“Yeah.” His eyes stayed on hers, unrelenting. “I do.”
She sniffled, shaking her head again, but her fingers twitched against her sleeve, gripping the fabric like she needed something to hold onto.
And Joel—Joel had seen this before. Had known people like this. People who stood at the edge of something dark, looking down, unable to turn back. He’d been one of them once. It made something ugly rise in his chest. Made him angry in a way that didn’t make sense, and didn’t sit right.
Because this mother—this stupid, foolish, ignorant girl—had no business being like that. She didn't even know what kind of luck she'd struck with that baby girl. He would've killed to be where she was, even if it was for a moment.
"You're a fucking coward if you're thinking about giving your daughter up.” The words left him, sharp as a blade, before he could stop them. “You got plenty of choices, but you're too goddamn pigheaded to make the right one."
She flinched. Not just in surprise, but something deeper—like he’d struck her with all his might, like he’d confirmed every awful thing she’d ever thought about herself.
Joel’s jaw locked. It was too late to take it back.
He should’ve stopped. He should’ve taken a breath, let the words settle and left it at that. But something about her, the way she stood there like she was waiting to be knocked down, made his patience snap clean in half.
“Pull yourself together,” he bit out.
Then he turned and walked out the door.
The air outside was colder than before, or maybe it felt that way. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he stepped onto the road, his breath coming sharp, ragged in the quiet of the night. His fingers ached, curled into tight fists, his pulse still hammering.
He was halfway across the street when something in him shifted.
His anger thinned, the heat of it fading just enough for everything else to creep in—her voice, her hands trembling, the way her arms had tightened around that kid like she was afraid of herself more than anything else.
He slowed, stopping in his tracks. The house loomed behind him, dark except for that single upstairs window.
Joel looked up at the home.
The cries had started again. Thin, reedy wails carried through the cold, through the walls.
He stood there, staring at the lights flickering against the frost-covered glass.
This time, jaw tight, he turned away.
X
That being said, Joel hadn’t slept well.
Not that he ever did, but last night was worse than usual.
Every time he closed his eyes, it was the baby’s cries again. He saw Leela’s face, dark and hollow, eyes too big for her sunken frame. He heard her voice, raw and trembling, telling him to take the kid—like it was the only way. Like she didn’t trust herself to keep her alive, already grieving her.
Even now, as he tugged on his gloves and prepared for patrol, he kept seeing the way she had watched him with her baby. He remembered the way she desperately looked at him, waiting for him to take the baby from her, as if letting go was the only mercy she had left to offer.
Maria was there now. She had let herself in, just like that. Hadn’t knocked, hadn’t hesitated. And Leela had not met her at the door, hadn’t locked it after Joel had walked out last night.
He adjusted the rifle on his back and exhaled sharply.
Not his problem. He shouldn't be bothered with it. He’d done his part. More than his part. He had brought help in, and gotten someone else to deal with it—someone better suited for this kind of thing. Maria would figure it out. She always did.
Still, as he swung himself onto his horse and rode out for patrol, that damn house stayed in the back of his mind. The way it stood there, quiet and still, while something inside was coming apart at the seams. The way Leela had stood in that dim room, shoulders curled inward, looking more like a ghost than a person.
He shook it off and went through the motions. Focus on the day ahead.
Patrol was long, tedious, and more of the same—checking the perimeter, clearing out old trouble spots down his trail, making sure everything was as it should be, and scouring supplies. A welcome distraction. When he stopped by Ellie’s as usual, she narrowed her eyes at him from behind her sketchbook, muttering something about how he looked like shit.
“Didn’t sleep,” was all he said. And she didn’t bother to press. Ellie was another long, welcome, more pesky distraction.
By the time evening rolled around, he’d fallen back into his routine. Routine. That was what mattered. He groomed his horse, rubbing his hands along its mane just to keep them busy. He cleaned his rifle, making sure the gears weren't easy to jam and stopped to pick up some new gear at the store. He grabbed a whiskey—alone—just to take the edge off, slowing down for a bit.
He finished the evening like always, grabbing a boxed dinner from the mess hall, not bothering to make small talk. No one asked anything of him, and he didn’t offer anything in return. A night like any other. Something he repeated to himself, just to ground himself to reality besides the weight of his breaking boots.
Then he saw her. Maria was still at that house, waiting by the porch swing, face tense. She spotted him almost instantly and strode straight toward him.
Joel nodded at her in greeting, shifting the box under his arm. "You good?"
Maria didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Sure. Got a second?”
He tipped his chin toward Leela’s door. "All set over there?"
“Far from it.” Her voice was tight, laced with something he didn’t like. “I need your help.”
Joel scoffed. “What’s the punchline?”
But Maria didn’t laugh. Didn’t even crack a smirk. Instead, she followed him inside his house.
Joel's 'home' was nothing special—functional, practical. Just a space to exist in. A couch pushed against one wall which he used more than the bed upstairs, a table he used out of necessity, a kitchen stocked with the bare minimum. Not much to look at, or even stay for long. It wasn't home, but it was enough. Certainly nothing like Leela’s home, where history bled through the worn floorboards, through the walls, a place that had been lived in.
Joel didn’t let himself think about it too much. He dropped the box of food onto the table, turning to Maria with his arms crossed.
“Well?”
Maria sighed, staring out the window toward Leela’s house. The porch light flickered weakly, and the house itself looked darker than it had last night. Like it had collapsed in on itself a little more.
“She’s not okay, Joel.”
Joel huffed, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, pretending not to hear the implication behind those words. “Figured.”
“No,” Maria said, sharper this time. “I mean it.”
She turned back to him, her eyes shadowed with something heavier than just concern. She looked tired—worn—in a way that wasn’t just about the town or the thousand responsibilities on her shoulders. It was personal.
Joel exhaled through his nose, already feeling the walls closing in on this conversation.
Maria rubbed a hand over her face. “She’s disturbed. I don’t think she’s had a proper meal in days. She’s having trouble breastfeeding, let alone keeping herself together enough to care for that baby.” She shook her head. “I can’t be there all the time. I’ve got the whole town to run, a hundred things to look after. Tommy’s drowning in work. We're stretched thin as it is.” Her eyes met his, steady and pointed. “You’re my last resort.”
Joel frowned, jaw ticking. “And do what, exactly? Pretend like I've done this dance before?”
“Just be there,” Maria said so positively, like it wasn’t the worst fucking idea in the world. “Make sure she doesn’t slip up with the baby. Help where you can. Just a few days—until Tommy and I can step in.”
Joel dragged a hand down his beard, exhaling slowly. “You have got to be shitting me. You want me to play babysitter.”
Everything in him wanted to refuse. He’d done his part here. Hell, more than his part. He didn’t owe that woman anything. She had a nice home. Pretty face. She had her newborn. And if she didn’t know how to handle it, that was on her. He wasn’t looking to take on another burden. Christ, wasn’t he supposed to be done with this kind of thing? Wasn’t he past the point of taking in lost causes?
But Maria didn’t look like she was giving him a choice. Her voice softened, dropping to something quieter, edged with meaning. “I don’t think she had this baby with someone she knew, Joel.”
Joel stiffened. Maria’s expression didn’t change, but there was something unspoken there, something heavy, something that didn’t need to be stated outright. Still, it landed in his gut like a stone.
She let the silence stretch, let him fill in the gaps. And he did.
“I hope you understand what I'm getting at,” she continued. “I don’t think she wanted this at all.”
Joel clenched his jaw, staring at the floor, pretending like he didn’t hear them. He didn't ask how she knew, didn’t even ask what she’d seen in that house today that had led her to that conclusion.
Because he already knew. He’d seen it, too.
The way Leela couldn’t bring herself to name the baby. The way she looked at the child was like she was something fragile, something unfamiliar, something that didn’t belong to her. The way she had looked at him—not with resentment, not with anger, but with resignation.
Like she was handing over the baby because she genuinely believed it was the only way to save her. A fist of darkness curled in his stomach.
He knew what it was like to lose a child. He knew what it did to a person, how it tore through you, how it hollowed them out from the inside. But whatever this was, it wasn’t grief. This was something worse. He prayed he would never have to deal with this.
This was a woman standing on the edge of the deep and the dark, staring down into it, wondering how much further she could fall before there was no coming back. And there was a baby—a fucking baby—at her feet. Yet, she was ready to take that fall.
Joel exhaled, slow and heavy, rubbing the back of his neck.
But the truth was, he’d already stepped in. Already gotten himself involved. Whether out of desperation or some obstinate, buried need to fix things that were beyond saving, he wasn’t sure. And now, if he walked away, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to live with the consequences.
Suddenly, the room felt smaller, the walls a little tighter. A long silence stretched between them.
Finally, reluctantly, he sighed. “This is a big fucking mistake, Maria. I'm the last person who should be over there with her.”
Maria nodded, hearing what she needed to hear, relief flickering across her face. “You'll figure it out. I'll be around if you need anything. Thank you.”
Joel didn’t answer. He didn't know what the hell he’d just agreed to, but something in his gut told him it was going to end real bad.
X
Morning light washed over his neighbour's house, soft and cold, as Joel made his way up the steps. It must’ve been the perfect little home once, back when the world was still whole—white clapboard, modest porch with a swingset, somewhere that had been waiting too long for someone to come back home. A place built to last. And maybe, before seasons and silence collapsed, it had.
But time had sunk its teeth in. The paint had started peeling in the corners, the wood of the steps groaned under his boots, and though the windows were clean, there was something hollow about the way they sat in their frames as if no one had looked out of them in a long time. It didn’t have the neglect of a broken-down house, but rather the hush of a place that had lost something vital.
And the front door was open again.
Joel clenched his jaw.
Maria had been right—that girl really didn’t have a single clue.
He pushed the door wider and stepped inside, careful, slow, not wanting to seem intrusive but unable to stop himself from taking in the room. It wasn’t what he expected.
Her home wasn’t cluttered, wasn’t in disarray, but there was something about it that felt… off. A mind too busy to bother with the details of living. Against one wall stood two large blackboards hung haphazardly over shelves, filled with complex math equations, numbers and symbols scrawled out in clean, sharp lines. A few pieces of chalk lay scattered at the base, alongside crumpled papers and a wastebasket that never quite caught them. Shelves held solved Rubik’s cubes, closed notebooks, and empty pens stuck upright in a pen stand. On the table, a coffee mug sat with dried stains at the bottom, an imprint of hands that had used it over and over, mindlessly, then set it aside without a thought.
Joel frowned, taking it all in.
A fucking scientist. That was the last thing he’d ever have guessed about her. Dr Leela last-name-something, the resident nerd mom.
He didn’t know what he expected when he climbed the stairs, only that something about the house still put him on edge. It wasn’t just the oddity of it—the blackboards filled with numbers, the pages of equations scattered like fallen leaves—it was the fact that none of it felt lived in. Clinical. Like the house had been built to serve a purpose, but never for a person.
He reached the top step just as he heard the baby girl’s soft fussing from down the hall. The sound made him hesitate. It wasn’t the sharp, desperate cries from the night before. This was softer, almost a coo, the kind of sound that made something in his chest tighten before he could push it down.
Carefully, he stepped forward, peering into the nursery.
Leela stood by the cradle, one hand rubbing slow, absentminded circles over the baby’s tiny stomach. It was almost an imitation of what he’d done the night before, but the difference was clear—where his movements had been firm, knowing, hers were unsure, like she was following a set of instructions she didn’t quite understand.
She looked different in the daylight. Dressed neatly in a long, thin nightgown that fell to her ankles, her black hair was left loose, unbrushed, hanging past her hips in uneven waves, obviously never seen the business end of a scissor. The exhaustion was still there—was part of her, woven into how she held herself—but her face was smoother, her shoulders less rigid, like she had settled into something.
The floorboard groaned beneath his boot. Leela looked up. She even tried for a small smile. A little, ghostly quirk of her lips.
“Hello, Joel.”
He didn’t respond. Something about how she looked at him, or maybe how she looked past him, unsettled him. He didn’t like feeling that way—not in someone else’s home, not when he was meant to be in control of the situation. Instead of answering, he stepped toward the cradle, glancing down at the baby.
The baby girl let out a high-pitched whine, stretching, her fingers curling and uncurling before she kicked her little legs. Then, as if noticing him, her mouth widened into a gummy, toothless grin, her round face alight, untouched by the world’s cruelty.
Joel couldn’t help himself. His lips twitched, just slightly, before he shook his head.
“Managed to—?” He gestured vaguely toward her chest before pulling his hand back, curling it into an embarrassed fist against the cradle.
Leela caught on. Her fingers twitched at the pearly buttons of her nightgown. Just a small, involuntary movement.
“Oh… Maria told me to hold her close to stimulate… you know.” She hesitated, shifting her weight. “I fed her one of the bottles she gave me, too.”
Joel nodded. “And?”
Leela looked down at the baby. “She stopped crying.”
He frowned. “That’s it?”
Leela’s fingers tightened against her arms. “I… don’t know how to hold her without making her cry.”
The words made something dark flicker through him, he didn’t have the energy to name it. It wasn’t quite anger, but it was close. Frustration. Exasperation. A sharp-edged bitterness he couldn’t swallow down fast enough.
Joel scoffed. “You can’t hold your own baby?”
Leela looked away, her heart breaking in her eyes before she managed to mask it.
Joel exhaled, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “It’s not all math,” he muttered.
He didn’t wait for her to answer. Instead, he reached into the cradle, slipping a hand beneath the baby’s head, cradling her against his arm, careful, practised. He eased her up, letting her body settle against his forearm, her head resting in the crook of his elbow.
The second she was in his arms, something inside him cracked.
She was tiny. So fucking tiny. Tinier than Sarah had been.
Joel swallowed thickly, feeling the light weight of her against his chest. He hadn’t held something this fragile in years—hadn’t let himself. But muscle memory took over before he could stop it before he could remind himself that this wasn’t the same. It was already clawing its way back to him. He rubbed a slow, steady hand over her back, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. She was warm and soft, her tiny fingers twitching against his shirt.
For a second—a half a second—he let himself sink into it.
“Hi, baby girl,” he whispered.
The scent of her, like the faded remnants of old cotton, the delicate press of her body against his. A ghost of something long lost. A time when his arms had been full like this when his days had been nothing but cradling Sarah against him, balancing a baby bag on his shoulder, and pushing a stroller down the sidewalk, filled with groceries, with the Texas sun overhead.
A different life. A different world. One he had no business remembering.
Joel forced himself to blink out of it. He cleared his throat, shifting, pressing the feeling down before it could take hold.
“And that’s it,” he said gruffly. “Ain’t that hard.”
Leela was watching him. Not like she was waiting for him to say something—not like she even expected him to. She was watching the way he held the baby, the way she settled so easily against him. Studying him, the way she studied numbers and equations, looking for a formula, an answer.
He breathed out. “Here,” he muttered, shifting the baby carefully toward her. “You try.”
Leela didn’t reach for her baby immediately.
Her hands hovered, hesitant, fingers twitching like she wasn’t sure how to move them. Joel could see it—the tension coiling in her shoulders, the stiffness in her posture. Her breathing shallowed, her chest barely rising, as if even that movement might disturb the delicate balance between her and the tiny life in front of her.
But finally, she forced herself to move.
Her hands, unsteady, cupped beneath the baby’s body as if she were handling something breakable, something foreign. It was careful, but too careful—unnatural in a way that the baby could sense. And sure enough, the second Leela pulled her in, her arms locked tight, too rigid, too unsure, and the child stirred. A tiny whimper. Then a sharp, warning cry.
Leela stiffened, her grip faltering. The sound made her flinch, her breath catching, as though she’d been struck.
She barely lasted five seconds before her resolve cracked. She was already shifting forward, already pushing the baby back toward Joel, who took her without hesitation.
The crying stopped almost instantly.
Joel settled the baby against his chest, bouncing her gently, a practised movement. He didn’t have to think about it—his body just did what it knew, routine kicking in where hers faltered. The baby let out a soft, sighing coo, her tiny body relaxing, as if she knew she was back in capable hands.
Leela, however, looked shaken. Not in a dramatic way—she wasn’t crying, wasn’t breaking down—but her hands curled into fists, pressing against her stomach like she needed to hold herself together.
Then, she winced.
Joel’s attention snapped back to her, his gaze dropping to the way she clutched at her lower back, her body tilting forward ever so slightly like the pain had taken her by surprise.
“Hey.” His voice softened. “You wanna sit down?”
She nodded, barely. A tiny dip of her chin.
Joel glanced around. There wasn’t much in the nursery. Just the crib, a long wooden bureau, and a mattress on the floor pushed against the far wall. No chair, nothing to lower herself onto easily.
With a quiet sigh, he adjusted his hold on the baby and stepped closer, offering an arm. “C’mon.”
Leela hesitated. Not out of pride—he could tell—but maybe out of uncertainty like she wasn’t used to being helped. But when she tried to move on her own, another sharp grimace crossed her face, and that was enough.
She let him guide her.
Joel was careful, supporting her weight without making a big deal of it. The baby stayed nestled in the crook of his other arm, still resting peacefully, unaffected by the movement. It wasn’t easy—manoeuvring both of them at once—but it was instinctual.
He helped her lower onto the mattress, feeling the way her muscles tensed beneath his touch before finally giving in to the pull of exhaustion. Leela eased back against the wall and settled into the thin cushion. A long, quiet sigh left her lips, her posture unwinding slightly like she’d been holding herself taut for hours—maybe longer. But even then, she still didn’t entirely relax.
Joel watched as she lifted a hand to her face, brushing back loose strands of hair, her fingers pressing briefly into her temples.
"I'm sorry, Joel."
He frowned. “For what?”
She inhaled deeply. “It’s only been three... four weeks since I delivered. I’ve just been feeling out of it ever since.”
There was no shame in her tone, no self-pity. Just a quiet fatigue. A statement of fact.
Joel pressed his lips together.
Four weeks. Jesus. That explained a lot. The exhaustion, the stiffness in her movements, the way her body still seemed like it hadn’t recovered from what it had been through. Hell, no wonder she looked like a ghost of herself. The human body wasn’t meant to bounce back that fast—not without help. And from what he’d seen so far, she wasn’t the type to ask for it.
“She came too soon,” he muttered, almost to himself.
Leela shifted, tilting her head slightly toward him. "Eight months," she said, voice softer now. "That’s not normal, is it? It’s why she’s so tiny."
Joel didn’t answer immediately. Leela waited, like she wanted him to say more. When he didn’t, she tucked her knees up onto the couch, resting her chin against them.
She rubbed a tired hand into her eyes. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
There it was. Not frustration. Not helplessness. Just quiet, resigned truth.
Joel glanced down at the sleeping baby, still curled against his chest, her breathing soft and even. One tiny hand had fisted itself into his shirt, gripping instinctively—like she knew, on some level, that she had to hold on to something, someone, to stay safe. His grip on her tightened slightly.
Leela’s words sat heavy in his chest. I don’t know how to hold her without making her cry. And now this—I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. He’d heard new parents say those words before. Hell, he’d felt it himself, back then. But something about the way she said it—flat, detached, like she wasn’t even fighting it anymore—made something inside him go stiff.
Joel breathed out, shifting his arms so the baby settled more comfortably against him, and she felt so heavy all of a sudden.
Too much quiet, too many things unsaid pressing at the edges of his mind. He didn’t want to sit in it—didn’t want to acknowledge what it stirred in him. So, he broke the silence the only way he knew how.
