#I heard there was a MM float

[nosleep83]

Happy thanksgiving everyone :]

[jaesblogstuff]

Not again

That one awful time you got a UTI because you didn’t pee after and it ruined both you and Simon for days...and the future.

Your body doesn’t belong to you anymore.

It’s distant. Slow. Boneless and heavy and floating at the same time—like you’re made of liquid, spilled across the bed, soaking into the mattress where Simon left you.

Everything’s sensitive. Your thighs are trembling. The inside of you feels warm in a way that shouldn’t be possible—so full, so sore, still twitching from the way he held you down and ruined you like it was the only thing keeping him alive. it’s all Simon.

You might’ve fallen asleep. You’re not sure.

Then you hear him shift.

You don’t move.

“Five more minutes,” you mumble into the pillow.

He exhales slowly through his nose, amusement crackling under the surface of his voice.

“It’s been thirty.”

You groan, long and dramatic, and turn your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. “You said you’d wait.”

“I did. And I have.” He leans in, mouth brushing behind your ear. “But you’ve got to get up now.”

“No, I don’t,” you mumble, lips barely moving.

“Yes,” he says, not unkindly. “You do.”

“Fuck off.”

“You need to pee.”

You sigh with a full-body shudder. The last thing you want is to move. Your thighs still twitch with every shift, every reminder of how hard he’d been in you—deep and rough and mean, the kind of mean only Simon can be when he knows you like it.

And now?

Now your brain’s caught somewhere between satisfaction and irritability.

You squirm an inch and hiss at the soreness. “I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I literally can’t feel my legs.”

He hums again. Not arguing. Not pushing. Just present.

And then you snap, just a little. Not angry, just done.

“God, why are you like this?” you bite. “You get off, and suddenly I’m a project.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, with that same frustrating calm “I get off because I wreck you, sweetheart. But I also remember what happens when you don’t move after.”

You're quiet.

“Yeah.”

You groan again. “Don’t bring it up.”

“I am bringing it up.”

He shifts beside you, moving the hair away from your damp cheek.

“You remember what happened last time.”

You do.

Unfortunately.

That time when you’d passed out immediately after sex—sore, blissed out, perfectly used—and slept the whole night through. Didn’t pee. Didn’t think to. And the next morning?

UTI. Full force.

Your insides were on fire. You couldn’t sit down without wincing. Couldn’t even have him look at you, let alone touch you.

You were grumpy. Snappy. Miserable.

He was worse.

Because not only were you suffering, but he couldn’t fix it. Couldn’t fuck you. Could barely cuddle you without getting a sharp “Don’t touch me, Simon.”

He was all but climbing the walls by day two. You'd heard him mutter “This is hell” when you snapped at him for putting the wrong tea in your mug.

And even then, he never said I told you so.

He just brought you cranberry juice and heated pads and ran you a bath and kissed your temple like he didn’t feel half-insane.

Now?

Now he’s not risking it.

“You were a nightmare,” he mutters, rubbing your lower back. “And I didn’t get to fuck you for a week.”

You roll onto your side to glare at him. “It was your fault too.”

“Exactly why I’m carrying you.”

You pout harder. “I’m not talking to you.”

“You’re literally talking to me right now.”

“Simon—”

He sits up and leans over, scooping you effortlessly into his arms. “I'm not doing this again.”

You huff, but you don’t fight. Your limbs flop against his chest like dead weight. You nuzzle into his collarbone, still grumbling.

“You’re annoying.”

“Mm.”

“Bossy.”

“Uh huh.”

“And I still can’t feel my legs.”

He chuckles and carries you across the room, his big palms smoothing over your bare skin as he holds you close.

Once in the bathroom, he sets you on the toilet like something precious.

And instead of stepping back or giving you space, he stays.

Right in front of you.

He’s standing tall, bare chest in your face, warm hands on your shoulders—guiding you gently forward until your cheek rests against his stomach.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter.

“And you’re soft,” he says. “All bark.”

You don’t respond.

Your body’s buzzing. Your thighs are still trembling. But when you finally relax enough to pee—

“Oh—oh my God—”

You jolt.

The pressure. The release.

Your muscles seize instantly, twitching with overstimulated nerves. It’s not just peeing. It’s like a second, slow-burning orgasm. Your body shakes with it, cunt fluttering around nothing, your legs twitching like Simon’s still inside you.

You gasp against him, trembling. It's not even about the release—it’s the aftershocks. The sudden emptiness as your muscles unclench. The way your cunt spasms around nothing as your body reacts to being let go.

Simon holds you tighter.

Your fingers grab fistfuls of his sweatpants.

His hands drop to your back.

“Easy, love. Just let it happen.”

Your knees buckle where they’re spread. You squeeze his sweatpants for balance, forehead still pressed to his stomach as you twitch through it—little pulses, flutters, everything still too much.

Your voice breaks. “Feels like—feels like I’m coming again.”

“I know.”

“Still—God, it’s still in my spine—”

You twitch again. His arms stay firm. He pets down your back, anchoring you, holding you upright as your body finishes unwinding in slow, shaking pulses.

And you do. You feel everything. His hands rubbing your back. The warmth of his chest under your cheek. The way he steadies your thighs when they jerk.

And when it’s over—when your breath evens out, and the spasm finally dies down, you just stay there. Arms weak. Legs numb. Whole body ruined.

Simon strokes your back.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “You did perfect.”

“I’m mad at you,” you mumble, voice muffled in his skin.

“You always say that.”

“You didn’t have to go so hard.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘don’t stop.’”

You groan. “I was lying.”

“You were begging.”

You slap his thigh half-heartedly. “I hate you.” He grins and helps you stand, supporting you like your knees might give out again—which they might, honestly.

You lean on him as he cleans you up, wipes you with practiced tenderness, and carries you back to bed without another word.

Once there, he slides one of his shirts over your head, tucks you under the blanket, and stretches out beside you with one arm around your waist.

Your face is buried in his chest. His heartbeat is slow, steady, solid.

[anakinstwinklebunny]

PAIRING: mafia!anakin x f!reader

(kinda) SMUT ❦

gif from: @mvst4far

The dough under your hands was soft, a little sticky, but it was slowly coming all together - flour dust floating in the air like little, tiny snowflakes. You huffed, cheeks a bit puffed in frustration, trying to push and fold it like the vague instructions said, but—

“Easy, dolcezza,” ANAKIN SKYWALKER's voice melted into your spine before his body did. “You’re being too rough.”

Your breath caught the second you felt him; the firm brush of his chest against your back, hands sliding around yours like a velvet around the snake. His fingers - so longer, so strong - curling over yours, guiding them into the press and fold motion like you were performing a slow dance.

“Like this,” he murmured, right beside your ear. His voice was low, like it wasn’t meant to be heard by anyone but you. “You gotta feel it. Let it tell you when it’s ready.” Which you tried on doing. You really did. But it was hard to focus when his breath fanned your neck, when he dipped down to kiss just behind your ear—soft, reverent, like he needed to. Like he’d been dying to.

“Good girl,” he whispered as you moved with him, his hips brushing lightly into yours with each push of the dough. Yet you felt it; the subtle pressure pressing firmer into your ass. Feeling soo..tempting, delicious in a way that would satisfy you. You swallowed hard, chest rising. The slow grind of his hips wasn’t accidental anymore. It was warm. Thick against you.

You whimpered-barely -but it was enough to crack something open in him. He grinned against your neck, lips trailing kisses down to your shoulder, letting his teeth graze lightly. “Mm,” he hummed, voice sinfully low, “that a moan I just heard, baby?”

You felt his cock nudge firmer into you, hips rolling slow, teasing, like he was trying to match the rhythm of your breath. “I said knead the dough,” he chuckled, licking your skin slowly, “but here you are—making the most divine sounds I’ve ever heard.”

You gasped, hips twitching back into him without thinking. “Anakin…”

“You feel what you do to me, angel?” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw. “Just your soft little moans and I’m fucking hard for you.” your knees buckled slightly when he pressed again, the praise melted into you like honey. Like he was kneading your body into something more.

“Go ahead baby, keep working that dough,” he teased, even as hands slipped to your waist, gripping tighter. “Make it perfect… while I make a mess out of you.”

His fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt, dragging lightly over your stomach. “Can’t help it. You in my kitchen… in my shirt… making my family’s food? That’s wife shit, sweetheart.”

He leaned in again, voice softer, grittier. “And I’m gonna fuck you on this counter when the dough’s rising. That’s a Skywalker tradition now.”

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @babybell-cheese @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @ysrjune @anakinskwkler @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @l1ttle-misssunsh1ne @anakinca @rubiesarepretty @luluartpop @cloverina @nikiloveshayden @cherriies-snake @skywalkerssgirl @fredswrite @mvst4far @alealuvshayden

[dark-moonlust]

Midnight Passion

Pairing: werewolf x f!human reader

Summary: you wake up in the middle of the night to the steady press of your werewolf’s cock against your pussy.

Warnings: minors don't interact, 18+!!!!, monster smut, werewolf huge🍆, breasts/nipple stimulation, p in v sex, lots of 💦, cοckwarming.

It was during the quiet darkness of the night when you stirred, incredible warmth pooling in your belly. You also felt something hard and pulsing prodding at your pussy. Blinking lazily you realized your werewolf boyfriend was spooning you from behind, his hard cock nestled between your wet pussy, rubbing over your slick entrance. You heard the wet squelch each time he rubbed back and forth and your own unbidden moans.

You leaned back against him, thankful for your habit of always sleeping naked together.

“Did I awaken you, mate?” he grumbled in your ear, his muzzle causing you to shiver.

You smiled sheepishly. “Only pleasantly awakened, my ever horny werewolf.”

Chuckling, he cupped your plump breasts, his fingers flicking your nipples, careful of his claws. You burrowed into him and wiggled your waist, moaning as the head of his shaft rubbed your clit. Groaning from deep within his chest, he bend his head, his long textured tongue licking around one nipple. He suckled audibly then alternated to the other. You whimpered and thrust your chest to him, offering your tits to him without shame.

“Hmm… someone’s sensitive.”

"Mm… hmnnm." You sucked in a breath and snaked your hand down, cupping his rigid cock. His cock was massively perfect, a stunning monster shaft that stood at full mast. His dick was thick and engorged— your hand couldn’t wrap around it. It was also surrounded by pleasurable ridges and a knot that swelled once he released his seed.

“N-need your pussy…" he drawled in pain, pumping his cock in your palm. “Need your warm cunt wrapped around my cock. Let me in, love, hm?“

Sleep completely forgotten, you clutched his cock in your palm and guided him inside. The slide was slow and blissful. You felt every inch of him invade you and bury so deep inside you that he stole your breath away. When he filled you to the hilt, you both let out a harsh moan. He pulsed wildly and lifted your legs slightly to open you up, while pumping his hips.

The bed squeaked as he claimed you, his massive framed curled behind you, so much bigger than your own. You were so wet that his cock slid in and out of you without issue, wet squelches echoing as he fucked you and owned your pussy. You rocked against him while he licked and pinched your nipples, driving you higher and higher.

When he started rubbing your clit, you thrashed and let out the sweetest whimpers. You dug your nails into his furry forearms while he breathed hotly against your ear, whispering sweet little love words and begging you to cum and squeeze his cock. You gyrated your waist, angling his cock just as you both liked and floated higher and higher until—

Pleasure claimed you, violently and utterly. You shut your eyes tightly and came, thrashing as your insides fluttered around his thrusting cock. Your werewolf didn’t stop fucking you and lightly toyed with your clit. His cock slammed in and out of you in steady powerful thrusts, your breasts heaving against his tongue.

When you rode the waves of your climax, you smiled against him and pressed a gentle nudge against his chest. He didn’t move an inch—he was thrice your size and as solid as a rock, but your nudge was enough to convey your message: you wanted to change positions. More than eager, he lay back, his hard cock sliding out of you with an obscene wet sound.

Without hesitation, you straddled his thick hairy thighs, your palms caressing his broad chest while his cock pulsed against your belly. “My turn now, big boy.”

He smiled and slapped your perky ass. “Take what you need, my lady."

Without hesitation, you lifted yourself and sat down on his cock. The thick head spread your folds and surged up inside you. A gasp escape your lips at the depth and stretch of his invasion. He was so deep, deeper than before and as you began to ride him, you could see the shape of his dick making your belly swell. Still, you took him in fully, your incredible wetness making the glide effortless.

Settling his feet on the mattress, he fucked up into you, causing your whole frame to bounce. His hands roamed your body, cupping your shoulders, your tits and round ass. His thrusts turned frantic and more urgent than before. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the bedroom, mixed with your raw, unrestrained moans. His growls made your shiver and drove you wild.

The connection between you was electric, every touch, every thrust, fueling the fire inside you.

“Gods, there is no better feeling in the whole world than this,” he panted, pounding up inside you. “You. Only you.”

“Oh, yessss…” you clutched him, sensitive and on the verge of another orgasm. “Gonna… ahn… gonna—”

“Now. Cum now, little mate.”

You responded with breathless little moans, your muscles flexing as a second climax exploded within you, waves of pleasure traveling all over your body. You went wild and buckled against him but he continued to pound into you until he found his own release. Burying himself to the hilt, he swell within you, his cock pumping load after load of wolf cum. Menacing growls echoed in the room as he spilled inside you, his knot plugging you up, locking you together. He filled you to bursting and you could do nothing but take it and collapse on his strong chest.