"You could start by giving her a name," he said, glancing at Leela. "Not that 'baby girl' is a terrible name."
Leela blinked, then looked down at her daughter, studying her as if she were just now realizing that, yes, she still had to name the kid.
After a thoughtful moment, she lifted her gaze back to him. "Do you want to pick one for her?"
Joel snorted. "Me?"
She nodded, entirely serious.
He shook his head. "I think I'm gonna stick with 'baby girl.'"
Leela let out a small breath of laughter, barely there, but it softened something in her face. She bit her lip, thinking of a name, then murmured, "I always liked the name Maya."
"Maya?" He tested the name on his lips. "I like that. Maya. It’s pretty. Rhymes, too. Leela, Maya."
Leela’s lips twitched at that, and she shifted forward, moving closer without thinking, drawn in by something unspoken. She leaned down, head dipping toward the baby still curled up against Joel’s chest.
And for the first time since he stepped into this house, Joel saw it.
That fondness. It was small, but it was there—the quiet, aching kind of love that didn’t need words. The kind that made itself known in the way her fingers smoothed over the baby’s forehead, tracing delicate lines across her tiny features. In the way her body curled just slightly, instinctively, around her daughter, like even in her exhaustion, she was drawn to protect.
"Maya, Maya, Maya," she whispered, barely a sound, breathing the name into her daughter's ear as if speaking it into existence.
Joel watched her for a long moment, an unfamiliar phantom kick in his ribs. It was too much. Too close to something he didn’t want to touch, something that felt like the past reaching for him with cold fingers.
He should leave. He knew he should. Should’ve gotten up, handed the baby back, given some half-hearted promise to Maria that he’d check in, and then walked out that door.
But he didn’t. Instead, he settled in a little more, stretching his legs out, arms still loosely cradling the child.
He finally broke the silence with, “So, you’re some kind of scientist?”
Leela glanced up at him, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I’m more towards math.”
Joel frowned. Math. In a world like this?
People didn’t survive with numbers. They survived with bullets and knives, knowing when to run and when to pull the trigger. You either killed or died. You either protected or raided. You didn’t see too many folks walking around trying to save themselves with goddamned math equations—unless they were Fireflies with delusions of rebuilding the world. That was the kind of thinking that got you shot.
His gaze flickered back to the crib. What the hell kind of life was she leading before all this?
He leaned back against the wall. “And just how long have you been here alone?”
“A long time.” She didn’t elaborate. Just glanced down at the baby, adjusting the folds of the swaddle with careful fingers. Then, softer, almost like an afterthought—“Not anymore.”
Joel didn’t know what to make of that.
His gaze flicked toward the stacks of books on the baby’s bureau, thick with dust on the edges but well-thumbed through. He hummed. “And you do… math?” He made it sound ridiculous because it was.
She only nodded, unbothered. “Analytic geometry and a bit of mechanics. My parents used to work at NASA. I took up their research once I was old enough to understand. They loved to teach me all about it.”
Joel blinked. NASA? Ellie would lose her little mind if she were here.
He studied her again, reassessing. She didn’t look like someone who used to be involved in something that big. Not now, anyway. Dressed in an old nightgown, her hair hanging in dark, tangled waves, bruised-looking eyes that made her seem older than she was.
He hesitated before asking, “And just how old are you?”
“I’m turning thirty soon.” She didn’t sound glad about it. Then again, no one ever did.
But there was something about that number that made his stomach turn. Maybe because of all her intelligence, all her sharp, clinical detachment, she looked young under the weight of everything she was carrying. Or maybe because twenty-nine didn’t seem old enough to have gone through the kind of hell that made a mother flinch at her own baby.
Joel wanted to press further. Wanted to ask why she was alone, how the hell she had made it this long without the baby’s father, how a girl who could do math for NASA ended up here—malnourished, exhausted, hunched over on a mattress like she was carrying the whole world on her back.
But before he could, Maya stirred.
A small, sleepy movement. Tiny fingers wriggled their way free from the swaddle, barely curled, stretching toward the air. The whimpering started softly, then built, that newborn cry that was both fragile and urgent all at once.
Leela straightened instinctively, her hands twitching toward her daughter. But this time, when she lifted Maya from Joel’s arms, she didn’t hesitate. She held her with a little more certainty, a little more care, cradling her close to her chest as if she were nestling something precious rather than foreign.
Joel let out a slow breath. Good. Progress.
Then, before he could so much as glance back up, Leela started unbuttoning her nightgown, the lapel falling open.
His eyes snapped away so fast it nearly gave him whiplash. “Christ.”
“Oh, god—! I’m so sorry, Maria said to try—”
“’Sall good,” he muttered, fixing his gaze firmly on the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but at her. “Just, uh—go for it.”
“I’ll cover up. Sorry.”
Joel nodded stiffly, still keeping his head turned. But in the silence that followed, his body didn’t quite relax.
He listened. Not just to her, but to everything. The rustle of fabric, the faint, uncertain exhale as she adjusted her hold, the wet, rhythmic sound of the baby nursing, the occasional tiny sigh. A noise so small it barely existed, but it filled the quiet all the same.
Joel let out a breath through his nose, sinking into himself, gaze flickering absently around the room. He took in the details he hadn’t paid much attention to before.
The crib—old, but sturdy. The mess of books stacked against the walls, as if she had been trying to build some kind of fortress out of paper and ink. The curtains were drawn too tight, like she didn’t want the outside world bleeding in. And the emptiness—the distinct lack of anything that made this place a nursery. No toys. No clutter. No warmth.
He knew that kind of space. Knew what it meant when a room felt temporary, even when someone had been in it for years.
“I’m decent now.” Her voice was quiet but certain.
Joel glanced over his shoulder. A blanket was draped over one of Leela’s shoulders, concealing both her and the baby beneath it. His eyes traced over her face, the way she was staring down at Maya—not with the ease of a mother who had done this a hundred times, but with the focus of someone trying to get it right. Like she was handling some delicate equation she couldn’t afford to miscalculate.
The baby suckled noisily, and Joel saw the way Leela’s fingers curled against the fabric, white-knuckled.
"Do you have many children, Joel?" she asked suddenly.
He stilled. The question—simple, almost offhanded—landed like a hammer.
His fingers curled against his knee, tightening. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked. Hell, it wasn’t even the first time he’d asked himself that. But coming from her—a woman he barely knew, holding a baby that wasn’t much more than a handful of weeks old—it hit differently.
Did he have many children? No.
But he had one. Had. That word sat on his tongue, sour and heavy, pressing against the backs of his teeth. He could say it. Could let it out, let it breathe. But if he did, it would only linger, thick and unwelcome, in the air between them.
He grunted out, “Not your concern.”
Leela nodded once, quiet and accepting. She didn’t pry, didn’t press—just dropped her gaze back to Maya, adjusting the blanket with slow, careful fingers.
“I understand,” she murmured.
Joel wasn’t sure why, but he believed her. Maybe it was the way she said it—flat, unbothered. Not some empty reassurance, not some half-hearted attempt at sympathy. Just a statement. Honest. And somehow, that made it worse.
Silence settled between them, thick but not uncomfortable.
Joel let out a slow breath and glanced toward the window, toward the faint light filtering through the edges of the curtain. The town was waking up. People were starting their day, going about their lives. Normal. Simple. This? Sitting here in this too-empty house with a woman he didn’t know and a baby who had seen too much of the world already? This wasn’t simple.
Then, her voice—quiet, hesitant.
"Did your baby ever feel like a stranger?"
He turned to look at her, watching as she nursed the baby beneath the blanket. Her head was slightly bowed, her fingers absentmindedly rubbing slow, rhythmic circles against the tiny foot poking free. It was such a small, natural gesture—one he’d seen a thousand times from mothers who loved their children without thought, without hesitation. And yet, coming from her, it felt… disconnected. As if she was mimicking something she wasn’t sure she believed in.
The question settled deep in his chest, pressing against something sore.
"Never." The answer came without thinking. Without doubt.
Sarah had never been a stranger. From the second she was in his arms, slick and tiny and furious at the world, she was his. He hadn’t known what the hell he was doing, but love—love had been instant, bone-deep. A gut punch. A freefall. A terrifying, irreversible thing. It had been impossible not to love his daughter.
That’s how it should feel. But Leela—she looked like she was still waiting to wake up from a dream. Or maybe a nightmare.
Leela exhaled softly, barely a sound, but Joel caught it. It hit him harder than it should have.
"I wish I felt that way," she muttered.
That did something to him.
It wasn’t pity, exactly—Leela didn’t seem like the kind of woman who wanted pity. No, it was a knowing. A recognition of something lost, something stolen before it ever had a chance to be hers. Joel had lost things, too. He understood that kind of grief, even if this one wasn’t his to carry.
Leela had slipped back into that blank, distant sadness, like she was stuck in it, unable to claw her way out. And Joel wasn’t the kind of man who offered words where they wouldn’t make a difference, but Maria had asked him to help, and he’d told her he would. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing. He never had been. Words were never easy for him. Feelings even less so. But he knew how to read people, how to see what they couldn’t bring themselves to say.
So, he did what he could.
"She looks like you," Joel mused, almost without thinking.
Leela hesitated, blinking at him like she wasn’t sure she’d heard right. "You really think so?"
He smirked, nodding toward Maya. "Look at that. The eyes, the nose, the hair. That’s all a mama’s girl."
She glanced down at the baby in her arms, her fingers stilling against Maya’s tiny foot. For a second, something in her expression wavered—like she was trying to see what he saw, trying to find herself in this child. "Mama’s girl," she murmured, testing the words on her tongue as if they didn’t quite belong to her yet.
Joel felt something shift in his chest, just a little.
It was something.
Still, his eyes drifted over the room, taking in the stark walls, the empty corners. The air in here was cold—not from the weather, but from the lack of anything. There was no sign of her in this space. No warmth, no comfort, no life. It felt temporary, like she hadn’t put down roots. Like she was waiting for something.
Or maybe like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to stay.
He exhaled, tipping his chin toward the crib. "Though, she’s gonna be real disappointed when she sees the state her mama’s kept her room in."
Leela’s brows knit together as she looked around as if really seeing it for the first time. "I tried my best. Is it that bad?"
Joel huffed, shaking his head. "It could use a little more work." He gestured toward the crib. "Fix another one of those." Then to the bare space near the window. "Somewhere to sit. Some shelves there." His gaze travelled to the walls. "Fresh coat of paint. Some new lights."
Leela studied him carefully, her lips pressing together. "I don’t want to impose."
He shrugged, leaning back on his palms. "You won't. I like to keep busy."
Leela gave him a look—one of those assessing, sceptical looks he was starting to recognize from her. The one that suggested she wasn’t sure if she could trust him yet. "Are you sure?"
Joel let out a short, dry chuckle. "I was a contractor before the world went to shit, sweetheart. This is a cushy job." Then he cocked a brow. "And I’m fifty-six, not dead."
Leela bit her lip to hide a teasing smile. "Could’ve fooled me."
Joel levelled her with a look, but there was no real heat behind it. "You want me to take that crib back down?"
That did it. She laughed—an actual laugh. Not the polite kind. Not the uncertain kind. A real, full sound, one that cracked through the quietness of the room like sunlight breaking through clouds.
The motion jostled Maya, making her let out a startled cry of protest.
Leela immediately sobered, her expression softening as she adjusted the nursing baby under her blanket, tucking her closer. She began to coo under her breath, "Oh, I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. Mama’s here."
Joel caught it. That shift again. That slight change in her voice when she said Mama. Like she wasn’t quite sure of it yet. But it wasn’t just an obligation or just guilt, or uncertainty.
This time, it sounded like she meant it.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t push. Just sat back and watched, letting her find her way.
X
Fifteen days.
That was how long he’d been here. How long he'd been wedging himself into a life that wasn’t his, in a house that wasn’t his, with a mother and child that weren’t his to take care of.
And yet, every night, when the baby cried, he found himself plodding up the stairs like it was instinct. He’d lean in the doorway, watching as Leela sleepily nursed Maya, her heavy arms curled around the tiny, wriggling body. Some nights, she fed her from the bottle, but as the days passed, that sipper gathered dust.
It was slow. Subtle. She was feeding her baby more.
And Joel—he was still fucking here. He didn’t think much about the why of it because he figured if he did, it would only lead to questions he wasn’t ready to answer. All he knew was that it felt natural, falling into this quiet rhythm with them. Like it had always been this way.
The couch downstairs became his bed. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but it didn’t matter much. As long as he didn't throw his back out. It was easier than going back to an empty house. Leela, for her part, never asked him to stay, but she never told him to leave, either. Maybe that was her way of saying she wanted him around. Or maybe she just needed him to be.
"You don’t have to—" she had started one night, catching him setting up his makeshift bed.
"I know," he cut off before she could finish.
He kept his hands busy, too. That helped a lot.
The crib came first. A slow project, one he didn’t rush, because what else did he have to do? He sanded the edges and smoothed them down so there’d be no risk of splinters. He reinforced the frame, extended the width, and even managed to track down some pink paint to liven it up.
It was a stupid thing, but it made him feel like he was doing something. Like he was helping in a way that made sense.
Leela had caught him painting one afternoon, crouched over the crib with careful, measured strokes.
"Pink?" she’d said, standing in the doorway, one brow raised.
Joel had glanced up, brush still in hand. "What? You don’t like it?"
Leela had hummed, considering. Then, softer, "I think Maya will like it."
Something about the way she said it—like she was finally thinking about that, about what her daughter would like—made him grin to himself. He continued the long stroke of paint down the crib.
Then there was Leela. It had been easier, at first, to pretend he was only here for the kid. That his concern for her was secondary. But after the first week, it became clear—that wasn’t true.
She was unraveling.
Joel noticed it even when she thought he hadn’t. The unbearable insomnia. The way she startled awake like she was being wrenched from nightmares. The way her eyes stayed shadowed, dark-rimmed and tired, and how she never seemed to eat a full meal.
Just because he tried not to bother, didn’t mean he didn’t notice. She had once fallen asleep at the kitchen table, arms folded beneath her head. Joel had set a bowl of soup down in front of her, the sound making her jolt awake, eyes wide, gasping and panicked.
She blinked at him, disoriented, pushing her unruly hair out of her face. "I—I wasn’t sleeping."
"Alright," he said, pushing the plate closer. "Eat."
Leela wavered, nose scrunching. "I’m not—"
Joel shot her a look. "Eat."
She sighed. But she picked up the spoon.
He didn’t bother to push or pry any further. He stopped himself there. Because what the hell was he supposed to say? He wasn’t Tommy or Maria. He wasn’t the kind of person people confided in. It was better off this way.
So he willfully ignored it. Turned the other way when she wiped her eyes too hard when her shoulders shook just a little when those deep, muffled sobs filtered through the walls at night. Every part of him told him to cross that invisible line—to do something—but instead, he stepped outside, leaned against the stoop, stared at nothing.
One night, he heard it—soft at first, then breaking, like something deep inside her had finally snapped. Anyone reasonable would've gone up to comfort her. Fuck, it was already turning him inside out.
He stood at the bottom of the stairs for a long moment, jaw tight, staring up at the dark landing.
Then he turned around, walked outside, and sat on the porch steps, letting the cold bite into him. Good. He huffed out a wispy breath, quietly waiting for the sounds to pass. This wasn’t his problem.
One unlucky day, the second he stepped into the stables, Ellie gave him a knowing, annoying look. "Jesus, what's worse than shit? Because that's what you look like."
Joel huffed, adjusting his grip on the saddle he was carrying. "Thanks, kid."
Ellie narrowed her eyes, stepping closer and giving him a once-over. "Seriously, you look like hell. Where the fuck have you been?"
Joel grunted, busying himself with the straps, not looking at her. "Been around."
Ellie scoffed. "Been around? What the hell does that mean? You've been busy playing house with the lady at the big house?"
His jaw flexed and fingers tightened on the cords. And Ellie caught it. Her smirk sharpened.
"Oh my God. That’s exactly what you’ve been doing, huh?"
Joel shot her a look. "No."
"Yes," Ellie drawled, crossing her arms. "Dude. I knew something was up. You’ve been MIA. I thought maybe you finally croaked in your sleep, but nope—turns out, you’re off fixing pipes and babysitting."
"I ain’t babysitting," Joel muttered, too quick.
Ellie smirked harder and drawled out, "Riiiight."
Joel let out a long, slow exhale through his nose, shaking his head. "She needed help. That’s all."
Ellie clicked her tongue, rocking back on her heels. "Hmm. Right. Just help. No attachment, no paternal instincts kicking in. Oh, definitely not. Not Joel Hardass Miller. He’s just the neighbourhood handyman now."
He cut her a sharp look. "Ellie."
She grinned, enjoying this way too much. "What? Just saying. It’s kind of adorable. Old man Joel, all domesticated. It's nice."
Joel muttered something under his breath and turned away, ignoring her. Oh, but she was far from done.
"So, uh…" she cleared her throat. "How’s the baby?"
He hesitated.
He hadn’t realized how much he’d started watching that kid. Listening to her. He knew Maya’s different cries now—hungry, fussy, lonely. He knew the way she liked to be held, the way she calmed when he rubbed her tiny back. And he knew, without a doubt, that he would hear her tonight, whether he was there or not.
"She’s uh, good," he said finally. Kept his voice level, unaffected. "Stronger. Sleeps better."
Ellie studied him. "Bet she likes you."
Joel shrugged, trying to play it off. "Babies like warm bodies, Ellie. Ain’t that deep."
Ellie snorted. "Sure. And you're a warm bundle of joy." And then, just when he thought she was about to let it go—"You’re gonna miss her, huh?"
Joel's hands dropped to his sides. Ellie wasn’t teasing anymore. Her voice had gone softer, something knowing creeping in.
And he didn’t answer. Because he wasn’t about to start thinking about that. About leaving. About hearing those cries and knowing he wasn’t supposed to be the one answering them anymore.
Joel slowly adjusted the saddle and grunted. "You gonna stand there all day, or you gonna help me get this horse ready?"
Ellie sighed, shaking her head, but didn’t push. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Dad."
"Ellie."
But she was already cackling her goddamned head off. "This is rich. Daddy Joel."
Still, Joel stayed in that big house. Just a few more days. And the more he stayed, the harder it became to keep his distance.
It had started small—fixing things around the house, making little adjustments to help Leela care for the baby, and bringing her food. He fashioned a sling for her out of an old scarf and showed her how to wear it. At first, she’d been rigid, reluctant. But Maya—baby girl took to it immediately, curling into her mother’s chest, small fingers grasping at the fabric.
Joel wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, but something about that moment had stuck with him.
Because for the first time, he saw Leela hold her. Not just carry her.
And then there was Maya herself. The little ray of sunshine was growing, filling out. No longer that fragile, underfed thing he’d first seen in the cradle. Her limbs weren’t so thin anymore, her eyes brighter, more alert. She’d started watching things with intent—fixating on his hands when he worked, tracking his movement around the room, making little fists and clumsily bringing them to her mouth.
She smiled more, too. And it did something to him. It shouldn’t have.
He shouldn’t have felt that warm pull in his chest every time her tiny mouth curled into something resembling a grin. Shouldn’t have liked the way her whole body wriggled when she was excited. Shouldn’t have let himself get used to the small weight of her when Leela, in her exhaustion, wordlessly passed her to him, and he found himself rocking her without thinking.
But it had happened, slowly and without permission. And now, when he held her, it felt natural.
Maya knew him. Trusted him.
That realization unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
And then, on what must’ve been the third week, Tommy and Maria showed up at the door. Joel knew it the second he opened it—that this was an extraction.
Tommy stood there with that damn smirk, the same one he used to wear when Joel got him out of trouble—except this time, it wasn't his brother who had been looking for a way out.
"You're officially relieved of duty, big brother."
Joel grunted, letting his brother pull him into a quick hug. He clapped him on the back, but his grip was just a little too firm. A little too final. "Didn’t know I was on duty."
Maria stepped in next, squeezing his shoulder, her eyes warm with something Joel didn’t want to name. "Thank you, Joel."
He didn’t say you’re welcome. Didn’t say anything at all. Just gave a small nod, because that was easier than acknowledging the importance of what he’d done. No need to attach importance to what he was walking away from.
He felt Leela before he saw her.
She stood behind them by the front door, her arms loose at her sides, watching but not interfering. She was dressed in a warm sweater and pants this time, although he liked seeing her in that long nightdress of hers, the one with the pearl buttons.
She didn’t say anything. And neither did he. Because there was no point in goodbyes.
Instead, he gave her a nod—brief, almost impersonal—and then he turned, stepping off the porch, his boots heavier than they should’ve been.
Maria’s voice, quiet but clear, carried behind him as she spoke to Leela like she was approaching a wounded deer. "You feeling okay, baby? Come on, let’s talk."
Joel kept on walking. Crossed the street.
And for the first time in fifteen days, he realized—he didn’t want to go home. Because home meant silence. Home meant absence.
Home meant walking into a house where there was no tiny, fussy cry in the middle of the night. No bleary-eyed woman fumbling with a bottle, no soft, small weight curled against his chest when exhaustion finally won out.
For fifteen days, he had fallen into something. A rhythm. A purpose. A role. And now, as he stepped through his own front door, into the empty space that used to feel normal, Joel realized he’d done something reckless. Something he never should’ve allowed.
He’d let himself care.
X
[I really like this one, so much! I love how sweet it turned out, how JOEL of him it is, and how Leela is just that sweet, confused mother. I think I'm going to really love building on this one! ]
[ taglist : @cuntstiel , @bubblegumpeeeach , @evispunk ]
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buttercuparry · 3 days ago
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My friend Siraj ( @siraj2024 ) finally collected the amount needed to return home to North of Gaza. Thank you all so much but please do not forget that there is still a long way to go. Siraj still needs to start rebuilding the life he lost under these fifteen months of genocide; his home in which he poured ten years of his life has been bombed twice and cannot be lived in. His office is gone, and it will take some time before Siraj is able to resume work. I know things are tough now, and the world is going to shit for many people on here, but please do not forget about Palestine. Remember that all of this is connected- I don't have better words for this but truly none of us will be free till Palestine is free. Till the Zionist occupation falls and the fascist power of the Imperial Core is snuffed out forever. So please keep supporting Gazans. Keep boosting and donating.
Vetted at #219 on Hussein and Nabulsi's doc list
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nsharks · 2 days ago
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bleeding blue | apocalypse au
part thirty-three —other parts
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pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4.5k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. harm to a child. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: clearly I am bad at estimating how long this story will take lol
Alexandre is not as susceptible to pain.
The guard outside his home didn’t register his death, not with Ghost as a shadow at his back. One wrench to his neck, and Kyle plucked the key off his corpse, gently opening the planked door. As the three of them swept the inside, you and Ari hoisted the body in. A sudden crash of breaking glass and the sounds of a struggle made it clear—they got Alexandre. He must have woken up.
But restrained to a dining chair by chains from the slaughterhouse, all he offers up is a bloody tooth on the floor—nothing about Blue or the weapons.
"Brûlez en enfer, pécheurs!"
Ghost snarls and tears a fistful of hair from his scalp. Alexandre only spits more blood, teeth clenched.
"He's wasting our time," you mutter, dread curling in your chest. A glance at the window—the sky could turn deep purple any second. You touch Ghost's elbow. "We should just look for—"
"He'll talk."
Ghost draws the knife. He drives his knuckles into Alexandre’s mouth, smothering the scream as the blade severs his pinky. Blood spills over raw bone. Finally, he writhes—eyes rolling back, knees violently shaking.
"Tell us where everything is, or these go next," Ghost snaps, holding up his middle and ring fingers.
He pulls his fist from his mouth. Alexandre sputters, lips twitching from the pain. Under his breath, he groans, "Sal... Mon enfant."
"What is he saying?" Kyle presses.
Ghost positions the knife at the next digit. "Speak up. English."
Alexandre's eyes threaten to close. He whispers something quieter—
"Salome?" you speak up.
His eyes snap open at the name.
You lower beside Ghost, leaning closer, your eyes darting over his swollen face. "Salome. Your 'enfant.' The child is yours, isn’t it?" A flicker of rage flares in his nostrils, and you quietly press on, "You must be worried about her. She was tending to us, you know. Don’t you want to know if she lives? It'd be a shame if she doesn’t. She was so excited for the baby, especially after losing the first one in the winter. I’m guessing that one was yours, too." You let the words hang, then wet your lips, feigning consideration. "The thing is, it’s been a long night. My memory’s hazy. Can’t recall if I slit her throat or not, but I do remember her begging me to spare her—for the child’s sake."
At this, he jolts. "Tu fais chier—"
Ghost covers his mouth.
You keep your voice smooth. "Maybe if you tell us where the girl and the weapons are, I’ll remember. Otherwise, he’ll kill you, and you’ll die not knowing."
The silence breaks as Ghost drives the knife into the base of his finger. Alexandre grits out, "The girl... I don’t know where my mother kept her. But if sunrise is near... She could be at the chapel now, to prepare."
The one you saw? "How many chapels are there here?" you ask.
"Only one for... offerings."
You glance at Ghost and whisper, "If we can find the road, I could get us back to it."
He nods, not looking away from Alexandre. "The guns," he says. "Where are they?"
"I can... show you."
"You're not showing us shit. Tell us exactly where to find them."
Alexandre holds his gaze. "I could tell you wrong, yes? Waste your time. Or I can show you, and you can kill me if they’re not there."
"Don’t let him play games, Simon," Price calls from behind.
Ghost exhales roughly.
Alexandre looks at you. "But you must tell me of Salome first."
"She's alive," you tell him. "But if you don’t show us where the guns are, it’s not just you who will die."
The chains bite into his wrists as Ghost yanks him up by his soiled lapel. A pistol pressed to his temple, Alexandre stumbles forward, his feet dragging over the corpse at the door before leading you outside. The moonlight feels sharper, casting shadows over the pitted ground as you step carefully beside him, scanning the area. No more alarms yet. But when the guards change shifts, that won’t last.
No one speaks as he leads you around the pasture and barn, toward the back, where the silhouette of a small shed takes shape in the darkness. As you near, a three-tuned call cuts through the air, beckoning Alexandre's gaze to the sky, a soft murmur escaping his lips: "La tourterelle chante pour toi."
"Shut up."
Ghost strikes the back of his head with the gun to silence him.
You stop in front of the shed. It is only just bigger than the one you used to sleep in.
"Is this it?"
"Yes," Alexandre nods. "Inside."
Kyle is the one to kick open the door. As expected, the smell of rusty metal hits your nose as you take in the clutter of rakes, shovels, and scythes. There is a wheelbarrow against the wall with nothing inside but residual soil. No weapons in sight.
Ghost cocks the pistol. "You're fucking around with your kid's life—"
"Under the floor," Alexandre flinches, then juts his chin at the planks of wood, "The extra guns, ammo. It is under there."
Ghost shoves the gun into Kyle’s hand. Without hesitation, Kyle takes over, keeping it steady as Ghost drops to his knees, running his fingers over the floorboards. A sharp knock—hollow. He drives his knife between the slats and pries them open.
The unmistakable glint of metal catches your eye. Rifles. Green and gold cartridges, too. Ghost inhales sharply, tearing up more of the floor. Price moves in, yanking out boxes, sorting through the ammo they need to load up. You linger by the door, glancing back over your shoulder. The guns are yours. Now, you'll need to find the chapel. Maybe Blue isn’t there yet. Maybe you can get there first.
Lost in thought, you almost miss it—that softly cooing dove, the kind you used to wake up to in England. Again, Alexandre mutters in French beside you where Kyle quiets him with a shove at his shoulder. Then you detect a shift in the air—no, you squint and realize it is movement in the grass by the barn.
Alexandre suddenly shouts, "La tourterelle chante pour toi!"
The echo of his words is followed by the crack of a pistol. Kyle’s shot strikes his head, and his body crumples at your feet.
You whip around, panic flaring in your chest as you look at Ghost. "Someone was there. He said something to warn them. They're going to wake up the others!"
Ghost's glare snaps towards Kyle. "The gunshot probably already did."
Kyle releases a growl. "Fuck, I didn't think—"
"Take this," Price interrupts, throwing a loaded rifle at Kyle. 
For you, Nereida, and Ari, a small handgun.
But by the time your finger seeks out the trigger, you hear a myriad of voices shout from the barn.
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Blue sits at a small table. Across from her is that old woman, eating silently. Only the sound of metal on ceramic, and gentle chewing, fills the dining room. Blue's teeth mechanically grind a tart, red berry into pulp, then let it slide down her throat, her eyes never leaving the white plate. On the faintly reflective surface, a years-old memory blurs into focus.
She sits in the back of her dad’s truck, her small hands folded in her lap. The air is thick with the smell of cigarette smoke. Her eyes are fixed on the passing buildings and people, the streets beginning to feel unfamiliar. Then, her dad mutters something low under his breath, the tires screeching as he sharply veers into a petrol station.
He unbuckles and slams the front door, moving quickly around the truck to help her out. "Come on, kid," he says quietly, lifting her up gently before setting her on the ground. Her hand slips instinctively into his.
"Don’t look at anyone," he mutters as he tugs her toward the small food mart.
"Why, daddy?" she whispers up at him.
"Because I said so."
"Why are we here?"
"I need to get something."
"What for?"
The silence stretches between them, and a cold knot of fear tightens in her stomach. He doesn’t answer, and she can’t remember how they got here. She had been in her bedroom, where her mother had told her to stay. There was shouting through the door before it flung open, then her father grabbed her, and suddenly, her mom’s voice faded behind them.
Her father guides her through the aisles, pulling items off shelves. She tries not to look at the old man nearby, her eyes fixed on the hem of his jacket, her fingers nervously tugging at it.
"Why isn’t my mum coming with us?" she asks.
He doesn't answer. They move to the cash register, and after he pays, they head back to the truck. Her eyes sting. She rips her hand from his and shakes her head, her voice breaking.
"I want to go back, daddy."
"You're not going back."
"I want to!"
He kneels in front of her, gripping her chin as her tears spill. A woman filling her car glances over, and he lowers his voice so only she can hear. "I know you're scared, but listen to me, Amelia. Remember that game we play? The one where the bad guys are after us, and we have to get away from them?"
She nods weakly, tears streaking down her face.
"What do we call each other when we play that game, baby?"
"Blue and Ghost," she answers, her voice small.
"Right. We’re playing it again, okay? But this time, it’s not a game. Right now, you’re Blue, and I’m Ghost. You listen to everything I say so I can keep you safe. Do you understand, Blue?"
She struggles to breathe.
"Tell me, do you understand?"
"Daddy, I—"
"No. Not daddy. Ghost."
"Ghost... please, I want to go home."
His voice repeats her new name, over and over, as he shakes her chin, and she cries harder. She looks over at the woman filling her car as she fades into something strange—milky eyes and grey skin—and when Blue looks back to her father, he’s gone. All that remains is the white plate, stained with red raspberry juice.
"Blue."
Blue lifts her gaze, her eyes locking on the old woman across from her. The woman's leathery skin shifts to grey in the pale moonlight streaming through the window. She chews a berry slowly, takes a sip of milk, then speaks. "Tell me. Why do you call yourself this?"
She struggles to pull her voice to the present, looking back at the plate and quietly answering after a moment, "It is... it is the name I've used to survive."
"You are a strong girl, that much is clear," Maman compliments idly. "But sometimes, God does not want us to fight. There is strength in acceptance."
When breakfast is finished, Eloise brushes her hair until it’s buttery soft down her back. Then, they leave. Blue smells the dew on the grass, her toes curling in her shoes to endure the pain of keeping up with them. No matter how lightly she spreads her weight, the wounds split wider, blood silently squishing beneath her soles. Any blood she left behind would be invisible in the dark, but Ghost always noticed things she never could. She picks at her fingernails as they reach a road, which reminds her of when they were walking through, seeing a few abandoned cars left at the sides.
They walk for some time until she smells the Greys. The rot is pungent in the brisk air. Then, she hears the low hum of hymns coming from a small building—a church. She only knows this because of a deep memory with the old woman she called grandmother who used to take her to one. The stained glass glows faintly with dim golden light inside. They approach the large door, and Blue stands outside it, her knees trembling, but her shoulders managing to stay upright.
Maman glances down at her, hand resting on the door. "In God's presence, Amelia, there is no need to survive anymore. You will accept his punishment—and his forgiveness. Tell me, do you understand?"
Blue grits her teeth.
The voice edges softer. "Do you understand, Amelia?"
"I understand."
Behind her, Eloise takes hold of her wrists and ties them together with what feels like prickly twine.
The door creaks open under Maman’s push, revealing rows of pews and cold stone walls. Blue swallows hard, tasting her own heartbeat in her throat as she takes in everything she can before stepping inside. The narrow aisle spills out into an altar, where the same two Greys they muzzled the other day are chained to the floor, their snarls and moans adding a discordant layer to the throaty hymns echoing from the right side of the church. There, the veiled women sit, their heads bowed. On the left, the men. A bony hand presses at her back, urging her forward. Through the fog of fear, she counts them: just three men, plus Pierre—the one from before—standing beside the leashed Greys.
The lingering scent of old blood mixes with the fresh, sharp tang of melting candlewax. Her footsteps are small, barely making a sound against the stone, and the pain seems to fade into nothingness, until she misteps around a scurrying rat. A sharp pang burns through her foot, forcing her teeth to grind. Tears well in her eyes, but she doesn’t let a single one fall, her focus locked on her surroundings. The flickering candles on the altar, the glint of Maman's knife as she unsheathes it, the flicker of hunger in the endless moans—each step draws her closer to the Greys.
When she finally stops, she stands between them, the chains and muzzles the only thing keeping their mouths from finding her flesh.
As Maman begins to murmur in French, a fleeting thought crosses her mind: Can her mother see her now, dressed in a beautiful gown, having grown into her features, even though the shape of her face still carries the strength of her father's? Can she see the fear she can no longer contain, spilling into violent breaths that tear through her chest?
"Venez vous nourrir de sa chair pure, et en retour, bénissez-nous avec plus de nourriture pour l'hiver et des bébés en bonne santé pour vos nouveaux peuples."
Beneath Maman's words, Blue hears something. A distant, piercing sound that reminds her of a gunshot.
Dad?
She glances at the door, then at the faces around her, but no one else seems to have heard it.
A cold hand snatches her arm, the unwounded one, and Blue whimpers. Then she is turned around to face the pews.
"Une coupure pour les faire festoyer!"
The knife draws a matching cut, the release of blood making the Greys jerk within their restraints.
A man stands and unlocks one Grey's chains, while Pierre handles the other. The screech of metal cuts through the air, and with a shout, the creatures are freed. Blue’s heart slams in her chest. Maman's low, cruel laugh reaches Blue's ears just as she drops to the ground and scrambles backward, bumping into the altar and making it rattle. She screams when rotten hands clamp around her ankles—instinct taking over. She wriggles free of her blood-soaked shoes and kicks them as far as possible toward the people in front of her.
The shoes hit the ground with a quiet squelch, and the Greys snap toward them, momentarily confused by their scent of blood. A veiled woman screams, her dress now stained with a red footprint, and the other women scramble for the door as the Greys hurl through the aisle. In that fleeting moment of distraction, Blue pushes herself up, hands shaking as she clutches the twine binding her wrists. She holds it over the candle, praying the small flame will burn through it.
"Come on, come on."
Just before the twine can snap, a hand yanks at her shoulder to spin her around.
"Stupid girl!"
Blue growls like a cornered animal and spits into Maman’s eyes. Sneering, Maman slashes the knife across Blue’s cheek, sending fresh blood down to her lips. The Greys, no longer distracted, screech as they again zero in on the scent of her bleeding wounds.
Through the pain, Blue strains with all her strength, forcing her wrists apart until the charred twine snaps, freeing her hands. Maman grabs her by the dress, but Blue blindly reaches for the only thing within reach—the candle—and jams the burning wick into the old woman's face.
"Fuck you!"
It is enough to make her writhe in pain, giving Blue the opening to snatch the knife from her hand. With a wrecked cry, she stabs the old woman’s throat, then kicks her in the stomach just as the Greys reach them. Maman’s mouth lets out a final gurgling, blood-soaked cry, and Blue watches, panting hard, as the Greys grab her and tear their teeth into her torn neck. 
"Maman!"
Pierre shouts, rushing over. 
Blue bolts away from them, her soaked feet nearly slipping. She shoves a screaming woman out of her way near the door and bursts outside into the breaking dawn. That's when she hears more gunshots, clearer in the open air, and spots a distant plume of smoke. Without hesitation, she runs in that direction.
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The first round of gunfire kicks up dirt at your heels before you can even react. Ghost yanks you into a sprint, pulling you away from the shed. Men pour through the barn’s back door, giving chase. Somewhere in the chaos, you hear Price’s voice barking orders, his gunfire answering theirs—but there’s no time to look over your shoulder. Ghost grips your elbow and drags you behind an old tractor, shoving you into cover as bullets whizz through the air.
The others tumble beside you, Price forcing Nereida's head low behind the large tire. 
"There’s nowhere else to take cover," Kyle curses. He and Ghost peek over the tractor, firing off shots, but the sound of pounding boots grows closer. There are too many of them, and not enough time to stop their advance.
You swallow hard, heart pounding, and risk a quick glance around the tractor’s hood. The haystacks are right there, and you remember how dry they felt around your ankles when you covered the corpses. You grab Ghost by the wrist and pull your mouth to his ear so he can hear you.
"The hay is flammable—can you light it somehow?"
His jaw sets in understanding when your words register. He closes an eye and redirects his aim, instead firing rapidly at the base of one of the stacks. Stray sparks leap into the air, and for a moment, your stomach sinks when nothing happens. Then, the straw catches—one spark, then another, and the flames grow fast, swallowing vegetation along the ground. Thick, black smoke whips into the air.
"Il y a putain de feu!"
"Let's move!" Ghost shouts.
You're running again, using the distraction to your advantage, the veiled hood flying off your hair. The sudden silence in the gunfire gives you a moment to look around, and with a rush of terror, you realize that a sliver of sunlight has crept over the horizon. The sky above is no longer the pure black of night. 
"Simon, we have to get to her!"
"Where's the chapel?"
"I don't know! I-I need to see the road to find it."
The farm stretches out in every direction, the lack of light making it hard to see anything far off. You stop for a moment, trying to orient yourself. Maybe if you could just—
Another shot hits the ground, close enough to feel the heat on your toes. You barely catch a glimpse of the men still chasing you before a cloud of smoke bursts from the ground. It’s not from the fire he started—it’s a smoke bomb, just like the one they used to disorient you the first time.
The smoke stings your eyes and lungs. You clamp your mouth shut to avoid breathing it in.