It was minutes later when he stopped cumming. You had climaxed again with little aftershocks that still rippled through your body. Lying atop his muscular frame, his cock still a part of you, you played with his hairy chest and nestled against him. You were a mess, spent, pleasured and sleepy. And you couldn’t be more happy. With a sigh, you heard the steady beating of his heart and soon, you drifted into sleep.

[obsesssedblerd]

“Just give up, Fushiguro.” The tallest kid of the group says, crossing his arms over his chest and flashing Megumi a grin. “There’s five of us and only one of you. There’s no way you’d win.” On either side of the bully, four more kids snickered, practically salivating over the idea of outnumbering him. 

Megumi sighs irritatedly. This is why he hates staying after school. On one hand, he’d be the first one to greet Yuuji once he’s done with his sports practice, but on the other hand, he’d end up getting into more altercations since he’d made quite a bit of enemies at his school. Your face floats in his mind, along with you worriedly asking him to promise that he wouldn’t fight anymore. 

Suddenly, the leader’s smile drops, and the five of them take a couple of fearful steps back as their gazes drift upwards. Two tall shadows loom over Megumi, and he doesn’t have to turn around to know who’s there. 

“Well, well,” Toji, his father, says with a lazy smile, then looks over at the man in his mid-twenties next to him. “Looks like you weren’t exaggerating after all. He really is fighting multiple students each time.” 

Satoru Gojo chuckles, then ruffles Megumi’s hair. “Told ya. And he hasn’t lost a single fight. However, anyone can tell that he’s holding back.” 

“Oh?” Toji raises a brow curiously, then taps his son’s shoulder. “That true? You’ve been holdin’ back?” 

Megumi turns around and meets his eyes. He nods once, and Toji gestures to the five kids. “Wanna stop?” 

The boy frowns. “I’ll get expelled.” 

“Trust me.” Satoru peers at him over his glasses, his blue eyes shining mischievously as he reassures him with his usual grin. “You won’t. Suguru’s already at the front desk taking care of it. I’ll head up there in a second to make sure everything’s going smoothly. Go on and handle it, kid.” 

His eyes widen slightly, and then he looks over at his father again. Toji’s scarred mouth lifts into a small, vicious smile, granting permission. “You heard your teacher.”

Megumi nods, faces the bullies with a similar smile, and cracks his knuckles.

—

“Hey there, Mrs. Fushiguro!” Satoru Gojo greets you when you walk into the school’s front office. Next to him, Suguru Geto gives you a friendly wave. “Picking up Tsumiki? Wow, you’re kinda early!” 

“Uh, yeah… What’re you two doing here? I know that Megumi is supposed to meet you both at Jujutsu Tech since Yuuji wanted to hang out after practice.” 

Satoru and Suguru laugh nervously, and you squint your eyes at them. Something’s up. “What did you two do this time?” You ask.

“...Nothing.” 

“Nothing at all!”

The doors to the principal’s office open, and you gasp loudly when you see five students sniffling as they walk out with their parents. All five of them were teary-eyed if not sobbing, bruised and holding ice packs to different parts of their bodies. Once they’ve left the school, you hear familiar voices. 

“Did you see how the last one ran?” Megumi snickers as he shoves his hands in his pockets. 

“Yup.” Toji laughs. “And you didn’t let him get far. That’s my boy! Let’s talk about how you tossed that one kid into the other and they hit the wall. Did Gojo teach you that one?” 

“Actually, I watched you handle—” Upon seeing you, Megumi stops in his tracks, and he gulps nervously. “Hi, Mom.” 

Toji’s eyes go wide. “Oh shit.” 

You cross your arms over your chest, and Satoru clears his throat. “Let’s look at the bright side here. He won’t be expelled or even suspended! It’s like the whole thing didn’t happen.” 

You ignore them and sigh at the sight of Megumi’s reddened knuckles. “Didn’t I tell you that you shouldn’t fight anymore? Your hands—” 

“Are strong enough to take out multiple enemies,” Toji says, wrapping a strong arm around your waist and pulling you closer. “We’re very proud of him. Can you imagine what he’ll do when he starts curse-hunting? His training is paying off.” 

You glare at him. “That’s true, but don’t try and– Mm…” Your mind goes completely blank when your husband gently kisses you. Behind you, Toji gestures to the three of them to leave now. 

When you hear footsteps shuffling away and the door closing, you pull away from Toji’s mouth and whirl around, groaning when you see that your son and his two teachers are gone. You turn back around to face him, and he smiles charmingly. “This isn’t over,” you tell him. 

“I know, I know.” He kisses your forehead, then chuckles. “You can lecture me after we grab Tsumiki and go for ice cream.”

[dollyswishingwell]

hi if it's not a bother, may I request a LADs multiple fic where MC and the LAD guys go to their kid's sports festivals and even compete in stuff like races or tug of war lol

Thanks for writing so many good fics!

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Mama’s Princess P.4

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ FLUFFF, Yall i love all these requests coming through

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ They absolutely crushed the sports festival

Masterlist

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The sun is already too bright for Rafayel’s liking.

He’s wearing his usual white shirt, sleeves rolled up, loosely buttoned, and soft linen pants that somehow look both artfully wrinkled and expensive. You’re holding his hand, because otherwise, he might float away in his usual dreamy apathy, and leading him toward the pastel-decorated gates of Little Star Daycare, where a large, bubbly sign reads:

SPORTS FESTIVAL DAY! WELCOME, MAMAS AND PAPAS!

“Oh no,” he mutters at the sign, eyeing the crowd of parents, loud, sunhatted, and armed with picnic mats. “This smells like effort. Thomas tried to schedule a press event today, and I thought this would be less stressful.”

“You flaked on your press event to be here,” you remind him, amused, holding a little sunhat over your own head. “Our daughter’s first sports festival. She’ll cry if you’re not there.”

“I know. That’s the only reason I’m here,” he says dramatically. “For her. And for you. And because I heard there’s a parents’ tug-of-war and I want to see some suburban fathers humiliated.”

You elbow him gently, and he leans in with a smirk to kiss your cheek, just as your two-year-old comes hurtling across the field in pigtails and a mini version of Rafayel’s outfit.

“Mama!!” she shrieks, arms outstretched like she hasn’t seen you in days.

Rafayel gets completely ignored.

She throws herself into your arms like a missile and hides her face in your neck, giggling.

“I’m here too, you know,” Rafayel says, crouching beside you, poking at her chubby cheek. “I skipped a whole press event.”

Your daughter looks at him for exactly one second, then turns her face back into your neck and snuggles deeper.

“…She’s really your daughter,” Rafayel says, mock-offended.

“She is,” you coo, rocking her gently. “My pretty clingy baby.”

“Mm. That’s fine,” he hums. “She’ll appreciate me more after I win her a prize. What are we doing? Tug-of-war? Wheelbarrow race? Gladiator pit?”

You giggle. “There’s a parent sprint.”

“Pass.”

“…And a parent tug-of-war.”

He perks up. “Yes. Let’s destroy the hopes and dreams of fathers in cargo shorts.”

The Tug-of-War Battle:

Rafayel stands at the front of the parent team like he’s about to go into battle. You’re on the sidelines with your daughter on your lap, clapping her tiny hands together.

The opposing team is serious. Dads with gym memberships. Mums with headbands. Rafayel, meanwhile, is barefoot and humming, holding the rope loosely with his long fingers like it’s a brushstroke.

“Are you ready?” the daycare teacher shouts.

Rafayel winks at you.

“Go!”

The rope lurches, dust kicks up, and for a moment, it looks like Team Rafayel is going to lose.

Then something snaps in him

Maybe it’s the sight of you laughing. Maybe it’s the way your daughter squeals, “Papa’s gonna loseee!” in that sing-song voice. Maybe it’s the dad on the other team making a smug comment about his shirt being too loose for a real pull.

Rafayel plants his feet in the grass like a sea creature anchoring himself, and with one elegant, lazy pull, he yanks.

He yanks like he’s pulling down the moon.

And the other team topples like dominoes.

Gasps. Cheers. Someone yells, “Did you see that guy?” A little boy asks if Rafayel is a sea spirit. He brushes his hair back and gives the crowd a smug little bow.

Your daughter shrieks in delight and finally launches herself at him.

“Papa!!! You win!”

And just like that, like magic, he forgets the crowd, the dust, the daycare teachers. He scoops her up and spins her, eyes warm.

“For you, starfish,” he murmurs. “Only for you.”

Later:

The three of you are sitting on a picnic blanket under a shady tree. Your daughter is snacking on fruit slices, proudly wearing a little gold sticker that says “BEST CHEERLEADER!” on her shirt.

Rafayel has glitter on his cheek from the arts and crafts booth. He’s leaning against your shoulder, arm slung lazily around your waist.

“That wasn’t so bad,” he admits, sounding almost sleepy.

“You liked it,” you murmur, brushing glitter from his hair.

“I liked you. And her. And beating that gym dad.”

“She’s going to remember this,” you say, watching your daughter laugh with another toddler. “Someday she’ll say her Papa was cool.”

He smiles softly.

“…She’ll lie, then,” he says. “But I’ll believe it.”

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

The sports field behind the daycare is full of noise and color, bouncing toddlers in pastel hats, foldout tents, tired teachers holding clipboards. Balloons bob lazily in the breeze, and plastic cones mark out crooked tracks in the grass.

Zayne adjusts his glasses with one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his slate-grey coat. He looks…unamused.

“This is inefficient,” he mutters, watching a group of toddlers fall over each other during a three-legged race. “There are seven races but only two lanes. Someone should speak to the organizer.”

You hide your laugh behind your hand as you carry your two-year-old on your hip. She’s wearing a tiny sunhat and a soft lavender dress. Her little face, identical to Zayne’s stoic features, is currently squished against your chest. She has refused to walk since you arrived.

“She won’t let me put her down,” you say, glancing at your husband. “Looks like she only wants Mama today.”

Zayne glances at his daughter. Then at you. Then sighs.

“Typical.”

The baby peeks out.

Hazel-green eyes meet hazel-green eyes.

There’s a pause. Then she lifts one hand, just one, and offers it in Zayne’s direction.

It’s not quite hugging Papa, but it’s something.

Zayne steps closer and takes the tiny hand in his scarred one. She pats his finger, like blessing a servant. Then promptly tucks her face back into your shoulder.

“…She’s going to grow up spoiled,” he says calmly.

You smile sweetly. “Whose fault is that?”

The Parents’ Sack Race:

To your great amusement, one of the events is a Parent-Child Sack Race. You immediately volunteer. Zayne stares at the teacher who calls his name like he’s being drafted into battle.

“Dr Zayne and… Baby Zayne,” the teacher says with an apologetic smile. “You’re up!”

You snort. “She means your daughter.”

“She shouldn’t call her that.”

“She looks exactly like you.”

Zayne, for the record, is in a light grey long-sleeved button-up and black slacks. It’s 26 degrees out. The fact that he even took his coat off is a sign of how serious he’s taking this.

He kneels down, gently sets your daughter beside him in the large double sack, and murmurs something low only she can hear. Her expression doesn’t change, but she reaches up and pats his face.

It’s the closest thing to approval he’ll get today.

“Begin!” the teacher calls.

The race is chaos. Toddlers fall. Dads trip. One baby tries to crawl out mid-hop.

But Zayne?

Zayne calculates.

He hops once. Hops twice. Balances her weight with surgical precision. Doesn’t so much as wobble. Your daughter is nestled against his chest like a calm little barnacle, unfazed, clinging to the collar of his shirt with one fist.

They cross the finish line deadpan. Completely unbothered. The applause erupts.

You cheer and wave.

Zayne gives you the barest smirk as he lifts your daughter out of the sack and settles her against your chest again.

“She didn’t cry,” you whisper.

“She’s used to me,” he murmurs. “Eventually, she’ll like me more.”

“Doubtful,” you tease.

“She will,” he says flatly. “I plan to bribe her.”

After the Events:

Later, you’re sitting together in the shade, your little one finally asleep in your lap, soft black curls sticking to her cheeks. Zayne’s shoulder is against yours, hands folded neatly in his lap.

He’s watching the field with that unreadable expression of his, quiet, calculating, distant, but when you rest your head on his shoulder, he tips it slightly toward you.

“Your patients are going to riot if they find out you skipped your post-op rounds for this,” you murmur.

“They can wait,” he says simply. “She only has one first sports festival.”

You smile. “…You’re a softie.”

“No,” he replies, but he reaches out anyway, gently tucking your daughter’s hat so it covers her face from the sun. “I’m responsible. I made this. I’ll attend.”

“She’s really your clone,” you murmur, looking down at your sleeping baby.

Zayne doesn’t answer immediately.

Then, with a rare flicker of tenderness:

“Maybe. But she’s already smarter than me.”

“…Because she knows Mama’s the favorite?”

He exhales slowly. “Because she’s not stupid enough to trust humanity.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

The sports festival is in full swing.

Somewhere between the tug-of-war station and the cotton ball spoon relay, the chaos of toddlers in animal-print hats, nervous teachers, and over-eager parents pulses in a constant, sticky rhythm. Bubbles float through the air. A boy is crying over a dropped jelly pouch. Someone is trying to wrangle a goose costume off their baby.

Amid it all, Xavier stands out like a gleaming statue of calm.

He’s in a soft ivory sweater with dove-grey slacks, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His silver hair catches the sun, and his pale blue eyes scan the field with that expressionless serenity you’ve come to know too well. He’s holding a tiny pink water bottle with a bunny-shaped cap, looking more like a confused modeling intern than a parent.

Your two-year-old daughter is clinging to your side like a baby koala. Same silver hair, same wide sleepy eyes, though hers are now fixed intensely on the box of tiny medals next to the stage.

“Baby,” you whisper, brushing her hair back, “you wanna play the ring toss game with Papa?”

“No,” she says immediately. “Mama.”

Xavier, crouched beside her, blinks slowly. “Am I not eligible for parental affection today?”

She stares at him. Then extends one finger to press his nose.

Boop.

“…Noted,” he says seriously.

The Parent Participation Game:

One of the stations is a “Piggyback Sprint.” The goal is simple: run the loop while carrying your toddler. The prize? A sticker sheet and a juice box.

You nudge Xavier.

“She said she wants the sticker with the sparkly duck. That’s the prize for this one.”

He looks at you with all the solemnity of someone about to be deployed. “Understood.”

He kneels without question, and your daughter climbs onto his back like a sleepy prince mounting his steed. Her tiny hands clutch his sweater. Her nose nestles into his shoulder blade.

The other dads are stretching. Some are bouncing in place. Xavier is… blinking slowly. Possibly entering sleep mode.

“Ready?” the teacher calls. “Set!”

He’s definitely asleep.

“GO!”

Xavier jolts forward, starts running, smoothly, gracefully, like he’s gliding. Somehow, despite his dazed start and narrow dodges of a dad who fully wipes out beside him, he makes it to the finish line first.

Your daughter doesn’t even lift her face until after he stops.

She pats his hair.

“Good.”

He turns to you, chest rising slowly. “I am victorious.”

After the Events:

You’re seated beneath a tree in the shade. Your daughter is curled in your lap with her juice box, happily peeling sparkly duck stickers and decorating your arm with them.

Xavier is lying down with his head in your lap, long lashes fluttering, half-asleep.

“She drooled on me earlier,” he murmurs. “I was honored.”

“She still won’t let you carry her unless she’s asleep.”

“I am aware,” he says, eyes closed. “She has inherited your favoritism and my bone structure. Dangerous combination.”

You stroke his hair gently.

“She had fun. Even if she wouldn’t let you hold her hand the whole time.”

“She let me lose to her in ring toss,” he says dreamily. “That’s love.”

Your daughter reaches down and sticks a duck sticker to Xavier’s forehead.

He doesn’t flinch.

“…She’s claimed you,” you whisper.

Xavier exhales, serene. “Then I am content.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

Bright plastic cones. Sun tents. Toddler-friendly obstacle courses made of foam noodles and glitter hula hoops.

Sylus is scowling.

He’s standing at the edge of the daycare lawn in his usual outfit, a black blazer draped over his shoulders like a cape, dark slacks, and the infamous red-streaked dress shirt. The sunlight makes him twitch every few minutes like it’s physically offending him. He’s clutching a small pink parasol you handed him earlier like it’s a weapon of last resort.

Your daughter? Currently on your hip. Same messy silver hair, same red eyes, same sharp little glare. You’ve dubbed her “Mini-Crow.”

“Mama, hot,” she grumbles, sticking to you like a barnacle.

“You could let Papa hold you,” you suggest gently.

She doesn’t even look at Sylus. “No.”

Sylus raises an eyebrow, amused. “Disrespectful.”

She points a tiny finger at him. “Shade.”

“She says you’re not standing in the shade enough,” you translate, trying not to laugh.

Sylus smirks and steps closer. She turns her face into your neck like she’s allergic to the idea.

“…Charming,” he says.

The “Tug of War” Incident:

You don’t expect Sylus to actually participate in anything. He is the type to bribe the staff, roll his eyes, or disappear halfway through to raid a corporate vault.

But when the daycare assistant announces:

“Next up! PARENT–CHILD TUG OF WAR!”

And you offhandedly say: “Bet you couldn’t beat the Dads’ Team alone,”

Sylus just lifts an eyebrow.

“Oh?” he says, already pulling off the blazer.

“Wait, Sylus, I was joking—”

He hands you the baby.

“Watch, Little Crow,” he murmurs smugly, brushing her hair back. “Your father’s about to make some men cry.”

Tug of War Results:

He’s not even trying.

On one side: four very sweaty, very confused dads bracing with their knees in the grass.

On the other: Sylus, sleeves rolled, gripping the rope lazily with one hand.

The whistle blows.

Three seconds later, the dads are in the mud.

Your daughter claps once. Just once.

“Win.”

Sylus bows slightly. “For you, Little Crow.”

The daycare assistant looks mildly terrified.

Later, in the Shade:

You’re sitting on a picnic blanket with your baby girl drowsing in your lap, her little hand tangled in your dress. She’s got her prize: a frog sticker sheet and a questionable popsicle.

Sylus sits beside you, sleeves unrolled again, sunglasses on now to ward off the hateful daylight. There’s grass in his hair. He doesn’t care.

“She’ll grow out of this Mama-only phase eventually,” you murmur.

“Mm,” he hums, casually slipping one arm around your waist and tugging you closer. “If not, she’s clearly inherited my taste.”

You laugh. “So she’ll grow up to be smug and dramatic?”

“She’ll grow up terrifying,” Sylus says smugly, stroking your daughter’s silver hair like it’s a rare breed of silk. “No one will survive her. I’ll train her.”

“She just learned to jump with two feet last week.”

“Excellent. The foundation of domination.”

Your daughter, half-asleep, lifts her popsicle and smooshes it against Sylus’s sleeve.

He pauses.

Then smirks. “We’ll work on precision next.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

There are few things in this world more dangerous than Colonel Caleb in uniform.

Except, apparently, his own daughter’s side-eye.

She’s two years old. Dark brown curls just like his, big purple eyes just like his, a pout that rivals military-grade lasers in intensity.

And right now, she is clinging to your leg like a burr, absolutely refusing to look at him.

“But she loves planes,” Caleb whispers to you, crouching beside the bouncy castle with his face openly confused. “I made her a custom Skyhaven glider. With lights. It sparkles.”

“I know, baby,” you say gently, ruffling his hair. “She just wants me today.”

“She wanted you yesterday,” Caleb says, voice growing increasingly tragic.

You lean down, kiss his cheek, and whisper, “She’s a Mama’s girl, love. You’re still her hero.”

A beat.

“She bit me when I kissed your hand.”

“She was protecting her territory.”

He exhales. And then, softly, lovingly, adjusts the sunhat slipping sideways on your daughter’s head anyway.

The Race:

“Parent-Child Sprint Relay!” the daycare teacher calls out.

Caleb immediately straightens up, like someone just shouted “DEFCON 1.”

Your daughter is clapping. “Mama run!”

You start to step forward.

But then,

“No,” Caleb says suddenly, scooping her up into his arms, “I’ll do it.”

“Caleb, she literally just—”

“I trained in low-gravity zero-G while carrying cargo crates,” he says with a straight face. “I can jog 30 meters with a toddler. I will win.”

You sigh. “You know it’s just for fun—”

“Mission accepted.”

Caleb Wins… Like It’s War:

The whistle blows.

The other dads? Panting. The toddlers? Flopping. The crowd? Cheering.

Caleb?

Silent. Swift. Sharp. Baby in arms. Boots barely touching grass.

She is screaming in laughter the whole time. “Faster, Papa!!”

He sprints like it’s Skyhaven protocol. Crosses the line.

First place.

The teacher stares.

The toddlers cry.

Your daughter lifts both arms, victorious. “I win!!”

Caleb, sweating slightly, panting hard, lifts his chin. “We win.”

Later, On the Blanket:

You’re on a picnic mat now. Your daughter is drinking juice from a neon sippy cup, lying flat on your stomach like a happy pancake. You stroke her hair. She smells like sunscreen and strawberries.

Caleb sits beside you. He’s still dressed down in his flight jacket and boots, but the look on his face is nowhere near military.

It’s full-on melted dad mode.

“She’s so small,” he murmurs, watching her doze. “How can something that tiny rule my entire heart?”

You nudge his knee with yours. “You’re scary to everyone else, but a total puddle for her.”

“She doesn’t even like me more than you,” he sulks.

“She bit a daycare kid who said you looked scary. I think she loves you.”

He grins. That soft, slow, boyish one he never shows anyone but you.

Then leans in and murmurs against your temple, “Next year? I’m training with sandbags. No one beats us in tug of war.”

Your daughter lifts her head briefly.

“Papa,” she mumbles, “you’re loud.”

Caleb straightens immediately. “Sorry, ma’am.”

[purplemoon7]

The Sound of You

Masterlist

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — Kim Namjoon records the little pieces of you—the hums, the soft-spoken thoughts, the joy in your laugh—and turns them into a love song only he gets to keep. One night, he lets you hear it… then lays you down and makes you feel every note.

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Namjoon x Black!Reader (Married AU)

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 3.5k

Warnings! FLUFF! soft and sensual intimacy, married domestic bliss, established relationship, Namjoon being hopelessly in love (as always), NSFW! SMUT (18+), soft dom!Namjoon, switch!reader, unprotected PIV (they're married, praise kink,

You don’t know it yet, but you’ve been the star of Namjoon’s favorite playlist for months.

It starts like any other Tuesday night—slippers too big for your feet, your curls wrapped up in that old satin scarf with the loose seam, and a mug of lukewarm ginger tea you keep reheating and forgetting. There’s jazz floating from the living room speaker, mingling with the scent of bergamot and the soft scratch of a pen as you journal in bed.

Namjoon is somewhere in the house, probably in his studio, probably lost in his head, probably thinking of you.

You hum to yourself as you write—an unconscious melody you don't think much about, a hybrid between something you heard at the shop today and your favorite song. Just something to fill the quiet.

But he’s listening.

Of course he is.

You don't notice the soft creak of the bedroom door or the way he hovers for a second before slipping inside. You don’t see the fond smile tugging at his lips or how his hand stays curled around something behind his back.

"Whatchu doin'?" he asks in a sing-song voice, all deep and casual, and it make your skin warm.

You glance up at him, grinning, replying in the same tone. “Writin'.”

“Mm.” He tilts his head, dark eyes playful. “What’s the topic tonight? The meaning of life? How to get out of going to the grocery store?”

You snort, and the smile he gives you in return is so soft, so sweet, dimples deepening as it widens.

He rounds the bed and plants a soft kiss on your temple. You close your eyes for a beat. That’s your favorite thing—him, his kisses on your skin.

He pulls back, but your eyes stay closed.

“You okay?” he asks after a beat, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. His voice is always gentle with you, but there’s something extra tender in it tonight.

“Mm,” you hum, leaning into his touch. “Just tired. Long day.” You open your eyes and offer him a smile. “How was your day?”

“Long.” You make a noise of sympathy, and he smiles, tucking a stray coil under your scarf. “But I like it when we’re tired together.”

You giggle, and it’s the most beautiful thing he's ever heard. That’s a lie, though; he thinks everything about you is beautiful.

“Okay, I think you’re getting sappy again,” you tease, but it comes out more affectionate than you intended.

“Hey,” he says with mock offense. “I’m not sappy. I’m—”

“A sap,” you interrupt, and then you’re giggling again, and so is he, and you’re so caught up in it, you don’t notice the way his eyes flick to the recorder still clutched in his hand, a secret smile playing on his lips.

When you finish laughing, he kisses your forehead, lingering for a moment before pulling away. “You hungry?” he asks, eyes on you.

“Not really,” you say. “Why? Are you?” He shakes his head, but he looks at you like there’s more he wants to say, so you add, “I can make us something if you’re hungry.”

“No, I’m okay. I just wanted to make sure you ate.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “I ate,” you assure him.

He eyes you skeptically, and you roll your eyes again, laughing as you do. “I swear!” you say, holding your hands up. “Scout's honor.”

He narrows his eyes. “You were never a scout.”

You shrug. “Well, I would’ve been a great one.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “I bet,” he says fondly, and then leans down and kisses the spot behind your ear, and your eyes flutter at the feeling.

Just then, you remember your cold cup of tea, already nudging your mug toward him. “Can you reheat this for me?” you ask, looking up at him with puppy-dog eyes.

He chuckles, takes the mug, and disappears down the hall giving you a glimpse of something silver in his hand. You don’t think twice about it.

Not until ten minutes later, when the tea is back in your hands and he’s crawling into bed beside you with something clutched in his palm—a small recorder, silver and square, like one of those journalist gadgets from old dramas.

“…What’s that?” you ask as he climbs the bed.

His smile is still sweet, but now it’s got something extra to it—something sly and mischievous. He settles next to you under the covers, but instead of pulling you into his arms like he usually does, he stays on his side, his head propped in his hand.

“What's what?” he asks innocently, but his eyes are twinkling in the light. You raise your brows, looking pointedly at the thing in his hand. He pretends to follow your gaze, his lips tugging up. “Oh,” he says, “this.”

You nod, and your brow furrows. “What is it?” you ask again.

He doesn’t say anything else. Just smiles. And presses play.

Your voice spills into the room. Soft and unfiltered. You’re humming—off-key, a little breathless, probably while folding laundry or talking to yourself in the kitchen. The next clip is you reading out loud from your favorite book—the same chapter you always go back to when your soul feels heavy.

You hadn’t even realized he’d been near you then. You sound different through the recorder—dreamy, soft around the edges, like your voice had melted into the walls.