"Drop to the ground!" Ghost growls in your ear, loud enough to hear over the gunfire you can only hope is coming from Kyle and Price. 
You obey, hitting the ground hard with his arm firm around your waist. He grips your dress, guiding you as you crawl through the smoke’s underbelly, where the air is clearer. Down here, you can see just enough to navigate forward, the blind gunfire whizzing harmlessly overhead. But as Ghost hauls you to your feet, a new panic grips you—you can no longer see the others.
"Where are they?" 
Through the tears in your eyes, you can't make out anything past the smoke at your backs. 
"Price can handle it. Come on."
For a brief second, you hesitate, torn between ensuring they’re alright and following him—but the encroaching sunrise makes the decision for you. There is nothing else you can do but keep running, hoping something will look familiar as you weave between nothing but stalks of wheat and the small homes. You’ve gained enough distance to escape their line of fire, and when you look back, the flames by the barn seem to have stopped swelling, but that is all you make out before something rams into your side.
"Femme pécheresse, regarde ce que tu as fait!"
The stray guard wrestles your body to the grass, a blade at your throat slicing a shallow welt into the skin, but he is ripped off you within seconds. Ghost breaks the man's neck, steals the pistol from his belt, then tosses it to you. He takes your free hand to help you up, and only as your finger smoothes over the trigger do you realize your other gun is gone.
He turns to keep moving, and part of you wants to sob in rage that you still don't know if you're even headed the right way. Then you see it—something in the grass. You grab his hand. "Look there. What is that?"
His gaze follows yours to the distinctive red stain embedded into the ground. Faint, but there. He leans down to touch it. "It's fresh."
"It could be hers, Simon," you urge.
He stalks forward, fingers hovering before pressing into a faint footprint. "It's her size. This way."
Blood smears lead you to the main road, and your chest tightens at the sight of the cars. This was the route through Fleurbaix. You recognize it. You scan both directions, spotting a white BMW in the distance—a flash of memory.
"I peed by that car. The chapel’s over there," you say, pointing to the stone roof barely visible ahead.
The sudden pierce of a scream confirms it.
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Blue barely manages to get far before the sound of booted steps echoes behind her. She flits her head around in panic, ducking beneath the first car she sees and holding her breath. The distinct rustle of chains, accompanied by a snarl, unfurls her eyes. She glances up into the warped side mirror of another vehicle, catching sight of a cloaked figure. That man who'd helped Maman—Pierre—is looking around, one of the Greys in tow, its muzzle back on.
"Come out, petite fille. You cannot hide from a démon. Not when your smell is so strong."
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she uses the sleeve of her dress to soundlessly wipe her bloody cheek as if that might help but pitifully realizes her feet and arm are even worse. The movement causes her bare foot to dig into a sharp rock, and she bites her tongue hard to keep from crying out. The footsteps halt, then switch directions.
When the Grey lunges toward the car, Blue leaps out and runs blindly, adrenaline pushing past the dizziness. Pierre shouts and follows, the Grey leading him, its draw to flesh tracking her even as she tries to weave behind the rose bushes. Spotting a tree, she glances over her shoulder one last time before hugging the narrow trunk and using all her strength to climb. What’s usually easy becomes a struggle as pain shoots up her legs when her feet try to find purchase on the bark. Her grip slips, and she falls hard onto her back.
Before she can lift to her elbows, a frothy mouth leaps in front of her face. She screams, writhing beneath the muzzled Grey, as Pierre hovers over her. "You could have earned God's grace, but instead, you killed her." Bitterness laces his voice. "Maman would want you dead, no matter what form the offering takes."
Blue tries scrambling backward, but a boot steps on her freshly cut wrist, twisting around and effectively pinning her. She chokes on a sob, fingers trembling in the dirt below her. The man reaches down to unscrew the muzzle, and in this moment she prays to whatever stupid god there might be, that Ari was right, that being eaten fully is better than the infection from a mere bite. 
She screws her eyes shut, bracing for the pain, but instead, her ears ring from a sharp sound. A weight crashes down on top of her, and when she opens her eyes, she wonders if she’s been drugged again. There, in her vision, is her father—his bare torso covered in blood and grime, his face contorted with rage as he shoves Pierre into the tree.
"Blue!"
It’s Twix. She shoves the Grey’s corpse off of Blue and scoops her into her arms. Blue freezes, unable to return the hug, her gaze fixed on her father as he rips a knife from his belt and stabs it into Pierre's hands, pinning them above his head to the bark. 
When Pierre tries to kick him, Ghost shoots both his knees. 
"Seigneur, s'il vous plaît, épargne-moi dans l'au-delà!"
The plea is choked off as Ghost rips the lower mandible free, the jagged bone tearing through flesh, leaving the tongue to flop uselessly, twitching and gasping for air. Twix's arms tighten around her, urging her to hide her eyes within her neck, but Blue keeps watching as Ghost snarls rabidly, finishing the kill by slamming the butt of his rifle into Pierre's skull, caving it in with a loud crack.
Only when he turns around, shoulders heaving, does she realize it’s truly him—and not a dream. He kneels on the ground, and Twix releases her into his chest, the solid feel of it absorbing the tremors that wrack through her limbs as she cries. Ghost cups the back of her hair, and despite the pained breath in his chest, he lifts her up, clutching her close. Her nose presses into his neck, struggling to breathe as she inhales the scent of him. 
"D-daddy," she croaks.
"It's me, it's me."
"I-I'm alive."
Something raw pushes through his teeth. "Fuck—you're okay, baby girl. I'm here. I've got you. I've got you." His fingers tighten against her scalp. "Hold tight to me. I won't let you go this time."
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"Sal... My child." "You're a pain in the ass—" "The turtle dove sings for you." "The turtle dove sings for you!" "Come feed on her pure flesh, and in return, bless us with more food for the winter and healthy babies for your new people." "A cut to make them feast!" "There's a fucking fire!" "Sinful woman, look what you've done!" "Come out, little girl. You cannot hide from a demon. Not when your smell is so strong." "Lord, please spare me in the afterlife!"
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checkeredflagggs · 2 days ago
Text
Money Bags
pairing: sugar relationship!charles leclerc x fem!reader
summary: everyone is pretty sure charles has a sugar baby girlfriend — why else would she be posting so many photos of gifts?
a/n: the start of my week of romance! This was requested by a lovely anon and I hope you like it!
a/n2: I don’t know any actual shops or restaurants in Monaco so generic names it is! Please pretend it’s those exclusive places for the rich and famous. I also don’t know what type of Ferrari it is 🤷🏻‍♀️
Masterlist | Taglist
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Bluesky
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user1: …so it’s definitely charles and his girlfriend right?
↳user2: honestly they might as well as posted their faces
↳user1: Right? Like it’s so obvious
user3: you know you can just write their names? It’s definitely leclerc and his new girl
↳user4: it’s hilarious to me that they think it’s a secret?
↳user3: seriously! It’s been nonstop photos of gifts and trips and fancy dinners since they got together
user5: you mean charles and his gold digger?
↳user6: usually I wouldn’t promote that kind of language but in this case…
↳user7: I agree — she’s gonna drain him dry and move on to someone else to do the same
user8: don’t be coy deuxmoi — just say its the gold digger and charles leclerc…
↳user9: 😂😂
cl_gossip
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liked by user, user, user and 982,349 others
tagged: charles_leclerc, yourusername
cl_gossip: shocking absolutely no one — this Valentine’s Day is going to be a bank-braker. This massive bouquet was seen heading into Leclerc’s apartment building
view all comments
user10: 😂😂😂 god just keep roasting her
user11: honestly how long does she think it’ll last when she blows his money so fast??
user12: … 😱 …🙄🙄🙄
user13: what a slut honestly.
user14: my money is she moves on to max next…
↳user15: oh same
↳user16: ohh that would be an ideal threesome…
↳user15: seriously?
↳user16: am I wrong?
↳user14: …no I guess not
user17: tagging them though…
↳user18: right? I could never…
↳user17: I hesitate to even comment sometimes and they’re just out here tagging them on a post that’s dragging his girl…
↳cl_gossip: sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do
cl_gossip
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liked by user, user, user and 992,184 others
tagged: charles_leclerc, yourusername
cl_gossip: continuing with the apparent theme of the day — Charles and y/n were seen Bijouterie Jewelry Store, which is one of the most exclusive jewelry stores in the continent
view all comments
user20: wow…a new way to spend Charles’ money
↳user21: Jesus leave them alone
↳user20: we’re just calling it like we see it
↳user21: you’re just being a bitch
user22: oh to have a boyfriend like Charles to spoil you…
↳user23: right? Ignoring everything above — she’s got the jackpot. He’s so attractive, kind, seemingly caring, and rich?
↳user22: I’m so jealous
user24: man I’ve always wanted to go to Bijouterie Jewelry Store…
↳user25: same! I’ve seen pictures but I just know the aura of the place is unmatched
user26: leave the drivers and their personal lives alone challenge FAILED
↳user27: oh thank god I’m not the only one to think that
↳user26: they’re famous yes but we don’t need to know everything about their personal lives — and they have the right to privacy!
cl_gossip has posted a story, yourusername has posted 2 stories
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[I don’t even know where to begin with this one…that is a mega yacht —not one of Charles’…][ today is only the best ♥️ | what a lovely lunch with charles_leclerc ♥️♥️♥️]
user28 replied GOLDDIGGER!
user29 replied god leave them alone
user30 replied what a bitchy move
user31 replied Charles please RUN
charles_leclerc replied Mon soleil, aujourd'hui a déjà été le plus beau jour de ma vie...My sunshine, today has already been the best day of my life...
↳yourusername Attendez, car ce n'est pas encore fini! Just you wait then because it's not over yet!
↳charles_leclerc mon soleil…my sunshine
↳yourusername 🥰🥰🥰
francisca.cgomes replied you guys are setting the bar absurdly high…
↳yourusername of course 🥰
↳yourusername but just say the word and we can run away baby
↳francisca.cgomes 🤯🤯🤯
pierregasly replied stop trying to steal my girlfriend
↳yourusername never
↳pierregasly 🙄😑
user32 replied jealousy activated oh my god…
user33 replied i want your life…
user34 replied please post some more photos of Charles queen!
yourusername
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liked by charles_leclerc, francisca.cgomes, pierregasly, and 2,923,91: others
tagged: charles_leclerc
yourusername: a new car and still a passenger princess 👑
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charles_leclerc: Je ne le ferais pas autrement, mon soleil. I wouldn’t have it any other way, my sunshine
↳yourusername: 😍😍😍
user36: RUN CHARLES
this comment has been deleted
user37: a whore and a gold digger…
this comment has been deleted
lilymhe: the prettiest passenger princess ever
↳yourusername: no that’s you!
↳alex_albon: why must you always flirt with our girlfriends?
↳pierregasly: i know
↳francisca.cgomes: 😘
↳yourusername: stop having such babes for girlfriends then? liked by lilymhe, francisca.cgomes
↳alex_albon: 🙄🙄
user38: he bought her a BRAND NEW FERRARI???
↳user39: I’ve never been so jealous of a bitch in my life
user40: ok but is anyone gonna say anything about the FUCKING HUGE ASS pile of gifts?
↳user41: I KNOW! Like damn…
↳yourusername: spoiling is the name of the game girlies…
↳user40: are you guys looking for a third? A maid? A dog? liked by yourusername
yourusername
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liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, and 3,128,183 others
tagged: charles_leclerc
yourusername: a last minute trip with my baby…
view all comments
charles_leclerc: ♥️♥️♥️
↳yourusername: my love 🥰
user42: leo!
↳user43: always a good day with a leo leclerc picture liked by yourusername, charles_leclerc
oscarpiastri: have a good trip dad!
↳charles_leclerc: thank you son!
↳yourusername: …yeah no. Thanks though osc! liked by charles_leclerc, oscarpiastri
maxverstappen1: Air Max is still better
↳yourusername: stop being jealous!
↳maxverstappen1: 😑
↳charles_leclerc: mon soleil…
user49: god imagine being so entitled that you demand an expensive trip…
↳yourusername: lol
↳charles_leclerc: 😂
↳user50: ok but what does this mean…
charles_leclerc
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liked by yourusername, arthur_leclerc, pierregasly, and 2,723,183 others
tagged: yourusername
charles_leclerc: Mon soleil, tu as mon cœur et mon âme depuis le jour où je t'ai vu pour la première fois. Je t'aime infiniment, avec ferveur, vraiment. Votre beauté, votre gentillesse, votre générosité sont exceptionnelles. Merci pour cette journée si merveilleuse aujourd'hui. Je n'aurais jamais cru qu'être gâté était si agréable.
My sunshine, you have my heart and soul and have since the day i first saw you. I love you endlessly, fervently, truly. Your beauty, your kindness, your generosity is outstanding. Thank you for such a wonderful day today. I never knew that being spoiled felt so good.
(Also stay mad and stay jealous but mon soleil is not the sugar baby in this relationship ☺️)
comments have been restricted on this post
yourusername: Charles my love…
yourusername: you cannot imagine how happy you make me everyday
yourusername: meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me
↳charles_leclerc: Mon soleil…🥹🥰♥️
yourusername: oh and to those judging us? Definitely stay mad and jealous
Taglist
@anamiad00msday @suns3treading @daniskywalkersolo @awritingtree @justheretoreadthxxs @coral7161 @lost4lyrics @mastermindbaby @freyathehuntress @voidvannie @sturmatt @nichmeddar @mxm47max @justaf1girl @a-beaverhausen @tallrock35 @elizamoe133 @imlonelydontsendhelp @jessica3478
522 notes · View notes
bloatedandalone04 · 2 days ago
Text
Kiwi
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Summary: You’re pregnant with Rafe’s baby, and he’s more stressed out about it than you are (and rightfully so).
Word Count: 1.9k
Warnings: fluff, swearing, protective rafe, soon to be dad rafe, smut, angst if you squint, unprotected sex, pregnancy.
You were steadily entering your second trimester, which was shaping out to be a little easier than your first. You were still craving the weirdest food combinations, but Rafe would never complain about needing to go out and buy them for you since the grateful smile you always gave him made his heart feel so full. 
Seven years with you, and he was still as crazy about you as he’d been since the first date. 
With that being said, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could pretend to like your weird (and sometimes really fucking gross) pregnancy cravings. But he would have to, since you’re carrying his baby like a fucking champ, and you looked so stunning while doing so. 
Rafe had just gotten back from a grocery store run, sporting a bag full of odd food choices for you, and he set it down on the counter before leaving the kitchen to go find you. 
You were in the living room, your feet planted on the couch as you scrolled through your phone. Why you were standing on the couch, he had no idea, but the thought of you accidentally falling was the first thing that flashed through his head, and he was not about to let that happen. 
“What the fuck are you doing?” he rasped, quickly walking over to you and grabbing your waist. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack? You’re four months pregnant, babygirl, you need to be careful. Jesus Christ.”
“I am being careful,” you defended yourself, holding your phone in one hand while your other ran through his hair. You looked around the living room, your eyes flickering between every corner as you stayed standing on the couch. “I saw a spider, and I don’t know where it went. And you know how much I hate spiders. I had to make sure it didn’t crawl on me or something. Then I would’ve been the one having a heart attack.”
You sounded so unserious, but Rafe knew you were being completely genuine. Your fear of anything that had more than two legs was no joke, and he couldn’t count the times he’s killed something for you on both hands. 
“Plus, I’ve only been standing here for, like, five minutes,” you added, looking down at him and shrugging casually, as if you didn’t feel the way his grip tightened on you at your words. 
“Five minutes is too fucking long,” Rafe muttered, shaking his head afterwards as he leaned in and pressed his forehead against your belly. “You’re not thinking straight right now, are you? That’s the only logical explanation for this.”
His big hands stayed planted on your waist, keeping you steady as he pulled away and looked up at you, his blue eyes wide and full of nothing but adoration for you and the little life growing inside of you. 
“You’re going to give me gray hairs, you know that right?” he grunted, a smile forming on his lips when you let out a soft laugh. 
“Ooh, silver fox Rafe,” you teased, draping your arms around his neck as he helped you off the couch. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. You’d look so fucking hot with gray hair, baby. Like, so fucking sexy. So don’t tempt me.”
Rafe scoffed, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Silver fox? I’m twenty nine, baby, not forty,” he mumbled, “But, I guess if you like that sorta thing…who am I to judge?”
You laughed, leaning into his touch as you pressed your lips to his jaw. “I like anything that involves you,”
He smiled down at you, his hand coming up to tuck your hair behind your ear. “I like anything that involves you too, babygirl,” he murmured, leaning down so his lips brushed against yours. “Actually, I love everything that involves you.”
Then he was leaning all the way in and kissing you deeply and slowly, his hands sliding down your body until they grazed your ass, and then he was full on groping you through your leggings. 
You whined against his mouth, your lips pressing more firmly against his as you pulled him impossibly closer to you until your bump was pushing against his abs. “You always have to one up me, don’t you?” you muttered, “And what’s with you always grabbing my ass? You’ve been obsessed with it since we got together.”
Rafe smirked down at you. “Of course I’m obsessed with it, it’s part of you,” he replied, and you pressed your lips together. 
“You are so fucking sweet and sexy and I think we should go to our bedroom before I-” you cut yourself off by screaming directly into your husband’s face as you practically jumped back up onto the couch with wide eyes. 
Rafe didn’t even need to turn around to know that the eight legged creature who scared you before had made its big return. “What did I tell you?” he muttered, taking you into his arms as he lifted you from the couch. 
“Rafe! Stop, it’s literally right there and it’s so fucking big,” you protested as he carried you out of the living room and into the kitchen. Once he had you sitting safely at the breakfast bar, he slid the bag of food over for you to inspect as he grabbed a piece of paper towel. 
“Stay here, okay? Eat something,” he mumbled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before he walked back into the living room to find the harmless insect that had been tormenting you during the entire time he was gone. 
-
You were pulling Rafe along with you towards the bedroom, your lips all over his neck and jaw, but he was moving so slowly. You were now six months pregnant, and Rafe had become more and more protective of you, if that was even possible at this point. 
And while you loved him for it, his hesitation every time you initiated sex was making you go crazy. You were so turned on, and you needed your husband. 
“Rafe,” you moaned, bracing your hands on his shoulders as you walked backwards. “I need you. I need you so bad. Please? I promise, I won’t break.” you whined, nearly stumbling as you pulled him along with you. 
Rafe’s hands instantly tightened on your waist, his thumbs brushing along the underside of your belly as it pressed against his abs through his shirt. “Easy, babygirl,” he cooed, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your lips. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.” 
While you knew he wanted to be gentle and sweet with you, you also knew exactly how to rile him up and get him going. Rafe had been obsessed with your body since the second he first saw you completely bare, and his obsession had only intensified once your body began to change due to your pregnancy. 
You stepped back and pulled your shirt over your head, revealing your breasts that had grown so much, they were nearly spilling out of your bra. You watched Rafe bite his lip before you moved onto your leggings, and you stepped out of them and kicked them aside as well. 
Rafe groaned as he pulled off his own shirt and jeans, his hands finding your waist again as he moved to sit on the bed. “Come here,” he murmured, sliding your panties down your legs before he guided you onto his lap. 
You willingly went, a needy whine leaving your lips as you settled on top of him and pulled down his boxers, freeing his hard cock. “I love you,” you moaned, kissing him as you began to rub yourself along his dick. “I love you so much.”
He gripped your hips, guiding the slow rolls of your body. “I love you too, baby,” he groaned, “More than my next fucking breath.”
His words made your head feel all fuzzy, and he lifted you slightly to position himself at your soaked core. When he eased you back down onto his cock, you both let out a sound of relief as you came together as one, and you reveled in the feeling of his big hands on your body. 
“Fucking perfect,” he praised, his eyes hooded as his hands slid around to grip your ass gently.
You moaned loudly, holding onto his shoulders as you rolled your hips against his as best as you could with your bump persistently brushing against his stomach. “Fuck,” you whimpered, arching your back a bit and making your chest press right up against his. “Oh fuck, Rafe, you feel so good.” 
He felt so good, you were powerless to stop the loud moans from leaving your mouth as you rode him. Rafe’s hands slid up your back and fumbled with the clasp of your bra before he pulled the fabric away from your body, his palms immediately roaming over the newly exposed skin. “Fuck, babygirl, you’re so tight and wet for me. Sweet pussy was made for my cock,” he grunted, rolling your nipples between his fingers until they pebbled under his touch. “You’re so fucking hot.”
Then he was leaning in and kissing you deeply, his tongue brushing against yours as he met your bounces with upward thrusts of his hips. You moaned against his mouth, his words making your body heat up in a blush. You’d never get tired of hearing him say things like that. 
His hands moved to your belly, and he caressed it as he broke the kiss and buried his face against your shoulder. “God, you feel so good,” he moaned, making your blush deepen as you moved a little faster and a bit harder.
“Rafe,” you whimpered, tangling your fingers in his hair as you felt your thighs start to burn from over-exertion. “Oh, fuck…I’m gonna cum.” you warned, feeling the knot that had been steadily building up inside you start to tighten. 
Rafe grunted, reaching in between your bodies until the heel of his hand was pressed firmly against the underside of your belly and his fingers were brushing against your clit. “Yeah, cum for me, baby,” he murmured, his other hand moving to your hip as he guided you to take him a little harder. “I’m close too.”
His fingers pushed you over the edge, and your head fell forward onto his shoulder as you came for him. A cry left your lips as you weakly bounced on his lap, your legs shaking a bit as you pulled on his hair. “Fuck,” you gasped, wrapping your arms tightly around his shoulders as you felt him thrust a few more times before he stilled.
A deep groan left the back of his throat as he held you close to him, his warmth filling you up from the inside out as he let out harsh pants against the side of your neck. “I’ll never get over that,” he muttered, placing soft kisses along your shoulder as he ran his hands up and down your back. “I’ll never get over you.”
You grinned as he gently eased you off him and moved back on the bed, taking you with him as he leaned back against the pillows. “Good,” you hummed as he turned you around and spooned you from behind. “Because I think you’re stuck with me for life.”
When you guided his big palm to rest on your belly, Rafe pressed a gentle kiss to the side of your head as his thumb rubbed along your swollen skin. “Good,” he echoed. “Because you couldn’t get rid of me if you tried. You’re all I want in the world.”
A lazy smile formed on your lips as you snuggled back against him, and only a few seconds later, you had fallen asleep.
-
Not me working on my birthday again...thanks for reading x
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unabletonotlovesatoru · 2 days ago
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gojo satoru is a lot of things. strongest sorcerer. human disaster. a menace to society.
but rested? yeah, that’s never been one of them.
he hides it well—of course he does, he’s satoru—but you see it anyway. the way he rubs at his temples when he thinks no one’s looking. the way his shoulders sag ever so slightly when he thinks you’re asleep. the way exhaustion sits deep in his bones, even as he throws on a bright grin and pretends like he’s just fine.
so, after watching him push himself to the limit for far too long, you decide to do something about it.
and that’s how you end up in front of the higher-ups, voice firm, refusing to back down.
“he needs a break,” you say, arms crossed. “not optional. not negotiable.”
of course, they push back. they don’t care that he’s exhausted. they don’t care that he’s been running himself into the ground. but you? you refuse to take no for an answer.
and in the end? you win.
when you finally tell satoru, he just blinks at you like you’ve spoken in an entirely different language.
“…what?”
“you’re going on vacation,” you say, hands on your hips. “no missions. no responsibilities. just rest.”
he stares.
you raise an eyebrow. “gojo?”
his mouth opens. then closes. then opens again. he is, for once in his life, completely speechless.
“…you did this?”
you nod. “you never would’ve done it yourself, so I did it for you.”
he exhales a soft, breathy laugh, running a hand through his hair. his fingers are shaking. “i—i don’t even know what to say.”
“‘thank you’ would be a good start.”
he huffs a laugh, but there’s something shiny in his eyes, something soft and vulnerable. “you really—” he stops, swallows thickly. “you really went and fought the higher-ups for me?”
you shrug, like it’s nothing. “of course i did.”
he blinks rapidly, then suddenly reaches for you, pulling you into his arms and burying his face in your shoulder.
“‘toru?”
his grip tightens.
“… no one’s ever done that for me before,” he mumbles, voice quieter than usual.
your heart aches. you wrap your arms around him, rubbing small circles into his back. “well,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his temple, “guess i’ll just have to do it for the rest of our lives, then.”
he lets out a shaky little laugh, and when he finally pulls back, his smile is so gentle, so grateful, that it steals the breath from your lungs.
“… yeah,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours. “i think i’d like that.”
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promptedwordsmith · 2 days ago
Note
I love your headcannons so I gotta put an ask in here. As we all know, MC can act a bit childish and is quick to push touch/affection away.
It makes me think of the quote, "If you touch me without violence, you'll be the first". Would love a writing about it.
Aw thank you! I hope this is what you meant <3
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Caleb
The first time Caleb touched you, you flinched.
It was barely anything—a fleeting brush of his fingers against yours as he handed you something, an innocent, meaningless gesture—but your entire body stiffened, your breath hitched, and before you even realized it, you had yanked your hand back.
The warmth of his skin lingered, and you hated it.
Caleb noticed. Of course, he did. His sharp violet eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he didn’t say anything. Not then.
But he never stopped touching you.
Not in a way that was forceful or overwhelming. Never in a way that felt like he was trying to push you past your boundaries. But it was there—the careful way his shoulder would bump into yours when you walked side by side, the way he’d place his hand on your lower back as he guided you through a crowd, the way his fingers would brush against your wrist when he passed you something.
Each time, your reaction was the same. A flinch. A step back. A refusal.
At first, he gave you space. He didn’t push, didn’t question. Caleb wasn’t the type to force someone into anything they weren’t ready for. But he wasn’t blind either. He saw the way your guard never dropped, the way your muscles tensed at even the gentlest touch.
And then, one night, he finally asked.
You were both standing outside, the city lights stretching far into the distance, stars barely visible beyond the haze. It was quiet between you, peaceful, until he broke it with a simple question.
“Why do you hate being touched?”
You froze.
Your fingers curled into fists, your heart hammering against your ribs. You wanted to ignore him, wanted to pretend you hadn’t heard, but Caleb wasn’t the kind of person who let things slide.
When you didn’t answer, he turned to face you fully, his voice steady but softer than usual. “It’s not just me, is it?” His eyes searched yours. “You don’t let anyone touch you.”
You swallowed hard.
And then you said it. The words that had been sitting on your tongue for years, unspoken, buried beneath layers of defense and survival.
“If you touch me without violence, you’ll be the first.”
The weight of those words crushed the space between you.
Caleb didn’t react right away. He didn’t wince, didn’t gasp, didn’t give you that pitying look you dreaded seeing. Instead, he just stood there, his violet gaze locked onto yours, taking in everything you weren’t saying.
You braced yourself for rejection, for discomfort, for him to leave—but he didn’t.
Instead, after a long pause, he let out a slow breath and said, “…Then I guess I’ll have to be first.”
Your stomach twisted. “Caleb—”
“I won’t push you.” His voice was firm but patient. “I won’t touch you until you let me.”
That should’ve been the end of it. It should’ve been the part where you turned away and let him go, where he accepted your boundaries and never tried again.
But the problem was Caleb never stopped caring about you.
And worse? You had let yourself care about him too.
Caleb never tried to force his way into your space, never laid a hand on you without permission. But he stayed.
He stayed through the silence, through the bad days, through the moments when you wanted to push everyone away but couldn’t bring yourself to do it with him.
He made himself a constant.
And that was dangerous.
Because the longer he stayed, the more you caught yourself wanting to reach for him.
The more you caught yourself watching his hands—the same hands that had held weapons, that had taken lives, that had commanded entire fleets—and wondering how they would feel if they touched you gently.
The more you caught yourself leaning in just a little when he stood beside you, like some part of you was trying to unlearn a lifetime of flinching.
You weren’t used to it.
You weren’t used to someone treating you like you were something precious instead of something hardened. You weren’t used to someone looking at you like you were worth waiting for.
And it scared you.
Because if you let yourself have this, if you let him in—what then?
It happened one night when you weren’t thinking.
You had both been caught in a battle, pushed to your limits, and despite everything—despite all the odds—you had both made it out alive.
Caleb was covered in cuts and bruises, exhaustion heavy in his limbs, but the moment he saw you stumble, he reached for you instinctively—just like he always did.
And this time, for the first time, you didn’t pull away.
His hands found your arms, steadying you, grounding you. You felt his warmth, his strength—and you let him hold you.
It was so small. So insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Just his hands on your arms, steady and reassuring. But to you, it felt like something shattered.
Caleb stilled, his grip light, as if he half-expected you to come to your senses and shove him away. His eyes searched yours, cautious, waiting.
But you didn’t move.
For the first time, you let yourself be touched without bracing for pain.
Without expecting violence.
Without fear.
And the look Caleb gave you in that moment—soft, careful, like he knew exactly how much this meant even if you hadn’t said a word—was enough to make something inside you break.
You swallowed hard, pulse racing.
“You’re the first.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, barely a whisper, but Caleb heard them.
He exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing the edge of your sleeve in the gentlest motion imaginable.
“Then I’ll make sure I’m never the last.”
And you believed him.
For the first time in your life, you actually believed someone.
Because Caleb had never broken a promise to you before.
And deep down, you knew he never would.
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Rafayel
Rafayel had always been affectionate—too affectionate, if you were being honest. It wasn’t just the teasing smirks or the casual way he draped himself over you like a cat seeking warmth. It was the way his hands would linger, the way his gaze softened when he looked at you, the way he spoke your name like it was something precious.
But you weren’t used to it.
So, when he leaned in too close, when his fingers brushed against yours absentmindedly, when his warmth wrapped around you in unspoken promises of safety, you pushed him away. Not roughly, not cruelly, but firm enough to make the message clear.
He didn’t take offense, at least not outwardly. Rafayel always bounced back with a lopsided grin, a lazy roll of his shoulders, as if to say, Fine, I’ll wait. But there was something in his eyes—something quieter, something more knowing.
And you hated that.
Because deep down, you knew what he saw.
He saw the way you flinched, even when his touch was gentle. He saw the way your shoulders tensed whenever he got too close, the way you shrank away from affection like it was a foreign language you never learned to speak.
Most people didn’t notice. Most people assumed you were just distant, that maybe you simply weren’t the affectionate type.
Rafayel knew better.
And that made him dangerous.
It started one evening, after one of his exhibitions. The gallery had emptied out, the patrons long gone, and yet he lingered, still basking in the afterglow of another successful night. You had stayed behind too, for reasons you weren’t entirely sure of. Maybe because he had asked. Maybe because it was easier than saying no to him.
He had pulled you into the back room where his latest painting was covered with a cloth. With a dramatic flourish, he yanked it away, revealing the canvas beneath.
It was you.
Not a perfect replica, not a stiff, lifeless portrait. It was you in motion, caught mid-laugh, the golden glow of light flickering behind you as if you were something divine.
It took your breath away.
You swallowed hard, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “You painted this?”
“No, it painted itself.” Rafayel smirked, stepping closer. “Of course I painted it.”
You didn’t have words. You didn’t know how to process something so raw, so intimate. It was one thing for someone to look at you, but it was another thing entirely for someone to see you. And Rafayel had always seen you.
That was the problem.
“I—” The words stuck to your throat. You weren’t good at this. At accepting things. At being loved without conditions, without expectations.
And then, just like always, Rafayel reached for you.
His fingers, long and paint-stained, brushed against your wrist—light, hesitant, careful. No force, no demand, just warmth.
And just like always, you flinched.
You stepped back so fast you almost knocked over the easel. “Don’t.” The word escaped before you could stop it, sharp and unsteady.
Rafayel’s hand froze midair before he slowly pulled it back. His expression didn’t falter, but there was something—something—in his eyes. He tilted his head, studying you with that same knowing look that had always unsettled you.
“Why?” His voice was soft. Not teasing. Not mocking. Just curious.
Your throat tightened. You wanted to tell him to drop it. You wanted him to go back to making jokes, to fill the silence with something light, something meaningless.
But he didn’t.
Because Rafayel never let things go.
You swallowed. “Because… if you touch me without violence, you’ll be the first.”
The words hung between you, heavy and raw.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then Rafayel exhaled, slow and careful, as if he were afraid of shattering you. “Oh.”
He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t apologize, didn’t pity you. He just stood there, watching you with those piercing blue-pink eyes of his, like he was unraveling all the pieces of you you’d kept hidden for so long.
It made you want to run.
And maybe he saw that too, because he took a step back. Gave you space.
“Okay,” he said simply.
You blinked. “Okay?”
He nodded. “I won’t touch you. Not unless you want me to.”
The simplicity of it made something inside you ache.
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
For the first time in your life, someone didn’t demand. Someone didn’t take.
Someone just waited.
Days passed, and true to his word, Rafayel never touched you. He still leaned into your space, still gave you that infuriatingly charming grin, but his hands never reached for you again. Not once.
And you hated that you noticed.
You noticed the absence of his touch. You noticed the way his fingers twitched when he was excited, the way his hands curled into fists like he had to remind himself not to reach for you. You noticed how much you wanted him to.
It was terrifying.
It was exhilarating.
And one night, when he was sitting beside you, lazily sketching something while you both watched the waves crash against the shore, you made the first move.
It was small. Barely anything.
Just your pinky brushing against his.
But Rafayel noticed.
His breath hitched, and his gaze flickered to you, cautious, questioning.
You didn’t pull away.
Neither did he.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The air between you felt electric, buzzing with something unspoken, something fragile.
Then Rafayel, ever patient, ever waiting, turned his hand palm-up beneath yours.
An invitation.
Not a demand.
You hesitated, your heart pounding, before slowly—so slowly—you let your fingers slip into his.
Warmth. Solid, steady warmth.
No violence.
No pain.
Just him.
Rafayel said nothing, didn’t make a big deal of it. He just held your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he had been waiting lifetimes for it.
And maybe, just maybe, you had been waiting too.
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Sylus
The first time Sylus touched you, you flinched.
It was subtle—just a stiffening of your shoulders, a flicker of tension in your stance. But for someone as dangerously observant as Sylus, it was enough. His fingers had barely brushed your wrist—light, almost teasing—as he leaned in to whisper something low in your ear.
And yet, you recoiled.
He didn’t comment on it then, only let a smirk curl at the corner of his lips as if he hadn’t noticed.
But he had.
Of course, he had.
Sylus never missed anything.
Sylus was nothing if not patient.
He had seen resistance before. He had encountered people who feared him, people who worshipped him, people who wanted something from him. But you?
You were different.
You didn’t fear him—you feared being touched.
And that… was fascinating.
So, he tested it.
Little things, at first. A hand at the small of your back as he guided you through a door. A knuckle brushing over your cheek under the excuse of tucking away a stray strand of hair. A moment where he let his fingers graze yours when he passed you something.
Every time, your body tensed—just slightly—but you didn’t pull away.
Not right away.
You always let it happen for a heartbeat longer than necessary, as if waiting for something.
And that was when he knew.
You weren’t just unused to affection.
You were waiting for it to turn into something else.
Something harsher. Something cruel.
Something violent.
And that realization—that truth about you—made his blood burn with something he couldn’t quite name.
The night it finally broke, Sylus hadn’t meant to push too far.
It had been a long evening, tension thrumming beneath the surface between you both like an electric current. You had been irritatingly stubborn during negotiations, as always, challenging him, testing him, making him bite back a smirk as you stood your ground.
But the moment that lingered with him was after, when the night had settled and you had found yourself alone in his office.
He approached you like he always did—without hesitation.
This time, he touched your face, his thumb grazing over your cheek in a slow, deliberate motion. It wasn’t just teasing.
It wasn’t just a test.
It was real.
And you panicked.
You slapped his hand away, hard. The sound cracked through the air, sharp and startling, but Sylus didn’t react. He barely blinked, only watching as you took a step back, breath uneven, eyes wild.
His fingers flexed once before he let them drop to his side.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then, quietly—
"If you touch me without violence, you’ll be the first."
It wasn’t said with anger. It wasn’t a warning or a threat.
It was just… the truth.
And Sylus, for once in his life, didn’t have a response.
Something Unspoken
After that, he changed tactics.
He didn’t stop touching you entirely—no, never that. But he let you decide.
He let you approach him.
He gave you space but stayed close enough that you could always reach him if you wanted to.
And, for a while, you didn’t.
But then—
One night, after an exhausting mission, you sat beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed against his. You didn’t move away.
Another time, when exhaustion weighed on you, you let him take your wrist to check your pulse, your fingers trembling slightly—but not from fear.
And then, the night that changed everything—
You let him touch your face again.
This time, when his hand cradled your cheek, you leaned into it.
Not much. Just a fraction. Just enough that he could feel the shift.
Just enough for him to know.
And that was all the permission he needed.
Slowly, deliberately, his thumb traced the curve of your jaw, his voice low when he finally spoke:
"I would never hurt you."
Your breath hitched.
He felt it.
He didn’t ask why it was so hard for you to believe him. He didn’t ask who had left you expecting pain from every touch, from every lingering moment.
He only let his hand remain where it was, grounding, steady—yours, if you wanted it.
And finally, you did.
You didn’t say anything that night. You didn’t have to.
But after that, something changed.
Sylus, perceptive as always, noticed immediately.
The way your body no longer tensed at his presence. The way you lingered just a little closer when you stood beside him. The way your fingers, hesitant at first, brushed against the sleeve of his coat as if testing a boundary you weren’t sure you were allowed to cross.
And the way, eventually, you did.
It happened late one evening, when the city outside was silent, the only sounds in the room the distant hum of a record player spinning on low and the soft shuffle of papers on his desk.
You had been sitting across from him, absentmindedly twirling a pen between your fingers when, out of nowhere—you reached for him.
Your hand, small but steady, settled against his.
No hesitation. No flinching. No fear.
Sylus, always composed, almost stopped breathing.
You didn’t say anything, and neither did he.
But his fingers curled over yours, slow, deliberate—a silent promise.
A promise that, for the first time in your life, someone’s touch wouldn’t bring pain.
And that was enough.
For now.
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Xavier
The first time Xavier reached for you, you flinched.
It was instinct, sharp and immediate. His fingers had barely brushed your sleeve before you jerked away, stepping out of reach so fast you nearly tripped over your own feet. His hand hung in the air for a moment before he slowly lowered it, tilting his head as if trying to decipher something unsaid.
You weren’t looking at him, though. You were staring at your own hands, fingers curled into fists at your sides, knuckles tight. Get it together.
"You okay?" His voice was light, easy, like he hadn’t just watched you recoil from his touch as if it burned.
You forced yourself to nod. "Yeah. Just—" You hesitated, then exhaled sharply. "You shouldn’t do that."