You blink. “Namjoon…”

“Wait,” he whispers, nudging closer. Another clip plays. You’re laughing—full, unrestrained, that specific laugh you only let loose when you think no one’s watching. The one that sounds like you’re gasping for joy, because it caught you by surprise.

There are more clips of you—singing loud and off-key in the shower, humming in the car (that one road trip you wnt on together), muttering to yourself in another room.

Your voice fills the room, and Namjoon's eyes fill with something sweet as he watches the confusion melt into awe as he lets you in on the little project he's been working on since you became his wife.

His eyes find you again, and there’s a small, proud smile as the next clip plays. He must’ve recorded this one a few weeks ago, when he had to stay at the studio all night, and you missed him so bad, you took a cab to pick him up, and the two of you ended up "sleeping" in his office.

The moans and soft whines that come through the recording are unmistakably yours. Your eyes go wide, and your hand flies to your face in shock. “Namjoon—”

“I love how you sound when we’re like that,” he cuts in, his voice so gentle as you feel your cheeks heat up. He pulls your hand from your face and threads his fingers through yours. “All of it. The little sighs, the moans, the way you breathe my name.” His eyes are so sincere, you forget to be embarrassed. “It’s my favorite song in the world.”

You blink, and he pulls his thumb across your cheek, soft as a cloud. “And I love how soft you are when you’re happy. And the way your voice gets all low and raspy when you wake up. And—” he breaks off, shaking his head. He pulls you into his arms and buries his face in your neck. “Your voice,” he breathes against your skin, “it’s my peace. It’s what I want to hear before I fall asleep. The last thing I want to hear every night. I used to fall asleep with a podcast or white noise. Now I use you.” He smiles. “You’re my favorite sound in the world.” He kisses your neck, your collarbone, then looks up at you again. “And I wanted to make you something to remind you of that.” His smile softens. “So I made you a playlist. Of all the different ways you sound. So you can hear it too.”

You’re silent, trying to process. It’s sweet, the most romantic thing he’s ever done for you, and you can’t believe he’s been putting this together without your knowing for all these months.

You blink rapidly, trying not to cry as your heart melts in your chest. “That sounds… very creepy and very romantic.”

Namjoon laughs, the kind that rumbles in his chest and makes your knees weak. “I asked myself if it was creepy. Then I realized I’m in love with you and we're married, so it cancels out.”

You shake your head, grinning even as your heart hammers. “You’re insane.”

“I know,” he whispers, reaching out to brush your coils off your forehead. “Insane for you.” You roll your eyes at the cheesiness, but your heart is doing somersaults in your chest.

You can’t remember the last time someone listened to you just to hear you. Just to be near the parts of you that weren’t polished or filtered or pretty.

You feel a lump form in your throat, but you swallow it back down and say, “Thank you.” And then, softer, “I love it.”

Then you surge forward and kiss him. There’s no warning. No hesitation. Just your mouth on his, urgent and tender all at once, like your heart couldn’t contain it any longer.

He catches you, arms sliding around your waist, pulling you fully into his lap. You melt against him, your arms around his shoulders, and you feel his smile against your mouth.

He breaks away, his nose brushing yours, his eyes searching. “I love you,” he murmurs, and a heat blooms in your stomach at the intensity with which he says it. Like he'll die if he doesn't lay the words at your feet. His own sweet death.

“I love you too,” you say, and you sound breathless, but you can’t help it. This kind of devotion has a way of taking you apart so he can put you back together.

You lean forward and capture his lips again, and this time it’s slower, deeper.

His large hands cup your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks in that reverent way of his. When his tongue slides against yours, it’s not rushed or sloppy. It’s intimate. You want to crawl inside him and never leave.

He moans into your mouth, low and warm. His teeth drag along your bottom lip, gentle but teasing, and then he sucks it into his mouth, savoring it. Hungry but patient.

And then he’s leaning back, pulling you with him until you're sprawled over his chest, your hands planted on either side of his head, your knees framing his waist.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding up under the hem of the oversized shirt you’re wearing—his shirt—and tracing slow, lazy circles into the skin of your back. His other hand settles on your thigh, warm and steady, stroking slowly up and down, squeezing gently on the softness there.

“I wanna ride you,” you pant against his mouth, breath hot between you.

Namjoon moans—actually moans—at your words, his hand on your thigh giving a hard squeeze before he moves it to your hips. His fingers tighten at the small of your back, breath hitching.

“Yeah,” he says, voice already wrecked. “Yeah, baby, whatever you want.”

He’s already pushing your shorts down your hips with shaking hands, his lips ghosting over your collarbone, your shoulder, any part of you he can reach while you shift to help him.

The fabric pools at your knees before you kick them off, and then his hands slide over the curve of your ass, giving it a soft squeeze that makes you shiver. Your thighs go up in flames when he slides a hand between them, dragging his knuckles against the wet lace there.

You gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Already wet for me?” he asks, a smirk in his voice as he mouths down your neck.

You nod, your breath coming out in short little bursts. “Mm.”

“Mm,” he echoes, and you can feel him smile against your skin. His middle finger strokes you through your panties, teasing your clit, your thighs shaking as he drags it up and down your slit. The wet fabric rasps against the sensitive skin, and you hiss, your head dropping forward to rest on his shoulder.

He sucks in a sharp breath at your reaction, his body tensing under you. “You're sensitive,” he mumbles against your skin.

“Mhm,” you agree, grinding your hips down, chasing that pressure.

“You ready for me?” he rasps, and you nod, pushing up onto your elbows so he can pull his sweats down and kick them off. He never takes his eyes off you as he does it, not wanting to miss even a second of you.

You drink him in. The thick muscle of his chest and shoulders, the sharp line of his collarbone, the veins that run down his arms.

You sit back, reaching down to stroke him. He sucks in a breath, his hands gripping the sheets on either side of him as your fingers slide down his length. You watch as his stomach flexes, his hips jerking, his throat bobbing.

“Fuck, baby," he breathes, and you look up at him in time to see his eyes flutter closed, his head dropping back. "You're so good to me,” He’s a sight—eyes glossy and heavy-lidded, lips swollen from your kisses, his cheeks flushed the prettiest pink. You want to fuck him until he’s incoherent. Until he can't think of anything but you.

You shift, straddling one of his thighs, the rough muscle of it rubbing against your clit through your underwear. His hips kick up, his cock brushing against you, and you gasp at the contact. You want him inside you. So. Fucking. Bad.

You roll your hips, grinding on his thigh as he pants beneath you. He watches, fascinated, as you ride his leg, your fingers sliding under the hem of your shirt to bring it up and over your head, tossing it across the room.

He doesn't hesitate before palming one of your breasts, rolling your nipple between his fingers. You whimper, and his eyes go dark at the sound. “God, you're beautiful,” he groans, and then he's sitting up, pulling your breast into his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue makes you cry out, your fingers threading over his buzzcut as he laves at your skin with soft, tender strokes.

When he pulls away, he's smirking that boyish smirk you love so much, before he kisses the valley between your breasts. You sigh, your body melting under the sweet, steady heat of his hands, his mouth.

"I want it," you moan, rolling your hips.

"Yeah?" he murmurs against your chest, his fingers moving to tug your panties to the side, dragging his finger through your slit. "Want my cock, baby?"

You nod, biting your lip.

And he's never denied you anything, not since the moment he met you.

He grips himself at the base, a shiver rolling through him at his own touch, and then he’s stroking your entrance with his tip, teasing.

“Namjoon…” you whine, trying to move down onto him, but he’s got you firmly in his hands. He laughs, the sound raspy and delicious and going straight to your core.

“Patience,” he murmurs, his tongue sweeping out to wet his lips. “Gonna give it to you, baby. I promise.”

You groan in frustration, but the sound quickly turns to one of relief as he notches himself against you and slowly, slowly presses forward. His eyes close, his mouth dropping open on a moan, and you feel him shudder under you, his grip tightening on your hips as you sink down, down, down.

You moan too, the fullness making your head drop back, your walls fluttering around him, adjusting. You feel yourself stretch to accommodate him, feel every inch as he fills you, slow and deep, until your hips are flush against his.

It’s so much. So full.

“Fuck,” you breathe, your voice high and shaky. Your thighs tremble around him, and Namjoon’s hands find your hips, gripping you steady, his breath ragged as his wedding band indents into your skin, leaving a mark.

His eyes are fixed on you, glassy and wide, “Shit, baby,” he huffs out. “So fucking wet.”

“Mm… yeah,” you moan. “Just for you.”

He nods, his eyes rolling a little, his jaw slack as he looks up at you from under his lashes.

You start to roll your hips in a slow, experimental circle, a breathy moan slipping from your lips at the delicious friction it creates. You do it again, his hands on your hips to guide you, until you find a rhythm that has you both trembling.

“Shit—” he gasps, trying not to grip too hard, using every ounce of control he has.“You feel… fuck, baby, you feel so good.”

You lean forward again, bracing your hands on his chest. He’s so warm beneath you, the heat of his skin like a hearth, and the way he looks at you—wide-eyed, reverent, wrecked—has your pussy clenching around him. Warm, wet and so fucking tight.

He moans at the sensation, his hips kicking up, and you do it again. Another clench, another moan.

“Stop that,” he half-laughs, half-groans, his eyes glossy and heavy. He reaches up and cups your cheeks, his thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Or I’m gonna come.”

“Yeah?” you ask, a smirk in your voice, your hips moving in a slow grind. He moans again, his eyes falling shut. “You like that?” you whisper, rolling your hips again, clenching again, milking another moan out of him.

You don't give him a chance to respond before you're picking up the pace, rolling your hips faster, the slick slide of your gummy walls wrapped around him, making you both moan. You're so wet, he can feel it dripping down to his balls as he bobs inside you, filling you completely.

“God, you’re so fucking wet,” he breathes. “So good for me, baby. So tight.” His hips are jerking up, matching your movements, his face flushed with pleasure.

You reach down and stroke your clit, moaning when the pleasure zings up your spine. It's so sensitive, it makes your thighs shake, but it feels so good, and you can't stop, rubbing slow circles as you move on him. Your walls start fluttering, the heat in your belly coiling tighter.

“You gonna come for me?” he groans.

You nod, the breathy whine you let out making his hips jerk, his own hands shaking as they find your hips again to move you faster on him.

“Good girl,” he pants, his eyes falling to where he's disappearing inside you. "Pussy's taking it so well. Come on, baby. Just like that.” He’s rambling now, his words messy and broken up by gasps. "Wanna feel you come on my cock."

You whimper, your eyes squeezing shut as your head drops forward. You focus on your clit, rubbing it faster, your hips rolling and rolling and rolling until you feel it, that sweet release, the heat flooding your belly, your thighs shaking, your pussy clenching, clenching, clench—

“Yes!,” you cry, your orgasm taking over, making your muscles go weak. He catches you, his arms banding around your back as he holds you to him, your forehead pressing to his shoulder. “Fuck,” you whine. “N-Namjoon…”

"I got you,” he breathes into your scarf, his voice wrecked and warm. “I got you, baby.” He takes over, his own orgasm building, the heat twisting up his spine, making his stomach muscles tighten.

He fucks up into you, fast and frantic, and when he comes, he makes the most beautiful sound—part cry, part moan, his eyes squeezing shut, his entire body shuddering under yours. You feel the hot rush of his release flooding your insides, whimpering at the warmth of it, the wetness.

He pants, his eyes opening, and when they meet yours, you see your future in them. Your forever. And then he’s leaning forward, pulling you to him for a kiss. You give him your mouth, your tongue sliding across his, soft and gentle and so in love.

When he pulls away from you, he doesn’t go far. Just enough to cup your cheek and smile. “Hi,” he whispers.

You smile, a little breathless. “Hi.”

He grins, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "That was fun."

“Mmhmm.” You hum in agreement.

“We should do it again,” he adds, a sly grin on his face. You laugh, your eyes falling shut again, and you press a kiss to the base of his neck.

“You’re insatiable,” you mumble against his skin.

“Only for you,” he murmurs as always. You smile, kissing the spot again, and he hums, his hand moving to trace slow circles on the small of your back.

“I want to hear it again,” you whisper into his skin, your voice small and shy. He knows exactly what you mean.

"Yeah?" he asks, already leaning over to pick the recorder up from the bedside table where he left it. You nod, and he pulls you closer, your chest on his.

He presses play, and your voice fills the room, soft and sweet. His arms tighten around you, his nose buried in your curls, your scent filling his head. And you let yourself drift off to the sound of your voice.

His favorite sound in the world.

- Moon ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚

[aothotties]

Telling Sukuna you want a baby

warnings:MNDI, little fluff, fingering, breeding, creampie, pregnancy

“So um-” you say, almost in a whisper, “i think i'm ready for us to have a baby” 

You were so scared at that moment. Sukuna has never been one to like children but he never specifically said he didnt want any so you went out on a limb with this one 

Your best friend already had two kids and you wanted so badly to give them a cousin to play with 

You were unsure how Sukuna would respond but you felt it was best to share this with him. You’ve been married for two years, dated for four, and honestly couldn't imagine taking this next step with someone else.

Sukuna looked up from the book he was reading and stared directly in your eyes

“Like, now?” he asked 

“I mean not right at this moment but I wouldn't mind if we tried. I mean Sukuna i love you and i'm ready to-” 

He cut you off,

 “okay”, he said plainly 

You stared at him without saying a word, you were unsure if you heard him correctly 

“D-did you just say okay?” you asked 

“Yeah”, he responded, “i wouldn't mind having a little me running around here”

Your heart fluttered hearing those words. You were so excited that your husband was ready to start a family with you. You ran over to where he was sitting on the couch and jumped right on top of him and started peppering kisses all over his face 

“Baby i'm so excited, i can't wait to be parents” you said excitedly 

“Me too, baby” he said in response

You sat in his lap as he finished his book but while he was reading he kept getting distracted with thoughts of you carrying his child. He loved the idea of it and honestly couldn't wait any longer to grow a family 

He caressed you body with his large hands, mind full of nothing but breeding you right here, right now 

His hand snaked up your abdomen to your breast where he began to fondle them. Your nipples hardened under his touch and your body melted into his. His right hand moved lower, down to the shorts you were wearing. He palmed your cunt through your shorts and you let out a soft moan 

“Let's start right now baby” he whispered in your ear

You couldn't respond as you were too overwhelmed at the pleasure. He grabbed your body and flipped you over so he was on top of you. He began kissing you passionately, tongue slipping into your mouth. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer, you were floating on a cloud. Your heart was racing and your breathing was heavy as you anticipated what was going to happen next.

He sat up and removed his shirt along with yours and you shimmied your shorts and panties off

He brought his finger to your clit and made small circles on the swollen bud 

“Suku- mm” you moaned out 

He slipped a finger into your soaked hole, curling it upward to hit your favorite spot. Your back arched off the couch and your eyes closed from the pleasure. He picked up the pace causing you to whine. You felt yourself getting closer to your orgasm but he pulled his finger out earning a cry from you 

“Let's do this baby” he said as he stood up and removed his sweats and boxers.

He draped one of your legs over his shoulder and rubbed your slit with his now angry red tip 

“Don't tease” you whined 

And without second thought he slid into you, your walls sucking him in 

You both let out a sigh as he bottomed out and he stayed there to relish in the feeling. He then began moving in and out slowly, sliding his thick tip on that spot you love so much 

Your back arched and you wrapped your other leg around his waist. He was groaning on top of you, turning you on even more 

He pumped continually inside your gummy walls only thinking of the end result. You round, full of his seed, carrying the baby you both wanted so much. With every thrust you squeezed him even more causing him to throw his head back as he fucked you 

“Feels so good baby” he said with his eyes closed, something he usually never did 

This feeling was something new to him and he was floating on cloud nine, he couldn't be happier than in this moment with you.

He grabbed both of your legs and folded you into a mating press and picked up the speed. His tip was hitting your cervix and you were a moaning mess. His name falling graciously off your lips 

He continued bucking his hips into you, pounding every inch of your throbbing pussy. You felt yourself get close to your orgasm as your nails dug into his back.

“So close Sukuna, so c-close” you whined 

“Yeah, let it go for me princess” he said in response 

You saw white as your orgasm washed over you and spilled out onto his thighs. He let out another groan and started pumping into you faster 

“Gonna fill you up, princess, give you all my cum” he said in your ear 

It was like music to your ears. You placed your lips on his and kissed him as he continued

He pace slowed a little but not too much, he made sure to still be pleasing you 

“Fuuuckk im about to cum princess,” he whined 

Those repeated strokes brought him to the edge and he was about to fill you up for the first time. 

A few more rough strokes and Sukuna emptied himself inside you, making sure to not to pull out until you were full. When he slid out he used his finger to push his cum back into you 

“Gotta make sure it stays in” he said as you laid there still coming down from your high 

He placed a kiss on your forehead 

“I cant wait for us to start a family, i've never wanted this with anyone else but you” he said as he laid next to you 

Six weeks later 

“SUKUNA OH MY GOD!” you screamed 

He ran up to the bathroom where you were, worried something had happened 

“What!? What happened?? Are you okay?”

You held up the positive pregnancy test and tears fell from your eyes 

“I'm pregnant!” you screamed with joy 

He picked you up in his arms and spun you around. He kissed you and held you tight 

“I'm so happy! I can't wait to be a dad” he exclaimed 

He stood there holding you, heart happy now that he was finally able to start a family with you.

Rachel

[sunnyware-inc]

☆ COD Characters with actual literal ghost!Reader ☆

Σ(°△° ꪱꪱꪱ)

☆ I wanted a silly scenario for my first post, I promise I'll also write normal stuff too ☆ Reader is GN ☆

☆ ft: Gaz, Ghost, Roach, Nikto ☆

☆ Ghosts work differently for each scenario, please don't question it ☆

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick

Kyle knew he was being haunted. He had been for years. His only regret was that you'd died at all, that he had to bury his best friend, his sweetheart. But once you'd managed to crawl back to haunt him? He was surprised by how easily he could fall into a new dynamic with you. Then again, everything with you was easy.

"Babe, you know I look crazy talking to myself?" Gaz stood seemingly alone with a drink, muttering under his breath to someone only visible to himself.

You floated closer to him, devious smirk on your face, "Maybe you are crazy."

"Nice try, love." He managed a chuckle, but in truth, sometimes he did wonder. The grief had hit him hard, part of him feared that one day he'd find out you were only a daydream. A wonderful, beautiful, pestering daydream.

"It's a new haunting strategy I'm working on. It's called gaslighting. You like it?"

He scrunched his nose, "Not really."

"I'm sorry..." Your ghostly hands cupped his face, making him shiver. It was reassuring to him. He could feel you. Make sure you're real.

Still, he continued to frown. Slowly, he raised his straw to his mouth and took a drink, never breaking eye contact with you.

"So cruel!" You gasped. "You know I miss my favourite drink."

He raised his voice, looking away from you, "Mm, this tastes so good. I'm all alone, enjoying a lovely refreshing beverage. It tastes like..."

He savoured the sweet contact of your fists in his shirt, even if you playfully called him a heartless monster.

Simon 'Ghost' Riley

Simon's had to work in some shocking offices over the year but this was ridiculous. He could understand why the room was abandoned, ignoring the fact it had half burned down years ago. The uncontrollable chill (even when he'd shut all the windows) he could handle. He could even ignore the light occasionally flickering (even when he'd changed the bulb). But it was pretty bloody hard to work when his reports kept getting thrown across the room. Doubly so when the door locked, preventing him from leaving at all. So by the time night had fallen, revealing the ghostly form of a person? He wasn't in the best mood.

"Just what I fucking need, a fucking ghost. You'd better let me out this room or-"

He stopped when his brain had finally caught up with his mouth and realised he should've been scared. But he couldn't bring himself to be. You just looked so... sad?

"I'm sorry... Nobody's talked to me for so long..." your voice warbled, like you hadn't spoken in years. "I just wanted to be seen for once..."

And fuck, didn't he understand the feeling? He looked you over silently, taking in your shaky form. "Tell me your name."

You whispered it, then again to make sure it was heard. "I'll unlock the door, I'll stop throwing papers. But please stay at night?"

And he did. Every evening, he'd make sure to spend some time with you, alleviating your lonliness. In return, he began to feel your presence during the day. You shelved files for him, your hands sometimes brushed his own, he began to even notice the small indents of pillows when you sat down. Despite the paranormal nature of your relationship, he found himself feeling safe, reassured even relaxed. It was nice, knowing someone was around to look out for him, who wanted his company in return.

Gary 'Roach' Sanderson

You couldn't help but admire the quiet chaos brought about by Gary. When you'd found him alone, you had to reveal yourself.

You stumbled your way through an introduction, despite his obvious shock. Once he'd relaxed, you managed to start a conversation. The revelation that you knew BSL brought an immediate smile to his face (and you congratulated yourself internally for impressing him). You hadn't expected to appreciate his company so much but it was nice, having someone finally sit and listen to you ramble. Plus, his own enthused rambling was endearing to you.

But eventually it was down to business. His mischief with your supernatural power? You two were unstoppable. Nobody went unterrorised, he learned how to push target's buttons and you pushed them until you were both in stitches.

You also loved to spend time with him, just around him. And he never complained, happy to feel your presence beside him in a room full of people. Of course, sometimes that was to watch your schemes unfold. But he happily leaned further into your spirit while MacTavish screamed at the cockroach that found its way onto his head.

You figured he'd make a good ghost. You just hadn't expected it to happen so soon. For the first time since your death, you felt sick when you saw his spirit rise from the ashes that should've been your favourite mortal. He looked upset, of course he was, death was never easy to experience. Wordlessly, he stumbled over to you, unstable in his new form. You pulled him closer as he buried his head in your shoulder. He returned the gesture, hugging you tighter as new tried to come to terms with his new reality.

Nikto

It's official then, he's insane. More than everyone else already said. How else could he explain seeing a figure floating above his bed?

"Away. We aren't crazy yet."

You pouted, "But you looked lonely."

His jaw clenched at that, "We are fine. We do not need an imaginary friend."

"I'm not imaginary. Just dead." You explained, "And now I'm haunting you."

Nikto continued to protest, to ignore you, but you wouldn't leave. And your version of haunting was a lot like just hanging out.

Nikto stalked the empty practice range, grumbling after your incessant company caused him to make another imperfect shot.

"Do not distract me." His hand waved you away again, a favourite gesture of his.

"I'm just trying to see how you do it."

"Do you have nobody else who wants to see you?"

That made you pause. Finally, silence. It was unsettling.

You finally spoke up, "What, like friends? Not really..."

He sighed, tone softening a bit, "Then be quiet, or I will find a way to remove you."

"An exorcism? Please, anything but that!"

"Then quiet."

He managed to focus once you'd been threatened into silence. A perfect shot.

"You may speak now."

"Nice shot! Go Nikto!"

That finally got a chuckle out of him. "Thank you." He smiled at you, eyes meeting your own. He'd never admit it, but your company was a balm to him. If you really were just another reflection of his fractured mind, at least you made him feel less alone. Made him feel happy.

[folkwhoreberry]

heyyy, i've had this idea floating in my head for ages but singer!reader x ex!lando - lando reacting to reader releasing a song about how she felt in their relationship and him trying to make it up to her - based on figure 8 by paramore 🫶🫶🫶

Drained

lando norris x reader

or... the one where flowers die and you’re made of thin ice

word count : 1.2k

warning : mm none really, english is not my first language!!!

on the radio : figure 8 by paramore

🏎️🧡

you felt lost without him. stuck in the same place, like a cat chasing its own tail.

how couldn’t you? after all this time, a small argument broke everything.

but wasn’t it always this way? lando changed you, for the worse and for the better. but you didn’t feel like yourself, you couldn’t be yourself around him. always… pretending to be this persona you’re not.

the person you are on stage is the real you.

——————

tears appeared in your waterline as the cheers of the crowd filled your ears, the thousands of fans applauding for you and only you.

“I want to sing you a song,” you began to speak, the loud crowd slowly dying down to let you speak, “a song that I never sang to anyone before.”

at that the crowns cheered, obviously excited to hear an unreleased song. who wouldn’t be?

“drained me down to the last drop,” you sang into the microphone as your pianist played the keys in the background. “pearls before swine, all flowers die.”

you kept on singing, the crowd silent as they listened to you, their phones out to record this moment.

tears began to slowly roll down your cheeks when you reached the bridge. “how could I? how could I? if I’m made of thin ice. how could I? how could I? you’d be wise if you thought twice.”

the final note rang out when you finished the song, your voice raw and trembling. you stood there for a moment, letting the silence from the crowd settle, before they erupted into applause. you blinked through the tears, giving them a watery smile and thanking them for being there tonight. but inside, you felt empty, drained, as if the song had taken every last bit of emotion you had left.

as you walked off stage, you could already see your phone lighting up with notifications. fans had posted clips of the performance on social media, the song quickly going viral. it didn’t take long before comments flooded in - speculation about who the song was about, how personal it felt. some guessed it was about lando, and those guesses spread like wildfire.

you didn’t respond to any of it. you couldn’t. you turned off your phone and sat alone in your dressing room, trying to gather your thoughts, but your mind kept drifting back to him. lando. the way things had fallen apart so quickly, the way you were still trying to pick up the pieces two months later. the song had been a release, a way to pour out everything you hadn’t been able to say to him.

but now it was out there. and everyone had heard it.

——————

a few days later, you’re scrolling through your phone, trying to distract yourself, when a clip catches your eye. lando’s name trends on social media, and you click on the video to see him in an interview. he looks calm, his usual smile in place as the interviewer throws him casual questions about racing. then, almost casually, they bring up the song.

“so, lando, there’s a lot of buzz about this song, people are saying it might be about you. care to comment on that?”

lando’s expression barely falters, but there’s a slight tightness around his mouth as he responds. “I’ve heard about it,” he says, his tone dry, almost dismissive. “but I’m not really focused on that stuff. I’m focused on my career, not gossip.”

he gives the interviewer a polite smile, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes, and they quickly move on to the next question. but you know him too well. that answer wasn’t just for the cameras - it was for you.

you put your phone down, feeling a strange mix of anger and sadness. of course he would brush it off like that, pretend it didn’t affect him. maybe it didn’t. maybe you were the only one still hurting.

——————

later that night, your phone buzzes with a text. when you see his name on the screen, your heart skips a beat.

lando: hey. can we talk?

you stare at the message, unsure of how to respond. you hadn’t heard from him in weeks, and now he wanted to talk? after everything?

before you can overthink it, you type out a short reply.

you: fine. when?

he answers almost immediately.

lando: tomorrow. your place?

you hesitate, but finally agree.