Xavier raised an eyebrow. "Do what?"
You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze with something colder than you really felt. "Touch me."
His eyes flickered with something unreadable before his expression shifted back to something more familiar—a smirk, teasing but careful. "Alright," he said, as if it didn’t matter. "No touching."
Except it did matter. Because Xavier wasn’t someone who kept his hands to himself—not in an intrusive way, but in a way that made him feel real. He was the kind of person who nudged you with his elbow when he made a joke, who ruffled your hair just to annoy you, who tugged at your sleeve when he wanted your attention.
But he listened.
For the next few weeks, he was careful. He kept his distance, kept his hands in his pockets, kept a respectable space between the two of you even when it was just the two of you on a mission, walking side by side.
And for some reason, it made your chest ache.
You wanted him close.
You just didn’t know how to let him be.
It wasn’t that you didn’t like him. If anything, that was the problem.
Xavier had wormed his way into your life in a way no one else had before. He was constant—too constant, maybe. There was no hesitation in the way he cared, no moment of doubt in his affection. He liked you, so he showed it. He wanted to be around you, so he was. There was no second-guessing, no caution.
You didn’t know what to do with that.
Because affection had always come with conditions. Because touches had always been accompanied by something sharp—by expectation, by control, by violence.
So the idea of Xavier touching you with nothing but warmth?
It scared you more than any fight ever had.
"You ever gonna tell me why?"
You blinked up from where you sat at the edge of a rooftop, staring out at the cityscape below. Xavier was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, gaze unreadable.
"Why what?"
"Why you don’t like me touching you." His voice wasn’t accusing, wasn’t pushing—it was just curious.
You swallowed. "I just don’t."
Xavier hummed, as if considering that. "You sure about that?"
You tensed. "What’s that supposed to mean?"
He shrugged, stepping forward—not close, but closer. "I’ve seen the way you look at me sometimes."
Your heart skipped. "I don’t—"
"You do," he interrupted, voice softer now. "Like you want me to reach for you, but you don’t know if you should let me."
You exhaled sharply. "It’s not that simple."
"Then explain it to me."
Your fingers curled against the fabric of your sleeves, gripping tightly. You should have expected this—Xavier wasn’t the type to let things go so easily. He was patient, sure, but he wasn’t blind. He noticed things, noticed you.
And now, he was waiting.
You stared at your hands. "If you touch me without violence," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, "you’ll be the first."
Silence.
For a moment, you thought he might not have heard you. But then, after a long pause, Xavier let out a quiet breath.
"That’s a damn shame," he said. His voice was soft, but not pitying. "Because you deserve better than that."
You didn’t look at him. "Maybe."
"You do," he said, firmer this time. "And I want to prove it to you."
Your breath hitched. "Xavier—"
"I won’t touch you until you want me to," he promised. "But when you do?" His gaze was steady, unwavering. "I’ll make sure you never have to doubt it."
It took time.
Xavier kept his promise. He didn’t touch you—not even accidentally. He was careful, patient in a way that made your chest ache. But he never pulled away emotionally. He was still there, still unwavering, still him.
And slowly, slowly, you started to realize something.
You wanted to close that distance.
You wanted him.
It started small—lingering closer when you walked together, sitting next to him instead of across the room, letting your shoulders brush just slightly before pulling away. And Xavier noticed. He always did.
But he didn’t push.
He let you take your time, let you move at your own pace.
Until one night, after a mission, when you were exhausted and sore and tired of your own fear, you turned to him and—hesitantly, carefully—reached for his hand.
His fingers twitched in surprise, but he didn’t hesitate. He let you take his hand in yours, let you squeeze it lightly before letting go just as quickly.
You expected him to say something—maybe tease you, maybe push for more. But he didn’t. He just smiled, warm and real.
"Was that so bad?" he asked, amusement lacing his tone.
You huffed, rolling your eyes. "Shut up."
Xavier chuckled, but there was something softer in his gaze. "Alright. No teasing. Not today, anyway."
You nudged him lightly with your elbow. "I hate you."
He grinned. "You love me."
You paused.
Then, quietly, you admitted, "Yeah."
Xavier stilled. His smile faltered—just for a second—before it softened into something genuine. Something real.
"Good," he murmured.
And for the first time, when he reached for you, you didn’t pull away.
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Zayne
Zayne had always been patient. It was in his nature, woven into the fabric of his being just as much as his steady hands and level-headed presence. As a surgeon, patience was a necessity—an unwavering calm in the face of pressure, a stillness when chaos reigned.
But this was different.
This was you.
You, with your guarded eyes and the walls you built around yourself so high that even he, with all his skill, couldn’t navigate them easily. He had known from the start that you were different—not because you were difficult, not because you weren’t capable of love, but because the world had been cruel to you in ways it hadn’t been to him.
And still, he wanted you.
It started slow. The quiet companionship, the moments where neither of you needed to speak but simply existed together. A shared cup of tea in the morning. The warmth of his coat draped over your shoulders on a cold night. He never pushed, never asked for more than you could give, and yet…
Even he had limits to his patience.
Zayne had always been affectionate. Not in a way that was overwhelming, nor in grand declarations. No, his love was in the small things—in the way his fingers would brush against yours when passing you something, in the way his voice would soften when speaking your name, in the way he would lean in, close enough that you could feel his warmth but never quite touching.
And so, when he reached for you one evening—just a simple touch, the lightest brush of his fingertips against your wrist—he hadn’t expected you to recoil the way you did.
You flinched, your entire body going rigid, as if his touch had burned you.
Zayne froze. His hazel-green eyes flickered with something unreadable before he slowly withdrew his hand, watching you carefully. He wasn’t offended, nor was he hurt, but there was something in his expression that made your stomach twist.
“Don’t,” you whispered, your voice quieter than you intended.
His brows furrowed slightly. “I—”
“If you touch me without violence, you’ll be the first.”
The words tumbled out before you could stop them, raw and sharp. The room felt heavier in their wake, like the air had been sucked from it.
Zayne didn’t speak for a moment. He simply looked at you, studying you in that careful way he always did—like he was dissecting a puzzle, trying to understand without breaking it further.
You hated the silence. Hated the way it stretched between you like an open wound.
Then, finally, he exhaled softly.
“I see.”
And just like that, he shifted back, putting a comfortable distance between you. Not out of rejection, not out of frustration, but because he understood. He always understood.
You expected him to ask. To pry. To demand to know what had led you to this—why you had flinched, why you had spoken those words with such bitterness. But he didn’t.
He simply nodded, accepting it as fact, and changed the subject.
It should have been a relief.
It wasn’t.
Because Zayne, for all his patience and for all his understanding, was not one to simply forget.
Days passed. Then weeks.
Zayne hadn’t touched you since.
Not in the way he used to. No fleeting brushes of his fingertips, no teasing nudges, no quiet, lingering moments where his warmth bled into yours. It was as if he had drawn a line in the sand and refused to cross it.
You told yourself it was for the best.
So why did it feel so much worse?
You had never needed touch. Never craved it, never longed for it. But now, in the absence of it, you felt its loss like a phantom pain. You missed it.
You missed him.
And so, when you found yourself standing outside his apartment one evening, your fingers curled into fists at your sides, you knew you had to do something.
The door opened before you could even knock.
Zayne blinked at you, surprised but not displeased. He stepped aside, wordlessly inviting you in.
You hesitated.
And then, taking a deep breath, you walked past him, into the familiar warmth of his home.
He didn’t ask why you were there.
He simply poured you tea, as he always did, and waited.
You stared at the cup in your hands, fingers tightening around the ceramic.
“I don’t…” You hesitated. “I don’t want you to stop.”
Zayne tilted his head slightly, watching you with quiet patience. “Stop what?”
You swallowed. “Touching me.”
For the first time in a long while, he seemed genuinely surprised. Not in a dramatic way—Zayne was never dramatic—but in the way his fingers stilled against his cup, in the way his gaze softened ever so slightly.
“I thought that’s what you wanted,” he said, his voice as steady as ever.
“I did.” Your throat felt tight. “I do. But I also… I don’t know.” You exhaled sharply. “I just… don’t want you to stop trying.”
Something in his expression shifted.
He set his cup down carefully before looking at you with an intensity that made your stomach twist. Not with judgment, not with pity—just understanding.
“I never stopped,” he murmured.
Your breath hitched.
“I just adjusted,” he continued. “To what you needed.”
And you realized, with startling clarity, that he had been touching you. Just not in the way you had expected.
It was in the way he always made you tea, the way he listened so intently, the way he never pushed, never pried, but always made sure you knew he was there.
He had been touching you in the only way you would allow.
And now? Now, you wanted more.
Tentatively, hesitantly, you reached out.
Your fingers brushed against the back of his hand, and you felt him still beneath your touch.
It was light. Barely there. But it was enough.
Zayne didn’t move. Didn’t push for more.
He simply let you choose.
And, for the first time in your life, you did.
You let yourself be touched—gently, without violence, without fear.
Zayne, patient as ever, simply held still and let you set the pace.
And maybe, just maybe, for the first time in a long time, you weren’t afraid.
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hauntedfawnn · 3 days ago
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۶♡ৎ Pucker Up Pup ۶♡ৎ (Switch!Rafe x Girlie!Dealer!Reader)
♡ྀི You’re Rafe’s dealer and against your better judgment because you have a soft spot for him, you’ve given him several “I owe you’s”. It’s time for him to pay up and he still doesn’t have your money. But you’ve got something else in mind…♡ྀི
Switch!Rafe, Switch!Reader, Season 2 Rafe, shoe worship (reader receiving), begging, use of cocaine, pussy eating, praise/degradation, spit kink, choking(with a belt), unprotected sex, overstimulation, 18+MDNI!!
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“Listen, I - I’m really fuckin’ sorry.” Rafe exhales deeply through his nose and runs his hands through his dirty blonde bangs as he practically paces a hole into your living room rug. “I promise I’ll make it up to you, I’ll get your money. I just - I need some time.”
“Time?” You huff out a laugh. “Rafe, I’ve given you several ‘I owe you’s’ in the last few months and you haven’t paid me once. I’ve been patient, babe. It’s time to pay up.”
“I know - fuck- I know that.” Rafe takes in a shaky breath before pacing toward you. He stops a foot away from where you’re sitting on the couch and looks down at you with those desperate puppy dog eyes that got you in this position in the first place. He’s just so hot and so pathetic. You don’t make exceptions for anyone, but you have a soft spot for him. “Just this last time, yeah? I just - I need a few lines to get me through until I can get your money, I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
“Your promises are starting to become meaningless to me, Rafe. How do I know you’re going to follow through this time?” You cross your legs causing your little white dress to pool at your thighs. You tap your long pink acrylics against your leg as you smirk up at him. “I think you’re going to have to find a way to prove to me you really mean it.”
“I’ll do anything.” Rafe looks down at you nervously as he bites the side of his thumbnail. His bright blue eyes are bloodshot and his pupils are almost black. You can tell he truly is desperate and that’s what makes you cave every time. He just seems so sad and helpless, like nobody else in his life cuts him any slack. It’s not like he’s putting you out anyways, you just like to see him squirm.
“Anything?” You chuckle and lick your bottom lip as your Mary Jane clad foot swings back and forth in front of you.
“Yes, anything fuckin’ you want. Just please.” Rafe looks down at you pleadingly with his plump lips set into a pout and god you want to make him beg and cry for your pussy.
“Alright then.” You send him a devious smile and hold your foot out toward him. “Get on your knees and kiss my shoes then.”
“What?” Rafe’s eyes look like they’re going to pop out of his head and his jaw drops so low you’re surprised it didn’t just fall off onto the floor. “Are you for real?”
“Yeah, I’m dead serious.” You twirl your outstretched foot in his direction as you look at him tauntingly. “Crawl over here on your knees and kiss my feet, Rafe.”
Rafe can’t believe you’re asking him to do that. What’s even worse is he fucking wants to. He meant it when he said he’d do anything you asked because yeah he comes here for the drugs, but what he truly comes here for was you. There’s just something about how he knows you’ve definitely shot people but you walk around with bows in your hair and little ruffle socks on your feet that makes him a special brand of crazy. You’re so sweet and you look so fragile and gentle but he knows there’s a demon inside you that he’s been dying to play with.
“Earth to Rafe.” You wave your hands in front of you and it snaps him from his trance, his eyes flashing to meet yours. “It’s a limited time offer, clocks ticking.”
“Okay. I’ll do it.” Rafe’s eyes roam your body and he audibly gulps. You’re wearing this tiny little white lace dress, ruffle socks, and Mary Jane’s. You have blue ribbons in your hair and a look on your face that could bring the devil the shame.
“Yeah?” You chuckle and send him a sweet, triumphant smile that holds an undertone of condescension and it makes his cock start to harden in his jeans. “Alright then, be a good boy and crawl.”
You slide your ass to the edge of the couch and tap the tip of your shoe on the ground before holding your foot out toward him again. Rafe runs his hands through his hair and takes in a deep breath through his nose. He drops down into one knee, then the other.
“Just so you know, I ain’t no fuckin’ bitch. I’m only doin’ this for you.” Rafe puffs his chest and it makes you giggle.
“Mhm, tough guy, let’s see how much of that manly pride you’ve got left when I’m done with you. Come.” You snap your fingers and point toward the ground in front of you. Rafe chews the inside of his lip before huffing and crawling forward to you on his hands and knees. It’s a sight to behold. This over six foot man crawling toward you like a desperate little slut with his ocean blue, puppy dog eyes. He stops in front of you and he’s still taller than you on his knees.
“I’m going to have so much fun with you.” You giggle and run your foot up his thigh, to his abdomen and up his chest. You lay it on his shoulder and caress his cheek with the tip of your shoe. “Pucker up, pup.”
“Fuck.” Rafe never thought he would ever get turned on by being called that, but he’s so fucking hard now it almost hurts. Your pretty eyes stare up at him expectantly as you bite your glossy bottom lip. The smooth leather of your shoe is cool against his skin and it sends a shiver down his spine. You ghost the very tip of your shoe across his lips and Rafe’s eyes flash to your foot. You tilt your foot sideways again, caressing his cheek and Rafe’s lips follow. He places a gentle kiss on the side of your shoe and it makes your pussy throb.
“You’re so pretty, ya know that?” Rafe’s large hand comes up to caress your thigh down to the ankle as he gives you those wet pathetic eyes. He laces his hand around your ankle and uses it to pull your foot to his lips. He runs them along the leather of your shoe before placing another peck right on the tip of it. Then another. And another.
“Mmm, that’s a good boy, Rafey.” Your voice is saccharine despite the fact that the look on your face is anything but. Rafe can’t hold in the low whine that escapes his throat at your words. “Oh? You like that? You like being a good boy for me?”
“Shut up.” Rafe groans and throws his head back and you lace your foot around the back of his neck so you can pull his body toward yours. You grip onto his silky hair and yank it, trapping him in place.
“Let’s get one thing straight, I’m in charge right now, pretty boy.” You squeeze your calf around the front of his throat, choking him slightly. You giggle and lean in, ghosting your lips against the shell of his ear. “So drop the attitude, mkay?”
“Yeah - yeah, okay.” Rafe shakes his head as best as he can while in your grasp. He could physically break free if he really wanted to. But mentally he feels like he’s at your mercy. He’s never thought he’d enjoy a girl bossing him around in bed but everything you’re doing is making his dick feel like it’s going to explode. You lean back and place a teasing, sticky, lipgloss kiss on his lips before pulling away. Rafe tries to chase your lips but you unhook your leg from around his neck and press your foot into his chest.
“Now, kiss em’ and maybe I’ll let you do a line off me.” You bite your lip as Rafe takes your foot in his large ringed hand and brings it up to his lips. He kisses the side of your shoe down to the back and makes his way to the tip again. He sticks his tongue out and licks from the tip of your shoe all the way to the back. “Oh, that’s so fucking hot.”
“Yeah? You like that?” Rafe mumbles against the leather of your shoe before dropping your foot and picking up your other ankle. He brings your shoe to his lips before giving it the same treatment, kissing it and letting out little flicks of his tongue. You throw your free foot over his shoulder and spread your legs, flashing him your tiny baby blue thong that has a sticky, wet spot in the middle. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”
“You’re just so hot, all desperate and at my mercy.” You bring your perfectly manicured hand to your lace covered pussy and run your finger along your wet slit. You gather some of your wetness before bringing your fingers to Rafe’s lips. “Wanna taste?”
Rafe takes your fingers between his lips and groans at the taste of you. He swirls his tongue around your digits, savoring you.
“I think you’ve earned your reward, don’t you?” You giggle at the way Rafe nods dumbly in your direction. You pull your fingers from his mouth and reluctantly untangle yourself from him. You lay back on the couch, push your dress up over your hips and unscrew the locket around your neck. Rafe watches with curiously eager eyes as you push your panties down so they’re almost all the way off your ass. You hold the locket right above your pussy and tap your finger against the side causing white powder to sprinkle out in a line across your silky skin.
Rafe leans down between your legs so he can run his nose across your pussy and inhale the coke you so graciously laid there. It had to be the best line of his life. He got hit with a wave of your scent. Candy-like perfume, a hint of weed, and your dripping, wet pussy. Rafe loops his arm around your thigh so he can rub his nostril before he runs his nose along your smooth skin, inhaling your addictive scent.
“You gonna let me taste this pussy, baby?” Rafe peers up at you while he continues to rub his nose along your skin, the tip traveling dangerously close to your throbbing clit. “You smell s’fuckin good.”
“Yeah?” Your chest heaves as you let out a shaky laugh, you love taking control but what you love even more than that is being controlled. And you know if you put your pleasure in his hands, you’ll be putty in them. Rafe lets an experimental flick of his tongue out along your clothed slit and the way your eyes roll back is answer enough for him.
Rafe flattens his tongue and runs it along the lace of the thong covering your dripping pussy. He groans at the taste and swirls his tongue along the material, savoring you.
“Knew you’d be so fuckin’ sweet.” Rafe slides his finger into the front of your panties so he can push them to the side. The cold air hitting your wet heat causes goosebumps to break out onto your skin. That combined with the blue fire that’s practically burning in Rafe’s eyes as he takes in the way your puffy cunt glistens in the low light for him. “N’ she’s so pretty too. I wanna hear you scream.”
Rafe chuckles before leaning down so he can run his tongue through your folds. He moans at your taste as he starts to worship your pussy with his tongue. He shoves it as deep as it can go inside you and flicks it against your walls before pulling back to circle your desperate clit. He swirls the tip of his tongue around it and sucks it between his lips.
“Oh, fuck, Rafe that’s so good.” You whine as you wiggle beneath him and Rafe’s hand comes up to pin your hip to the mattress while he devours you. Two fingers from his free hand circle your entrance before he plunges them inside you. He pumps them in and out of you and caresses your sweet spot with the tips of his fingers and it has your toes curling. “Oh my god, yes!”
“Mmm.” Rafe moans against your pussy as you writhe and let out the sweetest sounds beneath him. He can feel your walls clenching around his fingers and his hand on your hip has to push down harder to keep you from wiggling away from him. “You gonna come for me? Come all over my face, baby, give it to me.” Rafe sucks your clit harder than ever as his fingers pick up pace inside you and it has your orgasm wracking over you.
“Fuck - fuck, I’m coming! I’m coming!” Your whole body is taken over by pleasure and your limbs shake as you thrust your hips against Rafe’s pretty face. He doesn’t stop until you’re pushing his head away. When he pulls away from you with that lop sided smirk, your juices covering his chin and lips, it has your pussy throbbing for him again already. “God, I want you to fuck me.”
“Yeah? Look who's begging now…” Rafe chuckles and slides up your body, his arms caging you in on either side of your head. He rolls his hips against yours and it makes your eyes roll back while a breathy moan escapes you. “You want this dick, baby?”
“Don’t be a tease, Rafe.” You whine and throw your head back and Rafe laughs condescendingly in return.
“I’m a tease?” Rafe grips onto your chin, pulling your face so you’re forced to look him in the eyes. “You prance around here in these little outfits, giving me those fuckin’ eyes.” Rafe smirks down at you devilishly as he shakes your head from side to side. “You practically invented the word tease, Princess. Don’t get it fuckin’ twisted. Just because you had me on my knees doesn’t mean shit, I can still reduce you to nothing more than a babbling slut if I wanted.” Rafe’s free hand grips onto your thigh and throws it around his hip. He leans up on his knees and thrusts his Jean clad cock against your bare pussy as he presses your head into the couch by your jaw. “You want my cock? Beg for it.”
“Come on, Rafe.” You whine as you meet the rolls of his hips with your own. “Don’t be like that, just fuck me, please?”
“Oh, no, no. I’m in charge right now.” He throws your earlier words back at you. “And I know you can do better than that, baby doll.” Rafe reaches down to undo his belt and you can’t help but stare. He pulls it from the loops and then takes it in his hands and snaps it together. It makes both you and your pussy jump. He leans down and presses the belt under your head so he can loop it around your neck and pull it tight. “Now, beg.”
“Please? Please fuck me? I know you’d fill me up so good.” You whine. “Please use me?”
“Now, that’s more like it, good girl.” Those two little words send a fiery hot jolt to your core. Mere minutes ago this man was on his knees for you and now he’s got you bound and begging. He tugs the belt on your neck causing you to let out a little strangled moan. His free hand makes quick work of his jeans, undoing them and pushing them down his hips far enough to free his thick cock. “Gonna fuckin’ destroy this pussy, baby.”
Rafe taps his tip against your sensitive clit, the bead of precum that gathered there mixing in with your own juices. He slides himself through your slick lips before pushing just the tip in and pulling it out again. He teases you with the tip, pushing in just a little more each time. And just when you’re about to start begging again he slams into you balls deep in one thrust.
“Oh, you’re so fuckin’ tight. Shit.” Rafe groans as he fucks into you at a brutal pace. There’s no build up, no time to think, he’s just ramming his cock into you so deep you can feel it in your guts. He’s hitting spots you didn’t even know existed as he grips your thigh and presses it up to your chest. His other hand still holds the belt around your neck and the look in his blue eyes is nearly crazed.
“Oh my fucking god, you’re so fucking deep!” You cry out as your hands grip onto his shoulders, your long nails leaving red trails along his toned, tan skin.
“Yeah, that’s right, slut.” Rafe chuckles as he smirks down at your sweaty, fucked out form. “Bet you never had anybody in your tight little pussy this deep, huh?”
“N- no, fuck! It’s so good, so deep, Rafey” A bit of drool drips from the side of your chin and Rafe leans down to lick it off. He pulls the belt, using his grip to bring your face so close to his your lips are practically touching.
“Open your fuckin’ mouth.” Rafe pulls his thick cock almost all the way out of you before thrusting back into you with a force that nearly knocks the wind out of you. You open your mouth, sticking your tongue out for good measure and he spits on it. You swallow it with a hum that gets you a tug on the belt and a filthy kiss in return. “You’re a nasty little girl, you know that?”
“Yeah, I know.” Your fucked out smile still holds that tone of mischief that always makes Rafe go crazy and he swears he’s never quitting you after this. He drops his grip on the belt so he can grab onto your other thigh and press it to your chest, practically folding you in half. His dick somehow goes impossibly deeper, so deep he can see it bulging out of your stomach.
“Would ya look at that? You see that, baby? You see me inside you?” You follow Rafe’s gaze and sure enough you can see the head of his cock slamming against the inside of your stomach. The sight makes you dizzy as your pussy clenches around him. “Touch it, then rub your pussy for me until you come around my dick like a good little slut.”
You follow his instructions, putting your hand over your abdomen, feeling the way he’s practically bullying your insides. You slide your hand down further until you reach your needy, swollen clit and rub circles on it with your fingers. You were already so close it only takes a few seconds and Rafe angling his hips slightly different for you to tumble over the edge. White hot pleasure overtakes your entire body as you go rigid beneath him.
“Yeah, that’s fuckin’ it. This payment enough for you, huh? This fucking dick is priceless, huh baby?” Rafe taunts you as you come around his cock.
“You never have to pay me again if you keep fucking me like this.” You babble as you pull your hand away from your over sensitive clit. But one wasn’t enough for Rafe, he wanted to see you fall apart for him again. He replaces your hand with his own, his big thumb rubbing rough circles on your aching clit while he continues to fuck you deep and hard.
“Yeah? I’m gonna hold you to that.” Rafe chuckles. “Gimme another one.”
“Fuck, I don’t think - I don’t think I have another one in me.” You whine and set your lips into a pout as you pant beneath him. Your pussy feels so overstimulated you can’t imagine coming again.
“Oh, no. You’re gonna give me another one, baby doll. Come for me.” Rafe’s free hand presses into the couch cushion by your head as he angles his hips so his cock is hitting that perfect spot inside you while he continues his assault on your clit. He leans down and licks a long stripe from your collar bone all the way up your cheek before connecting your lips in a messy kiss. It’s all teeth and tongue and it’s what sends you into another orgasm. You see stars as it crashes over you. Your eyes roll back and your toes curl and Rafe has to hold your hip down because you nearly fly off the couch from how far your back arches.
“Yeaaaah, that’s it baby, milk my fucking dick.” Rafe’s other hand falls on the other side of your head as his hips pick up speed while he chases his own high. “I’m gonna fill this needy little pussy up with my cum and then I’m gonna watch it drop out before I fill you up all over again, yeah?”
“Yeah, yeah, fucking fill me, Rafe.” Rafe curses at that, his cock twitching deep inside you as ropes of his cum paint your inner walls.
“Fuck yes, fuckin’ take this god damn cum you little whore.” Rafe growls as he fucks himself through it and it’s all so hot it sends you into one final orgasm right along with him. When you both finally come down from your highs, Rafe flops down on top of you a panting, sweaty mess.
“That was so fucking hot. Oh my god.” You giggle as you run your fingers through his sweaty, disheveled hair. Rafe looks up at you with a goofy ass smile you’ve never seen before and it gives you butterflies.
“Yeah it was. You’re fuckin’ mine now. I’m never letting another man touch you again.” Rafe groans as he nuzzles into your chest. How he can fuck you so good you can’t even think straight and then manage to be absolutely adorable seconds later was beyond you.
“You’re so cute, you know that?” You smile at him sweetly as you rub the apple of his cheek. “I think you ruined me for any other man anyways.”
“Good.” Rafe smirks up at you before leaning up to kiss you surprisingly sweetly. “You really gonna let me slut myself out for some coke now, though?”
“Oh my god!” You laugh. “Don’t push it, pretty boy.” You poke his cheek and he gives you a pout. He looks like the cutest, grumpy little puppy. And he gives those sweet, pathetic blue eyes you just can’t seem to resist. “But yeah, I guess we could work something out.”
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Tagging mooties: @rafesheaven @rafescvntyclubgf @eerielamb @dementedkittenribbon @that-sarcastic-writer @moonlightseranade @loserboysandlithium @songbirdmunson @sarahsangelicdoll @eddiesxangel 🤍
Dividers by @anitalenia
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pacofprunes · 3 days ago
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DARK / TOXIC SQUID GAME REACTIONS TO YOU TRYING TO LEAVE THEM
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CONTAINS — namgyu x reader, thanos x reader, myungi x reader, inho x reader, sangwoo x reader, saebyeok x reader
WARNINGS — toxic relationship, domestic violence, baby trapping, manipulation, guilt trip, prepare yourself for namgyus that’s the worst probably, mentions of suicide (thanos)
masterlist
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THANOS / PLAYER 230 / CHOI-SUBONG — manipulates you / would let you leave and crawl back to him
doesn’t take it well at all. he’s going to laugh and think you’re joking, but after realizing that you’re not, he’s quickly going to scream at you. telling you that you’ll never find anybody better than him.
“do you really think anybody else will want you? if you leave me you’ll never find anyone else. you’ll never find anybody better!”
he’ll start breaking shit. punching walls, shit, he’ll even break your own phone if it’s in arms reach. if you still insist on leaving he’ll say he’s gonna overdose. he tells you that he’ll kill himself if you step out that door while pressing a blade up to his arm. if all else fails, he’ll totally act like he didn’t just beg you to stay and scream at you to go then and not to come running back.
“fine bitch, go ahead and leave! but don’t come running back to me for nothin’.”
in reality, he’s definitely stalking your socials, making fake accounts you haven’t blocked him on, stalking your friends accounts to see other photos of you, visiting the club every night (not that he didn’t already do that) to try to see if you’d show up. after about a month or so of doing this and going out and fucking other girls to get over you, he can’t do it anymore. he’ll send you some fake heartfelt text that he probably used ai to make and call you while making himself sound like he was crying, trying to make you feel bad and convince you that he’s changed and that he can be a better boyfriend. if you fall for it, you’re doomed. the relationships only going to be a million times worse than before. instead of knocking glass over and breaking shit, he might slap you. in public, he might grip your wrist ten times tighter, scared you’ll run away. when he finally lets go, his fingers will be embedded in your skin. he might even guilt trip you into getting a matching tattoo with him. “if you really loved me and forgave me then you would.”
if you really don’t go back to him though, no matter how many times you block him, you’ll get a new video sent to your phone from some unknown number of him fucking a new girl. he sent you the videos in hopes of making you jealous or something. he’s not going to stop for a long time. if you don’t go back to him, he’s going to harass you for the rest of your life. and if you do go back? you’re in for a world of hell.
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NAMGYU / PLAYER 124 — would threaten you, would actually harm you
“you’re one funny bitch. you know how much shit i got on you?”
he finds it admirable, honestly. but still, fucking hilarious, that you, you, think you can leave him. what? when did you grow some balls? yeah, no. you just hurt his ego and that’s about the stupidest thing you could ever do to him. he’s not very empty with his threats. if he says he’s leaving? he’ll leave. (for like a week…) if he says he’s gonna hit you? you’re gonna be bruised for a while. if he says he’s gonna kill you? well, you haven’t gotten to that point yet. but keep this up and you sure will.
he keeps every nude and threatens to release it. sure you’re his and all, but that doesn’t stop him. so what if some other guy sees your body? he could care less. now if another guy touches you? let’s not think about what would happen. threatens to send the pictures to your family and threatens to send every sex tape of you two that he filmed behind your back.
“what the fuck is wrong with you namgyu? when the fuck did you film that?”
don’t raise your voice at him. once he hits you and you fall to the ground, he’ll keep kicking at you with his foot over and over until he thinks you’ve had enough. don’t speak up to him, don’t speak against him, and don’t piss him off. just sit there and be pretty, okay? he’s going to be bolder now. next time you two have sex he’s just going to shove the camera in your face. he’s going to manipulate and force you to take nudes for him since you don’t want to anymore after he threatened to send them out. sometimes he’ll force you to strip and then he’ll just take the pictures himself. all in all, sometimes he might just say no and leave it at that. but if you keep pushing, he’s going to threaten you. and if you still keep pushing, he’s going to go through with those threats. you really are just some whore to him, don’t think he’s above killing you.
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MYUNGI / PLAYER 333 / MG COIN ★— would let you leave and crawl back to him (except he’s the one who crawls back), babytrapping
“really? fine, if that’s what you want then leave.”
he acts like he doesn’t care because he thinks his annoyance will make you turn right back around to him. he acts like he doesn’t care because he’s trying to not get so bent out of shape about it and move on quickly. but when he hears your footsteps disappear and the door shut, he immediately balls up his fists. you seriously left? he didn’t expect that, but whatever. he doesn’t need you.
he tries to move on but after barely even a week, he can’t do it. he contacts you, but when you block him, he makes more and more numbers. he thought you’d be running back to him, not the opposite. he sends you pictures of you two together in hopes you’d change your mind, but when you just keep blocking him, he’s knocking on your door demanding you open it up. he tries being nice but when you don’t open it, he starts banging on the door. really? you’d been together for months and you’d already gotten over him? no. no no no. you don’t get to just move on! what the hells wrong with you? when you still don’t open the door, he leaves and goes back to his place and sits on his bed while he ponders his next move. he decides for now just to stalk your page and harass you from more and more numbers. he’s not going to stop until you at least respond. oh, you’re gonna get a restraining order? you’re funny. you think that’ll stop him? don’t go back to him. if for some reason you give in, the next time that you two have sex, he’s going to make sure that you can’t leave. he’s sure that you’ll look so pretty with your stomach swelled up.
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INHO / YOUNGIL / PLAYER 001 — straight up says no / baby traps / makes you feel like you’re going crazy
straight up, no. you want to leave? no. he doesn’t even care for an explanation on why, you’re not leaving. completely ignores your words and changes the whole topic. everytime you try to say you’re leaving he just completely overrides you with something different.
“inho, i’m serious. i’m leaving you! i’m packing my shit right now and i’m not coming back, i swear to you.”
“what did you want for dinner again? i have to go back out to get some groceries so there’s not too much…”
maybe it’s on purpose, maybe it’s not. but it makes you feel like you’re losing your mind. then he will deliberately go out of his way to make it seem like you’re crazy.
“i’m leaving because of what you’ve been doing behind my back, inho. it’s fucked up and you’re insane.”
“baby, you could follow me around tomorrow. i’ve got no idea what you mean.”
and he says it all with that stupid small polite smile that he gives everyone. you just want to strangle him. if somehow he can get you in bed with him after you just got so pissed, he’ll be more passionate than ever. he’ll treat you nice, focus on your pleasure before his and then quickly when you’re blissed out, he’ll pull out of you, slip the condom off and slide right back in. you don’t notice at all, but he makes sure to tell you like the cocky fuck he is. but he does it while he’s thrusting and when you can tell he’s about to cum. poor you, it’s too late to stop him :(.
“i’m about to fuck a baby in you — agh, i — i took the condom off. gonna have a beautiful—fuck—fucking baby with you.”
how could you leave now? do you have enough money to take care of a child without him? and would you really deprive your child of their father? you’ll get an abortion? he’ll find a way to keep you locked up in your house. you’re still going to leave? he’s going to guilt trip you to the max. and if that still fails? once again, he’s just going to find a way to keep you locked up in your house. he’ll figure it out as you go on, but for now, have your happy little family with him.
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KANG SAE-BYEOK — straight up says no
she’s not going to entertain you at all. she might not even say no, opting to just stay silent instead. if you get in her face about it because she’s ignoring you, she’s just going to push you away. if you keep nagging her about it, she’s going to slap you. if you decide not to drop it, she’ll drag you by your hair and lock you in a room. are you stupid? don’t start this shit first thing in the morning.
“saebyeok, this isn’t working. we should go our separate ways.”
“no. did you hit your head or something?”
you should just drop it and move on with your day. nothing you say is going to convince her and if you piss her off too much, like said before, she’s just going to lock you away until you stop sounding ‘crazy’. she’s very cold, but she’s generally pretty nice to you still though. she’s a good girlfriend to you, just a little possessive, but it’s never gotten out of control. you just didn’t think the relationship was working and that it just wasn’t the right time. all in all, if you don’t push to much, you won’t see the shitty side of her that she never shows you. however, if you keep pushing the idea, she’s going to give you a real reason to break up with her.
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SANGWOO — would let you leave and crawl back to him
“you want to break up? fine.”
it leaves you shocked at the sound of him not caring. it was as simple as that. you want to break up? bye then bitch! it hurt. it almost made you want to change your mind and say never mind and just stay with him, and that’s exactly what he wanted. that’s exactly why he said it like that. but that didn’t work and you just walked out the door. that’s fine though, you’d come back to him, he knows it.
he makes sure to post old photos of you two on his Instagram. not ones with your face in it, duh, but he posts the photos that you took of him where you’re behind the camera or ones where your arm or your hand is slightly showing. he knows you still stalk his socials. he’s posting these knowing that it’s going to hurt your little heart and make you crawl right back. he leaves every photo of you two up on every platform, not deleting a single thing. for a little while, he even keeps his pfp the same. you two holding hands. whenever he posts something, he always makes sure to put something in the caption that he knows you love. you liked tulips? he’ll put a tulip emoji in the caption. you loved cats? he’ll put a cat emoji in his bio. all these subtle things where you won’t know he’s doing it on purpose, but it’ll be so much of a coincidence that you’ll think this is a sign to run back to him.
he’ll tell his friends to ask about him to you whenever they talk with you.
“how are you and sangwoo doing?”
“oh he talks about you all the time.”
he tells them to act like they don’t know that the two of you have broken up. he makes sure to get in your head and eventually? you’ll come running back. if for some reason you don’t, he might have to pull some strings. spread some rumors about you so that your friends want nothing to do with you and so all that you have to run to for comfort is him.
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artemisiasmuse · 2 days ago
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sex ban | toxic rafe x toxic reader
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cw: obvi mdni 18+, toxic jealous rafe, physical violence (not towards the reader), sex ban lifted!, p in v, multiple rounds, unprotected (don’t do this), munch of the year rafe, crying during sex, squirting, headlock, oral receiving for both of them, mentions of blood, again these bitches are crazy
~ 4k words
an: this was so filthy i think i need to go to church (im not even christian) also don’t know if how i described the positions made sense but we move T_T
“you can’t be serious?” rafe looked up from his hands, you’d cleaned off the blood all the while being extremely pissed off. you couldn’t believe he beat someone to a pulp, again, just for checking you out. you hated how good he looked covered in blood, hated how even now you could feel your underwear getting sticky from your arousal.
“i am, no sex for two weeks, maybe then you’ll stop being such an asshole!” surely you were joking, there’s no way you’d hold out on him that long. he knew he wouldn’t survive without your pussy and he prayed you would give up after a few days. his prayers weren’t answered.
two weeks passed with the ease of a thousand pounds dropped onto rafe’s shoulders. he was irritable all the time, practically blue-balled the entire time, and couldn’t stand being in the room with anyone that wasn’t you. at some point, after he begged to at least eat you out, you stopped letting him come over at night even. rafe was practically vibrating with need, yet you seemed so unaffected.
he had a fucking reminder set on his phone for midnight when the two weeks was over, of course he was already on the way to your place at 11:50. you expected nothing less, unlocking the door for him preemptively, and he huffed out a breath when he found you sitting on your couch watching tv like it was nothing. like you didn’t care. rafe was so pent up he might come from a single stroke of your tiny hand around his cock, but here you were, calm and collected. you muted the tv when you saw him, he sat next to you, leaving a gap he normally wouldn’t, and began to apologize.
“baby it’s been two weeks, i’m sorry okay? i’ll do better.”
“you said that last time.”
“i mean it this time, i won’t beat anyone up, unless you want me to.” you roll your eyes at his addition, turning your body to face him. rafe’s eyes tracked the way your shirt rode up your thighs, realizing it was actually his shirt. his mouth felt dry, he hadn’t been so hard from so little since he was a fucking preteen.