——————

the next day, you’re pacing around your living room, waiting for him to show up. when there’s a knock on the door, your heart races. you take a deep breath and open it, finding lando standing there, looking as nervous as you feel.

“hey,” he says softly, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“hey,” you reply, stepping aside to let him in.

the silence between you is heavy as you sit down on the couch. lando leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. for a few moments, neither of you says anything.

finally, he speaks. “I’m sorry.” his voice is quiet, but the words hit you hard. “for everything. I know I messed up. I know I wasn’t… I wasn’t good to you, and I should’ve been. I shouldn’t have made you feel like you had to pretend around me. that wasn’t fair.”

you bite your lip, unsure of how to respond. you had wanted to hear this for so long, but now that the words are out, they feel almost surreal.

“it wasn’t just you,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I wasn’t honest with myself, either. I wanted so badly for us to work that i ignored… all of it.”

lando looks up at you, his eyes soft and filled with regret. “I never wanted to hurt you,” he says. “but I did. and I can’t change that. I just… I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. really.”

the sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten. you don’t know what to say, so you just nod, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill again.

“I miss you,” he admits, his voice breaking the silence. “even if we weren’t right for each other, I still miss you.”

your heart aches at his words. because you miss him too, more than you’d care to admit. but that doesn’t mean things can go back to the way they were.

“I miss you, too,” you say softly. “but we can’t - ”

before you can finish, lando leans forward, cupping your face in his hands, and kisses you. it’s soft at first, hesitant, like he’s waiting for you to pull away. but you don’t. instead, you kiss him back, the familiarity of him overwhelming you.

when you finally pull away, both of you are breathless. lando rests his forehead against yours, his hands still gently holding your face.

“I don’t know what this means,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.

you don’t know either. all you know is that, in this moment, it feels like a step forward - even if you’re not sure where that step will take you.

“we’ll figure it out,” you whisper back.

and maybe, just maybe, you will. or at least you hope you do.

————————————————————————————

© all rights reserved to folkwhoreberry. no stealing or copying will be tolerated.

a/n : had so much fine writing this!! on the other hand I never had an ex so idk how they work I hope this makes sense😭😭

[stottlemorgan]

Healing Touch / Lady Dimitrescu x Reader

Words: 1,355 Tags: Injuries, hurt/comfort, blood, drinking blood (Alcina does), not too crazy just RE Village shenanigans Notes: This fanfic is a request for the lovely @et-is-an-alien - I hope you love it!! It’s my first ever time writing for Lady D and for a request so I’m super nervous! But this was so fun :D (I'm also still learning about formatting my writing on tumblr so lmk any tips bc it's a bit janky!!) Summary: You get attacked by that imbecile Heisenberg's lycans while out in the village. You make your way back to Castle Dimitrescu, desperately seeking healing from your sweet Lady. Ao3 Link.

Searing pain stung throughout different points of your body as you ran across the bridge and through the vineyard towards the castle entrance. Your panicked breaths melted into the whistling cold wind and the distant barks of lycans at your back. Slamming your hands and body against the large door, you pushed it open with the last of your strength and entered the hall of the castle. You pulled the door shut, the icy air whipping your hair around your face and it sticking to the blood spread over your features.

With a desperate huff, you hauled your weakening body through the hallways and into the main hall. You fell onto the last step of the staircase with a cry and finally inspected the damage the lycans had done. Bites of all depths were scattered over your person, the most severe being at the join of your neck and shoulder. Your ribcage had also caught the tail end of the swings of a machete a few times, leaving behind a collection of claw-like cuts and making it hard to breathe deeply.

 You gasped and swallowed as you ripped up some of your shirt and pressed it into your ribcage, “Ah, fuck- fucking dogs. Fucking Heisenberg.” Your words echoed through the main hall and a faint buzzing floated through from the hallway. A cloud of flies flew around your head and over your body before transforming into Daniela at your side. She immediately scanned your injuries and hissed.

“Mother! Mother, come at once!” Daniela shouted, kneeling next to you and taking over pressing into your wounds.

“Daniela? What is it, daughter?” Alcina’s voice rang from the top landing as her heavy steps made their way towards the staircase.

 “It’s Y/n, come quickly! Something has happened!”

You groaned and lolled your head back in agony as Daniela dipped her fingers into your neck wound and licked the blood from her hand, “Lycans,” she spat.

Alcina’s steps grew quicker, and you heard her shriek as your eyes grew fuzzy, “By Mother’s Grace!”

“Alcina, my heart,” You exhaled, feebly grabbing at her ankle as she came around to your front.

“Hush, dear, save your energy – Daniela,” she ushered her daughter away from you and you felt her arms wrap around your body, “Bring alcohol, gauze, all of it.” Alcina lifted you to her chest, “Come, my darling, I shall sort you.” She began to march towards the bed chamber.

You softly caressed her necklace as she walked, rolling the pearls between your fingers lazily, “Mm, my love,” you hummed, jolting slightly and letting out a cry of pain when Alcina pushed the door to the bedchamber open with one of her knees.

She placed you on the large bed, and you bounced into the mattress with a whine.

“I am sorry, my dear, but time is of the essence – Daniela!” Alcina roared toward the open door and Daniela’s voice echoed through the halls,

“Yes, mother!” Daniela ran through the doorway, bundles and bottles piled up and pressed to her chest.

“Thank you, my daughter. Now, leave us.” Alcina ordered softly and Daniela nodded,

“Yes, mother.” And left the room, shutting the door behind her.

You watched Alcina pull at your clothes and her face contorted between anger and fear as she pried soaked pieces of clothing from your wounds, “Daniela said this is the work of lycans?” Her golden eyes caught yours for a moment before she conjured her claws and carefully cut your trousers and shirt from your body piece by piece, leaving you mostly bare.

You nodded, “Yes, Heisenberg’s lot. They’re still—” You took in a long, strangled breath as Alcina wiped an alcohol-soaked cloth across the cuts on your ribcage, “wreaking havoc in the village, killing- killing and eating villagers and livestock. Ah! Alcina—” You groaned and writhed.

 “You need to stay still, my darling,” she held you with one hand and cleaned your wounds with the other, “That bastard, Heisenberg. I will strip him of his skin and feed him to his own dogs.” She snarled. After dressing your ribcage and cleaning the sporadic surface-level bites around your limbs, Alcina leaned in closely to inspect the group of bites between your shoulder and neck, “Nasty work, indeed.” Her nose scrunched up in distaste for the lycans, “Just like their father.”

“Alcina,” You rolled your eyes and gripped her thigh, “for the love of—”

“Yes, yes, I’ll hush.”

She dragged two of her fingers through the wounds, eliciting a pained mewl from your throat, and brought them to her mouth to lick, “Turning stale and unsurprisingly filthy,” she smacked her lips, examining the flavour, “I need to remove the dirty blood. Up,” She brought her hands to your sides and sat you up, leaning you forward against her chest and shoulder.

You grunted as her warm mouth enveloped a section of the bites, “Fuck, fuck.” You hissed, her warm saliva mixing into your blood and stinging. Her teeth burrowed into your muscle slightly and she began suckling at your wounds. Pained huffs and gasps escaped you, and you grabbed handfuls of her dress at her waist as the dull and familiar ache of her feeding streamed through your shoulder and down your arm.

After a few seconds, Alcina broke away from your neck with puffed cheeks full of blood, and she leaned away towards the bedside table. You rested your head into the crook of her neck, listening to the dragging of a metal bowl and her spitting multiple times into it before putting the bowl back down and turning back to you.

“How absolutely putrid, very unlike your usual delicious bouquet.” She purred and you let out a drowsy chuckle. Alcina gently pushed your head back and returned her mouth to your throat. A soft moan crept through you and you felt your breaths shortening as she cradled you in her arms. Alcina chuckled, the sound vibrating against your muscles before she pulled away and spat into the bowl again. She faced you, golden eyes shining in the dim light of the hearth and licking her lips, “You’re still feeling well enough for pleasure, it seems.” Her mouth, wet with your blood, curved into a smirk.

“Always well enough for pleasure with you, my heart,” your voice turned to a whisper as the edges of your vision became darker and your grip on her waist weakened. 

“Sadly, it will have to wait - your blood is clean but you are in dire need of rest.” She wrapped your numbing shoulder and neck in bandages before cupping your face with one hand and holding your waist with the other, sighing quietly with relief. A sleepy smile danced along your lips as you brought your hand to her cheek and stroked over her lips with your thumb,

“Having my own personal nurse is nice, especially one so delicious,” you said hoarsely and Alcina raised her eyebrows with a chortle, 

“Don’t make it a habit, dear,” she brought you closer, tapping her nose against yours, “Although, you would make an exquisite cabernet.” Alcina pressed her lips to yours with a hum. You laughed into the kiss, a sting of pain surging through your chest as you breathed in deeply, turning the laugh into a shuddering moan and briefly darkening your vision. Alcina pulled back, looking into your eyes, “My love?” She whispered.

“Ah–” You gasped, “It’s my ribs, it’s okay, ah, I’m okay,” You winced as she gently laid you back in the bed and pressed a chaste kiss to your lips. Alcina rose from the bed and wiped her mouth with a cloth, throwing it into the blood-filled bowl on the bedside table before making her way around the bed. She laid back on the plush pillows and gently pulled you into her arms, resting your head against her chest.

“Sleep, my dear. And when you wake I will have Bela bring Heisenberg’s head on a platter.” Her long fingers stroked your side, avoiding your injuries as they went.

“Mhm,” You hummed in agreement, dropping into a sweet slumber to the rhythms of Alcina’s body below you.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

who were the other characters that brought up ace's potential that you mentioned in the recent post? im not sure if my memory is failing me but did any character ever discuss ace's potential of becoming housewarden or something like that too? i thought i heard it floating around online before

[Referencing this post!]

There’s actually lots of other characters, though I didn’t really include them in the original post because most of these examples are more like general praise for Ace’s skillset rather than his potential to grow even more. Here’s instances I was able to locate (although please keep in mind that this list isn’t exhaustive);

Jamil says Ace is “a deft hand at basketball.” Even as a first year, Ace is trying hard to prove his mettle and earn a proper spot on the team for actual games.

In Endless Halloween Night, Leona clocks Ace's cunning (he knew that Floyd wanted to use someone as a decoy and so stuck close to Leona so that Floyd would default to Epel). "Both your mercilessness and the calculating way you drew close to my strength without hesitation wasn't half bad. I see that the good little boys over at Heartslabyul have more crafty students like you mixed in."

In Malleus's Bloom Broom vignettes, Malleus states, "I must say, for a child of man you do have some redeeming qualities. Though you're "just a freshman", you were more than happy to share your views to get a proper response out of me for the first question. Heh heh, and meanwhile many of my own classmates struggle to even say hello to me."

In Idia's Suitor Suit vignettes, Idia rambles about how Ace looks and acts so cool, like some action hero.

Rook is the one who points out Ace and the others' potential to be polished in book 5; it is based on his advice that Vil decides on the NRC VDC/SDC Tribe that he does. Rook also notices that Ace is very quickly able to mimic the language of moles (in Ace's Dorm Uniform vignettes). "Merveilleux! Such skillful mimicry! You truly did memorize it in one go [...] Mm, yes. The Roi des Roses has fine vassals indeed."

Vil praises Ace in Fairy Gala If for being able to perform a passable runway walk. Other characters that are present during this scene (Lilia, Silver, Jack, etc.) are shocked as well and ask how he was able to do it.

Fellow Honest praises the NRC students (including Ace) and tells them that they have potential to be "stars" on Playful Land's stage. However, it's not clear if he was being sincere here, as he was most likely lovebombing them in order to lure them to the park.

In book 7, Cater calls Ace super cool for standing up to OB Riddle; it gave Cater some courage to fight too! Not many people are capable of doing that.

To my knowledge, there’s no canonical discussion of Ace as a potential dorm leader (unless you want to count his stint in book 1, but he only wanted the crown to knock Riddle down a peg, not because he was the most suitable for the role). That’s purely from the world of fanon, as there’s lots of fan art and theory crafting about whether he or Deuce will succeed Riddle.

[cheynovak]

Madrid - The crystal palace

CHARACTERS: Mark Meachum, YN (original character)

SETTING: First mission for YN

SPOILERS: Loosely set after Countdown on Amazon prime.

Warnings: Sexual tension, kidnapping, drugging, human trafficking, ...

Story takes place before: Holdover

The Palacio de Cristal looked like something out of a fever dream — glass archways blooming with soft amber light, fountains bubbling with champagne instead of water, and the sounds of a chamber quartet drifting through the air like perfume. It was the kind of party only monsters threw: beautiful, elegant, and deeply rotten beneath the surface.

YN adjusted her diamond earring — fake, of course — and tried not to look like she was holding her breath.

Mark Meachum stood beside her like he belonged here. Custom-tailored tux, top two buttons open like he hadn’t bothered to try too hard, that easy smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. God, he was so relaxed. Like he was walking into a cocktail lounge, not the lair of an alleged international trafficker.

She’d heard the stories. Everyone in the Bureau had. Meachum was the guy who made danger look sexy — the charmer, the flirt, the one who could make arms dealers laugh and assassins lower their guard.

And yeah — half her female coworkers had crushed on him.

But standing next to him now, YN only felt... tense. Sharp. Like she had too much skin on.

“You good?” Mark asked, voice smooth as velvet and just as warm. He leaned in close, under the pretense of adjusting the back of her necklace. “Necklace was off-center. We can’t have that. You're my trophy wife, remember?”

“Fake trophy,” she muttered, dry.

He chuckled. “Mm. Don’t say that. You wear money well.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You know I’ve never done undercover.”

“You’re doing great,” he said easily. “You walk like you own the place. Chin up, shoulders back, ten percent bitch energy. Just enough to make men nervous and women hate you.”

“That’s comforting,” she said, scanning the room

“Hey,” he murmured. “Look at me.”

She did.

Mark’s eyes were piercing, far steadier than his easygoing tone ever suggested.

“This guy—The Sheik—likes power. But he only trusts people who are owned by it. So you’re the prize. I’m the buyer. That’s what we’re selling. You just let him look at you like he wants to, and I’ll handle the rest.”

Her breath caught. “That’s disgusting.”

“I didn’t say I liked it,” he replied. “But I’m not gonna let him get near you. You’re not alone.”

And for a second — just a second — something softened in her chest.

Then his hand slid around her lower back, and he leaned in like they were newly engaged, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“Smile, sweetheart,” he whispered. “The bastard’s coming this way.”

YN was floating.

Not from the champagne — she barely sipped it. No, it was the surreal feeling of being someone else entirely.

Her gown was deep emerald, custom-tailored by some contact from Interpol who owed Mark a favor. Her hair was swept up. Her smile practiced. She was on the arm of one of the most notoriously untouchable agents in the Bureau, and all eyes were on her.

Including his.

The Sheik — real name Hamid Al-Sayid — stood near the far fountain, surrounded by sycophants. But when his eyes landed on YN, everything around him seemed to blur.

Mark noticed it too. His hand on her waist tightened.

“He’s watching,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “You’re gonna get asked to dance.”

She tensed. “What do I say?”

“You say yes. You smile. You pretend I don’t matter.”

Beat.

“But don’t forget I’m ten steps behind you the whole time."

YN swallowed hard. Then, sure enough—

Al-Sayid made his way over with the oily grace of someone who thought the world was his plaything.

“May I?” he asked, not looking at Mark at all.

YN smiled sweetly. “Of course.”

Mark let go. Too easily.

As Al-Sayid led her to the dance floor, she glanced back — and saw Mark, standing still, drink untouched, jaw tight. His eyes locked with hers.

And in that moment—

God. She saw it. Jealousy.

Dark. Hot. Needy.

It hit her like a punch. Not because she wanted him to care — at least, that’s what she told herself — but because it meant the façade was already cracking.

And the night had barely begun.

--

The lounge was soaked in gold.

Golden light, golden drapes, golden laughter. Even the champagne bubbles in YN's glass sparkled like precious metal. But none of it could mask the fact that the air was thick with danger.

The Sheik sat sprawled across a velvet settee, the picture of opulence and smug confidence. His three-piece suit looked like it cost more than her rent. He hadn’t stopped talking since they sat down — about power, his businesses, his "generous" contributions to Madrid’s elite. It was all noise. Empty, self-congratulatory noise.

Mark, on the other hand, hadn’t said a word in ten minutes.

He sat next to YN, elbow on the armrest, two fingers pressed to his temple as if fighting off a headache. She could feel the tension radiating off him, sharp and hot. His jaw was tight. His fingers kept twitching against his leg.

Meanwhile, the Sheik had taken every opportunity to lean into her space. A hand on her shoulder. A touch to her lower back. He laughed too loudly, looked too long.

YN kept her smile neutral, eyes kind, just like she’d practiced.

"And your husband," the Sheik said, flashing a smile toward Mark, "he must be very lucky."

Mark finally looked up.

"He is," he said evenly. "But he doesn’t share."

The Sheik just laughed.

"We all share, eventually."

YN felt Mark tense beside her.

Then the Sheik leaned in, brushing her arm with his fingers. "Have you ever been on a yacht, bella? The Mediterranean is made for women like you."

That was it.

Mark reached across the table, took her hand, and stood.

"We should go," he said tightly. "It's late." The Sheik raised a brow. "So soon? The night is just starting."

Mark didn’t look back. He helped YN to her feet, his grip firm. "Thank you for the hospitality."

--

Palacio de Cristal – Private Lounge, Later That Night

The moment the door closed behind them, YN spun around.

"What the hell was that, Mark?" she snapped. "He was just starting to talk to me. You pulled me out like I was some toddler at a school dance."

He threw his keys on the table, turning toward her. "Because that was already going too far. The man was practically drooling on you."

"That's the point! That's the whole mission, or did you forget what we're doing here?"

Mark's eyes flared. "This was a terrible idea. Taking a rookie into an op like this? You're not ready for this kind of undercover. You're too naive."

Her jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"

"I'm going to handle it from here," he said, voice firm. "You're done."

"The hell I am! You really think he's going to talk to you? You're not his type. He barely looked at you. I'm the reason he opened up in the first place."

"You're not going alone to that creep's mansion to squeeze intel out of him. No way in hell."

"You don't get to decide that."

"Like hell I don't," he said, stepping closer. "You think I trust him? That I trust you not to get in over your head?"

"This is my job, Mark. You don't think I know what he is? That I haven't read his file inside out?"

Their voices had risen, anger sparking off every word. They were standing just feet apart now, the air between them practically vibrating.

Then his gaze dropped to her lips.

The silence hit like a thud. The tension turned. Warmer. Thicker.

His phone buzzed.

She looked down. An unknown number. One message.

Message:

> Private gathering. My estate. Tomorrow night. I want your fiancée to join us. Just her. Details attached.

Her stomach flipped.

Mark read the change on her face instantly. "What is it?"

She handed him the phone.

He read the message. Went completely still.

"No. Absolutely not."

"Mark—"

"I said no! You're not going alone to some private party with that bastard. We don’t know what kind of setup he’s planning."

"This is our chance. He wants me there. He trusts me. That’s our in. You know it."

"And what if he doesn’t just want to talk? What if you get hurt?"

She softened, just slightly. "Then you come get me."

"How? He’ll have eyes everywhere. If you’re off the grid—"

"We'll set a code word. If I say it, it means I'm not safe. That you need to come now."

He looked at her, hard.

"What word?

"Madrid."

His jaw clenched. After a long beat, he gave a tight nod. "Madrid it is."

But his eyes told her he was already planning ten different ways to burn that mansion down.

--

The motor‑court of Al‑Sayid’s city villa glittered with imported lanterns and overpriced cars. Women stepped from limousines in couture gowns, greeted by uniformed footmen who bore silver trays of rosé champagne. YN counted eight guests besides herself — all wives, fiancées, or girlfriends of invisible men who, curiously, were not invited.

Inside, the ballroom felt wrong. Too many bodies, not enough chaperones. Al‑Sayid was the lone rooster in a room full of clipped wings, his smile stretching wider each time a woman laughed too loudly at his jokes.

YN played soft, quiet, detached. And it worked. His gaze kept drifting back to her, lingering as the others angled for attention.

Al‑Sayid smiled when he got closer to her. Leaning in while his lips traced her neck. “You look bored, bella. Perhaps a change of scenery?”

She answered with a modest shrug, heartbeat steady. “New scenery sounds nice.” He clapped once and the music stopped. “Ladies, a private cruise. Bring your glasses.”

A murmur of delight—and unease—spread through the group.

---

Two black SUVs whisked them away. YN’s stomach tightened as they left Madrid’s lights behind. Inside the vehicle, champagne circulated again. The road blurred by; the chatter dulled. One woman slumped against another, lashes fluttering.

YN pretended to sip. Something’s in the bottle.

Her head remained clear, but her pulse spiked.

---

Moonlit water, a sleek launch, and staff who never spoke. The drowsy women giggled, stumbling aboard of his fancy yacht, YN felt the first hint of fog behind her eyes—whatever drug he’d used was slow but relentless.

Al‑Sayid hovered at her elbow, guiding her toward plush seats at the stern. His hand slid too low on her back.

“Soon you’ll feel wonderful,” he purred.

She smiled thinly. “Already do.”

Mark, hear this, she thought, knowing the wire remained hidden in her dress lining.

Once aboard, the women were ushered below to a salon dripping with crystal. Soft music, dim lights. They sank into couches like dolls set aside.

YN took three careful bites of caviar toast, two sips of water. Still lucid—but her limbs hummed with lethargy.

Al‑Sayid’s touch grew possessive. Fingers at her throat adjusting a necklace that didn’t need adjusting, lips grazing her ear as he described turquoise seas and private islands.

She excused herself—bathroom, she said.

Lock.

Deep breath.

“Mark, it’s bad. He’s drugging them. I’m still clear but fading.” Her voice wavered. “Repeat, I am not safe.”

Static—then a clipped reply she could barely make out.

Al‑Sayid’s fist crashed against the door. It flew inward, splintering the latch. He filled the frame, smile gone.

“You’ll thank me later,” he said, stepping inside. “We’re going on a very long vacation together. You’ll be perfect on my arm.”

She backed against the sink, vision tunneling. “You’re insane.”

He caught her wrist. “Say goodbye to you're boyfriend, bella.”

Rage flared, giving her one last surge of clarity. She yanked her arm free and screamed, voice ringing down the corridor

“GET ME THE HELL BACK TO MADRID!”

The code word punched through the mic. Al‑Sayid’s eyes widened while he caught her again. “What did you—?”

But blackness folded over her like a curtain.

--

She couldn’t tell how long she’d been there. Time had blurred into a damp, colorless cycle of pain, thirst, and sleeplessness. The room stank of mildew and motor oil. Chains rattled whenever she moved. Her wrists were raw, her ribs ached with every breath. The dress—the same one from Madrid—was torn at the hem and stained with dried blood.

Al-Sayid’s rage had become less about questions and more about punishment. Once he discovered she wasn’t who she said she was, the pretense ended. The last thing he called her was rat.

YN was barely conscious when the chaos erupted.

Shouts. Explosions of light. Gunfire.

She heard boots, metal doors crashing open, shouting in Portuguese, and then—

“YN!”

Her head lolled upward. Her vision blurred and sharpened, blurred again. But she saw him—his outline, then his face.

“Mark…” she whispered.

Tears slipped down her cheek as he rushed toward her, breaking the chains with a single sweep of bolt cutters. Her arms collapsed at her sides. She wanted to hold onto him, but her body refused.

Mark caught her before she hit the floor. He was cursing under his breath, holding her close.

“I got you,” he whispered. “I got you.”

Wrapped in a thick blanket in the back seat of a blacked-out SUV, she leaned weakly against his side. Her skin was clammy, bruises spread across her jaw, shoulder, and collarbone. Dried blood had matted her hair

Mark passed her a water bottle, steadying her hand so she could sip.

She tried to smile. “At least… the dress still looks good." His jaw clenched. He didn’t look at the driver. He didn’t look away.

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and whispered, “The only thing I see that’s beautiful is you, baby girl.”

He kissed her forehead.

She closed her eyes. Safe. Finally. Her breath slowed.

She fell asleep with her head on his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around her.

White sheets. Beeping monitors. Warmth.

Mark never missed a day.

He brought her decent coffee instead of hospital sludge. Sometimes flowers, sometimes her favorite chocolate, sometimes nothing at all—just him, parked in the chair by her bed, watching her with eyes that were far softer than she remembered.

“You really didn’t have to come every day,” she told him one afternoon, voice still raspy.

He smirked. “Noticed you didn’t ask me to leave, though.”

She smiled. “Shut up.”

He leaned forward. “Glad you made it back to me.”

That was how it began. Not with fireworks. But with shared silence. Daily coffee. A stubborn agent who refused to die. And a partner who refused to let her go.

She sat across from two senior field directors, a steaming coffee in hand. Mark stood just behind her, leaning casually against the glass wall, arms crossed.

“We’ve reviewed the Madrid operation thoroughly,” one of the directors said. “Despite the complications, you performed with remarkable resilience.”

“She saved the op,” Mark cut in smoothly. “I just drove the damn boat.”

The director cracked a faint smile. “We’re offering a permanent placement. Field pairing. Agent YN if you're willing of course.”

YN glanced back at Mark, then turned forward again.

“If I’m up for having him constantly as my wingman?” she said with a small, knowing smile. “I’d love nothing more. He’s got my back—and I’ve got his.”

Mark grinned. “Never had such a hot co-worker.”

She rolled her eyes. “Mark— not gonna happen."

“I know, I know,” he said, hands raised. “Just good to know that I’ll at least have a perfect, smoking hot pretend wife at my side. That’s better than having nothing.”

She looked at him with amused exasperation, a hint of softness in her gaze. “You know what? Having you as a co-worker won’t be as bad as I thought it would be.”

They exchanged a look.

And the new partnership was sealed.

--

TaglJensen: @jackles010378 @libby99hb @winchesterwild78 @suckitands33 @mostlymarvelgirl @deans-baby-momma @ancles @tulipsvanilla @thesilmarillionblog @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @kr804573 @kamisobsessed @hobby27 @globetrotter28 @kindollss @muhahaha303 @shadysoulangel @lyarr24 @spxideyver @impala67rollingthroughtown @panickedbitch @deansimpalababy @livya99 @yvonneeeee @ladykitana90 @stoneyggirl2 @imsiriuslyreal @panickedbitch @roseblue373 @n-o-p-e-never @ariasong11 @lmpala1967 @sherlockstrangewolf @spnaquakindgdom @writtenbyhollywood @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @healojane @star-yawnznn @cevansbaby-dove @deanswifeyy

[solitaryearthperson]

Worshipped

Summary: No one else has ever satisfied you, and made you feel seen like Hannibal and no one ever would.