“okay.” you conceded, you kinda had to, rafe looked a lil too good like he knew the exact outfit that would make you forgive him easily. his hands were veiny and a ring accentuated his long thick fingers, fingers you missed dearly. yours just weren’t cutting it any more, he knew exactly how to touch you, fill you, make your mind numb. and that was just his fingers, his pink tongue had slipped out to lick at his lips and you can’t focus much longer, all the memories flashing by.
“okay?” rafe couldn’t believe what he was hearing, he couldn’t believe you were taking him back so easily. he didn’t dare move or touch you until you confirmed.
“uh huh, your apology is accepted.” you nodded slow like molasses, your eyes already glazed over with need. he couldn’t tell, he was so caught up in his own desire. and as the word left your pretty lips, the spell was lifted.
“fuck come here” the words are empty, his large hand closes around the back of your neck and pulls you to him, his lips finding your own. you’d kissed the past two weeks but this is different, this is urgent. he’s sloppy with it, tongue peeking out into your mouth, tasting you, sucking on your tongue. it’s less of a kiss and more of a bite, he wants to consume you. you groan into his mouth, unsatisfied with the distance between you two and you move to straddle him. rafe pulls back at that, no he wouldn’t let you, he’d much rather have you on your back, he pushes you down by your neck, the slight pressure makes you keen. there’s no chance for you to sit back up when he’s leaning over you, settling between your legs and kissing you back down.
his kisses trail off, bites and open-mouthed kisses trailing your neck till he reaches your collarbone. your shirt is discarded with a blink of your eye and you wonder if he’s moving too fast. you can barely keep up when a mouth latches over your nipple, sucking harshly. “fuckkk i missed my girls” a lewd pop releases it from his mouth, giving attention to the other one and you arch into his touch. his large hand closes around the now sore nipple, pinching and massaging while he sucks on your tit like his life depends on it. the cold metal of his ring soothes the sting of his bites and you moan his name in desperation. the stickiness in your underwear is getting embarrassing and you feel like a fire is burning in your core. there’s no need for you to ask, rafe wants to eat, he’s been starving for weeks and your pussy is the only thing that can satiate him. after littering your chest and neck with hickies he kisses down your stomach, marveling at how soft your skin is, how he should never take an inch of it for granted any more. when he finally reaches your pink lace panties, he realizes it’s too much work to take them off you. that would require him getting off you and he really couldn’t afford to move an inch away. his fingers trace the flimsy material and he decides very quickly, tearing it off you with ease, and you hear the rip before you feel it. you don’t even notice him stuff the material into his pocket from the shock.
“rafe!” you don’t know if you’re mad or even more turned on but you wiggle under his gaze, blue eyes glued to your puffy and slick cunt. the tv screen illuminates enough for him to see his pretty girl is soaked. he nearly drools.
“getting in the way of my meal, i’ll buy you new ones.” he murmurs, not even looking away once, you huff at his words, and push his head down. he doesn’t need any encouragement, he’s nearly cumming in his pants from the sight of your pussy alone. if he could he’d take a polaroid of it and keep it in his pocket forever.
rafe is a man possessed, pushing you up the sofa length to make space for him between your legs, he hikes one up the cushions to rest on the back of the sofa, the other onto his shoulder so he can fit between them. you don’t even know if you exist to him any more because he’s smiling at your pussy like it’s his girlfriend instead. he shoves his nose, inhaling the scent of your arousal, it’s honey to his senses and his eyes flutter shut at how good you smell. then his tongue flattens against your pussy and he might just cry. you gasp at the feeling, wet and hard across your opening and clit, so brief you think you imagined it. rafe moans at the taste, let’s you coat his tongue before he goes back in for seconds, swirling his tongue along your weeping cunt until he’s thoroughly cleaned his plate. he’s moaning at your taste, tears pricking his eyes as it stains the back of his teeth, his hands grip your waist to drive you down to his tongue. he knows you’re gonna run from it, you always do. finally his tongue fills you up, delving into and cleaning you out, the feeling of the muscle squirming inside you makes you writhe in pleasure. “taste so fucking good, never letting this go again,” he slurs into you. you can feel yourself get wet again and he feels precum stain his boxers as more of your ichor slips down his throat. it’s not enough, he wants more, his right hand joins in, one finger curling into you along with his tongue and his thumb idly swirls along your clit. the combination of his tongue and finger fucking you and his drunken moans, make you come on his tongue embarrassingly fast. you’re gushing into his mouth more and rafe doesn’t even budge when you push at his forehead, the overstimulation stings and your poor walls flutter around his tongue, trying to drive him out, he only goes crazier. his tongue slips out a trail of saliva and your slick connecting him to you before he attaches his lips to your clit. you shake at the sensation, not yet come down from your previous orgasm. he sucks and laves over your clit, setting your body aflame. he takes the opportunity to slip another finger in, stretching you more than anything in the past two weeks, and he can tell your pussy is going to feel amazing on his cock. you’re struggling to take two fingers and he can’t help but moan at the thought. you hate how quickly he brings you to your next orgasm, your legs threatening to close around him and he makes a noise of disapproval. your mind feels numb now and you jump at his touches. rafe gives you a few seconds to recover, pulling his fingers out and licking them clean, but when he tastes you again it’s not his fault he needs another hit. you’re a bit shocked yourself when he releases his hold on your legs and sits back. your wide round eyes making him chuckle at your disbelief. “you’re gonna sit on my face baby.” he resounds and you blink at him twice before sitting up, you wince at the way you’re drooling onto the couch and how you suddenly feel empty. rafe positions himself with his head poised for your pussy to sit on. you gawk at him.
“won’t i crush you?” besides your question you’re raised up ob your knees almost hovering over him, he could just-
“shut the fuck up.” he pulls you close and pushes your hips down to sit you down himself, your sloppy cunt meeting his lips and he’s in heaven. he wants to die like this, suffocated by your pussy. you try to shift your weight back onto your knees but he doesn’t let you, holding you down by your ass. when he licks up into you, you lose your resolve entirely. if he was a mess before, now he’s a goner. he’s spitting up into you, making out with your cunt and swirling his tongue along you, along every inch he can. your rock your cunt over his face, lost in pleasure and when his nose bumps your clit your legs nearly close on his head, he groans at the pressure. you’re practically dripping into his mouth and it’s all he could ask for; tears falling down his face just mix in with the mess of liquids running down his face and pooling on his neck and chest. you continue to rock against him, your cushiony thighs closing around his head and rafe feels himself twitch in his pants, he’s so fucking close just from eating you out. but he can’t even find it in him to care, no he’s crying from how good you taste, he’s past the point of caring. when you finally cum around his tongue he comes in his pants, moaning as you scream his name. you’re shaking uncontrollably, riding out your orgasm and thrashing along his face. your thighs press tightly against his head and he continues to drink you in, until finally your legs give out and you fall off him.
“pussy so good i came in my pants and you’re gonna clean it up.” you look at him in a daze, your body moving on its own accord, moving to your knees on the carpet. your body’s shaking but you still manage to claw at his buttons. “good girl.” he smiles down at you, chin and lips wet from your release and he’s not even dreaming of wiping himself clean, he wants it to stain him, seep into his pores. a whine crawls up your throat as you work his pants off, he’s sitting on the couch in front of you and you want to help him so badly. his cock finally springs free and he breathes out in relief, the cool air making him more sensitive after his release. the worst part is he’s still fucking hard. your eyes round at the sight of him, come lining his length, dribbling down the veins and blushed pink top. it’s so pretty you can’t help but stare. rafe slips a hand around your face, pulling you in, making you stop your staring and instead get to work. you might be drooling from the sight, it’s hard to tell because your mouth closes around him and everything is already so wet. a sick squelch resounds in the air as you lick up and down his length, he fights the urge to thrust into the wet tight heat of your mouth. you make sure to clean up his balls, your hand jerking him off while you’re down there, “fuck you’re doing so well baby.”
“missed this rafey” you hum at the taste of his come, thick and gooey on your tongue and the vibration makes him twitch in your mouth. rafe feels so close already, you’ve already cleaned him up, now you’re just cock drunk, taking him down as far as you can and pressing kisses to his tip. he doesn’t want it to end like this no, he’d rather fill you up properly, so he pulls your head off his length with a pop! and you glare at him and whine, like an insolent puppy whose toy was taken away. there’s a delicious sting from the hair he pulled and heat pools in your stomach again, you can’t tell if you’re wet or if it’s rafe’s saliva you like to think it’s both.
“come here.” rafe hoists you onto his lap, giving you two seconds to adjust before he lifts you both up and makes his way to your bedroom. his shirt comes off along with yours and you clamber up the length of your mattress to rest your head on your pillow while you still can. from how angry and hard his cock still is you know it’s gonna be a long night.
“remember your safe word right?” rafe flips you over, your momentary comfort gone just like that, he presses against your back hard. your ass perks into the air while he arches you just so. he’s waiting for your response, because one look at your pussy, glistening from another wave of desire, rafe knows he’s going to find it impossible to hold back. he’s vibrating with a need to fuck you already, dribbles of precum spurting out of him against his stomach. what a waste, there’s a perfect little hole that could use it. he smacks your ass once, lightly just to remind you to use your words.
“yes, fuck me please.” your voice is muffled against your bedsheets, but he hears it perfectly. when his tip presses against your tight hole, he thinks he might be religious. not to god or anything else, just you. you’re sucking in him, holding your cheeks apart for him like you know he likes and he groans at how you feel like silk around him. your cunt’s so warm and tight, rafe thinks he might never leave you again. once his tip is in you remember how to breathe, the initial stretch finally over. he can’t give you the time you need to adjust, he might start crying again, or worse come early. rafe pushes the rest of his inches in, bullying his way in, pressing you into the mattress just so your cunt could give in. you scream at the feeling of him being all the way in, the angle making him nestle against your g-spot while his tip rubs against your cervix. you feel ropes of pre spurt inside you and you feel tears slip down your cheeks from the pain, you know it hurts, you just can’t find it in you to care.
“s’good,” you’re mind is numb, the only thoughts are spiraling around your boyfriend and his stupid long cock. a sick ring of come and your slick circles the base of his length, his pubes soaked from both of you. he can’t hold back any more, not when you’re wiggling your hips for more. rafe pulls out all the way and slaps back into you, pulling you into him just so he can really fill you all the way. the force of his thrust and the way he tip nudges along your walls, grazing where you needed him most, as you screaming in pleasure, your poor pussy closing on him just so he can stay inside. not that it matters he’s hammering in and out of you so fast you think you might get whiplash. his hips drive you down into the mattress, stuffing you as much he can so you don’t run from it, like you’re already trying to do.
“fuck fuck fuck! too much hng rafe i can’t-“ the slap of his hips against yours are almost bruising, he’s pulling you back by a tight hold around you and it’s hard to breathe. there’s a pressure building in you that you don’t recognize and it’s almost painful how bad it feels to go unaddressed, something must be wrong. but rafe can feel himself getting close, just from your pathetic whines and screams.
“you can and you will.” there’s no room for argument when he’s flipping you onto your back, your head jostling and you blink away the tears in your eyes. you want to see him, want to look into his pretty eyes, rafe can’t help but laugh at your desperate expression. no, he’s no too far gone.
“dumb little girl, i could tell you were turned on, you know?” he maneuvers you onto your side, spooning you and pulling your leg over his so he can slip back in. the new angle steals your breath as you try to focus on what he just said, panic seeping into your system.
“wh-no i wasn’t.” you shake your head insolently, he’s rolling his eyes at your meager denial. his thrusts start out slow, testing the limits of how far he can reach, and it’s not far. a huff of annoyance teases the shell of your ear and you gulp at his proximity.
“tell me the truth and i’ll let you come.” it’s a whisper, soft and sweet, you know what’s to come will be anything but.
“fine! you looked so hot covered in blood-“ he grabs under your knee and lifts it up, slamming deeper into you cutting you off. “oh my god-“ rafe can’t handle not being all the way in, he loves the way his head kisses your cervix, how his veins have molded you to fit them, how he can feel come slipping out of you and dribbling down his length since there’s no space for anything. an addiction, one that he won’t give up. “that doesn’t make it-rafe!-okay!” you manage to get out between thrusts
“yeah yeah i get it.” he’s had enough of your lecturing, the arm that’s not holding your knee, loops around your front, closing around your neck and throat. his thick bicep presses against you in a headlock and he leverages the tight grip to pull you back into him, shutting you up finally. the only sounds that can be heard are of your pretty pussy squelching and gasping for him to be back inside. there’s the occasional moan from you when his grip loosens and the curses and groans from him, but mostly the room sounds like a porno. you’re not sure if you came or you ever stopped coming but your pussy feels warm and fuzzy, like it’s just given up on trying to decipher pleasure and pain.
“can’t come-fuck-need to” rafe frustrates himself with how quickly he feels like he needs to come. his balls are pinched tight, aching for release but he can’t stop, he needs to make it right, make it perfect. rafe won’t admit it anyone else but he’s so in love with you he hates coming without looking in your eyes. his hold on your neck releases and you slump forward tears and drool staining the mattress.
“pretty baby, you’ll give me one more yeah?” somehow rafe knows when you’re cumming, you stopped noticing. you nod dumbly, blurry eyes vaguely make out his face as he finally lets you rest on your back. your body aches and your legs haven’t stopped shaking, but you still welcome him with open legs. rafe presses a kiss to your forehead, shoving into you again, his thrusts aren’t so hurried this time, he’s savoring it. the slow drag of his tip inside of you warms you. you stop crying when he lifts your legs, pushing your knees to your chest, he wipes your tears and kisses down into you. the position is familiar, one of your favorites, and you kiss him back, it’s salty and messy but you can taste the words i love you.
“most beautiful girl in the world, fuck ,how did i get so lucky?” he peppers your face with kisses, giggles erupting from your lips and he can’t believe you’re his.
“love you rafey.” you say it so sweetly anyone would think he’s not 9 inches deep inside you, in a mean mating press.
“i love you angel, can i come inside?” your eyes light up, you both rarely do it since birth control is horrible on your body, but you can’t help but love how it feels.
“please…fill me up.” the words make his dick twitch inside you, more precum dribbling out of your cunt.
“fuckkk gonna get you pregnant, then everyone will know you’re mine.” he’s mumbling to himself, rocking back and forth and a whine leaves your lips. you should be concerned with how possessive your boyfriend is, you know that, but the image he paints in your head is too tempting.
“please.” you kiss his right arm that supports his weight next to your head and he smiles down at you. rafe takes it as his signal to pull out and fuck down into you, your mind blanks. it doesn’t take more than a few hard thrusts for the pressure building inside you to finally snap, seeing white under your eyes as you gasp and scream his name. you’re squirting onto him before you realize it, soaking his chest and dick and he keeps fucking you through it until you stop. rafe can’t help but lose himself as you do it, fucking down so brutally you think he might rip your cervix, if it’s even possible, the overstimulation claws at your senses and you fight the urge to push him away, scratching down his back instead. rafe feels his balls pinch and he can’t hold back any longer, you’re pulsing around him riding out your orgasm and he shoots gooey ropes inside of you. thick and never ending, coating your walls and slipping out the sides, the angle at least keeps most of it in, just like he wants it.
“can’t believe you squirted.” when he finally stops spurting into you, he pulls out, your legs falling to your side as you wince at the aches in your body. without the cloud of pleasure you can feel how sore you’ll be tomorrow.
“sorry” you mumble, turning to where he lays beside you and he shakes his head.
“nah baby i’m gonna make you do it every time.” a wolfish smirk graces his features and you decide you’ll never do a sex ban again. you won’t survive it next time.
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luvyeni · 2 days ago
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being a passenger princess and giving your driving boyfriend moral support
𝓲𝓲 ㅤ𓈒ㅤ𓈒𓈒 ( 이희승 x fem!reader )  ─── ❛ genre ⸝⸝ smut. content warning. word count. 0.7k 「 req? ⦂ yes/no 」 library  !
𝕼 ㅤ𓈒ㅤ𓈒 yeni’s note .ᐟ something about road head intrigues me so much idk why
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you loved being a passenger princess; not having to drive, just being able to cross your feet on the seat despite your boyfriends protest and eat your snacks you packed , while your boyfriend drove you to your destinations — you could never imagine driving when you had heeseung to do it for you; you were simply there to look pretty and give your man moral support.
“baby you’re stressing me out, i told you to charge your ipad last night , i said it’s gonna be a long drive and what did you say.” he said. “it was already charged.” you rolled your eyes. “don’t roll your eyes at me , you wanted to be the lazy one and not get up to get it.”
was he correct? yes. but you weren’t about to let him know that. “well i thought it was charged.” you said. “you’re on it all day , you clutch on to it like 3 year old.” he said eyes still on the rode. “it couldn’t possibly be charged.”
“tch , and to think im here giving you moral support.” he laughed. “moral support is you pestering me about stopping at a store to get you a snack , then sure princess , i love the moral support you’re giving me.” he put his hand on your thigh. “love it so much.” he squeezed playfully. “i know you do.”
you reached over the console , kissing his cheek. “baby let me drive.” he giggled , never taking his eyes off the rode. “is this not moral support?” you gave him another cheeky kiss. “do you not feel supported?” he smiled. “all the time , baby all the time.” he let you keep kissing his cheek — then you started going lower; kissing his jaw , giving little nibbles. “don’t get too carried away , your parents will ask questions if you leave marks.”
he felt your lips kiss behind his ear , he sighed. “baby don’t kiss there.” he should’ve pulled you off while he was driving , but he couldn’t resist any advances when it came to you. “yo-you know it’s sensitive there.” you smirked against his neck. “i know.” he felt his cock jumping in his sweats. “that’s why i'm doing it.”
“fuck.” you worked down his neck , your palm flat against his chest. “baby , let me pull over then.” his cock hard in his pants, your hand going down to his waistband. “no, keep driving.” you kissed his chest , trying not to block his view. “we’re gonna be late if you do.” you finally made your way down to his lower region. “lift your hips.”
he took one hand off the wheel to undo the tie of his sweatpants , pulling them down enough to free himself. “shit.” he hissed the hair hitting his sensitive tip. “so pretty hee.” you grabbed the base of his cock. “love your cock so much.” you kissed the red tip , his sticky precum covering your lips. “sh-shit baby.” he groaned. “show me how much you love it.”
you slowly worked your way down on his length , his hand came to the back of your head , not pushing you down , just resting as you bobbed your head up and down on his cock. “mhm fuck baby keep doing it like that.” he groaned , eyes hazy but he forced them open. “this is so-so fucking dangerous baby — but fuck your pretty mouth feels so good.” his hips involuntarily moving up and down. “god i love you so much.”
you noticed he was about to cum when he began to push on your head. “fuck , fuck princess im about to cum.” he groaned out. “fuck I’m cumming.” you felt his sticky cum shoot to the back of your throat. “fuck swollow all of baby.” he sighed. “be a good girl and clean me.” you licked up all his cum , sticking your tongue out once you swallowed. “good girl.”
“is that the type of support you meant?” he laughed once he got himself together. “almost causing an accident?” you smiled. “you sounded like you enjoyed it.” you wiped your mouth , taking a sip of water. “hell yeah i did.” he said , his hands creeping up your thigh. “let me repay you.” he said. “you wanna cum on my fingers?” you nodded. “ye-yes hee.” his hands working his way into your pants. “good girl.” his hand cup your cunt , not taking his eyes off the rode once as his fingers slid inside of you. “oh heeseung.” you moaned out.
god you loved being a passenger princess.
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©️LYVYENI
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