(The reader is 18+ and uses she/her pronouns. The ethnicity/race is preferably black.)

How the hell did I get so lucky, you wondered as you laid your head back against the rim of the large tub, enjoying the small movement of lukewarm water running over your body and the rose petals floating in the water brushing against your skin nicely. You could hear the doctor's soft footsteps outside the bathroom door and smiled, already knowing what he wanted, and what he was waiting on.

"Hannibal," you called to him, your voice full of exhaustion, but your body craved his gentle touch upon you. "Just come in already."

Hearing the doorknob twist and the door open, you turned your head to see that he was already wearing his usual sleepwear as he entered. My love, you mentally called him, amused at the fact that despite it being his home, he would still politely wait for your permission to enter his own bathroom.

"How do you feel," he asked you, kneeling down on the carpet next to the tub, his eyes quickly scanning your naked body for any injuries. "Better?"

"Better," You nodded your head and closed your eyes, waiting to feel his touch.

You didn't need to say anything else as you heard him pick up the small towel on the side of the tub, then felt his hand reach into the tub, letting the cloth soak up the warm water. He then placed it against the skin of your shoulder, and began his usual scrubbing of your body.

The bathroom was silent for a long minute, only the sound of your soft satisfied moans and the squishing sound of the towel against your skin.

"You don't have to do this, y'know," you told him, breaking the silence, while too exhausted to open your eyes. You've told him this before, and just like the other times, he was probably looking at you with a small grin, continuing his scrubbing.

"I want to," he told you, moving the towel down to your arm to try to begin washing off some of the blood. "I like to keep my queen clean."

"You like to look at my body, perv." You knew that besides helping you clean when you were too tired, this was Hannibal's subtle way to admire your body outside of sex. He even confessed to you how he loved the way your body looked, particularly underwater. Like a goddess, he claimed. He loved how the water made your brown skin shine and (in his eyes) sparkle. But the sight of water turned slightly red from blood, full of rose petals truly drove the man crazy and made him want to worship you. The man truly knew how to make you feel ethereal.

"Was it a good kill," he asked, now paying attention to your hands, making sure to wash off as much blood as he could.

"Mm-hm," you hummed, finally opening your eyes to meet his maroon brown ones gazing at you. "He put up a good fight. Just like how I like it." Your words made him smile and if you weren't so tired, you would've pushed yourself up to give the good doctor a kiss.

While you did enjoy his food, you were not exactly committed to the cannibal lifestyle like he was. Your killing was more for stress relief. Still, you were always thoughtful enough to bring him a gift from your nights out.

"I also have a surprise in the kitchen for you."

At your words he stopped his scrubbing and looked at you with a type of appreciation and love that only he could give and it made you want to give him the whole world.

"Surprise?"

"Wine aged twenty or so years, and a nice juicy heart and lungs," before you could get the last word out, his lips already met yours in a passionate kiss.

Pulling away reluctantly, he grabbed your hand and stood up, looking down at you with fire in his eyes. "I shall fix my beauty a glass of wine, and a proper meal. I'll soon meet you in the dining room, my sweet."

"I'll be quick," you told him, sitting up. You recognized the fire in his eyes and knew that you were definitely in for a night of fun.

"Take your time, dear." With a soft kiss upon the back of your hand, he left the bathroom, leaving you in the tub.

Nights like this, you were truly grateful for Hannibal. You did not feel like a crazy person like your exes made you feel. In his eyes, you were not only a killer. You were a bloodlust-filled goddess who deserved to be worshipped, and you were forever thankful that he had truly embraced this side of you. No one else had truly satisfied your bloodlust like Hannibal, and you were sure that no one else ever would.

[things-arent-what-they-seem66]

Moth!Adam having a nightmare! This takes place a few days after arriving in Hell.

@fanofstuff01 MOTH ADAM

---

Charlie: Hey, dad? Could you go get Adam up? He's going to miss out on the group activity!

Lucifer: Honey, if he isn't even going to put I the effort, he shouldn't be here!

Charlie: dad- please, he's only just got here. This is a big change for him. Can you just go wake him?

Lucifer reluctantly agreed and made his way to Adams bedroom. Charlie put him on a floor that had no other members, thinking it would help him get use to things.

Arriving at Adam's door, Lucifer smiled. He decided to take the opportunity to scare Adam. It was almost Halloween, after all.

Lucifer walked softly to the top of Adam's bed. He could see his antennas flicking about. Ljcifer stood by his head for a few minutes, waiting for the perfect opportunity to scare him.

Adam: mm- no, stop... don't leave... please don't leave...

Lucifer chuckled. It must have been some popr winner in Heaven Adam was talking about.

Adam: L-Lu... please stay- pick me, please... don't leave... p-please choose me-

Lucifer stopped laughing and stared at the man. Oh... it was Eden he was having a nightmare about. Shit. He backed away as Adam started to thrash, his wings unfurling.

Lucifer had no idea no idea what to do. The poor guy even started crying. He decided to wake him up. Lucifer couldn't watch Adam cry and grip his blankets. It hurt too much.

Lucifer: Adam... ADAM-!

Lucifer reached over to shake his shoulder but jumped and teleported out of reach of Adam and his wings when Adam suddenly shot up, breathing hard.

Lucifer wasn't too familiar with Moth demons, he only knew of Valentino, and even then, he hadn't had many interactions with him, so he wasn't too sure how good Adams' eye slight was.

Adam: Luci...?

Lucifers eyes widened at the nickname- and the way Adam said it. It reminded him of Eden. Adam sounded so desperate and hopeful. Hopeful that Lucifer was there with him, that his nightmare wasn't true.

Lucifer wasn't sure if he wanted to say anything, he hadn't noticed him yet. That was until he noticed Adam looking around the room, eyes landing on Lucifer.

He felt like he should say something. So he waves and smiles, but just as he's about to say something, he heard Adam choke out a sob and bury his head in his hands, his lower arms wrapped around his thin torso.

Adam: t-thats right... you hate me... why would you be here...?

Lucifers heart broke. He didn't hate Adam. He was an asshole sometimes and a bastard for attacking his daughter, but he didn't hate him. He felt like he should, but he couldn't.

After a few minutes of crying, Adam tried to find his phone. Lucifer could see it on the side table, so he made the phone float in front of his hand. Adam didn't notice the magic, but found his phone. He squinted until his eyes were met with the bright light.

Adam grounded when he saw the time. He was really late now.

Adam: ...fuck it... they don't want me there, anyway... s-should have j-just stayed d-dead

Lucifer stood in the corner of Adam's room for 20 minutes. All he did was hug his pillow and cry. He could tell Adam was tired, but he couldn't fall back asleep.

He never knew how depressed Adam was. But then again, he'd never a good conversation with Adam since he got here. Lucifer really took the opportunity to get as much payback as possible now that he had a contract with him.

He wonders if all of this started when he called him an unlovable piece of shit, that not even the scumiest angels wanted. He knew he overstepped, judging by the look on his face and the lack of response.

For the next week, Lucifer stood in Adams room before he went to sleep and before he woke up. It was always the same: Adam would cry himself to sleep, and he'd have a nightmare about being abandoned and wake up shaking, covered in tears in the morning.

As Lucifer was in his room this night, he was hoping it would be different. Adam was with Angel for most of the day and seemed to be happier. But as soon as Adam sat on the edge of his bed, he knew it wasn't going to be a good night. It was actually about to get a lot worse.

Adam started crying as soon as he closed and locked his door. Fiddling with something in his pocket. Lucifer could see him playing with something as he sat on the edge of the bed.

It wasn't until Adam sat up straight that Lucifer saw it was the angelic needle Nifty originally used to kill him. Where the fuck did he find that!?

Lucifer really didn't plan to get involved when it came to his night watching, but Adam pressed the blade against his scar from the original attack, and start to push in far enough for his dark red blood to start welling up and running down his chest.

Lucifer: NO-!

Lucifer jumped into action. Snapping the blade out of his hands and placing it in Lucifer's hands.

Adam instantly jumped and looked around. Lucifer could see the pain in his big, golden eyes.

Adam: L-Luci-fer... Luci... ?

Lucifer couldn't bring himself to say anything as Adam looked around. He covered his mouth as he felt a tear fall. Adams eyes locked him his. Shit.

Adam: ...please...? Luci?

Lucifer squeezed his eyes shut.

Adam: Not even allowed to finish the job, huh...? I'm just g-giving them what they w-want...

He opened them slowly, and he heard the rustling of Adam's blankets.

That night was worse.

So much worse.

Lucifer has never seen Adam look so small even at his towering height of 11". Adam curled up, hugging a pillow as tightly as he can.

Adam cried to himself all night. He didn't fall asleep at all. Just cried and begged for Lucifer. For it all to end.

Lucifer finally learned how good Adams eye site was. Hed often looked directly at him but saw nothing.

All night, Lucifer just gripped the angelic blade and stood still all night, hoping Adam wouldn't hear his sobbing.

Dude my fucking heart 😭

Adam knew Lucifer was there, he had to be. Blades just don't evaporate out of your fucking hand.

Why couldn't he just let Adam die for good? Lucifer didn't even want him here, nobody did. Sure he started getting along well with Angel but big deal.

Other than height being a moth demon was fucking stupid. He could barely see! He even had to have the largest print enabled on his phone so he could see to use it.

Adam ran out of tears quickly, he was dehydrated from it and he wasn't exactly drinking water to put anything back.

Lucifer never wanted him, so why not just let Adam go? To torture him probably.

Oh look, Adam did still have some tears to cry.

[kitkat13001]

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚒’𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗

>> modern!eren jaeger x reader

>> brief mentions of alcohol consumption and one of vomit (vague, non-descriptive)

it’s well past noon when eren gives even the slightest hint movement. the wrinkle of his nose (that, and the rise and fall of his chest with every breath) is the only indication he’s even alive. you don’t think he’s ever slept this deeply.

“so you’re awake,” you say quietly, small smile tugging at your lips. 

you look like a dream, leaning against the doorframe of eren’s room with that tiny smile, hair falling in your face and pajamas hanging just right on your frame.

eren just makes an unintelligible noise, somewhere between a grunt and a moan. 

you laugh softly to yourself as you pad into the room, setting down a glass of water and some ibuprofen on his nightstand. you take a seat on the edge of his bed, cool hands resting gently on his warm face, sweeping his bangs out of his eyes. 

it’s unreal. eren feels like he’s floating, still lost somewhere in the fever dream of the night before as he gazes up at you, lovestruck and dazed. if it was a dream, he didn’t want to wake up. 

your hands remain softly on his cheeks, gentle smile never fading. 

“how do you feel?” you murmur, smoothing your thumb across the curve of eren’s cheekbone. 

he keens into the touch, managing a small smile through hooded eyes. “better w’you here.”

“mm,” you chuckle, “that must’ve been some party.”

the party. oh shit. 

if it weren’t for the throbbing headache, eren would have bolted up out of bed. 

he winces as he raises his head, vision swimming in the dim room. 

you ease him back down, pout resting on your pretty lips. “relax.”

“fuck,” he breathes, squeezing his eyes shut as he scowls, the memories flooding back and dissolving the dreamy haze he’d been stuck in moments before. 

he opens one eye, studying your face for something he can’t name. “what…what do you remember?”

you click your tongue. “now, that’s a fun one.”

eren groans loudly, grabbing a pillow and throwing it over his face to shield his shame. 

“well, given that my memory is fully intact, since i wasn’t the one who was absolutely wasted last night, i believe there was a very…emotional phone call. to me. from you.”

eren is silent for a long moment, refusing to put the pillow down. his voice is muffled when he finally speaks. “so you heard all that, then?”

“yes, as a matter of fact, i did.”

“god, i am such an idiot,” he groans into the pillow again. your nimble fingers try to take the pillow from him, but he grips it stubbornly until you’re able to pry it away from him with a light sigh. you gaze down at him with soft doe eyes. “eren, honey, it’s nothing i didn’t already know.”

he stares at you incredulously for a moment, disbelief written all over his stupefied face. “you knew?”

“you’re not exactly subtle. besides, i think we both know we’ve been more than friends for a good, long while.”

“well, yeah,” eren whines, sounding like a child, “but i wanted to tell you properly ‘n ask you out and stuff.”

quietly, he adds, “you deserve better than some shitty drunken phone call.”

you laugh softly, fingers intertwining with eren’s larger ones. “while that is true,” you start, “i can think of a few ways for you to make it up to me,” you muse, teasing grin slowly overtaking your face. 

eren narrows his eyes at you, unable to stop the slight smirk tugging at his own lips. “oh? what did you have in mind?”

“mmm, how about dinner? does 8-ish work for you?”

eren brings your interlocked hands to his lips, warm against your cool skin. “that works perfectly for me.” 

he tugs you closer by the hands, his arms snaking around your waist to bury his face in your side. your hands thread through his soft hair, nails brushing his scalp gently. 

you giggle quietly. “i would’ve crawled in with you, but i was scared you’d throw up.”

“good call,” eren mumbles into your waist with a smile. “when i get up ‘n brush my teeth, ‘m gonna kiss the hell out of you.”

“i’d like that,” you sigh dreamily. 

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

missing eren hours. i might write up the drunken phone call as a mini-prequel just for funsies <3 probably sleeping soon but if anyone has any ideas for stuff u might wanna see here feel free to drop an ask/message <3